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diff --git a/old/65387-0.txt b/old/65387-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 8b83887..0000000 --- a/old/65387-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,12294 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of As Other Men Are, 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: As Other Men Are - -Author: Dornford Yates - -Release Date: May 19, 2021 [eBook #65387] - -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 AS OTHER MEN ARE *** - - - - - - [Cover Illustration] - - - - - =BY THE SAME AUTHOR= - - Published by - WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD. - ________ - - THE “BERRY” BOOKS - -THE BROTHER OF DAPHNE -THE COURTS OF IDLENESS -BERRY AND CO. -JONAH AND CO. -ADÈLE AND CO. -AND BERRY CAME TOO -THE HOUSE THAT BERRY BUILT - - THE “CHANDOS” BOOKS - -BLIND CORNER -PERISHABLE GOODS -BLOOD ROYAL -FIRE BELOW -SHE FELL AMONG THIEVES -AN EYE FOR A TOOTH -RED IN THE MORNING - - OTHER VOLUMES - -THE STOLEN MARCH -THIS PUBLICAN -ANTHONY LYVEDEN -VALERIE FRENCH -SAFE CUSTODY -STORM MUSIC -AND FIVE WERE FOOLISH -AS OTHER MEN ARE -MAIDEN STAKES -SHE PAINTED HER FACE -GALE WARNING -SHOAL WATER -PERIOD STUFF - - - - - AS OTHER - MEN ARE - - BY - DORNFORD YATES - W A R D , L O C K & C O . , L I M I T E D - LONDON AND MELBOURNE - - - - - _First Edition_............... _1925_ - _Reprinted_................... _1930_ - _Reprinted_................... _1934_ - _Reprinted_................... _1938_ - _Reprinted_................... _1941_ - _Reprinted_................... _1942_ - _Reprinted_................... _1943_ - _Reprinted_................... _1944_ - _Reprinted_................... _1945_ - - MADE IN ENGLAND - Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London - - - - - _To those, alive or dead, with whom I had the honour to - serve overseas, during the Great War._ - - - - - CONTENTS - - - PAGE - JEREMY.................................. 11 - SIMON................................... 43 - TOBY.................................... 73 - OLIVER.................................. 105 - CHRISTOPHER............................. 133 - IVAN.................................... 163 - HUBERT.................................. 195 - TITUS................................... 223 - PEREGRINE............................... 261 - DERRY................................... 287 - - - - - JEREMY - - - JEREMY - -Eve Malory Carew tilted her sweet pretty chin. - -“It’s my hair,” she said. - -“Exactly,” said Jeremy Broke. “That’s why to cut it would be so—so -blasphemous. If it was anybody else’s, it’d be their funeral. But your -hair’s a sort of national treasure, like Ann Hathaway’s Cottage or -Arthur’s Seat—I mean, Leith Hill. It’s not really yours to cut.” - -“It’s mine to brush,” said Eve: “and fix and do generally. If you had a -beard——” - -“That’s an idea,” said Broke. “If you cut your hair, I’ll grow a -blinkin’ beard: a long, spade-shaped one—by way of protest.” - -Eve laughed delightedly. - -“But how,” she gurgled, “how would that affect me? If we kissed when we -met, or always dined _tête-à-tête_. . . .” - -“I trust,” said Jeremy stiffly, “that the indecent spectacle of an old -friend gone wrong would twist the tail of your conscience. Besides, you -wouldn’t like it when I accosted you in Bond Street, beard in hand.” - -Miss Carew shuddered. - -Then— - -“Seriously, Jeremy, why shouldn’t I have it off? Listen. First, it would -suit me. I went to see Sali to-day, and he said it’d look immense. It -isn’t as if it were straight. It’s naturally curly, and I’d have it -really well cut. Then, I go through such hell—hell, morning and night. -I wish you could see it down. Then perhaps you’d realize what I mean.” - -“I have,” said Jeremy Broke. “The night of the Lyvedens’ ball.” - -“Well, how would you like to have to cope with it twice a day?” - -Jeremy inclined his head. - -“I cannot imagine a greater privilege.” - -Eve smiled very charmingly. - -“Let’s drop hypothesis,” she said, “and come back to facts. I’ve given -you three good reasons for having it cut. Except that it’s a national -treasure, of which, I assume, I am the luckless trustee, can you give me -one single reason why it should be preserved?” - -Jeremy hesitated. - -Then— - -“No,” he said quietly. “I can’t.” - -There was a silence. - -The man smiled thoughtfully, staring straight ahead. With a faint frown -the girl regarded the leisurely disintegration of the logs in the grate. -The distant throb of ragtime filtered into the room, only to subside, as -though abashed, before the stately lecture of a Vulliamy clock. - -“Let us talk,” said Eve, “of the past.” - -“Good,” said Jeremy. “I’ll begin. If I’d been brought up to be a -plumber, instead of a diplomat——” - -“Oh, I wish you had,” said Eve. “My bath’s gone wrong again.” - -“What, not the Roman?” - -“The same,” said Eve. - -“There you are,” said Broke. “I told you not to have it. You cannot -introduce a relic of the Stone Age into a super-flat. It can’t be done. -If you must have a circus leading out of your bedroom, the only thing to -do is to set it right up and then build a house round it.” - -“We’re off,” said Eve, bubbling. - -Jeremy swallowed. - -“What’s the trouble?” he demanded. - -“Won’t empty,” said Eve. “I’m—I’m having it taken away.” - -“Taken away?” cried Broke. - -“Well, filled in or something. I don’t know what the process will be. I -simply said it was to be washed out and an ordinary bath put in its -place.” - -“Why on earth?” - -“Because experience has shown me that your advice was good. Between you -and me, it nearly always is—though why you keep on giving it me when I -only chuck it away, Heaven only knows. _I_ should have got mad months -ago. I think you must be very—very strong, Jeremy. At least, I’m very -conscious of being the—the weaker vessel.” - -“A most appropriate sensation.” - -Eve shot him a lightning glance. - -Then— - -“We were to talk of the past,” she said quickly. “D’you remember this -day a year ago?” - -Jeremy knitted his brows. - -“Was that the first time we met?” - -“It was,” said Eve. “May Day 1929. Here in this house. . . . Jeremy, -I’ve a confession to make. I asked that you should be introduced to me.” - -“Well, I asked too.” - -“Why?” - -“Because I wanted to know you,” said Jeremy Broke. - -“Why?” - -“I suppose you attracted me.” - -“I must be attractive,” said Eve. - -“You are.” - -Miss Carew shrugged her white shoulders. - -“I’m still unmarried,” she said. - -“That,” said Jeremy Broke, “is your little fault. At least, Rumour has -it that you’ve turned a good many down.” - -“Rumour is wrong,” said Eve. “I admit I’ve had one or two overtures, but -the idea of being married for my money never appealed to me.” - -“I shouldn’t have thought,” said Broke, “that you need be afraid. If you -were forty, instead of twenty-four; if you had a face like the back of a -hansom; if——” - -“Here,” said Eve. “Don’t cut out the gilt. There was the making of a -compliment. Besides, I value your opinion. What is my face like, -Jeremy?” - -The man regarded her. - -“It’s not like anything I’ve ever seen,” he said. - -“My mouth,” said Eve, “is too large.” - -“No, it isn’t,” said Broke. “It’s just perfect. So’s your nose, an’—an’ -the rest. That’s why it seems so wicked to cut your hair.” - -“Was it my face that attracted you—last year?” - -The man considered. - -“Your face and your pretty ways.” - -“You just felt you wanted to know me?” - -“Yes.” - -Eve sighed. - -“Well, you’ve had your wish,” she said. “I mean, you’ve got to know me -pretty well.” - -“You’ve been very sweet,” said Jeremy. - -“Don’t mention it,” said Miss Carew. “It’s—it’s been a pleasure. -Besides, I’m very lonely. And I wanted to know you, you know. . . . -Never mind. I hope, when you’re married——” - -“I’m not engaged yet.” - -“That’s your little fault,” said Eve. “I could mention several ladies -who have put their arms round your neck—certainly figuratively and, for -all I know, literally.” - -“Rot”—incredulously. - -“My dear, I’ve seen it going on. Don’t be afraid—I’m not going to -mention names.” - -“But I’ve no money.” - -“What does that matter? They have.” - -“I think you’re mistaken,” said Broke. “Everyone’s always very nice, but -people don’t pick up stray curs——” - -“How dare you say such a thing?” - -Eve was on her feet. Her brown eyes were flaming, and there was wrath in -her voice. - -Slowly Jeremy rose. - -“My dear Eve——” - -“How dare you speak like that? It’s cheap and paltry and it’s a wicked -lie. D’you think I’d give my friendship to—to a stray cur?” - -“You have,” said Broke. “I’ve seen you. Down on the Portsmouth Road. His -blood was all over your dress, and he died in your arms.” - -“Yes, but——” - -“I’ll take back ‘cur,’ if it offends you: but I’m a stray, Eve. I’ve -nothing to offer at all. I can only just live. A plumber makes twice the -money that they pay me. The jobs I was trained for are bust or sold or -given to—to ‘business men.’ If it wasn’t for Babel, I should be on the -streets, and—— Oh, Eve, my lady, for God’s sake don’t cry. I didn’t -mean. . . .” - -Instinctively he put out his arms, and the girl slipped into them. . . . -He held her gently enough, comforting her, patting her shoulder, talking -in steady tones of bygone days and gilding the future with a laughing -tongue. . . . - -After a little, Eve had herself in hand. - -As he released her— - -“Let’s—sit—down,” she said jerkily. - -They sat down together, and she slid an arm through his. - -“Listen,” she whispered. “I can’t talk loud, because I shall cry if I -do. Listen to me. I’ll tell you the name of one woman who’s put her arms -round your neck. She’s done it for nearly a year—not very glaringly -until to-night. Her name’s Eve. . . . Eve Malory Carew.” His fists -clenched, Jeremy sat like a rock. The girl continued tremulously. “I’ve -given you opening after opening. I’ve put the very words into your -mouth. I’ve given myself away. I’ve asked and pleaded and begged. I’ve -done what I’ve never done in all my life, what I never dreamed I should -do—sunk pride, vanity, self-respect . . . to—make—you—speak. . . . -I’m not good at ‘the arts,’ but I’ve used them all to-night. I gave you -my profile, stared, tried to get my soul into my voice. I didn’t cry to -make you take me in your arms—that was a piece of sheer luck. But I did -everything else. . . . Well, there you are. I’ve failed. And now I want -to know one thing. There’s only one answer you can give me, but from the -way you give it I shall be able to tell if you’re speaking the truth. Do -you love me, Jeremy?” - -The man laughed. - -“You know I’ve been mad about you for just one year.” - -Eve sighed very happily. - -“And I’m quite silly about you,” she said. “I started dreaming about you -months ago. But I think up to now I’ve behaved all right, haven’t I?” - -“Perfectly,” said Broke. - -Eve squeezed his arm. - -“I’m glad of that. And now suppose you kissed me. Or d’you think I ought -to kiss you?” - -Suddenly she was in his arms, blushing and breathless. - -“You witch,” breathed the man. “You exquisite, glorious witch. I’ve -steeled myself and fought a thousand times. And to-night I swore I’d see -you—and kiss the rod. ‘Rod’? Sword. It’s been like a sword in my side -to wait upon you. To-night was laden with memories, but I swore to come -through. I swore I’d recall them . . . and bow . . . and come away—walk -through the wet streets triumphant, because I’d flirted with fire and -not been burned. And now—I’ve failed.” He lifted up his eyes with the -look of one who is looking into heaven. “I shan’t walk home, Eve. By -rights I should slink, because I’ve broken my oath. -But—I—shan’t—slink. I think I shall dance, Eve . . . dance, leap, run -. . . give silver to the beggars I meet . . . shout . . . because you -love me . . . because of the stars in your eyes and the flower they call -your mouth.” Eve flung back her beautiful head and closed her eyes. The -smile on her parted lips was not of this world. “You ask if I love you. -I love the lisp of your footfalls and the print of your tiny feet. I -love the rustle of your gown and the silence your laughter breaks. All -that you do I love—because you do it . . . you . . . Eve . . . my -princess. . . .” - -He kissed her lips. - -“I’m very happy,” said Eve. “I hope you are.” - -Broke picked her up in his arms. - -“You wicked child,” he said. - -“Witch, princess, child,” said Eve, with an arm round his neck. “Which -will you marry?” - -“The child,” said Jeremy Broke. - -“That’s right,” said Eve. “The others have served their turn. The stick -to persuade you to jump: the sceptre to dazzle your vision.” She fell to -stroking his hair. “I’m really more of an artist than I thought. Looking -back, I wonder I had the courage to be so indecent. Of course, I was -desperate. Still . . .” - -“It is the prerogative of royalty.” - -Eve made a maddening mouth. - -“Diplomat!” she said. Then—“As a matter of fact, stacks of us do it all -the time, darling. But I never thought I should.” - - * * * * * - -The two were married one brilliant June morning, full of the airs and -graces of a belated spring. Broke received twelve presents, Miss Carew -six hundred and four: such is the power of money. The former had already -resigned his ghost of a job and was earning much less than a living by -plying his pen. From this Eve sought to dissuade him, but the man was -resolute. Marriage had brought him a livery more gorgeous than any he -could win, but he would stand upon his own shoe-leather. - -Jeremy Broke was thirty and of a cheerful countenance. His grey eyes -were set well apart, and his forehead was broad. His nostrils were -sensitive, his mouth firm and shapely, his thick brown hair -well-ordered, his head carried high. He was tall, and his shoulders were -square. He had good hands, and cared for them as a man should. His -manners were above reproach: his style, that of a gentleman. So were his -instincts. . . . - -He brought his wife no debts. He sold his great-grandfather’s -chronometer to pay such expenses of the wedding as are usually met by -the groom; and, once married, that the money they spent was not his he -made most evident. Friends, acquaintances, strangers, servants—none -must credit him with Eve’s wealth. He did not insist upon the truth—go -about shouting ‘It’s hers’: but the things that were Cæsar’s unto Cæsar -he scrupulously rendered. Most of all was he careful in private to -assume no whit of that authority which riches give. He never stooped: -but he never sat in her seat. It was impossible not to revere feeling so -fine. His wife found it worshipful—with tears in her eyes. - -Eve Malory Broke was a very striking example of the Creator’s art. Her -features were beautiful, and she was perfectly made. The curves of her -neck and shoulders, her slender white wrists, her slim silk stockings -and the shining arches of her feet—these and other points lifted her -straight into the champion class. She was lithe of body and light as air -in the dance. The grace of her form and movement were such as Praxiteles -rejoiced to turn to stone. You would have said that only an -etching-needle could catch her very delicate dignity—but for one thing. -That was her colouring. Her great brown eyes and the red-gold splendour -of her amazing hair, the warm rose of her cheeks and the cream of her -exquisite skin—never was leaping vitality more brilliantly declared. -Old Masters would have gone mad about her. Adam would have eaten out of -her hand. In a word, she became her name. - -A warm, impulsive nature, rich in high qualities and puny faults, made -her a wife to be very proud of, to love to distraction and occasionally -to oppose. . . . - -After doing their best to spoil one another for nearly ten months, Eve -and Jeremy had their first pitched battle in Rome one tearful April -morning. . . . - -“In other words,” said the former silkily, “I can’t carry my liquor.” - -“I never said or suggested such a thing. For all I know, you could drink -me under the table.” - -“Then what’s the point of your protest?” - -Short-skirted, perched upright on a table, her knees crossed, one -admirable leg slowly swinging, her beautiful fingers drumming -deliberately upon the table’s edge, Eve was superb. If her wonderful -hair had been about her shoulders, she might have sat to a Greuze and -furnished gaping posterity with a new ideal. - -Jeremy swallowed. - -“I think it’s a pity,” he said, “deliberately to put off what so very -few women have.” - -“What’s that?” - -“Your ladyship.” - -Eve raised her brown eyes to heaven. - -“Because I drink two cocktails instead of one——” - -“It’s tough,” said Jeremy. “It’s a tough thing to do. A woman’s supposed -to drink, not because she likes it, but because it’s the fashion or -because she needs bucking up. Very well. It’s the fashion to drink a -cocktail before your dinner. To that fashion women subscribe—many, -perhaps, cheerfully, but that’s their business. If they make a meal of -it—ask for a second helping—the assumption or fiction that they’re -following a fashion is gone and they’re merely advertising an appetite -which isn’t particularly becoming to a man, but actually degrades a -woman whoever she is.” - -“I’m much obliged,” said Eve. “‘Tough’ and ‘degraded.’ I am a topper, -aren’t I? I suppose you realize that this is 1930.” - -“If you mean I’m old-fashioned, I admit it. I don’t like to see a girl -drink. But that’s beside the point. I mayn’t like the fashion, but I -don’t shout about it. You can’t curse anyone for toeing the line. But I -think it’s a thousand pities to overstep it.” - -Eve smote upon the table with the flat of her pretty hand. - -“You don’t seem able to see,” she cried, “that you’re blowing a whole -gale about nothing at all—_nothing_. Because there’s a cocktail going -spare and I’m fool enough to give it a home, d’you seriously suggest -that I shall be branded as a sot? One swallow doesn’t make a drunkard.” - -“That’s better,” said Jeremy, smiling. “That’s the way to talk. And of -course I don’t, sweetheart. I’m not such a fool. But . . . You are so -attractive, Eve, so—so dazzling, you set such a very high standard of -sweetness that when you do something that brings us down to earth we’ve -got such a long way to fall. A taste for liquor seems so much worse in -you——” - -“But I haven’t a taste for liquor. I hate it. I don’t care whether I -drink a cocktail or not. Yes, I do. I’d much rather drink water.” - -“I know you would,” cried Broke; “but no one else does. And when, to put -it plainly, you have a couple, then——” - -“Everyone knows I don’t drink.” - -“But you _do_ . . . you _are_ . . . you’re inviting attention to the -fact. Thoughtlessly, idly, of course. You don’t care a damn about -liquor: but by having a second cocktail you’re declaring your liking for -drink.” - -“I don’t agree,” said Eve, “but supposing I am. Why shouldn’t I like my -liquor?” - -“I’ve tried to point out,” said Jeremy wearily, “that a taste for liquor -doesn’t become you. But I think in your heart you know that. What you -won’t see is that to drink two cocktails is tough.” - -“I confess I can’t,” said Eve. “What’s more, I propose to drink two more -to-night.” - -“Look here,” said Broke, deliberately ignoring the glove. “It used to be -the fashion to wear short skirts, usedn’t it? Very well. You subscribed -to the fashion and wore them, too. But you didn’t exaggerate that -fashion—turn out in a dress that stopped half-way to your knees, did -you?” - -“What d’you think?” said his wife. - -“Some girls did.” - -“Some.” - -“Exactly,” cried Broke. “And because they went beyond the dictates of -Fashion, they were properly judged to be tough.” - -“That didn’t make them tough. They were tough already, or they wouldn’t -have done it.” - -Jeremy spread out his hands. - -“Out of your own mouth . . .” he said. “Only tough people do tough -things; or, in other words, tough things are only done by tough people.” - -There was a moment’s silence. - -Then— - -“Right-oh,” said Eve. “I’m tough. And just to leave no doubt upon the -subject I’m going to drink two and probably three cocktails to-night. If -as a result I get tight, it’ll be your privilege to escort me upstairs -and apply the usual restoratives. Really,” she added, raising her -delicate arms and stretching luxuriously, “it’s a great thought that if -I like to exceed I shall be properly cared for. A minute ago I was -wondering why I’d married you, but at least a tame missioner has his -points. Even if you do choke him off, it’s his job to return good for -evil.” - -Jeremy turned to the window. - -“Are you trying,” he said, “to get a rise?” - -“No,” said Eve calmly. “I never attempt to accomplish a _fait -accompli_.” - -“Why d’you call me a missioner and talk about choking me off? You know -it’s unfair and uncivil.” - -“I don’t consider it unfair, and whether it’s civil or not doesn’t -concern me.” - -“Then it should,” said Broke shortly. “And in future I’ll be glad if it -does. I’m not rude to you, and I see no reason why you should be rude to -me.” - -Eve laughed musically. - -“You have been most offensive,” she said. “Familiarity breeds contempt, -I know. Still, one likes it to be veiled. At least, I do. You might make -a note of that. And next time you feel impelled to review my manners -. . .” - -“Eve, Eve, why do you speak like this?” - -“In the hope that you’ll understand. If we’re to continue to live -together, I advise you to pull up your socks. Because it amuses me to -let you hold the reins——” - -Jeremy turned. - -“You’re determined to force my hand,” he said quietly. “I beg that in -future you will take only one cocktail before a meal.” - -Eve raised her eyebrows and sighed. - -“Your request is refused,” she said. - -“Must I make it an order?” - -Mrs. Broke stared. - -“An order?” she said, rising. - -“An order . . . which I shall enforce.” - -Jeremy watched the blood mount to the glorious temples, the exquisite -lips tighten, the red glow of anger steal into the great brown eyes. - -He continued evenly. - -“I am determined that my wife shall not cheapen herself. I’ve entreated -in vain; I’ve used argument, and it’s failed; and so I must use—power.” - -“Power?” breathed the girl. “Power? . . . When you make enough money to -pay your washing-bills . . .” - -Jeremy stiffened suddenly and went very pale. - -With a hammering heart, his wife stood still as death. - -For a moment he spoke no word. Then— - -“I’m going out,” he said shortly. “Don’t wait for lunch. I shan’t be -back till seven. I shall come back then—this time. But if ever you say -such a thing again or anything like it, I shall walk right out for -good.” - -He picked up his hat and coat and passed out of the room. . . . - -Rome has much to offer. She offered much to Broke that April morning. -But all he took was the aged Appian Way, tramping this steadily with an -empty pipe between his teeth and the thin rain playing on his face. He -had no eyes for his flank-guards, no thoughts for the pomp of traffic -that had swept or stalked or stumbled over his present path to build a -world. He was aware only of a proud, passionate face, angry, yet -exquisite in anger—the face of a spoiled child. - -Sixteen miles he covered before he returned to the hotel, hungry and -healthily tired, but with a clear brain and steadfast heart. - -He had been checking and weighing many things. He had reviewed his -married life, faced the mistakes he had made and steeled himself to pay -for every one of them. He had found himself wanting in patience, slow to -make due allowance, visiting Eve with ills which his own shortcomings -had begotten. More. The bill his heart had run up was truly formidable. -To do his darling pleasure he had let everything rip for month after -flashing month. He had smiled at this extravagance, abetted that whim, -encouraged that vanity. They had drifted—gone as they pleased. The -trivial round had been bought off; the common task compounded with. -Discipline had become a dead letter; indulgence, Lord of Misrule. . . . -And it was his fault. She was a child and—she had great possessions; so -Life and Love had become two excellent games, effortless, fruitful. -Indubitably it was his fault. He should have pointed the child, steadied -her, used his experience. His failure was inexcusable, because he had -been through the mill, seen that Life, at any rate, was no game—a -stroll or a struggle, perhaps, according as Fate laid down, but not a -game. The pity was they might have strolled so pleasantly. . . . - -Jeremy had also reviewed the recent affray. He had decided that he had -been clumsy, quick to anger and blunt. But he was perfectly certain, -first, that his contention had been sound, and, secondly, that his -withdrawal was wholly justified. Moreover, cost what it might, if ever -again Eve laid such a whip across his shoulders, he would have to go. -Had he been less punctilious, had he ever given his wife the slightest -cause, it would have been different. As it was, to condone such usage -would be fatal. Her respect for him, his respect for himself, would -rapidly bleed to death, and Happiness would shrivel like a fallen leaf. -There would, in fact, be nothing at all to stay for—unless one cared -for Love with his tongue in his cheek. . . . - -That she had drawn such a whip had opened Broke’s eyes. He had been -hurt—naturally; but he was far more concerned. Ten months ago . . . -Jeremy blamed himself very much indeed. He was, of course, most deeply -in love with his wife. . . . - -And she with him. - -When he came in that evening she flung her arms round his neck and burst -into tears. - -“What do you think of me?” she wailed. “I must have been mad. You are so -wonderful, Jeremy, so wonderfully sweet about it all: and then I take up -your sweetness and slash you across the face. Jeremy boy, you’ve got a -cad for a wife.” - -Jeremy kissed her hair. - -“My lady,” he said. “My darling.” - -Eve shook her glorious head. - -“No,” she said. “No lady. Don’t call me that again. I’ve done the -unspeakable thing. I know it. If you’d given me cause, it would’ve been -the grossest form. But as things are . . .” She drew away and passed a -hand over her eyes. “I think I must be possessed, Jeremy. Of course I -hadn’t a leg—about the drinks, I mean. You were perfectly right. But I -can mend that. I’ll never touch a cocktail again as long as I live. But -I can’t mend the other.” - -“It’s mended,” said Jeremy, taking her hands in his. “I made you mad as -a hornet. I didn’t mean to, dear, but I’m clumsy, you know. Well, when -you’re mad, you just pick up the first brick. You don’t care what it’s -made of or what it is. The point is it’s something to heave.” - -Eve looked him in the face. - -“There was a label on that brick—‘=Not to be Thrown=,’” she -said. “We’ve all got two or three bricks labelled like that—‘DO NOT -TOUCH,’ ‘DANGEROUS.’ . . . I think from what you said that brick is -marked ‘DANGEROUS’ too.” - -Jeremy bowed his head. - -“Yes.” - -“Jeremy,” said Eve, “you’ve something I haven’t got—thousands of -things, of course, but especially one. And that’s my respect.” - -Her husband smiled. - -Then he extended his arms and brought her face to his chin. - -“You’ve got mine, any way,” he said. - -“Rot.” - -Jeremy nodded solemnly. - -“To tell you the truth,” he said, “you never lost it. If you could have -seen yourself. . . .” - -“A sulky child,” said Eve. - -“No,” said Broke. “A—a princess.” - -“That’s not what you married.” - -“I know. But that was your fault. You went and gave me my choice.” - -A mischievous look stole into the big brown eyes. - -“What a fool I was,” said Eve and put up her mouth. - - * * * * * - -If the Brokes had slid back for ten months, for the next six they went -steadily forward, hand in hand. It was the strangest progress. Luxury, -Idleness, Ease certainly came behind, but dutifully, as servants should. -A jovial Discipline jogged by their side. Respect and Self-Respect -marched solemnly ahead. - -Jeremy did admirably. - -Eve had never been mouthed—and she was twenty-six. She was worth twenty -thousand pounds a year. Finally, she was American. . . . - -With infinite patience, with gentleness, firmly her husband went to -work—helping his wife, helping himself, helping his wife to help him -and always giving her the glory. Eve gave it back always, with a look in -her eyes that money cannot buy. - -The vanities of a wicked world were against her, but her love and -respect for Jeremy beat them back. She began to see the smile on -Discipline’s face, look for his cheerful wink, glow before his bluff -praise. - -One November morning Jeremy woke to find her fully dressed. - -This was unusual. That one’s fast should be broken in bed was one of the -articles of Mrs. Broke’s faith. - -So soon as her husband could speak, he asked what was wrong. - -After a while, a child told him her tale. - -“You remember that poor man yesterday I gave half a crown to? Well, -what’s half a crown to me? It wasn’t giving him anything really. I mean, -I wasn’t missing anything. It wasn’t hurting me. So I thought if this -morning I got up at seven o’clock. . . . It sounds silly, because it -hasn’t done him any good. But he did have his half-crown, and I—— -Well, I’m glad I’m up now, but I do hope it was a deserving case, -Jeremy. . . .” - -Her husband slid out of bed and picked up her hand. - -“I take my hat off,” he said uncertainly. - -And, as is so often the way, two days later the pretty pilgrims’ -progress came to a violent end. - -It was a bleak afternoon, with a sky of concrete and a wind that cut -like a lash. - -Eve, who had been to the dressmaker’s, was sitting before the fire, -reflecting comfortably that in ten days’ time she and Jeremy would be in -the South of France. - -Her husband entered quickly. - -“Sorry I’m late, my darling, but when he’d finished with me he said he -was going south, and I was fool enough to offer to drive him down. You -know what these artists are. Five-and-twenty minutes he kept me -waiting.” He stooped and kissed her. “And—and I’ve a confession to -make.” - -“Go on,” said Eve, smiling. - -“I’ve done it again, Eve.” - -“What?” - -Jeremy stepped to the fire. - -“Got stopped in the Park.” - -“Jeremy!” - -“I’m awfully sorry, dear. It’s a kind of disease with me.” - -“But you gave me your word——” - -“I know. I’m frightfully sorry. I wasn’t thinking about speed. As a -matter of fact, I was talking to Hudibras. And then, just as I was going -to switch out of Clarence Gate, they pulled me up. Perfectly ridiculous, -of course. The road was clear.” - -“That’s hardly the point,” said Eve coldly. - -“I know, I know.” He paused. Then: “Of course, you’ll think I’m mad, -but—Eve, ten minutes later I did it again.” - -His wife sat up. - -“Again?” - -Jeremy swallowed. - -“Again,” he said uncomfortably. “Down Constitution Hill. I tell you, -Eve, I could hardly believe my eyes. Just as I got to the Palace, out -they stepped. Thirty-three miles an hour. They’re perfectly right.” - -“And you promised to keep to twenty.” - -“I know. I’m frightfully sorry. It just shows——” - -Eve laughed. - -“It shows you don’t care a damn. I’ve begged and prayed you just for my -sake to go slow. You know why. Because I’m worried to death when you’re -out alone. You know it. Over and over again you’ve given your word.” - -Jeremy stared upon the floor. - -“I’ll give up driving,” he said. - -“I don’t care what you do. The damage is done. I begged, you swore, and -now you’ve broken your word. If the police hadn’t stopped you, I should -never have known. The obvious inference is that you’re breaking it all -the time.” - -“I haven’t really, Eve. I’ve crawled about. But to-day I got talking, -and——” - -“Why,” said Eve, “should I believe you? What does it matter whether I do -or not? Day in, day out, I try to do what you want. I’m sick and tired -of trying to do your will. Yet I keep on because it amuses you—amuses -you to see me cramp my style. God knows why. It’s a funny form of love. -But that’s by the way. I try. I sweat and grunt and slave—for peace in -our time. . . . And you stand over me and keep my nose to the -stone. . . . I’m not like that. It wouldn’t amuse me to put you through -the hoop. Only one wretched favour I’ve ever asked: and that I asked -because I loved you.” - -“I know,” said Broke. “I’m sorry. I’ve no excuse. But don’t lay on so -hard, Eve. You know it doesn’t amuse me to——” - -“Then why do you do it?” said Eve. “Don’t say ‘Out of love,’ or I shall -burst.” - -“I do what I do,” said Broke, “because I want you to get the most out of -Life.” - -“Oh, let us pray.” - -Jeremy bit his lip. - -“You do it,” continued his wife, “to assert your authority. If the money -was yours and not mine, you’d have the whip-hand. As it isn’t, you play -the priest, trade on my better feelings, take advantage of my love—I -didn’t marry you for that, you know.” - -“You will please,” said Jeremy, “take that back at once.” - -His wife stared. - -“You’re out for trouble,” she said. “Well, here it is—hot and strong. I -said I didn’t marry you for that. Well, I don’t pay you for that, -either.” - -Without a word, Jeremy left the room. - -Ten minutes later he passed out of the house. - - * * * * * - -For month after halting month Eve carried on. The girl hoped desperately -that Jeremy would return. If he did, he should find her soul swept and -garnished. She dressed soberly, spent so much and no more, rose always -at eight. She kept the same state, but entertained the less fortunate, -was always lending her cars. When she saw some object she fancied, she -asked the price and gave the amount to charity. Herein she was -scrupulous. A chinchilla stole attracted her very much. Still, her -sables were perfect. Besides . . . After careful reflection she decided -that but for Jeremy’s teaching she would have bought the fur and wrote a -cheque for the sick for four hundred pounds. - -She made no search for her husband—not because she was proud, but -because she felt that it was vain. If he was coming he would come. If he -was not . . . Had she stumbled across him, she would have begged and -prayed. But look she would not. She had no doubt at all that she was up -against Fate. And Jeremy had always said that Fate didn’t like you to -try to force his hand. ‘So sure as you do, my lady, you lose your -labour.’ - -She often wondered why she had lost her head that bitter afternoon. -After all, to exceed a limit was not a grave offence. He was careful in -traffic, no doubt: and then, slipping into the Park, he hurried along. -Besides, he was only hastening back to her. . . . And he had been so -humble. - -Eve decided that she had been possessed. Some malignant devil had -entered into her soul, distorting truth, ranting of motes and beams, -raising a false resentment of a fictitious injury. - -To say that she missed him is to call Leviathan a fish. Only the fetish -that she must do his will saved her alive. The night of his going she -lifted up her head, shook the tears from her eyes, and answered two -letters that she had left too long. . . . - -And now four months had gone by. . . . - -Sitting before the fire, Eve thought of the past with blank, see-nothing -eyes. For the millionth time she wondered where Jeremy was, how he was -faring, what he was doing to live. Never had riches seemed so empty, -luxury so drear as they had seemed since she had been alone. The thought -that, as like as not, he was going hungry tore at her heart. . . . - -She picked up the paper to try to distract her thoughts. - -Staring straight at her was the advertisement of _The St. James’s -Review_. This was announcing the contents of the current issue. Third on -the list was: - - _BABEL . . . . Jeremy Broke._ - -A child fell upon the telephone. . . . - -A sub-editor or someone was speaking. - -“I’m afraid we’re not at liberty to give his address, but if you write -him a letter care of this office, it will be sent on at once.” - -“All right,” said Eve. “Thank you.” - -A child’s letter went off by messenger within half an hour. - - _MY DARLING JEREMY_, - - _I would like to come to you if you will tell me where you are. - I have tried very hard to do what you would have liked ever - since you went, and if you had been here I should have been very - happy. Please let me come, because, if you don’t, I don’t think - I shall be able to go on. I would try, of course, but I think I - should break. I’ve tried to write calmly, darling, but I shall - be very glad to hear as soon as you can. Oh, Jeremy, my - precious, I suppose you couldn’t wire._ - - _Your very loving_ - _EVE._ - -No sooner had the letter been dispatched than a terror that it would -miscarry flung into Eve’s heart. She saw it being mislaid, forgotten, -let to join the faded habitués of some dusty mantelpiece. Of course she -should have marked it ‘_Important_,’ enclosed it in a note to the editor -saying how serious it was, asking for it to be expressed or sent by -hand. Then, at least, he would have taken action. Besides, it _was_ -serious—desperately so: and urgent—most urgent. Yet she had done -nothing to accelerate a reply—_nothing_. What a fool she was! She had -certainly asked him to wire, but why not to telephone? If the letter had -gone to him by hand and he were to have telephoned. . . . - -The tide of apprehensive impatience rose to an intolerable height. . . . - -Eve rose to her feet and stood twisting her fingers. - -After a moment, trembling a little, she stepped to the telephone. . . . - -“Oh, I rang up a little while ago and asked for Mr. Broke’s address—Mr. -Jeremy Broke. And you said—I think I spoke to you—you said that if I -sent a letter——” - -“Yes, I remember.” - -“Well, I’ve just sent you a letter by hand, but I ought to have marked -it ‘_Important_’ and—and . . . Well, I really should have enclosed it -in a note to you because it’s very urgent, and I would like it sent on -by messenger-boy if you could do it. At once—to-night, I mean. You -see——” - -“I don’t think he’s in London. Wait a minute.” The voice became almost -inaudible. Frantically Eve strained her ears. . . . “Broke. Jeremy -Broke—fellow that wrote _Babel_ . . . messenger-boy. . . . Rome, isn’t -it? Poste Restante, Rome. . . .” The voice returned to the mouthpiece. -“No. I’m afraid—— Hullo! Are you there? . . . Hullo . . . Hullo . . .” - -After a moment or two the speaker replaced his receiver with a sigh. - -“Cut off,” he said wearily. “Never mind. She’ll ring up again.” - -He was quite wrong. - -He had had his last conversation with Mrs. Broke. - -The latter was already preparing to leave for Italy. . . . - -Two days later the lady had reached Rome and was being rapidly driven to -the Ritz Hotel. Purposely she avoided the Grand, where she and Jeremy -had stayed—centuries ago. - -She passed into the hall and up to the polished bureau. - -The reception-clerk was busy—speaking into the telephone. - -“_Oui, madame. . . . Parfaitement. . . . Jusqu’à samedi prochain les -deux, et après samedi les trois avec un salon en suite. . . . C’est -entendu, madame. . . . Merci._” - -He left the instrument, stooped to make an entry and turned with an -apology to Eve. - -“Hullo, Jeremy,” said his wife. - - * * * * * - -At half-past eight that evening Jeremy Broke, Gentleman, entered the -Grand Hotel and sent up his name. - -His head was aching, and he felt rather tired. - -He wondered dully what this dinner with Eve would bring forth. The great -gulf fixed between them seemed exceeding wide: everything was insisting -upon its width. Not since the day on which he had left her house had he -been used as a gentleman: now he was treated with respect—which her -wealth had induced. A page she would presently tip was dancing -attendance; here was the pomp of a salon which she had purchased; there -was champagne waiting for which she would pay. . . . - -As the door closed behind him, another was opened, and Eve in a plain -black frock came into the room. - -“Oh, Jeremy.” - -He went to her quickly and kissed her hands and lips. - -The big brown eyes searched his steadily. - -He smiled back. . . . - -“What is it, Jeremy? Why are you playing up?” - -Jeremy dropped her fingers and turned away. - -“The burnt child,” he said slowly, “dreads the fire.” - -“Are you sorry I came?” - -“Oh, Eve.” - -He drew in his breath sharply, hesitated and fell to playing with his -moustache. . . . - -Dinner was served. - -The meal did much for both of them, as meals can. Jeremy’s headache -passed, and Eve was refreshed. The flesh being fortified, the spirit -lifted up its head. - -By the time the servants had withdrawn they were exchanging news with -zest. . . . - -“So, really,” concluded Jeremy, settling himself in a chair, “I’ve—I’ve -done very well. It’s a most entertaining job—smoothing down the -indignant, humouring the whimsical, bluffing the undesirable, assisting -the helpless, shepherding the vague. . . . I never had the faintest idea -how many remarkable people are floating around. We had a fellow one day -who stayed for six weeks. He went to bed when he arrived and he never -got up. For six solid weeks he stayed in his bed. Nothing the matter -with him. No suggestion of ill health. It was just his way of life. He -did it wherever he went. Chauffeur and valet kicking their heels all -day. He wouldn’t have the valet in his room except to shave him. Said he -didn’t like his face. Then one day he got up and left for Naples. . . . -I got off once—with an old English lady. She had a courier and two -maids and travelled her own bath. She used to be ringing me up the whole -day long, and she never went out or came in without speaking to me. It -was most embarrassing. She gave me a cheque, when she left, for a -hundred pounds. I tore it up, of course. . . .” - -“You would,” said Eve. - -“Well, I couldn’t take money like that.” - -“Plenty of people do.” - -“Yes, but . . .” - -Eve leaned forward. - -“She wanted you to have it, Jeremy. She was rich, and it gave her -pleasure to spend her money like that. Your conscience was clear.” - -Jeremy shifted in his chair. - -“It wouldn’t ’ve been,” he said, “if I’d frozen on to it.” - -“Why not?” - -“Because I didn’t deserve it.” - -“Wasn’t that a matter for her?” - -The man hesitated. Then— - -“I just couldn’t take it,” he said. - -“Because it was a tip?” - -“Oh, no. If it had been a fiver—well, I suppose I’d been attentive and -I’ve no false pride.” - -“Then why,” said Eve, “why did you turn it down?” - -Jeremy laughed. - -“I’m damned if I know,” he said. “But it couldn’t be done.” - -Eve lay back in her chair and crossed her legs. - -“Shall I tell you?” she said. “Because you’re a gentleman. You thought -she’d lost her head—she probably had: and you weren’t going to take -advantage of a runaway heart. . . . That hundred pounds was Cæsar’s: you -rendered it whence it came.” - -Broke got upon his feet and turned to the mantelpiece. - -Presently he took out a pipe and a well-worn pouch. - -“I suppose you’re right,” he said slowly. - -After a long look Eve lowered her eyes to the floor. - -“You got off once before, Jeremy—nearly three years ago now.” - -“Yes,” said Jeremy, pressing tobacco home. - -“Did you think I’d lost my head?” - -“No.” - -“Or that to take my money would be taking advantage of my heart?” - -“No.” - -“Yet you rendered it to Cæsar—every cent.” She leapt to her feet and -caught the lapels of his coat. “Every rotten cent that the good God had -given us to make us happy you rendered unto Cæsar, as though it were -Cæsar’s. _And it wasn’t Cæsar’s_, Jeremy. It was ours—yours and -mine. . . .” Her voice broke, and the tears came into her eyes. “I was -so happy, dear, to think I was rich, because I felt I’d got something -worth sharing—which you would share. I was so proud and happy. . . . -And then—you—wouldn’t—share—it. . . . Well, at first I was dismayed, -as children are. You married a child, you know. . . . I tell you, I was -ready to cry for disappointment. And then, suddenly, I saw something -very magnificent—unearthly handsome, Jeremy, in your refusal. It was -something so bright and shining that I couldn’t think of anything else. -I found you were paying me a compliment for all the world to see such as -no woman with money had ever been paid before. . . . Well, I’m vain. And -the childish impulse to burst into tears was swallowed up in pride to -think that I had for my husband so fine a gentleman. I found it so -flattering, Jeremy: I was just drunk with vanity. And so I became a -princess—you made me one, dear: and the child that you married -disappeared. . . . And with the child disappeared the idea of sharing—a -princess doesn’t share. That it was _our_ money never occurred to me -again. I had no eyes for such an idea. Every hour of every day you -showed me that it was _mine_. And I came to prize its possession because -it had brought me this superb allegiance. I sank to be a queen, Jeremy: -and dragged you down to be the keeper of my purse . . . you . . . And -then a day came when the queen became imperious—high with her faithful -servant . . . thought him presumptuous . . . rose in the dignity he’d -given her and asked who paid him to keep the privy purse.” There was a -long silence. Presently Eve went on. “And then a strange thing happened. -You went, of course. But so did the queen, Jeremy. So did the pride and -vanity and all the false position you had built up. And if you could -have seen what was left, you’d ’ve seen a child crying—because it had -no playmate to share its pretty toys. . . . I say the false position -_you_ had built up. Jeremy lad, it’s true. I let you build it, of -course. I gave you the bricks. If I hadn’t been so vain—so hellishly -vain, I’d ’ve caught your arm at the beginning and stopped the rot. You -built so faithfully, Jeremy—with the cleanest, honestest heart. And I -watched you and let you build and thought how wonderful it was. And all -the time you were rendering our happiness to Cæsar. He’s had four months -of it already, four long, matchless months out of our little treasure. -Oh, Jeremy, Jeremy, you’re not going to give him any more?” - -Jeremy caught her to him and held her close. - -“My eloquent darling,” he said, with his cheek against hers. “But you’ve -forgotten my sex. A man——” - -“You’d ’ve married me if I’d been poor?” - -“You know I would.” - -“It was because I was rich that you wouldn’t speak?” - -“Yes.” - -“It was the child you wanted to play with—not her toys?” - -“Yes.” - -“Why, then your honour is clean. And it’ll always be clean—so long as -you’d play with the child if she had no toys. . . . You wouldn’t want me -to throw my toys away—I’ve always had them to play with. Yet how d’you -think I feel when the child I’ve picked to be my playfellow won’t share -my pretty toys?” - -“I wonder,” said Jeremy slowly, “I wonder whether you’re right. ‘Unto -Cæsar.’ You mean I’ve been paying conscience-money—which I never owed?” - -Eve nodded. - -The man put her gently aside and began to pace the room. - -Slight fingers to mouth, Eve watched him, as one watches the flow of a -crisis which one is powerless to treat. Her face was calm, and she stood -like statuary: only the rise and fall of her breast betrayed her -hammering heart. Her brain was straining frantically to perceive the -line she would have to take. She had moved him—shaken him plainly. -Everything in the world was depending on how she handled the next thing -Jeremy said. . . . - -Suddenly he swung round. - -“Eve, if I come back, my livelihood’s gone. And I mayn’t be quite so -lucky . . . another time.” - -His wife stood up. - -“You go too fast, Jeremy. I’ve suffered, you know—most terribly. And I -can’t go through it again.” She hesitated. “Before you come back, you -must promise . . . to play with my toys.” - -For a long minute Jeremy stood regarding his wife. - -Then suddenly he smiled—the smile of a man who has suddenly come upon -the truth. - -He stepped to Eve and put his arms about her. - -“What a fool I’ve been,” he said. “What a blinking, blear-eyed fool. Of -course, it’s partly your fault. You gave me my choice when you had no -choice to give.” - -“What do you mean, Jeremy?” - -“You asked me which I would marry—the child or the witch or the -princess. Well, I couldn’t pick and choose. I had to marry the three—or -none at all.” - -“But——” - -“Listen. When you’re a child, I’ll play with your pretty toys: when -you’re a witch, I’ll—I’ll play with your beautiful hair: and when -you’re a princess. . . .” - -“Yes, yes,”—eagerly. - -“Why, then,” said Jeremy proudly, “I’ll play the prince.” - -A glorious smile swept into his darling’s face. - -“And they lived happily,” she breathed. - -Jeremy nodded. - -“Ever after,” he whispered. - - - - - SIMON - - - SIMON - -“Oh, Simon dear,” said Patricia, “why aren’t you rich?” - -“If it comes to that,” said Simon ruefully, “why are you poor? You’ve -less excuse than I have. At least, your mother was an American.” - -“Yes, but she married for love—and got cut off for it. Which is why her -poor little girl must marry money.” - -Simon Beaulieu regarded the firmament. This was arrayed in black and -silver. There was no moon: only the countless stars at all lightened the -darkness, their dim, peculiar radiance turning the countryside into a -kingdom of dreams. As though to indorse such witchcraft, the strains of -a distant valse stole in and out of earshot, rising and falling into the -trough of Silence, intoning a love-sick litany and rendering exquisitely -the mystery of the hour. The air was magically still and quick with the -sweet perfume of new-mown hay. Midsummer Night had come to Castle -Breathless in all her glory. - -“You know,” said Simon, extracting a cigarette, “I dare say it’s just as -well. We think we’re suited, but we probably aren’t. If we joined up, we -should probably scrap like hell.” - -“I doubt it,” said Patricia, slipping a bare arm through his. “You’ve -got your faults, of course: and so have I. But they’re—they’re quite -bearable, Simon.” - -“It isn’t a question of faults,” said Simon slowly. “I love your faults, -Pat. . . . It’s a question of temperament. You know. Everything in the -garden looks lovely—so long as you’re outside. If we got in, it might -be a very different shout. Supposing you didn’t like the colour of my -vests.” - -“I’m sure I should,” said Patricia solemnly. “And if I didn’t, they -could easily be dyed.” - -“Yes, but I shouldn’t want them dyed. You see? You’d say you couldn’t -stick them, and I should retort that I had to wear the swine, an’ before -we knew where we were we should be in over our knees.” - -Patricia Bohun frowned. - -“What colour are they?” she demanded. - -“A warm biscuit,” said Simon. - -“You must look maddening,” said Patricia. “And I like biscuit very much. -So you see it’s all nonsense to say we shouldn’t get on.” - -“Yes, I knew that was coming,” said Simon. “That was easy. But you know -what I mean, Pat. Life’s rather like a film, and a friendship like ours -is like a jolly good act. But marriage is a ‘close-up.’ Well, I don’t -say ours wouldn’t ’ve come off: but there are plenty that don’t.” - -“D’you honestly think that our marriage would have been less successful -than those we propose to make?” - -“I don’t propose——” - -“Yes, you do. Simon, you can’t let me down. You’re going to marry -Estelle.” - -“I can’t bear it,” said Simon. “She’s so—so fidgety. Always chucking -herself about. You’re so calm, Pat. . . . Besides, she wouldn’t look at -me.” - -“Well, she’s looked at you pretty hard for the last twelve months,” said -Patricia sagely. “Besides, you can but try. If she says ‘No,’ well, -then, you’ve done your bit. But it’d make it easier for me. I’d like to -feel we were both in the same old boat. I know I’ve got your love, but -then I’d have your understanding too. I’d feel you knew what it meant. I -don’t want you to be unhappy, Simon dear: but I think you’d be less -unhappy if you were married. And—and it’d be putting two hedges between -us, instead of only one. . . . You see, when I marry George—as I -suppose I shall: we’re supping together, and you know what that -means. . . . Well, when I marry George, that won’t wash you out. I’ll be -bound to think of you. And if I think of you single, -unmarried—_available_, Simon, it’ll be ten times as hard to chase you -out of my mind. And I want to play the game. One may have to marry for -money, but at least one can honour one’s bond. . . . And I think, -perhaps, it’d be the same for you. You _needn’t_ marry money, because -you’re a man: but three hundred a year isn’t much, and it’s growing -less. And in these days. . . . Well, Estelle’s got fifteen thousand. -Besides, she’s awfully nice. And if you were married, you’d have a game -to play. D’you see, Simon?” - -“Yes,” said Simon Beaulieu. “You mean that in love, as in everything -else in the world, the positive’s easier to deal with than the negative. -Better a Dead Sea apple than only forbidden fruit.” - -“And you say we shouldn’t get on!” said Patricia deliberately. - -There was a silence. - -Shoulder to shoulder, the two stood still as statuary, looking into the -night. For such an exercise their coign of vantage was superb. The -balustrade before them severed the gardens from the park. This for the -most part was walled with rising woods, but here the ground fell sharply -into a valley which ran like a giant gutter, straight and clean, to the -jaws of Peering Gap. Such was the darkness that the gap was not to be -seen, but a starlit scallop of sky showed where it lay. - -At length— - -“We mightn’t,” said Simon doggedly. - -“I mightn’t get on with George. Or you with Estelle.” - -“You won’t,” said Simon Beaulieu. “Neither shall I. There won’t be any -question of getting on. Our respective unions will be marriages of -convenience, business deals. They’ll proceed mechanically, like a couple -of cars. Now and again some slight adjustment’ll be made, but, in the -ordinary way, so long as they’re watered and fed, they’ll go right on. -The chauffeur’ll do his bit and the car’ll do hers. No understanding -will be necessary—there’ll be nothing to understand. If you stick to -your book of instructions, it’s a fool-proof show. But ours—our -marriage would have been like a man on a horse, journeying over the -world day in day out, sharing fair weather and foul and getting to know -each other inside out. Well, they get on or they don’t—a man and his -horse. It’s a question of temperament. And there ain’t no book of the -rules for dealin’ with temperaments.” - -Patricia laid her head against Simon’s shoulder. - -“Yes, there is, dear,” she said. “I’ve studied yours so often. You carry -it in your eyes. I wonder if Estelle will be able to read it. I don’t -think so. And mine. . . . Haven’t you ever read mine?” - -“Pat,” said Simon gently, “don’t make things worse. We agreed to wash -Sentiment out.” - -“I know, I know. But don’t say we shouldn’t get on. Leave me my pretty -dream.” - -“All right, lady. I—I dare say we should. But you never can tell,” he -added, “and I don’t know that dreams aren’t rather dangerous things.” - -“D’you mean that I mustn’t dwell on what might have been?” - -“I think you should try not to. I mean, it’s unsettling. After all, -we’re not madly in love. I don’t stop breathing when you go out of the -room, and you don’t come over queer when I come in.” - -“I feel all pleased, Simon.” - -“That’s more fellow-feeling than love. I’m a congenial soul. We’ve -fitted in very well, and that’s as much as you can say. We don’t give up -things for one another. I haven’t pawned my boots to buy you a -wrist-watch or soaked in money on flowerets. When I’ve given you -dinner——” - -“I’ve chosen the place and the play. And you always give me melon -because I like it so. And why have you asked me so many, many times?” - -“To please myself. You’re a congenial soul.” - -Patricia turned and lifted a beautiful leg. - -“Can you see?” she demanded, pointing. - -“I see your ankle, Pat, and your little foot.” - -The girl leaned back against the stone balustrade. - -“I dress to please you,” she said. “Even to-night. I put on light -stockings to-night, when I should have worn dark. I like dark better, -and I’d ’ve been more in the mode. But you like me in light stockings, -Simon, and so I put them on. . . . I may be only congenial. I hope to -God I am. You’ll get off lighter then. But . . . Well, Simon, it’s -pretty obvious that I love you.” - -The man’s arms were about her, and his cheek pressed tight against hers. - -“Pat, Pat, my precious, you know I’ve been covering up. You know I’m mad -about you and always have been. And you know that whatever happens -there’ll never be anyone else as long as I live.” - -He breathed the words rather than spoke them. His tone, touch, frame -were vibrant as any wire. - -The girl slid her arms round his neck and held him close. - -“I know,” she whispered. - -Caress and word seemed to relieve the strain. The man relaxed sensibly. -After a moment’s silence he turned and kissed her mouth. - -“I blame myself,” he said quietly enough. “I’m older than you, and I -shouldn’t have let it go on. I know we’d an understanding—a blessed, -faithful agreement, faithfully kept. There never was, I believe, such -natural sympathy. But these things bank up, Pat: and, if we weren’t to -marry, we should never have been engaged. . . . It was defying Nature. -In a way it was our affair, but it was out of joint. It’s -been—perfect. . . . But it was out of joint. Well, now that dislocation -has got to be reduced. Very good. We knew it must come. Our eyes were -open. That was the basis of our understanding—that sooner or later it -must end. But I think we forgot—the adhesions . . . the seals that -Nature sets upon things that are out of joint. They take some -breaking—adhesions. . . . And—they’ve—got to be broken—to-night.” -With a sharp sob Patricia drew in her breath; then she let it go pelting -and drooped her head. “We’ve played about so far. You know we have. -Feinting, ducking, side-stepping, covering up. Well, now we’ve got to -mix it and knock Things out.” - -The girl clung to him desperately. - -“Oh, Simon, I can’t, I can’t. Not all at once like this. I know they’ve -got to be broken, but they needn’t be torn. Just once or twice we can be -alone again. I shan’t be married at once. Let’s break them gradually, -darling. Then I’ll have something to look for—to buoy me up to-night. -Life looks so terribly dark, Simon. Let me have just a ray of light. -Just once or twice—that’s all. You know. Just a word and a kiss. Don’t -smash my world to-night. Even the torturers, Simon, never did things -like that. They worked by degrees—gradually, so that the torture could -be borne.” - -The man smiled into her eyes. - -As a moment ago her touch had soothed him, so now her weakness seemed to -have made him strong. - -“Pat, this isn’t like you. We must keep troth. If we didn’t end it -to-night and go down smiling, we should spoil everything. Together we -planted the prettiest little flower: and it’s grown so lovely, Pat, and -smelled so very sweet: and now—it’s time to pick it. . . . Well, we -must pick it properly—not drag it up piecemeal. And then—for ever, -think what a memory we’ll have—that we weren’t afraid to pick our -pretty flower . . . when it was in full bloom. We’ll be so proud and -happy to remember that. It won’t have faded or died. It’ll ’ve been just -perfect—all the time. . . . And we must pick it smiling, Pat—just for -each other’s sake.” - -“Oh, Simon, Simon, I shall break. It’s like Death. I can’t face it.” - -“You can with me. We can face anything. What’s death to us, so long as -we go out well?” - -Patricia lifted her head. - -“You’re right,” she said quietly. “We—we must go out well.” For a -moment her eyes wandered over the heaven. Then they returned to his. She -put up a little hand and touched his hair, setting it back from his -temples and patting it as she pleased. Then she smiled very tenderly. -“Let’s pick our flower now, darling.” - -The man smiled back. - -For a minute they kissed and clung—while the world rocked. . . . Then -he loosened his hold, and she fell away. - -He picked up her hand and kissed her finger-tips. - -“My beautiful darling,” he said. “My sweet, my sweet.” - -Then he leaned back against the stone-work and took out a cigarette. - -For a moment he fingered this, smiling thoughtfully. - -Then he looked up. - -“Pat,” he said, “what about a glass of champagne? Between you and me, I -think we’ve earned it.” - -“My dear,” said Patricia Bohun, “your brain’s in your head.” They -started to stroll towards the mansion. “By the way, did I tell you to -back Grey Ruby for the Stewards’ Cup?” - -“Who gave you that?” said Beaulieu. - -“No one,” said Patricia. “I dreamed it. I dreamed I saw the -posters—STEWARDS’ CUP RESULT. I was wondering what had won when I woke -to see Matilda with my letters and tea. The first letter I opened was -from a girl called Ruby Grey.” - -Simon grunted. - -“I should have a bit on _sans doute_,” he said lightly. “But these ’ere -indications are treacherous things. Look at poor Barley McFinn. Two -nights before the St. Leger he dreamed he was giving bananas to a -baboon; and as fast as he gave them the brute kept shaking its head and -slinging them back. Well, Barley woke up and rushed off and put his -binder on Monkey Nut. . . . Well, I don’t know where Monkey Nut -finished, but a horse called Peelam won. Barley couldn’t see it for -weeks.” - -Patricia laughed gaily. - -“You’re not a bit like your namesake, Simon,” she said. “He would have -plunged. And yet . . .” - -“Yet what?” - -“In a way you are. I mean . . . Never mind. I’ll leave it there. What’s -this they’re playing?” - -Conversing evenly, they came to the flagged walk and the windows -belching ragtime and blazing lights. - -By one consent they turned and looked back into the night. - -Then they passed up the steps and joined the carnival. - - * * * * * - -Let who will throw a stone at Patricia Bohun. - -She certainly promised to marry a man whom she did not love. But if -George Persimmon believed that such a lady would consent to bear his -name for any earthly or heavenly reason other than to share his riches, -then he deserved to be confined. But George was no fool. You may take it -from me, Sirs, she did her neighbour no wrong. Whether a woman should -sell herself is another matter. From the age of twelve Patricia had been -schooled—cleverly schooled to take that unpleasant fence. Her aunt, -Lady Coblow of Breathless, had not only shown her that she must marry -money, but had taken care to surround her with the paraphernalia of -wealth. From the age of twelve Patricia had lived and lain soft. -Footmen, tiled bathrooms, French cooking, sables, limousines helped to -create the atmosphere in which she moved. Use of that sort holds hard. -By the time she was twenty-two she had come to regard the idea of -parting with Luxury much as she looked upon that of committing -suicide—a step taken only by the temporarily insane. - -That Beaulieu’s outlook was different is natural enough. - -He had no patron to pave his path with gold, and it was all he could do -to keep his head above water. The man had gone hungry. Had he stepped -out of his world, he might have waxed fat and kicked. But that would -have meant leaving every friend that he had—including Patricia Bohun. -He worked hard, driving a promising pen, but the promise was shadowy -stuff, and his earnings were fitful and slight. It follows that while he -perceived the extreme desirability of riches, he knew that they were not -essential to life and more than suspected that happiness could be found -without them. - -Marriage itself Patricia and Simon viewed in much the same light. -Wedlock for them was an earthy business, the Solemnization of Matrimony -differing but a little from the conveyance of land. In the actual -service they saw a fine old tradition well worth preserving in these -degenerate days. Had they been bidden to witness a Livery of Seisin they -would have gone in the same spirit. I do not know that I blame them. Few -of the unions with which they were brought in contact were made in -heaven; some were patently home-made; many were fearfully and -wonderfully made; while one and all were discussed as worldly -engagements the letter of which should not be flagrantly dishonoured. To -them the plighting of troth was a common or garden contract and nothing -more. It is to their credit that it was nothing less. What lifted them -out of the ruck was that to their way of thinking all common or garden -contracts were sacred things. Their word once passed must be religiously -kept. With the letter they were not concerned; the spirit was the thing. -The game _had_ to be played. - -Simon did not ask Estelle to become his wife. Had she asked him, he -would, I believe, have consented to become her husband. But then, -somehow, the doctrine of _caveat emptor_ would have applied. It would -have been her look-out. Whereas, if he approached her, his very approach -would suggest a regard which he did not feel. Besides . . . - -A month limped by. - -Patricia and Simon were meeting continually—by chance. From their easy, -casual fellowship no one would ever have dreamed that they were in love. -But then no one ever had suspected anything. They were just carrying -on—with hearts of lead. - -Presently the date of Miss Bohun’s wedding was announced and invitations -were issued. - -Then two things happened—simultaneously. - -The first was that Castle Breathless was entered by burglars while the -household was at meat. The burglars, however, were disturbed and made -good their escape. A footman was knocked down and a maid-servant -frightened to death. Apparently Miss Bohun’s bedroom was the only room -which had been entered. There a drawer had been forced and a gold bag -taken. Curiously enough, the thieves overlooked what they were -undoubtedly seeking. This was a magnificent rope of pearls, ‘the gift of -the bridegroom,’ which was lying where Miss Bohun had left it upon a -bureau. - -The second was that Simon in some excitement began to do sums. - -For the sake of brevity, let us look over his shoulder. - - _Unearned Income_ £300 _a year_ - _Earned_ ” £250 ” - _Grey Ruby_ £450 ” - ———— - _Total_ £1000 _a year_ - -You see, now, what was in the man’s mind. - -That morning had brought him a cheque for seven pounds and a request to -be shown the next tale that he wrote. Simon reckoned that he could write -three tales a month. - -So much for _Earned Income_. - -Simon had just been left three hundred pounds. The money lay at the -Bank. If he put it all on Grey Ruby at thirty-three to one and -Patricia’s dream came true, Simon would win nine thousand nine hundred -pounds. - -So much for _Grey Ruby_. - -As for the total, the man shall speak for himself. - -“A thousand a year. It isn’t too much, but supposing we lived abroad. -Say, Paris. I think she could stick it all right. I think she’d be -happy. I believe, in a way, she’d find it rather fun. Of course she’d -miss all the show—flunkeys and cars and the rest. We might run to a -Citroën. And she could have half a maid. Clothes’d be the snag. We -couldn’t put up a fight where clothes were concerned. But if she could -rule them out—I don’t think she really cares about anything else. The -idea of Life without luxury’s never entered her head. It doesn’t follow -that if it did she’d fire it out. I don’t think she would. I don’t think -Patricia’s that sort. If it weren’t for the clothes question . . .” - -Simon rose to his feet and fell to pacing the room. - -“One thing’s clear—a thousand’s the rock-bottom figure. I must make up -my mind to that. Under a thousand a year it can’t be done. It _could_ -be, of course. We shouldn’t _starve_ on five hundred. But . . . No, a -thousand’s the lowest possible. With a thousand I could temper the wind. -Unless Grey Ruby comes up and unless I can get thirty-threes . . . - -“What’s the alternative? The alternative’s plain hell—for me, any way. -I suppose I can plough through, but face it I can’t. I’ve tried and I -can’t—can’t pretend to . . . if she was in love with Persimmon, if she -was going to be happy—happier than with me—well, I could stomach that. -As it is . . . I don’t know why I didn’t see it that night at -Breathless. I came pretty near, too. I said we’d defied Nature. But for -some fool’s reason I assumed the adhesions could be torn. That that was -further defiance I never saw. I suppose I was exalted, drunk with a sort -of heroism. That’s all right to die on, because you’re dead before it -wears off. You can take a life-sentence with a laugh: but you don’t -laugh much when you’re in prison, and after the first month. . . . - -“The point is I may _have_ to go on. No, it isn’t. The point is I may -have a chance—a chance of being happy and making her happy too. I wish -to God she and I could thrash this out. But that’s impossible. For one -thing, her opinion’s valueless. Whether she’d be happy, poor, she hasn’t -the faintest idea. And so I’ve got to decide for both of us. . . . - -“‘Got to decide’? The point mayn’t ever arise. Unless she makes a move, -everything goes by the board. And as like as not she won’t. . . . Well, -then—finish. If she can get through, I must. She’s free to change her -mind, but I can’t do another man down. I can’t reopen things. That’s -plain. Heaven or burning hell, my mouth’s shut and locked, unless and -until she speaks. If she says she can’t go on, an’ if . . .” - -He passed to the open window and stood looking down upon the fading -street and men as trees walking and lamps beginning to come into their -own. - -After a little he laughed. - -“I’ve lost my balance, I think—leapin’ about like this before I come to -the ditch. The first thing I’ve got to do is to raise the wind.” - -He sat down then and there and acknowledged his cheque. Then he -rough-hewed the themes of another two tales. Finally, he retired—to lie -awake until dawn. - -That morning he visited a firm of bookmakers. - -Grey Ruby, however, was being mentioned. They would not lay him more -than twenty-five sovereigns to one. - -After a little reflection, Simon wrote them a cheque for four hundred -pounds—an act which reduced his balance to eleven pounds ten. - - * * * * * - -Goodwood was looking superb. - -It was a perfect day, airy yet cloudless. Rain had fallen in the night -and, stopping at cock-crow, left everything refreshed. Distance was -clean-cut. For such as had eyes, the sheep grazing in the valleys made -sharp white dots upon the green, the Isle of Wight rode like a ship at -anchor between earth and heaven. Background, indeed, had much to answer -for, lending the meeting the air of the old prize-ring, rigged like -lightning, deep in some unsuspecting dingle of the suspected -countryside. The artifice of gardens and playgrounds, jealously kept -against the builder’s hand, had here no place. Time had stepped back -into an England where men passed out of doors on to the open road and, -lifting up their eyes, beheld more meads than bricks and woods than -mortar, where parishes were worlds and London Town was half a -fairy-tale. - -After a last look at Grey Ruby, Beaulieu strolled out of the Paddock and -back to the Lawn. There he encountered Miss Bohun almost at once. - -“Where’s George?” he said, taking her hand. - -“In bed with a touch of the sun. It’s nothing serious. I want to go to -the Paddock. Will you come with me?” - -The man hesitated before complying. - -Patricia knew him so well that, unless he could smother his feelings as -never before, she would be certain to see that something unusual was -afoot. Then she would question him: and Beaulieu did not want to be -questioned—till after the Cup had been won. - -He need have felt no concern. - -As they passed to the back of the Paddock— - -“Simon, I’m up against it.” - -The man braced himself. The time was not yet. - -“Hush, my lady. Let’s talk about something else.” - -“Listen. You don’t understand. It’s—it’s not what you think, Simon.” -The man looked at her sharply. “I’m in the most awful trouble. I’m—I’m -being blackmailed.” - -“Blackmailed?” - -The girl slid a letter into his hand. - -“Read that,” she said. “Sit down here and read it. And then come and -find me again. I’ll be in front of the weighing-room.” - -Simon lifted his hat and turned away. - -Mechanically he took a few steps: then he sat down on a seat and tilted -his hat over his eyes. - - _12, Clock Lane,_ - _Crutched Friars._ - _July 29th._ - _DEAR MISS BOHUN_, - - _The object of my visit to Castle Breathless two evenings ago - was, as our valuable Press has rightly surmised, to obtain - possession of your pearls. That I failed was not my fault. My - arrangements were perfect, but the car bringing three of my men - broke down on the way, so that two had to try to perform the - duties of five. It seems I might still have succeeded if I had - used my eyes. Indeed, that the rope was awaiting collection - would be a disturbing thought, but for my foresight in taking - with me the letter which lay in the drawer which I had time to - force. You remember. The one addressed to Mr. Beaulieu._ - - _I think you would like this back. At least, I do not think you - would like it to go to Mr. Persimmon. You may have it for ten - thousand pounds._ - - _If the money is not paid on or before the seventh of August, - upon August the ninth the original will be received by Mr. - Persimmon and copies by your aunt and uncle and twenty of your - intimate friends._ - - _Just three points more._ - - _If you call in the Law or seek to avoid my conditions the - several communications will be dispatched at once._ - - _Secondly, overtures are useless. I will not extend the time, - nor will I accept one penny less than ten thousand pounds in - Bank of England notes._ - - _Thirdly, I will deal with you or Mr. Beaulieu, but no one else. - His production of this note will accredit him: and his - production of the ten thousand pounds will bring him a letter - which I am sure he will value, as well as twenty-two typed - copies, which, if he pleases, I will burn before his eyes._ - - _I shall be at the above address daily from eleven a.m. until - noon._ - - _Yours faithfully_, - _THE MASTER_. - _Miss Patricia Bohun,_ - _Castle Breathless,_ - _Surrey._ - -Simon put the letter into a breast-pocket and returned to Patricia like -a man in a trance. - -His brain was trying to cope with too much for a brain to control. -Dreams, hopes, mountainous fears—the powers of light and darkness -fought like mad to be considered. - -The runners were going down, for the Stewards’ Cup. - -Simon watched them dazedly. - -Grey Ruby was moving well. - -“Let’s go to the Lyvedens’ box,” said Simon Beaulieu. “They won’t be -there, and I want to see this race.” - -Patricia shot him a glance. - -Then— - -“All right, Simon,” she said. - -They passed to the back of the stand and up the stairs. . . . - -Simon took out his glasses and put them up. - -“I take it,” he said quietly, “that if you had ten thousand, that -letter’s worth it—to you.” - -“Yes,” said Patricia, “it is. It’s—it’s a question of saving my name.” -She hesitated—then burst out. “But what can I do? Of course they think -I’m rich. Not rolling, perhaps, but rich enough to get -loans—borrow—find the money somehow, as rich people can. And I haven’t -two hundred pounds. I’ve got my pearls, but what can I do with them? I -couldn’t explain their disappearance. I might pretend I’d lost them, but -they’re insured. Oh, Simon, isn’t it cruel? All round us people are -sinning—callously, wantonly sinning—sinning for the sake of sin: but -they never get caught. And I—I who’ve tried to live clean and play the -game—because I love you I write one wretched letter that I’ve no -business to write—and get clean bowled.” - -A bell stammered, and the tumult and shouting of Tattersalls’ ring, died -a sudden death. The race had begun. - -Simon put down his glasses and wiped them carefully. - -Then he put them back to his eyes. - -“That’s always the way,” he said. “Would you like me to take it on?” - -Patricia bit her lip. - -“Well, _I_ can’t, Simon.” - -The field appeared. - -Grey Ruby was on the stand side and showing up well. - -“No, that’s plain. Besides, it’s a man’s job. I’ll stick to the letter, -shall I?” - -“Yes, if you will. But, Simon, what can you do?” - -Grey Ruby was coming up. Yes, there was no doubt about it. Half the -field was beaten, but the grey was coming up. - -“Pat,” said Simon, “I don’t know what I shall do. My impulse is to break -the gentleman’s back. But I’m inclined to think that he means what he -says, and so that wouldn’t help you.” - -Grey Ruby was lying third now and full of running. A bay on the rails -was leading and going uncommonly well. - -“Nothing can help me,” said Patricia listlessly. She shivered. “It’s -like a fearful dream. The impossible’s got to be done, lest a worse -thing befall.” - -Grey Ruby was second now. - -A chestnut was leading, and the bay was falling back. - -The chestnut was leading by a neck and holding his own. - -“Buck up, Pat,” said Simon shakily. “We’re both—both in this. I -mean—one second. . . .” - -A confusion of shouting arose. - -The whips were out now, and it was either’s race. - -The chestnut, if anything, was slightly ahead. - -The shouting swelled into a roar. - -“My God,” said Patricia quietly. And then again, “My God.” She drew in -her breath. “I turn to you in my trouble—my hideous, ghastly mess. Not -for help, because you can’t give it. I just call to you out of -hell—call for a drop of water to wet my lips. And you—_you_ can’t give -it me . . . because you’re rather busy . . . _watching a race_.” She -laughed wildly. Simon put down his glasses. “And the letter that’s doing -me in—— Never mind. What’s won?” - -“Grey Ruby,” said Simon shortly, marking his card. “And don’t you worry, -lady. You’re out of the wood.” - -Patricia stared. - -“Out of the wood?” she repeated. - -Simon smiled back. - -“Clean,” he said. “Bless your pretty bright eyes. Going to the -Wakefields’ dance on Tuesday night?” - -“I was.” - -“Well, go. I give you my word that there and then you shall have your -letter back.” He opened the door of the box. “And now let’s find the -Club tent and try some tea.” - - * * * * * - -At a quarter to twelve on the following Tuesday morning Simon was -ushered into a private room. - -This was an office, smart and well furnished, with ground-glass panes in -the windows and three oak doors massively built. - -A peculiarity of the doors was that they had no handles. - -A large, bland, smooth-faced gentleman, wearing blue glasses and sitting -behind a table, rose to his feet. - -“Sit down, Mr. Beaulieu.” - -“I prefer,” said Simon, “to stand.” - -The other inclined his head and resumed his seat. - -“As you please. You have your credentials?” - -“There they are.” The Master’s letter passed. “I have the money also.” - -“But naturally,” said the smooth-faced gentleman. He took an envelope -from a drawer and smiled affectionately upon it. “This is Miss Bohun’s -letter. I like her handwriting. It reminds me of my dear mother’s.” - -“Indeed,” said Simon. “May I see it—as a matter of form?” - -The other tossed it across. - -“Pray observe that I trust you,” he said. - -“Why not?” said Simon Beaulieu. - -He took out the letter, glanced at beginning and end, put it back in its -envelope and slid this into a pocket. Then he took out ten packets of -notes and laid them upon the table. - -“Count them, please,” he said. - -The smooth-faced gentleman smiled. - -“I always do,” he said, “as a matter of form.” - -Each packet contained ten notes—for one hundred pounds apiece. - -That this was so The Master proceeded to verify, taking his own time. - -Simon stood like a statue. - -At length the other looked up. - -“Quite right,” he said comfortably. He pointed to a pile of envelopes. -“There are the twenty-two copies. Will you take them also? Or shall I -burn them now?” - -“Burn them, please.” - -The Master stepped to the fireplace, set the envelopes in the grate, and -lighted a gas jet which was fixed beneath the bars. - -The papers began to flame almost at once. - -In silence the two men stood, watching them burn. - -Presently The Master turned and, picking up his own letter, added that -to the pyre. - -“A distressing incident,” he said, “now happily closed. This little room -has seen the dissipation of so many tragedies.” - -“You don’t say so?” said Simon dryly. “It’s almost a shrine, isn’t it?” - -The other laughed. - -“At least,” he said, “its suppliants are very generous.” - -“You choose them for their generosity?” - -The rogue spread out his hands and put his head on one side. - -“That,” he said, with the air of a past-master, “that is the secret of -blackmail.” - -“Then if I were you,” said Simon, “I should chuck in your hand.” The -other stiffened. “If Grey Ruby hadn’t won the Stewards’ Cup, I imagine -you would have died about five minutes ago.” - -The other stooped to rake the ashes to dust. - -“Perhaps,” he said. “But what a magnificent race! Neck and neck for a -furlong, and won by a head. I lost a bit on Sweden, but I must confess I -enjoy——” - -Simon lunged. - -“Take my advice,” he said, “and chuck in your hand. You’ve got your -money by a fluke—the purest fluke.” - -The Master straightened his back, poker in hand. - -Two spots of colour burned in the great smooth face. - -“I never fluke,” he said majestically. - -Simon smiled back. Then he raised his eyebrows and turned to the door. - -“I say I never fluke. _Take—back—those—notes._” - -Simon turned, still smiling, to look the speaker in the eyes. - -“I wouldn’t touch them,” he said, “with the end of a ten-foot pole.” - -The Master recoiled. Then he seemed to shrink into himself. - -The two red spots spread into deep blotches, and a hand went up to cover -the quivering mouth. - -For a moment he stood motionless. Then, with a visible effort, he -touched the arm of his chair. - -A bell throbbed. - -Almost at once the door opened, and Simon passed out. - - * * * * * - -Patricia fingered her letter as though it were unreal. - -At length— - -“I—I can’t say much,” she said shakily. “And I can’t attempt to thank.” - -“You know that I want no thanks,” said Simon Beaulieu. - -“But I’d like to beg your pardon for what I said at Goodwood. I might -have known, Simon . . . I—I’ve no excuse.” - -“I think you had every excuse,” said Simon Beaulieu. “I should have been -most bitter. If I’d just shown you my death-warrant out of the blue, and -you—you’d said, ‘One moment . . . I jus’ want to see a man about a -dog,’ I should have gone off the deep end.” - -Patricia stared at the letter. - -“I’m dazed,” she said. “Dazed. I owe you more than my life, yet—I can’t -thank you, Simon. It—it won’t go into words. . . . I’ll pray for you -every night: but, then, that’s nothing. I’ve done that for months. The -queer thing is I feel more proud than grateful—proud of . . . my -man. . . .” - -There was a long silence. - -Then— - -“Thank you, Pat,” said Simon tenderly. He rose to his feet. “And now -let’s go an’ have a dance.” - -The girl rose and led the way to the door. - -Arrived there, she closed it carefully and swung about. - -“Simon!” Her hands were upon his shoulders, and her face three inches -away. “Simon, you terrify me! What have you done? From the moment you -left me at Goodwood, I’ve been frightened to death. When first I saw you -that day, there was something wrong. Then you behaved so strangely—as -if you didn’t care. Suddenly you promised me the letter, as one promises -sweets to a child. And now—here it is. . . . Simon, for God’s sake tell -me! What have you done?” - -Simon patted her arm. - -“Done?” he said, smiling. “Nothing.” - -“But why—how. . . . How did you get my letter?” - -“To tell you the truth, I bought it.” - -“_Bought it?_” - -“Bought it. I happened to have ten thousand and I bought it with that.” - -Patricia tried to speak, but no words would come. - -She began to tremble. - -The man put an arm about her and guided her to a chair. - -“Listen, dear,” he said, and told her his tale. - -When he had finished— - -“Why,” said Patricia slowly, “why did you put so much on? Four hundred -on an outsider’s the bet of a desperate man.” - -“Oh, I don’t know,” said Simon, regarding his feet. “I suppose one goes -mad now and then. Wonderful shoes Stoop makes. D’you know he made me -these before the War?” - -“Why did you put so much on?” - -The man made fast a shoe-lace before replying. - -Then he looked up. - -“Pat,” he said quietly, “I’m not going to tell you why.” - -“You needn’t,” said Patricia. “I know.” - -She took the letter from her dress and put it into his hand. - -“Read that,” she said. “And see how minds think alike.” - - _July 27th._ - _MY DARLING_, - - _I’m writing this letter because if I don’t, I shall go mad. My - gorgeous engagement ring glares at me: the pearls George has - given me sprawl, pale and indignant, by my side. I’ve taken them - off. I don’t want his pearls about me; I want your arms._ - - _Simon, that last night here we buried our love alive—our - glorious, blessed passion, we buried alive. I must have been - mad. I suppose I thought it’d die—if I thought at all. I was - nearly out of my mind that awful night. I did faint once—in - your arms, but you never knew it. . . . “Die?” It’ll never die. - Think what that means. A living thing immured, that can never - die. That can starve, but never to death. . . ._ - - _I want to unearth it, Simon. I must. I must have it back to - dandle and cherish and clasp—to warm my soul and body—bring - the blood back into my heart. I must . . . I must. . . . But I - can’t dig it up without you. We buried it together, and, if it’s - to be unearthed, it’s plain I can’t do it alone._ - - _Oh, Simon, my king, have mercy. For once in your life be weak. - Go back on your word—for once. I’ve spoiled our flower by - writing. Well, spoil it, too. We’ll plant another, my blessed, - that we shan’t have to pick. . . . Just breathe the word, and - I’ll break my engagement off. And we can marry, my darling, and - live or starve or die in each other’s arms. I don’t care how I - live or whether I live at all, if I can be with you . . . - you. . . ._ - - _Well, there you are. If ever a girl was at a man’s mercy, - Simon, I’m at yours. If you’re going to steel your heart—well, - I’ll go on. I must, I suppose. There’s nothing else for me to - do. Besides, I don’t care. George Persimmon or a tramp I’ve - never seen—what does it matter? It’s you—or anything, Simon. - Because anything else is nothing. D’you understand?_ - - _We could live on three hundred a year. And if we couldn’t we - could die. I’ve thought of it all. Squalor, dirt, rags—they - wouldn’t count, Simon, beside the light in your eyes._ - - _I know I’ve broken my word. I know, I know. But if you don’t - break yours, you’ll break my heart._ - - _Oh, Simon, I love you so._ - - _PATRICIA._ - -Simon dropped the letter and covered his face. - -Patricia watched him with the tenderest smile. She was quite calm now. -She was out of the wood—in the sunlight. And Simon was close behind. In -his own outrageous way, Fate had played into their hands. - -Suddenly Simon turned. - -“Oh, Pat—my lady . . . could you bear it?” - -His voice was shaking: his eyes, the eyes of a man looking into the -promised land. - -“I couldn’t bear anything else,” said Patricia Bohun. - -“No cars, no servants, no clothes——” - -“No cares,” said Patricia tremulously. “I’m getting all excited. -Besides, I’ve had my whack. And——” - -“But, Pat, think. We’ll be beggars. With that ten thousand behind us we -might have put up a show, but——” - -“You only wanted it, dear, to spend upon me. And now—you’ve had your -wish. Besides, I don’t care a damn. I want to be poor. . . . But, Simon -dear, how like you to turn that money down! When he offered to give it -back. Only a giant could have done a thing like that. But, then, you are -a giant.” - -“My dear,” said Simon, “I’m the weakest——” - -“You’re not weak at all,” said Patricia. “Neither am I. We’ve played a -splendid game. _It happened to be the wrong one_, but we were so mad to -play it that we never saw that. . . . We’re a couple of shorn lambs, -Simon—and that’s the truth. We sheared each other that dreadful night -at Breathless—and went out into the cold. I was a fool, and you who -knew better—you wouldn’t open my eyes. And then the wind blew—a wind -like a knife. . . . That was to cure us of our folly. And now the good -God has tempered the wind. . . .” - -“That’s right,” said Simon slowly. “You’ve driven the nail, Pat. We put -up a show all right, but we were trying to play an impossible game. It -was when I realized that that I decided to put the money on. I didn’t -know how you felt, but I wanted to have it ready—in case you moved.” - -“In case I moved?” said Patricia, knitting her brows. Suddenly she sat -up. “D’you mean you’d ’ve waited on me?” - -“Of course,” said Simon. “Even with the money behind me, I couldn’t ’ve -given tongue. I love you better, Pat, than heaven and earth, and I -wouldn’t give you up now for fifty rolling worlds—but if you hadn’t -spoken I couldn’t have opened my mouth. But then you did speak, lady. -You wrote me the sweetest letter that ever—— What is it, Pat?” - -Patricia put a hand to her head. - -“This,” she said faintly. “If that letter hadn’t been stolen, it -wouldn’t ’ve gone.” - -“_Pat!_” - -The girl nodded. - -“I hadn’t the heart to destroy it: but I’d locked it away and thrown the -key into the garden, because—I was so anxious . . . to play the game.” - - * * * * * - -Six months had gone by, and Simon Beaulieu had earned three hundred -pounds. - -The little flat at Chartres was becoming a luxurious apartment. Now that -the tiles were down, the tiny bathroom alone was a flashing chapel of -ease. . . . - -Sitting at work at his table, Simon looked out of the window with a -thankful heart. - -“I’m one franc out,” murmured Mrs. Beaulieu. Pencil to lip, she regarded -the cornice thoughtfully. “Now what did I spend that on?” - -Her husband surveyed her profile with some emotion. He may be forgiven. -Its beauty was really startling. - -At length— - -“Cream?” he suggested. - -“No. I’ve got that down. Oh, I know. There was a poor woman at the -butter-stall with the cutest little boy. She was getting the cheapest -butter, and when they told her eggs were seven francs—they’ve gone up, -you know—she wouldn’t have any. And there was I, getting the best -butter and a pot of honey and some cream. It seemed so awful. . . . And -the little boy was watching me with great, big eyes. So I asked him if -he liked honey. . . . D’you know, wrapped up in paper he’d got a little -empty jar? And his mother said that he always took it when he went to -the market with her, and that if ever she had a little money over, then -they spent it on honey, and his little jar was filled. She said he was -wonderful—never complained. For weeks he’d brought his jar back empty, -but he’d never cried or asked for anything. And he was only four. . . . -You ought to have seen his face while it was being filled.” - -“I’d rather ’ve seen yours,” said Simon Beaulieu. His wife blew him a -kiss. “By the way, I’ve always meant to ask you and I’ve always -forgotten till now. That night at Breathless, as we were going in, you -said I was unlike my namesake because he would have plunged.” - -“I remember,” said Patricia. - -“And then you qualified that, and said that in a way we were alike.” - -“Yes.” - -“I’ve always meant to ask you—what did you mean?” - -Patricia crossed to her husband and set her cheek against his. - -“I meant that you had the keys of heaven,” she said. “And I was -perfectly right.” - - - - - TOBY - - - TOBY - -“You know,” said Cicely Voile, “you’re a great relief.” - -Her companion opened one eye. - -“Why?” - -“Because you don’t make love.” - -Captain Toby Rage folded his hands upon his stomach and regarded the -blue heaven. This the April sun had to himself and, making the most of -his monarchy, set the whole firmament ablaze. - -A mile away the Atlantic simmered contentedly—a rolling, laughing -steppe of blue and silver; the lazy murmur of its surf gladdened the -ear. To the left the mountain-sides smoked in the heat, the comfortable -haze blurring their grandeur to beauty. To the right the coast of France -danced all the way to Biarritz, her gay green frock flecked with the -dazzling white of villas, edged by the yellow road that sweeps to Spain. -Behind, the countryside, a very Canaan, basked in the earnest of summer, -peaceful and big with promise of abundance to come. - -From the moor where the two were sitting all these things could be -enjoyed. It was, indeed, a superb withdrawing-room, for, while an -occasional snarl told of a car flying on the broad highway, no one -essayed the by-road which led to the yellow broom. - -“The art of life,” said Toby, “is to be fancy-free.” - -Cicely Voile clapped her sweet-smelling hands. - -“We’re going to get on—you and I,” she cried excitedly. “I can see -that.” - -“Why?”—suspiciously. - -“Because our outlook’s the same. Think of the friendships that have been -wrecked by love.” - -Captain Rage groaned. - -“Don’t,” he said. “It’s too awful. But I’m thankful you see my point. -Conceive some cheerful little playground—Honolulu, for -instance—peopled by an equal number of youths and maidens, all -reasonably attractive and all proof against affection.” - -“I can’t,” said Cicely Voile. “It’s too—too dazzling. Never mind. Go -on.” - -“Well, what a time they’d all have. No jealousies, no heart-burnings, no -schemings, no inconvenience. . . .” - -“I can see,” said Cicely, “that you have been through the hoop.” - -“Haven’t you?” - -“Yes.” - -“Well, isn’t it a curse?” said Rage heartily. “When I look back and -think of what I suffered, I go all goose-flesh. Turning out when I -wanted to stay at home, staying up when I wanted to go to bed, going to -plays I didn’t want to see, sloshing money about, writin’ letters, -travellin’. . . . I tell you, Love’s a mug’s game. It’s—it’s buying -trouble at a top price. That’s the wicked part. If you must buy trouble, -you may as well get it cheap. But Love’s a disease. One becomes -temporarily insane. I’d a very nice Rolls then, and I actually let her -drive it.” He sighed memorially. “It was never the same car again.” - -“That,” said Cicely, “was probably imagination. Still, I know what you -mean. The misery I went through, trying to be in time! Alfred couldn’t -bear being late.” - -“Exactly,” said Rage. “Yet I’ll bet he used to wait by the hour, poor -devil. I know. I’ve had some. I tell you, Love’s a disease.” - -He sighed comfortably, settling his head upon its pillow of broom. - -Cicely regarded him, speechless with indignation. - -At length— - -“I was endeavouring to point out,” she said coldly, “that I was the -sufferer. Being fool enough to worship Alfred, I used to wear myself -out—humouring his whim.” She paused dramatically. “Then, again, I used -to leave parties early. He used to say one should be asleep by two. Time -and again I’ve left a dance in the middle so that Alfred could go to -bed.” - -“I think,” murmured Captain Rage, “that I should have liked Alfred.” - -“I quite expect,” flashed Cicely, “that I should have got on with—what -was her name?” - -“Rachel,” said Toby. “And I’m quite sure you would. In fact, I think -you’d probably ’ve been fast friends. The silly part of it is that so -might she and I. I did get on with her—extremely well, until I fell to -Love.” He sat up there and set his hands on his knees. “Still, I’m not -ungrateful. One attack like that does you a lot of good. But for the -doing I’ve had, you’d almost certainly ’ve knocked me out.” - -“Do look out,” cried Cicely. - -“It’s all right,” said Rage. “Don’t you worry. I’m not within miles of -making love. But I’ve watched you for months, I have; and there’s -something very charming about you. Besides, you’re quite beautiful.” - -“As beautiful as Rachel?” - -“Oh, much more. Look at your throat, for instance. Oh, you can’t, can -you? Never mind. What——” - -“Oh, but I do mind,” said Cicely, wriggling. “This is a perfect -experience. For anyone to tell me I’m beautiful, except as a prelude to -familiarity, is something I’ve never known.” - -“Surely, Alfred——” - -“Oh, I always had to kiss him, or something. Not that I minded -particularly. I rather liked kissing Alfred. But a compliment without -any sort or kind of corollary is really delicious.” She whipped off her -hat and put her chin in the air. “Don’t you love me like that?” - -“Oh, gorgeous!” said Toby. “Now, Rachel’s stockings weren’t silk all the -way.” - -Hastily Miss Voile adjusted her frock. - -“I was referring,” she said stiffly, “to my profile.” - -“Equally lovely,” said Rage. Cicely choked. “I think I like your mouth -best of all. I can quite understand people wanting to kiss you, you -know. That short upper lip brings it, as it were, into the alert -position. It sort of says, ‘Kiss me, you fool. Go on. I shan’t bite -you.’” - -“I shall in a minute,” said Cicely, bubbling. “How about my nose?” - -“Oh, that’s well out of the way.” - -“I suppose you mean it turns up.” - -“The best ones do,” said Toby. “Besides, you needn’t worry. From temples -to chin, you’ve got a face in a million. And then you are so sweet.” - -“Now, do be careful,” said Cicely. “Don’t spoil it.” - -Rage waved her away. - -“Try to remember, my lady, that I do not care. I see that you’re awfully -attractive, but you don’t attract me. No woman does. I tell you, I’m -case-hardened.” - -“I will try,” said Cicely humbly. “But you must forgive me if I forget -now and then. Of course I’m the same myself. Men mean no more to me than -so many blocks of wood. I certainly find them convenient. I tell you -frankly, I find you very convenient. But that’s as far as it goes.” - -“Well, isn’t that nice?” said Toby. “Isn’t it an agreeable reflection -that you and I can consort together, take pleasure in each other’s -company, and remain heart-whole? I’m not much to look at, so——” - -“I think,” said Cicely Voile, “you’re very good-looking.” - -“I’m not really,” said Rage, “but I suppose you feel it’s up to you to -say something. Any way, we’ll pretend you think so. I’m good-looking, -and you—well, you’re just exquisite. I can admire you and say -so—‘without prejudice.’ You can glory in my homely features—dote, for -instance, upon my ears and tell me how much they move you—without being -misunderstood. Think of the things we can discuss, the interests we can -share, the easy intimacy we can enjoy—all ‘without prejudice.’ Look at -the terms we can use.” - -“Terms?” - -“Terms. Why shouldn’t I call you ‘darling’? I like the word, and it -suits you uncommonly well. Coming from me, it’s not an expression of -love.” - -“I think you’d better begin with ‘Cicely.’” - -“I don’t care what you think,” said Captain Rage. “That’s the beauty of -it. If you were to say you’d never speak to me again, I shouldn’t care a -curse. Still, I’ll temper the wind—Cicely. Besides, it’s a sweet, -pretty name. Suits you down to the ground.” - -Miss Voile put a hand to her head. - -“It’s terribly difficult to get hold of,” she said. “You’re quite sure I -don’t attract you?” - -“Absolutely,” said Rage. “If you were to go up in smoke—now, I -shouldn’t turn a hair. I like you as I like a work of art. If you were -damaged or removed, I should deplore your removal: but I shouldn’t come -unbuttoned about it. But, surely, if you feel the same, you can -appreciate——” - -“I do,” said Miss Voile quickly. “But then I’m a girl. Men don’t attract -women: they sort of bear them down.” - -“Ugh, the brutes!” said Rage. - -“But women are always supposed to attract a man. Of course I know you’re -impervious, but when you speak and look so—so naturally, it’s almost -impossible to believe that there’s nothing doing.” - -“You’ll soon get used to that,” said her companion. “When you’ve called -me ‘Toby darling’ a few dozen times without a sign of a rise——” - -“D’you think you could stand it, Toby? I mean, Alfred used to say my -voice——” - -“My sweet,” said Toby, “I could listen to your voice all day . . . -listen. . . . It has quality.” - -With that he lay back on the turf and closed his eyes. - -Cicely set her teeth. - -Then— - -“Toby dear,” she purred, “I left my coat in the car.” - -“That’s right,” said her squire. “I saw you. Hangin’ over the door.” - -“If I had it, Toby, I could make it into a pillow and go to sleep—too.” - -“So you could,” said Toby. - -There was a silence. - -“But—but it’s in the car, Toby dear.” - -“I know,” murmured Rage. “Hangin’ over the door.” He sighed. “If you do -go and get it, you might bring me back my pouch. But don’t go on -purpose.” - -There was another silence. - -“Are you sure,” ventured Miss Voile, “that you aren’t confusing ordinary -politeness with love?” - -“Positive,” said Toby. “You’re proving me, you are. Shove your little -face down on the broom, sweetheart, and I’ll tell you a fairy-tale.” - -A silence, succeeded by a rustling, suggested that Cicely had -capitulated. - -“Go on,” she said presently. - -“There was once,” said Toby, “a King: and he had a daughter who was as -lovely as the dawn. That’s why they called her Sunset. She attracted -like anything—especially the Master of the Horse. Well, one day, just -as the King was about to sack the Master of the Horse for being -attracted, a voice said, ‘You’d better not.’ - -“‘Who’s that?’ said the King, looking all round the room. - -“‘I rather think,’ said the Master of the Horse, ‘that it’s my uncle. He -said that if ever I was in trouble I was to rub this ring, and I’ve just -rubbed it.’ - -“‘Oh, did he?’ said the King. ‘I mean, have you? Then it was a piece of -great presumption. And now push off.’ - -“‘Very good, sir,’ said the Master of the Horse. ‘Good-bye.’ - -“‘Good-bye,’ said the King. - -“‘Good luck,’ said the voice. - -“‘You shut your face,’ said the King. ‘What’s all that shouting about?’ - -“Nobody answered him this time, but he had not long to wait. In fact, -the door had hardly closed behind the Master of the Horse when it was -burst open by the Lord Chamberlain. - -“‘Sunset’s gone into a trance,’ he announced. ‘You know. A sort of -swoon, only worse.’ - -“‘Curse these enchanters,’ said the King, catching up his crown. ‘Where -is she?’ - -“‘In the forecourt,’ said the Lord Chamberlain. ‘She was playing with -the State bloodhound when all of a sudden she collapsed. She’s still got -the dog by the ear.’ - -“This was true. What was more to the point was that the physicians -advised that, since she was under a spell, any attempt to interfere with -her grip would probably prove fatal. - -“The position was really extremely awkward. - -“With incredible difficulty Sunset was got to bed, while the dog, who -was becoming every moment more suspicious and impatient of his -detention, was persuaded to lie upon a divan by her side. - -“Then a council was held. - -“Violence to the bloodhound seemed futile, and mutilation as bad. If -Sunset was destined for an indefinite period to grasp a piece of flesh, -it seemed best that it should be alive. The dog, however, would require -exercise—an obviously delicate business, since the sleeping princess -must accompany it upon its rambles. - -“‘The dog,’ said the King, ‘must be duly tended and controlled. Who’s to -do it?’ - -“‘Nothing doing,’ said the Lord Chamberlain. ‘I’d rather resign. The -brute jolly near had me when we were going upstairs.’ - -“‘He never did like me,’ said the Comptroller hurriedly. ‘Always growls -when I pass.’ - -“‘That’s nothing to go by,’ said the King. ‘Heaps of dogs——’ - -“‘It’s good enough for me,’ said the Comptroller shortly. - -“‘The truth is,’ said the Treasurer, ‘that he’s not a nice dog. There’s -only one man who ever has got on with him, and that’s the Master of the -Horse.’ - -“‘But I’ve just fired him,’ said the King. ‘Besides, he’s got off with -Sunset. That’s what I fired him for.’ - -“Here the door was opened, and a servant put in his head. - -“‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said, ‘but I think the dog wants to go out.’ - -“By the time the King, with his daughter in his arms, had been twice -round the forecourt, over the drawbridge, down a steep bank into a -ploughed field through a brook, in and out of an orchard, over two walls -and along an evil-smelling drain, his mind was made up. - -“As the Court arrived— - -“‘Issue two orders,’ he said faintly. ‘First, all cats are to be -collected and kept under lock and key until further notice. Penalty for -disobedience, Death.’ He nodded at the bloodhound, who was eating -heartily. ‘God knows where I should be, but for that sheep’s head.’ He -paused to mop his face. ‘Secondly, the Master of the Horse is to be -found forthwith.’ - -“Half an hour later the two men once more faced each other. The Master -of the Horse had Sunset in his arms, with the dog stretched at his feet. -The King had his cheque-book in his hand. - -“‘Supposing,’ said the King, ‘supposing you rubbed that ring.’ - -“‘Why?’ said the Master of the Horse, glancing at the beautiful face -upon his shoulder. ‘I’m not in any trouble.’ - -“The King fingered his beard. - -“‘You can’t go on like this,’ he observed. ‘It’s—it’s unheard of.’ - -“‘It is at present,’ was the reply. ‘But it’ll soon get about. You know -what Scandal is.’ - -“The King rose to his feet and took a short turn. - -“When he felt better— - -“‘What,’ he said, ‘do you suggest?’ - -“‘A priest,’ said the Master of the Horse. ‘Oh, and witnesses.’ - -“After several more turns the King sent for a priest. - -“‘After all,’ he said to himself, ‘she can’t respond; so I can always -get it annulled. And what price “undue influence”?’ - -“At the critical moment, however, Sunset responded heartily. Then she -released the bloodhound and blew her father a kiss. - -“‘I’d no idea,’ she said, ‘you could go so well. The way you flew those -walls! But I do wish you’d have that drain cleaned out. I don’t think -it’s healthy.’ - -“The King was nothing if not a man of action. - -“He seized his son-in-law by the ear and fell into a trance. - -“This was a real one, and lasted for several days. So the King got a bit -of his own back. - -“The first thing he did upon recovery was to make the practice of -ventriloquism a capital crime.” - -There was a long silence. - -At length— - -“Don’t say you’re asleep?” said Toby. - -Cicely started guiltily. - -“Certainly not,” she said. “Go on. Sunset went into a trance. I suppose -the uncle did that. What then?” - -“Oh, the vixen!” said Rage. “Just ’cause I wouldn’t get her coat. Never -mind. ‘Full many a tale is told to float unheard, And waste its neatness -on the _distrait_ ear.’ Besides, it’s the effort that counts.” He -sighed. Then, “D’you often laugh in your sleep, Cicely?” - -So soon as she could speak— - -“I’m not surprised,” said Miss Voile in a shaking voice, “that Rachel -turned you down.” - -“But she didn’t,” said Rage comfortably. “It was I who, er, withdrew. -What shall we do to-morrow?” - -Cicely rose to her feet and smoothed down her dress. - -“Why,” she said, “should we do anything?” - -“Because we get on so well. You don’t want to be loved, because men mean -nothing to you. Well, I should think I’m one of the few men living who -could withstand successfully your physical and mental charms. Besides, -you find me convenient—very convenient. On the other hand, while I’ve -not the slightest desire to bear down any woman, most of the women I -know seem to expect to be overwhelmed. Of course I except my Aunt Ira. -She’s in a class of her own.” - -“Is she so strong?” said Cicely. - -“It’s not exactly strength. It’s sheer weight. She’s rather like lava. -Her personality submerges—flattens. After half an hour of her I’m all -over at the knees. Add to this that she’s a bigoted mid-Victorian, has -made a will in my favour and is enormously rich, when you’ll see that -our relations are delicate indeed. She’s very hot on what she calls -‘round’ dances and the decay of chaperonage.” - -“She would like Biarritz, wouldn’t she?” said Miss Voile. - -Her companion shuddered. - -“The bare idea,” he said, “is bad for my heart. What were we saying? Oh, -I know. I was indicating the convenience of our future conjunction.” - -“Perhaps you’re right,” said Cicely slowly. “Let’s get up early and go -up into the mountains.” - -“What exactly,” said Rage, “do you mean by ‘early’? By the time I’m able -to differentiate between the bell and light switches which dangle over -my bed, and so obtain breakfast, it’s usually about eight.” - -“Let’s leave at five, Toby.” - -“Five!” screamed Toby. “Why, that’s B.C.—Before Cock-crow. You oughtn’t -to talk about such hours.” - -“All right,” said Cicely. “I’ll get someone else to take me. I wonder if -Teddy Bligh would.” - -“Firkin’s the man,” said Rage. “He’s mug enough for anything. You ask -Firkin.” - -A dreamy look stole into Cicely’s eyes. - -“The trouble is,” she said, “that either of them’ll make love.” - -“Well, it would be asking for trouble, wouldn’t it, Cicely dear? Up at -dawn, and then hey! for the mountains in the half-light and a -two-seater. What?” - -“Don’t you think,” said Miss Voile, “that, as I want to so much, it’d be -a friendly act if you were to step into the breach?” - -“I think it’d be more than friendly,” said Rage. “Almost—almost -familiar.” - -“Once you’re up,” said Cicely, “you feel most awfully fit.” - -“So I’ve heard,” said Toby. “It’s a compelling phrase that, isn’t it? -‘Once you’re up.’” - -Miss Voile began to laugh. - -“I give in,” she said. “Fix your own time, Toby, and I’ll be there.” - -Captain Rage pulled his moustache. - -“My dear good child,” he said, “I don’t want to spoil your day. If it’ll -really amuse you to leave at five——” - -“Oh, I should love it, Toby. I’ve always wanted to drive up into the -dawn. You see, with summer time it’ll be four really.” - -“Yes, I—I’d thought of that,” said Toby. - -“And we’ll have the roads to ourselves, and you can let her out -and—and—oh, it’ll be glorious.” - -“So be it,” said Toby Rage. “Five B.C. to-morrow as ever is.” - -“Oh, you darling!” cried Cicely. - -“And listen,” continued Toby. “Quarter ’f an hour I’ll give you for the -sake of your pretty face. But at five-fifteen sharp I shall return to -bed.” - -Cicely blew him a kiss. - -“Ugh,” said Toby. - - * * * * * - -The blue landaulette rolled over the saddle of Sévignac and began to -descend slowly into the valley of Laruns. - -“Pull the check-string,” said Mrs. Medallion. “I wish to admire the -view.” - -Her companion put out her head and called on the driver to stop. - -As she resumed her seat— - -“I wish,” said Mrs. Medallion, “you’d do as you’re told. I ordered a -cord on his arm, and there it is. Why avoid a convenience?” - -“To tell you the truth,” said Miss Woolly, “I was afraid he mightn’t -understand.” - -“In that case,” said Mrs. Medallion, “we could have enlightened him.” - -Head in air, she turned to survey the prospect. - -“Isn’t it enchanting?” said Miss Woolly, gazing over her shoulder. - -“No,” said Mrs. Medallion. “It isn’t. And I wish you wouldn’t -exaggerate. My father detested exaggeration. He said it was subversive -of conversational dignity.” - -“Well, it’s very restful, any way. Look at those sheep.” - -“I refuse,” said Mrs. Medallion. “We’ve passed four flocks on the road -since we left Pau, and I’m sick and tired of sheep. What is abundantly -clear is that France is a very rich land. Why doesn’t she pay her -debts?” - -“I can’t imagine,” said Miss Woolly. - -“I’ll tell you,” said Mrs. Medallion. “Because she and her creditors are -friends. You can’t combine friendship with business. It’s an inviolable -rule. Pull the check-string.” - -The landaulette proceeded silently and at a sober pace. - -Presently the road became a curling shelf, with, on the left, first, a -miniature wall, and then a ten-foot drop into gay meadows. On the right, -a rough and tumble of rock, with rags and tatters of greensward -interspersed, climbed to the mountains. Except for an open car, drawn up -by the miniature wall, and an approaching waggon, the road was empty. - -As luck would have it, the waggon was about to pass the car when the -landaulette arrived. There not being room for three vehicles abreast, -the landaulette had to wait. This she did quietly enough six paces away. - -The waggon went rumbling. . . . - -Then the bullocks saw Mrs. Medallion’s blue parasol and sought to leave -the road. Their frantic owner strove to correct them with blows and -howls. . . . - -Pipe in mouth, the fair-haired man who had been tightening a bolt -beneath the grey car’s wing watched the scene with a smile. . . . - -Mrs. Medallion put up her lorgnettes. - -“Desire that man to come here,” she said. “He’s my nephew.” - -Miss Woolly descended and went up to Captain Rage. - -“Please will you come,” she said, “and speak to Mrs. Medallion?” - -Toby started violently, dropped his spanner and snatched his pipe from -his mouth. - -Then, with a sickly smile, he took off his hat. . . . - -As the waggon swayed by— - -“How d’ye do?” said Mrs. Medallion, extending her hand. “Don’t you feel -well?” - -“P-p-perfectly, thank you, Aunt Ira,” stammered the unfortunate Toby, -touching her glove. “D’you feel all right? I mean . . . I—I do hope -you’re well,” he added piously. - -After a long look— - -“My health,” said Mrs. Medallion, “leaves little to be desired.” She -turned to her companion about to re-enter the car. “Miss Woolly, this is -my nephew, Captain Rage. Captain Rage—Miss Woolly.” The two bowed. “Why -are you here, Toby?” - -“Well, I’m—I’m really at Biarritz,” stammered Rage. “You know, -taking—taking a sort of holiday there.” - -“Well, I’m really at Pau,” said his aunt, staring. “Taking a sort of -rest. I don’t know what from, but the doctors advised the change. What’s -your trouble? Nerves?” - -“Good Heavens, no, Aunt Ira.” He laughed uneasily. “I’m perfectly well. -But I was so—so dumbfounded. You know. Er, er, astonished.” - -“‘Dumbfounded’ will do,” said his aunt. “I’m quite familiar with the -word.” - -“Of course,” said Toby. “What I mean is I never dreamed——” - -“Why should you?” said his aunt. “Neither did I. But I don’t stammer -about it. Tell me about Biarritz.” - -“Oh, it’s not much of a place,” said Toby cautiously. “And it’s awfully -full. I spend most of my time getting away from it. I like the peace -of——” - -“Are there public dances there?” - -Captain Rage appeared to consider. - -“I believe they do dance at the Casino,” he said. “Yes, I’m almost sure -they do.” - -“Are you, indeed?” said his aunt. “It’s wonderful how these things get -about, isn’t it?” Toby blenched. “Where is the English Church?” - -Painfully conscious that his reply would almost certainly be compared -with that of Baedeker, Captain Rage swallowed. - -“Well,” he said, “when you get out of the hotel, instead of going down -to the sea——” - -“_Toby darling._” - -The clear voice floated musically over the miniature wall. - -The worst had happened. - -Cicely had awaked. - -After one frightful moment, Captain Rage plunged on desperately. - -“In—instead of going down to the sea, you—you turn——” - -“Somebody,” said Mrs. Medallion in a freezing tone, “_somebody_ appears -to desire your attention. Didn’t you hear them call?” - -Her nephew put his head on one side and appeared to listen. - -“Did they?” he said. - -Grimly his aunt surveyed him. - -“You must be deaf,” she said. “Never mind. If you don’t answer, I dare -say they’ll call again.” - -She was perfectly right. - -Almost immediately— - -“_Toby darling_,” cried Miss Voile, “_have you got a cigarette?