THE DARK HOUSE

by

I. A. R. WYLIE

Author of "The Daughter of Brahma, " "The Shining Heights, " etc. 

1922

PART I

I

1

The cigar was a large one and Robert Stonehouse was small. At theprecise moment, in fact, when he leant out of the upstairs bedroomwindow, instinctively seeking fresh air, he became eight years old. Hedid not know this, though he did know that it was his birthday and thata birthday was a great and presumably auspicious occasion. Hisconception of what a birthday ought to be was based primarily on oneparticular event when he had danced on his mother's bed, shouting, "I'mfive--I'm five!" in unreasonable triumph. His mother had greeted himgravely, one might say respectfully, and his father, who when he didanything at all did it in style, had given him a toy fort fullygarrisoned with resplendent Highland soldiers. And there had been aparty of children whom, as a single child, he disliked and despised andwhom he had ordered about unreproved. From start to finish the day hadbeen his very own. 

Soon afterwards his mother disappeared. They said she was dead. Heknew that people died, but death conveyed nothing to him, and when hisfather and Christine went down to Kensal Green to choose the grave, hepicked flowers from the other graves and sent them to his mother withRobert's love. Christine had turned away her face, crying, and JamesStonehouse, whose sense of drama never quite failed him, had smiledtragically; but Robert never even missed her. His only manifestationof feeling was a savage hatred of Christine, who tried to take herplace. For a time indeed his mother went completely out of hisconsciousness. But after a little she came back to him by a secretpath. In the interval she had ceased to be connected with his eveningprayer and his morning bath and all the other tiresome realities andbecome a creature of dreams. She grew tall and beautiful. He liked tobe alone--best of all at night when Christine had put the light out--sothat he could make up stories about her and himself and their newmystical intimacy. He knew that she was dead but he did not believeit. It was just one of those mysterious tricks which grown-up peopleplayed on children to pretend that death was so enormously conclusive. Though he had buried the black kitten with his own hands in the backgarden, and had felt the stiffness of its pitiful body and the dankchill of its once glossy fur, he was calmly sure that somewhere orother, out of sight, it still pursued its own tail with all thesolemnity of kittenhood. 

One of these nights the door would open and his mother would be there. In this dream of her she appeared to him much as she had done once inKensington High Street when he had wilfully strayed from her side andlost himself, and, being overwhelmed with the sense of his smallnessand forlornness, had burst into a howl of grief. Then suddenly she hadstood out from the midst of the sympathetic crowd--remote, stern andwonderful--and he had flung himself on her, knowing that whatever shemight do to him, she loved him and that they belonged to one another, inextricably and for all time. 

So she stood on the threshold of his darkened room, and at that visionhis adoration became an agony and he lay with his face hidden in hisarms, waiting for the touch of her hand that never came, until he slept. 

Christine became his mother. Every morning at nine o'clock she turnedthe key of the pretentious mansion where James Stonehouse had set uppractice for the twentieth time in his career, and called out, "Hallo, Robert!" in her clear, cool voice, and Robert, standing at the top ofthe stairs in his night-shirt, called back, "Hallo, Christine!" veryjoyously because he knew it annoyed Edith, his father's new wife, listening jealously from behind her bedroom door. 

And then Christine scrubbed his ears, and sometimes, when there were noservants, a circumstance which coincided exactly with a periodicalfinancial crisis, she scrubbed the floors. Robert's first hatred hadchanged rapidly to the love he would have given his mother had shelived. There was no romance about it. Christine was not omnipotent ashis mother had become. He knew that she, too, was often terriblyunhappy, and their helplessness in the face of a common danger gavethem a sort of equality. But she was good to him, and her faithfulnesswas the one sure thing in his convulsed and rocking world. He clung toher as a drowning man clings to a floating spar, and his father's, "Iwish to God, Christine, you'd get out and leave us alone, " or, "I won'thave you in my house. You're poisoning my son's mind against me, "reiterated regularly at the climax of one of the hideous rows whichdevastated the household, was like a blow in the pit of the stomach, turning him sick and faint with fear. 

But Christine never went. Or if she went she came back again. AsJames Stonehouse said in a burst of savage humour, "Kick Christine outof the front door and she'll come in at the back. " Every morning, nomatter what had happened the night before, there was the quiet, resolute scratch of her latch-key in the lock, and when JamesStonehouse, sullen and menacing, brushed rudely against her in thehall, she went on steadily up the stairs to where Robert waited forher, and they fell into each other's arms like two sorrowful comrades. Ever afterwards he could conjure her up at will as he saw her then. She was like a porcelain marquise over whom an intangible permanentshadow had been thrown. 

