There never was such a boy. He could do almost anything. He polished the boots and the silver, waited at table, played with the children and had even been found surreptitiously nursing the baby. It showed, said Mrs Partington, the inherent superiority of the male to the female. To be sure, she had had other boys in whom the virtues of George Lloyd had not seemed to inhere, but that, according to Mrs Partington, did not affect the argument. And how fortunate it was that he had entered her service at an important juncture; that is to say, shortly before she expected a visit from her first cousin, once removed, who was in the Cabinet. She had not seen much of the cousin since greatness had been thrust upon him. He was so much engaged, she told her friends. But now, in response to her sixth invitation, he had at last arranged to spend a night at her house on his way north. And just a week before the visit, when Charles Jones had been summarily dismissed for offences connected with a jam pot, George Lloyd had offered his services.
Mrs Partington took to him at once; he had such a nice face, such clean hands and such a neat figure, and he assured her that he never had and never would put his fingers in the jam. The only thing she didn’t quite like was his name; it suggested, somehow, the idea of a Cabinet Minister upside down, which was an idea which Mrs Partington shrank from contemplating. Even at the best it savoured somewhat of presumption.
‘You were not called George because your name, being Lloyd – not after – er—’
‘Oh, no, ma’am,’ said George Lloyd, who was very quick at the uptake, ‘my grandfather.’
It was not uppishness, then. Mrs Partington engaged him.
And then came the preparations for the coming of the Cabinet Minister. Such rubbing up of silver, such cleaning of windows, such airing of the best bed had never been seen in Mrs Partington’s establishment, correctly as that establishment was usually run. Mrs Partington herself was in a flutter of expectation, mingled with horrid fears; for were there not, in the path and in train of all members of the Government, those unspeakable Suffragettes? They followed them, she knew – the brazen creatures – everywhere, literally, my dear, everywhere, and the responsibility of entertaining eminent men nowadays was really – don’t you agree? – overwhelming.
My dear agreed, and so did all the other dears to whom Mrs Partington confided the doubts which sat upon her bosom, and so did George Lloyd, on whom the urgency of super-careful carefulness had to be impressed.
‘The iron gates must be locked at dusk, George’ (it was better to call him George than Lloyd) ‘at dusk, do you understand?’
Oh, yes, he understood. And not to be opened, he supposed, till the morning.
Certainly not. Mrs Partington hoped she could trust him, hoped he would do his utmost to secure the safety and comfort of the Cabinet Minister. George Lloyd assured her that he would see to the Cabinet Minister – no fear.
‘If any of those Suffragettes were to get in I should never get over it,’ said Mrs Partington.
‘They do say they squeeze through anything,’ observed George.
‘They won’t squeeze through my iron railings,’ answered Mrs Partington, and George said he supposed not.
George and the parlourmaid together laid the table with the best glass and put the drawing room in an order which the term apple-pie is inadequate to express.
The arrival of the guest was a complete success; there were no Suffragettes about the iron gates, and Mrs Partington breathed freely. The dinner went off beautifully. Cook was a member of the local anti-Suffrage society, of which her mistress was president, and had done her utmost; and the way George passed the vegetables and saw that the Minister did not want for bread consolidated the good opinion that Mrs Partington had formed of him. The only disturbing thing – and very curious – that happened was, that on the drawing-room table after dinner, staring guest and hostess in the face, was a copy of Votes for Women. The guest thought that the hostess took it, and was a little affronted; the hostess thought the guest had bought it, and was a little surprised. Then when it was discovered that neither would look at anything so vile, consternation supervened. How did it get there? How? Mrs Partington was overwhelmed with annoyance, crossed with confusion. George Lloyd, summoned by fierce bell-ringing, poured oil on the troubled waters by suggesting that it might have been sent by mistake with the evening papers, and, beholding the relief caused by his words, departed with a gentle smile, while Mrs Partington still asseverated her regrets at the occurrence, for she had hoped that dear Jumbo (it was the Minister’s pet name) would have found her little home a haven of peace.
Peaceful it was through the still night hours. The iron gates were locked, the key in Mrs Partington’s keeping, and in the calm silence the Minister slept the sleep of those who cannot see beyond their noses. Locked gates, barred doors, police on guard. How, then, did it happen that on every door of every room next morning hung a poster bearing the shameless words, ‘Votes for Women’? The bell-ringing of the evening was nothing to the bell-ringing of the morning. (In the afternoon the battery had to be recharged.) Every servant was summoned, every soul in the house questioned and requestioned. Nobody knew anything, nobody could suggest anything, except George Lloyd, who repeated his assertion of the previous day: ‘They do say they can squeeze through anything.’ He also said he had heard a noise in the night, but thought it might be rats. The police could find no clue and could offer no advice, except that the Minister should depart by an earlier train than had been intended, in case an outrage was contemplated at the station; and by twelve o’clock Mrs Partington was guestless, sadly depressed and further discomposed by the appearance of George Lloyd, who announced that his grandfather was ill and desired the presence of his namesake.
He went, never to return, and never has Mrs Partington had another boy displaying such inherent superiority to female servants. He went, taking all his possessions with him, including a pamphlet presented to him by Mrs Partington, entitled ‘Why Women Do Not Want the Vote’. Two things only he left behind. One was the half-crown given him by the Cabinet Minister, the other was a letter found by the housemaid at the back of a drawer; and the extraordinary thing about the letter was that, though the envelope was directed to Master George Lloyd, it began inside, ‘My dear Annie’.
The housemaid wondered and the housemaid pondered. Then she pocketed the half-crown and burned the letter.