diff options
| author | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-01-23 01:07:51 -0800 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-01-23 01:07:51 -0800 |
| commit | 8c0eef183f41fd864067cac4cd107ac57665d886 (patch) | |
| tree | a53aced69e6c7f87ba4b6eb1a76b727c75145f14 /old/65384-0.txt | |
| parent | 9e2845691aceecad028a8edc7ae8519dbd1f0213 (diff) | |
Diffstat (limited to 'old/65384-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/65384-0.txt | 13308 |
1 files changed, 0 insertions, 13308 deletions
diff --git a/old/65384-0.txt b/old/65384-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 896dc92..0000000 --- a/old/65384-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,13308 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of And Five Were Foolish, by Dornford Yates - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: And Five Were Foolish - -Author: Dornford Yates - -Release Date: May 19, 2021 [eBook #65384] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Al Haines, Jen Haines & the online Distributed Proofreaders - Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AND FIVE WERE FOOLISH *** - - - - - - [Cover Illustration] - - - - - =BY THE SAME AUTHOR= - - _Published by_ - _Ward, Lock and Co., Ltd._ - - * * * * * - -MAIDEN STAKES - -BERRY AND CO. - -JONAH AND CO. - -AND FIVE WERE FOOLISH - -AS OTHER MEN ARE - -ANTHONY LYVEDEN - -VALERIE FRENCH - -THE BROTHER OF DAPHNE - -THE COURTS OF IDLENESS - -THE STOLEN MARCH - - _Published by_ - _Hodder and Stoughton._ - - * * * * * - -BLOOD ROYAL - -BLIND CORNER - -PERISHABLE GOODS - -ADÈLE AND CO. - -FIRE BELOW - -SAFE CUSTODY - -STORM MUSIC - - - - - AND FIVE - - WERE FOOLISH - - BY - DORNFORD YATES - - WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED - - LONDON AND MELBOURNE - - - - - _Printed in Great Britain by C. Tinling & Co., Ltd.,_ - _Liverpool, London, and Prescot._ - - - - - To - - RICHARD, - - _whose worst fault is_ - - _that he is growing up_. - - - - - CONTENTS - - PAGE - SARAH • • • • • 11 - MADELEINE • • • • 41 - KATHARINE • • • • 65 - SPRING • • • • • 99 - ELIZABETH • • • • 129 - JO • • • • • • 155 - ATHALIA • • • • • 183 - ANN • • • • • 211 - ELEANOR • • • • • 253 - SUSAN • • • • • 281 - - - - - SARAH - - - SARAH - -Sarah Vulliamy stared at her pink finger-tips. - -“But,” she protested, “I wanted to marry George Fulke.” - -“I can’t help that,” said Pardoner gloomily, filling her glass with -champagne. “I didn’t make the rotten Will.” - -“Well, you needn’t be so ungallant about it,” retorted Sarah. “And it’s -no use giving me any more champagne, because I shan’t drink it. Filthy -stuff.” - -Her companion raised his eyes to heaven. - -“‘Filthy stuff,’” he breathed. “And I brought you here, because this is -the only place in London that’s got any left. ‘Filthy stuff.’ I daresay -it doesn’t appeal to you, but why blaspheme? Never mind. When we’re -married, I’ll——” - -“I tell you,” said Sarah, “I want to marry George Fulke.” - -“I’m not surprised,” said Pardoner. “George Fulke is a most desirable -young man. I should think, as a husband, he’d feed right out of your -hand. But there you are. You’ve refused him three times—on your own -confession: and now it’s too late.” - -“It’s not too late at all,” said Miss Vulliamy. “I’m lunching with him -to-morrow, and, if I’m nice to him——” - -“For heaven’s sake,” said Pardoner, “don’t go and play with fire. I know -what these lawyers are. If you went and got engaged to somebody else, -there’d be the devil to pay before we could straighten it out. Which -reminds me—the sooner our engagement’s announced——” - -“But I don’t want to marry you,” wailed Sarah. - -Pardoner clasped his head in his hands. - -“Look here,” he said. “I don’t know how many proposals you’ve had, -but——” - -“Thirty-nine,” said Sarah, “to date.” - -“Well, do those thirty-nine include one from me?” - -Sarah shook her fair head. - -“I’ve often wondered why they didn’t,” she said. - -Pardoner felt inclined to scream. Instead, he emptied his glass. Then he -leaned forward. - -“Shall I tell you?” he said. - -“Oh, do.” - -“Because I’m—I’m already in love with somebody else.” - -“Oh, Virgil, how exciting. Who is it?” - -Pardoner swallowed. - -“It isn’t exciting at all,” he said aggrievedly. “It’s very tragic. Here -have I been waiting and waiting for old James Tantamount to pass to a -well-earned rest, and now he’s done it—and fairly cramped my style.” - -“But who is it, Virgil?” - -“You wouldn’t know her,” protested Pardoner. - -“Tell me her name.” - -“Townshend. June Townshend. One of the Lincolnshire lot.” - -Sarah knitted her brows. - -“June Townshend,” she said musingly. “I never heard of her. Does -she——” - -“I told you you hadn’t,” said Pardoner. “But that’s neither here nor -there. There’s my skeleton or cross, or whatever you like to dress it -in. You see, my lady, we’re both in the same sad boat. You want George, -and I want June. And we can’t have ’em.” - -Sarah stretched out her hand. - -“Let me look at the Will,” she said. - -Pardoner produced and handed her a paper. - -. . . . _subject to the aforesaid legacies give devise and bequeath all -my real and personal property of every sort and description as follows -to be divided equally between my nephew Virgil Pardoner of 79 St. -James’s Street, S.W. and my ward Sarah Cust Vulliamy at present of -Palfrey in the New Forest upon the absolute condition that my aforesaid -nephew and ward are married the one to the other within three months of -my death. But should my aforesaid nephew and ward or either of them fail -to observe this condition or dispute this Will then I devise and -bequeath the whole of my aforesaid property equally to the -undermentioned Institutions. . . ._ - -Sarah read the words thoughtfully. - -“It doesn’t say how much, does it?” - -“Wills don’t,” said Virgil. “That’s where the lawyers come in. Forsyth -tells me that, when everything’s paid, the money alone will be over six -hundred thousand.” - -“It’s a shame,” cried Sarah. “A beastly shame. They say the Law’s just, -but it isn’t. Men always get the best. Here I get three hundred thousand -and lose my freedom. You get your share and me into the bargain. And -what about poor George? I shan’t know how to tell him.” - -As soon as Pardoner could speak— - -“What about June?” he demanded. “She’ll—she’ll never forgive me.” - -“Oh, blow June,” said Sarah. “Besides, it’s not settled yet, and I’m not -at all sure I’m going to do it. Money isn’t everything.” - -“That,” said Virgil, “depends upon the amount. Besides, I daresay after -a bit we shall—we shall be—er—quite happy.” - -“Ugh,” shuddered Sarah. “We shan’t. We shall be miserable. No,” she -added suddenly. “It’s a great temptation, but we’d better not.” - -She handed the paper back. - -“‘Better not’?” cried Pardoner. “What d’you mean—‘better not’?” - -“Better not marry,” said Sarah. “It’ld be selling ourselves.” - -Virgil took a deep breath. - -“My dear child, you don’t know what you’re saying. You can’t go and -throw away three hundred thousand pounds. Besides, what about my share? -If you chuck up yours, you chuck up mine too.” - -“That,” said Sarah deliberately, “does not weigh with me. I came to -dinner to-night to decide whether I could possibly do it. And now I know -I can’t.” - -“My dear Sarah,” said Pardoner, “be reasonable. By the mercy of heaven, -neither of us is already married. To complete our good fortune, neither -of us is even pledged to marry anybody else.” - -“What about June?” said Sarah. - -“She’s got nothing in writing,” said Virgil shortly. “Listen. If either -of us had been engaged, it would have complicated everything, especially -for me. The damages, for instance, would have been painfully easy to -assess. So we’ve much to be thankful for. Of course, it would have been -nicer if we’d been left the money unconditionally, but there you are. We -might be worse off. Supposing I had false teeth or a long matted beard -or something. . . . And I’ve always thought, Sarah, that you were very -charming, and I shouldn’t be surprised if, after a year or two, you got -quite crazy about me.” - -Miss Vulliamy sighed. - -“I feel very uneasy about June,” she declared. “George’ll find somebody -else, I expect. Men are like that. But poor June Townshend . . . I -should hate her to think that my . . . my husband——” - -“June’s very intelligent,” said Virgil. “I’ll write and explain the -position. Don’t worry about that. She’s most sympathetic. I’m sure -she’ld be the first to——” - -“Congratulate you?” - -“Well, almost,” said Pardoner. “She’s an awful good sort, June.” - -“What brutes men are,” said Sarah. “However, if you must have your -wretched money, I suppose I shall have to give way. Incidentally, you -might begin by choosing me a peach, will you?” - -Virgil selected one carefully. Then he looked at Sarah. - -“Tell me the worst,” he said. “Shall it be rough or smooth?” - -“Smooth, of course. And don’t rush it. Peel it properly. -Remember—you’re my slave now. Oh, and I’ld like some grenadine. I’m -thirsty.” - -Pardoner set down his knife. - -“I beg,” he implored, “I beg that you will not disgrace me by -supplanting this nectar by a tumbler of—of Schoolgirl’s Joy. I mean, -I’ld rather order you a pint of draught stout. Stout may be coarse, but, -at least, it’s got some body.” - -“Grenadine,” said Sarah relentlessly. “All nice and red and sweet. I -love it.” - -Physically and mentally, the epicure writhed. . . . Then he gave the -order. - -Sarah smiled maddeningly. - -“That was very sweet of you, Virgil—darling.” - -“Not at all, my love”—shakily. “When we’re—er married—blast this -peach!” he added savagely, plunging his hands in water. “I suppose you -couldn’t do with a walnut?” - -“Get down to it,” said Sarah shortly. “‘When we’re married,’ you were -saying.” - -“Was I? Oh, yes. Well, when——By the way, I’d better announce it, -hadn’t I?” - -“I suppose so,” said Sarah. - -“Right,” said Virgil. “The usual thing, I take it. ‘A marriage has been -arranged, and——’” - -He stopped short and looked at her. - -Sarah smiled back. - -“It has, with a vengeance,” she flashed. “Hasn’t it?” - -Virgil wiped his hands and lifted his glass. - -“Your very good health, Sarah. I’m sorry you can’t marry George. But -I’ll do my best.” - -He drank luxuriously. - -Sarah lifted her grenadine. - -“And yours, Virgil. I know your feelings exactly. As for poor June, -words fail me. But, since it can’t be helped, I’ll do what I can.” - -“We shall get through—dear,” said Pardoner stoutly. “And—and you’ve -got a very sweet way.” - -“That,” said Sarah, “is thanks to the grenadine. And now get on with -that peach. Where shall we live?” she added artlessly. “Lincolnshire?” - -Pardoner choked. Then— - -“I’m sure,” he said stiffly, “it would have been your guardian’s——” - -“—and your uncle’s——” - -“—wish that we should live at Palfrey.” - -“Is there any reason why we should consider his wishes?” - -“Hang it,” said Virgil. “The old fellow’s left us six hundred thousand.” - -“And blighted our lives.” - -“Oh, not ‘blighted,’” said Pardoner. “You can’t blight three hundred -thousand quid. You can make it a bit sticky, but you can’t blight a sum -like that. It’s—it’s invulnerable.” - -“I was speaking of our lives,” said Miss Vulliamy. “Not our legacies.” - -“Same thing,” said Pardoner comfortably, passing a somewhat rugged -sculpture across the table. “Same thing. You see. The two are -indistinguishable. Supposing another Will turned up, leaving the lot to -me.” Sarah shuddered. “Exactly. Your life would become a blank—same as -your bank balance.” - -“Not for long,” said Miss Vulliamy. - -“Why?” - -“Because,” said Sarah, with a dazzling smile. “I should sue you for -breach of promise.” Her companion paled. “The damages would -be—er—painfully easy to assess, wouldn’t they?” - -Pardoner frowned. Then his face cleared. - -“The contingency,” he said, “is happily remote. If it ever happened, I -should give you half, because you’ve the sporting instinct.” - -“How much,” said Sarah dreamily, “shall you give June?” - -The other started. - -“June? Oh, June’s all right. She—she wouldn’t expect anything. I—I -shouldn’t like to offer it. It’ld be—er—indelicate.” - -Miss Vulliamy sighed. - -“Well, well,” she said, “I expect you know best. Any way, we’ve had a -nice straight talk, haven’t we? I mean, we haven’t minced matters. I’ve -told you that, but for the money, I wouldn’t be seen dead with you; and -you’ve been equally frank.” - -Pardoner shifted upon his chair. - -“I said,” he protested, “I said you’d a very sweet way. I remember it -perfectly.” - -“That,” said Miss Vulliamy, “was your only lapse.” She raised her -straight eyebrows and a faint smile hung upon her red lips. “But for -that, you have been disconcertingly honest.” - -Pardoner lighted a cigarette. - -“You’re a strange girl,” he said. “One minute you talk like an infant, -and the next like a woman of forty. Which are you?” - -“That,” said Sarah, “will be for my husband to discover.” - - * * * * * - -James Tantamount, Esquire, had died at San Francisco. - -The direct cause of death was his consumption of iced melon. The -physician, who travelled with him mainly to pull his stomach out of the -disorders into which the _bon vivant_ was constantly haling that -valuable member, had besought him again and again to eschew the -delicacy. On each occasion James Tantamount had asked him what he -thought he was there for. “Any fool,” he insisted, “can prevent. I can -prevent myself. But I’m not going to. I’m not going to earn your money. -Your job’s to cure—when I’m sick. Stick to it.” It was indeed, I fancy, -as much with the idea of giving his attendant work as with that of -indulging his appetite that he had upon the tenth day of June devoured -two more slices of melon than he was accustomed to consume. If I am -right, his ghost must have been disappointed. The man himself did not -have time. In a word, he had consumed the delicacy, and pausing only to -make a long nose at his physician upon the other side of the table, had -laid down his life and his spoon at the same moment. - -His secretary had cabled to London for instructions. - -Forsyth and Co., Solicitors, had referred to the Will and replied that -their client was to be buried forthwith, adding that, by the terms of -that remarkable document, if his doctor and secretary desired to receive -the year’s salary apiece which it offered them, they must be prepared to -produce credible testimony that they had followed the coffin attired as -convicts and playing vigorously upon harps. - -The heat prevailing at San Francisco had not only precluded any -discussion of the provision, but had made the asportation of the harps a -perfectly hellish business, and only the hilarious encouragement of an -enormous crowd had enabled the two contingent legatees to stagger into -possession. - -There, then, you have the late James Tantamount—bluff, greedy, -generous, but blessed or cursed with an incorrigible love of what are -called ‘practical’ jokes. It was not his fault. He had been bred upon -them. To the day of his death he could recall with tearful relish the -memory of his father, amid roars of laughter, pursuing the vicar round -the dining-room, while the doctor blew frantically upon a hunting horn -and other guests arranged recumbent chairs as timber to be leaped. . . . - -If such a passionate propensity had not asserted itself in death, it -would have been surprising. To lovers of fun, riches and a Will offer -the chance of a lifetime. The tragedy of it is, they are not alive to -enjoy the jest. When James Tantamount, of Palfrey, left his vast fortune -to his nephew and his ward upon the condition that they should marry, he -knew he was being funny. He had no conception, however, that he was -perpetrating the joke of his career. - -The news of the old fellow’s death had sent hopes soaring. It was -generally assumed that his nephew and ward would each receive half of -his fortune. For a few days, therefore, the two enjoyed undreamed-of -popularity, as a highly desirable couple, and frantic efforts were made -by countless matrons to catch their respective eyes. All wrote: some -called: others sent flowers. The hearts that ‘went out’ to them in their -‘irreparable loss’ argued an esteem for the late James Tantamount -hitherto too deep to be expressed. - -_There is a grief_, wrote Mrs. Closeley Dore to Virgil, too _deep to -talk about . . . . As soon as you feel able, come and spend a few days -at Datchet. You shall do as you please, and use the house as an hotel. -Bring your man, of course. . . ._ - -The Closeley Dores had four daughters. - -_My child_, wrote Mrs. Sheraton Forbes to Sarah, _I know so well that -dreadful sense of loneliness, which gnaws the aching heart. Come back to -Fairlands with us on Saturday. We will leave you entirely to yourself, -but I should like to think that my dear old friend’s sweet ward had -someone to turn to in this darkest hour. The world is so hard. . . ._ - -Mrs. Sheraton Forbes had three sons. - -It was a dreadful business. . . . - -Then the announcement appeared, and the sympathy died down. It was -generally, if grudgingly, admitted that Virgil and Sarah had done the -right thing. Crestfallen mothers, consoled by the reflection that, even -if they had lost the prize, nobody else had won it, agreed that it was -what ‘that old Tantamount’ would have wished. Some said, sniffing, that -his death had drawn the two together. - -Finally, the contents of the Will had become public property. - -The effect upon the matrons of Mayfair was electrical. With, I think, -the slightest encouragement, the late millionaire would have been burned -in effigy. As for the two legatees, the outburst of execration with -which their determination was posthumously and somewhat illogically -received, beggars description. - -“My dear,” said Mrs. Closeley Dore to Mrs. Sheraton Forbes, “my dear, I -can stand worldliness, but I detest indecency. Only a man with the mind -of a Nero could have conceived such an infamous idea. But then he was -always gross. My father, you know, would never have him inside the -house.” She shuddered. “But, for an old relic of the Roaring Forties to -make a degrading suggestion is one thing; for a decently brought up -young man and woman to adopt it is quite another. Those two have no -excuse. It is the apotheosis of immorality. I don’t pretend I’m not -worldly—I am, and I know it. But deliberately to abet one another in -debasing one of the Sacraments of the Church——” - -In a voice shaken with emotion, Mrs. Sheraton Forbes replied with a -misquotation from the Solemnization of Matrimony. - -It was a dreadful business. . . . - -In the Clubs the affair got the laugh of the season. Virgil Pardoner, -who had always been liked, was openly chaffed out of his life and -secretly voted ‘a devilish lucky chap.’ As for the deceased, he was -declared a fellow of infinite jest, and his scheme for ‘keeping the -goods in the family’ boisterously applauded. The sluice-gates of -Reminiscence were pulled up, and memories of ‘Old Jimmy Tantamount’ were -manufactured and retailed by the hour. - -In my lady’s chamber Miss Vulliamy was frankly envied. - -“I don’t mind admitting,” said Margaret Shorthorn, “that I could have -done with Virgil. They talk about Sarah’s selling herself. Well, what if -she is? We’re all trying to do it. The only difference is that in -Sarah’s case the conditions of sale have been announced in the Press. -Besides, Virgil’s no monster . . . I only wish to heaven I’d had such a -chance.” - -“I agree,” said Agatha Coldstream. “If I had to face love in a cottage, -I’ld as soon face it with Virgil as with most men I know. But Virgil -plus half a million. . . .” She raised her black eyes to heaven -expressively. “Besides, I like Sarah. And I’ll tell you one thing—her -pals won’t be the worse off for her good fortune. Those two’ll give -their friends the time of their lives. You see if they don’t.” - -So much for Society’s reception of the news. - -The attitude of Lincoln’s Inn Fields was not advertised, but, since John -Galbraith Forsyth was a sound judge of character, his opinion may be -recorded. - -“Tantamount had no right to make such a Will. I told him so at the time, -and I’ve often regretted since that I didn’t refuse to draw it. He was -playing with fire—hell fire. He might have messed up four lives. And, -if he had, he’ld’ve paid for it. That sort of thing isn’t -forgiven. . . . Now that I’ve seen the parties, my mind’s at rest. -They’re out of the top drawer, both of ’em; and they’re splendidly -matched. They don’t know it—yet, and they don’t like their hands being -forced. For that’s what it is. One’s only human, you know, and in these -lean years six hundred thousand’s a bait you can’t ignore. But they’ll -come through all right. I’m not at all certain, myself, that we couldn’t -have upset the Will. I’d always got the possibility up my sleeve. But -now I shan’t use it.” - -Upon the night of their betrothal, neither Miss Vulliamy nor Pardoner -had been at their best. They were uncomfortable and suspicious. They -felt their position. To my mind, it does them real credit that they were -not exceedingly sour. The circumstances were affording a unique occasion -for the expression of irony and distaste. Each was, indeed, a mill-stone -about the other’s neck. Add to this that they had been brought up as -brother and sister, and had never looked upon one another in any other -light, when you will see how easily Bitterness might have taken her seat -at the board. The two had seen each other in the making—without any -frills. . . . - -But Sarah and Virgil were two very charming people. After ten minutes -with either of them you felt refreshed. I do not think I can pay them a -higher compliment. - -Somebody once said that Miss Vulliamy always looked as though she had -just had a cold shower. It was a good description. Her big blue eyes -were always alight with expectancy, her eager face glowing, her pretty -red mouth upon the edge of laughter. Her little way, too, of raising a -delicate chin stuck fast in your memory, while the length of her -exquisite lashes was almost unfair. Her figure and the slimness of her -legs belonged to idylls. Looking upon the lady, you thought first of the -dawn and then of dew and cool meadows. Sarah would have made an -arresting Naiad. Shepherds who repaired to her fountain would have been -constantly crowded out. - -Pardoner was tall, and conveyed the idea of laziness. It was his soft -brown eyes that gave this impression. His thick dark hair and his high -colour had earned him at Oxford the sobriquet of _Rouge et Noir_. An -aquiline nose, and a firm, well-shaped mouth distinguished a handsome -face. The way in which he wore his clothes brought his tailor much -hardly merited custom. His most attractive voice delighted the ear. It -was, in fact, hereby that his personality emerged. When he was silent, -he passed in a well-mannered crowd; when he opened his mouth, other -people stopped talking. - - * * * * * - -The two met in Bond Street a fortnight later. - -“Good morning,” said Virgil. “I bet I’ve been cut by more people than -you.” - -“Four,” said Sarah, “since half-past ten.” - -“Five and a half,” said her fiancé. “Mrs. Sheraton Forbes had a child -with her under fourteen. This ostracism amuses me to death. Never mind. -How’s Fulke?” - -“Desperate,” said Miss Vulliamy. “I knew he would be. He bucked up a lot -when I said he should be our first guest.” - -“Did he, indeed?” said Virgil. “Truly a forgiving nature.” - -“Yes, he is very sweet,” agreed Sarah. “Couldn’t he be your best man?” - -Pardoner fingered his chin. - -“I’m afraid he’s too young,” he said slowly. “I must have a compeer.” - -“Very well, then,” said Sarah. “He can give me away.” - -“That,” said Virgil, “will be a most becoming rôle.” - -Miss Vulliamy frowned. Then— - -“As we’re here,” she said, “what about an engagement ring?” - -“Of course,” said Virgil. “Come on. We’ll get it at once.” - -The two repaired to a jeweller’s and bought a beauty. - -“And while we’re about it,” said Pardoner, “a wedding ring too.” - -A wedding ring was selected. - -“And we might as well get our presents,” said Sarah, staring at a tiara -composed of diamonds and emeralds. “You know: ‘The bridegroom’s presents -to the bride included. . .’” - -“Right,” said Virgil. “Have what you like. I’m in a generous mood. -Besides, my turn’s coming. In fact I’ll just have a look round.” - -Before they left the shop, the bride had given the bridegroom a gold -cigarette-box, four pearl pins, six pairs of sleeve links, and a green -crocodile dressing-case, which, with its gold-mounted fittings, cost her -eight hundred pounds. - -On being acquainted with the lengths to which her generosity had gone— - -“They will think I love you,” said Miss Vulliamy, as soon as she could -speak. - -“Remembering that tiara,” said Pardoner, “they’ll say I’m doting. I -didn’t know they made such expensive things. But for my brain-wave about -that dressing-case, I should have been left standing.” - -In a shaking voice Sarah demanded luncheon. - -“Not that I want to presume upon your hospitality, but we’ve many things -to discuss,” she concluded coldly. - -“On condition,” said Pardoner, “that you do not drink grenadine, I’ll do -you a treat.” - -“I don’t see why,” said Miss Vulliamy, “I should give up my staple -drink.” - -Virgil shuddered. - -“I’ll try and explain some day. For one thing it’s bad for the heart.” - -“It’s never affected mine,” said Sarah. - -“No,” said Virgil, “I daresay it hasn’t. To be frank, I was thinking of -my own. But never mind. Give it a miss till we’re married—a sort of -interim injunction. We can argue it out later.” - -“Very well,” said Sarah reluctantly. - -That the table which was offered them at Claridge’s should lie directly -between one presided over by Mrs. Closeley Dore and another at which -Mrs. Sheraton Forbes was entertaining two stylish Americans was sheer -good fortune. . . . . Virgil and Sarah had the time of their lives. -Placidly to browse under their enemies’ noses was delightful enough. The -reflection that the more they vented their good humour, the higher must -rise the fever of indignation raging on either side, made the two -positively festive. . . . When the two Americans asked their hostess the -identity of ‘that most attractive couple,’ and seemed surprised to learn -that they were not of the Blood Royal, Mrs. Sheraton Forbes’ cup began -to overflow. . . . - -At length— - -“Ah,” said Pardoner, “the rot’s set in. The tumult and the shouting -dies, The Closeleys and the Dores depart. I’ll bet old Chippendale -doesn’t last two minutes alone.” - -“Got it in one,” said Sarah. “She’s up. Her guests haven’t finished, but -she hasn’t seen that. She’s ordering coffee in the lounge. I’m afraid -she’s terribly upset.” - -“Good,” said Virgil. “And we’ve shortened ‘Slam It’s’ life. When I -called you ‘darling’ just now, I thought she was going to founder. -Incidentally, I said it very well, didn’t I?” - -“Like a professional,” said Miss Vulliamy. “You must have said it -before.” - -“Never, darling.” - -“O-o-oh,” said Sarah. “Any way, you needn’t say it now. The audience has -dispersed.” - -“But it comes so natural.” - -Sarah tilted her chin. - -“We are not amused,” she said stiffly. “And now to business. We’d better -be married about the end of the month. What about the twenty-fifth?” - -Virgil consulted a note-book. - -“Can’t be done,” he said. “I’m playing polo. I can manage the -twenty-fourth.” - -“Don’t be a fool,” said his fiancée. “What about the honeymoon?” - -After a lot of argument, Pardoner agreed to waive the polo, on the -understanding that the wedding-trip was restricted to fourteen days. - -“Well, that’s that,” said Sarah. “Now then, where shall it be? I may say -that I insist upon a church.” - -A church was at last selected and Pardoner promised to make the -necessary arrangements. - -“The next thing,” said Miss Vulliamy, “is where to go. What about -Dinard?” - -“As you please,” said Virgil. “I suppose that’s where Fulke’s going,” he -added carelessly. - -Sarah shook her sweet head. - -“Not till the first,” she replied. “Which brings us to June.” - -“August,” corrected Virgil. “August. July—August—Sept——” - -“June Townshend,” said Sarah shortly. - -Pardoner started and dropped his cigarette. - -“What about her?” he said uneasily. “She wouldn’t like Dinard. She’s -a—a clergyman’s daughter.” - -Sarah bowed before a little gust of laughter. - -Then— - -“Have you written to her?” she demanded. - -“Er, no. Not yet. I mean, it’s a delicate matter.” - -“Virgil,” said Miss Vulliamy. “Unless you write to her to-day, I won’t -marry you.” - -“But——” - -“That’s flat,” said Sarah. “I mean what I say. After all this time, to -let that poor girl see our engagement in the paper and nurse her sorrow -without one word of explanation or regret. . . . I confess I’m -disgusted. No honourable man——” - -“I’m not an honourable man,” said Pardoner. “I’m a loathsome and -venomous worm. Ask Mrs. Closeley Dore.” - -“You will write to her now,” said Sarah. “You will send for a sheet of -notepaper and write to her now—in the lounge. I’ll help you.” - -By the time the document was settled, it was a quarter to four. - - _My Dear June_, - - _Possibly by now you will have seen the announcement of my - engagement in the papers. Had I been able, I should have wished - to tell you of it myself, but a recent bereavement has not only - kept me in London, but has affected my brain. The marriage I am - contracting is one which you would have been the first to wish - me to make. Indeed, I have often fancied that I could hear your - soft voice urging me to go forward. My poor uncle is dead, dear, - and I have reason to believe that it was his earnest desire that - I should wed his ward. I feel, therefore, that the least I can - do is to respect his wishes. Nothing, however, can take away the - memory of the many happy, happy hours we have spent together, - and I look forward confidently to bringing my wife to see you, - as soon as we are settled. I am sure that you and she will get - on together, and perhaps one day you will come and stay with us - at Palfrey, which we shall make our home._ - - _Your affectionate friend,_ - _Virgil Pardoner._ - -“Now address it,” said Sarah, “and send for a stamp.” - -Pardoner hesitated. - -“I’ld, er, I’ld like to sleep on it,” he said. “I mean, it’s—it’s a -ticklish business.” - -Miss Vulliamy indicated an envelope with a firm pointed finger. - -“Pretty hands you’ve got,” said Virgil musingly. “Pretty nails, too.” - -“What are June’s like?” - -“Oh, very good,” said Virgil. “Full of character, you know. But yours -are bewitching. That left one——” - -“Apostate,” said Sarah. “And now address this envelope.” - -Virgil did so laboriously. - - _Miss June Townshend,_ - _The Rectory,_ - _Roughbridge,_ - _Lincolnshire._ - -They posted the letter together, before they parted. - - * * * * * - -It was two days later that Mrs. Purdoe Blewitt was seriously annoyed. - -“Such impudence,” she said, bristling. “As if she were the daughter of -the house. . . .” - -The Reverend Purdoe Blewitt, Rector of Loughbridge, laid down his pen. - -“What is the matter, my dear?” - -His wife stabbed at the bell and flounced into a chair before replying. - -“Jane, of course,” she snorted. “Fortunately, I met the postman, or I -should never have known.” She tapped a letter with meaning. “She’s still -doing it.” - -The Rector knew better than to inquire the nature of the iniquity. Mrs. -Blewitt believed in remembering her servants’ offences and expected this -belief to be shared. He assumed an aggravated look. - -“How very trying,” he said, playing for safety. “I should say to her -that the next time she does it——” - -“Does what?” said his wife. - -The Rector started guiltily. - -“I understood you to say, my dear,” he faltered, “that she was still -doing it.” - -“So she is,” said his wife. - -The Reverend Purdoe Blewitt put a hand to his head. - -“It’s not nice of her,” he said, blindly endeavouring to avoid -collision. “Not at all nice. I mean——” - -Here he observed that his wife was surveying him with a profound -contempt, and quailed accordingly. - -The appearance of a pert parlourmaid postponed his chastisement. - -“Jane,” said Mrs. Blewitt, at once averting her face and stretching -forth the letter as though it were some contagious body, “I suppose it -is not the slightest good desiring you to remember that your address is -not _The Rectory, Loughbridge_, but _c/o The Rev. Purdoe Blewitt, The -Rectory, Loughbridge_. However, for what it is worth, I will again point -out that, even if you were here as a guest—which you are not—it would -be the essence of bad taste to omit the Rector’s name from the head of -your notepaper.” - -“An’ if,” sweetly rejoined Miss Townshend, taking the letter, “if your -gues’s frien’s—not knowin’ you—didn’t take no notice of what was wrote -at the ’ead of the notepaper, I s’pose your gues’s ’ld still get it in -the neck.” Mrs. Purdoe Blewitt recoiled, and the Rector emitted a -protesting noise. “You know, you’re too particular to live, you are; and -p’raps you’ll take this as notice. Servants aren’t no good to you. What -you want is ’alf a dozen Archangels—and then you’ld show ’em ’ow to -wear their wings.” - -Apparently unable to speak, Mrs. Blewitt, crimson with fury, clawed at -the air, while the Rector, feeling that something must be done, rose to -his feet and cleared his throat. - -Ere words came, however, Miss Townshend was out of the room. - -The look of her letter was promising. - -This had been addressed to ‘Roughbridge,’ but, there being no such -place, the Post Office had risen to the occasion and above the mistake. - - * * * * * - -Five days had gone by since Mrs. Purdoe Blewitt had been so annoyed, and -Pardoner and Miss Vulliamy were dining together, ostensibly to discuss -arrangements for their alliance, actually because they enjoyed each -other’s company. - -“I wonder she hasn’t replied,” said Sarah, obediently sipping her -champagne. - -Virgil shrugged his shoulders. - -“I daresay she won’t,” he said. “She’s very considerate. I mean, it’s -delicate ground, and it’ld be just like June if she sank her own -feelings and, er, let bygones be bygones.” - -His fiancée shook her head. - -“If she doesn’t answer,” she said, “I shall be really worried. Silence -can only mean one of two things: either that she doesn’t know how to -behave——” - -“Oh, she knows how to behave all right.” - -“—or that she’s almost beside herself.” - -“No, no,” said Virgil. “June’s not that kind of girl. I shan’t be at all -surprised, if she doesn’t reply. In fact, I should be rather surprised, -if she did. You know, I had a feeling, when I wrote that letter, that it -would never be answered. You see, June——” - -“But you used to kiss her, you know.” - -Pardoner pulled his moustache. - -“Once in a while,” he said. “But I never made a meal of it. It was more -of a salute.” - -Miss Vulliamy stared across the room. - -“I think,” she said softly, “your love for her is very beautiful.” - -“Was,” said Virgil uneasily. “I’ve—I’ve trodden it under.” - -Sarah shuddered. - -“Hush,” she said. “Hush. Don’t talk like that, Virgil. It’s—it’s -blasphemy.” - -As she spoke, a page came to the table. - -“Mr. Pardoner, sir?” - -“Yes,” said Virgil. - -“Miss Townshend would like to speak to you, sir, on the telephone.” - -Pardoner started. Then he turned to Sarah with a sheepish smile. - -“Who’s come in on this little deal?” he demanded. - -“Whatever d’you mean?” said Miss Vulliamy, striving to keep her voice -steady. - -“Nothing doing,” said Virgil, continuing to smile. “Admit it’s a plant.” - -“By all that’s solemn,” said Sarah. “I swear I’ve nothing to do with -it.” - -“But you’ve——” - -“I haven’t, Virgil. I swear I haven’t, I’ld—I’ld be ashamed,” she added -tearfully. - -Three times did her betrothed endeavour to speak. - -At the fourth attempt— - -“Must be some mistake,” he muttered, wiping his brow. Then he turned to -the page. “All right. I’ll come.” - -He bowed an apology to Sarah and followed his executioner out of the -room. . . . - -Of the two, Sarah was, if possible, the more dumbfounded. - -Upon the very first evening she had made up her mind that Miss June -Townshend was non-existent. She could have sworn that Pardoner had -invented the lady, to be a foil to George Fulke. Gleefully, she had -decided to turn the foil into a lash to be laid mischievously about her -fiancé’s shoulders. The laborious drafting of the letter to June had -afforded her the highest gratification, and her searching -cross-examinations of Virgil upon his associations with the lady had -never failed to bear her most refreshing fruit. Now, without a word of -warning, the Palace of Fun had fallen, and out of the ruins were -sticking some extremely ill-favoured truths. The very least of these was -suggesting that the edifice had been erected upon a foundation of -distasteful fact. - -It was while she was staring at Virgil’s empty place, considering these -things, that for the first time she realized something which was still -more to the point. This was that with her future husband she was most -heartily in love. . . . - -Pardoner walked down the hall, thinking furiously. Arrived at the box, -he took the spare receiver and told the page to speak for him. - -“Say you can’t find me,” he said, “and ask her to leave a message.” - -The boy did so. - -A voice, which was anything but gentle, replied: - -“All right, I’ll come round.” - -Virgil blenched. - -“Say I’m not living here, and you don’t know my address.” - -“Then why you ask me to leave a message,” flashed Miss Townshend. - -“Er—on the chance,” stammered the page. - -“Well, ’ere it is—on the chance,” said Jane. “I’ll be round in ’alf an -hour.” - -The receiver was slammed into place. - -Virgil and the page stared at one another in dismay. - -Then the former said an extremely unpleasant word under his breath and -erupted violently from the box. . . - -Miss Vulliamy greeted him with a cold smile. - -“Get on all right?” she said acidly. - -“We must leave at once,” said Virgil. “Go on to the Berkeley, or my -rooms, or somewhere. We can’t stay here. She says she’s coming at -once—may be here any moment.” - -“Then why go?” said Sarah. - -“Well, we can’t be here when she comes. You don’t want a scene, do you? -Screams and yells in the hall, and all that sort of thing?” He mopped -the sweat from his face. “It’s all that blinking letter you made me -write,” he added savagely. “I might have known——” - -“But, of course, you must see her,” said Sarah, rising. “I’ll go, if you -like: but you must stay. Poor, wretched girl, you can’t——” - -“Stay?” cried Virgil. “You’re mad. I don’t want to be blackmailed.” - -“But you said that June——” - -“It—it _isn’t_ June,” wailed Pardoner. “I mean, it can’t be. It—it -isn’t her voice. It’s an impostor—that’s the word—impostor, Sarah. -Someone or other’s got hold of that blasted letter, and now they’re -trying it on.” - -“But it must be June,” said Sarah. “The telephone’s very deceptive. -Sometimes those very soft voices——” - -“I tell you it’s _not_,” raged Virgil. “_June doesn’t drop her ‘h’s’._” - -With a bright red spot upon either cheek, Miss Vulliamy preceded him to -the door. - -While she was getting her cloak, Pardoner gave the porter instructions -too definite to be mistaken. These he reinforced with two pounds. - -Then a taxi was summoned, and a moment later the two were flying up -Brook Street. . . . - -Pardoner entered that cab with the determined intention of telling Miss -Vulliamy the truth. He meant to humble himself. He intended to apologize -for his reception of his amazing luck. He meant to ask her to do her -best to love and to confess there and then that “if the Will went west -to-morrow morning, I’ld beg and humbly pray you to become my wife.” - -Fate ruled otherwise. - -The tone in which his fiancée cut short his opening sentence with a -request to be taken home, would have silenced anyone. After a second -effort, which was met by the lady with a true flash of temper, Pardoner -told the cabman to drive to Rutland Gate. - -The journey was completed without a word. - -Arrived at the house, Sarah was handed out with her head in the air. -Virgil’s offer to ring or use her latchkey might not have been made. His -presence was ignored utterly. My lady let herself in, and closed the -door behind her exactly as if she were alone. The broad white step -without, might have been empty. Then she went to her room and burst into -tears. - -Virgil repaired to a Club and ordered a brandy and soda. This he imbibed -in the library, where no one may speak, cursing all women with a deep -and bitter curse. . . . - -After a perfectly poisonous hour and a half, he went to bed. - -Upon the following morning he received two several communications. - -The first was from the hall-porter at Claridge’s and made his hair rise. - -The second was from Sarah and desired him to meet her at noon at -Lincoln’s Inn Fields. - -Pardoner agreed, but went early, proposing to have Forsyth to himself -for a valuable quarter of an hour. Miss Vulliamy went early also, with -the same idea. They met on the doorstep and, as Forsyth was engaged, -spent an awkward ten minutes in the same waiting-room. . . . - -At last they were shown into the presence. - -The solicitor, who had been hoping to congratulate them as lovers, was -much disappointed. Still, his hopes were not dashed, and, wisely making -no attempt to thaw the atmosphere, begged to be told the nature of the -trouble. - -Virgil stammered the facts. He was careful to tell nothing but the -truth. But for Sarah’s presence, he would have gone further, and told -the whole truth . . . but for Sarah’s presence . . . - -Forsyth heard him out gravely. Then he rang for a clerk. - -“Get me on to Claridge’s,” he said. - -In silence the three awaited the connection. - -Presently a bell throbbed. - -Forsyth picked up the receiver. - -“Is that Claridge’s? Put me on to the hall-porter. . . . Hullo! . . . -This is Forsyth and Co., solicitors. . . . Yes, Mr. Forsyth. . . . I -understand a lady calling herself ‘Miss Townshend,’ has been asking for -Mr. Pardoner. . . . Yes? . . . Sitting in the hall now, is she? Good. -Tell her that he will be there to see her at three o’clock. . . . -Right. . . . Good-bye.” - -“But, look here,” said Virgil, “I’m not going to——” - -“Yes, you are,” said Forsyth. “You’re going to be in the lounge. Two of -my clerks are going to be there also. One of these is going to take your -name in vain. He’s going to meet the lady and say he’s you. Of course, -it may not come off, but it’s worth trying. If it does, we’ve got her -cold. There’s the evidence of a spare clerk and the hall-porter, to say -she took John Snooks for Virgil Pardoner. You must be there yourself, to -have a look at her. If, having seen her, you’ve anything more to say, -say it to the spare clerk. And to-night you must leave for Lincolnshire. -The real Miss Townshend must know the facts of the case, and we -obviously can’t trust the post. If all goes well, she won’t be needed, -but if there’s any hitch, she’ll have to be produced.” - -Pardoner broke into a sweat. - -Then— - -“Need she be mixed up in it? I mean . . .” - -The solicitor shrugged his shoulders. - -“If A say’s she’s B,” he said shortly, “when she isn’t, the obvious -thing to do is to produce B, isn’t it?” - -“I’d better come back here at four,” said Virgil, positively. “After -I’ve seen the woman.” - -Forsyth shook his head. - -“I’m leaving for Paris,” he said, “at two o’clock. Can’t get out of it. -Back in a week, I hope. But don’t worry. When’s the wedding?” he added -pleasantly. - -“Twenty-fou—fifth,” said Virgil, with a sickly smile. “Soon be here -now.” - -Sarah moistened her lips. - -“I think,” she said slowly, “I think I ought to say that I’m rather -unsettled.” Her fiancé paled, and Forsyth shot her a swift glance. “I -don’t say here and now that I won’t go through with it, but——” - -“But you must,” cried Virgil. “You must. Why, that tiara alone——” - -“—unless and until this matter is cleared right up, I’m sorry, but -. . .” She drew off her engagement ring and laid it upon the table. “I -think perhaps, if Mr. Forsyth would put this in his safe . . .” - -There was a dreadful silence. - -At length— - -“I’m sure,” said Forsyth, turning to look at Pardoner, “we both -understand. It’s very natural. The wretched business places you both in -a false position.” He picked up the ring and slid it into an envelope. -“I may add that I look forward confidently to restoring this pretty -thing to you, directly I’m back.” He rose and walked to the door. “And -now, good-bye. Don’t worry, because I’m away. My managing clerk, Maple, -will be at your service.” - -As in a dream, Virgil followed Miss Vulliamy down the stairs and out -into the broad square. There she gave him her hand and bade him -farewell. - - * * * * * - -At half-past ten the next morning Pardoner received a letter of some -importance. - - _Private._ - _Dear Mr. Pardoner_, - - _From the clerk who attended you yesterday, I understand that - you are not proposing at present to leave for Lincolnshire. I - write to beg you to do this without delay._ - - _What took place at Claridge’s yesterday afternoon makes it - abundantly clear that the person, who called there to meet you, - is no fool. Thanks, no doubt, to the periodicals in which your - photograph has recently so often figured, she is well acquainted - with your looks, and from the papers, which, I understand she - produced, I see no reason to disbelieve that she is, in fact, - Miss Jane Townshend, late of The Rectory, Loughbridge or - Roughbridge, Lincolnshire. It is, of course, a most unfortunate - coincidence that there should be two ladies bearing the very - same name and address, but since such a coincidence exists, it - is not at all easy successfully to contend that this woman’s - possession of your letter is unlawful and was never intended._ - - _In these circumstances, you will surely appreciate the extreme - desirability of your seeing the other Miss Townshend without - delay, explaining to her the position, and, if possible, - inducing her to come to London at once. Indeed, in my opinion, - her production alone can now snuff this matter out._ - - _Yours faithfully,_ - _F. S. Maple._ - -Virgil fell upon the telephone. - -After a maddening delay— - -“Is that Mr. Maple?” he said. - -“Speaking,” said a brusque voice. - -“I’m Virgil Pardoner.” - -“Yes?” - -“The name isn’t _Jane_. It’s _June_.” - -“Ah. I thought Mr. Forsyth said ‘June,’ but I wanted to see what you -said. That’s splendid. She’s altered your letter, of course—changed the -‘u’ into ‘a.’ That was easy. And now we _have_ got her—tight. All -you’ve got to do is to trot out Miss _June_ Townshend and, if she has -any letters of yours—she probably has—to see that she brings them with -her. There’s a train at——” - -“She hasn’t,” yelled Virgil. “She hasn’t. I know she hasn’t.” - -“Oh, but she may. Lots of women promise to destroy——” - -“She can’t. I never wrote any. There’s—_there’s no such woman_.” - -“No such _what_?” cried Maple. - -“Woman,” said Virgil, calmly. Now that the murder was out, he felt much -better. “You know. Female of man. June Townshend is a creation of my -lightning brain. I also invented Stoughbridge, or whatever the rotten -place is, complete with Rectory. I pictured an old-world garden, with a -hammock and croquet-nets. Oh, and a bamboo cake-stand. June was there, -feeding the aspodestras with crumbs of rock-cake. The letter, I may say, -was written to substantiate the fantasy. It was a beautiful piece of -prose. . . .” - -There was a long silence. - -Presently— - -“Are you serious?” said Maple. “I mean, d’you mean what you say?” - -“Absolutely.” - -“Well, this is a facer,” said Maple. “Of course, I’ll do what I can, but -you’ve disarmed me. If the thing’s to be kept quiet it looks as if that -beautiful piece of prose——” - -“Will prove extremely expensive?” said Virgil, cheerfully. - -“Exactly.” - -“An action for breach of promise couldn’t succeed?” - -“Good heavens, no. But she’ll be a nuisance.” - -“Let her,” said Virgil. “I won’t pay a blinkin’ cent.” - -“But what will Miss Vulliamy say?” - -“That,” said Virgil sweetly, “remains to be seen. I may tell you I wrote -the letter under duress. _She made me do it._ Of course, if she likes to -buy my literature back, she’s at liberty to do so. She’s plenty of -money—or can have. Besides, it’ld be a pretty compliment. So please do -nothing for me. And just acknowledge these instructions, will you? -Before you lunch. I’ld like her to know the worst this afternoon.” - -“Very good,” said Maple, laughing. “I’ll dictate a letter at once.” - - _Private._ - _Dear Mr. Pardoner_, - - _I have carefully considered the conversation, which we had upon - the telephone this morning, and I have come to the conclusion - that, in the circumstances, your wisest course is, as you - suggest, to take no further action._ - - _Since the Miss June Townshend, to whom you addressed your - letter, has never in fact existed outside your imagination, and - there is, therefore, no one with whom we can confront the woman, - into whose hands that letter has fallen, the only possible move - we could make would be to offer to buy the document back._ - - _As, however, your hands are perfectly clean, I agree that to - make such a move would be beneath your dignity and that you can - well afford to ignore such petty molestation as that to which - this person may resort._ - - _An action for breach of promise could not possibly succeed._ - - _As I have already pointed out, her alteration of “June” to - “Jane” has, in the absence of “the original,” no bearing upon - the case._ - - _Yours faithfully,_ - _F. S. Maple._ - -This note and its predecessor reached Sarah Vulliamy while she was -dressing to dine tête-à-tête with George Fulke. - -Beyond that Sarah was unusually pensive, the dinner calls for no remark. - - * * * * * - -Exactly a month had slipped by. - -There had been rain in the night, and Luchon was looking her best. - -So was Mrs. Pardoner. She had just had a cold shower. - -Seated upon the edge of the breakfast table, one bare leg dangling from -the folds of an apricot kimono, her curls in a disorder more lovely than -any array, she periodically frowned upon a letter, regarded her new -wedding-ring, and gazed at the sunlight upon the mountain-side. - -Presently she raised her voice. - -“Virgil.” - -A lapping noise in the bathroom was suspended. - -“Yes, darling.” - -“George Fulke says I’ve blighted his life.” - -“So you have,” said Virgil. - -“By not going to Dinard,” added Sarah. - -“Serve him right,” said Virgil. - -“He says he quite understood that ours was a marriage of convenience.” - -“So it was,” said Virgil. “Great convenience.” - -“But what shall I do?” said Sarah. “He says that his heart is ‘aching -for a vivid, stimulating personality to fill the emptiness of life.’” - -Her husband appeared, swathed in a bath dressing-gown. - -“My dear,” he said, “it’s too easy. Take a fresh envelope and pass the -letter on.” - -“Who to?” said his wife. - -Virgil fingered his chin. - -“The trouble is,” he murmured, “I’m not quite sure of her address. I -think it was Bloughbridge.” - - - - - MADELEINE - - - MADELEINE - -It was upon the seventh day of September that Madeleine Peyre, of -Ruffec, made a mistake. This was notable; first, because the lady was -justly accounted wise, and, secondly, because, as errors go, the mistake -was a bad one. - -Madeleine was the Silvia of Ruffec. She went faithfully to Mass, and -what she believed to be proper, that unobtrusively she endeavoured to -do. She spoke ill of no one. Her exquisite pink-and-white complexion, -her raven hair, her steady grey eyes, were three great several beauties. -Add that her features were regular, her teeth most white, and her figure -graceful, when you will understand that the swains of Ruffec commended -her with cause. As I have said already, Madeleine’s judgment also was -unusually sound. To ram home my comparison, it was, I think, the light -in her wonderful eyes which you forgot last of her comeliness, while the -flowers she was constantly receiving gave her actual distress. She never -would wear them. No other girl in Ruffec received any flowers. - -When, therefore, Madeleine Peyre, the Silvia of Ruffec, married the -wrong man, the town pulled her down from her pedestal and let her lie. - -It is the way of the world. - -The announcement of the betrothal aroused consternation. People were -amazed—staggered. You could have knocked them down. That Pierre Lacaze -was a brute was common knowledge. They said his first wife had been -bullied into her grave. . . . The astonishment was succeeded by sickness -of heart. Discussion of the tragedy dissolved into sighs and -tears. . . . Finally came Anger. Madeleine Peyre was denounced for an -ungrateful fool. Where sighs had been heaved, fingers were wagged and -snapped. Ruffec told Ruffec that Mademoiselle Peyre would soon find out -her error, and that the discovery would serve her right. People began to -gloat upon the disillusionment which was awaiting their darling. Upon -the wedding day itself leers were exchanged. . . . - -It is the way of the world. - -Had her parents lived, the mistake would not have been made. But they -had been killed together, five years before. Madeleine, aged sixteen, -had seen no reason why the little creamery they had been keeping should -close its aged hatch. As a result, this had remained open ever since. -Out of the profits of the little enterprise its girlish governor and her -two young brothers had been lodged and fed and clothed decently. Now the -brothers were come to men’s estate, while the goodwill of the business -was a legacy worth having. Moreover, Jean and Jacques Peyre were no -fools. About their future Madeleine felt easy enough. - -For the matter of that, up to the very last she had no qualms about her -own. _Quos Deus vult perdere prius dementat._ Every one—her brothers -included—disliked Lacaze. The man was so obviously a brute. Madeleine -clung to him steadfastly. . . . - -Then the day came, and the Silvia of Ruffec cast her pearls before -swine. - -Be sure Lacaze rent her. - - * * * * * - -Nearly ten months had trailed by, and Madeleine had aged ten years. - -The two lived in Paris, where Lacaze plied his trade of steeple-jack and -made good money. The work suited him. The hours were short, the pay -high. Fearless as a lion, the danger delighted his heart. The respect -his prowess inspired tickled his vanity. - -So much for his public life. - -Lacaze married Madeleine Peyre as other men buy a fine horse. The only -difference was that he got her for nothing. - -In the Silvia of Ruffec he had seen a fine stamp of animal, intelligent, -well-made, good to look upon. He had judged her strong, courageous, and -obedient. Her possession would be something to be proud of. Others would -covet such a prize. . . . - -The fellow was perfectly right. - -Physically and mentally Madeleine was all that could be desired. When he -took her out and about, everyone stared in admiration. When he showed -her off to his friends they made no secret of their envy. His house was -always in order, such as he had not dreamed of. There was, however, a -fretful fly in the ointment. It was this. Madeleine’s manners were -perfect, but they were the manners of Silvia, and not the manners of a -show horse. - -Within twenty-four hours of her wedding it was all over, and Madeleine -had realized her plight. Of course the blow had been frightful . . . -stunning . . . too terrible to describe. The first blinding flash of -perception had exploded a second: the second, a third. . . . Her poor -brain had staggered under this fearful appulse, her spirit fainted, her -heart sunk to her shoes. Her love for Lacaze had shrivelled and died -then and there. Not so her obedience. . . . So soon as she could think -clearly, Madeleine resolved to do her best to dovetail her principles -into her husband’s demands. - -The result was unsatisfactory—to Madame Lacaze. You cannot make a fair -wallet out of a silk purse and a sow’s ear. The ways of Lacaze were not -Madeleine’s. The grace the heaven had lent her, meant nothing to him. -More—the man had a will. The grace the heaven had lent her, he made her -discard. - -The result was unsatisfactory—to Monsieur Lacaze. Madeleine bowed to -his will, but not to his liking. She discarded her precious loan, if and -when she was urged—never unless she was urged. His will had to be -expressed—_always_. That was where her manners, as a horse, were so -imperfect. Her rider’s heels ached. . . . - -Never once did Lacaze lose his temper. Better for his wife if he had. -Instead, he smiled a quiet smile, set his strong teeth and—stuck to his -spurs. After a month or two his heels developed new muscles and stopped -aching. From then on, the blood upon his rowels was never dry. - -Her spirit had to be broken. Well, that was easy enough. It had been -done before. A pair of aching heels, however, had to be paid for. Lacaze -determined to break his wife’s spirit by eighths of an inch. - -Fortune favours the brute. - -Nine months after their marriage, a pair of spurs of a sharpness he -could never have compassed fell into his lap. - - * * * * * - -A letter arrived for Madeleine while she and Lacaze sat at meat. It came -from her brother Jean. - - _Dearest Madeleine_, - - _I write to say that René Dudoy has taken a job in Paris. It is - a good thing for him, but he will be lonely. He has said - absolutely that he will not go to see you. I expect you can - guess why. But we have told him not to be silly, and that you - will be a good friend, if you can be nothing else. We think you - would have wished us to do this. It is true, is it not? If so, - look him up. His address will be 66 rue Castetnau._ - - _Jacques and I are well, but still miss our only sister very - much. The shop flourishes. We took twenty-six francs more last - week than the week before, though a storm on Wednesday robbed us - of six good litres._ - - _Your loving brother,_ - _Jean._ - -Covertly Lacaze watched her read it and lay it down. Something—Heaven -knows what—told him that here was matter she did not wish him to see. -He went to work delicately. - -“Ah!” he cried of a sudden. “The thing had escaped me. My dear, -to-morrow put on your very best gown. We are going to the wedding of -Robert and José Tuyte.” - -Madeleine winced. - -“Must we, Pierre? José Tuyte is awfully clever, I know. But she is an -actress, and—and I do not go well with the stage. I am too slow for -them.” - -(If to appear nightly in the costume of a child of seven at _The Dead -Rat_, there to accept cigarettes and encourage the purchase of -champagne, is to be an actress, Madeleine was perfectly right. That she -was too slow for such a ‘stage’ was unarguable.) - -“My dear, what would you? Robert is a good friend, and I knew José -before I knew you. They would be most hurt. Besides, marriage is like a -wet sponge. It wipes clean the slate. You need not, you know, dance all -the time.” - -“Dance?” - -“Have I forgotten again? We are to have supper that night at _Le -Parapluie_. The big room has been engaged. I tell you, it will be -festive. A little below us, perhaps, but we must descend, my dear. It -behoves us to descend. Their feelings must not be hurt.” - -Madeleine paled. - -Once before she had subscribed to festivity under the shelter of _Le -Parapluie_. The revels had haunted her ever since. . . . - -She was about to protest—beg to be excused—when she remembered her -letter. Mercifully, this seemed to have escaped notice—so far. It -occurred to her that pleasant, bright conversation might save it -inviolate. Desperately she strove to keep the ball rolling. . . . - -Lacaze saw her anxiety, and let her strive. - -When the meal was over, he pushed back his chair. For the next five -minutes he debated audibly whether he should go forth to buy tobacco, or -send the servant. Madeleine wanted him to go—terribly, but dared not -put in her oar. She was, of course, quite satisfied that he had -forgotten her letter. Her only fear was that he would catch sight of it -again. - -At last Lacaze decided to go himself. He rose, sought for his hat, -chucked her under the chin and left the room. - -Madeleine thrust the letter into her dress and thanked God. - -Then the door opened and her husband put in his head. - -“I quite forgot,” he said, smiling. “What does young Jean have to say?” - -His wife took the letter from her bosom and gave it into his hand. - -He read it deliberately. At length— - -“Poor René,” he said gaily. “So I put a spoke in his wheel. Dear, dear. -We must try to make up for it. I seem to remember him faintly—a calf -with curly fair hair. ‘66 rue Castetnau.’ Good.” He handed the letter -back. “We’ll call there next Sunday morning. The better the day, -sweeting, the better the deed. ‘Lonely.’ Poor clod, what a shame! But -for Lacaze, the steeple-jack, he might have been watching your pink -little hands ladle cream into pots, while he counted the takings and -gave out the change. Certainly we must make up for it—so far as we -can. . . .” - -He sighed and went out. - -As he closed the door, his eyes lighted. He walked down the passage -thoughtfully, licking his lips. . . . - -Madeleine sat staring at the disordered cloth. - -Long ago Misery had repaired to her eyes. Now Despair had come also. She -was really frightened. - -Lacaze was perfectly right. But for him, she would have married René. -Ever since her disastrous wedding she had tried not to think about the -past—the old days. As for what might have been, this she had shut most -rigidly out of her thoughts. As if to mock her pains, here was Fate -flaunting it under her very nose. . . . - -Again, God knows she was patient—to a fault. But her husband’s derision -of René had set her cheeks flaming. That it had made her heart warm -towards her old swain, she did not realize. _That it had been intended -so to do_, only another Lacaze could have guessed. The man was evil. - -Finally, Madeleine knew in her heart that she had always loved René, and -never Lacaze . . . that she had loved René very much . . . that at the -present moment she loved him more than ever. - -All things considered, then, that Silvia was thoroughly frightened is -not surprising. There were breakers ahead. - - * * * * * - -Lacaze knew that he could trust his wife. He knew that she was loyal, -incorruptible, holy. Trading upon this holiness, he fairly thrust the -lovers into each other’s arms. Before his dominant will the two poor -wretches were helpless. . . . - -The climax came one beautiful July evening. - -Dudoy had been bidden to call for Madeleine and take her to the Café de -la Forêt Noire. There the two were to wait till the steeple-jack joined -them. - -“You know my corner,” he had said. “Take it and sip your syrup until I -arrive. I shall not be long, but Notre Dame is ailing. She has a crack, -poor lady, in one of her horns. To be frank, it is an awkward business. -I hope I shan’t slip. If I did—well, you two would take care of each -other, would you not?” He pinched his wife’s ear. “Still, we will hope -and pray my poor life may be spared.” - -At a quarter to seven, therefore, honest curly-haired René strode down -the Rue de Tocqueville, to fold sweet sorrow in his arms. Madame Lacaze -was ready, and the two left at once. - -On their way through the bustling streets they spoke very little. -Matter-of-fact conversation was difficult enough to come by. They kept -what reserve they had for the table without the window at the Café de la -Forêt Noire. - -This appeared soon enough. - -René saw Madeleine settled, and called for drink. Then they began to -talk—artificially. Madeleine laboured hard and met with success. After -a little, Dudoy began to dance to her piping. . . . - -Then a laughing-eyed rogue of a child came and snapped the poor pipe in -two. - -What happened exactly was this. The tot had escaped from its parents -three tables away. Liking the look of the lovers, it came to them -straight, showed them its sixpenny watch, made them both free of its -lips and, finally, desired them to draw a castle forthwith. Lack of a -pencil and paper made it impossible to comply. Madeleine pointed this -out gently enough. Pharaoh-like, the child waved aside the objection, -demanding a castle tearfully. The two sought to distract him for all -they were worth. . . . Here the parents suspended a bubbling colloquy to -look for their offspring. Madeleine and René were rescued in the nick of -time. . . . - -The radiant father and mother were full of apologies. - -“I pray you, forgive us. We were talking, and for a moment, we forgot. -It is at this age that they must be watched all the time. _When you have -a fine fat boy, you will understand._” - -Hats were raised, smiles and bows were exchanged, and the incident -closed. - -Madeleine and René Dudoy sat ready to burst into tears. - -At length— - -“_Mon Dieu!