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The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Crooked Mile, by Oliver Onions.
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<pre>
The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Crooked Mile, by Oliver Onions
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: A Crooked Mile
Author: Oliver Onions
Release Date: October 1, 2011 [EBook #37584]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CROOKED MILE ***
Produced by Judith Wirawan, Suzanne Shell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
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</pre>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="400" height="395" alt="Cover" title="" />
</div>
<h1>A CROOKED MILE</h1>
<h4>BY THE SAME AUTHOR<br />
<small><span class="smcap">The Exception</span></small><br />
<small><span class="smcap">Good Boy Seldom</span></small><br />
<small><span class="smcap">The Two Kisses</span></small><br /></h4>
<hr />
<h1>A CROOKED MILE</h1>
<h5>BY</h5>
<h2>OLIVER ONIONS</h2>
<h5>AUTHOR OF "THE TWO KISSES"</h5>
<h4><br />
METHUEN & CO. LTD.<br />
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.<br />
LONDON</h4>
<h4><i>First Published in 1914</i></h4>
<hr />
<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
<div class="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" width="70%" summary="">
<tr><td align="left"> </td><td align="center">PART I</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">CHAP.</td><td align="left"> </td><td align="right">PAGE</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">I</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Witan</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">II</td><td align="left"> <span class="smcap">The Pond-Room</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_17">17</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">III</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The "Novum"</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_33">33</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">IV</td><td align="left"> <span class="smcap">The Stone Wall</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_51">51</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">V</td><td align="left"> <span class="smcap">Three Ships</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_76">76</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">VI</td><td align="left"> <span class="smcap">Policy</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_98">98</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"> </td><td align="center">PART II</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">I</td><td align="left"> <span class="smcap">The Pigeon Pair</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_119">119</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">II</td><td align="left"> <span class="smcap">The 'Vert</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_132">132</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">III</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Imperialists</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_148">148</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">IV</td><td align="left"> <span class="smcap">The Outsiders</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_171">171</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">V</td><td align="left"> <span class="smcap">"House Full"</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_189">189</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">VI</td><td align="left"> <span class="smcap">The Soul Storm</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_210">210</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"> </td><td align="center">PART III</td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">I</td><td align="left"> <span class="smcap">Litmus</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_239">239</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">II</td><td align="left"> <span class="smcap">By the Way</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_254">254</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">III</td><td align="left"><i><span class="smcap">De Trop</span></i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_274">274</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">IV</td><td align="left"> <span class="smcap">Grey Youth</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_285">285</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"> </td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Tailpiece</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_307">307</a></td></tr>
</table></div>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p>
<h1>A CROOKED MILE</h1>
<h2>I</h2>
<h3>THE WITAN</h3>
<p>Lady Tasker had missed her way in the
Tube. She had been on, or rather under
known ground on the Piccadilly Railway as far as
Leicester Square, but after that she had not heard,
or else had forgotten, that in order to get to Hampstead
by the train into which she had stepped she
must change at Camden Town. Or perhaps she
had merely wondered what Camden Town supposed
itself to be that she should put herself to the trouble
of changing there. With the newspaper held at
arm's length, and a little figure-8-shaped gold
glass moving slightly between her puckered old eyes
and the page, she was reading the "<i>By the Way</i>"
column of the "Globe."—"All change," called the
man at Highgate; and, still unconscious of her
mistake, Lady Tasker left the train. She was the
last to enter the lift. But for an unhurried raising
of the little locket-shaped glass as the attendant
fidgeted at the half-closed gate she might have
been the first to enter the next lift.</p>
<p>Only from the policeman outside Highgate Station<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span>
did she learn that she must either take the Tube back
again to Camden Town or else walk across the Heath.</p>
<p>Now Lady Tasker was seventy, and, with the
exception of the Zoo, a place she visited from time
to time with troops of turbulent great-nephews, the
whole of North London was a sort of Camden Town
to her, that is to say, she had no objection to its
existence so long as it wasn't troublesome. It was
half-past three when she said as much to the Highgate
policeman, who up to that time had been
an ordinary easy-going Conservative; by five-and-twenty
minutes to four she had made of him a
fuming Radical. He was saying something about
South Square and Merton Lane. Lady Tasker
addressed the bracing Highgate air in one of those
expressionless and semi-ventriloquial asides that,
especially in a mixed company, always made her
ladyship very well worth sitting next to.</p>
<p>"Merton Lane! Does the man suppose that
conveys anything to me?.... I want to know how
to get to Hampstead, not the names of the objects
of interest on the way!"</p>
<p>The newly-made Radical told her that there
might be a taxi on the rank, and turned away to
cuff the ears of an urchin who was tampering with
an automatic machine. It was a wonder that
Lady Tasker's glare, focussed through the gold-rimmed
glass on a point between his shoulder-blades,
did not burn a hole in his tunic.</p>
<p>Taxis at eightpence a mile, indeed, with the
house at Ludlow already full of those children of
Churchill's, and three of Tony's little girls eating<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span>
their way through the larder in Cromwell Gardens,
and young Tommy, Emily's boy, who had just
"pulled" his captaincy, arriving at Southampton
in the "Seringapatam" on Saturday with another
batch for her to take under her wing! Did people
suppose she was made of money?...</p>
<p>The policeman's tunic was just beginning to scorch
when Lady Tasker, dropping the glass, turned away
and set out for Hampstead on foot.</p>
<p>She might very well have been excused had she
omitted to return Mrs. Cosimo Pratt's call. Indeed
she had vowed that very morning that nothing
should drag her up to Hampstead that day. But
for twenty times that Lady Tasker said "I will
not," nineteen she repented and went, taking out
the small change of her magnanimity when she got
there. And after all, she would be killing two birds
with one stone, for her niece Dorothy also lived
somewhere in this northern Great Karroo, and
unless she got these things over before the "Seringapatam"
dropped anchor on Saturday there was no
knowing when next she would have an hour to call
her own. As she turned (after a brush with a second
policeman, who summed her up quite wrongly on
the strength of her antiquated pelisse and trailing
old Victorian hat) down Merton Lane to the ponds,
she told herself again that she was a foolish old
woman to have come at all.</p>
<p>For the Cosimo Pratts were not bosom friends of
hers. True, they had been, until six months ago,
her neighbours at Ludlow, and for that matter she
had known young Cosimo's people for the greater<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span>
part of her life: but she had not forgotten the
hearty blackguarding the young couple had got,
any time this last two years, from the rest of
the country-side. Small wonder. What else
did they expect, after the way in which they
had made farm-labour too big for its jacket and
beaters hardly to be had for love or money?
Not that Lady Tasker herself had seen very much
of their antics. Great-nieces and nephews had
kept her too busy for that, and she was moreover
wise enough not to believe all she heard. And
even were it true, that, she now told herself, had
been in the country. They would have to behave
differently now that they had let the Shropshire
house and had come to live in town. They could
hardly dance barefoot round a maypole in Hampstead,
or stage-manage the yearly Hiring-Fair for
the sake of the "Daily Speculum" photographer
(as they had done in Ludlow), or group themselves
picturesquely about the feet of the oldest inhabitant
while that shocking old reprobate with the splendid
head recited (at five shillings an hour) the stories of
old, unhappy, far-off things he had learned by heart
from the booklets they had printed at the Village
Press. No: in London they would almost certainly
have to do as other people did, and Shropshire,
after its three years of social and artistic awakening,
would no doubt forget all about the æsthetic revival
and would sink back into a well-earned rest.</p>
<p>It was a Thursday afternoon in September,
warm for the time of the year, and a half-day
closing for the shops. Had Lady Tasker remembered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span>
the half-holiday she certainly would not
have come. She hated crowds, and, if you would
believe her, had no illusions whatever about the
sanctity of our common nature and the brotherhood
of man. She would tell you roundly that
there was far too much aimless good-nature in the
world, and that every sob wasted over a sinner
was something taken away from the man who, if
he was a sinner too, had at least the decency to
keep up appearances. And so much for brotherhood.
Great-nephewship, of course, was another matter.
Somebody had to look after all those youngsters,
and if her sister Eliza, the one at Spurrs, went
into a tantrum about every bud that was picked
in the gardens and every chair-leg that was an
inch out of its place in the house, so much the
worse for Lady Tasker, who must walk because
she had something else to do with her money than
to waste it on taxis.</p>
<p>She had been told by her niece Dorothy to look
out for a clump of tall willows and an ivied chimney;
that was where the Pratts lived; but Dorothy
had spoken of the approach from the Hampstead
side, not from Highgate way. Lady Tasker got
lost. She was almost dropping for want of a cup
of tea, and the Heath seemed all willows, and
all the wrong ones. No policeman, Radical or
Conservative, was to be seen. Walking across
an apparently empty space, well away (as she
thought) from a horde of shouting boys, the old
lady suddenly found herself enveloped in a game
of football. This completed her exhaustion. Near<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span>
by, one of Messrs. Libertys' carts was ascending
a steep road at a slow walk; somehow or other
Lady Tasker managed to get her hand on the tail
of it; and the car gave her a tow. She was seventy
after all.</p>
<p>As it happened, that was her first piece of luck
in a luckless afternoon. The cart drew on to the
left; Lady Tasker trailed after it; and suddenly
it stopped before a high privet hedge with a closed
green door in the middle of it. Lady Tasker did
not look for the ivied chimney. On the door was
painted in white letters "The Witan." She was
where she wanted to be.</p>
<p>Ordinarily Lady Tasker would have approved of
the height of the privet hedge, which was seven or
eight feet; that was a nice, reassuring, anti-social
height for a hedge; but as it was she could not
even put up her hand to the bell. The carter rang
it for the pair of them. Over the hedge came
the low murmur of voices and the clink of cups and
saucers, and then the door was opened. It was
opened by the mistress of the house. No doubt
Mrs. Pratt had expected the cart, had heard its
drawing up, and had not waited for a maid to come.
Her eyes sought the carman, who had stepped
aside. She spoke with some asperity.</p>
<p>"It's Libertys', isn't it?" she said. "Well,
I've a very good mind to make you take it back.
It was promised for yesterday."</p>
<p>"Can't say, I'm sure, m'm."</p>
<p>"It's always the same. Every time I——"</p>
<p>Then she saw her visitor, and gave a little start.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span></p>
<p>"Why, it's Lady Tasker! How delightful!
Do come in! And do just excuse me—I shan't be
a minute.... Why didn't this come yesterday?
It was promised faithfully——"</p>
<p>She stepped outside to scold the carman, leaving
Lady Tasker standing just within the green door.</p>
<p>The altercation was plainly audible:</p>
<p>"Very sorry, m'm. You see——"</p>
<p>"I will see, if it occurs again——"</p>
<p>"The orders is taken as they come, m'm——"</p>
<p>"They said the first delivery——"</p>
<p>"We wasn't loaded till one o'clock——"</p>
<p>"That's none of my business——"</p>
<p>"Very sorry, m'm——"</p>
<p>"Well, the next time it occurs——"</p>
<p>And so forth.</p>
<p>Now in reading what happened the next moment
you must remember that Lady Tasker was very,
very tired. Had she been less tired she might
have wondered why one of the two maids she saw
crossing to the tea-table under the copper beech
had not been allowed to take in Mrs. Cosimo Pratt's
parcel. And she would certainly have thought
it extraordinary that she should be left standing
alone while Mrs. Cosimo Pratt scolded the carrier,
and wanted to know why the parcel had not been
brought yesterday. But, tired as she was, her
eyes had already rested on something that had
momentarily galvanized even the weariness out of
her. It was this:—</p>
<p>Seven or eight people sat in basket-chairs or
stood talking; and, under the copper beech, as if<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span>
Mrs. Pratt had just slid out of it, a hammock of
coloured string still moved, slung from the beech
to a sycamore beyond. Lady Tasker saw these
things at once; she did not at once see what it
was that stood just beyond the hammock.</p>
<p>Then it moved, and Lady Tasker raised her glass.</p>
<p>No doubt you have seen the cover of Mr. Wells's
"Invisible Man." It will be remembered that
all that can be seen of that afflicted person is his
clothes; and all that Lady Tasker at first saw of
the Invisible Man by the copper beech was his
clothes. These were of light yellow tussore, with
a white double collar and a small red tie, sharp-edged
white cuffs and highly polished brown boots.
At collar and cuffs the man ended.</p>
<p>And yet he did not end, for the lenses of a pair
of spectacles made lurking lights in the shadow
of the beech, a few inches above the white collar.</p>
<p>The phantom wore no hat.</p>
<p>Then Lady Tasker, suddenly pale, dropped her
glass. Between the collar and the spectacles a
white gash of teeth had appeared. The Invisible
Man had smiled, and at the same moment there
had shown round the bole of the beech a second
smoky shape, this one without teeth, but with
white and mobile eyes instead.</p>
<p>Lady Tasker was in the presence of two Hindoos.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Now all her life, and long before her life for that
matter, Lady Tasker had been accustomed ... but
no: that is not the way to put it. The following
table will save many words:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span></p>
<h4>PORTION OF TREE OF THE LENNARDS AND TASKERS<br />
(<span class="smcap">Comments by Lady Tasker</span>)</h4>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 840px;">
<img src="images/familytree.jpg" width="840" height="442" alt="Family Tree" title="" />
</div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span></p>
<p>You see how it was, and had to be. Not only
was Lady Tasker insular, arrogant, and of opinion
that Saint Paul made the mistake of his life when
he set out to preach the Gospel to all nations, but
she made a virtue of her narrowness and defect.
Show her a finger-nail with a purple half-moon, and
you no longer saw a charming if acid-tongued old
English lady, who cut timber in order to pay for
governesses for those grandchildren of Emily's
and sent, under guise of birthday gifts, useful little
cheques to the descendants of her brother-in-law
the groom. Babu or Brahmin, all were the same
to her. No defence is offered of an attitude so
indefensible. Such people do still exist. Let us
sigh for their narrowness of mind, and pass on.</p>
<p>The smile of the first Hindoo was for Mrs. Pratt,
who had got her row with the carman over and
had reappeared behind Lady Tasker and closed
the door of The Witan again. Her face, pretty
and finished as a miniature, and the great chestnut-red
helm of her hair, showed over the slant of the box
in her arms. "Do excuse me, just <i>one</i> moment!"
she said, smiling at Lady Tasker as she passed;
and she ran off into the house, her mistletoe-berry
white robe with its stencilling of grey-green whipping
about her heels as she did so. And fortunately,
as she ran in at the door, Cosimo Pratt came out
of the French window, saw Lady Tasker, and
strode to her. He broke into rapid and hearty
speech.</p>
<p>"You here! How delightful!—Amory!—I
didn't hear you come! So kind of you!—Amory,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span>
where are you?—How are you? Do let me get
you some tea!—Amory!——"</p>
<p>Lady Tasker spoke faintly.—"I should like,"
she said, "to go into the house."</p>
<p>"Rather! Hang on to my arm.—Amory!
Where is that girl?—Sure you won't have tea outside?
I can find you a nice shady place under
the beech——"</p>
<p>Lady Tasker closed her eyes.—"Please take
me in."</p>
<p>"Tube headache? I hate the beastly thing.
I thought you were in Ludlow. Charming of
you——"</p>
<p>And he led Lady Tasker into the house.</p>
<p>This was a low building of stucco, with slatted
window-shuts which, like the sashes of the slightly
bowed French window and of the two windows
beyond, were newly painted green. This painting
seemed rather to emphasize than to mitigate a
certain dogseared look the place had, not amounting
to dilapidation, but enough to make it probable
that Cosimo Pratt had taken it on a repairing
lease. The copper beech, the high privet hedge
and the willows beyond it, shut out both light and
air. The fan-lighted door had two electric bell buttons,
with little brass plates. The upper plate
read, "Mr. Cosimo Pratt"; the lower one "Miss
Amory Towers (Studio)."</p>
<p>But Lady Tasker noticed none of these things.
In the hall she sank into the first chair she came
to. "Tea, please," she said faintly; and Cosimo
dashed out to get it. He returned, and began to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span>
murmur something sympathetic, but Lady Tasker
made a little movement with her hand. She didn't
want him to "send Amory." She only wanted
to rest her tired legs and to collect her dispersed
thoughts.</p>
<p>An eight-foot hedge, not to shut the populace
out, but to shut Indians in! And she, Lady Tasker,
had been kept standing while some parcel or other
had been taken into the house—standing, and
watching a still-moving hammock with a smiling
Invisible Man bending over it! Was this England,
or a Durbar?... And even yet her hostess didn't
come to ask her if she felt better!... Not that
Lady Tasker was greatly surprised at that. She
knew that Mrs. Pratt was quite capable of reasoning
that the greatest respect is shown to a tired
old lady when no fuss is made about her tiredness.
The Pratts were like that—full of delicacies so
subtle that plain folk never noticed them, but
jumped instead to the conclusion that they were
bad-mannered. And it would not in the least
surprise Lady Tasker if, presently, Mrs. Pratt
allowed her to leave without a word about her indisposition.
Of course: Lady Tasker had a little
forgotten the Pratts at Ludlow. That would be
it: "Good-bye—and do come again!" She
could see Mrs. Pratt's pretty brook-brown eyes
did anybody (say a Japanese or an Ethiopian) point
out this so-called omission to her. She could see
the surprise in them. She could hear her earnest
voice: "<i>Say</i> these things!... Why, does she
suppose I was <i>glad</i> then?"...<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span></p>
<p>Yes, Lady Tasker had a little forgotten her Pratts.</p>
<p>It was an odd little hall in which she sat. It
appeared to be an approach to the studio of which
the electric bell gave notice, for it was continued
by a narrower passage that led to a garden at the
back; and either the studio "properties" were
gradually thrusting the hatstand and hall table
out of the fan-lighted front door, or else these latter
ordinary and necessary objects were fighting as
it were for admission. Thus, the chair on which
Lady Tasker sat was of oak, but it had a Faust-like
look; beyond it stood a glass-fronted cupboard
of bric-à-brac, with a trophy of Abyssinian armour
hanging over it; and the whole of the wall facing
Lady Tasker was hung with a tapestry which,
if it had been the only one of its kind in existence,
would no doubt have been very valuable. And
two other objects not commonly to be seen in
ordinary halls were there. One of these stood on
the narrow gilt console table next to Lady Tasker's
cup of tea. It was a plaster cast, taken from the
life, of a female foot. The other hung on the wall
above it. This also was a plaster cast, of the whole
of a female arm and shoulder, ending with a portion
of the side of the neck and the entire breast—of
its kind an exquisite specimen. Many artists make
or buy such things, but Brucciani has nothing half
so beautiful.</p>
<p>It was as Lady Tasker finished her tea that her
gaze fell on the two casts. Half negligently she
raised her glass and inspected, first the foot, and
then the other piece. It is probable that her first<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span>
remark, uttered in a casual undertone to the air
about her, was prompted by mere association of
ideas; it was "Hm! I wonder if Mrs. Pratt
nursed those twins herself!" Any other reflection
that might have followed it was cut short by a
sudden darkening of the doorway by which she
had entered. Mrs. Pratt stood there. Lady
Tasker had been wrong. She <i>had</i> come to ask if
she felt better. She did ask her, gathering up long
swathes of some newly unpacked white material she
carried over her arm as she did so.</p>
<p>"Sorry you were done up," she remarked. "Won't
you have some more tea?"</p>
<p>Already Lady Tasker was rising.—"No more,
thank you.—I was just looking at these. What
are they?" She indicated the casts.</p>
<p>The gesture that Mrs. Pratt gave she could
probably no more have helped giving than an eye
can help winking when it is threatened with a
blow. Within one mistletoe-white sleeve an arm
moved ever so slightly; very likely a foot also
moved within a curiously-toed Saxon-looking white
slipper; and she gave a confused and conscious
and apologetic little laugh.</p>
<p>"Oh, those silly things!" she said deprecatingly.
"I really must move them. But the studio is so
full.... Do you know, it's a most horrid feeling
having them done—first the cold plaster poured
on, and then, when they take it off again—the
mould—you know——"</p>
<p>Lady Tasker plainly did not understand. Perhaps
she did not yet even apprehend.—"But—but—,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span>
she said, "they're from a statue, aren't
they?"</p>
<p>Again Mrs. Pratt gave the pleased bashful little
laugh. It was almost as if she said it was very
good of Lady Tasker to say so.</p>
<p>"No, they're from life," she said. "As a matter
of fact they're me, but I really must move them;
they aren't so remarkable as all that.... Oh,
you're not going, are you?——"</p>
<p>For Lady Tasker had given a jump, and a movement
as sudden and sprightly as if she had only
that moment got freshly out of her bed. Nervously
she put out her hand, while her hostess looked
politely disappointed.</p>
<p>"Oh, and I was hoping you'd come and join us
in the garden! We've Brimby there, the novelist,
you know—and Wilkinson, the young Member—and
Mr. Strong, of the 'Novum'—and I should
so much like to introduce Mr. Suwarree Prang to
you——"</p>
<p>"Oh, thank you so much—," sprang as effusively
from Lady Tasker's lips as if she had been a schoolgirl
allowed for the first time to come down to
dinner, "—it's so good of you, but really I half
hoped you'd be out when I called—I only meant
to leave cards—I'm going on to see my niece,
and really haven't a moment——"</p>
<p>"Oh, I'm sure Dorothy'd excuse you for
once!——," Mrs. Pratt pressed her.</p>
<p>"Oh, she wouldn't—I'm quite sure she wouldn't—she'd
never forgive me if she knew I'd been so
near and hadn't called," said Lady Tasker feverishly....<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span>
"How do I get to Dorothy's from
here?"</p>
<p>"Oh, Mr. Wilkinson will take you, or Mr. Prang;
but are you sure you won't stay?"</p>
<p>Lady Tasker was so far from staying that she
was already out of the hall and walking quickly
towards the green door in the eight-foot hedge.
"Thank you, thank you so much," she was murmuring
hurriedly. "I don't see your husband
anywhere about—never mind—so good of you—good-bye——"</p>
<p>"Come again soon, won't you?"</p>
<p>"Yes, yes—oh, yes!... No, no, please don't!"
(Mrs. Pratt had made a half-turn towards the
hammock and the copper beech). "Straight
across the Heath you said, didn't you? I shall
find it quite easily! Don't come any further—good-bye——"</p>
<p>And, touching Mrs. Cosimo Pratt's extended
fingers as timorously as she might have touched
those of the cast itself, she fairly broke into a run.
The door of The Witan closed behind her.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span></p>
<h2>II</h2>
<h3>THE POND-ROOM</h3>
<p>The truth was not very far to seek: Lady
Tasker was too old for these things. Nobody
could have expressed this more effectively
than Mrs. Cosimo Pratt herself, had it entered the
mind of Mrs. Pratt to conceive that any human
soul could be so benighted as the soul of Lady
Tasker was. "Those casts!" Mrs. Pratt might
have cried in amazement—or rather Miss Amory
Towers might have cried, for there is nothing in
the Wedding Service about making over to your
husband, along with your love and obedience, the
valuable goodwill of a professional name. "Those
poor casts!... Of course they may not be <i>very</i>
beautiful—," here the original of the casts might
have modestly dropped her eyes, "—but such as
they are—goodness me! How <i>can</i> people be so
prurient, Cosimo? Don't they see that what
they really prove has nothing at all to do with
the casts, but—ahem!—a good deal to do with their
own imaginations? I don't want to use the word
'morbid,' but really!... Well, thank goodness
Corin and Bonniebell won't grow up like that!
Afraid of the beautiful, innocent human form!...
Now that's what I've always claimed, Cosimo—that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span>
that's the type of mind that's made all the
mischief we've got to set right to-day."</p>
<p>But for all that Lady Tasker was too old. Invisible
Men in the garden (or, if not actually invisible,
at any rate as hard to be seen against the leaves
of the copper beech as a new penny would have
been)—and in the hall those extraordinary replicas!
In the hall—the very forefront of the house! It
was to be presumed that Mrs. Pratt's foreign
friends, who were permitted to lean over her hammock,
would not be denied The Witan itself, and,
for all Lady Tasker knew, the rest of Mrs. Pratt
might be reduplicated in plaster in the dining-room,
the drawing-room, and elsewhere....</p>
<p>Had she not said it herself, Lady Tasker would
never have believed it....</p>
<p>What a—what a—what an extraordinary thing!——</p>
<p>Lady Tasker had fled from The Witan still under
the influence of that access of effusive schoolgirlishness
in which she had told Mrs. Pratt that she
really must go; nor did she grow up again all at
once. But little by little, as she walked, she began
to resume the burden of her years. She became
eighteen, twenty-five, thirty again. By the time
she reached the lower pond Arthur had just got
that billet in the India Office, and her brother
Dick, of the Department of Woods and Forests,
had married Ada Polperro, daughter of old Polperro
of Delhi fame, and her sister Emily had got
engaged to Tony Woodgate, of the Piffers. (But
those casts!)... Then as she took the path<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span>
between the ponds she remembered the children
at Ludlow, the three little girls at Cromwell Gardens,
and the arrival on Saturday of the "Seringapatam."
(But those natives!)... The thought
of the children settled it. Her curious lapse into
juvenescence was over. By the time she rang
Dorothy's bell she was the same Lady Tasker who
changed the political opinions of policemen and
deprecated the wanderings of Saint Paul.</p>
<p>Dorothy's flat was as different as it could well be
from that other house which (Lady Tasker had
already decided) had something odd and furtive
about it—stagnant yet busy, segregated yet too
wide open. The flat had one really brilliant room.
This room did not merely overlook the pond in
front of it; it seemed actually to have asked the
pond to come inside. A large triple window occupied
the whole of one end of it; this window faced
west; and not only did the September sun shine
brightly in, but the inverted sun in the water shone
in also, doubling (yet also halving) all shadows,
illumining the ceiling, and setting the cream walls
a-ripple with the dancing of the wavelets outside.
Sprightly chintzes looked as if they also might begin
to dance at any moment; the china in Dorothy's
cupboards surprised the eye that had not expected
this altered light; and presently, to complete
the complexity, the shadow of the sycamore in
the little garden below would move round, so that
you would hardly be able to tell whether the ceaseless
creeping on the cream walls was glitter of
ripples, pattern of leaves, or both.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span></p>
<p>Dorothy sat in her accordion-pleats by the window,
surrounded by letters. And pray do not
think it mere coincidence in this story that her
letters were Indian letters. Some interests that
the home-amateur takes up as he might take up
poker-work or the diversion of jig-saw hold a large
part of the hearts and lives of others, and so Dorothy,
as she did more or less every week, had been
reading her cousin Churchill's letter, and that
of her little niece and namesake Dot, up in Murree,
and Eva Woodgate's, who had sent her a parcel
from Kohat, and others. She rose slowly as her
aunt was announced, and put her finger on the
bell as she passed.</p>
<p>"How are you, auntie?" she said, kissing Lady
Tasker on both cheeks. "Give me your things.
Somehow I thought you might come to-day, but
I'd almost given you up. Do look what Eva's
sent me! Really, with her own to look after, I
don't know how she finds the time! Aren't they
sweet!——"</p>
<p>And she held them up.</p>
<p>Now Lady Tasker knew perfectly well the meaning
of her niece's accordion-pleating; but she
was seventy and worldly-wise again now. Therefore
as she looked at the things she remarked
off-handedly, "But they're far too small."</p>
<p>"Too small!" Dorothy exclaimed. "Of course
they aren't. Why, Noel was only nine, and that's
pretty big, and Jackie only just over eight-and-a-half,
though he put on weight while you watched
him. They're just right."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span></p>
<p>Lady Tasker reached for a chair. "But they
<i>are</i> for Jackie, aren't they?"</p>
<p>Dorothy's blue eyes were as big as the plates
in her cupboards.—"Jackie! Good gracious, auntie!——"</p>
<p>"Eh?" said Lady Tasker, sitting down. "Not
Jackie? Dear me. How stupid of me. Of course,
I did hear, but I've so many other things to think
of, and nobody'd suppose, to look at you——"</p>
<p>Dorothy ran to her aunt and gave her a kiss and
a hug, a loud kiss and a hug like two.</p>
<p>"You dear old thing!—Really, I'd begun to <i>hate</i>
all the horrid kind people who asked me how I felt
to-day and whether I shouldn't be glad when it
was over! What business is it of theirs? I nearly
made Stan sack Ruth last week, she looked so,
and I positively refuse to have a young girl anywhere
near me!... But wasn't it sweet of Eva?
I'll give you some tea and then read you her letter.
Indian or China?"</p>
<p>"China," Lady Tasker remarked.</p>
<p>"China, Ruth, and I'll have some more too. I
don't know whether His Impudence is coming in
or not; he's gadding off somewhere, I expect....
But you weren't only <i>pretending</i> just now, were
you, auntie?——"</p>
<p>She put the plug of the spirit-kettle into the
wall.</p>
<p>"Well, how are the Bits?" Lady Tasker
asked....</p>
<p>(Perhaps "His Impudence" and "The Bits"
require explanation. Both expressions Dorothy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span>
had from her "maid," Ruth Mossop. "Maid"
is thus written because Ruth was a young widow,
who, after a series of disciplinary knockings-about
by the late Mr. Mossop, was not over-troubled with
maternal anxiety for the four children he had left
her with. When asked by Dorothy whether she
would prefer to be called Mrs. Mossop or Ruth,
Mrs. Mossop had chosen the latter name, giving
as her reason that it had been like Mr. Mossop's
impudence to ask her to accept the other name at all;
and very many other memories also, brooded on
and gloomily loved, including the four children,
had been bits of Mr. Mossop's impudence. Stan
had adopted the phrase, finding in it chuckles of
his own; and so His Impudence he had become,
and Noel and Jackie the fruits thereof.)</p>
<p>Dorothy put her fair head on one side, as if
she considered the absent Bits critically and dispassionately,
and really thought that on the whole
she might venture to approve of them.</p>
<p>"Ra-ther little dears; but oh, Heaven, how
<i>are</i> we going to manage with a third!"</p>
<p>Her aunt dissociated herself from the problem
with a shrug.—"Well—if Stan will persist in thinking
that his dressing-room is merely a room for
him to dress in——"</p>
<p>"So I tell him," Dorothy murmured, with great
meekness. "But—but flats aren't made for
children. We did manage to seize the estate
agent's little office for a nursery when all the flats
were let, but when Stan brings a man home we
have to sleep him in the dressing-room as it is—,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span>
(Lady Tasker shook her head, but the words "Wrong
man" were hardly audible), "—and a house will
mean stair-carpets, and hall furniture, and I don't
know what else. Besides, Stan hasn't time to
look for one——"</p>
<p>"No?" said Lady Tasker drily.</p>
<p>"He really hasn't, poor boy," Dorothy protested.
"And he's after something really good
this time—Fortune and Brooks, the what-d'-you-call-'ems,
in Pall Mall——"</p>
<p>"What about them?"</p>
<p>"Well, Stan's been told that they pay awfully
good commissions, for introductions, new accounts,
you know; Stan dines out, say, and makes himself
nice to somebody with whole stacks of money,
and mentions Fortune & Brooks's chutney and
pickled peaches and things, and—and——"</p>
<p>"I know," remarked Lady Tasker, with not
much more expression than if she had been a talking
doll and somebody had pulled the string that
worked the speaking apparatus. She did know
these dazzling schemes of her smart and helpless
nephew's—his club secretaryships, his projects for
journals that should combine the various desirable
features of the "Field" and "Country Life"
and the "Sporting Times" and "Punch," his
pony deals, and his other innumerable attempts
to make of his saunters down Bond Street to St.
James's and back <i>viâ</i> the Junior Carlton and Regent
Street a source of income. Perhaps she knew,
too, that Dorothy knew of her knowledge, for she
went on, "Well, well—let's hope there's more in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span>
it than there was in the fishing-flies—now tell me
what Eva's got fresh."</p>
<p>"Oh, yes!" cried Dorothy, plunging her hand
into her letters. "Eva sent the things, but here's
Dot's first—look at the darling's writing!——"</p>
<p>And from a sheet of paper with a regimental
heading Dorothy began to read:</p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>"<span class="smcap">Dearest Aunt Dorothy</span>,—</p>
<p>"were in murree and we got a servant that
wigles his toes when we speak to him and he loves
baba and makes noises like him and there are
squiboos in the tres—"</p></div>
<p>—(she means squirrels)—</p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>"—and ive got a parrot uncle tony bought me
and uncle tony says the monsoon will praps fale
and the peple wont have anything to eat but weve
lots and i like this better than kohat the shops are
lovely but there are lots of flees and they bite baba
and he cries this is a long letter how are Jackie and
noel i got the photograf—"</p></div>
<p>—(that's the new one on the mantelpiece)—</p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>"—were going to tifin at major hirsts little girls
one is called marjorie and were great friends——"</p></div>
<p>"Where's the other page got to? It was
here——"</p>
<p>She found the other page, and continued the
reading of the child's letter.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span></p>
<p>Suddenly Lady Tasker interrupted her.</p>
<p>"Had Jack to borrow money to send them up
there?"</p>
<p>"To Murree? I really don't know. Perhaps
he had. But as adjutant of the Railway Volunteers
he'd have his saloon."</p>
<p>"H'm!... Anyway, the child oughtn't to
be there at all. India's no place for children."</p>
<p>"I know, auntie; but what can one do? They
do come."</p>
<p>"H'm!... They didn't to me. Thank goodness
I've done with love and babies." (Dorothy
laughed, perhaps at a mental vision of the houses
in Ludlow and Cromwell Gardens.) "Anyway,
now they are here somebody's got to look after them.
They may as well be healthy...."</p>
<p>She mused, and Dorothy reached for other
letters.</p>
<p>Lady Tasker's additions to her responsibilities
usually began in this way. Dorothy had very
little doubt that presently little Dot also would be
handed like a parcel to some man or other coming
home on leave, and Lady Tasker would send to
the makers for yet another cot.... Therefore,
pushing aside her last letter, she exclaimed almost
crossly, "I <i>do</i> think it's selfish of Aunt Eliza!
There she is, with Spurrs all to herself, and she
never once thinks that Jack might like to send
Dot to England!"</p>
<p>"Neither would I if I had my time over again,"
said Lady Tasker resolutely. "You needn't look
like that—I wouldn't. Cromwell Gardens is past<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span>
praying for, and in another year there won't be a
stick at the Brear that's fit to be seen. The next
batch I certainly intend to charge for. I'm on
the brink of the poorhouse as it is."</p>
<p>This time it was Dorothy who mused. She
was a calculating young woman; the wife of His
Impudence had to be; and she was far too shrewd
to suppose for a moment that her aunt could ever
escape her destiny, which was to be imposed upon
by her own flesh and blood while hardening her
heart against the rest of the world. Dorothy,
and not Stan, had had to keep that flat going,
and the flat before it; unless Fortune & Brooks
turned up trumps—a rather remote contingency—she
would have to continue to do so; and she was
quite casuistical enough to argue that, while
Aunt Eliza might keep her old Spurrs, Aunt Grace
might properly be victimized because Dorothy
loved Aunt Grace. Therefore there were musings
in Dorothy's wide-angle blue eyes ... musings
that only the sound of a key in the outer lock
interrupted.</p>
<p>"Hallo, that's His Impudence," Dorothy exclaimed.
"I do hope he hasn't brought anybody.
I shall simply rush out if he has."</p>
<p>Stan hadn't. He came in at the door drawing
off a pair of lemon-yellow gloves, said "Hallo,
Aunt Grace," and rang the bell. He next said,
"Hallo, Dot! Been out? Beastly smelly in
town. No, I've not had tea. Look here, you've
eaten all the hot cakes; never mind; bread and
butter'll do, if you've got some jam—no, honey.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span>
Got an invitation for you, Dot, to lunch, with
Ferrers on Monday; can't you buck up and manage
it?... Well, Aunt Grace, what brings you up
here? Bit off your beat, isn't it? Awfully rude
of me, I know, but it is a long way. Glad I came
in."</p>
<p>"I've been to see the Cosimo Pratts," said Lady
Tasker.</p>
<p>Dorothy looked suddenly up.</p>
<p>"Oh, auntie, you didn't tell me that!" she
exclaimed.</p>
<p>A grin lighted up Stan's good-looking face.</p>
<p>"Oh? How many annas to the rupee are they
to-day? By Jove, they are a rum lot up there!
Any new prime cuts?"</p>
<p>"Stan, you mustn't!" said Dorothy, peremptorily.
"Please don't! Don't listen to him,
auntie; he's outrageous."</p>
<p>But His Impudence went on, with his mouth
full of bread and butter.</p>
<p>"I've only seen the fore-quarter and the trotter,
but you see I haven't been over the house. Did
they show you the Bluebeard's Chamber? What
is there there? By Jove, it's like Jezebel and the
dogs.... But I don't suppose they'll have me
up again. There was some chap there, and I got
him by himself and told him he didn't know what
he was talking about; rotten of me, I know, but
you should have heard him! Anarchist—Votes
for Women—all the lot; whew!... More tea,
Ruth, please——"</p>
<p>Lady Tasker felt the years beginning to ebb<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span>
away from her again. She had remembered the
hammock and the Invisible Men.</p>
<p>"I hope he was—English?" she murmured.</p>
<p>"Who?"</p>
<p>"The man you say you were rude to."</p>
<p>"English? Yes. Why? English? Rather!
No end of gas about the Empire. Said it was on
a wrong basis or something. Why do you ask?"</p>
<p>"I only wondered."</p>
<p>But Stan was perspicacious; he could see anything
that was as closely thrust under his nose as
is the comparative rarity of the Englishman in
Hampstead. He laughed.</p>
<p>"Oh, that! We're used to that. We've all
sorts up here.... By Jove, I believe Aunt Grace
has been thrown into the arms of a Jap or a nigger
or something! Well, if that doesn't put the lid
on!... So of course you wondered what I meant
by the fore-quarter and Jezebel and the dogs. Those
are just some things they used to have.... Well,
I'll tell you what you can do about it next time,
auntie. You talk to 'em about Ludlow. That
shuts 'em up. Sore spot, Ludlow; they're trying
to forget about Ye Olde Englysshe Maypole, and
that row with old Wynn-Jenkins, and old Griffin
letting his hair grow and reciting those poems.
They look at you as if it never happened. But
they didn't shut <i>me</i> up."</p>
<p>"You seem to have been thoroughly rude,"
Lady Tasker remarked.</p>
<p>"Well, dash it all, they ask for it. She used
to be some sort of a pal of Dorothy's——"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span></p>
<p>"She's very clever, and she was always very kind
to me," Dorothy interpolated over her sewing.</p>
<p>"When, I should like to know? But never
mind. I was going to say, Aunt Grace, that I've
had to put my foot down. I won't have the Bits
meeting those kids of Pratt's. It's perfectly awful;
why, those children know as much as I do—and
I know a bit! They'll be wanting latchkeys
presently. That day I was up there I heard one of
'em say that little boys weren't the same as little
girls. I forget how she put it, but she knew all
right; think of that, at about four! I wish I
could remember the words, but it was a bit thick
for four!——"</p>
<p>A restrained smile, perhaps at the thought of
Stan putting his foot down, had crossed Lady
Tasker's face; no doubt it was part of the smile
that she presently said, toying with the little gold-rimmed
glass, "Quite right, Stan.... Anything
fresh about Fortune & Brooks? Dorothy
told me."</p>
<p>Stan's feelings on any subject were never so
strong but that at a word he was quite ready to
talk about something else. "Eh? Rather!"
he said heartily, and went straightway off at score.—New?
Yes. He'd seen old Brooks the day
before; not a bad chap at all really; and they
quite understood one another, he and old Brooks.
He'd told Stan things, old Brooks had, (which Stan
wasn't at liberty to disclose) about the commissions
they paid for really first-class introductions,
things that would astonish Lady Tasker!—<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span>—</p>
<p>"You see," he explained, "as Brooks himself
said, they can't afford to advertise in the ordinary
way; <i>infra dig</i>. They'd actually lose custom if
they put an ad. in the 'Daily Spec.' I don't mean
that they don't put a thing now and then into the
right kind of paper, but just being mentioned in
general conversation, at dinners and tamashas
and so on, that's <i>their</i> kind of advertisement!
For instance—but just a minute, and I'll show
you——"</p>
<p>He jumped up and dashed out of the room.
Lady Tasker took advantage of his absence to
give a discreet glance at Dorothy, but Dorothy's
head remained bent demurely over her work. Stan
returned, carrying a small parcel.</p>
<p>"Here we are," he said, unfastening the package:
and then suddenly his voice and manner
changed remarkably. He took a small pot from
the parcel and set it on the palm of his left hand;
he pointed at it with the index-finger of his right
hand; and a bright and poster-like smile overspread
his face. He spoke slightly loudly, and
very, very persuasively.</p>
<p>"Now I have here, Aunt Grace, one of our newest
lines—Pickled Banyan. Now I'm not going
to ask you to take my word for it; I want you to
try it for yourself. It isn't what this man says
or what that man says; tasting's believing. Give
me your teaspoon."</p>
<p>"My <i>dear</i> Stan!" the astonished Lady Tasker
gasped.</p>
<p>"We're selling a great many of this particular<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span>
article, and are prepared to stake our reputation
on it," Stan went on. "Established 1780; more
than One Hundred Gold Medals. Those are our
credentials. Those are what we lose.—Pass your
spoon."</p>
<p>Lady Tasker was rigid. Perhaps Stan would
have been better advised to cast his spell over
those who were going up in the world, and not
on those who, like themselves, were coming down
or barely holding their own. Again he went on,
pointing engagingly at the small pot.</p>
<p>"But just try it," he urged, pushing the pot
under his aunt's nose. "It isn't what this man
says or—I mean, it doesn't cost you anything to
try it. A free trial invited. Here's the recipe,
look, on the bottle—carefully selected Banyans,
best cane sugar, lemon-juice refined by a patent
process, and a touch of tabasco. The makers'
guarantee on every label—none genuine without
it—have a go!"</p>
<p>With a "Really, Stan!" Lady Tasker had
turned away in her chair, revolted. "And do
you expect to go to a house again after an exhibition
like that?" she asked over her shoulder.</p>
<p>"Eh?" said Stan, a little discomfited. "Too
much salesman about it, d'you think? Brooks
warned me about that. Fact is, he had a chap in
as a sort of object-lesson. This chap came in—I
didn't know they had schools and classes for
this kind of thing, did you?—this chap came in,
and I was supposed to be somebody who didn't
want the stuff at any price, and he'd got to sell it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span>
to me whether I wanted it or not, and old Brooks
said to me, 'Now ask him how much the beastly
muck is,' and a lot of facers like that, and so we'd
a set-to.... Then, when the fellow had gone,
he said he'd had him in just to show me how <i>not</i>
to do it.... But he was an ingenious sort of beast,
and I can't get his talk out of my head. I'd thought
of having a shot at it to-night, but perhaps I'd
better practise a bit more first. Thanks awfully
for the criticism, Aunt Grace. If you don't mind
I'll practise on you as we go along. I'm dining
with a man to-night, but I'd better be sure of my
ground.—Now what about having the Bits in,
Dot?"</p>
<p>"I think I hear them coming," said Dorothy,
whose demureness had not given as much as a
flicker. Perhaps she was wondering whether she
could spare the sovereign His Impudence would
presently ask her for.</p>
<p>The door opened, and Noel and Jackie stood
there with a nurse behind them. Noel walked
stoutly in. Jackie, not yet very firm on his pins,
bumbled after him like an overladen bee.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span></p>
<h2>III</h2>
<h3>THE "NOVUM"</h3>
<p>Stan was quite right in supposing that the
Cosimo Pratts wished to forget all about the
Ludlow experiment that had disturbed the Shropshire
country-side a year or more before, but he was
wrong in the reason he assigned them. They were
not in the least ashamed of it. As a stage in their
intellectual development, the experiment had been
entirely in its place. Especially in Mrs. Pratt's
career—as an old student of the McGrath School
of Art, a familiar (for a time) with Poverty in
cheap studios, the painter of the famous Feminist
picture "Barrage," and so forward—had this been
true. Cosimo, in "The Life and Work of Miss
Amory Towers," a labour to which he devoted
himself intermittently, pointed out the naturalness
and inevitability of the sequence with real
eloquence. Step had led to step, and the omission
of any one step would have ruined the whole.</p>
<p>But nobody with work still in them lingers long
over the past. They had dropped the task of
regenerating rural England, or rather had handed
it over to others, only when it had been pointed
out to them that capacity so rare as theirs ought
to be directed to larger ends. One evening there<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span>
had put in an appearance at one of the Ludlow
meetings—a meeting of the Hurdy-gurdy Octette,
which afterwards gave instrumental performances
with such success at Letchworth, Bushey and
Golder's Green—Mr. Strong, the original founder
and present editor of the "Novum Organum," or,
as it was usually called, the "Novum." Mr. Strong,
as it happened, was the man whom the scatter-brained
Stan had met at The Witan, and of whom
he had expected that impossibility of any man
whomsoever—an admission that he did not know
what he was talking about. At that time Mr.
Strong had been perambulating the country with
a Van, holding meetings and distributing literature;
and whatever Mr. Strong's other failings might
have been, nobody had ever said of him that he
did not recognize a good thing when he saw it.
The Cause itself had served as an introduction
between him and Cosimo; it had also been a
sufficient reason for his inviting himself to Cosimo's
house for a couple of days and remaining there
for three weeks; and then he had got rid of the
Van and had come again. He was a rapturous
talker, when there was an end to be gained, and he
had expressed himself as strongly of the opinion
that, magnificent a field for the sowing of the good
seed as the country-side was, there was simply
stupendous propaganda to be done in London.
He knew (he had gone on) that Mrs. Pratt would
forgive him (he had a searching blue eye and an
actor's smile) if he appeared for a moment to
speak disparagingly of what he might call the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span>
mere graces of the Movement, (alluring as these
were in Mrs. Pratt's capable and very pretty
hands); it was not disparagement really; he
only meant that these garlands would burgeon a
hundred-fold if the stern and thankless work was
got out of the way first. Mr. Strong had a valuable
trick of suddenly making those searching blue eyes
of his more searching, and of switching off the
actor's smile altogether; both of these things had
happened as he had gone on to point out that what
the Cause was really languishing for was a serious
and responsible organ; and then, and only then,
when they had got (so to speak) the diapason, there
would be time enough for the trills and appoggiaturas
of the Hurdy-gurdy Band.</p>
<p>Before the end of Mr. Strong's second visit Cosimo
had put up the greater part of the money for the
"Novum."</p>
<p>So you see just where the feather-pated Stan
was wrong. The Cosimo Pratts were not outfaced
from anything; they had merely seen a new and
heralding light. They did not so much recede
from the Rural Experiment, and discussions of the
Suffrage, and eating buns on the floor at assemblies
of the Poets' Club, and a hundred and twenty other
such things, as become as it were translated. They
still shed over these activities the benignity of
their approval, but from on high now. Amory
could no longer be expected actually to "run"
the Suffrage Shop herself—Dickie Lemesurier did
that; nor the "Eden" (the new offshoot off the
Lettuce Grill)—that she left to Katie Deedes;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span>
nor the "Lectures on Love" Agency—that was
quite safe in the hands of her friends, Walter Wyron
and Laura Beamish. Amory merely shed approval
down. She was <i>hors concours</i>. She ... but you
really must read Cosimo's book. You will find
it all there (or at any rate a good deal of it).</p>
<p>For Amory Pratt, in so far as Cosimo was the proprietor
of the "Novum," was the proprietor of the
proprietor of a high-class weekly review that was
presently going to put the two older parties out of
business entirely. She had more than a Programme
now; she had a Policy. She had crossed the line
into the <i>haute politique</i>. Her At Homes were already
taking on the character of the political salon,
and between herself and the wives of ministers
and ambassadors were differences, in degree perhaps,
but not in kind. And that even these differences
should become diminished she had taken on, ever
since her settling-down at The Witan, slight, but
significant, new attitudes and condescensions. She
was kinder and more gracious to her sometime
equals than before. She gave them encouraging
looks, as much as to say that they need not be afraid
of her. But it was quite definitely understood that
when she took Mr. Strong apart under the copper
beech or retired with him into the studio at the back
of the house, she must on no account be disturbed.—Mr.
Strong, by the way, always dressed in the
same Norfolk jacket, red tie and soft felt hat, and
his first caution to Cosimo and Amory had been
that Brimby, the novelist, was an excellent chap, but
not always to be taken very seriously.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span></p>
<p>Amory did not often put in an appearance at the
"Novum's" offices. This was not that she
thought it more befitting that Mr. Strong should
wait on her, for she went about a good deal with
Mr. Strong, and did not always trouble him to
come up to The Witan to fetch her. It was, rather,
if the truth must be told, that she found the offices
rather dingy. Her senses loved the newly-machined
smell of each new issue of the paper, but not the
mingled odour of dust and stale gum and Virginia
cigarettes of the place whence it came. Moreover,
the premises were rather difficult to find. They
lay at the back of Charing Cross Road. You
dodged into an alley between a second-hand bookseller's
and a shop where electric-light fittings were
sold, entered a narrow yard, and, turning to the
right into a gas-lighted cavern where were stacked
hundreds and hundreds of sandwich-boards, some
back-and-fronts, some with the iron forks for
the bearer's shoulders, you ascended by means
of a dark staircase to the second floor. There, at
the end of a passage which some poster-artist had
half papered with the specimens of his art, you
came upon the three rooms. The first of these
was the general office; the second was Mr. Strong's
private office; and the third was a room which,
the "Novum" having no need of it, Mr. Strong
had thought he might as well use as a rent-free
bedroom as not. The door of this room Mr.
Strong always kept locked. It was more prudent.
He was supposed to live somewhere in South
Kentish Town, and gave this address to certain of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span>
his correspondents. The letters of these reached
him sooner or later, through the agency of a barber,
in whose window was a placard, "Letters may be
addressed here."</p>
<p>Perhaps, too, the extraordinary people who visited
Mr. Strong in the way of business helped to keep
Amory away. For an endless succession of the
queerest people came—contributors, and would-be
contributors, and friends of the Cause who "were
just passing and thought they'd look in," and
artists seeking a paper with the courage to print
really stinging caricatures, and article-writers who
were out of a job only because they dared to tell
the truth about things, and Russian political
exiles, and Armenians who wanted passages to
America, and Eurasians who wanted rifles, and
tramps, and poets, and the boy from the milkshop
who brought in the bread and butter and eggs for
Mr. Strong's breakfast. And out of these strange
elements had grown up the paper's literary style.
This was unique in London journalism: philosophical,
yet homely; horizon-wide of outlook, yet
never without hope that the shining thing in the
gutter might prove to be a jewel; and, despite
its habitual omissions of the prefix "Mr." from
the names of statesmen, and its playful allusions
to this personage's nose or the waist-measurement
of the other, with more than a little of the Revelation
of Saint John the Divine about it. "Damn"
and "Hell" were words the "Novum" commonly
used. Once Amory had demurred at the use of a
word stronger still. But Mr. Strong had merely<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span>
replied, "If I can say it to you I think I can say it
to them." He was no truckler to his proprietors,
and anyhow, the man whom the word had encarnadined
was only a colliery-owner.</p>
<p>The "Novum" had hardly been six weeks old
when a certain desire on Amory's part to make
experiment of her power had, putatively at any
rate, lost it money. The little collision of wills
had come about over the question of whether the
"Novum" should admit advertisements to its
columns or not. Now as most people know, that
is a question that seldom arises in journalism. A
question far more likely to arise is whether the
advertisements can be got. But when a journal
sets out to do something that hitherto has not only
not been done, but has not even been attempted, you
will admit that the case is special. The experience
of other papers is useless; their economics
do not apply. What did apply was the fact that
Mrs. Pratt had been an artist, looked on sheets
of paper from another angle than that of the mere
journalist and literary man, and loved symmetry
and could not endure unsightliness. Besides, "No
Compromise" was the "Novum's" motto, and
what was the good of having a motto like that if you
compromised in the very form of your expression?...
A "shoulder-piece," "<i>The Little Mary
Emollient</i>," had brought out all Mrs. Pratt's finer
artistic instincts. Here was a journal consecrated
to a great and revolutionary cause, and the very
first thing to catch a reader's eye was, not only
an advertisement, but a facetious advertisement at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span>
that—a Pill, without a Pill's robust familiarity—a
commercial cackle issuing from the "Novum's"
august and oracular mouth.... For the first
time in her life Mrs. Pratt had wielded the blue
pencil, tearing the rubbishy proof-paper in the
energy with which she did so. Mr. Strong's blue
eyes, bluer for the contrast with his red knot of
a tie, had watched her face, but he had said nothing.
He was willing to humour her....</p>
<p>But when all was said and done he was an editor,
and no sooner was Amory's back turned than he
had restored the announcement. The paper had
appeared, and there had been a row....</p>
<p>"Then I appeal to Pratt," Mr. Strong had said,
with all the good-nature in the world. "I take
it the 'Novum's' a serious enterprise, and not just
a hobby?"</p>
<p>Cosimo had glanced a little timidly at his wife.
Then he had replied thoughtfully.</p>
<p>"I don't know. I'm not so sure. That is, I'm
not so sure it oughtn't to be a serious enterprise
<i>and</i> a hobby. The world's best work is always done
for love—that's another way of calling it a hobby—you
see what I mean—Nietzsche has something
about it somewhere or other—or if he hasn't Ruskin
has——"</p>
<p>Any number of effective replies had been open to
Mr. Strong, but he had used none of them. Instead
his eyes had given as it were a flick to Amory's
face. The proprietor's proprietor had continued
indignantly.</p>
<p>"It ruins the whole effect! It's <i>unspeakably</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span>
vulgar! After that glowing, that impassioned
Foreword—<i>this</i>! Hardly a month ago that lovely
apostrophe to Truth Naked—that beautiful image
of her stark and innocent on our banners but with
a forest of bright bayonets bristling about her—and
now <i>this</i>! It's revolting!"</p>
<p>But Mr. Strong had himself written that impassioned
Foreword, and knew all about it. Again
he had given his proprietor's wife that quietly
humouring look.</p>
<p>"Do you mean that the 'Novum's' going to
refuse advertisements?"</p>
<p>"I mean that I blue-pencilled that one myself."</p>
<p>"And what about the others—the 'Eden' and
the Suffrage Shop and Wyron's Lectures?"</p>
<p>"They're different. They <i>are</i> the Cause. You
said yourself that the 'Novum' was going to be
a sort of generalissimo, and these the brigades or
whatever they're called. They are, at any rate,
doing the Work. Is <i>that</i> doing any Work, I should
like to know?"</p>
<p>Mr. Strong had refrained from flippancy.—"I
see what you mean," he had replied equably.
