of a miniature drama, but he was not called upon to take part in it.
And then the worst—from Mr Parker Pyne’s point of view—happened. A gushing lady of his acquaintance came to stay at the Mariposa. They met in the tea shop in the presence of Mrs Chester.
The newcomer screamed:
‘Why—if it isn’t Mr Parker Pyne—the one and only Mr Parker Pyne! And Adela Chester! Do you know each other? Oh, you do? You’re staying at the same hotel? He’s the one and only original wizard, Adela—the marvel of the century—all your troubles smoothed out while you wait! Didn’t you know? You must have heard about him? Haven’t you read his advertisements? “Are you in trouble? Consult Mr Parker Pyne.” There’s just nothing he can’t do. Husbands and wives flying at each other’s throats and he brings ’em together—if you’ve lost interest in life he gives you the most thrilling adventures. As I say the man’s just a wizard!’
It went on a good deal longer—Mr Parker Pyne at intervals making modest disclaimers. He disliked the look that Mrs Chester turned upon him. He disliked even more seeing her return along the beach in close confabulation with the garrulous singer of his praises.
The climax came quicker than he expected. That evening, after coffee, Mrs Chester said abruptly,
‘Will you come into the little salon, Mr Pyne? There is something I want to say to you.’
He could but bow and submit.
Mrs Chester’s self-control had been wearing thin—as the door of the little salon closed behind them, it snapped. She sat down and burst into tears.
‘My boy, Mr Parker Pyne. You must save him. We must save him. It’s breaking my heart!’
‘My dear lady, as a mere outsider—’
‘Nina Wycherley says you can do anything. She said I was to have the utmost confidence in you. She advised me to tell you everything—and that you’d put the whole thing right.’
Inwardly Mr Parker Pyne cursed the obtrusive Mrs Wycherley.
Resigning himself he said:
‘Well, let us thrash the matter out. A girl, I suppose?’
‘Did he tell you about her?’
‘Only indirectly.’
Words poured in a vehement stream from Mrs Chester. ‘The girl was dreadful. She drank, she swore—she wore no clothes to speak of. Her sister lived out here—was married to an artist—a Dutchman. The whole set was most undesirable. Half of them were living together without being married. Basil was completely changed. He had always been so quiet, so interested in serious subjects. He had thought at one time of taking up archaeology—’
‘Well, well,’ said Mr Parker Pyne. ‘Nature will have her revenge.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It isn’t healthy for a young man to be interested in serious subjects. He ought to be making an idiot of himself over one girl after another.’
‘Please be serious, Mr Pyne.’
‘I’m perfectly serious. Is the young lady, by any chance, the one who had tea with you yesterday?’
He had noticed her—her grey flannel trousers—the scarlet handkerchief tied loosely around her breast—the vermilion mouth and the fact that she had chosen a cocktail in preference to tea.
‘You saw her? Terrible! Not the kind of girl Basil has ever admired.’
‘You haven’t given him much chance to admire a girl, have you?’
‘I?’
‘He’s been too fond of your company! Bad! However, I daresay he’ll get over this—if you don’t precipitate matters.’
‘You don’t understand. He wants to marry this girl—Betty Gregg—they’re engaged.’
‘It’s gone as far as that?’
‘Yes. Mr Parker Pyne, you must do something. You must get my boy out of this disastrous marriage! His whole life will be ruined.’
‘Nobody’s life can be ruined except by themselves.’
‘Basil’s will be,’ said Mrs Chester positively.
‘I’m not worrying about Basil.’
‘You’re not worrying about the girl?’
‘No, I’m worrying about you. You’ve been squandering your birthright.’
Mrs Chester looked at him, slightly taken aback.
‘What are the years from twenty to forty? Fettered and bound by personal and emotional relationships. That’s bound to be. That’s living. But later there’s a new stage. You can think, observe life, discover something about other people and the truth about yourself. Life becomes real—significant. You see it as a whole. Not just one scene—the scene you, as an actor, are playing. No man or woman is actually himself (or herself ) till after forty-five. That’s when individuality has a chance.’
Mrs Chester said:
‘I’ve been wrapped up in Basil. He’s been everything to me.’
‘Well, he shouldn’t have been. That’s what you’re paying for now. Love him as much as you like—but you’re Adela Chester, remember, a person—not just Basil’s mother.’
‘It will break my heart if Basil’s life is ruined,’ said Basil’s mother.
He looked at the delicate lines of her face, the wistful droop of her mouth. She was, somehow, a lovable woman. He did not want her to be hurt. He said:
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
He found Basil Chester only too ready to talk, eager to urge his point of view.
‘This business is being just hellish. Mother’s hopeless—prejudiced, narrow-minded. If only she’d let herself, she’d see how fine Betty is.’
‘And Betty?’
He sighed.
‘Betty’s being damned difficult! If she’d just conform a bit—I mean leave off the lipstick for a day—it might make all the difference. She seems to go out of her way to be—well—modern—when Mother’s about.’
Mr Parker Pyne smiled.
‘Betty and Mother are two of the dearest people in the world, I should have thought they would have taken to each other like hot cakes.’
‘You have a lot to learn, young man,’ said Mr Parker Pyne.
‘I wish you’d come along and see Betty and have a good talk about it all.’
Mr