_” said René hoarsely. “_Mon Dieu_, it is not to be borne! I -am a man, am I not? With blood in my veins? I am not a stock or a stone. -I have a heart, Madeleine, a broken heart—that cries and cries and -cries. All the time we are making our small talk my heart is crying. All -the time——” - -“René, René,” wailed Madeleine, “why do you come? Why did you come -to-day? Why yesterday? Why the day before that?” - -“He makes me!” cried René. “You know it. I have no choice. Besides, the -hours he offers me are of pure gold. I cannot throw them away. That -evening I did not come, I nearly died. I sat and drank absinthe and wept -till they asked me to go. The proprietor was very kind. He understood -perfectly. But it was bad for the house.” - -“It was very bad for you,” said Madeleine gravely. “But listen, René. -You are wrong. The hours my husband offers you are not of gold at all. -They are of cold, sharp steel, that——” - -“Gold or steel,” breathed René, “I do not care. They are spent in your -company. There is a fence between us, I know—a hell of a fence—but we -can peer through the bars. It is permitted to touch you . . . watch your -mouth move . . . hear the music of your voice—and, when you are gone to -embrace a memory.” - -“Hush, René, hush! _Mon Dieu_, will you have me faint?” - -“Madeleine, Madeleine, why did you marry Pierre? A-a-ah, I do not blame -you! Do not think that. It was your own affair. Only . . . we could have -been happy, I think, and . . . and I can draw quite good castles, such -as that little one desired. . . .” His voice broke, and a bright tear -rolled down Madeleine’s cheek. She swept it away swiftly. Dudoy pulled -himself together. “Bah! The milk is spilled. I watched you spill it at -Ruffec that autumn day. Now, alas, you go thirsty! I feared you would. -And I am thirsty too, sweet; for I would have drunk of that milk. -Consider, then. Since we both thirst, it is better to share our -misfortune. Besides, if the past is dead, there is always the future. -The good God, perhaps, will give us another pitcher.” He paused and -looked down at his feet. “A steeple-jack’s work,” he muttered, “is very -dangerous.” Madeleine shivered. “One day, perhaps—perhaps this very -evening—he will not come back.” - -The girl shook her head. - -“Yes, he will,” she said dully. “Pierre will never slip.” She started -violently. “_Mon Dieu_, what have I said? Ah, René, believe me, I have -been dreaming. The heat, perhaps. . . .” She laughed hysterically. “‘The -past is dead,’ you were saying. ‘The past is dead.’” - -The man had no ears to hear. His eyes were burning with hope. - -“I love you,” he said uncertainly. “I love your beautiful hands. I love -your soft dark hair. I cannot play with it now, because of the bars. But -one day the bars will be broken, and then I shall come and fill these -arms with its glory. Be sure, my heart, I shall wait and wait always -. . . until the bars fall. Ah, see how the good God has given light to -our darkness. He has shown us the way to go. Now, when we are together, -we shall never be sad. We will remember always that we are waiting . . . -just waiting . . . until the bars fall. . . .” - -Head up, rigid, white-faced, Madeleine sat staring and seeing nothing. -Her ears, however, were hearing perfectly. After a moment she braced -herself, drawing a deep breath. Holy, fair and wise, her resolve was -taken. - -“I do not see,” she said slowly, “that we have anything to share—you -and I. A year ago, perhaps, there might have been something. But, as you -said just now, the past is dead. And since we have nothing to share, -René, it would be so much better if . . . if . . .” - -She hesitated and passed a hand across her eyes. - -René Dudoy stared. - -“But what are you saying?” he cried. “You go back to where we began. We -have thrashed all this out. You said our hours were not golden. I have -shown you——” - -“You have shown me that it is better, René, that we two should not meet -any more.” - -“Not alone, perhaps. I think you are right, sweetheart. I will arrange -that somehow. Now that we have our understanding——” - -“I wish,” said Madeleine steadily, “that you would leave Paris.” - -The other recoiled. - -“What!” he screamed. “What! Leave Paris? _Mon Dieu!_ This is more than I -can stand.” He leaned back in his chair and wiped the sweat from his -face. “I think you are ill,” he said. “To hear you, anyone would think -that you did not care,” he added desperately. - -“I do not care,” said Madeleine. - -The young man started as though she had stabbed him with a knife. Then -he went very white. - -“I do not care,” she repeated. “I do not want to hurt you, but you have -made a mistake. Jean wrote to me, you know, and said you were very sad. -He said you would not come to see me because—because you could not -forget. I showed the letter to Pierre, and we agreed that we must be -kind to you. We thought, perhaps, when you saw how—how happy we were, -you would join in our happiness, and so become cured. Instead, you have -grown worse. More—you have involved me terribly. I have tried to be -kind, and you have mistaken my kindness for something else. It is really -very difficult, René, but, you see, we are not at all in the same boat. -I ought, of course, I see now, to have told you at once. But I didn’t, I -didn’t want to hurt you, and—it was doing no harm. It is an awkward -thing, you know, to tell any man—let alone an old friend. But now it is -getting beyond . . . beyond a joke. . . .” - -René winced at the word piteously. With white lips and a bleeding heart, -Madeleine struggled on. - -“You see, I have not told Pierre. . . . And I do not want Pierre, my -husband, to make the same mistake. I do not think that he would, but you -never know. And if he did, it would be very awkward for me. I do not -know how I should show him that he was wrong. . . . - -“And so, you see, my friend, that when I said that the hours we spend -together are of sharp steel, I was perfectly right. They pierce your -heart, I fear, and they—they—embarrass me. . . . Don’t look like that, -René! I tell you, I hoped——” - -“Hope?” cried René, with a wild laugh. “Hope? I do not know what you -mean. What is hope?” - -Here Lacaze appeared, smiling and nodding good will. - -“Did you think I was dead?” he crowed. “I think that you must have. As a -matter of fact, I’ve never been off the ground. Notre Dame was not ready -for me. Instead, to tell you the truth, I have been talking business.” -He jerked his head at the window directly behind them. “Sitting in -there. I became so absorbed that I forgot our engagement. Then I heard -your voices, you know, and that reminded me.” He took his seat between -them and looked benignantly round. “And now about supper. . . . I think -a nice little _ragoût_, with potatoes _en robe de chambre_.” - -The party was not a success. - -René Dudoy pleaded night-work and left at once. - -As for Madeleine, she fainted before the _ragoût_ was served. - - * * * * * - -All things considered, I am inclined to think that when Madame Lacaze -deceived the man she loved, because he was not her husband, she made -another mistake. But then I am of the earth, earthy. What cannot -possibly be denied is that it was a most splendid action. ‘So shines a -good deed in a naughty world.’ Probably the trouble was that she did not -trust herself. René’s desire to make the word ‘wait’ their watchword was -dangerous, because it was sweet. It would have been the thin edge of the -wedge. Madeleine was determined to play the game. It was not Lacaze she -stood by, but the office he filled. It was not Dudoy she sent packing, -but the devil himself. That her lover did not stand in her husband’s -shoes was her misfortune. As such, however, it did not affect the case. -She was a good girl. - - * * * * * - -Ten days after that dreadful evening at the Café de la Forêt Noire, the -War came with a crash. - -The electrical atmosphere of the next three months saved Madeleine’s -life. No spirit, however sick, could have failed to respond to such -exciting treatment. - -Lacaze, the steeple-jack, the lion, welcomed the War with flashing eyes. -From the moment the storm broke, his one idea was to kill. When the time -came, he fought with twice the ardour with which he had reduced high -places. He soon became sergeant; he was worth ten ordinary men. In all -his pride, however, he never forgot how once his heels had ached. -Besides, his wife’s dismissal of Dudoy had made him frown. . . . - -Before he left for the battle he had arranged everything. - -In reply to the questions which every soldier is asked, he stated that -he was unmarried, and gave the name of Madame José Beer (_née_ Tuyte) as -that of his next-of-kin. - -Then he visited the trull and told her her new estate. - -José was flattered, but curious. Lacaze enlightened her. - -“Now, if I should be killed, the news will come to you.” - -“I shall mourn,” said José. - -“As you please,” said Lacaze. “But burn the paper at once and keep your -mouth shut. Tell no one. You know, I fear, that Madeleine is very stuck -up.” He sighed. “It is no good mincing matters. Her pride has caused me -much grief. You and I are not good enough. She would, I think, like to -be free. If she were free. . . .” He broke off and shrugged his -shoulders. “There is a young officer somewhere. They correspond. . . .” - -“The jade!” raged José. “The jade! The graceless minx! Trust me.” Her -voice vibrated. “She shall never be free. Never!” Here she became -maudlin. “But, Pierre dear, I shall not receive the news. It is not to -be thought of . . .” - -“Perhaps not,” said Pierre shortly, taking his leave. “But remember my -words. I trust you to see justice done.” - -“Never fear,” cried José, her pig eyes gleaming. . . . - -Finally, the steeple-jack spoke with his wife. - -He chose their last night together. - -It was a stifling evening: such air as found its way into their -apartment seemed to be stale: odours of neighbouring kitchens rose up -stagnant. Out of the roar of the traffic continual cries of newsvendors -stood as syrens out of a gale. - -Madeleine sat by a window, sewing hard. Lacaze lounged upon a settee, -smoking calmly and oiling a pair of boots. - -My lady finished her stitching and cut the thread. Then she held up her -work and turned it about. After a moment she rose and crossed to her -husband. - -“Is that what you want, Pierre? It does not look very well, but I think -it will wear. If it is right, I will do the other shoulder.” - -Lacaze examined the shirt. - -This was a cotton affair of green and grey stripes. Over one shoulder -strips of fine linen had been laid, by way of a pad. These had been -quilted beautifully. - -“But this is charming,” he said, putting his head on one side. “Ah, me, -what it is to be loved! If René could only see this he would jump into -the Seine. You know I shall be chaffed—devilishly. No one will ever -believe that this was the work of a wife. Never mind. I am content. Now -I shall be cool these hot days, yet my shoulders will not be sore.” He -peered at the linen. “Where did you find this stuff?” - -“I cut up a chemise.” - -“Sweeter and sweeter,” he crowed. “The soldier goes off to the war with -his girl on his shoulder. My dear, you are getting quite gay. How did -you think of such a charming conceit?” - -“I did not,” said Madeleine coldly. “I had nothing else.” - -“Use nothing else,” said Lacaze. “But always have a new shirt—I have -six—with just the same delicate straps awaiting the day I return. For I -shall return, sweeting. Never fear that I shan’t.” His voice rang out -boldly. “Never fear, madame. Nothing will happen to me. I shall always -come back.” He caught her arm in his hand and smiled up into her eyes. -“Do you hear, my beautiful wife? Do you realize that? Poor Pierre will -always return. Jean may lie out in the mud. What can be collected of -Jacques may be dumped in a grave. René may writhe out his life with a -bullet inside. But poor old Pierre, your husband, will always return.” -He let go her arm and sank back in his seat. “Now, is that not good -news? That widowhood is not for you? Believe me, my dear, you are a -lucky woman. . . . Of course I may not always come back to you. We poor -soldiers are so easily led. . . . . But I shall not be killed. You see. -And in the end you will triumph, and I—shall—come—back. . . .” - -So soon as Madame Lacaze could find her voice, she asked her smiling -husband what money she was to have to maintain herself and the -apartment. - -His reply was definite. - -“The apartment is given up and the furniture sold. I have done that -to-day. You will lodge with the Marats and go out to work. I have been -wondering what you could do, my sweet, but you have shown me. If you sew -hard, you will make quite a lot of money.” - -Madeleine walked to the window and picked up the remains of her chemise. -The garment tugged at her thoughts. She let them go. . . . - -In an instant she was at Ruffec, stepping the cool, quiet streets. There -was old Monsieur Laffargue, the doctor, getting down from his gig. Now -he was smiling broadly and rallying her about her cheeks. ‘You must do -something,’ he said. She could hear his jolly old voice. ‘Something. I -don’t know what. No one will ever believe there’s no paint there.’ She -passed on smiling. . . . A voice called from a window. Madame Durand, of -course, the postman’s wife. ‘Madeleine, Madeleine, my sister has had a -son. A great fat rogue, they say, four kilos at birth. Is it not -wonderful?’ Madeleine rejoiced with her, and went her way. Then Père -Fréchou stopped her, to give her five great peaches—two for each of her -eyes and one for her pretty red lips . . . She came to the Rue de -l’Image, all decked with the evening sun. The awnings of the little -shops made it absurdly narrow, like a toy street. And there, striding -into the sunlight, came René Dudoy. His healthy young face lighted up. -‘I was on my way, Madeleine, to tell you how lucky I am. The _patron_ -has been given the order for three mantelpieces in stone at the Château -St. Pol, and I am to do the work and to put them in.’ ‘Oh, René, I am so -glad—so awfully glad. Go on and tell Jean and Jacques. Or stay—go home -and get Marie and bring her to supper with us. See what Père Fréchou has -given me. Did ever you see such beauties? We’ll eat them to-night in -your honour. There’s plenty of cream.’ René’s face was a picture. -Madeleine passed on thoughtfully. . . . At the draper’s she laid out her -money—some thirty-two francs—not without much hesitation and plucking -at stuffs. Madame Bidart was kindness itself, and made her a price. -Indeed, the old lady refused to sell her the linen she chose. It was not -good enough, she declared. Now this was superb—fit for a king’s -daughter. ‘But I am not a king’s daughter,’ protested Madeleine, -laughing. ‘You are an angel from heaven,’ said Madame Bidart. ‘I tell -you——’ - -“How long will you be?” said Lacaze yawning luxuriously. “I mean, it is -getting late, and I must be up at five.” - -“A quarter of an hour,” said his wife, and bent to her work. - -The night was stifling. - - * * * * * - -Madeleine’s younger brother was killed that fateful August. Ere -September was old, Jean had been taken prisoner. Of René, no news -reached her. - -For the matter of that, she heard naught of Lacaze, either. He had not -told her his regiment. He never wrote. The man might have been dead -. . . might have. . . . - -He came to see her at last, one dark December morning. . . . - -When he went back, he took a shirt with him. - -Twice more he came to see her, and each time took back a shirt. He swore -by these garments—called them his mascots, his charms—declared he -could never be killed while she sat on his shoulders. . . . - -The idea stuck. - -Madeleine began to believe her linen was preserving his life. - -She tried to be grateful. - -Two shirts remained to be strapped. Setting to work one Sunday, she -found her chemise was gone. She had used all its stuff. Her impulse, of -course, was to purchase a piece of fresh linen. Without a thought she -would have done so, but for his idle words. As it was. . . . - -The temptation was frightful. - -Why should she cut up her own clothes? Besides, faith put in mascots was -vain—heathenish. What could they profit a man? Supposing they -could. . . . Supposing there was some curious guardian virtue in linen -she wore. . . . Well, _what—if—there—was_? - -She thrust the shirt away and went for a walk. - -The next morning she bought some new linen. . . . - -She came back from Mass a week later and cut up another chemise. - -The third winter of the War stole upon a frantic world, stumbling and -striking. Lacaze did not come. He had not returned since April—April of -1916. Madeleine began to wonder . . . wonder why he did not appear. - -When the New Year was in, she went to the War Office. - -She did not get far. - -“You are his wife?” said the clerk. - -“Yes.” - -“What is his regiment?” - -“I do not know. He has never told me.” - -“Show me a letter of his.” - -“I have none. He never writes.” - -“Nor you to him?” - -“Never. He was sergeant, I think.” - -Two shoulders were shrugged. - -“So are many. You are sure you are married?” - -“Of course.” - -“Well, then, Madame, he is safe. No news is good news. You would have -heard, certainly. There is no doubt about it. Calm yourself, Madame. He -will come back.” - -But Lacaze did not come. - -Again, in June, she went to the War Office. - -She saw the same clerk. He asked the same questions, shrugged the same -shoulders, gave her the same reply. . . . - -That Autumn her orders fell off. People, I suppose, were beginning to -sew for themselves. Madeleine could hardly find work for two days a -week. The Marats—the people she lodged with—saw what was coming, and, -meeting her trouble half-way, diverted it from their path. In a word, -they gave her notice. This, thanks to their foresight, they were able to -do without any compunction at all. It would not have been nice to turn -out a soldier’s wife—possibly ‘relict’—because she could not pay her -way. As it was, they could look the world in the face. They did so -defiantly. They also cancelled, with sighs, their subscription to an -orphanage on the ground that they had lost a valuable paying -guest. . . . . - -Madeleine entered the service of an English officer’s wife. - -Early in 1918 she received a letter from Jean. - - _Dearest Madeleine_, - - _I have come back alive out of death. I have been a prisoner, - you know, for nearly four years. Now I have been - exchanged—because I am useless to France. I am rather run down, - you see, and my right arm is gone. But take heart, dearest. I - can do nothing just yet, and the Army has sent me home, but old - Monsieur Laffargue says I shall be as strong as ever in ten or - twelve months. I am with the Dudoys. René has been back some - time. Do you know he is blind? . ._ - -Blind. . . . - -Those gentle grey eyes sightless. . . . Those strong brown fingers -picking and feeling their way. . . . - -Madeleine was at the War Office within the half-hour. - -The clerk she had seen was gone, and another attended to her case. This -was a kindly fellow, who had dried many eyes. - -He heard her out gravely. Then— - -“Madame, be happy. Absolutely your husband is safe. Take it from me. He -has not even a scratch. Always the wife hears at once. That he has not -been to see you is easily explained. Ten to one he is in the -East—Salonica, making fat Bulgars perspire. He wrote and told you, of -course, but the letter was sunk. These Germans! Madame, believe and be -happy. Your husband is safe. I tell you he will come back.” - -Madeleine stole out of the building as she would have stolen out of a -dock. She had committed a crime, and had been given judgment. - -She would have given anything to go to Ruffec . . . anything—except the -one thing she had. This was her self-respect. If she went to Ruffec, if -once she saw those strong brown fingers groping their pitiful way, the -flesh might spoil the spirit of its only hoard. And that meant poverty -she could not face. She was a good girl. - - * * * * * - -Eighteen months had gone by, when Lady Joan Satinwood told her French -maid that it was her determined intention to winter in France. - -“We shall go down by car, Madeleine—the Major and I, and you and the -chauffeur. It’ll be great fun, and I expect you’ll be thrilled to see -your country again.” - -“Yes, madame.” - -“I suppose you’ve—you’ve no news?” - -“Of my husband? No, madame.” - -“I’m sorry. But don’t despair. Remember my cousin, Sir George. And he -was reported ‘killed.’ Two and a half years afterwards, Madeleine, he -came walking in. . . .” - -“Yes, madame.” - -When Madeleine learned in mid-Channel, some three weeks later, that they -were to go by Poitiers she felt very faint. . . . - -Poitiers lies north of Ruffec, just forty-one miles. - -“_Et de Poitiers?_ . . . . After we ’ave lef’ Poitiers? . . .” - -“Angoulême,” said the chauffeur, thumbing his itinerary. “That’s right. -Vivonne, Chaunay, Ruffec, Angoulême. Sleep Angoulême. Nex’ -day—Barbézieux, Bordeaux. Sleep Bor—— ’Elp!” - -He dropped his paper and caught his companion as she swayed. Then he -carried her into the saloon and sought for a stewardess. . . . - -Later that day he recounted his experience to a friend. - -“I arst ’er if she was a good sailor, too,” he concluded aggrievedly. - -Four days later, as they were entering Poitiers, a brake-rod snapped. No -resultant damage was done, but the car was stopped at a garage that -Terry—the chauffeur—might see if an adjustment could be made. By good -fortune, it could. - -The car was backed over a pit, and Terry got out of his coat and into -his overalls. He was a good chauffeur. Where his car was concerned, he -fancied his own fingers more than a hireling’s. - -The Major got out and went strolling. Lady Joan stayed in the car. -Madeleine stood in the garage, translating for Terry. - -Half an hour’s work, and the connection was made. - -Terry heaved himself out of the pit and called for waste. - -The mechanics stared. - -“Cotton waste,” said the chauffeur. “Comprenny? Pour wiper the hands.” - -Madeleine smiled and asked for a rag. - -A mechanic went shuffling. A moment later he returned with a rectangular -cardboard box. - -“_Voilà_,” he said. - -“Wot’s this?” said Terry, staring. “Dog biscuits?” - -The mechanic pointed to the label. - - Essuyages Aseptisés - -“We use nothing else,” he explained. “They are all manner of rags, quite -clean and sterilized. This boxful will last a long time.” - -The chauffeur asked the price, ripped open the box, and pulled out the -first piece of stuff. Madeleine took the box from him and stowed it away -in the car. - -When she returned, Terry had wiped his hands and was looking curiously -at his duster. - -“’Ere’s a present from Flanders all right,” he said slowly. “See? That’s -where some pore bloke stopped one.” - -Madeleine peered at the stuff. - -This was the left breast of what had been a man’s shirt. Immediately -over the heart there was a rough hole. The cotton thereabouts was all -stained to a dull brown, so that the green and grey stripes were -indistinguishable. The shoulder was gone, but hanging from the top of -the fragment was a strip of quilted linen. - - * * * * * - -Let me quote from Lady Joan’s letter, dated some five days later and -written from St. Jean-de-Luz. - -. . . _I saw the shirt myself. It was a terrible document. Poor girl! -The shock was frightful. As luck would have it, the very next town on -our route—a place called Ruffec—was her old home. Her brother was -there. We found him and handed her over. Whether she’ll ever come back -to me, I haven’t the faintest idea. . . ._ - -Again let me quote from a letter her ladyship wrote when two months had -gone by. - -_P.S.—You remember Madeleine? I’ve just had a note from her saying -she’s married again! No wonder France is recovering more quickly than -England. Most English girls would still be upon slops. However, that’s -her affair. But isn’t it just my luck? She was a perfect maid._ - -Which was a true saying. - - * * * * * - -Two years later Lacaze alighted at Ruffec from the Paris train. - -The man was changed terribly. Five years in the German mines had left -their mark. He had been broken down. - -His hair was grisled, his broad, square shoulders were bowed, his -carriage mean. None would have known the shrunken shambling figure for -that of the mighty steeple-jack. His countenance, however, was -unmistakable. This was ravaged, too, but the old faint smile still hung -about those merciless lips, and the old insolent scorn still smouldered -in the big black eyes. - -Lacaze pulled his hat over his face and stood waiting till such -travellers as had also alighted should have left the platform. - -A horn brayed, and the train began to move. - -“Good-bye!” cried a voice. “Good-bye! If you see René Dudoy, ask him if -he remembers Fernand Didier, and say I was sorry I had no time to visit -him. Good-bye!” - -The train gathered speed and rumbled out of the station. - -Lacaze moved towards the gates thoughtfully. - -Half an hour later he darkened the creamery’s hatch. - -René looked up from his work. He was making a basket. - -“Enter, monsieur,” he said. “And sit down, please. My wife will be back -in a moment, and then she will serve you.” - -Slowly Lacaze came in, looking down on the ground. - -“You are married, then?” he said quietly. - -The other stared. - -“Yes,” he said, “monsieur. Why not?” - -“No reason at all,” said Lacaze, smiling. “And how is your wife?” - -René returned to his work. - -“She is very well, thank you.” - -“I am glad of that,” said Lacaze. “Very glad.” - -René Dudoy looked up. - -“Monsieur’s interest is unusually kind. Would it be indiscreet to ask -why?” - -Lacaze gave a short laugh. - -“I know her,” he said. “She was a friend of mine. But I thought that she -married Lacaze—Lacaze, the steeple-jack.” - -“She did,” said Dudoy. “But he was killed in the War. And, after, she -married me. But, monsieur, tell me your name. If you are a friend of -hers, you must have been mine also.” - -“I was,” said Lacaze softly, his chin on his chest. “I knew you well.” -The other set down his basket and rose to his feet. “We were both at her -wedding. You sent her roses, I think. And I sent her—violets.” - -“Not violets,” said René. “You must have sent something else. You -forget. Lacaze sent her violets.” - -In a flash Lacaze had stepped forward and pulled off his hat. - -“Your servant,” he breathed, smiling. - -Dudoy wrinkled his brow. - -“I cannot think who you are,” he said. “Do tell me your name.” The -other’s smile faded into a stare. “There are times, you know, when one -misses one’s sight terribly.” Lacaze started. “When Madeleine’s here, I -can see. We share her beautiful eyes.” He threw back his curly head. -“Then, if you offered me sight, I would not take it. My blindness is a -bond between us which those who have eyes of their own can never know. -But—when she leaves me, then sometimes the old darkness returns—that -awful darkness which, when she came to me, Madeleine did away . . . And -now, I pray you, monsieur, tell me your name.” - -Lacaze turned his head and stared into the sunlit street. - -Then— - -“I am Fernand Didier,” he said. “And—and I must go, or I shall miss my -train.” - -He pulled his hat over his eyes and blundered out of the shop. - -René cried to him to stay. - -“Fernand! Fernand!” - -Lacaze took no notice. - -Ten minutes later he was clear of the town. - - - - - KATHARINE - - - KATHARINE - -Dreamily, Mrs. Festival regarded the ceiling. - -“I frequently wonder,” she said, “what possessed me to marry you.” - -“My beauty of soul,” said her husband pleasantly. “You were all -dazzled.” - -“I think,” continued his wife, “it was out of pity. You know. When you -see people laughing at someone, and the someone joins in, never dreaming -that they’re the object of the mirth, one feels sorry for them.” - -Captain Giles Festival swallowed before replying. - -Then— - -“I know,” he said. “Like when we were dining with the Mascots, and you -kept talking about soap.” - -Katharine Festival flushed. - -The reminiscence was not one which she cherished. - -Lady Mascot’s father and soft soap had been mutually constructive. - -At length— - -“I might have known,” she observed, “that you wouldn’t appreciate it. -Gratitude is not among your attributes.” - -“If you mean,” said Giles, “that I don’t feel impelled to fall down and -worship you for taking my name—in vain, you’re perfectly right. I gave -you a blinkin’ good chance, and you blinkin’ well took it.” - -Katharine drew in her breath. - -“Do you imagine,” she demanded, “that the chance you were kind enough to -give me was the only chance I had?” - -“If,” said her husband, “I imagined anything, I should imagine you -considered it the best. If one can only have one strawberry, one doesn’t -deliberately take a bad one, does one? Not even out of pity?” - -“No,” said Katharine sweetly. “Only by mistake.” - -There was a pregnant silence. - -Then— - -“Sold,” murmured Giles, “the very deuce of a pup—by Mistake, out of -Pity. No flowers, by request.” - -“Let me at once admit,” said Katharine coldly, “that I did not select -you for your good taste.” - -“‘Select’?” cried her husband. “‘Select’?” He laughed wildly. Then he -covered his eyes. “Oh, give me strength.” - -“I suppose you consider that you selected me.” - -“I did. In a weak moment——” - -“Are you,” said Katharine shakily, “are you going to say you were -blind?” - -“I am not,” said Giles. “I was not blind. I was—well—er—just nicely.” - -“Well, I wasn’t,” said his wife hotly. “I was blind. I thought I was -accepting a gentleman. I find I accepted a——” - -“I know,” said Giles mercilessly. “I know, teacher. A foul and loathsome -worm.” - -“No,” said his wife calmly. “Just an ordinary cad.” - -Captain Festival rubbed his nose thoughtfully. Then he extended his arms -and, after yawning luxuriously, interlaced his fingers and placed his -hands behind his head. - -“My dear,” he observed, “be reasonable.” Katharine closed her eyes with -an expression of unutterable contempt. “All this, just because I -ventured to suggest that, if Beatrice had time to do it, she might take -charge of my linen.” - -“Have you ever heard of meiosis?” said Mrs. Festival. “It means the -opposite of exaggeration.” - -“I repeat,” said Giles, “that that was the humble suggestion at which -you took offence. I mayn’t have put it in those words, but——” - -“You didn’t,” said Katharine. “You put it much more vividly. You said -that the condition of your wardrobe was enough to make a beachcomber -burst into tears——” - -“So it is.” - -“—and that, if I hadn’t got the moral courage to order ‘a lazy sweep of -a lady’s maid to pull up her rotten socks,’ I could ‘blinkin’ well -finance her’ myself. You added that you’d given up a valet, so that I -could have more money ‘to blow upon my back,’ and that my interpretation -of my marriage vows was funny without being vulgar.” - -Her husband swallowed. - -“I was referring,” he said doggedly, “to your promise to cherish me.” - -“You promised the same.” - -“Yes, but I keep it, Kate. I do cherish you. I’m always cherishing you. -Only yesterday afternoon—seventeen blinkin’ quid for a hat worth -eighteen pence . . . and not a murmur.” - -Katharine inspired audibly, raising her eyes to heaven. - -“When,” she rejoined, “when you start recounting your virtues, I want to -break something. Doesn’t it ever occur to you that that’s my job?” - -“Frequently,” said Giles. “But you never do it.” - -“You never give me a chance.” - -With a supreme effort her husband controlled his voice. - -“Look here,” he said fiercely. “Do you think it was—er—decent of me to -give you that hat, or not?” - -“Oh, you can have the beastly hat,” said Katharine. - -“Wouldn’t suit me,” said Giles mournfully. “Do you think——” - -“I’ll never wear it,” declared his wife. “Never. I—I hate it.” - -“Well, let’s take it back. They might allow us eighteen——” - -“And why should I be overcome with gratitude just because——” - -“The golden rule of blessed argument,” said Captain Festival -uncertainly, “is to keep to the blessed point. Let’s try, will you? -. . . No answer. I referred to my short-sighted generosity solely to -refute your suggestion that I was failing to cherish you. You -deliberately pervert the reference into an attempt to magnify myself. -What could be better?” - -“Oh, that’s easy,” said Katharine. “You could get up half an hour -earlier and put your rotten things in order yourself.” - -“On the _lucus a non lucendo_ principle? If you want your cake, pay -someone else to eat it, and then give it away? Thanks very much. -Unhappily, my education was neglected. I cannot sew. Secondly, if it’s -either of our jobs, it’s yours. Thirdly, why should I? If this house was -more like a home and less like an Employment Exchange, these questions -wouldn’t arise. Fourthly, I’m fed up.” - -“How funny,” said Katharine silkily. “So’m I. Yet you slept well. I -heard you.” - -In majestic silence her husband rose from his bed and entered an -orange-coloured dressing-gown. - -“Have my bed put in the next room, will you?” he said coldly. “If you -don’t like to trouble the servants, tell me and I’ll get the -commissionaire from the Club.” - -Here he trod upon a collar-stud, screamed, swore, limped to a window and -then launched the offender into Berkeley Square. - -“That’ll learn it,” observed Mrs. Festival. - -Giles regarded her with speechless indignation. - -Then he swept into the bathroom stormily. - -After, perhaps, five minutes he reappeared. - -“I say,” he said quietly, “it isn’t much good going on like this, is -it?” - -Katharine shrugged her white shoulders. - -“Is it?” repeated her husband. - -His wife averted her head. - -“The blessed answer,” she said, “is in the blessed negative.” - -Giles set his teeth. - -“Good. Well, let’s separate. I take it you’ve tried. I know I have. I -suppose we oughtn’t to have married.” - -“As—as you please,” said Katharine slowly. - -“We’d better go down and see Forsyth—to-day, if we can.” He hesitated. -Then, “There’s no reason why there should be any unpleasantness about -it.” - -“None whatever.” - -“Only, don’t let’s be lured into backing out of it. It’s perfectly -manifest, to my mind, that it’s the only thing to do. Already we’ve come -to the brink of it half a dozen times, and then Sentiment’s always -chipped in and pulled us back.” Katharine nodded. “Well, that’s silly. -We needn’t scrap, but _don’t let’s be pulled back again_. It’s—it’s not -good enough. Let’s go through with it, this time, and—and see what -happens.” - -“Right,” said Katharine brightly. - -Giles turned away slowly. - -In the doorway he hesitated. - -Then he spoke, looking down. - -“You—you see what I mean?” he faltered. “I’ld like us to—to part -friends.” - -Katharine nodded. - -When he was out of sight, she buried her face in her pillow and lay like -the dead. - - * * * * * - -If the votes of Mayfair had been taken to elect the most popular married -couple living, moving and having its being in Society, there is little -doubt that Captain and Mrs. Giles Festival would have headed the poll. - -The lady was twenty-five and of great beauty. She was very fair, and the -light in her grave, blue eyes was a lovely thing. Her face might have -been her fortune—easily. So might her figure. This was the dressmakers’ -joy. If Katharine liked fine feathers, she knew how to put them on. -Dancing, bathing, riding—always she filled the eye. But if she was -refreshing to look at, her fellowship lifted up the heart. I can think -of no company which she did not adorn. Someone once called her -‘Champagne’: certainly she went to the head. That she had so few enemies -is the best evidence of her remarkable charm. Women liked her—as often -as not against their will. Her nature would, I think, have disarmed a -Sycorax. Caliban would certainly have eaten out of her hand. - -Giles was thirty, and looked a young twenty-six. Tall, fair, handsome, -lazy-eyed, he did everything well. The way in which he made war brought -him a V.C. The way in which he made love won him his wife. At the -Marlborough he was universally liked. In certain cabmen’s shelters he -was adored. He had, I suppose, the secret of adaptability. His laugh was -infectious; his turn-out, above reproach. His manners would have made -any man. - -Both had a keen sense of humour, and neither was ever dull. They went -everywhere, and everywhere their coming was awaited and their going -deplored. They had been individually invaluable: as a combination they -were unique. What made them so excellent was their mutual devotion. Of -this they offered no evidence, but it was obvious as the day. Had -Society paraded in the Park, by common consent Giles and Katharine would -have been led at the head of the column, like regimental goats. For the -second year in succession they were the Season’s pets. - -But now an east wind had arisen out of a clear sky. Though no one else -knew it, it had cursed the twain steadily for more than three months. -The two peace-loving hearts found themselves constantly at war. Worse. -The very qualities which should have pacified seemed monstrously to -provoke. The position had become unbearable. - - * * * * * - -An hour had gone by. - -As Katharine entered the dining-room, her husband looked up from his -eggs. - -“Forsyth,” he said, “will see us at twelve o’clock. Meanwhile”—he -tapped a volume—“this little Know All says that we ought to have -trustees.” - -“What of?” said his wife. - -“Heaven knows,” said Giles. “As far as I can gather, they’ld be a sort -of bufferee. Supposing you wanted to come and scratch me—well, you’ld -have to scratch the trustee first. And if I found you were pledging my -credit——” - -“But I shall,” said Katharine. “Why shouldn’t I? I’m your wife.” - -“Only for necessaries, dear heart. No more eighteen-penny hats.” - -“Is that the law?” said Mrs. Festival blankly. - -“Approximately. But don’t worry. You’ll have plenty to pay for them -with. I can’t endow you with all my worldly goods, but you shall have a -fair two-thirds.” - -“Half,” said Katharine, crossing to the sideboard. “Fair do’s, old -fellow. And you must have half mine.” - -Captain Festival frowned. - -“My dear,” he said shortly, “don’t dither. I buy a dress-suit a year and -don’t pay for it. If I did, it’ld be about a pony.” He paused -significantly. “If an eighteen-penny hat and a half costs the same as a -gent’s dress-suit, how many evening frocks go to the Season?” - -Abstractedly Katharine helped herself to kedjeree. - -As she returned to the table— - -“I don’t care,” she said slowly; “I won’t take more than my share. What -shall we do about the house?” - -“Well, if you don’t mind,” said Giles, “you’d better stay on. It’ll save -a lot of trouble. If you don’t—I can’t very well live here, and the -house’ld be going spare. That means we’ld have to let, which’ld send us -both mad. The rooms’ld have to be done up, we should be done down, our -effects would be done in and our finer feelings would be outraged. The -idea of some sticky stranger wallowing in our private bathroom sends the -blood to my head.” - -Mrs. Festival shuddered. - -Then— - -“But what will you do, Gill? Of course, I should pay you a rent. The -house and furniture’s yours, and——” - -“I shall live at the Club. As to rent—considering that you’ll be better -than any caretaker, I shall be up on the deal.” - -Katharine digested this. - -“I could only consent,” she said, “on the understanding that, if ever -you changed your mind, you let me know. And, of course, you’ld keep a -key and use it whenever you liked.” - -“My darling,” said Giles, rising, “I look forward to dining at this -table at least once a week. Of course, I shan’t come unasked. That would -be molestation. Your trustee would be most rude. But if I behave -myself. . . . Possibly, some afternoon when you were out, you might -arrange for me to have a bath here. On my birthday, for instance. It’ld -tickle me to death.” - -Katharine flung him a bewitching smile. - -“If,” she said, “you don’t tell anyone, you shall use my sponge.” - -“Kate,” said her husband, “I perceive that we are off. This separation -stunt is going to work wonders.” - -He was perfectly right. - -Galbraith Forsyth, solicitor, was an honest man. Also he knew his world -and could tell the sheep from the goats. He could be stern, and he could -be most gentle. To those whom he trusted, who trusted him, he gave a -service which money cannot buy. His judgment alone was invaluable. The -sheep liked him, immensely. The goats hated him. But both respected him -with a whole heart. If he had any pet lambs, the Festivals were among -them. - -He received the two pleasedly, bade them sit down, and drew the lady’s -attention to a bunch of daffodils. - -“Posies are seldom seen in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. But when I knew you -were coming, I felt that something must be done. I didn’t want you to -feel lonely.” - -“Now, isn’t that charming?” said Giles. “If I could say things like -that, we shouldn’t be here to-day.” - -Forsyth looked at him sharply. - -“You see, Mr. Forsyth,” said Katharine, “we’ve made a hopeless mistake. -We thought we’ld be happy, though married: and we were wrong. We can’t -hit it off. We’ve tried like blazes, but it’s not the slightest good. In -fact, the only thing we’ve agreed about for something like three months -is that the sooner we part, the better for Giles and me.” - -“D’you mean this?” said Forsyth. “Or are you—er—pulling my leg?” - -“We mean it all right,” said Giles. “It sounds like a comic dream, but -it’s the grisly truth. For no apparent reason, Katharine annoys me. For -no apparent reason, I get her goat. If we started to discuss those -flowerlets, in five minutes we should be slinging books at each other. -She’s witty, you know, and I’m a bit of a wag. We’ve always fenced, for -fun—always. But now we can’t stop, and—the buttons are off the foils.” - -“He’s perfectly right,” said Katharine. “I’m ashamed to say it, but we -lead a cat and dog life. And now we’re both agreed that it isn’t good -enough. Don’t suggest change, because we’ve tried that. He went away for -a week. The night he came back I threw a glass at him.” - -“An empty one,” said Giles. “Missed me by yards. But it’s the—the -principle.” - -“Exactly,” said Katharine. “Besides, the glass was a good one, and now -it leaks.” - -Forsyth, who felt the sting beneath the banter, was genuinely dismayed. - -He smiled politely. - -“It seems a pity,” he said. “When I say that, I’m putting it very low. A -pity. You mustn’t be impatient, because, though I’m the keeper of your -legal conscience, at heart I’m an ordinary man—with eyes in his head. I -think you’re playing with fire. Life’s very uncertain, you know. If -anything happened after you’d gone apart—the other would grieve, I’m -afraid . . . have something to remember they’ld give a lot to forget -. . . grudge the bit of their life they’d deliberately sworn away. . . . -One never thinks of Remorse, until it touches you on the shoulder. I -don’t suppose I should, only I’ve seen it . . . at work.” - -There was a long silence. - -Then— - -“Thank you,” said Giles quietly. “Now, whatever else we regret, we shall -never regret having come to see you this morning.” He paused. “Setting -aside Sentiment, the answer is this. We should like to be able to forget -the last three months. As we can’t, we think it better to prevent their -becoming six.” - -Forsyth inclined his head. - -“Very good. Am I to draw up a deed? A deed of separation?” - -“Please.” - -“What about trustees?” - -“Are they a necessary evil? We don’t mind you. In fact, you come under -godsends. But the idea of inducting others into our private confessional -is peculiarly repugnant.” - -“It’s worse than that,” said Katharine. “We three are familiar. If I -think Mr. Forsyth a brute, I can ring up and tell him so. I couldn’t do -that to a trustee. In fact, the whole arrangement would become stiff, -reinforced—like putting bones in a belt.” - -“You couldn’t, for instance,” said her husband, “employ that simile. For -your information, Forsyth, that’s not a proverb. Below the surface -female woman wears a sort of comic cummerbund, four sizes too small. The -idea is to displace the vitals. If she wants to shorten her life, she -lines it with strips of whalebone, running the wrong way. Thus with the -minimum of motion she gets the maximum of pain.” - -“That,” said Forsyth uncertainly, “is not admittedly the function of -trustees. Still, there are times when they are inconvenient. They -certainly tend to cramp the style. Nevertheless . . . I’ll tell you -what,” he added suddenly. “If you like, I’ll be your trustee.” - -The two raised their eyes to heaven ecstatically. - -“A little more,” said Katharine, “and you shall use our bathroom.” - -“That,” explained Giles, “is a kind of Garter—the highest honour it’s -in our power to bestow.” - -Forsyth picked up a pen. - -“Tell me,” he said, “what sort of an arrangement you want.” - -“Well, we’re going shares,” said Giles. “Once a month, I’ll send her -two-thirds of all the dividends and rents I’ve had.” - -“Of course it’s grotesque,” said Katharine, “but I’ll do the same.” - -“Yes? What about the house?” - -“She’s going to caretake for me, and keep the servants on. I shall pay -half her expenses.” - -“Oh, rot!” said Mrs. Festival. - -“My dear,” said Giles, “the bed of my mind is made up. Don’t rumple it.” - -“I think that’s fair,” said Forsyth, wondering what the Law Society -would say. “Next?” - -“He’ll take the Rolls,” said Katharine, “and I’ll have the coupé.” - -Giles hesitated. - -“I had thought——” he began. - -“Don’t be Quixotic,” said his wife. “You worship that car. Last time I -drove her, you said——” - -“Not before the child,” said Giles. “I withdraw. Besides, I never meant -it. I was all worked up, I was. You worked me.” - -“That all?” said Forsyth hastily. - -“Well, I shall take my sponge,” said Giles. “She’s very kindly promised -to let me use hers, if—er . . .” - -By a superhuman effort Forsyth maintained his gravity. - -“That sort of thing’s understood,” he said shortly. “I’ll put in the -usual covenants not to molest, pledge credit—er—er—etc., and myself -as trustee. I suppose you want it at once?” - -“As soon as you can,” said Giles. “If we could have it to-night, we -could go over it together, sign it, and I could push off to-morrow -morning.” - -“I’ll try. When you’ve signed it, return it to me. I’ll send you copies -to keep in a day or two’s time. By the way, what’s your address?” -Captain Festival mentioned a club. “Right.” The lawyer rose to his feet -and preceded the two to the door. “I’m sorry, you know, but I’m glad you -came to me. Come again whenever you please. I’ll show no fear nor -favour—I promise you that. Let three be company, even if two’s none.” - -They shook hands silently. - -By one consent, Captain and Mrs. Festival drove straight to Bond Street -and selected a gold cigarette-case. This was presently engraved and then -delivered to an address in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. - -The inscription was simple. - - G - . - G.K.F - . - F - - * * * * * - -The news of the separation spread slowly. - -This was because it was wholly disbelieved. Everyone immediately assumed -that Giles and Katharine Festival were being humorous. - -The former was lectured upon ‘cruelty’ at the Club. - -The latter was mocked over the telephone. - -“Is that you, Katharine? . . . I say, how many ‘l’s’ are there in -‘alimony’? . . . What? . . . Oh, but how sweet! . . . Never mind. Put a -fiver on Decree Nisi for luck. . . .” - -It was intolerable. - -On the third day Katharine left Town—destination unknown. - -On the fourth day Giles fled to Evian, leaving a note for his wife, to -be delivered after he had gone. - -On the fifth day they met on the shore of the lake of Geneva. - -“Hullo, Gill,” said Katharine. “How on earth did you know?” - -“Know?” faltered Giles. “Go—go away. This is molestation.” - -“It looks rather like it,” said Mrs. Festival. “Still, if you’ve got -some possible cigarettes, I’ll let that go. Oh, and you might take that, -will you?” She gave him a letter bearing his name and address. “It’ll -save my posting it.” - -It seemed ridiculous not to dine together. . . . - -On the eighth day the papers announced:— - -_Captain and Mrs. Giles Festival have arrived at Evian-les-Bains._ - -This was misleading. - -By the time the paragraph appeared, Giles was in Scotland. . . . - -For the time, however, the _suggestio falsi_ effectually throttled any -inkling of the truth. - -Indeed, it was not until the end of May that people began to appreciate -that what they had regarded as a fiction was a stubborn _fait accompli_. - -That such an estrangement should create a profound sensation was natural -enough. People could hardly believe their eyes or ears. Friends and -acquaintances stared at the astounding truth, like stuck pigs. The -projected divorce of an archbishop would not have occasioned one quarter -of such amazement. - -Again, it was natural enough that, having recovered her breath, Mayfair -should prepare to let out a perfect squeal of dismay. Her sparrow was -dead. The bear was robbed of its whelps. - -The bellow, however, died on Society’s lips. - -Having rammed home the punch, Giles and Katharine proceeded to apply the -healing balm. - -In the first place, the linen they were washing in public was spotlessly -clean. Secondly, the two laundered comfortably, without the slightest -embarrassment. Thirdly, their cheerful disregard of the traditions of -Separation turned the tragedy into _opéra bouffe_. - -The general feeling of disappointment was still-born, to be immediately -succeeded by a sense of bewildered relief. - -Captain and Mrs. Festival became more popular than ever. - -Isolated efforts to brand them died an inglorious death. - -Mrs. Soulsden Clutch, who faithfully attended Divine Service at St. -Paul’s, Knightsbridge, and had nagged and bullied her husband into -another world, announced that words failed her, and then spoke long and -authoritatively upon the advertisement of indecency and of contempt for -marriage vows. - -Mrs. Busby Shawl, surnamed ‘The Comforter,’ went further and cut the two -in the Park, afterwards broadcasting her achievement with the innocent -air of one who, blinded with integrity, has shamed the Devil and is now -uncertain whether it was a Christian thing to do. - -But the findings of such censors of morality were coldly received: and, -after exchanging malice for the inside of a week, the latter reviled one -another and elbowed and fought their way into what they had lately -described as ‘the House of Rimmon.’ - -The fun became fast and furious. - -Joint invitations which had been jointly declined were re-issued -severally and severally accepted. Invitations which had not been sent -were hastily extended. The dates of parties, dances, week-ends became -actually contingent upon the Festivals’ ability to attend. - -The pets had become lion-cubs. - -Katharine gave a dance. - -Giles was invited, and gave a dinner beforehand, taking his guests on. -He danced twice with his hostess, enjoyed champagne he had chosen, sat -out in his own library. - -Giles gave a luncheon, inviting eleven guests. Of these his wife made -one, and, taking her proper precedence, sat on her husband’s left. -Afterwards, the Rolls being there, he dropped her at Sloane Street and -was deliciously thanked. - -That night they met at a ball in Belgrave Square, and the next week-end -in Hampshire, as two of the Pleydells’ guests. - -On five days out of seven they junketed side by side. - -On Derby Day they went to the Daneboroughs’ dance—a brilliant affair, -which blazed till nearly five on the following day. Its remembrance was -slightly marred by Mrs. Festival’s omission to take her latchkey and -subsequent inability to ‘make her servants hear.’ Necessity knows no -law. Giles, who had left early, was roused from a refreshing slumber by -the night-porter of his Club and apprised of the facts. . . . There was -only one thing to be done. He did it gallantly, with a suit over his -pyjamas and pumps on his naked feet. The aggravated assault which he -presently committed upon his own front door was audibly condemned by -several infuriated residents in Berkeley Square. His butler, who had -just got to sleep again, also condemned it with great savagery, but, -after hoping against hope that the reinforcement his mistress had -unearthed would also lose heart, himself at last succumbed to Captain -Festival’s importunity. . . . His work over, the latter returned to his -Club, wondering whether he could with decency suggest that a duplicate -latchkey should be kept at the nearest police station. He need not have -troubled his head. The following day, a gong the size of a soup-plate -was installed beneath the butler’s bedstead. Upon observing its -dimensions, the butler was greatly moved, but, while declaring in the -servants’ hall that Katharine was no lady, he was forced to admit to -himself that his mistress was no fool. - -Out of the flood of their engagements, the two were careful to save one -evening a week, upon which they dined together at their own house. -Afterwards they sat in the library until eleven o’clock. Then Giles -would get up, and Katharine come to the door to see him out. Arrived at -the threshold, her husband would kiss her fingers. - -“Good night, sweetheart. Sleep well.” - -And the lady would answer gravely— - -“Till next week, Gill. Good-bye.” - -One Thursday, half-way through June, such a meeting took place. - -When coffee had been served, and the two were left to themselves, - -“My dear,” observed Giles, “let me thank you for a most toothsome -repast.” - -“It isn’t my fault,” said his wife. “‘Better is a dinner of herbs where -love is.’” - -“Oh, ‘Cries of “Shame,”’” said Giles. “‘Cries of “Shame” and -“Withdraw.”’ ‘Dinner of herbs’! Why, each of those tournedos was a -stalled ox in itself. And no hatred, neither. That sole, too!” He sighed -memorially, raising thankful eyes. “You know, we’ve beaten the sword -into a fish-slice and the proverb into a cocked hat. Seriously, Kate, -we’ve shown considerable skill.” - -“In reverting to the rank of private?” - -Giles nodded. - -“After being temporarily attached.” - -His wife regarded the tip of her cigarette. - -“Ducks take to water,” she said. - -“And men take to drink,” said Giles, “if they happen to be born thirsty. -The point is——” - -“Have another glass of port,” said Katharine. - -“No, thanks,” said Giles. “Not that it isn’t excellent. It’s—it’s not -of this world. Uncle Fulke left it me. But let that pass. The point is, -you and I are naturally gregarious. Our instinct is to flock. I like -someone to talk to while I’m getting up. You like someone to obstruct -while dressing for dinner. Don’t think I’m being rude. The way in which -you used to call me to give you your towel, is among my most treasured -memories. Now, the curse of solitude has fallen upon our toilets.” He -spread out eloquent hands. “Yet, our personalities survive. The first -two or three days, while shaving, the bath seemed a bit empty, but——” - -“They do more than survive,” said Katharine, tilting an exquisite chin. -“To judge from the quantity and quality of our invitations, we cut more -ice than before. In fact, Fate’s been properly stung. By rights, we -ought to be outcastes. As it is . . .” - -She let the sentence go and inhaled luxuriously. - -“Exactly,” said Giles. “It’s because we sink our feelings. Instead of -bleating——” - -“Are you sure we’re gregarious?” said Katharine. - -“Of course we are,” said Giles. “We bleated because we were alone. We -heard each other bleating, and—and forgathered. We were lonely, and -hated the state. We were and are gregarious. I repeat that the way in -which we have harked back to celibacy does us infinite credit.” - -“Honour to whom honour is due,” said Mrs. Festival. “I’m not gregarious. -I thought I was. I thought I would like a confidant—someone to cry my -thoughts to without having to think what I said, someone who’ld give me -my towel and—and generally understand.” - -“In fact, a blinkin’ soul-mate?” - -“And towel-horse combined. Exactly. Well, _I was wrong_.” - -“But you bleated,” protested Giles. “I heard you. You advertised for a -soul-mate, and I applied for the place. A waster by nature, I presently -let you down, but that’s irrelevant.” - -“It’s also untrue,” said his wife. “And you know it. You never let -anyone down. Never mind. Gill, I’m afraid I married in much the same -frame of mind as I try a new scent.” The other started. “I’ve always -used _Baladeuse_, and always shall. But now and again I go mad and waste -your substance on a bottle of something else. Then, when I’ve used it -twice, I give it to Beatrice.” - -Considerably taken by surprise, her husband regarded his ash-tray with -an offensive stare. Presently he sighed. - -“At least,” he murmured, “I escaped that odious depository. . . .” -Katharine began to shake with laughter. “I see. Not to put too fine an -edge upon it, you married out of pure curiosity. In a mad moment you -ventured out of spinsterhood just to see what coverture was like. And I -was under the impression that—— Never mind. It’s a pretty simile. -Perfume. I suppose I was a sixpenny flask of _’Ard an’ Bright_. . . . -Oh, _très intéressant_.” Releasing the ash-tray, he shifted his gaze to -the ceiling and, drawing at his cigarette, meditatively expelled the -smoke. “Supposing,” he added slowly, “supposing—to preserve the -parable—you had another—er—_lapsus cordis_ . . . got momentarily sick -of _Baladeuse_ and, forgetful of jolly old _’Ard an’ Bright_, felt -impelled to try _What are the Wild Oats Saying_, or some other -frankincense?” - -Katharine shot her husband a lightning glance. - -Then she raised her sweet eyebrows. - -“And you?” she said. “Supposing you hear someone bleating . . . and -. . . and the flocking instinct once more asserts itself?” - -Deliberately, Giles extinguished his cigarette. - -“I shall put up a fight,” he said coolly, “the deuce of a fight. I shall -stick in my elegant toes and put up a fight.” - -Katharine leaned forward. - -“And I,” she said slowly, with a dazzling smile, “shall do precisely the -same.” - -For a moment the two looked into each other’s eyes. - -Then— - -“I—I hope you’ll win,” said Giles uneasily. “I mean—I should like to -think that _’Ard an’ Bright_ was the only serious rival _Baladeuse_ ever -had. Besides . . . I’m sure _I_ shall win,” he added confidently. “You -can bet your little boots about that. You know. The patent-leather ones -I used to pull off after breakfast.” - -Katharine rose to her feet. - -“I’m going,” she said, “to the library. Remember me to the port and then -follow me in.” Her husband stepped to the door and held it open. As she -was passing, she stopped and laid a hand upon his arm. “Promise me one -thing, Gill.” - -“Of course,” said Giles gallantly. - -“Listen. If ever you hear someone bleat, don’t come and dine here with -me until—until the fight’s over.” - -Her husband drew himself up. - -“My darling,” he said, “I give you my precious word.” He hesitated. -“And—and you’ld put me off, wouldn’t you, if—if anything looked like -displacing _Baladeuse_?” - -Katharine nodded. - - * * * * * - -Five crowded weeks had slipped by. - -The Courts were over: Ascot had come and gone: another shining Henley -had floated into the past. - -People were beginning to collect their wraps. The carnival was nearly -done. - -Of late, the Festivals had not met nearly so much. - -The reason for this is illuminating. - -Each was declining a number of invitations. - -Since, however, they never discussed their engagements, Katharine -imagined that Giles was still ‘going strong,’ while the latter, lying -wakeful in bed, pictured his wife dancing night after night into the -dawn. - -Fantasy did not stop there. - -They had made two of the house-party gathered at Castle Charing a -fortnight before. The weather had been inviting, and Katharine and Pat -Lafone had been inseparable. When they were not playing golf, they were -out in the car. On two out of three evenings they had been badly late -for dinner, arriving at the table breathless and simultaneously. And Pat -was twenty-seven and full of life. He was also most attractive in looks -and deeds. . . . Then the party had dispersed, and two days later Giles -had passed the pair, riding together in the Row. . . . His wife had -waved, and Pat had shouted joyfully, but Festival had winced. - -There is an old superiority of horse over foot which, other things being -equal, may make itself felt. It is, I suppose, traditional. The knight -went mounted. It may, of course, be merely a matter of inches. The -ability of the equestrian to look down upon such as go walking is not to -be denied. His is a commanding position—of which the pedestrian may be -ridiculously conscious. - -Wishing very much that he had been riding, Giles told himself not to be -a fool and, on reaching the Club, rang up Madrigal Chicele and asked her -to lunch. Afterwards, he drove her to Hurlingham, passing Katharine upon -the road. - -Madrigal had been very civil at Castle Charing. Her husband had been -killed in the War, after a month of wedlock. That was six years ago, and -if Mrs. Chicele yet mourned, she mourned in secret. She was extremely -good-looking and had a delightful laugh. . . . - -The next day, the four met in Bond Street—with two open taxis between -them. They exchanged appropriate banter. Katharine’s and Giles’ -contributions were suspiciously bright. - -The following Thursday morning Captain and Mrs. Festival received two -several communications by the same post. - - _Wednesday Evening._ - _Dear Gill_, - - _I’m awfully sorry, but I’m afraid I must put you off to-morrow. - I’ve had so many late nights lately that one more or less has - come to matter quite a lot._ - - _I’m sure you’ll understand._ - - _Yours_, - _Kate_. - -Though she did not say so, Mrs. Festival had spoiled three sheets of -notepaper phrasing that note. - - _Wednesday._ - _Dear Kate_, - - _Will you forgive me if I don’t come to-morrow? Jonah wants me - to play at Roehampton against the Red Hats, and they’re sure to - want me to dine and talk shop. You know._ - - _Yours_, - _Gill_. - -That was Captain Festival’s third attempt. - -Their reception of their respective bow-strings was anything but -cordial. - -Staring at the familiar handwriting, Katharine went very white. - -“So,” she said quietly. “Well, I’ve only myself to thank. I’ve whipped -off the finest husband that ever a woman had—with the most natural -result. . . . He’s turning elsewhere. Madrigal, of course.” - -She bit her lip savagely. - -Suddenly she remembered the letter she had written the night before. - -“My God!” she cried, and clapped her hand to her mouth. “He’ll think I -meant it, of course. _I meant him to, and he will._ It’ll drive him into -her arms! I’ve cleared his way! He’ll have no compunction _now_. . . .” - -She flung herself down on the bed and buried her face. - -“Why did I write?” she wailed. “Why did I ever write? If only I’d waited -. . . if only . . .” - -She began to weep passionately. - -Giles, fresh from his bath, stared at his letter as at a death-warrant. - -He read it through twice, carefully. - -Then he sat down on his bed, sweating, and read it again. - -Then he lowered the document to his knee and sat staring at his wardrobe -with eyes that saw nothing. - -Finally, he gave a short laugh and, getting upon his feet, proceeded to -brush his hair, whistling softly. . . . - -Half-way through the operation, he started violently. - -“My God!” he cried. “_That blasted letter of mine._ . . .” - -Brushes in hand, he gazed at his reflection in the glass. - -“Oh, you poisonous fool!” he hissed. “You blundering, blunt-nosed idiot, -you’ve put the burning lid on and screwed it down. You’ve torn it—bent -it irreparably. Of course, she’ll think I meant it. _I meant her to._ -. . . And now—I’ve put myself out of Court. I’ve told her to run away -and play. I’ve pushed her off!” - -He closed his eyes and leaned heavily against the wall. - -“Oh, Kate, Kate, Kate! . . . What have I done, my sweet? What have I -done?” - - * * * * * - -Two hours had gone labouring, the second of which Captain Festival had -spent perambulating Lincoln’s Inn Fields and consulting his watch. His -nervous demeanour was such that by ten o’clock he was being observed by -the police. On the stroke of the hour, however, the suspect -disappeared. . . . - -As the door closed behind him— - -“Forsyth,” gasped Giles, “she’s turned me down.” - -“No?”