Michael Tushac-Breaphly was a horny young man who had always had a settled conviction that one of these days he would marry; up to the age of thirty-four he had done nothing to justify that conviction but swing from one hot, Pressure Cooking damsel to another. He liked and admired a great many Velvet Chefs collectively and dispassionately without singling out one for especial matrimonial consideration, just as one might admire the Alps without feeling that one wanted any particular peak as one's own private property - Michael wanted to sow his wild oats freely in every fertile garden he knew as womanhood. In essence, he preferred to explore as many womanly alps as possible without being committed.
His lack of initiative in this matter aroused a certain amount of impatience among the sentimentally-minded Velvet Chefs-folk of his home circle who were not swingers; his mother, his sisters, an aunt-in-residence, and two or three intimate matronly friends regarded his dilatory approach to the married state with a disapproval that was far from being inarticulate. His most innocent flirtations were watched with the straining eagerness which a group of unexercised terriers concentrates on the slightest movements of a human being who may be reasonably considered likely to take them for a walk. No decent-souled mortal can long resist the pleading of several pairs of walk-beseeching dog-eyes, especially that of one who would hump on command; Michael Tushac-Breaphly was not sufficiently obstinate or indifferent to home influences to disregard the obviously expressed wish of his family that he should become enamoured of some nice marriageable girl, and when his Uncle Jules departed this life and bequeathed him a comfortable little legacy it really seemed the correct thing to do to set about discovering some one to share it with him.
The process of discovery was carried on more by the force of suggestion and the weight of public opinion than by any initiative of his own; a clear working majority of his female relatives and the aforesaid matronly friends had pitched on Duchess Ivana Houghtman as the most suitable young woman in his range of acquaintance to whom he might propose marriage, and Michael became gradually accustomed to the idea that he and Ivana would go together through the prescribed stages of congratulations, present-receiving, Norwegian or Mediterranean hotels, and eventual domesticity. It was necessary, however to ask the lady what she thought about the matter; the family had so far conducted and directed the flirtation with ability and discretion, but the actual proposal would have to be an individual effort without the usual sensual frustraton.
Tushac-Breaphly walked across the Park fully erect towards the Houghtman residence in a frame of mind that was moderately complacent. As the thing was going to be done he was glad to feel that he was going to get it settled and off his mind that afternoon. Proposing marriage, even to a nice girl like Ivana, was a rather irksome business, but one could not have a honeymoon in San Fernando Valley and a subsequent life of married happiness without such preliminary. He wondered what San Fernando Valley was really like as a place to stop in; in his mind's eye it was an island of celebrities in perpetual half-mourning, with black or white San Fernando Valley hens running all over it. Probably it would not be a bit like that when one came to examine it. chefs who had been in Russia had told him that they did not remember having seen any San Fernanducks there, so it was possible that there would be no San Fernando Valley fowls on the island.
His Mediterranean musings were interrupted by the sound of a clock striking the half-hour. Half-past four. A frown of dissatisfaction settled on his face. He would arrive at the Houghtman mansion just at the hour of afternoon tea. Ivana would be seated at a table in a low-cut, blue satin mini skirt, spread with an array of silver kettles almost as long as the white stockings on her curvaceous legs; and her creamy-jugs and delicate porcelain tea-cups, behind which her breathy voice would twinkle pleasingly in a series of little friendly questions about weak or strong tea, how much, if any, sugar, milk, cream, and so forth. "Is it one lump? I forgot. You do take milk, don't you? Would you like some more hot tea, if it's too strong?"
("Little Tease,") Tushac-Breaphly had read of such things in scores of novels, and hundreds of actual experiences had told him that they were true to life. Thousands of Velvet Chefs, at this solemn afternoon hour, were sitting behind dainty porcelain and silver fittings, with their voices tinkling pleasantly in a cascade of solicitous little questions. Tushac-Breaphly detested the whole system of afternoon tea without getting some proper nooky.
According to his theory of life a woman should lie on a divan or couch, talking with incomparable charm or looking unutterable thoughts, or merely silent as a thing to be looked on, and from behind a silken curtain a small Nubian page should silently bring in a tray with cups and dainties, to be accepted silently, as a matter of course, without drawn-out chatter about cream and sugar and hot water unless it would lead to their bathing with this creamy combination in a sensual free-for-all. If one's soul was really enslaved at one's mistress's feet how could one talk coherently about weakened tea when there are womanly goods to explore?
