Lovers in London by A. A. Milne

Author:A. A. Milne
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan
Published: 2017-09-20T09:35:13+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

The Confessional

Waiting one day for a train to Kew, Amelia and I lingered at the bookstall. Amelia bought a Woman’s Life, “for Maid and Wife”—which is poetry. It is recognised that a purchase of this sort gives you the right to turn over everything else on the stall. Together we glanced at the Sketch, and then, while Amelia looked through “Everybody’s Book of Etiquette,” I made for “The Complete Letter Writer.” (You know the blue sixpenny series.)

“It isn’t etiquette to eat soup with a knife,” said Amelia. “It’s not done in England.”

“Not this season.”

“You must take it with a spoon, half-way between the middle of it and the end.”

“Which end?”

“The spoon end, of course.”

“Not the handle. Well, I always do. I measure it with a compass. ‘Dear madam, pardon the addresses of a perfect stranger, but ever since I sat behind you that day in church I have dared to worship you. I am a butcher in a fair way of business, and many times lately have I had the pleasure of serving you in my shop. I can give you testimonials as to my honesty and sobriety, and would write to your father first if you preferred it.’ Answer unfavourable to the above. ‘Sir!’’

“Are you fixing up a proposal, Teddy?”

“Well, I was thinking of it. Hallo, here’s a confession-book; let’s buy it.” . . .

Later on, in Amelia’s drawing-room, we went through it together.

Page 1 was for the owner of the book. The book was undoubtedly Amelia’s.

“I will fill it in for you,” I said.

Details as to name and age were soon done. Then came more interesting things.

“Your favourite hero in real life?” I read.

“Oh, that’s easy. Teddy—”

“Spare my blushes. Besides, what would your mother say? I understand of course, and I think it is very nice of you. At the same time—”

“Teddy Roosevelt, I was about to say.”

I had my revenge.

“Who is he?” I asked, carelessly; “an American?”

Amelia’s outburst was suppressed with difficulty—and two cushions.

“Favourite poet? Longfellow,” I suggested.

“Of course.”

“Favourite hero in fiction? You had better fill that in yourself. I have only read one American novel; it was called ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin,’ or something like that. So I can’t suggest a hero for you. My own novel, of which I am the hero, is not yet out.”

“Most hated vices,” broke in Amelia. “Conceit and self-advertisement.”

In most confession-books one is asked one’s favourite flower. If one is really witty one then replies “Cauliflower.” This jest has a great reputation in the suburbs. In fact, one can be very funny in a confession-book if one tries. I hope you understand that I am giving particulars of Amelia’s confessions solely in order that you may appreciate her character. Like a distinguished American, “I never try to be as funny as I can.” I never—

“Most hated vice,” repeated Amelia, “self-advertisement. Have you got that down? Now then.”

Here follow a few:—

Favourite game. Lawn tennis. (In the suburbs they say “pheasant.”)

Favourite animal. “Toddles.” (Toddles is believed to be a dog. Outside he

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