"At the same time, if you're going to refuse
advertisements the thing's going to cost a good
deal more money."</p>
<p>"Well?" Amory had replied, as who might say,
"Has money been refused you yet?"</p>
<p>Strong had given a compliant shrug—"All right.
That means I censor the advertisements, I suppose.
New industry. Very well. The 'Eden' and
Wyron's Lectures and Week-end Cottages and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span>
Plato Press only, then. I'll strike out that
'<i>Platinum: False Teeth Bought</i>.' But I warn
you it will cost more."</p>
<p>"Never mind that."</p>
<p>And so the incident had ended.</p>
<p>But perhaps Mrs. Pratt's sensitiveness of eye
was not the only cause of the rejection of that
offending advertisement. Another reason might
have lain in her present relation with her sometime
fellow-student of the McGrath School of Art, Dorothy
Tasker. For that relation had suffered a change
since the days when the two girls had shared a
shabby day-studio in Cheyne Walk, Chelsea. At
that time, now five years ago, Amory Towers had
been thrust by circumstances into a position of
ignoble envy of her friend. She had been poor,
and Dorothy's people (or so she had supposed)
very, very wealthy. True, poor Dorothy, without
as much as a single spark of talent, had nevertheless
buckled to, and, in various devious ways, had contrived
to suck a parasitic living out of the wholesome
body of real art; none the less, Amory had conceived
her friend to be of the number of those who play at
hardship and independence with a fully spread table
at home for them to return to when they are tired
of the game. But the case was entirely changed
now. Amory frankly admitted that she had been
mistaken in one thing, namely, that if those people
of Dorothy's had more money, they had also more
claims upon it, and so were relatively poor. Amory
herself was now very comfortably off indeed. By
that virtue and good management which the envious<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span>
call luck, she had now money, Cosimo's money, to
devote to the regeneration of the world. Dorothy,
married to the good-tempered and shiftless Stan,
sometimes did not know which way to turn for the
overdue quarter's rent.</p>
<p>Now among her other ways of making ends meet
Dorothy had for some years done rather well out
of precisely that kind of work which Amory refused
to allow the "Novum" to touch—advertisements.
She had wormed herself into the services of this
firm and that as an advertisement-adviser. But
her contracts had begun in course of time to lapse,
one or two fluky successes had not been followed up,
and two children had further tightened things. Nor
had Stan been of very much help. Amory despised
Stan. She thought him, not a man, but a
mere mouth to be fed. Real men, like Cosimo,
always had money, and Amory was quite sure that,
even if Cosimo had not inherited a fortune from
his uncle, he would still have contrived to make
himself the possessor of money in some other way.</p>
<p>Therefore Amory was even kinder to Dorothy
than she was to Dickie Lemesurier of the Suffrage
Shop, to Katie Deedes of the "Eden," and to Laura
Beamish and Walter Wyron, who ran the
"Lectures on Love." But somehow—it was a little
difficult to say exactly how, but there it undoubtedly
was—Dorothy did not accept her kindnesses in
quite the proper spirit. One or two she had even
rejected—gently, Amory was bound to admit, but
still a rejection. For example, there had been that
little rebuff (to call it by its worst name for a moment)<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span>
about the governess. Amory had, in Miss Britomart
Belchamber, the most highly-qualified
governess for Corin and Bonniebell that money
and careful search had been able to obtain; Dorothy
lived less than a quarter of an hour's walk away;
it would have been just as easy for Britomart to
teach four children as to teach two; but Dorothy
had twisted and turned and had finally said that
she had decided that she couldn't put Amory to
the trouble. And again, when the twins had had
their party, Amory would positively have <i>liked</i>
Noel and Jackie to come and dance "Twickenham
Ferry" in those spare costumes and to join in those
songs from the Book of Caroline Ditties; but again
an excuse had been made. And half a dozen similar
things had driven Amory to the conclusion, sadly
against her will, that the Taskers were taking up
that ridiculous, if not actually hostile attitude, of
the poor who hug their pride. It was not nice
between old friends. Amory could say with a
clear conscience that she had not refused Dorothy's
help in the days when the boot had been on the
other leg. She was not resentful, but really it did
look very much like putting on airs.</p>
<p>But of course that stupid Stanhope Tasker was
at the bottom of it all. Amory did not so much
mind his not having liked her from the first; she
would have been sorry to let a trifle like that
ruffle her equanimity; but it was evident that he
did not in the least realize his position. She was
quite sure, in the first place, that he couldn't afford
(or rather Dorothy couldn't afford) to pay eighty<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span>
pounds for that flat, plus another twenty for the
little office they had annexed and used as a nursery.
And in the next place he dressed absurdly above
his position. Cosimo dressed for hygiene and
comfort, in cellular things and things made of non-irritant
vegetable fibre; but those absurdly modish
jackets and morning-coats of Stan's had, unless
Amory was very much mistaken, to be bought at
the expense of real necessaries. And so with their
hospitality. In that too, they tried to cut a dash
and came very near to making themselves ridiculous.
Amory didn't want to interfere; she couldn't plan
and be wise for everybody; she had her own affairs to
attend to; but she was quite sure that the
Taskers would have done better to regulate their
hospitality as hospitality was regulated at The Witan—that
was, to make no special preparation, but to
have the door always open to their friends. But no;
the Taskers must make a splash. They must needs
"invite" people and be a little stand-offish about
people coming uninvited. They were "At home"
and "Not at home" for all the world as if they had
been important people. But Amory would have
thought herself very stupid to be taken in by all
this ceremony. For example, the last time she
and Cosimo had been asked to the flat to dinner
she knew that they had been "worked off" only
because the Taskers had had the pheasants given
by somebody, and very likely the fish too. And
it would have been just like Stan Tasker's insolence
had he asked them because he <i>knew</i> that the Pratts
did not eat poor beasties that should have been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span>
allowed to live because of their lovely plumes, nor
the pretty speckled creatures that had done no harm
to the destroyer who had taken them with a hook
out of their pretty stream.</p>
<p>But, kind to her old friend as Amory was always
ready to be, she did not feel herself called upon to
go out of her way to be very nice to her friend's
husband. He had no right to expect it after his
rudeness to Edgar Strong about the "Novum."
For it had been about the "Novum" that Stan
had given Strong that talking-to. Much right
(Amory thought hotly) he had to talk! Just because
he consorted with men who counted their money
in rupees and thought nothing of shouldering their
darker-skinned brothers off the pavement, he thought
he was entitled to put an editor into his place!
But the truth, of course, was, that that very familiarity
prevented him from really knowing anything
about these questions at all. Because an order was
established, he had not imagination enough to see
how it could have been anything different. His
mind (to give it that name) was of the hidebound,
official type, and too many limited intelligences of
that kind stopped the cause of Imperial progress
to-day. Or rather, they tried to stop it, and perhaps
thought they were stopping it; but really, little as
they suspected it, they were helping more than
they knew. A pig-headed administration does
unconsciously help when, out of its own excesses, a
divine discontent is bred. Mr. Suwarree Prang
had been eloquent on that very subject one afternoon
not very long ago. A charming man! Amory<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span>
had listened from her hammock, rapt. Mr. Prang
did the "Indian Review" for the "Novum," in
flowery but earnest prose; and as he actually was
Indian, and did not merely hobnob with a few
captains and subalterns home on leave, it was to be
supposed that he would know rather more of the
subject than Mr. Stanhope Tasker!——</p>
<p>And Mr. Stanhope Tasker had had the cheek
to tell Mr. Strong that he didn't know what he was
talking about!</p>
<p>Amory felt that she could never be sufficiently
thankful for the chance that had thrown Mr. Strong
in her way. She had always secretly felt that her
gifts were being wasted on such minor (but still
useful) tasks as the "Eden" Restaurant and the
"Love Lectures" Agency. But her personal
exaltation over Katie Deedes and the others had
caused her no joy. What had given her joy had
been the immensely enlarged sphere of her usefulness;
that was it, not the odious vanity of leadership,
but the calm and responsible envisaging of a
task for which not one in ten thousand had the
vision and courage and strength. And Edgar
Strong had shown her these things. Of course,
if he had put them in these words she might have
suspected him of trying to flatter her; but as a
matter of fact he had not said a single word about
it. He had merely allowed her to see for herself.
That was his way: to all-but-prove a thing—to
take it up to the very threshold of demonstration—and
then apparently suddenly to lose interest in
it. And that in a way was his weakness as an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span>
editor. Amory, whom three or four wieldings of
the blue pencil had sufficed to convince that there
was nothing in journalism that an ordinary intelligence
could not master in a month, realized this.
She herself, it went without saying, always saw
at once exactly what Mr. Strong meant; she personally
liked those abrupt and smiling stops that
left Mr. Strong's meaning as it were hung up in
the air; but it was a mistake to suppose that
everybody was as clever as she and Mr. Strong.
"I's" had to be dotted and "t's" crossed for the
multitude. But it was at that point that Mr.
Strong always became almost languid.</p>
<p>It was inevitable that the man who had thus
revealed to her, after a single glance at her, such
splendid and unsuspected capacities within herself,
should exercise a powerful fascination over Amory.
If he had seen all this in her straight away (as he
assured her he had), then he was a man not lightly
to be let go. He might be the man to show her
even greater things yet. He puzzled her; but he
appeared to understand her; and as both of them
understood everybody else, she was aware of a
challenge in his society that none other of her
set afforded her. He could even contradict her
and go unsacked. Prudent people, when they
sack, want to know what they are sacking, and
Amory did not know. Therefore Mr. Strong was
quite sure of his job until she should find out.</p>
<p>Another thing that gave Mr. Strong this apparently
off-hand hold over her was the confidential
manner in which he had warned her not to take Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span>
Brimby, the novelist, too seriously. For without
the warning Amory, like a good many other
people, might have committed precisely that error....
But when Mr. Brimby, taking Amory apart
one day, had expressed in her ear a gentle doubt
whether Mr. Strong was quite "sound" on certain
important questions, Amory had suddenly seen.
Mr. Strong had "cut" one of Mr. Brimby's
poignantly sorrowful sketches of the East End—seen
through Balliol eyes—and Mr. Brimby was
resentful. She did not conceal from herself that
he might even be a little envious of Mr. Strong's
position. He might have been wiser to keep his
envy to himself, for, while mere details of routine
could hardly expect to get Amory's personal attention,
there was one point on which Mr. Strong
was quite "sound" enough for Amory—his sense
of her own worth and of how that worth had hitherto
been wasted. And Mr. Strong had not been ill-natured
about Mr. Brimby either. He had merely
twinkled and put Amory on her guard. And
because he appeared to have been right in this
instance, Amory was all the more disposed to
believe in his rightness when he gave her a second
warning. This was about Wilkinson, the Labour
Member. He was awfully fond of dear old Wilkie,
he said; he didn't know a man more capable in
some things than Wilkie was; but it would be
foolish to deny that he had his limitations. He
wasn't fluid enough; wanted things too much
cut-and-dried; was a little inclined to mistake
violence for strength; and of course the whole point<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span>
about the "Novum" was that it was fluid....</p>
<p>"In fact," Mr. Strong concluded, his wary blue
eyes ceasing suddenly to hold Amory's brook-brown
ones and taking a reflective flight past her
head instead, "for a paper like ours—I'm hazarding
this, you understand, and keep my right to reconsider
it—I'm not sure that a certain amount of
fluidity isn't a Law...."</p>
<p>Amory nodded. She thought it excellently put.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span></p>
<h2>IV</h2>
<h3>THE STONE WALL</h3>
<p>Amory sometimes thought, when she took
her bird's-eye-view of the numerous activities
that found each its voice in its proper place
in the columns of the "Novum," that she would
have allowed almost any of them to perish for lack
of support rather than the Wyron's "Lectures
on Love." She admitted this to be a weakness
in herself, a sneaking fondness, no more; but
there it was—just that one blind spot that mars
even the clearest and most piercing vision. And
she always smiled when Mr. Strong tried to show
this weakness of hers in the light of a merit.</p>
<p>"No, no," she always said, "I don't defend it.
Twenty things are more important really, but I
can't help it. I suppose it's because we know
all about Laura and Walter themselves."</p>
<p>"Perhaps so," Mr. Strong would musingly concede.</p>
<p>Anybody who was anybody knew all about
Laura Beamish and Walter Wyron and a certain
noble defeat in their lives that was to be accounted
as more than a hundred ordinary victories. That
almost historic episode had just shown everybody<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span>
who was anybody what the world's standards
were really worth. Hitherto the Wyrons have
been spoken of both as a married couple and as
"Walter Wyron" and "Laura Beamish" separately;
let the slight ambiguity now be cleared up.</p>
<p>Mrs. Cosimo Pratt became on occasion Miss
Amory Towers for reasons that began and ended
in her profession as a painter; and everybody
who was anybody was as well aware that Miss
Amory Towers, the painter of the famous feminist
picture "Barrage," was in reality Mrs. Cosimo
Pratt, as the great mass of people who were nobody
knew that Miss Elizabeth Thompson, the painter
of "The Roll Call," was actually Lady Butler.
But not so with the Wyrons. Reasons, not of
business, nor yet of fame, but of a burning and
inextinguishable faith, had led to their noble
equivocation. Deeply seated in the hearts
both of Walter and of Laura had lain a passionate
non-acceptance of the merely parroted formula
of the Wedding Service. So searching and
fundamental had this been that by the time their
various objections had been disposed of little had
remained that had seemed worth bothering about;
and in one sense they had not bothered about it.
True, in another sense they had bothered, and
that was precisely where the defeat came in; but
that did not dim the splendour of the attempt. To
come without further delay to the point, the Wyrons
had married, under strong protest, in the ordinary
everyday way, Laura submitting to the momentary
indignity of a ring; but thereafter they had magnificently<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span>
vindicated the New Movement (in that
one aspect of it) by not saying a word about the
ceremony of their marriage to anybody—no, not
even to the people who were somebody. Then
they had flown off to the Latin Quarter.</p>
<p>It had not been in the Latin Quarter, however,
that the true character of their revolt had first
shown. Perhaps—nobody knows—their relation
had not been singular enough there. Perhaps—there
were people base enough to whisper this—they
had feared the singularity of "letting on."
It is easy to do in the Boul' Mich' as the Boul'
Mich' does. The real difficulties begin when you
try to do in London what London permits only as
long as you do it covertly.</p>
<p>And if there had been a certain covertness about
their behaviour when, after a month, they had
returned, what a venial and pardonable subterfuge,
to what a tremendous end! Amory herself,
up to then, had not had a larger conception. For
while the Wyrons had secretly married simply
and solely in order that their offspring should
not lie under a stigma, their overt lives had been
one impassioned and beautiful protest against
any assumption whatever on the part of the world
of a right to make rules for the generation that was
to follow. No less a gospel than this formed the
substance of those Lectures of Walter's; great
as the number of the born was, his mission was
the protection of a greater number still. The
best aspects both of legitimacy and of illegitimacy
were to be stereoscoped in the perfect birth. And<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span>
he now had, in quite the strict sense of the word,
a following. The same devoted faces followed
him from the Lecture at the Putney Baths on
the Monday to that at the Caxton Hall on the
Thursday, from his ascending the platform at the
Hampstead Town Hall on the Tuesday to his
addressing of a garden-party from under the copper-beech
at The Witan on the Sunday afternoon. And
in course of time the faithfulness of the followers
was rewarded. They graduated, so to speak, from
the seats in the body of the building to the platform
itself. There they supported Laura, and gave
her a countenance that she no longer needed
(for she had earned her right to wear her wedding-ring
openly now), and flocked about the lecturer
afterwards, not as about a mere man, but rather
as seeing in him the physician, the psychologist,
the expert, the helper, and the setter of crooked
things straight that he was.</p>
<p>As a lecturer—may we say as a prophet?—Walter
had a manner original and taking in the
extreme. Anybody less sustained by his vision
and less upheld by his faith might have been a
little tempted to put on "side," but not so Walter.
Perhaps his familiarity with the stage—everybody
knew his father, Herman Wyron, of the New Greek
Theatre—had taught him the value of the large
and simple statement of large and simple things;
anyhow, he did not so much lecture to his audiences
as accompany them, chattily and companionably,
through the various windings of his subject.
With his hands thrust unaffectedly into the pockets<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span>
of his knickers, and a sort of sublimated "Well,
here we are again" expression on his face, he allayed
his hearers' natural timidity before the magnitude
of his mission, and gave them a direct and human
confab. on a subject that returned as it were from
its cycle of vastness to simple personal experience
again. His every sentence seemed to say, "Don't
be afraid; it's nothing really; soon you'll be as
much at your ease in dealing with these things as
I am; just let me tell you an anecdote." No
wonder Laura held her long and muscular neck
very straight above her hand-embroidered yoke.
Everybody understood that unless she adopted some
sort of an attitude her proper pride in such a married
lover must show, which would have been rather
rubbing it in to the rest of her sex. So she booked
dates for new lectures almost nonchalantly, and,
when the platform was invaded at the end of the
Lecture, or Walter stepped down to the level of
those below, she was there in person as the final
demonstration of how well these things actually
would work as soon as Society had decided upon
some concerted action.</p>
<p>Corin and Bonniebell, Amory's twins, did not
attend Walter's Lectures. It was not deemed
advisable to keep them out of bed so late at night.
But Miss Britomart Belchamber, the governess,
could have passed—had in fact passed—an examination
in them. It had been Amory who,
so to speak, had set the paper. For it had been
at one of the Lectures—the one on "<i>The Future
Race: Are We Making Manacles?</i>"—that Miss<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span>
Belchamber had first impressed Amory favourably.
Amory had singled her out, first because
she wore the guarantee of Prince Eadmond's
Collegiate Institution—the leather-belted brown
sleeveless djibbah with the garment of fine buff
fabric showing beneath it as the fruit of a roasted
chestnut shows when the rind splits—and secondly
because of her admirable physique. She was
splendidly fair, straight as an athlete, and could
shut up her long and massive limbs in a wicker
chair like a clasp-knife; and for her movements
alone it was almost a sin that Walter's father could
not secure her for the New Greek Society's revival
of "Europa" at the Choragus Theatre. And
she was not too quick mentally. That is not to
say that she was a fool. What made Amory
sure that she was not a fool was that she herself
was not instinctively attracted by fools, and it
was better that Miss Belchamber should be ductile
under the influence of Walter's ideas than that
she should have just wit enough to ask those stupid
and conventional and so-called "practical" questions
that Walter always answered at the close
of the evening as patiently as if he had never heard
them before. And Miss Belchamber told the
twins stories, and danced "Rufty Tufty," with
them, and "Catching of Quails," and was really
cheap at her rather stiff salary. Cosimo loved to
watch her at "Catching of Quails." If the children
did not grow up with a love of beauty after that,
he said, he gave it up. (The twins, by the way,
unconsciously served Amory as another example<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span>
of Dorothy Tasker's unreasonableness. As the
mother of Noel and Jackie, Dorothy seemed rather
to fancy herself as an experienced woman. But
Amory could afford to smile at this pretension.
There was a difference in age of a year and more
between Noel and Jackie. No doubt Dorothy
knew a little, but she, Amory, could have told
her a thing or two).</p>
<p>On a Wednesday afternoon about a fortnight
after Lady Tasker's visit to The Witan, Amory
walked the garden thoughtfully. The weather
was growing chilly, the hammock had been taken
in, and her feet in the fallen leaves made a melancholy
sound. Cosimo had left her half an hour before;
certain points had struck him in the course of
conversation which he thought ought to be incorporated
in the "<i>Life and Work</i>"; and it was a
rule at The Witan that nothing must ever be allowed
to interfere with the impulse of artistic creation.
For the matter of that, Amory herself was creating
now, or at any rate was at the last preparatory
stage that immediately precedes creation. Presently
she would have taken the plunge and would be
deep in the new number of the "Novum." For
the moment she was thinking of Mr. Strong.</p>
<p>As she tried to clear up exactly what place Mr.
Strong had in her thoughts she was struck by the
dreadful tendency words and names and definitions
have to attach themselves to vulgar and ready-made
meanings—a tendency so strong that she
had even caught herself more than once jumping
to a common conclusion. To take an example,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span>
though a rather preposterous one. Had Dorothy,
with one of her ridiculous advertisements waiting
to be done, confessed to her that instead of setting
about it she was thinking of a male person with
a pair of alert blue eyes and a curiously mobile
and clean-cut mouth (not that it was likely that
Dorothy would have had the candour to make
such a confession)—well, Amory might have smiled
just like anybody else. She was not trying to
make herself out any better than others. She was
candid about it, however, which they were often not.</p>
<p>Still, the trouble about her feeling for Mr. Strong
was to find a word for it that had not been vulgarized.
She was, of course, exceedingly interested in him,
but that was not saying very much. She "liked"
him, too, but that again might mean anything.
Her difficulty was that she herself was so special;
and so on second thoughts she might have been
right in giving an interpretation to Dorothy's
actions, and Dorothy quite wrong in giving the same
interpretation to hers merely because the data were
the same.</p>
<p>Nor had Mr. Strong himself been able to help
her very much when, a couple of days before, she
had put the question to him, earnestly and without
hateful false shame.</p>
<p>"What <i>is</i> this relation of ours?" she had asked
him, point-blank and fearlessly.</p>
<p>"Eh?" Mr. Strong had replied, a little startled.</p>
<p>"There <i>must</i> be a relation of some sort between
every two people who come into contact. I'm
just wondering exactly what ours <i>is</i>."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p>
<p>Then Mr. Strong had knitted his brows and
had said, presently, "I see.... Have you read
'<i>The Tragic Comedians</i>?'"—Amory had not,
and the copy of the book which she had immediately
ordered had not come yet. And then she too had
knitted her brows. She had caught the trick from
him.</p>
<p>"I suppose that what it really comes to is knowing
<i>yourself</i>," she had mused; and at that Mr.
Strong had given her a quick approving look,
almost as if he said that if she put in her thumb
in the same place again she might pull out a plum
very well worth having.</p>
<p>"And not," Amory had continued, curiously
heartened, "anything about the other person at all."</p>
<p>"Good, good," Mr. Strong had applauded under
his breath; "have you Edward Carpenter's book
in the house, by the way?... Never mind: I'll
send you my copy."</p>
<p>He had sent it. It was in Amory's hand now.
She had discovered that it had a catching and
not easily identifiable smell of its own, of Virginia
cigarettes and damp and she knew not what else,
all mingled; and somehow the smell seemed quite
as much an answer to the question she had asked
as anything in the book itself.</p>
<p>Nor, despite Walter's special knowledge of these
indications, could she go to the Wyrons for diagnosis
and advice. For one thing, there was her own
position of high patronage to be considered; for
another, splendidly daring as the Wyrons' original
protest had been, the Lectures had lately begun<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span>
to have a little the air of a shop, over the counter
of which admittedly valuable specifics were handed,
but with a kind of "<i>And</i> the next article, please?"
suspicion about it. Besides, the Wyrons, having
no children, had of necessity to "chic" a little in
cases where children formed a complicating element.
Besides ... but anyway, Amory wasn't going
either to Laura Beamish or to Walter Wyron.</p>
<p>She made a charming picture as she walked
slowly the length of the privet hedge and then
turned towards the copper beech again. Mr. Strong
had said that he liked her in that dress—an aluminium-grey
one, very simple and very expensive,
worn with a handsome Indian shawl, a gift of
Mr. Prang's, the mellow colour of which "led
up" to the glowing casque of her hair; and she
had smiled when Mr. Strong had added that Britomart
Belchamber's rough tabards and the half-gym
costume in which she danced "Rufty Tufty"
would not have suited her, Amory, at all. Probably
they wouldn't—not as a regular thing. Cosimo
liked those, especially when the wearer was largish;
indeed, it was one of Cosimo's humours to pose
as Britomart's admirer. But Amory was small,
and never shut her limbs up like a multiple-lever
in a basket chair, but drew her skirt down
a foot or so below her toes instead whenever she
sat down. She fancied, though Mr. Strong had
never used the word, that the "Novum's" editor
found Miss Belchamber just a little hoydenish.</p>
<p>Amory wished that something would bring Mr.
Strong up that afternoon. It was one of the days<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span>
on which the editing of the "Novum" could take
care of itself, and besides, they would actually be
editing it together. For the next number but one—the
forthcoming one was already passed—was to be
their most important utterance yet. It was to
indicate clearly, firmly and once for all, their
Indian policy. The threatened failure of the monsoon
made the occasion urgent, and Mr. Suwarree Prang
himself had explained to Amory only the night
before precisely what the monsoon was, and how
its failure would provide, from the point of view
of those who held that the present wicked regime
of administration by the strong hand was at last
tottering to its fall, a providential opportunity.
It had struck Amory as wondrously romantic
and strange that a meteorological condition half-way
round the world, in a place she had never
seen, should thus change the course of her quiet
life in Hampstead; but, properly considered, no
one thing in this wonderful world was more wonderful
than another. It was Life, and Life, as she
remembered to have read somewhere or other,
is for the Masters of it. And she was beginning
to find that after all these things only required
a little confidence. It was as easy to swim in six
miles deep of water, like that place in Cosimo's
atlas of which the name escaped her for the moment,
as it was in six feet. And Mr. Prang had talked
to her so long and so vividly about India that
she sometimes found it quite difficult to realize that
she had never been there.</p>
<p>Still wishing that Mr. Strong would come, she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span>
slowly left the garden and entered the house. In
the hall she paused for a moment, and a tender
little smile softened her face. She had stopped
before the exquisite casts of the foot and the arm.
Pensively she took the foot up from the console
table, and then, coming to a resolution, she took
the arm down from its hook on the wall. After
all, beautiful as she had to admit them to be, the
studio, and not the hall, was the proper place for
them.</p>
<p>With the foot and Edward Carpenter in her
left hand, and the plaster arm hugged to her right
breast, she walked along the passage and sought
the studio.</p>
<p>It was called the studio, and there certainly
were canvases and easels and other artists' paraphernalia
there, but it was less used for painting than
as a room for sitting and smoking and tea and
discussion. It was a comfortable apartment. Rugs
made islands on the thick cork floor-covering,
and among the rugs were saddlebag chairs, a long
adjustable chair, and a wide couch covered with
faded tapestry. The room was an annex of corrugated
iron lined with matchboarding, but electric-light
fittings depended from the iron ties overhead,
and in place of an ordinary hearth was a sort of
stage one, with an imitation log of asbestos, which,
when you put a match to it, broke into a licking
of blue and yellow gas-jets. The north window
occupied the whole of the garden end, and, facing
it, was the large cartoon for Amory's unfinished
allegorical picture, "<i>The Triumph of Humane<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span>
Government</i>." High up and just within the door
was the bell that answered to the button outside.</p>
<p>Amory was putting down the casts on a Benares
tray when the ringing of this bell startled her.
But as it rang in the kitchen also, she did not move
to answer it. She stood listening, the fingers of
one hand to her lips, those of the other still resting
on the plaster shoulder. Then she heard a voice,
and a moment later there came a tap at the door.</p>
<p>It was Mr. Strong.</p>
<p>He advanced, and did a thing he had not done
before—lifted the hand she extended to his lips
and then let it drop again. But Amory was not
surprised. It was merely a new and natural expression
of the homage he had never concealed, and
even had Amory been vain enough to suppose
that it meant anything more, the briskness of the
"Good afternoon" that followed it would have
disabused her. "Glad I found you," Mr. Strong
said. "I wanted to see you. Cosimo in?"</p>
<p>Her husband was always Cosimo to him, but in
speaking to herself he used no name at all. It was
as if he hesitated to call her Amory, and refused to
call her Mrs. Pratt. Even "Miss Towers" he had
only used once, and that was some time ago.</p>
<p>Amory's fingers left the cast, and Mr. Strong
walked towards the asbestos log.—"May I?" he
said, drawing forth a packet of Virginia cigarettes;
and afterwards he put the match with which he
lighted one of the cigarettes to the log. Amory
drew up a small square footstool, and put her
elbows on her knees and her interwoven fingers<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span>
beneath her chin. Mr. Strong examined the end
of his cigarette, and thrust his chin down into his
red tie and his hands deep into his trousers pockets.
Then he seemed to plunge into thought.</p>
<p>Suddenly he shot a glance at Amory, and said
abruptly, "I suppose you've talked over the Indian
policy with Cosimo?"</p>
<p>It was nice and punctilious of him, the way he
always dragged Cosimo in, and Amory liked it.
She felt sure that the editor of the "Times," calling
on the Prime Minister's wife, would not ignore
the Prime Minister. But to-day she was a little
abstracted—dull—she didn't know exactly what;
and so she replied, without moving, "Would you
like him here? He's busy with the '<i>Life</i>'."</p>
<p>"Oh no, don't trouble him then."</p>
<p>There was a pause. Then, "I did talk to him
about it. And to Mr. Prang," Amory said.</p>
<p>"Oh. Hm. Quite so," said Mr. Strong, looking
at the toes of his brogues.</p>
<p>"Yes. Mr. Prang was here last night," Amory
continued, looking at the points of her own slippers.</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>Again Mr. Strong's chin was sunk into his red
tie. He was rising and falling slowly on his toes.
His eyes moved ruminatively sideways to the rug
at Amory's feet.</p>
<p>"Yes. Yes. I've been wondering——" he said
thoughtfully.</p>
<p>"Well?"</p>
<p>"Oh, nothing really. I dare say I'm quite
wrong. You see, Prang——"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p>
<p>"What?" Amory asked as he paused again.</p>
<p>There was a twinkle in the eyes that rose to
Amory's. Mr. Strong gave a slight shrug.—"Well—Prang!——"
he said with humorous deprecation.</p>
<p>Amory was quick.—"Oh!—You don't mean
that Mr. Prang isn't sound?"</p>
<p>"Sound? Perfectly, perfectly. And a most
capable fellow. Only I've wondered once or twice
whether he isn't—you know—just a little <i>too</i>
capable.... You see, we want to use Prang—not
to have Prang using <i>us</i>."</p>
<p>Amory could not forbear to smile. If that was
all that was troubling Mr. Strong she thought she
could reassure him.</p>
<p>"I don't think you'd have been afraid of that
if you'd been here last night," she replied quietly.
"We were talking over England's diabolical misrule,
and I never knew Mr. Prang so luminous.
It was pathetic—really. Cosimo was talking about
that Rawal Pindi case—you know, of that ruffianly
young subaltern drawing down the blinds and
then beating the native.—'But how do they take
it?' I asked Mr. Prang, rather scornfully, you
know; and really I was sorry for the poor fellow,
having to apologize for his country.—'That's it,'
he said sadly—it was really sad.—And he told me,
frankly, that sometimes the poor natives pretended
they were killed, and sometimes they announce
that they're going to die on a certain day, and they
really <i>do</i> die—they're so mystic and sensitive—it
was <i>most</i> interesting.... But what I mean is,
that a gentle and submissive people like that—Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span>
Prang admits that's their weakness—I mean
they <i>couldn't</i> use <i>us</i>! It's our degradation that
we aren't gentle and sensitive too. You see what
I mean?"</p>
<p>"Oh, quite," Mr. Strong jerked out. "Quite."</p>
<p>"And that's why I call Mr. Prang an idealist.
There must be something <i>in</i> the East. At any
rate it was splendid moral courage on Prang's
part to say, quite openly, that they couldn't do
anything without the little handful of us here,
but must simply go on suffering and dying."</p>
<p>There fell one of the silences that usually came
when Mr. Strong lost interest in a subject. Merely
adding, "Oh, I've not a word to say against Prang,
but——," he began to rise and fall on his toes
again. Then he stepped to the Benares table
where the casts were. But he made no criticism
of them. He picked the foot up, and put it down
again. "I like it," he said, and returned once more
to the asbestos hearth. The silence fell again.</p>
<p>Amory, sitting on the footstool with her knees
supporting her elbows and her wrists supporting
her chin, would have liked to offer Mr. Strong
a penny for his thoughts. She had had an odd,
warm little sensation when he had picked up that
cast of the perfect foot. She supposed he must
know that it was her foot, but so widely had his
thoughts been ranging that he had merely put it
down again with an abstracted "I like it." Amory
was not sure that any other woman than herself
would not have been piqued. Any other woman
would have expected him either not to look at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span>
thing, or else to say that it was small, or to ask
whether the real one was as white, or something
foolish like that. But Amory was superior to such
things. She lived on higher levels. On these
levels such an affront to the pure intellect as a
flirtation could not exist. Free Love as a logical
and defensible system—yes, perhaps; or a combination
so happy of marriage and cohabitation
as that of the Wyrons'—yes again; but anything
lower she left to the stupid people who swallowed
the conventions whole, including the convention
of not being found out.—So she merely wondered
about their relation again. Obviously, there must
be a relation. And yet his own explanation had
been quite insufficient; it had been no explanation
at all to ask her whether she had read "<i>The Tragic
Comedians</i>" or whether she had Edward Carpenter
in the house. No doubt it was flattering to her
intelligence to suppose that she could "flash"
at his meaning without further words on his part,
but it was also a little irritating when the flash
didn't come. And, now that she came to think of
it, except that he allowed it to be inferred that he
found Britomart Belchamber a bit lumpish, she
didn't know what he thought, not merely of herself,
but of women at all.</p>
<p>And yet there was a passed-through-the-furnace
look about him that might have piqued any woman.
It was not conceivable that his eyes had softened
only over inspired passages in proof, or that the
tenderest speeches his lips had shaped had been the
"Novum's" rallying-cries to the devoted band of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span>
New Imperialists. Amory was sure that his memory
must be a maze of things, less spacious perhaps, but
far more interesting than these. He looked widely
now, but must have looked close and intense too.
He pronounced upon the Empire, but, for all he was
not married, must have probed deep into the palpitating
human heart as well.</p>
<p>Amory was just thinking what a gage of intimacy
an unembarrassed silence can be when Mr. Strong
broke it. He lighted another cigarette at the end
of the last, turned, threw the end on the asbestos
log, and stood looking at the purring blue and
yellow jets. No doubt he was full of the Indian
policy again.</p>
<p>But as it happened it was not the Indian policy—"Oh,"
Mr. Strong said, "I meant to ask you—Who
was that fellow who came up here one day?"</p>
<p>This was so vague that when Amory said "What
fellow?" Mr. Strong himself saw the vagueness,
and laughed.</p>
<p>"Of course: 'How big is a piece of wood?'—I
mean the fellow who came to The Witan in a
morning-coat?"</p>
<p>This was description enough. Amory's back
straightened a little.</p>
<p>"Oh, Stanhope Tasker! Oh, just the husband
of a friend of mine. I don't think you've met
her. Why?"</p>
<p>Surely, she thought, Mr. Strong was not going to
tell her that "Stanhope Tasker was an excellent
fellow in his way, but——," as he had said of
Mr. Brimby, Mr. Wilkinson and Mr. Prang!—<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span>—</p>
<p>"Oh, nothing much. Only that I saw him
to-day," Strong replied offhandedly.</p>
<p>"He's often about. He isn't a very busy man,
I should say," Amory remarked.</p>
<p>"Saw him in Charing Cross Road as I was
coming out of the office," Mr. Strong continued.
"I don't think he saw me though."</p>
<p>"After his abominable manners to you that day
I should think he'd be ashamed to look you in the
face."</p>
<p>For a moment Mr. Strong looked puzzled; then
he remembered, and laughed again.</p>
<p>"Oh, I didn't mind that in the least! Rather
refreshing in fact. Far more likely he didn't notice
me because he had his wife with him. I think
you said he was married?"</p>
<p>Amory was just about to say that Mr. Strong
gave Stan far more magnanimity than he deserved
when a thought arrested her. Dorothy in Charing
Cross Road! As far as she was aware Dorothy had
not been out of Hampstead for weeks, and even
then kept to the less frequented parts of the Heath.
It wasn't likely....</p>
<p>Her eyes became thoughtful.</p>
<p>"Oh? That's funny," she said.</p>
<p>"What, that he shouldn't see me? Oh no.
They seemed far more interested in electric-light
fittings."</p>
<p>Amory's eyes grew more thoughtful still—"Oh!"
she said; and added, "Did you think her pretty?"</p>
<p>"Hm—in a way. Very well dressed certainly;
they both were. But I don't think these black<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span>
Spanish types amuse me much," Mr. Strong replied.</p>
<p>Dorothy a black Spanish type!</p>
<p>"Oh, do tell me what she had on!" said Amory
brightly.</p>
<p>She rather thought she knew most of Dorothy's
dresses by this time.</p>
<p>A black Spanish type!</p>
<p>The task of description was too much for Mr.
Strong, but he did his best with it. Amory was
keenly interested. But she pocketed her interest
for the present, and said quite banteringly and
with an almost arch look, "Oh, I should have
thought Mrs. Tasker exactly your type!"</p>
<p>Again the quick motion of Mr. Strong's blue
eyes suggested an audible click—"Oh? Why?"
he asked.</p>
<p>"Oh, there's no 'why' about it, of course. It's
the impression of you I had, that's all. You see,
you don't particularly admire Miss Belchamber——"</p>
<p>"Oh, come! I think Miss Belchamber's an
exceedingly nice girl, only——"</p>
<p>"Well, Laura Beamish, then. But I forgot;
you don't go to Walter's Lectures. But I wonder
whether you'd admire Laura?"</p>
<p>"If she's black and Spanish you think I should?"
He paused. "Is she?"</p>
<p>"No. Brown and stringy rather, and with
eyes that open and shut very quickly.... But
I'm very absurd. There's no Law about these
things really. Only, you see, I've no idea of the
kind of woman you <i>do</i> admire?"</p>
<p>She said it smilingly, but that did not mean that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span>
she was not perfectly candid and natural about it
too. Why not be natural about these things?
Amory knew people who were natural enough about
their preferred foods and clothing and houses;
was a woman less than an entrée, or a bungalow,
or a summer overcoat? Besides, it was so very
much more intrinsically interesting. Walter Wyron
had made a whole Lecture on it—Lecture No. II,
"<i>Types and Tact</i>," and Walter had barely touched
the fringe of the subject. Amory wanted to go a
little deeper than that. But she also wanted to
get away from those vulgarized words and ready-made
conclusions, and to have each case considered
on its merits. Surely it ought to be possible to say
that the presence of a person affected you pleasantly,
or unpleasantly, without sniggering inferences of a
<i>liaison</i> in the one case or of a rupture in the other!</p>
<p>Therefore it was once more just a little irritating
that Mr. Strong, instead of telling her what type
he did admire, should merely laugh and say, "Well—not
Mrs. Tasker." If Amory had a criticism at
all to make of Mr. Strong it was this habit of his
of negatives, that sometimes almost justified the
nickname Mr. Brimby had given him, of "Stone
Wall Strong." So she dropped one hand from
her chin, allowing it to hang loose over her knee
while the other forearm still kept its swan's-neck
curve, and said abruptly, "Well—about the Indian
Number. Let's get on."</p>
<p>"Ah, yes," said Mr. Strong. "Let's get on."</p>
<p>"What had we decided?"</p>
<p>"Only Prang's article so far."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span></p>
<p>"But you say you have your doubts about it?"</p>
<p>Mr. Strong hesitated. "Only about its selling-power,"
he said with a little shrug. "We must
sell the paper, you see. It's not paying its way
yet."</p>
<p>"Well, I'm sure that's not Mr. Prang's fault,"
Amory retorted. "He's practically made the export
circulation."</p>
<p>"You mean the Bombay circulation? Yes, I
suppose he has. I don't deny it."</p>
<p>"You can't deny it. Since Prang began to write
for us we've done awfully well in Bombay."</p>
<p>To that too, Mr. Strong assented. Then Amory,
after a moment's pause, spoke quietly. She did
not like to think of her editor as jealous of his own
contributors.</p>
<p>"I know you don't like Mr. Prang," she said,
looking fixedly at the asbestos log.</p>
<p>"I!" began Stone Wall Strong. "Why, you
know I think he's a first rate fellow, if only——"</p>
<p>This time, however, Amory really did intend
to get it out of him. For once she would have one
of those hung-up sentences completed.</p>
<p>"If only what?" she said, looking up at him.</p>
<p>"Oh, I don't know—as you said a moment ago,
there's no 'why' about these things——"</p>
<p>"But I did give you my impression. You don't
give me yours."</p>
<p>"You did, I admit. Yes, I admit you did....
What is it you want to know, then?"</p>
<p>"Only why you seem so doubtful about Mr.
Prang."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p>
<p>"Ah!" said Mr. Strong....</p>
<p>Those who knew Edgar Strong the best said
that he was a man who, other things being equal,
would rather go straight than not. Even when
the other things were not quite equal, he still had
a mild preference for straightness. But if other
people positively insisted that he should deviate
from straightness, very well; that was their look-out.
He had been a good many things in his time—solicitor's
clerk, free-lance journalist, book-pedlar,
election-agent's minion, Vanner, poetic vagabond,
and always an unerring "spotter" of the
literary son of the farming squire the moment he
appeared in sight; and the "Novum" was the
softest job he had found yet. If the price of his
keeping it was that he should look its owner's
wife long and earnestly in the eyes, as if in his own
there lay immeasurable things, not for him to
give but for her to take if she list, so be it; he would
sleep none the less well in his rent-free bedroom
behind the "Novum's" offices afterwards. His
experience of far less comfortable sleeping-quarters
had persuaded him that in this imperfect world a man
is entitled to exactly what he can get.</p>
<p>His eyes, nevertheless, did not seek Amory's.
Instead, roving round the room to see if nothing
less would serve (leaving him still with the fathomless
look in reserve for emergencies), they fell on
the Benares tray and the casts. And as they
remained there he suddenly frowned. Amory's
own eyes followed his; and suddenly she felt again
that little creeping thrill. A faint colour and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span>
warmth, new and pleasurable, came into her cheeks.</p>
<p>Then with a little rush, her discovery came upon
her....</p>
<p>She <i>had</i> got something from Mr. Strong at last!</p>
<p>Her head drooped a little away from him, and
the hand that had hung laxly over her knee
dropped gently to the rug. It was a delicious
moment. So all these weeks and weeks Mr. Strong
<i>had</i> cared that that foot, that arm, had been exposed
to the gaze of anybody who might have entered
the house! He had not said so; he did not say so
now; but that was it! More, he had cared so much
that it had quite distorted his judgment of Mr.
Prang. And all at once Amory remembered something
else—a glance Edgar Strong had given her,
neither more nor less eloquent than the look he was
bending on the casts now, one afternoon when she
had lain in the hammock in the garden and Mr.
Prang, bending over her, had ventured to examine
a locket about her throat....</p>
<p>So <i>that</i> was at the bottom of his reserve! <i>That</i>
was the meaning of his "buts"!...</p>
<p>Amory did not move. She wished it might
last for hours. Mr. Strong had taken a step towards
the casts, but, changing his mind, had turned away
again; and she was astonished to find how full of
meaning dozens of his past gestures became now
that she had the key to them. And she knew that
the casts <i>were</i> beautiful. Brucciani would have
bought them like a shot. And she seemed to see
Mr. Strong's look, piteous and frowning both at
once, if she should sell them to Brucciani, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span>
Brucciani should publish them to hang in a hundred
studios....</p>
<p>The silence between them continued.</p>
<p>But speak she must, and it would be better to
do so before he did; and by and bye she lifted her
head again. But she did not look directly at him.</p>
<p>"It was very foolish," she murmured with beautiful
directness and simplicity.</p>
<p>Mr. Strong said nothing.</p>
<p>"But for weeks I've been intending to move
them."</p>
<p>Mr. Strong shrugged his shoulders. It was as if
he said, "Well better late than never ... but
you see, <i>now</i>."</p>
<p>"Yes," breathed Amory, softly, but aloud.</p>
<p>The next moment Mr. Strong was himself again.
He returned to his station by the asbestos log.</p>
<p>"Well, there's Prang's article," he said in his
business voice. "Am I to have it set up?"</p>
<p>"Perhaps we'd better see what Cosimo says
first," Amory replied.</p>
<p>She did not know which was the greater delicacy
in Mr. Strong—the exquisite tact of the glance
he had given at the casts, or the quiet strength
with which he took up the burden of editing the
"Novum" again.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span></p>
<h2>V</h2>
<h3>THREE SHIPS</h3>
<p>A white October mist lay over the Heath,
and the smell of burning leaves came in at
the pond-room window of Dorothy Tasker's flat.
But the smell was lost on Dorothy. All her intelligence
was for the moment concentrated in one
faculty, the faculty of hearing. She was sure Jackie
had swallowed a safety-pin, and she was anxiously
listening for the click with which it might come
unstuck.</p>
<p>"Shall I send for the doctor, m'm?" said Ruth,
who stood holding the doorknob in her aproned
hand. She had been called away from her "brights,"
and there was a mournful relish of Jackie's plight
on her face.</p>
<p>"No," said Dorothy.... "Oh, I <i>know</i> there
were twelve of them, and now there are only eleven!...
<i>Have</i> you put one of these things into your
mouth, Jackie?"</p>
<p>"He put it up his nose, mumsie, like he did
some boot-buttons once," said Noel cheerfully.</p>
<p>"But he couldn't do that.... <i>Have</i> you
swallowed it, Jackie?"</p>
<p>"Mmm," said Jackie resolutely, as who should<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span>
say that that which his hand (or in this case his
mouth) found to do he did with all his might.</p>
<p>"Oh dear!" sighed Dorothy, leaning back in
her chair....</p>
<p>She supposed it was the still white weather that
weighed on her spirits; she hoped so, for if it was
not that it was something worse. Even dreary
weather was better than bankruptcy. She had
sent her pass-book to the bank to be balanced;
until it should come back she refused to look at
the pile of tradesmen's books that stood on her
writing-desk; and borrowing from her aunt was
not borrowing at all, but simply begging, since
Aunt Grace regarded the return of such loans as
the last of affronts.</p>
<p>And (she sighed again) she had been <i>so</i> well-off
at the time of her marriage! Why, she had had
well over a thousand a year from Hallowell and
Smith's alone!... But Stan had had a few
debts which had had to be settled, and Stan's
knowledge of the style in which things ought to
be done had been rather a drawback on that trip
they had taken to the Riviera, for his ideas of
hotels had been a little splendacious, and of dinners
to "a few friends" rather daring; and, with one
thing and another, the problem of how to satisfy
champagne tastes on a beer income had never
been really satisfactorily solved by Stan, poor old
boy. And he never, never grumbled at home,
not even when the cold beef came on three evenings
together, which was harder on him than it
was on most people. He did what he could to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span>
earn, too. It wasn't his fault that the standard
of efficiency in the Army was so impracticably
high, nor that he had been packed off to try his
luck in Canada with the disadvantage of being a
remittance-man, nor that, at the age of twenty-seven,
when his father had died, he had had to
turn to and compete for this job or that with a
horde of capable youngsters years his juniors and
with fewer hampering decencies. It was his father's
fault and Aunt Susan's really, for having sent him
to Marlborough and Sandhurst without being able
to set him properly on his feet afterwards. Such
victims of circumstances, on a rather different
level, made husbands who stopped at home and
cleaned the knives and took the babies out in the
perambulator. In Stan's case the natural result
had been to make a young man fit only to join as a
ranker or to stand with his back to a mirror in a
suspect card-room.</p>
<p>"Shall I take him away, m'm?" Mrs. Mossop
asked—("And prepare his winding-sheet," her tone
seemed to add).</p>
<p>"Yes, do," Dorothy replied, with a glance at
Ruth's blackened hands. "And please make yourself
fit to be seen, Ruth. You know you oughtn't to
be doing all that on the very day I let Norah out."</p>
<p>She knew that her rebuke had set Ruth up in
the melancholy enjoyment of resentment for half
a week, but she was past caring. Ruth rose an
inch in height at being chidden for the faithful
performance of her most disagreeable duties; she
turned; and as she bore the Bits away the mighty<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span>
roar into which Jackie broke diminished in volume
down the passage.</p>
<p>Dorothy sighed, that all her troubles should
thus crowd on her at once. Her eyes fell again
on the tradesmen's books. It hardly seemed
worth while to pay them, since they would only
come in again next week, as clamourous and urgent
as ever. They were thrust through the letterbox
like letters; Dorothy knew very well the thud
with which they fell on the floor; but she could
never help running out into the hall when they
came. She had tried the plan of dispensing with
books altogether and paying for everything in
cash as she got it, but that had merely meant, not
one large worry a week, but harassing little ones
all the week through.</p>
<p>Oh, why had she squandered, or allowed Stan
to squander, those good round sovereigns of Hallowell
and Smith's!——</p>
<p>Still—there is measure in everything—she had
not sent her pass-book to the bank in order to learn
whether she had a balance. That would have
been too awful. It was the amount of her margin
that she wanted, and feared, to know. For presently
there would be the doctor to pay, and so
many guineas a week at the Nursing Home, and
the flat going on just the same, and poor old Stan
pathetically hoping that a casual dinner-table
puff in a Marlborough voice would result in fat
new ledger-accounts for Fortune and Brooks' and
magnificent commissions for himself. If only she
could get just a little ahead of her points! But<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span>
the money went out just slightly quicker than it
came in. Stan carved it as it were in twopences
off the cold beef, the Bits swallowed it in pennorths
with their breadcrumbs and gravy, and
directly the strain eased for a little, down swooped
the rent and set everything back again exactly
where it had been three months before.</p>
<p>And the Income Tax people had actually sent
Stan a paper, wanting to know all about his income
from lands, hereditaments, etc., and warning him
that his wife's income must be accounted as part
of his own!</p>
<p>But it must not be supposed that Dorothy had
allowed things to come to this pass without having
had an idea. She had an idea, and one that she
thought a very good one. Nevertheless, an idea is
one thing, and the execution thereof at the proper
time quite another. For example, the proper
moment for the execution of this idea of Dorothy's
was certainly now, or at any rate at the Christmas
Quarter (supposing she herself was up and about
again by that time and had found a satisfactory sub-tenant
for the flat). But the person against whom
her idea was designed—who, by the way, happened
to be her unsuspecting and much-loved aunt, Lady
Tasker—was a very present difficulty. Dorothy
knew for a fact that what would be admirably
convenient for herself at Christmas could not possibly
be convenient to her aunt until, at the very
earliest, next summer. That was the crab—the
intervening period of nine months. She knew of
no mandragora that would put herself, Stan and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span>
her Bits of Impudence gently to sleep, to wake up
again to easier times.</p>
<p>Oh, why had she spent those beautiful thick
sovereigns of Hallowell and Smiths' so recklessly!—</p>
<p>The mist lay flat over the pond outside, making
in one corner of it a horrible scum, from which the
swans, seeking their food, lifted blackened necks.
There was never a ripple on the pond-room walls
to-day. Slowly Dorothy rose. Moping was useless;
she must do something. She crossed to her
writing-desk and took from one of its drawers a
fat file, concertina-ed like her own accordion-pleated
skirts; and she sat down and opened it fan-wise
on her knee. It was full of newspaper-cuttings,
draft "ideas" for advertisements, and similar
dreary things. She sighed again as her listless
fingers began to draw them out. She had not
thought at one time that she would ever come to
this. By a remarkable piece of luck and light-heartedness
and ingenuity she had started at Hallowell
and Smith's at the top of the tree; the brains
of underlings had been good enough to cudgel for
such scrap-stuff as filled her concertina-file; but
that was all changed now. Light come, light go;
and since the lapse of her contracts she had been
glad not only to devise these ignoble lures for the
public, but to draw them also. They formed the
pennies-three-farthings that came in while Stan
carved the twopences from the joint. She had
thought the good times were going to last for ever.
They hadn't. She now looked enviously up to
those who had been her own subordinates.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span></p>
<p>With no heart in her task at all, Dorothy set
about the drafting of an advertisement.</p>
<p>She was just beginning to forget about swallowed
safety-pins, and poor luckless Stan, and guineas
for her Nursing Home, and the prospect of presently
having seven mouths, big and little, to feed—she
was even beginning to cease to hear the clamour
of the Bits in the room along the passage—when
there came a ring at the bell. Her fair head did not
move, but her blue eyes stole abstractedly sideways
as Ruth passed the pond-room door. Then a man's
voice sounded, and Dorothy dropped her pen....</p>
<p>"Mrs. Tasker," she had heard, with the "a"
cut very short and two "s's" in her name....</p>
<p>The next moment Ruth had opened the pond-room
door, and, in tones that plainly said "You
needn't think that I've forgotten about just now,
because I haven't," announced: "Mr. Miller."</p>
<p>Now it was curious that Dorothy had just been
thinking about Mr. Miller. Mr. Miller was Hallowells'
Publicity Manager, and the time had been
when Dorothy had had Mr. Miller completely in
her pocket. She had obtained that comfortable
contract of hers from Mr. Miller, and if during the
latter part of its continuance she had taken her
duties somewhat lightly and her pleasures with
enormous gusto, she was not sure that Mr. Miller
had not done something of the same kind. But
the firm, which could excuse itself from a renewal
of her own contract, for some reason or other could
not get rid of Mr. Miller; and now here was Mr.