He knew dimly that she had "people" who disapproved of her devotion, and that over and over again, by some new mysterious sacrifice, she hadstaved off disaster. He knew that she had been his father's friend allher life and that his mother and she had loved one another. There wassome bond between these three that could not be broken, and he, too, was involved--fastened on as an afterthought, as it were, but so firmlythat there could be no escape. Because of it Christine loved him. Heknew that he was not always a very lovable little boy. Even with herhe could be obstinate and cruel--cruel because she was so much lessthan his mother had become--and there were times when, with a queerunchildish power of self-visualization, he saw himself as a smallfair-haired monster growing black and blacker with the dark and evilspirit that was in him. But Christine never seemed to see him likethat. There was some borrowed halo about his head that blinded her. It did not matter how bad he was, she had always love and excuses readyfor him. And she was literally all he had in the world. 

But even she had not been able to make his birthday a success. Indeed, ever since that one outstanding day all the celebrations had beenfailures, though he had never ceased to look forward to them. For daysbefore his last birthday he had suspected everyone of secret deliciousplottings on his behalf. He had come down to breakfast shaking withanticipation. All through the morning he had waited for the surprisethat was to be sprung on him, hanging at everyone's heel in turn, andit was only towards dusk that he knew with bitter certainty that he hadbeen forgotten. A crisis had wiped him and his birthday outaltogether. And then he had cried, and James Stonehouse, moved togenerous remorse, had rushed out and bought a ridiculously expensivetoy having first borrowed money from Christine and scolded her at thetop of his booming voice for her heartless neglect of his son'shappiness. 

Christine had argued with him in her quiet obstinate way. 

"But, Jim dear, you can't afford it----"

There had been one of those awful rows. 

And Robert had crept that night, unwashed, into bed, crying morebitterly than ever. 

But this time he had really had no hope at all. Yesterday had seen acrisis and a super-crisis. In the afternoon the butcher had stood atthe back door and shouted and threatened, and he had been followedalmost immediately by a stout shabby man with a bald head andgood-natured face, who announced that he had come to put a distraint onthe furniture which, incidentally, had never been paid for. EdithStonehouse, with an air of outraged dignity, had lodged him in thelibrary and regaled him on a bottle of stout and the remnants of a coldjoint, and it was understood that there he would remain until such timeas Christine raised 40 pounds from somewhere. 

These were mere incidents--entirely commonplace--but at six o'clockJames Stonehouse himself had driven up in a taxi, to the driver ofwhich he had appeared to hand the contents of all his pockets, and amoment later stormed into the house in a mood which was, if anything, more devastating than his ungovernable rages. He had beenexuberant--exultant--his good-humour white-hot and dangerous. Lookinginto his brilliant blue eyes with their two sharp points of light, itwould have been hard to tell whether he was laughing or mad with anger. His moods were like that--too close to be distinguished from oneanother with any safety. Christine, who had just come frominterviewing the bailiff, had looked grave and disapproving. She knewprobably, that her disapproval was useless and even disastrous, butthere was an obstinate rectitude in her character that made itimpossible for her to humour him. But Edith Stonehouse and Robert hadplayed up out of sheer terror. 

"You do seem jolly, Jim, " Edith had said in her hard, common voice. "It's a nice change, you bad-tempered fellow----"

She had never really recovered from the illusion that she had capturedhim by her charms rather than by her poor little fortune, and when shedared she was arch with an undertone of grievance. Robert had caperedabout him and held his hand and made faces at Christine so that sheshould pretend too. Otherwise there would be another row. ButChristine held her ground. 

"The butcher came this afternoon, " she said. "He says he is going toget out a summons. And the bailiff is in again. It's about thefurniture. You said it was paid for. I can't think how you could beso mad. I rang up Melton's about it, and they say the firm wants toprosecute. If they do, it might mean two years'----"

Robert had stopped capering. His knees had shaken under him with anew, inexplicable fear. But James Stonehouse had taken no notice. Hehad gone on spreading and warming himself before the fire. He hadlooked handsome and extraordinarily, almost aggressively, prosperous. 

