Macdonald had a sort of cookie shine to-night, and I was invited. The other guests were Mitchell, the assistant-manager of the railway construction department, and Willis, the head of the water department. We played Bridge, and I spent four hours of misery. I hate cards; I can't concentrate at all, and I never have the faintest idea what the man on my left has discarded. Willis and I won.

I always look upon cards as a veiled insult to guests. I want to know what a man is thinking when I meet him; on the few occasions on which I have brought out a pack of cards to entertain guests I have done so on the frank realisation that their conversation wasn't worth listening to.

Later when we sat round the fire to chat I grudged the time lost over the game. Mitchell had been for many years in India, and his stories of life there were of great interest to me. He did not theorise about India; he accepted without thought the attitude of the average Anglo-Indian ... the nigger is a beast that has to be knocked into shape; the Anglo-Indian mode of government was tip-top, couldn't be beat; asses like Keir Hardie ought never to be allowed to put their foot in India; what's wrong with India is what's wrong with the working classes here—we give 'em too much education, make 'em discontented.

Willis was of a more intelligent type. He had been all over the world, and, although a Conservative to the backbone, he had made some study of modern problems. He had studied Socialism, thought it a fine thing, but.... "You've got to change human nature first," he said.

* * *

If I were writing a novel I should now head a chapter thus:—Chapter XXIV., in Which Macdonald and I become Brothers in Affliction.

He came up to see me to-night.

"You've put your foot in it this time," he began.

"What is it?" I cried in alarm.

"Old Brown—Violet's father—wants to slay you. His wife heard from Mrs. Wylie that you said to Wylie that he, Brown, had the intellect of a boiled rabbit."

"That's bad," I said in dismay. "The old fool was talking puerile rubbish about the wickedness of the working-classes. Wylie was there, and after Brown had gone I did make the impatient remark that he had the intellect of a boiled rabbit. But, Good Lord! I didn't want the thing to go back to his ears. How I can ever look the man in the face again I don't know."

"You should have thought of that before you spoke," said Macdonald with a smile.

"Oh," I replied, "I don't regret saying it in the least; at the time I felt it was the only thing to say. What I regret is the meanness of Wylie or his wife. Brown is a decent old chap, and I'm rather fond of him. Why the devil are people so dirty in mind, Macdonald? We all say things that we don't want carried to the person we are speaking about. I say things about you that I would hate you to hear, and I guess that you are in a similar position with regard to me. But the unpardonable social crime is to tell one man what another has said about him. It's the lowest down trick I know."

"What'll you do about it?"

"I'll go straight down to Brown and apologise for Wylie's bad taste."

"And your own!"

"Not at all. I'll tell him I've said worse things than that about him, but I'll implore him not to let them make any difference in our friendship."

"I've got a nasty little problem myself," said Macdonald. "You know that confounded committee of villagers that has charge of the Soup Kitchen Fund?"

"I do," I cried fervently.

"Well, I called a meeting for last night ... and I forgot to post Mrs. Wylie's invitation."

"Call that a nasty problem?" I cried; "my dear chap, you've raised a whirlwind and tempest combined ... and there won't be any still small voice at the end of 'em either. You've committed the Unforgivable Sin this time."

"She's in an awful wax," he continued; "says that she never was insulted like this before. She came up to-night and gave me beans ... told me that you were a perfect gentleman!"

"I took care never to omit her when I called the committee," I said modestly.

"She'll never forgive me," said Macdonald dolefully.

"Oh, yes she will ... if you play your cards well. Your game is to send a notice of the meeting to the local paper. Then commence a new paragraph thus:—The Convener, Mr. Macdonald, intimated that Mrs. Wylie's invitation to the meeting had been unintentionally overlooked, and he expressed his very earnest regret that his mistake had deprived the meeting of the always helpful advice of the injured lady.

"Publicity salves all wounds in the village, Macdonald. Do as I suggest and Mrs. W. will support you for all eternity."

"They are so small-minded," he said.

"They are hyper-sensitive," said I. "Mrs. Wylie is quite sure that you made a mistake. She can forgive you for that, but the thing that she will find it hard to forgive is the fact that you did not pay special attention to her letter, send it by registered post as it were. No one who knows me would accuse me of self-depreciation, but I tell you, Macdonald, every villager down there has more self-appreciation in his little finger than I have in my whole body. Old Jake Baffers never had a bath in his life, and he would be secretly proud of his record if an urchin were to shout at him: 'G'wa and tak a wash!' Yet if the secretary forgot to send him a notice of the Parish Council Meeting Jake would hate the man for all eternity."