Miller unexpectedly in Dorothy's flat—seeking her,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span>
which is far better for you than when you have
to do the seeking. He stood there with his grey
Trilby in his hand and his tailor-made deltoids
almost filling the aperture of the doorway.</p>
<p>"There, now, if I wasn't right!" said Mr. Miller
with great satisfaction, advancing with one hand
outstretched. "I fixed it all up with myself coming
along that you'd be around the house. I've had
no luck all the week, and I said to myself as I got
out of the el'vator at Belsize Park, 'It's doo to
change.' And here I find you, right on the spot.
I hope this is not an introosion. How are you?
And how's Mr. Stan?"</p>
<p>He shook hands heartily with Dorothy, and
looked round for a place in which to put his hat
and stick.</p>
<p>"Why, now, this is comfortable," he went on,
drawing up the chair to which Dorothy pointed.
"I like your English fires. They may not have
all the advantages of steam-heat, but they got a
look about 'em—the Home-Idee. And you're looking
just about right in health, Mrs. Tasker, if I
may say so. You English women have our N'York
ladies whipped when it comes to complexion,
you have for sure. And how's the family——?"</p>
<p>But here Mr. Miller suddenly stopped and looked
at Dorothy again. If the look that came into his
eyes had come into those of a young unmarried
woman, Dorothy would have fled there and then.
He dropped his head for a moment as people do
who enter a church; then he raised it again.</p>
<p>"If you'll pardon an old married man and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span>
father of three little goils," Mr. Miller said, his eyes
reverently lifted and his voice suddenly altered,
"—but am I right in supposing that ... another
little gift from the storks, as my dear old Mamie—that
was my dear old negro nurse—used to say?"
Then, without waiting for the unrequired answer,
he straightened his back and squared his deltoids
in a way that would have made any of Holbein's
portraits of Henry the Eighth look like that of a
slender young man. His voice dropped three
whole tones, and again he showed Dorothy the
little bald spot on the crown of his head.</p>
<p>"I'm glad. I say I'm glad. I'm vurry glad.
I rejoice. And I should like to shake Mr. Stan by
the hand. I should like to shake you by the hand
too, Mrs. Tasker." Then, when he had done so:
"It's the Mother-Idee. The same, old-fashioned
Idee, like our own mothers. It makes one feel
good. Reverent. I got no use for a young man
but what he shows lats of reverence for his mother.
The old Anglo-Saxon-Idee—reverence for motherhood....
And when, if an old married man may
ask the question——?"</p>
<p>Dorothy laughed and blushed and told him. Mr.
Miller, dropping his voice yet another tone, told
her in return that he knew of no holier place on
oith than the chamber in which the Anglo-Saxon-Idee
of veneration for motherhood was renewed
and sustained. And then, after he had said once
more that he rejoiced, there fell a silence.</p>
<p>Dorothy liked Mr. Miller. Once you got over
his remarkable aptitude for sincerities he had an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span>
excellent heart. Nevertheless she could not imagine
why he had come. She shuddered as he seemed
for a moment to be once more on the point of
removing his shoes at the door of the Mosque of
Motherhood, but apparently he thought better of
it. Squaring his shoulders again, and no doubt
greatly fortified by his late exercise, he said, "Well,
I always feel more of a man after I felt the throb
of a fellow-creature's heart. That's so. And
now you'll be wondering what's brought me up
here? Well, the fact is, Mrs. Tasker, I'm wurried.
I got wurries. You can see the wurry-map on my
face. Hallowells' is wurrying me. I ain't going
to tell you Hallowells' ain't what it was in its pammy
days; it may be, or it may not; mebbe you've
heard the talk that's going around?"</p>
<p>"No," said Dorothy.</p>
<p>"Is that so? Well, there is talk going around.
There's a whole push of people, knocking us all
the time. They ain't of much account themselves,
but they knock us. It's a power the inferior mind
has. And I say I'm wurried about it."</p>
<p>Dorothy, in spite of her "No," had heard of the
"knocking" of Hallowell and Smiths', and her
heart gave an excited little jump at the thought
that flashed across her mind. Did Hallowells'
want her back? The firm had been launched
upon London with every resource of publicity;
Dorothy herself had been the author of its crowning
device; and whereas the motto of older firms
had been "Courtesy Costs Nothing," Hallowells'
had vastly improved upon this. Courtesy had, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span>
a matter of fact, cost them a good deal; but the
rewards of the investment had been magnificent.
Mr. Miller had known that if you say to people
often enough "See how courteous I am," you are
to all intents and purposes courteous. But what
Mr. Miller had not known had been the precise point
at which it is necessary to begin to build up a
strained reputation again. Commercial credit too,
like those joints Stan carved, comes in in two-pence-halfpennies
but goes out in threepences....
And so the "knocking" had begun. Rumours
had got about that Hallowells' was a shop where
you were asked, after a few unsuitable articles had
been shown to you, whether you didn't intend to
buy anything, and where you might wait for ten
minutes at a counter while two assistants settled
a private difference behind it. Did Mr. Miller want
her help in restoring the firm's fair name? Did
he intend to offer her another contract? Were
there to be more of Hallowells' plump, ringing
sovereigns—that she would know better how to
take care of this time? It was with difficulty that
she kept her composure as Mr. Miller continued:</p>
<p>"There's no denying but what inferior minds
have that power," he went sorrowfully on. "They
can't build up an enterprise, but they can knock,
and they been good and busy. You haven't heard
of it? Well, that's good as far as it goes, but they
been at it for all that. Now I don't want to knock
back at your country, Mrs. Tasker, but it seems
to me that's the English character. You're hostile
to the noo. The noo gives you cold feet. You<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span>
got a terrific capacity for stopping put. Your
King Richard Core de Lion did things in a certain
way, and it ain't struck you yet that he's been
stiff and straight quite a while. And so when you
see something with snap and life to it you start
knocking." Mr. Miller spoke almost bitterly.
"But I ain't holding you personally responsible,
Mrs. Tasker. I reckon you're a wonderful woman.
Yours is a reel old family, and if anybody's the
right to knock it's you; but <i>you</i> appreciate the
noo. <i>You</i> look at it in the light of history. <i>You</i>
got the sense of world-progress. <i>You're</i> a sort
of Lady Core de Lion to-day. I haven't forgotten
the Big Idee you started us off with. And so I
come to you, and tell you, straight and fair, we
want you."</p>
<p>Dorothy was tingling with excitement; but she
took up a piece of sewing—the same piece on which
she had bent her modest gaze when she
had machinated against her aunt on the afternoon on
which Lady Tasker had come on, weary and thirsty,
from The Witan. It was a piece she kept for such
occasions as these. She stitched demurely, and
Mr. Miller went on again:—</p>
<p>"We want you. We want those bright feminine
brains of yours, Mrs. Tasker. And your ladies'
intooition. We're stuck. We want another Idee
like the last. And so we come to the department
where we got satisfaction before."</p>
<p>Dorothy spoke slowly. She was glad the pond-room
was beautifully furnished—glad, too, that
the hours Ruth spent over her "brights" were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span>
not spent in vain. The porcelain gleamed in her
cabinets and the silver twinkled on her tables. At
any rate she did not look poor.</p>
<p>"This is rather a surprise," she said. "I hardly
know what to say. I hadn't thought of taking on
another contract."</p>
<p>But here Mr. Miller was prompt enough.</p>
<p>"Well, I don't know that we were thinking of a
noo contract exactly. You're a lady with a good
many responsibilities now, and ain't got too much
time for contracts, I guess. No, it ain't a contract.
It's an Idee we want."</p>
<p>Far more quickly than Dorothy's hopes had risen
they dropped again at this. "An Idee:" naturally!...
Everybody wanted that. She had not
had to hawk an idea like the last—so simple, so
shapely, so beauty-bright. And she had learned
that it is not the ideas, but what follows them,
that pays—the flat and uninspired routine that
forms the everyday work of a lucrative contract.
It is the irony of this gipsy life of living by your
wits. You do a stately thing and starve; you follow
it up—or somebody else does—with faint and
empty echoes of that thing, and you are overfed.
An Idea—but not a contract; a picking of her
brains, but no permanent help against that tide
of tradesman's books that flowed in at the front
door.... And Dorothy knew already that for
another reason Mr. Miller had sought her out in
vain. Ideas are <i>not</i> repeated. They visit us, but
we cannot fetch them. And as for echoes of that
former inspiration of hers, no doubt Mr. Miller<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span>
had thought of all those for himself and had rejected
them.</p>
<p>"I see," she said slowly....</p>
<p>"Well," said Mr. Miller, his worry-map really
piteous, "I wish you could tell me where we've
gone wrong. It must be something in the British
character we ain't appreciated, but what, well,
that gets me. We been Imperialistic. There
ain't been one of our Monthly House Dinners but
what we've had all the Loyal Toasts, one after the
other. There ain't been a Royal Wedding but
what we've had a special window-display, and
christenings the same, and what else you like. We
ain't got gay with the Union Jack nor Rotten
Row nor the House of Lords. We've reminded
folk it was your own King George who said 'Wake
up, England——!'"</p>
<p>But at this point Mr. Miller's doleful recital was
cut short by a second ring at the bell. Again
Ruth's step was heard in the passage outside, and
again Ruth, loftily sulky but omitting no point
of her duty, stood with the door-knob in her
hand.</p>
<p>"Mrs. Pratt," she announced; and Amory
entered.</p>
<p>Seeing Mr. Miller, however, she backed again.
Mr. Miller had risen and bowed as if he was giving
some invisible person a "back" for leapfrog.</p>
<p>"Oh, I do so beg your pardon!" said Amory
hurriedly. "I didn't know you'd anybody here.
But—if I could speak to you for just a moment,
Dorothy—it won't take a minute——"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span></p>
<p>"Please excuse me," said Dorothy to Mr. Miller;
and she went out.</p>
<p>She was back again in less than three minutes.
Her face had an unusual pinkness, but her voice
was calm. She did not sit down again. Neither
did she extend her hand to Mr. Miller in a too abrupt
good-bye. Nevertheless, that worried man bowed
again, and looked round for his hat and stick.</p>
<p>"I shall have to think over what you've been
saying," Dorothy said. "I've no proposal to
make off-hand, you see—and I'm rather afraid
that just at present I shan't be able to come and
see you——"</p>
<p>There were signs in Mr. Miller's bearing of another
access of reverence.</p>
<p>"So I'll write. Or better still, if it's not too
much trouble for you to come and see me again——? Perhaps
I'd better write first.—But you'll have
tea, won't you?"</p>
<p>Mr. Miller put up a refusing hand.—"No, I
thank you.—So you'll do your possible, Mrs.
Tasker? That's vurry good of you. I'm wurried,
and I rely on your sharp feminine brains. As for
the honorarium, we shan't quarrel about that. I
wish I could have shaken hands with Mr. Stan.
There ain't a happier and prouder moment in a
man's life than——"</p>
<p>"Good-bye."</p>
<p>And the father of three little goils of his own
took his leave.</p>
<p>No sooner had he gone than Dorothy's brows
contracted. She took three strides across the room<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span>
and rang for Ruth. Never before had she realized
the inferiority, as a means of expressing temper,
of an electric bell to a hand-rung one or to one of
which a yard or two of wire can be ripped from
the wall. Only by mere continuance of pressure
till Ruth came did she obtain even a little relief.
To the high resolve on Ruth's face she paid no
attention whatever.</p>
<p>"A parcel will be coming from Mrs. Pratt," she
said. "Please see that it goes back at once."</p>
<p>Ruth's head was heroically high. The late
Mr. Mossop had had his faults, but he had not
kept his finger on electric-bell buttons till she came.</p>
<p>"No doubt there's them as would give better
satisfaction, m'm," she said warningly.</p>
<p>But Dorothy rushed on her fate.—"There seems
very little satisfaction anywhere to-day," she
answered.</p>
<p>"Then I should wish to give the usual notice,"
said Ruth.</p>
<p>"Very well," said the reckless mistress....
"Ruth!" (Ruth returned). "You forgot what
I said about always shutting the door quietly."</p>
<p>This time the door close so quietly behind Ruth
that Dorothy heard her outburst into tears on the
other side of it.</p>
<p>Second-hand woollies for her Bits!... Of
course Amory Pratt had made the proposal with
almost effusive considerateness. No doubt the
twins, Corin and Bonniebell, <i>had</i> outgrown them.
Dorothy did not suppose for a moment that they
were <i>not</i> the best of their kind that money could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span>
buy; the Pratts seemed to roll in money. And
beyond all dispute the winter <i>might</i> come any
morning now, and the garments <i>would</i> just fit
Jackie. But—her own Bits!... She had had
her back to the bedroom window when the offer
had been made; she knew that her sudden flush
had not showed; and her voice had not changed
as she had deliberately told her lie—that she had
bought the children's winter outfits only the day
before....</p>
<p>"I'm sure you won't have any difficulty in
giving them away," she had concluded as she had
passed to the bedroom door.</p>
<p>"Far less difficulty than you'll find here," she
might have added, but had forborne....</p>
<p>Other children's woollies for her little Jackie!——</p>
<p>What gave sting to the cut was that Jackie
sorely needed them; but then it was not like
Amory Pratt, Dorothy thought bitterly, to make
a graceful gift of an unrequired thing. She must
blunder into people's necessities. A gift of a useless
Teddy Bear or of a toy that would be broken in a
week Dorothy might not have refused; but mere
need!—"Oh!" Dorothy exclaimed, twisting in
her chair with anger....</p>
<p>What a day! What a life! And what a little
thing thus to epitomize the whole hopeless standstill
of their circumstances!</p>
<p>And because it was a little thing, it had a power
over Dorothy that twenty greater things would
not have had. She was about to call the precious
and disparaged Jackie when she thought better<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span>
of it. Instead, she dropped her face into her hands
and melted utterly. What Ruth did in the kitchen
she did in the pond-room; and Jackie, who caught
the contagion, filled the passage between with an
inconsolable howling.</p>
<p>It was into this house of lamentation that Stan
entered at half-past four.</p>
<p>"Steady, there!" he called to his younger son;
and Jackie's bellow ceased instantaneously.</p>
<p>"Ruth's c'ying, so I c'ied too," he confided
solemnly to his father; and the two entered the
pond-room together, there to find Dorothy also
in tears.</p>
<p>"Hallo, what's this?" said Stan. "Jackie,
run and tell Ruth to hurry up with tea.... Head
up, Dot—let's have a look at you——"</p>
<p>Perhaps he meant that Dot should have a look
at him, for his face shone with an—alas!—not
unwonted excitement. Dorothy had seen that
shining before. It usually meant that he had been
let in on the ground floor of the International Syndicate
for the manufacture of pig-spears, or had
secured an option on the world's supply of wooden
pips for blackberry jam, or an agency for a synthesized
champagne. And she never dashed the
perennial hopefulness of it. The poor old boy
would have been heartbroken had he been allowed
to suppose that he was not, in intent at any rate,
supporting his wife and children.</p>
<p>"What is it, old girl?" he said. "Just feeling
low, eh? Never mind. I've some news for you."</p>
<p>Dorothy summoned what interest she could,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span>—</p>
<p>"Not an agency or anything?" she asked, wiping
her eyes.</p>
<p>"Better than that."</p>
<p>"Well, some agencies are very good."</p>
<p>"Not as good as this!"</p>
<p>"Put your arm round me. I've been feeling
<i>so</i> wretched!"</p>
<p>"Come and sit here. There. Wretched, eh?
Well, would three hundred a year cheer you up
any?"</p>
<p>It would have, very considerably; but Stan's
schemes were seldom estimated to produce a sum
less than that.</p>
<p>"Eh?" Stan continued. "Paid weekly or
monthly, whichever I like, and a month's screw to
be going on with?"</p>
<p>Suddenly Dorothy straightened herself in his
arms. She knew that Stan was trying to rouse
her, but he needn't use a joke with quite so sharp
a barb. She sank back again.</p>
<p>"Don't, dear," she begged. "I know it's stupid
of me, but I'm so dull to-day. You go out somewhere
this evening, and I'll go to bed early and sleep
it off. I shall be all right again in the morning."</p>
<p>But from the pocket into which she herself had
put four half-crowns that very morning—all she
could spare—Stan drew out a large handful of
silver, with numerous pieces of gold sticking up
among it. A glance told her that Stan was not
likely to have backed a winner at any such price
as that. Other people did, but not Stan. She
had turned a little pale.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span></p>
<p>"Tell me, quick, Stan!" she gasped.</p>
<p>"You laughed rather at the Fortune & Brooks
idea, didn't you?"</p>
<p>"Oh, don't joke, darling!——"</p>
<p>"Eh?... I say, you're upset. Anything been
happening to-day? Look here, let me get you a
drink or something!"</p>
<p>"Do you mean—you've got a job, Stan?"</p>
<p>"Rather!—I say, do let me get you a drink——"</p>
<p>"I shall faint if you don't tell me——"</p>
<p>She probably would....</p>
<p>Stan had got a job. What was it, this job that
had enabled Stan to come home, before he had
lifted a finger to earn it, with masses of silver in
his pocket, and the clean quids sticking up out of
the lump like almonds out of a trifle?</p>
<p>—He would have to lift more than a finger before
that money was earned. He would have to hang
on wires by his toes, and to swim streams, and to be
knocked down by runaway horses, and to dash
into burning houses, and to fling himself on desperate
men, and to ascend into the air in water-planes
and to descend in submarines into the deep.
Hydrants would be turned on him, and sacks of flour
poured on him, and hogsheads of whitewash and
bags of soot. Not for his brains, but for his good
looks and steady nerves and his hard physical
condition had he been the chosen one among many.
For Stan had joined a Film Producing Company,
less as an actor than as an acrobat. Go and see
him this evening. He is as well worth your hour
as many a knighted actor. And the scene from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span>
"Quentin Durward," in which Bonthron is strung
up with the rope round his neck, is not fake. They
actually did string Stan up, in the studio near
Barnet that had been a Drill Hall, and came
precious near to hanging him into the bargain.</p>
<p>But he passed lightly over these and other perils
as he poured it all out to Dorothy at tea. Pounds,
not perils, were the theme of his song.</p>
<p>"I didn't say anything about it for fear it didn't
come off," he said, "but I've been expecting it for
weeks." He swallowed tea and cake at a rate
that must have put his internal economy to as
severe a strain as "Mazeppa" (Historical Film
Series, No. XII) afterwards did his bones and
muscles. "I start on Monday, so breakfast at
eight, sharp, Dot. 'Lola Montez.' They've got
a ripping little girl as Lola; took her out to tea
and shopping the other day; I'll bring her round."
("No you don't—not with me sitting here like a
Jumping Bean," quoth Dorothy). "Oh, that's all
right—she's getting married herself next month—furnishing
her flat now—I helped her to choose
her electric-light fittings—you'd like her....
<i>Ain't</i> it stunning, Dot!——"</p>
<p>It was stunning. Part of the stunningness of
it was that Dorothy, with an abrupt "Excuse me
a moment," was enabled to cross to her desk and
to dash off a note to Harrods. Second-hand woollies
for her Bits! Oh no, not if she knew it!...
"Yes, go on, dear," she resumed, returning to the
tea-table again. "No, I don't wish it was something
else. If we're poor we're poor, and the Services<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span>
are out of the question, and it's just as good
as lots of other jobs.—And oh, that reminds me:
I had Mr. Miller in this afternoon!"...</p>
<p>"And oh!" said Stan ten minutes later; "I
forgot, too! I met a chap, too—forgotten all about
it. That fellow I gave a dressing-down about
India to up at the Pratts' there. He stopped me
in the street, and what do you think? It was
all I could do not to laugh. He asked me whether
I could put him on to a job! Me, who haven't
started myself yet!... I said I could put him
on to a drink if that would do—I had to stand
somebody a drink, just to wet my luck, and I didn't
see another soul—and I fetched it all out of my
pocket in a pub in St. Martin's Lane—," he fetched
it all out of his pocket again now, "—fetched it
out as if it was nothing—you should have seen
him look at it!—Strong his name is—didn't catch
it that day he was burbling such stuff——"</p>
<p>Dorothy's eyes shone. Dear old Stan! That
too pleased her. No doubt the Pratts would be
told that Stan was going about so heavily laden
with money that he had to divide the weight in
order not to walk lopsided——</p>
<p>Worn woollies for His Impudence's Bits!——</p>
<p>Rather not! There would be a parcel round
from Harrods' to-morrow!</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span></p>
<h2>VI</h2>
<h3>POLICY</h3>
<p>Amory would have been far less observant
than she was had it not occurred to her,
as she left Dorothy's flat that day, that she had
been hustled out almost unceremoniously. She
hoped—she sincerely hoped—that she did not see
the reason. To herself, as to any other person
not absolutely case-hardened by prejudice, the
thing that presented itself to her mind would not
have been a reason at all; but these conventional
people were so extraordinary, and in nothing
more extraordinary than in their regulations for
receiving callers of the opposite sex. That was
what she meant by the vulgarizing of words and
the leaping to ready-made conclusions. A conventional
person coming upon herself and Mr.
Strong closeted together would have his stereotyped
explanation; but that was no reason why
anybody clearer-eyed and more open-minded and
generous-hearted should fall into the same degrading
supposition. It would be ridiculous to suppose
that there was "anything" between Dorothy and
Mr. Miller. Amory knew that in the past Dorothy
had had genuine business with Mr. Miller. And<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span>
so now had she herself with Mr. Strong. And as
for Stan's going about in open daylight with a
"dark Spanish type"—a type traditionally wickeder
than any other—Amory thought nothing of that
either. Stan had as much right to go about with
his Spanish female as Cosimo had to take Britomart
Belchamber to a New Greek Society matinée
or to one of Walter's Lectures. Amory would
never have dreamed of putting a false interpretation
on these things.</p>
<p>Nevertheless, her visit <i>had</i> been cut singularly
short, and Dorothy plainly <i>had</i> wanted to be rid
of her. Because hearts are kind eyes need not
necessarily be blind. Amory could not conceal
from herself that in magnanimously passing these
things over as nothing, she was, after all, making
Dorothy a present of a higher standard than she
had any right to. Judged by her own standards
(which was all the judgment she could strictly
have claimed), there was—Amory would not say
a fishiness about the thing—in fact she would not
say anything about it at all. The less said the
better. Pushed to its logically absurd conclusion,
Dorothy's standard meant that whenever people
of both sexes met they should not be fewer than
three in number. In Amory's saner view, on the
other hand, two, or else a crowd, was far more interesting.
Nobody except misanthropists talked
about the repulsion of sex. Very well: if it was
an attraction, it <i>was</i> an attraction. And if it was
an attraction to Amory, it was an attraction to
Dorothy also; if to Cosimo, then to Stan as well.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span>
The only difference was that she and Cosimo openly
admitted it and acted upon it, while Stan and
Dorothy did not admit it, but probably acted
furtively on it just the same.</p>
<p>It was very well worth the trouble of the call
to have her ideas on the subject so satisfactorily
cleared up.</p>
<p>At the end of the path between the ponds she
hesitated for a moment, uncertain whether to keep
to the road or to strike across the sodden Heath.
She decided for the Heath. Mr. Strong had said
that he might possibly come in that afternoon
to discuss the Indian policy, and she did not want
to keep him waiting.</p>
<p>Then once more she remembered her unceremonious
dismissal, and reflected that after all
that had left her with time on her hands. She
would take a turn. It would only bore her to
wait in The Witan alone, or, which was almost
the same thing, with Cosimo. The Witan was
rather jolly when there were crowds and crowds of
people there; otherwise it was dull.</p>
<p>She turned away to the right, passed the cricket-pitch,
found the cycle track, and wandered down
towards the Highgate ponds.</p>
<p>She had reached the model-yacht pond, and was
wondering whether she should extend her walk still
further, when she saw ahead of her, sitting on a
bench beneath an ivied stump, two figures deep in
conversation. She recognized them at a glance.
They were the figures of Cosimo and Britomart Belchamber.
Britomart was looking absently away<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span>
over the pond; Cosimo was whispering in her ear.
Another second or two and Amory would have
walked past them within a yard.</p>
<p>Now Amory and Cosimo had married on certain
express understandings, of which a wise and far-sighted
anticipation of the various courses that
might be taken in the event of their not getting
on very well together had formed the base. Therefore
the little warm flurry she felt suddenly at her
heart could not possibly have been a feeling of
liberation. How could it, when there was nothing
to be liberated from? Just as much liberty as
either might wish had been involved in the contract
itself, and a formal announcement of intention
on either part was to be considered a valid release.</p>
<p>And so, in spite of that curious warm tingle,
Amory was not one atom more free, nor one atom
less free, to develop (did she wish it) a relationship
with anybody else—Edgar Strong or anybody—than
she had been before. She saw this perfectly
clearly. She had talked it all over with Cosimo
scores of times. Why, then, did she tingle? Was
it that they had not talked it over enough?</p>
<p>No. It was because of a certain furtiveness
on Cosimo's part. Evidently he wished to "take
action" (if she might use the expression without
being guilty of a vulgarized meaning) <i>without</i>
having made his formal announcement. That
she had come upon them so far from The Witan
was evidence of this. They had deliberately chosen
a part of the Heath they had thought it unlikely
Amory would visit. They could have done—whatever<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span>
they were doing—under her eyes had
they wished, but they had stolen off together instead.
It was a breach of the understanding.</p>
<p>Before they had seen her, she left the path,
struck across the grass behind them, and turned
her face homewards. She was far, far too proud
to look back. Certainly it was his duty to have
let her know. Never mind. Since he hadn't....</p>
<p>Yet the tingling persisted, coming and going in
quite pleasurable little shocks. Then all at once
she found herself wondering how far Cosimo and
Britomart had gone, or would go. Not that it
was any business of hers. She was not her husband's
keeper. It would be futile to try to keep somebody
who evidently didn't want to be kept. It would
also take away the curious subtle pleasure of that
thrill.</p>
<p>She was not conscious that she quickened the
steps that took her to the studio, where by this time
Edgar Strong probably awaited her.</p>
<p>Most decidedly Cosimo ought to have given her
warning——</p>
<p>As for Britomart Belchamber—sly creature—no
doubt she had persuaded him to slink away like
that——</p>
<p>Well, there would be time enough to deal with her
by and bye——</p>
<p>Amory reached The Witan again.</p>
<p>As she entered the hall a maid was coming out of
the dining-room. Amory called her.</p>
<p>"Has Mr. Strong been in?"</p>
<p>"He's in the studio, m'm," the maid replied.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span></p>
<p>"Are the children with Miss Belchamber?"</p>
<p>"No, m'm. They're with nurse, m'm."</p>
<p>"Is Miss Belchamber in her room?"</p>
<p>"No, m'm. She's gone out."</p>
<p>"How long ago?"</p>
<p>"About an hour, m'm."</p>
<p>"Is Mr. Pratt in?"</p>
<p>"I think so, m'm. I'll go and inquire."</p>
<p>"Never mind. I'm going upstairs."</p>
<p>Ah! Then they had gone out separately, by
pre-arrangement! More slyness! And this was
Cosimo's "pretence" at being Miss Belchamber's
devoted admirer! Of course, if there had been
any pretence at all about it, it would have had to
be that he was not her admirer. Very well; they
would see about that, too, later!——</p>
<p>She went quickly to her own room, changed
her blouse for a tea-gown, and then, with that
tingling at her heart suddenly warm and crisp
again, descended to the studio.</p>
<p>It was high time (she told herself) that the "Novum's"
Indian policy was definitely settled. Mr.
Strong also said so, the moment he had shaken
hands with her and said "Good afternoon." But
Mr. Strong spoke bustlingly, as if the more haste
he made the more quickly the job would be over.</p>
<p>"Now these are the lines we have to choose
from," he said....</p>
<p>And he enumerated a variety of articles they
had in hand, including Mr. Prang's.</p>
<p>"Then there's this," he said....</p>
<p>He told Amory about a crisis in the Bombay<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span>
cotton trade, and of a scare in the papers that
very morning about heavy withdrawals of native
capital from the North Western Banks....</p>
<p>"But I think the best thing of all would be for
me to write an article myself," he said, "and to back
it up with a number of Notes. What I really want
cleared up is our precise objective. I want to
know what that's to be."</p>
<p>"We'll have tea in first, and then we shall be
undisturbed," said Amory.</p>
<p>"Better wait for Cosimo, hadn't we?"</p>
<p>"He's out," said Amory, passing to the bell.</p>
<p>She sat down on the corner of the sofa, and
watched the maid bring in tea. Mr. Strong, who
had placed himself on the footstool and was making
soughing noises by expelling the air from his locked
hands, appeared to be brooding over his forthcoming
number. But that quick little tingle of
half an hour before had had a curious after-affect
on Amory. How it had come about she did not
know, but the fact remained that she was not,
now, so very sure that even the "Novum" was
quite as great a thing as she had supposed it to be.
Or rather, if the "Novum" itself was no less great,
she had, quite newly, if dimly, foreseen herself in a
more majestic rôle than that of a mere technical
<i>directrice</i>.</p>
<p>Politics? Yes, it undoubtedly was the Great
Game. Strong men fancied themselves somewhat
at it, and conceited themselves, after the
fashion of men, that it was they who wrought this
marvel or that. But was it? Had there not been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span>
women so much stronger than they that, doing
apparently nothing, their nothings had been more
potent than all the rest? She began to give her
fancy play. For example, there was that about a
face launching a thousand ships. That was an old
story, of course; if a face could launch a thousand
ships so many centuries ago, there was practically
no limit to its powers with the British Navy at its
present magnificent pitch of numerical efficiency.
But that by the way. It was the idea that had
seized Amory. Say a face—Helen's, she thought
it was—had launched a thousand, or even five
hundred ships; where was the point? Why,
surely that that old Greek Lord High Admiral,
whoever he was—(Amory must look him up;
chapter and verse would be so very silencing if she
ever had occasion to put all this into words)—surely
he had thought, as all men thought, that he was
obeying no behest but his own. The chances were
that he had hardly wasted a thought on Helen's
face as a factor in the launching....</p>
<p>Yet Helen's face had been the real launching
force, or rather the brain behind Helen's face ...
but Amory admitted that she was not quite sure
of her ground there. Perhaps she was mixing
Helen up with somebody else. At any rate, if she
was wrong about Helen she was not wrong about
Catherine of Russia. Nor about Cleopatra. Nor
about the Pompadour. These had all had brains,
far superior to the brains of their men, which they
had used through the medium of their beauty.
She knew this because she had been reading about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span>
them quite recently, and could put her finger on
the very page; she had a wonderful memory for
the places in books in which passages occurred....
So there were Catherine the Second, and Cleopatra,
and the Pompadour, even if she had been wrong
about Helen. That was a curious omission of
Homer's, by the way—or was it Virgil?—the omission
of all reference to the brain behind. Perhaps
it had seemed so obvious that he took it for granted.
But barring that, the notion of a face launching
the ships was very fine. It was the Romantic
Point of View. Hitherto Amory had passed over
the Romantic Point of View rather lightly, but
now she rather thought there was a good deal in
it. At any rate that about the face of a woman
being the real launching-force of a whole lot of
ships—well, it was an exaggeration, of course,
and in a sense only a poetic way of putting it—but
it was quite a ripping idea.</p>
<p>So if a ship could be launched, apparently, not
by a mere material knocking away of the thingummy,
but by the timeless beauty of a face, an
Indian policy ought not to present more difficulties.
At all events it was worth trying. Perhaps "trying"
was not exactly the word. These things happened
or they didn't happen. But anybody not
entirely stupid would know what Amory meant.</p>
<p>The maid lighted the little lamp under the water-vessel
that kept the muffins hot and then withdrew.
Amory turned languidly to Mr. Strong.</p>
<p>"Would you mind pouring out the tea? I'm
so lazy," she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span></p>
<p>She had put her feet up on the sofa, and her
hands were clasped behind her head. The attitude
allowed the wide-sleeved tea-gown into which she
had changed to fall away from her upper arm,
showing her satiny triceps. The studio was warm;
it might be well to open the window a little; and
Amory, from her sofa, gave the order. It seemed
to her that she had not given orders enough from
sofas. She had been doing too much of the work
herself instead of lying at her ease and stilly willing
it to be done. She knew better now. It was
much better to take a leaf out of the book of <i>les
grandes maitresses</i>. She recognized that she ought
to have done that long ago.</p>
<p>So Mr. Strong brought her tea, and then returned
to his footstool again, where he ate enormous
mouthfuls of muffin, spreading anchovy-paste
over them, and drank great gulps of tea. He fairly
made a meal of it. But Amory ate little, and
allowed her tea to get cold. The cast which Stan
had coarsely called "the fore-quarter" had been
hung up on the wall at the sofa's end, and her eyes
were musingly upon it. The trotter lay out of sight
behind her.</p>
<p>"Well, about that thing of Prang's," said Mr.
Strong when he could eat no more. "Hadn't we
better be settling about it?"</p>
<p>"Don't shout across the room," said Amory
languidly, and perhaps a little pettishly. She was
wondering what was the matter with her hand that
Mr. Strong had not kissed it when he had said good
afternoon. He had kissed it on a former occasion.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span></p>
<p>"Head bad?" said Mr. Strong.</p>
<p>"No, my head's all right, but there's no reason
we should edit the 'Novum' from the housetops."</p>
<p>"Was I raising my voice? Sorry."</p>
<p>Mr. Strong rose from his footstool and took up a
station between the tea-table and the asbestos log.</p>
<p>Amory was getting rather tired of hearing about
that thing of Prang's. She did not see why Mr.
Strong should shuffle about it in the way he did.
The article had been twice "modified," that was
to say more or less altered, and Amory could hardly
be expected to go on reading it in its various forms
for ever. What did Mr. Strong want? If he
whittled much more at Mr. Prang's clear statement
of a point of view of which the single virtue was its
admitted extremeness, he would be reducing the
"Novum" to the level of mere Liberalism, and
they had long ago decided that, of the Conservative
who opposed and the Liberal who killed by insidious
kindnesses, the former was to be preferred
as a foe. Besides, there was an alluring glow about
Mr. Prang's way of writing. No doubt that was
part and parcel of the glamour of the East. The
Eastern style, like the Eastern blood, had more
sun in it. Keats had put that awfully well, in
the passage about "parched Abyssinia" and "old
Tartary the Fierce," and so had that modern man,
who had spoken of Asia as lying stretched out "in
indolent magnificence of bloom." Yes, there was
a funny witchery about Asia. In all sorts of ways
they "went it" in Asia. Bacchus had had a spree<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span>
there, and it was there—or was that Egypt?—that
Cleopatra or the Queen of Sheba or somebody had
smuggled her satiny self into a roll of carpets and
had had herself carried as a present to King Solomon
or Mark Antony or whoever it was. It seemed
to be in the Asian atmosphere, and Mr. Prang's prose
style had a smack of it too. Mr. Strong—his literary
style, of course, she meant—might have been all
the better for a touch of that blood-warmth and
thrill....</p>
<p>And there were ripping bits of reckless passion
in Herodotus too.</p>
<p>But Mr. Strong continued to stand between the
tea-table and the asbestos log, and to let fall
irresolute sentences from time to time. Prang,
he said, really was a bit stiff, and he, Mr. Strong,
wasn't sure that he altogether liked certain responsibilities.
Not that he had changed his mind
in the least degree. He only doubted whether
in the long run it would pay the "Novum" itself
to acquire a reputation for exploiting what everybody
else knew as well as they did, but left severely
alone. In fact, he had assumed, when he had
taken the job on, that the work for which he received
only an ordinary working-salary would be conditioned
by what other editors did and received
for doing it.... At that Amory looked
up.</p>
<p>"Oh? But I thought that the truth, regardless
of consequences, was our motto?"</p>
<p>"Of course—without fear or favour in a sense—but
where there are extra risks——"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span></p>
<p>What did this slow-coach of a man mean?——"What
risks?" Amory asked abruptly.</p>
<p>"Well, say risks to Cosimo as proprietor."</p>
<p>"You mean he might lose his money?" she
said, with a glance round the satiny triceps and
the apple-bud of an elbow.</p>
<p>"Well—does he <i>want</i> to lose his money?—What
I mean is, that we aren't paying our way—we've
scarcely any advertisements, you see——"</p>
<p>"I think that what you mean is that we ought
to become Liberals?" There was a little ring
in Amory's voice.</p>
<p>Mr. Strong made no reply.</p>
<p>"Or Fabians, perhaps?"</p>
<p>Still Mr. Strong did not answer.</p>
<p>"Because if you <i>do</i> mean that, I can only say
I'm—disappointed in you!"</p>
<p>Now those who knew Edgar Strong the best
knew how exceedingly sensitive he was to those
very words—"I'm disappointed in you." In his
large and varied experience they were invariably
the prelude to the sack. And he very distinctly
did not want the sack—not, at any rate, until he had
got something better. Perhaps he reasoned within
himself that, of himself and Prang, he would
be the more discreet editor, and so lifted the question
a whole plane morally higher. Perhaps, if
it came to the next worst, he was prepared to accept
the foisting of Prang upon him and to take his
chance. Anyway, his face grew very serious, and
he reached for the footstool, drew it close up to
Amory's couch, and sat down on it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span></p>
<p>"I wonder," he said slowly, looking earnestly
at his folded hands, "whether you'll put the worst
interpretation on what I'm going to say."</p>
<p>Amory waited. She dropped the satiny-white
upper arm. Mr. Strong resumed, more slowly still—</p>
<p>"It's this. We're risking things. Cosimo's risking
his money, but he may be risking more than
that. And if he risks it, so do I."</p>
<p>Into Amory's pretty face had come the look of
the woman who prefers men to take risks rather
than to talk about them.—"What do you risk?"
she asked in tones that once more chilled Mr. Strong.</p>
<p>"Well, for one thing, a prosecution. Prang's
rather a whole-hogger. It's what I said before—we
want to use him, not have him use us."</p>
<p>"Oh?" said Amory with a faint smile. "And
can't you manage Mr. Prang?"</p>
<p>There was no doubt at all in Mr. Strong's mind
what that meant. "Because if you can't," it
plainly meant, "I dare say we can find somebody
who can." Without any qualification whatever,
she really was beginning to be a little disappointed
in him. She wondered how Cleopatra or the Queen
of Sheba would have felt (had such a thing been
conceivable) if, when that carpet had been carried
by the Nubians into her lover's presence and unrolled,
Antony or whatever his name was had
blushed and turned away, too faint-hearted to
take the gift the gods offered him? Risks! Weren't—Indian
policies—worth a little risk?...</p>
<p>Besides, no doubt Cosimo was still with Britomart
Belchamber....<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span></p>
<p>She put her hands behind her head again and
gave a little laugh.</p>
<p>Well, (as Edgar Strong himself might have put
it in the days when his conversation had been
slangier than it was now), it was up to him to make
good pretty quickly or else to say good-bye to the
editorship of a rag that at least did one bit of good
in the world—paid Edgar Strong six pounds a week.
And if it must be done it must, that was all. Damn
it!...</p>
<p>Perhaps the satiny upper arm decided his next
action. Once before he had made its plaster facsimile
serve his turn, and on the whole he would
have preferred to be able to do so again; but even
had that object not been out of reach on the wall
and its original not eighteen inches away at the
sofa's end, three hundred pounds a year in jeopardy
must be made surer than that. He would have
given a month's screw could Cosimo have come in
at that moment. He actually did give a quick glance
in the direction of the door....</p>
<p>But no help came.</p>
<p>Damn it——!</p>
<p>The next moment he had kissed that satiny
surface, and then, gloomily, and as one who shoulders
the consequences of an inevitable act, stalked
away and stood in the favourite attitude of Mr.
Brimby's heroes under great stress of emotion—with
his head deeply bowed and his back to Amory.
There fell between them a silence so profound that
either became conscious at the same moment of
the soft falling of rain on the studio roof.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span></p>
<p>Then, after a full minute and a half, Mr. Strong,
still without turning, walked to the table on which
his hat lay. Always without looking at Amory,
he moved towards the door.</p>
<p>"Good-bye," he said over his shoulder.</p>
<p>There was the note of a knell in his tone. He
meant good-bye for ever. All in a moment Amory
knew that on the morrow Cosimo would receive
Edgar Strong's formal resignation from the "Novum's"
editorial chair, and that, though Edgar
might retain his hold on the paper until his successor
had been found, he would never come to
The Witan any more. He had called Mr. Prang
a whole-hogger, but in Love he himself appeared
to be rather a whole-hogger. He had all but told
her that to see her again would mean ... she
trembled. The alternative was not to see her
again. His whole action had said, more plainly than
any words could say, "After that—all or nothing."</p>
<p>She had not moved. She hardly knew the voice
for her own in which she said, still without turning
her head, "Wait—a minute——"</p>
<p>Mr. Strong waited. The minute for which she
asked passed.</p>
<p>"One moment——," murmured Amory again.</p>
<p>At last Mr. Strong lifted his head.—"There's
nothing to say," he said.</p>
<p>"I'm thinking," Amory replied in a low voice.</p>
<p>"Really nothing."</p>
<p>"Give me just a minute——"</p>
<p>For she was thinking that it was her face, nothing
else, that had launched him thus to the door. For<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span>
a moment she felt compunction for its tyranny.
Poor fellow, what else had he been able to do?...
Yet what, between letting him go and bidding him
stay, was she herself to do? At his touch her
heart had swelled—been constricted—either—both;
even had she not known that she was a pretty
woman, now at any rate she had put it to the
proof; and the chances seemed real enough that
if he turned and looked at her now, he must give
a cry, stride across the studio floor, and take her
in his arms. Dared she provoke him?...</p>
<p>The moment she asked herself whether she
dared she did dare. Not to have dared would to
have been to be inferior to those great and splendid
and reckless ones who had turned their eyes on
their lovers and had whispered, "Antony—Louis—I
am here!" If she courted less danger than
she knew, her daring remained the same. And
the room itself backed her up. So many doctrines
were enunciated in that studio, the burden of one
and all of which was "Why not?" The atmosphere
was charged with permissions ... perhaps
for him too. He was at the door now. It
was only the turning of a key....</p>
<p>Amory's low-thrilled voice called his name across
the studio.</p>
<p>"Edgar——"</p>
<p>But he had thought no less quickly than she.
He had turned. Shrewdly he guessed that she
meant nothing; so much the better—damn it!
There was something female about Edgar Strong;
he knew more about some things than a young<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span>
man ought to know; and in an instant he had
found the "line" he meant to take. It was the
"line" of honour rooted in dishonour—the "line"
of Cosimo his friend—the "line" of black treachery
to the hand that fed him with muffins and anchovy
paste—or, failing these, the all-or-nothing "line."...
But on the whole he would a little rather go
straight than not....</p>
<p>Nor did he hesitate. Amory had turned on the
sofa. "Edgar!" she had called softly again.
He swung round. The savagery of his reply—there
seemed to Amory to be no other word to describe
it—almost frightened her.</p>
<p>"Do you know what you're doing?" he broke
out. "Haven't you done enough already? What
do you suppose I'm made of?"</p>
<p>The moment he had said it he saw that he had
made no mistake. It would not be necessary to
go the length of turning the key. He glared at
her for a moment; then he spoke again, less
savagely, but no less curtly.</p>
<p>"You called me back to say something," he
said. "What is it?"</p>
<p>Instinctively Amory had covered her face with
her hands. It was fearfully sweet and dangerous.
Flattery could hardly have gone further than that
tortured cry, "What do you think I'm made of?"
Her heart was thumping—thump, thump, thump,
thump. A lesser woman would have taken refuge
in evasions, but not she—not she, with Cosimo
carrying on with Britomart, and Dorothy Tasker
no doubt whispering to her Otis or Wilbur or whatever<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span>
her American's name might be, and Stan
perhaps deep in an intrigue with his Spanish female
at that very moment. No, she had provoked him,
and he had now every right to cry, not "Have
you read '<i>The Tragic Comedians</i>'?" but "Do
you know what you're doing?"... And he
was speaking again now.</p>
<p>"Because," he was saying quietly, "if <i>that's</i>
it ... I must know. I must have a little time.
There will be things to settle. I don't quite know
how it happened; I suddenly saw you—and did
it. Anyway, it's done—or begun.... But I won't
stab Cosimo in the back.... It will have to be
the Continent, I suppose. Paris. There's a little
hotel I know in the Boulevard Montparnasse. It's
not very luxurious, but it's cheap and fairly clean.
Seven francs a day, but it would come rather less
for the two of us. And you wouldn't have to spend
much on dress in the Quartier. Or there's Montmartre.
Or some of those out-of-the-way seaside
places. I should like to take you to the sea first,
and then to a town——"</p>
<p>He stopped, and began to walk up and down
the studio.</p>
<p>Amory was suddenly pale. She had not thought
of this. She had thought that perhaps Mr. Strong
might give a cry, rush across the studio, and take
her in his arms; but of this cold and almost passionless
prevision of details she had not dreamed. And
yet that was magnificent too. Edgar wasted no
time in dalliance when there was planning to be
done. There would be time enough for softer<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span>
delights when the whole of the Latin Quarter lay
spread out before them in indolent magnificence
of bloom. He was terrifying and superb. Such
a man not manage Mr. Prang! Why, here he was,
ready to bear her off that very night at a word!</p>
<p>Paris—Montmartre—the Quartier!</p>
<p>It was Romance with a vengeance!</p>
<p>Then at a thought she grew paler still. The
children! What about Corin and Bonniebell? It
didn't matter so much about Cosimo; it would
serve him right; but what about the twins? Were
they also to be included in the seven francs a day?
And wouldn't it matter how they dressed either
in the Quarter? Or did Edgar propose that they
should be left behind in Cosimo's keeping, with
Britomart Belchamber for a stepmother?</p>
<p>Edgar had reached the door again now. He was
not hurrying her, but there was a look on his face
that seemed to say that all she needed was a hat
and a rug for the steamer.</p>
<p>Such a very different thing from a carpet to
roll round her——</p>
<p>She had risen unsteadily from the sofa. She
crossed the floor and stood before Edgar, looking
earnestly up into his blue eyes. She moistened
her lips.</p>
<p>"What's happened——" she began in a
whisper....</p>
<p>He interrupted her only to make the slightest
of forbidding gestures with his hand; her own
hands had moved, as if she would have put them
on his shoulders. And she saw that he was quite<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span>
right. At the touch of her his control would certainly
have broken down. She went on, appealingly
and almost voicelessly.</p>
<p>"What's happened—had to happen, hadn't
it?" she whispered. "<i>You</i> felt it sweeping us
away too—didn't you?... But need we say
any more about it to-night?... I want to think,
Edgar. We must both think. There's—there's
a lot to think about—and talk over. We mustn't
be too rash. It <i>would</i> be rash, wouldn't it? Look
at me, Edgar——"</p>
<p>"Oh—I must go——," he said with an impatience
that he had not to assume.</p>
<p>"But look at me," she begged. "I shan't sleep
a wink to-night. I shall think about it all night.
It will be lovely—but torturing—dear!—But you'll
sleep, I expect...." She pouted this last.</p>
<p>"I'm going away," he announced abruptly.</p>
<p>"Oh!" she cried, startled.... "But you'll
come in to-morrow?"</p>
<p>"I shall go away for a few days. Perhaps longer."</p>
<p>"But—but—we haven't settled about the
paper!——"</p>
<p>He was grim.—"You don't suppose I can think
about the paper <i>now</i>, do you?"</p>
<p>"No, no—of course not—but it <i>must</i> be done
to-day, Edgar! Or to-morrow at the very latest!...
Can't we <i>try</i> to put this on one side, just for
an hour?"</p>
<p>He shook his head before the impossibility....</p>
<p>And that was how it came about that the Indian
policy of the "Novum" was left in the hands of
Mr. Suwarree Prang.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span></p>
<h2>Part II</h2>
<h2>I</h2>
<h3>THE PIGEON PAIR</h3>
<p>Amory had been at a great deal of trouble
to gather all the opinions she could get
about the education of her twins, Corin and Bonniebell;
but it was not true, as an unkind visitor
who had been once only to The Witan had said,
that they were everybody's children. Just because
Amory had taken Katie Deedes' advice and had
had their hair chopped off short at the nape like
a Boutet de Monvel drawing—and had not disdained
to accept the spelling-books which Dickie Lemesurier
had given them (books in which the difficult
abstraction of the letter "A" was visualized for
their young eyes as "Little Brown Brother,"
"B" as "Tabby Cat," and so on)—and had listened
to Mr. Brimby when he had said what a good
thing it would be to devote an hour on Friday
afternoons to the study of Altruism and Camaraderie—and,
in a word, had not been too proud
and egotistical to make use of a good suggestion
wherever she found it—because she had done these
things, it did not at all follow that she had shirked<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span>
her duties. If she did not influence them directly,
having other things to do, she influenced those
who did influence them, which came to the same
thing. She influenced the Wyrons, for example,
and nobody could say that the Wyrons had not
made a particularly careful study of children.
They had, and Walter had founded at least two
Lectures directly on the twins and their education.</p>
<p>But the Wyrons, who had submitted to the
indignity of marriage for the sake of the race,
laboured and lectured under an obvious disadvantage;
they had no children of their own. And
so Amory had to fill up the gaps in their experience
for herself. Still, it was wonderful how frequently
the Wyrons' excogitations and the things Amory
had found out for herself coincided. They were
in absolute accord, for example, about the promise
of the immediate future and the hope that lay
in the generation to come. The Past was dead
and damned; the Present at best was an ignoble
compromise; but the Morrow was to be bright
and shining.</p>
<p>"Walter and I," Laura sometimes said sadly,
"aren't anything to brag about. There is much
of the base in us. Our lives aren't what they
should be. We're in the grip of inherited instincts
too. We strive for the best, but the worst's sometimes
too much for us. It's like Moses seeing
the Promised Land from afar. We're just in the
position of Moses. But these young Aarons——"</p>
<p>Amory thought that very modest and dignified
of poor old Laura. She frequently thought of her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span>
as 'poor old Laura,' but of course she didn't mean
her actual age, which was only two years more than
Amory's own. And that was very good, if a little
sad, about Moses. The Wyrons did look forth
over a Canaan they weren't very likely ever to
tread.</p>
<p>Lately—that is to say since that secret and
tremendous moment between herself and Edgar
Strong in the studio—Amory had fallen into the
habit of musing long over the sight of the twins at
lessons, at play, or at that more enlightened combination
that makes lessons play and play lessons.
Sometimes Mr. Brimby, the novelist, had come up
to her as she had mused and had asked her what
she was thinking about.</p>
<p>"Your little Pigeon Pair, eh?" he had said.
"Ah, the sweetness; ah, lucky mother! Grey
books have to be the children of some of us; ah,
me; yours is a pleasanter path!"</p>
<p>Then he would fondle the little round topiary
trees of their heads. Amory was almost as sorry
for Mr. Brimby as she was for Laura. His books
sold only moderately well, and she had more than
once thought she would like the "Novum" to
serialize one of them—the one with the little boy
rather like Corin and the little girl rather like
Bonniebell in it—if Mr. Brimby didn't want too
much money for it.</p>
<p>Edgar Strong, on the other hand, never fondled
the children, and Amory's heart told her why. How
could he be expected to do anything but hate those
poor innocents who had come between him and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span>
his desire? He must have realized that only the
twins had frustrated that flight to Paris. Of course
he was polite about it; he said that he was not
very fond of children at all; but Amory was not
deceived. She was, in a way, flattered that he
did not fondle them. It was such an eloquent
abstention. But it would have been more eloquent
still had he come to The Witan and not-fondled
them oftener.</p>
<p>Therefore it was that Amory looked on Corin
and Bonniebell as the precious repositories of her
own relinquished joys, and heirs to a happier life
than she herself had known. She dreamed over
them and their future. Laura Wyron was quite
right: by the time they had grown up the fogs of
cowardice and prejudice and self-seeking would
have disappeared for ever. Perhaps even by that
time, as in Heaven, there would be no more marrying
nor giving in marriage. Things would have adjusted
themselves out of the rarer and sweeter and more
liberal atmosphere. Corin, grown to be twenty,
would one day meet with some mite who was
still in her cradle or not yet born, and the two
would look at one another with amazement and
delight, and the Ideal Love would be born in their
eyes, and Corin would recite a few of those brave
and pure and unashamed things out of "Leaves
of Grass" to her, and—well, and there they would
be.... And Bonniebell, too, would do the
same, on a Spring morning very likely, simply clad,
cool and without immodest blushes—yes, she too
would see somebody, and she would say, gladly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span>
and simply, "I am here" (for there would be no
reason, then, why she should wait for the youth
to speak first), and—well, and there they would
be too. And it would be Exogamy, or whatever
the word was that Walter used. Either
would go forth from the family on the appointed
day—or perhaps only Corin would go, and Bonniebell
remain behind—but anyway, one, if not both
of them would go forth, and rove the morning-flushed
hills, alone and free and singing and on the
look-out for somebody, and they would look just
like pictures of young Greeks, and nobody would
laugh, as they did at the poor lady who walked in
Greek robes down the Strand....</p>
<p>And Amory herself? Alas! She would be
left with the tribe. She would be old then—say
fifty-something on the eleventh of October.
And Edgar would be old too. They would have
to recognize that <i>their</i> youth had been spent in
the night-time of ignorance and suspicion. <i>They</i>
would only be able to think of those spirited young
things quoting "Leaves of Grass" to one another
and wondering what had happened to them....</p>
<p>No wonder Amory was sometimes pensive....</p>
<p>Mr. Wilkinson, the Labour Member, had been to
all intents and purposes asked not to fondle the
twins. He was a tall spare man with a great
bush of pepper-and-salt hair, a Yorkshire accent,
and an eye that hardly rested on any single object
long enough to get more than a fleeting visual
impression of it. He wrote on the first and third
weeks of the month the "Novum's" column of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span>
"Military Notes," and on the alternate weeks
filled the same column with officially inspired
"Trade Union Echoes." Between these two activities
of Mr. Wilkinson's there was a connexion.
