Poor Caroline by Winifred Holtby Read Free Book Online Page A

slow pomposity of the Christian tailor.
    Joseph's imagination warmed towards the conquered. His love of elegance endeared St. Denis to him. His roman tic heart softened to this rector's son who wore his clothes so admirably. His alert sense of business observed that here was an Etonian in a difficulty. Of all things in the world that Joseph needed at that moment was an opportunity for placing an Etonian under an obligation to him.
    Still, the opportunity had not yet arisen. St. Denis broke off, raised his eyebrows, and turned to go. He was defeated, but he was unbroken. He strolled three paces down the room, then turned.
    'Oh, by the way, Mitchell. I told Hollway that I wanted that suit by Friday. '
    'Hollway, sir?'
    'Hollway. That fellow you call 17. My dear Mitchell, you surely don't expect me to adopt your degrading practice of calling your assistants by numbers as though they were Dartmoor convicts, do you?'
    'Degrading, sir? Ah, hardly that, I think, surely. Our ideal is one of impersonal service - impersonal anonymity, sir. Look at the Gothic cathedrals. We do not know who built them. Look at The Times newspaper.'
    'Yes. Look at it. Damn dull, my dear Mitchell. Damn dull. In any case, these numbers confuse me. They are worse than the streets in New York. In future, please, when I am here, kindly call your assistants by their proper names.'
    'Splendid, splendid, splendid!' applauded Joseph's heart. His tongue was silent, but he rose to his feet in an impulsive tribute of gratitude and admiration.
    Then St. Denis saw him.
    'I'm afraid that I've kept you too long from your other customers,' said he. 'This gentleman.'
    'Not at all. Not at all,' cried Joseph, perspiring but com posed. 'I was only looking through some patterns.'
    He swallowed hard. What St. Denis, insolvent but in domitable, had done, that Isenbaum, solvent as he was, could do. 'I gave my selections to your assistant, Griffin.'
    'Griffin?' Mr. Mitchell flushed. St. Denis was an old customer. He was a relative of Lord Herringdale. He was privileged. But Isenbaum, the fat, stinking little Jew, Isen baum had defied the Rubric, and blasphemed the Holy of Holies. Mr. Mitchell grew calm with fury. 'You mean my assistant, 17?'
    'I mean your man here, Griffin,' repeated Joseph, flushed but resolute. 'I agree with this gentleman, Mr. Mitchell. I prefer to call your assistants by their proper names.'
    'Admirable,' smiled St. Denis. 'You see, Mitchell, I have a fellow protestant.'
    If fury could destroy long-set tradition, if rage could master business advantage, if a life-time of discipline had not overlain Mr. Mitchell's passions, he would then have ordered both his customers from his shop. Had Isenbaum been alone, he would have done it. But St. Denis was St. Denis. He did not pay his bills, but he was well connected. One never knew how far the repercussions of insulting Lord Herringdale's kinsman might resound through the small world of quality. Mr. Mitchell tightened his lips and bowed in silence.
    But as he bowed, he conceived another and more subtle means of vengeance. Mitchell's was a club, over which he had hitherto presided with inimitable discretion. Never had he affected an introduction which cast the least shadow of embarrassment on either of the parties. Now he remembered that the Herringdales hated Jews; and he suspected that St. Denis borrowed money from all men of sub stance. The pair were well matched to inconvenience each other.
    'Ah,' said he. 'I believe that you do not know Mr. Isen baum, Mr. St. Denis? Mr. St. Denis, Mr. Isenbaum.'
    Mitchell had made one miscalculation. Of all his clients there was none who appreciated better than Basil St. Denis the fine shades of etiquette at Mitchell's. He knew that Augustus Mitchell did not introduce his Jews. He knew that Mitchell sought to make himself unpleasant. He quietly spiked the tailor's guns.
    'Ah, Isenbaum, we are two revolutionaries. Mitchell will have none of us. I am desolate. We must console each