—incredulously. - -“It’s a shell-proof fact. And I’ve just tied it up, nailed it down and -sunk it in the bright, blue sea. I warn you, I ought to be removed. I’m -a public danger.” He began to search his pockets with nervous -inefficacy. “Where’s that blinkin’ letter gone?” - -“Sit down,” said Forsyth, indicating a chair. “And please begin at the -beginning. I’ve another appointment in——” - -“Now, don’t rush me,” said Giles. “I’m all of a doohah, I am. And if you -rush me, I shall burst into tears.” He mopped his brow feverishly. -“About six weeks ago . . .” - -The tale came pelting. - -The lawyer, who had given a frenzied Katharine an appointment for -half-past ten, began to see daylight. - -“And there you are,” concluded Giles violently. “That letter means she’s -attracted to Pat Lafone. I’ll bet it cost her a hell of a lot to write -it, because—well, it’s a pretty thick thing to tell your husband, isn’t -it? And now she’s had _my_ letter, which tells her in so many words to -count me out and go full blast ahead.” - -Forsyth fingered his chin. - -“What did you write it for?” - -“Ask the fowls of the air,” said Giles wearily. “They might be able to -tell you. I can’t. I suppose I had some rotten, weak-kneed idea of -frightening her back into my arms. Of course, it was a hopeless thing to -do. But when you’re desperate you do do hopeless things.” - -“Why ‘desperate’?” said Forsyth. - -“Because I can’t stand it,” shouted his client. “I’m not a graven image. -For nearly three blinkin’ months I’ve stood and watched all London -swarming about my wife: I’ve smirked and bowed and scraped and pretended -I didn’t care: I’ve sat up and begged, like the rest, for a dance or a -smile: and once a blistering week I’ve met her across our own table and -made imitation back-chat and done the grateful guest. . . . And the last -three times I went there she gave me grocer’s port.” He raised his eyes -to heaven and clenched his teeth. “If ever I get a chance, I’ll break -that butler’s back. I believe that’s half the reason I wrote that -blasted note.” - -Here the telephone bell intervened. - -“Excuse me,” said Forsyth. “Yes? . . . Very well. Mr. Maple’s out, isn’t -he? . . . Then show them into his room and ask them to wait.” - -As he replaced the receiver— - -“What the devil am I to do?” said Captain Festival. - -“Nothing,” said Forsyth. - -“_Nothing?_” - -“Nothing.” - -“Oh, the man’s mad,” wailed Giles. “I’ve infected him.” - -“As you and your wife’s trustee, I say that you can do nothing. You’ve -covenanted not to molest. Your hands are tied. And now. . . .” - -He rose to his feet. - -“Forsyth,” said Giles, “be human. D’you mean to say I’ve got to sit -still and watch my wife push off with another man?” - -“When you came here,” said the lawyer, “seeking a deed of separation, I -warned you both that you were playing with fire. You thanked me -handsomely—and then deliberately instructed me to sow the wind.” He -shrugged his shoulders. “And now I must see this fellow. You sit here -and smoke. I shan’t be long.” - -He left the room swiftly. - -As he passed into Maple’s room, Katharine rose at him. - -“Mr. Forsyth, I’ve bought it. Giles has found somebody else. I never -dreamed it was serious, but I got his letter this morning.” - -She thrust the mischievous document into his hand. - -Forsyth read it carefully. - -Ere he could open his mouth— - -“He wrote that last night,” said Katharine. “That means he’s got off -with Madrigal Chicele. And——” - -“He doesn’t say so,” said Forsyth, turning the letter about. - -“I know. But it does. You can take it from me. Listen. Giles doesn’t -love her, really. Not yet, at any rate. He still loves me. But now that -he thinks I don’t care, she—she’ll just romp home.” - -“Why should he think that?” - -“I told him I didn’t,” cried Katharine. “In so many words.” - -Forsyth put a hand to his head. - -“But if you do care, why did you——” - -“Because I cared so much that I couldn’t go on.” - -“Sit down, won’t you?” said Forsyth, indicating a chair. “I can’t give -you long, for I’ve got someone waiting upstairs. But——” - -“For God’s sake,” wailed Katharine, “don’t rush me. As it is, I’m beside -myself. And if you——” - -“Now, please go quietly,” said Forsyth. “I’m going to state the facts. -Correct me if I go wrong. Little dreaming that your husband had written -this letter to you, you gave him to understand that, so far as you were -concerned, he was free to place his affections where he pleased.” - -“Quite right.” - -“That you did in the hope of bringing him to your feet.” - -“Yes. It sounds insane, but women are funny like that.” - -“Your immediate fear is that, in view of the attachment which you say -his letter discloses, your rash communication will have the opposite -effect and drive him into a certain lady’s arms.” - -“Exactly,” said Katharine. “You’ve got a magician’s brain, but let that -pass. What, in Heaven’s name, Mr. Forsyth, am I to do?” - -“I think you must wait,” said Forsyth. - -“_Wait?_” - -The lawyer nodded. - -“You must wait for him to move.” - -“But he’s _moving_,” screamed Katharine. “He’s moving into her arms. -It’s more than a million to one he’s with her now.” - -“I hardly think——” - -“Of course he is. And yet you tell me to wait!” Mrs. Festival threw back -her head and pressed her hands to her eyes. “What d’you think I’ve been -doing for the last three months? I’ll tell you. I’ve been waiting. -Waiting, waiting, waiting for Giles to come back. Waiting, with a jest -on my tongue and a picture-postcard smile. Watching other women rushing -after my husband, biting and scratching and lying to catch his eye, -cadging seats in his car, eating out of his hand. . . . Once a week he’s -come to our house as a guest. Once a week we’ve met across our own table -and been polite—_polite_! The last two or three times I thought his -manner seemed strained, as if he was upset about something. But I never -dreamed. . . .” Her lips were trembling, and she stopped. The next -moment she had herself in hand. “I tell you,” she cried, “I’ve stood up -and grinned and borne it, till I can’t endure any more. I wrote that -wretched note in desperation. I thought . . . I hoped. . . . And now you -tell me to wait!” - -“As you and your husband’s trustee,” said Forsyth faithfully, “I say -that you can do nothing. You’ve covenanted not to molest.” - -“Oh, blow what I covenanted. I’m not going to be bound by any rotten -papers. Besides, I never read it.” - -“You signed it,” said Forsyth mercilessly, getting upon his feet. - -“Mr. Forsyth,” said Katharine, “you told me to come to you if I was in -trouble. Don’t send me empty away.” - -“I must see these people,” said Forsyth. “You stay where you are. I’m -sorry I had no time to get any flowers, but you were rather precipitate. -I’ll tell you what,” he added, as if voicing an afterthought. “Would you -like to speak to your husband while I’m upstairs? You know. Just ring up -casually, by way of clearing the air?” - -“He’s sure to be out,” said Katharine. “With Mad——” - -“We can but try,” said Forsyth. “Of course, if you’ld rather not . . .” - -“I’ld love to,” said Katharine. “I don’t know what on earth I can say, -but——” - -“The time will provide the words,” said Forsyth, and left the -room. . . . - -He found Giles pacing the floor like a caged beast. - -“While I’ve been away,” he said quickly, “I’ve had an idea.” - -“Go on,” said Giles, moistening his lips. “Go on.” - -“Would you like to ring your wife up?” - -Captain Festival reflected. - -Then— - -“She won’t be there,” he said. “She’s with Pat, for a monkey.” - -The lawyer shrugged his shoulders. - -“You can try,” he said. “Don’t, if you don’t want to, but I don’t think -a telephone call is molestation, and, at least, you’ld be in touch.” - -“All right,” said Giles. “I don’t know what to say, but——” - -“I’ll tell them to get you on,” said Forsyth, opening the door. - -“Here! Don’t leave me,” said Giles. “Don’t go away. Supposing she’s in?” - -“Well, it’s not much good if she isn’t, is it?” - -“D’you mind saying that again?” said Giles weakly. “I—I wasn’t ready. -Besides, you can’t say ‘isn’t is it.’ It’s not euphonious. I—I say -. . .” - -But the lawyer was gone. - -Outside his own door, Forsyth leaned against the wall and bowed before a -paroxysm of laughter as a reed before the gale. Then he pulled himself -together and sought the switchboard. - -“Put my room through to Mr. Maple’s and ring them both up. Then plug me -in. I want to overhear.” - -“Very good, sir.” - -After a moment’s interval— - -“Er—er—hullo,” said Giles, wiping the sweat from his face. “Hullo.” - -“Is—is that you, Gill?” said Katharine tremulously. - -“Er—yes, dear. How—how are you?” - -“Oh, all right, thanks. How—how are you?” - -“Oh, full of beans, thanks . . .” - -There was a dreadful silence. - -Forsyth began to shake with laughter. - -“Are you there, Gill?”—anxiously. - -“Yes, dear.” - -“That’s right. I was afraid we’d been cut off.” - -“No, I’m here, all right. . . . How—how are you? Oh, I’ve said that, -haven’t I? I mean——” - -“Are you sure you’re all right, Gill?” - -“Right as rain, dear, right as rain. Why?” - -“I don’t know,” said Katharine. “I thought you sounded—er—not quite -yourself.” - -“Well, I’m not really. I—I had a dream last night.” - -“Did you? What did you dream?” - -“I—I forget now,” stammered Giles. “But—you know. It’s sort of -unsettled me.” - -“Well, do be careful, dear. It worries me to hear you so—so unlike -yourself.” - -“Does it? I mean—am I?” - -Forsyth writhed. - -“Gill, what _is_ the matter?” - -There was another silence. - -Then— - -“I say, Kate,” said Giles. - -“Yes?” - -“I—I got your letter.” - -“Did you?” said Katharine. “So did I. I mean——” - -“Yes?” - -“What?” said Katharine disconcertingly. - -“I only said ‘Yes,’” said Giles. “You know. _Pour encourager._ Go on, -dear.” - -His wife braced herself. - -“Gill.” - -“Yes, dear?” - -“I rang you up to——” - -“Did you?” said Giles. “When?” - -“_Now._” - -“Now? Oh, I see. I suppose they said I was out. Never mind.” - -“But why should they say you were out?” - -“Well, mainly because,” said Giles, “I don’t happen to be in.” - -“Gill,” cried his wife, “what on earth d’you mean?” - -“Don’t ask me,” said Giles desperately. “I’m that badgered and -bewildered, I can’t think straight. As I was saying, I rang you up -to——” - -“When?” said Katharine. - -A choking noise was succeeded by another silence. - -With his eyes closed and tears running down his cheeks, Forsyth clung to -his receiver helplessly. - -At length— - -“Kate,” said Captain Festival in a hollow voice. - -“Yes?”—faintly. - -“Don’t think I’m blaming you, darling, but I rather gather you’re -thinking of displacing _Baladeuse_.” - -“I’m _not_!” shrieked Katharine. “I’m _not_! It’s—it’s all a terrible -mistake. I know you’ve heard someone bleating, but don’t think——” - -“I haven’t!” yelled Giles. “It’s false! No one’s bleated for yiles—I -mean mears. Not since you did. An’ no one’ll ever blinkin’ well bleat -again. . . . There! I’ll make you a present of that. I’ve wanted to say -it for months, but I didn’t know how.” Hurriedly Forsyth replaced his -receiver. “And, as for _Baladeuse_—well, I’m thankful she’s still on -top—thankful, my darling. D’you hear? Thankful. . . . Of course, if at -any time, in a mad moment, you felt like another dart at jolly old _’Ard -an’ Bright_ . . .” - -For a second his wife hesitated. - -Then she bent to the mouthpiece. - -“_Ma-a-a._” - -The noise Captain Festival made, descending the stairs, brought -Katharine and Forsyth pell-mell into the hall. - -Husband and wife stared at each other open-mouthed. . . . - -The lawyer watched them in silence, one hand to his lips, the other -behind his back. - -Presently their gaze shifted and fell upon Forsyth. - -“But what a man!” said Giles, laying his hands upon the lawyer’s left -arm. - -“What a friend!” said Katharine, laying hers upon his right. - -“What a trustee!” said Forsyth, raising his eyes to heaven. - -“He’s going to dine with us to-night,” said Giles. - -“Yes,” said Katharine. “And we’ll show him our bathroom.” - -“Two’s company,” said Forsyth, shaking his head. - -“Thanks to you,” said Giles, shaking his arm. - -“So’s three,” said Katharine, shaking the other. - -“That’s over,” said Forsyth, and sighed. “Here’s the Deed.” - -“Oh, we’re tired of that,” said Katharine. - -“Yes,” said Giles. “We’re going to give it to Beatrice.” - - - - - SPRING - - - SPRING - -Willoughby Gray Bagot, gentleman, sat back in his chair. - -From where he was, he could look conveniently out of the broad windows, -across the shadowy lawns, and on to the stately timber of the sheltered -park. He did so thoughtfully, tapping his teeth with his pen. Presently -he frowned and, leaning forward, set a sheet of notepaper before him and -proceeded to write. - - _Dear Sirs_,— - - _I believe your advice to be good._ - - _I will therefore accept Mr. Harp’s offer and sell him - Chancery—park, residence and furniture, as it stands, for - forty-five thousand pounds, on one condition._ - - _The condition is this._ - - _The purchaser shall take into his service an individual whom I - will indicate, to perform the duties of Groom of the Chambers at - Chancery, at a wage of fifty pounds a year. This man shall - receive no board, but shall be permitted to occupy the lodge at - the West gate of the park, rent-free. So long as he behaves - himself and faithfully discharges his office, Mr. Harp shall - retain him in his service._ - - _I appreciate that this is an unusual request, but the man knows - the house and its contents as I know them myself and is deeply - attached to them. The service he will give will be worth - having._ - - _Yours faithfully,_ - _Willoughby Gray Bagot._ - _Messrs. Matthew & Scarlet,_ - _Solicitors,_ - _Serjeant’s Inn, London, E.C._ - -Bagot read over his letter with tightened lips. Then he copied it -carefully and, slipping the original into an envelope, sealed, stamped -and addressed this forthwith. As he turned it about, the crest on the -back caught his eye—a rose in a mailed fist. For a moment he stared at -it: then he turned and glanced at the same emblem cut in the stone of -the aged mantelpiece. . . . - -Presently he sighed. - -“_Sic transit_,” he said shortly, and, clapping a hat on his head, rose -and passed out of the room. - -It was true. - -The glory was passing. Very soon it would have passed. - -There had been a Gray Bagot at Chancery since Harry Plantagenet’s day. -In fact, that terrible king had given a Bagot the estate in return for -valour. That it was not his to give is beside the point. Men took what -they could get in those days, as they do now. And now, Mr. Albert Harp -was taking Chancery. - -Like the original Bagot, Mr. Harp owed his good fortune to his prowess -in time of War. But, while Gray Bagot had won Chancery at the cost of an -eye, an arm and a slash on the thigh, which only the bone stopped, Mr. -Harp’s succession was due to a judicious administration of his business, -which was that of a purveyor of pork. - -_Sic transit_ . . . - -Willoughby had done what he could. But when he came back from the War, -things were in evil case. - -A cold rain of demands beat upon his diminished income; the stream of -outgoings was like to burst its banks: over all, the cloud of a heavy -mortgage, once no bigger than a man’s hand, was blotting out the heaven. - -Of his passionate love for Chancery, Willoughby took his capital and -gambled upon the Exchange. The franc was bound to appreciate. . . . - -Mr. Harp’s offer was a bad one, as offers go. Chancery was a show place. -Charles the First had stayed there, and Cromwell too. The latter had -crossed the body of a Gray Bagot to gain admittance. Some of Chancery’s -furniture had stood in the same corners for more than three hundred -years. The library had been collected by a Bagot in the reign of Queen -Anne. Mr. Harp’s offer was absurd. Still . . . Offers were hard to come -by nowadays. Mr. Harp’s was the first that had been made in seven -months. - -When all that had to be paid had been discharged, of the forty-five -thousand there would remain five thousand pounds. This, safely invested, -would bring in two hundred a year. And a man could live on that—even -one who had been a Captain in His Majesty’s Household Brigade. - -_Sic transit_ . . . - -Willoughby posted his letter and then walked round the park, and in by -the western gate. He passed about the lodge, marking its bulwarks. After -a final look, he turned slowly away. - -“What a thought,” he said. “Two hundred and fifty a year and rent-free. -If it comes off, I shall be on _panne_ velvet.” - - * * * * * - -Two months had gone by, and Mr. and Mrs. Harp were beginning to grow -accustomed to the thrilling reflection that Chancery was theirs. Their -possession of the place was peaceful; their enjoyment of it quiet. But -their unconcealed delight in their acquisition was almost childish. For -days together they never went outside the gates. . . . After a week or -two of private revelry in their surroundings, they pressed invitations -upon a pack of friends and relatives, whose company they did not desire, -because their pride of ownership simply had to be served. This was -clamouring for the meat and drink of stares and ejaculations and bated -breath. Their precious toy had to be admired. As for the Groom of the -Chambers, not to advertise their employment of such a paragon would have -been tantamount to suppressing the Kohinoor. He was the light of their -eyes. - -They had, of course, no idea that John Worcester, tall, quiet, -respectful, constantly about the reception rooms, dusting, ordering, -cleaning, polishing this old bureau, rehanging that picture, was -Willoughby Gray Bagot. - -There was no reason why they should have perceived the masquerade. They -certainly recognized that Worcester was no ordinary servant, but the -mystery stifled curiosity, as mysteries may. One never could tell. -Revelation might cost them his service, and—the best was good enough -for them. They had never set eyes upon the vendor before the sale, and -Willoughby had spread it abroad that he was bound for New Zealand. At -the lodge he lived quietly enough, his only servant being an old groom -who kept his own counsel. In the village, two miles away, he had been -scarcely known by sight. Such letters as he received went first to a -Bank, where they were redirected to ‘Mr. Worcester.’ Captain Bagot had -covered his tracks. - -It must be admitted that the Harps’ estimate was just. Willoughby gave -their home a care which money cannot buy, and themselves a service which -they had never dreamed of. He was the last word. - -So far as the other servants were concerned, Mr. Worcester and all his -works were naturally regarded with a profound disgust. This was not -expressed, mainly because the staff profited so handsomely by his -labour. But the scorn and indignation which his faithful maintenance of -the reception rooms provoked, were largely responsible for the concord -which ruled the Servants’ Hall. - -It was, indeed, as much the unpleasant personality of the butler as the -virtues of the Groom of the Chambers that in June determined his patrons -to attempt an important change. In a few days their guests would arrive. -If only they could induce Worcester to take the butler’s place, they -would be spared the humiliation of being treated like dirt before their -visitors, while their star servitor, instead of flitting in the -background, would be agreeably conspicuous. - -They approached him delicately, without success. The Groom of the -Chambers was respectful, but resolute. He declined the offer gently, but -definitely and without hesitation. Then he excused himself and withdrew -to continue his revision of the library’s catalogue. - -As the door closed— - -“’Ell,” said Mr. Harp, subjecting his nose to violence. - -“Me too,” said his wife miserably. “I’d set me ’eart on that, I ’ad. -’E’ld look so lovely in a dress-soot, too. An’ now . . .” - -A fat tear of disappointment made its appearance, and, after poising for -an instant upon the brow of her cheek, fell heavily into the broad -valley of her lap. - -Mr. Harp rose to the occasion and crossed to her side. - -“There, there, me dear,” he said kindly, “don’ take on. We can’t ’ave -everything. Bowler’s very tryin’, in course, but——” - -“I ’ate the brute,” sobbed his wife. “Anyone would. Nasty, ’ulkin’ -wretch. Laughin’ and sneerin’ at us ’cos we ain’t gentry; and takin’ our -money and food, ’and over fist. An’ hall the rest as bad, and that -impudent, no one would never believe. An’ the honly one wot is hones’ -and respec’ful as good as in ’idin’—goes out o’ the room when we comes -in, comes in when we goes out, ’ides. . . . It’s too crool,’Arp, and -that’s the truth. Worcester’s a walkin’ treat. ’E puts a thousan’ pound -on the ’ouse—easy. An’ ’alf the blighters comin’ ’ll never know ’e’s -’ere.” - -“I’ll see they know,” said Mr. Harp violently. “I’ll fix that. Besides, -they’ll ’appen acrost ’im in the course of ’is dooties—boun’ to.” - -“’Snot the same,” cried his wife. “You know it ain’t. We’re buryin’ a -talent, we are. Other folk ’as fine ’ouses, but there ain’t a mansion in -London wot’s got a servant like ’im. ’E tones the whole show up. We -ain’t stylish, and as for Bowler and the rest of them rotten sneaks, -they’d let a doss-’ouse down: but Worcester’s a peach. . . . An’ we’re -_buryin’ ’im_.” - -Her husband stamped to the window and regarded his smiling acres with a -dismal stare. Mrs. Harp had a knack of reciting unpleasant facts with a -pitiless clarity which paralysed consolation. - -Presently, he took a cigar from his waistcoat-pocket and, after savaging -the butt, thrust his quarry reflectively between his teeth. As he felt -for a match, the idea flashed into his mind. - -Trembling with excitement, he snatched the cigar from his lips, and -swung round, mouthing. - -“Jane, I’ve got it! Got it in one, I ’ave! Oh, lovely! Listen ’ere. -Worcester’s Groom of the Chambers, ain’t he? Good. ’E shall ’ave a show -as’ll beat the ragtime band—’e, an’ the ’ouse and us, the ’ole year -round. ’Old me, someone: I’m that excited and wrought, I can’t talk -straight. Listen ’ere. Chancery’s a show place, ain’t it? Figures in the -’istories and guides—used to be shown, once. Well _we’ll show it -again—throw it open to visitors daily, from two to four_. The visitors -won’ worry us—I’ll love to see ’em. _An’ Worcester ’ll show ’em -round. . . ._” - -With a seraphic smile, Mrs. Harp got upon her feet and began to -dance. . . . - -A few days later it was announced that, by the direction of the owner, -Chancery, one of the most exquisite examples of a mediæval manor-house, -had been thrown open to the public and could be visited until further -notice any weekday between the hours of two and four o’clock. - - * * * * * - -The four Americans passed slowly round the broad, flagged walk and, -turning a corner of the house, found themselves once more before the -main doorway. Their tour of the apartments had lasted half an hour. - -One of the men took out a note-case, but the girl touched his arm and -shook her head. - -“No, no,” she whispered. - -The man hesitated, pointing to the back of their guide. - -“Put it away,” said the girl shortly. - -Her squire obeyed, staring. - -Willoughby Bagot turned. - -The moment he always dreaded had arrived. - -He was about to be offered payment which he could not in decency refuse. - -He always gave his tips to the butler, and was thought a prize fool for -his pains, but his patrons could not know that. - -“That is all that is shown, madam.” - -The two women inclined their heads. - -“Thank you very much,” said the elder pleasantly. “We’ve enjoyed it -immensely.” - -Willoughby bowed. - -For a reason which they could never satisfactorily explain, the two male -visitors raised their hats, and the party turned towards the car, which -was glittering before the lodge, two furlongs away. - -Willoughby felt very grateful. . . . - -From a window he watched the quartette making their way along the -avenue. He had liked them, and they had made his task easy. Besides, -throughout the tour, he had been used as a gentleman. - -The girl, especially, seemed to have understood. He was faintly -surprised that she had not added her thanks to those of her—her aunt, -probably. - -Suddenly the former turned and came pelting back. - -The men, who were walking ahead, did not observe her movement. Her -elderly companion proceeded more leisurely. - -Willoughby left the window and returned to the door. - -As she arrived, he opened this readily. - -“I think I’ve left my bag in one of the chambers. I fancy I put it down -in the picture-gallery.” - -Willoughby led her to the staircase and she passed up. He followed -pleasedly, marking her as she went. - -She was tall and slight, and moved with an easy grace. The slim, bare -hand, resting upon the banisters, was small and firm and shapely. Its -trim nails shone. Her straight back, the even poise of her head, her -beautiful ankles, would have delighted a sculptor. Her plain tussore -dress and pert little hat suited her perfectly. As for her white silk -stockings . . . - -At the top of the staircase my lady turned to the right. - -“I know my way, you see,” she flashed over her shoulder. - -Willoughby smiled. - -Her face was glowing. Its fine colour and the big brown eyes, the small -nose and the proud curve of the lips reminded the man of a picture he -once had seen. As for her friendliness, little wonder that it entered -into his soul. - -The bag lay in an alcove—a little, delicate business of powder-blue and -gold. Its beads were so fine, they might have been stitches of silk. - -The girl picked it up and turned to the man. - -“I left this here on purpose,” she said quietly. “I wanted to speak to -you when the others were gone. You don’t remember me, but I met you in -Philadelphia, before the War. I had my hair down then. Why are you doing -this?” - -“I was staying with the Stacks,” said Bagot, knitting his brows. - -“That’s right. In 1914. But I tell you, my hair was down, so you -wouldn’t remember. Besides . . . What are you doing here? You were in -the Blues.” - -“That’s over,” said Willoughby slowly. “Now, I’m in service. This was my -home.” - -“This?” - -He nodded. - -“I lost my money, you see, and the place had to go. They’re very nice -people, luckily. They’ve no idea who I am, and—and it serves my turn. I -live at the second lodge.” - -“How can you bear it?” said the girl. - -“Easily enough,” said Bagot simply. “I couldn’t let the place down.” - -“You speak as if it were a friend.” - -“It’s been my people’s home for nearly eight hundred years.” - -The girl turned to the door. - -“You’re faithful,” she said. - -Willoughby shrugged his shoulders. - -“Time ties up the affections,” he said. Then, “I’m so glad you came -back. If I were still the owner, I should ask you to tea.” - -“And, if I was not a companion, I should accept.” Willoughby stared. “As -it is, my mistress’ll light into me for being so long. You see,” she -continued, smiling, “we’re fellow bondsmen.” She put out a little hand. -“And now good-bye. I think she likes this part, and, if I can persuade -her to stay at Holy Brush, I’ll call at your lodge one evening and ask -for some tea. You’re a Bagot, of course.” - -“I was,” corrected Willoughby. “But that—that’s over, like the rest. -I’m known as Worcester now.” - -“And I,” said the girl quickly, “am known as Spring. No ‘Miss,’ or -anything. Just Spring.” - -Before he could answer, she was at the head of the stairs. - -As he opened the great front-door— - -“Good-bye, Spring,” said Willoughby. - -My lady flung him a bewitching smile. - -“Good-bye, Captain Bagot. D’you think you’ll know me next time?” - -“Yes,” said Willoughby. “Even if you have your hair down.” - -He watched her rejoin her companions, triumphantly waving her bag. - -“The Stacks had a daughter,” he murmured. “But she used to wear blue -glasses because of her sight. Besides, you don’t find paid companions -worth seven million pounds.” - -This was quite true. Moreover, his memory was at fault. Mr. and Mrs. -Stack had died childless. The whole of their fortune had been left to a -beloved niece. - -It was natural enough that for the next ten days the Groom of the -Chambers at Chancery should reconstruct Spring’s visit with a grateful -heart. Her precious figure preceded him up the stairs, set a slight knee -on this settle, stooped to observe those volumes: her laughter rang in -the gallery, her voice fluted in the hall, her smile flashed in that -doorway: her sympathy, grace, charm were lighting his memory with a glow -which he found very valuable. In a word, the lady had wrought havoc. She -had shown Willoughby Bagot something from which, for the last lean -years, he had rigidly averted his gaze—the loneliness of his existence. -With her little, firm hands she had rammed the truth down his throat. -Had her mouth been less scarlet, had her throat been less white, her -form less beautiful, the light in her eyes less tender, had the maid -been less startlingly attractive in word and look and deed, it might -have gone less hard with the Groom of the Chambers. Bagot could steel -his heart with most men. His job was to cherish Chancery, at any cost. -It had not been pleasant to play the servant in his own home; at the -best, it had been a bitter-sweet business. Still, keeping his eyes upon -the ground, he had become used to his monkhood—perceiving many things -for which he had come to thank God. And now . . . - -They had walked in Chancery together, he and she, walked and talked -familiarly in his own home. It was no more his home, in point of fact, -than it was hers. And yet—it might have been his and hers, if she -pleased, too, but for ill fortune. That way lay madness, of course. -Yet—the place suited her. Chancery was so immemorial that it had become -natural: its furniture, tapestries, casements seemed to have grown where -they hung: labelling age had stolen upon it, as lichen steals upon old -tiles, till the spirit of the artifice that garnished had disappeared, -and the house ranked with the oaks Gray Bagot had planted ere Richard -was king. And Spring was natural. For all her badges of modernity—bead -bag, silk stockings, nail polish, she was as refreshingly natural as -Pomona herself. She fitted into Chancery as had no maid or man—except -his father—whom Willoughby had ever seen treading those stairs. - -When, therefore, some ten days later, the Groom of the Chambers -approached his lodge at a quarter to five o’clock of a July afternoon, -to see Spring seated upon the turf beneath his window, hatless, smoking -a cigarette and talking earnestly with the old groom, he could have -burst into song. - -Spring picked up her hat and waved, and, when he came up, stretched out -her little hands to be helped to her feet. - -“I said I should come,” she said simply. “You shouldn’t have asked me.” - -“If I remember,” said Willoughby, “I didn’t so far presume.” - -Spring raised her brown eyes to heaven. - -“Which means I’ve come uninvited?” - -Willoughby bowed. - -“Queens are not asked for favours,” he said. “Yet they bestow them.” - -“Of course, you’re wasted,” said Spring, turning to the miniature porch. -“You ought to be in some Embassy, flattering secretive dowagers. You -know. Duels of polished wit and sleight of tongue. Never mind. I’ve got -a great idea. I’ll tell it you over the tea I’ve let you in for.” - -Bagot put his head on one side. - -“Yet she looks generous,” he said. “Of course, it’s a proud mouth.” - -“It’s a thirsty one,” said Spring, passing inside. - -Old William served them devotedly, hissing a little with excitement from -time to time. He had not waited on a lady for many a year. Besides, that -his master should have company at the lodge delighted his heart. -Willoughby’s monkhood went against the groom’s grain. - -“And so,” said Bagot, frowning at the weather-beaten cup, which the -proud mouth was using, “you managed to get to Holy Brush.” - -Spring nodded. - -“Tact,” she said. “I ought to be at an Embassy, too. I was most skilful. -What I was really up against was that there’s only one bathroom at _The -Jade_: but I said that that was a custom which was rapidly dying out and -that one day we should be proud to say that we’d used a common bath, -just as some people boast of remembering inns where everybody sat around -the same big dish, spoon in hand.” - -“Do they? I mean, shall you?” - -“I hope so. Any way, it did the trick, and now she’s perfectly -delighted. She’s bought two ‘gate’ tables already, and I left her on the -bowling-green, telling the landlord the history of his church.” - -“I congratulate myself. If only a certain custom wasn’t already -dead—that of living and letting live—I’ld put myself at your service.” - -“Which,” said Spring thoughtfully, “brings us to my idea. If you want -Chancery back, I think you may have it.” - -“How?” - -“Go to America,” said Spring. “You had a good time there before.” - -“I should think I did,” said Bagot. “Your people are wonderfully kind.” - -“Well, go. Don’t call yourself Worcester, you know. And use your—your -sleight of tongue. With ordinary care you ought to marry an heiress -within six months.” She paused to take another piece of toast. “It’s -been done before,” she added carelessly. - -There was a long silence. - -At length— - -“I’m afraid I’m a bad business man,” said Willoughby quietly. - -“Perhaps,” said Spring. “In fact, it’s fairly obvious that, -commercially, the Gray Bagots weren’t in it with the Harps. But why be -foolish? You needn’t marry the first one that comes along. They’re not -all Harps, you know. Some of our psalteries are quite passable.” - -“Would you do a thing like that?” - -“I don’t know. But then, I’m a fool.” - -“Exactly,” said Willoughby. “So’m I.” - -Spring frowned. - -“Think,” she said. “Think of sitting in your own library, with servants -falling over one another to answer the bell when you rang, and hunters -in the stables and four cars, and Royalty coming to stay with you, and -money to burn, and ‘The Wife of Willoughby Bagot, Esquire’ the picture -of the year, and Chancery smiling in its sleep because a Gray Bagot was -up in the saddle again.” - -“‘And hatred therewith,’” said Willoughby, producing a pipe. “Nothing -doing, you witch. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m much too foolish. -Quite idiotic, in fact. It’s hereditary. After all, I’ve much to be -thankful for. At the moment, I’m thankful for your dimple. I suppose it -always comes when you’re trying not to laugh.” - -Spring covered her face and shook with merriment. - -Presently she sat up soberly. - -“We don’t do so badly, we servants, do we?” she said. “I guess our -respective employers aren’t laughing like that. I suppose you won’t let -me wash up?” - -“Certainly not,” said Bagot. “That’s William’s affair.” - -“Yes, but as often as not he does it with cold water. He told me so just -now. And that’s all wrong, you know.” - -“I can’t help that,” said Bagot, lighting her cigarette. “I like my -guests to do as they feel inclined, but there’s a limit to my -hospitality. And now shall we go outside and sit on the grass? I want to -see you against a background of box.” - -It was a brilliant afternoon, and the shadow of the lodge turned the -recess between the grey and green walls into a little arbour, the mouth -of which gave on to Chancery, slumbering warm in the sunshine, a quarter -of a mile away. What traffic used the road, pounded or whirred about its -business behind the close box-screen, alike blind and invisible, but -lending the little bay an air of privileged privacy like that of a -family pew. - -“My summer parlour,” said Bagot, ushering his guest. - -“Hereafter the Servants’ Hall,” said Spring, taking her seat upon the -turf. “Well, now I’m here, how do I look against the box?” - -“You kill the poor thing,” said Bagot. “Your eyes are too bright. Never -mind. I’ll have it watered before you come next time.” - -“I can’t come unasked again. I mean, there’s a limit to hospitality, -isn’t there?” - -“You wicked girl,” said Willoughby. “You——” - -“Why did you want to see me against the box?” - -“Because good pictures should be put into good frames. I didn’t choose -the paper on my sitting-room walls, you know, but I never noticed how -very distressing it was until this afternoon.” - -Spring looked up, smiling. - -“Keep something for the heiress,” she said. - -A car slid out of the distance, crept past the gates and stopped by the -side of the hedge, three paces away. - -“We’re not far off,” said a man’s voice. “I know this property here, but -these corkscrew lanes of yours have tied me up. I can’t remember which -side the village lies. Maybe there’s a porter here. . . .” - -A door was opened and someone descended into the road. - -Before he could reach the gate, Bagot was out of his garden and in the -drive. - -“Can I help you, sir?” - -As he spoke he recognized one of the two Americans who had completed -Spring’s party the week before. - -And Spring was sitting in the arbour, with blazing eyes and her -under-lip caught in her white teeth, straining her ears. . . . - -The way to Holy Brush was asked and told. - -The motorist re-entered his Rolls and, when this had purred into the -distance, Willoughby returned to the arbour with his eyes upon the -ground. - -The look upon his face told Spring two things. - -The first was that Bagot knew what was taking her compatriot to Holy -Brush. The second, that he found the knowledge acutely distasteful. - -“I must go,” she said abruptly, getting upon her feet. “What are you -thinking about?” - -“I was wishing,” said Bagot slowly, “that I was back at Chancery.” He -looked up suddenly. “And you?” - -Spring looked away over the exquisite landscape. - -“I was thinking that it’s very refreshing to discover another fool.” - - * * * * * - -For the next four days, when Willoughby returned to his lodge, Spring -was seated upon the turf, hatless and at her ease, awaiting his coming. -The man always assumed that she had just arrived. The assumption was -wrong. On the last three days my lady had been there two hours before he -came, ironing his washing and delicately mending his clothes. The care -of linen was not old William’s strong point. She also instructed the -groom how to wash up and, shocked by his replies to an examination upon -elementary cooking, gave him a written statement of the procedure for -roasting meat. Moreover, she taught him to deceive so cunningly, that, -when later, he volunteered that he had bought an old iron for sixpence -and had been trying his hand, his master wholly believed him and praised -his discretion. William’s ears burned. - -On the fifth day, Spring did not come. - -When Willoughby, approaching the lodge, could see no sign of the lady, -for an instant his heart stood still. Ridiculously enough, he had come -to expect to find her beneath his window. Hoping against hope, he -quickened his pace. . . . - -Except for William, setting the table for tea, the lodge was empty. - -Willoughby tried to believe that Spring was late. He washed and changed -and made a dozen excuses for not taking tea. He gave her half an -hour—three-quarters, while he smoked in the little garden or strolled -in the road. Finally, tea was served at six o’clock. Long after that he -listened to every footfall: not until half-past eleven did he retire to -rest. And all the time he knew that she was not coming, that he would -not see her that day. - -Thinking things over in his bed, he became frightened. He would see her -again, of course—he hoped, many times. But a day had to come—already -it was set in Fate’s diary—when he would see her no more, when their -idyll would be definitely finished, to be presently bound in Memory and -go up to the shelf of Time. The thought shocked him. Till now, he had -never realized how pleasant she was. Her company, her ways, had become a -necessity to him. Not in four days, of course. That was absurd. Custom -is not so rapidly delivered. It was not a question of custom. Spring had -become a necessity in half an hour. The gap she filled had been yawning -for months and years, but, until it was filled, he never had known it -was there. And now he did know, and its emptiness would gape upon him. -Could he have quitted the place, changed his way of living, flung -himself into some pursuit, had he but gone to her and she not come to -him—it would have been different. As it was, so long as he cared for -Chancery, dwelt at the lodge, always between five and six he would miss -her excellence, turning his lonely parlour into a gallery of dreams. - -For Willoughby, there lay her magic. She was his dream-lady. She had -come to him as dreams do come. Their instant understanding, their -immediate intimacy, their full-grown fellowship—things which should -have been impossible and yet were natural as the day—were stuff that -dreams are made of. . . . - -Finding his legend good, he took it further, recklessly. He made her -mistress of Chancery, loaded her with presents, taught her to -ride. . . . The hopelessness of such fantasy did not matter at all, -because it was founded on fact—a breathing, sweet-smelling fact, that -sat beside him on the turf, all apple-green frock and white silk -stocking and tiny tennis-shoes. With her perfume in his nostrils, he -could afford to be extravagant—with her perfume in his nostrils. . . . -And now . . . - -_Sic transit gloria mundi._ - -My lady’s absence was deliberate. Spring was as wise as she was fair. -She wished to discover whether Gray Bagot’s steady eyes counted with her -as much as she thought they did, whether she was losing her head instead -of her heart. She was not expecting for an instant to be able to read -her own soul, but she was more than hopeful of extracting a valuable -hint. - -Her hope was realized. - -By the time her aunt and she had dined she had become so _distraite_ as -to provoke that usually imperturbable lady’s indignation, while, -retiring at ten o’clock, she remained awake for one hour, immersed in -the distasteful reflections that Time can in no wise be recalled and -that they who fling opportunities in Fortune’s face can hardly be -surprised if their future relations with the lady are rather strained. - -At last, picturing Willoughby, she fell asleep. - -Let us use her heavy brown eyes, as the delicate ranks of lashes are -closing up. - -Tall, spare, soldierly, the descendant of the old Gray Bagot was good to -see. His hair was fair and close cut; his complexion clear and fresh; -his nose aquiline. His mouth was well shaped; his voice pleasant; his -grey eyes, set far apart. It was, indeed, his steady, grave gaze which -was so notable. He always looked you in the face and expected to be so -regarded. He liked to see, and was perfectly content to be seen. If you -did as he expected, you had your reward. His character, his various -emotions were spread before you in such print as a child could read. If -he liked you, you saw it in his eyes, and there was a friendship made in -a second of time. If he disliked you, you saw it, and that was that. But -he never disliked anyone without just cause. As a matter of fact, he was -generous to a fault. He looked his best, I fancy, upon a horse, but so -does many a man. He had a fine, upright carriage, and his shoulders were -broad. Honest, unassuming, dignified, he did his blood credit. That -Chancery suited him is indisputable: his looks, his bearing, his ways -agreed with her: and Chancery was a show place. - -Willoughby tried not to hasten upon the sixth afternoon. His working -hours were from seven till four o’clock, but, since the measure he gave -was always good, he seldom left the apartments till nearer five. To-day, -however, there had come no visitors to interrupt his labours, and by a -quarter-past four there was no more to be conveniently done. - -It follows that he reached the lodge rather before he was expected—in -fact, in comfortable time to witness the delivery of a pair of pyjamas, -four soft shirts and six handkerchiefs to his valet by his _repasseuse_. - -“Hullo,” said Spring cheerfully. “I guess you never dreamed I could -iron.” She turned to the groom, who was standing upon one leg. “That’s -all to-day, William. The other two need mending, so I’ll do them -to-morrow.” - -“Very good, m’m.” - -With an apologetic look at his master, William made good his escape. - -“You will do nothing of the sort,” said Willoughby. “If I’d had the -faintest idea——” - -“Live and let live,” said Spring. “It amuses me and it doesn’t hurt you, -so why deprive a poor servant of her innocent fun?” She slid a cool arm -through his. “And now take me into the garden and give me a match. By -the time you’ve changed, William will have brought us some tea.” - -Willoughby did as he was bid. - -It was when the meal was over that Spring put her elbows on the table -and knitted her brows. - -“I want your advice.” - -“That’s very easy,” said Bagot. “Let sleeping suits lie, and Grooms of -the Chambers do their own dirty work.” - -The red lips tightened. - -“Thanks very much,” said Spring. “Perhaps I ought to have said that the -advice I want is upon a matter upon which I value your opinion.” - -Willoughby considered his finger-nails. - -“I’ve got an awfully good answer to that,” he said. “A regular winner.” - -“What?” suspiciously. - -“Can’t think of it for the moment,” said Willoughby, “but——” - -“Oh, but you will before I go. We shan’t go before next Friday. In fact -I can’t. You see, I only get off in the afternoons, and William says -there’s a waistcoat——” - -“I capitulate,” said Willoughby quietly. “Friday? In three days’ time? -Is Mrs.—er—Mrs.——“. - -“Le Fevre.” - -“—Le Fevre weary of Holy Brush?” - -“Not that I know of,” said Spring. “I want your advice.” - -“Yes?” said Willoughby. - -“I have been offered another situation.” - -“As companion?” - -“Yes.” - -Bagot took out tobacco and started to fill a pipe. - -“First of all,” he said slowly, “are you happy with Mrs. Le Fevre?” - -“Very. She’s awfully sweet.” - -“Then I take it the new situation would be an improvement financially?” - -“Yes,” said Spring shortly, “it would.” - -“D’you think that you’ld have as much freedom?” - -“I know that I shouldn’t.” - -“You might be happier.” - -“I might,” said Spring. “I’m not at all sure; but I might.” - -Willoughby frowned. Then— - -“Might you be less happy, Spring?” - -“Easily.” - -The man slid his pouch into a pocket and rose to his feet. - -“My dear,” he said, “unless the increase in salary is too big to be -ignored, my advice is to stay where you are.” - -There was a pause. - -At length— - -“I think I ought to say,” said Spring slowly, “that the offer was made -by a man.” - -Willoughby’s heart gave one bound. - -For a second he hesitated. Then— - -“That alters everything,” he said. - -“Why?” - -“Because companions, like Grooms of the Chambers, do not figure in the -table of relative precedence, whereas. . . .” - -Spring stared out of the window and into the park. - -“You’ve seen him,” she said. “Twice. But then you knew that.” - -Willoughby nodded. - -“I should say,” he said quietly, “that he was one of the best.” - -“In fact, if I don’t accept, I shall be selling a bed of roses for the -second ‘o’ in smoke?” - -Willoughby set his teeth. - -“Dear Spring,” he said, “I can’t advise your heart—only your head. But -I’m bound to say that, placed as you are, you should do what your head -tells you, if you possibly can. Think of the future.” - -“I do,” said Spring. “That’s what worries me so.” - -“Supposing Mrs. Le Fevre were to die and you to fall sick.” - -“Supposing my husband treated me like a dog.” - -“I’m quite sure he wouldn’t,” said Bagot. - -“He wouldn’t do it twice,” said Spring sweetly. - -“The point is,” said Willoughby, swallowing, “that companions can be -given notice, but wives can’t.” - -“Wives can’t give notice, either.” - -“I’ve heard of its being done.” - -“Then you advise me to take my precious offer and thank my stars.” - -“How can I? But I can point out that a girl in your present position is -up against it. You can’t get away from that. Think. You depend for the -bread you eat upon somebody else’s whim. I bet you’ve never saved. You -haven’t had time. And so, you see, it’s vital that, if you can improve -your position—scramble on to firmer ground—you should. Well, you’ve -got a roaring chance. He’s rich, of course, and a white man—two pretty -good points, you know. I don’t suggest that, if you were not a -companion, you couldn’t have half London at your feet; but, as it is, my -lady, you don’t get a show. So that this chance that’s come your way may -never come by again. If you were rich, I should tell you to please your -heart. As it is, you don’t dislike him, you’ve no reason to think he -won’t do you slap up—I’m perfectly certain he will—and so I simply -suggest you should please your head.” - -“Which do you do?” said Spring. - -“I’m a man.” - -“Exactly, and you jolly well please your heart.” - -“Not at all,” said Bagot, “I——” - -“I imagine you could do better than serve the Harps. I mean, you weren’t -born or bred to fix parlours, but, because you’re mad about Chancery, -you just do.” - -This was unanswerable. - -After a moment’s reflection— - -“A male man,” said Willoughby, “can shift for himself. If he likes to -buy trouble, he can. He can always get through.” - -“And what,” said Spring, ignoring his careful evasion, “what about my -suggestion that you should marry a wife? You wiped the floor with it. -But the instant the position is reversed, I must swallow my feelings and -follow my head. What if you are a man? Men aren’t immune from sickness. -Don’t say that you’ve got William, or I shall scream. If William’s as -good a nurse as he is a seamstress, you wouldn’t live twenty-four hours. -And look at the women there are who are up against it. They don’t go -under because they’re not on concrete.” - -“I don’t suggest that you would. But some of the roads of Life are -pretty bad. If one can avoid the roughest, it’s—it’s just as well. -Spares the frame, you know.” - -“Don’t I look strong?” - -“You do. I’m sure you’re as hard as nails, but nobody’s any the better -for being hammered.” - -“And so, although the sun’s shining, I’m to dive into the subway of -marriage, in case one day it may rain.” - -“At least there’s a station here,” said Bagot doggedly. - -“In other words, I mayn’t get another chance. Go on. Say it right out. -You’ve been hanging around, trying to hand me the statement for a -quarter of an hour.” - -Willoughby gasped. - -“You wicked, ungrateful child.” He raised his eyes to heaven. “For -sheer, bare-faced perversion, that breaks the tape. Never mind. I’m -through, I am. I’ve done my best and I’m through. As some poetaster has -said, ‘You can lead a girl to the altar, but you can’t make her think.’ -Or is that out of _Paradise Lost_?” - -With that, he seated himself upon the table and felt for a match. He was -really ridiculously relieved. - -Spring gave a little laugh. - -“My dear,” she said, with her eyes upon his face, “I was only playing -you up. I think your advice is sound and provident, and you’ve perfectly -satisfied me that if I don’t take it, I shall be a brass-bound fool.” - -The punch was unexpected, but, to Bagot’s eternal credit, the hand that -was holding a flaming match to his pipe never wavered. The man knew how -to lose. - -As for Spring, she was so proud of him that she had much ado not to -burst into tears. - -Before she had time, Willoughby had laid down his pipe and picked up her -hand. - -“That’s right,” he said, smiling. “For your sake I’m awfully glad and I -believe you’ll be very happy.” He kissed the cool fingers, and turned -away. “And, now that’s settled, let’s go into the Servants’ Hall.” - -He had, to my mind, done well, had this Groom of the Chambers. He was, -of course, desperately in love with Spring. More. By taking the office -he held, he had made himself outcaste. He never could marry, because he -could never allow any woman to forfeit her own degree by becoming his -wife. The possibility of finding a woman whom he could love, who also -was outcaste, had been too ridiculously remote to be considered. And -now, this very thing had come about. Exquisite, dazzling Spring was -within his reach. Whether she would have married him is beside the -point, which is that he could have wooed her with a clear conscience. -Yet, because of her chance of marrying one who was not outcaste, his -wonderful, shining occasion must be renounced. . . . Willoughby -renounced as he loved—with all his might. The man was resolute. No -passing flash of pity must be permitted to affect the case, no tear of -sympathy for him fall into the trembling scale. For Spring to suspect -that he loved her would have been unearthly sweet. That it would -actually embarrass her was most unlikely. What was a broken-down Bagot, -haunting the home of his fathers like a seedy ghost—what was such a man -to her? Still, the slight risk must not be taken. If she could possibly -do it, she must marry her wealthy swain. To Bagot, Spring’s happiness -was everything. His own did not count. - -To my mind, such love was worth having. - -And Spring thought likewise. - -“I must be going,” she said. - -Willoughby bowed. - -In silence they passed through the garden and out into the drive. - -As he opened the wicket-gate— - -“Tell me one thing,” she said. “Why did you say you were sure he was one -of the best?” - -“Because I knew that, if he was not, you wouldn’t have considered his -proposal.” - -“But I didn’t,” said Spring, with a positively blinding smile. “I turned -him down last night.” - -“You turned him down?” shouted Bagot. - -Spring smiled very sweetly. - -“I thought I told you,” she said, “that I was a fool.” - -She left him staring, and pelted down the road. - - * * * * * - -Spring came the next afternoon, but was gone before four o’clock. - -Then came Thursday. - -Willoughby found her framed in the little porch. - -“Change quickly,” she said. “I mustn’t stay long to-day.” - -“Packing?” said Willoughby quietly. - -“Yes.” - -They ate their tea without laughter. The spirit of parting was hovering -over the meal. - -Afterwards they sat by the window, for, though the sun was shining, it -had rained a lot that morning, and the world was wet. - -Spring sat like a child, perched on the deep sill, smoking a cigarette -and peering at Chancery out of the leaded panes. - -“You will remember it all?” said the Groom of the Chambers. - -“Yes—all.” - -“It’s like a tale, don’t you think? A slice of a fairy tale. In the -distance, the shining castle, and here, on the fringe of its domain, the -little cot.” - -“Where the poor boy dwelt who was really the rightful heir, with one old -retainer to whom he was still the lord.” - -“And one day a Princess came, with hair as dark as night, and eyes that -were unfair, they were so big, and—and silk stockings, and all. And she -recognized the poor boy (_sic_) and, because she had a nice, soft heart, -she came and had tea with him, instead of visiting the castle.” - -“And the silly part of it was,” said Spring, “that she wasn’t a Princess -at all, but an ordinary, poor girl, who was——” - -“She was a Princess,” said Bagot. “She hadn’t got the riches or the -Court she should have had, but—oh, anyone could see she was a -Princess.” - -“Any way, the boy treated her like one, which was very nice for her, -and, when the time came for her to go——” - -“The boy lost his wits,” said Bagot steadily, “and made a fool of -himself.” Spring turned and looked at him. “You’ll never guess what he -did. He forgot that he was no longer lord of the castle. It wasn’t -altogether his fault, because the presence of the Princess had made his -cottage all glorious. Be that as it may, he thought how wonderful it -would be if only—the—Princess—didn’t—go. . . . And when he came to -his senses and saw what a madman he’d been, the idea was so precious, -that he couldn’t get it out of his head. You see, she’d seen what his -life was, and she seemed to understand, and she did like Chancery, and -he had two hundred a year, as well as his wages, and he could be home by -half-past four every day, and there was a bathroom upstairs, and——” He -stopped short there, and clapped his hands to his temples. Then he burst -out tempestuously. “Oh, Spring, darling, why did you ever come to dazzle -my wretched eyes? You couldn’t stick it, I know. It’s absurd, grotesque, -comic. The clothes you’re wearing are worth more than I earn in a year. -I’m mad—raving.” He sank his head upon his chest and put out his hand. -“Give me your blessed fingers to kiss before you go, and then—go as you -came, my sweet, like a breath of air, like a perfume out of the night. -I’ll try and think it’s been a dream—a wonderful, golden dream, which -the good gods sent me, to make my memory rich. You know. When first you -wake, you could weep to think it isn’t true; but, after a while, you’re -grateful for just the dream.” - -Spring put down her face and kissed his hand. - -Then she slid off the sill and put her arms round his neck. - -“Why d’you think I came back that day? Why d’you think I left my bag in -the gallery? Why d’you think I’ve come here? Because I love you, -Willoughby—loved you before you loved me. I don’t care what you’ve got, -or what you haven’t. I only want to share your life.” - -“My wonderful darling,” said Bagot, and kissed her mouth. - - * * * * * - -Miss Consuelo Spring Lindley became Mrs. Willoughby Bagot ere August was -old. The wedding took place one morning at Holy Brush and was extremely -quiet. - -Mr. Worcester obtained one day’s leave without arousing suspicion, and -the quick congregation consisted of a tearful Mrs. Le Fevre, that lady’s -solicitor, who gave the bride away, and William, the groom. For the dead -I cannot answer, but if polished brass and marble may be believed, -eleven Gray Bagots slept through the simple service beneath the cold, -white flags. - -The following morning, Benedict was back at his work. - -This, however, was destined to be disturbed. - -Shortly before ten o’clock, his employer summoned him to the library, -and bade him close the door. - -“Worcester,” said Mr. Harp, “I ’ave some very queer noos. In fac’, I’m -all of a shake—never ’ad such a night in me life, wakin’ up all of a -sweat and tossin’ and tryin’ to think, till me brain rebelled against -me.” He sighed heavily, holding a hand to his head. “As for Mrs. ’Arp, -she’s that struck and bewildered, she’s stayin’ in bed.” - -Willoughby regarded his employer and then fixed his eyes upon the floor. - -“Yes, sir?” he said steadily. - -“Yesterday afternoon I ’ad an offer for the ’ouse.” The Groom of the -Chambers started and then went very pale. “Lock, stock and barrel—just -as I bought it meself.” Mr. Harp paused as if seeking for appropriate -words. Suddenly he smote upon the table and let out a cry. “They -might’ve offered me twice—free times what I gave and I’d ’ave ’ad ’em -shown out wiv a flea in their ear. Forty-five thousan’ I paid, as -p’r’aps you know. Well—I can’t ’ardly believe it, _but they offered me -ten times that_.” - -“Four hundred and fifty thousand!” - -“Four ’undred and fifty thousan’,” said Mr. Harp. He slapped his breast. -“I’ve a bankers’ draft in ’ere for a quarter of that—’undred an’ twelve -thou—five. I ’ave to keep takin’ it out to believe it’s true.” - -“You took the offer, sir?” ventured Bagot. - -“Why man alive,” screamed his master, “wot else could I do? You can’t -turn away money like that. You ’aven’t the right. I tell you straight, -I’m dotty about this place, but ‘Business First’ ’s my motter, an’—an’ -it’s pretty nigh ’arf a million,” he concluded absently. - -For a moment, blinking, he scribbled figures upon the blotting-pad, his -lips moving, his eyes fixed. Then he sat back in his seat and covered -his face. - -“Two o’clock they come, and give me till four to decide. Immediate -possession, in course. I ’ad to take it or leave it by four o’clock. I -never ’ad two such hours in all me life. One thing I said. I asked if -the buyer was British, for I couldn’t ’ave sold to a foreigner, come wot -might. ‘Yes,’ they says, ‘British.’ So I signed her away at this table -wiv tears in me eyes. I s’pose we’ll ’ave free seats now an’ do the -grand, but shan’t be never so ’appy as we’ve bin ’ere.” - -There was a long silence. - -“When am I to go, sir?” said Bagot. - -“I mentioned you,” said his master. “I didn’t forget. I said as I ’oped -you’d stay with me and Mrs. ’Arp, but if you didn’t do that, maybe -you’ld like to stay ’ere. I said you was a Groom in a million an’ did -the work o’ five, an’ that wot you didn’t know about the place could be -counted out. The fellow listened and took a note o’ your name, but ’e -said that he ’ad no authority to promise to take you on. ’Owever, the -purchaser’s comin’ this afternoon at free. You’ll show ’im round, in -course, and it’s Lombard Street to a norange ’e’ll jump at the chance. -Mrs. ’Arp and me’ll be out. There ain’t no call for us to stay, an’—an’ -we’ld rather not. The deal’s to go through nex’ Monday at twelve -o’clock.” - -There was nothing more to be said. - -Chancery had passed. - - * * * * * - -Five hours and a half had gone dragging by and Bagot was in the gallery, -oiling an aged hinge, and wondering how to word his _communiqué_ to -Spring. - -Suddenly the throb of a bell came to his vigilant ears. - -The can went into a locker, and the Groom of the Chambers descended into -the hall. - -He tried his best to be calm, but his nerves were taut. A good deal -depended upon this interview—their tiny home, their living, their . . . - -With his hand on the mighty latch, Willoughby moistened his lips. . . . - -Spring was standing alone on the broad flags, very smartly dressed, -looking ridiculously girlish, and inspecting her thin gold ring with her -head on one side. - -Behind her, in the hot sunshine, was gleaming the grey and silver of a -magnificent _coupé_. - -Husband and wife regarded each other with beating hearts. - -Then— - -“Please may I see over the house?” said Spring. “It—it belongs to my -husband.” - -Willoughby put a hand to his head. - -“F-four hundred and fifty thousand,” he stammered. “Then——” - -“Yes, dear,” said Spring, entering and closing the door. “We might’ve -got it for less, but I didn’t want to take any risks. You see,” she -added, setting her back against the oak, “in spite of all your protests, -you took my advice. In fact, you married the first one that came along.” - -Willoughby tried to speak, but no words would come. - -Suddenly he began to tremble. - -In an instant, Spring’s arms were about him and her cheek against his. - -“Willoughby, my darling, my darling!” - -So she comforted him. - -Presently he picked her up as one picks up a baby child. - -“I never dreamed,” he said slowly. “I never dreamed. . . . I didn’t know -how to tell you, and I was going to ask the people if they could see -their way to keep the Groom of the Chambers on.” A shy smile came -playing into his face. “Do you think you could—madam?” - -Gravely, his sweet regarded him. - -Then— - -“You must ask my husband,” she said. - - - - - ELIZABETH - - - ELIZABETH - -Those who dine at the Richelieu sit over their cups. It is the custom. A -dinner at the quiet Duke Street restaurant is never a prelude to an -entertainment. It is the entertainment itself. People go there to dine -and talk leisurely. The kitchen and the cellar are probably the best in -London; the service and the atmosphere are certainly the best in the -world. There is an unseen orchestra, which plays so softly that you are -just aware of melody while you converse. There is no light but that shed -by table-lamps, so that it is more easy to identify the dish your -neighbour is tasting than your neighbour herself. You may be sitting by -Royalty; often enough you are. And if you ring up to take a table you -will be told that they are all booked—unless the clerk at the bureau -knows and respects your name. It is the custom. - -Upon the ninth evening of December the elements seemed to have conspired -to enhance the Richelieu’s charm. Without, a gale was raging. Squall -after tearing squall flung down the dripping streets, fuming at every -obstacle, blustering at every corner, lashing the pitiless rain into a -very fury. The latter fell steadily and, with the wind behind it, drove -and beat passionately upon a miserable world, harrying, chilling and -stinging till such as might gave in and pelted for shelter, while such -as might not fought their way through the _mêlée_ with tightened lips. - -Behind the curtained double-windows of the restaurant only the wilder -squalls obtained an audience, but those who sat there had proved the -night while they came, and the muffled stutter of the rain and the dull -growl of the wind about the casements vividly remembered the malice of -the streets. - -Little wonder that the comfort of the room entered into the soul. - -Lady Elizabeth Crecy set down her glass. - -“Degeneration,” she announced. “That’s my trouble. I’m degenerate. I -worship luxury—silks, furs, perfume, shaded lights, deep carpets, -shining bathrooms, electric broughams and the rest.” - -Her host pulled his moustache. - -“I’ve seen you stick it,” he said. “I remember a day with the Cottesmore -when——” - -“Perhaps. But all hunts lead up to a bath. If there was no hot water, I -should never get up on a horse.” - -“Neither would stacks of people: but that doesn’t mean they’re -degenerate. Cleanliness may be next to Insanity, but it’s well meant.” - -Elizabeth laughed. - -“You can get clean with cold water.” - -“It ’as been done,” said Pembury. “I’ve done it myself. But you can bet -your life it wasn’t my fault. I bathed in a fountain once—one January -day.” My lady shuddered. “Exactly. I admit I got clean, but it put me -off water for weeks.” - -“Perhaps,” said his guest. “The point is, Dick, that you did it, while -I——” - -“So would you,” said Dick stoutly. “I mean, other things being equal, of -course. One or two screens, for instance. You’re no more degenerate than -I am. The best’s good enough for you, of course. And quite right too. -We’re all of us out for the very best we can get.” - -“I’ve got it to-night, any way.” - -Thoughtfully the man regarded her beautiful fingers. He may be forgiven. -The fierce light of the little table-lamp could find no fault in them. - -“Thank you, Dot,” he said quietly. Then he gave a light laugh. “But -that’s because you oughtn’t to be here.” - -“But I ought,” said my lady. “It’s most appropriate. _Après vous_—the -deluge. To-morrow I take the plunge. I’m dining with you for -support—ginger. You’re my Best Man. If the truth were known, my future -husband is probably seeking inspiration at the hands of his best girl.” - -“I’ll bet you’ve told no one.” - -“I didn’t inform the Press, if that’s what you mean. All’s fish that -comes to Scandal’s net. Though why I mayn’t dine with you to-night and -announce my engagement to Hilton to-morrow morning I fail to see.” - -“Degeneration,” said Pembury. “That’s the answer. Not ours—the world’s. -The blinkin’ age is degenerate. People would immediately assume there -was something wrong. ‘Engaged to one cove,’ they’ld wheeze, ‘an’ dinin’ -out with another? Hul-_lo_!’ And they’ld wink an’ wag their heads an’ -lick their thick lips . . . Oh, it makes me tired, Dot. It’s made me -tired for years. We’re not hot stuff, you and I. Then why should we be -branded? But we should. If we were charged with stealing, people’ld -shriek with laughter. They know we’re honest and they’ld know there’d -been a mistake. But just hint that we’ve been forgathering, and our -respective reputations’ld be blown inside out.” - -My lady regarded the end of her cigarette. - -“Yes,” she said slowly, “they would. It’s bitterly unfair, but they -would. But was there an age when they wouldn’t?” - -“There must have been,” said her host. “Besides, things usedn’t to be so -bad. Everyone’s got a muck-rake nowadays. They almost sell ’em at the -Stores.” - -“You haven’t,” said Lady Elizabeth. - -“Neither have you,” said the man. - -“Perhaps that’s why we get on.” - -Pembury raised his eyebrows. - -“It’s a tie, certainly,” he said. “Still, you and I hit it off before we -thought about muck-rakes. I imagine it’s bigger than that—a question of -taste. We’ve always had the same tastes. We’ve always loathed golf——” - -“Don’t mention the game,” wailed Elizabeth. “Hilton’s determined to -teach me—says the great thing is to learn while you’re young.” - -“—an’ loved hunting. We both hate claret and love beer.” - -“A vulgar taste,” said my lady. “Hilton would have a fit. When I can’t -bear it any more, you must send me a bottle of Bass by parcel post.” - -“We’re both of us fools about dogs, if we must see a show we like music -with a small ‘m,’ we’re both left-handed, we don’t know what it is to be -seasick——” - -“I trust Hilton doesn’t. Otherwise, the yacht . . .” - -Pembury frowned. - -“You called me your Best Man just now. Did you mean that, Dot?” - -“I did. Why?” - -“It gives me a right to say what I’m going to say.” Lady Elizabeth -stared. “You’re not to gird at Hilton before me again. I know you’ld -never do it before anyone else: and we’re such very old friends—we’ve -always discussed everyone—that it’s easy enough to forget. But you——” - -“Forget what?” - -“That we’re on a new footing now. Hilton’s up on the daīs, and I’ve -stepped down.” - -The girl’s eyes narrowed. - -“Upon my soul,” she said, “I think that beats it. First, you set out to -teach me manners: then, you calmly announce that Hilton has usurped your -place.” - -“Hang it, Dot, I never——” - -“When you said I oughtn’t to have come, you were perfectly right. I -oughtn’t. I ought never to have come here with you. I thought you could -stand corn, and I find you can’t. I thought you understood, and I find I -was wrong. I tell you now you were never ‘up on the daïs’—never within -miles of it. Because I gave you my friendship, I suppose you thought I -cared.” - -“I did,” said Pembury quietly. “It was very presumptuous, but I did. And -if I’d had enough to keep you, I’ld ’ve made certain. . . . And now that -you know, old lady, have a heart. Forgive me for being clumsy and call -it ‘Nerves.’ I’m like a spoilt child this evening. You’ve spoiled me by -being so nice. And now I know that it’s over, I’m kicking against the -pricks.” - -There was a long silence. - -At length— - -“What’s over?” said Lady Elizabeth. - -“Act One,” said her host shortly. “The spoiling process. My—er—tastes -being what they are, I must retire. If you want another reason, Hilton -hasn’t much use for me. I don’t know that I blame him, but that’s -neither here nor there. He hasn’t. And since he hasn’t, neither must -you. Incidentally, you haven’t, any way. I said it first.” - -“You know I have, Dick. You know I have. I’m sorry I burst out just now. -You’re perfectly right, of course. You always are. To laugh about Hilton -to you was shocking form. To turn and rend you because you told me so -was painfully cheap. I was wild, because I was guilty. I was guilty, -because I was wild.” - -“Dot, don’t——” - -“Listen. You say I’ve spoiled you. What rot! What blazing rot! Why, all -my life you’ve spoiled me. You’re spoiling me now. And I’m wild because -I know that it ends to-night. ‘Nerves’? Yes, if you like. Call it -‘Nerves.’” With a queer, dry laugh, she glanced at the watch on her -wrist. “I’ll have to be going, my dear. Have you got the car?” - -“She’s in St. James’s Square.” - -“Good.” They rose to their feet. “See how I bank on your goodwill. If I -were a man, I wouldn’t drive a girl home when she’d just told me off -across my own table.” - -“I think you would,” said Dick. - -John Richard Shere, Viscount Pembury, was thirty-two. He had looked -thirty-two for years and was likely to look thirty-two when he was -forty. And there you have the man—steady, conservative, faithful. With -it all, he was never dull. He was gay, eager, brilliant—could have -taken his place anywhere: and his place was high. The tragedy of it was -that access to his place was denied him. If his ways were charming, his -means were unhappily of no account. What was worse, they would never be -anything else. The collapse of Russia had finished the House of Shere. -His father had sunk to an annuity and dwelled at a Club. His mother was -dead—mercifully. He had sought employment, of course, but his style was -against him. Besides, he had been bred to be an earl. He was certainly -offered six hundred a year to show motor-cars, but had declined the -honour. He was ready to sell his labour, but not his name. His greatest -regret was that he would never hunt hounds. Tall, slight, dark, -gentle-eyed, he was a man to look twice at. If you did so, you saw the -strength of his pleasant mouth and the firm set of his chin. At Oxford, -where he had been President of Vincent’s, he was known as ‘The Velvet -Glove.’ - -Lady Elizabeth Crecy was twenty-nine, dark and grey-eyed. She could, I -suppose, have married anyone. Her beauty, her wisdom, her excellence in -all she did made three distinct, forcible appeals. I do not think the -man lives who, had she pleased, could have resisted successfully so -dazzling a combination. That she did not please made little enough -difference. The result was the same. Men fell in love at first -sight—and Sir Hilton Shutter among them. People said he had proposed -six times. - -Shutter believed in living and indulged his belief. He did himself very -well—on thirty-five thousand a year. His ocean-going yacht was the last -word. He was forty-six years old and had been handsome. He was also the -second baronet and had been High Sheriff of Berkshire, in which county -his name was respected almost as highly as he respected it himself. He -was well known in London and believed in writing to _The Times_. A -letter above his signature appeared about once a month. - -Lady Elizabeth Crecy had, in her own right, three hundred and fifty a -year. - -The wind had died and a fine rain was falling when Pembury turned into -King Street in quest of his car. The wet did not stop him from looking -the old Rolls over to see that she had taken no hurt. Besides, he feared -that rain might have forced an entrance. . . . But the coupé had been -built by men who knew their business. Cushions and floor were bone dry. -He started the engine and left for the Richelieu at once. - -Elizabeth was waiting in the hall—all great fur coat and soft, dark -hair and little shining feet—as she had waited before, so many times. -As he came into the hall, their eyes met and she smiled—as she had -smiled before, so many times. As she stepped into the coupé, an -exquisite stocking flashed—as it had flashed before, so many -times. . . . - -A moment later they were heading west. - -“Slippery night,” said Pembury. “Oughtn’t to be, but it is.” - -“That’s the way of the world,” said Elizabeth. “It’s an irrational age. -And Nature’s catching the disease.” - -Neither spoke again, till the last turn had been taken and Pembury had -berthed the coupé under the shelter of some trees. My lady’s home lay -farther, by twenty paces. - -The girl stared. - -“Why have you stopped, Dick?” - -The other smiled. - -“Would you like a drink, Dot?” - -Elizabeth caught his arm. - -“Not my favourite beverage? I can’t bear it.” - -“The same,” laughed Pembury. “In the pocket by your side is an imperial -pint of beer——” - -“Dick, you darling!” - -“—and here”—he produced a silk handkerchief—“is a perfectly good -glass. I brought it as a sort of stirrup-cup, just—just to show there’s -no ill feeling. You know. Wash out the good old times an’ wash in the -new. Come on, old lady. Forward with the bay rum.” - -In silence the bottle passed. . . . - -“Here’s your best, Dick,” said the girl uncertainly. - -She emptied the glass, and Pembury filled it again. - -Elizabeth put it aside. - -“You drink that, Dick.” - -“I brought it for you.” - -“I know. I accept it and give it back. Drink it and wish me luck.” - -Pembury raised the glass. - -“Your best—now and for ever,” he said quietly. - -He drank, laughed, slid bottle and glass into a pocket and set his foot -upon the clutch. . . . - -An instant later they were before the broad steps. - -At the top of the flight Elizabeth lifted her head. - -“You see I’m crying, Dick.” - -“Yes.” - -“You’ve never seen that before.” - -“Nerves, dear, nerves.” - -My lady shook her head. - -“And it’s not the beer, either,” she said shakily. - -Pembury took off his hat and picked up her hand. - -“Good night, Dot,” he said, and kissed the slight fingers. - -These were very cold. - -Then he opened her door, and she passed in. . . . - -Pembury’s rooms were in Brook Street. Thither he drove mechanically, -gazing out of the windscreen with a strained, fixed stare. - -As he was flying up Park Lane, a taxi shot out of South Street across -his path. . . . - -Instinctively, he clapped on the brakes, and the Rolls skidded to glory. - -Two buses were coming. He could see them. - -By a violent effort he straightened the great car up. - -Then she skidded again—the opposite way. - -He accelerated—tried to get through. . . . - -Then a taxi pulled out from behind the second bus. . . . A woman -screamed. . . . - -With a soft crash, the Rolls came to rest against the taxi’s off side. - -As collisions go, it was a slight one—a matter of running-boards and -wings. - -The buses stopped, and their two conductors appeared. In blasphemous -terms, the cab-driver called the world to witness that it was not his -fault. His fares alighted indignantly. A crowd began to collect. . . . - -Then the police came up. - - * * * * * - -“Were you drunk?” said the Earl shortly. - -“I was not, sir. But just now the police have got drunkenness on the -brain.” - -“What evidence have you?” - -“None.” - -“Who did you dine with?” - -“I can’t say, sir.” - -“You mean, you can’t drag her in?” - -“Exactly.” - -“For her sake, or ours?” - -“Hers.” - -Lord Larch pointed to a table. - -“Give me pen and paper,” he said. - -Pembury did as he was bid, and the Earl lay back on his pillows and -wrote a note. - - _Mr. Forsyth,_ - - _Be good enough to attend to this matter. Lord Pembury was not - drunk and so should not be convicted. Call me if you think it - advisable._ - - _Larch._ - -“Take that to Forsyth,” he said. “And dine with me here to-night.” - -“Thank you, sir.” - -Father and son understood each other perfectly. - -The latter went his way and duly surrendered to his bail at eleven -o’clock. - -Evidence of arrest was given, and then, at Forsyth’s request, the case -was adjourned. - -Some evening papers gave much prominence to the affair. So did some -morning papers of the following day. Down in Somerset, with the Fairies, -Lady Elizabeth Crecy never saw the reports. Out of regard for her, none -of the house-party drew her attention to them. It was known that she and -Pembury were very old friends. - -As for Pembury himself, the man prayed hourly that, ere the news reached -her, the case would be over and done. She was not a reader of -news-sheets: she was well out of Town; that anyone would inform her was -most unlikely. Of course, she would know one day, but, with luck, not -until it was . . . too late . . . with luck. . . . - - * * * * * - -Mr. Quaritch, of Treasury Counsel, removed his pince-nez. - -“The police contend that you were drunk. Three things, they say, -corroborate their contention. First, Lord Pembury, you collided with -another vehicle. Secondly, you smelt of liquor. Thirdly, a bottle and -glass, both of which had recently contained beer, were found in a pocket -of your car. Very good. Our answer to the first is that the collision -was due to a skid, which was itself due directly to the fact that a taxi -shot without warning across your path and indirectly to the fact that -you were admittedly driving rather faster than the condition of the -streets was warranting. Am I right?” - -“Perfectly,” said the delinquent. - -The lawyer inclined his head. - -“Our reply to the second is that, very shortly before the accident -happened, you had consumed one half of a small bottle of beer.” - -“I had.” - -“Very good. What is our answer to the third?” - -Pembury shrugged his shoulders. - -“I’ve no explanation to give. Finding a bottle and glass doesn’t prove I -was blind.” - -“It’s pretty strong evidence of drinking. Mind you, I _know_ you weren’t -drunk. But we’ve got to satisfy the Court. What construction will the -Court put upon the discovery of that bottle and glass? Assuming the -Magistrate is reasonable, he will consider it peculiar. Even if they’re -addicted to drink, people of your position do not as a rule go about -with a glass and a bottle of beer. So, finding the discovery peculiar, -the Magistrate will expect an explanation. If you don’t give him one, he -will very naturally put the worst construction upon those unfortunate -utensils.” - -“What’ll he think?” - -The lawyer raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know what he’ll think. He’ll -certainly assume that your explanation is not forthcoming because you -know very well that it wouldn’t assist your case. And if he thinks any -further, I suppose he’ll class you with the thirsty and prudent -undesirable who carries a flask in his pocket wherever he goes.” - -“And he’ll send me down?” - -“Wait. The time is late in the evening—ten-twenty-five. That is the -hour when those who do get drunk may be most easily encountered. You -have a smash—which ought to have been avoided. You smell of liquor. -Real evidence of liquor, recently consumed, is found. The police say you -were drunk. If you were on the Bench, would you accept the accused’s -unsupported statement that he was sober?” - -“Frankly, I don’t think I should.” - -“Add to all this two scandalously irrelevant facts, which, because the -Magistrate is human, will be constantly present to his mind. One is that -of late the crater of public indignation upon the subject of drunken -drivers has been in violent eruption: the other is that at the present -moment there are hundreds of thousands of people who are simply living -for an opportunity of demonstrating that there is one law for the poor -and another for the rich.” - -“And he’ll send me down?” - -“I think he will have no alternative.” - -Lord Pembury laced his fingers and put them behind his head. - -“Can’t be helped,” he said. “I’ve nothing to say.” - -Forsyth put in his oar. - -“Look here,” he said. “The most formidable position we’re faced with is -that which is erected upon that bottle and glass. If we can reduce that -position, the moral effect upon the Magistrate’s mind will be precisely -as powerful as the position was formidable. You always get most credit -for doing what seems to be the hardest thing to do. If you won’t explain -the presence of those infernal vessels, it’s not the slightest good -insisting that all you had recently consumed was half a small bottle of -beer.” - -“Well, there’s the blinkin’ bottle to bear me out. I tell you, I shared -it with a friend.” - -“Then produce the friend.” - -“I can’t,” said Pembury. - -“‘Can’t’?” said Forsyth. “Or ‘won’t’?” - -“Won’t.” - -Forsyth threw up his hands. - -Quaritch leaned forward. - -“You do see the point, Lord Pembury? The introduction of the friend -makes it a shade more palatable, but it doesn’t eliminate that -distressing element of eccentricity. Is it your practice to—er—sport a -bottle of beer? Of course not. Then why did you do it? From hospitable -motives? For a wager? Why?” - -“I’m not going to say any more,” said Viscount Pembury. “I’m sorry to be -so graceless. I know you’re trying to help me and I’m carefully crampin’ -your style. But there you are. Please do what you can with what you’ve -got.” - -There was a long silence. - -“He mayn’t . . . mayn’t be content with a fine, you know,” said Forsyth. - -“I know. It can’t be helped.” - -Counsel folded his Brief and rose to his feet. - -The conference was at an end. - -As the door closed behind Pembury— - -“Who the devil is he shielding?” said Quaritch. - -“I wish to God I knew,” said Forsyth bitterly. - - * * * * * - -Sir Hilton Shutter was thoroughly pleased with life. For one thing, he -was standing with his back to a roaring fire: for another, he was a -guest at Castle Charing, a pleasant residence to which he had long hoped -to be invited: for another, his future wife, seated on a sofa before -him, was looking particularly lovely in a frock of powder-blue and gold: -finally, from the solemn, almost subdued demeanour of his host and -hostess, he perceived that his discourse was creating a profound -impression. - -A booming note slid into his voice. - -“Leadership. To-day, more than ever before, people require a lead. Point -them the way, and they’ll move. But you must point it definitely. Your -indication must be downright, courageous.” He paused to flick his cigar -ash into the grate. “I wrote to _The Times_ to-day,” he continued, -frowning. - -“Did you?” said his hostess pleasantly. “What about?” - -“This question of drunken motorists,” was the reply. - -Mrs. Fairie started, and her husband’s hand flew to his moustache. - -“It’s more than a public scandal,” continued Shutter. “It’s a national -disgrace. I don’t mean——” - -“I know,” said Fairie nervously. “There’s been a lot of agitation about -it, but——” - -“I agree. But the evil remains.” - -“Oh, they’ll stamp it out,” said Fairie. “Trust them. People are -beginning to see it’s not good enough. By the way——” - -“By ‘national disgrace,’” said Shutter, “I mean that the failure of the -authorities to observe the will of those who appoint and pay them to do -their will is a state of affairs which would not be tolerated in any -other country in the world.” - -“I agree,” said his host heartily. “It’s wicked.” - -“Monstrous,” said Mrs. Fairie. “What about some Bridge?” - -“One minute,” said Lady Elizabeth. “What’s monstrous?” - -“This drunkenness stunt,” said Fairie. “Let’s——” - -“No, no, no,” cried Shutter. “I thought you didn’t quite follow me. My -point is that, outrageous as is the offence, the failure of those whose -signal duty it is to eradicate it is still more infamous.” - -“That’s the word I was trying to think of,” said Fairie. “‘Infamous.’ So -it is. What about roping in the others an’ havin’ a quiet game of——” - -“As I said in my letter to-day,” said Sir Hilton, frowning, “the -community no longer asks for protection—it demands the abolition of -these pests: and that, by the infliction in every case, without fear or -favour, of a penalty—imprisonment, of course—so harsh as, once for -all, to frighten would-be offenders back into the path of decency.” - -“You are fierce,” said Elizabeth. “Why——” - -“Yes, isn’t he?” cried Mrs. Fairie. “Never mind. Let’s——” - -“Isn’t it time someone was?” demanded Sir Hilton. “Look at the -latest——” - -“_Ouch!_” squealed Fairie, leaping to his feet. - -“Whatever’s the matter?” cried Elizabeth, considerably startled. - -“Must’ve sat on a pin or something,” said Fairie desperately. “What -about that poker? It’s much——” - -“As I was saying,” boomed Shutter, “look at the latest case. There’s a -man with all the advantages which birth and education can offer——” - -“Excuse me, Sir Hilton,” blurted Fairie, “but—I know you’ll forgive my -saying so, but the fellow in question’s rather a friend of mine, -and——” - -“Pembury is?” - -“WHO?” - -Elizabeth was on her feet, flushed, blazing-eyed. - -“_Who?_” she repeated. - -Fairie sank into his seat with a groan. - -“Pembury, Elizabeth,” said Shutter. “Young Pembury. Haven’t you seen the -papers?” - -“No,” said Elizabeth, “I haven’t. What do the papers say . . . about -. . . Lord Pembury?” - -The broad shoulders were shrugged. - -“Oh, he’s the latest instance of the drunken driver. That’s all. I’m not -particularly surprised, but——” - -“Hang it, man,” cried Fairie, “you’ve no right to——” - -“Why aren’t you surprised?” said Lady Elizabeth. - -Her fiancé stared. Then he gave a short laugh. - -“Oh, I don’t know. But don’t let’s pursue it. Didn’t you hear Fairie say -that he’s——” - -“Does it occur to you that Lord Pembury’s a friend of mine?” - -“I know he was,” said Sir Hilton. - -“Is,” said Elizabeth. “Is. And always will be. Never mind. Who says he -was drunk?” - -“The police, dear,” said Mrs. Fairie, putting an arm about her waist. -“He ran into something—a taxi, on Sunday night—— _What is it, -darling?_” - -Elizabeth was trembling violently. - -“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing. Let me sit down. ‘On Sunday night,’ you -were saying. Yes?” - -“On Sunday night, in Park Lane. He wasn’t hurt. And the police—you know -what they are—immediately jumped to the conclusion——” - -“Be just, Mrs. Fairie,” said Shutter. “It wasn’t a question of jumping -to any conclusion. Finding him drunk, they——” - -“If you’ll forgive my saying so,” said Fairie, setting a brandy and soda -in Elizabeth’s hand, “whether they found him drunk or sober has yet to -be decided. At present he’s merely charged with being drunk.” - -“Of course,” said Shutter, “if you like to split hairs——” - -“It isn’t a question of hair-splitting,” said his host. “It’s a question -of cold facts. If the charge is dismissed—as it will be—he could sue -you for slander for this, and just waltz home.” - -Elizabeth was speaking. - -“Will somebody please tell me exactly what’s happened?” - -“I will,” said her host. “Dick had a smash late on Sunday night. Nobody -was hurt. He was arrested and charged. They say he smelt of liquor and a -bottle was found in the car. He appeared on Monday morning and pleaded -‘Not guilty.’ Evidence of arrest was given and the case was adjourned -for a week.” - -“What’s to-day?” said Elizabeth. - -“Friday.” - -“Thank you. Go on.” - -“That’s all, dear,” said Mrs. Fairie. “We didn’t tell you, because——” - -“You did, though, didn’t you?” said Elizabeth, looking Sir Hilton in the -face. - -“I naturally assumed——” - -“Quite a hobby of yours, isn’t it? Recreations—golf, yachting, -assumption. You assumed that he was drunk. You assumed that I knew about -it. I suppose you assumed that, in view of my knowledge, I should relish -your recent conversation, including the fact that you had written to -_The Times_, urging ‘the infliction of penalties—imprisonment, of -course—so harsh . . .’” She stopped dead there. Then her voice rang -out. “_Why did you write that letter?_” - -Sir Hilton started. - -“‘Why?’” - -“Yes. Why?” - -“Well—er—because, I suppose, I felt——” - -“Was it in the hope that it would appear on the day Dick’s case came -on?” - -“Good Heavens, Elizabeth! What——” - -“Cut it out,” said the girl, quietly. “I know. And so do Madge and -Harry. We all three know. And so do you. And I’ll tell you another thing -we know—we three. We know Dick wasn’t drunk.” - -“Right!” cried the Fairies in a breath. - -“And so do you,” said Elizabeth, rising. - -“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Shutter. “If I like to——” - -The girl stretched out her hand. - -“Just hold my drink for a minute, will you?” she said. - -Mechanically, Sir Hilton received the glass. - -Elizabeth took off her pearls and slid an enormous emerald off her -finger. She pitched the gems together at Shutter’s feet. Then she looked -into his eyes. - -“How I came to make such a mistake, I can’t conceive. I think I must -have been mad. To be perfectly honest, I liked the idea of being rich. -As far as you’re concerned, I’m not so terribly to blame, because, when -you asked me to marry you, you dangled your rotten wealth before my -eyes. You prayed it in aid of your suit. And I thought it was good -enough, I did. . . . Well, I find I was wrong.” - -“But, Elizabeth——” - -“My good sir, _I wouldn’t be seen dead with you._” She stretched out her -hand. “Thank you.” - -She took the glass from his fingers and flung the liquor in his face. - -Sir Hilton recoiled and Madge Fairie started to her feet. Lady Elizabeth -and Fairie stood perfectly still. - -Floating from behind closed doors, the lilt of the latest fox-trot -disputed possession of the silence with the pleasant flare and crackle -of the logs in the grate. - - * * * * * - -“What’s Mr. Forsyth want?” - -“I don’t know at all, my lord. He simply told me to find you, wherever -you were, and bring you back in a cab to Lincoln’s Inn Fields.” - -Pembury, who was at his tailor’s, adjusted his tie. - -“All right,” he said slowly. “If you’ll get a cab, I’ll be ready in two -minutes’ time.” - -The clerk bowed and withdrew. - -Pembury wondered, frowning, what was afoot. - -Had Forsyth got hold of something? Had he been making inquiries and come -on the truth? Had the Richelieu been talking? Had . . . Forsyth had -found out something. Not a doubt of it. Something about Sunday night. -And Forsyth was going to try to force his hand. He was going to threaten -to put Elizabeth wise. . . . - -Pembury smiled a grim smile. - -As he entered the lawyer’s room— - -“Good morning, Dick,” said Elizabeth. “Where did they pick you up? I -told them to try——” - -“Forsyth,” said Pembury sternly, “I don’t remember instructing you——” - -“One minute,” cried Forsyth. “One minute. My hands are clean. I haven’t -moved in the matter. I never found the lady. She found me.” - -“But——” - -“It’s perfectly true,” said Elizabeth. “I only heard last night. Of -course, it’s my own fault. I really must read the papers: but they’re so -frightfully dull—usually.” - -“Who told you?” said Pembury. - -“Hilton, of course. But observe how astute I am. A fool would have -rushed to you. The woman of the world goes to a lawyer.” - -“Why does she do that?” - -“Because,” said Elizabeth, “it’s Saturday, and lawyers are closed at -one. By the time I’d had it out with you, the lawyers would have been -closed. As it is, we’re in just nice time. My statement’s being typed -now.” - -“I won’t have you called,” said Pembury. - -“Quite sure?” said Lady Elizabeth. - -“Positive. That’s flat. You can’t be called without my consent, and, -short of pressin’ me to death, you won’t get that.” - -“But, Dick——” - -“My dear, it’s no earthly. I’m absolutely resolved. I not only won’t -call you, but I won’t have you near the Court.” - -He flung himself into a chair and crossed his legs. - -“Now, Dick, just listen. Put yourself in my place. Supposing I was -charged with something I hadn’t done. And everything——” - -“Dot,” said Pembury, “it’s not the slightest good. You know as well as I -do that it’s a question of sex. What’s sauce for the goose may be sauce -for the gander—but it can’t always be served. For people to know that -we were dining ’ld be bad enough, but what about the beer?” - -“Well, what about it?” said Dot. “What’s the matter with the truth? -Remembering my affection for the beverage, you were considerate -enough——” - -“My dear girl,” said Pembury, “it’s out of the question. You can’t -parade intimate nursery incidents in a Court of Law. Possibly, if we -were brother and sister——” - -“We are, practically. As I was telling Mr. Forsyth——” - -“Well, it’s not the moment to advertise it. Forsyth knows that as well -as I do. Of course, he’s out to pull me out of the muck, but I’m not -takin’ any. Either I get out myself, or I stay where I am. _I won’t have -you called._ More. Unless you give me your word not only to hold your -tongue but not to come within a mile of the Joy Shop till it’s all over, -I’ll—I’ll plead ‘Guilty.’” - -Forsyth shifted in his chair. - -Lady Elizabeth raised her delicate eyebrows. - -“Well, there you are,” she said. “If you will cut your own little -throat, I can’t stop you. Only, I can’t marry a man who’s been convicted -of drunkenness.” Pembury leaped to his feet. “I can’t, really. You see, -I’m funny like that. It’s—it’s against my principles.” - -“Dot!” shouted Pembury. “Dot! What on earth d’you mean? You’re engaged -to——” - -“Finish, my dear, finish. I’ve turned him down. You’ll see it in _The -Times_ on Monday. I just couldn’t stick the swine. If we could have -lived apart, I might have managed it. But together—no thanks. Charing -opened my eyes. I was happy enough there, until he came. Then everything -crashed. Better is a cold tub, where love is, than a tiled bathroom and -hatred therewith. Don’t you agree, Mr. Forsyth?” - -“Dot! Dot, my darling, is this a have?” - -Pembury had her hands and was gazing into her eyes. The man was -transfigured, blazing. - -“No,” said Elizabeth. “It isn’t. It’s ordinary, natural love. Don’t go, -Mr. Forsyth. I’ld rather like you to stay. I say it’s ordinary love. -I’ve loved you for years, Dick. But when you never spoke, at last I came -to the conclusion that you didn’t care for me—that way. And so—I -turned elsewhere. Not to another man, because there was no other man and -never could be. So I turned to money, instead. I told you I was -degenerate. . . . And then, when on Sunday night you showed your -hand—the hand you’d never played, the hand I’d been waiting for you to -play for such a long, long time—I didn’t know what to do. You see, -things had gone rather far. . . . And then—Sir Hilton Shutter very -kindly showed me the way.” - -A door closed. Forsyth had disobeyed. - -“But, Dot, my darling, we’ll be awfully poor.” - -“D’you think I care? I only worshipped riches because I hadn’t got you. -Luxury was the god I set up in your place. I tried to drown my love in a -butt of Malmsey. But, you see, it couldn’t be done. Malmsey’s sickening -stuff. I’ld much sooner drink beer. And now about this old trial. I’m to -be in attendance, in case——” - -“Oh, damn the trial,” said Pembury, taking her in his arms. “I haven’t -kissed your blessed mouth since——” - -“August the seventh, 1914,” said Elizabeth. “I’ve got it down in a -diary. ‘He kissed my lips.’” - -“My sweet, my sweet. . . .” - -The girl just clung to him. - -After a moment or two she lifted a radiant face. - -“I think I shall have to marry you, whether you’re convicted or not. You -see, you’re not only my Best Man—you’re so much the very best man I -ever saw.” - - * * * * * - -On Monday, those sections of the Press which had been hoping to be able -to announce _Sensational Developments_ under the heading WELL-KNOWN -VISCOUNT CHARGED were more than satisfied. - -Before the case was called on, the Magistrate left the Bench, and -Quaritch and his opponent were summoned behind the scenes. This was -unusual. By the time the three reappeared excitement was running high. - -The Magistrate’s clerk nodded, and the case was called on. - -Pembury stepped into the dock, and the Magistrate cleared his throat. - -“Mr. Shorthorn,” he said. The Solicitor to the Police rose to his feet -and bowed. “I have decided, before proceeding with this case, to tell -you that I have formed a very definite opinion. - -“The position in which I stand is one of peculiar difficulty. If the -charge was less grave, if the social position of the defendant was less -considerable, if all the circumstances did not combine, rightly or -wrongly, to attract to this case a good deal of attention, my path would -be plain and easy to follow. As it is, I have thought proper to consult -the Chief Magistrate and I may say that he agrees with me that the -course which I am about to take is the only one which is at once -convenient and just. - -“By the merest accident, I am in possession of information which has a -direct and powerful bearing upon this charge. That information would -become evidence, if I could be put into the box.” - -He paused. - -Except for the noise of breathing and the flick of a reporter’s page, -the Court, which was crammed with people, was still as death. - -In a retired waiting-room Lady Elizabeth sat fretfully straining her -ears, continually crossing and recrossing two sweet pretty legs and -striving desperately to possess a mutinous spirit. - -The Magistrate proceeded. - -“In view of what I have said, Mr. Shorthorn, would you prefer that -another Magistrate should deal with this case?” - -“I am more than content, sir, that you should deal with it.” - -Mr. Shorthorn resumed his seat. - -“And you, Mr. Quaritch?” - -Treasury Counsel smiled whimsically. - -“The best, sir,” he said, “is good enough for me.” - -An attempt at applause, which succeeded the roar of laughter, was -instantly suppressed. - -“Very well, then. On the evening of the defendant’s arrest I was dining -out. Though he is probably unaware of the fact, I patronized the same -restaurant as he did and, what is more, I sat at the next table.” -Everyone’s gaze shifted to the accused. The latter stood like a rock. -“And I observed—if I may say so, with surprise—that he drank nothing -but water.” - -A nervous ripple of laughter ran through the Court. - -“I see that my words were equivocal. I should say that my surprise was -provoked not by his personal failure to drink wine—for I do not know -his habits and I never set eyes on him before—but by the spectacle of -anyone of his age who to-day considers water fit for internal use.” - -The Court laughed tremulously. - -“The results of my observation do not end there. We are told that the -collision occurred at ten-twenty-five. As luck will have it, I saw the -defendant leave. I did not notice the time, for there was, of course, no -reason at all why I should: but, recalling my own movements, I am -satisfied that he finally left that restaurant not earlier than -ten-fifteen. He was then unquestionably sober. - -“The opinion I have formed is that in no circumstances is it possible -for a man who is sober at ten-fifteen, who for the last two hours has -touched no alcohol, to be drunk at ten-twenty-five.” - -That upon the evening in question the learned Magistrate’s watch was ten -minutes fast was not his fault. The man was scrupulous. - -The case for the prosecution died there and then. - -The prosecution was withdrawn, apologies were offered, the defendant -left the dock, applause was suppressed. - -Mr. Quaritch knew his job. - -He rose to his feet. - -“If, sir, I may complete the solution of this matter by disclosing what -happened in the ten minutes of time during which my client was under -observation neither by the judiciary nor the executive, I must confess -that he seized the opportunity to consume a small glass of beer.” - -The Court roared its merriment. - -“Possibly, the discovery of a small bottle of Bass—grim relic of some -picnic—was responsible for his lapse from grace. Upon that point I have -no instructions. It follows that at the time of the collision he -indubitably smelt of liquor, and, while personally I should become -uneasy if to smell of liquor were to be regarded as the peculiar -privilege of drunkards, it was presumably his indignant recognition of -that mocking perfume which provoked the constable, whose name, I -observe, is Worthington, to . . .” - -The rest of the sentence was lost in an explosion of delight—which the -defendant missed. - -In a retired waiting-room, cheek against cheek, Pembury and Lady -Elizabeth let the world slip. . . . - -And, as I have said, certain sections of the Press were perfectly -satisfied. Could they have perused one document, reposing in Counsel’s -Brief, I imagine their satisfaction would have melted like snow upon the -hearth. The very first words would have fused it—_THE LADY ELIZABETH -CRECY will say_. . . . As it was, they were perfectly satisfied. And, -when they were able to announce the lady’s engagement to _the hero of a -recent cause célèbre_, they could have thrown up their hats. - -It was generally admitted that Lady Elizabeth was to marry by far the -best man. Harry Fairie, of Castle Charing, put it much more strongly. - - - - - JO - - - JO - - I - January 7th, 1926 - -I am writing this down because Jo says I must—dear, beautiful Jo, with -the great grey eyes and the maddening mouth. I tell her it is -ridiculous—that in a short month the miracle will have sunk to a -coincidence, the marvel to a curiosity. But she will have none of it: -and, since she is leaning over my shoulder and has set her blessed cheek -against mine, for what the business is worth down it shall go. - -Last night we dined with the Meurices. Not of choice, but we agreed it -was politic. A refusal might have been thought bilious. It is hard to -see how, but it might. After all, I have been perfectly frank about my -resignation. Now that I am married, I cannot stay on if I am not to be -paid two-thirds of what I can earn elsewhere. And ‘The Office’ has been -equally frank and, while expressing its deepest regret, has said that -fifteen hundred for a spy is as much as it may afford. However, the -Meurices being, so to speak, brass hats, might have misconstrued our -refusal. So we went. We did not enjoy it. I cannot keep pace with these -diplomats. No doubt they’re good at their job, and all their -ice-and-brandy ways are probably part of the game. But I am a regimental -officer and I am not at ease hobnobbing with the gilded staff. I don’t -suppose they’ld ’ve been at their ease drinking with the shunters at -Carlsruhe. . . . But there you are. _Chacun à son goût._ - -Well, after dinner a girl—one Roach—was induced to tell our fortunes -by dealing cards from a pack. ‘Induced’ is misleading. Lady Meurice -said, “Sarah, you’ve had a good dinner: now tell us some lies.” And -Sarah replied, “’And me the seaweed, Lulu, and I’ll tell you where -Arthur wore the dog-bite.” The next minute she was off. - -I’ve heard some junk in my time . . . - -Presently my turn came, and I took my seat at the table and shuffled the -pack. Only pausing to take my cigarette from my mouth, use it to light -her own and then replace it between my lips, Miss Roach picked up the -cards and began the rites of prophecy. - -What first she said I forget, but it was thin enough stuff. As a matter -of fact, she seemed puzzled: something—some combination, she said, kept -turning up. Finally she dropped the cards and took hold of my hand, -holding it flat on the table, palm up, and blinking at it through the -smoke of her cigarette. - -“You’re on the eve of meeting someone,” she said: “someone who’ll -influence your life to an amazing extent. They’ll affect your outlook -more violently than anything else in your life. They’ll alter all your -plans. The queer thing is they’ll do it indirectly. You’ll hardly see -them at all.” - -“Will they do me good or harm?” - -“I can’t say. But, whichever it is, they’ll do it through somebody else. -It’s a terrific influence.” - -“In fact, I shall be swept off my feet?” - -She frowned. - -“Not exactly. Your existence will be changed. What’s so remarkable is -that you retaliate. You’re going to influence their life even more -strongly still. Only, your influence will be direct and—and concrete.” - -“Concrete?” said I. - -“Physical. Theirs on you will be mental. They’ll get off first. After -they’ve influenced you, you start in on them. I should think——” - -Mercifully at that moment Berwick Perowne was announced. As he was -straight from Moscow, the conjuring went by the board. I was rather -interested to see him—I’d heard so much. He’ld certainly do any staff -credit—a dazzling A.D.C. The face of a careless angel, a tongue of -silver, the impudence of the Fiend. His news left Jo and me gasping. He -gave it as though he were describing a game of Bridge. After a while we -made our excuses and left. . . . - -All the way home in the taxi Jo chattered about ‘the prophecy,’ till at -last I told her that it meant that a nicer man than I was going to steal -her away, and I was going to follow and break his back. . . . She put -her arms round my neck. - -Bugle was waiting for us when we got in: he’s a good little dog: he’s -never really happy unless we’re both of us there. - -Sitting by the fire in the study, we discussed my resignation. Now that -the War’s past, I should have been at home a good deal—actually at home -with Jo. But we really cannot throw away twelve hundred and fifty a -year. Not that I shall have that yet—I start at fifteen hundred: but in -a year or two . . . with luck . . . And it means so much. It means a -car, frocks, flowers about the house. . . . Jo’s eyes were like stars. I -think she is the most beautiful thing I ever saw. - -But I digress. - -‘The Office’ rang up in the morning and wanted me down at once. I -answered the telephone in my pyjamas. Jo was twittering with excitement. -I found her, wrapped in a towel, hanging over the banisters, wild to -know if it was ‘the prophecy.’ I tried to scold her, but she refused to -be rebuked—as it happens, with good reason. - -_The prophecy, or some of it, has been fulfilled._ - -At ‘The Office’ I was introduced to Sir George ——, a nervous little -man with a short leg. He used to be in the game, and came back to help -at ‘The Office’ during the War. Shortly, it is his wish to be permitted -to supplement my old pay so that it reaches my figure—two thousand -seven fifty a year. He considers it would be a pity for ‘The Office’ to -lose my services: he understands my position: and, provided I agree to -remain, he will hand the Treasury sufficient War Stock to pay twelve -fifty a year, such money to be paid to me quarterly while I do my job -and, when I retire, to be added to my pension. . . . - -I tried my best to thank him, but I kept seeing the stars in Jo’s dear -eyes. . . . - -There. I have set out the miracle. As Sarah Roach said, so it has fallen -out. I have met the person I was on the eve of meeting. By him my life -is to be influenced to an amazing extent. My existence is to be changed. -Instead of being a partner in a shipping firm, I shall go back to my own -old job. My outlook has been switched from bills of lading to that -exhilarating game of blind man’s buff. Instead of lunching in the City -and arranging about freights, I shall be studying men and the ways of -men, peering into their brain-pans, searching their hearts, watching and -waiting and coping with sudden issues, stalking the truth under strange -heavens, trying to beat Delusion at her own game. . . . More. Sir George -is doing it indirectly—through somebody else: and I shall hardly see -him at all. - -It remains to be seen how I am to influence him . . . even more strongly -. . . directly . . . physically. - -Sufficient unto the day is the perfection thereof. - -And now we are going out to look at a car fit for a queen to drive . . . -my queen . . . my darling Jo. . . . - - II - November 22nd, 1926 - -The contrast is so ridiculous that I must set it down. - -It is half-past nine, now, of a streaming night. - -At this hour a week ago I was in Madrid. - -Why I was there does not matter, but I was leaning back in a chair, just -as I am leaning now, regarding the ugliest man I have ever seen. And he -was regarding me with beady eyes. The room was filthy and bare and -frightfully cold. And I was soaked to the skin. One naked electric lamp -hung from the ceiling, shedding a harsh light. I was smoking a filthy -cigar and from time to time I spat upon the boards. When I spoke, I -spoke in vile Spanish, helping myself out with Russian words. I tried to -speak the Russian very well. To be frank, I was very uneasy. I was -keeping a certain appointment—an appointment with the ugly man. I had -arrived early, an hour too soon. The appointment had been arranged for a -quarter to ten. My early arrival hadn’t mattered at all. In fact, he was -quite nice about it—as nice as he was capable of being, this ugly man. -And everything had gone very well. I gave him my news, and he gave me -his. His, I may say, was the more valuable. I was extremely glad of it. -I did not say so, of course. But I was—extremely glad. And now, having -stayed with him nearly an hour, I was inclined to be gone. It was really -rather important that I should bid him good-bye, because the appointment -I had kept had been made for somebody else. And, as I had kept it -without advising them, in the ordinary course of events they would keep -it, too. Indeed, unless they were late, they would knock twice on the -door at a quarter to ten. Possibly they might be early. . . . But one -thing was certain. That was that, whenever they did arrive and they and -the ugly man found out that a total stranger had been receiving his -valuable news, they would both be most annoyed. . . . The trouble was -that my host didn’t mean me to go. . . . - -I owe my life to the fact that my hearing is good—at any rate, better -than that of my ugly friend. - -I heard the step on the landing before he did. - -So I broke the electric lamp, hit the ugly man on the nose with a bottle -of wine, sang out in infamous Russian “Come in,” adding a vocative which -will send any Russian white to the lips, opened the door quietly, and -when the other had entered, which he did with the rush of a bull, faded -away, as they say, and left them to it. - -That was a week ago. - -And now once more I am leaning back in a chair, regarding my -_vis-à-vis_. I am in London now. The room is warm and pleasant, and its -walls are lined with books. Here and there hangs an etching. The windows -are heavily curtained, and there is a fire of logs in the grate. The -light is soft and grateful and filters through rose-coloured silk. The -floor is of parquet, on which are spread Persian rugs. And I am in -dress-clothes, dry and smoking a pipe. And my mind is at ease. - -And, instead of the ugly man, I am regarding, I think, the loveliest -woman I ever saw. She’s wearing a flowered silk frock, and her arms lie -like marble along the arms of her chair. Her knees are crossed, and the -flames are lighting the sheen of a satin slipper and the pale silk -stocking above. Her sweet chin is down on her chest, and her great grey -eyes are looking upon my face. And when I look up a light comes into the -eyes and a smile comes to play about the beautiful mouth. . . . - -And as I wrote those last words she did a thing the ugly man never did -and never will do—to me. She blew me a kiss. - -I’m sorry I hit him so hard. He deserved it, I know. He deserved to be -sawn in two. Still, he did give me a cigar. And, perhaps, if ever he’d -known the love of a lady—if anyone ever had looked and smiled on him as -sweetheart Jo is looking and smiling on me, he wouldn’t have been so -vile or kept such doubtful company. - - III - March 3rd, 1928 - -I am dazed . . . stunned . . . I keep thinking I am asleep and that any -minute I shall wake and find it is a dream. I have picked at and felt -the letter a score of times to see if it was real. I repeat, I am -stunned. My brain is staggering, making fumbling efforts to grasp the -frightful truth, getting hold of it—and then, because the truth sears -it as an iron sears the flesh, dropping it and clutching fantasy with a -wild, desperate clutch. . . . And fantasy grins and shakes it off and -thrusts it back upon the scorching truth. . . . - - _Oh, Richard, I don’t know how to write. You’ve been so - wonderful to me, and now—I’m letting you down. I can’t help it, - Richard. It’s something stronger than me. If only I could have - you both. But I can’t. I’ve got to choose. And I must go to - Berwick—Berwick Perowne. I’ve tried not to—indeed, I have. But - now I can’t fight any more. . . ._ - - _Try and forget me, dear. I’m not fit to be remembered. Try and - forget the waster you treated so well. And don’t think I’m - ungrateful. Strange as it sounds, I’m not. I’m so ashamed, - Richard, so terribly, bitterly ashamed, that I can hardly lift - my head. But Berwick. . . . There’s something, Richard, you and - I never knew. I know it now. I’ve found it in Berwick Perowne. - And I pray the time will come when you’ll find it, dear, in - someone better than me. And then, I think, you’ll understand._ - - _Good-bye, Richard. I’m leaving a bit of me behind—a bit of my - heart._ - - _Jo._ - - _I am so thankful Bugle will never know._ - -There. I have copied it out, word for blinding word. Some of the writing -is blurred, but it is beautifully plain and easy to read. I remember the -first note she wrote me—how pleased I was to see what a good hand she -had . . . nothing bizarre, just simple, downright, strong. Nothing is -slurred—nothing. - -I perceive I am trying to gain time—to put off recording the truth. I -never did that before, never shrank. If I had to report a failure, I -always began with the worst. ‘I regret I have failed to secure . . .’ I -don’t know why. I think it seemed easier that way. Certainly, putting it -off makes it no easier. More difficult, I think. - -Jo has left me. - -I think I’ll give that sentence a line to itself. Incidentally, I can’t -imagine why I’m writing this down. I don’t write things down as a -rule—not these sort of things. I suppose I am writing it down because -my brain is plunging like a terrified horse and I am hoping to calm it -by showing it exactly what it is up against, and so to be able to coax -it under this frightful archway and into—into the hell beyond. I -suppose, poor brute, it doesn’t like the look of hell, and that’s why it -shies and jibs as if it had seen a ghost. - -My good fool, you have seen no ghost, but a perfectly plain, crisp -fact—the fact that Jo has gone. Those are her gloves on the table: they -still smell of her perfume. If you look at the finger-tips, you will see -the faint outline of her beautiful nails. And that is her photograph, -there, in the silver frame. But the original has gone . . . leaving -behind this letter and—other things. Me, for instance. . . . - -For God’s sake let’s get down to facts—to see if there isn’t some -loophole, some flicker of hope. - -I had to go to Scotland two days ago. I went by night. I promised Jo -I’ld be back to-night without fail. We dined without dressing that -evening, and Jo seemed rather quiet. I thought it was because I was -going away. And—God forgive a fool—I tried to cheer her up. I said -that when I was back we’d go down to Bond Street and ask the price of -that ring. And Jo put her head in my lap and burst into tears. . . . Of -course, I see now. At the time I thought . . . I kissed her good-bye and -went. At twenty to seven to-night I was at King’s Cross, and I got the -ring with about a minute to spare. That’s it—in the box on the -mantelpiece. Then I drove home. As I let myself in, Bugle and Mason -appeared. As the latter was taking my coat— - -“Where’s her ladyship?” said I. - -“Her ladyship’s out, sir,” said Mason. “I think she’s been called out of -Town.” - -I stared at the fellow blankly. - -“‘Called out of Town’?” said I. - -“I—I believe so, sir. But she left a note, on your table, sir. I expect -that’ll say . . .” - -I hurried into the study, wondering what on earth . . . - -I see by my watch that that was four hours ago—four hours. And I am -thirty-six and as hard as iron. In the ordinary course of things I shall -live to at least sixty-five—another twenty-nine years. How many hours -is that? - -Well, there are the facts. And here is the letter she left. And here am -I. I am the latest instance of that most common unfortunate—a man who -has lost his wife. - -Will nothing make me realize it? I write these things down—these -ghastly, frightening facts. I say them over aloud—without result. They -are ugly strings of words, but that is all. I know that any second I -shall hear her key in the lock. And Bugle knows it, too. He is lying -couched by the door, with his head between his paws. He has lain like -that for three hours . . . waiting . . . waiting. . . . And he is losing -his labour: because, though Jo has gone out, she will never come in -. . . never. . . . - -I think I am beginning to comprehend the truth. The sight of that little -white dog lying there by the door seems to have—to have emphasized -something . . . rammed home . . . something. I know. I know what it is. -I realize his folly in lying there. I see that he is a fool—because he -is waiting for something which never will come to pass. I don’t lie -there and wait, because I know better. And I know better because I can -read . . . read Jo’s letter . . . which says . . . -that—she—is—not—coming—back . . . not—coming—back . . . - -My beautiful, darling wife is not coming back any more. - -That light step in the hall, that eager voice, that quick flutter in the -doorway—are silent for ever. Bugle and I will never hear them again. -For the last time Jo has leaned over my shoulder, sat by my side at -meat, put her sweet arms about me and kissed my lips. She had a way, I -remember, of holding her little hands—when she was specially -interested, sharing some venture of mine. “Yes, Richard? Yes?” she’ld -cry, with her precious lips parted and a light in her blessed grey eyes -that made me feel heroic and turned my twopenny tale into an exploit. It -was always like that. Always her fresh, panting spirit lifted me up. -Whatever the road, her footsteps made it shine. I’m not a dancer, but I -could dance with Jo. - -And now—finish . . . _finish_. - -‘Finish.’ The word stares at me with a queer, crooked look. I never -thought of it before, but what a funny-looking word it is. It looks as -though it ought to have two n’s. ‘Finish.’ Never mind. The point is that -several things are over. My dancing days, for instance. And the light in -Jo’s grey eyes. And the little way she had of—_My God!_ What shall I -do? How shall I live and move? I’m like a man in the dark in a dangerous -place. I don’t know which way to turn. I’m left . . . left. Everything I -did was with Jo, or for Jo, or because of Jo. I moved round her, as -planets move round their sun. And now my sun’s gone . . . my sun . . . -my glorious sun. . . . - -I must pull myself together. I’ve done it before. I mustn’t gibber and -crouch. I must stand up and look Fate in the eyes. I’ve done that -before, too. And she shrank back, as she shall shrink back now. - -Jo, my wife, has gone to another man. What of it? I shall be lonely, of -course. The little house’ll seem strange, I shall go more to the Club, -as I used to do—before I was married. I shall have to order the meals -and keep the servants more or less up to the mark. And the evenings will -seem a bit long. And when I go—to Scotland, there won’t be any occasion -to hurry back. And that—that’s about all. - -I think I’ll keep her things just as they are. I mustn’t get maudlin, -but I think that I can do that. Just keep them out and about. It’ll seem -more natural. And after a while they can gradually be put away . . . -after a while. . . . - -And now I must go to bed. - -I must go to ‘The Office’ to-morrow and, before I go, I must get out a -short report. I meant to have done it to-night, but it’s too late now. - -She was so exquisite, Jo was . . . so beautiful, gay, sweet . . . so -proud to all the world, so tender to me . . . I’ld ’ve said I was too -old for her, only she lifted me up and made me a child. - -Berwick Perowne. I hardly know the man, except by name. I’ve only met -him twice. Once that night at the Meurices’ and once again at the Ritz. -I wonder where—— - -I must go to bed. I must let old Bugle out and go to bed. The great -thing is not to think. If Jo were here, I should—— - -I must go to—_God! My God! I can’t_. . . . - -I think I shall sleep here to-night. There’s nothing the matter with the -Chesterfield, and I can get some rugs from the hall. - -And I don’t think I shall go to ‘The Office’ to-morrow. If I do, they’re -bound to act. Whereas, if I hold my hand for another day, S. will have -had his money and cut his own throat. And, instead of a bad ten minutes, -he’ll be broken on the wheel. After all, why shouldn’t he be broken? -Others are. - - IV - February 20th, 1929 - -At half-past nine last night I was sitting in the study with Bugle with -only the fire for light, when I heard the front-door open and someone -come in. Now that Jo’s gone, no one but I has a key, so Bugle and I got -up and went to the door. - -It was Jo. - -Before I could speak her arms were round my neck. - -Her cheek, her lips were red-hot: her breath coming in spurts. - -“Sorry I’m late, my darling, but Daphne’s going away and she simply made -me——” - -The sentence lost itself in a savage cough. - -I watched her sway to the sofa as if I was in a dream. . . . - -Then I closed the door and switched on the lights. - -Something was wrong, of course. - -Jo was seriously ill: her skin was burning like fire. Besides, she was -talking nonsense. At least . . . For one thing only, I knew that Daphne -Pleydell was in the South of France. - -Bugle, poor fellow, was almost out of his mind. He was all over Jo, -scrambling and whining and pawing and licking her face. For an instant -only Jo held him up in her arms. Her sleeves fell back, and I saw how -wasted they were. Then— - -“You’re getting heavy,” she laughed, and the poor thin arms gave way and -Bugle was in her lap. - -Sitting there, flushed, on the sofa, Jo talked and coughed and talked, -while Bugle kept whimpering with pleasure and I stood watching and -noting and thinking what I must do. - -She was wet, very wet, sopping—I could smell the reek of cloth—and -very, very shabby. I knew the dress she was wearing—a blue coat and -skirt. We chose it together at Bradley’s . . . ages ago. Her little hat -was a ruin, and her toes were thrusting out of the wreck of a shoe. Her -gloves were awful. One tress of her lovely hair was half-way down, and -her face was pinched and peaked with two splashes of dusky red about her -cheekbones. - -I rang for Mason and told him to send a maid to warm my bed and light a -fire in the room: after that, to summon a doctor. Then I picked up Jo, -still talking, and carried her up the stairs. . . . - -All that I did she suffered, just as one suffers the barber to cut one’s -hair. She took no notice at all of anything, except that now and again -she caught my cheek to hers. But she coughed and chattered—nonsense, -without a break. - -By the time the doctor was there, I’d got her out of the bath and into -bed. - -He said that she had pneumonia and sent for nurses and drugs. - -By eleven o’clock the women had taken over, and all that treatment can -do was being done. . . . - -Till a quarter past seven this morning I hardly left her side. - -At half-past eleven the medicine took some effect, and from then for -nearly an hour she never spoke. Then she started again—not chattering -any longer, but speaking sterner stuff. The scene had changed. - -She talked in a low voice, off and on, right through the night. The -cough interfered and her breathing troubled her sorely, but she would -talk. - -And this, pieced fairly together, is what she said. - -“What will I do? I’ll tell you. I’ll go back to my husband. Perhaps -he’ll turn me down; perhaps he won’t. But, whichever he does, he’ll be -kind to me, Berwick Perowne. He’ld never kick a woman when she was down. -I imagine I was bewitched when I turned to you. . . . You ‘willed’ me, -you say? Well, I don’t quite know what that means, but I don’t see why -you should laugh. It’s not very generous, considering that you -won—while I lost all I had. It broke my heart to leave Richard. You -know it did. The first thing I said, when I saw you that awful evening, -was that I couldn’t go. And you—you begged and argued until you’d made -me late—too late to get back and get my letter before he came. . . . -Yes, I know. Oh, you acted well. I never dreamed you were doing it on -purpose. I never would have, if you hadn’t told me so. . . . Why do you -laugh so, Berwick? It’s so—so unkind. . . . ‘Can’t go back’? ‘_Can’t_’? -What do you mean? It shows you don’t know Richard. I tell you . . . -What? Well, what if I did? I shouldn’t have told you, of course. It was -a secret thing. Richard told me, because I was his wife. I don’t know -what he’ld say if he knew that I’d told you, but—why do you laugh like -that? I haven’t said anything funny. It’s very serious. I don’t think -you realize how serious it is. If you repeated that secret—if you were -to tell anyone that Richard had left for Scotland _and never gone -there_, that he’d been at Chatham nearly the whole of the time, that -he’d only left for Scotland because he knew he was watched and he wanted -to make certain people believe he was out of the way—if you were to -mention _that_, why, don’t you see you’ld be doing a frightful thing? -You’ld be betraying Richard and ‘The Office,’ too: while, as for me, -you’ld be stamping me as a traitress in Richard’s eyes. He thinks ill of -me, of course. I’ve done him an awful wrong. But, short of absolute -proof, he’ld _know_ that I never was that . . . not treacherous. . . . -I’ve got so little left. I’ve chucked so much away. But what I’ve still -got I treasure—oh, more than life, far more . . . a little shred of -honour, very shabby and worn, but clean. . . . And you see, if you -talked, you’ld be tearing that shred away. It’ld come to Richard’s ears -in twenty-four hours. He knows everything. He’s got to. And, as I was -the only soul in all the world he told, he’ld know it was me. So you see -how terribly important it is that you shouldn’t breathe a—— Why do you -smile like that? What have I said? Can’t you see how . . . You can? Then -why do you laugh? . . . ‘Because I’ve put it so well’? What do you mean? -Put what so well? . . . ‘Your case’? It isn’t your case. It’s mine. I -don’t understand. I said I’ld go back to Richard, and so I will. For all -the wrong I’ve done him, he’ll still be kind. He’ld never jeer at a -woman because she cried. And he never struck a woman in all his -life. . . . ‘Can’t go back’? Why? What do you mean? . . . ‘I’ve told you -myself—just now’? ‘_Told_ you’? I don’t understand. How have I told you -I can’t go back to Richard? . . . _My God!