He, in common with everybody else at The Witan,
was loud in decrying the jobberies and vested
interests of Departments, with the War Office
placed foremost in the shock of his wrath. But
the Trade Unions were another matter, and never
a billet-creating measure came before Parliament
but he strove vehemently to have its wheels cogged
in with those of the existing Trade Union machine.
That is to say, that while in theory he was for
democratic competitive examination, in practice
he found something to be said for jobbery, could
the fitting Trade Unionist but be found. He
was, moreover, a firebrand by temperament, and
this is where the connexion between the "Military
Matters" and the "Echoes" appears. Trade
Unionists he declared, ought to learn to shoot.
The other side, with their cant about "Law and
Order," never hesitated to call out the regular
troops; therefore, until the Army itself should
have been won over by means of the leaflets
that were disseminated for the purpose, they ought
in the event of a strike to be prepared to throw
up barricades, to shoot from cellar-windows, and
to throw down chimney-stacks from the housetops.
Capitalist-employed troops would not destroy
more property than they need; in a crooked-streeted
town the advantage of long-range fire would be
gone; and Mr. Wilkinson was prepared to demonstrate<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span>
that a town defended on his lines could hold
out, in the event of Industrial War pushed to an
extreme, until it was starved into surrender.—These
arguments, by the way, had impressed Mr.
Prang profoundly.</p>
<p>Now (to come back to the twins) on Corin's
fourth birthday Mr. Wilkinson, moved by these
considerations, had given him a wooden gun, and
in doing so had committed a double error in
Amory's eyes. His first mistake had been to
suppose that even if, under the present lamentable
(but nevertheless existing) conditions of militarism,
Corin should ever become a soldier at all, he would
be the uncommissioned bearer of a gun and not
the commissioned bearer of a sword. And his
second mistake had been like unto it, namely,
to think that, in the case of a proletariat uprising
say in Cardiff or York, Corin would not similarly
have held some post of weight and responsibility
on the other side. Corin shoot up through the
street-trap of a coal-hole or pot somebody from
behind a chimney-stack!... But Amory admitted
that it must be difficult for Mr. Wilkinson
to shake off the effects of his upbringing. That
upbringing had been very different from, say,
Mr. Brimby's. Mr. Brimby had been at Oxford,
and in nobly stooping to help the oppressed brought
as it were a fragrant whiff of graciousness and
culture with him. Mr. Wilkinson was a nobody.
He came from the stratum of need, and, when it
came to fondling the twins, must not think himself
a Brimby.... Therefore, Amory had had to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span>
ask him to take the gun back (a deprivation
which had provoked a mighty outcry from Corin),
and to give him, if he must give him something, a
Nature book instead.</p>
<p>Katie Deedes and Dickie Lemesurier were both
permitted to fondle the twins, though in somewhat
different measure. This difference of measure did
not mean that either Katie or Dickie suffered from
a chronic cold that the twins might have contracted.
Here again the case was almost as complicated as
the case of Mr. Wilkinson. Cases had a way of
being complicated at The Witan. It was this:—</p>
<p>Both of these ladies, as Amory had assured Mr.
Brimby, were "quite all right." She meant socially.
No such difference was to be found between them
in this respect as that which yawned between
Mr. Brimby and Mr. Wilkinson. Indeed as far as
Dickie was concerned, Amory had given a little
apologetic laugh at the idea of her having to place
and appraise a Lemesurier of Bath at all. The
two girls had equally to work for their living, and—but
perhaps it was here that the difference came
in. There are jobs and jobs. It was a question
of tone. Dickie, running the Suffrage Book Shop,
enjoyed something of the glamour of Letters;
but Katie, as manageress of the Eden Restaurant,
was, after all, only a caterer. It was not Amory's
fault that Romance had pronounced arbitrarily
and a little harshly on the relative dignity of these
occupations. She could not help it that books are
books and superior, while baked beans are only
baked beans, necessary, but not to be talked<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span>
about. If Dickie had, by her calling, a shade more
consideration than was strictly her due, while
Katie, by hers, was slightly shorn of something
to which she would otherwise have been entitled,
well, it was not Amory who had arranged it so.</p>
<p>But between books and baked beans the twins
did not hesitate for an instant. They saw from
no point of view but their unromantic own.</p>
<p>Dickie, overhauling the remainder stock at the
Suffrage Shop, was able to bring them a book from
time to time; but Katie, whose days were spent
in a really interesting place full of things to eat,
brought them sweetened Proteids, and cold roasted
chestnuts, and sugared Filbertine, and sometimes
a pot of the Eden Non-Neuritic Honey for tea.
And because the flesh was stronger in them than
Amory thought it ought to be (at any rate until
the day should come when they must leave the tribe
with a copy of "Leaves of Grass" in their hands),
they adored Katie and thought very much less of
Dickie.</p>
<p>Now this belly-guided preference was a thing
to be checked in them; and one day Amory had
asked Katie (quite nicely and gently) whether
she would mind <i>not</i> bringing the children things
that spoiled their appetites, not to speak of their
tempers when they clamoured for these comestibles
at times when they were not to be had. Then, one
afternoon in the nursery, Amory actually had to
repeat her request. Half an hour later, when the
children had been brought down into the studio
for their after-tea hour, she learned that Katie<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span>
had left the house. It was Corin himself who
informed her of this.</p>
<p>"Auntie Katie was crying," he said. "About
the vertisements," he added.</p>
<p>"<i>Ad</i>-vertisements, dear," Amory corrected him.
"Say <i>ad</i>-vertisements, not vertisements."</p>
<p>"<i>Ad</i>-vertisements," said Corin sulkily. "But—"
and he cheered up again, "—she <i>was</i>, mother."</p>
<p>"Nonsense," said Amory. "And you're not to
say 'Auntie' to Katie. It isn't true. Your Auntie
is your father's or your mother's sister, and we
haven't any.... And now you've played enough.
Say good-night, both of you, and take Auntie
Dickie's book, and ask Miss Belchamber to read
you the story of the Robin and her Darling Eggs,
and then you must have your baths and go to bed."</p>
<p>"I want the tale about Robin Hood, that Mr.
Strong once told me," Corin demurred.</p>
<p>"No, you must have the one about the dear
Dickie Bird, who had a wing shot off by a cruel
man one day, and had to hide her head under the
other one, so that when her Darling Eggs were
hatched out the poor little birds were all born with
crooked necks—you remember what I told you
about the fortress in a horrible War, when the poor
mothers were all so frightened that all the little
boys and girls were born lame—it's the same thing—"</p>
<p>"Were there guns, that went bang?" Corin
demanded. He had forgotten that the story
contained this really interesting detail.</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>"Great big ones?" Corin's eyes were wide open.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span></p>
<p>"Very big. It was very cruel and anti-social."</p>
<p>But Corin's momentary interest waned again.—"I
want Robin Hood," he said sullenly.</p>
<p>"Now you're being naughty, and I shall have
to send you to bed without any nice reading at all."</p>
<p>"I want Robin Hood." The tone was ominous....</p>
<p>"And I want some chestnuts," Bonniebell chimed
in, her face also puckering....</p>
<p>And so Amory, who had threatened to send
them bookless to bed, must keep her word. It is
very wrong to tell falsehoods to children. She
dismissed them, and they went draggingly out,
their Boutet de Monvel hair and fringed <i>éponge</i>
costumes giving them the appearance of two luckless
pawns that had been pushed off the board in
some game of chess they did not understand.</p>
<p>Amory thought it very foolish of Katie to take
on in this way. She might have known that her
advertisements had not been refused without good
reason. Amory had fully intended to explain all
about it to Katie, but she really had had so many
things to do. Nor ought it to have needed explaining.
Surely Katie could have seen for herself that
Dickie's Bookshop List, with its names of Finot
and Forel and Mill and the rest, was a distinction
and an embellishment to the paper, while her
own Filbertines and Protolaxatives were a positive
disfigurement. The proper place for these was,
not in the columns of the "Novum," but in the
"Please take One" box at the Eden's door....
But if Katie intended to sulk and cry about it,
well, so much the worse.... (To jump forward<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span>
a little: Katie did elect to sulk. Or rather, she
did worse. She was so ill-advised as to go behind
Amory's back and to speak to Cosimo himself
about the advertisements. With that Katie's
goose—or perhaps one should say her Anserine—was
cooked. Amory did not allow that kind of
thing. She certainly did not intend to explain
anything after that. It was plain as a pikestaff that
Katie was jealous of Dickie. Amory was bitterly
disappointed in Katie. Of course she would not
forbid her the house; she was still free to come
to The Witan whenever she liked; but—somehow
Katie only came once more. She found herself
treated so very, very kindly.... So she gulped
down a sob, fondled the twins once more, and left).</p>
<p>Miss Britomart Belchamber saw enough of the
twins not to wish to fondle them very much. Amory
was not yet absolutely sure that she fondled Cosimo
instead, but she was welcome to do so if she
could find any satisfaction in it. Cosimo fondled
the twins to a foolish extreme. Mr. Prang could
never get near enough to them to fondle them.
Both Corin and Bonniebell displayed a most powerful
interest in Mr. Prang, and would have stood
stock-still gazing at him for an hour had they been
permitted; but the moment he approached them
they fled bellowing.</p>
<p>And in addition to these various fondlings there
were casual fondlings from time to time whenever
the more favoured of the "Novum's" contributors
were asked to tea.</p>
<p>But the Wyrons remained, so to speak, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span>
<i>ex-officio</i> fondlers, and perhaps childless Laura
felt a real need to fondle at her heart. It was she
who first asked Amory whether she hadn't noticed
that, while Mr. Brimby and Dickie frequently
fondled the twins separately, more frequently
still they did so together.</p>
<p>"No!" Amory exclaimed. "I hadn't noticed!"</p>
<p>"Walter thinks they would be a perfect pair,"
Laura mused....</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span></p>
<h2>II</h2>
<h3>THE 'VERT</h3>
<p>Stan saw very little in the scheme that Dorothy
darkly meditated against her aunt. He seldom
saw much in Dorothy's schemes. Perhaps she did
not make quite enough fuss about them, but went
on so quietly maturing them that her income
seemed to be merely something that happened in
some not fully explained but quite natural order
of events. Stan thought it rather a lucky chance
that the money usually had come in when it was
wanted, that was all.</p>
<p>But of his own job he had quite a different conception.
<i>That</i> took thought. This appeared plainly
now that he was able to dismiss his own past failures
with a light and almost derisive laugh.</p>
<p>"I don't know whatever made me think there
was anything in them," he said complacently one
night within about ten days of Christmas. He
had put on his slippers and his pipe, and was drowsily
stretching himself after a particularly hard "comic
film" day, in the course of which he had been required
to fall through a number of ceilings, bringing the
furniture with him in his downward flight. He
had come home, had had a shampoo and a hot<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span>
bath, and the last traces of the bags of flour and
the sacks of soot had disappeared. "I don't think
now they'd ever have come to very much."</p>
<p>"Hush a moment," said Dorothy, listening, her
needle arrested half-way through the heel of one
of his socks.... "All right. I thought I heard
him—Yes?"</p>
<p>She could face young girls now. The third Bit
had turned out to be yet another boy.</p>
<p>"I mean," Stan burbled comfortably, "there
wouldn't have been the money in them I thought
there would. Now take those salmon-flies, Dot.
Of course I can tie 'em in a way. But what I
mean is, it's a limited market. Not like the
boot-trade, I mean, or soap, or films. Everybody
wears boots and sees films. There's more
scope, more demand. But everybody doesn't
carry a salmon-rod. Comparatively few people do.
And the same with big-game shooting. Or deerstalking.
Everybody can't afford 'em."</p>
<p>"No, dear," said Dorothy, her eyes downcast.</p>
<p>"Then there was Fortune and Brooks," Stan
continued with a great air of discovery. "<i>I</i>
see their game now. You see it too, don't you?—They
just wanted orders. New accounts. That's
what they wanted. If I could have put 'em on to
a chap who'd have spent say five hundred a year
on Chutney and things—well, what I mean is,
where would they be without customers like that?"</p>
<p>"Nowhere, dear," said the dutiful Dorothy.</p>
<p>"Exactly. Nowhere. That's what I was leading up to.
They wouldn't be anywhere. They<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span>
just wanted to be put on to these things. And it's
just struck me how <i>I</i> should have looked, going
out to dinner somewhere, strange house very likely,
and I'd said to somebody I'd perhaps met for
the first time, 'Don't think much of these salted
almonds; our hostess ought to try the F. and B.
Brand, a Hundred Gold Medals, and see that the
blessed coupon isn't broken.'—Eh? See what I
mean?"</p>
<p>"I was never very keen on the idea," Dorothy
admitted gravely.</p>
<p>"No, and I'm blessed if I see why I was, now,"
Stan conceded cheerfully....</p>
<p>She loved this change in him which a real job
with real money had brought about. Poor old
darling, she thought, it must have been pretty
rotten for him before, borrowing half-crowns from
her in the morning, which he would spend with an
affected indifference on drinks and cab fares in the
evening. And he <i>should</i> speak with a new authority
if he wished. Not for worlds would she have smiled
at His Impudence's new air of being master in his
own house. He <i>should</i> be a Sultan if he liked—provided
he didn't want more than one wife.</p>
<p>Moreover, his bringing in of money had been a
relief so great that even yet she had hardly got
out of the habit of reckoning on her own earnings
only. It had taken her weeks to realize that now
the twopences came in just a little more quickly
than they went out, and that she could actually
afford herself the luxury of keeping Mr. Miller
waiting for his Idea, or even of not giving it to him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span>
at all. She really had no Idea to give him. She
was entirely wrapped up now in her plot against
Lady Tasker.</p>
<p>That plot, summarized from several conversations
with Stan, was as follows:—</p>
<p>"You see, there's the Brear, with all that land,
Aunt Grace's very own. The Cromwell Gardens
lease is up in June, and it's all very well for auntie
to say she doesn't hate London, but she does.
She spends half a rent, with one and another of
them, in travelling backwards and forwards, and
she's getting old, too.—Then there's us. We
can't go on living here, and the Tonys will be home
just as Tim's leave's up, and they're sure to leave
their Bits behind. Very well. Now the Tims and
the Tonys can't afford to pay much, but they can
afford something, and I think they ought to pay.
They're sure to want those boys to go into the
Army, and they'd <i>have</i> to pay for that anyway.—So
there ought to be a properly-managed Hostel
sort of place, paying its way, and a fund accumulating,
and Aunt Gracie at the head of it, poor old
dear, but somebody to do the work for her.—I don't
see why we shouldn't clear out that old billiard-table
that nobody ever uses, and throw that and the
gun-room into one, and make that the schoolroom,
and have a proper person down—a sort of private
preparatory school for Sandhurst and Woolwich, and
the money put by to help with the fees afterwards.
It would be much easier if we all clubbed together.
And I should jolly well make Aunt Eliza give us
at least a thousand pounds—selfish old thing."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span></p>
<p>"Frightful rows there'd be," Stan usually commented,
thinking less of Dorothy's plan than of
his own last trick-tumble. "Like putting brothers
into the same regiment; always a mistake. And
we're all rather good at rows you know."</p>
<p>"Well, they're our <i>own</i> rows anyway. We
keep 'em to ourselves. And we <i>do</i> all mean pretty
much the same thing when all's said. I'm going
to work it all out anyway, and then tackle Aunt
Grace.... <i>I</i> shall manage it, of course."</p>
<p>She did not add that her Lennards and Taskers
and Woodgates would sink their private squabbles
precisely in proportion as the outside attacks on
their common belief rendered a closing-up of the
ranks necessary. But she <i>had</i> been to The Witan
and had kept her eyes open there, and knew that
there were plenty of other Witans about. If
stupid Parliament, with its votes and what not,
couldn't think of anything to do about it, that
was no reason why she should not do something,
and make stingy old Aunt Eliza pay for the training
of her Bits into the bargain.</p>
<p>She had not seen Amory since that day when the
episode of the winter woollies had made her angry,
for, though Amory had called once at the Nursing
Home soon after the birth of the third Bit, Dorothy
had really not felt equal to the hair-raising tale
of the twins all over again, and had sent a message
down to her by the nurse. There was this difference
between this tragic recital of Amory's and the
fervour with which Ruth Mossop always hugged to
her breast the thought of the worst that could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span>
happen—that Ruth <i>had</i> known brutality, and
so might be forgiven for getting "a little of her
own back"; but Amory had known one hardish
twelvemonths perhaps, a good many years ago
and when she had been quite able to bear it, and
had since magnified that period of discomfort by
a good many diameters. Amory, Dorothy considered,
didn't really know she was born. She
was unfeignedly sorry for that. Whatever measure
of contempt was in her she kept for Cosimo.</p>
<p>For she considered that Cosimo was at the bottom
of all the trouble. If Stan, at his most impecunious
and happy-go-lucky, could still stalk about the
house saying "Dot, I won't have this," or "Look
here, Dorothy, that has got to stop," it seemed
to her that Cosimo, with never a care on his mind
that was not his own manufacture, might several
times have prevented Amory from making rather
a fool of herself. But it seemed to Dorothy that
kind of man was springing up all over the place
nowadays. Mr. Brimby was another of them.
Dorothy had read one of Mr. Brimby's books—"<i>The
Source</i>," and hadn't liked it. She had
thought it terribly dismal. In it a pretty and
rich young widow, who might almost have been
Amory herself, went slumming, and spent a lot of
money in starting a sort of Model Pawn Shop, and
by and by there came a mysterious falling-off
in her income, and she went to see her lawyer about
it, and learned, of course, that her source of income
was that very slum in which she had stooped to
labour so angelically.... Dorothy didn't know<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span>
very much about pawnshops, but then she didn't
believe that Mr. Brimby did either; and if her
interest in them ever should become really keen,
she didn't think she should go to Oxford for information
about them. And Mr. Brimby himself
seemed to feel this "crab," as Stan would have
called it, for after "<i>The Source</i>" he had written
a Preface for a book by a real and genuine tramp....
And it had been Amory who had recommended
"<i>The Source</i>" to Dorothy. She had said that
it just showed, that with vision and thought and
heart and no previous experience ("no prejudice"
had been her exact words), there need be none of
these dreadful grimy establishments, with their
horrible underbred assistants who refused a poor
woman half a crown on her mattress and made a
joke about it, but airy and hygienic rooms instead,
with rounded corners so that the dust could be
swept away in two minutes (leaving a balance
of at least twenty-eight minutes in which the
sweeper might improve himself), and really courtly-mannered
attendants, full of half crowns and
pity and Oxford voice, who would give everybody
twice as much as they asked for and a tear into the
bargain.</p>
<p>And Amory knew just as much about real pawnshops
as did Dorothy and Mr. Brimby.</p>
<p>For the life of her Dorothy could not make out
what all these people were up to.</p>
<p>And—though this was better now that Stan was
earning—the thought of the money that was being
squandered at The Witan had sometimes made<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span>
her ready to cry. For at the Nursing Home she
had had one other visitor, and this visitor had
opened her eyes to the appalling rate at which
Cosimo's inheritance must be going. This visitor
had been Katie Deedes. Katie too, was an old
fellow-student of Dorothy's; it had not taken
Dorothy long to see that Katie was full of a grievance;
and then it had all come out. There had been some
sort of a row. It had been simply and solely because
Katie ran a Food Shop. Amory thought that
<i>infra dig</i>. And just because Katie had given
the children a few chestnuts Amory had practically
said so.</p>
<p>"<i>I</i> shan't go there again," Katie had said, trying
on Dorothy's account to keep down her tears.
"<i>I</i> didn't marry a man with lots of money, and
turn him round my finger, and make him write
my <i>Life and Works</i>, and then snub my old
friends! And none of the people who go there
are really what she thinks they are. <i>She</i>
thinks they go to see <i>her</i>, but Mr. Brimby only
goes because Dickie does, and because he wants
to sell the 'Novum' something or other, and
Mr. Strong of course has to go, and Mr. Wilkinson
goes because he wants Cosimo to stop the 'Novum'
and start something else with him as editor, and Laura
goes because they get things printed about Walter's
Lectures, and I don't know what those Indians are
doing there at all, and anyway <i>I've</i> been for the
last time! I'm just as good as she is, and I should
like to come and see you instead, Dorothy, and of
course I won't bring your babies chestnuts if you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span>
don't want.... But I'm frightfully selfish;
I'm tiring you out.... May an A B C girl come
to see you?"</p>
<p>And Katie had since been. There is no social
reason why the manager of a Vegetarian Restaurant
may not visit the house of a film acrobat.</p>
<p>As it happened, Katie came in that very night
when the weary breadwinner was painstakingly
explaining to his thoughtful spouse his reasons for
doubting whether he would ever have got very rich
had he remained one of Fortune and Brooks' well-dressed
drummers. Katie had a round face and
puzzled but affectionate eyes, and Stan was just
beginning to school his own eyes not to rest with
too open an interest on her Greenaway frocks and
pancake hats. Katie for her part was intensely
self-conscious in Stan's presence. She felt that
when he wasn't looking at her clothes he was,
expressly, <i>not</i>-looking at them, and that was
worse.... But she couldn't have worn a hobble
skirt and an aigrette at the "Eden."... Stan
had told Dorothy that when he knew Katie better
he intended to get out of her the remaining gruesome
and Blue-Beard's-Chamber details which
the hoof and the forequarter seemed to him to
promise.</p>
<p>"Poor little darlings!" Dorothy exclaimed
compassionately by and by—Katie had been
relating some anecdote in which Corin and Bonniebell
had played a part. "I <i>do</i> think it's wrong
to dress children ridiculously! The other day <i>I</i>
saw a little girl—she must have been quite six or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span>
seven—and <i>she'd</i> knickers like a little boy, and
long golden hair all down her back! What <i>is</i>
the good of pretending that girls are boys?"</p>
<p>"Awful rot," Stan remarked with a mighty
stretch. "I say, I'm off to bed; I shall be yawning
in Miss Deedes' face if I don't. Is there any arnica
in the house, Dot?... Good night——"</p>
<p>"Good night," said Katie; and as the door
closed behind the master of the house she settled
more comfortably in her chair. "Now that he's
stopped not-looking at me we can have a good talk,"
her gesture seemed to say; "how <i>does</i> he expect
I can get any other clothes till I've saved the
money?"...</p>
<p>They did talk. They talked of the old days at
the McGrath, and who'd married who, and who
hadn't married who after all, and, in this connection,
of Laura Beamish and Walter Wyron, whom they
had both known.... And it just showed how
little glory and fame were really worth in the world.
For Dorothy, who had been living in London all
this time, had not heard as much as a whisper of
that memorable revolt of the Wyrons against the
Marriage Service, and, though she did know vaguely
that Walter lectured, had not the ghost of an idea
of what his lectures were about. She had been too
busy minding her own petty and private and selfish
affairs. Katie couldn't believe it. She thought
Dorothy was joking.</p>
<p>"You've never heard of Walter's Lecture on
'<i>Heads or Tails in the Trying Time</i>,' nor his
'<i>Address on the Chromosome</i>'?" she gasped....<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span></p>
<p>"No; do tell me. What is a Chromosome?"</p>
<p>"A Chromosome? Why, it's a—it's a—well,
you know when you've a cell—or a nucleus—or a
gland or something—but it isn't a gland—it's the—but
you <i>do</i> astonish me, Dorothy!"</p>
<p>"But surely you're joking about Walter and
Laura?" Dorothy exclaimed in her turn.</p>
<p>"Indeed I'm not! Why, I thought <i>every</i>body
knew!..."</p>
<p>"(It's all right—he won't come in again). But
<i>why</i> did they pretend not to be married?" Dorothy
asked in amazement.</p>
<p>"I don't know—I mean I forget for the moment—it
seemed perfectly clear the way Walter explained
it—you ought to go and hear him——"</p>
<p>"But what difference could being married—I
mean not being married—make?"</p>
<p>"Ah!" said Katie, with satisfaction at having
found her bearings again. "Walter's got a whole
Lecture on that. It always thrills everybody.
Amory thinks it's almost his best—after the '<i>Synthetic
Protoplasm</i>' one, of course—that's admitted
by everybody to be quite <i>the</i> best!"<a name="FNanchor_1" id="FNanchor_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a><br /></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span></p><p>"Proto ... but I thought those were a kind
of oats!" said poor Dorothy, utterly bewildered.</p>
<p>"Oats!" cried Katie in a sort of whispered
shriek. "Why, it's—it's—but I don't know even
how to <i>begin</i> to explain it! Do you mean to say
you haven't read about these things?"</p>
<p>"No," murmured Dorothy, abashed.</p>
<p>"Not Monod, nor Ellen Key, nor Sebastien
Faure, nor Malom!——"</p>
<p>"N-o." Dorothy felt horribly ashamed of herself.</p>
<p>"But—but—those <i>lovely</i> little boys of yours!——"</p>
<p>She gazed wide-eyed at the disconcerted Dorothy....</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>It was the humiliating truth: Dorothy had
never heard of the existence of a single one of these
writers and leaders of thought. She had borne
Noel in black ignorance of what they had had to say
about the Torch of the Race, and Jackie and the
third Bit for all the world as if they had never set
pen to paper. Monod had not held her hand, nor<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span>
Faure been asked for his imprimatur; Key had
hymned Love superfluously, and the Synthesists,
equally superfluously, its supersession. For a
moment she anxiously hoped that it was all right,
and then, as Katie went on, the marvel of it all
overwhelmed her again.</p>
<p>The dictum that desirable children could be born
only <i>out</i> of wedlock! That stupendous suggestion
of Walter's to millionaires who did not know what
to do with their money, that, for the improvement of
the Race, they should endow with a thousand pounds
every poor little come-by-chance that weighed
eleven pounds at birth! That other proposal,
that twenty years could straightway be added to
woman's life and beauty by a mere influencing of
her thoughts about the Chromosome—whatever
it was!... Poor uncultured Dorothy did not
know whether she was on her head or her heels.
She had never dreamed, until Katie told her, that
before marrying Stan she ought to have gone to the
insect-world, or to the world of molluscs and crustacæ,
to learn how <i>they</i> maintained the integrity of their
own highest type—whether by pulling their wings
off after the flight, or devouring their husbands, or—or—or
what! She had heard of the moral lessons
that can be learned of the ant, but it had not struck
her that she and Stan might, by means of a little
more study and care, have lifted up the economy of
their little flat to the level of the marvellously-organized
domesticity you see when you kick over
a stone.</p>
<p>But Katie's hesitations and great gaps of confessed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span>
ignorance gave her a little more courage. Katie was
at pains to explain that all that she herself knew
about it all was that these things were what they
<i>said</i>, and Dorothy must go to Walter and the books
for the rest.</p>
<p>"They're all very expensive books, and I may
not really have understood them," she said wistfully.
"They must be awfully deep and so on if they're
so dear—twelve and fifteen and twenty shillings!
But I did try so hard, and sometimes it seemed
quite reasonable and plain, especially when the
print was nice and big.... Close print always
seems so frightfully learned.... And I know
I've explained it badly; I haven't Walter's gift
of putting things. Amory has, of course. When
she and Walter have a really good set-to it makes one
feel positively <i>abject</i> about one's ignorance. I doubt
if Cosimo can always <i>quite</i> follow them, and I'm
quite sure Mr. Strong can't—I know he's only
hedging when he says, 'Ah, yes, have you read
Fabre on the Ant or Maeterlinck on the Bee?'—and
I believe he just glances at the review books
that come to the 'Novum' instead of really studying
them, as Walter and Amory do. And it's very
funny about Mr. Strong," she rattled artlessly on.
"Sometimes I've thought that it isn't just that
Amory doesn't know what they all go to The Witan
for, but that everybody else <i>does</i> know. They all
seem to want it to themselves. Of course if Mr.
Wilkinson wants Cosimo to stop the 'Novum,' and
to start something else for him, it's only natural
that he and Mr. Strong should be a little jealous of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span>
one another; but Dickie and Mr. Brimby are jealous
of the Wyrons, and I suppose I was jealous of Dickie
too—and everybody seems jealous of everybody,
and Amory of Cosimo, and Amory's always interfering
between Britomart Belchamber and the
twins' lessons, and that <i>can't</i> be a very good thing
for discipline, but Britomart's like me in being rather
stupid, and I wish I'd her screw—she gets nearly
twice as much as I do. The only people who don't
seem jealous of anybody are those Indians. They're
<i>always</i> affable. I suppose it's rather nice for them,
so far from their own country, having a house to go
to...."</p>
<p>But here Dorothy's humility and self-distrust
ended. The moment it came to India, she shared
her aunt's deplorable narrow-mindedness and propensity
to make a virtue of her intolerance. It
seemed to her that it was one thing for the Tims and
Tonys, in India, to have to employ a native interpreter
(and to be pretty severely rooked by him)
when they had their Urdu Higher Proficiency to
pass, but quite another for these same natives to
come over here, and to learn our law and language,
and our excellent national professions, and our
somewhat mitigated ways of living up to them.
No, she was not one whit better than her hide-bound
old aunt, and she did not intend to have too practical
a brotherly love taught at that meditated foundation
at the Brear....</p>
<p>She became silent as she thought of that foundation
again, and presently Katie rose.</p>
<p>"I suppose I couldn't see him in his cot?" she
said wistfully.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span></p>
<p>Dorothy smiled. Katie meant the youngest Bit.</p>
<p>"Well ... I'm afraid he's in <i>our</i> room, you
see ...," she said.</p>
<p>Katie had been thinking of The Witan. She
coloured a little.</p>
<p>"Sorry," she murmured; and then she broke
out emphatically.</p>
<p>"I <i>like</i> coming to see you, Dorothy. I don't
feel so—such a <i>fool</i> when I'm with you.... And
do tell me where you got that frock, and how much
it was; I <i>must</i> have another one as soon as I
can raise the money! I do wish I could make
what Britomart Belchamber makes! Two-twenty
a year! Think of that!... But of course Prince
Eadmond teachers do come expensive——"</p>
<p>More and more it was coming to seem to Dorothy
that the whole thing was terrifically expensive.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span></p>
<h2>III</h2>
<h3>THE IMPERIALISTS</h3>
<p>They were great believers in the Empire, they
on the "Novum." Indeed, they were the
only true Imperialists, since they recognized that
ideas, and not actions, were by far and away the most
potent instruments in the betterment of mankind.
Everybody who was anybody knew that, a mere
sporadic outbreak here and there (such as the one in
Manchuria) notwithstanding, war had been virtually
impossible ever since the publication of M. Bloch's
book declaring it to be so. What, they asked, was
war, more than an unfortunate miscalculation on the
part of the lamb that happened to lie down with
the lion? And what made the miscalculation so
unfortunate? Why, surely the possession by the
lion of teeth and claws. Draw his teeth and cut his
claws, and the two would slumber peacefully together.
So with the British lion. He only fought because
he had things ready to fight with. Philosophically,
his aggressions were not much more than a kind
of sportive manifestation of the joy of life, that
happened, rather inconsequentially, to take the form
of the joy of death. Take away the ships and
guns, then, and everything would be all right.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span></p>
<p>These views on the Real Empire were in no way
incompatible with Mr. Wilkinson's desire to see all
Trade Unionists armed. For a war at home, about
shorter hours and higher wages, would at any rate
be a war between equals in race. It was wars
between unequals that had made of the Old Empire
so hideous a thing. Amory herself had more than
once stated this rather well.</p>
<p>"I call it cowardice," she had said. "Every
fine instinct in us tells us to stick up for the weaker
side. It makes my blood boil! Think of those
gentle and dusky millions, all being, to put it in a
word, bullied—just bullied! We all know the kind
of man who goes abroad—the conventional 'adventurer'
(I like 'adventurer!') He's just a common
bully. He drinks disgustingly, and swears, and kicks
people who don't get out of his way—but he's always
careful to have a revolver in his pocket for fear they
should hit him back!... And he makes a
tremendous fuss about his white women, but when
it comes to their black or brown ones ... well,
anyway, <i>I</i> think he's a brute, and we want a better
class of man than <i>that</i> for our readers!"</p>
<p>And that was briefly why, at the "Novum," they
tried to reduce armaments at home, and gave at
least moral encouragement to the other side whenever
there was a dust-up abroad.</p>
<p>But it had been some time ago that Amory had
said all this, and her attitude since then had undergone
certain changes. One of these changes had
been her acquisition of the Romantic Point of View;
another had been that suspended state of affairs<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span>
between herself and Mr. Strong. The first of these
curtailed a good deal of the philosophy in which
Mr. Strong always seemed anxious to enwrap the
subject (in order, as far as Amory could see, to
avoid action). It also made a little more of the
position of women, white, black or brown, and
especially when rolled up in carpets, in Imperial
affairs. And the second, that hung-up relation
between Edgar Strong and herself, had left her
constantly wondering what would have happened
had she taken Mr. Strong at his word and fled to
Paris with him, and exactly where they stood since
she had not done so.</p>
<p>For naturally, things could hardly have been
expected to be the same after that. Since Edgar
had ceased to come quite so frequently to The Witan,
Amory had thought the whole situation carefully
over and had come to her conclusion. Perhaps the
histories of <i>les grandes maitresses</i> and the writings of
Key had helped her; or, more likely, Key in Sweden
(or wherever it was) and herself in England had
arrived at the same conclusion by independent paths.
That conclusion, stated in three words, was the
Genius of Love.</p>
<p>It was perfectly simple. Why had Amory
Towers, the painter of that picture ("Barrage") so
enthusiastically acclaimed by the whole of Feminist
England, now for so long ceased to paint? What
had become of the Genius that had brought that
picture into being? It is certain that Genius cannot
be stifled. Deny it one opportunity and it will
break out somewhere else—in another art, in politics,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span>
in leadership in one form or another, or it may be
even in crime.</p>
<p>Even so, Amory was conscious, her own Genius
had refused to be suppressed. It had found another
outlet in politics, directed in a recumbent attitude
from a sofa.</p>
<p>Yet that had landed her straightway in a dilemma—the
dilemma of Edgar and the twins, of Paris on
seven francs a day and the comforts Cosimo
allowed her, of a deed that was to have put even
that of the Wyrons into the shade and a mere
settling down to the prospect of seeing Edgar when
it pleased him to put in an appearance.</p>
<p>She had not seen this protean property of Genius
just at first. That could only have been because
she had not examined herself sufficiently. She had
been introspective, but not introspective enough.</p>
<p>And lest she should be mistaken in the mighty
changes that were going on within herself, at first
she had tried the painting again. Her tubes were
dry and her brushes hard, but she had got new ones,
and one after another she had taken up her old
half-finished canvases again. A single glance at
them had filled her with astonishment at the leagues
of progress, mental and emotional, that she had made
since then. She had laughed almost insultingly at
those former attempts. That large canvas on the
"<i>Triumph of Humane Government</i>" was positively
frigid! And Edgar had liked it!... Well, that only
showed what a power she now had over Edgar if she
only cared to use it. If he had liked that chilly piece
of classicism, he would stand dumb before the canvas<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span>
that every faculty in her was now straining to paint.
She began to think that canvas out....</p>
<p>It must be Eastern, of course; nay, it must be
The East—tremendously voluptuous and so on.
She would paint it over the "<i>Triumph</i>." It should
be bathed in a sunrise, rabidly yellow (they had no
time for decaying mellowness in those vast and
kindling lands to which Amory's inner eye was
turned)—and of course there ought to be a many-breasted
what-was-her-name in it, the goddess
(rather rank, perhaps, but that was the idea, a
smack at effete occidental politeness). And there
ought to be a two-breasted figure as well, perhaps
with a cord or something in her hand, hauling up the
curtain of night, or at any rate showing in some way
or other that her superb beauty was actually responsible
for the yellow sunrise....</p>
<p>And above all, she must get <i>herself</i> into it—the
whole of herself—all that tremendous continent that
Cosimo had not had, that her children had not had,
that her former painting had left unexpressed, that
politics had not brought out of her....</p>
<p>The result of that experiment was remarkable.
Two days later she had thrown the painting aside
again. It was a ghastly failure. But only for a
moment did that depress her; the next moment she
had seen further. She was a Genius; she knew it—felt
it; she was so sure about it that she would
never have dreamed of arguing about it; she had
such thoughts sometimes.... And Genius could
never be suppressed. Very well; the Eastern
canvas was a total failure; she admitted it. Ergo,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span>
her Genius was for something else than painting.</p>
<p>That was all she had wanted to know.</p>
<p>For what, then? No doubt Edgar Strong, who
had enlightened her about herself before, would be
able to enlighten her again now. And if he would
not come to see her, she must go and see him. But
already she saw the answer shining brightly ahead.
She must pant, not paint; live, not limn. Her
Genius was, after all, for Love.</p>
<p>True, at the thought of those offices in Charing
Cross Road she had an instinctive shrinking. Their
shabbiness rather took the shine out of the voluptuousnesses
she had tried, and failed, to get upon her
canvas. But perhaps there was a fitness in that
too. Genius, whether in Art or in Love, is usually
poor. If she could be splendid there she could be so
anywhere. No doubt heaps and heaps of grand
passions had transfigured grimy garrets, and had
made of them perfectly ripping backgrounds....</p>
<p>So on an afternoon in mid-January Amory put
on her new velvet costume of glaucous sea-holly blue
and her new mushroom-white hat, and went down
to the "Novum's" offices in a taxi. It seemed to her
that she got there horribly quickly. Her heart was
beating rapidly, and already she had partly persuaded
herself that if Edgar wasn't in it might perhaps be
just as well, as she had half-promised the twins to
have tea with them in the nursery soon, and anyway
she could come again next week. Or she might
leave Edgar a note to come up to The Witan. There
were familiar and supporting influences at The Witan.
But here she felt dreadfully defenceless.... She<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span>
reached her destination. Slowly she passed through
the basement-room with the sandwich-boards,
ascended the dark stairs, and walked along the upper
corridor that was hung with the specimens of poster-art.</p>
<p>Edgar was in. He was sitting at his roll-top desk,
with his feet thrust into the unimaginable litter of
papers that covered it. He appeared to be dozing
over the "Times," and had not drunk the cup of
tea that stood at his elbow with a sodden biscuit and
a couple of lumps of sugar awash in the saucer.—Without
turning his head he said "Hallo," almost
as if he expected somebody else. "Did you bring
me some cigarettes in?" he added, still not turning.
And this was a relief to Amory's thumping heart.
She could begin with a little joke.</p>
<p>"No," she said. "I didn't know you wanted
any."</p>
<p>There was no counterfeit about the start Mr. Strong
gave. So swiftly did he pluck his feet away from the
desk that twenty sheets of paper planed down to
the floor, bringing the cup of tea with them in their
fall.</p>
<p>But Mr. Strong paid no attention to the breakage
and mess. He was on his feet, looking at Amory.
He looked, but he had never a word to say. And
she stood looking at him—charming in her
glaucous blue, the glint of rich red that peeped from
under the new white hat, and her slightly frightened
smile.</p>
<p>"Haven't you any?" she said archly.</p>
<p>At that Mr. Strong found his tongue.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span></p>
<p>"Excuse me just a moment," he muttered, striding
past her and picking up something from his desk as
he went. "Sit down, won't you?" Then he opened
the door by which Amory had entered, did something
behind it, and returned, closing the door again.
"Only so that we shan't be disturbed," he said.
"They go into the other office when they see the
notice.—I wasn't expecting you."</p>
<p>Nor did he, Amory thought, show any great joy
at her appearance. On the contrary, he had fixed a
look very like a glare on her. Then he walked to
the hearth. A big fire burned there behind a wire
guard, and within the iron kerb stood the kettle he
had boiled to make tea. He put his elbows on the
mantelpiece and turned his back to her. Again it
was Mr. Brimby's sorrowing Oxford attitude. Amory
had moved towards his swivel chair and had sat
down. Her heart beat a little agitatedly. He
remembered!...</p>
<p>He spoke without any beating about the bush.—"Ought
you to have done this?" he said over his
shoulder.</p>
<p>She fiddled with her gloves.—"To have done
what?" she asked nervously.</p>
<p>"To have come here," came in muffled tones back.
It was evident that he was having to hold himself in.</p>
<p>Then suddenly he wheeled round. This time
there was no doubt about it—it was a glare, and a
resolute one.</p>
<p>But he had not been able to think of any new line.
It was the one he had used before. He made it a
little more menacing, that was all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span></p>
<p>"I'm only flesh and blood—," he said quickly,
his hands ever so slightly clenching and unclenching
and his throat apparently swallowing something.</p>
<p>Her heart was beating quickly enough now.—"But—but—,"
she stammered,—"if you only
mean my coming here—I've been here lots of times
before——"</p>
<p>He wasted few words on that.</p>
<p>"Not since——," he rapped out. He was surveying
her sternly now.</p>
<p>"But—but—," she faltered again, "—it's only
me, Edgar—I <i>am</i> connected with the paper, you
know—that is to say my husband is——"</p>
<p>"That's true," he groaned.</p>
<p>"And—and—I should have come before—I've
been intending to come—but I've been so busy——"</p>
<p>But that also he brushed aside for the little it was
worth. "<i>Must</i> you compromise yourself like this?"
he demanded. "Don't you see? I'm not made of
wood, and I suppose your eyes are open too. Prang
may be here at any moment. He'll see that notice
on the door, and wait ... and then he'll see you go
out. You oughtn't to have come," he continued
gloomily. "Why did you, Amory?"</p>
<p>Once more she quailed before the blue mica of his
eye. Her words came now a bit at a time. The
victory was his.</p>
<p>"Only to—to see—how the paper was going on—and
to—to talk things over—," she said.</p>
<p>"Oh!" He nodded. "Very well."</p>
<p>He strode forward from the mantelpiece and
approached the desk at which she sat.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span></p>
<p>"I suppose Cosimo wants to know; very well.
As a matter of fact I'm rather glad you've come.
Look here——"</p>
<p>He grabbed a newspaper from the desk and thrust
it almost roughly into her hands.</p>
<p>"Read that," he said, stabbing the paper with his
finger.</p>
<p>The part in which he stabbed it was so unbrokenly
set that it must have struck Katie Deedes as overwhelmingly
learned.—"There you are—read that!"
he ordered her.</p>
<p>Then, striding back to the mantelpiece, he stood
watching her as if he had paid for a seat in a playhouse
and had found standing-room only.</p>
<p>Amory supposed that it must be something in that
close and grey-looking oblong that was at the bottom
of his imperious curtness. She was sure of this
when, before she had read half a dozen lines, he cut
in with a sharp "Well? I suppose you see what
it means to us?"</p>
<p>"Just a moment," she said bewilderedly; "you
always did read quicker than I can——"</p>
<p>"Quicker!—" he said. "Just run your eye
down it. That ought to tell you."</p>
<p>She did so, and a few capitals caught her eye.</p>
<p>"Do you mean this about the North-West
Banks?" she asked diffidently.</p>
<p>"Do I mean——! Well, yes. Rather."</p>
<p>"I do wish you'd explain it to me. It seems
rather hard."</p>
<p>But he did not approach and point out particular
passages. Instead he seemed to know that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span>
leaden oblong by heart. He gave a short laugh.</p>
<p>"Hard? It's hard enough on the depositors
out there!... They've been withdrawing again,
and of course the Banks have had to realize."</p>
<p>"Yes, I saw that bit," said Amory.</p>
<p>"A forced realization," Mr. Strong continued.
"Depreciation in values, of course. And it's spreading."</p>
<p>It sounded to Amory rather like smallpox, but,
"I suppose that's the Monsoon?" she hazarded.</p>
<p>"Partly, of course. Not altogether. There's
the rupee too, of course. At present that's at
about one and twopence, but then there are these
bi-metallists.... So until we know what's going
to happen, it seems to me we're bound hand and
foot."</p>
<p>Amory was awed.—"What—what do you
think will happen?" she asked.</p>
<p>Edgar gave a shrug.—"Well—when a Bank begins
paying out in pennies it's as well to prepare for
the worst, you know."</p>
<p>"Are—are they doing that?" Amory asked in a
whisper. "Really? And is that the bi-metallists'
doing—or is it the Home Government? Do explain
it to me so that I can visualize it. You know I
always understand things better when I can visualize
them. That's because I'm an artist.—Does it
mean that there are long strings of natives, with
baskets and things on their heads to put the pennies
in, all waiting at the Banks, like people in the theatre-queues?"</p>
<p>"I dare say. I suppose they have to carry the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span>
pennies somehow. But I'm afraid I can't tell
you more than's in the papers."</p>
<p>Amory's face assumed an expression of contempt.
On the papers she was quite pat.</p>
<p>"The papers! And how much of the truth can
we get from the capitalist press, I should like to
know! Why, it's a commonplace among us—one is
almost ashamed to say it again—that the 'Times'
is always wrong! We have <i>no</i> Imperialist papers
really; only Jingo ones. Is there <i>no</i> way of finding
out what this—crisis—is really about?"</p>
<p>This was quite an easy one for Mr. Strong. Many
times in the past, when pressed thus by his proprietor's
wife for small, but exact, details, he had
wished that he had known even as much about
them as seemed to be known by that smart young
man who had once come to The Witan in a morning
coat and had told Edgar Strong that he didn't
know what he was talking about. But he had long
since found a way out of these trifling difficulties.
Lift the issue high enough, and it is true of most
things that one man's opinion is as good as another's;
and they lifted issues quite toweringly high on the
"Novum." Therefore in self-defence Mr. Strong
flapped (so to speak) his wings, gave a struggle,
cleared the earth, and was away in the empyrean
of the New Imperialism.</p>
<p>"The 'Times' always wrong. Yes. We've got
to stick firmly to that," he said. "But don't you
see, that very fact makes it in its way quite a useful
guide. It's the next best thing to being always
right, like us; we can depend on its being wrong.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span>
We've only got to contradict it, and then ask ourselves
why we do so. There's usually a reason....
So there is in this—er—crisis. Of course
you know their argument—that a lot of these young
native doctors and lawyers come over here, and
stop long enough to pick up the latest wrinkles
in swindling—the civilized improvements so to
speak—and then go back and start these wildcat
schemes, Banks and so on, and there's a smash.
I think that's a fair statement of their case.—But
what's ours? Why, simply that what they're
really doing is to give the Home Government a
perfectly beautiful opportunity of living up to its
own humane professions.... But we know what
that means," he added sadly.</p>
<p>"You mean that it just shows," said Amory
eagerly, "that we aren't humane at all really?
In fact, that England's a humbug?"</p>
<p>Mr. Strong smiled. He too, in a sense, was
paying out in pennies, and so far quite satisfactorily.</p>
<p>"Well ... take this very crisis," he returned.
"Oughtn't there to be a grant, without a moment's
loss of time, from the Imperial Exchequer? I'm
speaking from quite the lowest point of view—the
mere point of view of expediency if you like.
Very well. Suppose one or two natives <i>are</i> scoundrels:
what about it? Are matters any better
because we know that? Don't the poverty and
distress exist just the same? And isn't that precisely
our opportunity, if only we had a statesman
capable of seeing it?... Look here: We've<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span>
only got to go to them and say, 'We are full of pity
and help; here are a lot of—er—lakhs; lakhs
of rupees; rupee one and twopence: you may
have been foolish, but it isn't for us to cast the first
stone; it's the conditions that are wrong; go
and get something to eat, and don't forget your
real friends by and by.'—Isn't that just the way
to bind them to us? By their gratitude, eh? Isn't
getting their gratitude better than blowing them
from the muzzles of guns, eh? And isn't that the
real Empire, of which we all dream? Eh?..."</p>
<p>He warmed up to it, while keeping one ear open
for anybody who might come along the passage;
and when he found himself running down he grabbed
the newspaper again. He doubled it back, refolded
it, and again thrust it under Amory's nose....
There! That put it all in a nutshell, he said!
The figures spoke for themselves. The Home
Government, he said, knew all about it all the time,
but of course they came from that hopeless slough
of ineptitude that humorists were pleased to
call the "governing classes," and that was why
they dragged such red herrings across the path of
true progress as—well, as the Suffrage, say....
What! Hadn't Amory heard that all this agitation
for the Suffrage was secretly fomented by the
Government itself? Oh, come, she must know
that! Why, of course it was! The Government
knew dashed well what they were doing, too! It
was a moral certainty that there was somebody
behind the scenes actually planning half these
outrages! Why? Why, simply because it got<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span>
'em popular sympathy when a Minister had his
windows smashed or a paper of pepper thrown in
his face. They were only too glad to have pepper
thrown in their faces, because everybody said what
a shame it was, and forgot all about what fools
they'd been making of themselves, and when a
real—er—crisis came, like this one, people scarcely
noticed it.... But potty little intellects like
Brimby's and Wilkinson's didn't see as deep as
that. It was only Edgar Strong and Amory who
saw as deep as that. That was why they, Edgar
and Amory, were where they were—leaders of
thought, not subordinates....</p>
<p>"Just look rather carefully at those figures,"
he concluded....</p>
<p>Nevertheless, lofty as these flights were, they
had a little lost their thrill for Amory. She had
heard them so very, very often. She had trembled
in the taxi in vain if <i>this</i> was all that her stealthy
coming to the "Novum's" offices meant. Nor
had she put on her new sea-holly velvet to be told,
however eloquently, that Wilkinson and Brimby
were minor lights when compared with Edgar and
herself, and that the "Times" was always wrong.
Perhaps the figures that Edgar had thrust under
her nose as if he had been clapping a muzzle on
her meant something to the right person, but they
meant nothing to Amory, and she didn't pretend
they did. They were man's business; woman's
was "visualizing." The two businesses, when you
came to think of it, <i>were</i> separate and distinct.
Whoever heard of a man wrapping himself up in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span>
a carpet and being carried by Nubians into his
mistress's presence? Whoever heard of a man's
face launching as much as an up-river punt, let
alone fleets and fleets of full-sized ships? And
whoever heard of the compelling beauty of a man's
eyes, as he lay on a sofa with one satiny upper-arm
upraised, simply making—making—a woman
come and kiss him?... It was ridiculous.
Amory saw now. Even Joan of Arc must have
put on her armour, not so much because of all the
chopping and banging of maces and things (which
must have been very noisy), but more with the
idea of <i>inspiring</i>.... Yes, inspiring: that was
it. There <i>was</i> a difference. Why, even physically
women and men were not the same, and mentally
they were just as different. For example, Amory
herself wouldn't have liked to blow anybody from
the mouth of a gun, but she wasn't sure sometimes
that Edgar wouldn't positively enjoy it. He had
that hard eye, and square head, and capacity for
figures....</p>
<p>She wasn't sure that her heart didn't go out to
him all the more because of that puzzle of noughts
and dots and rupees he had thrust into her
hands....</p>
<p>And so, as he continued (so to speak) to gain
time by paying in pennies, and to keep an ear disengaged
for the passage, it came about that Edgar
Strong actually overshot himself. The more technical
and masculine he became, the more Amory
felt that it was fitting and feminine in her not to
bother with these things at all, but just to go on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span>
inspiring. She still kept her eyes bent over the
column of figures, but she was visualizing again.
She was visualizing the Channel steamer, and the
Latin Quarter, and satiny upper-arms. And the
taxi-tremor had returned....</p>
<p>Suddenly she looked softly yet daringly up.
She felt that she must be Indian—yet not too
Indian.</p>
<p>"And then there's suttee," she said in a low
voice.</p>
<p>"Eh?" said Strong. He seemed to scent
danger. "Abolished," he said shortly.</p>
<p>But here Amory was actually able to tell Edgar
Strong something. She happened to have been
reading about suttee in a feminist paper only a
day or two before. No doubt Edgar read nothing
but figures and grey oblongs.</p>
<p>"Oh, no," she said softly but with a knowledge
of her ground. "That is, I know it's prohibited,
but there was a case only a little while ago. I
read it in the 'Vaward.' And it was awful, but
splendid, too. She was a young widow, and I'm
sure she had a lovely face, because she'd such
a noble soul.—Don't you think they often go
together?"</p>
<p>But Edgar did not reply. He had walked to a
little shelf full of reference books and books for
review, and was turning over pages.</p>
<p>"And the whole village was there," Amory
continued, "and she walked to the pyre herself,
and said good-bye to all her relatives, and then——"</p>
<p>Edgar shut his book with a slap.—"Abolished<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span>
in 1829," he said. "It's a criminal offence under
the Code."</p>
<p>Amory smiled tenderly. Abolished!... Dear,
fellow, to think that in such matters he should
imagine that his offences and Codes could make
any difference! Of course the "Vaward" had
made a mere Suffrage argument out of the thing,
but to Amory it had just showed how cruel and
magnificent and voluptuous and grim the East
could be when it really tried.... And then all
at once Amory thought, not of any particular poem
she had ever read, but what a ripping thing it would
be to be able to write poetry, and to say all those
things that would have been rather silly in prose,
and to put heaps of gorgeous images in, like the
many-breasted what-was-her-name, and Thingummy—what-did-they-call-him—the
god with all
those arms. And there would be carpets and things
too, and limbs, not plaster ones, but flesh and
blood ones, as Edgar said his own were, and—and—and
oh, stacks of material! The rhymes
might be a bit hard, of course, and perhaps after
all it might be better to leave poetry to somebody
else, and to concentrate all her energies on inspiring,
as Beatrice inspired Dante, and Laura Petrarch,
and that other woman Camoens, and Jenny Rossetti,
and Vittoria Colonna Michael Angelo. She
might even inspire Edgar to write poetry. And
she would be careful to keep the verses out of
Cosimo's way....</p>
<p>"Abolished!" she smiled in gay yet mournful
mockery, and also with a touch both of reproach<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span>
and of disdain in her look.... "Oh well, I suppose
men think so...."</p>
<p>But at this he rounded just as suddenly on her
as he had done when he had told her that she ought
not to have come to the office. Perhaps he felt
that he was losing ground again. You may be
sure that Edgar Strong, actor, had never had to
work as hard for his money as he had to work that
afternoon.</p>
<p>"Amory!" he called imperiously. "I tell
you it won't do—not at this juncture! I'd just
begun to find a kind of drug in my work; I've
locked myself up here; and now you come and
undo it all again with a look! I see we must have
this out. Let me think."</p>
<p>He began to pace the floor.</p>
<p>When he did speak again, his phrases came in
detached jerks. He kept looking sharply up and
then digging his chin into his red tie again.</p>
<p>"It was different before," he said. "It might
have been all right before. We were free then—in
a way. It was different in every way....
