CHAPTER XIV

END OF AN IDLE DAY

I

It is remarkable that even in the most fashionable shopping thoroughfares certain shops remain brilliantly open, exposing plush-cushioned wares under a glare of electricity in the otherwise darkened street, for an hour or so after all neighbouring establishments have drawn down their blinds and put up their shutters.  An interesting point of psychology is involved in this phenomenon.

On his way home from the paradise of the mosque, Mr. Prohack, afoot and high-spirited, and energised by a long-forgotten sensation of physical well-being, called in at such a shop, and, with the minimum of parley, bought an article enclosed in a rich case.  A swift and happy impulse on his part!  The object was destined for his wife, and his intention in giving it was to help him to introduce more easily to her notice the fact that he was now, or would shortly be, worth over quarter of a million of money.  For he was a strange, silly fellow, and just as he had been conscious of a certain false shame at inheriting a hundred thousand pounds, so now he was conscious of a certain false shame at having increased his possessions to two hundred and fifty thousand pounds.

The Eagle was waiting in front of Mr. Prohack’s door; he wondered what might be the latest evening project of his women, for he had not ordered the car so early; perhaps the first night had been postponed; however, he was too discreet, or too dignified, to make any enquiry from the chauffeur; too indifferent to the projects of his beloved women.  He would be quite content to sit at home by himself, reflecting upon the marvels of existence and searching among them for his soul.

Within the house, servants were rushing about in an atmosphere of excitement and bell-ringing.  He divined that his wife and daughter were dressing simultaneously for an important occasion—­either the first night or something else.  In that feverish environment he forgot the form of words which he had carefully prepared for the breaking to his wife of the great financial news.  Fortunately she gave him no chance to blunder.

“Oh, Arthur, Arthur!” she cried, sweetly reproachful, as with an assumed jauntiness he entered the bedroom.  “How late you are!  I expected you back an hour ago at least.  Your things are laid out in the boudoir.  You haven’t got a moment to spare.  We’re late as it is.”  She was by no means dressed, and the bedroom looked as if it had been put to the sack; nearly every drawer was ajar, and the two beds resembled a second-hand shop.

Mr. Prohack’s self-protective instinct at once converted him into a porcupine.  An attempt was being made to force him into a hurry, and he loathed hurry.

“I’m not late,” said he, “because I didn’t say when I should return.  It won’t take me more than a quarter of an hour to eat, and we’ve got heaps of time for the theatre.”