"I shall write a sharp note to Melton's. Damned impertinence. An oldcustomer like myself. Get the fellow down into the kitchen. The wholething will be settled tomorrow. I've had an amazing piece of luck. Amazing. Met Griffiths--you remember my telling you about AlecGriffiths, don't you, Christine? Student with me at the University. Got sent down together. Wonderful fellow--wonderful. Now he's inbusiness in South Africa. Made his pile in diamonds. Simply rolling. He's going to let me in. Remarkable chap. Asked him to dinner. Oh, I've arranged all that on my way up. Gunther's are sending round acook and a couple of waiters and all that's necessary. For God's sake, Christine, try and look as though you were pleased. Get into a prettydress and join us. Must do him well, you know. Never do for a manlike that to get a wrong impression. And I want him to see Robert. Heknew Constance before we were married. Put him into his bestclothes----"

"He hasn't got any, " Christine had interrupted bitterly. 

For a moment it had seemed as though the fatal boundary line would becrossed. Stonehouse had stared at his son, his eyes brightening to anelectric glare as they picked out the patches of the shabby sailor-suitand the frantic, mollifying smile on Robert's face had grown stiff ashe had turned himself obediently about. 

"Disgraceful. I wonder you women are not ashamed, the way you neglectthe child--I shall take him to Shoolbred's first thing to-morrow andhave him fitted out from top to toe----" The gathering storm recededmiraculously. "However, he can't appear like that. For God's sake, get the house tidy, at any rate----"

So Robert had been bustled up stairs and the bailiff lured into thekitchen, where fortunately he had become so drunk that he had had noopportunity to explain to the French chef and the two waiters the realreason for his presence and his whole-hearted participation in thefeast. 

From the top of the stairs Robert had watched Christine go into dinneron his father's arm, and Edith Stonehouse follow with a black-coatedstranger who had known his mother. He had listened to the talk and hisfather's laughter--jovial and threatening--and once he had diveddownstairs and, peering through the banisters like a small blondmonkey, had snatched a cream meringue from a passing tray. Then for amoment he had almost believed that they were all going to be happytogether. 

That had been last night. Now there was nothing left but the bailiff, still slightly befuddled, an incredible pile of unwashed dishes and anatmosphere of stale tobacco. James Stonehouse had gone off early in ablack and awful temper. It seemed that at the last moment themulti-millionaire had explained that owing to a hitch in his affairs hewas short of ready cash and would be glad of a small loan. Onlytemporary, of course. Wouldn't have dreamed of asking, but meetingsuch an old friend in such affluent circumstances----

So the eighth birthday had been forgotten. Robert himself could nothave explained why grief should have driven him to his father'scigars-box. Perhaps it was just a _beau geste_ of defiance, or areminder that one day he too would be grown up and free. At any rate, it was still a very large cigar. Though he puffed at it painstakingly, blowing the smoke far out of the window so as to escape detection, theresult was not encouraging. The exquisite mauve-grey ash was indeedless than a quarter of an inch long when his sense of wrong andinjustice deepened to an overwhelming despair. It was not only thateven Christine had failed him--everything was failing him. The shabbyplot of rising ground opposite, which justified Dr. Stonehouse'scontention that he looked out over open country, had become immersed ina loathsome mist, greenish in hue, in which it heaved and rolled andundulated like an uneasy reptile. The house likewise heaved, andRobert had to lean hard against the lintel of the window to preventhimself from falling out. A strange sensation of uncertainty--ofinternal disintegration--obsessed him, and there was a cold moisturegathering on his face. He felt that at any moment anything mighthappen. He didn't care. He wanted to die, anyhow. They had forgottenhim, but when he was dead they would be sorry. His father would givehim a beautiful funeral, and Christine would say, "We can't afford it, Jim, " and there would be another awful scene. 

In the next room Edith and Christine were talking as they rolled up theAxminster carpet which, since the bailiff had no claim on it, was to goto the pawnbroker's to appease the butcher. The door stood open, andhe could hear Edith's bitter, resentful voice raised in denunciation. 

"I don't know why I stand it. If my poor dear father, Sir Godfrey, knew what I was enduring, he would rise from the grave. Never did Ithink I should have to go through such humiliation. My sisters say Iought to leave him--that I am wanting in right feeling, but I can'thelp it. I am faithful by nature. I remember my promises at thealtar--even if Jim forgets his----"

"He didn't promise to keep his temper or out of debt, " Christine said. 

Edith sniffed loudly. 