(Mind your dress in that tea).... But we can't
do anything now. Not at present. There's this
crisis. That's suddenly sprung upon us. There's
got to be somebody at the wheel—the 'Novum's'
wheel, I mean. I hate talking about my duty,
but you've read the 'Times' there. The 'Times'
is always wrong, and if we desert our posts the
whole game's up—U.P. Prang's no good here.
Prang can't be trusted at a pinch. And Wilkinson's
no better. Neither of 'em any good in an emergency.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span>
Weak man at bottom, Wilkinson—the
weakness of violence—effeminate, like these strong-word
poets. We can't rely on Wilkinson and
Prang. And who is there left? Eh?"</p>
<p>But he did not wait for an answer.</p>
<p>"Starving thousands, and no Imperial Grant."
His voice grew passionate. "Imperial Grant must
be pressed for without delay. What's to happen to
the Real Empire if you and I put our private joys
first? Eh? Answer me.... There they are,
paying in pennies—and us dallying here....
No. Dash it all, no. May be good enough
for some of these tame males, but it's a bit below
a man. I won't—not now. Not at present.
It would be selfish. They've trusted me, and——," a
shrug. "No. That's flat. I see <i>my</i>
nights being spent over figures and telegrams and
all that sort of thing for some time to come....
Don't think I've forgotten. I understand perfectly.
I suppose that sooner or later it <i>will</i> have
to be the Continent and so on—but not until this
job's settled. Not till then. Everything else—everything—has
got to stand down. You do see,
don't you, Amory? I hope you do."</p>
<p>As he had talked there had come over Amory a
sense of what his love must be if nothing but his
relentless sense of duty could frustrate it even for
a day. And that was more thrilling than all the
rest put together. It lifted their whole relation
exactly where she had tried to put it without
knowing how to put it there—into the regions of
the heroic. Not that Edgar put on any frills about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span>
it. On the contrary. He was simple and plain
and straight. And how perfectly right he was!
Naturally, since the "Times" and its servile following
of the capitalist Press would not help, Edgar
had to all intents and purposes the whole of India
to carry on his shoulders. It was exactly like
that jolly thing of Lovelace's, about somebody not
loving somebody so much if he didn't love Honour
more. He did love her so much, and he had as
much as said that there would be plenty of time to
talk about the Continent later. Besides, his dear,
rough, unaffected way of calling this heroic work
his "job!" It was just as if one of those knights
of old had called slaying dragons and delivering
the oppressed his "job!"</p>
<p>Amory was exalted as she had never been exalted.
She turned to him where he stood on the
hearth, and laved him with a fond and exultant
look.</p>
<p>"I see," she said bravely. "I was wretchedly
selfish. But remember, won't you, when you're
fighting this great battle against all those odds,
and saying all those lovely things to the Indians,
and getting their confidence, and just showing
all those other people how stupid they are, that <i>I</i>
didn't stop you, dear! I know it would be beastly
of me to stop you! I shouldn't be worthy of
you.... But I think you ought to appoint a
Committee or something, and have the meetings
reported in the 'Novum,' and I'm sure Cosimo
wouldn't grudge the money. Oh, how I wish I
could help!——"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span></p>
<p>But he did not say, as she had half hoped he
would say, that she did help, by inspiring. Instead,
he held out his hand. As she took it in both of
hers she wondered what she ought to do with it.
If it had been his foot, and he had been the old-fashioned
sort of knight, she could have fastened
a spur on it. Or she might have belted a sword
about his waist. But to have filled his fountain-pen,
which was his real weapon, would have been
rather stupid.... He was leading her, ever so
sympathetically, to the door. He opened it, took
from it the notice that had kept Mr. Prang away,
and stood with her on the landing.</p>
<p>"Good-bye," she said.</p>
<p>He glanced over his shoulder, and then almost hurt
her hands, he gripped them so hard.</p>
<p>"Good-bye," he said, his eyes looking into hers.
"You <i>do</i> understand, don't you, Amory?"</p>
<p>"Yes, Edgar."</p>
<p>Even then he seemed loth to part from her. He
accompanied her to the top of the stairs.—"You'll
let me know when you're coming again, won't
you?" he asked.</p>
<p>"Yes. Good-bye."</p>
<p>And she tore herself away.</p>
<p>At the first turning of the stairs Amory stood
aside to allow a rather untidy young woman to
pass. This young woman had a long bare neck
that reminded Amory of an artist's model, and her
hands were thrust into the fore-pockets of a brown
knitted coat. She was whistling, but she stopped
when she saw Amory.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span></p>
<p>"Do you know whether Mr. Dickinson, the poster
artist, is up here?" she asked.</p>
<p>"The next floor, I think," Amory replied.</p>
<p>"Thanks," said the girl, and passed up.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span></p>
<h2>IV</h2>
<h3>THE OUTSIDERS</h3>
<p>"No, not this week," Dorothy said. "Dot
wrote a fortnight ago. This one's from
Mollie. (You remember Mollie, Katie? She came to
that funny little place we had on Cheyne Walk once,
but of course she was only about twelve then.
She's nearly nineteen now, and <i>so</i> tall! They've
just gone to Kohat).—Shall I read it, auntie?"</p>
<p>And she read:—</p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>"'I'm afraid I wrote you a hatefully skimpy letter
last time—,'" h'm, we can skip that; here's where
they started: "'It was the beastliest journey that I
ever made. To begin with, we were the eighteenth
tonga that day, so we got tired and wretched ponies;
we had one pair for fifteen miles and couldn't get
another pair for love or money. We left Murree at
two o'clock and got to Pindi at nine. The dust was
ghastly. Mercifully Baba slept like a lump in our
arms from five till nine, so he was all right. We had
from nine till one to wait in Pindi Station, and had
dinner, and Baba had a wash and clean-up and a
bottle, and we got on board the train and off.
Baba's cot, etc.; and we settled down for the night.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span>
Nurse and Baba and Mary and I were in one carriage
and Jim next door. I slept beautifully till one
o'clock, and then I woke and stayed awake. The
bumping was terrific, and it made me so angry to
look down on the others and see them fast asleep!
I had an upper berth. Baba slept from eleven-thirty
till six-thirty! So we had no trouble at all
with him——'</p></div>
<p>"Well, and so they got to Kohat. (I hope this
isn't boring you, Katie.)"</p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>"'It was most beautifully cool and fresh, and we
had the mess tonga and drove to the bungalow. The
flowering shrubs here would delight Auntie Grace.
I've fallen in love with a bush of hibiscus in the
compound, but find it won't live in water, but
droops directly one picks it. The trees are mostly
the palmy kind, and so green, and the ranges of hills
behind are exactly like the Red Sea ranges. The
outside of our bungalow is covered with purple
convolvulus, and the verandah goes practically all
round it. Jim's room is just like him—heads he's
shot, study, dressing-room, and workshop, all in
one, and it's quite the fullest room in the house.
Beyond that there's my room, looking out over the
Sinai Range——'</p></div>
<p>"Then there are the drawing and dining-rooms——"</p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>"'The curtains are a pale terra-cotta pink over the
door and dark green in the bay-windows, with white<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span>
net in front. The drawing-room is all green. The
durrie (that's the carpet) is green, with a darker
border, and the sofa and chairs and mantelpiece-cover
and the screen behind the sofa all green. There's
another bay-window, with far curtains of green and
the near ones chintz, an awfully pretty cream spotted
net with a green hem let in. That makes three
lots, two in the window itself and a third on a pole
where the arch comes into the room. Then over
the three doors there are chintz curtains, cream,
with a big pattern of pink and green and blue, just
like Harrods' catalogue——'</p></div>
<p>"Can't you <i>see</i> it all!—H'm, h'm!... Then
on the Sunday morning they got the mess tonga
and went out to Dhoda, with butterfly-nets, and
Jim went fishing—h'm, h'm—and she says—</p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>"'It's just like the Old Testament; I shouldn't
have been in the least surprised to meet Abraham
and Jacob. It's the flatness of it, and the flocks
and herds. There are women with pitchers on their
heads, and a man was making scores of bricks
with mud and straw—exactly like the pictures of the
Children of Israel in "<i>Line upon Line</i>." And about
a hundred horses and mules and donkeys and carts
all stopped at midday, because it was so hot, and
it was just what I'd always imagined Jacob doing.
But inside cantonments it isn't a bit Biblical, but
rather too civilized, etc.'</p></div>
<p>("Isn't Katie patient, listening to all this,
auntie!")<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>"'But you can't go far afield at Kohat. At Murree
you could always get a three or four mile walk round
Pindi Point, but here it's just to the Club and back.
We go to the Central Godown and the Fancy Godown
to shop. The Central is groceries, and the
Fancy tooth-powder, Scrubb's Ammonia, etc. On
Saturday they were afraid Captain Horrocks had
smallpox, and so we all got vaccinated, but now that
we've all taken beautifully it seems it isn't smallpox
after all, and we've all got swelled arms, but Captain
Horrocks is off the sick-list to-morrow. Colonel
Wade is smaller than ever. Mrs. Wade is coming out
by the "Rewa." Mrs. Beecher came to tea on
Sunday——'</p></div>
<p>("Is that <i>our</i> Mrs. Beecher, when Uncle Dick was
at Chatham, auntie?")—</p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>"'—and I forgot to say that Dot's parrots stood
the journey awfully well, but they've got at the
loquat trees and destroyed all the young shoots.
Jim saw us safely in and is now off on his Indus trip.
The 56th are going in March, and the 53rd come
instead. I'm sure the new baby's a little darling;
what are you going to call him?——'</p></div>
<p>"And so on. I <i>do</i> think she writes such good
letters. Now let's have yours, Aunt Grace (and
that really <i>will</i> be the end, Katie)."</p>
<p>And Lady Tasker's letters also were "put
in."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>It was a Sunday afternoon, at Cromwell Gardens.
Stan was away with his film company for the week-end,
and Dorothy had got Katie to stay with her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span>
during his absence and had proposed a call on Lady
Tasker. They had brought the third Bit with them,
and he now slept in one of the cots upstairs. Lady
Tasker sat with her crochet at the great first-floor
window that looked over its balcony out along the
Brompton Road. On the left stretched the long
and grey and red and niched and statued façade of
the Victoria and Albert Museum, and the failing of
the western flush was leaving the sky chill and
sharp as steel and the wide traffic-polished road
almost of the same colour. Inside the lofty room
was the still glow of a perfect "toasting fire," and
Lady Tasker had just asked Katie to be so good as
to put more coal on before it sank too low.</p>
<p>Katie Deedes had made no scruple whatever about
changing her coat in more senses of the words than
one. She had bought a navy-blue costume and a
new toque (with a wing in it), and since then had
got into the way of expressing her doubts whether
Britomart Belchamber's hockey legs and Dawn of
Freedom eye were in the truest sense feminine.
Nay, that is altogether to understate the change in
Katie. She had now no doubt about these things
whatever. As Saul became Paul, so Katie now not
only reviled that which she had cast off, but was even
prepared, like the Apostle at Antioch, to withstand
the older Peters of Imperialism to their faces, did
she detect the least sign of temporizing in them.
And this treason had involved the final giving-way
of every one of her old associates. She was all for
guns and grim measures; and while she looked
fondly on Boy Scouts in the streets, and talked about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span>
"the thin end of the wedge of Conscription," she
scowled on the dusky-skinned sojourners within
London's gates, and advocated wholesale deportations.</p>
<p>And in all this Katie Deedes was only returning
to her own fold, though her people were not soldiers,
but lawyers. For the matter of that, her father's
cousin was a very august personage indeed, for
whose comfort, when he travelled, highly-placed
railway officials made themselves personally responsible,
and whose solemn progress to Assize was snapshotted
for the illustrated papers and thrown on
five hundred cinema screens. In the past Katie
had been privileged to call this kingpost of the
Law "Uncle Joe."...</p>
<p>And then Mr. Strong had got hold of her....</p>
<p>And after Mr. Strong, Mr. Wilkinson....</p>
<p>And according to Mr. Wilkinson, the most ferocious
of the hanging-judges had been a beaming humanitarian
by comparison with Sir Joseph. Mr. Wilkinson
had the whole of Sir Joseph's career at his
fingers' ends: the So-and-So judgment—this or that
flagrant summing up—the other deliberate and
wicked misdirection to the jury. Sir Joseph's
heart was black, his law bunkum, and he had only
got where he was by self-advertisement and picking
the brains of men a hundred times fitter for heaven
than himself....</p>
<p>Therefore Katie, hearing this horrible tale, had
quailed, and had straightway given away this devil
who was the sinister glory of her house. She had
agreed that he was a man whom anybody might<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span>
righteously have shot on sight, and had gathered her
Greenaway garments about her whenever she had
passed within a mile of Sir Joseph's door....</p>
<p>But now he was "Uncle Joe" again, and—well,
it must have been rather funny. For Katie's
impressionable conscience had given her no rest day
or night until she had sought Uncle Joe out and
had made a clean breast of it all before him. Katie
had fancied she had seen something like a twinkle
in those sinful old eyes, but (this was when she
mentioned the name of the "Novum") the twinkle
had vanished again. Oh, yes, Sir Joseph had heard of
the "Novum." Didn't a Mr. Prang write for it?...</p>
<p>And thereupon Katie had given Mr. Prang away
too....</p>
<p>But in the end Sir Joseph had forgiven her, and
had told her that she had better not be either a
revolutionary, nor yet the kind of Conservative that
is only a revolutionary turned inside-out, but just
a good little girl, and had asked her how she was
getting on, and why she hadn't been to see her Aunt
Anne, and whether she would like some tickets for
a Needlework Exhibition; and now she was just beginning
to forget that he had ever been anything but
"Uncle Joe," who had given her toys at Christmas,
and Sunday tickets for the Zoo whenever she had
wanted to go there on that particularly crowded
day.</p>
<p>Dorothy had had something of this in her mind
when she had brought Katie to Cromwell Gardens
that Sunday afternoon. From Katie's new attitude
to her own Ludlow project was not so far as it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span>
seemed. If she could lead the zealous 'vert to such
promising general topics as Boy Scouts, Compulsory
Service, and the preparation of boys for the Army
(topics that Katie constantly brought forward by
denunciation of their opposites), her scheme would
certainly not suffer, and might even be advanced.</p>
<p>And, as it happened, no sooner had Dorothy tucked
her last letter back into its envelope than Katie broke
out—earnestly, proselytizingly, and very prettily
on the stump.</p>
<p>"There you are!" she exclaimed. "That's all
<i>exactly</i> what I mean! Why, any one of those letters
ought to be enough to convince anybody! Here are
all these stupid people at home, ready to believe
everything a native tells them, going on as they do,
and hardly one of them's ever set foot out of England
in his life! Of course the Indians know exactly
what <i>they</i> want, but don't you see, Dorothy—,"
very patiently she explained it for fear Dorothy
should not see, "—don't you see that it's all so
much a matter of course to Mollie and those that
they can actually write whole letters about window-curtains!
I <i>love</i> that about the window-curtains!
It's all such an old story to <i>them</i>! They <i>know</i>, you
see, and haven't got to be talking about it all the
time in order to persuade themselves! There it
<i>is</i>!—But these other people don't know anything at
all. They don't even see what a perfect answer
window-curtains are to them! They go on and on
and on—you <i>do</i> see what I mean, Dorothy?——"</p>
<p>"Yes, dear," said Dorothy, mildly thinking of
the great number of people there were in the world<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span>
who would take no end of trouble to explain things
to her. "Go on."</p>
<p>And Katie continued to urge upon her friend the
argument that those know most about a country
who know most about it.</p>
<p>Katie had got to the stage of being almost sure
that she remembered Mollie's coming into the studio
in Cheyne Walk one day, when Lady Tasker, who
had not spoken, suddenly looked up from her
crochet and said, "Look, Dorothy—that's the girl
I was speaking about—coming along past the
Museum there."</p>
<p>Dorothy rose and walked to the window.—
"Where?" she said.</p>
<p>"Passing the policeman now."</p>
<p>Dorothy gave a sudden exclamation.—"Why,"
she exclaimed, "—come here, Katie, quick—it's
Amory Towers!—It is Amory, isn't it?"</p>
<p>Katie had run to the window, too. The two
women stood watching the figure in the mushroom-white
hat and the glaucous blue velvet that idled
forlornly along the pavement.</p>
<p>"Do you mean Mrs. Pratt?" said Lady Tasker,
putting up her glass again. "Are you quite sure?"</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Once before in her life, in the days before her
marriage, Amory Towers had done the same thing
that she was doing now. Then, seeking something,
perhaps a refuge from herself, she had walked the
streets until she was ready to drop with fatigue,
watching faces passing, passing, for ever passing,
and slowly gathering from them a hypnotic stupor.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span>
Sometimes, for hour after hour, she had seen nothing
but eyes—eyes various in shape and colour as the
pebbles on a beach, sometimes looking into hers,
sometimes looking past her, sometimes tipped with
arrow-heads of white as they turned, sometimes only
to be seen under their lids as a finger-nail is seen
within the finger of a glove. And at other times,
weary of her fellow-beings and ceasing to look any
more at them, she had seen nothing but doors and
windows, or fan-lights, or the numbers of houses,
or window-boxes, or the patterns of railings, or the
serried shapes of chimneys against the sky. She
had been looking, and yet not looking, for Cosimo
Pratt then; she was looking, and yet not looking,
for Edgar Strong now. Had she met him she had
nothing new to say to him; she only knew
that he had taken weak possession of her mind.
She was looking for him in South Kensington because
he had once told her, when asked suddenly, that he
lived in Sydney Street, S.W., and frequently walked
to the Indian section of the Imperial Institute in
order to penetrate into the real soul of a people
through its art; and she was not looking for him,
because one day she had remembered that he had
said before that he lived in South Kentish Town—which
was rather like South Kensington, but not the
same—and something deep down within her told
her that the other was a lie.</p>
<p>But yet her feet dragged her to the quarter, as
to other quarters, and she talked to herself as she
walked. She told herself that her husband did not
understand her, and that it would be romantic and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span>
silencing did she take a lover to her arms; and she
could have wept that, of all the flagrant splendours
of which she dreamed, London's grey should remain
her only share. And she knew that the attendants
at the Imperial Institute had begun to look at her.
Once she had spoken to one of them, but when she
had thought of asking him whether he knew a Mr.
Strong who came there to study Indian Art, her
heart had suddenly failed her, and the question had
stayed unspoken. Nevertheless she had feared that
the man had guessed her thought, and must be
taking stock of her face against some contingency
(to visualize which passed the heavy time on) that
had a Divorce Court in it, and hotel porters and
chambermaids who gave evidence, and the Channel
boat, and two forsaken children, and grimy raptures
in the Latin Quarter, and its hectic cafés at night....</p>
<p>And so she walked, feeling herself special and
strange and frightened and half-resolved; and thrice
in as many weeks Lady Tasker, sitting with her
crochet at her window, had seen her pass, but had
not been able to believe that this was the woman,
with a husband and children, on whom she had once
called at that house with the secretive privet hedge
away in Hampstead.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>"It <i>is</i> Amory!" Dorothy exclaimed. "Is she
coming here?"</p>
<p>Lady Tasker spoke reflectively.—"I don't know.
I don't think so. But—will you fetch her in? I
should like to see her."</p>
<p>"If you like, auntie," said Dorothy, though a
little reluctantly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span></p>
<p>But Lady Tasker seemed to change her mind.
She laid down her crochet and rose.</p>
<p>"No, never mind," she said. "I'll fetch her myself."</p>
<p>And the old lady of seventy passed slowly out of
the room, and Katie and Dorothy moved away
from the window.</p>
<p>Lady Tasker was back again in five minutes, but
no Amory came with her. She walked back to her
chair, moved it, and took up her work again.—"Switch
the table light on," she said.</p>
<p>"Was it Amory?" Dorothy ventured to ask after
a silence.</p>
<p>"Yes," Lady Tasker replied.</p>
<p>"And wouldn't she come in?"</p>
<p>"She said she was hurrying back home."</p>
<p>That raised a question so plain that Dorothy
thought it tactful to make rather a fuss about finding
some album or other that should convince Katie
that she really had met the Mollie who had written
the letter about the window-curtains. Lady Tasker's
needle was dancing rather more quickly than usual.
Dorothy found her album, switched on another light,
and told Katie to make room for her on her chair.</p>
<p>Amory, dawdling like that, and then, when spoken
to, to have the face to say that she was hurrying
back home!——</p>
<p>It was some minutes later that Lady Tasker said
off-handedly, "Has she any children besides those
twins?"</p>
<p>"Amory?" Dorothy replied, looking up from the
album. "No."</p>
<p>"How old is she?" Lady Tasker asked.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span></p>
<p>"Thirty-two, isn't she, Katie?"</p>
<p>"About that."</p>
<p>"Is she very—athletic?" Lady Tasker next
wanted to know.</p>
<p>"Not at all, I should say."</p>
<p>"I mean she doesn't go in for marathon races or
Channel swimming or anything of that kind?"</p>
<p>"Amory? No," said Dorothy, puzzled.</p>
<p>"And you're sure of her age?" the old lady
persisted.</p>
<p>"Well—she may only be thirty-one."</p>
<p>"I don't mean is she younger. Is she <i>older</i> than
that?"</p>
<p>"No—I know by my own age."</p>
<p>"H'm!" said Lady Tasker; and again her needle
danced....</p>
<p>Dorothy was explaining to Katie that Mollie was
fair, about her own colour, but of course the hair
never came out right in a photograph, when Lady
Tasker suddenly began a further series of questions.</p>
<p>"Dorothy——"</p>
<p>"Yes?"</p>
<p>"Did she—develop—early?"</p>
<p>"Who—Amory? I don't know. Did she, Katie?
Of course she was quite the cleverest girl at the
McGrath."</p>
<p>"Ah!... What did she do at the McGrath?"</p>
<p>"Why, painted. You're awfully mysterious,
auntie! It was soon after she left the McGrath
that she painted 'Barrage'—you've heard of her
feminist picture that made such a stir!"</p>
<p>"Ah, yes. Yes. I didn't see it, but I did hear<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span>
about it. I don't know anything about art.—Had
she any affair before she married young Pratt?"</p>
<p>"No. I'm sure of that. I knew her so well."
Dorothy was quite confident on that point, and
Katie agreed. Lady Tasker's questions continued.</p>
<p>And then, suddenly, into this apparently aimless
catechism the word "doctor" came. Dorothy
gave a start.</p>
<p>"Aunt Grace!... Do you mean Amory's ill?"
she cried.</p>
<p>Lady Tasker did not look up from her crochet.—"Ill?"
she said. "I've no reason to suppose so.
I didn't say she was ill. There's no illness about
it.... By the way, I don't think I've asked how
Stan is."</p>
<p>But for the curiously persistent questions, Dorothy
might have seized the opportunity to hint that
Stan was made for something more nationally useful
than getting himself black and blue by stopping runaway
horses for the film or running the risk of double
pneumonia by being fished out of the sea on a
January day—which was the form his bread-winning
was taking on that particular week-end. But the
Ludlow design was for the moment forgotten. She
would have liked to ask her aunt straight out what
she really meant, but feared to be rude. So she
turned to the album again, and again Katie, turning
from turban to staff-cap and from staff-cap to pith
helmet, urged that <i>those</i> were the people who really
knew what they were talking about—surely Dorothy
saw <i>that</i>!——</p>
<p>Then, in the middle of Dorothy's bewilderment,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span>
once more the questions.... About that painting
of her friend's, Lady Tasker wanted to know: did
Mrs. Pratt get any real satisfaction out of it?—Any
emotional satisfaction?—Was she entirely
wrapped up in it?—Or was it just a sort of hitting at
the air?—Did it exhaust her to no purpose, or was
it really worth something when it was done?——</p>
<p>"If Dorothy doesn't know, surely you do, Katie."</p>
<p>Katie coloured a little.—"I liked 'Barrage'
awfully at the time," she confessed, "but—,"
and she cheered up again, "—I <i>hate</i> it now."</p>
<p>"But did her work—what's the expression?—fill
her life?"</p>
<p>Here Dorothy answered for Katie.—"I think she
rather liked the fame part of it," she said slowly.</p>
<p>"Does she paint now?"</p>
<p>"Very little, I think, Lady Tasker."</p>
<p>"Has her children to look after, I suppose?"</p>
<p>"Well—she has both a nurse and a governess——"</p>
<p>"They're quite well off, aren't they? I seem to
remember that Pratt came into quite a lot."</p>
<p>"They seem to spend a great deal."</p>
<p>"But that's only a small house of theirs?"</p>
<p>"Oh, yes, they're rather proud of that. They
don't spend their money selfishly. It goes to the
Cause, you see."</p>
<p>"What Cause?" Lady Tasker asked abruptly.</p>
<p>This was Katie's cue....</p>
<p>She ceased, and Lady Tasker muttered something.
It sounded rather like "H'm! Too much money
and not enough to do!" but neither of her companions
was near enough to be quite sure.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span></p>
<p>And thereupon the questions stopped.</p>
<p>But a surmise of their drift had begun to dawn
glimmeringly upon Dorothy. She ceased to hear
the exposition of Imperialism's real needs into which
Katie presently launched, and fell into a meditation.
And of that meditation this was about the length
and breadth:—</p>
<p>Until the law should allow a man to have more
wives than one (if then), of course only one woman
in the world could be perfectly happy—the woman
who had Stan. That conviction came first, and
last, and ran throughout her meditation. And of
what Dorothy might compassionately have called
secondary happinesses she had hitherto not thought
very much. She had merely thanked her stars that
she had not married a man like Cosimo, had once
or twice rather resented Amory's well-meant but
left-handed kindnesses, and that had been the extent
of her concern about the Pratt household. But
first Katie, and now her aunt, had set her wondering
hard enough about that household now.</p>
<p>What, she asked herself, had the Pratts married on?
What discoveries had they made in one another,
what resources found within themselves? Apart
from their talks and books and meetings and "interests"
and that full pack of their theories, what was
their marriage? Thrown alone together for an
hour, did they fret? Did their yawning cease when
the bell rang and a caller was admitted? Did even
the same succession of callers become stale and a
bore, so that strangers had to be sought to provide
a stimulus? And did they call these and half a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span>
hundred other forms of mutual boredom by the
rather resounding names that blabbing Katie had
repeated to her—"wider interests," "the broad
outlook," "the breaking down of personal insularity,"
and the rest?</p>
<p>And for once Dorothy dropped her excusatory
attitude towards her friend. She dropped it so
completely that by and by she found herself wondering
whether Amory would have married Cosimo had
he been a poor man. She was aware that, stated
in that way, it sounded hideous; nor did she quite
mean that perhaps Amory had married Cosimo
simply and solely because he had <i>not</i> been poor;
no doubt Amory had assumed other things to be
equal that as a matter of fact had unfortunately
proved to be not equal at all; but she <i>did</i>
doubt now whether Amory had not missed that
something, that something made of so many things,
that caused her own heart suddenly to gush out to
the absent Stan. The thought frightened her a
little. Had Amory married and had babies—all,
as it were, beside the mark?...</p>
<p>Dorothy did not know.</p>
<p>But an obscurer hint still had seemed to lie behind
her aunt's persistent questions. "Was Amory
ill?" she herself had asked in alarm when that
unexpected word "doctor" had been quietly
dropped; and "Ill? I didn't say she was ill;
there's no illness about it," Lady Tasker had replied.
No illness about what? Apparently about something
Lady Tasker saw, or thought she saw, in
Amory.... An old lady whose years had earned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span>
her the right to sit comfortably in her chair had
gone so far as to descend the stairs and go out into
the street to have a closer look at a young one: why?
Why ask "Is she a Channel swimmer?" and "Is
her painting a mere hitting of the air?" Why
this insistence on some satisfaction for labour, as
if without that satisfaction the labour wreaked on
the labourer some sort of revenge? What sort of
a revenge? And why on Amory?</p>
<p>Yes, Dorothy would have liked to ask her aunt a
good many questions....</p>
<p>She did not know that Lady Tasker could not
have answered them. She did not know that the
whole world is waiting for precisely those replies.
She did not know that the data of a great experiment
have not yet begun to be gathered together.
She did not know that, while she and Stan would
never see the results of that experiment, little Noel
and the other Bits, and Corin and Bonniebell
might. She only knew that her aunt was a wise
and experienced woman, with an appetite for life
and all belonging to it that only grew the stronger
as her remaining years drew in, and that apparently
Lady Tasker found something to question, if not to
fear.</p>
<p>"Is she a Channel swimmer? Does she get any
emotional satisfaction out of what she does?"</p>
<p>They were oddly precise questions....</p>
<p>Much less odd was that homely summing-up of
Lady Tasker's: "Too much money, and not enough
to do."...</p>
<p>Dorothy had often thought that herself.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span></p>
<h2>V</h2>
<h3>"HOUSE FULL"</h3>
<p>The gate in the privet hedge of The Witan had
had little rest all the afternoon. It was a
Sunday, the one following that on which Lady
Tasker had issued bareheaded from her door, had
crossed the road, and had caused Amory to start
half out of her skin by suddenly speaking to her.
The Wyrons had come in the morning; they had
been expressly asked to lunch; but it was known
that Dickie Lemesurier was coming in afterwards to
discuss an advertisement, and if Dickie came the
chances were that Mr. Brimby would not be very
long after her. As a matter of fact Dickie and Mr.
Brimby had encountered one another outside and
had arrived together at a little after three, bringing
three young men, friends of Mr. Brimby's still at
Oxford, with them. These young men wore Norfolk
jackets, gold-pinned polo-collars, black brogues and
turned-up trousers; and apparently they had
hesitated to take Cosimo at his word about "spreading
themselves about anywhere," for they stood
shoulder to shoulder in the studio, and when one
turned to look at a picture or other object on the
wall, all did so. Then, not many minutes later,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span>
Mr. Wilkinson had entered, in his double-breasted
blue reefer, bringing with him a stunted, bowlegged
man who did not carry, but looked as if
he ought to have carried, a miner's lamp; and by
half-past four, of The Witan's habitués, only Mr.
Prang and Edgar Strong were lacking. But Edgar
was coming. It had been found impossible, or at
any rate Amory had decided that it was impossible,
to discuss the question of Dickie's advertisement
without him. But he was very late.</p>
<p>When Britomart Belchamber came in simultaneously
with the tea and the twins at a little before
five, the studio was full. The asbestos log purred
softly, and Mr. Brimby's three Oxford friends, glad
perhaps of something to do, walked here and there,
each of them with a plate of bread and butter in
either hand, not realizing that at The Witan the
beautiful Chinese rule of politeness was always
observed—"When the stranger is in your melon-patch,
be a little inattentive." Had Dickie Lemesurier
and Laura Wyron eaten half the white and
brown that was presented to them, they must have
been seriously unwell. It was Cosimo, grey-collared
and with a claret-coloured velvet waistcoat showing
under his slackly-buttoned tweed jacket, who gave
the young men the friendly hint, "Everybody helps
themselves here, my dear fellows." Then the
Norfolk jackets came together again, and presently
their owners turned with one accord to examine
the hock and the top-side that hung on the wall over
the sofa.</p>
<p>Not so much a blending of voices as an incessant<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span>
racket of emphatic and independent pronouncements
filled the studio. Walter Wyron had fastened upon
the man who looked as if he ought to have carried
a miner's lamp, and his forefinger was wagging like
a gauge-needle as he explained that one of his
Lectures had been misrepresented, and that he had
<i>never</i> taken up the position that a kind of Saturnalia
should be definitely state-established. He
admitted, nevertheless, that the question of such an
establishment ought to be considered, like any other
question, on its merits, and that after that the argument
should be followed whithersoever it led.—Dickie
Lemesurier, excessively animated, and with
the whites showing dancingly all round her pupils,
was talking Césanne and Van Gogh to Laura, and
declaring that something was "quite the" something
or other.—Mr. Brimby's hand was fondling
Bonniebell's head while he deprecated the high
degree of precision of the modern rifle to Mr. Wilkinson.
"If only it wasn't so ruthlessly logical!"
he was sighing. "If only it was subject to the
slight organic accident, to those beautiful adaptations
of give-and-take that make judgment
harsh, and teach us that we ought never to condemn!"—Corin,
drawn by the word "gun," was
demanding to be told whether that was the gun
that had been taken away from him.—And Britomart
Belchamber, indifferent alike to the glances
of the Oxford men and their trepidation in her
presence, stood like a caryatid under a wall-bracket
with an ivy-green replica of Bastianini's Dante upon
it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span></p>
<p>"No, no, not for a moment, my dear sir!"
Walter shouted to the man who looked like (and
was) a miner. "That is to ignore the context. I
admit I used the less-known Pompeian friezes as a
rough illustration of what I meant—but I did <i>not</i>
suggest that Waring & Gillow's should put them
on the market! What I did say was that we
moderns must work out our damnation on the same
lines that the ancients did. Read your Nietzsche,
my good fellow, and see what <i>he</i> says about the
practical serviceability of Excess! I contend that
a kind of general <i>oubliance</i>, say for three weeks in
the year, to which everybody without exception
would have to conform (so that we shouldn't have
the superior person bringing things up against us
afterwards)——"</p>
<p>"Ah doan't see how ye could mak' fowk——," the
miner began, in an accent that for a moment
seemed to blast a hole clean through the racket.
But the hole closed up again.</p>
<p>"Ah, at present you don't," Walter cried. "The
spade-work isn't done yet. We need more education.
But every new and great idea——"</p>
<p>But here an outburst from Mr. Wilkinson to Mr.
Brimby drowned Walter's voice. Mr. Wilkinson
raised his clenched fist, but only for emphasis, and
not in order to strike Mr. Brimby.</p>
<p>"Stuff and nonsense! There you go, Brimby,
trimming again! We've heard all that: 'A great
deal to be said on both sides,'"—(Mr. Wilkinson all
but mimicked Mr. Brimby). "There isn't—not if
you're going to do anything! There's only one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span>
side. You've got to shoot or be shot. I'm a
shooter. Give me five hundred real men and plenty
of barricade stuff——"</p>
<p>"Oh, oh, oh, my dear friend!" Mr. Brimby
protested. "Why, if your principles were universally
applied——"</p>
<p>"Who said anything about applying 'em universally?
Hang your universal applications! I'm
talking about the Industrial Revolution. I'll tell
you what's the matter with you, Brimby: you don't
like the sight of blood. I'm not blaming you.
Some men are like that. But it's in every page of
your writing. You've got a bloodless style. I don't
mind admitting that I liked some of your earlier work,
while there still seemed a chance of your making up
your mind some day——"</p>
<p>But here Mr. Wilkinson in his turn was drowned,
this time by an incredulous laugh from Cosimo, who
had joined Dickie and Laura.</p>
<p>"Van Gogh says <i>that</i>?" his voice mounted high.
"Really? You're sure he wasn't joking? Ha ha
ha ha!... But it's rather pathetic really. One
would think Amory'd never painted 'Barrage,' nor
the 'White Slave,' nor that—," he pointed to the
unfinished canvas of "The Triumph of Humane
Government" on the wall. "By Jove, I must make
an Appendix of that!... Here—Walter!—Have
you told him, Dickie?—Walter!——"</p>
<p>But Walter was now at deadly grips with the man
who had forgotten his miner's lamp.</p>
<p>"I tell you I never used Saturnalia in that sense at
all!——"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span></p>
<p>But the miner stood his ground.</p>
<p>"Happen ye didn't, but I'll ask ye one question:
Have ye ever been to Blackpool of a August Bank
Holiday?——"</p>
<p>"My good man, you talk as if I proposed to do
something with the stroke of a pen, to-morrow, before
the world's ready for it——"</p>
<p>"Have ye ever been to Blackpool of a Bank
Holiday?"</p>
<p>"What on earth has Blackpool to do with it?——"</p>
<p>"Well, we'll say Owdham Wakes week at t' Isle o'
Man—Douglas——"</p>
<p>"Pooh! You've got hold of the wrong idea altogether!
Do you know what Saturnalia <i>means</i>?——"</p>
<p>"I know there's a man on Douglas Head, at twelve
o'clock i' t' day, wi' t' sun shining, going round wi' a
stick an' prodding 'em up an' telling 'em to break
away——"</p>
<p>"I shouldn't have thought anybody could have
been so <i>incredibly</i> slow to grasp an idea—!" cried
Walter, his hands aloft.</p>
<p>"Have—you—ever—been—to—Blackpool—when—t'
Wakes—is on?"</p>
<p>Then Cosimo called again—</p>
<p>"Walter! I say! Come here!... Dickie's just
told me something that makes the '<i>Life and Work</i>'
<i>rather</i> necessary, I think!——"</p>
<p>And Walter turned his back on the miner and
joined his wife and Dickie and Cosimo.</p>
<p>Anybody who wasn't anybody might have supposed
the noise to be a series of wrangles, but of course
it wasn't so at all really. Issues far too weighty hung<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span>
in the balance. It is all very well for people whose
mental range is limited by <i>matinées</i> and Brooklands
and the newest car to talk in pleasant and unimpassioned
voices, but what was going to happen to Art
unless Cosimo hurled himself and the '<i>Life and
Work</i>' against this heretic Van Gogh, and what was
to become of England if Walter allowed a pig-headed
man who could say nothing but "Blackpool Pier,
Blackpool Pier," to shout him down, and what would
happen to Civilization if Mr. Wilkinson did not,
figuratively speaking, take hold of the dilettante
Brimby and shake him as a terrier shakes a rat?
No: there would be time enough for empty politenesses
when the battle was won.</p>
<p>In the meantime, a mere nobody might have
thought they were merely excessively rude to one
another.</p>
<p>Then began fresh combinations and permutations
of the talk. Mr. Wilkinson, whose square-cut pilot
jacket somehow added to the truculence of his appearance,
planted himself firmly for conversation before
Dickie Lemesurier; the miner, whose head at a little
distance appeared bald, but on a closer view was seen
to be covered with football-cropped and plush-like
bristles, nudged Cosimo's hip, to attract his attention:
and Walter Wyron sprang forward with a welcoming
"Hallo, Raffinger!" as the door opened and two
young McGrath students were added to the crowd.
For a minute no one voice preponderated in the
racket; it was—</p>
<p>"Hallo, Raff! Thought you weren't coming!"</p>
<p>"I want a gun!" (This from Corin.)<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span></p>
<p>"My dear Corin" (this from Bonniebell), "Miss
Belchamber's told you over and over again guns are
anti-social——"</p>
<p>"Anybody smoking? Well, I know they don't
mind——"</p>
<p>"But, Miss Lemesurier, where a speaker reaches
only a hundred or two, the written word——"</p>
<p>"Ah, but the personal, magnetic thrill——"
(This was in Dickie's rather deep voice.)</p>
<p>Then Walter, to somebody else, not the miner—</p>
<p>"I should have thought <i>anybody</i> would have
known that when I said Saturnalia I meant——"</p>
<p>"Where's Amory?"</p>
<p>"Sweet, in those little tunics!——"</p>
<p>"A subsidy from the State, of course——"</p>
<p>Then the miner, but not to Walter—</p>
<p>"I' t' daylight, proddin' 'em up wi' a stick—to
say nowt o' Port Skillian bathin'-place of a fine
Sunda'——"</p>
<p>"That hoary old lie, that Socialism means sharing——"</p>
<p>"Oh, at any artists' colourman's——"</p>
<p>"No; it will probably be published privately——"</p>
<p>"Van Gogh——"</p>
<p>"Oh, you're <i>entirely</i> wrong!——"</p>
<p>And then, in the middle of a sudden and mysterious
lull, the man who had come without his
safety-lamp was heard addressing Cosimo again:—</p>
<p>"Well, what about t' new paaper? Owt settled
yet?... Nay, ye needn't look; Wilkinson telled
me; it's all right; nowt 'at's said 'll go beyond
these fower walls. Wilkinson's gotten a rare list<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span>
together, names an' right, I can tell ye! But t' way
I look at it is this——"</p>
<p>Cosimo looked blank.</p>
<p>"But, my dear—I'm afraid I didn't catch your
name——," he said.</p>
<p>"Crabtree—Eli Crabtree. This is t' point I want
to mak', mister. Ye see, I can't put things grammar;
but there's lots about 'at can; so I thowt
we'd get a sec'etary, an' I'd sit an' smoke whol' my
thowts come, and then I'd tell him t' tale. Ye see,
ye want to go slap into t' middle o' t' lives o' t'
people. Now comin' up o' t' tram-top I bethowt
me of a champion series: '<i>Back to Back Houses
I've Known</i>.' I'll bet a crahn that wi' somb'dy
to put it grammar for me——"</p>
<p>"My dear Crabtree, I'm afraid, don't you know,
that there's been some mistake——"</p>
<p>And at this point, everybody becoming conscious
at the same moment that they were listening, a
fresh wave of sound flowed over the assembly; and
presently Mr. Wilkinson was seen to take Cosimo
aside and to be making the gestures of a man who
is explaining some ridiculous mistake.</p>
<p>Then once more:—</p>
<p>"I beg your pardon—I thought you were Mrs.
Pratt——"</p>
<p>"Put grammar—straight to fowk's hearts—sinks
and slopstones an' all t' lot——"</p>
<p>"No, Balliol——"</p>
<p>"But listen, Pratt, the way the mistake
arose——"</p>
<p>"Ellen Key, of course——"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span></p>
<p>"The 'Times!'—As if the 'Times' wasn't
<i>always</i> wrong!——"</p>
<p>"There's a raucousness about her paint——"</p>
<p>"The Caxton Hall, at eight—do come!——"</p>
<p>"But we authors are so afraid of sentiment
nowadays!——"</p>
<p>"Bombay, I think—or else Hyderabad——"</p>
<p>"Oh, he talks like a fool!——"</p>
<p>"Raff! Come here and recite '<i>The King is
Duller</i>'——"</p>
<p>"But Love <i>is</i> Law!——"</p>
<p>"Suspend our judgments until we've heard the
other side——"</p>
<p>"Only water—but they couldn't break her spirit—she
was out again in three days——"</p>
<p>And again there came an unexpected lull.</p>
<p>This time it was broken by, perhaps not the loudest,
but certainly the most travelling voice yet—the
voice of the caryatid beneath the bracket with the
bust upon it. Miss Belchamber was dressed in a
sleeveless surcoat chess-boarded with large black
and white squares; the skirt beneath it was of dark
blue linen; and there were beards of leather on her
large brown brogues. One of the young Oxford
men, greatly daring, had approached her and asked
her a question. She turned slowly; she gave the
young man the equal-soul-to-equal-soul look; and
then the apparatus of perfect voice-production was
set in motion. Easily and powerfully the air came
from her magnificent chest, up the splendid six-inch
main of her throat, rang upon the hard anterior
portion of her palate, and was cut, as it were, to its<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span>
proper length and shaped into perfect enunciation
by her red tongue and beautiful white teeth.</p>
<p>"What?" she said.</p>
<p>The undergraduate fell a little back.</p>
<p>"Only—I only asked if you'd been to many
theatres lately."</p>
<p>"Not any."</p>
<p>"Oh!... I—I suppose you know everybody
here?"</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>"Do point them out to me!"</p>
<p>"That's Walter Wyron. That's Mrs. Wyron.
That's Miss Lemesurier. I don't know who the
little man is. That's Mr. Wilkinson. My name's
Belchamber."</p>
<p>"Oh—I say—I mean, thanks awfully. We've
heard of them all, of course," the unhappy young
man faltered.</p>
<p>"What?"</p>
<p>"All distinguished names, I mean."</p>
<p>"Of course."</p>
<p>"Rather!——"</p>
<p>And again everybody listened, became conscious
of the fact, and broke out anew.</p>
<p>But where all this time was Amory?</p>
<p>Demonstrably, exactly where she ought to have
been—in her bedroom. She was too dispirited to be
accessible to the rational talk of others; she did not
feel that she had energy enough to be a source of
illumination herself; surely, then, merely because
a lot of people, invited and uninvited, chose to come
to The Witan, she need not put herself out to go and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span>
look after them. They might call themselves her
"guests" if they liked; Amory didn't care what form
of words they employed; the underlying reality
remained—that she was intensely bored, and too
fundamentally polite to bore others by going down.
Perhaps she would go down when Edgar came. She
had left word that she was to be informed of his
arrival. But he was very late.</p>
<p>Nevertheless, she knew that he would come.
Lately she had grown a little more perspicacious
about that. It had dawned on her that, everything
else apart, she had some sort of hold on him through
the "Novum," and there had been a trace of
command in her summons that he was pretty sure not
to disregard. No doubt he would try to get away
again almost directly, but she had arranged about
that. She intended to keep him to supper. Also
the Wyrons. And Britomart Belchamber too would
be there. And of course Cosimo.</p>
<p>She moved restlessly between her narrow bed and
the window, now polishing her nails, now glancing
at her hair in the glass. From the window she could
see over the privet hedge and down the road, but
there was no sign of Edgar yet. She looked at herself<br />
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">again in the glass, without favour, and then sat</span><br />
down on the edge of her bed again.</p>
<p>Her meeting with Lady Tasker the week before
had greatly unsettled her. Very stupidly, she had
quite forgotten that Lady Tasker lived in Cromwell
Gardens. She would have thought nothing at all of
the meeting had Lady Tasker had a hat on her head
and gloves on her hands; she would have set that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span>
down as an ordinary street-encounter; but Dorothy's
aunt had evidently seen her from some window,
perhaps not for the first time, and, if not for the
first, very likely for the third or fourth or fifth. In
a word, Amory felt that she had been caught.</p>
<p>And, as she had been thinking of Edgar Strong at
the moment when the old lady's voice had startled
her so, it was not beyond the bounds of possibility
that her start had seemed remarkable. Lady Tasker
was so very sharp.</p>
<p>At all events, even Edgar was not going to have
everything all his own way.</p>
<p>For she was sure now that she had the hold of the
"Novum" on him, and that that hold was not altogether
the single-minded devotion to his duty he had
made it out to be on that day when she had last gone
to the office. Not that she thought too unkindly of
him on that account. The labourer, even in the field
of Imperial Politics, is still worthy of his hire, and
poor Edgar, like the rest of the world, had to make
the best compromise he could between what he would
have liked to do and what circumstances actually
permitted him to do. Of course he would be anxious
to keep his job. If he didn't keep it a worse man
would get it, and India would be no better off, but
probably worse. She sighed that all work should be
subject to compromises of this kind. Edgar, in a
word, was no longer a hero to her, but, by his very
weakness, something a little nearer and dearer
still.</p>
<p>But for all that she had not hesitated to use her
"pull" in order to get him to The Witan that day.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span></p>
<p>She saw him as she advanced to the glass again.
He was nearly a quarter of a mile down the road.
She found a little secret delight in watching his approach
when he was unconscious of her watching.
His figure was still very small, and she indulged
herself with a fancy, closing her eyes for a moment
in order to do so. Suppose he had been, not
approaching, but going away—then when she opened
her eyes again he would look smaller still.... She
opened them, and experienced a little thrill at seeing
him nearer and plainer. She could distinguish the
red spot of his tie. Now he turned his head to look
at some people who passed. Now he stepped off
the pavement to make room for somebody. Now
he was on the pavement again—now hidden by a
tree—now once more disclosed, and quite near——</p>
<p>She straightened herself, gave a last look into the
glass, and descended.</p>
<p>She met him in the hall. They shook hands, but
did not speak. There was no need for him to ask
whether anybody had come; the babble of noise
could be plainly heard through the closed studio
door. They walked along the passage, descended
the two steps into the garden, and reached the studio.</p>
<p>Strong opened the door, and—</p>
<p>"<i>Ha, ha, ha!</i> I shall tell them that at the
Nursery!——"</p>
<p>"No—just living together——"</p>
<p>"Corin!—Corin!——"</p>
<p>"The eighteenth, at the Little Theatre——"</p>
<p>Then the voice of Mr. Crabtree vociferating to his
friend Mr. Wilkinson.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span></p>
<p>"I thowt ye telled me 'at Pratt knew all about
it——"</p>
<p>"One day in the High, just opposite Queens——"</p>
<p>"Not know the '<i>Internationale</i>'!—Debout, les
damnés de la terre——!"</p>
<p>Next, sonorously, Miss Belchamber.</p>
<p>"Yes, I dance 'Rufty Tufty' and 'Catching of
Quails'——"</p>
<p>"But my good chap, don't you see that the
Referendum——"</p>
<p>"Oh, throw it down anywhere—on the hearth——"</p>
<p>"Really, the bosh he talks——"</p>
<p>"The Minority Report——"</p>
<p>"Corin!——"</p>
<p>"Plato——"</p>
<p>"Prang——"</p>
<p>Then, before anybody had had time to notice the
entry of Amory and Edgar Strong, an extraordinary,
not to say a regrettable thing occurred.</p>
<p>Mr. Eli Crabtree had spent the last twenty minutes
in going deliberately from one person to another,
often thrusting himself unceremoniously between two
people already engaged in conversation, and in subjecting
them to questionings that had become less
and less reticent the further he had passed round the
room. And it appeared that this collier who had
forgotten his Davy had yet another lamp with him—the
lamp of his own narrow intelligence and inalienable,
if worthless, experience. By the help of that
darkness within him that he mistook for light, he had
added inference to inference and conclusion to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span>
conclusion. Cosimo—Wilkinson—Walter Wyron—Brimby—the
Balliol men—the young students of the
McGrath—he had missed not one of them; but none
knew the portent of his tour of the studio until he had
reached the hearth again. Then he was seen to be
standing with his hands behind him, as if calmly
summing them up.</p>
<p>"By—Gow!" he said half to himself, his football-cropped
head moving this way and that and his eyes
blinking rapidly as he sought somebody to address.</p>
<p>Then, all in a moment, he ceased his attempt to
single out one more than another, and was addressing
them in the lump, for all the world as if he had been
allowed the entrée of the house, not as a high and
memorable privilege and in order that he might learn
something he had never suspected before, but as if,
finding himself there, <i>he</i> might as well tell <i>them</i> a
thing or two while he was about it. And though his
astonishment at what he had seen might well have
rendered him dumb, his good temper did not for an
instant forsake him.</p>
<p>"By—Gow!" he said again. "But this <i>is</i> a
menagerie, an' reight!"</p>
<p>The instantaneous dead silence and turn of every
head might have disconcerted a prophet, but they
made not the slightest impression on Mr. Crabtree.</p>
<p>"It <i>is</i> a menagerie!" he continued superbly.
"Ding, if onnybody'd told me I wadn't ha' believed
'em!—Let's see how monny of ye there is——"</p>
<p>And calmly he began to count them.</p>
<p>"Fowerteen—fifteen—sixteen countin' them two
'at's just come in an' leavin' out t' barns. Sixteen of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span>
ye, grown men an' women, an' not a single one of
ye knows ye're born! Nay, it's cappin'!—Him
wi' his Salmagundys or whativver he calls 'em, an'
niver been on Douglas Head!—T' maister here, 'at
doesn't know what a back-to-back is, I'se warrant!—An'
yon chap—," Mr. Crabtree's forefinger was
straight as a pistol between Mr. Brimby's eyes, "—'at
says there's a deeal to be said o' both sides an'll
be having his pocket'ankercher out in a minute!—An'
these young men thro' t' Collidge!—Nay, if it
doesn't beat all! I ne'er thowt to live to see t'
day!——"</p>
<p>And he made a T-t-t-ing with his tongue on his
palate, while his sharp little eyes looked on them all
with amusement and pity.</p>
<p>Out of the silence of consternation that had fallen
on the studio Walter Wyron was the first to come.
He nudged Cosimo, as if to warn him not to spoil
everything, and then, with his hands deep in the
pockets of his knickers and an anticipatory relish on
his face, said "I say, old chap—make us a speech,
won't you?"</p>
<p>But if Walter thought to take a rise out of Mr.
Crabtree he was quite, quite mistaken. With good-natured
truculence the collier turned on him also.</p>
<p>"A speech?" he said. "Well, I wasn't at t' back
o' t' door when t' speechifyin'-powers was given out;
it wadn't be t' first time I'd made a speech, nut by a
mugfull. Mony's t' time they've put Eeali Crabtree
o' t' table i' t' 'Arabian Horse' at Aberford an'
called on him for a speech. I'd sooner mak' a speech
nor have a quart o' ale teamed down my collar, an'<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span>
that's all t' choice there is when t' lads begins to get
lively!... I don't suppose onny o' ye's ever been i' t'
'Arabian Horse'? Ye owt to come, of a oppenin'-time
of a Sunda' morning. Ye'd see a bit o' life.
Happen ye might ha' to get at t' back o' t' door—if
they started slinging pints about, that is—but it's
all love, and ye've got to do summat wi' it when ye
can't sup onny more. I should like to have him 'at
talks about t' Paraphernalia there; it 'ld oppen his
eyes a bit! An' him 'at wor reciting about t' King
an' all—t' little bastard i' t' corner there——"</p>
<p>At this word, used in so familiar and cheerful a
sense, Laura Wyron stiffened and turned her back;
but Walter still hoped for his "rise."</p>
<p>"Go on," he said; "give us some more, old chap."</p>
<p>The child of nature needed no urging.</p>
<p>"Ay, as much as ivver ye like," he said accommodatingly.
"But I wish I'd browt my voice jewjewbes.
Ay, I willn't be t' only one 'at isn't talking! T'
rest on ye talks—ding, it's like a lamb's tail, waggin'
all day and nowt done at neet—so we mud as weel
all be friendly-like! Talk! Ay, let's have a talk!
