Gilbert Baxendale is at fifty what people call “a nice-looking man.” He hardly seems any older than he did ten years ago, except that he is rather stouter below the belt, and that when he takes off his hat one notices that he is getting a little bald. His skin is pink and unwrinkled, and his hair and moustache are so light that one does not notice whether they are turning grey or not, and he looks as spruce as ever. Baxendale always has been particular about his appearance, and he is never so pleased as when you ask him the name of his tailor. But his reply in that case is deprecating, implying that he doesn’t think very much of him, do you? which is intended to draw further reassurance and compliment. On the other hand, if, inspired by the lustre of their beautiful polish, you should inquire where he gets his boots, his expression changes. Although boots are about as near a hobby as he has ever got, he is distressed about the shape of his feet, and says that his corns give him a lot of trouble. But he likes to talk about boots, and a recurring subject of conversation with him is the difficulty of finding a man who really understands doing them properly. He knows a great deal about blacking and brushes, and is no mean authority on the art of boning or polishing or varnishing refractory footgear of all kinds. To look at him one would think Baxendale has never had a day’s illness in his life, but as a matter of fact he has never been well since any one can remember. He has always suffered from what one may call ailments, and when one saw him at the club or in Bond Street he would tell you he was not quite the thing—he was run down or had lumbago or a bit of a chill on the liver.

Baxendale is very particular about cooking. He used to complain a good deal about the food at the club, but after his marriage he said it had improved, which no one could understand, as the kitchen staff has not been changed for twenty years. Freddy Catchpole said that once when he dined with them Mrs. Baxendale asked him about the club cook, because Gilbert was very dissatisfied with theirs. Servants worried Baxendale a great deal after he got married. He said they almost made him long for his bachelor days, when he did not know what domestic cares were.

The Baxendales live in one of those new, well-built houses in the neighbourhood of Grosvenor Square. It was some time before Baxendale could make up his mind to buy the lease of it. For a year or two he tried taking furnished houses alternately in the country and in town. Being a cautious man, he wanted to give both a good trial, but his wife finally made up his mind for him. She took no end of trouble in decorating and furnishing their house in some antique style. At first Baxendale seemed to be pleased. Every now and then he told men at the club how clever she was at picking up bargains; but after a time he got gloomy when one asked how the house was getting on. He said he had met a man who had made a collection of antiques, and when he wanted to sell them he found they were all shams, and it nearly ruined him.

After it was all finished the Baxendales gave a house-warming party. Peter Knott said afterwards that Baxendale took him aside and confided to him that he wasn’t at all pleased with the house. It faced west instead of south, and the drawing-room was so large one could never buy enough furniture to put in it, whereas his smoking-room was a rotten little hole you couldn’t swing a cat in. Besides, it really was a mistake living in town; the country was much better for the health and less expensive on the whole, even if you had shooting and entertained a good deal. He had a great mind to sell the lease if he could get a good offer. Then he would have a flat just to run up to when he wanted to stay in town for a week at a time and do the theatres.

The Baxendales have no children, and apparently no nephews, nieces, nor other youthful belongings in whom they take any special interest. One day Peter Knott met Baxendale playing golf with a young man whom he introduced to him as his nephew, Dick Barnard, but the youth did not reappear on any other occasion, and Peter remembers that Baxendale told him in confidence that the boy put on side and was cheeky.

Baxendale always tells things in confidence to people, and occasionally they happen to meet and compare notes; in this way they sometimes get to know what Baxendale thinks about them, and this does not add to his popularity. Baxendale retired from business after his marriage, and invested his capital as remuneratively as security permitted. He came to the conclusion that as his wife’s income, added to his own, provided all the money they needed, there was no object in boring himself by going to the City. After he gave up business, every week when in town Baxendale had certain obligations which filled up his time agreeably for him. For instance, he looked over the share list every morning to see that his and Mrs. Baxendale’s investments were all right. He liked a pleasant object for a walk, so at least once a week he made a point of fetching his passbook from the bank. One day Freddy Catchpole met him just as he was coming out, and he said he was awfully upset about his quarter’s balance, which had never been so low before. Freddy told him he had never had a balance at the end of a quarter in his life, and Baxendale replied that, at all events, that saved him anxiety about investing it.

There used to be lots of other ways in which Baxendale passed his time. There was always something or other to order at his tailor’s or his shirtmaker’s. He was never extravagant in these matters, but when he decided to get something he took time and trouble over it, and would go several times to try things on. He used to say that in this way he got quite a lot of exercise. On Saturdays and Sundays he and his wife sometimes motored down to play golf at one or the other of their clubs. Baxendale said since his marriage he was off his game, and it was really no fun playing with a woman. Mrs. Baxendale asked Peter Knott’s advice about it. She said it was such a pity Gilbert lost his temper and never would finish the round when she was one up, as the exercise really was good for him. During the racing season Baxendale generally managed to avoid golf and go down to Sandown or Kempton or Gatwick instead; he said he got just as much air and exercise there, and there was always a chance of paying your expenses. Sometimes he succeeded, as he was very careful; but whenever he failed he would say he’d chuck it up altogether, the game wasn’t worth the candle.