_ You wouldn’t! You couldn’t -do such a thing. Only a fiend . . . You know I shouldn’t have told you; -but you—you pressed me so hard. And that was between you and me. You -can’t use an indiscretion to force my hand. You can say you’ll tell -people this or tell people that, but you can’t give away a secret that -wasn’t mine to tell. . . . ‘Can’? Well, ‘won’t,’ then. You won’t do a -thing like that! Think what it means to Richard and means to me. Think -. . . You _will_ . . . if—I—go—back? You—_will_? Give Richard away -. . . and ‘The Office’ . . . tear up my shred of honour . . . blacken me -in Richard’s eyes . . . ? _Oh—my—God_ . . . All right. . . . Yes, I’m -beaten. . . . I—I give you best. . . . You’ve won. You’ve won again. -. . . I see, I understand. I see that I—I can’t go back. . . . Yes, I -see why you laughed. . . . Yes, I suppose it was. . . . I do indeed, -Berwick. I do, I do. . . . It was peculiarly humorous—my failure to -perceive that I was stating your case. . . . No, don’t make me say that. -. . . I’ld—I’ld rather not. It sounds so hideous, so—— Oh, don’t, -Berwick! You’re hurting! _A-ah!_ All right. Let me go. I’ll say it. -‘Damning my chance of withdrawal out of my own pretty mouth.’ . . . Yes, -I do see. I’ve said so. I see that I—can’t—go—back. . . .” - -One more extract I’ll give. - -“I’m very sorry, Berwick. I think it’s a little cold. . . . No, I -promise I won’t. You shan’t know there’s anything wrong. I think if I -wear my fur. . . . All right. I won’t wear it. I don’t mind a -bit—really. . . . You know I won’t let you down. I shall be all right -to-mor—to-night. I’m very strong. . . . Oh, I just felt shivery. . . . -No, I promise I won’t. . . . I know you hate anything sick. I know you -do. I didn’t think when I shivered. I won’t again. . . . I know, but I -won’t to-night. I didn’t know you heard me. . . . ‘Why’? Oh, I don’t -know. I didn’t sleep very well, and I suppose I felt like crying. Women -do—sometimes. But I won’t cry to-night. . . . I’m very sorry, Berwick. -I promise I won’t to-night. . . .” - -And again one more. - -“Only two hundred and fifty! Couldn’t you give me more? It’s a very good -fur—worth two or three thousand francs. I don’t expect that, of course, -but—two hundred and fifty’s not enough. I mean, I need four or five -. . . I’m afraid I’ve nothing else. I’ld let you have this umbrella, -only it’s raining so. Yes, it’s a tortoise-shell top. . . . Couldn’t you -make it four hundred, or even five? You see, my ticket’s expensive -and. . . . Five hundred with the umbrella? All right. I must let it -go. . . . Five hundred. Thanks very much. . . .” - -It was almost six o’clock when the change took place. - -Jo stopped talking and began to fight. Of course, she hadn’t a chance: -but she fought for an hour, like the Great Heart she always was. Again -and again she rallied: time after time she tore Death’s grip away. And I -knelt by her side, while the nurses moved to and fro, ministering, -whispering words of encouragement, like seconds plying their principal -between the rounds. - -As it was striking seven, Jo opened her great grey eyes. - -For a moment they wandered over and round the room. Then they fell upon -my face. - -“I got here, then,” she said gently. “I am so awfully glad. I wanted to -tell you I loved you and—and other things. . . . Our dream was broken, -I know. I broke it, of course. I never knew why. I think that man had -some power—I don’t know what. Never mind. I broke our dream. But I’ld -like you to know, my darling, it’s the only dream I’ve had. . . . And -I’ve kept the broken pieces as one keeps a sacred thing. I’ve -worshipped—reverenced them. They’ve been my only star. There isn’t a -flinder missing: they’re just as they were that day—sparkling and gay -and perfect. . . . Only, they’re pieces, Richard—broken bits and pieces -of what was once our dream. . . . Such as they are, I give them back to -you. You gave me the dream, and I broke it. But I’ve kept the pieces -clean, and—here they are.” - -“I see no pieces, my sweet. You’ve given me back my dream.” - -“In pieces, Richard. I broke it.” - -“And now you’ve mended it, darling. You’ve given me back . . . our -dream.” - -The old wonderful light flung into those peerless eyes. The old -exquisite smile came playing into her face. - -“Oh, Richard,” she whispered, as though I had made her a present she -never had dared expect. - -Then she closed her eyes, but the smile never left her face. And -presently, with my cheek against hers, she fell asleep. - -And that is all, except that I am going to kill Berwick Perowne. - - V - March 11th, 1929 - -‘The Office’ gave me two months’ leave—‘for the purpose of attending to -private affairs.’ That was on February 25th. Upon the following day I -disappeared: and forty-eight hours later I was in touch with Perowne. He -had no idea, of course. But I was in touch . . . waiting. . . . - -I found him at Barcelona, engaged on some Government job. What the job -was I don’t know, but it left him plenty of time—to take two people -about in his great big car. They were French, these two, and pretty -rich. The girl was young and handsome, with a dangerously short upper -lip and masses of fine red hair. When Perowne took them out, she sat in -front with him, her husband and the chauffeur sitting behind. . . . The -husband stuck it until five days ago. Then they left for Valencia, they -said, he and his wife . . . going by road. - -That night I took the lady’s name in vain. - -I wired from Pampeluna—I had a big car, too—suggesting Perowne should -come. He came. I fancy his vanity was tickled. I may be wrong. But I -think he liked the idea of the husband chuckling to think that he’d -thrown him off the track, while the wife was giving him the tip that -they’d taken another road. - -A maid at Pampeluna did the rest. At least, she gave him a message, when -all the rest of the staff denied the very existence of the lady with the -short upper lip and the masses of fine red hair. - -The message bade Perowne take the north-east road. This leads into the -mountains and is but little travelled till April is old. He took the -road the next day, and he took it alone. His chauffeur had supped with -me the night before—holding a very short spoon. . . . - -I saw him coming when he was miles away, driving like fury along the -elegant road that swept and curled and thrust like some stately serpent -up and up into bleak places, where, even beneath the sunshine, spring -seemed very distant and the monstrous silence of the depths on either -hand turned the trickle of running water into the rush of a sluice. - -When he was two miles off, I knocked out my pipe. Then I adjusted my -goggles and entered my car. - -I drove slowly to meet him on one of the bends. The corner was blind, -but he cut it—I knew he would. He found me full in his path on my -proper side. He tried to get through, but I squeezed him and crammed him -into the ditch. . . . - -I let him talk for a minute, while I moved on and turned my wheels into -a bank. Then I locked the switch and got out of the car. - -As I came up he let out at me in French. - -“How long have you been driving?” - -I answered in English. - -“Ten or twelve years,” I said. - -“Had many accidents?” - -“None. And you?” - -He stared. - -“Let me give you a tip,” he said. “When you’re driving a car, don’t -stick too close to your rights. It’s not much good to be able to shout -‘You’re wrong’ when they’re pickin’ what’s left of the wind screen out -of your brain.” - -“That’s a true enough saying,” said I, “and here’s another. If you shout -for trouble, don’t squeal when your prayer is heard,” and, with that, I -took out tobacco and started to fill a pipe. - -For a moment he looked like thunder. Then he flung out a laugh. - -“I see you’re one of the Die-Hards. I confess I never drive with a Bible -under my arm. But there you are.” He rose and peered at the ditch. -“Another two inches of your precious slice of the way, and I should have -been all right.” - -“Four,” said I, and pointed to a scar in the road. “That was your safety -crease. With a wheel on that, I knew you were bound to go.” - -Perowne stared at the scar. It might have been cut with a punch. As a -matter of fact, it had. Presently he looked at me. I pressed my tobacco -home and stared at the sky. - -Perowne got out of his car and looked at her tracks. Then he picked up a -stick and did some measuring. . . . - -“You’re right,” said he. “Right to an eighth of an inch.” - -“I know,” said I. “I measured your car last night.” - -For a moment he never moved. Then he took out cigarettes, lighted one -carefully and leaned against the door with a foot on the step. - -“So I was wrong,” he said softly. “You do know how to drive.” - -I shrugged my shoulders. - -“Maybe,” said I, watching his right arm move. “I took your pistol, too,” -I added carelessly. - -For a moment or two he almost lost control. Then he took a deep breath. - -“Well,” he sighed, “you’re thorough. I’ll give you that. And my -chauffeur? I suppose I owe his failure to the same virtue.” - -“You do,” said I. “And the message.” - -“Dear, dear,” said he. “Not the telegram, too?” - -“The telegram, too,” said I. - -“Well, I’m damned,” said he, crossing his legs. “You do work hard, don’t -you?” With half-closed eyes, he let the smoke make its way out of his -mouth. “Glorious view from here. . . . That why you brought me?” - -“In a way,” said I. “It’s quite a good place to—to see the sun go -down.” - -Perowne shot me a glance. - -“No doubt,” he said shortly. “But—I’m afraid I can’t wait so long. And -now tell me your game, and I’ll see if I care to play. Which is -it—blackmail or murder?” - -“It’s not blackmail,” said I, and took off my goggles. - -“Hullo,” said Perowne. “If it isn’t old What’s-his-name!” - -The thrust was shrewd. Almost I lost my temper. To pretend that she’d -meant so little that her name was out of his mind. . . . - -Instead— - -“Some names sting the tongue,” I said quietly. - -He lifted his head and looked at the cold blue sky. - -“True,” he said. “And the brush of some lips the mouth.” - -“I’ll take your word for it,” said I. - -“Tell me,” he said, frowning. “Did she go back to you?” - -“She did,” said I: “to die.” - -“I thought she would,” said Perowne. - -“Forgive me,” said I. “You thought she wouldn’t dare.” He started. “You -used her love for me to bind her feet. That’s how you held her, you -rotten loose-lipped thief. . . trading on her devotion to another man. -. . . And then at the last, poor lady, she called her bully’s bluff, -stared Blackmail out of countenance, and came back.” - -The fellow’s face was livid: his eyes like swords. For a moment he stood -trembling, with fists clenched. Then he seemed to think better of his -valour and, clapping his hands behind him, threw himself back with a -jerk against the spare wheel. - -“And now you’re out for blood?” he burst out presently. - -I knocked out my pipe. - -“Some years ago,” I said. “I was in Macedonia. Up in the mountains, I -remember, there was an old churchyard, quite full of graves.” I looked -about me. “The place was not unlike this. . . . And every grave had been -opened—to release the spirits of the dead. It was a local superstition. -Now, what do you think lived _and grew fat_. . . . in that churchyard?” - -There was a long silence. - -At length I leaned forward. - -“Snakes, Perowne, snakes. Snakes that traded on devotion . . . turned -piteous piety to their own ends . . . used women’s love for their -husbands to fill their bellies . . . battened upon the dead . . . And -you ask if I’m out for blood. What do you think?” - -“Think?” said he. “Why, I think you’re very confident.” - -“I confess it,” said I. “I’m a poacher to-day. But you should watch your -preserves.” - -He stared at the edge of the road and into the depths beyond. Then he -tilted his chin and scanned the grandeur of Navarre—all mountains and -sudden valleys and again mountains like footstools to mountains greater -than they, so that the world seemed nothing but a black sea of breakers -foam-crested, petrified. - -“You’re sore, of course,” he mused. “It’s a way relicts have. . . . But -why have you left it so long?” - -“I thought she was happy,” I said. “It never occurred to me that the man -was born who could treat such a lady ill. But it seems you struck her, -Perowne.” - -He cried out at that, but the blood was in my head and I shouted him -down. - -“More,” I raved, “more. You jeered at her grief . . . . . . mocked at -her misery . . . twisted those delicate arms . . . cursed her for -weeping because it spoiled your sleep . . . bullied my dying girl . . . -My God! My God!” I bowed my head and covered my eyes with my hands. -“Don’t think she told me,” I muttered. “She never gave you away. -But——” - -As I lifted my head, the spare wheel caught me full in the face. - -I went down like a log, with the wheel on the top of me. I never -remember feeling so shaken up. I wasn’t exactly unconscious but things -were distorted—unreal. - -I saw Perowne seize a kit-bag and drop it into the ditch. I saw him slip -into the car and I heard her start. I saw her begin to move . . . lurch -. . . pitch to and fro. I saw the pitches grow longer—more pronounced. -I began to get quite interested, wondering at every failure whether -he’ld get her out at the next attempt. All the time his engine kept -storming like an angry fiend. . . . - -Suddenly my brain cleared, and I realized that he was like to be gone -and leave me sitting in the road with a wheel in my lap. - -I heaved the wheel off my legs and leapt for the luggage-grid, as the -car shot back. Its off hind wheel went over the spare with a couple of -jerks that nearly threw me off. Then he clapped her into first, bumped -over the spare wheel again and flung up the pass all out. . . . - -Perhaps for the very first time in all his life Perowne had lost his -nerve. I thought he had, and the moment I saw him I knew. And the -knowledge did me more good than the wind in my face. The man was not -sitting: he was crouched—with his shoulders up to his ears. His one -idea was to get away from that spot. The silence, perhaps. . . . - -He never saw me climb up over the hood or settle myself on the seat -behind his back. But I did. As a matter of fact, I sat there a minute or -two—to get my breath and recover—before I put him wise. - -Strangely enough, my touch seemed to bring his confidence back. - -He gave one whoop. . . . Then he threw back his head and laughed up into -my eyes. - -“You do work hard,” he said. “I thought you were done.” - -The road was falling now for a long half-mile. - -I stretched out a hand and switched his engine off. - -He cursed me for that. Then he stamped on the clutch. - -“I’ll take you to find her in hell,” he cried, and headed straight for -the brink. - -I clapped my hands on his and wrenched the wheel about. - -For a second I thought we were over. . . . Then the car swung back to -the crown of the road. - -Again he swerved to the off, and I wrenched her back. - -All the time the car was gathering speed. - -I had the strength, but he had the position. We swayed and swung and -swerved all over the road, fighting and raving like madmen to get the -upper hand. Twice I went for the brake, but each time, before I could -reach it, I had to catch at the wheel. I crushed his fingers, and he -screamed and spat in my face. - -We were doing fifty now, and a curve was coming. The man wasn’t born -that could take it without brakes. Perowne saw it, too, and laughed. - -“Behold our spring-board,” he said. - -I seized his neck and jammed his face between the spokes of the wheel. - -“Now turn it,” said I. - -Then I applied the brakes. . . . - -When the car came to rest, I let him lift his head. - -Then I put my hands under his chin and looked into his eyes. - -“You’ll never see her,” I said. “She’s up in heaven.” - -He smiled. - -“With the rest of the _demi-monde_!” - -I began to bend him back. - -“Where there aren’t any bullies,” I said. “She had her hell upon earth.” - -“I devilish nearly won,” said he. - -“You did,” said I. “But you made one bad mistake.” - -“Why, what was that?” said he. - -“You lost your nerve.” - -He struggled at that, and I bent him back again. - -“This won’t help her,” he blurted, panting. - -“The more’s the pity,” said I. “But it’ll help me and it’ll make the -world cleaner.” - -Again I bent him back, till his eyes were starting and his back curved -like a bow. - -“For God’s sake, end it,” he whimpered. - -“Ask in her name,” said I. - -“For . . . her . . . sake.” - -I broke his back. - -Then I turned the wheels to the edge and started the engine up. . . . - -The car came to rest finally about six hundred feet below the road—a -battered blazing wreck. - -For a moment I watched her burn, and, being human and very much in love -with my dead wife, felt better than I had felt for many a month. - -That was three days ago. - -To-morrow morning I shall report for duty. - - VI - September 5th, 1929 - -I came up from Bristol to-day. - -Just as the train was starting, the door of my carriage was opened, and -a woman was hoisted in. - -She stuck a glass in her eye and waved to her breathless squire. - -“So long, Nosey,” she said. “’Fraid I’m out of bananas, but here’s an -onion’s heart.” - -She blew him a kiss and flung herself back in her seat. - -I knew her at once: and I began to wonder if she’ld remember me. She -did. After a little reflection she opened her mouth. - -“Didn’t I meet you,” she said, “at the Meurices’?” - -“That’s right,” said I. “You told my fortune from my hand.” - -She looked at me sharply. - -“I remember,” she said. “Did—did it ever come true?” - -“Half of it did. You said I should meet a man who’ld have a terrific -influence on my life—indirectly, through somebody else. Well, you were -perfectly right.” - -“That all?” she said, looking at me very hard. - -“Yes,” I said. “That’s all that’s been fulfilled. So far as I know, I’ve -had no influence on him. And I assume I should know. Mine was to be -direct, if you remember.” - -“And physical,” said Sarah Roach. - -“And physical,” said I, “whatever that may mean. If it’s coming off, -it’ll have to come off quick. He’s over seventy-four, and the papers say -he’s ill.” - -Miss Roach stared at me as if I was drunk. - -“Seventy-four?” she snapped. “Who—what’s his name?” - -“That I can’t tell you,” said I. “But he’s in Debrett. Why shouldn’t he -be seventy-four?” - -“Oh, I don’t know.” - -She picked up her papers then, and we said no more. - -As the train was running into Paddington— - -“I don’t talk,” she said, “but I study women and men and put two and two -together rather as you do yourself. And when I’ve done my addition I -like turning up the answer to see if I’m right.” - -“Well,” said I, wondering what was afoot. - -“Well, I’ve done a sum,” she said, “and you’ve got the answer. If I tell -you my result, will you tell me whether it’s right?” - -“It depends on the sum,” said I. “I don’t talk either, you know.” - -“It’s nothing to do with your job. It’s a purely personal matter.” - -“In that case I’ll say ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’” - -“Right,” said Sarah Roach, “and remember—I don’t talk. Did you kill -Berwick Perowne?” - -“I had that pleasure,” said I. “But how did you know?” - -She laughed. - -“Simple addition,” she said. “Besides, I’m half a prophet.” - -Which is all she’ll ever be, so far as I’m concerned. For I see from -this morning’s paper that Sir George —— is dead. - - - - - ATHALIA - - - ATHALIA - -“I feel,” said Fairfax, “that I must marry you.” - -His partner threw back her head and laughed delightedly. - -“I warn you,” she flashed, “I’m very rich.” - -“Oh, but why ‘warn’?” said Fairfax, swinging her off her feet and then -subsiding abruptly into a step of which the progressive nature was -almost imperceptible. “Besides, I knew it before. Besides, if you had -been poor, I shouldn’t have spoken.” - -“Are you seriously asking me to be your wife?” - -“I am. So far as you’re concerned, the advantages of such a course may -not be obvious. To be perfectly frank, I can hardly see them myself. -Still, you might do worse. At least, I’m clean, honest and sober.” - -“I’m not so sure about that,” said Athalia Choate. - -The man raised his eyebrows. Then he laid hold of the lady and started -to dance. - -It was a superb performance. - -The floor was crowded, but, for all the notice of others that Fairfax -seemed to take, it might have been empty. The two passed as one through -the press, whirling, side-stepping, poising, translating every whim of -the capricious measure into a masterpiece of motion. Athalia found -herself treading as she had never trod before, yet making no mistake. -The firm pressure upon her back became a powerful government, urging her -to right or left, turning her, keeping her clear of collision, lifting -her into the very spirit of the dance. The pace of the music grew -hotter; the fury of the band, madcap. All about them people were -labouring hilariously in a feverish endeavour to keep abreast of the -rhythm. Fairfax’s feet moved like quicksilver . . . the two swam the -length of the ballroom with a clean rush . . . he was doing another -step, and she was late . . . she was off her feet, and he was thrusting -again into the very heart of the crowd . . . her head—— - -Then the music stopped, and she was released. - -“Am I sober?” said Punch Fairfax. - -Miss Choate took a deep breath. - -“Indubitably,” she said. - -They made their way downstairs to a dim library, and Fairfax drew two -chairs to the slow wood fire. Then he gave her a cigarette, lighted it, -and took one himself. - -“Will you do me a favour?” he said. - -“Try me,” said Miss Choate. - -“Be perfectly honest with me for a quarter of an hour.” - -The lady knitted her brows. - -“What do you mean?” - -“That will appear,” said Fairfax. “The best way to learn a game is to -start playing it. Now then. Are you averse to wedlock?” - -Miss Choate started. - -“I—I never agreed to play,” she said uneasily. - -Punch pulled his moustache. - -“It’s a very good game,” he said. “I have to answer, too—any question -you ask.” - -Athalia subjected the toe of a ridiculously tiny slipper to a prolonged -scrutiny. At length— - -“The answer,” she said, “is in the negative.” - -“Good,” said Fairfax, marking the excellence of her instep. “I’m seven -years older than you. As a matter of fact, I think that’s just about -right. Do you agree?” - -“I don’t disagree,” said Miss Choate slowly. “Anything between five and -ten years. . . . When do I start?” - -“When you please,” said Fairfax, comfortably exhaling smoke. “What a -sweet pretty leg you’ve got! Do you like my style?” - -Miss Choate swallowed. - -“You are quick,” she said. “Of course, I’ve never played this before, -so——” - -“Neither have I,” said Punch. “I give you my word. Er, do you?” - -The lady stared into the fire. - -“Yes,” she said, “I do. If I had been poor, you wouldn’t have spoken, -would you?” - -“I should not.” - -“Why?” - -“Because I haven’t enough to keep you—us as we should be kept.” - -Athalia laughed. - -“‘I could not love thee, dear, so much,’” she quoted, “‘loved I not -_comfort_ more.’” - -“My dear,” said Punch, “that was most admirably put. It exactly -represents my point of view, your point of view and the point from -which, furiously as they would deny the impeachment, every rational male -and female in this edifice views the rich vale of matrimony.” - -Miss Choate raised her sweet eyebrows. - -“We are a topping lot of wash-outs, aren’t we?” she said. - -Fairfax shook his head. - -“Not at all. We’re just wise. We have the sagacity to avoid the steep -and narrow path which leads to heroism, because we blinkin’ well know -that we should never get there.” - -“But——” - -“One moment. If Fortune puts us upon that path, as she may, that’s -another matter. We get to heroism then. But if we choose it of our own -free will—never. Never. Because, sooner or later, we always regret our -choice. And there ain’t no admittance to ’eroism for gents wot regrets -their choice.” - -“I seem to know that line,” said Miss Choate. “Isn’t it out of _His Sin -against Her Love_?” - -Fairfax appeared to wince. - -“Tennyson, dear, Tennyson. Hiawatha’s address to the Boy Scouts.” - -There was a pregnant silence. - -As soon as she could trust her voice— - -“Aren’t you leaving love out of the question?” ventured Athalia. - -“I don’t think so. I know love jettisons fear, but I don’t think it -sandbags the instinct of self-preservation. I don’t mean that if you -tottered into a bear-pit I wouldn’t go in to get you out. But if you -dropped your lip-stick in—well, the bears could have it.” - -“Supposing it was the only lip-stick I had?” - -“Nothing doing,” said Fairfax. - -“Supposing I said that if you got it out I’ld marry you?” - -“Love doesn’t——” - -“Don’t evade,” said Miss Choate. “There’s another ten minutes to go.” - -Fairfax looked at her. - -Silhouetted against the black of an old bureau, the delicate features -looked especially beautiful. The smooth brow, the straight clean-cut -nose, the sweet droop of the mouth—from temples to pert chin my lady’s -face was a picture for men to kneel to. - -Her squire covered his eyes. - -“Rot it,” he said shakily. “I—I believe I should have a dart.” - -Athalia permitted herself to smile. - -“But if I was poor you wouldn’t?” - -“No. For both our sakes. . . . Yes—I’m honest. For both. We’re earthy, -you know. It’ld mean that we’ld have to come down—come down in the -world. Well, I shouldn’t like that—I’ld hate it. And so would you. And -on the top of it all I should always know two things—first, that I’d -brought you down, and then that you might have married a richer man.” - -“How would you bring me down if I was poor?” - -“My dear, your face is your fortune—your face and your pretty ways. You -might be poor as blazes, but as long as you stayed single you could dine -and dance and sleep in half the ancestral homes of England.” - -“Sort of second Queen Elizabeth?” said Athalia. “I must be nice.” - -“Oh, but you are,” said Punch. “Most—er—most nice.” - -“D’you mind speaking the truth?” - -Fairfax moistened his lips. - -“You are probably the most adorable woman in London to-day. I have never -heard anything said of you which you would not have liked to hear. -Finally, you are frequently indicated as a future Duchess: in fact, if -you married me, I believe sterling would drop two stitches—I mean, -points.” - -“I wish I was poor,” said Miss Choate. - -“What would you do?” - -Again the lady smiled. - -“I should probably marry you,” she said. - -“But I shouldn’t ’ve asked——” - -“I should waive that preliminary,” said Miss Choate calmly. - -So soon as he could speak— - -“You forward girl,” said Fairfax. “You wicked——” - -“And you,” continued Athalia, “not having had any say in the matter, -would go up the steep and narrow path to heroism—touching the ground in -spots. I should see to that,” she added darkly. - -Fairfax wiped his brow. - -“Oh, the vixen,” he said. “Listen at her.” - -“As it is,” said his companion, “though my feet are of clay—‘earthy,’ I -think, was your expression—the man who marries me must think them of -fine gold.” - -Fairfax looked down his nose. - -“There are plenty of coves,” he said, “who’ll tell you the tale. -Besides, when I said you were earthy, I only meant ‘human.’ Hang it, -Athalia, if I told you your little feet were golden, you’ld tell me to -go straight home and sleep it off.” - -“Also,” continued Miss Choate, “he must prefer my smile to any comfort -that he has ever dreamed of.” - -“But I do,” protested her swain. “Infinitely. They’re not in the same -street.” - -“Rot,” said Athalia. “You love your comfort best every time. My smile -doesn’t come off with my pearls. If I was poor, my smile’ld still be -there. But you wouldn’t want it then.” - -“Of course I should. And if I was rich, I’ld have it. It’s not your -money I want, but it _is_ your money we need. I’ve been honest about it. -‘Live and let live,’ you know.” - -“Have you anything,” said Athalia, “but what you earn?” - -“Not a bean,” was the cheerful reply. “I had sixty thousand, you know. -But I’ve been through the lot.” - -“Good,” said my lady. “Look here. Jobs tend to cramp the style——” - -“They’re a weariness of the flesh,” sighed Punch. - -“—and my husband’s style must not be cramped. If you’ll give up your -job, I’ll—I’ll marry you.” - -Punch Fairfax sat up, open-mouthed. - -“What an’ keep me?” - -“I’ll settle two thousand a year on you. That’s twice what you earn.” - -There was an electric silence. - -Then Punch rose with a laugh. - -“‘Clean, honest and sober,’” he said quietly. “I see that I should have -added ‘respectable’: but, to tell you the truth, I——” - -“Sit down, Punch, me lad,” said Athalia Choate. “Dismount and sit down. -You’ve given the answer I wanted. Not that I really doubted, but—one -likes to make sure.” - -Fairfax regarded her thoughtfully. Then— - -“Talk about edgywedged tools,” he said, resuming his seat. “Supposing -I’d said ‘D-d-done!’—all quick like, with bulging eyes. . . .” - -Athalia laughed. - -“I should have found a way,” she murmured. “And now go on—ask me. -There’s still five minutes to go.” - -“As you please,” said Punch. “Why does one like to make sure?” - -“Because, so far as I’m concerned, there are only two starters for the -Athalia Stakes—and you’re one of them.” - -“Athalia!” - -“Wait. I’ll be perfectly straight with you. I’ve had one or two -proposals—most women have. But as yet I haven’t had one from . . . the -man I love.” Her companion started. “That’s often the way, you know. -Perhaps I shall never have it. Many women don’t. . . . But oh”—she -laced her slight fingers, set them against her cheek and raised her eyes -ecstatically—“oh, I hope I shall, Punch. If you knew what it meant to -me! I’ld be so awfully happy. . . .” - -“Well, I—I hope you will, too,” said Fairfax dismally. “I—I do -really. . . . But what are you telling me this for?” - -“Because you can help me. You see, he is such a dear, but, though we’re -quite good friends, the idea of falling in love with me doesn’t seem to -have entered his head. And, if he saw us together, I think it might make -him think.” - -Fairfax laughed hysterically. - -“Excuse my emotion,” he said. “The—the humour of it’s sort of dawning -on me—that’s all.” - -“‘Humour’?” cried Athalia. - -“Humour—‘h’ mute. Let me explain. Only two runners for the Stakes, of -which I’m one and the other won’t start. So I’m to show off my -paces—play about on the course and generally show the other what fun -running is, and then when it finally dawns on him that if he follows the -rails they’ll bring him to the post, I’m to—— Well, where _do_ I come -in? I suppose I get a lump of sugar and a dazzling smile.” - -“Perhaps,” said Athalia dreamily, “the other’ll never start.” - -Punch set his teeth. - -“Does it occur——” - -“Perhaps,” continued Athalia, “when he does, you’ll leave him standing.” -The man stared. “That’s my trouble. I love him desperately now—possibly -because he doesn’t love me. But, once he’s started, you may go right -away.” - -Fairfax fingered his chin. - -“D’you really think that likely?” - -“It’s quite on the cards. At the moment I like you and I love him. So I -obviously can’t marry you. If once he gets going, I shall see him in -quite a new light. And then—why, I mayn’t love him at all.” - -“Are you sure you’ve got it right?” said Punch. “I mean, these ’ere -love-squalls are very tricky. Perhaps you don’t really care about either -of us. I’m sure you think you do, but perhaps you don’t. I remember -Dusty Bligh wobbling between Ray Darling, that was, and Monica Pump. -Neither of the girls would have been seen dead with him, but that never -entered his head. His trouble was that he couldn’t decide which to have. -It was like a billiard match. In the afternoon Monica’ld be leading, and -in the evening Ray’ld get her eye in and fairly walk away. It might have -been going on now, if a widow with three kids hadn’t rolled up and -pinched the prize.” - -“Serve him right,” said Miss Choate. “But I’m not wobbling. Don’t you -believe it. If the man I love would only propose to-night, I’ld fairly -jump at him.” - -“The devil you would,” said Fairfax. - -“But he won’t,” said Athalia sadly. “Don’t be afraid.” A tender note -slid into the fresh tones. “I think he’s love-shy. He’ll want a lot of -leading. And then, as I’ve said, perhaps it won’t be the same.” - -Punch frowned upon his finger-nails. - -“You know, it’s all damned fine,” he said uneasily, “but in the course -of this running-up stunt I may get fond of you.” He hesitated. -Then—“Not soppy, you know, but—but troubled . . . go off my feed and -that sort of thing. At the present moment I’m sorry, and there you are; -but if I saw a lot of you, as you seem to suggest I should—well, I -might easily get distracted. And then if the other gent comes off I’m -carted good and proper, I am.” - -Athalia shrugged her white shoulders. - -“That’s your look-out. On the other hand, I may get fond of you. It’s a -gamble, of course: but so are a lot of things. And I’ve told you the -absolute truth. I needn’t have. Not one woman in a million would have. -They’ld ’ve played you up all right without putting you wise. And you’ld -’ve blessed or cursed them according as it fell out. But I agreed to be -honest—for a quarter of an hour. . . . Incidentally, I see the time’s -up.” - -“Make it twenty minutes,” said Fairfax hastily. - -“Not for worlds,” said Athalia, with a bewitching smile. She rose and, -standing a-tiptoe, peered at herself in the mirror above the hearth. -“And now, which is it to be?” - -Thoughtfully Punch regarded her exquisite form. - -Presently the girl turned her head and looked at him over her shoulder. - -In silence their eyes met. - -At length— - -“I feel I’m asking for trouble,” said the man, “but I may as well have a -dart.” He rose, stepped to her side and took her small hands in his. “I -don’t believe I’ve an earthly, Athalia dear, but, whatever happens, I’ll -have been with you a bit, won’t I? And—when I’m hungry, I expect I’ll -be glad of those crumbs.” - -Miss Choate said nothing. - -Fairfax kissed her cool fingers. - - * * * * * - -Six weeks had gone by, through which, so far as his secretaryship -permitted, Punch had devoted his time to Athalia Choate. Three days out -of five he saw her by hook or by crook. One night they danced together, -another they dined. Twice, time being hard to come by, they had met -before breakfast in the Row. On three out of seven Sundays they had -spent the day in his car—a powerful grey two-seater, aged and greedy, -but sound and good to look at. The comfort of its rubbed cushions stuck -in the memory, like that of a glass of old port. - -Such attention would not have been possible, but for the lady herself. -Athalia’s parents were dead, and, though she visited America every -autumn, the great mansion in Philadelphia was rented year after year, -and its girlish landlord spent nearly all her time within hail of a -beloved aunt. The latter had married one of the King’s Household. . . . -The engagement-book of an exceptionally attractive heiress, so -chaperoned, is apt to be full. But Athalia saw to it that Punch was not -crowded out. More. True to the spirit of their contract, the girl never -fobbed him off. Whenever he sought her company, she gave it with a quick -smile. If his work made their meeting difficult, she helped him to find -a way. If he bored her, she never showed it: if another should have -stood in his shoes, she gave no sign. Only, though she had her own cars, -she never used them once when Fairfax was there. Whatever the night, she -came and went by taxi if Punch was to be her squire. And though two or -three times he came to her uncle’s house, it was always to big parties, -where he was one of a crowd. If she entertained herself, Fairfax was -never asked. - -That this faintly surprised the latter, the following letter will show. -He wrote it to his twin sister, Lady Defoe. - - _July 18th, 1923._ - _Dear Judy_, - - _The worst has happened. I knew it would. I’m off my feed. As - gentle a brace of kidneys as ever you saw. . . . I give you my - word, I had to cover them up—they stared so reproachfully. - Well, it’s my own fault. I walked slap into the cage—Athalia - showed me round it: together we looked at the bars. And now I - can’t get out. I tell you I’ve got it bad. I’ve got to the - mathematical stage—adding up how many hours before I see her - again, subtracting so many for sleep and glaring at the balance - as if it were a bad debt. Did you ever do that, Judy? And all - the time I’m racking my rotten brain. . . . I’m sure it’s - Beringhampton. I’m positive. He knew her before, of course: but - he never sat up and took notice until a month ago. And - now—well, Mary’s lamb isn’t in it. He’s always around - somewhere—always. I happen to know he loathes racing, but the - two days she was at Newmarket there he was. I must admit he’s - good-looking—I think he’s the best-looking man I ever saw. But - he’s a queer-tempered cove. And I’m sorry if he’s the man—as he - surely is. You see, Judy, no one else fits. If you asked me to - find a fellow who needed a lead, who didn’t know his own mind, - who’ld keep on staring at a strawberry and thinking what a - whopper it was without it entering his head that he might as - well pick it—I should shout ‘Beringhampton.’ Everyone would. - Oh, of course it’s him. ‘The man I love.’ Aren’t women funny? Of - course I may be wrong. There’s plenty of other lads all over - Athalia; but they’re not hard up for ideas. They don’t need any - pushing: most’ld look a bit better with four-wheel brakes. - Again, it may be someone who hasn’t stripped: but, if it is, - they’re lying devilish low. I tell you I’ve racked my - brain. . . . But whoever it is has done me in all right—mucking - about like this. Damn it, they must love her, unless they’ve got - tea in their veins. You’ve only got to see her for that. Then - what’s their mouth for? And while they’re boggling, I’m being - broken up. . . . And there you are. If somebody said, ‘All - right: they shall speak to-night,’ I’ld knock his face through - his head. I love my tenterhooks. You know—the ‘sweet sorrow’ - stunt. I tell you, Judy, I’m on the edge of poetry. I want the - business finished and I don’t want it finished. I don’t know - what I want. Yes, I do._ I want Athalia. _I want her as I never - wanted anything before. I thought I wanted her six weeks ago. - ‘Want’? I didn’t know what the word meant. I’m absolutely mad - about her, Judy. I don’t let her see it, you know, but when she - appears I have to hold on to something or I’ld be jumping up and - down. Her eyes, her hair, her blessed mouth—why, her little - mouth’ld make most women, wouldn’t it? You do like her, don’t - you? Of course I know you do, but just say so in your next - letter. Just make up something nice and shove it in. It’ll be - like a drink to me. . . . Well, I don’t know what’s to happen. - We never fixed a time-limit, so this may go on for months. - Sometimes I feel I can’t bear it—only last night I damned near - had it all out. But then, if I do and she thinks the other - cove’s warming up, everything’ll be queered: I shall be fired on - the spot and my precious little bubble’ll become, as they say, - disintegrated. Whereupon I shall seek the water under the - earth. . . . At other times I’m afraid—terrified, Judy old - girl, that the very next time I see her she’s going to say, - ‘He’s won,’ and wring my hand and thank me for working - Beringhampton up to the scratch. You see, she’s no idea that - she’s shortening my life. She knows I’m out to marry her, but - she doesn’t dream that I’m nearly off my head. I hide it all - right, you know. Most casual, I am. And when she isn’t looking, - I kiss her blessed gloves. . . ._ - - _She doesn’t ask me to dinner. That shows how little she knows. - Of course she’ld ask me if she thought I’ld care to come. It - just doesn’t occur to her, Judy. I admit she asks - Beringhampton—at least, she did last time. . . ._ - - _I suppose you couldn’t write and suggest that she came to - Biarritz. Wrap it up, you know. Say the bathing’s a treat, and - it’s the first time you’ve been warm since the War, and all that - sort of wash. You see, I can get leave in August, and what more - natural or pious than that I should come and see you? - Incidentally, that’ld show us whether Beringhampton means - business. If he follows her to Biarritz, he simply must speak._ - - _So long, Judy love,_ - _Punch_. - - _P.S.—Of course, it may be all over before August. I don’t_ - think _B.’s going strong, but, except for Sundays, I never see - her by day. From ten to six he’s got the course to himself. - These cursed idle rich. . . . I tell you I’m seeing the Labour - point of view._ - - _P.P.S.—What an_ histoire _this letter is! I’ve just been - reading it through, and it’s shaken me up._ - - _I’m coming unbuttoned, Judy. Poor old Punch is coming - unbuttoned at last._ - -Seven days later Miss Choate confided to Fairfax that she had heard from -Judy. - -“Not my twin-sister?” said Punch, with a daring display of amazement. - -“The same,” said Athalia. “Why shouldn’t I hear from her?” - -“No reason at all,” said Punch, “except that she never writes. I’ve had -six letters from her since she was married—that’s seven years ago. Mole -says she’s a vegetarian—thinks it cruel to use ink, but, speakin’ as -one who’s known her all her life except the first twenty minutes, I -incline, as they say, to the view that she’s labour-shy. What does she -say?” - -“Suggests that I come to Biarritz. By way of inducement she adds: _The -bathing’s a treat, and it’s the first time you’ve been warm since the -War, and all that sort of wash._” - -Mentally, Fairfax consigned Lady Defoe to a resort where the warmth -would be still more remarkable. - -“Must be losing her mind,” he said shortly. “What ‘wash’?” - -“Can’t conceive,” said Miss Choate innocently. “Never mind. The point -is, shall I go?” - -“Why not?” said Punch. “It’s about the only place in Europe I know where -you can bathe in comfort without a fleece-lined wet-off bathing-suit and -a sealskin towel. I shouldn’t faint with surprise if I rolled up there -myself. I want to see Judy, and my leave starts on the sixth.” - -“I’m not sailing till the end of September,” said Athalia musingly, “so -I could put in a month. I must confess I’ld rather like to get warm. -When’s your Bank Holiday?” - -“Sixth of _août_,” said Punch. “I should give that a miss.” - -“If I went on the fourth . . .” She sighed. “At least, it’ll be a -change. After all, Life’s rather like a frock. If it’s to be a success, -you must see it from every angle. Besides, to tell you the truth, I -think it’ld be a good move—my suddenly leaving the stage. Nature abhors -a vacuum.” - -Fairfax’ heart stood still. - -After an awkward silence— - -“Is—is he showing any signs of life?” he said uncertainly. - -Athalia looked away. - -“I—I think so,” she whispered. - - * * * * * - -Upon being approached, Sir Charles Grist could see no reason at all why -his secretary’s leave should not commence at five on Sunday afternoon -instead of at twelve o’clock on Sunday night. - -It was therefore eight-thirty o’clock of a pleasant August evening when -the old grey two-seater slid through the streets of Newhaven and down to -the idle quay. - -Two other cars were waiting to go aboard. One was a green cabriolet with -red wire wheels. - -Fairfax knew it at once—and stopped in his tracks. - -It was an Hispano-Suiza, the property of a nobleman—that, in fact, of -the Most Honourable the Marquess of Beringhampton. - -For a moment or two Punch stared at the equipage. Then he took out his -case and lighted a cigarette. - -“They’re off at last,” he said. “After seven weeks at the gate, at last -they’re off. . . . If I wasn’t a blinkin’ fool, I should turn round and -drive straight back. As it is . . .” He shifted uneasily. “_Damn_ it -all, why shouldn’t I have a run? Why shouldn’t I have it out before he -comes—get there and have it out? An’ tell her he’s coming an’ then push -gracefully off? I’ve nothing to lose, and I’ld like her to know how much -I really cared.” He sat up suddenly. “By George, I will. When she knows -he’s really off, perhaps she won’t——” He stopped short there, took off -his hat and carefully wiped his face. Then he put on his hat, adjusted -it carefully, thrust his cigarette between his lips, and folded his -arms. “The art of Life,” he announced, “is to keep one’s bullet head. If -I go, it’s simply because I’ve got nothing to lose.” - -As the A.A. man came up— - -“Last on the boat, first off—am I right?” said Fairfax. - -“You are, sir.” - -“Then put me on last, please.” - -“I will, sir.” - -Punch handed over his papers and sought for a drink. - -As he passed into the hotel, Beringhampton came out. - -“Hullo,” said Fairfax cheerfully. “Come and have another.” - -The other stared. - -“Are you crossing?” he said. - -“I am that,” said Fairfax, “complete with automobile. Destination, -B-B-B-Biarritz—where the rainbow ends.” - -“What are you going there for?” - -“Pleasure,” said Punch shortly. “And you?” - -For a moment Beringhampton looked him in the face. Then the peer’s eyes -fell to the mat at his feet. - -“I never talk,” he said. “I never talk.” - -He spat the words rather than spoke them. - -“All right,” said Fairfax, laughing. “But come to the harbour bar and -have a——” - -“’S damned bad form to laugh,” flashed Beringhampton, and went his way. - -Fairfax looked after him. - -“The man’s mad,” he murmured. “Staring mad. Face like a Greek god, an’ a -kink in his brain. . . . And to think she thinks she loves him!” He -raised his eyes to heaven. “Oh, where’s the bar?” - -That night in his cabin Fairfax remade his plans. - -Between Dieppe and Biarritz lay five hundred and twenty miles. He had -intended to stay one night on the road and had chosen Tours as his -lodging. From Dieppe to Tours the distance was two hundred miles. Thus, -travelling at ease, he would have come to Biarritz on Tuesday afternoon. - -His meeting with Beringhampton had altered everything. - -Generally, it suggested that any avoidable delay should be avoided. -Specially, it emphasized the desirability of extreme haste, first, -because Beringhampton would naturally propose to reach Biarritz before -the grey two-seater, and, secondly, because the Hispano-Suiza was far -and away the faster car. - -Punch knitted his brows. - -The boat would reach Dieppe at 4 a.m.: with luck his car could have -passed the Customs and be actually on the road at five o’clock; and -then—five hundred and twenty miles. . . . - -Rejecting travellers’ tales in favour of the report of personal -experience, Punch decided that if he could maintain an average of -thirty-five miles an hour he would do extremely well. If he allowed two -hours for meals and rest, that would bring him to Biarritz by ten -o’clock. To shave, bathe, change and locate Athalia would take the best -part of an hour. Eleven o’clock. Punch wrinkled his nose. Mercifully -Miss Choate kept late hours . . . mercifully. . . . And this was -assuming that he ran to time. - -With a sigh, Fairfax took out tobacco and lighted a pipe. - -By what hour the Hispano-Suiza could reach Biarritz he deliberately -declined to calculate. The answer could do no good and would be -discouraging. Given a car which can average fifty upon the open road, -and a chauffeur to take the wheel when you feel tired. . . . But then -who was to say that Beringhampton would go straight through? Besides -. . . - -Fairfax folded his map and took off his collar and shoes. Then he lay -down on the seat and wished for the day. - -This came in due season, fresh and cloudless: but other things -first—the port of Dieppe, for instance, and shouts and clangings of the -telegraph. - -A press of miserable passengers, cold, heavy-laden, white-faced, -squeezed and fought its way towards the steep gangway, stumbled up the -rude slope, clattered over setts and metals and swarmed nervously into a -grisly Custom House, there to protest despairingly that it had ‘nothing -to declare.’ Blue-jerseyed porters, frantic with excitement, panted and -screamed and staggered under stupendous loads. A steam crane swung to -and fro about its business, responding with an uncanny intelligence to -the medley of confused directions constantly hurled at its cab. Trucks, -seemingly designed for uproar, bumped and rumbled and crashed from quay -to platform, their governors bawling for ‘_Attention_’ in a monotonous -drawl. A man in charge of a refreshment-waggon was crying his wares: -another shouted recurringly that the train would not depart for thirty -minutes and urged the prudence of a meal at the buffet: a boy was -dismally chanting the names of newspapers; a porter who had lost his -patrons was howling “_Soixante-dix_”: four Frenchmen were arguing -explosively about ‘summer time’: a terrier was barking like a fiend: -over all, the deafening roar of escaping steam strengthened the -resemblance of the scene to the evacuation of hell. As if to clinch its -identity, here and there stood the cloaked and hooded figures of -Authority, motionless, silent, indifferent to the bustle and hubbub, -smoking contemptuously, sinister, lynx-eyed. Their deliberate detachment -from struggling humanity, their sullen observance and studied disregard -of a thousand needs, were arguing a stony misanthropy, malicious, -Satanic. - -Fairfax watched and waited with an eye on the clock. So did -Beringhampton. The latter’s chauffeur had a very bad time. It was not, -of course, his fault that the officials declared their intention of -disembarking the cars as they came. Neither, indeed, was it his fault -that, when the cars were ashore, a certain necessary officer was not -forthcoming. Yet he paid for this, as did the A.A. man—generously. The -idea of waiting till seven did not appeal to Beringhampton—nor, for the -matter of that, to Punch, either. Still, the latter kept his temper and -cursed with a smile on his lips. . . . - -While Beringhampton stalked off the quay in search of a lodging, Fairfax -took off his coat and went over his car. Not so the Marquess’ chauffeur. -After asking Punch if he could be of any assistance, the latter climbed -into his charge and endeavoured to sleep. Injustice makes a bad servant. -It also may do a rival a very good turn. It did—that Monday morning. Of -the five cars to be cleared the grey two-seater was the first inspected -and the Hispano-Suiza the fifth. Beringhampton raged. Then a tire was -found flat, and the wheel had to be changed. . . . - -While Punch was clear of Dieppe by seven-fifteen, it was half-past eight -ere the other took the road. - -A start of fifty miles was not to be sneezed at, but the ghastly delay -of more than two hours had altered everything. Fairfax knew in his heart -that his chances of reaching Biarritz upon the right side of midnight -were very small. If he could average forty the whole of the way, well -and very good. Otherwise, any interview he might have with Athalia would -take place the following day. She kept late hours, certainly, but not so -late as all that. On the other hand, barring accidents, there was no -reason at all why a clear eye and a determined arm should not bring the -Hispano-Suiza to Biarritz by nine o’clock. The devil of it was that -Beringhampton must know that, if he but pleased to hurry, he could have -the field to himself. The three hours lost would have been of no use to -him. Had he arrived at six, by the time he had changed, Miss Choate -would have gone to dress, and thence to dinner. Not till, say, half-past -nine would he have had a look-in. And by then Fairfax might have come up -to cramp his style. But now, if he pleased, he could have the field to -himself. . . . - -Punch swore beneath his breath and coaxed the grey two-seater to -sixty-two. - -He ran into Rouen as clocks were striking eight, and, meeting the river, -followed it out of the town. - -Past a quarry and up through the rising woods, over the glittering -Seine, through Pont-de-l’Arche, by Louviers’ precious church, into -mitred Evreux, where the broad road splits into a delta of aged streets, -up over the railway and on to the rolling plain the grey two-seater -flung like a thing possessed. - -The first real check came at old Dreux, where it was market day. Horses -and cattle and carts lumbered and lurched and sprawled and backed over -the pavement, thrusting and being thrust: lorries panted and stormed, -insistently demanding passage and finding none: little groups of -peasants stood in the fairway, absorbed in discourse, shifting -mechanically as the raving traffic pushed its way by: gossiping eagerly, -old women plunged and bundled from side to side, apparently oblivious -alike of time and place until dragged from under cartwheels or -overthrown by collision: urchins were baiting dogs, set to guard -tail-boards: gentle-eyed calves stared over sides of gigs: chickens, -pinioned and thrown, eyed the welter with indignant surprise. - -Ere he had time to withdraw, Punch was engulfed, and ten precious -minutes went by before he was out of the town. - -Troubles are gregarious. - -Ten miles from Chartres a tire burst. - -Fairfax changed the wheel and then, looking over his engine, found that -his fan-strap had gone. - -It was past ten now and becoming immensely hot. Not to repair the defect -there and then would be the act of a fool. Punch shook the sweat from -his eyes and sought for a spare. . . . - -The sight of Chartres’ exquisite spires, rising like toy steeples out of -the hazy plain, was comforting, but his relentless wrist-watch and the -thought of a useless tire jabbed viciously at Fairfax’ nerves. He could -not make up his mind whether to stop at Chartres and fit a new tire or -to take what risk there was and go his way. As he swept up the -boulevards he decided to stop for water and nothing else. - -He must pass the _Place des Epars_, and he knew a garage was -there. . . . The next moment he saw its pump. He drew up to the gap in -the kerb with a swift rush. . . . - -While they were drawing water, he ran across the _Place_ and purchased a -pie. The _pâtés_ of Chartres are famous and a meal in themselves. Then -he bought two bottles of Evian and hurried back. He found the mechanic -regarding the near fore wheel. There was a gash in the cover through -which you could see the tube. . . . - -It was a quarter to eleven by the time he was out of Chartres, and -Beringhampton passed him five miles beyond Vendôme. - -Punch marked his passage mutely, with stony eyes. Then he slid under -some trees and took out the clutch. . . . - -He broke his fast quickly and then lay down in the grass by the side of -the road. He knew what it meant to feel sleepy over the wheel. For -perhaps ten minutes he dozed. Then he rose, bathed his face and swung -himself into the car. . . . - -The road was wicked now—broken to bits. The grey two-seater leaped like -a young ram. But Fairfax let her have it and went like the wind. He had -nothing to lose. . . . - -The broken road took its toll, and when he slid into Tours, one of his -wings was flapping and his number-plate hanging by a thread. - -He pushed up the _Rue Nationale_, to see Beringhampton’s colours -crawling ahead. - -With a hammering heart, Fairfax drew very close. . . . - -As he slipped by he glanced round. - -The chauffeur saw him and smiled and touched his hat. Except for him at -the wheel, the car was empty. - -Punch pulled into the side, and the other slowed up. - -“Where’s his lordship?” said Fairfax. - -The man’s lips tightened. - -“He’s just taken the train, sir.” - -“Why?” - -“We ’ad a very near shave, sir, a mile or two back.” He passed his hand -over his eyes. “As near to death as ever I want to be.” He paused. Then -he burst out. “I’ve given ’im notice, sir. I’ve only got one life. If -they mark a bend over ’ere, you can bet it’s a turn and a ’alf. I -pointed ’im out the sign, but ’e didn’t care. . . . An’ a steam-roller -waitin’ the other side.” He wiped his face. “I thought we was done, I -did. . . . When we was through, I told ’im I’ld leave ’im at Tours. ’E -asked me if I was afraid, an’ I said, Yes, I was. ‘Then drive,’ says he. -‘An’ be cursed an’ ’ounded,’ says I, ‘till I can’t think straight? Not -much, my lord,’ I says. ‘I’ll leave at Tours.’ When we got ’ere ’e drove -to the station an’ asked if there was a train. . . . Some train was -there—movin’ . . . They ’auled ’im in and I pushed ’is dressing-case -up. ‘Deliver the car,’ he cries, an’ there you are.” - -“What filthy luck!” cried Punch, half to himself. “What filthy luck!” - -The man looked at him curiously. Then he glanced at the car. - -“You’re coming to pieces, sir. Are you going far?” - -“Biarritz,” said Punch. - -The fellow glanced at his clock. - -“I suppose you’ll be needin’ your car, sir, or I—I could give you a -lift.” - -Fairfax’ heart leaped. Then he shook his head. - -“I can’t use his car,” he said. - -“It isn’t ’is car,” cried the man. “’E sold ’er a week ago—sold ’er to -Mr. Fairie. ’E’s at St. Johndylose. An’ as ’e was goin’ to Beeritz, ’is -lordship made the offer to bring ’er out.” He dived at a pocket. “Why, -’er papers an’ all’s in Mr. Fairie’s name.” - -“Mr. Fairie of Castle Charing?” - -“That’s right, sir. Is he a friend of yours?” - -“I should think he was,” shouted Fairfax. “But I say—I want to move.” - -The chauffeur smiled. - -“She’ll move, sir. D’you know the way?” - -“I do. D’you want any petrol?” - -“I was just going to fill the tank, sir.” - -“I know a garage here. You follow me.” - -Ten minutes later the faithful grey two-seater had been worthily -bestowed, the Hispano-Suiza’s tank had been filled to the brim and -Fairfax had taken his seat beside her driver. - -As they moved off— - -“She’s better nor any train,” said the latter shortly. - -If the surface was none too good, at least the way was straight and the -road open. The reaches became gigantic: after each bend you could see -for miles ahead. The traffic, too, was negligible. It was, indeed, the -exception not to have the road to yourself. - -With the roar of a lion, the great car leapt at her prey. . . . - -Time and again the illusion of the frantic approach of things stationary -was almost irresistibly real. Time and again, when the road rose and -fell, the sensation of using a switchback was painfully acute. Time and -again, as they passed another vehicle, the fierce cuff of uproar made -Fairfax wince. Time and again pace dislocated sight and left the brain -fumbling. - -Villages sprang into being out of flat places: a huddle of distant dots -shivered into a town: as for the eternal trees beside the road, they -seemed no farther apart than a ladder’s rungs. - -The windscreen was open, and the warm air tore at their ears: the -thunder of the engine became a stock background of resonance against -which other sounds stood up as against silence: it seemed that hearing -was going the way of sight. - -Presently came Poitiers. - -They skirted the ancient city and streaked up the Ruffec road. - -Punch began to wonder what time Beringhampton would arrive. If it was -the Spanish Express which he had caught, he might, he reckoned, reach -Biarritz by seven o’clock. That meant that at eight o’clock he could -take the field—not a very convenient hour, but better than nine. Oh, -infinitely better than nine. And if Athalia could help, of course she -would. He had only to send up a note and ask her to give him ten minutes -before she dined. . . . - -Punch began to construct the interview with narrowed eyes, and -presently, being very tired, he fell asleep. - -The chauffeur roused him, to point to a fine old city piled up on a -hill. - -Fairfax could only stare. - -It was Angoulême. - -They swept the hem of her garment and on to the Bordeaux road. - -It was during this lap most of all that the burden and heat of the day -made themselves felt. The sun seemed to know that they were fighting -with Time and to take up the cudgels upon his captain’s behalf. The fury -of light and heat punished them mercilessly, scorching their faces, -keeping their eyes hooded and making the muscles of their eyelids ache -hideously with the strain. But the chauffeur never complained or -slackened speed. The man understood well enough that Fairfax and -Beringhampton were riding some race, and the memory of the stripes which -the latter had laid upon him made him strain every nerve to bring the -former home. Punch was certainly well horsed. The fellow knew his engine -inside out: besides, he had done some racing and remembered the tricks -of the trade. - -There were times when the car swept like a blast of the wind: at others -she whizzed like a shell shot out of a gun: now she swooped and sailed -like a ranging gull, and now she soared up a hill with the rush of a -lift: and once, on a good piece of road, for three long minutes she -seemed to be standing still, heaving gently like a ship riding at -anchor, while five miles of the countryside slid into and out of sight. - -They ran into Bordeaux at a quarter to six. - -There they took in petrol and ate and drank. And Fairfax called for a -time-table and studied it while he fed. He might have spared his labour. -The table was two years old, and the pages he needed were gone. - -They were in the car again by six o’clock. - -There was pavement to come now—some of it pretty bad. Who went by -Salles avoided the very worst—and tacked ten miles on to his journey. -Fairfax went by Salles: it was not his car. - -He had his reward. - -The sun had retired now and was well on their right: the air was cooler, -and a faint tang of salt hung in its breath: the blessed evening was -coming to ease their progress. - -Fairfax never forgot that last long stretch. - -The sun was going down, and the shadows were growing long, and distance -was creeping close. Ahead and on either hand the countryside was gone: -Earth seemed to have thrown back to the days before she was tamed: -Nature ran wild. Forest and furze and broom had the world to themselves. -And the car shore them in two as a draper’s scissors shear stuff—league -after shining league, with a steady snarl. Twice they met a lorry and -three times a touring car and twenty carts, perhaps, in nearly a hundred -miles. . . . - -They swept through St. Geours with twenty-five miles to go. - -They dropped down into Bayonne, slipped across the Adour, swung to the -right at cross-roads, and followed the tram-lines out. - -They had to go slowly then, for the road was narrow and full. Still, -they edged their way along, passing when there was room. - -They floated into Biarritz at twenty-five minutes past eight. . . . - -There was no room at the Carlton, but Lady Defoe was there, so they -promised to squeeze Punch in. - -As a porter picked up his suit-case— - -“All right, sir?” queried the chauffeur. - -The eagerness of his tone touched Fairfax’ heart. - -As he gave him a note— - -“Thanks to you—yes,” he said, smiling. “Good night—and many thanks.” - -It would have been brutal to tell him anything else. - - * * * * * - -At last Punch found Athalia, by going from pillar to post. She was -staying at the _Palais_, had dined out and come back to dance. - -They danced a few steps. Then he led her out of the ballroom and into -the August night. - -“What is it?” she said. - -“He’s here somewhere. Has he spoken?” - -Athalia looked away. - -“Not yet,” she said slowly. “Not yet, but—I think he will . . . any -moment, now.” - -Fairfax stared at the sea shifting to and fro and the line of miniature -breakers curling and roaring as gently as sucking doves. - -He had done it—achieved his purpose. It seemed impossible that only -that morning he had stood on the quay at Dieppe and gone over the car. -Yet he had done so—that morning. And now—here he was at Biarritz. And -there was Athalia looking at him with steady eyes. And Beringhampton had -not spoken. . . . He was—in time. - -The tragedy of it was _he had nothing to say_. - -There _was_ nothing to say. He had meant to ‘have it out.’ He had torn -across France like a madman to ‘have it out.’ Have what out? There was -nothing to have out. Athalia had said as much . . . _any moment, -now_. . . . In the face of that, how could he—— - -He began to wonder whether such a giant fool’s errand had ever been run -before. - -Athalia was speaking. - -“What is it, Punch? You didn’t start a day early to ask me that.” - -“I didn’t start a day early.” - -A puzzled look came into the great brown eyes. - -“But you can’t have——” - -“Yes, I did,” said Fairfax. “I got to Dieppe this morning and came down -by road. I started from there at seven and got here at half-past eight.” - -Athalia started. - -Then she caught at his arm. - -“Punch, Punch! You might have broken your neck! Why—why did you come so -terribly fast?” - -The man hesitated. - -“Why?” breathed Athalia. - -Punch swung round and caught her hands in his. - -“Will you forgive me if I tell you?” - -“I’ve asked you to.” - -“Why, then, it’s because I had to—had to get here and see you before he -came. I couldn’t stand by, Athalia, and watch you step out of my life -without a word. I’m mad—crazy about you. I can’t think of anything -else. When I’m not with you everything’s dull and flat, and the only way -I get through is by thinking of what you look like and how soon I’ll see -you again. Your hair, your eyes, your temples, your precious, darling -mouth—I know every tiny look of them. If I could paint, I’ld paint your -portrait from memory without a slip. I know your hands and the shape of -your tiny nails, and I’ld know your step from a million if you were -going by. Oh, my lady, I do love you so. I thought I did when I asked -you to be my wife, but I didn’t at all. I hadn’t begun to love you. But -now . . . Oh, Athalia, my sweet, I’ve tried to play the game. You don’t -know what it’s meant to sit by your side in the car and see your face at -my shoulder and hold my tongue. I’ve had to hold on to myself to keep my -head. When I said that but for your money I wouldn’t have opened my -mouth, I must have been mad. If you hadn’t a bean—why, I’ld go across -Europe on my hands and knees and beg and pray you to let me ‘bring you -down.’ Yes, I’ve got to that, my lady. Bringing you down or no—I’ld beg -and pray. You see, I’ve turned selfish. You’ve come to mean too much, -and that’s the truth.” He stopped short there. Then he let fall her -hands and turned to the sea. “And there you are, sweetheart—I can call -you that this once. You asked me why I hurried, and now you know. If -he’d spoken before I got here, I couldn’t have told you this. And I felt -I wanted you to know. That’s all. I just wanted you to know . . . how -very much . . . I cared.” - -For a moment the girl said nothing. - -Then— - -“I’m glad you did,” she said gently, “awfully glad. And now I’ll tell -you a secret. The Athalia Stakes have been won.” - -“_Won!_” - -“Won. Listen. The result was a dead heat.” - -Fairfax started. - -“But you said he hadn’t spoken.” - -“I know. Never mind. He has. And you’ve dead-heated—you and . . . the -man I love.” - -Punch put a hand to his head. - -“Well, here’s a go,” he said. “What do we do now? You can’t marry us -both.” - -With a half-laugh, half-sob, Athalia slid her arms round his neck. - -“Yes, I can, my darling. You see, you’re both called Punch.” - - - - - ANN - - - ANN - -Lady Ann Minter alighted thankfully. - -After the burden and heat of the third-class carriage the evening air of -Suet was like a drink of water—out of a dirty mug. Still, it was water: -and the journey down had been hell. After all, the tip of a beggar’s -finger made a desirable continent for a certain rich man. - -Her husband took her arm and shepherded her out of the press. - -“See now, kid,” he said tenderly, setting her dressing-case down, “you -jus’ stay ’ere an’ watch out for me. I’m off to find your trunk.” - -“All right, Bob,” said Lady Ann Minter. - -Alone for the first time since her marriage, she strove to marshal her -thoughts. These, however, were mutinous. The flight of opportunity, the -welter of noise and movement on the fringe of which she stood undermined -her authority. It was vital that she should think quickly and clearly, -that she should make up her mind. Everything was depending upon -immediate decision. But the very premises were denied her. She was wild -to face the facts: but the facts danced and flickered and would not be -faced. - -Hideous, blazing queries blinded her fumbling brain. She found herself -reading them aloud. - -“Why didn’t I think of all this? How can I possibly bear it? What shall -I do—_do_?” - -And then the scorching answers. - -“God knows . . . I must . . . _Nothing_. . . .” - -She saw her father standing with his back to the log-laden hearth—saw -his white, set face and his tightened lips. There were roses on the -mantelpiece behind him, and a Morland hanging above—a spreading oak and -a cottage and a jolly brown horse. . . . and a woman was standing in the -doorway, holding a little boy, and a man on the horse was smiling . . . -and they were all alone and happy, under the spreading oak . . . very -poor and simple, but alone and very happy. . . . - -She saw her aunt on her knees with tears running down her face—saw the -china ranged orderly upon the walls—smelt the pot-pourri she had made -the year before. The evening sun was pouring into the chamber, planting -badges of gold on plate and bowl and pitcher, turning the closet into a -queen’s parlour. . . . - -She saw the register office and the registrar’s face like a mask, heard -the cameras click as she and Bob passed out, felt the insolent stares of -the waiter who brought them lunch. . . . - -The journey down had been frightful. The heat, the discomfort, the -everlasting talk. . . . - -The coaches had been standing in the August sun and had become veritable -ovens. Such air as entered them was baked instantly. Yet, the fight for -seats had been savage—one woman had been knocked down, and children had -been dragged and trampled. Bob had secured two places because he was -strong, but one had been seized before his bride could take possession. -A violent dispute had followed, while Ann stood between the seats -smiling nervously and ready to die of shame. Indeed, but for the timely -eviction of another inmate, the sudden activity of whose diaphragm -disclosed the moving fact that he was considerably the worse for liquor, -relations must have been strained beyond the breaking-point. The -spectacle, however, of the wages of intemperance had proved that touch -of Nature which can twitch discord into harmony, and for the next twenty -minutes various appreciations of the episode revealed a cordial -unanimity which was almost affecting. That a family in a corner should -at the last moment have been rudely reinforced by the irruption of two -small boys was sheer misfortune. In the absence of seating accommodation -it had been impossible to protest against their occupation of the open -windows—delicious tenancies, of which they took full advantage, -boisterously exchanging reports and frequently subletting their coigns -of vantage to one another. The corporal enfilading of the compartment -which such arrangements necessitated had soon developed into a game, the -pursuit of which their kinsfolk made no attempt to check until a -particularly deliberate collision had afforded one tenant a pretext for -hitting the other on the nose. The consequences of the assault had been -frightful. The combatants were dragged yelling apart, the aggressor was -cuffed into tears more explosive than those of his victim, both were -shaken and reviled, the flow of blood was arrested by a handkerchief -which had already been used as a dressing and was swaddling an ounce of -bull’s-eyes, hideous threats were issued, provocative comments upon -upbringing were audibly exchanged. Only the production of food had at -all relieved the tension, but under the healing influence of snacks good -humour had more or less revived. A baby-in-arms had been given a ham -sandwich—at least, the apex had been introduced into its mouth. It -gnashed and sucked contentedly, while protruding shreds of fat liquefied -upon its chin. A girl had abstractedly devoured plums and put the stones -in Ann’s lap. A married couple opposite had seemed incapable of -underestimating the capacity of their mouths, thus inconceivably -embarrassing their efforts to keep the ball of _badinage_ rolling and -distorting such retorts as they felt must be expressed into fresh -dummies for their opponents’ thrusts. Before the meal was over the train -had run into a tunnel and, after slowing down to a crawl, come to a dead -stop. Someone had giggled, and a burst of hysterical laughter had -succeeded the soft impeachment of gallantry. In the midst of it all Ann -had felt Bob’s arm steal round her and his lips on her cheek. He had -kept his arm about her for the rest of the trip. . . . - -And now— - -Again she tried to concentrate—haul her thoughts into line. They came -sluggishly. - -Married . . . she was married . . . married to Bob—Bob Minter, one of -her father’s grooms. She had done it because she loved him. She had -married him in London that morning, and——That morning? Was it possible -that it was only that morning? Was it only that morning that the -registrar had bowed and . . . - -Her thoughts began to slip away. She let them go. - -She stared at her wedding-ring . . . touched—plucked at it desperately. - -The hideous queries and answers leapt like rams possessed. - -“Why? God knows. . . . How can I? I must. . . . What? _Nothing._” - -For an instant panic fear looked out of her steady grey eyes. - -Then— - -“All serene, kid. I’ve got the goods,” panted Bob. He turned to a -shambling porter, thrusting a truck. “Say, mate, where d’you keep your -taxis?” - -“Not ’ere,” said the porter. “Might get a keb.” - -He preceded them wearily. - -“You—you’ve got rooms, Bob?” faltered his bride. - -Her husband’s eyes shone as he slid an arm beneath hers. - -“Course I ’ave, kid.” He hesitated. Then, “I didn’ mean to tell you, but -. . . I won’ be able to give you the ’ome you ought to ’ave—servants -an’ cars an’ whatnot. More’s the pity. But jus’ this once—for this -fortnight I’ve done my lady proud.” His voice began to tremble with -excitement and pride. “You’ve got the bes’ room in Suet, darlin’—the -best on the ’ole parade. There ain’t a fine lady in the town that’s got -such a room. The Countess of ’Ampshire used to ’ave it, an’ all the ’igh -muck-a-mucks ’ave bit an’ scratched to get it whenever they come this -way. Firs’ floor—looks right over the pier. . . . An’ not a chair -moved, nor a picture. You’ll ’ave it jus’ the same. You see, my aunt she -keeps apartments—the best in Suet: an’ when we fixed things up I wrote -to ’er, told ’er on the Q.T. an’ said I wanted ’er firs’ bedroom—jus’ -for you. An’ she wrote beck an’ said that you should ’ave it if she ’ad -to turn people out. She’s a good ’eart is old Aunt ’Arriet. Givin’ it us -at a cut price, too—season an’ all. An’ we’ll grub with ’er an’ the -girls an’ Uncle Tom—I tell you, kid, they don’t ’alf know ’ow to live. -Why, you’ll be as fat as butter ’fore we go beck to Town.” - -Ann’s brain reeled. - -‘Grub with her and the girls and Uncle Tom. . . . Grub with . . .’ - -The station-yard faded, and the Morland above the mantelpiece stole into -view—the spreading oak and the cottage and the girl standing at the -door . . . and the man on the horse smiling . . . the humble intimacy of -the scene—the simple happiness—the precious privacy . . . -_privacy_. . . . - -She was outcaste, of course—excommunicate. The order had been made that -morning. She had signed it herself deliberately—with open eyes. More. -She had done it gladly. She wanted to be expelled, that she might live -with Bob—_but under a spreading oak_ . . . _in a cottage_ . . . _alone, -as outcastes live_ . . . not—not at Suet . . . not ‘grubbing with Aunt -Harriet and the girls and Uncle Tom.’ . . . She thought Bob had -understood that. She had told him so plainly—a child could have -understood. And yet . . . - -The pathos of his failure hit her between the eyes. He couldn’t grasp -that she didn’t want ‘a show’—couldn’t appreciate such heresy. Her -words had meant nothing. Because she was his great lady, she must have -as fine a show as he could compass. Other women must be made jealous of -her fortune. Others could skulk in cottages and under spreading oaks; -but she must go to Suet—fashionable Suet, and have the best room in the -place . . . looking over the pier. . . . It was the most loving -compliment he could pay. - -By a supreme effort Ann drove the consternation out of her eyes, shook -off the cold clutch of Horror and squeezed her husband’s arm. - -“You’re very good to me, Bob,” she said steadily. “I think you were -wonderful to think of it all. We shall—shall be grand having the best -room in Suet.” - -Bob coloured with delight. - -“Oh, it’s nothin’ much,” he said awkwardly. “I ’spect you’ve often ’ad -rooms pretty near as good. But I—I like to think I’ll be giving you the -best . . . jus’ for once.” - -He broke away and made for a cabman, who, learning his applicant’s -vocation, might see his way to take them on trade terms. - -Ann watched him dazedly. - -Nothing, it seemed, was to be spared her—nothing. - -The discovery that she had made one grand, imperishable mistake stunned -her: the savagery of the penalty she was to pay made her soul blench: -but the ghastly, mocking irony of poor Bob’s solicitude cut like a cold, -wet lash. Foul tongue in cheek, the spirit of Satire was possessing his -honest heart. Beneath this hideous influence, thought, word and loving -deed emerged grotesque, cross-gartered. He ushered some tender travesty -with every breath. The eager pride with which he strove to make Fate -split its sides tore at Ann’s heart. It was pathetic—with the pathos of -the dying dog that whimpers to think it cannot rise to make its master -sport. And just because it was so heartrending he could not possibly be -told. Blow, lash, claw had to be suffered unflinchingly. He—he could -not be told. - -As for her love—— - -Ann put a hand to her head, as though to focus the truth. - -Her passion for Bob was gone. The flax was not even smoking. The fire -had been quenched. - -Ann felt cold with shame. - -Bob had been so fearful, and her love had cast out his fear. He had -never doubted her love, but only whether that love could survive the -strain. And she had fought to convince him, till he had been convinced. -He believed heart and soul in its ability . . . heart and soul. . . . -And now—Bob had been right. Her dauntless love had not endured eight -hours—_not eight hours_. . . . - -Of course she hadn’t appreciated. There had been a misunderstanding. She -had assumed—— - -The excuses leaked like sieves. The truth poured out of them. - -_It was she—she only that was to blame._ She hadn’t thought of all -this. Her father had. So had her aunt. So even had Bob—poor, weak, -unsophisticated Bob. With tears in his eyes, he had begged her not to -smash his life; and she had smiled and kissed him and smashed it and -smashed hers too. - -The Sting of Death sank to a pin-prick, the Victory of the Grave to an -unfinished game—beside the horror of the fare which Life was serving. - -It seemed, indeed, that she was to be spared nothing. - -Bob returned beaming. His wooing of the cabman had prospered, for, as -luck would have it, the latter was in a holiday humour. He had been upon -the point of returning to his stable, and ‘Pier View’ was on his way. He -would drive them for nothing. He was, as Bob put it, ‘a proper sport.’ -It soon appeared that he was a wag also. - -In these circumstances it was most natural that his consent to oblige a -pal should automatically promote him to the standing of a familiar. He -celebrated his elevation heartily by a series of jocular allusions to -nuptial bliss and intimate reminiscences of his own union, by tying a -posy to his whip and desiring lustily to be informed of the shortest way -to the Abode of Love. - -The bystanders roared. - -Encouraged by this reception, he stopped outside the station, and -acquainting a policeman with the facts, begged the loan of his white -gloves, his own, as he explained, ‘bein’ put away by me valet wiv me -’untin’ things. You know wot these servants are, officer.’ - -He was really extremely funny. - -For the rest of the way he contented himself with a lively and -affectionate communion with Lady Ann’s trunk—an effort which, to judge -from the scandalized shrieks of mirth which followed them, went very -well with such pedestrians as they passed. Indeed, their progress was -triumphal. - -Bob enjoyed it thoroughly, as one enjoys being rallied upon a possession -of which one is justly proud. He was all sheepish smiles. Ann was all -smiles, too. Her face ached with the strain. Every nerve in her body was -squirming. She was upon the edge of hysteria. - -“God knows . . . I must . . . _Nothing_. . . .” - -Satire spat upon his hands and laid fresh hold of her tail. - -Upon arrival at ‘Pier View’ it proved unnecessary for three several -reasons, all of which were evil, to ring the front-door bell. In the -first place, they did not and were not expected to use the front door. -Secondly, a small boy, who was at once wearing a tight green blazer and -dirty flannel shorts, swinging idly upon the area gate and contemplating -the seething pageant of pleasure-seekers under the comfortable auspices -of a generous complement of butterscotch, took one look at husband and -wife and then fell down the steps, bellowing, “’Ere they are!” Thirdly, -the little knot of passers-by which would long ago have collected, had -the equipage but halted, began to give the driver an appreciative -hearing. - -Bob was out of the fly and stooping to set Ann’s dressing-case by the -area gate; as he turned, the small boy reappeared, followed by a large -business-like countenance which gave the impression of being able to -look extremely unpleasant but was at the moment wreathed in winning -smiles; flanking this, rose two other feminine faces, open-mouthed, -peering—one fat, snub-nosed, jolly-eyed; the other discontented and -pinched; the little knot of bystanders was swelling into an obstruction; -the cabman was relating an anecdote which pointed the wisdom of the -removal of boots before retiring. . . . - -Ann saw it all as in an ugly dream. - -It occurred to her that the train-journey and this were but the -prologue—the induction to the play she had commanded, the devilish -comedy in which she was to play the lead. The induction had been -startling, but the play . . . The play was to be the thing. Of course. -Plays were. The prologue was nothing. So far she had hardly appeared. -When the curtain rose on the play . . . She found herself wondering if -there would be an epilogue. - -Suddenly, with a frightful shock, she realized that the curtain was up, -that the stage was waiting . . . _waiting_ . . . that -this—was—her—cue. . . . - -_Crowd laughs at cabman’s sallies. Aunt Harriet and the girls reach the -top of the area steps. Bob is busy with her trunk. Gramophone next door -starts ‘YES! We have no bananas.’ Cabman stops his discourse, listens -intently, and then says, ‘’Ark! The ’erald angels sing.’ Crowd yells -with delight._ Enter _The Lady Ann Minter. . . ._ - -Ann pulled herself together and got out of the cab. - -Then she turned to the driver and put out her hand. - -“Thank you so much for bringing us,” she said most charmingly. - -It was a fatal gesture—because it was the act of a lady. - -The laughter snapped off short: the grins faded: the genial atmosphere -stiffened with a jar. - -The cabman’s assurance fell from him like a shirt of mail. His drollery -collapsed before a mountainous wave of respect. - -He took off his shabby hat and touched the slight fingers. - -“Thank you, m’m,” he said humbly. - -Amidst a gaping silence Ann turned to the steps. - -She could hear the breathing of the bystanders, feel their resentful -stares burning her face. She had spoiled sport, embarrassed, turned the -frolic she should have led into a ceremony they could not follow. She -had drawn the whip of her superiority, flourished it, laid it across -their shoulders. Only the gramophone continued to spout its ghastly -pleasantry, like a clown mouthing in a death-chamber. - -‘_We’ve broad beans like BUN-ions, cab-BAH-ges and HON-ions . . ._’ - -Before this master-stroke of Satire Ann could have burst into tears. She -had striven wildly to rise to the occasion, only to shatter—to let the -whole thing down. . . . The awful hopelessness of her position flamed. -Envy, Hatred and Malice, then, had been appointed her equerries. Not -only was she to suffer: she was to cause suffering, breed discontent, -induce ill-will. The efforts which she must make were doomed before they -were made not only to fail but to turn to her condemnation. And she -could do nothing, because there was nothing to be done. She had sold her -birthright, but she could not sell her birth. Her style, her speech, her -plumage could not be doffed. She was a peacock in daw’s feathers—and -the daws would fiercely resent her condescension. - -‘_But YES! We have no bananas. . . . We have no bananas to-day._’ - -‘Would resent’? _Were resenting. . . ._ - -As she crossed the pavement— - -“Oh, ’aughty,” said someone. “Sten’ beck fer the Lady Ermyntrude.” - -There was a stifled giggle. - -Her face flaming, Ann stepped to her hostess, who was palpably -intoxicated with the prospect of communion with her guest and determined -unmistakably to adorn a plane upon which lack of opportunity alone had -hitherto prevented her from ambling. It was important that her new niece -should at once appreciate that there was not the slightest necessity for -her to step down. Here and now she must be made to realize that her aunt -was fully qualified to step up. - -Out went her hand chin-high. - -“’Ow-de-doo, Lady Ann. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I ’ope you -aren’t very fatigued, but it’s so ’ot for travellin’.” She turned to -rend the bystanders. “Stare a bit ’arder, won’t you? An’ where’s your -kemp-stools? Albert, ketch up that dressin’-case before it’s pinched.” -The small boy sprang to do her bidding. “An’ don’ beng it on the steps. -Come in, Lady Ann.” She began to descend, driving the girls before her. -“I ’ope you left ’is lordship well.” - -“Very—very well, thank you,” stammered Ann. - -“Oh, I’m gled of thet,” said Aunt Harriet ecstatically. “It’s so nice to -think of one’s deer ones——” She swung round to glare at the railings. -“Albert, go back an’ see who threw them srimps. . . . ‘Orrible, vulgar -brutes!” She stood fairly heaving with rage. “Reelly, the people that -comes to Suet nowadays, Lady Ann—well, I don’t know where they was -born. I didn’ know there was such people. Push you as soon as look at -you. Reelly, one’s better at ’ome. Walkin’ out’s no pleasure at all. But -come in, deer. Come in an’ meet the girls.” - -She guided Ann through the passage and into a parlour. - -The table was laid for a meal and there were covers for eight. - -Standing uneasily together as though for protection were the two girls -and two young men. - -The sour-faced girl was adopting a nonchalant air. Hand on hip, eyebrows -raised, lip curled, she sought self-consciously to veil her -self-consciousness. Her jolly-eyed sister appeared to be upon the edge -of hysteria. Her face was set in a nervous frozen grin, her hands were -twitching, her eyes riveted upon the floor. The youths were, if -possible, still less at ease. Both were tall and weedy. One was dark and -throaty—a quality which his belief in a tennis-shirt Byronically open -at the neck, with the collar carelessly arranged above that of his coat, -served to accentuate. His long hair was unparted, oiled and brushed -straight back. Two inches of close-cut side-whisker and an amazing -length of finger-nail argued æsthetic tendencies which the soulful -expression of his sallow face was intended to declare. He gave the -impression of being able to groan efficiently. The other had a jaunty, -more worldly air. His tiny moustache was waxed, his fair hair parted in -the middle and curled into twin horns. He was clearly conscious of his -superiority and, that there might be no mistake about it, was languidly -sucking his teeth. His collar—a soft creation of broad black and white -stripes—his red and chocolate tie, the golden kerchief flowing from his -breast-pocket showed that he knew how to dress. - -“These are me daughters,” explained Aunt Harriet, “an’ their -gentlemen-frien’s. May . . .” - -The sour-eyed girl advanced and shook hands—then turned, flushing -violently, to toy with a book. - -“Ada.” - -The jolly-eyed girl gulped, giggled, started forward, missed Ann’s hand, -tried again, clutched it anyhow and withdrew. - -“Mr. Barnham.” - -The æsthete thrust forward, stumbled, bowed over Ann’s fingers and -turned confusedly away. - -“Mr. Alcock.” - -Mr. Alcock delighted in showing how things should be done. Here was a -brilliant opportunity of at once asserting his superiority, astonishing -Ann, who would be thankful to find such unexpected _savoir-faire_, and -dispelling any skulking idea that to carry off such an encounter was -beyond his powers. He stepped forward briskly. - -“Pleased to meet you, indeed,” he said warmly. “’Ow’s Piccadilly?” - -It was a difficult question to answer. - -Before Ann had found a reply, there was the appalling explosion with -which laughter which has been denied its usual channel forces the -narrows of the nose. The strain had been too great. Nature had asserted -herself. Ada had broken down. - -Before her relatives’ horrified gaze, she abandoned herself to -succeeding paroxysms of mirth, to which, to his undying shame, Mr. -Barnham began sniggeringly to subscribe. - -The devastation of gentility was too awful. - -Mr. Alcock blenched, recovered, turned slowly purple and broke into a -gleaming sweat. Ann regarded him as though fascinated. Two red spots of -dishonour burned upon May’s cheekbones. Aunt Harriet was making a -rattling noise. . . . All the time convulsion after convulsion shook the -destructive to her foundations. And Mr. Barnham shook also. - -“_Aida!_” - -The rasp in her mother’s tone brought her up short. The former was -glaring unutterably. - -As her daughter’s abominable emotions began to subside, Aunt Harriet -turned to her guest. - -“Hoverwrought,” she said in the tone of one who is publicly excusing -whom she intends privately to flay alive. “Takes after ’er father. Shell -we go upstairs, Lady Ann? I’m sure you’ld like to take a look at your -room, an’ we can ’ave a quiet chat.” - -“I’ld love to,” said Ann. - -As she came to the door, she glanced round. - -Mr. Alcock had slunk to the window and was savagely employing a -service-dressed brother of the golden kerchief. Ada, red-nosed and -bloated with exertion, stared blearedly upon the ground. May was -regarding the cornice with smouldering eyes. Mr. Barnham appeared to be -about to prophesy no good, but evil. - -“So—so long,” said Ann pleasantly. - -The others stared back. - -“Me deer,” said Aunt Harriet, labouring up the stairs, “I want you to -feel that this is a nome from ’ome. Merriage is a wrench. One leaves a -lovin’ ’ome for a strange country. An’ you do feel strange. I remember -me own merriage. Down we goes to a little one-eyed place with never a -soul as knew wot a lady was. I tell you I felt that lonely I could ’ave -cut me throat. But you’ve no call to do that. You’re among frien’s ’ere -that feels as you do an’ likes the ways you like. I give you me word, -Lady Ann, vulgarity makes me sick. An’ there’s so much of it to-day.” - -Arrived at a door upon the first floor, she opened it and passed into a -large, dingily furnished bedroom facing the sea. The brown wallpaper was -bruised and soiled: the threadbare carpet was overlaid with cheap rugs: -a voluminous muslin valance swaddled the dressing-table: wardrobe, -washstand and bed recalled the several sale-rooms whence they had come: -a rusty horse-hair couch sulked in a corner: spotted engravings of -Royalty being baptized or married or churched hung upon the walls: a -cord of one of the Venetian blinds had broken, and the slats were -splayed: a window of the bay was open and admitting something of what -seemed to be the uproar of a gigantic fair. - -“There,” said the proud hostess, mechanically laying folded hands upon -the abdominal wall. “Simple, but tasty. I remember so well the firs’ -time the Countess of ’Ampshire was ’ere. ‘Mrs. Root,’ she says, ‘people -’as an idea that we titleds must ’ave display. Completely wrong. Now, my -bedroom at ’Assocks is jus’ like this—quiet, but distanggy.’” - -“It’s delightful,” said Ann, looking round. “I—I don’t feel strange at -all.” - -“Couldn’ if you tried,” was the triumphant reply. “It’s so—so res’ful.” -She sank on to a chair. “An’ now, me deer, make yourself at ’ome. This -is your private room in ’Oliday ’Ouse.” - -“You’re very kind,” said Ann. - -“Don’ mention it.” - -The abrupt injunction was disconcerting. It was not meant, of course, to -be obeyed. On the contrary. . . . After searching desperately for words -with which to flout its blunt authority— - -“I—I wonder where Bob is,” faltered Ann. “If I could have my -dressing-case . . .” - -“Now, don’t you go makin’ any toilet,” said Aunt Harriet. “We’ll be -goin’ out presently. Not that I don’t like changin’,” she added hastily, -“because I do. But Tom—my husban’s that slack. In course I’m afraid -I’ve fell away, but there you are. Where’s the good of me makin’ meself -tidy, when ’is idea of dressin’ is to take ’is collar orf?” She sighed -heavily. “But there, there,” she added. “We all ’as our crorse to bear.” - -“Well, I’ll just wash my face and hands,” said Ann. “One gets so dirty -in the train.” - -“Just as you please,” said her hostess. “I’m afraid it’s waste o’ -time—the pier’s that filthy—but it’ll freshen you up.” - -She fought her way past the dressing-table and thrust her head out of -the window. - -“Albert,” she yelled. - -“’Ullo,” rose the small boy’s voice. - -“Don’t say ’Ullo’ to me,” snapped Aunt Harriet. - -“Whatsay?” - -His great-aunt drew in her breath. - -“Where’s Bob?” she demanded. - -“Gone to ’ave a drink with the driver.” - -“Well, leave that there trunk an’ fetch up Lady Ann’s dressin’-case.” - -“Whatsay?” - -Albert’s inability to hear unwelcome tidings was a maddening complaint. - -His great-aunt looked volumes. - -“You ’eard well enough jus’ now,” she said in a shaking voice. - -“Bob tole me to wait ’ere.” - -“An’ I tell you to fetch up Lady Ann’s case.” - -“Whatsay?” - -Aunt Harriet left the window and erupted from the room. - -Albert put the road between himself and ‘Pier View.’ - -Ann took off her hat and flung herself face downward upon the bed. . . . - -“Why didn’t I think of all this? _God knows._ How can I possibly bear -it? _I must._ What shall I do—do? _Nothing._” - -It occurred to Ann suddenly that it was all intensely funny. The comedy -of the situation was rich. Albert—Aunt Harriet—Mr. Alcock alone would -have brought down the house. Surely, her sense of humour . . . - -Somebody laughed—wildly. - -Ann perceived that here was another of Satire’s subtleties. Nothing so -obvious as tragedy was to be her portion. She was to be tormented by a -roaring farce—a farce that was founded on tears and broken dreams and -all the cureless agony of passionate regret. It was the Dance of Doom, -if not of Death. - -When Aunt Harriet reappeared, lugging the dressing-case, she was -manifestly conscious that, but for her guest’s whimsy, she would have -been spared great provocation, distasteful exercise and—most important -of all—a menial task. She certainly managed to smile, but it was a -crooked business. She felt that her mask had slipped. - -So soon as Ann was ready, the two descended—thoughtfully. The ladylike -bond of union which Aunt Harriet had forged seemed to have stretched. -All Ann’s efforts to contract it but served to emphasize its -slenderness. - -Mercifully, Bob was in the parlour, exchanging cheerful reminiscences -with a jolly, fat man who proved to be Uncle Tom. - -Her husband presented Ann, with shining eyes. - -For a moment the fat man looked at her. Then he inclined his head. - -“Your servant, me lady,” he said respectfully. - -“Rot,” said Ann. “You’re my uncle,” and kissed him then and there. - -“Oh, you peach,” said her uncle, and kissed her back. With his arm about -her, he addressed the rest of the company. “Jus’ leave us alone a few -minutes, will you?” he said. “There’s one or two ’ymns we want to run -over together.” - -This allusion to a recent scandal in which a local pillar of the -nonconformist church was involved naturally evoked great merriment. - -Ann tried to be thankful. - -It also inspired Mr. Alcock. - -“Break away, break away, there,” he cried. - -Uncle Tom screwed round his head. - -“Percy, me lad,” he said, “you ’aven’t a chance. This little girl likes -’em fat.” - -Squeaks of delight contributed to another explosion of mirth. - -They sat down to tea hilariously. . . . - -“Do you ’unt at all?” said Mr. Alcock, presenting a dish of shrimps. - -“I’ve given it up,” said Ann. - -“’E means by night,” said Uncle Tom. - -The laughter was renewed. - -“Oh, give over, pa,” wailed Ada. “You’ve give me the ’iccups.” - -It was too true. - -Seats were left: remedies were commended: the victim was conjured—to no -purpose. Spasm succeeded spasm with sickening regularity. - -“’Old your breath,” said Bob. - -Ada inspired and sat like a graven image. - -The others watched her in a silence pregnant with expectation. - -Her eyes began to protrude. . . . - -“Stick it,” said Bob. “Stick it.” - -A dusky flush began to steal into her face: sweat gathered on her brow: -she was squinting. . . . - -At last she let her breath go with a loose rush. - -For a moment she breathed peacefully. Then a belated spasm convulsed her -frame. - -There was a rustle of consternation. - -Suddenly, with a blood-curdling roar, Mr. Barnham smote upon the board. - -In a second all was confusion. - -Ann started to her feet: Aunt Harriet screamed: May recoiled against the -wall: Bob and Mr. Alcock regarded their compeer open-mouthed: Uncle Tom, -who had been in the act of drinking, was coughing and cursing and -wringing tea from his moustache. - -What was more to the point, Ada stopped hiccuping. - -When Mr. Barnham pointed this out, the fact was coldly received. - -“Enough to make anybody stop anything,” snarled Aunt Harriet. “Don’t you -know ’ow to be’ave?” - -“In course I do,” said Mr. Barnham. “You never see me do that before.” - -“No, an’ don’t you never let me see you do it again,” was the tart -reply. “Nasty, vulgar ’abits.” - -“But I done it to stop ’er ’iccups,” protested the ill-used youth. - -“I don’t want to know why you done it,” observed his hostess. “You done -it—an’ that’s enough. You oughtter be ashamed of yourself. . . . May, -give Lady Ann a cut of beef.” - -With goggling eyes, Mr. Barnham proceeded in some dudgeon to the -consumption of a hunk of dry bread, presumably with some vague idea that -this mortification of the flesh would stimulate a recognition of his -injury. - -Conversation revived. - -Mr. Alcock spoke of sport, commending the pursuit of lawn tennis with -the air of one who has tried everything and come to the reluctant -conclusion that that pastime is a better antidote to _ennui_ than any -other. - -Uncle Tom recounted a dispute which had arisen in the saloon bar of _The -Goat_ regarding elephantiasis. His narrative slid naturally enough into -a vivid comparison of such cases of this complaint as had come under his -notice or that of the other patrons of the saloon bar. Aunt Harriet, -even more naturally, proved able and willing to supplement his list with -personal experiences so distressing as to suggest that an inscrutable -Providence had chosen her among women to be harrowed in this peculiar -way. - -May related how someone had ‘passed the remark’ that a new char-à-banc -service was to be instituted between Suet and Lather, and asked Ann if -she was fond of motoring. - -Ann replied with enthusiasm. - -“I think it’s tremendous fun.” - -“D’you ’ave the Blue Fleet in Dorset?” - -“I—I don’t know,” stammered Ann. “Do we, Bob?” - -“Yes, dear,” said Bob. “That bounder wot ’it your coopy was one o’ the -Blue Fleet.” - -There was an awful silence. - -“Your coopy?” said Uncle Tom. - -“Er, yes,” said Ann desperately. - -“Nice, tight little car, too,” said Bob. “Wish I could give ’er one -now.” - -“A.C.?” ventured Mr. Alcock. - -“‘A.C.’?” said Bob. “Forty-fifty Rolls.” - -There was another silence. - -“Must ’ve bin delightful,” said Aunt Harriet shakily. “Still, there’s -things beside cars.” - -“Rather,” said Ann heartily. - -“Such as wot?” said Uncle Tom. - -“Well, all isn’t gold as glitters,” snapped his wife. - -“That’s true,” said Mr. Barnham sagely. - -“Woddyer mean?” said his host. “Wot’s true? A Rolls moter coopy’s good -enough fer mos’ people.” - -“Well, an’ who said it wasn’t?” said May. - -“Look ’ere,” said her father. “Your mother said there was things beside -cars.” - -“So there is,” said May. “Fine clothes an’ fine relations.” - -She laughed spitefully. - -“Shut up, May,” said Ada. “She never said she ’ad a coopy. It was Bob -wot started it.” - -“That’s right,” said Bob, red in the face. “I said it, an’ where’s the -’arm?” - -“No ’arm at all,” said his aunt silkily. “If the troof was known, I -spec’ she ’ad two or free cars.” - -Her husband suspended mastication and stared at Ann. Then he spoke -through the cud. - -“Didjoo?” he demanded. - -“No, indeed,” said Ann swiftly. “I think I was jolly lucky to have one.” - -Uncle Tom nodded approval. - -“You were that,” he said emphatically. Ann breathed again. “Why, my ole -dad thought ’imself mighty lucky to ’ave ’is own tip-cart, an’——” - -“Don’t be stoopid, pa,” said May. “Grandpa was only a common man.” - -Her father gasped. Here was parricide. - -“I mean,” said May sweetly, “he wasn’t a nurl.” - -“I’ll bet he was just as good,” said Ann. - -“So ’e was,” cried Uncle Tom. With an effort he emptied his mouth. “You -’ear?” he raved, turning upon May. “You ’ear, you undootiful girl? -’Ere’s a lady wot knows a nurl when she sees one an’ don’t ’ave to go to -Boots’ Lendin’ Library to find out wot ’igh life means. An’ she says ’e -was as good. ‘Common man’!” The iteration of the objectionable phrase -re-pricked his piety. He wagged a cautionary forefinger. “You jus’ be -careful, young woman. Don’t you go gettin’ ideas above your station. -Jus’ because you go orf to dances an’ cinemas o’ nights an’ keep a tame -mug ’andy to buy you cheap sweets—that don’ make you no better than wot -you are. _Ladies is born. . . ._” - -Never was enemy so hoist with his own petard. - -Never was the seasoning of bitterness so sloshed into the pot. - -Never was a silence so ominous as that which followed the reproof. - -May’s face was purple, her eyes narrowed to green points of steel. Aunt -Harriet was sweating with indignation: - -her mouth worked. Ada looked scared. As though to belie a particularly -hang-dog expression, Mr. Barnham muttered and snorted beneath his -breath. Mr. Alcock sneered upon his finger-nails. Bob was smiling -sheepishly. And the unconscious author of the unsavoury stew sat back -regarding the company with eyes that saw nothing but a forgotten -deference to authority awakened by the old lion’s roar. - -Ann tried not to tremble. - -Were there no lengths to which Satire would not go? Had Irony no mercy? -God! What a tune they were calling! All hell was fiddling in the -orchestra—and she had to pay . . . pay . . . . - -A sudden peal at the bell saved a situation which was under sentence of -death. - -“That’s Mr. Mason,” said Ada. “I ’ope ’e’s brought Miss Gedge.” - -She rose and left the room. - -The cold, strained silence slid into the blessed hush of curiosity. - -Then— - -“_I ain’t nobody’s darlin’, I’m blue as can be,_” feelingly rendered by -an indifferent baritone, floated into the room. - -“That’s ’im,” shouted Uncle Tom gleefully. “Come in, yer bounder. There -ain’t no room, but we can’t keep you out.” - -Mr. Alcock and Mr. Barnham laughed half-heartedly. - -Mr. Mason entered, tripped, recovered himself, gave the threshold an -awful look, placed his hat upon the hand which Mr. Barnham was -extending, side-stepped to the fireplace, pressed an imaginary bell and -said, “Waiter bring a non-skid ’ammock and a moonlit night: I’ve just -been married.” - -Even Aunt Harriet laughed—rather reluctantly. In fact, good humour was -bundled into the room, neck and crop. - -Mr. Mason was tubby and of a cheerful countenance. He was neatly dressed -in a sponge-bag suit which was too tight for him, a low double collar, a -spotted bow tie and sand-shoes. A cane dangled from his pocket and a -faded carnation drooped from his buttonhole. - -Miss Gedge was stout, frankly vulgar and, but for a cast in her eye, -would have been a good-looking girl. She was the personification of -contentment and goodwill. A droll pertness of manner enhanced her charm. -She had, moreover, a most infectious laugh. This her squire exploited -vigorously. The two carried all before them. - -There were but eight chairs, but the shortage, so far from presenting -difficulty, smoothed an irregularity away. Lady Ann took her proper -place, namely, her husband’s lap, while Ada, with many giggles, subsided -into that of Mr. Alcock. - -The tambourine was rolling. . . . - -The flow of hatred had been arrested: soon the leak was being -plugged—with the very underlinen of Sensitiveness, delicate, rosy -mysteries, ripped from a girl’s back. - -“Yes,” said Mr. Mason. “Children is bits of ’eaven. I was a very large -’unk. I remember Mother sayin’ so when she found ’er boots in the oven. -She didn’t put it that way, but . . . Besides, look at the burf rate.” - -Amid shrieks of laughter, he was conjured to ‘give over,’ whilst a -glowing Bob squeezed Ann surreptitiously. - -“Oh, isn’t ’e awful?” panted Miss Gedge. “An’ when we’re out ’e does -pass such dreadful remarks. Las’ Saturday afternoon a gentleman’s ’at -blows off. ‘Stop it,’ cries someone. ‘Not me,’ says ’Erbert, ‘I’ve lef’ -me gas-marsk at ’ome.’” - -There was a gust of merriment. As it died down, a fat guffaw of delight -announced Uncle Tom’s perception of the point. - -“’E ought to go on the ’alls,” said Mr. Alcock. “Make ’is fortune.” - -Mr. Mason shook his head. - -“Why,” he said, “I should be stole in a week. An’ there’ld be pore -Mabel——” - -“I should worry,” said Miss Gedge. “But you can’t ’ave your ’Untley an’ -eat it too, can you, May?” - -“Not likely,” said May. “Look at pore Mrs. Stoker.” - -“There’s a tregedy,” said Aunt Harriet. “An’ three children an’ all.” - -Mr. Barnham, who had been awaiting his chance, groaned eloquently. - -“So when ’e talks about the stage,” continued Miss Gedge, “I says, ‘You -go, me little friend,’ I says, ‘and ’ere’s ’appy days. But don’t you -call roun’ for me on Monday evenin’, ’cause this is where you get off.’” - -A round of applause acclaimed this admirable sentiment. - -Mr. Mason blinked very hard. - -“Ah, well,” he said, “I s’pose it’ll ’ave to be ’oly orders after all.” -He adjusted his collar, peered at an imaginary book and looked up -earnestly. “Brethren, we will now sing _Cease thy ticklin’, Jock_.” - -This justly occasioned great laughter. - -As it subsided— - -“Oh, I’ve bought a new straw,” said Miss Gedge. “A regular -Kiss-me-quick. Not that I wanted to, but since Benk ’Oliday the other -ain’t gone with my scent. I wore it to ’Astin’s, you know, an’ ’Erbert’s -brother was ’oldin’ it when ’e come over queer. Of course, memories is -very sweet, but . . .” - -Amidst squeals of delight— - -“She ’ad ’im on the brain,” explained Mr. Mason. - -The paroxysm which succeeded Uncle Tom’s appreciation of this remark was -so prolonged as to suggest that his labouring lungs were in need of -assistance, and there was a general feeling of relief when he was able -to assure his anxious ministers that he would let them know when he was -dying. - -As order was restored— - -“I say, is this a smoking-carriage?” said Mr. Alcock, and looked round, -grinning, for approval. - -Once the ball was rolling, the question usually went. The great thing -was not to ask it too soon. ‘And when men have well drunk, then . . .’ - -The laughter was renewed. - -“I should ’ope so,” said Uncle Tom, taking out an enormous calabash. - -Cigarettes were produced. - -Mr. Barnham made bold to offer his case to Ann, who declined smilingly. - -“She’ll ’ave one with me,” said Bob. - -He lighted a Gold Flake and, after inhaling luxuriously, put the -cigarette to her lips. . . . - -Ann winced. Another tender intimacy clapped in the common stocks. . . . - -May accepted a cigarette from Mr. Mason, who had an unfinished cigar. -Together Ada and Mr. Alcock enjoyed the cigarette till lately reposing -behind the latter’s ear. - -Beneath the soothing influence conversation became less boisterous. -Little coteries sprang up. Miss Gedge and May exchanged murmurous -confidences. Mr. Barnham listened to Aunt Harriet. Uncle Tom and Mr. -Mason discussed ‘closing time.’ Ada played with Mr. Alcock’s hair and -squeaked or whispered according to the nature of the sweet nothings with -which he plied her. Breathing endearment, Bob fondled and kissed Ann’s -fingers and presently pleaded for her lips. - -“They won’t mind,” he insisted. . . . - -At length Mr. Mason looked round. - -“Well, ladies and gents,” he said, “what’s the pier done? I think an -evenin’ with the movies with a little footwork in between the shows’ll -just about see me ’ome.” - -The suggestion was greeted with action. - -Chairs were drawn back, laps shaken and smoothed, pardons begged. - -Ann was feverishly considering how best to announce that she was weary -and would like to retire, when Bob put in his oar. - -“An’ this is my show,” he said expansively. “I’m goin’ to stan’ treat -to-night.” - -There was a murmur of deprecation. - -Quick as a flash— - -“Well, I’m sure that’s very ’andsome,” simpered Aunt Harriet. - -“Now, look ’ere, Bobbie lad,” said Uncle Tom, “don’t you go rushin’ in. -Ten to one’s a bit thick. Jus’ ’cause it’s your day out, that ain’t no -call for you to go treatin’——” - -“Why not?” cried Bob. “Why, I want you all to remember this day, I -do—the ’appies’ day o’ my life. Ten? I wish you was fifty. I’ve becked -a winner to-day—drawn the firs’ prize in the bigges’ sweep on earth. -. . . Look at ’er standin’ there! Ain’t she a peach? An’ you want me to -’old me ’and for a matter o’ thirty bob!” - -“’Ooray!” cried Mr. Mason. “’Ooray! An’ mind—the firs’ Benger’s with -me.” - -Laughter and cheers confirmed the acceptance of hospitality. - -Feeling as though she had dashed herself against a wall, Ann stammered -something about getting her hat. - -“Oh, it’s right opposight,” said Ada. “We never wear ’ats jus’——” - -She stopped with a jerk. - -Aunt Harriet filled up the hole. - -“I’m afraid it soun’s very lax, Lady Ann, but, you know, this year the -residents proper ’ave to a great extent given up wearin’ ’eadgear of -nights. In fac’, I think we should be remarked on . . .” - -“Oh, I don’t mind in the least,” said Ann. “In fact, I like it much -better.” - -After all, what on earth did it matter? What did anything matter? She -was married . . . married to Bob . . . tied for life . . . _life_: and -she was boggling about going uncovered! - -They passed out of the house. Aunt Harriet delaying the procession to -enjoin a sickly charwoman to clear, wash up and set the table for six. - -“For _six_,” she repeated meaningly, trusting thereby to promote such -operation of mental arithmetic as would convince Mr. Barnham and Mr. -Alcock that they were not expected to return. “Oh, an’ Mrs. Perch—I’ve -measured the beef.” - -“Very good, Mrs. Root,” said that lady, breathing through her nose. -“I’ll bet you ’ave,” she added under her breath. “Rotten ole toad.” - -When the door was shut, she shed a few tears of chagrin. It was a -beautiful bit of beef. - -The pier was indeed conveniently close. In less than a minute they stood -before its gates. - -The negotiation of the turnstile offered opportunities of humour, none -of which were missed. The surly controller was rallied, rose and was -appropriately mocked. His impotent indignation, hastily but vigorously -served, followed them down the pier. - -After the fresh sea air the breathless reek of the cinema was stale and -stifling. It was the Saturday evening of a blazing week, to whose rare -invitation the audience had healthily responded. Ann could have choked. -She sat between Bob and Uncle Tom, with the former’s arm about her and -her left hand in his. - -A melodrama was being shown: some of the scenery was superb—a forest at -dawn, a cool reach of some river with sunlit woods about its banks, the -spreading lawns of a great mansion blotched with the silhouettes of -stately trees. The dazzling luxury of the interiors, the perfection of -their appointment, the admirable manner of the men-servants, the smooth -rush of the cars turned the fruit of memory into the grapes of Tantalus. - -Ann sat dumb before the cruelty of Fate. It was true, then—she was to -be spared nothing. Every slender tack that could be hammered was to be -driven home—punched into her heart. - -She had a terrible yearning to express her agony. She wanted to moan and -twist her hands. She wanted to fall upon her knees and clasp her head. -She wanted to breathe “My God. . . . My God. . . . My God. . . .” She -wanted to stammer her woe—change this fantastic hell into the -similitude of human sorrow—picture it in words and tears—wrap it in -the napkin of blessed, familiar speech. - -Bob was importuning her. - -“Give us a kiss, sweetheart.” - -Fainting, she gave him her lips. - -“Now, then, break away, there,” rasped an attendant. “If you can’t wait, -there’s plenty of room outside.” - -It was not the man’s fault. Complaints had been received and forwarded. -Orders had come down that morning that any abuse of the obscurity -indispensable to the performance was to be sternly checked. It was, of -course, rather a delicate matter. Custom, if not prescription, was to be -set by the ears. Still, the remark was well received—with hysterical -laughter. - -A wave of hot blood surged to Ann’s temples. Her mind staggered. When -she came to, she found herself praying for death. - -The reflection that a week ago Bob would not have—had not done these -things preened its grim self before her. Ann realized suddenly that -familiarity was breeding assurance, if not contempt. From being ‘my -lady’ she had become ‘my—my missus.’ More. For the first time since -their engagement Bob was among his own. Hitherto he had been upon -parade. Now he was relaxed—comfortable. His own had received him. He -was sliding into their ways—naturally. It was not a case of infection, -of evil communications corrupting manners. They were his—_his_ ways. Of -course. His ways. He saw no harm—there _was_ no harm in them. They were -wholesome enough. Only—they were not her ways. . . . - -The melodrama came to an end, and they filed out. The sheet had -announced an interval of fifteen minutes. - -The _salle de danse_ was crowded. They thrust and were thrust within its -walls. - -Bob could not dance. Mr. Alcock, however, was clearly treading firm -ground. The assurance with which he spoke made this still more manifest. - -“Em I to ’ave the pleasure, Leddy Enn?” - -What did it matter? What did anything—— Besides, how could she refuse? - -They danced to a rousing fox-trot—as well as they could. There was -little room, and steering was nothing accounted of on Saturday nights. -Couples went as they pleased. Many seemed rapt—unaware that they were -not alone: others heaved and revolved, careless of collision and -greeting every bump with incorrigible cheer: some frolicked openly, to -the unveiled disgust of the more intense, who sneered upon them as they -passed. - -By such as were not dancing Ann’s presence upon the floor was instantly -remarked. As she went by, she saw heads nodding, arms being caught, -fingers pointing, ribs being nudged. The infection spread to the floor. -Couples began to stare—to draw apart. Very soon she and Mr. Alcock were -dancing in a little space of their own. As if by magic, this revolved -with them. Had he pleased, Mr. Alcock could have left the space -standing. That he did not so please was natural enough. The youth was -intoxicated. His thirsty vanity, ordinarily but scurvily found, was in -its cups. His superciliary muscle was strained to breaking-point: his -eyes were almost closed: his sneer, the droop of his parted lips -beggared description. It was his hour. - -The dance ended with a crash, and the two returned to their party. - -As Ann was desperately raking its environs for Bob— - -“Well, Lady Ann,” said Aunt Harriet, “what d’you think of our floor?” -She laid her hand familiarly upon the girl’s arm. “Not so bad for ole -Suet?” - -“I—I think it’s very good,” said Ann, observing with horror that the -space, which had momentarily disappeared, was beginning to surround her -again. - -Aunt Harriet saw it, too, and raised her voice. - -“You know, Lady Ann, I’m so glad to ’ave you at last. I’ve got so much I -want you to ’elp me with. You know, livin’ all the year round in the -country, one’s ideas seem to get into a groove. In course, Taown’s the -’ub. There one’s in touch with things. ’Otels and emporiums is up to -date. People ’as _got_ to move. One’s only to take a walk down the -street or pop into a laounge. . . . But ’ere—nothin’. An’ after a bit, -Lady Ann, stegnation sets in. I tell you,” she added, with a mischievous -laugh, “I’m not goin’ to give you no rest. You’ll be wore out before I’m -through.” - -“I’m—I’m sure I shan’t,” faltered Ann, trying to smile and wildly -conscious of an unnatural hush. “Indeed, I——” - -Mercifully, the band recommenced its labours. - -“Shell we take another turn?” said Mr. Alcock. - -Ann lifted up her head. - -“To tell you the truth,” she said, “I’m a little tired.” She looked -round anxiously. “I wonder where Bob is.” - -“Gone to ’ave a drink,” said Ada. - -“Let’s go an’ fin’ them,” said Aunt Harriet. - -They passed out after the manner of Royalty, a lane being made. - -Mr. Alcock was dispatched in quest of the revellers, while Mr. Barnham, -now sole warden of virtue, took up a central position and stared about -him with an air of apologetic defiance. - -After a suspiciously long absence, his colleague returned to say that -the other squires were not to be found. - -“They’re gone to the Arms, the greedies,” decided Aunt Harriet. “That’s -where they’re gone. Never mind.” - -A rich clearance of Mr. Barnham’s throat declared that he was labouring -of plan. - -“Let’s take a stroll down,” he suggested, “an’ ketch them as they come -back.” - -Economy had driven him to speak. - -A premature return to their seats meant that the girl who sold -chocolates would offer her tempting wares. This offer he would be bound -in decency to frank. The acceptance or rejection thereof would rest with -May—and Mr. Barnham did not trust May. . . . - -His misgivings were well founded. - -“Oh, who wants to stroll?” said May. “Let’s get back before the crush. -I’m sure I’ve been trod and shoved enough for one night. Something -crool, people are.” - -It was not magnificent: it was not even war: it was pure -oppression—hitting the poor in spirit below the belt. - -Aunt Harriet acclaimed the suggestion, and the move was made. - -Two minutes later Mr. Barnham was eased of two shillings. He parted, -sweating, with a hunted look in his eyes that went to Ann’s heart. - -She found herself wondering what, when he had married his bully, his -life would be like. She saw him mute and shrinking before the eternal -abuse, standing jaded and hungry without his own house, trying to summon -the courage to enter in, dreaming of the happy days when he could buy -exemption with a two-shilling piece. . . . - -For a blessed instant her mind left her own tragedy to suck at his. Then -it leapt back, buzzing. . . . - -Aunt Harriet was purring hypocrisy, lying, dressing her lies in dirty -splendour, fouling well after well. Ann responded mechanically, -conscious that her spiritless dissembling would not have deluded a -child, physically and mentally unable to play up to such form. An -innocent-looking chocolate had caused Miss Gedge’s jaws to -conglutinate—a comical condition of things which she was turning to -generous account, throwing May and Ada into convulsions of girlish -laughter. Mr. Alcock was confiding to Mr. Barnham confessions of a -well-dressed man. . . . - -A frightful feeling of loneliness flung into Ann’s heart—a new kind of -desolation, of which her philosophy had never dreamed. Sympathy was -clean gone. Nobody, nothing within sight meant anything to her—or she -to them. A desert island had animals and trees and skies and yellow -sands: an empty house had silence and memories and dreams to offer: she -had things in common with a wilderness—would have got on with Death. -But this . . . There was an awful emptiness about this crowded hall, a -ghostly dreariness about this blithesome flow of soul which scared and -terrified. ‘As the hart panteth after the water-brooks . . .’ She was -parched—mad with thirst. The muddiest trickle would have served. . . . -But the saving fountains had stopped playing, the once innumerable rills -were dried up. - -At last the lights were lowered, and the talk died down. - -Ann tried to shuffle her thoughts and find a way. - -Instantly her brain told her that there was no way to be found. - -She fobbed the tidings off and began again. - -A way. She must find out a way. Where to? A way out—_out_. Suicide, -Flight presented themselves and were set upon one side. Flight presented -itself again—almost immediately. Ann permitted herself to consider -Flight. . . . With a shock she realized that now, if ever, was the time. -The hall was in darkness: Bob was not there: before Aunt Harriet could -follow, she would be clear of the place: outside, it was night and there -were crowds to mingle with: pursuit would be vain. . . . With a -hammering heart, Ann began to wonder if there were night trains to -Town. . . . Then, with a hideous leer, Flight faded away. _Her -things—her money—her hat, even, was at ‘Pier View.’_ To get them was -out of the question. The house was locked: Aunt Harriet had the key: if -the charwoman was yet there, she did not know Ann by sight: besides—— -Oh, it was hopeless, of course . . . hopeless. - -Ann decided desperately that she must talk to Bob. She must try to -explain—teach, if possible, the moment he reappeared, before a worse -thing befell. She could not face that awful parlour again. Aunt Harriet -alone. . . . Besides, the meal would be of the nature of a -wedding-feast. Its prelusive character would be insisted upon. Jocular -references would be made: sly digs administered. It would be -hideous—revolting. Ann’s flesh crept. - -The moment Bob came she must ask him to take her outside—away, out of -the crowd to where they could have a talk. Perhaps they could get a room -somewhere, out on the skirts of the town. He wouldn’t understand, of -course. To repulse the kindly advances of his own kin! Deliberately to -jettison ‘the best’! All his instincts would jib at such heresy. But -to-night—for a week, perhaps, she could override those instincts. As -for the future—— - -Three figures appeared, boggling, at the end of her row. Then they began -to push their way along. - -Mr. Mason came first, announcing in apprehensive falsetto that if anyone -pinched him he should call the women police. Uncle Tom followed, heaving -with merriment and inquiring cheerily if there was room for a little -one. Bob came last, laughing very much and repeatedly asking his -companions if they were right for ‘Emmersmith Broadway.’ - -Cries of ‘Shut up!’ and ‘Sit down!’ resounded. - -An attendant came bustling. . . . - -Bob subsided into his seat and mopped his face. - -Then he laid a hand on Ann’s knee. - -“Well, Beauty, ’ow’s things?” he whispered. - -He reeked of liquor . . . reeked. - -Something deep inside Ann seemed to give way. - -“Didn’ min’ my leavin’ you, did you, sweetheart? Just ’ad a quick one or -two to celebrate. They’re a couple of ’earties, they are—’Erb Mason an’ -Uncle Tom. I tell you, kid, you’ve got orf with them all right.” He slid -an arm about her and held her tight. “An’ I don’ wonder, by gosh. There -ain’t much left to the others when you’re around.” - -Uncle Tom was speaking excitedly—from a great way off. His breath . . . - -“Bob, Bob! She’s bin showin’ ’em ’ow to dance. Danced about with young -Alcock, an’ the others give ’em the floor.” He slapped his thigh. -“Glory, but I wish I’d bin there to see ’er put it across them—see my -peach of a niece showin’ ole Suet wot’s wot.” He thrust an arm through -Ann’s and covered her hand with his. “Strike me dead, sonny, but you’re -a lucky dog. I tell you—— Hullo!” - -Ann had fainted. - -The fresh air revived her immediately, but, though she implored the -others to leave her husband with her and return to their seats, they -would not hear of it. After a little, she abandoned the attempt. There -was no reason why they should not have returned. Indeed, the girls were -obviously disappointed. There was no reason at all—except that she was -doomed. That was most clear. Every slightest chance was to be crushed. -She had signed on and she was to go through the hoop. Resistance was -futile. That terrible ring-master, Satire, knew his job. - -They proceeded leisurely towards ‘Pier View.’ - -Mr. Mason and Miss Gedge left them at the pier gates. Bob parted with -the former effusively, swaying a little as he turned. Could she have -done so, Ann would have begged them to stay. The two were scrupulous: -they had authority: she trusted them. Miss Gedge was kind, human, no -fool. Mr. Mason’s vulgarity was but a pasteboard blade. . . . - -As the area steps were won, two figures emerged. - -These proved to be those of old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Joe Allen, of Bung -Street, Plaistow, who, finding their call ill-timed, were upon the point -of departure. - -The encounter was cordial in the extreme. - -A kill-joy might have suggested that Mr. Allen was under the influence -of drink. The way in which concluding words of sentences occasionally -rebelled against the deliberate precision with which he enunciated their -predecessors might have aroused suspicion in a bigot’s mind. So might -the colour of his nose—and other things. But—he was an old friend; and -among friends . . . - -The Allens were bidden delightedly to supper; Mr. Barnham and Mr. Alcock -were cavalierly sped. - -The party descended carefully, Ada and May tarrying for a moment with -their lingering swains presumably to temper the cold wind of dismissal -and make further assignations. - -Arrived at the door of the parlour, Ann shook off the sense of nightmare -and begged to be excused. - -Aunt Harriet crushed her entreaty, as a boa-constrictor his prey. - -Food. That was what she wanted. A good bite of food. Ann had eaten -nothing at tea—she had watched her. Nothing. That there fainting was -nothing but want of food. Ann must trust her. She knew. Hadn’t she been -a bride? How well she remembered how when—— But in _course_ Ann wasn’t -hungry. Why, that was the surest sign. Food. A nice cut off the joint -and a glass of stout. Why, she remembered when she was married. . . . - -Her hostess was determined that Ann should grace the board. The latter -gave way listlessly. What did it matter? What did anything matter? -What—— - -She took her seat dully, with despair sunk in her eyes. - -She sat on her uncle’s right and within his reach. From the opposite -side of the table Mrs. Allen regarded her beadily. A plate of beef was -given her and butter and bread. Stout was poured into her glass. They -bade her eat and drink. She did so obediently. If they had bade her -sing, she would have lifted up her voice. She was beaten. She had passed -the end of her tether. Her spirit was broken down. - -The meal proceeded. - -The presence of the Allens was providing a merciful distraction from her -estate. She had not the heart to be grateful. It was, she knew, only a -temporary release—a postponement, big with hell. Satire was playing -with her, as a cat plays with a mouse. - -Conversation warmed. The output of geniality was amazing. Righteousness -and peace kissed each other. - -Aunt Harriet expanded. Uncle Tom broadened. Bob began to laugh -indiscriminately. With increasing difficulty, Mr. Allen remembered -bygone days. - -As the joint reconstruction of a more than usually side-splitting -episode was concluded— - -“Dearie me,” croaked Aunt Harriet, wiping the tears from her eyes, “’ow -many years is that ago?” - -Mr. Allen regarded Uncle Tom. To survey and measure the past was beyond -his powers. - -“Now, don’t go addin’ up milestones,” said Uncle Tom. “I’m an optimis’, -I am. There’s a good few tides come in since that little lark, but I -don’t feel no older.” - -“You would if you lived i’ Plaizow,” said Mr. Allen. - -“No, I shouldn’t,” said his host. “’Cause I should blow down to jolly -ole Suet a bit more often—an’ ’ave one with me ole pals.” - -He laughed jovially. - -“Yes, you would,” said Mr. Allen. “The iron o’ the city would enter -in-in-injerso.” - -He looked round defiantly. - -“I don’t know about the iron,” said Uncle Tom hilariously, “but I’ld see -the Scotch didn’t. I bet that’ld go the right way.” - -“Trust you,” said Aunt Harriet. - -“Yes, an’ touch the spot, too,” added Uncle Tom, shaken with merriment. - -“Oh, did you ever?” said Mrs. Allen, deliciously shocked. - -“Yes, you would,” said her husband, throwing back. “When you saw the -people bein’ groun’ to powder an’ the rich swillin’ idow.” - -The reference was obscure. Possibly Mr. Allen was imperfectly -remembering the fate of the Golden Calf and confusing his allusion with -the imagery of oppression. - -For all that, it carried. - -“That’s true,” said Uncle Tom soberly. - -“Is the distress very prenaounced?” said Aunt Harriet. - -“Wicked,” said Mr. Allen. “Women an’ children’s life-blood is bein’ -suggaway.” - -As though to neutralize such drainage, he drank deep and mournfully. - -“Wot’s four poun’ ten?” he continued. “’Ow far does that go? ‘Ho,’ they -says, ‘but look at wot you ’ad before the War. Why, we’ve doubled your -pay,’ they says. Per’aps. But wot they don’ say is, ‘An’ we’re chargin’ -you double, too, for the necesserities of life.’ An’ you ask if there’s -blussuggy goanon.” - -“But surely,” said Bob, “it ain’t the blokes as pays the wages as shoves -the prices up. They ’as to fork out, too.” - -Mr. Allen braced himself. - -“So they says,” he said darkly. “That’s their bettle-cry. But it’s a -deliberate ’ave. They’re all in league, they are. The rich man’s ’and is -agains’ the pore, an’ always ’as been.” He smote upon the table. “Walk -down Bon’ Street, brother, an’ take a look at the cars. See ’ow the idle -rich lives an’ moves an’ ’as their vile bein’. Caount the Rolls-Royce.” -He paused dramatically. “But don’t you go gettin’ in their way. You may -’ave ’elped to pave it wiv blood an’ teers, but it’s not your -street—’cause you’re only a common man.” - -There was a frightful silence. - -Suddenly May burst into ecstatic laughter. - -Mr. Allen, who was about to drink, stared at her, tumbler in hand. - -As the transport subsided, he set down his glass. - -“An’ wot ’ave I said,” he demanded, “that you fin’ so ’ighly divertin’?” - -“Oh, nothin’,” said May, looking to the cornice, as though for help to -fight her mirth. “I was only laughin’ at me thoughts.” She hesitated. -Then, “I ’appened to pass the same remarks this afternoon—_an’ got -ticked orf for them_.” - -Uncle Tom shifted in his chair. - -“You said your granpa was a common man,” he said uneasily. “You -said——” - -“I said ’e wasn’t a nurl,” retorted May. “An’ you said it wasn’ for me -to speak disrespec’ful of urls ’cause I wasn’ a lady born, an’ you’ld -rather ’ave the opinion of a _nurl’s daughter_ than your own’s any day.” - -Before Uncle Tom could focus this perversion sufficiently to discern the -lie upon which a distasteful knowledge of his first-born told him it was -depending— - -“A nurl’s daughter?” said Mr. Allen, glaring at Ann. - -“Oh, that’s all over,” said Aunt Harriet nervously. “She’s one of us -now. After all, burf’s an acciden’.” - -“Oh, she’s one of us, of course,” said May. She laughed spitefully. “I’m -sure it’s a privilege—the way she shares our food an’ gentlemen -friends.” Her voice began to quiver. “An’ I’m sure she’ld ’ve brought -’er Rolls-Royce coopy down—if she’d ’appened to think of it.” - -Mr. Allen’s forehead and cheeks approached the colour of his nose. He -began to breathe stertorously. - -“Rolls-Royce?” he said hoarsely. He pointed a shaking finger. -Instinctively Ann recoiled. “She ’as a Rolls-Royce? An’ I’ve been -breakin’ bread at the same table wiv one ooze fathers ’as graoun’ the -pore to ’eap up riches?” He threw himself forward. “Where’s yer -Rolls-Royce come from? Aout of the pennies earned by toilin’ slaves. -Aout of——” - -“’Ere, shut yer face,” said Bob, rising. “Wot d’you know about it? Jus’ -’cause she’s a lady——” - -Mr. Allen started to his feet. - -“Wot do I know?” he repeated, with blazing eyes. “I know the terruth. -That’s wot I know. I say ’er wealth ’as bin stole aout o’ the maouths of -starvin’ baibes. The widder an’ the orphin ’as bin robbed to——” - -“An’ I say you’re a liar,” roared Bob. - -Ada began to cry, and Aunt Harriet laid a hand upon Bob’s arm. He shook -her off. Everyone was on their feet. Uncle Tom was at Allen’s shoulder. -Trembling in every limb, Ann clung to the back of her chair. - -Bob continued furiously. - -“She never robbed nor stole in all ’er life. Nor ’er father before ’er. -It’s easy enough for those as don’ want to work to ’oller an’ carry on -’cause there’s dukes an’ earls ooze fathers ’ve made good an’ saved, -instead o’ blindin’ their money at the nearest pub.” - -Mr. Allen surged forward, blaring. - -“I’m a liar, am I?” he mouthed. “Jus’ ’cause I’m not afraid to strip the -troof? She never stole, nor ’er father? P’r’aps not. You wouldn’ ’ave no -call to steal if your gran’father ’d bin a thief . . . an’ murdered an’ -stole an’ saved so as she could ’ave a Rolls-Royce to ’ide ’er -nakedness.” - -Bob hit him on the mouth. . . . - -Uncle Tom was between them—shouting. He had Mr. Allen round the waist. -The two were lurching and struggling violently. Mr. Allen was cursing in -a thick guttural. Blood was welling from his lip. Black in the face with -rage, Bob was labouring fiercely to shake himself free. Ann, frantic, -was hanging on his arm, beseeching him to come away. Aunt Harriet, who -had been something of an expert and knew that dead weight told, lay upon -his breast with her arms round his neck. Ada, whimpering, had him by the -coat. - -Finger to lip, May watched the affray with gleaming eyes. Remembering -her husband’s prowess as an indifferent heavy-weight, Mrs. Allen -regarded Ann with a supercilious stare. - -“Get ’im away!” yelled Uncle Tom. “Out o’ the room—upstairs! Now then, -Joe. Don’ lose yer dignity. ’E’ll be sorry to-morrer.” - -“’E’ll be sorry ternight,” howled Mr. Allen. “You saw ’im strike me. You -saw——” - -“Yes, I saw,” shouted Uncle Tom. “But, you know, you arst fer trouble, -Joe. You ’adn’t got no call to make it personal. Never min’. You siddown -an’ ’ave a drink.” He screwed his head round. “Will you get ’im away?” -he raved. “I ain’t a ’Ercules.” - -“Oh, Bob, Bob!” wailed Ann. “Bob, for God’s sake come away. Surely, if I -don’t mind, whyever should you? What does it matter? We know it isn’t -true. Bob, if you love me, leave him and come away.” - -Bob never heard her. - -“’E’s insulted my wife,” he raged. “You ’eard ’im. That dirty red-nosed -skunk ’as laid ’is tongue to my girl. Lemme go, Aunt ’Arriet. I tell -you, it’s me or ’im. An’——” - -Ann’s voice rang out. - -“D’you want to kill me? D’you want me to die of shame?” - -Her husband stopped struggling and turned. - -“Look ’ere, kid,” he expostulated. “You can’t expec’ me to sit still an’ -’ear——” - -“You haven’t. You’ve hit him on the mouth. And I say that’s enough—_I_ -say so.” - -The pronoun stood up above the uproar. - -Uncle Tom started: an oath Mr. Allen was savaging died on his lips. Aunt -Harriet released her nephew and stood up, staring. - -Ann continued steadily. - -“Are you going to question my right?” - -Bob’s eyes fell. - -“Of course,” he said clumsily, “of course, if you like to——” - -“I do. I want to go. It’s my wish. I want you to take me away—out of -the house—now. Come, please.” - -“Out of the ’ouse?” said Bob. - -“Out of the house,” said Ann. “And—at once. Come.” - -She turned to the door. - -No one said anything at all. The quiet, cold air of one having authority -tied up their tongues. They felt suddenly diminished. A wave of -detestable respect had swept them off their feet. Blood had told. - -Without turning, Ann passed out. - -Bob followed his wife, crestfallen enough. . . . - -There was a moment’s silence. - -Then— - -“Dear me,” said Aunt Harriet, trembling with rage and mortification. -“Might be a craowned queen. ‘Take me away—aout of the ’aouse—naow -. . .’” - -She laughed hysterically. - -“Woddid I say?” cried Mr. Allen, smearing the blood from his lip. “Dirt. -That’s wot we are—dirt. Dirt for ’er to shake orf ’er gilded feet. Wot -if we ’ave——” - -“Yes, I notice you didn’t say that when she was ’ere,” snapped Aunt -Harriet. “Very quiet you was. Anyone might ’ve thought you was -frightened.” - -“_Frightened?_” screamed Mr. Allen. “Gimme my ’at. I’ll show yer whether -I’m frightened.” - -With a filthy oath, he flung Uncle Tom aside, clapped his hat upon his -head and lunged to the door. . . . - -They heard him ricochet down the passage and bawl up the area steps. - -“Naow you’ve done it, ’Arriet,” breathed Uncle Tom. - -Bob heard him bawl, too, and stopped in his tracks. He was on the -pavement perhaps two houses away. - -Ann heard the challenge, too, and lost her nerve. - -She caught at Bob’s arm and tried to pull him along. - -“Come on, Bob! Come along. Don’t take any notice of him.” Bob resisting, -she tried to drag him with her. “For God’s sake, Bob . . .” - -Before the terror in her voice the last vestige of her authority -collapsed. She became again the weaker vessel, meet to be protected—and -avenged. - -Bob shook her off and turned. - -She flung herself upon him, but he tore her hands away. - -She reeled against the railings, shaken and fainting. . . . - -She saw the two men meet and heard the smack of a blow. They -parted—then drew together again, assuming grotesque postures like -animals about to spring. Again they closed for an instant, ducking and -slamming like madmen. Broken spurts of cursing were jerked to her -ears. . . . - -They were in the road now—immediately opposite ‘Pier View.’ A -street-lamp showed her the blood on Allen’s face. His mouth was -smothered. . . . - -Figures began to rise out of the shadows. The light of the lamp was -illuminating some of their heads. Somebody panted past her hotfoot. A -little bunch was crammed in the area gate—Aunt Harriet and . . . - -Bob seemed to lift himself up. Then he fell headlong backwards, towards -the pavement. His shoulders reached the gutter, and his head just made -the kerb. This brought his face forward, with a click. For a moment he -lay as he had fallen—as one who wishes to remain recumbent and yet, -ridiculously, to regard his feet. Then his head slid slowly -sideways. . . . - -As the crowd surged up, Ann stumbled forward and fell on her knees -beside the corpse. Then she asked for water and began to loosen its tie. - -People were nudging one another. She knew it. She could feel their -curious stares and the awkwardness of the hush that fell wherever she -went. She did not care at all. This was quite different. Bob had need of -her. . . . Bob . . . - -Two police came hastening. One was a sergeant. The crowd fell back -respectfully. - -The sergeant fell upon one knee and flashed his lantern on the dead -man’s face. - -“Who done this?” he cried, looking up. - -Again the crowd parted to reveal Joe Allen holding on to the railings -with his coat-sleeve across his eyes. - -The sergeant addressed his subordinate. - -“Take ’im,” he said shortly. - -He drew a whistle and blew five or six short blasts. Then he turned to -Ann. - -“Was he your friend, lady?” - -Ann started violently at the tense, staring open-mouthed into the -sergeant’s eyes. Then she caught the groom’s head and peered at the -quiet face. For a moment she held it between her palms; then very gently -she suffered it to roll back into its old position. . . . - -Ann sank back on her heels and stared at the sky. - -Slowly the Morland took shape—the spreading oak and the cottage and the -jolly brown horse . . . the girl standing in the doorway, holding the -little boy . . . and the man on the horse, smiling . . . all alone and -happy—under the spreading oak . . . very poor and simple, but very, -very happy. . . . - -A dry sob shook Ann—the first of many. - -Presently the tears began to stream down her cheeks. - -She continued to stare steadfastly up into the sky, till the bystanders -followed her gaze and tried to see something. - - - - - ELEANOR - - - ELEANOR - -Coffee was served. Finally, liqueurs were offered. A moment later the -servants withdrew silently, leaving the quartette to their cups. - -The six shaded candles threw down upon the table a gentle light. This -the silver and rosewood gave back vastly enriched. From a decanter -before the host a fine old port rendered a comfortable glow. An onyx -ash-tray and a match-box flashed by each painted plate; at either end of -the table was a gold box of cigarettes; between the two men lay cigars; -fruit was within reach; the board was not crowded, yet seemed to be -pleasantly full; upon the sideboard were remaining champagne, water, -coffee and the little group of liqueurs. - -The dinner had been perfect, the service superb; but then you had come -to expect that at 20 Park Place. It was the Willoughbys’ fault; from the -day they were married they had always spoiled their guests. - -Herrick looked across the violets at Eleanor Cloke. - -“Kitchen, cellar, table and service,” he said, “all one long last word. -Nell, how do they do it?” - -Miss Cloke shrugged her white shoulders. - -“You can search me,” she said hopelessly. “But don’t dwell on it, or I -shall burst into idle tears.” - -Madge Willoughby set down her cup. - -“Why?” she demanded. - -“Same as the Queen of Sheba,” said Herrick hastily. “You know. She -thought she knew how to live; but when she saw Solomon’s idea of -comfort——” - -“Tell her,” said Eleanor Cloke. - -“I am,” said Herrick. “Give me a chance. . . . Well, what really broke -the Queen’s heart was the poisonous reflection that for the rest of her -life the King of Sheba would be saying, ‘My dear, why can’t we have -so-and-so? _Solomon has._’” - -His hostess leaned forward, with parted lips. - -“D’you mean that you’re . . .” - -David Herrick swallowed. - -“Don’t rush him,” said Crispin Willoughby. “The roof of his mouth’s -dry.” He turned to his faltering guest. “Moisten the lips, old bean, and -let it come with the breath.” - -“I mean,” said Herrick desperately, “that we’re—we’re thinkin’ of -joinin’ up.” - -His hostess sighed contentedly. - -“At last,” she said. - -Crispin turned to Miss Cloke. - -“My dear,” he said, “be careful. Have you ever seen him unshaved?” - -“That,” said Eleanor, “is a pleasure to come.” - -“Pleasure?” said Crispin. “Oh, she has got it bad. Never mind. Was you -took ill gradual like, or was it all of a sudding that you came over -queer?” - -“To be perfectly frank,” said Eleanor, “I’ve always liked the look of -him.” - -Willoughby put up an eye-glass and inspected his prey. - -“There is something rather winsome about that sheepish grin of his, -isn’t there? D’you see what I mean, Madge? That -David’s-my-name-but-call-me-Boris-look.” - -“What a shame,” said his wife. “David, if I were Nell, I should be very -proud.” - -“I am,” said Eleanor. “When he seized me——” - -“Oh, you story!” said David. “I never——” - -“Shut your face,” said Crispin. “Go on, Nell. When he seized you . . .” - -“I never seized her,” cried Herrick. “I—I hadn’t time. Your butler——” - -“You see,” said Eleanor, “we arrived together to-night. I was just going -to ring when he said that I looked like a fairy-tale. Well, that was all -right, so, instead of ringing, I gave him a baby stare.” - -“Oh, the hussy!” raved Herrick. “The——” - -“Be quiet,” shrieked his host and hostess. - -“The next minute,” said Eleanor coolly, “it was all over. And, when I -came to, the door was open and I was in his arms.” - -“Oh, she’s slurred it,” said Crispin. “She’s slurred it. What was all -over?” - -Eleanor smiled bewitchingly. - -“You must ask your butler,” she said. - -Crispin lifted his glass and looked at his wife. - -“My sweet,” he said, “your very good health. There’s no one like you in -all the blinkin’ world.” His guests cried their approval, and the -tenderest look stole into Madge Willoughby’s eyes. He drank, smiled and -set down his glass. Then he turned to Miss Cloke. “Nell,” he said, -“you’re a darling. I’ld rather have you on my right than any woman I -know. Yet, sweet as you are, you’re a fortunate child. David may be -peculiar, but he’ll never let you down.” - -“What d’you mean—‘peculiar’?” said Herrick. - -“That,” said Eleanor, “is what I’m burning to know.” - -“Oh, it’s nothing to worry about. Be careful of him when he’s in beer, -and if ever he says he’s a life-belt and tries to put himself on, don’t -argue, but send for the police.” - -“They say,” said Eleanor, gurgling, “that marriage tends to shatter all -sorts of illusions.” - -Crispin laid a hand upon his heart. - -“My dear,” he declared, “I’m sure that yours will but substantiate your -dreams.” - -“With which,” said Madge tremulously, “we grey-beards look towards you.” - -Solemnly she and her husband toasted their guests. - -Herrick cleared his throat. - -“Nell,” he said, “I give you the verb ‘to love.’ _Je t’aime, tu m’aimes, -il s’aime, mais nous aimons Madge tous les trois._” - -He raised his glass. - -“‘_Il s’aime_’?” said Crispin. “Put down that port.” - -“We’d better include him,” said Eleanor. “Besides, he’s—he’s rather a -dear.” - -She blew her host a kiss, and the toast was honoured. - -“A little more of this,” said Mrs. Willoughby, “and I shall break down.” - -“I—I’m sure I should have seized her,” said Crispin brokenly. - -“Well, now,” said Herrick, squeezing the end of a cigar, “what’s the -first thing to do?” - -“Broadcast your folly,” said Crispin. “Put a notice in _The Times_, -announcing her unaccountable determination to become your wife. If I -were you I should kill two birds with one rock and add that you won’t be -responsible for her debts. You never know.” - -“The next thing,” said Madge, “is to decide roughly upon a date. Let’s -see. This is March. What about some time in May?” - -“That’s all right for me,” said Eleanor. “As at present arranged, I get -back from Nice——” - -“My dear good child,” said her hostess, “you can wash Nice out. You’ve -got to get your _trousseau_.” - -The lovers regarded one another. - -“Can’t she get that at Nice?” said David. “I mean, I’d thought I’ld go -too. Give the east winds a miss an’ play a little pat-ball an’——” - -“Nice?” said Crispin. “You won’t have time to get to Worthing and back. -You haven’t the remotest idea of what you’re up against. As a rule, a -full-dress wedding takes over two months to produce, and that means -going full blast the whole of the time.” - -Herrick shifted uneasily. - -“Must—er—must it be full-dress?” he ventured. “I mean——” - -A shriek from Madge and Eleanor cut short the protest. - -“But, of _course_,” cried his hostess. “You must be married at St. -Margaret’s, with six bridesmaids.” - -“That’s right,” said Crispin. “And flowers on the organ. I’ll order the -confetti. The best way is to get it by the hundredweight.” - -Herrick tugged his moustache. - -“You’re sure,” he said humbly, “you’re sure, Nell, you wouldn’t like -quite a quiet show? You know. Sort of hidin’ our light under a bushel.” - -“Positive, darling,” said Eleanor. “I want to splurge. Besides, we can -go to Nice any old time. Can we have a guard of honour?” - -“There you are,” said Crispin. “They’re squabbling already.” - -“Look here,” said Madge, laughing. “Within limits of reason each of -you’s anxious to do what the other wants. Am I right?” - -“My heart’s desire,” said David piously. - -“Liar,” said Eleanor. “Go on, Madge.” - -“Very well. I’ve got a plan. Certain things, like her _trousseau_, are -left to the woman, and certain other things are always left to the man. -Now, that’s a bad arrangement, because the woman gets what she wants and -the man pleases himself.” - -“Why’s that bad?” said Eleanor suspiciously. - -“Because, if they’re to be happy, the woman should get what he wants, -while the man should please her.” - -Finger to exquisite lip, Eleanor regarded her swain. - -“Yes, I’ve got that,” said the latter. “It’s rather subtle, but——” - -“It’s love,” said Madge. “That’s all. If Nell gets a frock and you don’t -like it, she’ll loathe the sight of it.” - -“That’s right,” said Crispin. “And if you get a pair of boots and they -frighten her, the very thought of the swine’ll make your gorge rise.” - -“Therefore,” continued Madge, bubbling, “the usual practice must be -reversed. The things that a man does will become Nell’s business, while -David must choose and manage what’s usually left to the girl.” - -There was a pregnant silence. - -Then— - -“My dear,” said her husband, “I take my hat right off. What a truly -tidal brain-wave. David, we’ll go and look at chemises to-morrow -morning.” - -“No, you won’t,” said Madge. “But we shall—David and I. And you and -Nell will go and get David some boots.” - -“But I don’t want any boots,” cried David. “Besides——” - -“What d’you mean?” said Crispin. “You can’t be married in your socks. -To-morrow morning Nell and I are going down the Edgware Road to choose -your wedding foot-joy—a good-looking pair of roomy, elastic-sided, -banana-coloured boots; and if we should see a nice pair of trousers -. . .” - -The rest of the sentence was lost in a roar of laughter. - -When order had been restored— - -“They must each,” said Madge shakily, “make a list of what they need and -where they’ld like the things got. Who’s your bootmaker, David?” - -“Stoop.” - -“Very well. Nell and Crispin’ll go to Stoop, and Nell’ll order some -boots. Stoop’s got your last, and Crispin, being a man, will keep her -straight. In the same way, you and I’ll go to Zyrot’s and you shall pick -out some hats. They can be tried on me, and I’ll supervise your choice.” - -“That’s all very well,” said David, “but I know Crispin’s ideas of -humour, and——” - -“I give you my word,” said his host, “I’ll do you a treat. Nell shan’t -get a blinkin’ thing I wouldn’t be glad of myself. It’ll be for her, of -course, to choose the engagement ring.” He turned to Eleanor. “Oh, you -shall have a snorter.” The unfortunate Herrick blenched. “I think, -perhaps, you’d better have two—just in case you lose one.” - -Madge Willoughby began to shake with laughter. - -“If she does,” blurted David, “she’ll have all grey flannel -_lingerie_—with brass buttons.” - -“Oh, I’m sure you wouldn’t do that,” said Eleanor. “That would be -unkind. Besides, a sponge-bag kilt wouldn’t suit you.” - -So soon as he could speak— - -“It’s all off,” cried David wildly. “I absolutely refuse to agree to -this lop-sided idea. I won’t have anything to do with it. Her—her -imagination’s too vivid. And with that overfed serpent to egg her on -. . .” - -It was fully two minutes before his protest was overcome. - -“As for the jobs,” said Madge tearfully, “that they usually do together, -we can be a Court of Appeal. Take the wedding, for instance. Well, I -think it should be full-dress—not because Nell wants it, but because -it’s only decent.” - -“I agree,” said Crispin warmly. “I’ve been through the hoop; why -shouldn’t David?” - -Herrick raised his eyes to heaven and set his teeth. - -“Madge,” he said weakly, “why did you marry the brute?” - -His hostess rose with a laugh. - -“Love,” she said. “He wanted me to, you see, and I wanted to do as he -wanted.” - - * * * * * - -The absurd arrangement worked well. - -The Willoughbys’ taste was irreproachable. - -Madge had learned how to dress in Boston, Mass., and possessed an -uncanny instinct for anticipating _les modes_. Crispin’s sartorial -opinions were respected in Savile Row. He had, moreover, a genius for -organization. Under his direction the ‘production’ of the wedding -proceeded like clockwork. An eye to colour made Madge a born decorator, -and, where furniture was concerned, while they were yet herded in the -showrooms, she could tell the sheep from the goats. David’s -half-timbered cottage at Hammercloth Down began to look as it had looked -when James the First was young. - -Herrick and Eleanor Cloke were admirably served. - -As for their patrons, they were tickled to death. Whether sitting as a -Court of Appeal or supervising the lovers’ selection of the wherewithal -to take the matrimonial field, they called an hilarious tune. Born with -large ideas, they indulged them generously. Happily for their -_protégés_, the latter were rich. . . . - -If Crispin and Madge made the running, David and Eleanor were well up. -An afternoon at the dressmaker’s suited Madge down to the ground, but -the lady herself made such a dazzling mannequin that David would not -have been human if he had found the hours long. In the same way, Crispin -shouldered his burdens with the most infectious good humour, continually -reducing Miss Cloke to a condition of mirth which verged upon abandon -and throwing shop after shop into sniggering confusion. The climax was -reached at the hosier’s, when Willoughby suddenly found himself unable -to speak anything but the most imperfect English, enthusiastically -supported by an excited flow of French. Indeed, but for his solemn -promise never to repeat such simulation, their pilgrimages would have -ended that day, for, as Eleanor observed that evening— - -“The laws that seem to govern men’s clothes are difficult enough without -any international complications.” - -Herrick inspired audibly. - -“That’s a good one,” he said. “I suppose the laws (sic) that govern -women’s clothes (sic) require rather less intelligence than does the -sucking of eggs. Of course, my office is a complete sinecure. I’m not -dressing you at all. Apparently I’m not—not competent. A woman’s -headgear alone seems to be a life study. If I make the most patent -suggestion, all the women in the place nearly burst themselves with -laughter: and when I ask why, the only answer I get is that I ‘shouldn’t -like it like that.’ And sometimes Madge adds that ‘the line’ld be -wrong.’ And when I ask, ‘What line?’ she says, ‘The line of the hat.’ -Not ‘lining,’ mark you, but ‘line.’” - -“Well, I expect it would.” - -Herrick put a hand to his head. - -“‘_Et tu, Brute_,’” he murmured. Then, “Look here. Supposing I was an -architect, and you wanted to choose a house. And every one you liked I -said, ‘You can’t have that because the point’s wrong.’ And when you said -‘What point?’ I said, ‘The point of the house.’ Well, after about -thirty, you’ld want to lie down and scream.” - -“Your wretched things,” wailed Eleanor, “are every bit as bad. Yesterday -I chose a grey suit—at least, I chose the cloth. And I said I’ld bring -them the buttons. As it happened, I’d seen some that morning—blue -pebble buttons——” - -“Good God!” said Herrick. - -“Exactly,” said Eleanor. “That was what Crispin said. And when I asked -the cause of the excitement, I was told that I ‘didn’t understand.’ I -ask you.” - -“At least,” said Herrick faintly, “we don’t change our rubric once a -year.” - -“Once a month,” corrected Willoughby. “You wait. How many hats did you -get to-day?” - -“Three,” said David. “One’s a topper—all blue and white straw. Looks as -if someone had rolled on it and then bought it half a pint of -gooseberries to keep it quiet.” - -“What?” screamed Eleanor. - -“It’s all right, darling,” cried Madge. “It’s a dream. They’re not -gooseberries at all. They’re cherries—blue cherries, and the shape’s -rather like one—I wonder if you remember; I wore it at Henley last -year, and it had a crushed strawberry——” - -“Time,” said Crispin. “Maudlin memories of discarded headgear are bad -for my heart. I only introduced this ghastly topic to illustrate the -fugacity of women’s raiment. The hats you chose to-day will be out of -date before they’re married.” - -“I don’t think so,” said Madge. “I’m trying to buy well ahead. Of -course——” - -“One moment,” said David. “D’you mean to say that there’s even a -possibility of such a thing?” - -“Well, I’m a little bit anxious about that velvet toque. You see——” - -A howl of dismay interrupted her. - -“My favourite?” cried David. “The wicked one that dips over the left -eye?” He threw up his hands. “Why, properly cared for, there’s years of -wear in that hat.” - -“Years of wear?” shrieked the girls. - -“Years,” yelled Herrick. “An’ then it could be done up.” - -There was a roar of laughter. - -“You see?” said Crispin. “He hasn’t the remotest idea. Never mind. -To-morrow Nell and I are looking at furnished flats.” - -Eleanor made a little mouth. - -“Much,” she announced, “against my will. A house would have been much -nicer. Still, I accept your ruling.” - -“My dear,” purred Madge, “I know what servants are. You’re sure to -strike some wash-outs in your first twelve months—real old soldiers, I -mean. They’re like vultures. They can smell a newly married couple five -miles off. And a house is so unwieldy.” - -“I know, but——” - -David put in his oar. - -“Give me an undress wedding, and you shall have your house.” - -“Not on your life,” said Eleanor. “Besides, if you really loved me -you’ld do as I want.” - -“Ugh,” said David, “she’s wheedling me.” He cleared his throat. “Nothing -doing,” he said sternly. “Besides, if you worshipped me, you’ld—you’ld -hang upon my lips.” - -“I think,” said Eleanor demurely, “I think I—I might . . . in a house.” - -“I’ll back the lady,” shouted Crispin. “I’ll lay five to one—six—ten -. . . ten sovereigns to one sovereign the lady gets her way.” - -“Taken,” said Madge. “David, stick to your guns. The Court of Appeal’s -behind you. Besides, I’ve had some. If you take a house before you’ve -got the right servants you’ll be buying trouble in red.” - -Eleanor gave her _fiancé_ a melting look. - -“David darling,” she murmured, “don’t you think that this once we could -upset the Court of Appeal? After all, we’ve got to live in it—you . . . -and I.” - -She blushed exquisitely. - -Herrick writhed. - -“Be strong,” shrieked Madge, “be strong. Think of the housemaids saying -they can’t stick the stairs and the cook complaining of the damp and the -charwomen——” - -“Ch-charwomen?” stammered David. - -“Charwomen. Relays of them—when all the servants have gone. And the -silver at the Bank because you’ve no one to clean it, and poor Nell in -tears counting your shirts, and answering the back-door yourself. . . . -At least, a flat has only one door.” - -David addressed himself to Eleanor. - -“My sweet,” he said, “not even for an undress wedding will I give you a -house. In your own interest——” - -Here a salted almond hit him upon the nose. - -Mrs. Willoughby regarded the ceiling. - -“Ten sovereigns to one,” she murmured. “Dear me, this is very fortunate. -David, how much was that hat you didn’t like?” - -“What, not ‘The Lost Chord’?” - -“That’s right.” - -“Nine and a half guineas,” said Herrick. He turned to Crispin. “Nine and -a half guineas for a piece of rope—wound round and round—painted red -and white—with a chunk of wood on each end.” - -“But how ravishing,” said Crispin. “Was it real rope, or only -imitation?” - -“It was a gem,” said Madge. “We’ll get it to-morrow, David, before we -look at the cooks.” - -The conference was typical and one of several. - -The four fleeted the time pleasantly, hunting in couples, conferring -perhaps twice a week. Once Madge had protested that the arrangement was -false, that her jest was being carried too far. The betrothal, she -hinted, was being shorn of its rights; the privacy of courtship was -being invaded; halcyon days were being stolen away. Her objection was -tumultuously quashed. With one consent Eleanor and David insisted that -all was well. They declared that they were not children, that chances of -present discord were being eliminated, that future harmony was being -assured. They also expressed their gratitude in certain terms. Madge was -reassured. Crispin, being a man, said and thought nothing at all. And, -as is always the way, some people, who were not concerned, said and -looked volumes. - -This was inevitable. - -The engagement had attracted attention to a notable pair. - -Miss Cloke had been bridesmaid to Royalty, was immensely liked and of -great beauty. Herrick had played polo for England, and was known and -respected on the Turf. His beautiful filly, Cretonne, was fancied for -the Derby. Her victory would undoubtedly be cordially received. - -As for the Willoughbys, they were celebrities pure and simple. They had -been conspicuous as man and maid. Captain Willoughby, bachelor, was a -V.C. Miss Madge Dinwiddy had been the darling of New York. The two had -married for love and nothing else. Two personalities—one brilliant and -the other steadfast—had made two simultaneous mutual appeals, each of -them too powerful to be withstood. Before the respective onslaughts -Crispin Willoughby and Madge had gone down incontinently. - -Mayfair had roared its approval then and there, and its approval had -never waned. - -So far as the two were concerned, the result of their union was natural -enough. Each began to assume something of the other’s outstanding -quality. A sheen stole upon the nap of Crispin’s steadfastness. The -charm of Madge’s brilliance began to crystallize. - -American by birth, the lady would have graced any company. She was tall -and beautifully made. Some said her neck was too long, but I do not -think so. Be that as it may, it was the neck of a goddess. The -Willoughby emeralds had never looked half so well. Soft brown hair and -laughing eyes, a fine colour and an exquisite mouth went to the making -of a countenance you never forgot. Her air, her easy dignity, her flow -of excellent talk—above all, that precious radiance which could coax -flame from smoking flax would have ennobled a hunchback. Wherever she -went, Madge Willoughby was constantly aerating the wine of life. Often -enough she turned it into champagne. - -Crispin was thirty-five and a handsome man. Tall, quiet, pleasant, -grave-faced, he suggested a strength and depth of character not to be -met every day. The suggestion was true. The deeper you dug, the finer -the ore you came to. But, until his marriage, the mine had to be worked. -His style, his manners were perfect—and always had been; he inspired -astounding confidence. But he had been reserved—shy. Only among his -familiars would he let himself go. . . . Five years with Madge had -altered everything. The man had shed his reserve and given his spirits -their head. His humour came bubbling. Invariably he led the dance. And -Madge watched him leading with the gentlest light in her eyes. . . . - -The opposition of two such fair planets, no less than their several -conjunction with stars almost as bright, was bound to excite remark. - -Eyebrows were raised; whispers were repeated; nudges were covertly -exchanged. Soon an impatient confidence that smoke so thick must be the -greasy harbinger of conflagration set tongues wagging. - - * * * * * - -It was on the evening of the nineteenth of April, as Mrs. Willoughby and -Herrick were returning by taxi from choosing a breakfast set, that the -latter threw his cigarette out of the window, took the lady in his arms -and kissed her upon the mouth. - -“_David!_” - -She shook him off and shrank into her corner, trembling violently. - -Herrick took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. This was -unnaturally pale. - -“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I beg your pardon. I—I don’t know why I -did it. I think—I think it was your perfume. I shall smell it all my -life, dear . . . your faint perfume.” - -“_David!_” - -The horror of the girl’s tone was reflected in her beautiful eyes. - -The man nodded. - -“Yes, it’s true,” he said. “I’ve fallen in love with you.” - -“Oh, David . . .” - -She began to wail tremulously, twisting her fingers as though in an -agony of mind. - -“I’m only human, Madge; and if you could see yourself I think you’ld -understand. I’ve tried, dear. I know all it means. I’ve tried and fought -and jammed my nose to the stone. But it’s not the slightest good.” - -“But Nell,” cried Madge. “Nell . . .” - -Herrick shrugged his shoulders. - -“I know. It can’t be helped. I’m sorry. She’s awfully sweet. But—— Oh, -Madge, there’s something about you that takes a man by the throat . . . -something that——” - -“Stop, David, stop! You must be out of your mind. You can’t mean—— Oh, -for God’s sake tell me you’re only pulling my leg.” - -“I wish to God I could,” said Herrick miserably. “But I can’t, my lady, -I can’t. I love you, and there you are.” Madge caught her breath and -clapped her hands to her face. “I’m wild—crazy about you, and that’s -the truth. Of course it’s hopeless—grotesque. You’re Crispin’s wife, -and Crispin’s one of the best. But I don’t suppose I’m the first that’s -loved his wife. . . . You’ll tell him, of course. And say if he wants to -kick me, I won’t try and cramp his style. He’s every right in the world. -But I don’t think he will, because he’ll understand. He’s a man, you see -. . . and he knows that it’s pretty easy to fall in love with you.” - -“But Nell, David, Nell. . . . Don’t you see what this means to her? -You’re letting her down most frightfully. Why, man, it’ll break her -heart. If it wasn’t for Nell, I wouldn’t care a kick. We’ld have a -straight talk, and after a month——” - -“Month?” echoed David, with a bitter laugh. “Shows how much you -understand. ‘After a month.’ . . . Good God, Madge, this isn’t an -evening out. I’m finished . . . bent . . . broken. . . . You’ve shown me -the precious fountain. I’ve drunk its water out of your blessed palms. -I’ve drunk—_drunk_, my lady. . . . And you only drink once. I’m -badged—branded, Madge, branded as your man. With me you stand for -womanhood. Your smile, your voice, your hair, the light in your -wonderful eyes——” - -“Oh, stop, stop,” wailed Madge. “How can you talk like this? You know -it’s not the game. You know you’re wronging Nell . . . and Crispin . . . -and me. If I’ve given you cause, God knows I never meant it. If . . .” - -Her voice broke, and she began to weep silently. - -Herrick set his teeth. - -“We’re nearly home,” he said. “Shall I tell him to drive round the -Park?” - -“Yes—no—yes,” sobbed Mrs. Willoughby. “And—please don’t talk any -more.” - -David gave the order and flung himself back in his seat. Presently with -a shaking hand he lighted a cigarette. . . . - -By the time they were back at Park Place, Madge was reasonably composed. - -She descended quickly, waved her hand, and let herself in with a rush. - -Herrick told the cabman to go to the Club. - -Crispin was in the library, seated upon the floor, with a pipe between -his teeth, brushing the Sealyham. - -His wife burst in tempestuously. - -“Crip, the most awful thing has happened.” - -“Impossible,” said Crispin calmly. “My word, how lovely you look. Of -course, the way to see you is to sit at your feet.” - -His wife sat down by his side and put an arm round his neck. - -“Crip,” she said, laying her cheek against his. “David’s gone off the -deep end.” - -“What?” cried Crispin. “Gone and got sozzled by day?” - -“No, no, no. Far worse, Crip. He thinks he’s in love with me.” - -“The devil he does,” said Crispin. “Not that it isn’t natural, but what -a stew and a half! Where’s Nell come in?” - -“He swears she doesn’t,” cried Madge. “That’s the frightful part. -Whatever are we to do?” - -Her husband knitted his brows. - -“Of course, he’ll get over it,” he murmured. “That’s certain enough. -Just as the others have. But in this case we’re up against time.” - -“Exactly,” said Madge. “Right up against it. A week in the country might -help, but he can’t have a couple of days. Whatever happens, Nell must -never suspect.” - -“By Jove, no.” He turned and looked at his wife. “Hullo, you’ve been -crying, sweetheart.” His lips tightened. “Did he—make a fool of -himself?” - -“Only for a second. He caught hold of me and kissed me. But I didn’t -mind that. Besides, he apologised directly. And he told me to tell you -that if you wanted to kick him he was at your service.” Crispin grinned. -“But he said he didn’t think you would.” - -“Why?” - -“He said that, being a man, you’ld understand.” - -“Ah.” - -There was a moment’s silence. - -Then Crispin kissed his wife, smiled into her eyes and fell again to -brushing the terrier, who was patiently lying on his back with his legs -in the air. - -“Where is, er, Paris, at the moment?” he demanded lazily. - -“I haven’t the faintest idea. Probably at the Club.” - -“And Œnone?” - -“Probably at home. Why?” - -“I was thinking they’d better not meet till David’s got his orders. Of -course, the marriage must go through. They’re perfectly matched and -they’ll be ridiculously happy. If there were anything doing—I mean, if -you were on, it’ld be a different thing. Nell wouldn’t stand an -earthly—no woman would.” Mrs. Willoughby squeezed his arm. “But as -you’re not, old lady—well, unrequited love doesn’t wear as well as it -did when ‘burning Sappho loved and sung.’ Personally, I’m not at all -sure that it was ever very durable. But that’s beside the point, which -is that our job is to knock it out quick.” - -“I agree,” said Madge, abstracting her husband’s case and taking a -cigarette. “But how on earth can we do it?” - -“Ask him to dinner to-night. I’ll go out. Somewhere about the fish tell -him tenderly that you wouldn’t be seen dead with him. That’ll put him -off and, what’s far more important, wound his pride. Add, for instance, -that you don’t like the way he eats.” Madge began to shake with -laughter. “And say, ‘to be perfectly frank,’ that you’ve always been -much surprised that Nell didn’t seem to mind.” - -“I can’t, Crip. Besides——” - -“You must. It’s the only way. Then, having got so far, say, ‘as a matter -of fact,’ you’re not at all sure that she hasn’t noticed something. -That’ll make him sit up. It’ll also make him ask questions. You’ll beat -about the bush till you get to the sweet. Then say you’ll tell him when -the servants are gone.” - -“Go on,” said Madge, bubbling. - -“When you’re alone, extract his word to say nothing, and then tell him -bluntly we’ve a sort of idea that she’s looking at somebody else. Refuse -to say who it is—that shouldn’t be difficult—but say he’s a pretty -strong man. Add casually that of course it isn’t everyone that could -hold a girl like Nell and that, ‘to tell the truth,’ you and I’d always -said that the one thing we were afraid of was that he wouldn’t be strong -enough to hold her affection.” - -“Yes, yes,”—excitedly. - -“Well, that’s all. He’ll snort and blow a bit. He may even grind his -teeth. But if you do it well, you’ll bring it off. First you wound his -pride and then you slap its face. No matter what he says, I’ll bet he -leaves this house mentally swearing he’ll show us whether he can hold -Nell. . . . As for his loving you, sweetheart, you’ll have blotted that -frenzy out.” - -For a moment his wife looked thoughtful. - -Then she got upon her feet. - -“Crip,” she said, gently smoothing his hair, “you’ve got a lightning -brain.” - -“I’ve got a peach of a wife,” said Crispin Willoughby. He smacked the -Sealyham’s flank. “Haven’t I, Boodle?” - -The terrier sneezed his assent. - -Husband and wife laughed. - -Then— - -“I’d better telephone now,” said Mrs. Willoughby. “There’s only one -thing you haven’t thought of, Crip. Obviously David and I can’t continue -our raids. How’s that to be explained? Nell will want to know why.” - -Crispin removed his pipe and regarded its bowl. - -“I know,” he said. “We’ll say Aunt Millicent’s ill and burst off to Como -at once. A couple of weeks in Italy’ll suit me down to the ground.” - -“And me,” said Madge. “Give me the home of romance.” - -“But not its occupant?” - -“No—unless she can show a good title.” - -Husband and wife smiled. - -Arrived at the door, Madge paused. - -“I suppose you must go out,” she said wistfully. - -“I must, my darling. This is a one man show. Besides, I think my job is -to get hold of Nell. You don’t want her blowing in to spoke your wheel.” - -“My word, no,” said Mrs. Willoughby. - -“I’ll say you’re tired and take her to see the play.” - -“Right.” - -The door closed. - -For a moment or two Crispin continued to brush the Sealyham. Then he -rose to his feet and picked up the letter on which he had been sitting. -He re-read it carefully. - - _You ask me why I never turned up this morning. I can see no - earthly reason why you shouldn’t know. Convention has offered me - fifty, but they’re none of them sound. If either of us was a - fool, if the understanding which you and Madge share was less - perfect, finally, if you were almost any sort of man but the - sort of man you are, it would be different. As it is. . . ._ - - _Crispin, my dear, you can add a scalp to your belt. I don’t - suppose for a second that you even know you’ve got a belt; but - you have, and—it’s pretty full. Any way, mine’s the - latest. . . . And that’s the inconvenient truth._ - - _As for David, I’m dreadfully sorry, because he’s one of the - best. I’m afraid he’s silly enough to worship me, and now I’m - letting him down. Heavens, how I’m tearing things up! But there - you are. . . ._ - - _You need have no fear. I don’t propose to assault you by word - or deed. I’m not going to throw my arms round your neck or tell - you I love you better than anything on earth._ But my impulse is - to do both. _So now you see, dear, why I never turned up this - morning._ - - _Nell._ - - * * * * * - -The royal box at the Imperial was available. So, incidentally, were more -than half the stalls. The occasion, however, was demanding privacy. - -So soon as the curtain rose, Crispin opened the door and ushered Eleanor -into the withdrawing-room. - -“Crispin, why have you done this? You know what I said.” - -Standing still by the table, the girl made a pathetically beautiful -picture. Her simple white frock, her short hair, her little folded -hands, her high colour, the piteous droop of her lips—above all, the -tense dog-like devotion of her big brown eyes lent her the air of a -child that has pleaded guilty and come to judgment. - -Willoughby steeled his heart. - -“One can say things,” he said, “which it isn’t easy to write. Sit down, -Nell.” - -He flung himself into a chair and crossed his legs. Then he took out a -cigar and lighted it carefully. - -“As a matter of fact,” he said, “your letter was rather a godsend.” - -Miss Cloke started. - -“A—a godsend?” she stammered. - -“A godsend,” said Crispin comfortably. “But let that pass. I’ll tell you -why presently. To tell you the truth, I was always a little afraid of -something like this.” Eleanor opened her mouth, shut it, hesitated and -then sat down. “I couldn’t very well say so, but when Madge first -suggested that we should hunt in pairs I thought it was playing with -fire. You see, as you hint in your letter, I—well, I’ve had some, Nell. -It’s a difficult thing to say, but . . .” - -The sentence slid into an apologetic snigger. - -“You’re rather—rather popular?” said Eleanor, using an odd, strained -tone. - -“Exactly. Heaven knows why, but you wouldn’t believe the number of, er, -applications I’ve had in the last five years.” - -Eleanor’s eyes flashed. - -“What fools women are,” she said. - -“And men,” said Crispin, with a generous air. “And men—often enough. In -the present case, I wasn’t afraid for myself because, though you’re -awfully attractive, Nell, I’m—I’m funny like that.” He laughed -self-consciously, uncrossing and recrossing his legs. “You know, I’ve -got one simply appalling fault.” - -“One—yes?” - -“Well, I’m frightfully critical—particular.” - -There was a frozen silence. - -Then— - -“Where,” said Eleanor in a choking voice, “where do I fall short?” - -Crispin shifted uneasily. - -“Don’t let’s go into details,” he said. “It’ll only——” - -“Please.” - -“My dear Nell, you are so attractive and you’ve got so many——” - -“That’ll do,” said Eleanor Cloke. “And now please tell me exactly where -I fail.” - -Crispin hesitated. Then— - -“Perhaps it’s as well,” he muttered. “You see. . . . Nell, my dear, it’s -your walk.” - -“My _what_?” shrieked Eleanor. - -“Your walk—carriage, my dear. In repose you’re immense. Standing by the -table just now, you were simply it. But when you move—I don’t know what -it is, but you, er, you don’t do yourself justice. You’re inclined to -. . . to . . .” - -“Waddle?” said Eleanor mercilessly. - -“Not exactly waddle, but. . . . Well, perhaps you would call it -‘waddling.’ But it’s nothing to write home about. The trouble is I’m -afraid it’s occurred to David.” - -“What has? My wal—waddle?” - -“Your walk. I may be wrong, but. . . . Nell, it’s your only blemish, -but, as it happens, the one thing David’s noticed ever since I’ve known -him was the way a woman walked. When you two said you were engaged, you -could have knocked me down. But apparently——” - -“He happens,” said Eleanor icily, “to have affirmed on more than one -occasion that I had the bearing of a queen.” - -Crispin shrugged his shoulders. - -“Love is blind,” he said shortly. “But of course I may be wrong. Still, -if it isn’t that, I don’t know what it is. If you wash that out, you’re -practically flawless,” and with that he leaned back, thrust his cigar -between his lips and smoked luxuriously. - -“What do you mean,” said Eleanor “‘—if it isn’t that’?” - -Crispin started. Then he rose to his feet and began to pace the room -nervously. - -Eleanor Cloke watched him with smouldering eyes. - -After two or three turns he stopped in front of her chair. - -“I said your note was a godsend. Well, so in a way it is. Nell, if you -value your happiness, you’d better give David up.” - -The girl stared. - -“Thanks very much—why? Are you afraid my waddle will get on his -nerves?” - -“I’m afraid,” said Crispin, “it has.” Eleanor smothered an exclamation. -“At least, if it hasn’t,” he added, “then something else has. Nell, I’m -grieved to tell you, but he’s looking elsewhere.” - -“Who to?” - -Crispin shook his head. - -“I’ve not the faintest idea. But I’m pretty sure he’s cooling. Now he’s -not the man to cool off unless somewhere around there’s another brighter -fire. Of course, we—I may be wrong.” - -“Madge thinks so?” - -Crispin threw away his cigar, picked up a chair and sat himself down -with the table between himself and Eleanor Cloke. - -“Look here,” he said, “if you want to be happy, Nell, you’ll take my -advice. _Back out before it’s too late._ If you and he marry, you’re -done. Madge and I’ve always been afraid that you wouldn’t be able to -hold him. Well, it looks as though we were right. . . . You’re awfully -sweet, Nell, and David’s one of the best. He’ld never go looking for -trouble—he’s not that sort. But he’s an attractive man, and there are -plenty of girls. Only a strong personality—a charm that fills up his -life—will ever hold David Herrick.” - -“I see,” said Eleanor slowly, nodding her head. “And my charm’s not -strong enough?” - -“I’m frightfully sorry, Nell, but I’m afraid it isn’t. The mercy is that -you haven’t burned your boats.” - -There was a long silence. - -From behind the closed door a sudden swell of applause came to their -ears, subduing for an instant the faint roar and jingle of the traffic, -the toots of innumerable horns, and even the staccato clamour of a -fire-engine’s tongue. Then the demonstration died down, leaving the -distant racket to snarl and grumble over the bone of silence as a beast -frets jealously over the consumption of its prey. - -At length— - -“Well, I’m greatly obliged,” said Miss Cloke, with a dry laugh. “It was -a good thing I wrote, wasn’t it?” - -“It was Fate,” said Crispin piously. “‘There’s a divinity that shapes -our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.’” - -“No doubt,” said Eleanor. “Any way, you’ve opened my eyes—wide. . . . -By the way, have you got my, er, application or did you leave it on the -piano?” - -Crispin began to search his pockets. - -“I had it,” he murmured. “I remember thinking when I was dressing ‘I -must not leave that about.’” - -“Never mind,” said Eleanor in a shaking voice. “I expect the servants -have found it and thrown it away.” - -“Here it is,” said Crispin triumphantly. - -Eleanor snatched the letter and thrust it into her bag. - -Then she rose to her feet. - -“If you don’t mind,” she said, “I think I’ll go. Don’t let me take you -away. I’m only sorry to have put you to so much expense.” - -“My dear,” said Crispin, “the thought that I’ve opened your eyes makes -it cheap at the price.” - -“It is obvious,” said Eleanor, “that the great thing in life is to know -oneself.” - -“That’s the idea,” cried Crispin, thumping the table with his fist. -“You’ve got it in one, Nell. And it’s never too late to begin.” - -Speechless with indignation, Miss Cloke regarded him. - -Then she recovered her face and began to shake with laughter. . . . - -Crispin watched her open-mouthed. - -At last she pulled herself together and passed to the door. - -“Poor . . . old . . . Madge,” she said deliberately. - -Crispin swallowed. - -“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said. “She’s only rather tired.” - -“I’m not surprised,” said Eleanor. “I think I should be—_rather tired_ -. . . after five years.” - -The next second she was gone. - -Captain Willoughby took out a handkerchief and proceeded to mop his -face. Then he stepped to a mirror and adjusted his tie. - -“And they think they’re acting,” he muttered, jerking his head towards -the box. “Well, well—it’s all in the day’s work. . . .” He fell to -pulling his moustache. Suddenly he burst out laughing. “What a game Life -is!” he cried. “I try to protect my own skin, and they give me the V.C.; -I deliberately scrap my reputation to do a girl a good turn, and—and it -costs me a jolly good friend and seven quid.” He lighted a cigarette and -picked up his coat. “I wonder how Madge has got on,” he continued -musingly. “And perhaps it’ld be as well if I had a look at the play. I -can’t reappear till it’s over, and she might ask what it’s about.” - -He hung up his coat, extinguished his cigarette and entered the box. - - * * * * * - -The wedding of David Herrick and Eleanor Cloke took place early in May -and was a brilliant success. - -The bride looked extraordinarily beautiful, and if the dignity of her -gait was slightly affected, that was a fault upon the right side. - -At the reception the bridegroom, who had eaten no lunch, ate nothing at -all. I imagine he had decided that the occasion was one upon which no -risks should be run. - -Captain and Mrs. Willoughby were among the guests. - -The tongues which had recently wagged fairly spouted the ‘Amens,’ and -afterwards slobbered over the ‘enchanting atmosphere of a true -love-match.’ Subduing a feeling of nausea, Madge and Crispin agreed -enthusiastically. - -The relations, however, between the Herricks and Willoughbys seemed to -leave something to be desired. The old familiar affection seemed to have -been superseded by a boisterous cordiality which was rather too hearty -to be true. - -These conditions prevailed until the month of July. - -It was then for the first time that Mr. and Mrs. Herrick spent -twenty-four hours apart. And that was against their will—they were -really absurdly in love. But Eleanor had a cold, and Tattersall’s Sale -Ring may be a draughty place. . . . - -For all that, Madge Willoughby was there, and she and David had an -engaging talk—so engaging, in fact, that the mare which he had come to -Newmarket to buy became the property of another at less than half the -figure to which Herrick was prepared to go. - -That same July morning Mrs. Herrick received a note. - - _Nell dear,_ - - _I gave you back your letter because you asked for it, but to - part with it went against the grain rather more than did - anything else I had to do that night. You see, next to Madge, I - love you rather better than anyone else, and I was so pleased to - know that, next to David, you felt the same about me. Besides, - to be strictly truthful, it was the only ‘application’ I’d ever - had. . . . Still, perhaps it’s as well._ - - _One or two confessions you’ll value._ - - _First, before your delivery of the word ‘waddle,’ I almost - broke down. I never could have believed that so much withering - contempt could be compressed into so homely a dissyllable. - Secondly, I never missed one of your thrusts; they were superb. - Finally, never to my dying day shall I know how, when first you - were standing by the table, I resisted the temptation to take - you in my arms. Before we got down to it, I mean. Nell, - it—was—irresistible. . . . Yet, I came through. Truly, - ‘There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we - will.’