FIRST OBJECTION:
THE BROKEN TOAD
MR. FORTUNE’S EYES, drowsy and benign, contemplated Mrs. Fortune. The shape of her face, the poise of her head, and her amber hair were shown him against a background of sunlit, misty blue, the August sky of his garden in the Cotswolds. The shape of the rest of her, which was covered in amber silk, had behind it the dark, shining green and the creamy flowers of a fence of Mermaid roses. She was receiving the admiration of the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department and was graciously amused.
A maid arrived with tea. Mr. Fortune’s eyes turned to consideration of the cake - stand. He sighed content. He wriggled in his long chair to a position more adapted for eating. He gazed at his wife, and said plaintively, “Joan!”
Mrs. Fortune and Lomas turned towards him. “The hungry sheep look up and are not fed,” said Lomas.
“He has so few pleasures,” Mrs. Fortune apologised. “The perpetual small boy.”
“Oh, no. No. Very mature mind. Speakin’ roughly, the only mature mind I ever knew,” Reggie murmured. “In a man.” He took a yellow cake of a bun formation. “Try this pleasure, Lomas. My design, executed by Elise. Sort o’ saffron cake, with interior clotted cream and wild strawberry jam.”
“Good Gad!” Lomas exclaimed. “Saffron!”
“Why not?” Reggie opened round eyes at him. “Oh, that!”
“Yes, exactly,” said Lomas, with a grimace. “No accounting for taste,” he shrugged. “You’re a wonderful animal, Reginald.” He turned to Mrs. Fortune and apologised. “I beg your pardon.”
She smiled. “I do like to think he’s rational - as often as I can.” With affection she surveyed Reggie’s delicate management of gushing jam and cream.
“Instincts very highly developed,” Lomas admitted. “But we are making the man self - conscious.” He steered the conversation away from the question of saffron in cake to life at large.
Reggie finished a second gateau Elise, and returned to society to hear them talking morals… . Lomas was talking … Lomas was being clever … something about goodness consisting of good taste.
“Just existing beautifully,” said Mrs. Fortune. “Then you must be very good, Mr. Lomas.”
“No. No. Certain activity required,” Reggie protested.
“Hush.” Lomas waved him out of it. “What’s Mrs. Fortune’s definition of goodness?”
“Being kind,” she said.
“Yes. Both have glimpses of the truth,” Reggie murmured. “Bein’ kind isn’t adequate. You’ve got to be kind within reason. Lots of nasty sin comes out of the other kind of kindness. That’s where sound taste is useful. Love’s done about as much harm in the world as hate. Devotion - self - sacrifice - dangerous, delusive virtues. Made some of the worst horrors.”
“You do sometimes believe in something, don’t you?” said Mrs. Fortune gently.
“Oh, yes. Yes. All the time, Joan. I believe in justice.”
“And mercy,” she said.
“Not by itself, no. Bein’ always merciful produces fools and devils.”
She looked at him severely. “Do you make my flesh creep? No, not when you’re trying.”
” He’s doing worse,” said Lomas. “He’s talking shop.” and turned the conversation to the new painter’s picture of Mrs. Fortune… .
The emotions of Lomas over saffron in cake and Mr. Fortune’s criticism of unselfish love were alike inspired by the case of the broken toad. It is to be admitted that this has become a favourite subject with Mr. Fortune. He considers it - and has been thought too fond of saying so - the supreme example of crimes of affection; he maintains that study of it is necessary to a liberal education.
Police - constable Mills was the unhappy cause of bringing it before him. Early on a summer morning - that is to say, about eight o’clock - Mr. Fortune was waked to dislike the world by a telephone message asking him to go and see a policeman in the Langdon Hospital.
Sitting up in bed, he moaned into the receiver. “Who is speaking? Underwood? Have you a heart? No. You used to have some intelligence. What’s the matter with the man?”
“The hospital won’t give us anything definite. They say it might be some sort of stroke, or it might be concussion - blow on the head, you know. We’d got that far by ourselves. And, you see, we want to know good and quick which it was. If the poor chap was attacked, we’ve got to get busy.”
“Horrible necessity. Well, well. What are the facts, if any?”
“Constable went out on his beat last night quite fit. Nothing known of him after that, till a milk van nearly ran over him this morning. He was lying in the road, helmet off, sort of groaning, the milkman says, but practically unconscious, and he’s been like that ever since.”