"What does it all mean?" asked Macdonald.

"The innate love of publicity lies at the root of all the village hate and narrowness. They spend their little lives looking for trouble, and the trouble they look for specially is a personal slight. The village is always full of this kind of trouble. They like to have a finger in every pie. You don't want them to run your Soup Kitchen; you could do it fifty times better yourself."

"Perhaps they think I'd sneak the cash, eh?"

"No! No, to give them their due, they don't think that. You may rob the Committee of all their cash if you like (think of the fine talk they would have over it!); what you mustn't do is to rob them of their publicity. Some of them will always hate you because you wear a linen collar and don't talk dialect. Also, you are an incomer. I once attended a public meeting in a Fife village. A man stood up to give his opinion about a public matter, and they shouted him down with the cry: 'Sit doon! Ye're an incomer!' The man had been resident in that village for twenty-three years, but he had come from Forfarshire originally."

"And this is democracy!" exclaimed Macdonald.

"This is education," said I. "All the history and geography and grammar in the world won't produce a better generation in this village. What is really wrong is narrow vision due to lack of wide interest. Obviously the village thinks of small things, things that don't count to us. The villager left school at fourteen and he never had any training in thinking."

"Well, and what's the remedy?"

"Remedy be blowed!" I cried. "Come on, I'm going down with you and I'll have it out with old Brown."

* * *

Brown was in no mood to be friendly. Indeed he was quite nasty. He told me frankly that our friendship was at an end, and I felt pained about the matter. Suddenly a brilliant inspiration came to me. As I stood at the door I turned to him sharply.

"You've had your say, Mr. Brown," I said sternly, "and now it's my innings. I didn't mean to mention it, but you've forced me to do it."

I paused to note his sudden look of alarm.

"Yes," I went on, "I want to know what the devil you meant by saying that I suffered from swelled head?"

"When did I say that?" he stammered.

I shrugged my shoulders.

"I refuse to give away the man who told me," I said stiffly.

He was now in great excitement. He wiped his brow with his hand.

"Graham is a liar!" he cried passionately, "it was him that said it to me!"

"But you agreed with him?" I insinuated.

Brown drew himself up stiffly.

"Well, damn you, I did!"

"Quits!" I cried, and I held out my hand.

Later as we sat together over a hot whiskey I tried hard to persuade him that Graham had never said a word to me; I told him again and again that I had made a lucky guess, and at last I managed to persuade him to believe me. Yet somehow I feel that he'll look askance at poor Graham the next time he meets him.

* * *

We were threshing to-day. During the dinner interval Margaret and I chanced to meet in the barn. I threw my arms round her and kissed her. A chuckle came from the straw. I looked up to find the eyes of Jim Jackson upon us.

"Aw'll no tell!" he cried, and Margaret fled blushing from the barn.

"Right, Jim! We'll trust you with the secret. Margaret and I are in love with each other."

"When is it to be?" he asked eagerly.

"You are thinking of the wedding feast I presume, my lad, what?"

He did not answer; he seemed to be thinking.

"Bob Scott has a' the luck," he said dolefully; "when he was ten his mither was married, when he was eleven his sister Bets dee'd, and syne when he was twel his father was married. Aw've only had a marriage and a daith. Aw like marriages better gyn daiths; ye get mair to eat, and ye dinna hae to look solemn. A christenin' doesna coont; ye jest get a wee bit o' cake, and the minister prays."

"Jim," I said suddenly, "will you be my best man?"

He gaped.

"Will Aw be yer—?" He was too much surprised to complete the sentence.

"Yes, and carry the ring," I said.

His eyes danced.

"And kiss the bridesmaids," I continued.

His face fell.

"No," he said slowly, "Aw'm ower young to be a best man." He considered for a while. "But Geordie Tamson wud kiss them for a hank o' candy," he said half aloud.

"No," I said, "you can't delegate your powers to another in a case of this sort. But of course if you think Geordie would be the better man to sit on the dickey of the carriage, and lead the bride to the wedding feast, and throw out the sweeties and pennies to the children, and—"

"Aw'll be yer best man!" he roared.