Here ye all are, all wi' your fine voices an' fine clothes,
an' ivvery one o' ye wi' t' conveeanience i' t' house,
I don't doubt, an' I'll bet a gallon there isn't one o'
ye's ivver done a hands-turn i' your lives! Nay, ye're
waur nor my Aunt Kate! Come down to Aberford
an' I'll show ye summat! Come—it's a invitaation—I'll
see it doesn't cost ye nowt! T' lads is all working,
all but t' youngest, an' we're nooan wi'out! No,
we're nooan wi'out at our house! I'll interdewce ye
to t' missis, an' ye can help her to peel t' potates, an'<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span>
ye can go down i' t' cage if ye like! Come, an' I'll
kill a pig, just for love. Come of a Sunda' dinner-time,
when t' beef's hot. Wilkinson knows what
I mean; he knows t' life; he reckons not to when
he's wi' his fine friends, but Wilkie's had to lie i' bed
while his shirt was being mended afore to-day!...
Nay, the hengments!" He broke into a jovial laugh.
"Ye know nowt about it, an' ye nivver will! These
'ere young pistills fro' t' Collidge—what are they
maalakin' at? It doesn't tak' five thousand pound
a year to learn a lad not to write a mucky word on a
wall!" (Here Dickie Lemesurier turned her back
on the speaker).... "They want to get back to
their Collidges. T' gap's ower wide. They'll get
lost o' t' road. Same as him 'at wrote t' book about
t' pop-shop——," again Mr. Crabtree's forefinger was
levelled between Mr. Brimby's eyes. "Brimbyin'
about, an' they don't know a black puddin' from a
Penny Duck! Has he ivver had to creep up again t'
chimley-wall to keep himself warm i' bed, or to pull
t' kitchen blinds down while he washed himself of
a Saturda' afternooin? But ye can all come an'
see if ye like. We've had to tew for it, but we're
nooan wi'out now. An' I'll show ye a bit o' sport
too. We all have we'r whippets, an' we can clock
t' pigeons in, an' see what sort of a bat these young
maisters can mak' at knurr-an'-spell—eighteen-and-a-half
score my youngest lad does! Ay, we enjoy
we'rsens! An' there's quoits an' all. Eighteen
yards is my distance if onnybody wants to laake for
a beast's-heart supper! Come—ding it, t' lot o' ye
come! We can sleep fower o' ye, wed 'uns, heads<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span>
to tails, if ye don't mind all being i' t' little
cham'er——"</p>
<p>But by this time Mr. Crabtree was having to
struggle to keep his audience. Mr. Brimby too had
turned away, and Mr. Wilkinson, and even Miss
Belchamber had spoken several words of her own
accord to the young Balliol boy. The tide of sound
began to rise again, so that once more Mr. Crabtree's
voice was only one among many. Then Walter
started forward with an "Ah, Amory!" and "Hallo,
Strong!" Mr. Raffinger of the McGrath exclaimed....</p>
<p>"Perseverance Row, fower doors from t' 'Arabian
Horse'——," Mr. Crabtree bawled hospitably
through the hubbub....</p>
<p>"Oh, you <i>must</i> see it—the New Greek Society, on
the seventeenth——"</p>
<p>"But I say—what <i>is</i> 'Catching of Quails,' Miss
Belchamber——?"</p>
<p>"Mr. Wilkinson brought him, I think——"</p>
<p>"Fellow of All Souls, wasn't he?——"</p>
<p>Then that genial Aberford man again:</p>
<p>"I tell ye t' gap's ower wide, young man—ye'll get
lost o' t' road——"</p>
<p>"No, the children take her name——"</p>
<p>"Got a match, old fellow?——"</p>
<p>"Rot, my dear chap!——"</p>
<p>"But what <i>is</i> condonation if that isn't?——"</p>
<p>"Oh, the ordinary brainless Army type——"</p>
<p>"I read it in the German——"</p>
<p>"They gained time by paying in pennies——"</p>
<p>"In Père Lachaise——"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span></p>
<p>"Well, we can talk about it at suppertime——"</p>
<p>"But with cheaper Divorce——"</p>
<p>"One an' all—whenivver ye like—Eeali Crabtree,
Perseverance Row, Aberford, fower doors from t'
'Arabian Horse'——"</p>
<p>"Nietzsche——"</p>
<p>"Finot——"</p>
<p>"Weininger——"</p>
<p>"Wadham——"</p>
<p>"Aberford——"</p>
<p>"Rufty Tufty——"</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span></p>
<h2>VI</h2>
<h3>THE SOUL STORM</h3>
<p>"I—say!——"</p>
<p>"<i>Wasn't</i> he priceless!——"</p>
<p>"You got his address, Cosimo? I <i>must</i> cultivate
him!——"</p>
<p>"Pure delight!——"</p>
<p>"You had come in, hadn't you, Amory?——"</p>
<p>"He <i>shot</i> Brimby!——"</p>
<p>"To all intents and purposes—with his finger——"</p>
<p>"Can you do his accent, Walter?——"</p>
<p>"I will in a week, or perish——"</p>
<p>"His bath in the kitchen!——"</p>
<p>"T' wed 'uns can sleep i' t' little chamber——"</p>
<p>"No—he didn't sound the 'b' in 'chamber,' and
there were at least three 'a's' in it——"</p>
<p>"'T' little chaaam'er'——"</p>
<p>"No, you haven't quite got it——"</p>
<p>"Give me a little time——"</p>
<p>The party had dwindled to six—Cosimo and
Amory, the Wyrons, and Britomart Belchamber and
Mr. Strong. They were still in the studio, but they
were only waiting for the supper-gong to ring.
Cigarette ends were thickly strewn about the asbestos
log. The bandying of short ecstatic phrases had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span>
been between Walter and his wife, with Cosimo a
little less rapturously intervening; the subject of
them was, of course, Mr. Crabtree. To his general
harangue Mr. Crabtree had added, before leaving,
more particular words of advice, making a second
tour of the studio for the purpose; and he had
distinguished Walter above all the rest by inviting
him, not merely to the house four doors from the
"Arabian Horse," but to spend a warm afternoon
with him on Douglas Head also.</p>
<p>But the Wyrons had these raptures pretty much to
themselves. Perhaps Cosimo was thinking of Mr.
Wilkinson, of some new paper of which he had never
heard, and of the assumption that he, apparently,
was to find the money for it. Miss Belchamber was
rarely rapturous, so that her silence was nothing out
of the way. Edgar Strong could be rapturous when
he chose, but he evidently didn't choose now. And
Amory had far too much on her mind.</p>
<p>Her original idea in asking the Wyrons to stay to
supper had been that they, as acknowledged experts
in the subject that perplexed her, would be the
proper people to keep the ring while the four persons
immediately concerned talked the whole situation
quietly and reasonably and thoroughly out. But she
was rather inclined now to think again before submitting
her case to them. It would be so much
better, if the case must be submitted to anybody,
that Cosimo should do it. Then she herself would
be able to shape her course in the light of anything
that might turn up. Nothing, she had to admit, had
turned up yet, and Amory was not sure that in that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span>
very fact there did not lie a sufficient cause for resentment.
Had Cosimo pleaded a passion for Britomart
Belchamber he would have had Passion's excuse.
Lacking Passion, it could only be concluded that he
was bored with Amory herself.</p>
<p>And that amounted to an insult....</p>
<p>The booming of the gong, however, cut short her
brooding. They passed to the dining-room. Britomart
and Walter sat with their backs to the tall black
dresser with the willow pattern stretching up almost
to the ceiling; Laura and Edgar took the German
chairs that had their backs to the copper-hooded
fireplace; and Cosimo and Amory occupied either
end of the highly-polished clothless table. This
absence of cloth, by the way, gave a church-like
appearance to the flames of the candles in the spidery
brass sticks that had each of them a ring at the top
to lift it up by; the preponderance of black oak
and dull black frames on the walls further added to
the effect of gloom; and the putting down of the
little green pipkins of soup and the moving of the
green-handled knives and round-bowled spoons
made little knockings from time to time.</p>
<p>Again Walter and Laura, with not too much help
from Cosimo, sustained the weight of the conversation;
and it was not until Amory asked a question in a
tone from which rapture was markedly absent that
they sponged, as it were, the priceless memory of Mr.
Crabtree from their minds. Amory's question had
been about Walter's new Lecture, still in course of
preparation, on "<i>Post-Dated Passion</i>"; and Walter
cursorily ran over its heads for the general benefit.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span></p>
<p>"I admit I got the idea from Balzac," he said
between mouthfuls (whenever they came to The Witan
the Wyrons supped almost as heartily as did Edgar
Strong himself). "'Comment l'amour revient aux
vieillards,' you know. But of course that hasn't
any earthly interest for anybody. 'Aux vieilles' it
ought to be. Then—well, then you've simply got 'em."</p>
<p>"Why not 'vieillards?'" Amory asked, not very
genially.</p>
<p>"I say, Cosimo, I'll have another cutlet if I may.—Why
not 'vieillards?' Quite obvious. Men aren't
the interest. I've tried men, and you can ask
Laura how the bookings went.—But 'vieilles' and
I've got 'em. Really, Amory, you're getting quite
dull if you don't see that! I'll explain. You see,
I've already got the younger ones, like Brit here—shove
the claret along, Brit—but the others, of forty
or fifty say, well, they've all had their affairs—or
if they haven't better still—and it's merely a question
of touching the right chord. Regrets, time they've
lost, fatal words 'Too late' and so on—it's simply
<i>made</i> for me! Touch the chord and they do
the rest for themselves. They probably won't hear
half of it for sobbing.—Of course I shall probably
have to modify my style a bit—not quite so—what
shall I say——"</p>
<p>"Jaunty," his wife suggested, "—in the best
sense, I mean——"</p>
<p>"Hm—that's not quite the word—but never
mind. It's a great field. Certainly women, not
men, are the draw."</p>
<p>Amory made a rather petulant objection, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span>
argument lasted some minutes. In the end Walter
triumphantly gained his first point, that women
and not men were the "draw" in the box-office
sense, and also his second one, namely, that not the
Britomarts, but the older women, who would put
their hearts into his hands and pay him for exploiting
their helplessness and ache and tenderness and
regret, and never suspect that they were being
practised upon, were "simply made for him...."</p>
<p>"What do you think of my title?" he asked.</p>
<p>And the title was discussed.</p>
<p>Amory was beginning to find Walter just a little
grasping. She wished that after all she had not
asked the Wyrons to stay to supper. Formerly she
had thought that marriage-escapade of theirs big
and heroic (that too, by the way, had been in the
Latin Quarter, and probably on seven francs a day);
but now she was less sure about that. Quite apart
from the inapplicability of the Wyrons' experience to
her own case, she now wondered whether theirs had
in fact been experience at all. Now that she came to
think of it, they had taken no risks. They <i>had</i> been
married, and in the last event could always turn
round on their critics and silence them with that
fact....</p>
<p>Nor was she quite so ready now to lay even the
souls of Britomart and Cosimo on the dissecting-table
for the sake of seeing Walter exercise his
professional skill upon them. This was not so much
that she wanted to spare Cosimo and Britomart as
that she did not want to give Walter a gratification.
She was inclined to think that if Walter couldn't be a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span>
little more careful about contradicting her he might
find his advertisement omitted from the "Novum"
one week, as Katie Deedes' had been omitted, and
where would he be then? The way in which he
had just said that she was "getting quite dull" had
been next door to a rudeness....</p>
<p>But she had to admit that she felt dull. Edgar,
who sat next to her, did not speak, and Cosimo, who
faced her, was apparently still brooding on people
who planned the spending of his money without
thinking it necessary to consult him first. She was
tired of the whole of the circumstances of her life.
Paris on seven francs a day could hardly be much
worse. Nor, if she could but shake off her lethargy,
need that sum be fixed as low as seven francs. For
she had lately remembered an arrangement made
between herself and Cosimo before she had ever
consented to become engaged to him. It was a long
time since either of them had spoken of this arrangement—so
long that Cosimo would have been almost
within his rights had he maintained that the circumstances
had so altered as to make it no longer binding;
but there it was, or had been, and it had never been
expressly revoked. It was the arrangement by
which they had set apart a fund to insure themselves,
either or both of them, against any evils that might
arise from incompatibility. Amory had no idea
how the matter now stood. She didn't suppose for
a moment that Cosimo had actually set a sum by
each week or month; but, hard and fast or loose
and fluid, he must have made, or be still ready to
make, some provision. It was an inherent part of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span>
contract that a solemn affirmation, with reason
shown (spiritual, not mere legal reason) by either
one or the other, should constitute a sufficient
claim on this fund.</p>
<p>Therefore Paris need not necessarily be the worst
penury.</p>
<p>But, for all her new inclination to leave the
Wyrons out of it, she still thought it a prudent idea
to carry the fight (not that there would be any
fight—that was only a low way of expressing the
high reasonableness that always prevailed at The
Witan) to Cosimo and Britomart, rather than to
have it centre about Edgar and herself. Walter's
eyes were mainly on the box-office nowadays. The
original virtue of that fine protest of theirs was—there
was no use in denying it—gone. He spread
his Lectures frankly now as a net. Well, that was
only one net more among the many nets of which
she was becoming conscious. Edgar too, poor boy,
was compelled to regard even the "Novum" as in
some manner a net. Mr. Brimby, Amory more
than guessed, had nets to spread. Mr. Wilkinson,
in his own way, was out for a catch; and Dickie
fished at the Suffrage Shop; and Katie had fished at
the Eden; and the only one who didn't fish was Mr.
Prang, who wrote his articles about India for nothing,
just to be practising his English.</p>
<p>And all these nets were spread for somebody's
money—a good deal of it Cosimo's. It had been the
same, though perhaps not quite so bad, at Ludlow.
That experiment on the country-side had been
alarmingly costly. And all this did not include the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span>
dozens and dozens of nets of narrower mesh. The
"Novum" might gulp down money by the hundred,
but the lesser things were hardly less formidable in
the sum of them—subscriptions, contributions, gifts,
loans, investments, shares in the Eden and the Book
Shop, mortgages, second mortgages, subsidies, sums
to "tide over," backings, guarantees, losses cut,
more good money sent to bring back the bad, fresh
means of spending devised by somebody or other
almost every day. It had begun to weary even
Amory. The people who came to The Witan
became rather curiously better-dressed the longer
their visiting continued; but the things they
professed to hold dear appeared very little further
advanced. All that first brightness and promise
had gone. Amory's interest had gone. She wanted
to escape from it all, and to go away with Edgar
appeared once more to be the readiest way out.</p>
<p>But, though she might now wish to keep Walter
Wyron out of it all, that did not necessarily mean
that Walter would be kept out. This <i>ex-officio</i>
specialist on the (preferably female) heart, this
professional rectifier of unfortunate marriages, had
not done a number of years' platform-work without
having discovered the peculiar beauties of the
<i>argumentum ad hominem</i>, and it was one of his
practices to enforce his arguments with "Take the
case of Brit here"—or "Let's get down to the concrete:
suppose Amory—" And these descents to the
particular had always a curiously accusatory effect.
Walter, interrupting Amory's meditation, broke into
one of them now.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span></p>
<p>"But my dear chap,"—this was to Cosimo,"—I
can't imagine what's come over all of you to-night!
First Amory, now you! You're usually quicker
than this! Let's take a case.—Brit here——"</p>
<p>One sterno-mastoid majestically turned the caryatid's
head. Again Miss Belchamber's grand thorax
worked as if somebody had put a penny into the slot.</p>
<p>"What?" she said.</p>
<p>"Quiet, Brit; I'm only using you as an illustration.—Suppose
Brit here was to develop a passion for
somebody—Cosimo, say; yes, Cosimo'll do capitally;
awfully good instance of the cant that's commonly
talked about 'treachery' and 'under his own roof'
and all the rest of it—as if a roof wasn't a roof and
it hadn't got to be under somebody's—unless they
went out on the Heath!—Well, suppose it was to
happen to Cosimo and Brit; what then? We're
civilized, I hope. We're a little above the animals, I
venture to think. Amory wouldn't fly at Brit's
eyes, and Brit's father wouldn't come round with
a razor to cut Cosimo's throat. In fact——"</p>
<p>"My fa-ther al-ways uses a safety-razor," said
Miss Belchamber with a reminiscent air.</p>
<p>"Don't interrupt, Brit.—I was going to say that
the world's got past all that. Nor Brit wouldn't fly
at Amory, nor Cosimo kick the old josser out of the
house—though we should be much more ready to
condone that part of it if they did—if it was only
to get quits with the past a bit——"</p>
<p>"My fa-ther's forty-five," Miss Belchamber
announced, as the interesting result of an interesting
mental process of computation. "Next June," she
added.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span></p>
<p>"More interruptions from the back of the hall.—In
fact, I'm not sure that <i>wouldn't</i> be entirely
defensible—Brit going for Amory and Cosimo
kicking the old dodderer out, I mean. That's the
justification of the <i>crime passionel</i>. It's the Will to
Live. And by Live I mean Love. It's the old saying,
that kissing lips have no conscience. Or Jove laughs
at lovers' oaths. Quite right. It's the New Greek
Spirit. But for all that we're modern and rational
about these things. If Strong here wanted to take
Laura from me I should simply say, 'All you've got
to do, my dear chap, is to table your reasons, and
if they're stronger than mine you take her.' See?"</p>
<p>At that Edgar Strong, like Britomart, looked up.
He spoke for the first time.—"What's that you're
saying?" he asked.</p>
<p>"I don't suppose you'd want her, but suppose
you did...."</p>
<p>Mr. Strong dropped his eyes to his plate again.—"Ah,
yes," he said. "Ellen Key's got something
about that." And he relapsed into silence again.</p>
<p>It sounded to Amory idiotic. Walter was so
evidently "trying" it on them in order to see how
it would go down with an audience afterwards.
She wouldn't have scratched Britomart's eyes out
for Cosimo,—but she coloured a little, and bit her
lip, at the thought that somebody might want to
come between herself and Edgar.... But perhaps
that was what Walter meant—real affinities, as
distinct from the ordinary vapid assumptions about
marriages being made in Heaven. If so, she agreed
with him—not that she was much fonder of him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span>
on that account. She wished he would keep his
personalities for Cosimo and Britomart, and leave
herself and Edgar alone.—Walter went on.</p>
<p>"And then, when you've got your New Greek
Certificate, so to speak, it's plainly the duty of
everybody else, not to put obstacles in your way
and to threaten you with razors and cutting off
supplies, but to sink their personal feelings and to do
everything they can to help you. And without
snivelling either. I shouldn't snivel, I hope, if
anybody took Laura, and she wouldn't if anybody
took me——"</p>
<p>Here Laura interposed softly.—"I don't want
any one to take you, dear," she said.</p>
<p>Walter turned sharply.</p>
<p>"Eh?... Now you've put me off my argument.... What
was I saying?... Haven't I
told you you must <i>never</i> do that, Laura?...
No, it's quite gone.... You see ..."</p>
<p>Laura murmured that she was very sorry....</p>
<p>"No, it's gone," said Walter, almost cheerfully,
as if not sorry that for once the worth of what he had
been about to say should be measured by the sense of
loss. "So since Laura wishes it I'll shut up."</p>
<p>He passed up his plate for a second helping of trifle.</p>
<p>By this time Amory was perhaps rather glad that
she had had the Wyrons after all. That about
people not putting obstacles in the way was quite
neat. "A plain duty," he had said. She hoped
Cosimo'd heard that, and would remember it when
she raised the subject of the fund. And so far was
she herself from putting obstacles in <i>his</i> way that,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span>
although she could have sent Britomart Belchamber
packing with her wages at any moment, she had not
done so. That, as Walter had said, would only have
been another way of flying at her eyes.... Besides,
Amory had been far too deeply occupied to
formulate definitely her charges against Cosimo and
Britomart. For all she knew it might have gone
much, much further than she had thought. Sometimes,
when Amory took breakfast in her own room,
she did not see Cosimo until the evening, and
Britomart too had heaps of time on her hands when
she had finished with Corin and Bonniebell. Cosimo
must not tell her that the "<i>Life and Work</i>" occupied
him during every minute of his time....</p>
<p>Then, presently, she was sorry again that the
Wyrons had been asked, for Walter had suddenly
remembered the thread of his discourse, and, in
continuing it, had been almost rude to Laura.
She wondered whether he would have turned with
a half angry "Why, what's the matter?" had Laura
cried. Perhaps it was really a good thing the
Wyrons hadn't any children, for this kind of thing
would certainly have been a bad example for them.
She herself was never rude to Cosimo before Corin
and Bonniebell. She was always markedly polite.
There were excuses to be made for Passion, but none
for rudeness.</p>
<p>By this time Edgar Strong had finished his last
piece of cheese and was wiping his lips with his
napkin. Then he looked at his watch, and for the
second time during the course of the meal spoke.</p>
<p>"Look here, Cosimo, I've got to be off presently,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span>
and we haven't settled about those advertisements
yet. And there's something else I want to say to
you too. Could we hurry coffee up? Where do
we have it? In the studio, I suppose? Or do
the others go into the studio and you and Walter
and I have ours here?"</p>
<p>"We might as well all go into the studio," said
Cosimo, rising; and they left the sombre room
and sought the studio, all except Miss Belchamber,
who went upstairs.</p>
<p>The sight of the innumerable cigarette-ends about
the asbestos log reminded Walter of Mr. Crabtree
again; and for a minute or two—that is to say
during the time that Walter, taking her aside, told her
of the quiet but penetrating side-light Mr. Crabtree
had innocently shed on Mr. Wilkinson's scheme
for some new paper or other that Cosimo
was to finance—Amory was once more glad that the
Wyrons had come. But the next moment, as Walter
loitered away and Laura came and sat softly down
beside her, she was sorry again. Laura was gently
crying. That struck Amory as stupid. As if she
hadn't enough great troubles of her own, without
burdening herself with the Wyrons' trivial ones!</p>
<p>So, as she had nothing really helpful to say to
Laura, she left her, and sat down on the footstool she
had occupied on the day when Edgar Strong had
said that he liked the casts and had asked her whether
she had read something or other—she forgot what.</p>
<p>Edgar was talking in low tones to Cosimo, and
Amory thought she heard the name of Mr. Prang.
Then Cosimo, who always thought more Imperially<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span>
with a map before him, got out the large atlas, and
the two of them bent over it together. Walter
joined them, and, after an interlude that appeared
to be about the Lectures' advertisement, Walter
strolled away again and joined Laura. Amory
heard an "Eh?" and a moment later the word
"touchy," and Walter went off to the window with
his hands in the pockets of his knickers, whistling.
Edgar took not the least notice of Amory's eyes
intently fixed upon him. He continued to talk to
Cosimo. Walter, who was examining a Japanese
print, called over his shoulder, "This a new one,
Amory? What is it—Utamaro?" Then he walked
up to where Laura sat again. He was speaking in
an undertone to her: "Rubbish ... take on like
that ... better clear off then"; and a moment
later, seeing Edgar Strong buttoning up his coat,
he called out, "Wait a minute, Strong—we're going
down too—get your hat, Laura——"</p>
<p>Five minutes later Cosimo Pratt and his wife
were alone.</p>
<p>It was the first time they had been so for nearly a
fortnight. Indeed, for weeks the departure of the
last visitor had been the signal for their own good-night,
Cosimo going his way, she hers. There had
never been anything even remotely approaching a
"scene" to account for this. It had merely happened
so.</p>
<p>Therefore, finding himself alone with his wife in
the studio again, Cosimo yawned and stretched his
arms above his head.</p>
<p>"Ah-h-h!... You going to bed?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span></p>
<p>As he would hardly be likely to take himself off
before she had answered his question, Amory did not
reply at once. She sat down on the footstool and
stretched her hands out to the asbestos log. Then,
after a minute, and without looking up, she broke
one of their tacitly accepted rules by asking a direct
question.</p>
<p>"What were you and Edgar Strong discussing?"
she asked.</p>
<p>He yawned again.—"Oh, the Bookshop advertisement—and
advertisements generally. It begins
to look as if we should have to be less exclusive
about these things. Strong tells me that it's unheard-of
for a paper to refuse any advertisement it can get."</p>
<p>"I mean when you got out the atlas."</p>
<p>"Oh—India, of course. The Indian policy.
Strong isn't altogether satisfied about Prang. He
seems to think he might get us into trouble."</p>
<p>"How? Why?" Amory said, her eyes reflectively
on the purring gas-jets.</p>
<p>"Can't make out. Some fancy of his. The policy
hasn't changed, and Prang hasn't changed. I
wonder whether Wilkinson's right when he says
Strong's put his hand to the plough but is now ...
<i>ah!</i> That reminds me!—Were you here when that
preposterous fellow—what's his name—Crabtree—rather
let the cat out of the bag about Wilkinson?"</p>
<p>"You mean about another paper? No. But
Walter said something about it."</p>
<p>"Yes, by Jove! He seems to have it all cut-and-dried!
Crabtree seems to think I knew all about it.
Of course I did know that Wilkinson had a scheme,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span>
but I'd no idea he was jumping ahead at that rate. I
don't want two papers. One's getting rather serious."</p>
<p>Still without looking at her husband, Amory said,
"How, serious?"</p>
<p>"Why, the expense. I'm not sure that we didn't
take the wrong line about the advertisements.
Anyway, something will have to be done. Thirty
pounds a week is getting too stiff. I'm seriously
thinking of selling out from the Eden and the
Bookshop. Do you know that with one thing and
another we're down more than three thousand
pounds this year?"</p>
<p>Amory was surprised; but she realized instinctively
that that was not the moment to show her surprise.
Were she to show it, the moment would not be
opportune for the raising of the subject of the fund,
and she wanted to raise that subject. And she
wanted to raise it in connexion with Cosimo and
Britomart Belchamber. She continued to gaze at
the log. The servants, she thought, might have
taken the opportunity of dinner to sweep up the
litter of cigarette-ends that surrounded it; and
then she had a momentary fancy. It was, that the
domestic relations that existed between herself and
Cosimo were a thing that, like that mechanical
substitute for a more generous fire, could be turned
off and on as it were by the mere touching of a tap.
She wondered what made her think of that....</p>
<p>Cosimo had taken out his penknife and was
scraping his nails, moodily running over items of
disbursement as he scraped; and then the silence
fell between them again.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span></p>
<p>It was Amory who broke it, and in doing so she
turned her head for the first time. She gave her
husband a look that meant that, though he might
talk about expenses, she also had a subject.</p>
<p>"Walter was excessively stupid to-night," she
said abruptly.</p>
<p>He said "Oh?" and went on scraping.</p>
<p>"At the best he's never a model of tact, but I
thought he rather overstepped the mark at dinner."</p>
<p>Again he said "Oh?" and added, "What about?"</p>
<p>"His manners. His ideas are all right, I suppose,
but I'm getting rather tired of his platform-tricks."</p>
<p>"His habit of illustration and so on?"</p>
<p>"And his want of tact generally. In fact I'm
not sure it isn't more than that. In a strange house
it would have been simply a <i>faux pas</i>, but he knows
us well enough, and the arrangement between us.
He might at any rate wait till he's called in."</p>
<p>Cosimo started on another nail.—"What arrangement?"
he said.</p>
<p>Again Amory gave him that look that might
have told him that, though he might think that only
a lot of money had gone, she knew that something
far more vital had gone with it.</p>
<p>"Do you mean that you didn't hear what he was
saying about you and Britomart Belchamber?"</p>
<p>"Yes, I heard that, of course. Of course I heard
it."</p>
<p>"Well?"</p>
<p>"Well!"</p>
<p>And this time their eyes met in a long look....</p>
<p>Cosimo had only himself to thank for what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span>
happened to him then. After all, you cannot watch
a superb piece of female mechanism playing "Catching
of Quails," and openly admire the way in which
it can shut up like a clasp-knife and fold itself upon
itself like a multiple lever, and pretend to be half in
love with it lest sharp eyes should see that you are
actually half in love with it, and take it for walks,
and discuss Walter's Lectures with it, and tell it
frequently how different things might have been had
you been ten years younger, and warn it to be a good
girl because of dangerous young men, and stroke
its hair, and tell it what beautiful eyes it has, and
kiss its hand from time to time, and walk with your
arm protectingly about its waist, and so on and so
forth, day after day—you cannot, after all, do these
things and be entirely unflurried when your ever-so-slightly
tiresome wife reminds you that, be it only
by way of illustration, a young expert in such
matters has coupled your name with that of the
passive object of your philanderings. Nor can
you reasonably be surprised when that wife gives
you a long look, that doesn't reproach you for anything
except for your stupidity or hypocrisy if you
pretend not to understand, and then resumes her
meditative gazing into a patent asbestos fire. Appearances
<i>are</i> for the moment against you. You
can<i>not</i> help for one moment seeing it as it must have
appeared all the time to somebody else. Of course
you know that you are in the right really, and the
other person entirely wrong, and that with a little
reasonableness on that other person's part you could
make this perfectly clear; but you <i>are</i> rather<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span>
trapped, you know it, and the state of mind in which
you find yourself is called by people who aren't
anybody in particular "flurry."</p>
<p>Which is perhaps rather a long way of saying that
Cosimo was suddenly and entirely disconcerted.</p>
<p>And his flurry included a certain crossness and
impatience with Amory. She was—could be—only
pretending. She knew perfectly well that there was
nothing really. The least exercise of her imagination
must have told her that to press Britomart Belchamber's
hand, for example, was the most innocent
of creature-comforts. Why, he had pressed it
with Amory herself there; he had said, jokingly,
and Amory had heard him, that it was a desirable hand
to press, and he had pressed it. And so with
Britomart's dancing of "Rufty Tufty." Amory,
who, like Cosimo, had had an artist's training, ought
to be the last person to deny that any eye so trained
did not see a hundred beauties where eyes uneducated
saw one only. And that of course meant chaste
beauties. Such admiration was an exercise in
analysis, not in amorousness.... No, it was
far more likely that Amory was getting at him.
She was smiling, a melancholy and indifferent little
smile, at the asbestos log. She had no right to smile
like that. It made him feel beastly. It made him
so that he didn't know what to say....</p>
<p>But she continued to smile, and when Cosimo did
at last speak he hated himself for stammering.</p>
<p>"But—but—but—oh, come, Amory, this <i>is</i>
absurd! You're—you're tired! Me and Britomart!
Oh, c-c-come!——"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span></p>
<p>And then it occurred to him that this was a
ridiculous answer, and that the proper answer to
have made would have been simply to laugh. He
did laugh.</p>
<p>"Ha, ha, ha! By Jove, for the moment you
almost took me in! You really did get a rise out of
me that time! Congratulations.—And I admit it
is rather cool of Walter to pounce on the first name
that occurs to him and make use of it in that way.
Deuced cool when you come to think of it. It seems
to me——"</p>
<p>But again that quite calm and unreproaching
look silenced him. There was a loftiness and
serenity about it that reminded him of the Amory of
four or five years before. And she spoke almost
with a note of wonder at him in her tone.</p>
<p>"My dear Cosimo," she said very patiently,
"what is the matter? You look at me as if I had
accused you of something. Nothing was further
from my thoughts. I suppose, when you examine
it, it's a matter for congratulation, not accusation
at all. As Walter said, I don't want to fly at
anybody's eyes. We foresaw this, and provided
for it, you know."</p>
<p>At this cool taking for granted of a preposterous
thing Cosimo's stammer became a splutter.—"But—but—but—,"
he broke out: but Amory held up
her hand.</p>
<p>"I raise no objection. I've no right to. What
earthly right have I, when I concurred before ever
we were married?"</p>
<p>"Concurred!... My dear girl, concurred in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span>
what? Really this is the most ridiculous situation
I was ever in!"</p>
<p>Amory raised her brows.—"Oh?... I don't
see anything ridiculous about it. It received my
sanction when Britomart stopped in the house, and
I haven't changed my mind. As I say, we foresaw
it, and provided for it."</p>
<p>"'It!'" Cosimo could only pipe—one little
note, high and thin as that of a piccolo. Amory
continued.</p>
<p>"I'm not asking a single question about it. I'm
not even curious. I didn't become your property
when we married, and you're not mine. Our souls
are our own, both of us. I think we were very wise
to foresee it quite at the beginning.—And don't
think I'm jealous. Perfectly truly, I wish you every
happiness. Britomart's a very pretty girl, and
nobody can say she's always making a display of her
cleverness, like some of them. I respect your
privacy, and want you to do the best you can with
your life."</p>
<p>The piccolo note changed to that of a bassoon.—"Amory—listen
to me."</p>
<p>"No. I'd <i>very</i> much rather not hear anything
about it. As Walter said, Life <i>is</i> Love, and I only
mentioned this at all to-night because there is one
quite small practical detail that doesn't seem to me
entirely satisfactory."</p>
<p>She understood Cosimo to ask what that was.</p>
<p>"This: You ought to be fair to her. I know
you'll forgive my mentioning anything so vulgar,
but it is—about money. She can't be expected to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span>
think of such things herself just now,"—there were
whole honeymoons in the reasonable little nod
Amory gave,"—and so <i>I</i> mention it. It's my place
to do so. For us all just to dip our hands into a
common purse doesn't seem to me very satisfactory.
She's rights too that I shouldn't dream of disputing.
And don't think I'm assuming more than there
actually is. I only mean that I don't see why, in
certain events, you shouldn't, et cetera; that's
all I mean. You see?... But I admit that for
everybody's sake I should like things put on a
proper footing without loss of time."</p>
<p>Cosimo had begun to wander up and down among
the saddlebag chairs. His slender fingers rested
aimlessly on the backs of them from time to time.
Amory thought that he was about to try the remaining
notes within the compass of his voice, but instead
he suddenly straightened himself. He appeared to
have come to a resolution. He strode towards the
door.</p>
<p>"Where are you going?" Amory asked.</p>
<p>"I'm going to fetch Britomart," he replied
shortly. "This is preposterous."</p>
<p>But again he hesitated, as perhaps Amory surmised
he might. His offer, if it meant anything, ought to
have meant that his conscience was so clear that
Amory might catechize Britomart to her heart's
content; but there <i>had</i> been those hair-strokings
and hand-pattings, and—and—and Britomart, as
Amory had said, was "not always making a display
of her cleverness." She might, indeed, let fall
something even more disconcerting than the rest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span>—</p>
<p>Cosimo was trying a bluff—</p>
<p>In a word, between fetching Britomart and not
fetching her, Amory had her husband by the short
hairs.</p>
<p>She mused.—"Just a moment," she said.</p>
<p>And then she rose from the footstool, put one
hand on the edge of the mantelpiece, and with the
other drew up her skirt an inch or two and stretched
out her slipper to the log.</p>
<p>"It really isn't necessary to fetch Britomart," she
said after a moment, looking up. "Fetch her if you
prefer it, of course, but first I want to say something
else—something quite different."</p>
<p>That it was something quite different seemed to be
a deep relief to Cosimo. He returned from the door
again.</p>
<p>"What's that?" he said.</p>
<p>"It's different," Amory said slowly, "but
related. Let me think a moment how to put it....
You were speaking a few minutes ago of selling out
from the Eden and the Suffrage Shop. If I understand
you, things aren't going altogether well."</p>
<p>"They aren't," said Cosimo, almost grimly.</p>
<p>"And then," Amory continued, "there's Mr.
Prang. Neither you nor Strong seem very satisfied
about him."</p>
<p>"It's Strong who isn't satisfied. I've no
complaints to make about Prang."</p>
<p>"Well, I've been thinking about that too, and I've
had an idea. I'm not sure that after all Strong
mayn't be right. I admit Prang states a case as
well as it could be stated; the question is whether<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span>
it's quite the case we <i>want</i> stated. His case is ours
to a large extent, but perhaps not altogether. And
as matters stand we're in his hands about India,
simply because he knows more about it than we
do. You see what I mean?"</p>
<p>"Not quite," said Cosimo.</p>
<p>"No? Well, let me tell you what I've been
thinking...."</p>
<p>Those people who are nobodys, and have not had
the enormous advantage of being taken by the hand
by the somebodys, are under a misconception about
daring and original ideas. The ideas seem original
and daring to them because the processes behind
them are hidden. The inferior mind does not realize
of itself that every sudden and miraculous blooming
is already an old story to somebody.</p>
<p>But Cosimo occupied a sort of intermediary
position between the sources of inspiration and the
flat levels of popular understanding. Remember,
he was in certain ways one of the public; but at
the same time he was the author of the "<i>Life and
Work</i>." He took his Amory, so to speak, nascent.
Therefore, when she gave utterance to a splendour,
he credited himself with just that measure of participation
in it that causes us humbler ones, when we
see the airman's spiral, to fancy our own hands
upon the controls, or, when we read a great book,
to sun ourselves in the flattering delusion that we
do not merely read, but, in some mysterious sense,
participate in the writing of it also.</p>
<p>And so the words which Amory spoke now—words
which would have caused you or me to give a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span>
gasp of admiration—affected him less extraordinarily.</p>
<p>"Why don't you go to India and see for yourself?"
she said.</p>
<p>Nevertheless, Cosimo was not altogether unaffected.
Even to his accustomed ear it was rather stupendous,
and, if he hadn't been again uneasily wondering
whether he dared risk having Britomart down
when Amory should return to the former subject
again, might have been more stupendous still. He
resumed his walk along the saddlebag chairs, and,
when at last he did speak, did not mar a high occasion
with too much vulgar demonstrativeness.</p>
<p>"That's an idea," he said simply.</p>
<p>"You see, Mr. Chamberlain went to South
Africa," Amory replied, as simply.</p>
<p>"Yes," said Cosimo thoughtfully.... "It's
certainly an idea."</p>
<p>"And you know how people have been getting
at the 'Novum' lately, and even suggesting that
Prang was merely a pen-name for Wilkinson himself."</p>
<p>"Yes, yes."</p>
<p>"Well, if you went, for six months, say, or even
three, nobody'd be able to say after that that you
didn't know all about it."</p>
<p>"No," Cosimo replied.</p>
<p>"The stupid people go. Why not the people
with eyes and minds?"</p>
<p>"Exactly," said Cosimo, resuming his walk.</p>
<p>Then, as if he had been a mere you or a simple
me, the beauty of the idea did begin to work a little
in him. He walked for a space longer, and then,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span>
turning, said almost with joy, "I say, Amory—would
you <i>like</i> to go?"</p>
<p>But Amory did not look up from the slippered
foot she had again begun to warm.—"Oh, I shouldn't
go," she said absently.</p>
<p>"You mean me to go by myself?" said Cosimo,
the joy vanishing again.</p>
<p>Then it was that Amory returned to the temporarily
relinquished subject again.</p>
<p>"Well ...," she said, with a return of the quiet
and wan but brave smile, "... I've nothing to
do with that. I shouldn't set detectives to watch
you. I was speaking for the moment purely from
the point of view of the 'Novum's' policy.—But
I see what you mean."</p>
<p>But Cosimo didn't mean that at all. He interposed
eagerly, anxiously.</p>
<p>"You <i>do</i> jump to conclusions!"—he began.</p>
<p>"My <i>dear</i> Cosimo," she put up her hand, "I'm
doing nothing of the kind. As I said, the other
isn't my affair. Oh, I do wish you'd believe that I
was perfectly calm about it! As Emerson said, soul
ought to speak to soul from the top of Olympus or
something, and, except that I want you to be
happy, it's a matter of indifference to me who you go
with. Do try to see that, Cosimo. Let's try to
behave like civilized beings. We agreed long ago
that sex was only a matter of accident. Don't let's
make it so hatefully pivotal. After all, what practical
difference would it make?"</p>
<p>But this was too much for Cosimo. He must
have Britomart down and take his chance, that was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span>
all. At the worst, he did not see how Amory could
be so unreasonable that a hand-pat or a hair-stroke
or two could not be put before her in the
proper light.</p>
<p>Unfortunately, the trouble was, not that she made
a fuss, but that she made so little fuss....</p>
<p>Again he moved towards the door.</p>
<p>But Miss Belchamber herself, as it happened, saved
him the trouble of fetching her. Their hands were
at the door at the same moment, his inside, hers
outside. She entered. She was wrapped in the
large black-and-gold Chinese dressing-gown Cosimo
had given her for a Christmas present, and there
were pantofles on her bare feet, and her hair hung
down her back in two enormous yellow plaits.
She was eating a large piece of cake.</p>
<p>"I've left the hot water tap running," she announced.
"I hadn't gone to bed. Does anybody
else want a bath? I like lots of hot baths. I
came down for a piece of cake."</p>
<p>She crossed to the sofa, crammed the last piece
of cake into her mouth, dusted the crumbs from
her fingers, tucked the dressing-gown close under
her, and with her fingers began softly to perform the
motions of <i>pétrissage</i> upon herself in the region of the
<i>erectors spinae</i>. As she did so she again spoke,
placidly and syllabically.</p>
<p>"I made a mistake," she said. "Father's
forty-six. Next June. And I shall go to Walter's
new Lecture. He's in the guard's van. I mean the
van-guard. And Prince Ead-mond's is in the
van-guard too. Especially Miss Miles. She says<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span>
the Saturn-alia is a time of great li-cen-tiousness and
dancing. Are they going to start it soon?"</p>
<p>Cosimo was nervous again. He cleared his
throat.—"Britomart—," he began; but Miss Belchamber
went on.</p>
<p>"I hope they are. Walter says it would be a very
good thing. I shall dance 'Rufty Tufty.' And 'The
Black Nag.' I love 'The Black Nag.' That's
why I'm having a hot bath. Hot baths open the
pores, or sweat-ducts. Then you close them again
with a cold sponge. I always close them again
with a cold sponge."</p>
<p>Cosimo cleared his throat again and had another
try.—"Listen, Britomart—we were talking about
you——"</p>
<p>Miss Belchamber looked complacently at her
crossed Parian-marble ankles. Then she raised
one of them, and her fingers explored the common
tendon of the soleus and gastrocnemius.</p>
<p>"The soleus," she said, "acts when the knee-joint
is flexed. In 'Rufty Tufty' it acts. Both of
them, of course. And the manage-ment of the
breath is very im-portant. It would be a very good
thing if every-body opened their windows and took
a hun-dred deep breaths before the Saturn-alia
begins. I shall, and I shall make Corin and Bonniebell.
Or won't they be able to go if it's very late?
If it's after their bedtime I could bring them away
early and then go back. I am so looking forward to
it."</p>
<p>Cosimo made a third attempt.—"Britomart—",
he said gravely.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span></p>
<p>"What?" said Miss Belchamber.</p>
<p>"I want to tell you about a rather important
discussion we've been having——"</p>
<p>"Then shall I go and turn the tap off? The
water will run cold. Then the sweat-ducts would
have to be closed before they are opened, and that's
wrong."</p>
<p>But this time Amory had moved towards the door.
Cosimo, and not she, had wanted Miss Belchamber
down, and now that he had got her he might amuse
her. She thought he looked extremely foolish, but
that was his look-out; she was going to bed. It
seemed an entirely satisfactory moment in which to
do so. She had managed better than she had hoped.
The question of the fund had been satisfactorily
raised, and it was obvious that the "Novum"
would gain by having somebody on the spot, somebody
perhaps less biassed than Mr. Prang, to
advise upon its Indian policy. At the door she
turned her nasturtium-coloured head.</p>
<p>"You might think over what I've been saying,"
she said. "We can talk of it again in a day or two.
Especially my second suggestion, that about the
'Novum.' That seems to me very well worth
considering. Good night."</p>
<p>And she passed out, leaving Cosimo plucking his
lip irresolutely, and Miss Britomart Belchamber
deeply interested in the common tendon of the other
soleus and gastrocnemius.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span></p>
<h2>Part III</h2>
<h2>I</h2>
<h3>LITMUS</h3>
<p>It was on an afternoon in May, and the window
of Dorothy's flat overlooking the pond was wide
open. Ruffles of wind chased one another from
moment to moment across the water, and the swans,
guarding their cygnets, policed the farther bank,
where dogs ran barking. The two elder Bits played
in the narrow strip of garden below; again the frieze
of the room was a soft net of rippling light; and the
brightness of the sun—or so Ruth Mossop declared—had
put the fire out.</p>
<p>Ruth was alone in the flat. As she passed between
the pond-room and the kitchen, re-lighting the fire,
"sweeping in," and preparing tea, she sang cheerfully
to herself "<i>A few more years shall roll, a few more
sorrows come</i>." Ruth considered that the sorrows
would probably come by means of the youngest
Bit. He ought (she said) to have been a little girl.
Then, in after years, he might have been a bit of
comfort to his mother. Boys, in Ruth's experience,
were rarely that.</p>
<p>As she put the cakes for tea into the oven of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span>
stove there came a milk-call from below. Ruth
leaned out of the lift-window, and there ensued a
conversation with the white-jacketed milk-boy.</p>
<p>"Saw your guv'nor last night," the boy grinned.</p>
<p>"Where's that cream I ordered, and that quart
of nursery milk? You can't mind your business
for thinking of picture palaces."</p>
<p>"Keep your 'air on; coming up now.—I say, they
put 'is 'ead under a steam-'ammer. I said it was a
dummy, but Gwen said it wasn't. <i>Was</i> it 'im?"</p>
<p>"You mind your own interference, young man,
and leave others to mind theirs; you ought to have
something better to do with your threepences than
collecting cigarette cards and taking girls to the
pictures."</p>
<p>"It was in '<i>Bullseye Bill: A Drarmer of Love
an' 'Ate</i>'—'Scoundrel, 'ow dare you speak those
words to a pure wife an' mother on the very threshold
of the 'Ouse of——'"</p>
<p>"That's enough, young man—we don't want
language Taken in Vain here—and you can tell 'em
at your place we're leaving soon."</p>
<p>"But <i>was</i> that 'im in the long whiskers at the
end, when the powder magazine blew up?"</p>
<p>But Ruth, taking her cans, shut down the window
and returned to the kitchen.</p>
<p>"'Then O, my Lord, prepare——'" she crooned
as she gave a peep into the oven and then clanged the
door to again, "'My soul for that blest day——'"</p>
<p>They were leaving soon. Already the sub-letting
of the flat was in an agent's hands, and soon Stan
would be braving the perils of his career no longer.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span>
Dorothy had unfolded her idea to her aunt, and Lady
Tasker had raised no objection, provided Dorothy
could raise the money by bringing Aunt Eliza into
line.</p>
<p>"It's as good as Maypoles and Village Players
anyway," she had said, "and I'm getting too old to
run about as I have done.—By the way, is it true
that Cosimo Pratt's gone to India?"</p>
<p>Dorothy had replied that it was true.</p>
<p>"Hm! What for? To dance round another
Maypole?"</p>
<p>"I don't know, auntie. I've seen very little of
them."</p>
<p>"Has she gone?"</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>"No more babies yet, I suppose?"</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>"Well ... you'd better see your Aunt Eliza.
She's got all the money that's left.—But I don't
see how you're going to get any very much out of
Tony and Tim."</p>
<p>"Oh, I'll see they don't impose on me as they've
been imposing on you!... So I may move that
billiard-table, and alter the gun-room?"</p>
<p>"Yes, if you pay for it."</p>
<p>"Thanks—you are a dear!..."</p>
<p>By what arts Dorothy had contrived to lay Aunt
Eliza under contribution doesn't matter very much
here. Among themselves the Lennards and Taskers
might quarrel, but they presented an unbroken front
to the world—and Dorothy, for Aunt Eliza's special
benefit, managed to make the world in some degree<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span>
a party to her project. That is to say, that a paragraph
had appeared in certain newspapers, announcing
that an experiment of considerable interest, etc.,
the expenses of which were already guaranteed, and
so forth, was about to be tried in the County of
Shropshire, where "The Brear," the residence of
the late Sir Noel Tasker, was already in course of
alteration. And so on, in Dorothy's opinion,
neither too much nor too little for her design....
It had been a public committance of the family, and it
had worked the oracle with Aunt Eliza. Rather than
have a public squabble about it, she had come in
with her thousand, the work was now well advanced,
and the venerable sinner who had recited the poems
printed by Cosimo Pratt's Village Press was in
charge of the job. Dorothy, hurriedly weaning the
youngest Bit, had run down to Ludlow for the
express purpose of announcing to him that it was
a job, and not an aesthetic jollification.</p>
<p>Moreover, at that time she had half a hundred
other matters to attend to; for Stan, escaping from
powder-magazines as the last inch of fuse sputtered,
and fervently hoping that the man had made no
mistake about the length of stroke of the Nasmyth
hammer under which he put his devoted head,
could give her little help. Besides her own approaching
<i>déménagement</i>, she had much of the care of that
of her aunt. As Stan's earnings were barely sufficient
for the current expenses of the household, she
still had to turn to odds and ends of her old advertisement
work. She had—Quis custodiet?—the
nurse to look after, and the tradesmen, and letters,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span>
and callers, and Ruth. In short, a simple inversion
of her aunt's dictum about the Pratts—"Too much
money and not enough to do"—would have fitted
Dorothy's case to a nicety.</p>
<p>Therefore, as another burden more or less would
make little difference to one already so burdened,
Dorothy had added still further to her cares. Ever
since that day when Lady Tasker had come bareheaded
out of her house and had spoken to Amory
Pratt outside the Victoria and Albert Museum, Dorothy
had had her sometime friend constantly on her
mind. She had spoken of her to her aunt, who had
again shown herself deplorably illiberal and incisive.</p>
<p>"I don't pretend to understand the modern young
woman," she had remarked carelessly. "Half of
'em seem to upset their bodies with too much study,
and the other half to play hockey till they're little
better than fools. I suppose it's all right, and that
somebody knows what they're about.... I often
wonder what they'd have done, though, if it hadn't
been for Sappho and Madame Curie.... By the
way," she had gone irrelevantly on without a
break, "does she <i>want</i> any more children besides
those twins?"...</p>
<p>Nevertheless, Dorothy had had Amory so much on
her mind that twice since Cosimo's departure for
India she had been up to The Witan in search of her.
After all, if anybody was to blame for anything it
was Cosimo. But on neither occasion had Amory
been at home. Dorothy had left messages, to which
she had received no reply; and so she had gone a
third time—had gone, as it happened, on that very<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span>
afternoon when Ruth sang "A few more years shall
roll" as she made the hot cakes for tea. This time
she had persuaded Katie Deedes to come with her—for
Katie had left the Eden, was out of a job, and
for the time being had afternoon hours to spare.</p>
<p>But again they had failed to find Amory, and
Dorothy and Katie took a turn round the Heath
before returning to the flat for tea. As they walked
along the hawthorn hedge that runs towards Parliament
Hill and South Hill Park they talked. Kites
were flying on the Hill; the Highgate Woods and
the white spire showed like a pale pastel in the
Spring sunshine; and from the prows of a score of
prams growing babies leaned out like the figureheads
of ships.</p>
<p>"That's where Billie was born," said Dorothy,
nodding towards the backs of the houses that make
the loop of South Hill Park.</p>
<p>Katie only said "Oh?" She too had caught
the uneasiness about Amory. And what Katie
thought was very soon communicated.</p>
<p>"You see, Dot," she broke suddenly out, "you've
no idea of what a—what a funny lot they are really....
No, I haven't told you—I haven't told you
<i>half</i>! It's everything they do. Why, the nurse
practised for months and months at a school where
they washed a celluloid baby—I'm not joking—she
did—a life-sized one—they did it in class, and
dressed it, and put it to sleep—as if <i>that</i> would be
any good at all with a real one!... And really—I'm
not prudish, as you know, Dot—but the way
they used to sit about, in a dressing-gown or a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span>
nightgown or anything—I don't mean when there
was a <i>big</i> crowd there, of course, but just a few of
them—Walter, and Mr. Brimby, and Edgar Strong—and
all of them going quite red in the face with
puremindedness! At any rate, I never did think
<i>that</i> was quite the thing!"</p>
<p>She spoke with great satisfaction of the point of
the New Law she had not broken. It seemed to
make up for those she had.</p>
<p>"And those casts and paintings and things about—it's
all right being an artist, of course, but if I
ever got married, <i>I</i> shouldn't like casts and paintings
of me about for everybody to see like that!——"</p>
<p>"Oh, just look at that hawthorn!" Dorothy
interrupted.</p>
<p>"Yes, lovely.—And Walter talking about Dionysus,
and what Lycurgus thought would be a very
good way of preventing jealousy, and a lot more
about Greeks and Romans and Patagonians and
Esquimaux! Do you know, Dot, I don't believe
they know anything at all about it—not <i>really</i>
know, I mean! I don't see how they can! One
man might know a little bit about a part of it, and
another man a little bit about another part—and
that would be rather a lot, seeing how long ago it
all is—but Walter knows it <i>all</i>! At any rate
nobody can contradict him. But what does it
matter to us to-day, Dorothy? What <i>does</i> it
matter?... Of course I don't mean they're
wicked. But—but—in some ways I can't help
thinking it would be better to <i>be</i> wicked as long as
you didn't say anything about it——!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span></p>
<p>"Oh, I don't think they're wicked," said Dorothy
placidly. But the 'vert went eagerly on.</p>
<p>"That's just it!" she expounded. "Walter
says 'wicked's' only a relative term. If you face
the truth boldly, all the time, lots of things
wouldn't be wicked at all, he says. And I believe
he's really awfully devoted to Laura—in his way—though
he does talk about these things with Britomart
Belchamber sitting there in her nightgown.
But it's always the <i>same bit</i> of truth they face boldly.
They never think of going in for astronomy—or
crystal-what-is-it—crystallography—or something
chilly—and face that boldly——"</p>
<p>Dorothy laughed.—"You absurd girl!"</p>
<p>"—but no. It's always whether people wear
clothes because they're modest or whether they're
modest because they wear clothes, or something like
that.—And Walter begins it—and then Laura
chimes in, and then Cosimo, and then Amory, and
then Dickie—and when they've said it all on Monday
they say it again on Tuesday, and Wednesday, and
every day—and I don't know what they've decided
even yet——"</p>
<p>"Well, here we are," Dorothy said as she reached
her own door. "Let's have some tea.... Mr.