In the winter Baxendale used at one time to take a shoot near London, but he gave it up because he got bored with looking after it and arranging parties. He said he was sick of being sponged on by men who never asked him back.

He complained a good deal about the snobbishness of people generally. Somebody was always cutting or ignoring him, and then “look at the sort of men that one meets nowadays; fellows whose fathers keep shops and haven’t an ‘h’ in their alphabets.” He couldn’t understand how people could stand the cads that went about; yet you could go into the Ritz or the Carlton and see the Countess of Daventry and Lady FitzStuart lunching and dining with “bounders like that fellow Clutterbuck.”

After his marriage Baxendale became absorbed more and more by his wife’s family. He seemed to be impressed especially by old Sir Robert and Jack Barnard, his wife’s uncle and brother. Whatever Jack did interested Baxendale, and whatever he said Baxendale repeated in confidence to most of his acquaintances. Of course Jack is a romancer, but Baxendale never knows whether to believe him or not, and Jack, being aware of this, concocts imposing fairy tales for Baxendale’s benefit. Sir Robert is supposed to be very rich, and the amount of his fortune and what he is going to do with it are matters of deep concern to Baxendale, who made a habit of calling on him daily and constantly inviting him to dinner. He told Peter Knott he was sorry for the old man being so lonely, and that his wife was his favourite niece and much attached to him; but Jack declared that his uncle was horribly mean, and only tolerated Baxendale because he could get dinner at his house for nothing.

At the beginning of the War Baxendale began complaining about his nerves. Somehow he didn’t enjoy his food and couldn’t get a proper night’s sleep. He’d tried Benger’s Food last thing at night and Quaker Oats for breakfast, but nothing seemed to do him any good.

The curious part of Baxendale’s illness was that he continued to look perfectly well, but he seemed to get offended if people said so; what really touched him was pity. There’s a man at the club called Funkelstein whom everybody supposed was a German, but now he says he’s Dutch. Just after the War broke out, Baxendale told every one confidentially he was a spy, but, to our surprise, they suddenly became quite friendly. It seemed that Funkelstein also suffered from nerves. Baxendale said he was most sympathetic to him personally, and alluded to him as “poor Funkelstein.” As time went on Baxendale’s nerves grew worse, and it was thought he must have been badly hit financially by the War, till Peter Knott told us that he had invested most of his wife’s and his own money in shipping companies and coal-mine debentures which had done nothing but rise ever since the War began. On the strength of this satisfactory information Baxendale was occasionally approached for subscriptions; but his response was generally evasive, or the amount offered so minute that he felt compelled to explain it by expressing his apprehensions about new taxation and the insane extravagance of the Government.

After a time Baxendale told us he could hardly bear to open a paper; he never knew what he might read next, and he felt he could not stand any more shocks. That made us suppose he had a brother or some near relative at the Front, and for some days we were rather apologetic in our attitude towards him, as, what with the War and our own anxieties, we had shown some indifference to Baxendale’s nerves.

But one day Jack Barnard turned up as a major in khaki, and said something so rude to his brother-in-law, who was sitting in the corner with Funkelstein, that the latter turned pale and left the room hurriedly. It appeared afterwards that Jack had got his back up against “that blighter Gilbert” because he hadn’t done a thing for Dick, who had been at Sandhurst, and was now with his regiment in France. “It wasn’t as though the selfish swine had kids of his own or some one else’s whom he cared about. Not a soul. Sickening, I call it. He didn’t even say good-bye to him or ask after him.”

Later on Baxendale developed a habit of questioning every one as to what they were doing. On one occasion he asked Postlethwaite, who runs a convalescent home at Margate, if there was anything he could do down there. Postlethwaite suggested that he might drive wounded soldiers down to Margate in his car if he liked. Baxendale said he’d think it over, but when Postlethwaite had gone he asked Peter Knott in confidence if he didn’t think it was taking advantage of people to mess up their cars like that.

Another time he tackled old Colonel Bridge, who had been up all night doing special constable duty, and was not in the sweetest of tempers. When Baxendale asked him what he was doing he told him he’d better come round to the police-station at three the next morning and see for himself.

Baxendale has not turned up at the club since, and we were all hoping he had found suitable employment. This happens to nearly every one sooner or later except to us seniors. But it had not happened to Baxendale; for Freddy Catchpole, who has managed to get a job at the War Office, dined one evening with Mrs. Baxendale, and she told him poor Gilbert had got so bad with his nerves that he had to go to a nursing-home in the country to take a cure. And there, for all I know, he will stay till the War is over.