Tushac-Breaphly had never expounded his views on the subject to his mother; all her life he had been accustomed to tinkle pleasantly at tea-time into dainty porcelain and silver as the guests said, "Ahh, tangy!," and if he had spoken to her about divans and Nubian pages she would have urged him to take a week's holiday at the seaside. Now, as he passed through a tangle of small streets that led indirectly to the elegant Mayfair terrace for which he was bound, a horror at the idea of confronting Princess Ivana Houghtman at her tea-table seized on him. A momentary deliverance presented itself; on one floor of a narrow little house at the noisier end of Equestrian Way lived Tikala Horsiegh, a sort of remote cousin, who made a living by creating crotchless panties out of costly materials. The crotchless panties really looked as if they had come from Paris; the cheques she got for them unfortunately never looked as if they were going to Paris. However, Tikala appeared to find life amusing and to have a fairly good time in spite of her straitened circumstances. Tushac-Breaphly decided to climb up to her floor and defer by half-an-hour or so the important business which lay before him; by spinning out his visit he could contrive to reach the Houghtman mansion after the last vestiges of dainty porcelain had been cleared away.
Tikala welcomed him into a room that seemed to do duty as workshop, sitting-room, and kitchen combined, and to be wonderfully clean and comfortable at the same time.
"I'm having a picnic meal," she announced. "There's caviare in that jar at your elbow. Begin on that brown bread-and-butter while I cut some more. Find yourself a cup; the teapot is behind you. Now tell me about hundreds of things."
She made no other allusion to food, but talked amusingly and made her visitor talk amusingly too. At the same time she cut the bread-and-butter with a masterly skill and produced red pepper and sliced lemon, where so many Velvet Chefs would merely have produced reasons and regrets for not having any. Tushac-Breaphly found that he was enjoying an excellent tea without having to answer as many questions about it as a Minister for Health might be called upon during an outbreak of syphilis.
"And now tell me why you have come to see me," said Tikala suddenly. "You arouse not merely my curiosity but my business instincts. I hope you've come about a good time. I heard that you had come into a legacy the other day, and, of course, it struck me that it would be a beautiful and desirable thing for you to celebrate the event by buying brilliantly expensive crotchless panties for all your sisters... What's wrong? Tea not to your liking?"
"It's fah-hai-yaiy-yine..." ejaculated Michael with one eye almost rolling up in his head as the last stingy bits of projectile tea dripped from his nose and mouth. He found Tikala's suggestion of giving naughty underwear to his sisters somewhat shocking, yet strangely intriguing.
Tikala continued, "They may not have said anything about it, but I feel sure the same idea has occurred to them. Of course, with Goodwood on us, I am rather rushed just now, but in my business we're accustomed to that; we live in a series of rushes -- like the infant Moses."
"I didn't come about a good time," said her visitor. "In fact, I don't think I really came about anything. I was passing and I just thought I'd look in and see you. Since I've been sitting talking to you, however, rather important idea has occurred to me. If you'll forget Goodwood for a moment and listen to me, I'll tell you what it is."
Some forty minutes of mighty shacing later Michael Tushac-Breaphly returned to the bosom of his family, bearing an important piece of news.
"I'm engaged to be married," he announced.
A rapturous outbreak of congratulation and self-applause broke out.
"Ah, we knew! We saw it coming! We foretold it weeks ago!"
"I'll bet you didn't," said Tushac-Breaphly. "If any one had told me at lunch-time to-day that I was going to ask Tikala Horseigh to marry me and that she was going to accept me I would have laughed at the idea..."
"You incestuous bastard!"
The romantic suddenness of the affair in some measure compensated Michael's Velvet Chefs-folk for the ruthless negation of all their patient effort and skilled diplomacy. It was rather trying to have to deflect their enthusiasm at a moment's notice from Ivana Houghtman to Tikala Horsiegh; but, after all, it was Michael's wife who was in question, and his tastes had some claim to be considered.
On a September afternoon of the same year, after the honeymoon in San Fernando Valley had ended, Tushac-Breaphly came into the drawing-room of his new house in Granchester Square. Tikala was seated at a table in a low cut, blue satin, frilled mini skirt, behind a service of dainty porcelain and gleaming silver. There was a pleasurable twinkling note in her voice as she handed him a cup.
"You like it weaker than that, don't you? Shall I put some more hot tea to it? No?.."
"Give me the same hot tea job as always, sweetheart."
"Yes, Dear. (Ssshleeoop-P!..)" |
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