Miller hasn't been in yet, has he, Ruth?"</p>
<p>"No, m'm."</p>
<p>"Well, we'll have tea now, and you can make some
fresh when he comes. And keep some cakes hot."</p>
<p>Mr. Miller's visit that afternoon had to do with a
care so trifling that Dorothy merely took it in her
stride. She had not found—she knew that she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span>
would never find—the "Idee" that Mr. Miller
wanted; but if no Idees except real ones were ever
called Idees we should be in a very bad way in this
world. She knew that there is always a middling
chance that if you state a pseudo-Idee solemnly
enough, and trick it out with circumstance enough,
and set people talking enough about it, it will prove
just as serviceable as the genuine article; and she
was equally familiar, as we have seen, with that
beautiful and compensating Law by which quick
and original minds are refused money when they
are producing of their best but overwhelmed with
it when their brains have become as dry as baked
sponges. She had given Mr. Miller quite good Idees
in the past; she had no objection to being paid over
again for them now; and if they really had been
new ones they would have been of no use to Mr.
Miller for at least ten years to come. That is why the
art of advertisement is so comparatively advanced.
Any other art would have taken twenty years.</p>
<p>Therefore, as she remembered the exceeding flimsiness
of the one poor Idee she had, she had resolved
that Mr. Miller's eyes should be diverted as much as
possible from the central lack, and kept to the bright
irrelevancies with which she would adorn it. The
Idee was that of the Litmus Layette ... but here
we may as well skip a few of Katie's artless betrayals
of her former friends, and come to the moment when
Mr. Miller, with his Edward the Sixth shoulders,
appeared, bowed, was introduced to Katie, bowed
again, sat down, and was regaled with hot cakes and
conversation. He had risen and bowed again, by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span>
the way, when Dorothy, for certain reasons of policy,
had mentioned Katie's relationship to the great Sir
Joseph Deedes, and Katie had told of a stand-up
fight she had had with her uncle's Marshal about
admittance to his lordship's private room.</p>
<p>"Well, now, that's something I've learned to-day,"
Mr. Miller magnanimously admitted, sitting down
again. "So your English Judges have Marshals! I
was under the impression that that was a military
title, like Marshal Macmann and Field-Marshal Sir
Evelyn Wood. Well now.... And how might
Judge Deedes' Marshal be dressed, Miss Deedes?"</p>
<p>"Not 'Judge' Deedes," said Katie smiling.
"That's a County Court Judge." And she explained.
Mr. Miller opened his eyes wide.</p>
<p>"Is that so-o-o? Well now, if that isn't interesting!
That's noos. He's a Honourable with a 'u' in
it, and a Sir, and you call him his Lordship, and he's
Mister Justice Deedes! Ain't that English!...
Now let me see if I'm on the track of it. 'Your
Worship'—that's a Magistrate. 'Your Honour'—that's
the other sort of Judge. And 'My Lord'—that's
Miss Deedes' uncle. And an English Judge
has a Marshal.... Do you recollect our Marshals,
Mrs. Stan?——"</p>
<p>Building (as it now appeared) even better than
he knew, Mr. Miller had, in the past, granted the
rank of Marshal to Messrs. Hallowell and Smiths'
shopwalkers.</p>
<p>Dorothy's reason for thus flagrantly introducing
Sir Joseph's name was this:—</p>
<p>Katie had left the Eden, and she herself was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span>
presently off to Ludlow. Thus there was the
possible reversion of a job of sorts going a-begging.
Katie might as well have it as anybody else. Dorothy
had strictly enjoined upon her impulsive friend that
on no account was she to contradict or disclaim
anything she, Dorothy, might choose to say on her
behalf to Mr. Miller; and she intended that the credit,
such as it was, of the last Idee she even intended
to propose to Mr. Miller—the Litmus Layette—should
be Katie's start. Once started she would
have to look after herself.</p>
<p>So when Mr. Miller passed from the subject of
Hallowell and Smiths' Marshals to that of his long-hoped-for
Idee, Dorothy was ready for him. Avoiding
the weak spot, she enlarged on the tradition—very
different from a mere superstition—that, in Layettes,
blue stood always for a boy and pink for a girl.</p>
<p>"You see," she said, "this is England when
all's said, and we're <i>fright</i>fully conservative. Don't
condemn it just because it wouldn't go in New
York.... You've heard of the Willyhams, of
course?" she broke off suddenly to ask.</p>
<p>"I cann't say I have, Mrs. Stan. But I'm sitting
here. Tell me. They're a Fam'ly, I presoom?"</p>
<p>"Yes. Upshire's their title. Now that title's
descended in the female line ever since Charles the
First. Ever since then the Willyham Layettes
have been pink as a matter of course. And now, not
a month ago, there was a boy, and they had to rush
off and get blue at the very last moment.... Let
me see, your children are little girls, aren't they?"
she again interrupted herself to say.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span></p>
<p>"Three little goils, Mrs. Stan, with black-and-white
check frocks and large black bows in their hair."</p>
<p>"Well, and mine are boys. Blue for me and pink
for you. But we'll come to that in a moment.—The
thing that really strikes me as extraordinary
is that in all these ages, with all the countless babies
that have been born, we don't know <i>yet</i> which it's
going to be!... And I don't think we ever shall.
Now just think what that means—not just to a
Royal House, with a whole succession depending on
it, and crowns and dynasties and things—but to
<i>every</i> woman! You see the <i>tremendous</i> interest they
take in it at once!—But I don't know whether a
man can ever understand that——"</p>
<p>She paused.</p>
<p>"Go on, Mrs. Stan—I want the feminine point of
voo," said Mr. Miller.—"The man ain't broken Post
Toasties yet that has more reverence for motherhood
than what I have——"</p>
<p>"I know," said Dorothy bashfully. "But it
isn't the same—being a father. It's—it's different.
It's not the same. I doubt whether <i>any</i> man knows
what it means to us as we wait and wonder—and wait
and wonder—day after day—day after day——"</p>
<p>Here she dropped her eyes. Here also Mr. Miller
dropped his head.</p>
<p>"It isn't the same—being a father—it's different,"
Dorothy was heard to murmur.</p>
<p>Mr. Miller breathed something about the holiest
spot on oith.</p>
<p>"So you see," Dorothy resumed presently, hoping
that Mr. Miller did not see. "It's the nearest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span>
subject of all to us. The very first question we ask
one another is, 'Do you hope it's a little boy or a
little girl?' And as it's impossible to tell, it's
impossible for us to make our preparations. Lady
Upshire doesn't know one bit more about it than the
poorest woman in the streets. And this in an age
that boasts of its Science!"</p>
<p>"Well," said Mr. Miller, giving it consideration,
"that's ver-ry true. I ain't a knocker; I don't
want to get knocking our men of science; but it's
a fact they cann't tell. I recollect Mrs. Miller
saying to me——"</p>
<p>"Yes—look at it from Mrs. Miller's point of
view——"</p>
<p>"I remember Mrs. Miller using the ver-ry woids
you've just used, Mrs. Stan. (I hope this don't
jolt Miss Deedes too much; it's ver-ry interessting).
And that's one sure thing, that it ain't a cinch for
Mrs. Bradley Martin any more than what it is for
any poor lady stenographer at so many dallars per.
But—if you'll pardon me putting the question in
that form—where's the <i>point</i>, Mrs. Stan? What's
the reel prapasition?"</p>
<p>This being precisely what Dorothy was rather
carefully avoiding, again she smiled bashfully and
dropped her head, as if once more calling on those
profound reserves of Mr. Miller's veneration for
motherhood. These even profounder reserves, of
Mr. Miller's veneration for dallars, were too much to
the point altogether.</p>
<p>"I was afraid you wouldn't understand," she
sighed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span></p>
<p>"But," said Mr. Miller earnestly, "give me
something to get a hold of, Mrs. Stan. I ain't calling
the psychological prapasition down any; a business
man has to be psychologist all the time; but he
wants it straight. Straight psychology. The feminine
point of voo, but practical. It ain't for Harvard.
It's for Hallowell and Smith's."</p>
<p>"Well," said Dorothy, "it's Miss Deedes' idea
really—and it would never have occurred to her if
it hadn't been for Lady Upshire—would it Katie?"</p>
<p>"No," said Katie.</p>
<p>"Very well. Suppose Lady Upshire had had the
Litmus Layette. All she would have had to do
would have been to take the ribbons out—the work of
a moment—the pink ribbons—dip them in the
preparation—and there they'd have been, ready for
immediate use. And blue ones would be dipped in
the other solution and of course they'd have turned
pink.... You see, you can't alter the baby, but
you can alter the ribbons. And it isn't only ribbons.
A woolly jacket—or a pram-rug—or socks—or
anything—I think it's an exceedingly clever Idea of
Miss Deedes!——"</p>
<p>Mr. Miller gave it attention. Then he looked up.</p>
<p>"Would it woik?" he asked.</p>
<p>"Well," said Dorothy ... "it works in chemistry.
But that's not the principal thing. It's its value as
an advertisement that's the real thing. Think of
the window-dressing!—Blue and pink, changing
before people's very eyes!—Just think how—I
mean, it interests <i>every</i> woman! They'd stand in
front of the window, and think—but you're a man.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span>
Mrs. Miller would understand.... Anyhow, you
would get crowds of people, and that's what you
want—crowds of people—that's its advertisement-value.—And
then when you got them inside it
would be like having the hooks at one end of the
shop and the eyes at the other—a hook's no good
without an eye, so they have to walk past half a
mile of counters, and you sell them all sort of things
on the way. <i>I</i> think there's a great deal in it!"</p>
<p>"It's a Stunt," Mr. Miller conceded, as if in spite
of himself he must admit thus much. "It's soitainly
a Stunt. But I'm not sure it's a reel Idee."</p>
<p>"That," said Dorothy with conviction, "would
depend entirely in your own belief in it. If you
did it as thoroughly as you've done lots of other
things——"</p>
<p>"It's soitainly a Stunt, Miss Deedes," Mr. Miller
mused....</p>
<p>He was frowningly meditating on the mystic
differences between a Stunt and an Idee, and was
perhaps wondering how the former would demean
itself if he took the risk of promoting it to the dignity
of the latter, when the bell was heard to ring. A
moment later Ruth opened the door.</p>
<p>"Lady Tasker," she said.</p>
<p>Lady Tasker entered a little agitatedly, with an
early edition of the "Globe" crumpled in her hand.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span></p>
<h2>II</h2>
<h3>BY THE WAY</h3>
<p>Lady Tasker never missed the "Globe's"
<i>By the Way</i> column, and there was a curious,
mocking, unpleasant By-the-Way-ishness about the
announcement she made as she entered. There is a
special psychological effect, in the Harvard and not
in the Hallowell and Smith's sense, when you come
unexpectedly in print upon news that affects yourself.
The multiplicity of newspapers notwithstanding,
revelation still hits the ear less harshly than it does
the eye; telling is still private and intimate, type a
trumpeting to all the world at once. Dorothy
looked at the pink page Lady Tasker had thrust into
her hand as if it also, like the Litmus Layette, had
turned blue before her eyes.</p>
<p>"<i>Not</i> Sir Benjamin who used to come and see
father!" she said, dazed.</p>
<p>Lady Tasker had had time, on her way to the flat,
to recover a little.</p>
<p>"There's only one Sir Benjamin Collins that I know
of," she answered curtly.</p>
<p>"But—but—it <i>can't</i> be!——"</p>
<p>Of course there was no reason in the world why
it couldn't. Quite on the contrary, there was that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span>
best of all reasons why it could—it had happened.
Three bullet-wounds are three undeniable reasons.
It was the third, the brief account said, that had
proved fatal.</p>
<p>"They say the finest view in Asia's Bombay
from the stern of a steamer," said Lady Tasker,
with no expression whatever. "I think your friend
Mr. Cosimo Pratt will be seeing it before very long."</p>
<p>But Dorothy was white. <i>Their</i> Sir Benjamin!...
Why, as a little girl she had called him "Uncle Ben!"
He had not been an uncle really, of course, but she
had called him that. She could remember the
smell of his cigars, and the long silences as he had
played chess with her father, and his hands with the
coppery hair on them, and his laugh, and the way
the markhor at the Zoo had sniffed at his old patoo-coat,
just as cats now sniffed at her own set of civet
furs. And she had married him one day in the
nursery, when she had been about ten, and he had
taken her to the Pantomime that afternoon for a
Honeymoon—and then, when she had really married
Stan, he had given her the very rugs that were on her
bedroom floor at this moment.</p>
<p>And, if this pink paper was to be believed, an
Invisible Man had shot at him three times, and at the
third shot had killed him.</p>
<p>She had not heard her aunt's words about Cosimo.
She had been standing with her hand in Mr. Miller's,
having put it there when he had risen to take himself
off and forgotten to withdraw it again. Then Mr.
Miller had gone, and Dorothy had stood looking
stupidly at her aunt.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span></p>
<p>"What did you say?" she said. "You said
something about Cosimo Pratt."</p>
<p>"Don't you go, Katie; I want to talk to you
presently.—Sit down, Dot.—Get her a drink of
water."</p>
<p>Dorothy sat heavily down and put out one hand
for the paper again.—"What did you say?" she
asked once more.</p>
<p>"Never mind just now. Put your head back
and close your eyes for a minute."...</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>That was the rather unpleasant, By-the-Way part
of it. For of course it was altogether By-the-Way
when you looked at the matter broadly. Amory
could have explained this with pellucid clearness.
The murder of a Governor?... Of course, if you
happened to have known that Governor, and to have
married him in a child's game when you were ten
and he forty, and to have gone on writing letters to
him telling him all the news about your babies, and
to have had letters back from him signed "Uncle
Ben"—well, nobody would think it unnatural of you
to be a little shocked at the news of his assassination;
but Amory could easily have shown that that shock,
when you grew a little calmer and came to think
clearly about it, would be only a sort of extension of
your own egotism. Governors didn't really matter
one bit more because you were fond of them. Everybody
had somebody fond of them. Why, then, make
a disproportionate fuss about a single (and probably
corrupt) official, when thousands suffered gigantic
wrongs? The desirable thing was to look at these<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span>
things broad-mindedly, and not selfishly. It was
selfish, selfish and egotistical, to expect the whole
March of Progress to stop because you happened to
be fond of somebody (who probably hadn't been
one bit better than he ought to have been). These
pompous people of the official classes were always
bragging about their readiness to lay down their
lives for their country; very well; they had no
right to grumble when they were taken at their
word. Ruskin had expressed much the same
thought rather finely when he had said that a soldier
wasn't paid for killing, but for being killed. Some
people seemed to want it both ways—to go on
drawing their money while they were alive, and then
to have an outcry raised when they got shot. In
strict justice they ought to have been, not merely
shot, but blown from the mouths of guns; but of
course neither Amory nor anybody else wanted
to go quite so far as that.... Nevertheless,
perspective was needed—perspective, and vision of
such scope that you had a clear mental picture, not
of misguided individuals, who must die some time
or other and might as well do so in the discharge of
what it pleased them to call their "duty," but of
millions of our gentle and dark-skinned brothers,
waiting in rows with baskets on their heads (and
making simply ripping friezes) while the Banks paid
in pennies, and then holding lots of righteous and
picturesque Meetings, all about Tyrant England and
throwing off the Yoke. Amory would have conceded
that she had never had an Uncle Ben; but if she
had had fifty Uncle Bens she would still have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span>
hoped to keep some small sense of proportion about
these things.</p>
<p>But that again only showed anybody who was
anybody how hopelessly behind the noble movements
of her time Dorothy was. The sense of proportion
never entered her head. She gave a little shiver, even
though the day was warm, and then that insufferable
old aunt of hers, who might be a "Lady" but
had no more tact than to interfere with people's
liberty in the street, praised her gently when she
came round a bit, and said she was taking it very
bravely, when the truth was that she really ought to
have condemned her for her absurd weakness and
lack of the sense of relative values. No, there would
have been no doubt at all about it in Amory's mind:
that it was these people, who talked so egregiously
about "firm rule," who were the real sentimentalists,
and the others of the New Imperialism, with their
real grasp of the true and humane principles of
government, who were the downright practical
folk....</p>
<p>All this fuss about a single Governor, of whom
Mr. Prang himself had said (and there was no gentler
soul living than Mr. Prang) that his extortions had
been a byword and his obstinacy proof positive of
his innate weakness!——</p>
<p>But Amory was not in the pond-room that day,
and so Dorothy's sickly display of emotion went
unchecked. The nurse herded the Bits together,
but they were not admitted for their usual tea-time
romp. Indeed, Dorothy said presently, "Do you
mind if I leave you for a few minutes with Katie,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span>
auntie?" She went into her bedroom and did not
return. Of all his "nieces" she had been his
favourite; her foot caught in one of his Kabuli
mats as she entered the bedroom. She lay down
on her bed. She longed for Stan to come and put
his arms about her.</p>
<p>He came in before Lady Tasker had finished her
prolonged questioning of Katie. Aunt Grace told
him where Dorothy was. Then she and Katie left
together.</p>
<p>The newspapers showed an excellent sense of
proportion about the incident. In the earlier
evening editions the death of Sir Benjamin was nicely
balanced by the 4.30 winners; and then a popular
actor's amusing replies in the witness-box naturally
overshadowed everything else. And, to anticipate a
little, on the following day the "Times" showed itself
to be, as usual, hopelessly in the wrong. Indeed
there were those who considered that this journal
made a deplorable exhibition of itself. For it had
no more modesty nor restraint than to use the harsh
word "murder," without any "alleged" about it,
which was, of course, a flagrant pre-judging of the
case. Nobody denied that at a first glance appearances
<i>were</i> a little against the gentle and dusky
brother, who had been seized with the revolver still in
his hand; but that was no reason why a bloated
capitalist rag should thus undermine the principles
of elementary justice. It ought to have made it all
the more circumspect.... But anybody who was
anybody knew exactly what was at the bottom of it
all. The "Times" was seeking a weapon against<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span>
the Government. The staff was no doubt secretly
glad that it had happened, and was gloating, and
already calculating its effect on an impending by-election....
Besides, there was the whole ethical
question of capital punishment. It would not bring
Sir Benjamin back to life to try this man, find him
guilty, and do him barbarously to death in the name
of the Law. That would only be two dead instead
of one. The proper way would be to hold an
inquiry, with the dusky instrument of justice (whose
faith in his mission must have been very great since
he had taken such risks for it) not presiding, perhaps,
but certainly called as an important witness to
testify to the Wrongness of the Conditions....
Besides, an assassination is a sort of half-negligible
outbreak, regrettable certainly, for which excuse can
sometimes be found: but this other would be
deliberate, calculated, measured, and in flat violation
of the most cardinal of all the principles on which a
great Empire should be based—the principle of
Mercy stiffened with exactly the right modicum of
Justice....</p>
<p>And besides....</p>
<p>And besides....</p>
<p>And besides....</p>
<p>And when all is said, India is a long way off.</p>
<p>The publication of the news produced a curious
sort of atmosphere at The Witan that afternoon.
Everybody seemed desirous of showing everybody
else that they were unconcerned, and yet an observer
might have fancied that they overdid it ever such a
little. At about the time when Lady Tasker left<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span>
Dorothy with Stan, Mr. Wilkinson drove up in a cab
to the green door in the privet hedge and asked
for Amory. He was told that she had given word
that she did not want to see anybody. But in the
studio he found Mr. Brimby and Dickie Lemesurier,
and the three were presently joined by Laura and
Walter Wyron. A quorum of five callers never
hesitated to make themselves at home at The Witan.
They lighted the asbestos log, Walter found Cosimo's
cigarettes, and Dickie said she was sure Amory
wouldn't mind if she rang for tea. When they had
made themselves quite comfortable, they began to
chat about a number of things, not the murder.</p>
<p>"Seen Strong?" Mr. Brimby asked Mr. Wilkinson.</p>
<p>Mr. Wilkinson was at his most morose and
truculent.</p>
<p>"No," he said. "I called at the office, but he was
out. Doesn't put in very much time there, it
seems to me. Perhaps he's at the Party's Meeting."</p>
<p>"How is it you aren't there, by the way?"</p>
<p>Mr. Wilkinson made a little sound of contempt.</p>
<p>"Bah! All talk. Day in and day out, talk,
talk, talk. I want action. The leadership's all
wrong. Want a man. I keep my seat because if I
cleared out they'd be no better than a lot of tame
Liberal cats, but I've no use for 'em——"</p>
<p>It was whispered that the members of the Party had
no use for Mr. Wilkinson, and very little for one
another; but it doesn't do to give ear to everything
that is whispered.</p>
<p>Then Mr. Brimby appeared suddenly to recollect
something.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span></p>
<p>"Ah yes!... Action. Speaking of action, I
suppose you've seen this Indian affair in to-night's
papers?"</p>
<p>Mr. Wilkinson was still fuming.</p>
<p>"That Governor? Yes, I saw it.... But it's
too far away. Thousands of miles too far away.
We want something nearer home. A paper that
calls a spade a spade for one thing.... Anybody
heard from Pratt this week?"</p>
<p>They discussed Cosimo's latest letter, and then
Mr. Brimby said, "By the way—how will this affect
him?"</p>
<p>"How will what affect him?"</p>
<p>"This news, to-night. Collins."</p>
<p>"Oh!... Why should it affect him at all?
Don't see why it should. The 'Pall Mall' has a
filthy article on it to-night. That paper's getting as
bad as the 'Times.'"</p>
<p>Here Walter Wyron intervened.—"By the way,
who <i>is</i> this man Collins? Just pass me 'Who's Who,'
Laura."</p>
<p>They looked Sir Benjamin up in "Who's Who,"
and then somebody suggested that their party wasn't
complete without Edgar Strong. "I'll telephone
him," said Walter; "perhaps he'll be back by this."—The
telephone was in the hall, and Walter went out.
Dickie told Laura how well Walter was looking.
Laura replied, Yes, he was very well indeed;
except for a slight cold, which anybody was lucky
to escape in May, he had never been better; which
was wonderful, considering the work he got through.—Then
Walter returned. Strong had not yet<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span>
come in, but his typist had said he'd be back soon.—"Didn't
know it ran to a typist," Walter remarked,
helping himself to more tea.</p>
<p>"It doesn't," Mr. Wilkinson grunted.</p>
<p>"Girl's voice, anyway.... I say, I wonder how
old Prang's getting on!"</p>
<p>"I wonder!"</p>
<p>"He's gone back, hasn't he?" Dickie asked.</p>
<p>"Oh, a couple of months ago. Didn't Strong
give him the push, Wilkie?"</p>
<p>"Don't suppose Strong ever did anything so
vigorous," Mr. Wilkinson growled. "The only
strong thing about Strong's his name. He's simply
ruined that paper."</p>
<p>"I agree that it was at its best when Prang was
doing the Indian notes."</p>
<p>"Oh, Prang knew what he wanted. Prang's all
right in his way. But I tell you India's too far
away. We want something at our own doors, and
somebody made an example of that somebody knows.
Now if Pratt had only been guided by me——"</p>
<p>"Hallo, here's Britomart Belchamber.—Why
doesn't Amory come down, Brit? She's in, isn't
she?"</p>
<p>"What?" said Miss Belchamber.</p>
<p>"Isn't Amory coming down?"</p>
<p>"She's gone out," said Miss Belchamber, adjusting
her hair. "A min-ute ago," she added.</p>
<p>Walter Wyron said something about "Cool—with
guests——," but Amory's going out was no
reason why they should not finish tea in comfort.
No doubt Amory would be back presently. Laura<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span>
confided to Britomart that she hoped so, for the
truth was that her kitchen range had gone wrong,
and a man had said he was coming to look at it,
but he hadn't turned up—these people never turned
up when they said they would—and so she had
thought it would be nice if they came and kept
Amory company at supper....</p>
<p>"We've got some new cheese-bis-cuits," said Miss
Belchamber ruminatively. "I like them. They
make bone. I like to have bone made. The
muscles can't act unless you have bone. That's
why these bis-cuits are so good. Good-bye."</p>
<p>And Miss Belchamber, with a friendly general
smile, went off to open her sweat-ducts by means of
a hot bath and to close them again afterwards with
a cold sponge.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Amory had not gone out this time to press amidst
strange people and to look into strange and frightening
eyes, various in colour as the pebbles of a beach, and
tipped with arrow-heads of white as they turned.
Almost for the first time in her life she wanted to
be alone—quite alone, with her eyes on nobody
and nobody's eyes on her. She did not reflect on
this. She did not reflect on anything. She only
knew that The Witan seemed to stifle her, and that
when she had seen Mr. Wilkinson alight from his
cab—and Mr. Brimby and Dickie come—and the
Wyrons—with all the others no doubt following
presently—it had come sharply upon her that these
wearisomely familiar people used up all the air.
The Witan without them was bad enough; The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span>
Witan with them had become insupportable.</p>
<p>It was not the assassination of Sir Benjamin that
had disturbed her. Since Cosimo's departure she
had glanced at Indian news only a shade less
perfunctorily than before, and she had turned from
this particular announcement to the account of
New Greek Society's production with hardly a change
of boredom. No: it was everything in her life—everything.
She felt used up. She thought that if
anybody had spoken to her just then she could only
have given the incoherent and petulant "Don't!"
of a child who is interrupted at a game that none
but he understands. She hated herself, yet hated
more to be dragged out of herself; and as she made
for the loneliest part of the Heath she wished that
night would fall.</p>
<p>She had to all intents and purposes packed
Cosimo off to India in order to have him out of the
way. His presence had become as wearisome as
that of the Wyrons and the rest of them. And that
was as much as she had hitherto told herself. She
had taken no resolution about Edgar Strong. But
drifting is accelerated when an obstacle is removed,
and her heart had frequently beaten rapidly at the
thought that, merely by removing Cosimo, she had
started a process that would presently bring her up
against Edgar Strong. She had pleased and teased
and frightened herself with the thought of what
was to happen then. So many courses would be
open to her. She might actually take the mad
plunge from which she had hitherto shrunk. She
might do the very opposite—stare at him, should he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span>
propose it, and inform him that, some thousands of
miles notwithstanding, she was still Cosimo's wife.
She might pathetically urge on him that, now more
than ever, she needed a friend and not a lover—or
else that, now more than ever, she needed a lover
and not a friend. She might say that nothing could
be done until Cosimo came back—or that when
Cosimo came back would be too late to do anything.
Or she might....</p>
<p>Or she might....</p>
<p>Or she might....</p>
<p>Yet when all was said, Edgar and the "Novum's"
offices were perilously near....</p>
<p>For it was not what she might do, but what he
might do, that set her heart beating most rapidly
of all. Her dangerous dreaming always ended in
that. Here was no question of that trumpery
subterfuge of the Wyrons. It struck her with
extraordinary force and newness that she was what
was called "a married woman." It was a familiar
phrase; it was as familiar as those other phrases,
"No, just living together," "Well, as long as there
are no children," "Love <i>is</i> Law"—familiar as the
air. Left to herself, the phrases might have remained
both her dissipation and her safeguard.... But
he? Would phrases content him? After she had
tempted him as she knew she had tempted him?
After that stern repression of himself in favour of
his duty? Or would he ask her again what she
thought he was made off?... It was always the
man who was expected to take the decisive step.
The woman simply—offered—and, if she was clever,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span>
did it in such a way that she could always deny it
after the fact. If Edgar should <i>not</i> stretch out his
hand—well, in that case there would be no more to
be said. But if he should?...</p>
<p>A little sound came from her closed lips.</p>
<p>Cosimo had been away for nearly three months,
and had not yet said anything about returning; and
Amory had smiled when, after many eager protestings
that there was no reason (Love being Law) why
he should go alone, he had after all funked taking his
splendid turnip of a Britomart with him. Of course:
when it had come to the point, he had lacked the
courage. Amory could not help thinking that that
lack was just a shade more contemptible than his
philanderings. Courage!... Images of Cleopatra
and the carpet rose in her mind again.... But
the images were faint now. She had evoked them
too often. Her available mental material had
become stale. She needed a fresh impulse—a new
experience——</p>
<p>But—she always got back to the same point—suppose
Edgar should take her, not at her word, nor
against her word, but with words, for once, left
suddenly and entirely out of the question?...</p>
<p>Again the thumping heart——</p>
<p>It was almost worth the misery and loneliness for
the sake of that painful and delicious thrill.</p>
<p>She was sitting on a bench under the palings of
Ken Wood, watching a saffron sunset. A Prince
Eadmond's girl in a little green Florentine cap passed.
She reminded Amory of Britomart Belchamber, and
Amory rose and took the root-grown path to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span>
Spaniards Road and the West Heath. She intended
to take a walk as far as Golders Green Park; but,
as it happened, she did not get so far. A newsboy,
without any sense of proportion whatever, was
crying cheerfully, "Murder of a Guv'nor—Special!"
This struck Amory. She thought she had read it
once before that afternoon, but she bought another
paper and turned to the paragraph. Yes, it was
the same—and yet it was somehow different. It
seemed—she could not tell why—a shade more
important than it had done. Perhaps the newsboy's
voice had made it sound more important:
things did seem to come more personally home when
they were spoken than when they were merely read.
She hoped it was not very important; it might be
well to make sure. She was not very far from
home; her Timon-guests would still be there;
somebody would be able to tell her all about it....</p>
<p>She walked back to The Witan again, and, still
hatted and dressed, pushed at the studio door.</p>
<p>Nobody had left. Indeed, two more had come—young
Mr. Raffinger of the McGrath, and a friend of
his, a young woman from the Lambeth School of
Art, who had Russianized her painting-blouse by
putting a leather belt round it, and who told Amory
she had wanted to meet her for such a long time,
because she had done some designs for Suffrage
Christmas Cards, and hoped Amory wouldn't mind
her fearful cheek, but hoped she would look at them,
and say exactly what she thought about them, and
perhaps give her a tip or two, and, if it wasn't
asking too much, introduce her to the Manumission<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span>
League, or to anybody else who might buy them....
Young Raffinger interrupted the flow of gush
and apologetics.</p>
<p>"Oh, don't bother her just yet, Eileen. Let her
read her cable first."</p>
<p>Amory turned quickly.—"What do you say?
What cable?" she asked.</p>
<p>"There's a cable for you."</p>
<p>It lay on the uncleared tea-table, and everybody
seemed to know all about the outside of it at all
events. As it was not in the usual place for letters,
perhaps it had been passed from hand to hand.
Quite unaffectedly, they stood round in a ring while
Amory opened it, with all their eyes on her. They
most frightfully wanted to know what was in it,
but of course it would have been rude to ask outright.
So they merely watched, expectantly.</p>
<p>Then, as Amory stood looking at the piece of
paper, Walter was almost rude. But in the circumstances
everybody forgave him.</p>
<p>"Well?" he said; and then with ready tact he
retrieved the solecism. "Hope it's good news,
Amory?"</p>
<p>For all that there was just that touch of <i>schadenfreude</i>
in his tone that promised that he for one
would do his best to bear up if it wasn't.</p>
<p>Amory was a little pale. It was the best of news,
and yet she was a little pale. Perhaps she was faint
because she had not had any tea.</p>
<p>"Cosimo's coming home," she said.</p>
<p>There was a moment's silence, and then the
congratulations broke out.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span></p>
<p>"Oh, good!"</p>
<p>"Shall be glad to see the old boy!"</p>
<p>"Finished his work, I suppose?"</p>
<p>"Or perhaps it's something to do with this Collins
business?"</p>
<p>It was Mr. Brimby who had made this last remark.
Amory turned to him slowly.</p>
<p>"What is this Collins business?" she asked.</p>
<p>Mr. Brimby dropped his sorrowing head.</p>
<p>"Ah, poor fellow," he murmured. "I'm afraid
he went to work on the wrong principles. A <i>little</i>
more conciliation ... but it's difficult to blame
anybody in these cases. The System's at fault.
Let us not be harsh. I quite agree with Wilkinson
that the 'Pall Mall' to-night is very harsh."</p>
<p>"Cowardly," said Mr. Wilkinson grimly. "Rubbing
it in because they have some sort of a show of a
case. They're always mum enough on the other
side."</p>
<p>Amory lifted her head.</p>
<p>"But you say this might have something to do
with Cosimo's coming back. Tell me at once what's
happened.—And put that telegram down, Walter.
It's mine."</p>
<p>They had never heard Amory speak like this
before. It was rather cool of her, in her own house,
and quite contrary to the beautiful Chinese rule of
politeness. And somehow her tone seemed, all at once,
to dissipate a certain number of pretences that for
the last hour or more they had been laboriously seeking
to keep up. That, at any rate, was a relief. For
a minute nobody seemed to want to answer Amory;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span>
then Mr. Wilkinson took it upon himself to do so—characteristically.</p>
<p>"Nothing's happened," he said, "—nothing that
we haven't all been talking about for a year and
more. What the devil—let's be plain for once.
To look at you, anybody'd think you hadn't meant
it! By God, if <i>I'd</i> had that paper of yours!...
I told you at the beginning what Strong was—neither
wanted to do things nor let 'em alone; but
<i>I'd</i> have shown you! I'd have had a dozen Prangs!
But he didn't want one—and he didn't want to sack
him—afraid all the time something 'ld happen, but
daren't stop—doing too well out of it for that ...
and now that it's happened, what's all the to-do
about? You're always calling it War, aren't you?
And it <i>is</i> War, isn't it? Or only Brimby's sort of
War—like everything else about Brimby?——"</p>
<p>Here somebody tried to interpose, but Mr. Wilkinson
raised his voice almost to a shout.</p>
<p>"Isn't it? Isn't it?... Lookee here! A little
fellow came here one Sunday, a little collier, and he
said 'Wilkie knows!' And by Jimminy, Wilkie
does know! I tell you it's everybody for himself in
this world, and I'm out for anything that's going!
(Yes, let's have a bit o' straight talk for a change!)
War? Of course it's War! What do we all mean
about street barricades and rifles if it isn't War?
It's War when they fetch the soldiers out, isn't it?
Or is that a bit more Brimby? And you can't have
War without killing somebody, can you? I tell
you we want it at home, not in India! I've stood at
the dock gates waiting to be taken on, and I know—no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span>
fear! To hell with your shillyshallying! If
Collins gets in the way, Collins must get out o' the
way. We can't stop for Collins. I wish it had been
here! I can just see myself jumping off a bridge
with a director in my arms—the fat hogs! If I'd
had that paper! There'd have been police round
this house long ago, and then the fun would have
started!... Me and Prang's the only two of all
the bunch that <i>does</i> know what we want! And
Prang's got his all right—my turn next—and I
shan't ask Brimby to help me——"</p>
<p>Through a sort of singing in her ears Amory heard
the rising cries of dissent that interrupted Mr.
Wilkinson—"Oh no—hang it—Wilkinson's going
too far!" But the noise conveyed little to her.
Stupidly she was staring at the blue and yellow jets
of the asbestos log, and weakly thinking what a
silly imitation the thing was. She couldn't imagine
however Cosimo had come to buy it. And then she
heard Mr. Wilkinson repeating some phrase he had
used before: "There'd have been police round this
house and then the fun would have begun!"
Police round The Witan, she thought? Why? It
seemed very absurd to talk like that. Mr. Brimby
was telling Mr. Wilkinson how absurd it was. But
Mr. Brimby himself was rather absurd when you
came to think of it....</p>
<p>Then there came another shouted outburst.—"Another
Mutiny? Well, what about it? It <i>is</i>
War, isn't it? Or is it only Brimby's sort of
War?——"</p>
<p>Then Amory felt herself grow suddenly cold and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span>
resolved. Cosimo was coming back. Whether he
had made India too hot to hold him, as now appeared
just possible, she no longer cared, for at last she
knew what she intended to do. Her guests were
wrangling once more; let them wrangle; she was
going to leave this house that Mr. Wilkinson apparently
wanted to surround with police as a preliminary
to the "fun." Edgar might still be at the
office; if he was not, she would sleep at some hotel
and find him in the morning. Then she would take
her leap. She had hesitated far too long. She
would not go and look at the twins for fear lest she
should hesitate again....</p>
<p>Just such a sense of rest came over her as a
swimmer feels who, having long struggled against
a choppy stream, suddenly abandons himself to it
and lets it bear him whither it will.</p>
<p>Unnoticed in the heat of the dispute, she crossed
to the studio door. She thought she heard Laura
call, "Can I come and help, Amory?" No doubt
Laura thought she was going to see about supper.
But she no longer intended to stay even for supper
in this house of wrangles and envy and crowds and
whispering and crookedness.</p>
<p>Her cheque-book and some gold were in her
dressing-table drawer upstairs. She got them. Then
she descended again, opened the front door, closed
it softly behind her again, passed through the door
in the privet hedge, and walked out on to the dark
Heath.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span></p>
<h2>III</h2>
<h3><i>DE TROP</i></h3>
<p>Those who knew Edgar Strong the best knew
that the problem of how to make the best of
both worlds pressed with a peculiar hardship on him.
The smaller rebel must have the whole of infinity for
his soul to range in—and, for all the practical concern
that man has with it, infinity may be defined
as the condition in which the word of the weakest
is as good as that of the wisest. Give him scope
enough and Mr. Brimby cannot be challenged.
There is no knowledge of which he says that it is too
wonderful for him, that it is high and he cannot
attain unto it.</p>
<p>But Edgar Strong knew a little more than Mr.
Brimby. He bore his share of just such a common
responsibility as is not too great for you or for me
to understand. Between himself and Mr. Prang
had been a long and slow and grim struggle, without
a word about it having been said on either side;
and it had not been altogether Edgar Strong's fault
that in the end Mr. Prang had been one too many
for him.</p>
<p>For, consistently with his keeping his three hundred
a year (more than two-thirds of which by one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span>
means and another he had contrived to save), he
did not see that he could have done much more than
he had done. Things would have been far worse
had he allowed Mr. Wilkinson to oust him. And
now he knew that this was the "Novum's" finish.
Whispers had reached him that behind important
walls important questions were being asked, and
a ponderous and slow-moving Department had
approached another Body about certain finportations
(Sir Joseph Deedes, Katie's uncle, knew all
about these things). And this and that and the
other were going on behind the scenes; and these
deep mutterings meant, if they meant anything at
all, that it was time Edgar Strong was packing up.</p>
<p>Fruit-farming was the line he fancied; oranges
in Florida; and it would not take long to book
passages—passages for two——</p>
<p>He had heard the news in the early afternoon,
and had straightway sent off an express messenger
to the person for whom the second passage was
destined. Within an hour this person had run up
the stairs, without having met anybody on a landing
whom it had been necessary to ask whether Mr.
So-and-So, the poster artist, had a studio in the
building. Edgar Strong's occupation as she had
entered had made words superfluous. He had been
carrying armfuls of papers into the little room behind
the office and thrusting them without examination
on the fire. The girl had exchanged a few rapid
sentences with him, had bolted out again, hailed
a taxi, sought a Bank, done some business there on
the stroke of four, and had driven thence to a shipping<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span>
office. Edgar Strong, in Charing Cross Road,
had continued to feed his fire. The whole place
smelt of burning paper. A mountain of ashes choked
the grate and spread out as far as the bed and the
iron washstand in the corner.</p>
<p>The girl returned. From under the bed she pulled
out a couple of bags. Into these she began to thrust
her companion's clothes. Into a third and smaller
bag she crammed her own dressing-gown and
slippers, a comb and a couple of whalebone brushes,
and other things. She had brought word that the
boat sailed the day after to-morrow....</p>
<p>"There's the telephone—just answer it, will
you?" Strong said, casting another bundle on the
fire....</p>
<p>"Wyron," said the girl, returning.</p>
<p>"Never mind those boots; they're done; and you
might get me a safety-razor; shall want it on the
ship.... By the way—I think we'd better get
married."</p>
<p>The girl laughed.—"All right," she said as she
crammed a nightdress-case into the little bag....</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Amory walked quickly down the East Heath.
As she walked she could not help wondering what
there had been to make such a fuss about. Indeed
she had been making quite a bugbear of the thing
she was now doing quite easily. What, after all,
would it matter? Would a single one of the people
she passed so hurriedly think her case in the least
degree special? Had they not, each one of them,
their own private and probably very similar affairs?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span>
Was there one of them of whom it could be said
with certainty that he or she was not, at that very
moment, bound on the same errand? She looked
at the women. There was nothing to betray them,
but it was quite as likely as not. Nor could they
tell by looking at her. For that matter, the most
resolute would hide it the most. And a person's life
was his own. Nobody would give him another one
when he had starved and denied the one he had.
There might not be another one. Some people said
that there was, and some that there wasn't. Meetings
were held about that too, but so far they hadn't
seemed to advance matters very much....</p>
<p>Nor was it the urge of passion that was now
driving her forward at such a rate. She could not
help thinking that she had been rather silly in her
dreams about carpets and Nubians and those things.
If Edgar was passionate, very well—she would deny
him nothing; but in that case she would feel ever
so slightly superior to Edgar. She rather wished
that that was not so; she hoped that after all it
might not be so; on the whole she would have
preferred to be a little his inferior. She had not been
inferior to Cosimo. They, she and Cosimo, had
talked a good deal about equality, of course, but,
after all, equality was a balance too nice for the
present stressful stage of the struggle between man
and woman; a theoretical equality if you liked, but
in practice the thing became a slight temporary
feminine preponderance, which would, no doubt,
settle down in time. Virtually she had been Cosimo's
master. She did not want to be Edgar's. Rather<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span>
than be that he might—her tired sensibilities gave
a brief flutter—he might even be a little cruel to her
if he wished....</p>
<p>A Tottenham Court Road bus was just starting
from the bottom of Pond Street. She ran to catch
it. It moved forward again, with Amory sitting
inside it, between a man in a white muffler and opera-hat
and a flower-woman returning home with her
empty baskets.</p>
<p>Many, many times Amory Pratt, abusing her
fancy, had rehearsed the scene to which she was now
so smoothly and rapidly approaching; but she
rehearsed nothing now. It would suffice for her
just to appear before Edgar; no words would be
necessary; he would instantly understand. Of
course (she reflected) he might have left the office
when she got there; it was even reasonably probable
that he would have left; it was not a press-night;
twenty to one he would have left. But her thoughts
went forward again exactly as if she had not just
told herself this.... He would be there. She
would go up to him and stand before him. As likely
as not not a word would pass between them. She
felt that she had used too many words in her life.
She and her set had discussed subjects simply out
of existence. Often, by the time they had finished
talking, not one of them had known what they had
been talking about. It had been sheer dissipation.
Men, she had heard, took drinks like that, and by
and by were unable to stand, and then made
hideous exhibitions of themselves. Nobody could
say exactly at what point they, the men, became<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span>
incapable, nor the point at which the others, Amory
and her set, became word-sodden; in the one case
the police (she had heard) made them walk a chalk-line;
but there was no chalk-line for the others.
Their paths were crooked as scribble....</p>
<p>But she was going straight at last—as straight as a
pair of tram-lines could take her—and so far was
she from wishing that the tram would go more
slowly, that she would have hastened it had she
been able.</p>
<p>The "Mother Shipton"—the Cobden Statue—Hampstead
Road—the "Adam and Eve." At this last
stopping-place she descended, crossed the road, and
boarded a bus. She remembered that once before,
when she had visited the office in a taxi, the cab
had seemed to go at a terrifying speed; now the
bus seemed to crawl. A fear took her that every
stop might cause her to miss him by just a minute.
She tapped with her foot. She looked almost
angrily at those who got in or out. That flower-woman:
why couldn't she have got out at the proper
stopping-place, instead of upsetting everything with
her baskets hardly a hundred yards further on?...
Off again; she hoped to goodness that was
the last delay. She had been stupid not to take a
taxi after all.</p>
<p>She descended opposite the "Horse Shoe," not three
minutes' walk from the "Novum's" offices. Then
again she called herself stupid for not having sat
where she was, since the bus would go straight past
the door. But she could be there as soon as the bus
if she walked quickly.—<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span>—</p>
<p>The bus overtook her and beat her by twenty
yards.</p>
<p>The bookseller's shutters were down, and in the
window of the electric-fittings shop could be dimly
seen a ventilating fan, a desk-lamp, and a switchboard
or two. Amory turned in under the arch
that led to the yard behind. Her eyes had gone up
to the third floor almost before she had issued
from the narrow alley——</p>
<p>Ah!... So she was not too late. There was a
light.</p>
<p>Through the ground-floor cavern in which the
sandwich-boards were stacked she had for the first
time to slacken her pace; the floor was uneven,
and the place was crowded with dim shadows. A
man smoking a pipe over an evening paper turned
as she entered, but, seeing her make straight for the
stairs, he did not ask her her business. The winding
wooden staircase was black as a flue. On the first
landing she paused for a moment; the man with the
pipe had, after all, challenged her, "Who is it you
want, Miss?" he called from below.... But he did
not follow her. A vague light from the landing
window showed her the second flight of wedge-shaped
wooden steps. She mounted them, and
gained the corridor hung with the specimens of the
poster-artist's work. Ahead along the passage a
narrow shaft of light crossed the floor. She gave
one more look behind, for fear the man below had,
after all, followed her; she was determined, but that
did not mean that she necessarily wished to be
seen....<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span></p>
<p>Her life was her own, to do what she liked with.
Nobody would give her another one....</p>
<p>And Edgar might be cruel if he wished....</p>
<p>For one instant longer she hesitated. Then she
pushed softly at the door from which the beam of
light came.</p>
<p>The quietness of her approach was wasted after
all. There was nobody in the office. The floor
was untidy with scattered leaves of paper, and
Edgar had carelessly left every drawer of his desk
open; but that only meant that he could not be
very far away. Probably he was in the waiting-room.
She approached the door of it.</p>
<p>But, as she did so, some slight unfamiliarity about
the place struck her. The first room of the three,
or waiting-room, she knew, from having once or
twice pushed at the first door of the passage and
having had to pass through that ante-room. Of the
third room she knew nothing save that it was used
as a sort of general lumber-room. But the rooms
seemed somehow to have got changed about. It
was from this third room, and not from the waiting-room,
that a bright light came, and the smell of
charred paper. The door was partly open. Amory
advanced to it.</p>
<p>As she did so somebody spoke.</p>
<p>For so slight a cause, the start that Amory gave
was rather heartrending. She stopped dead. Her
face had turned so chalky a white that the freckles
upon it, which ordinarily scarcely showed, looked
almost unwholesome.</p>
<p>In her mind she had given Edgar Strong leave to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span>
be cruel to her, but not with this cruelty. The
cruelty we choose is always another cruelty. Once a
man, who miraculously survived a flogging, said
that by comparison with the anguish of the second
stroke that of the first was almost a sweetness; and
after the third, and fourth, men, they say, have
laughed. It happened so to Amory. The voices
she heard were not loud; so much the worse, when
a few ordinary, grunted, half expressions could so
pierce her.</p>
<p>"——months ago, but I wasn't ready. I stayed on
here for nobody's convenience but my own, I can
tell you." It was Edgar who said this.</p>
<p>Then a woman's voice—</p>
<p>"I don't think this waistcoat's worth taking;
I've patched and patched it——"</p>
<p>"Oh, chuck it under the bed. And I say—we've
had nothing to eat. Make the cocoa, will you?"</p>
<p>"Just a minute till I finish this bag.—What'll
Pratt say when he comes back?"</p>
<p>"As I shan't be here to hear him, it's hardly
worth while guessing."</p>
<p>"Will Wilkinson take it over?"</p>
<p>"The 'Novum'?... I don't think there'll
be any more 'Novum.' I suppose these London
Indians will be holding a meeting. I don't like 'em,
but let's be fair to them: most of 'em are all right.
They've got to dissociate themselves from this
Collins business somehow. But I expect some
lunatic will go and move an amendment.... Well,
it won't matter to us. We shall be well down the
Channel by that time."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span></p>
<p>Then the girl gave a low laugh.—"I <i>do</i> think you
might buy me a trousseau, Ned—the way it's turned
out——"</p>
<p>The man's voice grunted.</p>
<p>"I thought that would be the next. Give you
something and you all want something else immediately....
Can't afford it, my dear. I've only
pulled between three and four hundred out of this
show, living here, paying myself space-rates and all
the lot; and we shall want all that."</p>
<p>Again the low voice—very soft and low.</p>
<p>"But you'll be a little sorry to leave here, won't
you—m'mmm?——" (This was the second stroke,
by comparison with which the first had been
sweet.)</p>
<p>Strong spoke brusquely.—"Look here, old girl—we've
heaps of things to do to-night—lots of time
before us—don't let's have any nonsense——"</p>
<p>"No-o-o?"——</p>
<p>Amory, besides hearing, might have seen; but
she did not. Something had brought into her head
her own words to Walter Wyron of an hour or two
before, when Walter had picked up the cable announcing
Cosimo's return: "Put that down,
Walter; it's mine." This other, that was taking
place in that inner room, was theirs. It would have
been perfectly easy to strike them dumb by appearing,
just for one moment, in the doorway of this—lumber-room;
but she preferred not to do it. If
she had, she felt that it would have been the remains
of a woman they would have seen. There is not
much catch in striking anybody dumb when the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span>
process involves their seeing—that. Much better
to steal out quietly....</p>
<p>Noiselessly she turned her back to the half-open
door. She tiptoed out into the corridor again. For
a dozen yards she continued to tiptoe—in order to
spare them; and then she found herself at the head
of the steep stairs. She descended. She had not
made a single sound. Down below the man was
still reading the paper, and again he looked round.
At another time Amory might have questioned him;
but again she did not. There was nothing to learn.
She knew.</p>
<p>It was the first thing she had ever really known.</p>
<p>Bowed with the strangeness of knowledge, she
walked slowly out into Charing Cross Road.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span></p>
<h2>IV</h2>
<h3>GREY YOUTH</h3>
<p>She continued to walk slowly; the slowness was
as remarkable as her haste had been. She had
intended, had she missed Edgar, to go to an hotel;
but home was hotel enough, hotel home. Home—home
to a house without privacy—home to children
of whom she was not much more than technically
the mother—home to an asbestos log and to the
absence of a husband that was at least as desirable
as his presence: nothing else remained.</p>
<p>For her lack seemed total—so total as hardly to
be a lack. She desired no one thing, and a desire
for everything is an abuse of the term "desire."
So she walked slowly, stopping now and then to look
at a flagstone as if it had been a remarkable object.
And as she walked she wondered how she had come
to be as she was.</p>
<p>She could not see where her life had gone wrong.
She did not remember any one point at which she had
taken a false and crucial step. For example, she
did not think this grey and harmonious totality of
despondency had come of her marrying Cosimo. They
were neither outstandingly suited nor unsuited to
one another, and a thousand marriages precisely<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span>
similar were made every day and turned out well
enough. No; it could not be that she had
expected too much of marriage. She had not
courted disappointment that way.... (But stay:
had the trouble come of her not expecting largely
enough? Of her not having assumed enough?
Of her not having said to Life, "Such and such I
intend to have, and you shall provide it?" Would
she have fared better then?)... And if Cosimo
had brought her no wonder, neither had her babes.
People were in the habit of saying astonishing things
about the miracle of the babe at the breast, but
Amory could only say that she had never experienced
these things. She had wondered that she should not,
when so many others apparently did, but the fact
remained, that bearing had been an anguish and
nursing an inconvenience. And so at the twins she
had stopped.</p>
<p>Would it have been better had she not stopped?
Would she have been happier with many children?
Without children at all? Or unmarried? Or
ought her painting to have been husband, home and
children to her?...</p>
<p>It was a little late in the day to ask these questions
now——</p>
<p>And yet there had been no reason for asking them
earlier——</p>
<p>It had needed that, her first point of knowledge,
to bring it home into her heart....</p>
<p>But do not suppose that she was in any pain.
As a spinally-anaesthetized subject may have a quite
poignant interest in the lopping off of one of his own<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span>
limbs, and may even wonder that he feels no local
pain, so she assisted at her own dismemberment.
Home, husband, babes, her art—one after another
she now seemed to see them go—or rather, seemed
to see that they had long since gone. She saw this
going, in retrospect. It was as if, though only
degree by degree had the pleasant things of life
ticked away from her, the escapement was now
removed from her memory, allowing all with a buzz
to run down to a dead stop. She could almost hear
that buzz, almost see that soft rim of whizzing
teeth....</p>
<p>Now all was stillness—stillness without pain.
She knew now what Edgar Strong had been doing.
She knew that he had been making use of her,
pocketing Cosimo's money, using the "Novum's"
office as his lodging, had had his bed there, his
slippers in the fender, his kettle, his cocoa, his plates,
his cups, his.... And she knew now that Edgar
Strong was only one of those who had clustered like
leeches about Cosimo.... She forgot how much
Cosimo had said that from first to last it had all cost.
She thought twenty thousand pounds. Twenty
thousand pounds, all vanished between that first
Ludlow experiment and that last piece of amateur
sociology, three revolver shots in a man's back!
As a price it was stiffish. She did not quite know
what the provider of the money had had out of it all.
At any rate she herself had this curious stilly state
of painless but rather sickening knowledge. And
knowledge, they say, is above rubies. So perhaps
it was cheap after all....<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span></p>
<p>But where had she gone wrong? Had she simply
been born wrong? Would it have made any difference
whatever she had done? Or had all this been
appointed for her or ever her mother had conceived
her?</p>
<p>She asked herself this as she passed Whitefield's
Tabernacle; still walking slowly, she was well up
Hampstead Road and still no answer had occurred
to her. But somewhere near the gold-beater's arm
on the right-hand side of the road a thought did
strike her. She thought that she would not go
home after all. This was not because to go home
now would be inglorious; it was no attempt to keep
up appearances; it was merely that she would have
preferred anything to this horrible numbness. Pain
would be better. It is at any rate a condition of
pain that you must be alive to feel it, and she did
not feel quite alive. This might be a dream from
which she would presently wake, or a waking from
which she would by and by drop off to sleep again.
