‘In that case, we’d better get down to it and draw up our appeal.’ And, pointing his pipe at Sir Lawrence, he added:
‘You’ve got the gift of the gab with a pen, Mont; suppose you and the bishop and Charwell here go into another room and knock us out a draft. Pitch it strong, but no waterworks.’
When the designated three had withdrawn, conversation broke out again. Michael could hear the Squire and Sir Godfrey Bedwin talking of distemper, and the Marquess discussing with Mr Montross the electrification of the latter’s kitchen. Sir Timothy Fanfield was staring at the Goya. He was a tall, lean man of about seventy, with a thin, hooked nose, brown face, and large white moustaches, who had been in the Household Cavalry and come out of it.
A little afraid of his verdict on the Goya, Michael said hastily:
‘Well, Sir Timothy, the coal strike doesn’t end.’
‘No; they ought to be shot. I’m all for the working man; but I’d shoot his leaders tomorrow.’
‘What about the mine-owners?’ queried Michael.
‘I’d shoot their leaders, too. We shall never have industrial peace till we shoot somebody. Fact is, we didn’t shoot half enough people during the war. Conshies and Communists and profiteers – I’d have had ’em all against a wall.’
‘I’m very glad you came on our committee, sir,’ Michael murmured; ‘we want someone with strong views.’
‘Ah!’ said Sir Timothy, and pointing his thin towards the end of the table, he lowered his voice. ‘Between ourselves – bit too moderate, the Squire. You want to take these scoundrels by the throat. I knew a chap that owned half a slum and had the face to ask me to subscribe to a Missionary Fund in China. I told the fellow he ought to be shot. Impudent beggar – he didn’t like it.’
‘No?’ said Michael; and at this moment the young woman pulled his sleeve. Was she to take anything down?
Not at present – Michael thought.
Sir Timothy was again staring at the Goya.
‘Family portrait?’ he said.
‘No,’ said Michael; ‘it’s a Goya.’
‘Deuce it is! Goy is Jewish for Christian. Female Christian – what?’
‘No, sir. Name of the Spanish painter.’
‘No idea there were any except Murillo and Velasquez – never see anything like them nowadays. These modern painters, you know, ought to be tortured. I say,’ and again he lowered his voice, ‘bishop! – what! – they’re always running some hare of their own – anti-birth-control, or missions of sorts. We want to cut this C 3 population off at the root. Stop ’em having babies by hook or crook; and then shoot a slum landlord or two – deal with both ends. But they’ll jib at it, you’ll see. D’you know anything about ants?’
‘Only that they’re busy,’ said Michael.
‘I’ve made a study of ’em. Come down to my place in Hampshire, and I’ll show you my slides – most interestin’ insects in the world.’ He lowered his voice again:
‘Who’s that talkin’ to the old Marquess? What! The rubber man? Jew, isn’t he? What axe is he grinding? The composition of this committee’s wrong, Mr Mont. Old Shropshire’s a charmin’ old man, but –’ Sir Timothy touched his forehead – ‘mad as a March hare about electricity. You’ve got a doctor, too. They’re too mealy-mouthed. What you want is a committee that’ll go for those scoundrels. Tea? Never drink it. Chap who invented tea ought to have been strung up.”
At this moment the sub-committee re-entering the room, Michael rose, not without relief.
‘Hallo,’ he heard the Squire say: ‘you’ve been pretty slippy.’
The look of modest worth which passed over the faces of the sub-committee did not altogether deceive Michael, who knew that his Uncle had brought the draft appeal in his coat pocket. It was now handed up, and the Squire, putting on some horn-rimmed spectacles, began reading it aloud, as if it were an entry of hounds, or the rules of a race-meeting. Michael could not help feeling that what it lost it gained – the Squire and emphasis were somehow incompatible. When he had finished reading, the Squire said:
‘We can discuss it now, clause by clause. But time’s getting on, gentlemen. Personally, I think it about fills the bill. What do you say, Shropshire?’
The Marquess leaned forward and took his beard in his hand.
‘An admirable draft, with one exception. Not sufficient stress is laid on electrification of the kitchens. Sir Godrey will bear me out. You can’t expect these poor people to keep their houses clean unless you can get rid of the smoke and the smells and the flies.’