Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3826/Herbert
"I haven't introduced Herbert to you yet, have I?"
Stella—my—niece spoke with her eyes on the matinée hat before her, and concluded, á propos of the hat, though at first I feared of Herbert—"I do hope and pray that it will come off. Hip! Hip! She's pulling out pins."
"I had no idea there was—a Herbert."
"Oh, Nunckle! and you're responsible for the fact that he's mine at all!"
"I responsible?"
"Well, but for you I never might have seen him even; and I'm sure there isn't another like Gerbert in the whole round world. Everyone wants him."
Presently I enquired when she proposed to introduce this paragon to the person responsible for him.
"I've got him here to-day."
I looked at her in pained silence, for Stella—my—niece, calmly fishing for "hard ones" in a chocolate box, was, as it were, sheltered under the leee of a long-haired gentleman who occupied rather more than double half-a-crown's worth of red velvet seat.
"There?" I whispered, pointing to the long-haired gentleman who neighboured her, and wondering what her mother would have to say about it all.
Stella—my—niece smiled.
"Do you imagine that I should bring Herbert into the pit?"
"Point him out to me."
"I can't. Now they're going to begin!" She snuggled down into her place and invited me to do likewise in my own as the curtain rose and revealed the legs of one of our leading actor-managers, and the audience clapped, hoping for more. "Now we're going to enjoy ourselves! Don't forget to hold my hand if anything pops."
Stella—my—niece has made it a stern rule that we are not to talk during the Acts, contriving to telegraph her appreciation of most things by fervent clutches at my arm; but to-day the effects of this salutary regulation were spoilt for me by Herbert. My attention wandered.
"Is he an actor?" I asked sternly, as the lights leaped up again.
"Which do you mean? I think they were all perfect darlings in that scene."
"Why, Herbert, of course."
"Herbert—Sir Herbert? He isn't in this, is he? I didn't see anyone looking as bored as he does. Hunt him up in the programme—it's down there under your boots."
"I didn't mean Tree. I meant Herbert—your Herbert."
"My Herbert?" Stella—my—niece opened her mouth showing astonishment and very pretty teeth.
"Yes, your Herbert. He's an actor fellow, isn't he?"
"No, he's an umbrella—my new umbrella. I bought him with the sovereign you sent me for my birthday, and he is such a darling! I felt he ought to have a name of his own, so I called him Herbert. He looked like that."
"A girl's name—Maud, for instance, only one doesn't use them in the garden much—"
"A girl's name, like Pauline, may suit your fountain pen, and Dad may call the motor 'Mary Jane' when he's pleased with how he's mended her; but I decided I would have a man's. It sounds better to say, 'Herbert is seeing me home, thank you.' The sad thing is that I'm sure I shan't keep him long; he's so pretty. When he's waiting for me in umbrella-stands I feel nervous, and in trains. He's so unique—so utterly unlike anyone else's umbrella. I know you'll love him."
I did as soon as ever I saw him coming out of the cloak-room hanging on her arm. There was a gentle coyness in the turn of Herbert's handle, a nutty daintiness about his little gold tie which made me look involuntarily for his socks.
"Now, you wait and see if someone doesn't try to run off with him before we get home," said Stella-my-niece. "I'll hold him on a long lead so that people will think he's out by himself, and we'll await developments."
We settled ourselves by tact and firmness in a crowded après matinee 'bus, and Stella-my-niece, having set down all her belongings the better to persuade the programme to ride inside her pocket, took Herbert by his long tassels, leaving him leaning against the seat between herself and her neighbour, a lady with many trimmings and a book.
"I hope she'll go before we do," said Stella-my-niece in my ear. "I sort of feel that she'll try to take Herbert."
She did; as she read, her hand reached out and took a grip upon Herbert's immaculate head! Stella-my-niece stifled a squeak of pure excitement.
"Oxford Street," announced the conductor dispassionately, and the trimmed lady shut her book and rose to get out. Stella-my-niece, holding Herbert by his tassels, smiled indulgently.
"You have my umbrella, I'm afraid," she said sweetly. "It is such a very uncommon one that I simply couldn't be mistaken."
The trimmed lady looked round; so did everyone in the 'bus. Then she pointed to a slim object propped against the seat between Stella-my-niece's blue skirt and my own striped garments.
"That's yours by the gentleman; they're just the same pattern."
So they were!
*****
As Stella-my-niece said afterwards at tea, the worst of it was that it proved that Herbert wasn't quite unique; at the best he was a twin. I think that privately we thought him something worse than a triplet, but we neither knew quite how to say it. Anyhow, all the Herberts are fascinating.