_” - -There was an awful silence. - -Miss Woolly, who had a keen sense of humour, set her white teeth and -fought to suppress her mirth. Head up, Mrs. Medallion stared in the -direction from which the voice had come, as one who has detected an -unlawful and offensive smell. Fingers to mouth, Captain Rage was -glancing over his shoulder with the nervous apprehension of the escaped -felon who has heard his pursuers decide to bomb his lair. - -Two sweet, pretty hands appeared upon the miniature wall. - -The next moment, looking extraordinarily lovely, a flushed and hatless -Cicely pulled herself abreast of the parapet. - -Toby stepped forward, put his hands under her arms and lifted the lithe -figure on to the road. - -Then he turned to his aunt. - -“This is Miss Voile, Aunt Ira—Miss Cicely Voile. Cicely, this is my -aunt, Mrs. Medallion.” - -Cicely stepped to the car and put out her hand. - -“How d’ye do?” she said with a charming smile. - -In stony silence Mrs. Medallion touched the slight fingers. - -“Are you engaged to my nephew?” - -“Of course I am,” said Cicely. “That’s why we’re alone. We got engaged -last night, so we’re spending to-day in the mountains to recuperate. -D’you think he’ll make me happy?” - -The ghost of a smile stole into Mrs. Medallion’s face. - -“That depends on his wife,” she said. “Why didn’t he tell me?” - -“We haven’t told anyone yet,” said Cicely Voile. “And I expect he’s shy. -Men are funny like that, you know. They seem to regard their engagement -as a confession of weakness.” - -“It frequently is,” said Mrs. Medallion. She turned to her nephew. -“Toby, you’re a fool. Why shouldn’t you be engaged?” - -Captain Rage grinned sheepishly. - -“No reason at all,” he said. “Only—only it was all rather sudden, you -know. The—the words wouldn’t come.” - -“Yes, I noticed that,” said his aunt. “They still seem rather -reluctant.” - -“What did I say?” said Cicely, sliding an arm through Toby’s and -addressing his aunt. “You see? He’s ashamed of himself. He feels his -position. They can’t help it. Where are you staying, Mrs. Medallion?” - -“At Pau. Should I like Biarritz?” - -“I should come for the day. It’s not very far. I think Pau’s quieter, -you know.” - -Mrs. Medallion regarded her. - -“I heard you ask,” she said, “for a cigarette.” - -“I didn’t know you were here,” said Cicely Voile. “I shouldn’t smoke -before you, because I’m younger than you and so it’s up to me not to -give you offence. I’ve got an aunt called Susan who simply loathes it. -So I never smoke before her.” - -Mrs. Medallion turned to her companion. - -“A very proper spirit,” she said defiantly. - -“Admirable,” said Miss Woolly. - -“Miss Voile, this is Miss Woolly, who bears with me.” - -Miss Woolly laughed, and Cicely stepped on to the running-board and put -out her hand. - -“It can’t be a very hard life,” she said. “You’re looking too well.” - -“I suppose you dance, child?” said Mrs. Medallion. - -“I do,” said Cicely. “I love it. I know the dances of to-day aren’t all -they might be, but neither is anything else, for the matter of that. I -imagine that convents are as conservative as ever, but outside them——” - -“I doubt it,” sighed Mrs. Medallion. “Look at the gaols. I don’t believe -in torture, but I always had a weakness for the discouragement of crime. -Never mind. Come back to Pau now, and I’ll give you some tea. Toby!” - -“Yes, Aunt Ira.” - -“Take Miss Voile out of sight and give her her cigarette. I think she’s -earned it. Then follow us back to Pau. By the way, d’you feel better -now?” - -“Much better, thank you, Aunt Ira,” said Captain Rage. - -“What a fool you are,” said his aunt. “I don’t expect to be welcomed, -but misprision of my understanding I cannot endure. But for your pretty -advocate, your ghastly endeavours to dissemble would have cost you -extremely dear.” Her nephew quailed. “Besides, aren’t you proud of her?” - -“I should think I was,” said Toby heartily. - -“Then act accordingly,” said Mrs. Medallion. “And if ever again you want -to throw dust in my eyes, throw dust—not clods of earth. If you can -manage to blind me, that’s one to you. But I won’t be assaulted.” - -“I’m very sorry, Aunt Ira,” said Toby humbly. - -“I’m glad to hear it.” She turned to address Miss Voile. “Now don’t go -and heal those stripes as soon as my back is turned. Give him the cold -shoulder for a quarter ’f an hour. And please tell the driver to turn -and take us to Pau. I shall expect you at four at the Hôtel de France.” - -“Thank you very much,” said Cicely. “I’m sorry my entrance was so -abrupt, but——” - -“I wouldn’t have missed it for worlds,” said Mrs. Medallion. “It -was—enchanting.” - -In silence the landaulette was turned and the ladies were driven away. - -As the dust swallowed them up, Toby turned to his companion with a -glowing face. Then he caught her hands and pressed them against his -lips. - -He looked up with shining eyes. - -“Cicely darling,” he cried, “you’re an absolute brick.” - -Miss Voile disengaged herself. - -“No endearments, please,” she said calmly enough. “This is a serious -business. I’ve compromised myself good and proper, you know. And until -we’re out of the wood I’d rather go slow—dead slow.” - -“My dear——” - -“Don’t call me your ‘dear,’” cried Cicely, stamping her foot. - -“It’s ‘without prejudice,’” said Toby. - -“What about our engagement? That’s ‘without prejudice’ too. The trouble -is we omitted to point that out to Mrs. Medallion.” - -“Well, I’m very sorry,” said Toby. “But what did you do it for?” - -“Why do people go in after drowning men? Because they can’t stand still -and see them drown. I did it out of common humanity. When I looked over -the wall I saw how matters stood—saw in a flash. It wasn’t particularly -bright of me. If you could have seen your face. . . . Well, there was -only one thing to be done. The difficulty was how to do it. And then -with her very first words she smoothed that away.” - -“Common humanity or not, it was a most handsome act. And I’m deeply, -deeply grateful. I’ll put things right, of course.” - -“How?” - -“I don’t know yet, but I will—before any damage is done. I’m afraid -it’s spoiled your day, and I’m frightfully sorry. But there you are. And -now let’s go to Eaux Chaudes and find some tea.” - -“Eaux Chaudes?” cried Miss Voile. “But we’re booked to your aunt! Don’t -look so amazed. If I start on a thing I like to see it through. And what -on earth’s the use of all I’ve done if we don’t——” - -“I refuse,” said Captain Rage. “As you’ve said, you’re deep enough in. -If I hadn’t been so rattled——” - -“I never said that,” said Miss Voile. “And now please don’t interfere. -This is my show. You say you’re grateful. Very well, then. Do as I say. -I shan’t get in any deeper by going to tea. I don’t suppose it’s a -party.” - -“I wish you wouldn’t,” said Toby. “I—I don’t like it. What with bein’ -heckled by that woman, then all of a sudden lugged out of the muck, an’ -then all dazzled an’ blinded by the way you handled her, it never -occurred to me that you were paying the score. It sounds ungrateful and -selfish, but there you are. Now that I do see, for Heaven’s sake have a -heart. Don’t make me feel more of a worm.” - -With a sudden movement Cicely put out her hands. - -“Toby, I’m sorry,” she said. “And please don’t feel like a worm. It is -so—so very inappropriate. I was so glad to help you.” Rage took her -hands in his. “I _am_ so glad I’ve helped you. And I’m glad to go on -helping you—awfully glad. And then we’ll help each other—out of the -wood. . . . I’m afraid it sounded as if I repented what I’d done. I -don’t, Toby, I don’t. And I don’t quite know why I said such rotten -things. Only, when you called me ‘darling’ on—on the top of it all, it -. . . seemed as if you were forgetting . . . that it’s only—only a -game.” - -Toby Rage looked into the great brown eyes. - -“I—I believe I was,” he faltered. - -“Well, please don’t, Toby dear,” said Cicely Voile. “I’ll tell you why. -_I’ve banked on your not forgetting._ I’ve put—not exactly my honour, -but my—my value in your hands. The moment that you forget I become -cheap.” The man started. “You won’t have made me cheap. I shall have -made myself cheap. Cheap in my own eyes—and yours. And I like you just -well enough, Toby, not to want that.” - -“You know that I’d never——” - -“You wouldn’t at once. But after a little you’d see. Time makes things -so painfully clear. Never mind. Now that I’ve told you, I’m sure that -you won’t let me down.” She whipped her hands away and put them behind -her back. “And now be nice to me, Toby, and give me a cigarette.” - - * * * * * - -Twenty-four hours had gone by, and the two were sitting again on the -rolling moor. - -An urchin breeze darted and hung, Puck-like, in the brave sunshine, -while earth and sky and sea lifted up radiant heads. Time nodded -drowsily over a golden world. - -From a little fellowship of chestnuts in a neighbouring dell the pert -insistence of a cuckoo cheered to the echo the excellence of present -mirth. Out of the sweetness of a hawthorn a fragrant eulogy of idleness -stole upon the air. The lazy hum of bees about their business swore by -content. - -Miss Voile, however, was not smiling, while Rage was regarding the -jovial landscape with a perfectly poisonous stare. - -“How,” said Cicely, “are you getting on?” - -Toby started and picked up a writing-pad. - -“Give me a chance,” he said. “I’m not a journalist. Besides, a letter -like this takes some composing.” - -“It’s got to go off to-night,” said Cicely Voile. - -“Well, don’t you rush me,” said Toby. “It’s a very delicate job. Any -fool can say ‘The engagement’s off,’ but that won’t do for Aunt Ira. -What I’ve got to do is to word it in such a way as to stifle the -instinct of cross-examination. Well, bein’ an optimist, I’m not going to -say it’s impossible, but, if I can’t do it, she won’t come over for the -day—she’ll come for a week. I shouldn’t wait for that. I’ve only one -heart. But she’ll metaphorically sack Biarritz.” - -“Oh, it’s easy enough,” said Cicely. “Shove it on to me. Say you find -I’m a waster. I don’t care.” - -“Well, I do,” said Toby violently. - -Cicely shrugged her fair shoulders. - -Presently— - -“Read me as far as you’ve got,” she commanded. - -Captain Rage cleared his throat. - - _MY DEAR AUNT IRA,_ - - _When I remember our fortunate encounter yesterday afternoon and - your subsequent kind hospitality at the Hôtel de France, I find - it more than painful to have to tell you that the marriage which - had been arranged between Miss Voile and myself will not take - place. The rupture between us is still so recent that I am not - in a condition of mind conducive to conducting correspondence, - still less to recording in black and white the ruin of my hopes, - but I feel that in view of the interest which you were good - enough to take in my engagement, it is my duty, cost what it - may, to put you in immediate possession of the unhappy truth. - This, I fear, may possibly affect your decision to come to - Biarritz. I do not propose to weary you with the details of our - sudden estrangement further than to confess . . ._ - -“Oh, that’s maddening,” cried Cicely, clapping her hands. “Go on.” - -“But I can’t go on,” cried Toby. “That’s the devil of it. I don’t know -what to confess. All that first bit’s eye-wash—quite all right as a -lead. But now I’ve got to land a hell of a punch. The next two lines -have got to do the trick. They’ve got to satisfy, allay and crush. -They’ve got to satisfy her curiosity, allay her suspicion and crush her -initiative.” - -“That’s easy,” said Miss Voile. “Give me the pad.” - -In a silence too big for words the writing-pad passed. - -Cicely finished the sentence and threw it back. - - _. . . . that it is now quite clear that we do not and never did - love one another._ - -“That’s no good,” said Toby. “That’s simply inviting investigation. How -can you reconcile that with, er, with the ‘_Toby darling_’ of yesterday -afternoon?” - -“Then cut me out,” said Miss Voile. “Say— - - _. . . . clear that I do not and never did love her._ - -How can she go behind that?” - -“That,” said Captain Rage, “would bring her over by return.” - -“Why?” - -“Because the inference is that you still love me. Remembering the -violent fancy she’s taken to you, is it likely that she’d sit still and -allow me to turn you down? She’d come over here like a bear robbed of -her whelks—whelps.” - -Cicely stared upon the ground. - -“Well, I’ll tell you what,” she said uncertainly. “Stick to my first -suggestion and add these words.” - -She began to dictate slowly. - - _You must not think this conclusion inconsistent or precipitate, - because this is not, as you know, the first time that I have - been engaged, while——_ - -“No, no. I can’t say that,” cried Toby. “It’s—it’s out of the question. -She—I never told her about Leah.” - -“Leah?” cried Cicely. “Oh, you Mormon.” - -“I mean Rachel,” said Rage hurriedly. “Leah—Leah was her second name.” - -Miss Voile stared at the sea with trembling lips. - -So soon as she could trust her voice— - -“The trouble is,” she said, “you’ve written in the wrong strain—sounded -the wrong note.” - -“That,” said Toby, “I can entirely believe. When one’s got to convey -some singularly distasteful intelligence to a woman who invariably -receives good tidings, first, as a personal affront, and, secondly, as -evidence of the messenger’s mental deficiency, it is extremely easy to -sound the wrong note.” - -In a shaking voice— - -“Give me the pad,” said Cicely. - -Once more the writing materials changed hands. . . . - -Sitting a little behind her, Toby frowned into the distance, -thoughtfully pulling his moustache and stealing an occasional glance at -the slim brown hand which was steadily driving the pencil across the -grey-blue sheet. - -Presently his eyes climbed to the exquisite face. . . . - -There they rested. - -This is not surprising. The man was human. And at that moment Cicely -Berwick Voile was a sight for the high gods. - -The girl was always beautiful. Her features and colouring alone -established that. Hers was the gay, fresh beauty of Nature herself. It -argued the Spring in her blood. She was radiant, eager. The expectation -of her mouth, the light in her big brown eyes were living, breathing -glories that lifted up the heart. But now my lady was grown pensive. She -had exchanged her ‘meadows trim, with daisies pied’ for ‘the studious -cloister’s pale.’ Mirth sat in Melancholy’s seat, adorning that cold -throne as never did its mistress. Her serious mien, the droop of her -precious lips, the way she would fling up her head to gaze for an -instant seawards while she sought for a phrase—her breathless, glowing -charm, plunged for the moment into the dignity of thought, made an -arresting picture. Rage had not seen her like this. Few people had. This -was as well. Heaven knows, she was dangerous enough. Amaryllis weaving a -garland sends your heart to your mouth. But Amaryllis contemplative, -pacing the garden of Philosophy, shall send the blood to your head. - -Miss Voile turned suddenly to meet her companion’s eyes. - -Instantly both looked away—Toby at the parcel of chestnuts, and the -girl at the broom by her side. - -Presently— - -“Here you are,” she said quietly, passing the writing-pad. - -Toby stared at the letter as at a death-warrant. - - _MY DEAR AUNT IRA,_ - - _This is just a line to thank you very much for all your - kindness yesterday and to say how much I am looking forward to - seeing you here on Thursday. I quite expect it will be fine, for - the weather seems settled now, and I think you will enjoy the - run. It is impossible to mistake the road, which runs through - some lovely country as well as that charming and historical old - town, Bayonne. I shall expect you about half-past one, and shall - be at the entrance to the hotel from one on in case you are - before time._ - - _I have no news except that Miss Voile and I have broken off our - engagement, as we do not think we should get on together._ - - _Always your affectionate nephew,_ - _TOBY._ - - P.S.—There is another road by Bidache, but I should not come by - that because it is longer and not so easy to follow. - -“You see,” explained Cicely, “the two outstanding characteristics of -Mrs. Medallion are, first of all, her contrariness, and, secondly, her -conviction that all men are fools. Well, I’ve given her a glorious -opportunity of indulging the former, and I’ve supported the latter by a -piece of documentary evidence of which she will talk for years. In fact, -I should think she’d have it framed. After this, she’d rather die than -come to Biarritz. The bare idea of your waiting for hours at the -entrance to the hotel, not daring to go away in case she arrives, will -give her a better appetite for lunch than any Hula Hula that ever was -shaken.” - -Captain Rage lifted his eyes to heaven. - -“Trust a woman,” he said, “to put it across a woman. Of course, I take -off my hat. It’s a work of art. That postscript alone. . . .” - -He ripped the sheet from the pad, folded it very carefully, and, after -staring upon it, took out a cigarette-case and bestowed the paper -inside. - -“Well, that’s that,” said Cicely, getting upon her feet. - -“Here,” said Toby. “You’re—you’re not thinkin’ of going, are you?” - -“Why not?” said Cicely calmly. “We came here to fix up that letter, and -now it’s fixed.” - -Toby swallowed. - -“I know,” he said. “But it seems a pity to rush off. I—I rather like -this spot. Look at the sea over there, all—all glassy. Reminds me of -some hymn.” - -By a superhuman effort Miss Voile maintained her gravity. - -“I’ve got to get back,” she said. - -“Oh, not yet,” said Toby. “Not yet. Besides, I—I’ve—I wanted to tell -you about Rachel.” - -Miss Voile appeared to hesitate. - -Then she sat down. - -“What about Rachel?” she said. - -“Well, I—I made up Rachel,” said Toby. “You know. Invented the nymph.” -He stared uneasily upon his finger-nails. “God knows why. I think I had -some idea of makin’ you think I was an old campaigner, with a trick or -two up his sleeve.” He hesitated. “Well, I’d like you to know I’m not. -I’ve danced attendance once or twice—most men have—and been properly -stung for my pains. But that’s as far as it’s gone. I’ve—I’ve never -been engaged—before.” - -“I’m glad you told me,” said Cicely. She turned a glowing face. “I knew -it, of course.” Toby started. “All along. But I’m glad you told me.” - -There was a long silence. - -At length— - -“You remember,” said Toby, “what you said yesterday about my not letting -you down?” - -Cicely nodded. - -“Well, if I’ve seemed off-hand since then, it’s because of what you -said. That’s why I’ve not called you by name or—or told you how sweet -you are. You see, it began as a game—‘Without Prejudice,’ but when you -said what you did, you opened my eyes. . . . And then, suddenly, I -realized that for me the game had slid into reality . . . that I had -quite lost sight of the very first rule of the game. . . . And so—I had -to stop. I couldn’t call you ‘darling’ or speak of the stars in your -eyes, because . . . I find you a darling and I love the stars in your -eyes.” - -Cicely bowed her head. - -The man continued slowly. - -“Well, there you are. I’ve bought it. I’ve queered my rotten pitch. I -suggested the blasted game. I gave it its footling label and let you -come right in—_under that shelter_. Now you’re in balk, and I’ve got to -let you go. . . . Don’t think I’m trying to get out. I’m not. I’ll post -this letter to-night as I’m a living fool. But I’d give ten years of my -life to call back the idle moment when I started that game.” - -For a moment the two sat silent. Then, as if by one consent, they rose -to their feet. - -Cicely put out a hand, and the man took it. - -“Thank you, Toby,” she said, “I knew I could bank on you. I put my value -in your hands, and you’ve given it back. And I think you’re perfectly -right. It’s a stupid game. And—and I’m very glad it’s over.” - -Rage put her hand to his lips and turned away. - -Her words were equivocal. There was a chance that she meant. . . . But -the chance that she meant nothing must turn the scale. - -“And—er—Toby.” - -“Yes.” - -“I’m afraid I made up Alfred.” - -“Yes, I thought you did,” said Toby. - -“Why?” - -“Because the man isn’t foaled who after an hour of your sweetness could -refuse you anything. Besides, unless he was mentally deranged, once -having got so far, no man on earth would ever have let you go.” - -“Perhaps—perhaps that’s why he did,” said Cicely. - -Toby stared. - -“But I thought you said——” - -“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of Alfred. There was—another man. He—he was -such a dear. It never occurred to me that he was mad. His—his aunt -wasn’t. I mean—— Oh, Toby!” - -The man’s arms were about her, and his cheek against hers. - -“Cicely darling, d’you love me?” - -“It sounds very weak, Toby dear, but I’m dreadfully afraid I do.” - -“My blessed lady,” said Toby, and kissed her mouth. . . . - -“Oh, do be careful,” said Cicely. “Love’s a disease, you know. Supposing -you caught it.” - -“You wicked child,” said Toby. “I gave it to you.” - -“O-o-oh!” - -“Yes, I did. I’ve had it for months and months. But I never knew what it -was till . . .” - -“When did you know, Toby?” - -“At sixteen minutes past five,” said Toby, “yesterday morning.” - - - - - OLIVER - - - OLIVER - -“D’you realize, Oliver, that this is our wedding-day?” - -Letter in hand, Oliver Pauncefote looked up. - -“By Jove, so it is,” he said. “May the eighth. So it is. Many happy -returns, m’dear.” - -Jean Ludlow Pauncefote did not reply. For a moment she stood staring at -her reflection in the tall pier-glass. Then she slid slowly out of her -striking cloak, threw this across a chair, lighted a cigarette, and -flung herself upon the bed. - -“What did you think,” she demanded, “that marriage was going to be -like?” - -Her husband lowered his letter in some surprise. - -“My dear,” he said, “it is now a quarter of three, and two bottles of -’98 Mumm require sleeping off. If we must search each other’s -hearts——” - -“_In vino veritas_,” said Jean. “Go on.” - -Oliver put down his letter and took off two coats. Then he bestrode a -chair, pulled up his shirt-sleeves, and proceeded to fill a pipe. - -“Say it again,” he said. - -“What did you think,” said Jean, “that marriage was going to be like?” - -Her husband reflected, frowning. - -At length— - -“I really don’t know,” he said. “I got a bit rattled once or twice. You -know. After bein’ congratulated by some strong, earnest mortal with a -pre-war hand. Enough to make anyone suspicious. And I asked one or two -coves who’d done it. All they said was that it all depended on the -girl. . . . But I’m very happy, Jean. I’ve no complaints. If you ask me, -I think we’ve got on damned well. We’ve been married a solid year and -we’ve never had a first-class row.” - -“That,” said Jean, expelling a cloud of smoke, “is because we don’t -care.” - -“Oh, rot,” said Oliver stoutly. He felt for a match. “Rot. At least, I -can’t speak for you, but I certainly care.” - -“Up to a point—yes. So do I. But we don’t mean anything to each other.” - -“You mean something to me,” protested Pauncefote. - -“So does your bath before dinner. You’re accustomed to me—that’s all. -If you went out to-night, I should wear black for a year. It’s the -fashion. But I should be fed to the teeth to think that my green lace -dress was going spare. . . . And if I popped off to-morrow, you’d curse -the fact that you couldn’t go to Ascot. And you’d soon be putting out -feelers to find out whether it’d be decent to show up at Goodwood and -saying to yourself, ‘She would have liked me to go.’” - -“I—I don’t think I should,” faltered Pauncefote. - -“Why not?” said Jean. “You wouldn’t feel any grief. We don’t mean -anything.” - -Oliver frowned. Then he took his pipe from his mouth and regarded its -bowl. - -“Assuming you’re right,” he said, “—mark you, I don’t admit it—but, -assuming you’re right, why is it?” - -Jean shrugged her shining shoulders. - -“_C’est la mode_,” she said. “It’s the age, the time—what you will. -Married love’s out of fashion—that’s all.” - -“I loved you before,” said Pauncefote. - -“In a way you did,” said Jean, staring upon the cornice. “And I loved -you. Then we got married, and it was all over. You ought to count more -with me—now.” She sat up there, with a laugh, and waved a small hand. -“My dear, you count less. ‘Less’? You don’t count at all—now. -We’ve—we’ve pulled our fire-cracker. We pulled it a year ago.” She -threw herself back on the pillows, inhaled deeply and let the smoke -steal out of her beautiful mouth. “Don’t think I’m getting at you. I’m -not at all. I’m just making faces at Fate.” - -“Why?” - -“Because I’m disappointed. When one was married I thought one got down -to things. I thought one found the emotions that poets write -about—love, hope, joy, grief, hate. They’re the foundation of life. I -brushed against them all when I was engaged. I imagine you did too—in a -sort of way.” - -Pauncefote shifted upon his chair. - -“We’re much better out of it,” he said. “Give me a quiet life. Emotion’s -all very well, but it’s sticky stuff.” - -“It isn’t fashionable,” said Jean. - -“For a very good reason,” said her husband. “It isn’t convenient. We’re -just beginning to appreciate the wisdom of eliminating mental -inconvenience. Look at Dickens, Thackeray, and the rest. Yarn after yarn -founded on human emotion. Sighs and yells and tears because someone’s -got stuck. That’s what you get for playing with fire. Now it’s dawning -on people that use their brains that if you let sleeping dogs lie you -won’t be chewed. An’ so we go quietly along—_without looking for -trouble_. Hang it all, Jean, I think we’ve done very well. We don’t get -in each other’s way. We——” - -“We should,” said Jean. “We ought to. That’s my point. Marriage means -getting in each other’s way. If you don’t, you might as well not be -married. One’s style ought to be cramped. Not necessarily unpleasantly -cramped, but cramped. If you were just going to drive and a priceless -girl came up and asked you the time—well, she’d ’ve got in your way, -but that wouldn’t worry you. In fact, if you could square your partner, -you’d sling your driver away and take her into the pine-woods to look -for clocks.” - -“I shouldn’t at all,” said Pauncefote uneasily. “I should direct her -to——” - -“No doubt—if you were playing with me,” said Jean dryly. “Appearances -have to be kept up. Never mind. The point is that one’s style can be -agreeably cramped. Marriage can cramp it pleasantly or unpleasantly, but -it ought to cramp it. Look at us. We aren’t affected at all. We don’t -care. If we did, we shouldn’t dare show it. It—it isn’t done. . . . -Life’s like ale—good, strong ale. History will show you that. But we -don’t get further than the froth. That’s all right when you’re a child, -but if you’re not going to get down to the liquor when you’re married, -when are you?” - -“My dear,” said her husband, “why worry? I’ve drunk some damned bad -beer.” - -“Haven’t you drunk any good?” - -Oliver sighed. - -“Of course,” he said, “if you’re not happy, Jean——” - -“I’m not. Neither are you. We don’t know what it means.” - -“I’m comfortable,” said Pauncefote. “And that’s something.” - -“Listen. When you die, the tankard of Life is taken away from you. Well, -supposing then you found out that the ale you’d always given a miss was -the most glorious liquor you’d ever dreamed of . . . Wouldn’t you want -to kick yourself?” - -“Weather permitting,” said Pauncefote, “_ça va sans dire_.” - -“And, good or bad, don’t you fancy you’d feel a bit cheap beside people -who’d drunk their whack?” - -Oliver pulled his moustache. - -“Sort of ‘What did you do in the Great War Daddy?’ idea?” - -“Exactly,” said Jean. “Well, don’t you think wedlock’s the time? It -seems the obvious moment for our little crowd. ‘Marry and settle down.’ -That’s a time-honoured phrase. ‘Settle down.’ What to?” - -“Drinkin’ the ale, I suppose.” - -“I imagine so,” said Jean. “Look at the words of the Service—‘love and -cherish.’ I take it they mean something.” - -“They did when they were written,” said Oliver. “But times have changed, -Jean. I’m ready to love an’ cherish, but—but the occasion doesn’t -arise.” - -“What you mean is, it isn’t done. . . . I kiss you, of course, but then -I kiss other men. And you kiss other girls. It’s the fashion. We don’t -love each other at all; we love ourselves. We don’t cherish each other; -we each take blinking good care to look after ourselves. It’s the -fashion. . . . It’s the fashion to live together, and so we do. Bar -that, we mightn’t be married.” She set her cigarette in a tray, laced -her pointed fingers and put them behind her head. “Why am I wearing this -frock? Because Pat Lafone said that he loved me in black.” - -Oliver raised his eyebrows. - -“Did he really?” he said. - -“Why shouldn’t he?” said his wife. “There’s nothing wrong in that. What -_is_ wrong is that I put it on to please him. You needn’t worry. That’s -as far as it’s gone. Besides, he wasn’t there, so I’ve been stung. The -point is we mightn’t be married. In theory, I should care for you and -nobody else. And you for me—exclusively. In practice, if you discount -habit—I’m accustomed to you, you know—you come third on the list. I -care first for myself, then other attractive men, finally my husband.” - -Oliver rose to his feet and laid down his pipe. - -“That’s pretty straight, any way,” he said. - -“You know it’s the same with you. The tragedy is we don’t care. . . . If -you cleared out and left me, that might bring me up short. I think it -probably would. I should come down to Things then—with the hell of a -jar. The ale’d be bitter then.” - -“Jean, why dig up this ground? It’s not particularly sweet. You say you -don’t care about me. Well, let it go. I’m sorry you don’t, but——” - -“Why will you blink the facts? Why can’t you be frank, as I am? I won’t -tell anyone.” - -“I don’t care who you tell, but——” - -“Of course you do,” said Jean, uncrossing and recrossing her legs. -“More. You care so much that you won’t give yourself away—even to me. -Sentiment’s bad form. Besides, you’re self-conscious—awkward. This -discussion’s inconvenient. You’d be thankful if I’d drop it. . . . Why -don’t you take the plunge? It won’t involve you. Drop the mask for ten -minutes and face the rotten facts. . . . If you were a waster by nature -I should have saved my breath.” - -There was a long silence. - -At length— - -“What,” said Oliver, “do you suggest?” - -“Do you admit the evil?” - -“Yes.” - -“Ah!” - -“But it’s in the age,” said Pauncefote. “We’re over-civilized. Money and -civilization have emasculated Things. Our crowd’s never up against it. -We don’t comfort each other because we don’t need comforting; and -gradually we’re losing the art. If you don’t use your arm, it’ll wither -away. There’s no ‘stern stuff’ in our lives, and how can you lug it in? -For years we’ve all been fightin’ to wash it out—to make Life into a -song-an’-dance show; and now we’ve done it. Well, an odd weddin’-chime -isn’t going to turn it back into Eden.” He thrust the chair out of his -way and began to pace the floor. Jean, smiling lazily, watched him with -half-closed eyes. “Once the man hunted—for food; and the woman kept the -cave—against his coming. And when he came, she fed him—bathed his -wounds—took his head in her lap. And he was her man. . . . And she was -his woman. . . . They didn’t want any Service to tell them that. But now -the wheel’s swung round to the other extreme. Hardship and peril are -out, and luxury’s in. Nature’s been swamped by Art. Emotion’s a branch -of Nature, and it’s withered away. . . . If ever the man was late, the -woman wept for joy to see him alive. You don’t do that because you -assume I’ve stopped somewhere to have a drink.” - -“Why did I dress to-night to please Pat Lafone?” - -Oliver hesitated. Then— - -“Because,” he said sharply, “because you must have a thrill. The man and -the woman were thankful to be alive. Between the wolves and the weather -their lives were exciting enough. But ours—ours run on greased wheels. -We have to devise our excitement. And the easiest, most satisfying way -is to rob an orchard.” He stopped still there and flung up his head. -“And there’s the honest value of marriage to-day. When you marry you -merely add a tree to the common or garden orchard of forbidden fruit.” - -Propped on a white elbow, his wife regarded him. - -“Good for you,” she said. “You’ve put it uncommonly well. You see—right -down at bottom you feel as I do. I had an idea you did, and I’m rather -glad. We may be a couple of wasters, but at least in the security of our -own bedroom we’ve the daring to admit the fact.” - -Oliver opened a window and stood for a moment staring upon the silent -dignity of the _Place Vendôme_. - -“That’s not much to be glad of,” he said slowly. “What d’you suggest we -should do?” - -“Nothing,” said Jean. “My dear, I’m purely destructive. I can see the -rot and I’ve made you confess you can see it: but I can’t stop it. . . . -If you cared, perhaps I should care. If I cared, perhaps you would. But -I can’t swing my propeller, and you can’t swing yours. That’s Fate’s -job. The age has produced our crowd—a crowd of wasters, run by a sort -of Baal that they’ve set up. The worship of Baal consists in sailing -close to the wind. The closer you sail, the better worshipper you -are—other things being equal, of course. I mean, you must do it -neatly. . . . And as someone’s constantly sailing a point closer than -anyone’s ever sailed before, the standard of worship is rising. It’s -higher this year, for instance, than it was last. If you want a good -example, look at the way we dress. Frankly, can you beat it? . . . Well, -why do we do it? Why don’t we turn it down? I’ll tell you. Because the -penalty for non-worship is rather worse than death. It’s not ostracism: -it’s not even social extinction. _You just become a mug._ And that’s a -fate no waster can ever face.” - -“We could break away,” said Oliver gloomily. “Clear right out, I mean.” - -“And be bored to death in a week. My dear, we’ve tasted blood. That’s -one of the rites. . . . No. Don’t you worry, me lad. We’re tied tight -enough. So long as we’ve money to burn——” - -Oliver gave a short laugh. - -“Six weeks ago,” he said, “we were worth sixty thousand pounds. I shoved -the lot into francs at a hundred and ten. To-morrow my cheque’ll be -cleared at sixty-six. . . . There’s another forty thousand quid for the -coffers of Baal.” - -“That’s right,” said Jean. “If you’d lost it instead, we might have had -a chance. Necessity knows no law—not even that of Baal. As it is . . .” -She swung her legs off the bed and slid to her feet. “As it is, we’re -doomed. I’m doomed to disappointment, and you—what are you doomed to?” - -Oliver closed the window before replying. - -“I may be wrong,” he said, “but I think you put it too high. It’s -perfectly true—we lead a poisonous life. But there’s no reason why, if -you care——” - -“I don’t. I’ve told you so. I’ve nothing to make me.” - -Pauncefote swallowed. - -“At least,” he said, “we’ve got the same point of view.” - -“What you mean is we both see the rot,” said Jean, preparing to fight -her way out of her dress. “But I regret it. You only deplore it, you -know. You said you were comfortable.” - -“I said I cared,” said her husband. “And—and so I do.” - -“Perhaps you’re right,” said Jean, slipping into a dressing-gown. “The -trouble is that I don’t. You’re quite all right, you know. I’ve no -complaints—either.” - -She took her seat at the table and began to loosen her hair. - -“I beg your pardon,” said Pauncefote. “I—I’m very fortunate.” - -“Don’t!” cried Jean sharply. “Don’t!” The man started at her tone, and -their eyes met in the glass. “Don’t!” she repeated fiercely. “I can’t -bear it. Once—yes. A year ago. . . . But now it’s too late. Besides, I -made you say it. I dragged the words out of your mouth: and so they’re -worthless. Worse. They’re a travesty—that’s how they talked in Eden. -But we’re in a song-and-dance show—don’t forget that. We’re under -contract to Baal. Of course you _can_ ‘pot’ Eden, but I—I couldn’t play -Eve. I know I don’t care, but I’m just—just soppy enough not—not to -want to pretend.” Her voice broke there, but she plugged the hole with a -laugh. “And there’s some real sob-stuff for you. Never mind. You won’t -hear it again. It’s the swan-song of my mughood—the last flare-up of -the lamp of a foolish virgin, who thought—thought . . .” - -She clapped her hands to her face and burst into tears. - -Oliver flashed to her side, fell upon one knee and slid an arm round her -waist. - -She shook him off—savagely. - - * * * * * - -Jean Pauncefote might have been a great lady. - -Had she lived seven centuries ago, she would certainly have been fought -for, probably have been chosen Queen of Beauty and Love at several -tournaments and possibly have made history as, in the absence of her -lord, a chatelaine _sans peur et sans reproche_. - -But Fate was against her. - -In October 1918 she was still at school. Three months later she had left -Philadelphia for ever and was dancing at London night-clubs five nights -of the week. Such a _début_ at such a moment into such a world would -have demoralized nine girls out of ten. The fair American was not -demoralized: but she would not have been human if she had even attempted -to swim against the stream. - -After all, if we may believe Sir Toby Belch, Feste, the Clown, had ‘a -contagious breath.’ - - _What is love? ’tis not hereafter;_ - _Present mirth hath present laughter;_ - _What’s to come is still unsure. . . ._ - -She had no money: yet might, I think, have married anyone. But rank and -riches to Jean meant nothing at all. She married Oliver Pauncefote -because she liked the man, found him a gentleman, firmly believed that -he would not let her down. - -Herein she was right. - -Pauncefote had been through the War and was out to forget. With eighty -thousand pounds behind him, he began to forget very well. Feste’s -doctrine suited him down to the ground. - - _In delay there lies no plenty;_ - _Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,_ - _Youth’s a stuff will not endure._ - -But he never forgot that he was a gentleman. - -The two were lovely and pleasant in their lives. - -Tall, straight, limber, Jean’s form was superb. Her beautiful features, -her fearless grey eyes, her magnificent golden hair and her exquisite -skin were straight from Malory. Her mouth was proud. Her charm of manner -was notable. Jean had a quick brain and a gay heart. She made a -wonderful waster, adorning even that sumptuous, flashing world in which -she moved. That it was not her setting is rather painfully clear. If a -fountain must run with wine, there are just as good-looking liquors as -old Falernian. - -Oliver Pauncefote looked what in fact he was—a soldier taking his ease. -Tall, fair, fresh-faced, his was a lazy air. The man might well have -been handsome; but Achilles with his feet up would not have made an -Iliad. The strength was there in his face, but it was always off duty. -An easy smile sat on his fine mouth; his clear eyes were half veiled; he -spoke with a drawl. His manners were delightful. At his worst, he was -easy-going; at his best, debonair. And that was a pity. A head that can -carry a casque should not wear nothing but a bycocket. - -Captain and Mrs. Pauncefote lived soft. - -Finding their income insufficient, they spent their capital freely, -proposing by happy speculation to replenish their hoard. The deal which -Oliver was just completing was, of course, a coup phenomenal. To do him -justice, it would not have been so phenomenal if it had not been so -daring. Fortunes are not made at chuck-farthing. They are won by -pitching fortunes upon the table. - -So also are they lost. - -When, seated at breakfast in their _salon_ some seven hours after Jean -had burst into tears, Oliver read in the paper that _Plaisir et Cie_, -Bankers, had suspended payment, he put a hand to his head. . . . - -For a full minute he sat, staring. . . . - -Then the door was opened, and Jean came into the room. - -Oliver laid down the paper and buttered some bread. - -“Well, old lady,” he said, “what’s the programme to-day?” - -“Lunch with the Bostocks,” said Jean, selecting a roll. “Then to -Molyneux with Maisie. Dinner with Pat Lafone. It’s his birthday, he -says, and he swears we’ll light such a candle——” - -“Let’s call it off,” said Pauncefote, “an’ keep the day to ourselves.” - -Jean lifted her beautiful head. - -“For Heaven’s sake—why?” - -“Oh, I don’t know,” said her husband. “Only—only it’s our -weddin’-day”—Jean frowned—“and I think perhaps we might mark it. You -know. Just draw in our horns.” - -“‘In loving memory’?” - -“If you like,” said Pauncefote. “Let’s—let’s go for a walk in the -_Bois_.” - -Jean gave a little shriek of laughter. - -“My dear Oliver,” she said, “your efforts to play the mug are too good -to be true. Now eat your bread-and-butter like a good little boy and -tell me what won the Church Congress—I mean, the Two Thousand. Where -was Fire Guard?” - -“Don’t know,” said her husband shortly. “But I mean what I say. I want -to talk things over.” - -“Well, I don’t,” said Jean. “I had my bust last night—my final bust. -The incident’s closed. Besides, in the cold light of day——” - -“I’m afraid it isn’t,” said Pauncefote. - -His wife’s eyes flashed. - -“Oliver,” she said, “we’ve never yet had a row—a proper row. But if -you’re going to rake up the muck we picked over last night, we shall -break our record with a bang. Now listen to me. Women are not like men. -They may be as tough as teak, but once in a while they crumple—for half -an hour. Something inside gives way. It’s humiliating, but there you -are. . . . Well, I crumpled up last night. And you—you saw me. You -witnessed my humiliation. Are you going to take advantage of what you -saw?” - -“No,” said Oliver, “I’m not. I’m not that sort of man. But I’ve things -to say to you, Jean, that—that don’t concern the Bostocks or—or Pat -Lafone.” - -Jean raised her eyebrows. - -“It’s only ten now,” she said, “and what’s the matter with this room?” - -Oliver rose to his feet and pushed back his chair. - -“Perhaps you’re right,” he said slowly. - -The man’s brain was pounding. Jean’s sentences seemed to reach it by a -circuitous route. On arrival they had to be parsed . . . - -Mechanically he took out his case and lighted a cigarette. Then he -continued slowly. - -“You know what you said last night . . . about being tied tight . . . so -long as we’d money——” - -“One moment,” said Jean coldly, “I don’t seem to have made myself plain. -I endeavoured to point out just now that reference to what passed last -night would be bad form. And I hinted that I should resent it—most -bitterly.” - -Oliver passed a hand across his forehead. - -“I know,” he said. “I’m not referring——” - -“You quoted what you said were my words.” - -“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. . . .” - -“Well, please pull yourself together, because I mean what I say. This is -a question of honour—between the sexes. I broached certain matters last -night which we never should have discussed in a thousand years. You know -that as well as I do. I never should have broached them if I hadn’t gone -to bits. You’d never have heard me broach them if I hadn’t been your -wife.” - -“I know, I know,” said Pauncefote wearily. “Don’t say it again.” He drew -in his breath as one about to make an effort. “Jean.” - -“Well?” - -“Supposing . . . all of a sudden . . . we—we became poor . . . You -know. Lost all we’d got. . . . Supposing——” - -He stopped there. - -His wife was standing before him, with blazing eyes. - -“I shan’t strike you,” she said, “because that’d be coming down to your -level. Besides, you’d probably strike me back. But the impulse is -there. . . . I knew you were selfish, of course. And a waster. And other -things. But I never knew you were trash. . . . Only trash would discuss -the whimper of a maudlin girl.” - -Pauncefote regarded her steadily. - -The lash had recovered his nerve. - -“No doubt,” he said dryly, “no doubt. Let’s leave it there, shall we?” -The light of attack in Jean’s eyes slid into a stare. “What I was trying -to do was to temper the wind. . . . We’re broke, my good lady. Bust. We -haven’t a bean. Our hundred thousand’s gone.” Jean started back, and a -hand went up to her mouth. “Plaisir and Co. have failed.” - -“Oliver!” - -“It’s been done before,” said her husband carelessly. He stepped to one -side and past her and flung himself into a chair. “But the point I wish -to make is that this is where we get off. I’ve about twelve hundred in -England, but that won’t pay our debts. We shall get a bit on your pearls -and the Rolls and other things, but you’re always stung to glory when -you’ve got to realize quick.” He paused to inhale comfortably. “Can you -get packed in time for the two o’clock train? It’s no good staying -here.” - -Jean pulled herself together. - -“But, Oliver, what shall we do?” - -“I’ve no idea. I must try to get work, of course. If you had money, or I -had any to give you, we could each go our own way. As it is, I’m afraid -your only immediate hope is to stick to me. What work I can get I don’t -know. A soldier’s not much good outside his own job. . . . By the way, -I’m extremely sorry I’ve let you down. I should never have put the lot -into one concern. I’m afraid you’ll find it pretty thick.” - -“What about you?” - -Pauncefote shrugged his shoulders. - -“I don’t imagine I shall like it, but that’s neither here nor there. The -first thing we’ve got to do is to fade away. Again, we must be in -London. We must be on the spot. We must pay up what we owe, but if I can -stop any orders—well, we might be glad of the dust. I ordered three -suits at Brandon’s before we came away. I told him he needn’t hurry, so -there’s just a chance they’re not cut. An’ Whippy’s makin’ a saddle, an’ -Hardy a rod, an’—an’ . . .” - -He caught his breath sharply and let the sentence go, sitting still in -his chair with fixed, unseeing eyes. - -The stabbing thought that never again would he hear the whimper of -hounds in the soft, sweet-smelling burthen of a November day ripped and -tore at Oliver Pauncefote’s heart. Memories came with a rush to rub salt -in the wound—a tremendous day with the Cottesmore—a check at Garter -Spinney, when the birches had looked like fountains and Sir Barnaby -Shrew had come up and asked him to Stomacher Place—Mandarin’s joyous -fly-jumps and the swift tremor of his ears—a burst up Sweeting Valley, -when hounds were running mute and Fantasy jumped the Chaffer as though -it were a garden-path. . . . - -“Oliver! Oliver!” - -Jean was beside him on her knees, with an arm round his neck. - -Pauncefote put her aside and rose to his feet. - -“Don’t let’s pretend,” he said quietly. “It’s hardly worth it. Besides, -to tell you the truth, reach-me-down sympathy never cut very much ice -with me. Finally, you’ll need all you’ve got for yourself before we’re -through. I’ve let you down badly, I know. But God knows I’ve got my -punishment. . . . And I’ll do my very best to break your fall.” Jean sat -back on her heels and stared at the floor. “When you feel most -sore—murderous, please try to remember the intolerable position I’m in. -If we meant anything to each other, it would have been less odious. As -it is—well, obviously, I’d rather have died by torture than let you -down.” - -He passed to the door of the _salon_. With his fingers about the handle, -he stopped and spoke over his shoulder. - -“Can you manage the two o’clock train?” - -Jean never moved. - -“I’ll—I’ll be ready,” she said. - - * * * * * - -Three ghastly months had gone by, and Captain and Mrs. Pauncefote were -down to seven pounds. - -Their liabilities had proved higher than they had feared: their personal -effects had fetched even less than they had expected. Cars, jewels, -clothing—everything had been sold to pay their debts. The two were -determined to keep their memory clean. The mighty had fallen, but at -least their stalls should be left swept and garnished. What they owed -they paid to the uttermost farthing. By the time the last cheque had -been signed, Destitution had crept very close. - -_Plaisir et Cie_ had paid nothing. Whether they would ever pay anything -seemed doubtful indeed. That they would never pay anything to Pauncefote -was painfully clear. The man was powerless. He was out of touch. To -employ a Parisian lawyer was beyond his means. Remembering a recent -threat to transfer his deposit account, his English Bank wagged familiar -forefingers and ‘advised’ him to lodge his claim and ‘wait and see.’ -Pauncefote did so, as well as he could, and received no reply. - -The two lived in rooms in a mean street and boarded themselves. -Pauncefote went from pillar to post, seeking work ceaselessly and -finding none. Jean raked the newspapers, cursed her own uselessness and -watched the grey creep into her husband’s hair. She also found that food -was far cheaper at stalls than it was in shops. . . . Neither complained -of their lot. They walked a good deal together, avoiding familiar -neighbourhoods, breaking new and unlovely ground. They never referred to -the old days. Their relations were desperately strained, but the strain -was always masked. They laughed little, hid their misery somehow, -respected each other’s reserve as a sacred thing. Under it all, their -hearts yearned upon each other. . . . - -With infinite precaution against detection, each sought by hook or by -crook to smooth the other’s path. So often as he was abroad, Oliver went -without food—and swore he had lunched at Lyons’ and done himself well. -Jean crept to the basement and cleaned her husband’s shoes—and let him -commend the slut that stole their food. Awakened one night by pain in a -game knee, the man lay still till daylight for fear of disturbing her -rest. Jean bargained for hot shaving-water—and got it too. It cost her -one set of exquisite underclothes every month. They came to cherish each -other as they had never cherished themselves. . . . - -And now—three months had gone by, and Captain and Mrs. Pauncefote were -down to seven pounds. - -There was no work in London. - -Wondering whether there was a God in Heaven, the Pauncefotes went to the -registry office from which six months ago their servants had come. - -They asked for the head of the firm, and, when they were ushered in, -recalled who they were and offered themselves as caretakers—with -tightened lips. - -As luck would have it, the man was gentle. He knew them at once, and the -grievous Saturnalia hit him between the eyes. He saw no reason to exult. -He perceived a clear occasion for delicate courtesy—for serving two -patrons in distress far more diligently than he had served them in -prosperity. He spared them spoken sympathy. It was not his place. - -“We ought to have come in by the Servants’ Entrance,” said Jean gaily. -“But we thought, as we knew you——” - -“There is only one entrance for you, madam, so long as this office is -here.” - -He sent for the registers, scanned them, turned up his nose. - -Then he took their address and begged them to be of good cheer. - -“I shall do all I can at once, madam. In two or three days, -perhaps. . . .” - -“What—what about references?” said Pauncefote. “I suppose——” - -“I’ll get over that, sir.” - -They rose to their feet. - -Jean stammered something about a booking-fee. - -The man inclined his head. - -“There is nothing to pay, madam.” - -He came with them to the door and bowed them out. - -The two passed down the blazing pavement, unable to speak. . . . - -Two days later a messenger brought them a letter and waited for a reply. - - _For two months certain . . . a country house in Wiltshire . . . - one mile from the village . . . servants’ hall and bathroom - . . . wages—three guineas a week, fuel and light . . . sole - charge. . . ._ - -The note concluded— - - _As is usual in such cases, I beg to enclose five pounds to - defray expenses, to be repaid from salary at your convenience._ - -The Pauncefotes left for Wiltshire the following day. - - * * * * * - -Supine on the turf beneath a chestnut, Oliver laid down his pipe and -praised God. By his side, Jean, looking years younger, sat clasping her -knees and regarding a peerless avenue of aged elms. Behind them, -Hallatrow Hall, grey and long and low, basked in the evening sunshine -like an old hound. - -It was the quiet hour. - -The Pauncefotes’ work was over for the day. - -The house had been thoroughly aired, two rooms had been cleaned, their -quarters had been put in order, a report had been written, letters had -been re-addressed. The latter lay in a pile upon the turf, awaiting the -postman. - -“Jean,” said Oliver suddenly, “we’ve much to be thankful for.” - -“Yes,” said his wife, “we have.” - -“We had much more once,” said Pauncefote. “But it never occurred to us -then.” - -Jean shook her beautiful head. - -“We never had more,” she said, “to be thankful for. We never had half so -much. Still, we might have been grateful.” - -“We had more, really,” said Oliver, “but we didn’t appreciate it. Now -that we’ve been through the mill——” - -“I never had more,” said Jean. - -There was a silence. - -At length— - -“What do you mean?” said Oliver. - -“I mean I’ve got down to the ale.” - -There was another silence. - -“I’m afraid it’s been rather bitter, dear,” said Oliver. - -“Ale is bitter sometimes, but it warms the blood. I think I count with -you now. Why, I don’t know, but you talked in your sleep once. . . .” - -“What did I say?” - -“It was the night of my birthday—six weeks ago. You seemed worried to -death. ‘I want her to have some flowers,’ you kept on saying. ‘I want -her to have some flowers—my . . . darling . . . wife.’ And then you -said, ‘It’s too late now’—over and over again. And then you laughed -terribly and said, ‘A present from Eden.’” - -Oliver sat upright and put out his hand. - -“That’s why you never had them,” he said. “I was afraid . . . they’d -seem a travesty . . . because they were—too late.” - -Jean put her hand in his. - -“You called me ‘your darling wife.’ You. After what I’d said and done. -Remembered my rotten birthday—wanted to give me blossoms when you -couldn’t afford to smoke.” - -“Do I count with you, Jean—now?” - -“You always counted, Oliver; but, because it wasn’t the fashion, I -covered it up. I broke out that night to see if I counted with you. And -when I found I didn’t, I made up my mind to kill my love for you.” - -“You did count, dear,” said Oliver. “Down at the bottom of things. But I -think I’d rather have died than let it appear. It seems very silly now, -but—I was ashamed. When I was alone in the room, I used to kiss your -gloves; but when you came in—well, I didn’t so often kiss you. Even -that night at the _Rhin_, with all the openings you gave me——” - -“You saw them?” - -“Yes. But I couldn’t step in. It was Balaam’s ass over again, with -Sentiment full in the way with a drawn sword. I think—I believe I could -have done it if we’d been in the dark. As it was, I was on the -edge. . . . And then you landed me one—a regular stinger. . . . You -said you kissed other men, and you mentioned—Pat Lafone.” - -Jean nodded. - -“I did it to get a rise,” she said quietly. “It—it wasn’t true.” - -Oliver’s grasp tightened. - -“When we were engaged,” he said, “I heard two women talking—talking of -you and me. I cleared out as soon as I’d tumbled, but I’d heard a thing -first that stuck. They said there was only one man on earth who could -take you away from me . . . and they mentioned . . . his name.” - -Jean gave a tremulous laugh. - -“Good lord,” she said. “Why, I wouldn’t be seen dead with him.” - -“I didn’t know that, Jean. It—it looked the other way. And—and I sort -of came unbuttoned at the thought of losing you. I let out, if you -remember, about ‘forbidden fruit.’” - -“Yes,” said Jean slowly. “I remember. I never got it, of course. I -couldn’t see anything except the blinding fact that you didn’t care. And -. . . all the time . . . you did.” - -Oliver got to his knees and put her hand to his lips. - -“I worship you, Jean,” he said. “I always have. I worship your glorious -body and I worship your darling ways. I love your laughter and your -precious, blessed voice. I love your footfalls and the breath of your -parted lips. But that was always . . . Now I’ve got something more, -something to kneel to. . . . You’re made of the stuff that queens are -made of, Jean. I let you down—most terribly. I know I never meant to, -but that’s no defence. You left the finance to me, and I broke up your -life. . . . Well, women don’t like their lives being broken up, even by -accident. But never once, by word or deed or look, have you so much as -hinted that I might have taken more care. . . . More. You’ve never -complained, you’ve never murmured once—and it’s been far harder for -you. Instead, you’ve stood beside me, quiet, steadfast. If you’ve wept, -I’ve never seen it. If you’d liked to make it _your_ trouble, you’d -every right. But you wouldn’t do that. You wouldn’t even let it be _our_ -trouble. _It hasn’t been ‘trouble’ at all._ You’ve charmed it into just -an incident . . . an incident in _our_ life. . . .” - -Jean stood up and took his face in her hands. - -“It’s the ale, my darling,” she said. “The ale I spoke of. So long as we -drink it together. . . .” - -Oliver rose to his feet and took her in his arms. - -“‘And he was her man,’” whispered Jean. - -“‘And she was his woman.’” - -They looked up to see the postman ten paces away. - -“There now,” he said. “I thought this was ’Allatrow ’All. An’ lo! and -be’old, if it ain’t the Garden of Eden.” - -“Don’t say you’re the serpent,” said Oliver, laughing. - -“Oh, shame!” said the postman, producing a letter. “Never min’. ’Ere’s a -napple.” - -They laughed with him, gave him their letters in exchange and watched -him tramp down the avenue under the rook-ridden elms. - -“Hullo, it’s for me,” said Oliver. “Oh, I know. It’s from the _Rhin_.” - -“The _Rhin_?” said Jean, peering. “How have they got our address?” - -“’Member those wires we never paid for? And I was always going to send -the porter a cheque? Well, when we got here I remembered, and, as we -weren’t so tied up, I sent him five bob.” - -He ripped the envelope open, to find another inside. - -This had been sent from London some time in May. - -“Ancient history,” said Pauncefote, and broke the seal. - - _COLD’S BANK LIMITED._ - _PALL MALL BRANCH._ - _London, S.W._ - _May 7th._ - _Capt. O. Pauncefote,_ - _Hôtel du Rhin,_ - _Place Vendôme,_ - _Paris._ - _Private and Confidential._ - _SIR,_ - - _A week ago you sent us a cheque on Plaisir et Cie for 6,600,000 - francs, with instructions to clear at 66 or better and place - upon deposit to your account._ - - _Two days ago the rumour that Plaisir et Cie were in - difficulties reached me from a very secret but highly reliable - source._ - - _I at once endeavoured to communicate with you, but found that - you were in Paris._ - - _It was manifest that, if action was to be taken at all, it must - be taken instantly, and, believing that, if I could have advised - you, you would have told me to clear at any cost, I sold your - cheque within the hour for ninety-two thousand pounds._ - - _Particularly in view of the fact that this is your first - transaction with us, I need hardly say that I am greatly - relieved to see from the evening papers that our disregard of - your instructions was apparently justified._ - - _I am, Sir,_ - _Your obedient servant,_ - _E.S. NIELD,_ - _Manager._ - -For a long time neither spoke. - -Presently Jean touched Oliver on the arm and pointed to the old grey -house. - -“It’s for sale, isn’t it?” she faltered. - -Oliver nodded. He dared not trust his voice. - -“Shall we—— Would you like to live here?” - -Oliver’s arms were about her, and his cheek against hers. - -“Jean, my darling, my darling.” - -“I mean,” said Jean, with a little half-laugh, half-sob, “it seems—a -pity—to leave—the Garden of Eden.” - - - - - CHRISTOPHER - - - CHRISTOPHER - -The engine of the great car hesitated, sighed and then rested from its -labour. - -With a faint frown, its driver threw out the clutch and, using the -slight gradient, coasted to the side of the road to berth her charge -beneath the shadow of a convenient oak. Then she applied the hand-brake -and opened her door. - -“My dear,” said Mrs. Trelawney, “tell me the worst. Have you done this -on purpose? Or is it _force majeure_?” - -“I’m afraid it’s stopped on its own,” said Audrey de Lisle. “But don’t -worry yet, Aunt Lettice. I——” - -“I shouldn’t think of worrying,” said Mrs. Trelawney. “I’m much too fat. -Besides, the prospect of being able to say ‘I told you so’ is most -agreeable. Finally, what a charming spot! I always think I should like -to be buried beneath an elm, but I suppose the roots would get in the -way.” - -Audrey laughed. - -“There’s nobody like you,” she said. - -“Don’t be absurd,” said her aunt. “I’m a most ordinary type.” - -Audrey shook her sweet head. - -“Most people,” she said, “would have been off. I admit it isn’t yet -time; it’s quite on the cards that I can put the trouble right. Still, -the motor’s stopped on its own, and we, against your advice, are alone -in the car. That would have been enough—for most people.” - -“My dear,” said her aunt, “it’s all a question of girth. Besides, you’re -a sweet, pretty child. If all priests were as fat as I and all sinners -as charming as you, Purgatory would close down.” Audrey stepped to the -bonnet. “Now, don’t go and get oil on your fingers. They’re much too -dainty.” - -“I believe it’s a question of fuel,” said Audrey, laughing. “I may be -wrong, but I think we’ve gone dry. Any way, I’ve got my gloves on.” - -She opened the bonnet and sought to flood the carburettor. No petrol, -however, appeared. - -“That’s right,” said Audrey. “We’re dry. But this is easy because we’ve -a can on the step.” - -Mrs. Trelawney sighed. - -“These technical terms,” she said, “are entirely beyond me. My impulse -is to express surprise that ‘we have a can on the step.’ Why hasn’t it -fallen off?” - -“It’s a can of gasolene—petrol,” said her niece, bubbling. “It’s kept -there on purpose in case any time we run out. What I don’t understand is -that Budge assured me last night that the tank was full. I suppose the -gauge has stuck. Still . . .” - -She passed to the rear of the car. - -A glance at the dial showed that the gauge was working. The arrow was -pointing to ‘EMPTY.’ - -Audrey unscrewed the cap of the petrol-tank and peered at its depths. -These were certainly dry. What was more to the point, a tiny rent in the -metal was admitting daylight. . . . - -After digesting this phenomenon, Audrey screwed on the cap and returned -to Mrs. Trelawney. - -“Aunt Lettice, darling,” she said, “I’ve let you down. We’re helpless. -Our tank’s been holed. Even if Budge were here, we couldn’t move.” - -“Then how,” demanded her aunt, “have you let me down?” - -“You’re very generous,” said Audrey. “But if he were here, at least he -could go and get help. Now I shall have to go and leave you alone.” - -“My dear,” said Mrs. Trelawney, “I’m fifty-six, I’m sleepy and I have my -tea-basket. To go further, the weather’s superb, and I’m under an elm. -Any woman who cannot in such circumstances face an hour of solitude must -be unnaturally made. You go, my dear, and prosper. I’ve no fears for -you. The first farmer you smile at will put a team at your service.” - -“I’m afraid we mayn’t get to Salisbury,” said Miss de Lisle. - -“Then we’ll stay at a village inn and forget the world. I love an -adventurous life. You go and smile at your farmer, and I’ll take care of -the car. If anyone comes and asks if we want any help, what shall I -say?” - -“Say we want to be towed,” said Audrey, “as far as—— Wait a minute.” -Hastily she consulted a map. “As far as Sundial. That’s the nearest -village now. I know it was Pullaway Brow where we met the sheep, because -I saw the Post Office; and the next is Sundial.” - -“Of course,” said Mrs. Trelawney, “you know far more about England than -I do. I once had a footman who came from Pullaway Brow, but I’d not the -faintest idea that I’d ever been there. Never mind.” She stifled a yawn. -“I had to send him away because he would hiss at table—a pleasant but -disconcerting shibboleth.” - -“I only know England,” said Audrey, “because I look at the map,” and -with that she took off her hat and threw up her head luxuriously. - -“You’re enterprising,” said her aunt. “All Americans are. We’ve got the -pretty garden, but you enjoy it. What’s so pleasant is when you make us -enjoy it too.” - -“Wait till to-night,” said Audrey, and blew her a kiss. - -A moment later she was padding along the lane with silent foot—a slim, -beautiful figure, lithe, natural. When she came to a bend she turned and -waved her hat. - -Mrs. Trelawney waved back—tearfully. - -“She has no business,” she said, “to be so exquisite.” - -Audrey de Lisle would have been equally at home among a herd of deer or -at a State Banquet. What is more, she would have graced either company. -Her dark hair was framing features which would have done credit to the -coin of any realm. Her hands and her little feet were lovely things. In -movement, as in repose, she was the pink of easy gracefulness. Three -things, however, especially distinguished her. They were the light in -her soft brown eyes, the colour springing in her cheeks and the eager -smile that flashed to her little red mouth. Having seen but one of these -things, a man might count himself rich; having seen two, he would -certainly become meditative; but the man who had seen all three she -could, if she pleased, twist round her delicate finger. That such was -her power never occurred to Audrey. She was as natural as the dawn. -Indeed, this and other things natural—the spring and the wind and the -manner of falling water, were in the girl’s blood. Her father’s town -house had been in Boston, but the country had been her home. Not until -three years ago had she tasted a city life. Rich as the fare had been, -it was not to her liking. The death of her parents, however, had kept -her in town. Sweet and twenty cannot rule a country estate; moreover, -she must conform to the ways of her world—see and be seen, stand in the -marriage-market, eat of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and -Evil. . . . Audrey de Lisle was no fool, took things as they came, found -Life a most excellent thing, hoped deep in her heart to find it still -more excellent—one day. - -With the scent of hay in her nostrils, treading the curling lane that -led to Sundial, Audrey snuffed an earnest of that rare excellence to -come. . . . - -The lane rose a little to an old oak stile on the left; the scent of hay -grew stronger: voices and the jingle of harness came to the girl’s ears. - -Audrey quickened her steps. Here was her team. - -That two magnificent greys were there is beyond question; and, further, -a mighty roan in the shafts of a waggon of hay. A man was up on the top, -piling the load, while two others were pitching him bottles with shining -forks. On the ground, by the horses’ heads, sat a little boy, eating an -apple, to which first one and then the other of the greys would advance -an expectant muzzle. The child pushed them away nonchalantly. The -meadow, now nearly clear, was flanked by a great beech-wood, which, with -the sun behind, made a broad strip of shade down all its length. This -was insisting upon the heat of the day, for the rest of the field was -ablaze, and the sky cloudless. - -Audrey was wondering how to make known her need, when the taller of the -two pitchers planted his fork in the ground and mopped his face. Then he -turned towards her and made for the stile. - -As he approached, it appeared that, workman or no, he was not of the -labouring class. - -His shirt was open at the neck, and his sleeves rolled to the elbow; -loose grey flannel trousers and brogues seemed to complete his attire, -save for a soft grey hat on the back of his head. His face and arms were -burned to a deep brown, his fair moustache brushed clear of a -well-shaped mouth. His eye was grey and clear; his features, clean-cut; -his hands, cared for. He walked slowly, as a man healthily tired, but -his carriage was upright and his shoulders square. - -Head in air, he passed in front of Audrey and came to the ditch. There -was a stone jar. . . . - -The stranger was about to drink, when Miss de Lisle lifted up her voice. - -“Are you a farmer?” she said. - -The other turned. - -Then he lowered his glass and took off his hat. - -“Not yet,” he said. “But I live in hopes. At present I’m half a -land-agent—and your servant, of course. I became the latter about five -seconds ago.” - -Audrey smiled very charmingly. - -“Thank you very much,” she said. “And now please put on your hat and -drink your beer.” - -“Your very good health,” said the stranger, and emptied his glass. “If I -had another tumbler I’d offer you some. And now—must it be a farmer? Or -can half a land-agent help?” - -“I want a horse,” said Audrey. “It sounds like a fairy-tale, but that’s -as it should be. This corner of England is full of nursery rhymes.” - -“There’s one,” said the stranger, “beginning, ‘Where are you going to, -my——’” - -“I want a horse,” said Audrey hastily. “I’ve a car in the lane and an -aunt in the car, but my tank’s holed and I can’t move.” - -“There we are,” said the stranger. “Horse, horse, bite aunt; Aunt won’t -push car; Car won’t take the road; And I shan’t get home to-night.” - -Audrey bowed before a little gale of laughter. - -At length— - -“Listen,” she said. “If we could be towed to Sundial——” - -“Is that as far,” said the stranger, “as you want to go?” - -“If we can put up at the inn.” - -The man appeared to consider. - -“There’s nothing the matter with _The Doublet_,” he said slowly. “In -fact, the parlour was made to eat bread and honey in. It’s panelled with -old beech boards. And then there are hives in the garden, and they bake -their own bread. They’re very proud of their bathroom.” - -“It sounds too good to be true,” said Audrey de Lisle. - -“It is—very nearly; only, it’s rather rough. Primitive, I mean. They’re -a simple crowd at Sundial; they’ll speak of you as ‘the quality,’ and -you’ll certainly have to show them how to do those pretty white shoes.” - -“I’ve done them myself the last two days,” said Audrey. She drew her -skirt close and regarded her little feet. “Don’t you think they’re -rather good?” - -“They’re sweet,” said the stranger, gazing. “I didn’t know they made -them so small. Never mind. Where’s the car?” - -“About quarter ’f a mile—that way.” She pointed a rosy finger. “How far -is Sundial?” - -“Less than a mile from here. If you’ll let me dispose of this waggon, -I’ll come back and help. If you’ve got a spare can, I don’t think we’ll -need a horse.” - -“But how——” - -“If we fill up the vacuum tank,” said the stranger, “that should get us -a mile.” - -Miss de Lisle reflected. - -“Now why,” she said, “didn’t I think of that?” - -The man shrugged his shoulders. - -“Perhaps an appreciative Providence didn’t want you to spoil your -fingers. Perhaps . . .” - -“My name’s de Lisle,” said Audrey suddenly. “Audrey de Lisle.” - -“I’m known as John,” said the other. “Christopher John. You know. Wot -‘went to bed with his breeches on.’” - -“Do be careful,” bubbled Audrey. “In a minute I shall really believe -that I have stumbled into fairy-land, and—and try to live up to it.” - -“That should come easy to you,” said Christopher John. “I haven’t placed -you yet, but you’re in The Book. And now I must go to my labour. I shall -be through in ten minutes’ time. Please don’t start without me. Spanners -are slippery things.” - -“I’ll wait for you here,” said Audrey. - -As he walked back to the waggon she took her seat on the stile. . . . - -Presently a whip cracked, and amid creak of wheels and cries of men the -waggon lumbered out of the meadow and swayed down the lane towards -Sundial, its load paying toll as it passed, till the green walls were -hung with sweet-smelling wisps and the road laid with a carpet fit for a -king. - -At last the rumble faded, and a tall figure came stepping along the -sunflecked corridor. - -As he drew near to Audrey— - -“I’ve got it,” he cried. “You’re ‘the maiden all forlorn, That drove the -car with a crumpled horn.’” - -Audrey laughed delightedly. - -“You’re determined to work me in,” she said. “But I’m afraid I’m too -modern.” - -“Whatever,” said Christopher John, “makes you think that? Why, you were -before the hills.” - -“I feel an onlooker. I’ve strayed into a fascinating world, to which I -don’t belong. I’m—I’m a visitor to the kingdom, and you’re going to -show me round.” - -“In forty-eight hours,” said John, “you’ll be the Queen. You mark my -words. If you stay two days at Sundial, at the end of that time you’ll -be ‘Miss Audrey’ to every soul in the place. They’re like the frogs in -the fable; they want a sovereign—an idol. . . . Well, you’ve been -sent.” - -Audrey slid down from the stile and into the lane. - -“Any way, you’re a wonderful courtier,” she said, smiling. “And now -let’s come down to earth and find the car. You’ll love Aunt Lettice.” - -“‘Lettice,’” said Christopher thoughtfully. “It’s a sweet, pretty name. -But I like ‘Audrey’ best.” - -“Oh, shame,” cried Miss de Lisle. “‘Lettice’ is incomparable.” - -“You can have it,” said Christopher John. “Give me ‘Audrey.’” - -“That,” said Miss de Lisle, “is because some time or other you’ve known -a girl called ‘Audrey’ you rather liked.” - -The man nodded. - -“No doubt that’s the explanation,” he said gravely. “She was certainly -dazzling. I always associate her with King Richard the Third.” - -“For Heaven’s sake,” said Audrey. “But why with him?” - -“Because, my lady,” said Christopher, “if Shakespeare may be believed, -upon a certain occasion _he demanded a horse_.” - - * * * * * - -As Christopher John had foretold, so it fell out. - -Audrey was Queen of Sundial within the week. - -At the moment when she rounded Mow Corner and saw her heritage—at that -moment she lost her heart. - -Thatch, brick-nogging and lattice; the greys knee-deep in a pool, -raising dripping muzzles to stare at the car; hollyhocks gay in a garden -against a black and white wall; the cheerful ring of an anvil and the -rush of a sluice; lichened stocks on a greensward and a grey lych-gate -beyond; the great yews in the churchyard and an apple-cheeked swain in a -smock; the blessed scent of jasmine and the flash of the setting sun -upon bottle-glass panes—these and other treasures took her by storm. -She worshipped the place openly—and was found worshipful. - -The frogs wanted a king. The Manor House was vacant; the Vicar, a -celibate recluse; Minever Park was for sale. Niche after niche was -empty. And Sundial was of the old world and loathed the nakedness. The -village was all agog to have a great lady. - -Audrey slid into the position naturally enough. - -_The Doublet_ ceased to be an inn and became ‘her lodging.’ Men went -quietly until she was awake; the first-fruits were brought to her board; -on Sunday she and her aunt were led to the Manor House pew—a tremendous -affair, with a fireplace and a private door in the wall, leading out of -the miniature chancel and commanding the church. - -The throne was waiting; that Audrey sat it so well she owed to herself. -Proffering friendship, seeking friendship in return, she received -devotion. The village life was simple, unspoiled: Audrey entered into it -with a whole heart. Forge, stable, dairy—she was at home in them all. -Eager, appreciative, swift, the freedom of Sundial was hers: she -revelled in its possession: Sundial found her revelry gracious indeed. - -As for Mrs. Trelawney, she was entirely content to play the dowager. The -dressing-gown of Dignity was a precious change of raiment which she had -never known. To be thought resplendent daily in her most comfortable -hat. . . . Her pleasant quarters at _The Doublet_, the simple, abundant -fare, the fragrant garden, suited her down to the ground. Besides, her -darling was happy as the days were long. - -Salisbury was forgotten, the tour abandoned. A new tank arrived from -London, but the great car seldom went forth from the coach-house where -it was bestowed. If ever it did, it was sure to return before the sun -was down. - -As for Christopher John, he watched his mistress’ progress with love in -his eyes. . . . - -That the two saw each other most days was natural enough. - -If the man worked long, she found his work engaging, delighted to learn -of him and study husbandry with him for husbandman. His leisure she -shared naturally, as children do. He had installed her at Sundial. -Besides . . . - -So much for Audrey. - -For the man—well, the love in his eyes had to be served. - -Often enough they repaired to Domesday Mill—a place of memories. The -great wheel is silent, and the house tumbling. Ivy has run riot over the -gabled roof, and the proud water, once so troubled but now unearthly -still, has come to mirror the passing of the glory which it begot. But -chestnut and ash and lime have come to cherish Domesday, keep it against -the weather, ring it against the wind. Year by year they draw closer, -put out more sheltering arms. Even now the mill lies snug in its bower -as a hare in her form. True offspring of Nature, Nature is taking it -back. Domesday Mill will not die; it is being translated. - -Audrey de Lisle was quite silly about the spot. That Christopher John -had made her aware of its existence goes without saying. - -Thither the two had strolled one July evening, exactly a fortnight after -the car had broken down. - -“And how,” said Christopher John, filling a pipe, “how do you like your -kingdom?” - -“I love it,” said Miss de Lisle. “Why is everyone so nice?” - -“Because they love you. And they love you because you fit into their -nursery rhyme.” - -Audrey took off her hat and shook her head. - -“I don’t even pretend to,” she said. “I never could. I’m pure 1930—and -American. You can’t turn that into verse.” - -“You’re Audrey de Lisle,” said John. “And Audrey de Lisle might have sat -for most of the sonnets I know.” - -Audrey tilted her chin. - -“Sonnets aren’t nursery rhymes.” - -“Or rhymes, either. Hang it, my dear, if you’re 1930, so’s Sundial. -Don’t forget that. I don’t say it looks it, but then—neither do you.” - -Audrey plucked at her dress. - -“This came from Paris,” she said, “six weeks ago. I hardly think Bo-Peep -was so extravagant. And then I sleep in pyjamas and use bath-salts and -smoke. And I powder my nose and drive a high-powered car. You won’t find -that sort of stuff in a nursery rhyme.” - -“‘The Queen was in the parlour,’” said Christopher John. “It doesn’t say -how she was dressed, but I imagine she did herself just as well as she -could. I don’t know about the pyjamas, and I’m sure her stockings -weren’t in the same street as yours, but I’ve always sort of believed -that the—the contents were. And that’s the point. One reads of queens -and fine ladies and maidens and all, and then one day, if one’s lucky, -one comes across you. And there’s the original of the lot.” - -Audrey lay back on the turf and stared at the trembling green and the -blue beyond. - -“That’s very charming of you, but——” - -“It isn’t at all,” said John. “It’s the unvarnished truth. And if you -want any further argument, always remember this. When you came to -Sundial you went straight up to the throne. Well, once you’re there, -pyjamas and such things don’t count. The Queen can do no wrong.” - -Miss de Lisle laughed. - -“Listen to the Queen-maker,” she said. “Well, be it so. I’m up on the -throne of Sundial—Heaven knows why. The trouble is I’ve only a -pasteboard crown.” - -“What do you mean?” said Christopher, lighting his pipe. - -“I’ve no power,” said Audrey. “At best, I’m only a doll.” - -“I should have said you were omnipotent. You’ve only to breathe to——” - -“Real power,” said Audrey. “I can’t put anything right. I can smile and -say ‘Never mind,’ but that’s where I get off. Now, the Lord of the -Manor’s got power. He’s a real king—worse luck.” - -“‘The Lord of the Manor’? Who’s been talking of him?” - -“My subjects, of course,” said Audrey, crossing her ankles. “They hate -him like anything. But what can I do? I’ve only a pasteboard crown.” - -“Why do they hate him?” said John. - -“Because he’s a sweep,” said Audrey. “He doesn’t play the game. He -shoves up the rents, he never does any repairs, he makes them pay for -grazing on Mesne Holms, he stopped a funeral going by Witchery Drive, -and worst of all, he never comes near the place. I know you’re his -agent’s pupil, but that doesn’t alter the facts.” - -“I’ve only been here a month,” said Christopher John, “and the agent in -question has left me to shift for myself. At the moment I think -he’s——” - -“He’s with his master,” said Audrey, “trying to temper the wind. -Everyone says _he’s_ all right. He does his best, but the Lord of the -Manor’s a sweep. He won’t hear a word. Warthog’s sick and tired of doing -his dirty work—says so openly.” - -Christopher frowned. - -“Perhaps, if he came to Sundial——” - -“But he won’t,” said Audrey, sitting up and smacking the turf with her -palm. “Warthog’s implored him to come time and again. He says he -believes it’s because he hasn’t the face.” - -Christopher sighed. - -“Well, well,” he said. “There’s nothing like a fool in his folly. Fancy -owning Sundial, an’ letting it rip. . . . An’ a pew like a -loose-box. . . . Still, it’s an ill wind. If he’s such a sweep, we’re -better without the gent. Would you like to see the house—‘that Jack -built’?” - -“The Manor House? Rather.” - -“I’m going to-morrow—officially, at ten o’ the clock.” - -“I’ll be there,” said Audrey, pulling the grass by her side. “But I wish -I could do something,” she added wistfully. - -“Don’t get embroiled in politics, my pretty maid.” - -Miss de Lisle frowned. - -“I’ve a jolly good mind,” she said, “to write to him.” - -“You don’t even know his name,” said Christopher John. - -“Yes, I do. Pendragon. And you can get his address.” - -Christopher swallowed. - -“I’m sure you’d be asking for trouble,” he said uneasily. “Why not let -sleeping dogs lie? You can’t believe all the gossip that——” - -“I can and do,” said Audrey. “I don’t say I’m going to write, but I’d -like his address. I shall expect it at ten to-morrow morning.” - -“Very good, m’lady,” said John, and pulled his forelock. - -“Here, I’m not a Queen to you,” said Audrey de Lisle. - -“You give me orders, and reject my advice.” - -“That’s not a royal prerogative. Every woman does that. But I won’t -accept homage from you—not even in jest. I don’t like it.” - -“You called me a courtier once,” said Christopher John. - -“I take it back,” said Audrey. “I didn’t know you then.” - -“Too late,” said Christopher mournfully, shaking his head. “The damage -is done. You ought to be more careful. If you didn’t want my, er, -homage, you should have stayed away. You came: I saw: you conquered. Now -I’m your thrall. Of course I’m familiar—rather like an old nurse. I -grin when I see you coming, I call you ‘Audrey’—at least, I’m going to -in future—and I criticize your clothes. I also make personal remarks. -I’m not sure we oughtn’t to kiss one another. For all that, I’m your -thrall—Audrey.” - -Audrey put a hand to her temples. - -“This is terrible,” she said. “I’d no idea I was so—so compelling . . . -Christopher dear.” - -“Look in your glass,” said John. “The pier-glass, I mean. Not that the -other won’t do, but the pier-glass’ll hit harder. What colour are the -pyjamas?” - -“Periwinkle blue,” gurgled Audrey. - -“Oh, I can’t bear it,” cried Christopher, covering his eyes. “Never -mind. Look in the blinkin’ glass. . . . That’ll give you an idea. Of -course, it won’t be the same. You’ve a way—a carelessness of pose and -gesture that takes a man by the throat. It’s a sort of assault—a -precious battery. Sitting up on that stile, just as if you’d -alighted—dropped out of the sky, swinging your sweet, pretty leg, with -a hand on your hip and a maddening smile on your mouth, ‘all on a -summer’s day’—well, I give you my word, I almost expected you to say -‘He’s pinched the lot.’” - -In a shaking voice— - -“I’m sure,” said Audrey, “Bo-Peep would never have——” - -Christopher rose to his feet and knocked out his pipe. - -“Who’s talkin’ about Bo-Peep?” he said contemptuously. “The lady I saw -was H.M. The Queen of Hearts.” - - * * * * * - -At five minutes to ten the next morning Audrey was leaning against the -Manor House gates. These were of wrought iron and great beauty. - -As Christopher John approached— - -“Have you got his address?” she demanded. - -Christopher mentioned a Club. - -“That’s all I can find,” he said. “But why——” - -“Warthog’s been sacked,” said Audrey with blazing eyes. “That’s why.” - -“The devil he has,” said Christopher. “What about me?” - -“What about Sundial?” said Audrey. “The village has lost its -shepherd—its only friend.” - -“It’s still got its Queen,” said John. “I can see that.” - -Audrey stamped her foot. - -“Don’t laugh,” she said. “I’m in earnest. I’m going to write to the -brute.” - -“Audrey, I beg you——” - -“Show me the house,” said Audrey. “As soon as I’ve seen it, I’m going -straight back to write.” - -Christopher took out a key and unfastened the padlock. - -With the chain in his hand, he looked at her. - -“I know every woman does it,” he said gently, “but they don’t all do it -like you.” - -Audrey said nothing at all. - -In silence they passed up the avenue. . . . - -So they came to an archway with a coat of arms cut in the grey stone. -This admitted to a courtyard, silent and sunlit. - -For a moment they stood gazing. Then a touch on his arm made Christopher -John look round. - -A grave-eyed maiden was looking him in the face. - -“I beg your pardon,” she said in a low voice. “I had no right. It was -very”—her eyes fell, and she blushed exquisitely—“very rotten of me to -take it out upon you.” - -She was in his arms, and his face three inches away. - -“Audrey, my sweet, my darling. . . .” - -“No, no! Not that! Not that! I mean . . .” - -The man let her go instantly. - -For a moment Audrey stood, with her hand to her heart, breathing -uncertainly. - -Then— - -“What a beautiful courtyard,” she said. “Will you go and unfasten the -door? And I’ll come on.” - - * * * * * - -A week toiled by, during which the two met hardly at all. - -Then one morning a sweet-smelling note arrived at Christopher’s lodging -before he was up. . . . - -That evening found them both on the sward before Domesday Mill. - -“The Lord of the Manor,” said Audrey, “has a pretty wit.” - -“Yes?” said Christopher John. - -Audrey produced a letter. - -“Read that,” she said. - - _DEAR MISS DE LISLE,_ - - _I know you well by repute, and I am satisfied that, when one so - correct as yourself is impelled to take up the cudgels upon my - tenants’ behalf, only a high sense of duty can have created that - impulse. I therefore accept your letter as that of a cousin, and - as such I answer it._ - - _You and I are plainly of different schools. You believe in the - snaffle, and I believe in the curb. I do not suggest that you - are wrong or argue that I am right, but what I have I will - hold—in my own way. Call me hard, if you please, and say that I - gather where I have not strawed. My withers are unwrung. I am of - the other school. While I am Lord of the Manor, I will sell none - of my land nor will I alter my ways. Horses are meant to be - ridden, and, while I am in the saddle, I will ride Sundial on - the curb._ - - _I say ‘while I am in the saddle.’_ - - _Your letter was unusual enough to interest anyone. Coming from - you, it interested me very much. I therefore sent for Mr. John, - the pupil to my late agent, and, as I expected, he was able to - tell me as much as I wanted to know. I have requested him, - should you desire it, so far as he can, to do you the same - office. Ask him, and he will tell you what manner of man I am._ - - _You will wonder why I should take pains to put such information - at your disposal. It is because I am willing to strike a bargain - with you._ - - _If you will become my wife, I will give to you absolutely all - my title-deeds (including, of course, those of the Manor House) - and assign to you every manorial right that I possess. In a - word, I will make you the Lady of the Manor._ - - _Yours faithfully,_ - _CHARLES PENDRAGON._ - -“Why, the man’s mad,” cried Christopher. “Stark, staring. He’s got his -dates wrong. This is the sort of deal they did in the Stone Age.” - -“It sounds,” said Audrey, “as though he meant what he said. I suppose, -in your innocence, you gave me a pretty good chit.” - -“He asked what you were like, and I told him the truth. I never -dreamed——” - -“Of course you didn’t,” said Audrey. “He took jolly good care of that. I -know just what he’s like. He’s a brilliant, _blasé_ Gallio—with a -pretty wit. He might have done anything: in point of fact, he’s done -nothing. When he plays, he plays high: and whether he wins or loses he -doesn’t care—with the result that he usually wins. He doesn’t care. He -doesn’t care about Sundial: he doesn’t care about me: we’re pawns. He’d -sell his birthright, not for a mess of pottage, but for a cup of spice. -That letter’s typical—because it’s a masterpiece. Think what the man -who wrote that could have done as a diplomat.” - -“I don’t see that it’s anything wonderful,” said Christopher John. “It’s -a piece of damned impertinence, but——” - -“Think,” said Audrey. “In effect he says, ‘Your interference was bad -form: the only possible excuse for it was a sense of duty too strong to -be withstood. Whether you were really so actuated remains to be seen.’” - -Christopher shrugged his shoulders. - -“You would write,” he said. - -“I _had_ to, Christopher. I couldn’t sit still and have everyone so -sweet and not raise a finger to help.” - -The other sighed. - -“Well, it’s done now,” he said. “I suppose you won’t let me take it up -with the brute.” - -“Take what up?” said Audrey. - -“This letter, of course.” - -“But it’s unexceptionable,” said Audrey. “That’s what’s so clever. He -stepped out and met me on my own ground. It may be out of bounds, but I -can’t curse him for that. I chose it. . . . Besides, if it comes to -that, he may be bluffing: but if I like to call his bluff, I’ll bet he -pays. And he stands to lose a bit.” - -“_‘Lose’?_” screamed Christopher. “Oh, the girl’s mad. ‘Lose’?” - -“It’s a sporting offer,” said Audrey. “You can’t get away from that. And -that’s the strongest card in a very strong hand, my friend. If I turn it -down——” - -“‘If,’” cried Christopher John. “You don’t mean to say you’re even -contemplating doing anything else?” - -“It’s been done before,” said Audrey. “Lady Godiva was a sport.” - -“Yes, but hers was a two-hour stunt. This is a lifer. You can’t chuck -away your life so that half a dozen clowns can shove their rotten sheep -on to Mesne Holms.” - -“They’re not rotten sheep,” said Audrey. “Besides, I mightn’t be -chucking it away. I might get to like him very much. You never know. -What sort of eyes has he got?” - -“Watery ones,” said Christopher. “Looks as if he drank.” - -Miss de Lisle frowned. - -“How old is he?” she demanded. - -“I believe he’s about thirty-five. He’s a proper waster, you know.” - -“He would like to hear his mediator, wouldn’t he?” - -“I never undertook to plead his cause.” - -“You’ve broken his bread,” said Audrey. - -“I wish I’d broken his neck,” growled Christopher John. - -Audrey threw back her head and fell into silvery laughter. Then she drew -out a letter and put it into his hand. - -“I think I’ve teased you enough,” she said. - - _DEAR MR. PENDRAGON,_ - - _It is indeed plain that you and I are of different schools. I - should not, for instance, have ‘pumped’ a gentleman who, had he - dreamed of the use to which his information was to be put, would - have seen you dead before he had opened his mouth._ - - _I refuse your offer because I do not think there is a poor man - in Sundial who would not rather go hungry, with you for lord, - than that I should pay so dear to become his lady._ - - _One thing more._ - - _Unless I hear from you by return of post that you will - immediately—_ - - _(a) reinstate Mr. Warthog,_ - - _(b) throw open Mesne Holms,_ - - _(c) let me the Manor House for a term of seven years at a rent - not exceeding twice that which a reputable firm of house-agents - shall consider just,_ - - _I shall hand a copy of this correspondence to the local Press._ - - _Yours faithfully,_ - _AUDREY DE LISLE._ - -“D’you think that’ll fix him?” said Audrey. - -“It’ll certainly shake him up,” said Christopher John. - -The Lord of the Manor replied with commendable dispatch. - - _DEAR MISS DE LISLE,_ - - _I beg that you will include a copy of this letter in the - dossier which you hand to the Press._ - - _I shall not reinstate Warthog._ - - _I dismissed him because upon a belated investigation of his - stewardship many things became apparent. Of these I will mention - three only:—_ - - _(a) he has for three years robbed me right and left:_ - - _(b) the better to line his pockets, he has consistently - represented me to be a harsh and unconscionable - landlord, to whom money was a god:_ - - _(c) the respective epidemics of smallpox and - diphtheria, by reports of which he deterred me from - visiting Sundial, never prevailed._ - - _I have not the power to throw open Mesne Holms. It is common - land, and if grazing fees have been paid for its use, they have - been appropriated by Warthog._ - - _I will not let you the Manor House, because I propose quite - shortly to reside there myself._ - - _Yours faithfully,_ - _CHARLES PENDRAGON._ - -So did Audrey de Lisle. - - _DEAR CHRISTOPHER JOHN,_ - - _Thank you very much for your letter. I’m sorry I called you a - ‘sweep’ and I’m sorry that I believed all the gossip I heard. - That comes of going outside my nursery rhyme. I won’t do it - again._ - - _I never knew you were Pendragon till I saw that the Arms on the - archway were the same as those on your ring. I ought to have - realized then that you knew your job, but the dismissal of - Warthog stuck in my throat. It never occurred to me that he was - a rogue._ - - _Your self-indignation the other evening was priceless. I loved - it. I had to join in, of course, but I didn’t mean all I said._ - - _Please may I see the Manor House again? Last time I was rather - preoccupied. Will you take me there this evening, and tell me if - I may tell Sundial the truth and say that the Lord of the Manor - will be in his family pew on Sunday morning?_ - - _AUDREY._ - - * * * * * - -It was the quiet hour. - -The sun had just gone down, and the broad terrace was flushed with a -rosy pride: the aged giants upon the lawn stood up like -gentlemen-at-arms, majestic monuments of silence; the sweet air was -breathless. Somewhere a wood-pigeon was chanting the ritual of Peace. - -“May I tell Sundial?” said Audrey. - -“Yes.” - -“And will you be in your pew on Sunday morning?” - -“Yes.” - -“Why didn’t you tell me?” said Audrey. - -The Lord of the Manor smiled. - -“You made a most excellent Queen. If I had said who I was, it would have -cramped your style.” - -“You let me sit in your pew, find favour by calling you names, order you -about your own business. . . . Why did you do that, Christopher?” - -The Lord of the Manor stared at the plumes of the cedars against the -blue of the sky. - -“You know why,” he said. - -There was a silence. - -At length— - -“The end had to come,” said Audrey: “the end of the fairy-tale. We came -for a night and we’ve stayed for nearly a month. It was very nice of you -to let it go on so long.” - -“If I’d had my way,” said Pendragon, “it would be still running. But the -Queen wandered out of the parlour and into the counting-house.” - -“A most undignified act,” said Audrey de Lisle. “If she’d stuck to her -bread and honey, all would have been well.” - -“It wasn’t undignified at all,” said the Lord of the Manor. “It was -purely feminine.” - -“The truth is,” said Audrey, “you can take a maiden all forlorn and put -a crown on her head: but that doesn’t make her a Queen.” - -“And a Queen,” said Christopher John, “can put off her crown and call -herself over the coals and say the fairy-tale’s over and get into her -car and drive out of the nursery rhyme: but that doesn’t alter the fact -that she’s a fine lady. ‘She shall have music wherever she goes.’” - -Perched upon the broad balustrade, her little hands folded in her lap, -Audrey stared upon the flags. - -“Why,” she said, “did the Lord of the Manor make the proposal he did? -Surely he never thought that I should accept it.” - -“There was no reason why you shouldn’t. Sundial means everything to you. -I didn’t imagine you’d wire back ‘Every time,’ but I thought you’d -negotiate.” - -“Christopher!” - -“Why not? The offer was honourable—the sort of offer that’s made by a -King to a Queen.” - -“Perhaps,” said Audrey slowly, “perhaps that’s why I didn’t take it. -Being only a maiden all forlorn, my tastes are more simple. Besides, -what makes you say that Sundial means everything to me?” - -The man shrugged his shoulders. - -“I’d like you to know,” he said, “that, if you’d negotiated, you would -have won hands down. The deeds would have been yours—with nothing to -pay.” - -“What makes you say that Sundial means everything to me?” - -Pendragon stared into the distance with eyes that saw nothing. - -“A fool finds out things,” he said, “when a fool’s in love . . . I fell -in love with you. But then you know that. I loved you the moment I saw -you standing there by the stile. And you were so very nice that, -idiotically enough, I began to think that perhaps I meant something. It -was great presumption, of course—but I did. I thought perhaps I figured -in the nursery rhyme. . . . The trouble was that you were a Queen, while -I—well, I wasn’t a King. . . . And then one day you came right down -from your throne and kneeled at my feet—that morning, in the -courtyard. . . . Well, we both know what happened then. Late as it is, -my lady, I beg your pardon. But that’s by the way. The point is, it -opened my eyes. It showed me that Sundial _without me_ was still -Sundial, but that I _without Sundial_ was less than nothing at all—in a -word, that I did _not_ figure in the nursery rhyme.” - -Audrey raised her straight eyebrows, and a faint smile played about her -beautiful mouth. - -“You know,” she said dreamily, “it’s a shame about you.” The man -started. “You’re a King really, but you choose to masquerade as a ‘man -all tattered and torn.’ One day you find a ‘maiden all forlorn’ and put -a crown on her head. Then you’re all upset because you want to kiss -her—stay where you are, please—but you can’t do that because she’s a -Queen. So you sit all still and gloomy and listen to her railing against -the King. Then, having worked her anger against the King up to fever -heat, you tell her that you’re the King and try to kiss her. . . . Well, -whatever do you expect the poor girl to do?” - -“May I move now?” - -“Certainly not. Besides, how many times d’you think the man all tattered -and torn tried to kiss the maiden all forlorn before she let him do it?” - -“Once,” said Pendragon, putting his arms about her and drawing her on to -her feet. - -As she slid down from the stone— - -“I never said you could move,” said Audrey de Lisle. - -“You shouldn’t ’ve made me a King,” shouted her squire, and with that he -kissed her. - -“I wanted you to do that the very first day,” whispered the girl. “But -if you had I’d never have stayed at Sundial.” She slid an arm round his -neck. “And you say you didn’t figure . . .” She threw up her glorious -head and smiled into his eyes. “Why, my blessed, _you made it_. It’s not -been a nursery rhyme—it’s been my love-story.” - -“Audrey, Audrey, my darling. . . .” - -“When I saw the Arms that morning, I nearly fainted. Then I went all -cold, to think that you—_my_ Prince Charming—were really the wicked -lord. . . . The moment you let me go I saw my mistake. In a flash I -realized that you were playing some game. Then I got all mad to think -that you’d kept it from me—so I started in too. . . . But I nearly gave -it away that evening at Domesday Mill, when you said he had watery eyes. -It—it was so libellous, Christopher. . . .” - -Pendragon smiled. - -“My beautiful lady,” he said, “that came to me out of the blue. There -never was, I believe, such a fairy-tale. I was afraid to kiss you for -fear of breaking things up. You know. The Sleeping Beauty. If I waked -you with a kiss, you might kiss me back: but then, again, you mightn’t. -And then in the end I did . . . and the worst happened.” - -“But you didn’t, dear,” said Audrey. “If you had . . .” - -Pendragon sighed. - -“Of course,” he said, “I shall never understand women.” - -Audrey put up her mouth and closed her eyes. - -“Real men don’t,” she murmured. “That’s why I love you so.” - - * * * * * - -Sunday morning came, and the great sun with it. The day was all -glorious. - -Excitement in Sundial was running high. - -All that the village knew was that Warthog was proved a rogue, and that -the Lord of the Manor would take his rightful seat that August morning. - -The tiny church was packed ten minutes before the hour. - -At five minutes to eleven the private door was opened, and amid a -breathless silence a well-dressed but familiar figure appeared in the -Pendragon pew. - -Sundial’s heart stood still. - -Then— - -“Why, it’s Mister John,” piped an old, tremulous voice. - -Pent-up feelings vented themselves in an hysterically explosive -‘Sh-h-h.’ - -Pendragon rose to his feet and glanced down the church. Then he stepped -down from the chancel and passed to Mrs. Trelawney and Miss de Lisle. - -A whisper, and the ladies rose and preceded him to his family pew. - -The ranks of Sundial ‘could scarce forbear to cheer.’ - -But when, after the Second Lesson, the Vicar published ‘the Banns of -Marriage between Christopher John Charles Pendragon, Bachelor, and -Audrey de Lisle, Spinster, both of this Parish,’ the concluding -sentences were lost in a spontaneous rendering of Sundial’s favourite -hymn. - -This was the Old Hundredth. - -The villagers of Sundial are simple folk. - - - - - IVAN - - - IVAN - -Belinda Seneschal, spinster, leaned back in her chair. - -“What’s to be done?” she demanded. - -Her solicitor fingered his chin. - -“It’s simple enough,” he said, surveying a letter. “The house and its -contents are yours—and Captain Pomeroy’s. They’ve only to be made over, -and then, er, then . . .” - -“Exactly,” observed Miss Seneschal. “What then?” - -Forsyth, solicitor, frowned. - -“Then you arrange to take possession.” - -Belinda raised her sweet eyebrows. - -“Mr. Forsyth, d’you know Captain Pomeroy?” - -“Very well. He’s a client of mine. As a matter of fact, he’s due here in -ten minutes’ time—I imagine, to discuss a similar letter to this.” He -tapped the document. “It’s rather convenient.” - -“It isn’t convenient at all,” said Belinda Seneschal. “I’ll tell you -why. Six months ago Captain Pomeroy and I were engaged. It wasn’t -announced, but we were. Well, now we aren’t.” - -Forsyth thought very fast. - -“I see,” he said slowly. “Ah, yes, I see now. That explains the bequest. -The testator——” - -“We met him at Biarritz,” said Belinda. “His dog was run over by a car, -and we did what we could. Poor old man, he was beside himself. After -that we used to go and see him sometimes to try and cheer him up. It -wasn’t much to do, and he was pathetically grateful. Of course, we never -dreamed . . .” - -“One never does,” said Forsyth. “Yes?” - -“Well, that’s all,” said Miss Seneschal. “He knew of our engagement and -naturally assumed it was going to end in marriage. So out of the -kindness of his heart he’s left us his house. It was extremely handsome -of him. It’s a perfectly lovely place.” - -Forsyth referred to the letter. - - . . . . _my property at Biarritz, known as_ =Les Iles - d’Or=, _including the villa and all its contents, jointly - to Miss Belinda Seneschal . . . and Captain Ivan Pomeroy . . . - in the belief that they will appreciate it and neither sell nor - let the same_. . . . - -“It’s a question of arrangement,” he said. “That’s all I can say. I -don’t suppose you want to renounce—surrender your share?” - -Belinda sat up. - -“And have him take both? Not much.” - -“Well, there you are,” said Forsyth. “In view of the testator’s words, I -take it you won’t care to sell, so there’s nothing for it. You must -arrange to share it.” Here a telephone buzzed. “Excuse me.” He picked up -the receiver. “Yes? . . . Right. Show him into the waiting-room.” He -replaced the receiver. “Here he is, Miss Seneschal.” - -That lady leaped to her feet. - -“Then I’m off,” she said. - -“Wait a minute,” said Forsyth, rising. “If he’s prepared to meet you, -won’t you stay?” Belinda shook her head. “It’s infinitely better to talk -this over at once. It’ll save no end of correspondence.” - -“I can’t help that,” said Miss Seneschal. “The position’s impossible -enough. Think, Mr. Forsyth. We’ve each got to share something with the -one person in the world with whom we can share nothing. We’re mutual -thorns in the flesh. I tell you frankly, the very thought of him makes -me tired, and I fancy the sight of me would send him out of his mind.” - -“If you’ll forgive my saying so, it would be a great deal more likely to -bring him to your feet.” - -“I don’t want him at my feet.” - -“It’s a very good place to have a joint-owner,” said Forsyth. - -Miss Seneschal hesitated. - -“D’you say it’s necessary for us to meet?” - -“By no means. But it’s highly expedient.” - -Finger to lip, Belinda stared at the door. - -At length— - -“Very well,” she said. - -“That’s right,” said Forsyth relievedly. “I’ll go and bring him up.” - -As the lawyer turned— - -“Mr. Forsyth.” - -“Yes.” - -“You’ll—you’ll make it plain that, er, that I . . .” - -“I shall say I wrung your consent from you.” - -“Of course,” said Belinda, with a dazzling smile, “you should have been -an ambassador.” - -Forsyth smiled back. - -“Sometimes I am,” he said. - -The next moment he was gone. - -As he entered the waiting-room— - -“Good morning, Forsyth,” said Pomeroy. “Here’s a go.” - -“What’s happened?” said Forsyth. - -“Ointment for two,” said Pomeroy, searching his pockets, “complete with -bluebottle. Listen. The deceased—God bless him—has left me a most -desirable residence—cesspool and all. It’s a peach of a place, -overlookin’ the Bay of Biscay. What’s torn it up——” - -“I know,” said Forsyth. - -Pomeroy stared. - -“Know?” he said. “But——” - -“Miss Seneschal’s upstairs.” - -Pomeroy started. Then he picked up his hat and was stepping a-tiptoe to -the door. - -“Here,” said Forsyth, detaining him, “I’ve—I’ve persuaded her to see -you.” - -“Not on your life,” said Pomeroy. “I—I’m rather frail this morning.” - -“Will you renounce?” - -“What, an’ let her have the lot? Not likely.” - -“Then come upstairs,” said Forsyth. “The matter’s got to be -discussed—obviously. You don’t want to write about forty letters, do -you?” - -“No, but——” - -“Well, that’s what it means. More. In a case like this _oratio -obliqua_’s hopeless. One never gets down to things.” - -Pomeroy hesitated. - -“It’s all damned fine, Forsyth,” he said uneasily, “but we haven’t met -since—since the dust-up. Besides, it’s—it’s a very ticklish -business—revivin’ memories.” - -With a considerable effort Forsyth maintained his gravity. - -“I beg that you’ll do as I say. Miss Seneschal sees the wisdom of an -ordinary business talk. Surely you’re not going to be the one to -resist.” - -Pomeroy stared upon the floor. - -At length— - -“Oh, all right,” he said. “If she wants it. . . .” - -“That’s right,” said Forsyth, shepherding him out of the room. . . . - -A moment later he stood before his lady. - -“Hullo, Belinda,” he said. “How—how are you?” - -Miss Seneschal nodded. - -“Full of it, thanks,” she said composedly. “How are you?” - -“Bursting,” said Pomeroy. “Simply bursting, thanks. Awfully nice of old -Drawbridge to do us so proud.” - -“Perfectly sweet of him,” said Belinda. - -Forsyth brought forward a chair. - -“Sit down,” he said. - -Pomeroy subsided gratefully. - -“The property,” said the lawyer, resuming his seat, “has been left to -you two jointly. I take it you came to see me to ask—not so much what -that means as where you each come in.” The two nodded, and Pomeroy -crossed his legs. “Well, first let me tell you what it means. It means -that each of you is absolute owner of _Les Iles d’Or_ and all the villa -contains—subject only to the other’s right. Each of you can take -possession as and when you please, invite what guests, install what -servants you like. Neither of you can exclude the other. If A is there, -and B decides to come, A can’t exclude B—or his servants or his ox or -his ass or anything that is his. B has a co-equal right. Very well. The -only way to enjoy a property so held is to make and abide by an -arrangement. The obvious and most simple way is for each to agree to use -it for half the year.” - -Miss Seneschal frowned. - -“My plans,” she said, “are rather unsettled. I don’t think I want to -bind myself . . .” - -“I agree,” said Pomeroy. “The Biarritz feelin’ is apt to come with a -rush. An’ supposin’ one chose the wrong half.” - -“Supposing,” said Belinda dreamily, “supposing, to begin with, we took -it for three months each. This is March. Well, you have it till the end -of June, and I’ll have it from then to October. Then if that works——” - -“Nothing doing,” said Captain Pomeroy. Belinda started, and Forsyth’s -hand flew to his mouth. “The Biarritz season is short, but it’s very -sweet.” - -“When is the season?” said Forsyth. - -“Well, there are really two seasons,” said Belinda. “The Spring season -and——” - -“Yes, you can have that one,” said Pomeroy. “What about July _nach_ -September?” - -“Oh, of course it’s more crowded then,” admitted Belinda, “but to my -mind the pleasantest time is in the Spring.” - -“All right,” said Pomeroy promptly. “You have it now, and I’ll take over -on the first of July.” - -Miss Seneschal swallowed. - -“I can’t do that,” she said coldly. “I—I’m engaged from now till July.” - -“So’m I,” said Pomeroy shortly. “Six deep. London season.” - -There was a pregnant silence. - -At length— - -“I think we’d better renounce,” said Belinda shakily. - -“Renounce?” cried Pomeroy. “Not in this suiting. It’s the first villa -I’ve been left at Biarritz, an’ the next one mayn’t be so nice.” - -“It’s—it’s very nice, is it?” said Forsyth. - -“Perfectly charming,” said Belinda. “It’s got the most glorious -position.” - -“Almost sacred,” said Pomeroy. “Five minutes from everywhere.” - -“I meant the views,” flashed Belinda. “You can see for miles.” - -“Quite that,” said Pomeroy. “And what about six bathrooms, Forsyth? Six. -All tiled.” - -“It’s the last word in luxury,” agreed Belinda. “And there’s practically -nothing to be done. When that stuff on the edge of the terrace has been -taken away——” - -“What stuff?” said Pomeroy suspiciously. “D’you mean the balustrade?” - -“Well, it isn’t really a balustrade.” She addressed herself to the -lawyer. “It’s a hideous sort of parapet, Mr. Forsyth. It doesn’t go with -anything and it just ruins the whole _ensemble_.” - -“My dear Belinda,” said Pomeroy, “you can’t take that away. It mayn’t be -a work of art, but it’s pretty useful. You must have a rail or -something.” - -“Why?” - -“There’s a twelve-foot drop,” said Pomeroy. “That’s why. You can’t have -a depth like that unflagged. Supposing one of your guests came in a bit -lively—by starlight.” - -“I don’t entertain drunkards.” - -“Well, I protest,” said Pomeroy. “I—I like the balustrade.” - -“Unfortunately I don’t,” said Belinda in a freezing tone. “That’s why I -shall have it removed. When you come you can fix up a life-line—for -night-work.” - -Forsyth cleared his throat. - -“I’m afraid any structural alterations would have to be agreed, Miss -Seneschal.” - -“But it isn’t a structural alteration.” - -“My dear child,” said Pomeroy, raising his eyes. - -Belinda regarded him furiously. Then she averted her gaze and tilted her -chin. - -“Mr. Forsyth,” she said, “the house is ours. If it was mine I should put -in a caretaker at once. But I suppose I mustn’t do that.” - -Forsyth turned to Pomeroy. - -“Have you any objection?” he said. - -“None,” said Pomeroy, “provided the caretaker has instructions to take -orders from me.” - -Miss Seneschal gasped. - -“I don’t think you quite understand,” she said. “I should be paying the -caretaker.” - -“Exactly,” said Pomeroy. “And when I rolled up with my baggage she’d -send for the police.” - -“She’d have instructions to permit you to enter.” - -“She’d have ten minutes to clear out,” was the violent reply. “I’m not -going to be followed about my own house by a glassy-eyed sleuth in -somebody else’s pay.” - -Speechless with indignation, Belinda crowded lightning into her -beautiful eyes. - -“I know a very good man,” continued Pomeroy, apparently addressing the -cornice. “If you like I’ll send him to see you. I shall tell him that -you are his mistress and——” - -“That,” said Belinda, “would be misleading. No nominee of yours will -enter _Les Iles d’Or_.” - -“Look here,” said Forsyth. “By the merest chance I happen to be going to -Biarritz in six days’ time. If you like I’ll install a caretaker and -have an inventory made. Copies to each of you, of course. I’ll find a -good agent and tell him to pay the caretaker and keep an eye on the -house. He’d better report to you both once a month. When you propose to -reside you’ll let him know and he’ll make the necessary arrangements. If -anything has to be done at any time he’ll write to you both, and your -two signatures will be his authority to go ahead.” - -“Forsyth,” said Pomeroy piously, “what should we do without you?” - -“You really are an angel,” said Miss Seneschal. “Now help us out with -the dates.” - -The solicitor picked up a pencil and began to draw lines upon a pad. - -“Whenever,” he said slowly, “I deal with a Will I always feel that I am -treading venerable ground. A Will is an essentially human document. It -is the spokesman of the dead. . . . Man can take nothing out of this -world. Therefore one day he sits down and puts upon record—secret -record to whom, when his wealth is left masterless, he desires it to -pass. Sometimes his directions are rational: sometimes they seem unkind: -sometimes they are unexpected. But, as the spokesman says, so it must be -done. We cannot reason with the spokesman—perhaps that’s as well. But, -what is more to the point, the spokesman cannot reason with us. Its -principal is dead. . . . Well, because it cannot reason, it is to my -mind our duty to reason with ourselves on its behalf. _Noblesse oblige._ -We that are quick owe it to the pitiful dead. We must look to see what -is written—between the lines. . . . Here is a bare bequest. _Why was it -made?