In either case it was more than she could bear for
much longer, and, did she go home, she would have
to bear it throughout the night—for days—until
Cosimo came back—after that——</p>
<p>But where else to go, if not to The Witan? To
Laura's? To Dickie's? That would be the same
thing as going home: little enough change from
spinal anaesthesia in that! They could not help.
Of all her old associates, there was hardly one but
might—that was to say if anything extraordinary
ever happened to them, like suddenly getting to
know something—there was hardly one of them but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span>
might experience precisely this same hopeless perfection
of wrongness, and fail to discover any one
point at which it had all begun. It was rather to be
hoped (Amory thought) that they never would get
to know anything. They were happier as they
were, in a self-contained and harmonious ignorance.
Knowledge attained too late was rather dreadful;
people ought to begin to get it fairly early or not at
all. They ought to begin at about the age of Corin
and Bonniebell....</p>
<p>A month ago the last person she would have gone
to with a trouble would have been Dorothy Tasker.
They had not a single view in common. Moreover,
it would have been humiliating. But now that
actually became, in a curious, reflex sort of way, a
reason for going. She did not know that she
actually wished to be humiliated; she did not think
about it; but she had been looking at herself, and at
people exactly like herself, for a long, long, long
time, and, when you have looked at yourself too
much you can sometimes actually find out something
new about yourself by looking for a change
at somebody else as little like you as can possibly be
found. Amory had tried a good many things, but
she had never tried this. It might be worth trying.
She hesitated for one moment longer. This was
when she feared that Dorothy might offer her, not
the change from numbness to pain, but a sympathy
and consolation that, something deep down within
her told her, would not help her.... A little more
quickly, but not much, she walked up Maiden Road.
She turned into Fleet Road, and reached the tram-terminus<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span>
below Hampstead Heath Station. Thence
to Dorothy's was a bare five minutes. What she
should say when she got to Dorothy's she did not
trouble to think.</p>
<p>And at first it looked as if she would not be
allowed to say anything at all to her, for when she
rang the bell of the hall-floor flat Stan himself
opened the door, looked at her with no great favour,
and told her that Dorothy was not to be seen. From
that Amory gathered that Dorothy was at least
within.</p>
<p>Now when your need of a thing is very great, you
are not to be put off by a young man who admits that
his wife is at home, but tells you that she has some
trifling affair—is in her dressing-gown perhaps, or
has not made her hair tidy—that makes your call
slightly inconvenient. Therefore Amory, in her
need, did what the young man would no doubt have
called "an infernally cheeky thing." She repeated
her request once more, and then, seeing another
refusal coming, waited for no further reply, but
pushed past Stan and made direct for Dorothy's
bedroom. Why she should have supposed that
Dorothy would be in her bedroom she could not
have told. She might equally well have been in
the dining-room, or in the pond-room. But along
the passage to the bedroom Amory walked, while
Stan stared in stupefaction after her.</p>
<p>Dorothy was there. She had not gone to bed,
but, early as it was, appeared to have been preparing
to do so. Amory knew that because, though in
Britomart Belchamber's case a dressing-gown and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span>
plaited hair might merely have meant that she
wanted to listen to Walter Wyron's talk in looseness
and comfort, or else that a plaster cast was to be
taken, they certainly did not mean that in Dorothy's.
And she supposed that differences of that kind were
more or less what she had come to see.</p>
<p>Dorothy was gazing into the fire before which the
youngest Bit had had his bath. Close to her own
chair was drawn the chair that had evidently been
lately occupied by Stan. The infant Bit's cot was
in a corner of the room. At first Dorothy did not
look up from the fire. Probably she supposed the
person who was looking at her from the doorway to
be Stan.</p>
<p>But as that person neither spoke nor advanced,
she turned her head. The next moment a curious
little sound had come from her lips. You see, in
the first place, she had expected nobody less, and
in the second place, she wholeheartedly shared
many of her worldly old aunt's prejudices, among
which was the monstrous one that established a
connexion between recently-bibbed politicians in
this country and revolver shots in another. And
there was no doubt whatever that her presentable
but brainless young husband had fostered this
fallacious conviction. He might even have gone
so far as to say that Amory herself was not altogether
unresponsible....</p>
<p>And that, too, in a sense, was what Amory had
come for.</p>
<p>The eyes of the two women met, Amory's at the
door, Dorothy's startled ones looking over her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span>
shoulder; blue ones and shallow brook-brown
ones; and then Dorothy half rose.</p>
<p>But whatever the first expression of her face had
been, it hardly lasted for a quarter of an instant.
Alarm instantly took its place. She had begun
to get up as a person gets up who would ask another
person what he is doing there. Now it was as if,
though she did not yet know what it was, there was
something to be done, something practical and with
the hands, without a moment's delay.</p>
<p>"What's the matter?" she cried. "Cried" is
written, but her exclamation actually gained in
emphasis from the fact that, not to wake the Bit,
she voiced it in a whisper.</p>
<p>For a moment Amory wondered why she should
speak like that. Then it occurred to her that the
face of a person under spinal anaesthesia might in
itself be a reason. She had forgotten her face.</p>
<p>"May I come in?" she asked.</p>
<p>She took Dorothy's "Shut the door—and speak
low, please—what do you want?" as an intimation
that she might. Amory entered. But she was not
asked to sit down. The man who runs with a fire-call,
or fetches a doctor in the night, is not asked to sit
down, and some urgency of that kind appeared to
be Dorothy's conception of Amory's visit.</p>
<p>"What do you want?" she demanded again.</p>
<p>Amory herself felt foolish at her own reply. It
was so futile, so piteous, so true. She stood as
helpless as a Bit before Dorothy.</p>
<p>"I—I don't know," she said.</p>
<p>"What's the matter? What are you looking<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span>
like that for? Has anything happened to Cosimo?"</p>
<p>"No. No. No. He's coming home. No.
Nothing's happened."</p>
<p>"Can I be of use to you?" She was prepared to
be that.</p>
<p>"No—yes—I don't know——"</p>
<p>Dorothy's eyes had hardened a little.—"<i>Do</i>
you want something—and if you don't—<i>had</i> you
to come—to-night?"</p>
<p>Amory spoke quite quickly and eagerly.</p>
<p>"Oh yes—to-night—it had to be to-night—I
had to come to-night——"</p>
<p>Dorothy's eyes grew harder still.</p>
<p>"Then I think I know what you mean....
I don't think we'll talk about it. There's really
nothing to be said.—So——"</p>
<p>Amory was vaguely puzzled. Of Dorothy's
relation to Sir Benjamin she knew nothing. Dorothy
appeared to be waiting for her to go. That would
mean back to The Witan. But she had come here
expressly to avoid going back to The Witan. Again
she spoke foolishly.</p>
<p>"Cosimo's coming back," she said.</p>
<p>"My aunt thought he might be," said Dorothy
in an even voice.</p>
<p>"And I was going away—but I'm not now——"</p>
<p>"Oh?"</p>
<p>"May I sit down?"</p>
<p>She did so, with her doubled fists thrust between
her knees and her head a little bowed. Then her
eyes wandered sideways slowly round the room.
Dorothy's blouse was thrown on the wide bed;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span>
from under the bed the baby Bit's bath peeped;
and on the blouse lay Dorothy's hairbrushes.</p>
<p>Amory was thinking of another bed, a bed she
had never seen, with portmanteaus on it, and a
patched old waistcoat cast underneath it, and a girl
busily packing at it, a girl whose voice she had
heard pouting "You might buy me a trousseau—"</p>
<p>Dorothy also had sat down, but only on the edge
of her chair. And she thought it would be best to
speak a little more plainly.</p>
<p>"If you'll come to-morrow I shall know better
what to say to you," she said. "You see, you've
taken me by surprise. I didn't think you'd come,
and I don't know now what you've come for. It
isn't a thing to talk about, certainly not to-day.
I should have liked to-day to myself. But if you
feel that you must—will you come in again to-morrow?"</p>
<p>But Amory hardly seemed to hear. Her eyes
were noting the appointments of the bedroom again.
The time had been when she would at once have
denounced the room as overcrowded and unhygienic.
A cot, and a bed with two pillows ... in some
respects her own plan was to be preferred. But
this again was the kind of thing she had come to
see, and she admitted that these things were more
or less governed by what people could afford. From
the kicked and scratched condition of the front of
the chest of drawers she imagined that Dorothy's
children must romp all over the flat. A parti-coloured
ball lay under the cot where the baby
slept. There was a rubber bath-doll near it. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span>
two older boys would be sleeping in the next room.</p>
<p>She spoke again.—"I was going away," she
said, dully, "with somebody."</p>
<p>Once more Dorothy merely said "Oh?"</p>
<p>Then it occurred to Amory that perhaps Dorothy
did not quite understand.</p>
<p>"I mean with—with somebody not my husband."</p>
<p>She had half expected that Dorothy would be
shocked, or at least surprised; but she seemed to
take it quite coolly. Dorothy, as a matter of fact,
was not surprised in the very least. She too guessed
at the futility of looking for a starting-point of
things that grow by inevitable and infinitesimal
degrees. It was rather sad, but not at all astonishing.
On Amory's own premises, there was
simply no reason why she shouldn't. So again she
merely said "Oh?" and added after a moment,
"But you're not?"</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>"How's that? Has what we've heard to-day
made you change your mind?"</p>
<p>Again Amory was slightly puzzled; and at
Dorothy's question she had, moreover, a sudden
little hesitation. <i>Was</i> it after all necessary that
Dorothy should know everything? Would it not
be sufficient, without going into details, to let
Dorothy suppose she had changed her mind?
It came to the same thing in the end.... Besides,
Edgar Strong had not refused her that night. He
had not even known of her presence in the office.
Of the rest she would make a clean breast, but it was
no good bothering Dorothy with that other....<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span>
She was still plunged into a sort of stupor, but these
reflections stirred ever so slightly under the surface
of it....</p>
<p>Then "what we've heard to-day" struck
her. She repeated the words.</p>
<p>"What we've heard to-day?"</p>
<p>"Oh, if you haven't heard.... I only mean
about the murder of my uncle," said Dorothy coldly.</p>
<p>This was far more than Amory could take in.
She reflected for a moment. Then, "What do you
say, Dorothy?" she asked slowly.</p>
<p>"At least he wasn't my uncle really. I liked
him better than any of my uncles."</p>
<p>"Do you mean Sir Benjamin Collins?"</p>
<p>It was as if Amory had not imagined that Sir
Benjamin could by any possibility have been
anybody's uncle.</p>
<p>"I called him uncle," said Dorothy, in a voice
that she tried to keep steady. "Before I could say
the word—I called him——." But she decided not
to risk the baby-word she had used—"Unnoo"——</p>
<p>It seemed to Amory a remarkable little coincidence.</p>
<p>"I—I didn't know," she said stupidly.</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>"You—you mean you—knew him?——"</p>
<p>"Oh ... oh yes."</p>
<p>Amory said again that she hadn't known....</p>
<p>"Then why," Dorothy would have liked to cry
aloud, "<i>have</i> you come, if it isn't to make matters
worse by talking about it? That wouldn't have
surprised me very much! I should have been quite
prepared for you to apologize! It's the kind of thing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span>
you would do. I don't think very much of you, you
see"... But again that worse than frightened
look on her visitor's face struck her sharply, and
again a remark of her aunt's returned to her:
"They puzzle their brains till their bodies suffer,
and overwork their bodies till they're little better
than fools." Suddenly she gave her sometime friend
more careful attention.</p>
<p>"Amory—," she said all at once.</p>
<p>Amory had her fists between her knees again.—"What?"
she said without looking up.</p>
<p>"You just said something about—going away.
I want to ask you something. You haven't ...?"</p>
<p>The meaning was quite plain.</p>
<p>As if she had been galvanized, Amory looked
sharply up.—"How dare——", she began.</p>
<p>But it was only a flash in the pan. Dorothy
was looking into her eyes.</p>
<p>"You're telling me the truth?" She hated to
ask the question.</p>
<p>"Yes," Amory mumbled, dropping her head
again.</p>
<p>"Has Cosimo been unkind to you?"</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>"Nor neglected you?"</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>"Has—has anybody been unkind to you?" She
could not speak of "somebody" by name.</p>
<p>Here Amory hesitated, and finally lied. It was
rather a good sign that she did so. It meant returning
animation....</p>
<p>"No," she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span></p>
<p>"Then what <i>has</i> happened?"</p>
<p>"Nothing. That's what I asked myself. That's
just it. Nothing. Nothing at all's happened."</p>
<p>Dorothy spoke in a low voice, as if to herself.—"I
know," she murmured....</p>
<p>And, on the chance that she really did know,
Amory clutched at the sleeve of Dorothy's dressing-gown
almost excitedly.</p>
<p>"Yes, that's what I mean ... you do know?"
she asked in a quick whisper.</p>
<p>"Yes—no—I'm not sure——"</p>
<p>"But you <i>do</i> know that—nothing happening, nothing
at all, and everything happening—everything?
That's what I mean—that's what I want to know—that's
why I came——"</p>
<p>"Don't speak so loudly. Put your hands to the
fire; they're like ice. Wait; I'll get you a shawl;
you're shivering.... Now I want you to tell me
some things...."</p>
<p>And, first wrapping her up and putting Stan's
pillow behind her back, she began to question her.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>What, again, was the purport of her questions?
What of those of her aunt? What of those of a good
many others in an age that is producing, and for
some mysterious reason or other counts it a sign of
progress to produce, innumerable Amorys—so many
that, stretch out your hand where you will, and you
will touch one?</p>
<p>All is guessing: but it will pass on the time if we
hold a Meeting about it now. Everybody is agreed
that the way to arrive at the best conclusions is to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span>
hold a Meeting, and this will be only one more
Meeting added to the cloud of Meetings in which the
"Novum" went up and out—the Meeting which, as
Edgar Strong had prophesied, the loyal London
Indians held (in the Imperial Institute) in order to
dissociate themselves from the Collins affair (as
Edgar Strong had also prophesied, Mr. Wilkinson
moved an amendment, "That this Meeting declines
to dissociate itself, etc. etc.")—the numerous secondary
Meetings that arose out of that Meeting—the
Meetings of the "Novum's" creditors (for Edgar
Strong in his haste to be off had omitted to pay all
the bills)—the Meetings at which (Cosimo Pratt
having withdrawn his support) the Eden and the
Suffrage Shop had to be reconstructed—the Meetings
convened to talk about this, that and the other—as
many of them as you like.</p>
<p>Let us too, then, hold a nice, jolly Meeting, in
order to find out what was the matter with Amory—a
Meeting with Mr. Brimby in the Chair, to tell us
that there is a great deal to be said on both sides,
and that no party has a monopoly of Truth, and
that the words that ought always to be on our lips
as we hurl ourselves into the thickest and hottest of
the fray, whatever it may be, are "To know all is to
forgive all."</p>
<p>But let us keep our Meeting as quiet as we can, for
we shall have no end of a crowd of Meeting-lovers
there if we don't. The Wyrons will of course have
to be admitted, and Mr. Wilkinson, and Dickie
Lemesurier, and a few of the older students of the
McGrath; but we do not particularly want the others—those<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span>
who feel that in a better and brighter world
they would have been students of the McGrath, but,
as matters stand, are merely young clerks who can
draw a little, young salesmen who can write a little,
young auctioneers with an instinct for the best in
sculpture, young foremen who yearn to express
themselves in music, young governesses (or a few of
them) who have heard of the enormous sums of
money to be made by playwriting, New Imperialists,
amateur regenerators, social prophets after working-hours,
and, in a word, all the people who have just
heard that it is not true that Satan is yet bound up
for his promised stretch of a thousand years.
A terrible number of them will get in whether we
wish it or not; but let the rest be our own little
party; and you shall sit next to Britomart Belchamber,
and I will stand by to open the windows
in case we feel the need of a little fresh air.</p>
<p>So Mr. Brimby will open the proceedings. He will
say the things above-mentioned, and presently, with
emotion and his sense of the world's sorrow gaining
on him, will come to the case of their dear friend
Amory Pratt. Here, he will say, is a young woman,
one of themselves, who does not know what is the
matter with her—who does not know what has become
of her joy—who cannot understand (if Mr.
Brimby may be allowed to express himself a little
poetically) why the bloom of her life has turned to
an early rime. And so (Mr. Brimby will continue),
knowing that if two heads are better than one, two
hundred heads must be just one hundred times better
still, their friend has submitted her case to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span>
Meeting. He will beg them to approach that case
sympathetically. Let the extremists of the one part
(if there be any) balance the extremists of the other,
leaving as an ideal and beautiful middle nullity those
words he had used before, but did not apologize for
using again—to know all is to forgive all. And with
these few remarks (if we are lucky), Mr. Brimby will
say no more, but will call upon their friend Mr.
Walter Wyron to state his view of their friend's case.</p>
<p>Then Walter will get up, with his hands in the
pockets of his knickers, and it will not be his fault
if he does not get off an epigram or two of the "Love
is Law" kind. But you will not fail to notice that
Walter is not his ordinary jaunty self. The withdrawal
of Cosimo's support is going to hit him
rather hard, and glances will be exchanged, and one
or two will whisper behind their hands, "Isn't
Walter beginning to live a little on his reputation?"
Still, Walter will contribute his quotum. We shall
hear that, in his opinion, the Cause of Synthetic
Protoplasm is making such vast strides to-day that
we must revise every one of our estimates in the
light of the most recent knowledge, having done
which we shall probably find that what is really the
matter with Amory is that, by comparison with the
mechanical appliances of Loeb and Delage—appliances
which he will take leave to call the Womb of
the Workshop—their friend Amory is over-vitalized.</p>
<p>Then Mr. Wilkinson will spring to his feet. And
Mr. Wilkinson also will be more than a little sore
about Cosimo's cowardly backsliding. He will say
first of all that their Chairman, as usual, is talking<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span>
out of his hat, and that anybody with a grain of
sense knew that to know all was to have a contempt
for all; and then he will point out that all the
trouble had come of shillyshallying with the wrong
policy. Under Strong's direction of the "Novum,"
he will say, Amory had been hitting the air to no
purpose; whereas had he, Mr. Wilkinson, been
allowed a chance, they would have had the proletariat
armed with rifles by this, and Pratt's wife would
have been a <i>tricoteuse</i>, doing a bit of knitting conspiratoriably
and domestically useful at one and the
same time—would have worn a Phrygian cap, and
carried a pike, and sung "A la Lanterne," and put
a bit of fire into the men! That's what she ought
to have done, and have had a bit of a run for her
money, instead of shillyshallying about with that
idiot Strong——</p>
<p>And then a maiden speech will be given us. Mr.
Raffinger, of the McGrath, will get timidly but
resolutely up, and we shall all applaud him when
he says that the bad old <i>régime</i> at the McGrath
was at the bottom of all the mischief. The stupid
old Professors of the past had tried to drill instruction
into the students instead of allowing each one to do
exactly as he pleased and so to find his own soul.
Amory had been crushed under the cruel old Juggernaut
of discipline. But that, happily, was a thing
of the past at the McGrath. Now they went on the
more enlightened principles laid down by Séguin,
who cured a child of destructiveness by giving it a
piece of priceless Venetian glass to play with, and
when he broke it gave it another unique piece, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span>
then another, and another after that, and another,
until by degrees the child learned, <i>and would never
have to unlearn</i> (that was the important thing!) that it
was very naughty to break valuable Venetian glass.
(A "Hear hear" from Mr. Brimby, which will
probably prove so disconcerting to young Mr.
Raffinger that he will sit down as suddenly as if Mr.
Wilkinson had discharged two bullets at him).</p>
<p>And then Laura Wyron will speak, saying tremulously
that she can't understand why Amory isn't
happy when she has those two lovely babies; but
she is not happy, and never will be again, because
she has turned her back on her art; and Britomart
Belchamber (who will be hoisted to her feet because
she has lived in the same house with Amory, and may
have something interesting and intimate to say) will
doubt whether Amory has always quite closed the
sweat-ducts with a cold sponge; and then the crowd
will rush in—the governess playwrights will say what
they think, the clerk sculptors what they think,
and everybody else what he or she thinks—and
presently they will have strayed a little from the
business in hand, and will be discussing Cubism, or
Matriarchy, or Toe-posts, or the Revival of the
Ballad, or Rufty Tufty, quite beyond Mr. Brimby's
power to hale them back to the proper subject. And
so the Meeting will have to be adjourned, and
we shall all go again to-morrow night, when Mr.
Wilkinson will be in the Chair, and there ought to be
some fun——</p>
<p>But Edgar Strong will not be there, because he
will be on the water, and Cosimo will not be there,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span>
because he will be anxiously counting what money
remains to him, and Mr. Prang will not be there,
because he will be under arrest in Bombay.
But, except for these absences, it will be a perfectly
ripping Meeting——</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>But none of these things were Dorothy's business.
Instead, by the time she had finished her questioning
of Amory, there was no thought at all in her breast,
save only the pitiful desire to help. She saw before
her an old young woman, more drained and disillusioned
and with less to look forward to at
thirty-odd than her aunt had at seventy. Her
very presence in Dorothy's house that night was a
confession of it. It was the last house she would
willingly have gone to, and yet there she was, begging
Dorothy to tell her what had happened to
her. And there was nothing for Dorothy to say
in reply....</p>
<p>She knew that Stan, in the dining-room, was waiting
to come to bed, but he must wait; Dorothy had
the fire to mend, and Amory's cold hands to chafe,
and to get her something hot to drink, and a dozen
other things to do that had never had a beginning
either, yet there they were, mere helpful habit and
nothing more. Presently she set a cup of hot soup
to Amory's lips.</p>
<p>"Drink this," she said, "and when you're rested
my husband will take you home."</p>
<p>But that did not happen either. Amory spoke
very tiredly.</p>
<p>"I should like—I don't want to trouble you—anywhere<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span>
would do—but I don't want to go home
to-night——"</p>
<p>Dorothy made a swift and doubting mental
calculation. Where could she put her?——</p>
<p>"I'm simply done up," muttered Amory closing
her eyes.</p>
<p>"I'm afraid we could only give you a shakedown
in the dining-room——"</p>
<p>"Yes—that would do——"</p>
<p>Dorothy went out to give Stan his orders. Stan
swore. "Rather cool, one of <i>that</i> crew coming here,
to-night of all nights!" But Dorothy was peremptory.</p>
<p>"It isn't cool at all. You don't know anything
about it. You'll find blankets in the chest in your
dressing-room, and mind you don't wake Noel.
Then get some cushions—I'll air a pillowcase—and
then you must go up there and tell them where she
is—they'll be anxious——"</p>
<p>"Shall I bring those twins of hers back with me
while I'm about it?" Stan asked satirically. "May
as well put the lot up."</p>
<p>When he heard Dorothy's reply he thought that
his wife really had gone mad.</p>
<p>"I've arranged that," she said. "We shall be
putting the twins up for a time at Ludlow by and
by while she and her husband go away somewhere
for a change. It's the least we can do. Don't
stand gaping there, Stan——"</p>
<p>"Hm! May I ask what's up?"</p>
<p>"You may if you like, but I shan't tell you."</p>
<p>"Hm!... Well—it's a dog's life—but I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span>
suppose it's no good my saying anything——"</p>
<p>"Not a bit."</p>
<p>So Amory was put to bed, most unhygienically,
in Dorothy's dining-room; but in the middle of
the night she woke, quite unable to remember where
she was. There was a narrow opening between
the drawn curtains; through it a glimmer of
light shone on the Venetian blinds from the street-lamp
outside; and without any other light Amory
got out of her improvised couch. She felt her way
along the wall to a switch, and then suddenly flooded
the room with light.</p>
<p>Blinking, she looked around. She herself wore
one of Dorothy's nightgowns. On Stan's armchair,
near his pipe-rack, was her hat, and her clothing
lay in a heap where she had stepped out of
it. Dorothy's slippers lay by the fender, and
Dorothy had been too occupied to remember to
remove the photograph of Uncle Ben from the
mantelpiece. It seemed to be watching Amory as
she stood, only half awake, in her borrowed nightgown.</p>
<p>It was odd, the way things came about——</p>
<p>If you had asked Amory at six o'clock the evening
before where she intended to spend the night, she
would not have replied "In Dorothy Tasker's
flat——"</p>
<p>But she felt frightfully listless, and the improvised
bed was very warm——</p>
<p>She switched off the light and crept back.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span></p>
<h2>TAILPIECE</h2>
<p>Along the terrace of the late Sir Noel Tasker's
house—"The Brear," Ludlow—there rushed
a troop of ten or twelve urchins. They were dressed
anyhow, in variously-coloured jerseys, shirts, jackets
and blazers, and the legs of half of them were
bare, and brown as sand. Their ages varied from
five to fifteen, and it is hardly necessary to say that
as they ran they shouted. A retriever, two Irish
terriers, an Airedale and a Sealyham tore barking
after them. It was a July evening, amber and
windless, and the shouting and barking diminished
as the horde turned the corner of the long low
white house and disappeared into the beech plantation.
Their tutor was enjoying a well-earned pipe
in the coach-house.</p>
<p>From the tall drawing-room window there stepped
on to the terrace a group of older people. The
sound of wheels slowly ascending the drive could
be heard. Lady Tasker came out first; she was
followed by Cosimo and Amory and Dorothy and
Stan. A little pile of labelled bags stood under the
rose-grown verandah; the larger boxes had already
gone on to the station by cart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span></p>
<p>Stan took a whistle from his pocket and blew
two shrill blasts; then he drew out his watch.
The sounds of shouting drew near again.</p>
<p>"I give 'em thirty seconds," Stan remarked....
"Twenty-five, twenty-six—leg it, Corin!—ah;
twenty-eight!... Company—fall in!"</p>
<p>The young Tims and the young Tonys, Corin and
Bonniebell and the terriers, stood (dogs and all, save
for their tails) stiff as ramrods. Stan replaced his
watch. He had been fishing, and still wore his
tweed peaked cap, with a spare cast or two wound
round it.</p>
<p>"Company—'Shun! Stand a-a-at—ease! 'S
you were! Stand a-a-at—ease! Stand easy....
Tony, fall out and see to the bags. Tim, hold the
horse. Corin—Corin!—What do you keep in the
trenches?"</p>
<p>"Silence," piped up Corin. He had a rag round
one brown knee, his head was half buried in an old
field-service cap, and he refused to be parted, day nor
night, from the wooden gun he carried.</p>
<p>"Not so much noise then.—Who hauls down the
flag to-night?"</p>
<p>"Billie."</p>
<p>"Billie stand by. The rest of you dismiss, but
don't go far—'Evening, Richards——"</p>
<p>The trap drew up in front of the house. Tim
held the horse's head, Tony stood among the bags.
The leavetaking began.</p>
<p>Amory and Cosimo were going to Cumberland for
the rest of the summer. They would have liked<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span>
to go to Norway, but the money would no longer
run to it. They seemed a little shy of one another.
They had been at the Brear a fortnight, and had
had the little room over the porch. The twins were
remaining behind for the present. Dorothy had
said they would be no trouble. This was entirely
untrue. They were more trouble than all the rest
put together. Corin, near the schoolroom window,
was wrangling with an eight years old Woodgate
now.</p>
<p>"They do, there! On Hampstead Heath! I've
seen them, an' they've hats, an' waterbottles, an'
broomsticks!"</p>
<p>"Pooh, broomsticks! My father has a big
elephant-gun!"</p>
<p>"Well ... mine goes to great big Meetings, an'
says 'Hear hear!'"</p>
<p>"My father's in India!"</p>
<p>"Well, so was mine!"</p>
<p>"<i>I've</i> seen them troop the Colour at the Horse
Guards' Parade!"</p>
<p>"So've I!" Corin mendaciously averred.</p>
<p>The other boy opened his eyes wide and protruded
his mouth. It is rarely that one boy does not know
when another boy is lying.</p>
<p>"Oh, what a big one! <i>You'd</i> catch it if Uncle
Stan heard you!"</p>
<p>"Well," Corin pouted, "—I will—or else I'll
cry all night—hard—and I'll make Bonnie cry
too!—"</p>
<p>"Well, an' so shall I, again, an' then I'll have seen<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span>
it twice, an' you'll only have seen it once, an' if I see
it every time you do you'll <i>never</i> have seen it as often
as me!"</p>
<p>Then Stan's voice was heard.</p>
<p>"Corin, come here."</p>
<p>It was an atmosphere of insensate militarism,
but the Pratts were content to leave their offspring
to breathe it for the present. They had another
matter to attend to—their own marital relations.
It had at last occurred to them that you cannot
rule others until you can govern yourself, and they
were going to see what could be done about it.
They had secured a cottage miles away from anywhere,
at the head of a narrow-gauge railway, and
it remained to be seen whether quiet and privacy
and the resources they might find within themselves
would avail them better than the opposites of these
things had done. There was just the chance that
they might—their only chance. The twins, if all
went well, would join them by and by. In the
meantime they must see red, and learn to do things
with once telling.</p>
<p>So Amory took the struggling Corin into her
arms—he wanted to go to the armoury of wooden
guns—and kissed him. Then he ran unconcernedly
off. Dorothy saw the sad little lift of Amory's
bosom, guessed the cause, and laughed.</p>
<p>"Shocking little ingrates!" she said. "Noel's
joy when I go away is sometimes indecent.—But
don't be afraid they'll be any trouble to us here.
You see the rabble we have in any case."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span></p>
<p>"It's very good of you," Amory murmured
awkwardly.</p>
<p>"Nothing of the sort. Stan loves to manage
them—it keeps his hand in for managing me, he
says.... Now, I don't want to hurry you, but
you'd better be off if you're going to get as far as
Liverpool to-night. Good-bye, dear——"</p>
<p>"Good-bye, Dorothy——"</p>
<p>"So long, Pratt—up with those bags, Tim——"</p>
<p>"Good-bye, Bonnie——"</p>
<p>"Corin! Corin!—(Hm! See if I don't have
you in hand in another week or two, my boy!)—Come
and say good-bye to your father."</p>
<p>"Good-bye, Lady Tasker——"</p>
<p>"All right?"</p>
<p>The wheels crunched; hands were waved; the
rabble gave a shockingly undisciplined cheer;
and young Arthur Woodgate, who had run along
the terrace and stood holding the gate at the end
open, saluted. Stan took out his watch again.</p>
<p>"Four minutes to sunset," he announced.</p>
<p>But there was no need to tell Billie to stand by to
strike the flag that hung motionless above the gable
where the old billiard-room and gun-room had been
thrown together to make the schoolroom. The
halyards were already in his hands.</p>
<p>"Here, Corin," Stan called, "you shall fire the
gun to-night."</p>
<p>Corin gave a wild yell of joy. Well out of reach,
there was an electric button on one of the rose-grown
verandah posts. Stan lifted his newest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span>
recruit to it, who put a finger-tip on it and shut his
eyes——</p>
<p>"<span class="smcap">Bang!</span>" went the little brass carronade in the
locked enclosure behind the woodshed——</p>
<p>And hand over hand Billie hauled the flag
down.</p>
<p>But it would be run up again in the morning.</p>
<hr />
<p class="center"><i>Printed by</i> <span class="smcap">Butler & Tanner</span>, <i>Frome and London</i>.</p>
<hr />
<p class="right"><span style="margin-right: 5em;"><i>SPRING 1914</i></span></p>
<h2>METHUEN'S POPULAR NOVELS</h2>
<h4>Crown 8vo, 6s. each</h4>
<p><big><b>IT HAPPENED IN EGYPT</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By C. N. and <span class="smcap">A. M. Williamson</span>, Authors of 'The
Heather Moon,' 'The Lightning Conductor,' etc.</p></div>
<p>This book tells, in the charming manner of the authors, a story of entrancing
interest for travellers in Egypt and for home-dwellers too. A
young English diplomatist finds himself compelled by an unusual combination
of circumstances to become the temporary conductor of a party of
tourists cruising on the Mediterranean and seeing Egypt. His strange
new duties plunge him into the midst of adventures both comic and
serious. He composes quarrels, intervenes in love affairs, baffles the
agents of a secret society, conducts his charges successfully up the Nile
to Khartoum, and in the end finds love and treasure both for himself and
a faithful friend.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>CHANCE</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">Joseph Conrad</span>, Author of 'The Nigger of the
"Narcissus."'</p></div>
<p>In this new romance, which Mr. Conrad unfolds in his fascinating and
curious way, partly by monologue, partly by narrative, we find the author
of <i>Lord Jim</i> again revealing one of those strange cases of human passion
and disaster which he alone, of living writers, can present. The sea is in
the book, but it is not entirely a book of the sea.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>WHOM GOD HATH JOINED</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">Arnold Bennett</span>, Author of 'Clayhanger.'</p></div>
<p>This is a re-issue of one of Mr. Bennett's most famous novels.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>THE WAY HOME</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">Basil King</span>, Author of 'The Wild Olive.'</p></div>
<p>This is the story, minutely and understandingly told, of a sinner, his life
and death. He is an ordinary man and no hero, and the final issue raised
concerns the right of one who has persistently disregarded religion during
his strength, in accepting its consolations when his end is near: a question
of interest to every one. The book, however, is not a tract, but a very
real novel.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 2]</span></p>
<p><br /><big><b>OLD ANDY</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">Dorothea Conyers</span>, Author of 'Sandy Married,' etc.</p></div>
<p>No one knows rural Ireland and its humours better than Mrs. Conyers,
whose intensely Hibernian stories are becoming so well known, and throw
such amusing light on that eternal and delightful Ireland which never gets
into the papers or politics. In <i>Old Andy</i> there is a very charming vein of
sentiment as well as much fun and farce.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>THE GOLDEN BARRIER</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">Agnes</span> and <span class="smcap">Egerton Castle</span>, Authors of 'If Youth
but Knew.'</p></div>
<p>The main theme of this romance is the situation created by the marriage—a
marriage of love—of a comparatively poor man, proud, chivalrous, and
tender, to a wealthy heiress: a girl of refined and generous instincts, but
something of a wayward 'spoilt child,' loving to use the power which her
fortune gives her to play the Lady Mæcenas to a crowd of impecunious
flatterers, fortune hunters, and unrecognized geniuses. On a critical
occasion, thwarted in one of her mad schemes of patronage by her husband,
who tries to clear her society of these sycophants and parasites, she
petulantly taunts him with having been a poor man himself, who happily
married money. Outraged in his love and pride, he offers her the choice
of coming to share his poverty or of living on, alone, amid her luxuries.
There begins a conflict of wills between these two, who remain in love
with each other—prolonged naturally, and embittered, by the efforts of
the interested hangers-on to keep the inconvenient husband out of Lady
Mæcenas' house—but ending in a happy surrender on both sides.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>THE HAPPY HUNTING GROUND</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">Alice Perrin</span>, Author of 'The Anglo-Indians.'</p></div>
<p>A lively and entertaining story of Anglo-Indian life dealing with the
matrimonial adventures of a young lady whose forbears have all been
connected with the Indian services, and who is sent out to India to find a
husband in her own class of life, but marries an official of humble origin
ignorant of the circumstances of his birth. Troubles and disappointments,
which come near to real tragedy, end in the triumph of grit and sincerity
over social barriers.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>THE FLYING INN</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">G. K. Chesterton</span>.</p></div>
<p>This story is partly a farcical romance of the adventures of the last
English Inn-keeper, when all Western Europe had been conquered by the
Moslem Empire and its dogma of abstinence from wine. It might well
be called 'What Might Have Been,' for it was sketched out before the
legend of the Invincible Turk was broken. It involves a narrative development
which is also something of a challenge in ethics. The lyrics
called 'Songs of the Simple Life,' which appeared in <i>The New Witness</i>,
are sung between the Inn-keeper and his friend, the Irish Captain, who
are the principal characters in the romance.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 3]</span></p>
<p><br /><big><b>THE WAY OF THESE WOMEN</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">E. Phillips Oppenheim</span>, Author of 'The Missing
Delora.'</p></div>
<p>In this story Mr. Phillips Oppenheim, who is never content to remain in
the same rut for long, has boldly deserted the somewhat complicated
mechanism which goes to the making of the modern romance. He has
contented himself with weaving a tensely written story around one Event,
and concentrating the whole love interest of the book upon two people.
The Event in itself is one simple enough, its use in fiction almost hackneyed,
yet the circumstances surrounding it are so tragical and surprising, its
hidden history so unexpected, that it easily serves as the pivot of an
interest arresting from the first, startling in its latter stages, almost breathless
in its last development.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>A CROOKED MILE</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">Oliver Onions</span>, Author of 'The Two Kisses.'</p></div>
<p>This is a story of a very modern marriage following the author's previous
story, <i>The Two Kisses</i>, of a very modern courtship. In it two <i>ménages</i> are
contrasted, the one run on new and liberal and enlightened lines, the other
still dominated by the ideas of the benighted past. What the difference
between them comes to in the end depends entirely on the interpretation
put upon the story, but the comedy 'note' speaks for itself. It may be
remembered that <i>The Two Kisses</i> touches on the foibles of certain artists.
<i>A Crooked Mile</i> deals with the vagaries of a certain airy amateurism in
Imperial Politics.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>THE SEA CAPTAIN</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">H. C. Bailey</span>, Author of 'The Lonely Queen.'</p></div>
<p>One of the great company of Elizabethan seamen is the hero of this
novel. There is, however, no attempt at glorifying him or his comrades.
Mr. Bailey has endeavoured to mingle realism with the romance of the
time. Captain Rymingtowne is presented as no crusader but something of
a merchant, something of an adventurer and a little of a pirate. He has
nothing to do with the familiar tales of the Spanish Main and the Indies.
His voyages were to the Mediterranean when the Moorish corsairs were at
the height of their power, and of them and their great leaders, Kheyr-éd-din
Barbarossa and Dragut Reis, the story has much to tell. Captain
Rymingtowne was concerned in the famous Moorish raid to capture the
most beautiful woman in Europe and in the amazing affair of the Christian
prisoners at Alexandria.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>FIREMEN HOT</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">C. J. Cutcliffe Hyne</span>, Author of 'The Adventures
of Captain Kettle.'</p></div>
<p>In <i>Firemen Hot</i>, Mr. Cutcliffe Hyne has added three clearly etched
portraits to a gallery which already contains those marine 'musketeers,'
Thompson, McTodd, and Captain Kettle. The marine fireman is probably
at about the bottom of the social scale, but, in Mr. Hyne's pages, he is
very much the human being. In each chapter the redoubtable trio play
before a different background, but whether they are in New Orleans or
Hull, in Vera Cruz or Marseilles, one can tell in a paragraph that the<span class="pagenum">[Pg 4]</span>
author is writing of his ground from first-hand knowledge, and his characters
from intimate and joyous study of them. A few Captain Kettle
stories have been added.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>SIMPSON</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">Elinor Mordaunt</span>, Author of 'The Cost of It.'</p></div>
<p>Simpson is a retired business man in the prime of life, who, beneath a
rugged exterior, possesses a sympathetic heart. Yet, finding no woman to
fill it, he organizes a bachelor's club of congenial spirits and leases a fine
old English country estate, there to live in <i>dolce far niente</i> untroubled by
feminism in any form. How first one member of the club and then another
drops away for sentimental reasons until only Simpson is left, and then his
final capitulation to the only woman—all this makes a delightful bit of
comedy. The book, however, is more than a comedy. Running through
it is a sound knowledge of human life and character, and the writing is
always brilliant. It is a book out of the ordinary in every way.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>TWO WOMEN</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">Max Pemberton</span>, Author of 'The Mystery of the
Green Heart.'</p></div>
<p><br /><big><b>DAVID AND JONATHAN IN THE
RIVIERA</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">L. B. Walford</span>, Author of 'Mr. Smith.'</p></div>
<p>Two simple, unsophisticated bachelors, respectively minister and elder of
a Scotch country parish, go to the Riviera for health's sake, and the rich
and jovial 'Jonathan,' older by fifteen years than his friend, means to have
a merry time, and to force the reluctant, shy, and sensitive 'David' into
having a merry time too. He 'opines' that David needs waking up.
Jonathan Buckie reminds us of Mrs. Walford's earlier hero 'Mr. Smith,'
but unluckily his heart of gold is not united to the latter's personal charms,
and he continually jars upon his companion, especially when making new
acquaintances. His habit of doing this in and out of season eventually
leads to disaster, and both men pass through a never-to-be-forgotten
experience of the sirens of the South before they return home. An old
Scotch serving-man, who attends Mr. Buckie as valet, plays no small part
in the story, and his sardonic comments, grim humour, and the way in
which he handles his master, whose measure he has taken to a nicety,
make many amusing episodes.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>THE ORLEY TRADITION</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">Ralph Straus</span>.</p></div>
<p>The Orleys are an old noble family, once powerful, but now living
quietly in a corner of England (Kent). They do nothing at all, in spite
of people's endeavours to make them reach to the older heights. But they
are happy in their retirement, and the real reason for this is that they have
few brains. John Orley, the hero, has all the family characteristics, and
is preparing himself for a humdrum country life, when he meets with an
accident which prevents him from playing games, etc. He becomes ambitious,
goes out into the world, and—fails at everything. He recovers
his strength, and sees the mistake he has made, and the book ends as it
began, the Orley Tradition holding true.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 5]</span></p>
<p><br /><big><b>ON THE STAIRCASE</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">Frank Swinnerton</span>.</p></div>
<p>The scene of Mr. Frank Swinnerton's new novel is set in the heart of
London, in the parish of Holborn. The reproduction of manners, and
the revelation by this means of the spirit underlying those manners, forms
the framework of a story of passion. In the main, therefore, <i>On the Staircase</i>
is a romance with a clearly defined setting of commonplace happenings,
in which the loves of Barbara Gretton and Adrian Velancourt are
shown in conflict with the action of circumstance. The book is in no
sense photographic, but it has value as a social picture, being based upon
genuine observation.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>MAN AND WOMAN</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">L. G. Moberly</span>, Author of 'Joy.'</p></div>
<p>This story, which is based on Tennyson's lines—'The woman's cause is
man's, they rise or sink together'—has for its chief character a woman who
takes the feminist view that man is the enemy; a view from which she is
ultimately converted. Another prominent character is one whose love is
given to a weak man, her axiom being that love takes no heed of the
worthiness or unworthiness of its object. The scene is laid partly in
London, partly in a country cottage, and partly in India during the
Durbar of the King-Emperor.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>MAX CARRADOS</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">Ernest Bramah</span>, Author of 'The Wallet of Kai
Lung.'</p></div>
<p>Max Carrados is blind, but in his case blindness is more than counter-balanced
by an enormously enhanced perception of the other senses. How
these serve their purpose in the various difficulties and emergencies that
confront the wealthy amateur when, through the instigation of his friend
Louis Carlyle, a private inquiry agent, he devotes himself to the elucidation
of mysteries, is the basis of Mr. Ernest Bramah's new book. The adventures
that ensue range from sensational tragedy to romantic comedy as the
occasions rise.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>THE MAN UPSTAIRS</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">P. G. Wodehouse</span>, Author of 'The Little Nugget.'</p></div>
<p>Under this title Mr. Wodehouse has collected nineteen of the short
stories written by him in the past four years. Mr. Wodehouse is one of
the few English short-story writers with an equally large public on both
sides of the Atlantic: but only two of these stories have an American
setting. All except one of this collection are humorous, and some idea of
the variety of incident of the remainder may be gathered from the fact that
their heroes include a barber, a gardener, an artist, a playwriter, a tramp,
a waiter, an hotel clerk, a golfer, a stockbroker, a butler, a bank clerk, an
assistant master at a private school, an insurance clerk, a peer's son who
is also a leading member of a First League Association football team,
and a Knight of King Arthur's Round Table who is neither brave nor
handsome.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 6]</span></p>
<p><br /><big><b>SQUARE PEGS</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">Charles Inge</span>, Author of 'The Unknown Quantity.'</p></div>
<p>This novel raises again the absorbing question as to what is failure and
what success. It tells how a big man from South Africa sets out to conquer
London—the London of the Lobby and the Clubs—with a threepenny
weekly paper and sympathy for the unemployed; how he fails, but in
failure wins his woman; how she too suffers in the London of women
workers. There is, on the other side, the little solicitor who calculates
for and succeeds by the other's failure; but in succeeding loses. The
background includes the life drama of an enthusiast for Labour reform.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>MESSENGERS</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">Margaret Hope</span>, Author of 'Christina Holbrook.'</p></div>
<p>A story of the sudden yielding to temptation of a woman of good
position. She suffers for her fault in prison, but her sufferings on release
are ten times greater. She tries her utmost to keep the knowledge of her
guilt from her daughter, a girl just left school, but in vain. The girl, in
a painful scene, demands to be told the truth, and the mother, unable to
bear the sight of her child's misery, flies from home, hoping still in some
way to retrieve the past. But the net of circumstance is too strongly
woven.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>ENTER AN AMERICAN</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By E. <span class="smcap">Crosby-Heath</span>, Author of 'Henrietta taking
Notes.'</p></div>
<p>The hero of Miss Crosby-Heath's new novel is a self-made American,
who comes to London and enters a Home for Paying Guests. He is an
optimistic philanthropist, and he contrives to help all the English friends
he makes. His own crudity is modified by his London experiences, and
the dull minds of his middle-class English friends are broadened by contact
with his untrammelled personality. A humorous love interest runs
through the book.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>THE FRUITS OF THE MORROW</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">Agnes Jacomb</span>, Author of 'The Faith of his
Fathers.'</p></div>
<p><i>The Fruits of the Morrow</i> is a novel showing the consequences of a man's
and a woman's conduct in the past and how it affects the lives of their
two sons. The other characters of the story are in different degrees
involved in the results of the old romance, but not irredeemably. There
is no hero in the ordinary sense of the word, the four male characters
being of almost equal importance. The action takes place mainly in East
Anglia and during the months of one summer.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>A GIRL FROM MEXICO</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By R. B. <span class="smcap">Townshend</span>, Author of 'Lone Pine.'</p></div>
<p>Adventures are to the adventurous, and a very young Oxford man
who strikes out for himself in the wild and woolly West is apt to come in
for some lively developments. He gets an exciting start by going partners
with a Mormon-eating American desperado, and when the unsophisticated
youth falls in love with a velvet-eyed Mexican senorita, and then finds<span class="pagenum">[Pg 7]</span>
himself called upon in honour to play the part of Don Quixote, things
begin to get tangled up. Finally he becomes involved in a struggle, not
only with Mormons but with Mexican self-torturers in a great scene on the
Calvary of the Penitentes which forms the climax of the story.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>SARAH MIDGET</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">Lincoln Grey</span>.</p></div>
<p>In the sedate atmosphere of a quiet country town there develop the
later phases of a man's sin, when he has become rich and powerful, and
the woman whom he thrust aside in his early manhood learns, all unconsciously,
to love the son of her successful rival. How Sarah Midget
rises, in the shock of a great tragedy, to supreme heights of self-sacrifice,
is shown in poignant and moving scenes.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>AN ASTOUNDING GOLF MATCH</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By '<span class="smcap">Stancliffe</span>,' Author of 'Fun on the Billiard Table'
and 'Golf Do's and Dont's.'</p></div>
<p>The narrative of the adventures of two golfers of equal handicaps, but
different styles, who being dissatisfied with the result of two home and home
matches, decide that golf across country from links to links, would be
more scientific and interesting than golf where all the hazards are known.
The troubles that befell them, and how the match came to an abrupt
termination, to the discomfort of one and the joy of the other, are told in
this book.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>BLACKLAW</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By Sir <span class="smcap">George Makgill</span>.</p></div>
<p>This is a study in temperaments—a contrast between the old and the
new views of the relations between parent and child. Lord Blacklaw
throws up rank and fortune, takes his children to the Colonies to live 'the
Patriarchal Life,' and sacrifices their future to his own impulses. John
Westray, on the other hand, gives up happiness, even life itself, for what
he deems his son's welfare. Each from his own point of view fails, yet
neither life is wholly wasted. The scenes are laid in Scotland, New
Zealand, and in a Cornish Art Colony.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>POTTER AND CLAY</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By Mrs. <span class="smcap">Stanley Wrench</span>, Author of 'Love's Fool,'
'Pillars of Smoke,' 'The Court of the Gentiles,' etc.</p></div>
<p>In this story the author returns to the peasant folk of the Midlands whom
she knows so well, and of whom she has written with sympathetic frankness
in several books already. Just now, when the land question is so
much discussed, this novel, dealing in the main with tillers of the soil,
should receive careful attention.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>A ROMAN PICTURE</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">Paul Waineman</span>, Author of 'A Heroine from Finland.'</p></div>
<p>Mr. Paul Waineman, the Finnish novelist who has so far allowed his
pen only to describe his native land Finland, has in his latest work essayed
a new and also very old hunting ground for those in search of romance.<span class="pagenum">[Pg 8]</span>
<i>A Roman Picture</i> is a romantic love story, set in the Mother City of the
world, Rome. The author, from personal experience, shows up in a daring
manner the hatred that still exists between the old and the new Rome.
The heavy shadows and many memories within the vast decaying Roman
palace, haunted by the living presence of the young and beautiful Donna
Bianca Savelli, the last representative of an ancient line, form a pen-picture
which will appeal to the many lovers of Rome.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>THE GIRL ON THE GREEN</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">Mark Allerton</span>, Author of 'Such and Such
Things.'</p></div>
<p>The atmosphere of the links pervades Mark Allerton's new novel. The
wind from the sea blows fresh through its pages. The heroine is a charming,
high-spirited girl who on her way from college to Bury St. Dunstan's,
has an unexpected excursion into Militancy. The author has no views to
present on the Suffrage Movement; nor, indeed, has his heroine, whose
not-to-be-explained week-end in a police cell gives ample scope for a highly
amusing and exciting story. While <i>The Girl on the Green</i> makes a bid
for general popularity, golfers will find it of particular interest. Mark
Allerton is well known as a writer on the game, and his description of the
great golf match between the hero and heroine will be found full of sly
allusions to topics in the knowledge of all golfers, as well as an uncommonly
racy and exciting finish to a breezy story.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>DICKIE DEVON</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">John Overton</span>, Author of 'Lynette.'</p></div>
<p>Mr. John Overton's second novel is laid in Worcestershire in the summer
of 1644, and is the story of a young Cavalier, forced by adverse circumstances
to become a spy among the Roundheads. His position is a difficult
and dangerous one, and matters are made worse by the advent of a spoilt
Court beauty, who—mistaking him for another man—imagines herself to
be his wife. Readers of <i>Lynette</i> will welcome the reappearance of the
happy-go-lucky Irishman, Michael Fleming, who plays a leading part in
this romance of love and war.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>THE STORY OF A CIRCLE</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">M. A. Curtois</span>, Author of 'A Summer in Cornwall.'</p></div>
<p>A story of an experiment in the Occult, in which some ladies who began
by being idly interested in psychical research, find themselves in dangerous
contact with the material necessities of mediums. Much light is cast upon
that strange population of charlatans who grow fat on the credulity of the
foolish in London.</p>
<p><br /><big><b>LOTTERIES OF CIRCUMSTANCE</b></big></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>By <span class="smcap">R. C. Lynegrove</span>.</p></div>
<p>This story is laid in Germany, and describes the matrimonial adventures
of two sisters belonging to the impoverished German aristocracy. The
elder, gentle and unselfish, marries into the vulgar domineering family of
Gubbenmeyer. The other, flirtatious and attractive, saves herself and her
family from penury by securing a rich officer, only to jeopardize everything
through her undisciplined and sensuous temperament.
<br />
<br /></p>
<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTE:</h3>
<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1" id="Footnote_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a>I have been charged with the invention of these facetiæ.
Here is the Synthetic Protoplasm idea:—</p>
<p>"The dream of creating offspring without the concurrence
of woman has always haunted the imagination of the human
race. The miraculous advances which the chemical synthesis
has accomplished in these latter days seem to justify
the boldest hopes, but we are still far from the creation of
living protoplasm. The experiences of Loeb or of Delage
are undoubtedly very confounding. But in order to
produce life these scientists were obliged, nevertheless; to
have recourse to beings already organized. Thousands of
centuries undoubtedly separate us from any possibility of
realizing the most magnificent and most disconcerting dream
ever engendered in the human brain. In the meantime, as
the Torch of Life must be transmitted to the succeeding
generations, woman will continue gloriously to fulfil her
character of mother."—"Problems of the Sexes," Jean
Finot; 12<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i> net; p. 352.</p>
<p>Lightly worked up and chattily treated, this theme, as
Katie said, drew quiet smiles of appreciation from every
cultured audience which Walter addressed.</p></div>
</div>
<p><br />
<br />
<br /></p>
<div class='footnotes'><h3>Transcriber's Notes:</h3>
<div class="tnote"><p>Obvious punctuation errors repaired.</p></div>
<div class="tnote"><p>Printer's errors repaired, including:</p>
<ul><li>Page 128, "interestng" corrected to be "interesting" (really interesting detail)</li>
<li>Page 129, "advertisments" corrected to be "advertisements" (advertisements had not)</li>
<li>Page 217, "necesarily" corrected to be "necessarily" (did not necessarily)</li>
<li>Page 219, "relasped" corrected to be "relapsed" (relapsed into silence)</li>
<li>Page 227, "if" corrected to be "it" (take it for)</li>
<li>Page 233, "ideals" corrected to be "ideas" (ideas seem original)</li>
<li>Page 295, "premisses" corrected to be "premises" (own premises)</li>
<li>Page 296, "what "what" corrected to be "what" ("what we've heard)</li>
<li>Page 302, "consspiratoriably" corrected to be "conspiratoriably" (knitting conspiratoriably)</li></ul></div>
<div class="tnote"><p>Other variable spellings within the text retained, including:</p>
<ul><li>The same word with and without apostrophe, for example: "Golder's Green" and "Golders Green"</li>
<li>The same word with and without accent, for example: "régime" and "regime"</li>
<li>The same word with and without hyphen, for example: "off-handedly" and "offhandedly"</li>
<li>Inconsistent spelling, for example: "by and by" and "by and bye"</li></ul></div>
</div>
<pre>
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