_ - - _Crispin._ - -As her husband came in that evening— - -“Well, my darling,” cried Eleanor, “what d’you know?” - -“Little enough, old lady. I lost the mare, but Madge and Crispin were -there, and they helped me home. They want us to dine to-morrow. Will you -be fit?” - -Eleanor sat up in bed. - -“I’ld love to,” she said. “But d’you think we possibly can? I’ve put the -Festivals off.” - -“Good Heavens, yes. I mean, they’re practically relatives, aren’t -they—Crispin and Madge?” - -“Practically,” said Eleanor. “And much—much more intelligent.” - - - - - SUSAN - - - SUSAN - -Nicholas John Kilmuir, Duke of Culloden, turned his letter about. -Presently he fell into a reverie. - -He was a quiet, good-looking man a short thirty-six years old. As luck -would have it, he looked an aristocrat and perhaps because of this, was -seldom recognized. His features were fine and clean-cut, his shoulders -square, his head well set on. He was tall, moved perfectly, rode as -though he were part of his horse. His gentle brown eyes and pleasant -voice, above all, his steady, grave smile, made many friends. In France, -his men had reverenced him as a god. His tenantry did not reverence him, -because reverence was not among their faculties, but the bluntest -crofter would have died for him as a matter of course. Culloden -understood this devotion and valued it as it deserved. He spent ten -months of the year at Ruth Castle and full four-fifths of his income -upon his estate. And since in this world much is expected of a duke, the -remaining fifth had to be gingerly expended. Thanks to his loyalty to -his own, Culloden was a comparatively poor man. He could not, for -instance, afford to keep a car. . . . - -At the present moment he was rather awkwardly placed. - -His operation had been an expensive business. To judge by the surgeon’s -fee-book, dukes’ appendices were twice as refractory as those of -commoners. Again, his bill at the nursing-home had been worthy of his -rank. More. He was to have convalesced upon an old friend’s steam-yacht: -then at the last moment his host had fallen sick and the cruise had been -cancelled. - -Staying at his Club in St. James’s, Culloden, who was really hard up and -had been medically forbidden to return to the isolation of Ruth for at -least six weeks, did not know what to do. - -It is not surprising that an invitation which in the ordinary way he -would not have cared to accept seemed to have fallen from heaven. . . . - - _c/o Comte Boschetto,_ - _Château Chiennile_ - _Cannes._ - _Dear Nick,_ - - _I know it’s not your practice to batten on people you’ve never - seen in your life, but I really think for once you’ll have to - climb down. My dear fellow, you MUST. You’re going spare: to - judge by your blasphemous incoherence, the weather in England is - foul: the vacuum within you demands consolation in the shape of - complete relaxation appropriately leavened with nice, gentle - exercise. Very well, then. Join me._ - - _Listen._ - - _The Boschettos are mad to have you, of course, but don’t let - that stop you. They mayn’t be pre-war, but they’re insanely - kind. Their one idea is to do their guests about fifteen times - as well as they’ve ever been done before—in an inoffensive way. - What’s more, they actually bring it off._ - - _First, they leave you alone. We make up our own parties, go as - we please. I get up when I like. I retire when I like. I eat and - drink what I like, when I like. I do what I like. I come and go - as I happen to feel inclined. In fact, so long as you sleep in, - they don’t care what you do if only you’re happy. I’m one of the - few who make a point of seeing the Countess about every other - day just to tell her how much I’m enjoying myself. Whereupon she - almost weeps upon my neck and wails that there are always - sandwiches and champagne in the_ salon bleu _from eleven a.m. - on, but that if I prefer port I’ve only to ask for it_. - - _Secondly, I thought I knew a thing or two about the contents of - the top-drawer, but I didn’t. My son, I’m a blinkin’ tenderfoot. - Luxury? I tell you, before I came here I couldn’t spell the - word. Of course the château’s palatial—you never saw such a - place. Over thirty bathrooms. My bedroom faces south and is - about forty feet square. Fifteen cars all going all day long and - half the night, and the stables full of ripping good ponies and - hacks. Three motor-boats. As for the servants, I didn’t know - there were so many in France. They literally swarm. I have a - valet to myself, and so, I believe, has everyone. And the women - have maids. Two private bands—three, I think. Dancing all - night—if you like. If I want a car or a cocktail or a Corona or - any imaginable thing, I just call the nearest wallah, and there - it is. God knows what it costs—I should think about two - thousand a day—pounds, not francs, pounds. But apparently that - doesn’t matter. I tell you, it’s indescribable. . . ._ - - _Hospitality like this seems to be proof against abuse. Short of - larceny, you can’t abuse it. Your duty towards your hostess and - your duty towards yourself are synonymous terms. The most - dutiful guest is the most self-indulgent. Naturally, such an - establishment has attracted a motley crowd: still, there are no - flagrant undesirables, and most of us mean well. Bertram Scarlet - has just left—amid lamentations. The Pemburys are coming. So - you see. . . ._ - - _I play golf all day, have a rubber of bridge before - dinner—small tables, of course—and do a little dancing - afterwards. Eleven o’clock usually sees me out. I ran into the - Fairies the other day on the links and after a lot of bickering - persuaded them to come along after dinner. They and Bertram and - I and one or two others made up our own party and had a good - evening. When they said ‘Good-night’ to the Countess, she - thanked them effusively for coming and begged them to leave the - Carlton and stay here instead. She’d no idea who they were. They - left dazedly in a Hispano limousine with two chauffeurs, - wondering whether it was all a dream, I tell you, the whole - thing is incredible—has to be seen to be believed._ - - _So COME._ - _Yours,_ - _Teddy Mandeville._ - -Culloden lowered the letter and gazed into the street. - -It did seem an obvious way out. But for his title, he would not have -thought twice . . . but for his title. - -The man could not endure to traffic with his name. In spite of golden -opportunities, he was not a director of a single company: and, as he -steadfastly refused to rent his style, so he declined to exchange it for -board and lodging. If he was invited for himself, he was delighted to -accept; but every new invitation was carefully weighed, and nine out of -ten of them were found wanting. He need not have spent ten months of the -year at Ruth Castle. In point of fact, had he pleased, he need not have -spent ten days of the year at home. Bachelor dukes are apt to be in -demand. . . . - -The present offer of hospitality was slightly different. It seemed that -commoners were welcome—not so welcome, of course. ‘They’re mad to have -you.’ Still, Bertram Scarlet and the Fairies—Teddy Mandeville himself -seemed to be _personæ gratæ_ at Chiennile. Besides, no one, apparently, -was wanted for himself. The Boschettos were purely beneficent. All was -fish that came to their net. All they were wanting was a thundering -catch. If this included turtle, so much the better: but that was all. - -There was no doubt about it. Not to avail himself of such a timely -chance would be the act of a fool. - -He wired to Mandeville that night— - - _Seriously shall I arrive on Monday next?_ - -In due season he received a reply— - - _Every time._ - - * * * * * - -Monsieur Auguste Labotte adjusted his tie. Then he slid elegantly into -the pink dress-coat which the servant was holding, told the man -offensively to be gone and assumed a courtly pose before the pier-glass. -After a careful survey of his points, he clicked his heels, bowed low, -took on a jaunty air and, clasping an imaginary partner proceeded to -shake his shoulders with every circumstance of abandon. . . - -He was in the act of kissing his finger-tips—a delicious, careless -gesture, by which the fragrant caress was apparently tossed into the air -to wreak who knows what havoc, when he observed that the symmetry of his -eyebrows left something to be desired. Simultaneously he remembered that -his aggrandizement of the left had been interrupted and never resumed. -He repaired the omission delicately. . . . - -Again he reverted to the pier-glass, to be inspected. - -This time his scrutiny could find no fault in him. - -Here was Chivalry _allegro_. The rude paraphernalia of virility had been -doffed: the hardy victor of the field was turning to tenderer, more -luscious conquests. - -With a happy sigh, Labotte reflected that, disguise it as he would, his -sportsmanship emerged always. No one could miss it. If anyone did—well, -that was what the pink coat was for. - -He opened the door of his room and descended thoughtfully. . . . - -The _salon rose_ was crowded. - -Two pretty Englishwomen were sitting on the club-kerb, sipping cocktails -and exchanging back-chat with a handsome jolly-eyed Frenchman and a tall -Italian, whose manner suggested that he might adorn diplomacy. As a -matter of fact, he had. A Frenchwoman of great beauty was relating her -impressions of the Trooping of the Colour and lending both English and -ceremony a peculiar charm. Two Englishmen, soldiers, were listening -delightedly. A jovial, broad-shouldered Spaniard was vividly recounting -his prowess upon the tennis-court and throwing his hearers into -convulsions of mirth. A well-set-up Frenchman, one-armed, was lighting a -cigarette: this belonged to an Italian lady: between the two of them the -simple attention put on the courtly livery of a forgotten age. A tall -American girl, with grave grey eyes and a proud mouth, was standing -close to an alcove. A common, unhealthy-looking youth, with a loose lip -and an aggressive stare was expelling smoke from his nostrils and -languidly conversing with Count Boschetto, a stout, nervous little man, -with vacant eyes and an everlasting smile. The latter was most -deferential and was working extremely hard. Six or eight other guests -were about their striving host, listening greedily to the youth and -thrusting toothsome banalities into the discussion, as though in the -hope of attracting attention to themselves. From the alcove, heaving -with emotion, the Countess was surveying the scene with a beatific -smile. Her proportions were immense: her splendour, barbaric. Her -snow-white hair was almost hidden beneath an enormous tiara, while the -size and number of the pearls about her neck was almost frightening. -Bracelets flashed upon her tremendous arms: rings winked from every -finger. Her dress was of purple and gold. Her shoes were of gold, with -high purple heels. - -The Duke of Culloden stood beside her, addressing her quietly from time -to time. She whimpered irrelevant replies, sometimes tremulously voicing -her thoughts. “Oll my gues-s-s,” she would falter. “Oll my deer -guess-s-s. They were so naize to make vull my salons—the salons of an -ole daungkih as me.” - -It was pathetic. - -Culloden felt as once he had felt in an asylum, watching a mad architect -gleefully supervising the construction of a new wing. The poor wretch -was intoxicated with his own importance, and the bricklayers were -calling him ‘Sir’ and laughing until the tears rolled down their cheeks. - -The peer felt suddenly ashamed. He was subscribing to this tragic -pantomime, taking advantage of an idiot’s whim. He was— - -Another picture rose up before his eyes. He saw the halls deserted, the -ball-rooms empty . . . saw his host and hostess in melancholy state, the -servants idle, yawning, kicking their heels . . . heard the bands -droning music to which no feet danced . . . perceived with a shock the -awful dreariness of riches with none to gather them. - -Culloden decided that the woman beside him was no fool. It was her glory -to kill the fatted calf. She was labouring under no delusion. She knew. -She actually thanked her guests, begged them to batten upon her, meant -what she said. - -After all, his visit was neither more nor less than a happy deal. It -suited the Countess’ book, and it suited his. What he found especially -pleasant was that for once in a way his title was cutting no ice. He was -not being named: no one was being introduced. Teddy Mandeville was -perfectly right—they really left him alone. He might have been Albert -Binks, of High Street, Clapham. - -He had arrived at Chiennile that Tuesday afternoon—a day later than he -had said, but that was because there had raged a storm in the Channel -and the present expediency of humouring his stomach had been impressed -upon him. Upon his arrival he had found that Mandeville had left the -château. It seemed that the latter had been wired for on Sunday night. -His Grace considered, frowning, that, even if he could not advise, Teddy -might at least have left him a note. However. . . . - -A major-domo had received him and had shown him his rooms. It was clear -that, for all his respect, the man had had no idea that he was not -conducting a commoner. Culloden was faintly surprised and immensely -relieved. The last thing he wanted was the carpet down. Still, it was -curious. None of the servants knew. Yet—‘They’re mad to have you.’ -Possibly Teddy had paved this admirable way. . . . - -Labotte entered the room. - -For a moment he stood, looking round. Then he joined the circle about -Boschetto. - -He at once perceived that the latter was doing his best to please and -decided to exploit the endeavour. He therefore directed attention to the -poor labourer by laughing and nudging his neighbours and presently -mimicking the manner of his host. - -“Yess, yess,” cried Boschetto, by way of hearty agreement with the -unpleasant youth’s remarks. - -“Yess, yess,” echoed Labotte, grinning. - -“Yess, yess,” repeated Boschetto unconsciously. - -“We ’af no bananas,” said Labotte. - -His host flushed painfully, endeavouring to contribute to the laughter -in which his loose-lipped patron joined. - -“You know,” continued Labotte, taking the stage and indicating his host, -“’e says to me one day, ‘Labotte, I ’af feer I am dull. I weesh that I -could mague my guess-s laugh.’ An’ I say to ’im, ‘My frien’, you do this -more better than you know.’” There was a shriek of laughter. Labotte -looked round grinning. “Am I not right—yes?” - -Boschetto fell away, chuckling in a queer, strained way, while Labotte -engaged the youth in a discussion of the gaieties of Town. - -Culloden stepped to Boschetto and began to admire the room. - -“Indeed, it’s all so admirable. Not only the château, but the -establishment. It’s a privilege to be here. You think of everything. I -tell you, Count, I know some people in England who think they can -entertain, but if they could see this they’ld go and jump off somewhere. -Why are you so kind to us all?” - -The Count blinked at him. - -“Thank you,” he said tremulously. “Thank you.” - -The American girl was speaking. - -“To-day,” she said, “he took me for such a lovely drive. Didn’t you, -Count?” - -Her host drew himself up. - -“I’ af enjoy every minute,” he said most earnestly. - -The girl appealed to Culloden. - -“You see?” she said. “He won’t let anyone thank him. He gives us all the -very time of our lives——” - -“I am dull,” said Boschetto. - -The girl took his arm. - -“What awful rot,” she said. She turned to Culloden. “You ought to hear -him on Europe. I wonder how many people in this room——” - -“Yes, but you was an angel,” said Boschetto gravely. - -He glanced at his watch, begged to be excused and made his way to a -servant with an anxious air. . . . - -“Who,” said Culloden, “are the young chevaliers?” - -The girl smiled. - -“The one in pink,” she said, “is Monsieur Labotte—a man, as you have -seen, of singular taste and charm. The other—well, surely you know who -that is.” - -“I haven’t the faintest idea.” - -“Aren’t you English?” - -“I’m a Scotsman.” - -“Worse and worse,” laughed the girl. “My good sir, that is the Duke of -Culloden.” - - * * * * * - -Two days and two hours had gone by, and Nicholas John Kilmuir was -enjoying himself very much. - -He was royally lodged, admirably served, superbly fed. What was still -more to his taste, he went incognito. ‘Incognito’? No one had the -remotest idea who he was—except that he was _not_ the Duke of Culloden. -To turn to smaller mercies, the weather was brilliant, and his time was -his own. Moreoever, his conscience was clear—whenever Boschetto saw -him, a pleased light crept into the dull, strained eyes. . . . - -But that was not nearly all. - -First, there was the spectacle of an impostor, whose arrival on Monday -had been taken for that of His Grace, deliberately exploiting the error, -accepting the fervent homage of a perfectly poisonous crowd and -generally playing such ‘tricks before high Heaven as make the angels -weep.’ - -Secondly, there was Susan Armitage Crail. . . . - -“I should like,” said Nicholas John, “to ask you to dance. But a recent -bereavement. . . .” - -Miss Crail raised her sweet eyebrows. - -“I’ve heard some excuses,” she bubbled, “but that’s the very best. It -suggests shades of mourning of which the average relict never dreams.” - -“He wasn’t a relation,” said Nicholas. “Only a—an intimate connection. -And I’m not really mourning. We got on admirably for many years, and -then at the last he got above himself. Indeed, he caused me much pain, -before—before he . . . passed over.” - -Miss Crail frowned. - -“Why not ‘died’?” she demanded. “Don’t say you’re——” - -“Can appendices die?” said Nicholas. - -Susan Crail stared and then fell into silvery laughter. - -Kilmuir regarded her gravely. - -There was about this girl a natural dignity which no manner of mirth -could subvert. The pride of her red mouth was gone: the grave eyes were -fairly dancing with merriment; she was unconscious of anything save that -she was amused. Yet—hers was the amusement of a great lady. And of such -was her charm. More. The girl had depth, quality: she did not require to -be amused. There seemed to be things other than dalliance which were -dreamt of in her philosophy. - -“What should I do without you?” said Nicholas John. - -“I expect you’ld play Bridge,” said Susan. - -The man shook his head. - -“I suppose I should read,” he said. “I’ve nothing in common here with -anyone else.” - -“You haven’t tried,” said Susan. “That little French girl with the -glorious mop of hair. . . .” - -“Can you see me?” said Nicholas John. “Do we look as if we should get -on? I tell you I can’t—er—chatter. I’ld like to tell you what -beautiful arms you’ve got, but I can’t put it into words.” - -“Hush,” said Susan. “You mustn’t say things like that.” - -“Why?” - -Steadily grey eyes met brown. - -“Because they ring true. I know now that you think I have beautiful -arms. I haven’t, but that’s beside the point. I know you think I have. -If anyone else said so, I should know they were telling the tale. But -you—you mean what you say.” - -“I hope so. But that’s no reason. Why shouldn’t I——” - -“I don’t know. It’s difficult to say. Somehow it’s—it’s dangerous -ground. You see, to-day a man can say anything—at least, they do. I -hate it, but it’s the fashion . . . _anything_. But there’s always a -button on the foil. They don’t mean a word of it. If they did . . . -Well, I should take the veil. But they don’t. And that’s the saving -clause in an odious document. But you’re different. You mean what you -say. Your foil hasn’t got any button. And so—it’s dangerous.” - -Kilmuir digested this, frowning. - -“In a word,” he said, “I mustn’t make personal remarks?” - -“That’s right,” said Susan. With a sudden, childish gesture she touched -his arm. “You don’t mind my telling you?” she said. - -The sweet simplicity of heart that prompted gesture and word took -Kilmuir by the throat. She was a child—this great lady, an exquisite, -unspoiled child. Gentle, fair, wise—smothering up her nature because it -was not safe for her nature to be abroad. His impulse was to take her -hand and kiss it. He wanted to, immensely. But he mustn’t—because she -was a child. - -In an instant, in the twinkling of an eye, their positions had been -reversed. A moment ago he had been sitting at her feet. Now her hand was -in his, and she was looking up trustfully into his eyes. She was a -child. - -“No,” he said, “I don’t. In fact, I’m much obliged. Let’s—let’s shake -hands, shall we?” - -They shook hands gravely. - -Locked together, two couples rocketed out of the ballroom, whirled past -Miss Crail and Kilmuir and, as the tune ended, crashed in a heap on a -divan. They sorted themselves uproariously. - -“What about a little courage?” said ‘the Duke,’ drying his neck. “And a -mouthful of goose-grease, just to help it down?” - -“Are you steel so thirsty?” queried his partner. - -“I am when I look at you,” was the ducal reply. - -Labotte suspended his handkerchief as a curtain between the two girls, -as though to screen the speakers from inconvenient gaze. To do this, he -passed his arms upon either side of his partner. The latter, an English -girl, sought to duck beneath his sleeve. Instantly he lowered his arm. -In a moment the screen was forgotten, and the business became an affray -between Gallantry and Virtue. - -“See, see,” cried Labotte, grinning. “I ’af catched a leedle mouze in a -gage. She will get oud, but she does not know ’ow.” The girl slid to the -ground, and her captor slid with her. “You see?” he announced. “It ees -no good at oll. You are a preesner for life.” - -The pretty scene concluded with a violent struggle from which the lady -emerged with a torn dress—a mishap which occasioned shrieks of laughter -and a volley of innuendo. - -The four departed hilariously in search of champagne. . . . - -“D’you like all this?” said Nicholas. “I don’t mean the scene we’ve just -witnessed, but the manners of which it’s the fruit.” - -“What d’you think?” said Miss Crail. - -“I think you hate it. I think you like gaiety, and as this is the only -sort going you make the best of it.” - -“You’re wrong,” said the girl. “I could live on a desert island and be -completely happy.” - -“Then why do you stay here?” - -“Well, for one thing, I haven’t an island. Secondly, I haven’t any -money. I live with an aunt, who keeps me and is at present on a yacht. -When I saw the passenger-list, I begged to be excused. So I’ve been left -here till she returns. If I’d the nerve, I’ld strike out a line for -myself, but I’ve always lived soft and I can’t type a letter, so what -can I do?” - -Kilmuir regarded the end of his cigarette. - -“How long have you done this?” he said. - -“Nearly two years now. The idea is to get me married and out of the way. -But I don’t go very well. Two or three men have been kind enough to bid, -but one was married already and the others. . . .” She shuddered. “My -aunt says it’s my fault,” she added, “and so it is! I don’t push my -wares. . . . I’m not so bad as I was. At one time I was quite hopeless. -But I’m better now. At least I give people a chance—to be nice or nasty -according to how they feel. I’m afraid even now I’m not very good at -horse-play, but I shall probably learn.” - -“Don’t,” cried Nicholas. “Don’t.” - -The girl looked at him. - -“All right,” she said. “I won’t. I promise I won’t again. I don’t know -why I did. Yes, I do,” she added abruptly. “I know why I did.” - -“Why?” said Kilmuir. - -Susan Crail started. - -Then, suddenly, she fell into long strained laughter. - -“From your curious tone,” she said, “I perceive that I have been -maudlin. You know. Not offensively blind, but sorry for myself. It’s -just that extra half-glass, you know. You think ‘I won’t drink it,’ and -then you get talking and——” - -“Rot,” said Nicholas John. - -“Oh, but how rude,” said Susan. “Never mind. You’ll believe me one day. -Didn’t I talk about a desert island? Yes, I thought so. I always do. But -I’ll bet you never said what the last man said. You’re much too solemn.” - -“What did he say?” - -“He said it wouldn’t be a desert island long, especially if I went in -for goatskin shorts.” - -“My very words,” said Kilmuir steadily. - -There was a long silence. - -Susan was beaten and she knew it. - -Hastily she shuffled her cards. These were frightening. - -Without thinking, she had told him her story, because she valued his -esteem. She valued his esteem, because she loved him. She had told him -her plight and, without thinking, she had told him its -remedy—_marriage_. She had actually rammed it home—without thinking. -Suddenly she had realized. . . . - -Horrified at what she had done, she had striven frenziedly to undo it -. . . somehow—_anyhow_ . . . no matter at what cost. And he had watched -her efforts and feinted and knocked them out. - -There was nothing for it: she must begin again. - -“I shall pinch you in a minute,” she said. “I tell you, the reaction has -set in. The muzzy feeling is passing and I’m beginning to feel ready for -anything. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” - -Labotte arrived—a very _deus ex machina_. - -He came straight to the two, stood before Susan, spread out anticipative -hands and began to oscillate to the one-step which had just commenced. -An impudence of raised eyebrows and the shadow of a superior grin argued -a confident familiarity which could afford to dispense with a formal -invitation to dance. - -With a heart of lead, Miss Crail acceded brightly to the unspoken -request. - -As she launched herself, she flung out the words of the melody in the -approved darkie fashion. - - _And you never know whether she will,_ - _And you never know whether you may,_ - _But hold her tight,_ - _With all your might,_ - _By the small of her back,_ - _On a moonlight night,_ - _And you won’t be left,_ - _’Cause you must be right—_ - _THOWAT-T-T’S the way!_ - -They flashed the short length of the salon, whirled through the open -doors and disappeared. . . . - -There is an old saying that you cannot have it both ways. If you decide -to discourage heaven, then you must be prepared to encourage hell. -Whether or no Susan had offended Kilmuir, she had exalted Labotte—a -supererogatory and rather dangerous elevation. - -He began to improve the occasion almost at once. - -“I do not know why I ’af not resgue you more soon. I think I am a gread -fool. There is the nices’ leedle ’orse in oll the place sidding with a -gread dull fellow an’ I ’af lose my dime in tryin’ to school so many -mules. _Tant pis!_ I tell you, we are goin’ to ’af a good dime now. We -are goin’ to go well this evenin’—my naize leedle ’orse an’ I.” - -His buoyant tenderness was hideous, but Kilmuir was standing in the -doorway, and they were dancing towards him. - -Susan threw back her head and laughed wildly. - -“Your horse?” - -Labotte tightened his hold. - -“From the firs’ dime I ’af see you, you ’af been my naize leedle ’orse. -Bud olways before, you ’af been shy from me. ‘Ah,’ I ’af say, ‘bud thad -is a good fault.’ You know, a man like much bedder when a girl is not -oll over ’im at once. An’ so I say, ‘Gently, my frien’, tread gently -your naize leedle ’orse: an’ one day she shall whinney when she shall -’ear your face——” - -“And eat out of your hand?” - -It is doubtful whether the sage heard what she said. - -Intoxicated with the triumph of his compelling personality, dazzled by -the richness of the pasture his brilliancy had won, considerably -affected by the elegance with which his imagery had betrayed at once the -sportsman, master and swain, Labotte was out of earshot. - -He whirled her past Nicholas in an eloquent dithyramb of motion to which -she deliberately subscribed. - -“My naize leedle ’orse,” he crooned, “oll while I ’af make spord with -the mules I ’af see olways my leedle ’orse in the dail of my eye. An’ ad -night I ’af dream about ’er, an’ now. . . ’Af I not say that we shall go -well this evening? Eh? An’ do we not? Eh? Was I nod righd then, -sweet-bit?” - -Craning his neck, he leered into her eyes. - -As they swung round, Susan was able to see that the doorway was empty. -Kilmuir had gone. - -“Now then I will teach you ’ow. You mus’ turn your ’ead sweet-bit, and -our leaps shall brush themselves. It will, of gourse, be an agsiden’. I -shall not ’af know that you were to move. An’ no one shall know neither -. . . But we shall know an’ be ’appy—my leedle——” - -“Let’s stop,” said Susan, suiting the action to the word. - -Labotte wagged his head. - -“I know a leedle salon,” he chanted rhythmically, “’alf-way on the -stairs.” - -As the girl turned, he laid hands upon her. It was his way. He always -smeared his prey. The suggestion of an embrace appealed to him. For one -thing, it looked so well. It argued a certain proprietorship—a -seignory, such as other men did not enjoy; it suggested the existence of -a familiarity which, short of a scene, his victim could seldom rebut: it -enhanced his reputation as an irresistible dog. For another, he found it -agreeable. - -He slid an arm about her shoulders and squeezed her hand, as though by -way of shepherding her in the required direction. - -“D’you mind not touching me?” said Susan. - -Labotte started, and the greasy hands fell away. - -Then he rapped his knuckles. - -“Ah, then,” he simpered, “you mus’ be more gareful, block-face. You mus’ -nod go to frighden your leedle ’orse.” - -Susan passed out of a door and sat down in the hall. This was empty, but -it was not remote. - -Labotte stared. - -“Bud,” he blurted, “we ’af arrange to go——” - -“I sit here,” said Susan. - -Labotte sat down by her side and took out a cigarette. His grin had -faded into a supercilious and rather unpleasant regard which sat -uneasily upon his insignificant face. - -“And,” continued Miss Crail, “I’ld be glad if you wouldn’t refer to me -as ‘your little horse.’ It suggests an intimacy which does not exist -between us; it’s vulgar and it’s bad form. I don’t suppose that any of -those reasons will appeal to you, but you can take my word for it -they’re pretty sound.” - -Labotte regarded her open-mouthed. - -After a moment the blood began to pour into his face. Very soon this was -completely suffused and glistening. The scarlet of his ears suggested -that they were on fire. As for his eyes, these had become small slits of -grey-green flame. - -He shut his mouth with a snap. - -“What?” he breathed through his teeth. “I—_I_ am vulgar?” - -“Intensely vulgar,” said Susan, producing a cigarette. “Get me a match.” - -For a second Labotte hesitated. - -Then he rose, crossed to a table and returned with a box of matches. - -“Thank you,” said Miss Crail. “Now you can go.” - -Labotte drew himself up. - -“I ’af nod the use to be commanded,” he said. “I am a gennelman, -an’——” - -“Don’t be silly,” said Susan. “Because it suited me to dance with you, -that doesn’t make you a gentleman. And now, if you take my advice, -you’ll run away and play—while there is time. Otherwise, I may be -tempted to put you where you belong.” - -The macaroni appeared to have lost the power of speech. - -His world was rocking before him. - -A woman—a fury, of course—had had the hideous presumption to turn him -down. His advances had been rejected: his condescension had been -actually flung in his face: he had been offered gross, gratuitous -insult. The dove he had deigned to nourish had turned serpent. The -female he had demeaned himself to favour had turned and rent him—_him_, -Labotte, knight and sportsman. . . . - -The indecency of the affair made his brain reel. - -Dazedly he put a hand to his head. - -“No one ’as never speak to me so—nevare,” he announced dramatically. -“Eef you was a man——” - -“Be thankful,” said Miss Crail, “that I am not. Why, you wouldn’t ride -for weeks,” she added pleasantly. - -Labotte blenched. The reflection, however, that sex cannot be changed at -will steadied him almost at once. - -He took a pace backward and bowed. - -“I go,” he said stiffly, “bud nod begauze you ’af say so. No.” Susan -began to shake with laughter. “The only reason wot I ’af got ees that I -will blease myselve. Oh, yes. Eet ees very fine to laugh,” he added -violently. “It ees a gread jork to make slaps when you are very safe -that they cannot be render: but eet ees you shall waid, Mees Crail, an’ -fin’ whether you shall ’af make these blace too ’ott for you to ’old.” - -He turned and sauntered away with such nonchalance as he could muster. - -When he was out of sight, Susan went to her room, sank into a chair, -buried her face in her hands and burst into tears. - -Upon the next floor Nicholas was pulling his moustache and covering his -third mile upon an Aubusson carpet of great beauty. - -Three rooms away Labotte was savaging a pillow. - -“_Sapristi!_” he mouthed. “_Mais je vous montrerai, Speet smoke, qu’on -ne gagne rien à insulter un sportsman._” - - * * * * * - -Nicholas very nearly returned to Town. - -The man was shocked. At one and the same moment he had made two striking -discoveries—severally harmless enough, but jointly corrosive. The first -was that Susan Crail was a waster: the second, that he loved her very -much. What made things infinitely worse was that, as women go, she was a -queen. Spotted silk is so much worse than stained sackcloth. Unearthing -more bitterness, he reflected that never again would he be offered the -blessed opportunity of wooing without his title to promote his suit. - -He avoided Susan but watched her, taking care to conceal his -disappointment and wearing it on his sleeve. - -Susan could have wept, was careful to appear blithesome and got away -with it. - -Labotte was as good as his word. - -His vanity had been outraged. Very well. All the chivalry of the man -rose up in condemnation of the foul deed. His hate had to be served. -After surveying his dirty armoury with a malevolent stare, he turned his -attention to his opponent’s harness. - -Almost immediately he perceived a vulnerable spot. - -Miss Crail was a lady, and ladies had an aversion to figuring in scenes. -Indeed, to avoid a scene they would endure almost anything. . . . - -Labotte licked his lips. - -If he approached her privately, he would be told to go away. Very well. -Supposing he approached her publicly—short of a scene, she would have -to submit to his approach. More. If he addressed her, sat by her side, -made loud, innocent conversation—no one would see anything inconsistent -with courtesy in that. Everybody would think that he was dancing -attendance. But he and she would know that she was being whipped. . . . - -Susan’s luck was clean out. - -Five times in three days he contrived to sit next to her at meat: twice -he had managed to be driven in the same car: seven times he had asked -her to dance. She had not done so, but it was not too pleasant—this -pestering. Labotte’s attentions would have been odious at any time: now -they were nothing less than a direct insult. When upon the third day at -dinner he steered the conversation to the points of a ‘naize leedle -’orse,’ mentioned nice clean legs, a soft mouth and well-rounded -quarters as essential features and then asked Susan if she did not -agree, the latter felt cold with rage. - -Most of the women saw there was something amiss and, reluctantly -respecting Susan, were faintly amused. The more quick-witted of the men -began to smell trouble. The jolly-eyed Frenchman looked very hard at -Labotte: the Spaniard had frowned and lost the thread of his discourse: -the tall Italian had stared and then asked Susan to dance. But that was -all. The way of a man with a maid had to be patently outrageous to -warrant intervention. . . . - -Deep in a shadowy corner of the _salon vert_ Susan was contemplating her -state and wondering, if she fled, how far four hundred and fifty francs -would go. - -Six feet away two Englishmen were talking. - -For a moment or two she listened idly, too much depressed to care at all -for their words. - -Then her brain leapt. - -“Sponge knows who he is.” - -“He would”—contemptuously. - -“He didn’t go so far as to claim his acquaintance, but he says he’s -Kilmuir of Kilsay. He added that he knew his wife intimately—spoke of -her as ‘Kitty Kilmuir.’” - -“And I bet if she came here she wouldn’t know him. What a sweep the man -is!” - -The two moved away, and the voices faded. - -_His wife. . . . Kitty Kilmuir._ - -Wondering why she had assumed that Nicholas John Kilmuir was unmarried, -halting curiously between relief and dismay, Susan started to her -feet. . . . - -Then she sank down again and stared at the floor. - -Her impulse had been to find Kilmuir at once and tell him the truth. Not -all of it, of course, but enough to make him her friend—a present help -in her trouble. But Susan Crail was no fool. Life was a stern creditor. -If she invoked the sympathy of the man she loved, touched his strong -hand, called up the kindness of his steady brown eyes—these things -would have to be paid for in blood and tears. As it was, even if Labotte -vanished, she would still have to try to forget. . . . Nicholas Kilmuir. -There was a scourge waiting. Was it worth her while, for the sake of a -little relief, deliberately to load the cords? Wasn’t it better to—— - -“No,” said Susan suddenly. “It isn’t better. What is better is to take -what you can get. I can’t take him, because somebody else has done that. -But I can be with him and see him and hear his blessed voice. Damn what -the future holds. The present’s the thing.” - -She rose and stepped out of the shadow—almost into the arms of ‘the -Duke of Culloden’ and Labotte. - -The latter bowed low. - -“Good evening, Miss Susan Crail.” - -“Good evening.” - -‘His Grace’ stared. Then— - -“Oh, ’elp,” he said. “Any more for the throne-room?” He bowed -grotesquely. “Good sunset, sweeting. What doth the night-light say?” - -“Too late,” said Susan pleasantly. “I’ve a letter to write.” - -“Splendid,” said ‘the Duke.’ “We’ll tell you what to say, shall I?” He -linked her arm in his and turned to Labotte. “If I’m not back in half an -hour, Saddle-soap——” - -Labotte raised his eyebrows. - -“I do nod think,” he announced, “you will be zo long.” Suddenly his eyes -gleamed. “But there,” he added, “I do nod know. Perhaps . . . I tell -you, when she was naize, she was vairy, vairy naize.” He closed his eyes -and vented a happy sigh. - -Susan felt rather sick. - -“O-o-oh,” said ‘the Duke,’ approaching a face which appeared to have -been recently buttered. “And how does he know?” - -“I don’t think he does,” said Susan, seeking to disengage herself. -“Please let me go.” - -“And why was she ‘vairy naize’?” continued ‘the Duke,’ detaining her. - -“You’d better ask him,” said Susan, trying to pass it off. “He seems to -know. And now let me go, please. I’ve got this letter to write.” - -‘His Grace’ skipped to a doorway and spread out his arms. - -“Block the other one, Saddle-soap: and we’ll give her a run,” he cried, -and, with that, he switched off the lights. - -Then curtain rings rasped, and, except for the rosiness of a dying fire, -the room was black. - -Susan stood paralysed. - -She was going to be kissed, of course. That went without saying. She -wondered dully whether she was going to be scratched. Labotte. . . . -Perhaps he would only pinch her. - -With a shock she realized that she had better move. To stay where she -was would be fatal. If she could change her position . . . - -With a beating heart, she began to steal to one side, straining her -ears. - -Suddenly she stood still as death. - -Something—someone was almost touching her. She could hear his -breathing. She was right under his hand. And she was trapped. Her knee -was against a chair, and she could not move. Any second now . . . - -The form sheered off. Whose-ever it was, he had missed her by a hair’s -breadth. - -Trembling all over, Susan began to edge away from the chair. . . . - -A piercing scream of agony shattered the silence—the sort of scream -which is associated with torture—the scream of a human being under the -pain of hell. - -Susan’s heart stood still. - -The scream slid into a flurry of howled oaths, the nature of which -suggested that Labotte was out of action. If he was, there was a doorway -clear. . . . - -Susan was there in a flash. - -She and Kilmuir passed out together. - -“Steady,” he said quietly. “Now turn round, get behind me and appear to -be looking in. Then they won’t connect us with this little play.” - -As he parted the curtains, the lights in the room went up, and four or -five guests and servants appeared in the other doorway. - -Labotte was sitting on the parquet, rocking himself to and fro, nursing -his bridle-hand and addressing ‘the Duke of Culloden,’ who was leaning -against a sofa convulsed with laughter. - -“I tell you I ’af not see why jus’ begozz you are duke that ’as nod give -you the raighd to starm’ to my ’and laike there was fifdy tousan’ dun of -storns in your boode an’ then you gannot bray bardon bud mus’ laugh -laike you gry an’ make that you ’af nod starm’ to no one’s ’and. I -suppose it is I wot ’af march oll over my own ’and—yess! Bah! I make -myself to be your frien’, I let you to call me Zaddle-zorp an’ show you -the rorpes of these place, an’ then you starm’ to my ’and and when I -say, ‘See ’ow you ’af done,’ then there was a gread forny jork that I am -’urt. I tell you I do not gare ooze duke you are . . .” - -By one consent Miss Crail and Nicholas turned and made their way out of -the press. - -“So perish all traitors,” said the latter. “As the actual executioner, -my use of that pious expression is traditionally becoming.” - -Susan stared. - -“You?” - -Kilmuir nodded. - -“I was there all the time,” he said. “None of you saw me. I was -wondering where I came in, when the lights went out. I happen to be able -to see rather well in the dark, and just as I passed you I saw our -little red-back making for where you stood on his hands and knees. . . . -I admit I’m not very proud of myself. I should have preferred to thrash -him in daylight and a public place, but you—you had to be -considered. . . . I was going to harry the—er—Duke of Culloden also, -but Saddle-soap made such a noise that I hadn’t time. That he should -credit his accomplice with the assault is sheer good fortune. I never -dreamed of such an elegant _dénouement_.” He led the way to a closet at -the end of the _salon gris_. This was deserted. “And now, why did you -rush upon your fate three days ago? Why did you try to discredit -yourself in my eyes? We’d only just made friends.” - -“Did I succeed?” - -“To a certain extent. Won’t you sit down? That’s right.” He took his -seat by her side. “I’ve changed my mind now.” - -“What d’you think now?” - -“I think you wanted to put me off,” said Nicholas. “And I want to know -why.” - -“You remember what I told you—about my life?” - -“Every word.” - -“Well, I spoke without thinking, you know. I don’t know why. I’ve never -done it before. And suddenly I realised that. . . .” - -“Yes?” - -Susan hesitated. Then— - -“I knew a woman once,” she said, “who was always tied up for money. And -she used to come to Aunt Beatrice. She never asked her right out, but -she used to tell her the awful plight she was in and say if she couldn’t -get someone to lend her two hundred dollars she’ld have to kill herself -and—and look volumes. . . . Well, it wasn’t pretty.” - -“No,” said Kilmuir. “But how does that apply?” - -“I realized the other night that I’d done exactly the same—told you in -so many words _how you could rescue me_. . . . You see, I didn’t know -then that you were married. If the woman had come and told me how poor -she was, it wouldn’t have mattered, because I had nothing. But Aunt -Beatrice had the means. In the same way, my telling you my plight -doesn’t matter now, because you can’t help.” - -There was a long silence. - -At length— - -“Surely,” said Nicholas gently, “you knew me better than that? Surely -you needn’t ’ve thought——” - -“You’re a man,” said Susan. “You don’t know how frightfully sensitive -about marriage a woman can be. Many a girl’s thrown away happiness -rather than let a man even suspect—quite wrongly—that she’s setting -the pace.” - -“I’m inclined to think that still more have set the pace rather than run -the risk of throwing away happiness.” - -Susan laughed. - -“And, what’s more,” continued Kilmuir, “the latter have all my -sympathy.” - -“Listen to the man,” said Susan. - -“Supposing,” said Nicholas John, “I had been a bachelor. You naturally -thought I was, because there are still men left who travel with their -wives. I happen to have a good reason for not being one of them. Next -time I go abroad I hope my wife will be with me. But that’s by the way. -Supposing I had been a bachelor and, as such, eligible—to pull you out -of your slough. And supposing I’d decided that I loved you and had asked -you to be my wife. . . . And supposing you’d thought it good -enough. . . . D’you mean to say you’ld ’ve actually turned me down?” - -“Undoubtedly,” said Susan. - -“Why?” - -“They call it,” said Susan, “‘self-respect.’ You might have sworn that -you loved me, but I should have been terrified that it was only -_Noblesse oblige_.” - -“Surely a woman can distinguish pity from love?” - -“A wife could, because she’ld be in a position to apply all sorts of -tests. But that’s not very much good. I mean, it’s a bit late . . .” - -Kilmuir took out a cigarette. - -“Three days ago,” he said slowly, “you told me I meant what I said.” -Susan started. “That what I said rang true. Yet I might have sworn that -I——” - -“I know,” said the girl desperately. “But the terror of making a -mistake. . . .” - -“Aren’t you digging too deep?” said Nicholas. “If somebody offers me a -drink and I feel thirsty, I jolly well take it. So long as it’s honest -liquor, I don’t bother about their motives. If I assume anything, I -assume that they wouldn’t ask me if they didn’t want me to have it.” - -“You’re not going to compare marriage to a Martini?” - -“They’re much the same. A happy marriage is like a slap-up cocktail, the -effect of which never passes off. . . . Well, if a man doesn’t offer -another a tenpenny drink unless he wants him to have it, d’you seriously -think he’s going to offer his heart, his home, his name, his fortune, -his future to any daughter of Eve that ever was foaled—unless he wants -her to have ’em?” - -“Prosper Le Gai did.” - -“Only to save Isoult’s neck. And, though she knew that, she took him. -What’s more, my lady, it was a great success.” - -Susan began to shake with laughter. - -“That was an unfortunate instance, wasn’t it?” she said. “You know, -you’re too well read. I should have got away with that with most of the -people I know.” - -“It’s a question of Greeks meeting,” said Nicholas John. “Or deeps -calling. We’ve more or less the same tastes. I think you like the dawn -and the silence of high places and the roar of the woods when the wind -is laying on——” - -“And the thud and suck of the surf and the baby talk of a brook and -great cotton-wool clouds in the sky and a wind you can lean -against. . . . Oh, I should think I do.” - -For a moment the girl was transfigured. - -Sitting upright, her grave eyes shining, her lips parted and her sweet -pretty head thrown back, she might have been some Nereid out of some -Odyssey. His eyes ablaze, Kilmuir regarded her, fascinated. . . . - -Then she lowered her head, and the light in her eyes died. - -“But that sort of life’s not for me,” she said abstractedly. - -“Look here,” said Nicholas John. “D’you want that sort of life?” - -“What d’you mean?” - -“What I say—as usual,” said Kilmuir. He waved his hand. “Would you like -to wash all this out? Would you like to get down to Nature? Spend nine -months of the year under her wing? Sell this mess for a birthright? Know -the rain on your face, and——” - -“Are you offering me a land-agent’s job?” - -The man looked at his finger-tips. - -“It’s more of a stewardship,” he said. “There’s a post at my place in -Scotland which you could fill—most admirably. It’s been vacant—oh, -twenty years now, because I could never find the right person to take it -on.” - -Susan put a hand to her head. - -“It—it sounds like a fairy-tale,” she said. “A girl—steward. . . . Of -course, you’re making this up—creating some sinecure out of compassion -for me.” - -“No I’m not,” said Kilmuir. “The post’s going. Quite a good house, and -about—about six hundred a year. Fuel. I could have filled it, of -course: but I didn’t want someone who’ld get fed up in a week. D’you -think you could stick it? It’s lonely up there—after this: and the -dawn’s a bit late in the winter, and—I’ve known it pretty cold.” - -“D’you think I’ld mind that? But what d’you know of me? What makes you -think I could manage? I don’t even know myself. In fact, I’m sure I -couldn’t. I don’t know what stewards do. I couldn’t control and -order—I’ld try to learn, of course, and I’ld simply love the life. I’m -choked here—tied and cooped and sickened and choked. I hardly saw a -city before I was twelve years old. I was born and bred up in Maine. My -grandfather’s place was there. . . .” She hesitated—then burst out -suddenly. “Six years ago he died, and everything crashed. They sold my -saddles and my very own mare with the others I used to ride. I couldn’t -prove she was mine, and if I could have I hadn’t got any money to buy -her corn. They sold the curtains I’d made to hang in my rooms, and lamps -and mirrors and pictures I’d saved up to buy. They sold -everything—house, woods, farms, hills, valleys. . . . And I who’d been -mistress of it all was sold too. At least, I was put up for sale. But -then you know that. . . . And all because my grandfather had forgotten -to sign his will. . . . What was I saying? Oh, I know. Well, now you see -why your fantasy dazzles me so. But don’t let’s talk about it any more. -I know it’s out of the question, and you know it too. Don’t think I -don’t appreciate——” - -“Why is it out of the question?” - -“Oh, for a thousand reasons. I should have no authority. A woman——” - -“I am obeyed—up there.” - -“I don’t care. A woman can do many things, but she can’t fill a post -like that. You know you’re only saying it out of pure——” - -“I’m not,” said Kilmuir steadily. “It’s always been held by a woman. The -last . . . died . . . twenty years ago.” His voice became very soft. -“She was the sweetest lady—with the gentlest smile. She never gave an -order in all her blessed life, but I think if she’d asked the waves to -stop their fretting there would have been a calm. I’ve seen her tend a -horse that the grooms were afraid to feed; I’ve seen wild birds on her -shoulder; and once I saw a drunkard pour out his store of whisky on the -ground before her eyes. I tell you the roughest fisherman hung upon her -will. You see, she always understood. She never taught, yet everyone -learned of her: she was so humble, yet she was found a queen. Her -laugh—well, Eve may have laughed like that, before the apple. . . . And -then . . . one day . . . she died. . . .” He took out a letter-case and -discovered a photograph. Then he rose and stood in front of the girl. -“For what it’s worth, that’s a picture of her.” - -Susan stared at the beautiful, eager face. . . . - -A crazy truth, such as one finds in dreams, kept thrusting into her -brain. - -Sharply she flung up her head. - -“_Your mother?_” she whispered. - -Nicholas nodded. - -“I want you to take her place. . . . You see, I’m—I’m not married, -darling.” Susan started violently, and the man set a hand on her -shoulder. “I’m—I’m not that Kilmuir.” - -“O-o-oh!” - -For a moment she stared at him wildly. Then she closed her eyes, let her -head fall and buried her face in her hands. - -Nicholas continued steadily. - -“It isn’t much to offer—a share in my lonely life. But it won’t be -lonely any more if you’ll accept it. I never thought I should marry. I -never thought I’ld find anyone I’ld care to see in her place. And then -. . . at last . . . I saw you. . . . And the moment I saw you, I knew -. . . I’m poor, you know, but if you’d been worth twenty millions, I’ld -’ve asked you to be my wife. You see, I love you, my lady: and so I -can’t help myself. I love your beautiful temples and the droop of your -precious lips: I love your grave grey eyes and your sweet pretty ways -. . .” He hesitated. Then, “I warn you, I won’t be able to give you much -of a time. I can’t even afford a car, Susan. At least, I haven’t been -able to yet. But I think, if we were careful, perhaps . . .” He took her -wrists and drew her hands from her face. She continued to hang her head. -“Oh, my blessed lady, I want you so much: and, as you don’t mind the -cold and the quiet, don’t you think you could——” - -“_Noblesse oblige_,” wailed the girl. “_Noblesse oblige._” - -“Oh, you darling,” cried Nicholas, lifting her to her feet. - -Susan flung up her head and stared at the face of her squire three -inches away. - -With his arms about her, Nicholas smiled back. - -“I confess,” he said, “I’ld ’ve liked to feel that you loved me, but -I’ld rather you took me out of pity than not at all.” - -A child put her hands on his shoulders. - -“Do you really love me?” she whispered. - -Nicholas smiled down. - -“No,” he said. “I’m doing it out of pity.” - -A radiant, mischievous look leapt into the child’s grey eyes. - -“I don’t believe you,” she said, and put up her mouth. - - * * * * * - -Ten glorious minutes had passed, and Susan and Nicholas were standing in -the _salon bleu_, drinking each other’s healths in rose-coloured -Clicquot. Ten or twelve fellow-guests were hard by, flicking their -several appetites with the same beverage. Among them, their recent -difference adjusted, were ‘the Duke of Culloden’ and Labotte. The -latter’s hand was bandaged and reclining in a sling. - -A servant entered with a card. - -This he took directly to ‘the Duke.’ - -The youth glanced at it and frowned. - -“Say I’m not here,” he said. - -The servant bowed and turned away. - -“Stop,” said Nicholas John. - -The servant hesitated, and a hush fell upon the room. - -“Bring me that card.” - -With an apologetic glance at ‘Culloden,’ the fellow did as he was bid. - -Nicholas picked up the card and read the name. - -“Where is _Monsieur le Comte_?” - -“_Monsieur le Comte est couché._” - -“_Et Madame?_” - -“_Madame aussi, Monsieur._” - -“Then show this gentleman in.” - -“_Bien, Monsieur_,” said the man, and made his escape. . . . - -Amid an electric silence Nicholas picked up his glass and drank -comfortably. - -Susan was touching his arm. - -“Nicholas! What are you doing?” - -Her lover turned with a swift smile. - -“I want him to meet you, lady.” - -“But——” - -Labotte was before them, speaking acidly. - -“Your frien’ ’as nod seem to unnerstan’——” - -“Address yourself to me,” said Kilmuir. - -Labotte stared. Then he looked Nicholas up and down. - -“I am nod a servant,” he said. - -“No,” said the other. “I knew that by your coat.” - -Labotte drew himself up. - -“I do nod know ’oo you are,” he said loftily, “an’ I do nod gare, but -eet ees good you shall know that in France when a gennelman ’as -gommanded it was nod use to gommand the opposide in ’is faze. You ’af -’ear my frien’ dell that ’e was nod to be seen an’ then you mus’ put -your lorng norse to a thing which ’as not belong to you at oll an’ make -jus’ the same business as my frien’ ’as nod wand.” - -“And what,” said Nicholas, “is it to do with you? Why don’t you let -him—Hullo, he’s cleared.” - -Labotte swung round. Then he spread out his hands. - -“Ov gourse ’e ’as gorn,” he cried. “Eet ees you wot ’ave drive ’im away. -’E ’as say ’e is nod to be seen, an’ then you mus’ . . .” - -Here a nice-looking man with a merry eye was ushered into the room. - -As he stepped forward— - -“Hullo, Berry,” said Nicholas, taking his hand. “Nice of you to come -up.” - -“Yes, isn’t it touching?” said Berry. - -Nicholas turned to Susan, staring, big-eyed. - -“This, dear, is Major Pleydell—a very old friend. Berry, this is -Susan—Miss Susan Crail. She’s just promised to be my wife.” - -Berry Pleydell smiled. Then he took Susan’s hand. - -“My dear,” he said, “this is most fortunate. You can do me a little -service. Listen. When I was last at Ruth—about four years ago, I sent a -good-looking pair of bed-socks to the Castle dairy. Well, I had to go -before the wash came back, and in spite of repeated applications to His -Grace the Duke of Culloden my property has never been restored. Now, -when you get there, go through his rotten things, and——” - -“_The Duke of Culloden?_” cried Susan. “But . . .” The sentence died -there, and she looked from one to the other with fright in her eyes. -Then she addressed her swain. “Are _you_,” she breathed, “are _you_ the -Duke of Culloden?” - -“Yes, dear,” said Nicholas John. - -To style the sensation ‘profound’ conveys nothing at all. - -Susan felt rather faint. Her fellow-guests, standing like drugged sheep, -seemed to be bent upon at once avoiding one another’s gaze and -ascertaining one another’s demeanour. Only their eyes shifted, their -heads and bodies remaining perfectly still. As for Labotte, the -consciousness that he had publicly insulted a Duke, harrassed a future -Duchess, and for the last seven days conspicuously licked a rank -impostor all over seemed to have affected his reason. He staggered to a -doorway, collided with and ricochetted from the jamb, kicked the latter -savagely, screamed and disappeared. . . . - -Major Pleydell was speaking. - -“But didn’t you know?” he said. - -Susan could only shake her head. - -“Bless my soul,” said Berry. “Never mind. Let’s drown it in drink. -Besides, it’s not his fault. Only . . .” - -“What?” said Susan. - -Berry laid a hand on Nicholas’ shoulder. - -“Well,” he said, “if it isn’t because of his title, what are you -marrying him for?” - -Susan and Nicholas laughed. - -“_Noblesse oblige_,” they said. - - THE END - - - - -NOVELS BY - Valentine - - * * * * * - -“Valentine has one great quality—his mastery of human -material.”—_Sunday Referee._ - -“You can always rely on Valentine for a pleasantly told and cleverly -written tale.”—_Northern Echo, Darlington._ - -“The author shows rare insight into life and character.”—_Public -Opinion._ - - =A Flight to a Finish= - =The Blue Pool= - =The Things that Count= - =Young Desire= - =God’s Clearing House= - =Round The Corner= - =At Your Beginnings= - =The Longest way Round= - =One Good Turn= - =That Certain Thing= - - * * * * * - - _WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD., LONDON_ - - - - -NOVELS BY - Harry Stephen Keeler - -“Harry Stephen Keeler is a master of the type of thriller for which the -mystery-loving public have come to look.”—_The Mansfield Reporter._ - -“This Author has a happy knack of writing a novel which lures the reader -on to the final chapter in a most enthralling manner.”—_The Magazine -Programme._ - -“A master of detective fiction.”—_The Sussex Express._ - - =The Green Jade Hand= - =The Fourth King= - =The Amazing Web= - =Thieves’ Nights= - =The Blue Spectacles= - =Sing Sing Nights= - =The Voice of the Seven Sparrows= - =Find the Clock= - =The Tiger Snake= - =The Black Satchel= - =The Box from Japan= - =Behind that Mask= - =The Crilly Court Mystery= - =Under Twelve Stars= - =The Fiddling Cracksman= - =The Travelling Skull= - - * * * * * - - _WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD., LONDON_ - - - - -NOVELS BY - E. Charles Vivian - - * * * * * - -“Mr. Vivian is proving one of our most virile and entertaining writers -of the present day. Each succeeding work from his pen appears to grow in -strength and in characterization.”—_The Bournemouth Graphic._ - -“This author has a fine sense of character, and can create atmosphere -quickly and effectively.”—_The Sunday Referee._ - - =Delicate Fiend= - =Double or Quit= - =Woman Dominant= - =Man Alone= - =The Forbidden Door= - =The Tale of Fleur= - =Nine Days= - =One Tropic Night= - =Unwashed Gods= - =Innocent Guilt= - =Lone Isle= - =False Truth= - =The Keys of the Flat= - =Ladies in the Case= - =Infamous Fame= - =Girl in the Dark= - =Shadow in the House= - =Jewels go Back= - - * * * * * - - _WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD., LONDON_ - - - - -NOVELS BY - Carlton Dawe - - * * * * * - -“For a certain crispness of dialogue, and deft arrangement of the events -of a good plot, Mr. Carlton Dawe has very few rivals.”—_The Yorkshire -Post._ - - =The Chief= - =Crumpled Lilies= - =The Desirable Woman= - =Fifteen Keys= - =Fishers of Men= - =The Girl from Nippon= - =The Glare= - =The Knightsbridge Affair= - =Lawless= - =The Law of the Knife= - =Leathermouth= - =The Missing Treaty= - =Pacific Blue= - =The Sign of the Glove= - =Slings and Arrows= - =A Tangled Marriage= - =Wanted= - =The Missing Clue= - - * * * * * - - _WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD., LONDON_ - - - - - Brilliantly Successful Novels by - DORNFORD YATES - 3s. 6d. net - - “Very few writers can give such pure enjoyment in a single book - as does Mr. Yates. He is equally good in comedy, in romance, in - drama, or in the tenseness of strong human emotion.”—_A - Literary Critic._ - - 1 BERRY AND CO. - - “One of the most amusing volumes we have read for a long time. - The great charm of the book lies in the wonderfully clever and - amusing dialogue. As a tonic it may be strongly recommended.” - - 2 JONAH AND CO. - - “The descriptions of various motor journeys are thrilling in the - extreme; the badinage is brilliant; and the various adventures - that befell this delightful party are told with a zest the - reader is bound to share.”—_Eastern Daily Press_, Norwich. - - 3 ANTHONY LYVEDEN - - “Mr. Yates goes from strength to strength. In every sense of the - word a desirable book in the vein of good humour.”—_Financial - Times._ - - 4 VALERIE FRENCH - - “There are novels and novels, but those which come from the - magic pen of Dornford Yates are stories of romantic beauty. - Without doubt one of the most delightful novels of recent - years.”—_Liverpool Courier._ - - 5 THE BROTHER OF DAPHNE - - “There is no man writing to-day who manages to infuse a story - with so much wit of the airy, bantering kind, and behind it all - there is often a serious note.”—_Glasgow Citizen._ - - 6 THE COURTS OF IDLENESS - - “In _The Courts of Idleness_ there is more than clever and - amusing talk. One finds a real depth here and there, and the - whole thing from beginning to end is delightful - reading.”—_Joint Stock Journal._ - - 7 AND FIVE WERE FOOLISH - - “The book deserves a host of readers. Extraordinarily powerful - and intriguing.”—_Daily Telegraph._ - - 8 AS OTHER MEN ARE - - “Mr. Yates gets his effects with a more certain hand and a - lighter touch than almost any other writer of light - fiction.”—_Referee._ - - 9 THE STOLEN MARCH - - “Dornford Yates has a light touch and a keen sense of humour. - The book will appeal to those who want to escape from the morbid - and miserable and lose themselves in a world of delightful - unreality.”—_Bookman._ - - 10 MAIDEN STAKES - - “A mixture of frivolity and adventure. Deftly and cleverly - written and the best light reading you could wish - for.”—_Bookman._ - - * * * * * - - WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD., LONDON AND MELBOURNE - THE END - - TRANSCRIBER NOTES - - Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where - multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed. - - Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer - errors occur. - - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AND FIVE WERE FOOLISH *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for -copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very -easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation -of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project -Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may -do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected -by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark -license, especially commercial redistribution. - -START: FULL LICENSE - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the -person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph -1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the -Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when -you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country other than the United States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work -on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: - - This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and - most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the - United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where - you are located before using this eBook. - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format -other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain -Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -provided that: - -* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation." - -* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm - works. - -* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - -* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of -the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set -forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at -www.gutenberg.org - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, -Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up -to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website -and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without -widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular -state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our website which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. |