_ Because the old man liked you—liked you both. He hoped it would -bring you happiness—joint happiness. He assumed, of course, that you -would marry. He thought about you when you were gone. It gave him rare -pleasure to picture his two young friends enjoying his home. Therefore -he left it you. . . . Well, you’re not going to marry. There goes half -his dream. I’m sure for his memory’s sake you won’t shatter the other -half.” - -There was a long silence. - -At length— - -“You’re perfectly right,” said Pomeroy uncertainly. “I’m afraid I rather -lost sight of that—that aspect.” - -“So did I,” said Belinda shakily. “And I feel very much ashamed. Ivan, -if we can’t behave ourselves we ought to renounce. It’s—it’s not -decent.” - -“Don’t rub it in, dear,” said Ivan brokenly. “You—you can shift the -blinkin’ balustrade.” - -“I shan’t,” said Belinda. “He—he put it there.” Ivan groaned. “I shan’t -touch a thing,” she continued tearfully. “And we won’t have any -arrangement about residing. I don’t think it’s necessary now.” - -“That’s right,” said Ivan. “After all, one doesn’t have to have a -lawsuit as to who’s to have the first bath. If one wants hers at -half-past eight, the other can have his at nine.” - -“Exactly,” said Miss Seneschal. The two rose to their feet. “Well, thank -you very much, Mr. Forsyth. You’ll let us know whatever we’ve got to -do.” - -“I will,” said Forsyth, rising. “When either wants to occupy they can -send the other a card. If any difficulty arises you can always come to -me. But I’m sure it won’t.” - -He passed to the door. - -“Good-bye, Forsyth,” said Pomeroy. “And many, many thanks. For takin’ -other people’s bulls by the horns you have no equal.” - -Belinda laughed mischievously. - -“Whose bull did you take this morning?” she said. - -“No one’s,” said Forsyth. “I took a lady by the hand and a soldier by -the arm, and the three of us did some reading between the lines.” - -“What did I say you should have been?” - -The solicitor smiled. - -“I told you I was—sometimes.” - -As the two passed down the stairs— - -“I—I suppose you wouldn’t lunch with me, Belinda?” - -“Not—not to-day, Ivan.” - -“You will one day?” - -“Perhaps—one day.” - -They passed into Lincoln’s Inn Fields. - -The lady’s car was waiting, and Pomeroy opened the door. - -“It’s—it’s been a great pleasure,” he said, “to see you again.” - -Belinda put out a small hand. - -“I hope you’ll be very happy at _Les Iles d’Or_, Ivan.” - -Pomeroy took off his hat. - -“I might have been,” he said. - -With her hand in his, Belinda looked down and away. - -“Good-bye,” she said gently. - -The hand slipped away, and my lady got into the car. - -“You will lunch—one day?” said Ivan. - -Belinda nodded. - - * * * * * - -The London season was drawing to a close. - -The two had met little: it seemed as though Belinda was avoiding her -sometime swain. - -Naturally enough, the latter’s thoughts were turning towards Biarritz -and _Les Iles d’Or_. He decided, however, that the lady must make the -first move. - -One morning a letter arrived. - - _July 7th._ - _DEAR IVAN,_ - - _If it’s convenient to you, I propose going to_ Les Iles d’Or - _for a few days next week. Let me know when you want to come, - and I’ll clear out._ - - _Yours,_ - _BELINDA._ - -A reply went pelting. - - _July 8th._ - _MY DEAR BELINDA,_ - - _Of course it’s convenient. I hope you have a topping good time. - Stay as long as you like, dear, and send me a line when you go. - I’d sort of like to follow you._ - - _IVAN._ - -Nearly a month slid by. - -The weather in England was consistently vile. According to the papers, -Biarritz was bathed in sunshine day after day. - -Pomeroy comforted himself with the reflection that Belinda was happy. - -Then a telegram arrived. - - _Are you at Les Iles d’Or if not I go there next Thursday for a - fortnight have been unable to get off before Seneschal._ - -Pomeroy read the message with starting eyes. - -After a frightful half-hour he sat down and replied by letter. - - _August 5th._ - _DEAR BELINDA,_ - - _All right. I wish I’d known you weren’t at Biarritz, because - I’d have gone. Never mind. A fortnight from next Thursday will - bring us to the 21st. That’ll be all right because I shan’t want - to come before September 5th. When you leave you might tell the - agent to expect me that day._ - - _Yours,_ - _IVAN._ - -August was cold and stormy throughout the British Isles. In the South of -France prayers for rain were being offered. The papers said that the -Biarritz season was the most brilliant ever known. - -Pomeroy, who was at a loose end, began to count the days. - -Then came a post-card. - - _August 28th._ - - _Leaving for Biarritz on September 1st. Could you postpone your - visit till the 15th? I should have gone before only it’s been - impossible to get away. If I don’t hear I shall assume it’s all - right._ - - _B.S._ - -Receiving it from the hall-porter, Pomeroy had to be assisted out of the -vestibule. - -For a long time he seemed to have lost the power of speech. Then this -returned—in spate. - -Pomeroy raged. - -He telephoned to Forsyth, but Forsyth was out of town. - -Then he wrote to Belinda—a letter three sheets long. This, when -written, he destroyed. - -Finally he telegraphed. - - _Shall arrive September 15th as sure as water’s wet please - inform agent Pomeroy._ - -It was the last straw. - - * * * * * - -The fifteenth day of September was the monarch of a glorious week. - -The sky was cloudless, and the sun, a beneficent giant, beamed upon a -fabulous world. The ocean stretched, a flood of dark-blue quicksilver, -brilliant and tremulous. The yellow coast and gay green countryside made -up a ragged counterpane vivid and vast enough to shoulder Mandeville. -The breath of a slumbering breeze tempered the savoury air. - -Ivan, who had lain at Bordeaux the night before, came floating into -Biarritz with a thankful heart. - -As his car swept up the drive of _Les Iles d’Or_, his servant, unshaven -and travel-stained, rose from a pile of luggage beside a bed of -hydrangeas. - -“What’s the matter?” said his master, setting a foot upon the brake. -“Can’t you get in?” - -“No, sir. The villa seems to be occupied, sir.” - -“_What?_” - -“A quarter to eight we arrived, sir, just as you said. The door was open -then, an’ a fellow was sweepin’ the steps. I took ’im for the caretaker. -So I says, ‘Good mornin’,’ I says. ‘Jus’ give me a ’and with this -stuff.’ ’E stares very ’ard, so I says it again in French. ’E didn’ seem -to get it, so I mentions your name. At that ’e tells me to wait an’ goes -orf indoors. I gets out Mrs. Dewlap an’ the ’ouse-maid an’ begins -fetchin’ the small things out o’ the bus. . . . Then another man -appears. ’Appily ’e could talk English. ‘You’ve made an error,’ ’e says. -‘You’ve come to the wrong ’ouse.’ ‘What?’ says I. ‘Ain’t this _The Eel’s -Door_?’ ‘Perfectly,’ says ’e. ‘Well, then, wot’s wrong?’ says I. ‘This -is Captain Pomeroy’s stuff. Are you the caretaker?’ ‘I’m the butler,’ ’e -says, lofty. ‘Ooze Captain Pomeroy?’ ‘You’ll soon find out ’oo ’e is,’ I -says, ‘if ’e sees you in them canvas shoes. An’ ’oo are you, any’ow? -Ooze butler?’ . . . ’E gets very excited then, sir, an’ starts on me in -French an’ wavin’ ’is arms. So I leaves ’im to it an’ starts gettin’ the -stuff orf of the ’bus. When ’e sees the trunks comin’ down ’e gets more -excited than ever. ‘No, no,’ ’e shouts. ‘Wrong ’ouse. You must go away,’ -’e shouts, ‘an’ take your baggage.’ Of course I takes no notice but lets -’im rave. Then a trunk comes down with a bang. ‘Quiet, quiet,’ ’e yells. -‘You’ll wake my lady.’ ‘You’ve woke ’er long ago,’ says I, ‘for the -matter o’ that. An’ ooze your lady?’ . . . Well, I couldn’t get the -name, sir. Mademoiselle Seashell, it sounded like. Any way, I told ’im -that there was trouble to come and that if ’e wanted to weather it the -sooner ’e let me inside an’ on to the telephone, the better for ’im. The -idea was to speak to the agent, sir. You gave me ’is name. But ’e -wouldn’ let me in. I tried the back door, but they’d got that fast, an’ -the other fellow inside with a broom in ’is ’and. By the time I got back -the front door was shut an’ barred. . . . By the time I’d paid the -driver Mrs. Dewlap was feelin’ queer, sir. So I took ’er to the kitchen -window an’ asked for a cup of tea. After a lot of talk they passed some -tea through the bars, but it was that filthy she couldn’ touch it. So I -sent ’er an’ Polly orf to walk to the town an’ find a restaurant. I -’aven’t seem them since an’ I s’pose they’ve lost themselves. I’ve -stayed ’ere with the baggage an’ watched that door. But it’s never -opened again.” - -“I see,” said Pomeroy grimly. “Well, I’m much obliged. I’m glad you -warned the butler and I hope he passed it on.” - -With that, he got out of the car, mounted the broad steps and rang the -bell. - -After considerable delay the door was opened by a fat servitor. - -“Miss Seneschal?” said Pomeroy curtly. - -“Mademoiselle is engaged, sair.” - -Pomeroy took out a card. - -“Take her that card,” he said. The man accepted the pasteboard and was -for closing the door. “And tell her I’m waiting,” added Pomeroy, as -though by accident leaning against the oak. - -The butler boggled. - -“But Mademoiselle is not receiving, Monsieur.” - -“Do as I say,” said Ivan. - -“When Mademoiselle is descend, sair, I will give ’er the card. Eef -Monsieur will return these afternoon——” - -“Send the card up,” said Ivan. “And say that I am below.” - -The butler began to perspire. - -“Verry good, sair . . . Monsieur will excuse me, but Monsieur is again’ -ze door.” - -“You can leave it open,” said Ivan comfortably. “I’m not here to steal.” - -The butler took a deep breath. - -“Mademoiselle ’as gommanded——” - -“No doubt,” said Ivan drily. “Tell her that I prevented you. Tell her I -said that if you tried to shut it I should tell my servants to put you -in the road.” - -The butler looked round wildly. Then he caught Ivan’s eye and blenched. -Finally, after one frightful spasm of irresolution, he flung up -despairing palms and staggered into the hall. - -A flurry of furious whispering came to Pomeroy’s ears. - -Then the butler returned, with starting eyes. - -“Mademoiselle regrets that she cannot see you, sair.” - -“Right,” said Pomeroy, lighting a cigarette. Then, “Dewlap!” he cried. -“Berryman!” - -“Sir,” came a ready chorus from valet and chauffeur. - -“Bring in those things.” - -“Very good, sir.” - -A moment later, bearing a trunk between them, the two ex-soldiers -reached the top of the steps. - -“Into the hall for the moment,” said Pomeroy. “They can go upstairs -later on.” - -“Very good, sir.” - -The trunk and its bearers passed in, with Ivan behind, the butler -retreating backwards before the _cortège_ after the manner of a -chamberlain preceding Royalty. - -As they deposited their burden upon a marble pavement, Belinda rose from -a chair in all her glory. - -“What does this mean?” she demanded, addressing Ivan. - -“It means,” said Ivan calmly, “that I’m a man of my word. I said I -should come on the fifteenth, and here I am.” He turned to his men. “Put -the rest just inside and wait within call.” - -“Very good, sir.” - -“But I’m in residence,” flashed Belinda. - -“Yes, I’d gathered that,” said Pomeroy, hanging his hat on a peg. “So’m -I.” - -“D’you mind getting out?” said Belinda in a shaking voice. “Or am I to -ring up the police?” - -“You can ring up the Bastille, if you like. But don’t do the instrument -in. I hate being without a telephone.” - -Miss Seneschal stamped an extremely pretty foot. - -“Will you get out of this house?” - -“No,” said Ivan, “I won’t. For ten solid, soul-searing weeks I’ve let -you have it, and this is where I get on. I admit my leg’s elastic, but -you’ve rung the bell. It won’t stretch any more.” - -“Ten weeks?” cried Belinda. “Why, I’ve only been here four days!” - -“I put it at your disposal on the eighth of July. Eight from thirty-one -leaves——” - -“You also begged me to stay as long as I liked.” - -“I hope you will,” said Ivan. “There’s plenty of room,” and, with that, -he sank into a chair. - -For a moment Belinda never moved. Then she gave a light laugh and, -opening an Old Chelsea box, selected a cigarette. When she had lighted -this she took her seat upon a table. - -“Your bluff,” she said, “is vigorous, if not in the best of taste. I -think it’s time I called it. I’m not going out, Ivan.” - -“Aren’t you?” said Pomeroy. “I am. Not yet, but after lunch. The air’s -lovely.” - -“I mean,” said Belinda coolly, “that I’m not going to vacate this -villa.” - -“Good,” said Ivan cheerfully. “Neither am I.” - -Miss Seneschal stared. - -Then she slid down from the table and stepped to his side. - -“But if I stay here, you can’t.” - -“Can’t I?” said Ivan. “Well, I’m going to have a blinkin’ good try.” - -“Are you serious?” demanded Miss Seneschal. - -“My dear girl,” said Pomeroy, “at considerable inconvenience and expense -I’ve brought about two tons of luggage, four servants and a car some -seven hundred miles. Would you do that by way of being comic?” - -“I can’t help that,” said Belinda. “You should have inquired before you -started.” - -Pomeroy leaned back and covered his face. - -“Oh, give me strength,” he murmured. Then: “D’you mind indicating the -nature of the inquiry I should have made?” - -“Whether I was here, of course.” - -“I see,” said Pomeroy uncertainly. “In view of our correspondence, I -disagree. The fifteenth was your suggestion, which I was mug enough to -accept. But let that go. What difference d’you think such an inquiry -would have made? It would certainly have satisfied curiosity, but I -don’t happen to be curious.” - -“I like to think,” said Belinda, “that you would have postponed your -visit.” - -Pomeroy sighed. - -“Of course,” he said, “the trouble is that I’m just an ordinary ass. If -I was a half-baked worm with a game spine we should have our arms round -one another’s necks.” - -“And if,” said Belinda sweetly, “you were a gentleman, you’d get up and -beg my pardon and walk right out of this house.” - -“What, an’ leave my luggage?” said Pomeroy. - -Belinda shrugged her shoulders. - -“That,” she said, “could be thrown after you.” - -Pomeroy closed his eyes. - -“I should simply hate,” he murmured, “to be a gentleman.” - -With a look of unutterable contempt, Miss Seneschal re-ascended the -table and folded her arms. - -“The villa belongs,” she announced, “to the one who’s in possession.” - -“That’s not the law,” said Ivan, “but never mind. I’m in possession, -too.” - -“You forced your way in.” - -“I did nothing of the sort. The door was opened by your butler, thereby -occasioning a void through which I passed.” - -“Against my will,” said Belinda. “I shall cable to Forsyth.” - -“Do,” said Ivan. “Mind you give him my love.” - -Belinda set her teeth. - -“If he says I’m to go, I’ll go. Till then——” - -“But he won’t,” said Pomeroy. “You’ve every right to be here—and so -have I.” - -“But we can’t both stay in this house.” - -“That,” said Ivan, “is a matter of opinion. To the best of my -recollection there are seven principal bedrooms and six bathrooms. I -don’t know how many you take, but I can struggle through on a couple of -each.” - -Belinda consulted her wrist-watch. - -“Unless,” she said, “you withdraw in two minutes, I shall ring for Henri -to take your luggage outside.” - -“Have a heart,” said Pomeroy. “Henri’s already lost half a stone over -this business. If you give him an order like that, he’ll become a total -wreck.” - -“He’s devoted to me,” said Belinda. - -“I’m sure of that,” said Ivan. “But he loathes the look in my eye. It’s -the combination of devotion and abhorrence that makes him get so hot. -They sort of seethe together.” - -“D’you propose to interfere with his execution of my orders?” - -“Not exactly ‘interfere,’” said Ivan. “It’ll be more mental. I shall -sort of discourage him.” - -Belinda drew in her breath. - -“How long,” she demanded, “are you going on like this?” - -Pomeroy rose. - -“I’m not going on any longer,” he said quietly. “I’m through. More. I’ve -just come across from Bordeaux and I want a bath and a change. Reason -suggests that you’re using a first-floor suite. Very well. I shall go up -to the second floor.” - -Belinda sprang to her feet. - -“I absolutely refuse,” she flamed, “to consider such an idea. Good -heavens, man! Think of what people would say. What about my name?” - -“Belinda,” said Pomeroy sternly, “you should have thought of that -before. I gave you—not an inch, but an ell. What’s my reward? You take -a furlong. . . . Good, full measure I gave you, without a word. You -chuck it in my face—and ask for more. Once would have been enough for -most men: because I loved you”—Belinda started—“yes, loved you, I let -you do it twice. I believed you merely thoughtless—wanted you to have a -good time, even if I had to pay. It never occurred to me that you were -twisting my tail.” - -The girl’s eyes fell, and a finger flew to her lip. - -Pomeroy proceeded quietly. - -“If you neither love nor respect him, you can twist a man’s tail nearly -off—provided he loves you. But the man mustn’t know it, Belinda. The -moment he does, his self-respect won’t allow you to twist his tail any -more.” - -For a moment the two stood silent. - -Then the girl turned and, walking across the hall, entered one of the -salons and closed its door. - -Pomeroy called his servants, and his luggage was taken upstairs. - - * * * * * - -For the burden of the next six days Lady Cherubic shall speak. - - _My dear_, she wrote to her sister, _I can’t come yet. If I do I - shall spoil such sport as never you saw. I told you Belinda - Seneschal had compelled me to become her guest—at half an - hour’s notice, quite late last Monday night. And I told you why. - Well, it’s better than any play you ever thought of. Captain - Pomeroy is a perfectly charming man. He’s tall and fair, and - he’s got a merry eye and a very good nose. He’s thirty-four, - clean-shaven and laughs delightedly. Very easy-going and a - strong sense of humour. We get on admirably. He loves Belinda - very much. Belinda’s dark and a beauty. Great brown eyes and an - exquisite mouth: straight as an arrow, and the figure that - everyone wants. You know. The more you take off, the better it - looks. In her bathing-dress. . . . And she’s really a sweet - girl. Since I turned fifty I’ve learned to expect nothing from - twenty-five. But this child is not like that. Belinda treats me - as if I were her very rich aunt. But she treats Ivan Pomeroy as - if he were a hideous wedding-present which she can’t throw out - for fear of offending the donor—a certain sign of love, as you - will agree._ - - _Well, there you are, Mary._ - - _Tuesday—my first day here—was rather hectic. The servants, of - course. Rival staffs in the same basement, determined to serve - two masters with the same range and pantry at the same time, - were almost bound to realize the worst misgivings of The - Litany—even if they were all compatriots, which they aren’t. - Ivan has brought out his English servants. Only a man could do - such a hopeless thing. An English cook-housekeeper who can’t - talk a word of French and is accustomed to dealing in St. - James’s! Can you see her in a French market? More. Can you see - her in a French kitchen, explaining in the tone one reserves for - the stone-deaf to a French cook who believes in France for the - French that ‘the Captain deserved the best and it wouldn’t be - her fault if he didn’t get it’? I intervened at last, to prevent - murder being done. The French butler had been ducked in the sink - and then shut in the coal-cellar. This, because he had intimated - that the kitchen crockery was good enough for Ivan. The_ - brosseur _had been obstructive when Ivan’s housemaid had sought - for a dust-pan and brush and, when she found them, had tried to - drag them away. Polly criticized his conduct, and the_ brosseur - _pinched her arm. Ivan’s chauffeur immediately knocked him down - and was kneeling on his stomach when I arrived. The two cooks - were under arms, eyeing each other wildly and giving violent - tongue. Belinda’s maids and Polly and Dewlap—Ivan’s man—were - in support, reviling one another’s countries in terms which, had - they been intelligible to those for whom they were meant, could - not have been endured. I straightened things out somehow. Then I - called a council upstairs. I told Belinda that if I wasn’t fed I - should go, and I said that I shouldn’t be fed if she didn’t tell - her staff that Ivan’s servants had as much right here as they. - Finally things were arranged—in the only possible way. Henri - was compensated and fired, and Dewlap was given his place. - Belinda’s cook was appointed cook to the household, and Ivan’s - housekeeper put in charge of the house. Since then peace has - reigned—below stairs. It was also a step forward upon the - ground floor, because it meant that we three must feed - together. . . ._ - - _Our meals are a perfect scream. Belinda sits at one end of the - table, Ivan at the other, and I sit in between. They both talk - to me vivaciously, but such conversation as they use to each - other is of the armoured type. The impression that I am the - guest of a married couple who are upon their dignity is - sometimes overwhelming. Ivan delights to enhance this. The other - night he looked across at Belinda. ‘I don’t like these - finger-bowls,’ he said. ‘Haven’t we got any other ones, dear?’ - Belinda choked, and I began to laugh. Then—‘Aren’t these big - enough?’ says my lady. ‘Too big,’ says Ivan. ‘I’m afraid of - wetting my ears.’ Belinda fought not to smile. ‘Consult the - inventory,’ she said. ‘Right,’ said Ivan. ‘What’s the French for - “finger-bowls”?’ ‘Consult a dictionary,’ says Belinda. ‘I - can’t,’ says Ivan. ‘I gave mine to Henri. His need was greater - than mine.’ Belinda broke down at that, as was right and proper: - but order was soon restored. They never meet except at meals, - but never once so far has either had a meal out. Thus, under the - guise of insisting upon their rights, they improve the - opportunity of being together._ - - _Ivan keeps his end up and is thoroughly at home, but he never - intrudes or oversteps the mark. After dinner we go to the - drawing-room, and he retires to the library. Both rooms command - the terrace, but if we sit outside Ivan never comes out. Of - course he’s as much my host as Belinda’s my hostess, but he - never lets me feel that. His attitude to me is that of a - fellow-guest._ - - _To-day Belinda’s car was out of action. The first she or I knew - of it was when we came down to go out and found Ivan’s Rolls at - the door. Belinda stopped dead. Then she turned upon Dewlap. ‘I - thought you said the car was here.’ The chauffeur intervened. - ‘You’ve broken a spring, Miss. So Captain Pomeroy ’opes that - you’ll use ’is car.’ Belinda began to flush, so I got in—quick. - After a moment she followed me. ‘I couldn’t let you refuse,’ I - said. ‘Ivan’s not the man to do this for gain.’ She just - squeezed my fingers. ‘I hoped,’ she said, ‘I hoped you would - force my hand.’ ‘I’ll remember that,’ said I. She blushed - exquisitely._ - - _So, you see, the end is approaching._ - - _And now I must fly down to dinner. I wouldn’t be late for - worlds._ - - _Your loving sister,_ - _JANE._ - - _P.S.—I said the end was approaching._ - - _After dinner we sat on the terrace—a perfect night. Presently - I called Ivan. He appeared at the window, pipe in hand. ‘Why - don’t you come and sit here?’ I said. ‘It’s wicked to stay - indoors.’ ‘D’you think so?’ he said, hesitating. ‘I’m sure of - it,’ said I. ‘Of course, if you’d rather read . . .’ He came out - and sat down. He and I talked for a while, and then Belinda - joined in. By ten o’clock the tambourine was rolling. When we - got up to go to bed, Belinda gave Ivan her hand. ‘It was very - nice of you to lend me your car,’ she said. Ivan bowed. ‘It was - very nice of you to use it,’ he said gently. I tried to escape, - but Belinda caught me up. Still, the last act has begun._ - - _J._ - -Lady Cherubic was right. - -As a matter of fact she accelerated the _dénouement_ by setting her foot -firmly on the pedal of opportunity and pressing it right down. - -In a word, on the very next evening the three had not been together for -a quarter of an hour when she rose and announced her intention of -retiring to take a short nap. - -With that, she walked into the library. - -After a moment Ivan, who had risen also, resumed his seat and put his -pipe back in his mouth. - -“I—I hope she’s all right,” said Belinda presently. “D’you think I -should go and see?” - -Ivan shook his head. - -“I don’t think so,” he said. - -There was a silence. - -“I think I’d better,” said Belinda. - -“I—I shouldn’t,” said Ivan uneasily. “Er, supposing you woke her.” - -Belinda flitted across the pavement and stole into the room. . . . - -Her back towards the window, her shoes in her hand, Lady Cherubic was in -the act of stealthily opening the door. - -Belinda sank to her knees behind a bureau. - -When the door had closed, she rose and turned to the terrace. . . . - -As she sank into her chair— - -“All right?” queried Ivan. - -Belinda nodded. - -The night was marvellous. - -The moon sailed in the heaven, a clean-cut stoup of glory upon a violet -field. Far on the left Spain sloped to the ocean with the crouch of a -drinking beast. To the right a lazy school of surf marched out of -vision. A fitful breeze played with the sweet-smelling air as a kitten -will play with a fringe. - -Belinda sighed. - -“The worst of a place like this,” she said slowly, “is that it always -seems such a shame to go away.” - -Ivan’s heart stood still. - -“I—I hope you aren’t going,” he stammered. - -“I must on Thursday,” said Belinda, twisting her pretty hands. “Lady -Cherubic’s sister is beginning to stamp, and I can’t presume upon her -kindness.” - -“I won’t hear of your leaving,” blurted Ivan. “Of course, I shall go to -an hotel.” - -Belinda shook her head. - -“It’s very kind of you,” she said, “but it can’t be done. For one thing, -I don’t think Henri’s available.” - -“Thank God for that,” said Ivan fervently. “And of course Dewlap’ll -stay. He’s crazy about you.” - -“You’re very good,” said Belinda, “but I’m afraid I must go. I think if -I were you I should keep the cook on, but Jacques is a wash-out.” - -“I—I shan’t stay on if you go.” - -Belinda started. - -“You—won’t—stay on?” she faltered. “Why on earth not?” - -Ivan shifted uneasily. - -“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Why—why should I?” - -“Well, that’s what you came for—Ivan.” - -“I know. But . . . Well, it’s a bigger house than I thought. You know. A -shade roomy for one. The thought of five empty bathrooms’d make my blood -run cold.” - -“Isn’t there someone you can ask?” - -Pomeroy shook his head. - -“Not a soul.” - -“But this is absurd,” said Belinda, crossing her legs. “One day you -won’t come because I’m here, and the next you won’t stay because I’m -not.” - -“‘Won’t come’?” cried Ivan. “How could I?” - -“Well, you did eventually, didn’t you?” - -“I know, but——” - -“If you’d liked,” said Belinda, “you could have come on the fifth.” - -“I precious near did,” said Ivan. “When I got your card I nearly went -off the deep end.” - -“But you should have, Ivan.” The man took his pipe from his mouth and -stared at the maid. “You should have written back, telling me to beat it -for The Hothouse and saying that, come snow, September the woolly fifth -would see you here.” - -“Oh, you ungrateful girl! What if I had?” - -“Then,” said Belinda, with a dazzling smile, “then I should have come on -the fourth.” - -“_What?_” screamed Ivan, leaping up. - -“Hush,” said Belinda, laying finger on lip. “You’ll—you’ll wake her.” - -“D’you mean,” whispered Ivan hoarsely, “d’you mean you were waiting for -me?” - -“Listen,” said Belinda. “Do you remember what Forsyth said that day -about the Will? He made us read between the lines, didn’t he? He showed -us _the implied condition_ upon which we were left this villa—that we -should enjoy it _together_. Well, that implied condition stuck in my -mind. . . . Presently I turned it round. If you remember, he said we -ought to reason upon the Will’s behalf. And I asked myself whether, if -Colonel Drawbridge had known that we were going to enjoy his home -_apart_, he would have left it us. . . . And I came to the conclusion -that he wouldn’t. . . . Well, that being so, there was only one thing to -be done. _Noblesse oblige_, you know. You can’t take advantage of the -dead.” - -“Belinda!” - -“Wait. That’s only my point of view. There’s no reason on earth why you -should adopt it. My conclusion may be all wrong. But if ever I come -again, I’ll get hold of Lady Cherubic and I hope you’ll come too. . . . -And when—when I marry, Ivan, I shall renounce.” - -There was a long silence. - -At length— - -“I—I thought you were twisting my tail,” said Ivan Pomeroy. - -“I know. I—I wasn’t. A girl never twists the tail of a man she -respects.” - -Pomeroy stepped forward and picked up my lady’s hand. - -“I don’t take your view,” he said steadily, “about the Will. The implied -condition was blunter and much more precise. You can’t make ‘enjoyment’ -a condition—that’s merely a matter of hope. But you can make—wedlock.” -The hand began to tremble, and Belinda lifted its fellow and covered her -eyes. “Let’s do as you did, dear, and turn it round. If old Drawbridge -had known of our bust-up, d’you think he’d ’ve left us this place?” - -The girl hesitated. Then— - -“He—he might have, Ivan . . . just as—a matter of hope.” - -Ivan fell on his knees and drew her hand from her face. - -This was all rosy. - -“Don’t let’s get out of our depth, dear. There’s something above -inducements and villas and old fellows’ whims. Something stronger. It -kept me out of this villa for ten long weeks.” - -“And me,” whispered Belinda. Ivan put her hands to his lips and let his -head fall to her lap. “When you asked me to lunch and said what you -did—that day, it made me think . . . And then, suddenly, I was all -sorry I hadn’t gone. . . . And then—I thought of the Will. . . . I -thought, perhaps if we saw something of each other—not exactly off -parade, but at—at home, Ivan. . . .” - -The man put his arms about her and kissed her mouth. - -“I love you,” he said simply. “I love you far better than ever I did -before. When I came in that morning and found you here in the hall, I—I -felt I always wanted to find you there when I came in. You looked so -wonderful, Belinda.” - -With her hands on his shoulders— - -“You didn’t behave as though you did.” - -“Respect had to be served.” - -Belinda nodded gravely. - -“That’s right. When you told me off at the last——” - -“I beg your pardon, my darling. I didn’t know.” - -“How could you, dear? Well, I felt an enormous respect.” - -“I wonder you didn’t hate me.” - -“I did—till luncheon next day. Like thunder. And then . . .” She -hesitated there and slid her arms round his neck. “You looked so nice, -my darling, across our own table.” - -“My sweet, my sweet . . .” - -Ivan rose to his feet and put a hand to his throat. - -A moment’s fumbling, and in his hand lay a ring. This was fast to a cord -about his neck. - -The girl gasped. - -“Ivan! Since when?” - -“Since the night we tore it,” he said. - -He snapped the cord and took her left hand in his. - -Then he slid the ring on to her finger and put her palm to his -lips. . . . - -Her arms were close about him, and her cheek against his. - -“Ivan, Ivan, my blessed! _Now I know._ . . . Till a moment ago I wasn’t -sure that it wasn’t the Will.” - -The man picked her up in his arms. - -“You faithless child,” he said. “It was always only a question of -finding a way. And then you found it.” - -Belinda regarded him with shining eyes. - -“That’s easy enough,” she said, “where there’s a Will.” - - - - - HUBERT - - - HUBERT - -Julia Stane Willow passed into the cool library, took off her hat, -pitched this on to a table, and flung herself into a chair. - -“If you want a drink,” she said shortly, “toll the bell.” - -Her _fiancé_ limped to the fireplace, dabbed at a button, turned, sank -into the depths of a sofa and closed his eyes. - -“What a truly leprous day,” he murmured. “Six fly-blown flats and four -houses in five and a half hours. An’ I wouldn’t be seen dead in one of -them.” - -Julia shook back her curls. - -“That one in Sloane Street wasn’t so bad,” she said. - -“What, the one with the pitch-pine doors and a bathroom like a priest’s -hole?” - -“They weren’t pitch-pine,” said Julia. “They were maple. Besides, we -could easily have them painted. And I don’t like too big a bathroom.” - -“Neither do I,” said Hubert Challenger. “But I hate not being able to -get off the cork mat. Why, I’ve been in more roomy limousines.” - -“I don’t know what you do in a bathroom,” said Julia, “but I usually -bathe. So long as there’s room for a tub . . .” - -“Ah, that’s the trouble,” said Hubert. “You see, I dry myself too. -Sometimes I even go so far as to put on a good-looking vest before -bursting once more upon an expectant world.” - -“Of course, if you want a bathroom like the Albert Hall. . . .” - -“I don’t,” said Hubert. “That would be too big.” His _fiancée_ choked. -“But the Sloane Street appendix isn’t even life-size. Standing in the -middle of it, I could bolt the door, lean out of the window, switch on -the light, turn on the bath, wash my hands in the basin, and change the -bulb—all without moving my feet. Besides, I think two bathrooms ’d earn -their keep.” - -Julia frowned. - -“The first house we saw had three.” - -“Yes, and seven floors,” said Hubert. “If it had had a two-way escalator -and a couple of non-stop lifts. . . .” - -Here a servant entered. - -“Gin and ginger-beer?” said his hostess. - -“Please.” - -“Right,” said Julia. “And, Perkins, I’ll have some tea.” - -“Very good, miss.” - -As the door closed— - -“Of course,” said the lady, “you want to force my hand. You want that -flat in Hill Street, and that’s that.” - -“Don’t you believe it,” said her squire. “I’m for peace in our time. If -you want The Eighty-nine Steps, you have ’em. If you want a midget -wash-house, say the blinkin’ word. After all, we can always cut the cork -mat down. I’m only out to——” - -“You want that flat in Hill Street,” declared Julia. “And you’re out to -crab everything else. And I suppose by a process of exhaustion you’ll -get your way.” - -Hubert Challenger sighed. - -“‘Exhaustion’ is good,” he said wearily. “Never mind. Let me repeat, my -lady, that I do not care. I’ve criticized as a third party, purely to -facilitate your choice. As a future inhabitant of the kiosk, you can -count me out.” - -“Don’t you take any interest in your own—your own——” - -“Dunghill?” said Hubert cheerfully. His _fiancée_ stiffened. “To a -certain extent. But that extent has been reached.” - -“Exactly,” observed Miss Willow. “It was reached in Hill Street.” - -“I won’t say it wasn’t,” said Hubert. “First, because it was the -forty-second covert we had drawn, and, secondly, because the best is -good enough for me. When I’ve been offered a peach, you can bury the -cooking apples under the lilacs. But that’s neither here nor there. Bed -me down where you like, my dear, and I’ll be all grateful.” - -“Let me congratulate you,” said Julia, “upon your sleight of tongue. Of -course, it’s been done before. ‘And whispering “I will ne’er -_dis_sent”—_dis_sented.’ Still, the way in which your preference for -Hill Street worms its way out of every protest you make is rather -precious. Never mind. I’ll try and ignore it.” Lazily she selected a -cigarette. “I think if we painted those pale doors black . . . and the -ceilings. . . .” - -“And the walls,” said Hubert. “Don’t forget the walls.” - -Miss Willow frowned. - -Then— - -“It would be very effective,” she continued, crossing her legs. - -“One moment,” said her swain. “Are you being serious?” - -“Why not?” said Miss Willow. “Black is most decorative.” - -“It’s damned suggestive,” said Hubert. “Fancy shaving in a black -bathroom. You couldn’t help cutting yourself, could you?” - -“I really don’t know,” said Julia. “But if you did—well, the sponge -would be within reach, wouldn’t it?” She paused to light her cigarette. -“I repeat that, properly done in black, that flat would be most -effective.” - -“All right,” said Challenger. “I don’t care. Have it black outside, too, -if you like. That might tempt them to let us change the name—4, -Coroner’s Court, ’d sound very well. Telegraphic address, Morgue.” - -Julia waved her cigarette. - -“You see?” she said silkily. “Of course it may be coincidence, but I’ve -only to mention a flat which isn’t in Hill Street for you to perceive -insuperable objections to our tenancy.” - -“My dear,” said Hubert, “you’re talking through your switch. If you had -suggested putting Hill Street in black, I should have been still more -emphatic. Then it would have been sacrilege as well.” - -“As well as what?” said Miss Willow. - -“Nihilism,” said Hubert, and closed his eyes. - -There was an indignant silence. - -The two were to be married within the month. - -The news of their engagement had been received with general -satisfaction, for, while there were many young men in love with Julia -and many maidens who could have done with Hubert, both were so popular -that such as had lost the race felt that they had been beaten by a -better horse. - -An only child, rich and of great beauty, Miss Willow might well have -been spoiled. Her character, however, was proof against such corruption. -She was spirited, liked her own way, but she was not headstrong. Upon -occasion she would take the bit in her teeth, but that was as much out -of play as anything else. There was no vice in her. Her charm was swift: -all she did she did eagerly: if she was careless, hers was a careless -age. Her admirable figure was always admirably dressed, her little feet -perfectly shod. Some men swore by her eyes, which were grey, others by -her exquisite mouth; but all were most proud of her acquaintance and -adored her company. - -Hubert Challenger was a good-looking man. He had a fine record, a keen -sense of humour, and a way of getting where he wanted to go at once more -effectually and with less apparent effort than any man about town. His -engagement, therefore, to Julia was good for his soul. He was tall, -fair, keen-eyed, a beautiful horseman and a sound judge of men. Although -a man of means, he was never idle: his small estate in the country was -excellently administered: he was his own bailiff. He was generous, did -all he had to do handsomely, was naturally amiable, could be most -resolute—if occasion arose. His pleasant personality had much to answer -for. Whenever he made an acquaintance, Challenger made a friend. - -“Good lord!” cried Julia suddenly, leaping to her feet. “We’ve never -been to see South Street.” - -Her _fiancé_ started guiltily. - -“Nor—nor we have,” he stammered. - -With a withering glance, Julia sped to the mantelpiece and began in -feverish haste to powder her nose. - -Hubert stared at his watch. - -“Don’t you think it’s a bit late, dear?” - -“Why?” demanded Julia over her shoulder. “We said ‘before six.’” - -“Did—did we?” - -“You know we did,” said Julia, seizing her hat. - -Challenger smothered a groan. - -“Let’s have tea first,” he suggested. - -“Then it would be too late, wouldn’t it? Hubert, you make me tired.” - -Challenger laughed wildly. - -“Supposing,” he said shakily, “supposing I said I was whacked—whacked -to the blinkin’ wide, lame, over at the knees an’ ripe for palsy. Whose -fault would that be?” - -“Come on,” said Julia shortly. “We can pick up a taxi on the way.” - -“Just let me have the drink,” pleaded Challenger. “Not all of it. -Just——” - -“When we get back,” said Julia, opening the door. “I’m going without my -tea.” - -With a frightful look, Hubert rose from the sofa and followed his lady -out. . . . - -Five minutes later the two were in South Street. - -The flat, which had just been finished, took them by storm. It was -ideal. Apart from its excellent style, every convenience that the wit of -man can devise seemed to have been embodied in its construction. Its -walls were sound-proof: so were its ceilings and floors. Its rooms were -invisibly lit: it could be centrally heated at will: there were four -bathrooms: the servants’ quarters were paved with rubber throughout: the -telephone could be connected to a private exchange: there was even a -chute to a private posting box in the common hall. Light, airy, -perfectly arranged and admirably decorated, it had only come into the -market the day before, and that by accident. - -The porter who showed them over was patently proud of his charge. - -“She’ll go on Monday,” he said. “If you don’t take ’er, madam, there’s -plenty as will.” - -It was long after six when at last the two emerged, swearing to be at -the agents’ on Monday at nine o’clock. - -As they slid back to St. James’s— - -“Aren’t you thankful I made you come?” piped Julia. - -“You darling,” said Hubert and put her hand to his lips. . . . - -An hour had gone by, and Challenger, refreshed and comforted, was on the -point of taking his leave when Julia knitted her brows. - -“I suppose we’re wise,” she said. - -Her _fiancé_ stared. - -“What—what d’you mean—‘wise’?” he stammered. - -“To take this South Street flat.” - -Challenger recoiled. For a moment he appeared about to founder. Then he -strove to speak—ineffectually. - -At length— - -“You’re tired,” he said hoarsely. “That’s all. Tired and overwrought.” - -“Rot,” said Julia. “It’s this flat or Hill Street, of course. The -question is which. Hill Street is very——” - -“But it’s settled,” screamed Hubert. “It was settled two hours ago. The -moment we saw——” - -“That,” said Julia, “is my trouble. Now that I’ve had time to think, I’m -not at all sure that Hill Street wouldn’t be best. For one thing——” - -“Look here,” said Hubert uncertainly. “Yesterday we saw Hill Street. We -both found it a most elegant, agreeable apartment, more than suitable to -our requirements and cheap at the price. To-day we inspected ten of the -most bestial lodgments that ever cumbered the earth. When I ventured to -compare them with Hill Street I was reviled as a slow belly.” - -“How dare you?” said Julia. “I never——” - -“That,” said Hubert, “was what you inferred. To-night—thanks entirely -to your tireless enterprise, which I readily confess I did my best to -embarrass—we totter slap into H.M.’s Dolls’ House—life-size. . . . -Well, we both go wild about Harry. We rise up and call one another -blessed. For an hour we stagger deliriously about our future home, -repeatedly disclosing to each other its perfectly manifest excellence -and fatuously declaring our relish by word and deed. The idea of -comparing it with its predecessors never occurred to me. It wouldn’t -have occurred to anyone, because—it is incomparable.” - -“So you think,” said Julia. - -“So did you. Now—one brief hour after we’ve left it, you begin to -boggle at what you call the wisdom of pickin’ the godsend up.” - -He flung up his hands with a despairing gesture and subsided heavily -upon the club-kerb. - -“I’m afraid the gent’s fickle,” said Julia, “as well as selfish.” -Challenger set his teeth. “On Friday Hill Street has it. On Saturday -South Street’s the peach. I wonder what’ll win it on Monday.” - -“Monday?” cried Hubert. “You don’t mean to suggest——” - -“Why not?” said Julia. - -Her _fiancé_ drew in his breath. - -“If you seek sorrow on Monday, you seek it alone.” - -“Don’t be absurd,” said Julia. - -“I’m not being absurd,” raved Hubert. “The whole thing’s monstrous. One -of us is insane.” - -“I agree,” said Miss Willow. “But for me, you’d ’ve taken Hill Street. -Now I’ve shown you something better you’re all over that. On Monday——” - -“You admit it’s better?” - -“Not at all. We’ve got to make up our minds between the three. If we had -those doors gilded—— Where are you going?” - -“I’m going to some place where I can burst,” said Hubert wildly. “I -don’t want to do it here. I’ve no quarrel with your parents.” - -“Have you a quarrel with me?” - -“I soon shall have,” said Challenger, wiping his brow. “It’s -eighty-eight in the shade, I’ve walked about sixteen miles over bare -boards, and now I’m expected to sit still and watch you tear everything -up out of sheer, wanton, blasphemous caprice. It’s enough to induce a -blood-clot.” - -“Of course,” said Julia, “you’re making me simply hate South Street. -That’s my nature, you know. I’m really too easy-going. Treat me nicely, -and I’ll eat right out of your hand from morning to night. But if you -try and ram something down my throat, it just revolts me.” - -“First the truth,” said her squire, “and then the fiction. If you were -easy-going, we shouldn’t have visited over half a hundred private -residences in six days. Unless I was easy-going and a full-marks fool, I -shouldn’t have gone with you. As for——” - -“When I said ‘easy-going,’” said Julia, “I did not mean ‘indolent’ or -‘labour-shy.’” - -“And when I called you ‘capricious,’” retorted Challenger, “I meant -‘capricious’ with a well-known adverb in front.” Two red spots appeared -in Miss Willow’s cheeks. Hubert proceeded vigorously, “For Heaven’s -sake, Julia, pull up your socks. By noon on Monday I’ll bet that flat -has gone. The next fool that sees it won’t wait. And while we’re -sweating up strange staircases, wondering whether we should be wise to -have the Sloane Street doors nickel-plated or the bathrooms at Hill -Street filled in, the last word in habitations will be signed over. Then -I suppose I shall get it for being dilatory.” - -Julia rose to her feet. - -“Wrong again,” she said. “You won’t even get it for being -abusive—because you won’t be engaged.” The man’s lips tightened. “This -little episode, Hubert, has opened my eyes. And I fear that life with -you in South Street or anywhere else would be just a shade too exacting -for this little girl.” - -There was a moment’s silence. - -Then— - -“As you please,” said Hubert carelessly. - -The girl hesitated. - -“I—I’m afraid I can’t give you back your ring, because I’ve lost it.” - -“What?” - -“Lost it,” said Julia coolly. “You know. Like ‘mislaid’—only worse. I -know I had it this morning when we started out: but it was a bit big, if -you remember, and it must have slipped off.” - -Challenger swallowed violently. - -“When did you miss it?” he demanded. - -“About two minutes ago—when you first went off the deep end. I started -to take it off then, only it wasn’t there. I’ve been wondering what to -do ever since. You see, it’s never happened to me before, and for the -moment I was rather nonplussed. Then it occurred to me that, after all, -a ring’s only a symbol, and its giving or restoration purely a matter of -form—so why worry? As soon as I find it, I’ll send it you.” - -“I see,” said Hubert drily. “Well, I’m afraid I don’t quite agree. For -one thing, this happened to be rather a good, er, symbol. For another, I -might very well need it to offer to somebody else. For another, you’re -only human.” - -“What do you mean?” - -Challenger rose. - -“I mean that if the search for a symbol which is no longer symbolic, the -discovery of which will only benefit a man you dislike, is to be -seriously prosecuted, some incentive is necessary. Pending, therefore, -its return, I shall not regard our engagement, however inconvenient, as -broken off.” - -Miss Willow yawned. - -“I’m not concerned with how you regard it,” she said. - -“I’m sure of that,” said Hubert suavely. “But I think other people’s -views might interest you. Should anybody seem to think that we are no -longer engaged, I shall explain the position.” - -Speechless with indignation, Julia regarded him. - -At length— - -“I should bring an action,” she flamed, “for Breach of Promise.” - -Mournfully Hubert shook his head. - -“I’ve nothing in writing,” he said. “Besides, it’s the symbol I want. So -the correct action would be one for Detinue. I wonder which one you -dropped it in,” he added musingly. “I seem to remember some felt being -down somewhere, and it may have been there. That would account for our -not hearing it fall.” He knitted his brows. “Now, where was that -blinkin’ felt? Oh, I know. It was at The Eighty-nine Steps.” - -“Must you rush off?” said Julia shakily. - -“Must, I’m afraid,” said Hubert, opening the door. “Sleep well, -sweetheart. I’ll ring up one day next week—just to say I’m alive.” - -A moment later he let himself out of the house. - - * * * * * - -Twenty-four hours had gone by. - -“George,” said Miss Willow, “do you love me?” - -Setting his elbows upon the severing march of table-cloth, George Fulke -crowded into his eyes as much devotion as they would hold. - -“You are my star,” he said fervently. - -“Good,” said Julia. “Well, now let’s come down to earth. I wired for you -because I’m in need of a—a——” - -“Knight?” suggested George Fulke. - -“Yes, but dismounted,” said Miss Willow. “Don’t be soppy. This table -isn’t round. . . . And now listen. Entirely between you and me, I want -to break off my engagement.” - -“Julia darling!” - -“That’s better,” said Miss Willow. “Now listen again. I tell you I want -to break it, and so I do. But I can’t do it.” - -“Why on earth not?” cried Fulke. - -“Because I’ve lost my ring. It was a perfectly beautiful ring—an -enormous solitaire emerald. Heaven knows what it was worth. And of -course I can’t possibly fire Hubert without handing it back.” - -George found his moustache and pulled it respectfully. - -“But supposing,” he said, “supposing you can’t find it.” - -“I _must_ find it,” said Julia. “At least, you must.” She produced a -sheaf of papers. “There are some ‘orders to view.’ The ring’s in one of -those flats—or houses: I don’t know which. I may have dropped it in a -taxi, but I don’t think so. All you’ve got to do is to go and ask to see -over these places as if you wanted to take them. Then, while you’re -being shown round, you can look for the ring.” - -Fulke received the papers with a bewildered air. - -“I see,” he said slowly, counting. “Ten. You’ve no idea which, of -course.” - -“Not the remotest,” said Julia, sipping her coffee. “But you might find -it in the first.” - -“I might, of course,” said Fulke thoughtfully. “Have you been to -Scotland Yard?” - -“Not yet,” said Julia. - -“Well, I’ll go there first,” said George. “Just in case——” - -“No, I’ll go to Scotland Yard. You must start on the flats. There isn’t -a moment to lose. Supposing a caretaker found it.” - -“They’d probably take it to the police.” - -“They’d probably freeze on to it,” said Julia. “I know I should. It’s a -most beautiful ring.” - -Fulke drank some champagne. - -“I think,” he said uneasily, “I think when I ask to see over, I’d better -say why I’ve come.” - -“Why?” - -“Well, they’ll think I’m mad or something—staring all over the floors.” - -“Not if you do it properly. You see, my dear, you mustn’t give it away. -If you do, they won’t half show you round, and the moment you’re gone -they’ll go through the place with a tooth-comb.” - -“All right,” said Fulke gloomily. “I don’t care. Only, if I do find it -there’ll be a hell of a row. They’re bound to see me pick it up, and if -it looks as valuable as you say it is——” - -“Then you can explain,” said Julia, lighting a cigarette. “Once it’s -found, you can tell them that that’s what you came for. The great thing -is to find it.” - -“Yes, I know that,” said Fulke. “It’s the goin’ I’m thinkin’ about. If I -don’t find it, they’ll think I’m mad: if I do find it, they’ll think I’m -a thief: and if I try to explain, they’ll probably knock me down. . . . -However, if it’s going to bring you freedom . . .” - -“That’s a dear,” said Julia. - -There was a moment’s silence. - -Then— - -“Look here,” said George suddenly. “Why did you send for me?” - -Miss Willow, who had been about to drink, set down her cup. - -“Because I knew you would help.” - -“Why?” - -“Because you love me,” said Julia boldly. - -Fulke emptied his glass. - -“If I find it,” he said, “will you marry me?” - -Miss Willow started. This was not according to plan. For a moment she -thought very fast. Then— - -“You’re too young, dear,” she said gently. “You shall take me about, I -promise—until I’m engaged again. And I’ll be awfully nice. But I -couldn’t marry you, George.” - -“Then where,” said George slowly, “where do I come in?” - -There was a pregnant silence. - -At length— - -“I thought,” said Julia coldly, “that I was your star.” - -“You told me to come down to earth,” said Fulke doggedly. - -“You called yourself my knight.” - -“You told me to dismount,” was the disconcerting reply. - -“You said you loved me,” said Julia. - -“So I do. But I’ve had some. When you got engaged to Hubert, it broke me -up. And now I’m wise, Julia. I’m not going through it again.” - -“D’you mean you won’t help me?” cried Julia. - -“I’ll go to Scotland Yard.” - -There was another silence. - -“But, George darling,” purred Julia, “you don’t understand. Marriage is -merely a form—a worldly ceremony. Sooner or later every girl has to -take her place. It’s a cruel law, but then Convention is cruel—where -girls are concerned. And so I’ve got to conform. But that doesn’t mean -that I want to. My heart will always be in your care.” - -“Nothing doing,” said Fulke shortly. “You mightn’t think it, but I’ve -already got Sarah Pardoner’s and Nell Herrick’s. I reminded Sarah of -that about six weeks ago, but all she said was that she was glad it had -a good home: and when I told Nell she only shrieked with laughter and -said that if it wasn’t claimed soon I’d better sell it to defray -expenses.” - -“Of course, you’ve changed,” said Julia shakily. “You’ve become -commercial. I used to think you were the one man I knew who wasn’t out -for himself.” - -“Nor I was—once. But it’s worn off. You’ve no idea of the dirty work -I’ve done—all women’s, of course. And often enough before I was through -they’ve forgotten they asked me to do it. As for being grateful . . .” -He let the sentence go and struck a match with great violence. “Look at -Madrigal Chichele,” he added. - -“What about Madrigal?” - -“She told me she was tied up for money and wanted to raffle her Rolls, -and would I sell the tickets, as it was awkward for her? Well, I went to -no end of trouble. Got the car photographed and went all over the place -selling tickets at a quid a time. I touched people all over the -Continent—complete strangers. Once a week I wrote to Madrigal to say -how I was getting on. One day I ran into her in Bond Street. ‘Oh,’ says -she, ‘I’ve been meaning to write to you, George. I’ve sold the car.’” - -“What did you say?” said Julia, struggling with laughter. - -“I don’t know what I said,” said George wearily. “I know I damned near -died there and then. I tried to explain it was fraud: but she said that -was all rot, and that it often happened, and that all I had to do was to -give the money back.” - -“How—how many tickets had you sold?” said Julia tearfully. - -“Over six hundred,” said Fulke. “Half of them haven’t seen their -money—never will see it. I don’t know where they are. I tell you, -complete strangers came in on the deal. I’m afraid to go abroad. . . . -Well, that sort of thing’s learned me. I like to know where I am and -where I come in.” - -“But I can’t say I’ll marry you, George. I’m engaged to Hubert.” - -Fulke handed the papers back. - -“Sorry,” he said, “but this is no ordinary job. If you wanted me to take -you to Goodwood or Lords or The Zoo or something like that, I should be -tickled to death. But I’m not giving any more pints of my blood away.” - -“George,” pleaded Julia, “you’re not going to let me down.” - -“I shouldn’t think of such a thing,” said Fulke. “But I’m not going to -help you out of one preserve into another. It’s not good enough. You -seem to forget I love you.” - -“But if the ring isn’t found I shall have to marry him. D’you want me to -do that?” - -George shrugged his shoulders. - -“Hubert’s all right,” he said. “I’d just as soon it was him as somebody -else. I rather like Hubert.” - -Miss Willow sat back in her chair and regarded her hands. These were -small and beautifully shaped. She remembered that Hubert had once said -that he would rather kiss her fingers than any other woman’s lips. -Suddenly it occurred to her that she rather liked Hubert too. . . . - -Of course, his behaviour had been monstrous. It had been very hot, -certainly. Abnormally hot. But that was no excuse. Still. . . . He had -had no right to do it—not a shadow of right, but he had spoken the -truth. She _had_ been outrageously capricious—for the love of the -thing. She had meant to pull his leg, and had twisted his tail. She had -deliberately devilled him just to see how far she could go: and, before -she knew where she was, she had gone too far. . . . Of course, that was -no excuse. Still . . . - -Suddenly she remembered that Hubert had a game leg. - -All those miles with a knee that wasn’t sound, that, when it was tired, -hurt. . . . And he had never pleaded it . . . never so much as -referred. . . . - -And George Fulke was demanding to occupy Hubert’s stall. . . . George -Fulke . . . - -Julia sat up in her chair and picked up the reins. - -“What are your terms?” she said. - -“Marriage,” said George laconically. “Our engagement to be announced -within one month of yours and Hubert’s being called off. Then I’ll -spread myself, Julia. Hang it, I shall have something to sweat for.” - -“Of course you’re spoiled,” said Miss Willow. “Utterly spoiled.” - -“In other words, I’m not such a mug as I was. Well, you can thank Sarah -and Co. for that.” - -“D’you still pretend you love me?” - -“I’m mad about you,” said George. “It’s just because I’m so mad that I -can’t and won’t go and hand you to somebody else. Why, I’d—I’d never -get over it.” - -“But if this is how we get engaged, what will our marriage be like?” - -“Julia,” said Fulke earnestly, “I’ll do you a blinkin’ treat. I really -will. You know me pretty well, and you know it isn’t my nature to want -to see your money before I deliver the goods. I’m only doing it now in -self-defence. If you’d been stung like me, you’d be doing it too. Once -I’ve got you I’ll never bargain again.” - -“Would you be kind to me, George?” - -In a trembling voice George protested that he would be insanely kind. - -“Very well,” said Julia, returning the ‘orders to view.’ “I accept your -terms. Find the ring, and a month after my engagement to Hubert’s been -officially cancelled——” - -“Oh, you darling!” said Fulke rapturously. - -“Hush,” said Julia. “You’re not there yet, you know. Listen. There’s a -house with no end of stairs in Prince’s Gardens. I think I should try -that first. But between the others there’s really nothing to choose.” - -“Good,” said Fulke enthusiastically. - -That Julia was as wise as she was pretty is a true saying. But, what is -more to the point, she was wiser than Fulke. - -George made an admirable swain. As a husband, he would have been a -complete failure. This was generally recognized. Mrs. Pardoner had seen -it, and so had Mrs. Herrick. Miss Willow was no whit less shrewd. -Besides . . . - -When, therefore, she accepted his terms, she knew what he did not -suspect—that of his innocence he had left her a loophole of dimensions -so ample that it was resembling a grand entrance. - -In a word, while she very much wanted her ring—it being a beautiful -gaud and of great value—she had not the slightest intention of becoming -disengaged. - -That Fulke’s cake, then, was dough is perfectly plain. - -Secured by this comfortable reflection, Miss Willow was in very good -cue. The bargain struck, George had recaptured his former excellence and -had made very seasonable love. She held great expectation of his finding -the ring, and was more than thankful to be spared the grisly ordeal of -revisiting her haunts of Saturday upon such a delicate quest. As for -Hubert, her peace must be made with honour: but that, she decided, -should not be difficult. Indeed, by the time she had parted with George -and was once more at home she had become quite hopeful that Hubert would -make the first move. - -The sight of a note addressed in his well-known hand set the seal upon -her content. - -She opened it with a faint smile. - - _MY DEAR JULIA,_ - - _I’m afraid I didn’t play the game yesterday evening._ - - _What does the rotten ring matter? It’s served its turn. If it - doesn’t turn up, let it lie. If it does, keep it ‘with my love.’ - Any old way I’ve written to_ The Times, _telling them to insert - the usual notice. You know. ‘The marriage arranged, etc., will - not take place.’_ - - _Yours,_ - _HUBERT._ - -After one frightful moment, Julia fell upon the telephone. - -Two minutes later she was curtly informed that Captain Challenger was -out of town. - - * * * * * - -“It’s no good you seein’ over,” said the porter at Sloane Street. “The -flat’s took.” - -“I see,” said George thoughtfully. “I see. It—it wasn’t took—taken on -Saturday.” - -“Oo said it was?” said the porter, who was of the new school. - -George felt for a note. - -“Look here,” he said. “I want to see over this flat. I don’t care -whether it’s taken or whether it isn’t. I think it’ll just suit -me—provided the floors are good.” - -“They aren’t,” said the porter. “They’re rotten.” - -George swallowed. - -“Well, you let me see for myself. If you’re busy, you needn’t come. You -won’t lose by it, you know,” and with that he fingered a note. - -The porter leaned against the wall. - -“Now, wot are you gettin’ at?” he demanded. - -“Nothing,” said George indignantly. “I just want to see that flat. From -what—what I’ve heard, it’ll suit me down to the ground.” - -“But I tell you it’s took.” - -“That doesn’t matter,” said George. “If it suits me I’ll square the -other fellow somehow.” - -The porter looked George up and down. - -As if without thinking, George reinforced the note. - -“Yes, that’s all right,” said the porter. “I see the two ’alf-quids. But -I’m goin’ to get into trouble over this show. Once a flat’s took, it’s -took. I ain’t got no business to let you inside.” - -“No one need know,” said George thoughtlessly. - -“Yes, they need,” said the porter. “Wot if you wants to ’ave it? The -firs’ thing the agent’ll say is, ‘’Ow did you get inside?’” - -George began to hate the porter very much. - -“That’s easy enough,” he said. “I shall say I saw it on Saturday -afternoon.” - -There was a silence. - -“Let’s ’ave a look at that ‘order,’” said the porter suddenly. - -For the ninth time that day an ‘order to view’ passed. - -“Are you Keptin Chellenger?” - -“That’s right,” said George boldly. - -The porter folded the ‘order’ and put it away. - -“Right-oh,” he said shortly. - -They passed to the second floor. . . . - -“This is the ’all,” said the porter supererogatively. - -“I see,” said George, raking the floor with his eyes. “It’s—it’s not -very light, is it?” - -“Depen’s wot you want to see,” was the dark reply. - -George began to wish that he had given Sloane Street a miss. - -That the porter’s suspicions were aroused was manifest. He stuck to -Fulke as a policeman sticks to his prey. Thus embarrassed, the latter’s -endeavours to behave like a prospective tenant lost much of the life -which they had begun to acquire, while any proper prosecution of his -search was out of the question. The tour of the gaunt rooms became a -hideous business—costly, futile, critical. What he should do in the -actual event of discovery, Fulke tried not to consider. He supposed -vaguely that there would be a free fight. All the time an inexplicable -feeling that he was what children call ‘warm’ pricked the unhappy youth -into the cannon’s mouth. . . . - -Presently they came to the bathroom. - -This was laid with cork carpet of dark green hue. Falling upon it, a -ring would hardly be heard: lying upon it, an emerald might well escape -detection. - -Fulke’s eyes almost left his head. - -The chamber was small enough, but one’s view of the floor was -obstructed. The basin got in the way: the bath could have hidden about -five hundred rings. - -Frantically George sought an excuse for dalliance. - -“I—I like this room,” he said, looking up and around as though he were -in a cathedral. - -“No accountin’ for tastes,” said the porter, folding his arms. - -Fulke frowned. - -Then he tapped the linoleum with his foot. - -“Does this go with the flat?” he said. - -“Wot?” said the porter, staring. - -“This linoleum.” - -The porter eyed Fulke with a supreme contempt. - -“Oh, less of it,” he said. “Ten feet o’ secon’-’and lino in a -six-’undred-quid flat. An’ you ask if it goes. Why, it ain’t worth——” - -“I happen to know something about linoleum,” lied Fulke furiously. “Why, -if I told the Stores to put a new piece down, they’d charge me about ten -pounds.” - -“Would they, though?” said the porter. “They must ’ave got your number.” - -There was an unpleasant silence. - -At length— - -“I—I take it the bath works all right,” said George desperately. - -“It don’t leak,” said the porter, “if that’s wot you mean.” - -Once more George looked round, racking his brain and trying to remember -that one day the porter would die. - -Then he turned to the basin and pushed back his cuffs. - -“I think I’ll wash my hands,” he announced. “Can you get me a towel?” - -“An’ then you’re wrong,” said the porter. “There ain’t no water.” - -George could have broken his neck. - -Instead, he turned to the window, trying to keep his head and wondering -vaguely what constituted ‘justifiable homicide.’ - -Suddenly the idea flashed, and he swung on his heel. - -“Who’s that?” he said sharply, and listened. - -The porter started. - -“Ooze wot?” he said. - -“Somebody closed the front door.” - -The porter slipped out of the room and tiptoed towards the hall. - -Instantly George fell upon his face. . . . - -He had one arm beneath the bath when the porter reappeared. - -“Thort as much,” said the latter, “you young cunnin’ brute. An’ now I -’ave got yer—cold. You’re for it, my son. I wouldn’ give much fer your -chances. ’Tempt ter commit a felony—that’s wot it is. Stolen ‘order to -view’—passin’ yerself orf as Keptin Chellenger—temptin’ ter bribe -. . . _an’ all fer a little green stone as don’ belong to yer_.” - -George extricated his arm and rose to his feet. - -“Don’t be a fool,” he said shortly. “When was it found?” - -The porter entered the bathroom and approached to Fulke’s a perfectly -furious countenance. - -“‘Fool’?” he breathed. “‘Fool’ did joo say?” - -George recoiled, and the face proportionately advanced. Its eyes were -blazing: its chin protruded out of all reason. - -“You ’as the blarsted nerve to call me a fool. You ’as——” - -There was not much room to duck, but Fulke did it. - -As the fist sang over his shoulder, he landed a vicious punch. - -The porter staggered backwards. Then the porcelain rim caught him under -the hocks, and it was all over. - -As he fell into the bath, George slid out of the room and, finding a key -in the door, turned it gratefully. - -A moment later he was streaking up Sloane Street. . . . - - * * * * * - -It was, perhaps, ten minutes later that Julia, frantic, ran Hubert -Challenger to earth. - -“Hubert, where have you been?” - -“Hurlingham,” said Hubert calmly. “How lovely you look.” - -“Not all day?” - -“Very nearly. I came up to town this morning, did one or two jobs of -work and——” - -“At your rooms they said you were in Bucks: at Bucks they said you were -in town: I wired to each of your clubs and half the restaurants in -London: I——” - -“You also warned the barber,” said Hubert. “Only a genius would have -thought of that. I’ve come straight along.” - -“Can you stop that notice going in?” - -“With the acme of ease,” said Hubert. “I haven’t posted the letter.” - -“But you said——” - -“I said I’d written, dear. I didn’t say I’d posted it.” - -Torn between relief and indignation, Julia felt rather faint. - -“Hubert,” she said weakly, sinking on to the arm of a chair, “I may tell -you you’ve shortened my life. Last night I dined with George Fulke.” - -“Naturally,” said Hubert, sitting down. “They all do. As a second -string, George’s position is unique. And I’m glad you did. I rather like -George.” - -“Well, I don’t,” said Julia. “He’s—he’s utterly spoiled.” - -“In other words,” said Hubert, “he’s getting wise. Don’t say he’s done -it on you.” - -“He behaved abominably. I told him to find the ring. D’you know he -actually tried to bargain with me?” - -“Quite right too,” said Hubert. “Why shouldn’t he have a look in? What -was his price?” - -“Only me,” said Julia. “If he found the ring I was to marry him.” - -Challenger nodded approval. - -“It is clear,” he said, “that George is finding himself. What did you -say?” - -“I said that if he found the ring he could announce our engagement one -month after yours and mine had been cancelled.” - -Challenger opened his eyes. - -“You must like George very much.” - -“I wouldn’t be seen dead with him.” - -“Then where,” said Hubert, “is the snag?” - -Julia hesitated. - -“I—I said ‘officially cancelled.’ You know. Put in _The Times_. But I -never meant it to be done. I—I thought we could just tell people.” - -“Oh, what a dirty one,” said Hubert. - -“It wasn’t at all,” said Julia indignantly. “Besides, he asked for it. -He tried to do me down. . . . And then—then I got your letter.” - -“Ah,” said Hubert. “That shortened George’s price.” - -“It was two to one on him,” cried Julia. “You’d disappeared: he’d only -to find the ring—and that he did, my dear, quite early this morning.” -She held up a delicate finger, at once adorning and adorned by a -magnificent gem. “A messenger-boy——” - -Challenger looked down his nose. - -“As a matter of fact, he was scratched at half-past nine. I found the -symbol, my lady, and sent it along.” - -Julia started to her feet. - -“_You_—found—it?” - -“I,” said Hubert, “with my little eye. I found the ring. I happened upon -it, as they say, in the course of a job of work.” - -“Where?” - -Challenger rose to his feet. - -“Julia,” he said, “after the barber had cleansed me I was going to call -upon you. I was going to beg your pardon and ask you very humbly to have -another dart. I don’t want to stimy George, but I’ve taken Sloane Street -on a seven years’ lease, and——” - -“Hubert, you haven’t!” - -“Why not, dear? I took it first thing this morning, and, being so close, -I just felt round for the ring. There it was—in the midst of the -bathroom. I gave the porter a fiver just for luck, and——” - -“But, Hubert, I’ve taken South Street.” - -“_Julia!_” - -Miss Willow nodded. Then she put out her hands, and Challenger caught -them in his. - -“You were perfectly right,” she said. “You always are. South Street is -incomparable. And I thought, perhaps, if you didn’t think me too -capricious to live with . . . in South Street . . .” - -“My blessed darling,” said Hubert, with his cheek against hers. “My -beautiful——” - -Here the telephone stammered an interruption. - -Challenger kissed his lady. Then he lifted his head. - -“George,” he said, “for a monkey.” - -Miss Willow picked up the receiver. - -“Is that you, Julia?” cried Fulke. - -“Oh, George,” said Miss Willow, “I am so glad you rang up. I want you to -do something for me.” - -There was a choking noise. - -At length— - -“Not—not really?” said Fulke hysterically. “What about the ring?” - -“Oh, I’ve got the ring all right. This is instead. Among those ‘orders’ -I gave you was one for a flat in Sloane Street. We took it this morning, -but now we’ve seen one we like better. Will you go and tell the porter -to go on showing the flat? Just mention Hubert’s name, and—— Hullo, -hullo! Are you there? Are you there?” - -But George had rung off. - -And now Julia Challenger has superseded Madrigal Chichele. - - - - - TITUS - - - TITUS - -“I tell you,” said Titus, “you should have married money.” - -“If you like to put it that way,” said Mrs. Cheviot, “there’s nothing to -stop you.” - -“My dear,” said her husband, “it happens to be the truth. Three thousand -a year’s no earthly use to you.” - -“It would be if I had my share.” - -Titus took out a note-book and put a glass in his eye. - -“This is May,” he announced. “The twelfth of May. I don’t know exactly -how much you consider your share, but since the beginning of the year -you’ve had seven hundred and ninety for clothes alone.” - -“You would write it down,” said Blanche contemptuously. - -“If you mean that it’s like me,” said Cheviot, “that isn’t true. But -we’ve had these discussions before, and the absence of any figures has -materially helped your case. In the first place, I’ve always put it too -low—to be on the safe side. In the second, you’ve always sworn that I -put it too high.” - -“I suppose you want me to be dressed.” - -Titus took down his eyeglass and put his note-book away. - -“You were clothed,” he said, “as a spinster. I remember it perfectly. -But two hundred a year was all you had to do it on.” - -“Are you suggesting——” - -“I’m suggesting nothing,” said Cheviot. “I’m pointing out hard facts.” - -“I suppose you consider you’re very generous.” - -“Well, I don’t think I’m stingy. Seven hundred and ninety quid in less -than——” - -“It would interest me to know what you consider my share.” - -“I don’t know,” said Titus. “I don’t pretend to know. The flat and the -car cost about eighteen hundred. I spend about a hundred——” - -“We could live much more cheaply,” said Blanche. - -“I don’t quite see why we should.” - -“Exactly. You choose the style in which we live. If we spent less money -on that, we should have more money to spend on other things.” - -“Such as clothes,” said Titus. “What a truly solemn thought. Never mind. -You chose the flat when I was out of town. And the car.” - -“Because I knew you wouldn’t be content with anything else.” - -“In fact, you sank your wishes to do me pleasure?” - -“I did—like a fool,” said Blanche. - -“You covered it up very well,” said Cheviot. “When the flat in St. -James’s fell through, you cried all night. And that was more expensive.” - -“It’s no good talking,” said Blanche. “You don’t understand. In -America——” - -“I know,” said Titus. “I know. In America you’d have four-fifths of my -income, and I should pay for your furs. All I can say is I’m damned glad -I’m English.” - -“In America men work.” - -“Is that your trouble? Well, I’ve worked pretty hard in my time and I’m -forty-two. Moreover, I’ve got a game leg. Never mind. What about the -car?” - -“Well, what about it?” said Blanche defiantly. - -“This,” said her husband. “You say that you chose it because you knew -that I should not be content with anything else. Do you remember the car -I used to have?” - -“Did you expect me to go about in that?” - -Cheviot sighed. - -“I expected nothing,” he said. “That is the art of life. Then you don’t -feel such a mug when you find a wiggle-woggle in your grease.” - -Mrs. Cheviot shuddered. - -“Need you be disgusting?” she said. - -“I need,” said Titus violently. “Dudgeon will out. For the last nine -months I’ve fought like a super-fiend to keep our home together, and -here you are doin’ your level best to break it up. I love you. I want -you to blaze. I want you to put it across all other Eves. But you -_have_—you _do_—you can’t help it. The clothes you wear don’t count. -If you wore a set of loose covers, you’d get there just the same. But -will you see it? No. Somehow you’ve made up your mind you’ve got to -splurge.” He jumped to his feet and started to pace the room. “Well, if -you must, you shall—on eight hundred a year. I can’t spring another -cent. You talk about living cheaper—cutting out the flat and the car. -But what’s the use of sables if you live an’ move in Clapham an’ have to -come up by tram? Don’t think I care—I don’t. But how will it help you -on? To get your effect you must soak in a bit all round. If you want the -fun of the fair, you must split up your pence. If you blue them all on -the swings, you can’t go on the roundabouts.” - -“Who said ‘live in Clapham’?” said Blanche. - -“I did,” said Titus. “I also said ‘come up by tram,’ an’ I meant what I -said. Your words were ‘live much more cheaply.’ Did you mean what you -said?” - -“I didn’t say ‘pig it,’” said Mrs. Cheviot. - -“They don’t pig it in Clapham,” said Titus. “They live much better than -us. But they live much more cheaply too—for obvious reasons. They don’t -feed five servants for one thing—they’ve too much sense.” - -“We must keep our end up,” said Blanche. “The Willoughbys have started a -second chauffeur. At least, they’re trying to find one.” - -“They’d better have ours,” said Titus. “If we cut out the car——” - -“Don’t be a fool,” said Blanche. “We must have a car and we must have a -decent address. We must be served, and I must be well turned out. -If——” - -“Exactly,” said Titus. “Now let’s translate that saying. What you really -mean is, ‘We must have a Rolls, and I won’t live West of Park Lane. We -must have at least five servants, and I’ve got to dress accordin’ an’ a -big bit over.’ Well, that’s all glorious, but the brutal answer’s this. -Someone once said in his thirst that to get a quart into a pint pot was -beyond the power of miserable man. Well, the converse is equally -melancholy and equally true. The man who can get a quart _out of_ a pint -pot has never been foaled—or if he has, my dear, his name’s not Titus. -And there we are. We’ve three thousand pounds a year—to spend. If you -can divide it by ten an’ get six hundred for answer, I’ll climb up the -nearest steeple an’ push myself off.” He flung himself into a chair and -put his head in his hands. “I’m not certain that wouldn’t be the best -move, any way. Then at least you wouldn’t——” - -“Ti, Ti, how can you talk like that?” Blanche was down on her knees with -her arms round her husband’s neck. “I’m a selfish sweep, Ti, and you’re -an angel.” - -“Rot!” said her husband, taking her in his arms. - -“I am, I am. It’s the truth. You give, and I take—all the time. I take -and take and take. What fun do you have? None. Every penny you can -spare—more goes on my back. And then when we’re up against it I kick -and scream. Ti, I’m ashamed of myself.” - -“I can’t bear it,” said Titus brokenly. “Why shouldn’t you have a show?” - -“I do—I have. You give me a wonderful show. Everything I’ve wanted I’ve -always had. There isn’t a husband like you in all the world. You’ve -given up thing after thing—you know you have. You never hunt now, you -wear the same old suits, you’ve chucked the Bath and the Bachelors’——” - -“Never went inside ’em,” muttered Titus. “What was the good of——” - -“You gave them up to save money—for me to blow. And I—I let you do it. -I traded upon your love. I let you go hungry whilst I was bolting your -share. And then . . .” Blanche covered her face and burst into tears. -“I’m a rotten thief,” she sobbed, “a rotten, selfish——” - -“Blanche, my lady,” begged Titus, “don’t cry about me. It’s amused me to -death to give you what little I could. It’s been my delight to see you -enjoying life. And when you say I’ve let you drink my liquor it isn’t -true. I’ve done myself proud all the time.” - -“You’ve given up cigars,” wailed Blanche. “And you swapped your one -pearl pin for an arrow to go in my hat.” - -“Have a heart, my beauty, have a heart. You’re the only thing I’ve got, -and if it gives me pleasure to——” - -“I asked for ‘my share,’ Ti. I actually asked for ‘my share.’ Why didn’t -you get up and shake me when I asked for ‘my share’?” - -“I damned near did,” said Titus. “But it seemed a pity to disturb -you—you looked so sweet. Half on an’ half off the table, with your -precious chin exalted and a couple of hands in your lap. I don’t wonder -I’m mad about you.” - -Blanche continued to weep violently, refusing to be comforted. Titus sat -down beside her and did what he could. The terrier, greatly distressed, -alternately nosed his patrons and lay on his back before them with his -paws in the air. . . . - -Presently the telephone-bell began to throb. - -Titus left the room to reply to the call. - -Once outside the door, he covered his eyes. - -“It’s coming,” he said brokenly. “‘There isn’t a husband like you in all -the world.’ That’s what she said. Oh, my blessed darling, our summer’s -coming again.” - -Titus had wooed a lady that loved him heart and soul and had married one -that had come to love only herself. This was his own fault. Blanche -Dudoy Guest was a darling, and he had spoiled her to death. - -Their engagement had been childishly happy—a glorious summer of -content. Then they were married less than a year ago, and instantly -winter had set in. - -Titus did what he could and, though he was no fool, made a pack of -mistakes. This was easy. Blanche out of humour was the devil and all. -The winter, which had never been kindly, began to grow harsh. - -With it all, the man never lost heart. - -He could not believe that his darling was gone for good, that the -selfish woman of the world usurping her throne would not one day be -dislodged. He told himself fiercely that one day summer would -return—that peerless season when she had returned his love and had -cared for the light in his eyes. - -And now, for the first time since their marriage, Blanche had shown him -affection though he brought her no gift. More. The darling had turned -and rent the woman of the world. - -It was the first swallow. - -Summer was coming back. - -When Titus re-entered the room, his wife, who was stroking the terrier, -looked up with shining eyes. - -“I’ve got it, old fellow,” she said. “I know what my trouble is. I’ve -nothing to do.” - -Titus Cheviot stared. - -“This is reaction,” he said. “You stay where you are, sweetheart, and -I’ll get you a drink.” - -“No, it isn’t,” said Blanche. “I’m sane as sane. I’ve not been happy, -you know—splashing about. That’s really why I splurged. I felt if I -went all out perhaps I’d get there. I haven’t, of course. You never do. -That way there’s nowhere to get. Then again—without an anchor I’m -frightfully weak. I’m not a waster by nature, but put me among the -wasters and I’ll waste away. I must have an anchor, Ti—an object in -life. When you first knew me I had one. It was—to marry you. Then I -lost that anchor . . . last June . . . in Eaton Square. . . . Since then -. . . Ti, my dear, I’m going to open a shop.” - -“Moses’ boots,” said Titus, sitting down on a chair. “What are you going -to purvey?” - -“Brains,” said Blanche. “My brains. And yours, if you will. It’ll cost -us next to nothing except the rent. And we ought to make that on our -heads. If we make no more, it doesn’t matter. I shall have something to -do. But we must have a decent pitch.” - -“Of course,” said Titus, “of course you’ve got me beat. I thought you -sold brains by the pound.” - -“Ideas, my darling, ideas. _The Cheviots, Decorators._ We’ve each got an -excellent eye. You can do the halls and libraries, and I’ll do the -drawing-rooms. We shall be frightfully _chic_ and outrageously -expensive. But we must have a decent pitch.” - -Titus put a hand to his head. - -“I don’t know about the _chic_,” he said dazedly, “but I shall be -expensive all right. I’m sure of that. Almost costly. By the time -they’ve paid me a tenner and then paid somebody else two tenners to rub -it all out and do it again——” - -“A tenner?” cried Blanche. “Why, you won’t look at a room under fifty -guineas.” - -“Oh, here’s wickedness! Here’s fraud and everything! Fifty guineas to -_me_ to look at a room? Why, it’s almost burglary.” - -“Not at all,” said Blanche stoutly. “If they don’t like your taste, -that’s their funeral. They shouldn’t have bought it. But they will. -You’ve a splendid eye. Besides, they won’t know any better. And we must -ask a wicked price, otherwise no one will buy. The world takes you at -your own valuation—always. I forget who said that, but he knew. -Besides, we must become the vogue: and you can’t do that unless you’re -irrationally dear. Once you’re off it’s too easy. People will simply -love to be able to say, ‘This is a Cheviot room,’ because it’ll be -tantamount to saying, ‘I’m so rich that I blued a hundred on this room -before ever the paper went up.’” - -“It’s a hundred now,” said Titus. “I’m getting all hot in the palms. -Never mind. Ramp or no, I’m beginnin’ to see your point. An’, to tell -you the truth, I could do with a bit of work—nice, gentle exercise, you -know, entailing extended week-ends and entirely suspended during the -more important race-meetings.” - -“That’s the idea,” said Blanche. “Now what about a pitch?” - -Her husband looked down his nose. - -“That telephone-call was from Forsyth. He wants to know if I’ll take -five hundred a year for——” - -Blanche leaped to her feet. - -“Not 68, Old Bond Street?” - -Titus nodded. - -“Only the shop, you know. The rest of it’s let. Nearly half our income -comes from that little old house.” - -Blanche danced across the room and took his face in her hands. - -“It’s kept us long enough.” She bent and kissed him. “Let’s keep it -instead.” - - * * * * * - -Had the Cheviots opened a shop because they _had_ to make money, they -would almost certainly have failed. For one thing, that fair-weather -friend, Confidence, would have let them down. As it was, entering the -arena of Commerce to kill a time which was waxing obstreperous and being -not at all desirous of too extensive a _clientèle_, they were -immediately successful beyond all understanding. This, in a way, was no -more than they deserved. To say that they did things in style conveys -nothing at all. Within one week of the cold June morning when the -curtain rose upon 68, Old Bond Street, the name of Cheviot had become a -household word. It had become a synonym for ‘_de luxe_.’ - -The window was admirably dressed. - -Standing upon the pavement, you seemed to be peering into a library. -Eight feet from the front yawned a tremendous chimney-piece of chiselled -stone, topped by a black oak screen and flanked by shelves laden with -precious books. Upon the hearth well-wrought andirons bore a fair fire -of logs which flamed and glowed engagingly. A broad, low club-kerb, -covered in scarlet, compassed the fireplace, and upon a Kulah hearth-rug -of unusual beauty a mighty leather chair, patently bursting with -philanthropy—the very lap of Luxury—sprawled in the colours of a -cardinal. By the head of the chair rose a slender pillar of bronze, -bearing a lamp, and by its side, within reach of any that sat upon such -a throne, a massive oaken table carried the decent furniture of drink. -There were cigarettes there, too, and an ashtray, and, what was more -important, an open book. Who passed might read. - - A CHEVIOT ROOM - - THAT IS TO SAY, - A ROOM DECORATED ACCORDING TO - THE ADVICE OF - - CHEVIOT’S - (FOUNDED 1930) - -From time to time hangings on the left parted to admit the pink of -footmen, who added fuel to the fire and swept and garnished the hearth -before retiring. So soon as it was dusk the footman switched on the -lamp, which was heavily shaded. Save for the flickering fire, this was -the sole illuminant. Not until half-past eight were the window curtains -drawn and ‘the Cheviot room’ veiled from curious gaze. - -The door of the shop admitted to a stately entrance-hall, paved with -black and white marble, panelled with old grey oak, invisibly lit. Four -aged chancel stalls, each dight with a crimson cushion, faced a pair of -huge oak doors hung in the opposite wall. On the left, a superb triptych -of the Flemish School surmounted a carved oak chest; on the right, a -tall case clock rose between two panels which suggested the brush of -Dürer. Upon the ceiling was stencilled a golden cipher, whose interlaced -initials seemed to be T.B.C. In the centre of the hall was a table, and -by the table a bench, heavily carved and bearing a cushion covered with -crimson brocade. - -To such as entered the shop a footman immediately appeared and, -conducting them to the table, respectfully drew their attention to an -ivory horn-book inlaid with ebony lettering. - - UPON REQUEST MR. OR MRS. CHEVIOT WILL VISIT YOUR HOUSE TO SURVEY - THE ROOM YOU MAY WISH TO DECORATE. - - THEIR OPINION WILL BE SENT TO YOU THE DAY AFTER THEIR VISIT HAS - BEEN PAID. - - NEITHER FOR THEIR VISIT NOR FOR THEIR OPINION WILL ANY CHARGE BE - MADE. - - UPON FURTHER REQUEST MR. OR MRS. CHEVIOT WILL REVISIT YOUR HOUSE - WHEN THE WORK HAS BEEN COMPLETED AND, PROVIDED THE DECORATION IS - TO THEIR SATISFACTION, WILL BE PREPARED TO AFFIX TO THE CEILING - THE BADGE OR CIPHER WHICH ALONE WILL ENTITLE THE CHAMBER TO BE - STYLED ‘A CHEVIOT ROOM.’ - - THEIR FEE FOR AFFIXING THE CIPHER IS FIFTY GUINEAS. - - THE INSCRIPTION OF YOUR NAME AND ADDRESS IN THE VOLUME UPON THE - TABLE WILL BE TAKEN AS A REQUEST TO VISIT YOUR HOUSE. - - SHOULD A REQUEST TO REVISIT BE RECEIVED, YOUR ENTRY WILL BE - WAFERED. - -It will be seen that the Cheviots knew their world. - -They were, in fact, purveying pomps and vanity, admirably camouflaged to -resemble virtu and guaranteed to afford the purchaser a feeling of -warmth upon every remembrance of their possession. - -They were also effectually exploiting moral cowardice. - -Few, having read the terms, felt able to surprise the footman, who -plainly took it for granted that an entry would be made in the book and -had been specially chosen for his wholly respectful yet stern and -compelling personality: and none, having registered therein, had the -courage to allow their name to stand unwafered and so proclaim their -disregard of what could only be regarded as a debt of honour. - -They had luck, of course. - -That the first person to enter the shop should have been Mrs. Drinkabeer -Stoat was sheer good fortune. - -Extremely rich, a firm believer in display and the accumulation of -worldly goods, the lady was secretly tormented by an anxiety lest such -as beheld her possessions should form too low an estimate of their value -as recorded by her pass-book: and since she delighted to maintain that -the advertisement of payments made was the essence of vulgarity, much of -her time was given to the contrivance of apparently innocent references -to her latest extravagance from which should emerge such data as would -enable and induce all within earshot to form an accurate opinion of what -it had cost. - -There being many of Mrs. Stoat’s school, it follows that that lady’s -patronage was worth a leader in _The Times_. - -Be sure she declared it from the housetops. - -“A long-felt want,” she boomed. “The moment I entered the shop I felt at -home. At first I couldn’t think why. Suddenly it occurred to -me—_style_. The Cheviots can visualize style. My dear, I could have -wept with relief. When I think of how I implored Bucher’s to do the -drawing-room in dove grey . . . I almost went down on my knees, but they -wouldn’t listen. Blanche Cheviot comes to survey it, and what’s the -first thing she says? ‘Dove grey.’ I’ve just sent her opinion to -Bucher’s and told them to carry it out.” - -And so on. - -It was, of course, but natural that Titus should lose his nerve. - -When, upon being shown the first day’s entries, he perceived ‘requests -to survey’ one library and two halls, he appeared for some moments to -have lost the power of speech. Then he gave tongue. . . . - -Mercifully the storm broke behind closed doors. - -“I refuse,” he raged. “It’s criminally insane, and I won’t touch it. -‘Decorate a hall.’ I couldn’t decorate a bear-pit. An’ if I did, the -bears wouldn’t work. They’d get egg-bound or something.” - -“Now, don’t be silly,” purred Blanche. “It’s the easiest——” - -“I’m not being silly,” raved Titus. “I’m simply announcing my -limitations. I tell you, it’s out of the question. _I cannot decorate._” - -“Nobody’s asking you to decorate,” said Mrs. Cheviot. “All you’ve got to -do is to look at a room.” - -Titus inspired. - -“Let’s be honest,” he said. “I don’t mean with the public. On the eve of -assisting to launch one of the biggest outputs of treachery ever dreamt -of, that would be hypocritical. But let us be frank with ourselves. I -say I cannot decorate. By that I mean that I am totally incapable of -conceiving any conjunction of garniture which would not irritate or -frighten all who beheld its execution.” - -“That,” said Blanche, “is because you’ve never tried. As a matter of -fact, you’ve got an excellent eye.” - -“No, you don’t,” said Titus. “My vanity’s in balk. I tell you——” - -“My darling,” said Mrs. Cheviot, “if I wasn’t sure of you I’d be -frightened to death. More. Unless I knew you were safe, I wouldn’t let -you touch the business with the end of a broken reed. I’m out to get -right away, Ti.” Her husband’s eyelids flickered, and a hand went up to -his mouth. “I don’t want to persevere and do my best to please. There -aren’t any stairs in my scheme—only an elevator that doesn’t know how -to stop. Well, if I couldn’t trust my partner, d’you think I’d let him -out?” - -Titus Cheviot shifted in his chair. - -“It’s all damned fine, old lady, but I’ve no ideas. If I’m paid to say a -room’s bad, I’ll say it’s poisonous. But when they say, ‘Very well, my -bright and bonny. Poisonous it is. Now show us a better ’ole’—I—I -shall come all unstuck.” - -“Not you,” said Blanche. “Besides, you mustn’t criticize. Don’t say -anything is poisonous, for goodness’ sake. We don’t want to be hauled up -for libel. The existing decoration you entirely ignore. You simply walk -into a room. Don’t slide in. Stroll in and take a look round. If it -isn’t panelled you’re off. Panelling always looks well. Then you——” - -“Supposing it is panelled.” - -“Then you decide it’s too dark. It probably is. So you make a note for -the walls to be done in canary.” - -“There you are,” said Titus. “It’s nothing to you. I should never have -thought of canary in fifty years. Any fool can look at a room. The thing -is to think of canary. I can think of a red or a green, but——” - -“What’s the matter with red?” said Mrs. Cheviot. “A rich wine colour. -Think of a library done in the colour of port. What goes with port?” - -“Gout,” said Titus. “I mean, mahogany.” - -“Good. Port-coloured walls—mahogany doors with massive silver -handles—glass mantelpiece—biscuit-coloured ceiling and paint-work, and -there you are. What could be better?” - -“That’s an idea,” said Cheviot. “Reproductions of familiar -circumstances. Golf, for instance. Nice, soft green walls—sand-yellow -doors and windows—white ceiling checked—mantelpiece of burnished -steel. What? Oh, an’ two or three texts.” - -“Simply maddening,” cried Blanche, laughing. “And you say you’ve no -ideas.” She raised her brown eyes to heaven. “And now that’s settled. By -the way, never open your mouth while you’re in the place. Always wait -till——” - -“Don’t you worry,” said Titus. “I don’t want to be assaulted before my -time. No _viva voces_ for me. They can bite the opinion if they like, -but——” - -“They’re more likely to have it framed,” said Mrs. Cheviot. - -The lady was perfectly right. - -At the end of three weeks Blanche and Titus, who were booked up for six, -put up their fees, charging seventy guineas a room, if the house was in -town, and regretfully refusing to visit the country unless they were -asked to survey at least three rooms. - -Audacity, Carelessness up, always wins. - -Business at 68, Old Bond Street, actually increased. - -The stalls began to be constantly occupied by patrons who were waiting -to occupy the bench. Among them was Mrs. Drinkabeer Stoat, who, somewhat -disconcerted by the reflection that, if necessary, about five thousand -people could prove that the cipher upon her drawing-room ceiling had -cost but fifty guineas, hastened to request that her hall and -dining-room might be surveyed forthwith. - -Firms of decorators who had at first been plainly contemptuous changed -their coats forthwith and began to remember ‘Cheviot’s’ in their -prayers. - -The weather becoming hot, the great fireplace was replaced by an oriel -out of whose leaded casements was plainly visible a blue and sunlit sky. -Its deep window-seat was laden with cushions of powder-blue. The -mountainous chair and its henchmen had gone with the fireplace, to be -replaced by a fair ‘gate’ table, which the footman laid for lunch and -later for tea. From six o’clock the gleaming paraphernalia of cocktails -burdened the board. With the approach of evening the window was not -illuminated: only the sky beyond became suffused with the glory of some -sinking sun. Even the open book, which declared its legend from the -floor, was sacrificed to this effect, which attracted much well-deserved -attention and was commended by several newspapers. - -Early in September the Cheviots raised their fee to a hundred guineas -and declined to go into the country to survey less than five rooms, -_three of which_, said their gracious intimation, _may be in one house -and two in another not more than ten miles distant_. - -By the end of the month they were making four thousand a week. - -The two worked hard, employing five secretaries. - -One controlled their movements, arranging each day what visits should be -paid on the next, and having two programmes ready each evening at six -o’clock. The same man affixed the wafers and kept the accounts. Of the -others two were always in attendance upon Mr. and Mrs. Cheviot, taking -down their ‘opinions’ in shorthand and transcribing their notes the next -day. In addition to their wages, which were high, two per cent. of the -takings was handed to them and the footmen every week. Thus was -efficiency encouraged, if not assured. - -Each evening, but at no other time, the Cheviots repaired to Old Bond -Street to confer, sign their ‘opinions,’ peruse the additions to the -register, and deal with any business that awaited them. - -It was at one such hour in mid-November, when the two were left alone -behind the tall oak doors, that Blanche leaned back in her chair and -looked at her watch. - -“A quarter of nine,” she said, “on a Saturday night. Since ten this -morning between us we’ve netted twelve hundred and sixty quid. I lunched -off a glass of milk at a quarter to three, and I’ve had nothing since. -And now I’m too tired to eat. What about you?” - -“You may cut out the milk,” said Titus. “Never mind. The figures sustain -me. This week’s been a record. Over six thousand——” - -“It’s a dog’s life,” said Blanche. “Why don’t we stop?” - -“Stop?” - -“Stop. Chuck it. Finish. We’ve made enough.” - -“My dear, you’re not serious?” - -“I am indeed,” said Blanche, “and a bit over.” - -“You can spend to-morrow in bed.” - -“I could spend six weeks in bed. I tell you, I’m through. This—this -high-brow robbery’s getting beyond a joke. I haven’t been out for -months. I don’t even know the name of a musical play. I’ve forgotten how -to dance. Why, I haven’t changed for dinner since——” - -“Sunday last,” said Titus. “Never mind. What about it, my dear? One -can’t have everything. I like changing myself, but if I can nobble a -hundred by staying foul, I’ll make the sacrifice. Why, for half six -thousand a week I’d sleep in my clothes. An’ we don’t have to.” - -“But what’s the good of it all if we don’t enjoy it?” - -“I hope to,” said Titus. “I hope to enjoy it very much.” - -“When?” said his wife. - -“When the boom’s over,” said Titus. “This sort of thing can’t last. -Don’t you believe it. It’s just on the cards that it might hang on for a -year, but——” - -“A year?” screamed Blanche. “Well, if it does you needn’t count on me. -I’ve lost five months of my life and I’m not going to lose seven more.” - -“Lost?” cried Titus. “Oh, the girl’s mad. Twelve hundred a day, an’ she -talks about ‘losing’ time.” He covered his eyes. “Give me strength,” he -murmured. Then—“You only get one orange,” he said solemnly. “If you -like to chuck it away before you’ve sucked it dry, you can do it all -right. Nothing’s easier. But if you do you’ll repent it. For one thing, -you’re flouting Fortune—throwing her goods in her face.” - -“Rot,” said Blanche shortly. “We’ve made enough. We started in to give -me something to do—not to make money. Well, I’ve had my whack. I’ve had -enough to do to last me the rest of my life. Incidentally, I’ve been -paid—very handsomely paid. Well, I’m extremely grateful. I’ve got my -pretty cake and I’ve eaten it too. And now I’m for putting my feet up.” - -“That’s very specious,” said Titus, “but the answer is this. The -‘incident,’ as you style it, has swallowed the main idea. To be -truthful, it swallowed it before we opened the shambles—or, if not -before, as soon as the sheep rolled up. When you’re out for a walk and -you strike a trail of nuggets, you’re apt to forget that you’re only out -for exercise. And quite right too. Why? Because you usually have to dig -for nuggets, and then like as not you’re wrong.” - -He paused there to steal a glance at his wife. - -Blanche was holding off her hand and regarding one of her rings with her -head on one side. This was a trick she practised when she was ill at -ease. - -‘Before we opened the shambles.’ - -As though by accident, Titus had hit the nail square on the head. Yet it -was not by accident, as both of them knew. - -There are occupations other than commerce. - -But Blanche had chosen commerce, because commerce not only can occupy, -but may quite possibly enrich. - -The woman of the world believed in apparel—its purchase, setting and -display, and cared for little else. - -More money meant more clothes. - -But the purchase alone of apparel was nothing worth. Clothes were meant -to be worn. An occupation which promoted the acquisition of clothes but -precluded their display was inconvenient. . . . - -So the two sat still in their counting-house—the one regarding the -other, and the other regarding her ring. - -There was no sign of summer. - -There had been one swallow, of course, six months ago . . . _one_ -swallow. . . . - -Blanche lay back in her chair and achieved and then stifled a yawn. - -“I seem to remember,” she said, “that the first day we struck the -nuggets, you weren’t particularly anxious to pick any up.” - -“I confess it,” said Titus. “It seemed such nerve, somehow. But now I’ve -got my hand in, it’s as easy as wink. I’ve done some lovely chambers,” -he added musingly. “I shouldn’t wonder if they became historical.” - -Blanche would not have been human if she had not succumbed to such -gratuitous good-humour. - -She clapped her hands to her face and began to shake with laughter. - -“Titus,” she said, bubbling, “when you get all wistful and dreamy about -the heritage we’re creating for posterity, I could weep for pure joy. -It’s like a lion getting all worked up about the view from his lair. Of -course, you’re nothing but a great big child who’s been given a nice new -game. But I do wish you’d tire of it, dear. Don’t you think you’ve made -enough history?” - -“Not yet,” said Titus slowly. “But I’ve got a fruity idea. You go away -for a bit. Take a fortnight off, while I carry on the good work. Go to -Paris with Madge an’ take an easy.” - -“And leave you here?” - -“Why not? I’ve got my box of bricks. But I can’t have you ill, my lady. -Therefore be wise. Take a fortnight out of the shambles, and you’ll come -back thirsting for blood.” - -“Don’t you believe it,” said Blanche. - -“Well, by then the boom may have cracked. Or I may have had enough. One -never can tell. But I beg that you’ll do as I say. I’ve only one wife.” - -After a little Mrs. Cheviot allowed herself to be persuaded, and, -promising to clean up and follow within half an hour, Titus put her into -a taxi and sent her home. - -Returning to the office, he resumed his seat at the table and opened a -drawer of which only he and the principal secretary possessed duplicate -keys. - -Here lay two files, respectively labelled “ANSWERED” and “UNANSWERED.” - -Cheviot took out the latter. - -Somewhat to his relief, it contained but one letter. - -The day before it had contained three. - -Titus proceeded to read it with a faint frown. - - _Malison Hall,_ - _Kent._ - _November 14th._ - _The Manager of Cheviot’s,_ - _68, Old Bond Street, W._ - _SIR,_ - - _Upon returning from abroad yesterday after an absence of some - months I was dumbfounded to find that the character of the great - hall of this residence had been deliberately and ruthlessly - destroyed._ - - _I am informed that it was upon your advice that this - destruction was carried out. I am informed that you recommended - that the superb panelling should be torn down, the Grinling - Gibbons mantelpiece replaced by a steel platform, which is, of - course, already covered with rust, and the heavily timbered - ceiling overlaid with plaster and then so treated as to resemble - inferior linoleum. I am further informed that when this and - other devilry had been executed, you had the audacity to express - yourself satisfied with the result, the impudence to stencil the - ceiling with the badge of your firm and the face to accept a - cheque for three hundred guineas by way of payment for the - abominable outrage which you have committed upon this and two - other chambers, the present condition of which I prefer not to - describe._ - - _This morning I consulted my solicitors only to learn that, - since you were requested to advise and then unaccountably - requested to approve your vile handiwork by Mrs. Blatchbourne, - your villainous conduct is within the Law, but I find some - slight measure of relief in warning you that I shall do my - utmost by word and deed to expose what is nothing less than a - gang of dangerous charlatans who are inducing a lot of idiots to - pay unheard-of prices to have their apartments desecrated and - their sense of decency demoralized._ - - _I am, Sir,_ - _Yours, etc._ - _JAMES TORRIDGE BLATCHBOURNE._ - -Titus laid down the letter and looked down his nose. - -“Gathering clouds,” he said thoughtfully. “An’ this is as hot a one as -we’ve ever had. If Blanche but knew . . .” He drew out a little -note-book and blinked over a page. “Seventy thousand to date,” he -continued musingly. “I’d like to get to a hundred before the crash, but -ninety would do. . . .” - -Presently he closed the note-book and took up a pen. - -After a little reflection he wrote his reply. - - _68, Old Bond Street._ - _November 15th._ - _SIR,_ - - _I have the honour to acknowledge your letter of yesterday’s - date and to express regret that you do not share my views of - quality or style._ - - _I am, Sir,_ - _Your obedient servant,_ - _TITUS CHEVIOT._ - _J.T. Blatchbourne, Esq._ - -As he blotted the words— - -“I’ll bet he doesn’t hand that about,” he muttered. - -Then he copied his letter on to the back of Mr. Blatchbourne’s and -restored the latter to its drawer. - -When he had prepared an envelope and covered his reply he lighted a -cigarette and left the shop. - - * * * * * - -Mrs. Cheviot had had a most gorgeous time. - -Never had idleness seemed so full of spice. - -Her fortnight in Paris had grown into three fat weeks of merry-making. -Parties, dances and plays had all contributed to the delicious orgy, but -by far the handsomest contribution had been made by fashion parades. -Indeed, with Madge Willoughby to pace her upon the track of models, -Blanche had broken all her records of extravagance. When she rolled out -of the gay capital in her luxurious car bound for Boulogne she had -expended upon clothes alone very nearly six thousand pounds. - -The prospect of returning to work was none too engaging. But while she -loathed the thought of working ten hours a day, the reflection that Mrs. -Willoughby had been left standing went far to cure her melancholy. -Indeed, by the time she had crossed the Channel and was sliding through -Kent she had come to the conclusion that Titus was right and that ‘not -to see the boom out would be the act of a fool.’ - -Then a lorry came out of a by-road at thirty-five and knocked her -limousine into a quickset hedge. . . . - -By the time assistance arrived Blanche, who had recovered her wits, was -able not only to direct her extrication, but to resist all endeavours to -convey her to hospital. - -“I should like to sit down somewhere,” she said faintly. “Perhaps -there’s a house somewhere near where they’d give me some tea or -something, and let me sit down. I’m not a bit hurt. What about the -chauffeur?” - -The chauffeur, who should have been killed, was safe and sound and more -than occupied. It is good to think that he was kneeling upon the stomach -of the driver of the motor-lorry, at once reciting the latter’s lineage -and failings and compressing his windpipe until the delinquent’s -eyeballs started from his head. - -Twenty-five yards away an imposing gateway argued the presence of a -mansion, so two very civil strangers offered Mrs. Cheviot their arms and -assisted her up the drive. - -Then a bell was rung, and when a servant arrived shelter was asked. - -The man went running for his master, and two minutes later Blanche was -seated in a deep chair before a fire, sipping a brandy-and-soda and -absently listening to her host’s explosive indignation while her two -assistants were relating the manner of her mishap. - -The spirit worked wonders. - -By the time the strangers had departed and her host was excusing his -wife, who was indisposed, Mrs. Cheviot felt able and wishful to proceed -on her way. - -“If you would be so kind as to telephone for a car. The nearest garage, -you know. I’d ring up my husband, but it’s no good frightening him for -nothing, and he would be certain to think, whatever I said, that I was -more or less hurt.” - -“You’re sure you mean this?” said her host, a giant of about fifty with -a handsome but choleric manner and the physique of a smith. “Because, if -you feel the least shaky—and I’m very sure I should—I’ll be happy to -put you up and your husband too.” - -“You’re most awfully good,” said Blanche, “but——” - -“Nonsense, my dear lady, nonsense. When a crime is committed at my very -door, the least I can do is to offer the victim such shelter as she -cares to accept. I say ‘a crime.’ If I had my way, madam, that swine -should be drawn and quartered. But for the mercy of God you would be in -the mortuary instead of in that chair conversing with me. Why? Because a -blackguard in charge of a waggon deliberately chooses to convert it into -an engine of destruction so that he can be done with the labour for -which he is paid twenty minutes before his just time.” He broke off to -stamp violently about the floor. Presently he swallowed his wrath and -came to rest. “A car, you say. Very well. I think you’re very well -plucked, but I’ll do as you say. And while it’s coming the servants will -bring you some tea.” - -He strode to a door and passed out. - -It was when Mrs. Cheviot had made the most of a mirror and had lighted a -cigarette that she noticed the room. - -This appeared to be a hall of fine proportions. - -The walls had been painted black and then varnished. They gave the -impression of having been japanned. Above them was a frieze, six feet in -depth, of the colour of chocolate and as glossy as the black walls. The -ceiling was more remarkable, presenting a pale brown surface covered -with what appeared to be a rash and somewhat resembling linoleum which -has been lightly waxed. The doors had been painted bright pink picked -out with white, and the chimney-piece, which was of steel and must have -weighed about three tons, was suggesting that a power-house had been -spoiled of some doubtless locally useful but ungainly member of its -plant. - -As first one and then another of these peculiarities attracted her -attention, Mrs. Cheviot began to wonder whether, after all, she had been -killed and this was the antechamber of another world. The furniture, -however, seemed normal, and the sudden appearance of a butler with -tea-things was less supernatural than anything she could imagine. When -the man addressed her there was no longer room for doubt. - -“Excuse me, madam, but I won’t put the table by you, for as soon as the -fire’s burned up, madam, I’m afraid you’ll ’ave to move. You see, that -steel, madam, gets practically red-’ot.” - -“I thought I smelt something funny,” said Blanche, rising. “Of -course——” - -“That’s right, madam. It’s the metal ’eatin’. An’ if I may advise you, -madam, don’t you forget an’ lay your ’and on it. I did it once without -thinkin’, stoopin’ to put on some coal.” He raised his eyes to heaven. -“You don’ do it twice. . . . An’ rust.” - -“It must be terrible to keep.” - -“Madam,” said the butler, “it’s crool. You can’t touch it with oil, or -the moment you light the fire the ’ole ’ouse reeks like a dozen -engine-rooms. It ’as to be burnished with chains to do any good. We jus’ -manage to keep the front, but the top’s a mask of rust an’ so are the -sides.” - -As if the remembrance of this condition was more grievous than he could -bear, the fellow turned away and fell to arranging the tea. - -Blanche took another seat and, furtively regarding the apartment, began -to wonder what effect, if suffered daily, such a scheme of decoration -would have upon her mind. She also wondered if her host had ever heard -of 68, Old Bond Street. Black and pink and chocolate were pretty thick, -but there was something about the ceiling, something which was not only -repugnant, but—— - -Mrs. Cheviot stiffened with a shock. - -Her heart gave one bound and then stopped. - -Her gaze riveted upon the ceiling, her fingers clamped upon the arm of -her chair, she sat rigid and breathless as statuary itself, while her -brain plunged and flounced and refused to obey her will. - -Then the spasm passed, and she faced the hideous truth. - -The cipher on the ceiling was no illusion. - -The hall was fully entitled to be styled ‘A Cheviot Room.’ - -Appalling reflections came surging into her brain. - -Titus. This was his work. And he had been paid money for -conceiving—_this_. There were possibly two other chambers under this -very roof which he had—decorated. More. All over England there were -rooms with chocolate friezes and bright pink doors, bearing the Cheviot -cipher, the hall-mark of style—_the badge of infamy_. As like as not he -had done five or six to-day—_at one hundred guineas apiece_. . . . And -there he was walking about, all cheerful and unsuspecting, while battle, -murder and sudden death at the hands of infuriated clients must be -crouching to spring upon his shoulders. Any moment the storm must break. -Why hadn’t there been protests—riots? Why hadn’t Old Bond Street—— - -Here her host reappeared to say that a car would be ready in half an -hour. - -Blanche tried to thank him and to keep her eyes on the floor. . . . - -Twenty-five ghastly minutes went halting by. - -Mrs. Cheviot swallowed some tea, toyed with a scone, the very sight of -which choked her, and by superhuman efforts succeeded in keeping the -slippery ball of conversation upon the field of sport. Out of doors, out -of mind. . . . - -It was natural that hunting should figure, if late, upon her list. - -“My husband used to hunt with the Quorn, and I’ve done a bit with the -Heythrop, but not just lately. It’s so frightfully expensive now. -There’s nothing quite like it, of course.” - -“My dear lady,” said Mr. Blatchbourne, “a good day with the hounds is -more physically and mentally exhilarating than any exercise I know. It -brings out the best in every man. All his senses are regaled with the -finest and purest fare. The movement of the horse beneath him, the music -of the pack, the smell of the countryside——” - -“And the colour,” cried Blanche excitedly. “You’re perfectly right. No -one can witness a meet without feeling the better for the sight. Why -will men wear pink in the evening? The only place for pink is out in the -open air on the top of a ripping horse. Then it’s just——” - -“I agree,” said her host grimly. “Then it’s superb. How does it look -there?” - -Blanche started violently. Then as a matter of form she suffered her -gaze to follow the damning finger. - -“I—I—frankly, I don’t quite like it,” she stammered. “You know. It -seems out of place.” - -“It is,” said Mr. Blatchbourne. “Those doors are of oak.” Mrs. Cheviot -shuddered. “Even if they were of deal, I should not have chosen pink. -Look at the walls,” he continued. Blanche obeyed tremulously. “Above -all, observe the ceiling. And then that chimney-piece. I was away at the -time, but I’m told they rigged up a derrick to get that in place.” - -“You—you were away?” - -“Unhappily—yes. Otherwise my wife would not have been bamboozled and -betrayed, madam, into seeking and then taking the advice of as arrant a -gang of scoundrels as ever bluffed a fool out of his money.” - -White to the lips— - -“How—how terrible,” quavered Mrs. Cheviot. - -“One hundred guineas,” roared Mr. Blatchbourne, slamming the arm of his -chair with a hand like a maul. “And another two hundred for another -couple of rooms which I’m afraid to enter.” Blanche made ready to die. -“Once this was a gentleman’s apartment: now it is ‘A Cheviot Room.’ -There’s the cipher, madam, they had the effrontery to affix. That set -the seal of their approval upon this—this barbarous pleasantry.” He -rose to his feet and flung clenched fists to heaven. “Oh, if I’d only -been here when the blackguard came down for his cheque.” - -He laughed like a madman and, crossing to the hearth, stared violently -upon the fire. - -So he stood for a moment. Then, as though to brace himself, he laid -hands upon the mantelpiece. - -The screech of agony which instantly succeeded this action would have -done any torturer credit. - -For one long hideous moment Mrs. Cheviot, whose knees were knocking, -supposed that insanity had supervened. Then a frightful apostrophe -brought the butler’s warning to her mind. - -“Goats and monkeys!” screamed Blatchbourne, uplifting his palms. “_I’ve -done it again._” - -That the household had recognized the burden of the plaint was manifest. - -Three servants arrived at a run, bearing oil and linen with which they -proceeded to minister to their injured lord. - -The latter, half-mad with pain, submitted blasphemously to their -attention, alternately reviling his wife and cursing the house of -Cheviot, root and trunk and bough, till Blanche could have fallen in her -tracks. - -“Grievous bodily harm,” he mouthed. “That’s what it is. They’ve -deposited dangerous goods. They’ve done it maliciously. They intended me -to be burned. They hoped I should be burned—burned to hell. It’s a -diabolical plot. They’re poisoners. First they poison the mind and then -the body. They’re proffering robbery and murder, and fools all over -England are buying their treacherous wares. Three hundred guineas I’ve -paid to have my mind diseased and my body burned to hell.” - -Here a bell stammered. - -That no one heard it but Blanche is not surprising. - -Without a moment’s hesitation she slipped unobserved from the hall into -a vestibule, and a moment later she was on the steps. - -As the chauffeur opened the door of a landaulet— - -“Take me to London,” she gasped, “and put me down at the Ritz.” - -In another minute she was flying up the broad highway. - - * * * * * - -An hour had gone by, and Titus was sitting at his table with a frown on -his face. - -The man looked tired, as well he might. In the last ten days he had -ciphered one hundred and eighty rooms. During this period he had -surveyed none at all. The sowing season was past: it was time to garner -the harvest—high time. The boom was cracking. - -Requests to visit were falling rapidly: so were requests to revisit: in -the latter’s stead indignant letters of complaint were arriving by every -post. That the latter included one from Mrs. Drinkabeer Stoat suggested -that the end was at hand. Some of Titus’s calls were beginning to be -returned by furious clients, who, refusing to believe that the Cheviots -were not at home, simmered in the stalls for hours at a time. - -Titus glanced at his watch. - -“She won’t come now,” he murmured. “I suppose she’s wired to the flat -that she’s stayin’ on. Waitin’ on Worth or something for a monkey.” He -regarded his finger-nails. “Damn it, I wish she’d come back,” he added -suddenly. “If I have to send, it’ll give the game away, an’ it’s—it’s -close on closing-time. Very close. An’ there ain’t no blinkin’ market -for a business wot’s closed its doors. If she isn’t back to-morrow—— -Thunder of heaven, here she is.” - -It was true. - -As he rose from his seat, the shop-door was slammed to, and an instant -later Mrs. Cheviot was in his arms. - -“Titus, my darling, we must go—leave England at once.” - -Cheviot’s brain reeled. - -“Leave England?” he gasped. “Why?” - -“Listen. D’you want to be murdered?” - -“Not particularly,” said Titus. “But——” - -“Then we must go,” said Blanche. “Why you’re still alive I can’t -imagine. Have there been any riots yet?” - -“Not that I know of,” said Titus. “I haven’t had much time for the -papers lately. In the last ten days——” - -“Well, there will be soon,” said Blanche. “To-morrow probably. Come on.” - -“What on earth d’you mean?” said Titus dazedly. “What riots?” - -“Listen,” cried Blanche, catching him by his lapels “This evening—no -matter why—I, er, called on a Mr. Blatchbourne. He’s got a house in -Kent. Well——” - -“Blatchbourne,” said Titus. “Blatchbourne. Now, where have I seen that -name?” - -Suddenly the truth dawned upon him—and with it came daylight in one -blinding flash. - -_Blanche was about to play straight into his hands._ - -He had meant to show her the letters of violent complaint. He had meant -them to frighten her out of her very life. And then, when she had -decided that they must fly, he had meant to announce his intention of -carrying on. Finally, he had meant to give way—_upon certain terms_. - -With a truly lightning brain he picked up his cue. - -“Oh, I know,” he said. “I know. I did three rooms for them.” - -“At three hundred guineas,” said Blanche. “My dear, you did. I had tea -in your hall this afternoon.” - -“What a funny thing,” said Titus. “Did you say who you were?” - -“No,” said Blanche faintly. “I didn’t. Like you, I value my life. -Apparently you got busy while Blatchbourne himself was away, and his -wife put through the deal. When he came back, it was all over. Of course -he’s mad as a hornet, and I don’t blame him. Titus, that hall would make -a saint see red.” - -“Nonsense, my dear,” said Cheviot. “I remember it perfectly. That’s one -of my favourite designs. The ‘Boot and Saddle’ I call it. Did you notice -the pigskin ceiling?” - -“I did,” said Blanche wildly. “And the steel mantelpiece. Mr. -Blatchbourne forgot and leaned on it just before I left. Of course he -was terribly burned, and he says you did it on purpose, and he’s going -to have your blood. I tell you——” - -“He can’t,” said Titus calmly. “If he likes to take my advice, that’s -his look-out. Probably his burning was a judgment for abusing me. -Besides, when all’s said and done, whether the room looks well is -purely——” - -“I’m not going to argue,” cried Blanche. “But we must close down at -once. That’s certain. If, as you say, you’ve done other rooms like -that——” - -“I should think about fifty,” said Titus. “I tell you——” - -Blanche felt rather faint. - -“I say,” she said shakily, “that we must close down. It’s only a -question of hours—it must be—before a mob arrives. And then we shall -be torn in pieces.” - -“My dear,” said Titus, “come home and sleep it off. Of course you can’t -please everyone, and of course we’ve had complaints. Every firm has.” - -“When? You never told me.” - -Cheviot shrugged his shoulders. - -“It wasn’t worth while.” He pointed to a file on the table. “There are -some of them. But business keeps up.” - -Blanche fell upon the file with shaking fingers. - -As she peered at their contents, sentence after sentence flamed. - -_A barefaced attempt . . . I defy you to take action . . . the most -horrifying result . . . brazen impudence . . . I shall do my utmost to -expose . . . actuated by malice . . . an offence against decency . . . -full particulars to the Commissioner of Police . . . inwardly ravening -wolves. . . ._ - -Blanche let the file go and put her hands to her head. - -“And yet he’s gone on!” she wailed. - -“Of course he’s gone on,” said Titus. “The vast majority are as pleased -as Punch. I tell you, business is wonderful. Last week——” - -“You must stop at once,” screamed Blanche. “I won’t have another——” - -“My dear,” said Titus, “come home. I’ve a full day to-morrow, and I want -you——” - -“You haven’t. You shan’t have. You—Titus, for Heaven’s sake——” - -“The orange,” said Titus firmly, “is not yet sucked. I’m not going to -turn down ten thousand quid a week because two or three gents prefer -their taste to mine. My conscience is perfectly clear and my hands are -clean. There isn’t a letter there that isn’t libellous. If I liked to -take ’em to Court, I could get a verdict on every one of them. What -authority have I professed? None. It’s all very well to get excited -because they don’t like my advice. I never asked them to take it. I -never said it was worth having. But as long as they like to seek it——” - -Blanche was down on her knees. - -“Ti, I implore you to give it up. By all that’s holy, I beg you——” - -“Why?” - -“Because if you don’t I shall go mad. Because someone else will go mad -and try to kill you. Each time you go out to cipher you take your life -in your hand. If Blatchbourne had been at home when you went to approve -that hall, he’d ’ve broken your back. You’ve not the faintest idea——” - -“Ten thousand a week,” said Titus, “is better than any ideas.” - -“We’ve made enough,” wailed Blanche. “More than enough. How much have we -made?” - -“Ninety-six thousand—to date.” - -“For Heaven’s sake,” screamed Blanche, “how much do you want?” - -“The orange,” said Titus ruthlessly, “is not yet sucked.” - -Blanche clung to his knees. - -“Ti, Ti, if you love me—if you care in the least whether I live or -die—if there’s ever to be any tiny atom of happiness between us again, -you’ll turn this down.” - -Cheviot appeared to hesitate. - -Then he picked up his wife and put her upon the table. - -“How much did you spend in Paris?” - -Mrs. Cheviot started. - -“I—I’m not quite sure,” she said. “I—I think I went rather a bust.” - -“Quite right too,” said Titus. “I hoped you would. As a matter of fact, -you got away with over five thousand pounds.” - -“Titus!” - -Cheviot nodded. - -“And more also. I put that amount to your credit, and I got a letter -this morning saying your account was overdrawn. Don’t think I’m kicking. -I’m not. You’ve earned every quid, sweetheart, and I’m only too glad. -But that’s a pace, my lady, that only a Crœsus can stand. And so I’ll do -a deal with you. We agreed to invest what we made. Ninety-one thousand -sounds a good deal of pelf, but when everything’s paid it means, say -three thousand a year. Very good.” He drew some paper towards her and -set a pen in her hand. “You write as I dictate. And then, if you feel -inclined, you can sign what you’ve written. If you don’t feel -inclined—well, then you can tear it up. But if you sign—I’ll put up -the shutters to-morrow at nine o’clock.” - -Mrs. Cheviot slewed herself round and slid on to a chair. - -“I’m at your mercy,” she said. - -Titus proceeded to dictate, pacing the room. - - _In consideration of my husband’s desisting from visiting or - revisiting strange houses, surveying rooms, stencilling ceilings - or accepting money therefor—a practice which I admit he has - found extremely lucrative—I hereby undertake never to demand or - expend by way of dress-allowance a sum in excess of three - thousand pounds a year._ - -“That’s all,” said Titus. - -Without a word, Mrs. Cheviot affixed her signature. - -Then she took a fresh sheet. - -“I’ll make a copy,” she said. - -“Very well,” said Titus, lighting a cigarette. . . . - -When Blanche had finished writing she rose and crossed to a glass. - -“Take your choice,” she said over her shoulder. “They are—facsimiles.” - -Titus shot her a glance and stepped to the table. - -The ‘copy’ seemed longer than the ‘original’—much longer. - - _There was once a dear called Titus. He was most awfully - handsome and generous, and when he married he spoiled his wife - to death. She was as greedy and selfish as he was sweet, and - though he gave her everything he’d got, that wasn’t enough. So - then, though he was all tired, he took off his shabby coat and - began to work. He worked and worked and always swore he liked - it, but he loathed it really. And they both knew why he was - doing it, but he pretended it amused him, and she pretended to - believe him for very shame. And then one day she really did want - him to stop. And when he saw that she meant it, he gave her all - the gold he had made. “If that’s enough,” he said gently, “why, - then I’ll stop. But if it isn’t, dear, I must try to go on.” And - when he said that, all of a sudden HER DESIRE FOR RICHES DIED. - . . . And she didn’t know whether to laugh or whether to cry - because at last she saw that, money or no, nothing could ever - alter the fact that she was the richest woman in all the - world—because she was_ - - _TITUS’ WIFE_. - -Titus folded the ‘copy’ and slid it into his case. - -Then he struck a match and burned the ‘original’ up. - -Blanche never turned. - -As he put an arm about her— - -“Which did you burn?” she said. - -Titus laid his head against hers. - -“I kept my love-letter,” he said. - -His darling flung her arms round his neck. - -Summer was in. - - * * * * * - -‘Cheviot’s’ was closed the next day. - -A week later a letter bearing the post-mark of Rapallo was delivered at -Malison Hall. - -Its contents consisted of a document and three hundred and fifteen -pounds in Bank of England notes. - -The document appeared to be a bill which the notes were paying. - - _PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL._ - - _Mrs. Titus Cheviot._ - - _Dr. to J.T. Blatchbourne, Esq._ - - _December 6th._ _ One brandy and soda_ 105 0 0 - _One telephone call_ 105 0 0 - _One tea_ 105 0 0 - ——————— - 315 0 0 - ======= - - - - - PEREGRINE - - - PEREGRINE - -“I sometimes think,” said Mrs. Carey Below, “that you are losing your -mind.” - -Peregrine Carey Below put a hand to his head. - -“I’m not so sure I’m not,” he said wearily. - -“Is that meant to be rude?” - -Peregrine raised his eyes to meet the glint of steel in those of his -wife. For a moment he seemed upon the edge of protest: then the cold, -level gaze bore down his spirit. Peregrine felt as though he were seated -in cold water. He shifted uneasily. - -“No, no,” he said. “Of course it isn’t. I—I only——” - -“Because if it is,” said Mrs. Below silkily, “if it is, we shall have to -have an understanding.” She bridled menacingly. “I was not bred to -rudeness. Selfishness I can put up with—fortunately for me: I can -suffer a fool—I’ve done it day and night for seven years: but rudeness -is an assault, and that I will not endure.” - -“I assure you, Marion——” - -“D’you mind holding your tongue?” The words bit at the air, and -Peregrine winced. “As I say, I was not bred to rudeness. My father was -old-fashioned enough to treat my mother with courtesy, if not respect. -I’m not such a fool as to expect those emotions from you because my -father was a gentleman, but if you could manage to suppress your coarser -instincts at least in my presence, I should be grateful. Personally, I -see nothing heinous in my wish to attend a dance. Life’s flat enough, -Heaven knows. Besides, it’s been done before. That is what dances are -for—Peregrine. I confess I did not expect my suggestion to be cordially -received. That would have been unreasonably optimistic. It hasn’t taken -me seven years to discover that social intercourse doesn’t appeal to -you. But it never occurred to me that my mere expression of a very -natural desire would be the signal for an outburst of abuse. But there -again—I never expect contumely. I’ve had it and stood it for seven -years, and I suppose most women would have become case-hardened. But I’m -different. I cannot realize that the old order is changed, that you -cannot spell the word ‘chivalry,’ that to you women are chattels whose -only office is to reflect the glorious will of man. What if our passages -are booked? I suppose they can be cancelled.” - -“Certainly, dear,” said Peregrine. “I’ll—I’ll do it this morning.” - -“No, you won’t,” said his wife. “You’ll do it this afternoon. This -morning we’re playing golf. Which reminds me—have you ordered a car?” - -“I will if you like,” said Peregrine, rising. “I shouldn’t think it was -necess——” - -“Why argue?” said Mrs. Below grimly. “Why not be big-minded enough to -admit your mistake? If there is one thing I despise more than another, -it is a man or woman who deliberately sticks to their point when they -know that they’re wrong. And why should I run the risk of having to walk -because you won’t take the trouble to order a car? Of course it’s the -old thing—lack of consideration. First, every possible obstacle is put -in the way of my going to a dance just because you don’t want the bother -of writing a note. Then my convenience is to be jeopardized. . . .” She -raised her eyes to heaven and let the sentence go. “You ought to have -known my father,” she continued piously. “With him my mother came first -_always_. It never occurred to him to argue. She only had to . . .” She -stopped there to peer violently at the floor. “What have you got on your -feet?” - -“My—buckskin shoes, dear,” said Peregrine. - -“Rubber-soled?” - -“Yes.” - -Mrs. Below inspired vehemently, cast a reproachful glance skywards, as -though to suggest that, while allowing and prepared to suffer the -inscrutable authority of God, she expected it to be counted to her for -righteousness, and set her teeth. - -“Go and change,” she said shortly, using the tone of one who, tried -beyond endurance, forgets that he is addressing a fellow-man. “I never -thought I should have to dress you, but it seems I was wrong. We’re -going to play golf, my darling—not tennis. Golf.” - -“I—I know,” faltered Peregrine, “but——” - -“That’s right,” said his wife. “Argue the point. Give me the lie. Where -are you going?” - -“To change,” said her husband thickly. - -“What about the car?” - -In a silence too charged for words, Peregrine turned. - -“You see?” continued his wife. “Your own convenience first, and mine -second. The car’s for me, the shoes are for you. Instinctively you put -the shoes first. . . .” She shrugged her shoulders, and a bleak look -settled on her face. “Of course I blame myself. I’ve spoiled you. You’re -naturally selfish, and because I loved you and wanted you to be happy I -spoiled you to death. And now I’m paying for it.” For a moment she -appeared to contemplate her state. Then she flung up her head. “And you -stand by, looking like a plaster saint!” Her eyes raked him vertically. -“My word, that injured air! Always the little innocent—the poor little -village idiot that’s always being accused of something he’s never done. -I suppose you hope one day to get away with it. Melt my heart, or -something. Well, the sooner you realize that martyrdom makes me tired, -the better for you. If you don’t agree, why not say so and put your -point like a man? But you could never do that. The trouble with you is -that you weren’t at a Public School. There you’d have learned manners -and—well, they’ve got a very short way with plaster saints.” - -After a moment— - -“I’ll go and order a car,” said her husband quietly, and left the room. - -The disorder was a very ordinary one, but it was a bad case. - -In the first place, it is due to Peregrine to say that he was not fair -game. - -When Mrs. Below observed that her husband ought to have gone to a public -school she hit the nail on the head. That would have altered everything. -But Peregrine was an only and delicate child. When he was twelve he had -spent six years on his back. Not until he was twenty had he been ‘passed -sound.’ His most impressionable years had been spent in a shelter such -as only a widow’s devotion to a son who is not expected to live can ever -erect. He certainly went to Oxford, but use held. His vacations were -happier than the terms he kept, and after two years he returned to his -mother’s side. Then the War came. . . . One morning his Commission -arrived. His mother shared his joy, but died in her sleep that night. -Three years later the sparrow fell on the ground. - -Peregrine Carey Below had fallen in love with his wife, and she had -exploited his fall to the top of her bent. I say ‘fallen.’ To be more -accurate, he had ventured to look in the pool, and his future wife had -promptly kicked him in. - -Swiftly, though imperceptibly, the garlands which he had twined -rapturously about his limbs had turned to fetters which he could not -unloose. The garlands had been supplied by Mrs. Below. - -The man was in thrall to a personality—a vigorous magnetism, which -sucked the marrow from his bones and, waxing fat on it, grew more -exacting and savage every day. Physical bonds there were none. The two -were childless: in her own right Marion Carey Below had not a penny -piece. Yet so well had she wrought that full two-thirds of his income -went into her privy purse, while of that which was left, her husband -accounted to her for every farthing. For seven years she had bluffed -him—with an empty hand: and he paid and paid and paid. . . . The bluff -slid into torment—for the love of the thing: the torment, into the -order of the day. Mrs. Carey Below had reduced nagging to a fine art. -Her vocabulary was rich, her tongue fluent, her brain quick. Perversion, -avoidance, falsehood were so many irons in the fire. It was a bad case. - -The lady was thirty-eight, handsome and as hard as nails. Always -ruthless, she had appropriated Peregrine out of hand. The fact that he -was betrothed to another girl did not concern her. I doubt if his -marriage would have stood in her way. The best was good enough for her, -no matter to whom it belonged. The idea of troubling to hold him never -entered her head: the very sublimity of her self-confidence grappled him -to her soul. There was no love in her—nor ever had been. Women disliked -her with cause, but to men she appealed. The appeal was deliberate. To -her, male admiration was the breath of life. ‘A born _vivandière_,’ says -someone. Not at all. She would have loathed the job. The salt would have -lost his savour. Male admiration must be won at another’s expense. To -diminish all other women was her heart’s desire. Money, -convenience—everything was offered upon this altar. Peregrine’s money, -Peregrine’s convenience. Marriage had brought him indeed more kicks than -halfpence. - -The man was thirty-six, quiet, tall, good-looking. You would not have -written him down as overborne. His brown eyes were mild, certainly, but -his mouth was firm and his carriage dignified. He was easy-going and -regarded the Line of Least Resistance as the Rock of Ages. Such -confidence had proved fatal. Long ago the Rock had become a straw, but -he clung to it desperately. That the torrent was but breast-high he did -not appear to perceive. Possibly he was fascinated. There was, -certainly, much of the python about his lady. The probability is that he -was afraid—had not the moral courage to throw off the yoke. One might -have thought that the instinct of self-preservation would have hounded -him out of his hell. But the instinct was always stillborn. Her -careless, rampant personality scorched it in embryo. It was a bad case. - -Peregrine descended listlessly to the cool hall. - -The Carey Belows had only arrived at Biarritz the night before, and had -been due to leave in ten days’ time: but, as we have seen, the date of -the Domino Ball had altered everything. For the second time in three -weeks their passages to New York were to be cancelled, and fresh -arrangements made. Hotels, Banks, Solicitors would have to be told. -Policies of Assurance would have to be reindorsed. . . . Peregrine had -learned to leave nothing to chance. It was not good enough. - -The porter was previsionally urbane. - -“A gar for thee gough? Certainly, sir. Do you wand it at once?” - -“No, but I want one ready.” - -“Verry good, sir. There are always some taxis here. When you gome -down——” - -“Order it now,” said Below. “And let it wait.” - -“As you please, sir.” - -He touched a bell-push, and a gong stammered outside. - -Peregrine stepped to the lift. - -As he did so the gates were opened, and two people emerged—a gentle, -white-haired woman and a tall, steady-eyed girl of thirty-four. - -Idly Peregrine registered them as an English lady of title with an -American niece. - -Herein he was perfectly right. - -That, as she passed him, the girl turned very pale he did not remark. - -He had no idea who she was. - -After all, he had not seen her for more than seven years. - - * * * * * - -That Joan Purchase Atlee, young, rich, attractive, would never marry -seemed to be past all question. Her aunt, however, refused to abandon -hope. Joan was so obviously cut for wedlock and motherhood. To suckle -the memory of a broken dream was out of all reason. ‘Men were deceivers -ever.’ Besides . . . But Joan was resolute. She had loved Peregrine with -a whole heart, and no other man had ever touched her at all. More. -Peregrine had loved her. He had not left her: he had been stolen away. -She had never seen Mrs. Below, but she was certain of that. Her man was -faithful. If he had been bewitched, so much the worse for them both. Her -man was faithful, and she would be faithful to him. - -Joan bore Peregrine no grudge. It was not a case of forgiveness: Joan -had nothing to forgive. Peregrine and she had been undone—by a third -party. The wretched, stumbling note that had broken her heart was in his -handwriting, but it was not his note. Their common enemy had written -it—the future Mrs. Below. Joan hated Mrs. Below with a bitter, undying -hate. - -She hoped—prayed that Peregrine was happy: that he never could be so -happy as he would have been with her she had no manner of doubt. He was -her man. - -It follows that when after seven years Joan Purchase Atlee encountered -Peregrine _and found his eyes lacklustre_ she was profoundly moved. - -Her letter to her twin-sister in distant Philadelphia shall speak for -itself. - - . . . . _I’ve seen him, Betty—at last. He’s here, in this - hotel—Peregrine Carey Below, my man. Two hours ago I stepped - out of the elevator almost into his arms. I nearly fainted. The - hall seemed to heel over and I had to walk uphill. Betty_, - he—didn’t—know—me. . . . _That hurt rather, at first. You - know. Nasty jar to one’s pride. The answer is that I’ve changed - even more than I knew. After all, seven years isn’t a - week-end. . . . But that’s by the way. The sting soon died in a - sense of immeasurable relief. Truly Providence is wise. - Supposing he had known me. What a hellish position it would have - been! Melodrama with an edge. . . . Never mind, Peregrine didn’t - know me, and that’s that. But, Betty, he’s miserable—so very - wretched. The moment I saw him I knew. He’s going grey at the - temples, but that’s nothing—he’s rising thirty-seven. But his - eyes, Betty, his eyes. I could have wept to see them. Dull and - strained they were—dull and strained and listless . . . his - blessed, gentle eyes. . . . Don’t think I’m such a fool as to - think it’s because of me. If it were, he’d have known me. No. - It’s his wife, Betty—Mrs. Carey Below. She’s making my man - wretched. Seven years ago she smashed my life, and now she’s - smashing his. . . . I don’t know how long it’s been going on. I - don’t know anything—yet. But I saw them go out this morning, - and I had a good look at her. Man-mad, Betty. Tough as you make - ’em, with a mouth like a steel trap. Rather like Nesta Dudoy, - but better-looking. No use for women at all. Very well dressed, - and her clothes well put on. Hair too good to be true and a nice - skin._ And Peregrine fears her, _Betty. There wasn’t a taxi or - something, and he was all hot and bothered and ready to cry. ‘I - ordered it,’ he kept saying, ‘nearly an hour ago.’ She just - purred back at him, with veiled eyes. . . . It was really - painful. Peregrine rattled because she must wait thirty seconds - whilst they sent for a cab! One’s seen it before, of course: but - not in a man like him. He’s so quiet and reserved and strong - naturally that only a proper shock should be able to shake him - up—visibly, at any rate. And here he was—frightened, for all - the world to see. . . I say ‘all the world.’ Perhaps I’m wrong. - I saw it as clear as daylight, but then I know my man. It was so - grievous, Betty. The impulse to go and touch him and talk about - something else was almost irresistible. Anything on - earth_—anything _to drive that hunted look out of his - eyes. . . . But I had to sit impotently by, pretending to read. - I feel I must do something, but what can I do? I wish to God you - were here. I can’t trust myself to write more than I have about - his wife. You’ll find her and her future in the New Testament. - ‘Where their worm dieth not. . . .’_ - -The hotel was crowded, but Joan and her uncle and aunt kept to -themselves. The Carey Belows, however, were soon in the thick of things. -Within three days the lady had established a Court of which the most -favoured members were married men. Peregrine danced with their wives, -waited outside the hairdresser’s, reserved tables and cabs, and was -reviled night and morning for his pains. Joan was spared the spectacle -of the daily drubbings, because those rites were always performed in -secret, but she had pieced together the rubric of Peregrine’s life, and -to fill such gaps as there were was only too simple. The man’s demeanour -alone . . . Peregrine hangdog! Joan’s blood boiled. Besides, she had a -maid, and so had Mrs. Below. As luck would have it, both hailed from -Camden Town. The rest was easy. The rubric was hideously verified, -monstrously annotated. Joan began to see red. - - * * * * * - -“What have you done about your dress?” - -“D’you mean for to-night?” said Peregrine. - -Mrs. Carey Below sat back in her chair. - -“What d’you think I mean?” she said. - -“My dress for the dance, of course. It was very stupid of me.” - -“No, not stupid,” said Mrs. Below. “Ill-mannered. Rather than take the -trouble to use your brain, you’ll let me spoon-feed it. Never mind. What -have you done?” - -“I haven’t done anything,” said Peregrine, “so far. But——” - -“Why not?” - -“Well, it’s not till to-night, dear. I suppose Pickford can knock me out -something this afternoon.” - -“Does it occur to you that I may need Pickford’s services—this -afternoon?” - -Peregrine waved a desperate hand. - -“If you want them you’ll have them, of course. I only meant——” - -“You’re very kind,” said his wife, with a metallic laugh. “D’you really -mean that I can make use of my own maid?” She tapped the floor with her -foot. “Of course, this is too handsome. Never mind. Supposing I am so -reckless as to accept your offer—what are you going to do about your -dress?” - -“I won’t go,” said Peregrine. “I don’t want to go. Masked balls aren’t -much in my line, and——” - -“I never knew any entertainment that was,” said Mrs. Below sweetly. “Not -to put too fine a point upon it, you’re about the most effective wet -blanket I’ve ever seen.” - -“I realize that,” said Peregrine bitterly. “That’s largely why I don’t -want to go.” - -“I see,” said Mrs. Below. “And what if I need you? Supposing I’m taken -ill, or something like that.” She silenced his protest with a shrug. -“You see? Your convenience again, as opposed to mine. Instinctively, -yours comes first. Never mind. For God’s sake don’t let’s discuss it. -For the third and last time—what are you going to do about your dress?” - -“I’ll buy one,” said Peregrine wildly. - -Instantly the merciless point rose to his throat. - -“Where?” - -“Oh, I’ll find some place.” - -“Rot!” The word left her mouth like the crack of a whip. Mrs. Carey -Below was getting angry. “This isn’t Paris. You can’t buy dominoes like -jujubes. They don’t sell them by the pound.” - -“I know,” said Peregrine quietly. “I’m very sorry, dear. If you could -spare me Pickford for half an hour . . .” - -“I must. You’ve forced my hand. _My_ dress must go by the board, while -yours is made.” She raised her voice. “Pickford!” - -The bedroom door opened, and the maid came in. - -“Did you call, madam?” - -“Mr. Below has nothing to wear to-night. He will get the material, and -you must make him a dress. How many yards do you want?” - -Pickford considered. - -Then— - -“Six, madam, single width, or three double.” - -Her mistress addressed Peregrine. - -“D’you hear?” she demanded. - -“Yes, but I don’t understand. What is a single width?” - -“They’ll know in the shop.” - -“All right,” said Peregrine. “What’s the stuff called?” - -Humanity was insisting that Pickford should intervene. - -“I can easily go, madam. Now that I’ve done your dress——” - -“That will do,” said her mistress, bristling. - -Pickford withdrew. - -As the door closed— - -“She’s gone,” said Mrs. Below. “You can take off that martyred air. Of -course it’s a wonderful card to have up one’s sleeve—if one wants to -get off with servants. They love it.” - -Her husband ignored the insult. - -“What stuff shall I get?” he said. - -“Any damned stuff,” said his wife. “D’you want me to dry-nurse you? I -shouldn’t say you want it for a domino, or they’ll think you’re out of -your mind. Say you want it for a shroud—they’ll believe that. . . . -Just as a matter of interest, can you look cheerful? Or have you lost -the knack?” - -“I’ve lost the knack,” said Peregrine. “Our marriage has been a failure, -and——” - -“Whose fault is that?” - -Peregrine shrugged his shoulders and rose to his feet. - -“Mine, I suppose,” he said, with a ghost of a laugh. - -“Oh, you darling,” said his wife. - -Peregrine shuddered. - -“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that, Marion.” - -His wife stared. - -“You wish I wouldn’t—what do you mean?” Peregrine stood silent. “You’d -better pull yourself together, hadn’t you?” - -Peregrine sought the door. - -“I’ll go and get the stuff,” he said shakily. - -“Stop!” Mrs. Below’s voice was vibrating with passion. “I’m not going to -try to teach you manners, because it’s waste of time: but you said just -now that entertainments weren’t in your line. Well, kindly remember that -lectures aren’t in mine—even when delivered by imitation wash-outs. I -can stand an undertaker—in his place: I can even bear Little Lord -Fauntleroy: but a cross between the two _on his hind legs_ is just a -shade too thick even for me.” - -For a moment her husband hesitated, pale-faced. - -Then he opened the door and passed out. - - * * * * * - -That Miss Atlee’s maid should sit and talk with Pickford while the -latter was doing her work was natural enough, and when she produced some -silk to make a frill for the hood of Peregrine’s gown Mrs. Below’s maid -was delighted with the attention. - -“It’ll give the ole long-cloth a flip,” explained Miss Mason. “Won’ look -so much like a shraoud. There’s enough fer a pair o’ cuffs too, while -we’re abaout it.” - -Two hours later she reported to Joan that Peregrine might be known by -his frill and his cuffs. - -“You can’t mistake them, miss. It isn’t likely as there’ll be another -gentleman there with silk on a long-cloth gaown, but if there was, -you’ll be sure to know the silk. It’s a bit that was left over from -linin’ your ermine coat.” - -“Right,” said Joan. “Thank you. What time do we unmask?” - -“Not before midnight, miss.” - -“I imagine dancing will start about half-past ten.” - -Mason was, as they say, very quick in the uptake. - -“Mrs. Below’s maid is ordered for ten o’clock: but that means nothin’, -miss. Still, you never know. If you come upstairs at ten, that’ll give -me time to dress you, an’ then I can slip off to their floor an’ watch -them daown. Then you’ll know where you are, miss.” - -“All right, Mason. Thank you.” - -So it fell out that evening that the Carey Belows descended the great -staircase with Joan Purchase Atlee a dozen steps behind. . . . - -They reached the painted ball-room in the same order. - -To identify Mrs. Below required but a nodding acquaintance with that -lady’s way of life. Her domino eclipsed all others as the moon the -stars. It was of cloth of silver, freckled with pips of gold. She was -out for blood to-night. To be outstanding in disguise, to beggar all -concealment, to blaze—a glowing houri in a shoal of ghosts. . . . Such -was her dream. Be sure it was realized. Her progress was one long -triumph. As she entered the ball-room her courtiers swarmed about her, -pleading the favour of a dance. - -Peregrine slid to one side and got his back to the wall. . . . - -The spectacle was fantastic, suggesting the practice of mysteries which -might be evil. It was the hour of counterfeit. Hooded and cloaked and -masked, Secrecy whirled and flitted, finger to lip. Whispers and stifled -laughter, red mouths and shining feet, white wrists upon hidden -shoulders were mocking Truth. Broad shafts of coloured light, the only -luminants, ranged to and fro over the company. Robed as familiars of the -Inquisition, a cunning orchestra lent scene and music alike a devilish -air. - -“Well, Perry, won’t you ask me to dance?” - -The man started violently. - -“Who are you?” he breathed, taking cool fingers in his and sliding an -arm about a yielding waist. - -As they slid into the fox-trot— - -“I oughtn’t to tell you really, but as we’re such old friends . . . I’m -Joan Atlee—_that was_.” - -Peregrine’s heart gave one tremendous bound. - -For a moment he said nothing, dancing mechanically and trying to find -his voice. - -Then— - -“How on earth you knew me I can’t conceive, but it was . . . very -handsome of you . . . to come up and speak—Joan.” - -“Steady,” said Joan, wondering if he would notice the way her heart was -pounding against her ribs. “There’s something you ought to know. We were -engaged once, and you—you broke it off.” She felt his frame quiver. “If -you’d waited another day, you’d never have written at all.” - -“Why?” - -“Because I’d written to you, Perry, turning you down. My letter wasn’t -posted, so I took it and tore it up. I’m not very proud of myself, but I -feel better now.” - -The lie sailed straight to its mark. - -“I’m—I’m so awfully glad you did, Joan.” Peregrine’s voice was -trembling. “At least—you know what I mean?” - -“I know, my dear, I know. You needn’t explain to me.” For an instant the -hand on his shoulder rested less lightly. “The sea doesn’t run so high -when you’re not alone in the boat.” - -The pregnant saying sank into Peregrine’s brain like molten lead. Its -poignant pertinence, the old, dead fellowship it brought to life, the -hint it held of an acquaintance with grief, lightened his darkness with -three dazzling beams. - -“Oh, Joan, I’m so—so thankful we’ve met,” he stammered lamely enough. - -Joan thrilled to her core. - -“You’re not half as thankful as I am, Perry,” she said. “We may have -tired of each other—or thought we did—but at least we understood.” - -“By Jove, yes,” said the man violently. - -They danced the length of the chamber in eloquent silence. - -Then— - -“You know I’m married, Perry?” said Joan in a low voice. - -“Only from what you said a moment ago.” - -“Well, I am. We won’t mention his name—for reasons which will appear: -but I’m going to tell you about him because I _must_.” Her tone sank to -a whisper tense and vibrant. “I’ve bottled it up, Perry”—the man -started, and the clasp of the cool fingers became a grip—“till I’m -nearly out of my mind. Think what it means to have no confidant—not a -single soul to talk to who can ever begin to understand. . . . I drove -over here from San Sebastian, praying for death by the way . . . _I came -to find a confidant_—some stranger that I could talk to, under the -mask, and then—then I saw you.” - -Peregrine felt rather dazed. - -“Let’s get outside,” he said uncertainly. - -They made their way through the press, across the echoing hall and on to -the terrace without. - -This was silent and starlit, cool with the faint crush of breakers, full -of the airs and graces of the summer night. - -As they sat down— - -“Tell me about him,” said Peregrine. - -The girl leaned back in her chair and cupped her chin in her palm. - -“I often wonder,” she said, “what made me marry him. Some evil spirit, I -suppose . . . I wasn’t a prisoner then. He is so very obviously not my -style. But for some strange reason or other I fell in love with him, -Perry, and before I knew where I was the damage was done.” She sighed. -“So much for me . . . He married me for my money and because a wife—in -her place—can be a convenient thing. He soon had me in my place. . . .” - -She threw back her head there, to stare at the stars. Presently she -continued dreamily. - -“I’ve many failings, Perry, but I’ll tell you one of my worst—_I loathe -a row_. . . . It’s a very perilous failing, because you’re at the mercy -of the person who finds it out. . . . Well, that’s how my downfall -began. Rather than have unpleasantness, however just my case, I always -gave way—with the inevitable result that now I’ve lost the very knack -of moral courage, while the unpleasantness I sought to avoid has become -the feature of my life.” - -She paused there, to steal a glance at the man. Peregrine was staring -straight ahead, his hands clenching the arms of his wicker chair. - -Joan proceeded steadily. - -“I said that he wasn’t my style. That’s putting it rather low. He’s -rather like a tiger, while I’m like a poodle-dog. . . . He’s a -brilliant, striking personality—swift, heartless and unearthly strong. -Women go mad about him: men dislike him—but they always give him the -wall. Wherever he goes he dominates. It isn’t force of will, because -it’s effortless: he never makes up his mind to get his own way—he just -takes it, always, no matter at whose cost. But he—he never pays. . . . -Well, if that’s his way with the world, you can imagine, Perry, how far -the poodle gets. . . . But that’s not all. I’ve come—it’s very -natural—I’ve come to irritate him. . . .” - -She sighed heavily, and a dreary, hopeless note slid into her voice. - -“You’ve seen a leaf on the road before the wind. Well, I’m like a leaf -on a road—the open road of life. A dry, shrivelled leaf before the -north-east wind. The wind’s pitiless—devils the wretched leaf from -pillar to post, never gives it a second’s rest. And the road’s open, and -the leaf . . . can’t get away. . . .” - -There was a long silence. - -At length— - -“Why,” said Peregrine hoarsely, “why can’t the leaf get away?” - -Joan threw up her hands. - -“I knew you’d say that,” she said. “It does seem strange, doesn’t -it—that the leaf shouldn’t be able to get away? Well, Perry, you’ll -hardly believe me, but it’s a matter of pluck. The door’s open—I’ve -only got to walk out. _But I can’t do it._” - -“D’you mean . . . you love him?” - -“‘Love him?’” cried Joan. “Does the leaf love the north-east wind? Of -course, it’s different for you because you’re a man. Women can be very -trying, but they can’t reduce men to pulp. So you can’t put yourself in -my place. But if you were a slave and your master had given you hell day -in day out for five long, frightful years—well, d’you think you’d love -him, Perry?” - -Peregrine stared upon the ground. - -“Have you—a child?” he said. - -Joan shook her head. - -“Has he control of your fortune?” - -“Not a cent. I tell you,” she added wildly, “the door’s open.” - -“Steady, dear, steady. . . . Tell me, d’you feel—d’you feel you -oughtn’t to leave him? I mean . . . D’you feel it’s your job to -stay—because you’re his wife?” - -“No, indeed,” cried the girl. “I feel it’s my job not—not to go to -anyone else. It sounds rather out-of-date, but I’ve got old-fashioned -views. He’s my husband: and neither time nor distance can alter that. -But I don’t feel bound to stay with him—until he sends me mad. Would -you feel bound . . . Perry?” - -“Good God, no!” The man flung out the words. “As you say, you -needn’t. . . . Besides, I should think you’re fed up with men. I—I -should be.” Joan winced. “Give me my freedom. . . . I’d only get into a -hole—some wretched, back-stair lodging in some tiny place where I could -sit and read. I’d have one servant, and I’d potter about the streets. I -wouldn’t want any excitement—I’d ’ve had enough of that.” He laughed -bitterly. “I only want”—he swallowed and corrected his tense—“I’d only -want peace, Joan.” - -The girl nodded her head. - -“I knew you’d understand, Perry.” - -The man sat back in his chair. - -“The door’s open, Joan. Why can’t you walk out?” - -“Because,” said the girl slowly, “because I haven’t the nerve.” She -paused there, wide-eyed, as though plunged in bitter meditation. After a -moment she continued absently. “There’s nothing on earth to stop me, but -I know that for me to leave him would be _against his will_, and I can’t -stand up against that.” - -“But he needn’t know, Joan. You can just fade away and never see him -again.” - -“I know,” said Joan wearily. “I’ve got it all worked out. It’s the -easiest thing in the world. We leave for Paris to-morrow”—Peregrine -started—“by the evening train. Separate sleepers, of course: he likes -plenty of room. I’ve only to leave the train at some station during the -night. . . . We’ve taken rooms at Paris—I took them, of course. When he -gets there he finds awaiting him a letter to say I’ve gone. . . . It -adds that _so long as he doesn’t molest me_ a thousand pounds a quarter -will be paid into his account, but that if he tries to find me the -allowance will stop. . . . It’s the easiest thing on earth. I worked it -out months ago, and I’ve had chance after chance, for we’re always -moving about. But I can’t do it, Perry. He’s broken my nerve.” - -Peregrine set his teeth. - -“I know what you mean, Joan. But——” - -“No, you don’t, Perry. No one who’s not been through it could ever -understand. Why should one _need_ any nerve to step out of hell? That’s -all it is. Hell can’t follow—won’t even try to follow. There’s nothing -to fear. I’ve everything to gain and I can’t lose. But I can’t take the -plunge. . . . ‘But there _is_ no plunge,’ you’d say. I know. But then -your soul’s your own. Mine isn’t my own, Perry. . . . And that’s why you -can’t understand.” - -“I—do—understand.” - -“How can you?” - -“Never mind how I can. I do.” The strong, almost stern tone lifted up -Joan’s heart. The flax was smoking. “You’re under a sort of -spell—that’s all it is.” - -“All?” - -“All. Your words betray you. Your soul, you say, isn’t your own. That’s -pure fantasy—it must be. You’re under no physical restraint, and you’re -mentally free. You can think out your way of escape—discuss it with me. -You couldn’t do that if your soul wasn’t your own. You’re not even -hypnotized. But because for years you’ve been hammered you think that -you can’t hit back. The bare idea staggers you.” He leaned forward and -set a hand on her arm. “_But you haven’t got to hit back_, Joan. Do get -that into your head. Slipping out of the ring while he’s sleeping isn’t -hitting him back.” - -Joan began to tremble. - -“But after, Perry, _after_ . . . Supposing——” - -The grip on her arm tightened. - -“There’d be no ‘after,’ dear. The spell ’d be broken. As you stood on -the platform and watched the train’s lights fading, your confidence ’d -come back pelting. You’d want to shout and sing. You’d wonder why on -earth you’d stuck it so long. You’d find yourself laughing to think what -a fool you’d been. You could afford to laugh, because you’d be -free—_free_.” - -Joan put a hand to her head. - -“It’s the plunge,” she whimpered. “It’s taking the plunge, Perry. I’m -afraid. If I’d someone to hold my hand . . . You know what I said just -now. The sea doesn’t run so high when you’re not alone in the boat.” - -Peregrine pushed back his hood and wiped his face. This was streaming -with sweat. - -“Could—could you take the plunge with me, Joan?” - -Joan started violently. - -“With you, Perry? What d’you mean?” - -“I mean, if I held your hand. You see, _you’re not alone_, Joan . . . -not—alone—in the boat.” - -“_Perry!