"The papers are all crying 'Gray must go'," said Minerva, as we sat finishing the Camembert; "what's he been doing to deserve this?"
"Making too big breaks, perhaps," I suggested.
Minerva stared.
"It may be a sufficient reason from the point of view of the ordinary professionals," I went on, seeing that for once the wise young woman had been surprised at the brilliance of my deductive powers. "I should think that Gray hadn't done any good to the money-making side of professional billiards.
The gates of the ordinary players are sure to have suffered very heavily, don't you know, in consequence of that young man's intervention in the home coverts. After having seen thousand-breaks few fellows would care to pay to look on at hundreds being made. I wouldn't do it myself."
Still Minerva stared. I was having a glorious innings.
"And so, my dear, the pockets of the home professionals being affected they must do something to protect themselves.
You can hardly blame them."
"I was not dreaming of it for a single moment," said Minerva, looking at the clock.
"So they have decided that Gray must go! It's a jolly good idea. I wish I could settle my troubles and my opponents as easily. Still, after all, I'm sorry for the lad. He is a charming young man, and—"
"My dear old Fooler," interrupted Minerva, "I do wish you would read the papers sometimes. It is Sir Edward Grey that must go—the politician, you know."
"Oh, politics be blowed! Come and have a game."
I stared at the cloth in amazement. It was covered with small brown streaky splashes from the top to the bottom cushion.
"Who the—? What the—!?" I began in my best go-to-meeting language "Thanks awfully!" finished Minerva fervently. "Men are born lucky. A mere woman could never have expressed her feelings half so well. And now what is it?"
"That is what I want to know. What is it?" We looked at each other blankly. "Who has been here since Monday? It was all right then when I put the cover on."
"I don't know," said Minerva helplessly, "unless its been one of the maids."
"Yes, but what is it?" I asked.
"Perhaps it's Marion," suggested Minerva.
"Marion has cut down very fine to be reduced to a thousand dirty splashes," I sneered.
"I'll go and see," said the home champion.
Marion is the new housemaid. The old one Minerva insisted upon dismissing as soon as the Insurance Bill was passed—partly because she was a bad health risk; and partly because Minerva had stated at a public protest meeting that if such a scandalously interfering measure became law many a poor domestic servant would lose her means of employment, and felt called upon to prove her allegations as to the effects of the Bill. The new girl has been saying, I believe, that the old was a bad worker as well as a bad risk. And certainly Marion has been more in evidence with her scrubbers and things than ever Jane was.
"Yes," cried Minerva, flying into the room, "yes, it was Marion! I knew it. And you'll never guess how, Jack!" she added, throwing herself into a seat and laughing uproariously.
"It isn't a question of How, but Why," I remarked.
"Perhaps if you will kindly treat this matter with becoming seriousness I may understand...."
"Oh, my dear, my dear, it is really too funny, she gurgled.
"Seven guineas for a new cloth! I don't quite see the point of the joke, " cut in. I was annoyed and walked over to the cue-stand... Great Heavens! Every cue in the rack was warped like a dog's tail and bleached as white as sun-dried driftwood. I turned to Minerva.
"What in thunder is going on in this house?" I demanded.
"It's Marion," she shrieked hysterically, stuffing her handkerchief in her mouth, and kicking the rest of her explanation on the rug in the Morse Code." Marion!
Marion was doing out the billiard-room yesterday. She thought the cloth of the table needed brushing, and began to brush it after she had finished with the rest of the room.
And the dust she raised offended her sense of cleanliness; so to prevent it flying all over the place she scattered wet tealeaves on the cloth, because, she says, 'weet tea-leaves is a fine thing for layin' an' lift in' the dust, mum'"
"The double-baulked idiot!"
"Oh, Marion does not think so, I assure you. Wet tealeaves were always used at the places she has been in for 'keepin' the dust frae fleein'!"
"And what in heaven's name has she been doing with the cues?"
"Kept them soaking all night in the wash-house in a strong solution of soda and water!—to 'tak' the dirt oot. mum'."
As Mr. Lloyd George's Bill has cost me a new cloth and a dozen new cues before it has been put into operation, I anticipate with horror the date when it actually comes into force.