But the large policeman insisted upon an interview with "the gentleman," with "Mr. Stewart," and, on my having the whole party in to hear the worst, we were informed that poor Jimmie had been caught trying to change a £50 note at the grocer's shop! "Mr. Stewart's" cold gravity of expression changed to one of deprecating amusement as I glanced indignantly at him. "I had no change, constable, so of course sent the boy to change the note," explained Parnell. "Told 'em so," threw in Jimmie, now feeling fairly safe and the centre of interest. But Eastbourne policemen are far too unimaginative to believe that boys of Jimmie's age are to be sent for change for £50 notes, and it was with the utmost difficulty we got rid of these stolid guardians of our pockets.
Parnell, after sending the boy for change, had temporarily forgotten the matter, and no explanation could convince him that it was the obvious thing that the boy should be "arrested" on trying to change so large a note. { 249} "Jimmie's a nuisance, but anyone can see that he is honest," was his conclusion.
On one of our excursions, ostensibly to look for a house, but really as much as anything for the purpose of getting away for a few hours to the sea, we went to Herne Bay. This was a charming and lonely little place then; a cluster of houses set in green fields and a fresh sea dashing over the little pier. It was always on days when the wind was high that the longing for the sea came over us, and thus we generally found the sea responding to our mood.
At this little village of Herne Bay the house we saw was unsuitable, but the day is a memory of salt wind and rough waves, followed by a picnic dinner at the little inn, where Parnell ordered a fowl to be roasted, and was momentarily saddened by my refusal to eat that murdered bird, which had been so pleasantly finding its own dinner when he gave the order.
"_My true love hath my heart and I have his._" --SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
Once when Parnell had to go to Ireland by the morning mail, after a late sitting of the House, I went up to the St. Pancras Hotel, where he had a room that night, and made the waiter bring up a tray into the bedroom, with a cold bird, some tomatoes and materials for salad dressing, adding a bottle of still Moselle (Parnell always drank still Moselle by his doctor's, Sir Henry Thompson's, orders, and no other wine). I knew he would be rushed to catch the train when he returned in the early morning, and that he would miss the little meal I always had ready for him, and this missing a meal was very bad for him.