_” - -Trembling with excitement, the man continued jerkily. - -“All you’ve said of yourself you might have been saying of me. I’m in -the same boat, Joan. I’ve been there for seven years. And I haven’t the -nerve to plunge—either. I can preach, but I can’t practise. But I think -I might save myself if I tried to save you.” - -Joan clapped her hands to her cheeks. - -“Oh, Perry, I’m frightened,” she breathed. “Supposing he——” - -“He’ll be asleep,” said Peregrine. “Listen. We get to Bordeaux about -one. Bordeaux’s the place. Come out of your sleeper there. I’ll—I’ll be -in the corridor. We must let our big baggage go.” The sweat was running -on his forehead. Impatiently he wiped it off. “Write your letter to -Paris the moment you’re back.” - -With a bursting heart— - -“You’ll—you’ll leave me on the platform, won’t you? I mean . . .” The -girl was panting. “Not that I don’t care, dear, but I wouldn’t like -. . .” - -“I—I swear,” said the man uncertainly. - -Joan’s brain staggered. - -“We must—must play the game,” she faltered, half to herself. Suddenly -she caught at his arm. “Oh, Perry, you _will_ be there? You won’t let me -down? If I came out of my sleeper, and you weren’t there . . .” - -“I will be there.” - -Joan gave a little sob. - -Then she looked up. - -“I’m an awful funk,” she quavered. - -Peregrine rose and put her hand to his lips. He was quite calm now. - -“Buck up, my lady,” he said. “The sea’s falling.” - -Joan’s world rocked. - -The trick had been done. The game was as good as played. The fallen -sparrow was up—spreading its wings. Very soon now it would be out of -sight. Only the decoy would be left—fallen on the ground. Only the -decoy. . . . - -Her own words flamed at her. - -‘The door’s open—I’ve only got to walk out.’ - -It was, indeed, ‘the easiest thing in the world.’ One didn’t need any -nerve to step _into heaven_. Besides, he was her man—had always been. -Already they’d lost seven years. . . . - -Two figures loomed out of the shadows. - -“The only objection to masks,” purred a familiar voice, “is that if a -wife should want her husband she can’t find him.” - -With his back to the speaker, Peregrine stood like a rock. - -“For my part,” came the reply, “I should call it a virtue.” - -A provoking laugh answered him. - -As the figures passed on, the mist lifted and Joan saw her path clear -cut. ‘He that hath clean hands . . .’ She was out to rescue, but not to -rob. - -“Let’s go and dance once more,” she said quietly. “Then I’ll slip away.” - -Peregrine muffled his face, and they passed back into the ball-room, the -slam and stutter of ragtime and the slash of the coloured lights. . . . - -As the dance ended— - -“God bless you, Perry,” breathed Joan. “It’s—it’s been like heaven. -You—you _will_ be there, dear?” - -Peregrine smiled back. - -“Buck up, my lady.” - -An instant later the girl was lost in the press. - - * * * * * - -Some thirty-six hours had gone by. - -Joan Purchase Atlee was nearing Biarritz, Peregrine was in a car heading -for Havre, and Mrs. Carey Below was sitting in a Paris hotel, staring -upon a letter, with her eyes aflame and her underlip caught in her -teeth. - -A second letter lay on the floor by her side, its single sheet crumpled -as though in wrath. - -By your leave, I will straighten it out. - - _DEAR MARION,_ - - _I have decided that we are better apart. If you will write to - Forsyth, saying you accept this decision, he will send you a - cheque for five hundred pounds, and, so long as you do not seek - to avoid this decision, on application to Forsyth, one thousand - pounds will be paid to you every quarter._ - - _PEREGRINE._ - -The second letter, though not the envelope, was in the same handwriting. -Mrs. Below had dictated it—some seven years ago. - - _MY DEAR JOAN,_ - - _This is rather a difficult letter to write, but I have come to - the conclusion that it would be a fatal mistake for us to be - married. We’re friends, I know, but there must be something more - than friendship if marriage is to be a success. Where there is - no true understanding there can never be real happiness. I am - sure that after a little you will see the force of my words and - realize with me that I am taking the wisest, although by no - means the easiest, course in asking you to release me from my - engagement. If I don’t hear from you I shall know that you - agree._ - - _Yours very sincerely,_ - _PEREGRINE CAREY BELOW_. - - _P.S.—I think it best for both of us that we should not meet - again, so I am leaving for London to-night._ - -Mrs. Carey Below stared and stared. - -Presently she glanced round, folded the letter swiftly and thrust it -into her bag. - -Out of sight, out of mind. . . . Out of sight. . . . - -With an effort she wrenched at her thoughts, speaking mechanically to -give her brain a lead. - -“So nothing,” she rasped, breathing heavily through her nose, “_nothing_ -is sacred to him. This—after seven years. . . .” She raised her voice. -“Pickford!” - -But Pickford was in a taxi, heading for the Gare du Nord. - - - - - DERRY - - - DERRY - -The windows were wide open, and Carlton House Terrace was agog with -ragtime. The saxophone, Lord of Misrule, swerved and staggered, and the -band with it, playing such tricks with rhythm as a juggler will play -with a plate. The bladder entering into the soul, an elegant company was -dancing hilariously and letting the world slip with an efficiency which -Epicurus himself must have applauded. - -Two of the dancers, however, were not smiling, and, though they passed -through the press with an ease and grace of movement which few other -couples could display, neither of their hearts was wearing a -wedding-garment. - -Suddenly the girl turned and looked into her partner’s eyes. - -“Derry,” said Rosemary Chase, “I’ve known you a heap of years.” - -“That’s right,” said Derry Peruke. “Ever since you were sweet seven and -I was a beastly fifteen.” - -The tall, dark girl looked away. - -“I don’t remember you being beastly,” she said. “Never mind. Seventeen -years ought to beget an understanding.” - -“They have,” said Derry Peruke. - -The two danced the length of the great chamber without a word, the man -knowing what was coming and the woman wondering whether he had an idea. - -As they turned— - -“My only husband,” said Rosemary, “is in love with your wife.” - -“Yes,” said Peruke quietly. “That’s half the truth.” - -“D’you mean that, Derry?” - -The man nodded. - -“My dear,” he said, “so far as Virginia’s concerned, the sun, moon and -stars rise and set between Roger’s shoulder-blades.” - -“Well, what on earth,” said his partner, “are we to do? Between you and -me and the joker I rather like Roger. He has his faults, but——” - -“You must call him off,” said Derry. “Virginia’s a very good girl. He’s -enticed her away.” - -“Rot,” said Rosemary. “She’s been trying to get him for months. Never -mind. Don’t let’s scrap about it. The truth is they’ve both played with -the hive, and now we’re stung.” - -Peruke glanced down the gallery. - -“Where are they gone?” he said. - -Rosemary shrugged her white shoulders. - -“Probably to drive round the Park.” - -“And a very good idea—if you want to talk. Let’s do the same.” - -Rosemary Chase hesitated. - -Then— - -“Right-oh, Derry,” she said. - -The fact that the Perukes’ limousine was not to be found argued that -Rosemary’s assumption was well founded. Her coupé, however, was -waiting. . . . - -“Shall I drive? Or will you?” - -“As you please,” said Derry. - -The girl stepped into the car and slid to the driver’s seat. - -As her companion followed— - -“That’s all to-night, Mason,” she cried to the chauffeur without. - -“Very good, madam.” - -A moment later the car was stealing out of St. James’s. . . . - -Presently it swung westward at an increased speed. - -The turmoil of the day was over, and the ways were empty and silent -under the high stars. Once in a while another car sang by or a waggon -lumbered, but for the most part man and his works had yielded possession -to Fantasy, who had done all things well. The stage of London Town was -set for a masque. Substance was gone, and Shadow was up in his seat: the -streets had become dim, monstrous lanes that led to Mystery, paved with -the sheen of silver, hung with a sable arras behind which Echo hid: -gardens were swollen to parks, and parks to kingdoms: Harlequin was -abroad. - -“How can I call him off?” said Rosemary suddenly. “Virginia’s got my -whistle.” - -Derry regarded the end of his cigarette. - -“I’ll speak to Virginia,” he said, “if you’ll tell me what to say.” - -“How can I do that?” - -“You’re a woman,” said Derry doggedly. - -“I’m not Virginia,” said Rosemary. “And only Virginia knows how she -wants her gruel.” - -“Exactly,” said Derry. “D’you think it’s likely that I should mix it -right? I’d ’ve spoken weeks ago but for the fear of doing more harm than -good. An’ if I speak now an’ make the slightest mistake, it’ll be all -over. Give me the Middle Ages,” he added savagely. “The flat of the -sword for her, an’ the point for Roger.” - -“Thanks very much,” said Rosemary. “You would come out all right, -wouldn’t you? And after the obsequies I suppose I could begin again. -Still, I agree with half your sentiment. What they both need is the flat -of the sword. The tongue’s too dangerous, the pen repellent and -suggestive. I’m not going to correspond with my husband upon a subject -like this. But the flat of the sword is genially disconcerting and quite -unanswerable.” - -“My dear,” said Peruke, “to be eloquent here is too easy. In Virginia’s -absence I can send her to bed without a tremor. And I’ll bet a puncheon -of rum it’s the same with you. And there we are. Our two little -households are heading straight for the Court. If we do nothing, we -shall get there in about a month. If we do the right thing, we shall -heave to. But if we do anything else, we shall get there in twenty-four -hours.” - -“I should hate to suggest,” said Rosemary, “that you were being -eloquent.” - -There was an indignant silence. - -At length— - -“Why,” said Derry Peruke, “did you approach me?” - -Rosemary put up a hand and touched his face. - -“Because I thought it was silly for two such old friends to go down -without discussing their fate.” - -Derry turned his head quickly and kissed her fingers. These flew back to -the wheel. - -“And now,” said Rosemary contentedly, “what are we to do? We haven’t -been wasting time, because we’ve decided two things. The first is that -action is rather better than speech, and the second that if we’re to act -we’d better look sharp about it.” - -“Supposing,” said Derry Peruke, “supposing we fell in love.” - -Rosemary started violently, and the car swerved. - -Then she began to laugh. - -“By way of curing them? Or consoling ourselves?” - -“Both,” said Derry. “If the sight of us getting off doesn’t open their -eyes, then will nothing this side of a lawyer’s clerk. Secondly, I don’t -know about you, but I’m ripe—ready to drop for consolation of a -tangible sort. And what more natural than that I should turn to my -loving little friend—Rosemary Chase? She’s sweet, she’s beautiful: I’ve -loved her for fifty years: she’s got the prettiest hands and a face like -a fairy-tale: her hair—what have you got on your hair? It’s all—all -mellifluous. Oh, and just look at your mouth!” - -“That’ll do,” said Rosemary shakily. “Privy scandal’s no good.” - -“Rot the scandal,” said Derry. “Besides, I’m naturally virtuous, so if -I’m to come off in public I must have a smell at the jumps. Quite apart -from that, my darling, it’s making me well. I’ve always found you -lovely, and a chance of telling you so is good for my heart. And it -ought to be good for yours—unless you hate me.” - -“You know I don’t hate you, Derry, but I’m rather bad at games.” - -“What good d’you think I am? I’ve never kissed a woman but Jenny since I -was wed. The mercy is that, now that we’ve got to play, we’ve drawn each -other instead of a couple of souls. It’s not a game that I’d play with -everyone.” - -Rosemary threw up her head. - -“I’m not going to keep Virginia’s saddle dry.” - -“Or I Roger’s,” said Derry. “Don’t you believe it, my dear. If I didn’t -think I could stand on my own flat feet, I’d get out of this chaise.” - -“But it wouldn’t console me at all to throw my arms round your neck. I’m -very fond of you, Derry, but Roger’s my man.” - -“And Jenny’s my girl,” said Derry. “That’s why I want her back. And I -think the way to get her is to show her that she hasn’t got me. Very -well, then. I’ve got to find a playmate.” - -“That shouldn’t take you long,” said Rosemary Chase. “I could -mention——” - -“I’ve a weakness,” said Derry Peruke, “for playing the game. I hate -making love to a girl with my tongue in my cheek. Yet to explain the -position would be to court trouble of the corrosive sort.” - -Rosemary laughed. - -“It’s perfectly obvious,” she said, “that you’ve known me too long. -Familiarity has bred a wholesome contempt.” - -“One moment,” said Derry calmly. “All I’ve just said about me can be -said about you—except that, even if you explained the position to your -prey, he wouldn’t retort with vitriol. In fact, you’re so very charming -that he’d probably jump at the chance. But that’s beside the -point—which is that we each need a playmate by whom we can play the -game. Well, our respective spice have fairly slung us into each other’s -arms. . . . If you don’t want to play, say the word. But I think it’s a -chance. Perhaps I was foolish to say that I loved you, dear, and that, -as the game had to be played, I’d be happy to play it with you, but -seventeen years of admiration are bound to leave their mark.” Rosemary -bowed her head. “With anyone else I’d hate it. In fact, it couldn’t be -done. With you—well, it’s very easy, lady, and that’s the truth.” He -slid an arm round her waist. “I know I’m in love with Jenny, but when I -say that I love you you know it’s true. For one thing, who could help -it? Look at your mouth. . . . But it wouldn’t console me to kiss you, if -you didn’t—understand. A state of emergency exists, requiring special -measures of an abnormal kind. That I find those measures sweet is pure -good fortune: they might have been nauseous. Of course, if you find -them——” - -“I don’t,” said Rosemary, laying her head against his. “I—I rather like -them, Derry. . . . I wonder what Roger would say if he——” - -“Will say,” corrected Derry. “Unless I’m much mistaken, it’ll send the -blood to his head. An’ the same with my lawful wife. Then perhaps -they’ll begin to perceive that marriage is not like bettin’ an’ you -can’t have a bit each way. Whereupon they’ll gird up their loins and -return to the fold.” - -“And we?” - -“I suppose we shall have to do the same,” said Derry ruefully. “It’s -rather hard, isn’t it? They’ve gone an’ thrown us together an’ presently -they’ll tear us apart. Never mind, I shall write to you surreptitiously. -And when I smudge the letter you’ll know that I’m thinking of a night -when your hair was full of the Rubaiyat and your blessed cheek stung me -till I wanted to pick you up and carry you into the hills.” - -Rosemary lifted up her voice— - - _What’ll I do_ - _When you_ - _Are far away,_ - _And I_ - _Am blue—_ - _What’ll I do?_ - -Derry picked up his cue in a pleasing baritone— - - _What’ll I do_ - _When I_ - _Am wondering who_ - _Is kissing you—_ - _What’ll I do?_ - -They finished the chorus together. - -“Oh, you darling,” breathed Derry. “Of course, Roger must be out of his -mind.” - -Rosemary decelerated and slid an arm round his neck. - -“So must Jenny,” she whispered. - -As she gave him her lips, headlights leapt out of the darkness and four -tires tore at the road. - -Peruke wrenched the wheel round, and they missed a head-on collision by -an inch and a half. - -There was nothing to be said or done. - -The coupé alone was to blame, Rosemary having allowed her to stray to -the right of the road. - -As the cars drew apart— - -“They must have seen us,” said Rosemary. “Let’s pray it was no one we -knew.” - -“At least,” said Derry Peruke, “they can’t have been angry. To see all -is to forgive all. And next time, sweetheart, I think I should put her -in first.” - - * * * * * - -As the cars drew apart— - -“Did you see who that was?” said Virginia in a freezing tone. - -Captain Chase inserted a finger between his collar and throat. - -“I saw your blasted husband kissing my wife.” - -“How dare you?” cried Mrs. Peruke. “She had her arms round his neck.” - -“He was taking advantage of her,” declared Roger. “Rosemary’s not that -sort.” - -“What d’you mean—_that sort_?” said Virginia furiously. - -In view of the powder yet adhering to her companion’s shoulder, the -peculiar pertinence of the question was undeniable. - -Captain Chase swallowed before replying. - -“I only meant,” he explained, “that—that she wouldn’t make the -running.” - -Virginia replied with a noise which cannot be reduced to writing, but -was indicative at once of great contempt, loathing, and incredulity. -Then, after the manner of one who fears contamination and desires to -advertise the fact, she withdrew as far from Captain Chase as the -construction of the limousine would allow. - -“You seem to forget,” she said coldly, “that Derry is very attractive.” - -“I say he’s deceived her,” was the violent reply. “Made her blind or -something.” - -“Why not face facts?” said Virginia. “She’s been trying to bring this -off for weeks and months, and now——” - -“It’s false,” roared Roger. “He’s managed to get her alone, an’—an’ -. . . . ” - -“I see,” said Virginia. “Once aboard the coupé and the girl is mine.” -She laughed icily. “The only snag is that it’s _her_ coupé.” - -“What if it is?” cried Roger. “He’s waited his chance—that’s all. He’s -asked her to give him a lift, an’——” - -“Where to? Kingston? We live in Curzon Street—six miles the other way.” - -“I don’t care about that,” said Roger savagely. “He told her some tale, -of course. Rosemary’s very trusting.” - -“I suppose he put her arms round his neck.” - -“She was struggling,” screamed Roger. “You saw for yourself the car was -all over the road.” - -“She was making a meal of it,” said Virginia, shuddering. “Ugh! Don’t -think I’m defending Derry,” she added suddenly, “because I’m not. _But I -know how he felt._” Roger started. “When you’re pursued and badgered by -someone who says they’re dying for love of you, it’s very awkward to -keep on putting them off—especially if you know them pretty well. One -doesn’t want to hurt their feelings, and one doesn’t want a scene, and -so for the sake of peace——” - -“I can’t bear it,” said Roger thickly. “I don’t say I’m blameless, -but——” - -“I wonder,” said Virginia relentlessly, fingering a note in her bag, “I -wonder if she has written to him.” - -Here was treason, unconscionable, barefaced. - -Captain Chase could hardly credit his ears. - -After a frightful moment— - -“I wonder if he’s ever rung her up,” he said brokenly. - -Virginia, who believed in the telephone, stiffened. - -“I shouldn’t be surprised,” she said. “Out of kindness of heart.” - -“And when she came to the telephone told her he couldn’t sleep -until——” - -“Do you remember your reply?” said Virginia in a shaking voice. - -Roger shrugged his shoulders. - -“To keep you awake,” he said, “would have been uncharitable.” - -So soon as she could speak— - -“Poor deluded Derry,” said Virginia uncertainly: “I feel quite sorry for -him.” - -“You’ll feel much more sorry for him to-morrow morning,” said Roger -violently. - -“Why?” - -“In fact,” said Captain Chase darkly, “I shouldn’t faint with surprise -if he felt sorry for himself.” - -“Why?” - -“Well, you don’t think I’m going to pass this over, do you? D’you think -I’m going to have my wife hugged an’ kissed in broad—broad -lamp-light——” - -“In her own coupé, at her own request.” - -“Never,” shouted Roger. “He was assaulting her.” - -“Then why,” said Virginia swiftly, “why didn’t you stop the car?” -Captain Chase started. “I thought men fell over themselves to rescue, -er, virtue in distress. Oh, and when you tackle Derry, supposing he -denies it, what are you going to say?” - -“I shall say I saw him.” - -“Where from? The interior of his own car . . . which you were sharing -with his wife . . . at one o’clock in the morning . . . five miles from -Berkeley Square?” - -The sudden perception that his guns were spiked seemed to deprive -Captain Chase of the power of utterance. - -At the third attempt— - -“Well, you can’t scratch Rosemary, either,” he blurted. - -Having no answer at hand, Mrs. Peruke preserved what she hoped was a -contemptuous silence; but presently, after endeavouring vainly to digest -the unsavoury fact that if Derry was safe from Roger he was equally safe -from her, she burst into tears of aggravation. - -She had caught her husband bending, but, because her hands were tied, -she could not strike. The rod was in pickle, and in pickle the rod must -stay. As for Rosemary . . . . - -Roger was speaking. - -“I say, don’t cry, Jenny. I can’t bear it.” - -“Men are brutes,” sobbed Virginia. “All of them. They just use women -like gloves and then they throw them aside.” - -“No, they don’t,” said Roger. “They——” - -“They do-o-o. You know it. Look at you and Derry.” - -With goggling eyes, Roger begged her to overlook their profligacy. - -“We’re fools. That’s all,” he asserted. “Prize fools. But we aren’t -vicious.” - -“That’s just what you are,” wailed Virginia. “And you take it out on -mugs like Rosemary and me. I’m not a bit mad with her—I’m simply sorry. -I imagine life with you must be p-purple hell—like mine is with -D-D-Derry. You spend your rotten time playing us up, an’ then when -you’ve played us up you let us down.” - -Captain Chase felt inclined to scream. - -Instead— - -“Gently, old lady,” he said. “Easy with the weaker vessel. I know it -looks bad, but—well, girls like you an’ Rosemary, you don’t realize -your power. Poor devils like Derry an’ me—we haven’t a ghost. An’ as if -your natural beauty wasn’t enough you actually fuss yourselves up to—to -make us think. It’s like goin’ out after sheep with a smoke-screen and a -couple of tanks.” - -“It’s a wicked lie,” shrieked Virginia. “How dare you say such a thing? -You’re not like sheep. You’re wolves. And we don’t go after you. You -come and pester us till we’re nearly out of our minds, and when for the -sake of peace we try to be nice, you take what you want and then you -turn us down.” - -Roger took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. - -From the opposite corner of the limousine Virginia continued to dispense -indignation in the shape of spasmodic inspirations which shook the seat. - -The man who can withstand that particular form of emotion has yet to be -sired. - -After the tenth appeal, which was more of an _ultimatum_ and fairly -rattled round the car, Roger returned to the assault. - -“Jenny, my dear, have a heart. For God’s sake don’t cry like this. I -swear I never meant any harm. You know I didn’t. And—and we’ll get back -on them somehow. I’ve got an idea already—it only wants working out.” - -“I don’t want to get back,” said Virginia, dabbing her eyes. “I’m not -revengeful. To-morrow I shall go into retreat. I know a place in the -Midlands. You live very simply and do your own cell, and you don’t see -any papers or anything. And there aren’t any men for miles, except one -priest.” - -“Poor devil,” said Roger thoughtfully. “Does he muck out his own cell -too?” - -“Oh, of course you can laugh,” said Virginia hotly. “But I mean what I -say. I’m utterly disillusioned, and I’m going to clear out and leave the -lot of you to it. What’s your rotten idea?” - -Roger took out a case and selected a cigarette. - -“I’m afraid it’s too worldly,” he said. “Besides, as you don’t see the -papers——” - -“Now, where’s that note you sent me?” said Virginia, ransacking her bag. -“The priest’ll want that to send to Derry.” - -Captain Chase sat very still. - -Then— - -“Oh, the vixen!” he said. “Never mind. In return for that note I’ll hand -you my rotten idea.” - -With an envelope, pinched between her forefinger and thumb, Virginia -tapped her small nose and stared at the chauffeur’s shoulders and the -black and silver habit of Night beyond. - -At length— - -“I give you it back,” she said, “unconditionally.” The letter passed. -“You should never have written it, Roger; but that was my fault. I’ve -been a fool, and I’ve made a fool of you. And between us I quite believe -we’ve driven Derry and Rosemary into each other’s arms. . . . Well, it’s -no less than we deserve. Derry’s a wonderful husband, and Rosemary’s a -peach of a wife.” - -“So she is,” muttered Roger. - -“But now . . . we’ve fed them up. . . . How far it’s gone—how long it’s -been going on I haven’t the faintest idea. And how on earth we’re to -stop it I can’t tell. If your idea will do that, I’m ready to try. But I -will not put it across them. I—haven’t—the right.” - -Chase tugged his moustache. - -“Virginia,” he said, “I can’t let you talk like that. I’m too -much—ashamed. I’m not going to say I regret the—the interlude, because -that wouldn’t be true. You see, I’m only human, while you’re divine. But -it’s been a shady business, and I’m frankly ashamed. Which of us two has -been to blame won’t bear argument. I started it—that we both know: and -to-night you’ve—you’ve ended it, dear.” He took the slight fingers in -his and put them to his lips. “As for Derry and Rosemary, I’ve no doubt -you’re right. If they’re assembling, we’ve only ourselves to thank. But -I’m ready and willing to bet it’s not gone very far. If I’m right, the -threat of exposure will kill it dead. An affair like this, while it’s -young, can be frightened to death.” - -“After all,” said Virginia slowly, “you ought to know. And I hope to -Heaven you’re right. I like you, Roger, you know. And I’m fond of -you—in a way. But the thought of losing Derry . . .” - -She let the sentence go and put her face in her hands. - -Captain Chase had switched on the light and was scribbling on the back -of his envelope. - -After a correction or two— - -“How will this do?” he demanded. “Agony Column of _The Times. Unless -owner of valuable closed car receives an abject apology from each of the -occupants of the coupé which at a moment when they were_ OTHERWISE -ENGAGED _was driven across his path, thereby almost occasioning a -serious accident, he will publish the time and place at which the -incident occurred, together with the number of the offending car._” - -Virginia Peruke sat up, with a mischievous light in her eyes. - -“I should simply love,” she said, “to see his apology. And yet,” she -continued gently, “I should hate him to be all upset. You see, if ever -he’s worried he always comes to me. And he couldn’t come to me about -this. And—and I should feel awfully guilty and dreadfully mean.” - -“I don’t want her to come unbuttoned,” said Roger musingly. “I couldn’t -bear that. But I’m out to stop the rot—without involvin’ ourselves.” - -Virginia interlaced ten rosy fingers. - -“I don’t quite know what I want,” she said, as though thinking aloud. -“Yes, I do. I want Derry back—terribly. Yet I want him to be -smacked—not hard, just enough to sting. But I couldn’t enjoy his -smacking unless I was smacked too. Can you ever begin to understand? You -see, we ought to be involved—if justice is to be done.” - -“That’s right,” said Roger. “You’ve assaulted the nail. My tail ought to -be twisted, but not by Rosemary. Rosemary ought to be gingered but not -by me. What we all want is a public executioner.” - -Virginia nodded. - -“That’s the idea,” she said. “Someone to clear the air. I don’t think -we’ll need that notice. Any way, to-morrow we’ll know. And if this -affair’s going strong, you can shove it in. But I don’t believe it is. -If I love an’ cherish Derry, I think he’ll come back. And Rosemary too. -What’s beginning to break my heart is that _things won’t be the same_. -I’d jump at a general confession, but if they didn’t join in, it’d only -make matters worse. If only something would happen to clear the air.” - -“The god in the car,” said Roger, nodding his head. “That’s the wallah -we want. You know. The Greeks were poets all right, but they couldn’t -write plays. They could mess up their characters’ lives, but when the -time came they couldn’t straighten them out. And as it was a case—the -audience bein’ strict—of a small hemlock or a happy endin’, in the last -act they always roped in a god on board a truck who made the garden -lovely before bringin’ the curtain down.” - -This admirable exposition was rudely received. - -“In fact,” said Virginia fiercely, “your wretched god in the car is -about as much use to us as a witch in a fairy-tale. Upon my soul, what -an idiot a man can be. I ask for ideas; and you hand me a lot of wash -about——” - -“You said we wanted something to clear the air. I only corroborated——” - -“Who wants corroboration? Do you? I know I don’t. Do pull yourself -together and try and think. It’ll seem strange at first, of -course—using your brain. But you can sleep it off.” - -As the car turned into Pall Mall— - -“Any way,” said Roger thickly, “those two have opened my eyes. You’re -undeniably lovely, but you’re devilish——” - -“Strict,” said Virginia, laying a hand on his arm. “Like your Athenian -audience. I want a happy ending—so very much.” - -The man turned and looked at the beautiful face. - -This was eager, but the great grey eyes were wistful, and the exquisite -mouth—— - -It occurred to Roger suddenly that the mouth could not be compared to -that of Rosemary. - -“So—so do I,” he faltered. - - * * * * * - -The Inspector leaned back in his chair and took his cigar from his lips. - -“Look ’ere,” he said. “Before you asks for your summons you must ’ave -your witnesses.” - -“That’s right,” said Constable Bloke of the Metropolitan Police. - -“Well, where are they?” said the Inspector, with the triumphant air of -one who knows that whatever answer he receives can be ground to powder. - -P.C. Albert Bloke consulted his notes. - -“They was in the car bearin’ the number XH 2908, sir.” - -“Then you mus’ see them,” said the Inspector, “an’ take their -statemen’s.” He restored his cigar to his mouth. “If they was as near -smashed up as wot you say, they’ll be ready enough to come: an’ any way, -if you don’t give ’em their choice, they’ll think they’ve got to.” - -“That’s right,” said P.C. Bloke. - -“Well, you get ’old of them this afternoon. Don’t touch the chauffeur -till you’ve seen ’oo was in the car. Then ask respectful if you may see -’im. If their statemen’s is O.K., we’ll get legal assistance ’ere.” - -“We did ought to,” said the constable earnestly. “It’s as wicked a case -of——” - -“No case ain’t wicked without evidence,” said the Inspector. “Don’t you -forget that, sonny. An’ yours alone ain’t worth a couple o’ kicks. You -must ’ave corroboration. That coopy’ll bring down counsel—you see if it -don’t. An’ if you ’adn’t got no backing—why, ’e’d turn you inside out -before your eyes.” He raised his own to heaven and sighed as one who -trusts that his enemies’ offences against him are not forgotten. “I’ve -’ad some,” he added heavily. “Never min’. Statemen’s, summons, legal -assistance and conviction. That’s the order, me boy, an’ statemen’s -first.” - -“Very good, sir,” said P.C. Bloke. - -The constable was ambitious. - -Ever since orders had come through that the reckless driving of motor -vehicles was to be actively discouraged, P.C. Albert Bloke had been -awaiting his chance. This, until one that morning, an inscrutable -Fortune had obstinately withheld. Then all of a sudden she had -smiled—dazzlingly. - -At dangerous cross-roads a coupé, proceeding at an unlawful speed, had -swerved right across the roadway, almost collided with a limousine, very -nearly knocked him down, passed a refuge on the wrong side and taken no -notice at all of his orders to stop. (Such disregard was hardly -surprising, for by the time the orders were given the car was out of -earshot: but P.C. Bloke had decided that the ends of justice should not -be defeated like that, and that if the coupé’s misconduct had cramped -his style that was its own funeral.) More. The coupé’s tail-light was -luminous, its number-plate clean, and P.C. Bloke had his note-book in -his hand. As though to crown his endeavours, the limousine, plainly -indignant, had dallied just long enough to enable him to add her number -to that of the offending car. - -Reference to the licensing authorities had given him the names of the -owners of the respective cars, and an interview with his Inspector had, -as we have seen, pointed the path to glory and the surest way to tread. - -When he turned into Curzon Street at a quarter past five, P.C. Albert -Bloke was prepared to wring a statement from a Trappist. - -Peering into the library of the house which he was seeking, you might -have thought that the bird of Care had there no rest for the sole of its -foot. To be frank, it was on the wing. - -That morning Virginia had breakfasted downstairs for the first time for -half a year. Afterwards, at her suggestion, she and Derry had played a -round of golf. The game did much, but the way in which she had asked him -to give her lunch was irresistible. Her husband’s surprise at her -attention was swallowed in a spring-tide of joy. This was infectious. -Resolutely thrusting Rosemary out of her thoughts, Virginia found him -attractive as never before and, surreptitiously comparing him with -Roger, began to wonder whether she had been bewitched. When in the -afternoon they repaired to Lord’s, pride of possession came to steal her -content. Thronged as was the ground with a distinguished company, -brilliant as was the parade upon the mighty green, Derry Peruke stood -out, a notable figure of a man. Virginia was equally conspicuous, but -love had no eyes for that. Presently Royalty saw them, and the two were -sent for. Virginia’s cup was full. . . . - -The match was over early, and as they were leaving the ground two -familiar figures emerged from a covered stand and, apparently engrossed -in mutual admiration, stepped almost into their arms. - -For a second Virginia’s sun lurched in his heaven. Then, quick as a -flash, she did the right thing. - -“My dear,” she said to Rosemary, “but what a peach of a dress. Come back -and have tea in Curzon Street and let me digest its style. And I’ll show -you one from Michele that I’m afraid to put on.” - -Mrs. Chase picked up her cue. . . . - -The four shared a taxi to Mayfair and, putting their shoulders to the -tambourine, kept this upon the move. Their efforts met with success. By -inches uneasiness was shunted, and by the time that tea was served the -four were displaying a fellowship which was every moment becoming more -spontaneous. Old days, old laughter were recaptured: umbrage was -overwhelmed, the sense of injury starved. The spectre of resentment was -there, but it was under hatches. - -Then the butler entered and spoke to Derry. - -“A policeman?” said the latter. “Oh, a summons, I s’pose. Jenny, m’dear, -have you been stopped in the Park?” - -“That’s right,” said Virginia, turning. “On Monday. But what a sinful -shame. I wasn’t doing thirty, and they said at the time—— Constable!” - -“Madam,” said P.C. Bloke and entered the room. - -“Who applied for this summons? Was it a keeper with a grey moustache?” - -P.C. Bloke stared. - -“What summons, madam?” he said blankly. - -Amid a roar of laughter, Virginia clapped her hands to her mouth. - -“I have said the wrong thing, haven’t I? Never mind. Constable, I’m sure -from your face you know when to be deaf.” - -P.C. Bloke grinned respectfully. - -“I ’ope so, madam.” - -“That’s right,” said Virginia. “And now what can we do for you?” - -The constable turned to Derry. - -“Major Peruke, sir?” - -“That’s right,” said Derry comfortably. “What have I done?” - -“Nothin’ at all, sir,” said Bloke hastily. “I’m not after you. But I -think you’ve a limousine car, sir,” he added with a business-like air. - -“So I have,” said Derry Peruke. - -“Number XH 2908, sir.” - -“Quite right,” said Derry, wondering what was afoot. - -“Were you usin’ ’er early this mornin’, sir?” - -Virginia started, Rosemary caught her breath, and Roger, who had been -about to drink, held his refreshment for a moment half-way to his lips -and then replaced it untasted upon a table. Of the four Peruke alone -betrayed no emotion at all. - -“Yes,” he said casually enough. “Drove here from Carlton House Terrace -about—about half-past two, wasn’t it, dear?” - -Bitterly conscious of an unusually high, if becoming colour— - -“Exactly,” replied his wife. “I heard the clock at the Palace strike as -we passed.” - -“Did you use ’er before that, sir—this side of midnight?” - -In an electric silence Derry shook his head. - -“Not after midnight,” he said. “I drove to Carlton House Terrace about -eleven and home about half-past two, but that was all.” - -The constable raised his eyebrows. - -“Then I’m afraid she was bein’ used, sir, without your authority. An’ as -this is rather important, I’d like a word with your chauffeur—if you’ve -no objection.” - -There was another silence. - -Violently red in the face, Captain Chase sat like a graven image, -wide-eyed but sightless. One slight hand to her mouth, Rosemary, still -as death, stared upon the floor. - -Realizing that something must be done, and done quickly, Virginia took a -deep breath. - -“You say ‘before midnight’?” she said barefacedly. - -“_After_ midnight, madam,” corrected P.C. Bloke. - -“Oh, I used her _after_ midnight,” said Virginia. “I thought you were -talking about before.” - -“No, after, dear,” said Derry gallantly. - -“Oh, I used her after midnight.” She turned to her husband. “I felt I -must have some air, so I sent for Filmer and went for a little drive.” - -“Ah, that explains it,” said Derry, waving a hand. As though released -from a spell, Captain and Mrs. Chase relaxed their muscles and murmured -their concurrence. “Anything else, Constable?” - -“If you please, sir.” He turned to Virginia. “Excuse me askin’ you, -madam, but were you alone?” - -Supercharged with resentment and mortification, Virginia could have -burst. - -Instead, she turned to Roger. - -“Did you come with me or not? I know you said you were going to, but I -went to sleep almost at once, and——” - -“Yes, I came,” said Roger, uncrossing and recrossing his legs and -mentally consigning all women and police-officers to outer darkness. -“Don’t you remember when I woke you to say we were back?” - -“I can’t say I do,” said Virginia ruthlessly. “Never mind.” She turned -to the constable. “This gentleman says he was with me.” - -P.C. Bloke addressed himself to Roger. - -“D’you remember anythin’ ’appenin,’ sir, during your drive?” - -With goggling eyes, Roger assured the ceiling that he could recall -nothing. - -“It was a most—most uneventful progress,” he added thickly. - -A deeper tinge of colour stole into Virginia’s cheeks. - -P.C. Bloke frowned and fingered his chin. - -“Nothing at all, sir?” he ventured. - -Not daring to trust his voice, Captain Chase shook his head. - -Rosemary cleared her throat. - -“Perhaps,” she said slowly, “—it’s nothing to do with me—but perhaps -if the constable could give you some sort of idea of what he wants to -know . . .” - -“I agree,” said Derry heartily, taking out cigarettes. “What are you -after, Constable? Somebody been knocked down?” - -“We never knocked anybody down,” said Virginia. “That I’ll swear.” - -“Oh no, madam,” said P.C. Bloke. “I’m not suggestin’ it. It’s rather the -other way. But as neither you nor the gentleman don’t recall no -inciden’, I’m afraid p’r’aps I’m wastin’ your time.” He turned to Derry. -“Can you tell me where I shall find your chauffeur, sir?” - -For the second time reference to the chauffeur as a possible fount of -information produced an immediate effect. - -“Ha-half a moment,” said Roger desperately. “I mean, as my wife was -saying, can’t you give us any idea of what you’re getting at?” He -laughed inanely. “You see, you’ve—you’ve aroused our curiosity, and -I—we feel it’s only fair to put us wise.” - -He stopped there to wipe the sweat from his brow. - -The constable glanced about him before replying. - -Virginia, scarlet in the face, was smoking furiously and regarding an -exquisite Herring with narrowed eyes. Handkerchief to lips, Rosemary, -whose sense of humour her husband’s agonized travail had rendered -mutinous, fought to suppress her mirth. With the idiotic grin of one who -is seeking to maintain his gravity by entering the cataleptic state, -Major Peruke gazed upon a bowl of sweet-peas. - -Wondering if this deportment was that generally obtaining in Curzon -Street, P.C. Albert Bloke referred to his notes—less for the purpose of -refreshing his memory than with some hazy idea of stabilizing his wits, -the formation of which was beginning to get ragged. - -Almost unconsciously he began to read aloud his report. - -“_At 1.10 a.m. on July the eighth I was on duty at the junction of -Roe’ampton Lane and Dandle Row. A limousine car, ooze number I -afterwards ascertained to be XH 2908, was about to turn out of the Row -towards Richmond at a slow pace. Its lights was burnin’. As it turned -out I made to pass be’ind it to cross the Lane when a coopy, ooze number -I afterwards ascertained to be XL 9436, proceedin’ at a ’igh speed in -the direction of Putney ’Eath, swerved right across the roadway -an’——_” - -Derry’s cigarette-case fell to the parquet with a crash. - -Everyone jumped violently, and Rosemary, white to the lips, stifled a -cry. Purple in the face, the culprit stammered apologies and garnered -his cigarettes with trembling fingers. Remembering her recent ignominy, -Virginia surveyed his efforts with a cold and glittering stare. His -hands clapped to his face, Roger furtively regarded his wife between his -fingers. - -“Go on, Constable,” said Virginia sweetly. “‘Swerved right across the -roadway’ directly into the path of the limousine, whose headlights were -on.” - -“Thank you, madam,” said Bloke triumphantly. “I couldn’t say that myself -because I was be’ind your car. But it passed so close to me that I felt -the wind on me face.” He turned to Roger. “Do you remember it too, sir?” - -As though wishful to uproot it, Captain Chase tugged his moustache. - -“I—I have a faint recollection,” he said uneasily. “If I remember, -they—they swung away again. You know. Corrected their error an’——” - -“’Appily for you, sir,” was the grim reply. “Otherwise it’d ’ve been -manslaughter. As wicked a piece of reckless drivin’ as ever I saw. -Passed the refuge on the wrong side——” - -“Had to do that,” said Derry. “I mean—they probably couldn’t ’ve got -back without countin’ the refuge out.” - -“Very probably, sir,” said the constable. “You can’t bother about them -things at forty-five miles an hour.” - -This was too much. - -“O-o-oh!” cried Rosemary. “I wasn’t going——” She stopped dead there -and swallowed violently. “I wasn’t going to—to tell you,” she continued -desperately. “But I saw a car going fast the other day. Not—not so fast -as that, though,” she added with a sickly smile. - -P.C. Albert Bloke put a hand to his head. - -With shaking fingers, Major Peruke was lighting a cigarette: as he did -so a bead of sweat rolled down the side of his nose. Virginia looked as -though about to burst into hysterical laughter. The idiotic grin which -had lately inhabited Derry’s face seemed to have shifted bodily to that -of Roger. - -Once again the constable referred to his notes. - -“_I called upon them to stop, but they took no notice._” - -“Perhaps—perhaps they didn’t hear you,” blurted Derry Peruke. - -“That’s their look-out, sir. One can’t do no more than shout.” He turned -to Virginia. “And now if you please, madam, I’d like to take your -statemen’.” - -A rustle of consternation greeted this curt announcement. - -As the fellow felt for a pencil— - -“I—I don’t quite follow,” said Derry. “Are you, er, proposing to -prosecute?” - -“We are that, sir,” was the reply. “The Commissioner ’e’s determined to -put down this dangerous drivin’.” Again he turned to Virginia. “May I -’ave your full name, madam?” - -Mrs. Peruke hesitated. - -“I really saw very little,” she said, frowning. - -“Quite so, madam,” said P.C. Bloke. “They was goin’ too fast to see -much. But you saw them comin’, didn’t you?” - -“Oh, I saw them all right,” said Virginia, determined to get her own -back. “There’s nothing the matter with our headlights. You couldn’t help -seeing—_seeing right into the car_, could you, Roger?” - -Roger was understood to concur. - -Letting his pencil wander idly across a page, P.C. Bloke took on an -absent air. - -“Did the man who was driving——” - -“It was a woman,” said his victim promptly. - -As if by an effort recalling his attention— - -“Oh, you couldn’t see that, madam,” said P.C. Albert Bloke. - -Oblivious of the agonized signals which Derry was making behind the -officer’s back— - -“Of course I could,” cried Virginia. “The car had right-hand steering, -and she was on the right—with a man by her side. She had one hand—on -the wheel.” - -Her cheeks flaming, frantically twisting her rings, Rosemary moistened -her lips and prayed for death. - -The constable shrugged his shoulders and let his pencil stray. - -“If you was to say that, madam, you’d be asked if you’d know ’em again, -an’ then you would ’ave to say ‘No.’” - -“On the contrary,” said Virginia, “_I should know them anywhere_.” - -“Bee-utiful,” said Derry, wiping the sweat from his face. Virginia -started at his tone and a finger flew to her lip. “Constable, I -congratulate you. As delicate a piece of leading as ever I saw. Step by -step, right over the edge, into the muck-heap. And now we _are_ all -right. ‘I recognize the defendant as the woman I saw: I also recognize -the man.’ Any more for the witness-box? My God, what a scoop for the -Press. And I should think ‘the woman’ driving ’d get about five years.” - -Rosemary went very white. - -“Maximum penalty, three months, sir.” - -“That all? What a shame! Never mind. Read out your shorthand notes -before you transcribe them. I’d like to hear the—the death-warrant.” - -In the midst of an appalling silence Rosemary burst into tears. - -“I—I think you’re very unkind,” she sobbed, addressing Virginia. -“Poor—poor ‘woman.’ I—I don’t suppose for a moment she meant any harm. -And but—but for you she wouldn’t have been hauled up and sent to -prison.” - -Virginia was on her knees at Rosemary’s feet. - -“Oh, my darling,” she cried, “what a poisonous fool I’ve been! I only -meant to pull your leg. I never dreamed——” - -A hurricane of coughing from Major Peruke cut short the sentence. - -As the paroxysm subsided he turned to P.C. Bloke. - -“The lady,” he said gravely, “is naturally upset. If you remember, she -saw a car going fast the other day. Besides, we don’t talk about it, but -when quite a child her grocer was convicted of pound-breach, and she’s -never got over it.” - -Supposing Mrs. Chase to be simple and wondering what pound-breach might -be— - -“Quite so, sir,” said P.C. Bloke. “Might I ’ave your lady’s full name?” - -“Certainly. Virginia Stacey Peruke. What had she better wear when she -goes to Court? Mourning?” - -Virginia began to weep violently, and P.C. Bloke, who was writing, -dropped his pencil and regarded her open-mouthed. - -“Supposing,” said Roger suddenly, “supposing you took my statement.” -Derry started and Rosemary stiffened in her chair. Virginia continued to -sob explosively. “I mean, as the lady’s going, I may as well back her -up.” - -“Without doubt, sir,” said the constable greedily. “May I ’ave——” - -“I first saw the coupé,” said Roger, “when it was almost upon us. The -headlights picked it up and enabled me to see right into the car. As our -chauffeur applied his brakes, the man who was driving the coupé——” - -“‘The woman,’ I think you mean, sir.” - -“No, no,” said Roger calmly. “It was a man driving. As I was saying, -he——” - -“But the lady’s stated——” - -“Has she?” said Captain Chase, stifling a yawn. “Oh, well, I can’t help -that. He had a hand on the wheel, and——” - -“One moment, sir. Which side was the steering on?” - -“On the right,” said Roger. “The man was driving with a woman by his -side.” - -For a moment nobody breathed. Then the constable took out a handkerchief -and mopped his face. - -“Well, that beats it,” he said wearily. “’Ere’s a direc’ conflic’ on the -most important point. They can’t both ’ve bin drivin’.” He turned to -Virginia. “Madam, are you sure——” - -“P-positive,” quavered Virginia. - -“Oh, don’t be silly,” said Roger. “He had a spade-shaped beard.” - -“She hadn’t,” said Virginia stoutly. “She looked perfectly sweet.” - -P.C. Bloke put his note-book and pencil away. - -Then he turned to Derry. - -“One or the other’s mistook, sir. That’s perfectly plain. And there for -the moment I’ll leave it. If I may ’ave a word with your chauffeur -. . .” - -“I see,” said Major Peruke. “I suppose you want him to give the -casting-vote. If he says a woman was driving, you’ll call the lady. If -he says a man was driving——” - -“Well, sir,” said Bloke uneasily, “we mus’ do our best. The -Commissioner’s orders——” - -“Assume he says that the driver of the coupé was a man. Very good. In -that case you call that gentleman. _Supposing the defence were to get -hold of Mrs. Peruke._” - -“We mus’ ’ope they wouldn’t, sir.” - -“_But they have_,” said Derry. “In fact, they’ve got hold of them both: -and whichever one you don’t want they’re going to call.” - -The constable stared at the speaker with starting eyes. - -Then he glanced round wildly. - -Virginia and Captain Chase were nodding confirmatively. - -“But the summons ain’t issued,” he cried. “There ain’t no defence—not -yet. Why, the coopy don’t even know that its number was took.” - -“Oh yes, it do—doth,” said Derry. “You told us as much—just now. -‘Whose number I afterwards ascertained to be XL 9436.’” - -“Yes, but you ain’t the defence, sir.” - -“Not yet,” was the pregnant reply. - -The luckless officer recoiled against the wall. - -“‘Not yet’?” he said hoarsely. “_‘Not yet’?_ Why, then, you . . .” - -“We were the coupé,” said Derry. He nodded at Mrs. Chase. “That lady and -I.” - -“You . . . you was—oh, Gawd, what a perishin’ ’ave,” said P.C. Bloke. - -The serio-comic note which the apostrophe sounded was irresistible: the -realization that it was also sounding the retreat was overwhelming: the -four dissolved in peals of hysterical laughter. - -With tears running down his cheeks, Derry sloshed whisky and soda into a -glass and pressed the beverage into the constable’s hand. - -“You’ve earned it,” he sobbed. “Earned it better than you know. ‘One -crowded hour of glorious life is worth’ a spot without a stain—and a -bit over. We’ll adjust the balance in a minute. What are you going to -tell the Commissioner?” - -Albert Bloke put his empty hand to his head. - -“I never see such a case,” he said unsteadily. “Talk about ’and in -glove. Why, the pro’ibited degrees ain’t in it. An’ there’s my answer. -_’Usbands an’ wives ain’t competent witnesses, sir._” - -There was a sudden silence. - -Then— - -“Thank you,” said Derry softly. “I—I think we’d forgotten that,” he -added, glancing around. - -“It’s—it’s a very good rule,” said Virginia gently. - -“It is,” said Roger. - -“It’s of pure gold,” said Rosemary. “But it doesn’t sound like the Law. -It’s more like the Book of Proverbs.” - -“I’ve no doubt it dates from then,” said Derry Peruke. “Solomon probably -made it in self-defence.” - -“Seven ’undred statemen’s,” said P.C. Bloke brokenly. - -“He had a spade-shaped beard,” said Roger, laughing. - -“But the Queen of Sheba was driving,” said Mrs. Peruke. - -“The gods,” said Rosemary Chase, “were in the other car.” - -Virginia shook her head. - -“I never saw them,” she said. “There were a couple of goats.” - -“That’s right,” cried Roger excitedly. “The god in the car was on foot.” - -“Masquerading,” said his wife, “as a recording angel.” - -“Which shows,” said Derry, “that the cobbler should stick to his last. -As a recorder, he’s failed. As the god in the car, he’s done what we -couldn’t have done in a thousand years.” - -“Exactly,” observed Virginia. “He’s cleared the air.” - -“And that,” said Rosemary Chase, “with the flat of the sword.” - -P.C. Bloke, whose brain had been out of its depth ever since the Queen -of Sheba, plunged to where it could touch bottom and raised his glass. - -“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “your very good health.” - - THE END - - - - - = _ N O V E L S B Y D O R N F O R D Y A T E S _ = - - =BERRY AND CO.= - - “Berry is one of Heaven’s best gifts to man.”—_News Chronicle._ - - =JONAH AND CO.= - - “Mirth-provoking upon every page.”—_Irish Times._ - - =ADÈLE AND CO.= - - “It is, indeed, great fun all the way.”—_Daily Telegraph._ - - =AND BERRY CAME TOO= - - “Mr. Yates describes as well as ever the hair-raising adventures and - idiotic - situations in which the _Pleydell_ family are embroiled. I could go on - reading - about them for a very long time.”—_Punch._ - - =THE BROTHER OF DAPHNE= - -“Like a cream puff—very light, but vastly delectable.”—_Glasgow Herald._ - - =THE COURTS OF IDLENESS= - - “To give Mr. Yates his due, he is expert in light banter. He can be - strongly - recommended to anyone who thinks that the British take themselves too - seriously.”—_Punch._ - - =ANTHONY LYVEDE= - - “Behind Mr. Yates’s grace of style is real power. Successive scenes of - real - comedy and tragedy show an equal mastery.”—_Sheffield Independent._ - - =VALERIE FRENCH= - - “An unusual story marked by considerable powers of - imagination.”—_Liverpool Post._ - - =AND FIVE WERE FOOLISH= - - “The book deserves a host of readers. Extraordinarily powerful and - intriguing.”—_Daily Telegraph._ - - =AS OTHER MEN ARE= - -“Be sure of this, there is a ‘Yates’ touch, an unexpected vivid phrase, a -wonderful adjective, that gives colour to page after page.”—_The Sketch._ - - =THE STOLEN MARCH= - - “The author is in his most humorous vein, the dialogue is brilliantly - witty - and clever, and humorous happenings and situations abound.”—_Time and - Tide._ - - =MAIDEN STAKES= - -“Mr. Yates is an extraordinarily pleasant novelist. His flair for dramatic - thrills and clever dialogue is extraordinary.”—_Liverpool Courier._ - - =BLIND CORNER= - - “There is not a dull page in the book.”—_The Times._ - - WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD., LONDON AND MELBOURNE - - - - - = _ N O V E L S B Y D O R N F O R D Y A T E S _ = - - =PERISHABLE GOODS= - -“Dornford Yates holds his reader enthralled from cover to cover.”—_Daily - Mail._ - - =BLOOD ROYAL= - - “The story goes with dash and brilliance.”—_Daily Telegraph._ - - =FIRE BELOW= - - “It is tremendously competent, exciting and quick moving.”—Frank - Swinnerton - in the _Evening News_. - - =SAFE CUSTODY= - -“Amazing and breathless incidents . . . Mr. Yates at the top of his form - . . . a most capital yarn.”—_The Sphere._ - - =STORM MUSIC= - - “Dornford Yates is a clever story-teller, and his skill is cleverly - revealed in - this adventurous romance.”—_Punch._ - - =SHE FELL AMONG THIEVES= - -“For speed of action, ingenuity of situation and breathless excitement, I - do - not believe Mr. Yates has an equal to-day.”—_Punch._ - - =SHE PAINTED HER FACE= - -“A tale of strife and cunning, wild adventure and sweet romance, in his - best -style . . . Thank goodness for Mr. Dornford Yates.”—_Nottingham Guardian._ - - =THIS PUBLICAN= - - “Mr. Yates tells his story in his usual entertaining, witty - way.”—_Liverpool Post._ - - =GALE WARNING= - - “Most refreshing entertainment from first to last.”—_Daily Mail._ - - =SHOAL WATER= - - “Worked out with Mr. Yates’s accustomed ingenuity. The action is quick - and the dialogue in his best vein.”—_Sunday Times._ - - =PERIOD STUFF= - - “The chocolate-cream of fiction, and very enjoyable.”—_Punch._ - - =AN EYE FOR A TOOTH= - -“Mr. Yates is as successful as ever. The opening is ingenious, the middle -sensational, the close a climax worthy of Mr. Yates.”—_Birmingham Post._ - - =THE HOUSE THAT BERRY BUILT= - - “Berry . . . never fails to bring the house down.”—_Daily Mail._ - - WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD., LONDON AND MELBOURNE - - TRANSCRIBER NOTES - - Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. 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