"Or away from other women. Oh, it's no good, Christine, I know what Iknow. There's always some other woman in the background. Onlyyesterday I found a letter from Mrs. Saxburn--that red-haired vixen hebrought home to tea when there wasn't money in the house to buy bread. I tell you he doesn't know what faithfulness means. "

Robert, rising for a moment above his own personal anguish, clenchedhis fist. It was all very well--he might hate his father, Christinemight hate him, though he knew she didn't, but Edith had no right. Shewas an outsider--a bounder----

"He is faithful to his ideal, " Christine answered. "He is alwayslooking for it and thinking he has found it. And except for Constancehe has always been mistaken. "

"Thank you. "

"I wasn't thinking of you, " Christine explained. "There have been somany of them--and all so terribly expensive--never cheap orcommon----"

They were dragging the carpet out into the landing. Their voicessounded louder and more distinct. 

"I could bear almost everything but his temper, " Edith persistedbreathlessly. "He's like a madman----"

"He's ill--sometimes I think he's very ill----"

"Oh, you've always got an excuse for him, Christine. You never see himas he really is. I can't think why you didn't marry him yourself. I'msure he asked you. Jim couldn't be alone with a woman ten minuteswithout proposing. And everyone knows how fond you are of him and ofthat tiresome child----"

Robert Stonehouse gasped. The earth reeled under his feet. The stumpof the cigar rolled off the windowsill, and he himself tumbled from hischair and was sick--convulsively, hideously sick. For a moment heremained huddled on the floor, half unconscious, and then very slowlythe green, soul-destroying mist receded and he found Christine bendingover him, wiping his face, with her pocket-Handkerchief. 

"Robert, darling, why didn't you call out?"

"He's been smoking, " Edith's voice declared viciously from somewhere inthe background. "I can smell it. The horrid little boy----"

"I didn't--I didn't----" He kept his feet with an enormous effort, scowling at her. He lied shamelessly, as a matter of course andwithout the faintest sense of guilt. Everyone lied. They had to. Christine knew that as well as anyone. Not that lying was of theslightest use. His father's temper fed on itself and was independentalike of fact or fiction. But you could no more help lying to him thanyou could help flinching from a red-hot poker. "I didn't, " he repeatedstubbornly, and all the while repeating to himself, "It's mybirthday--and they've forgotten. They don't care. " But he wouldrather have died then and there than have reminded them. He would noteven let them see how miserable he was, and to stop himself from cryinghe kept his eyes fixed on Edith Stonehouse, who in turn measured himwith that exaggerated and artificial horror which she consideredappropriate to naughty children. 

"Oh, how can you, Robert? Don't you know what happens to wicked littleboys who tell lies?"

He hated her. He hated the red, coarse-skinned face, the tight mouthand opaque brown eyes and the low, stupid forehead with itsold-fashioned narrow fringe of dingy hair. He knew that in spite ofSir Godfrey and the family estate of which she was always talking, shewas common to the heart--not a lady like Christine and his mother--andher occasionally adopted pose of authority convulsed him with a blind, ungovernable fury. He was too young to understand that she meantwell--was indeed good-natured and kindly enough in her naturalenvironment--and as she advanced upon him now, in reality to smooth hisdisordered hair, he drew back, an absurd miniature replica of JamesStonehouse in his worst rages, his fists clenched, his teeth set on ahorrible recurring nausea. 

"If you touch me, Edith--I'll--I'll bite you----"

"Hush, darling--you mustn't speak like that----"

"Oh, don't mind me, Christine. I'm not accustomed to respect in thishouse. I don't expect it. 'Edith, ' indeed! Did you ever hear such athing! I can't think what Jim was thinking about to allow it. Heought to call me 'Mother'----"

Robert tore himself free from Christine's soothing embrace. He had amoment's blinding, heart-breaking vision of his real mother. She stoodclose to him, looking at him with her grave eyes, demanding of him thathe should avenge this insult. And in a moment he would be sick again. 

"I wouldn't--wouldn't call you mother--not if you killed me. Iwouldn't if you put me in the fire----"

"Robert, dear. "

"You see, Christine--but of course you won't see. You're blind wherehe's concerned. What a wicked temper. Deceitful, too. I'm sure I'mglad he's not my child. He's going to be like his father. "

"I want to be like my father. I wouldn't be like you for anything. "

"Robert, be quiet at once or I shall punish you. "

She was angry now. She had been greatly tried during the lasttwenty-four hours, and to her he was just an alien, hateful little boywho made her feel like an interloper in her own house, bought with herown money. She seized him by the arm, shaking him viciously, and heflew at her, biting and kicking with all his strength. 

It was an ugly, wretched scene. It ended abruptly on the landing, where she let go her hold with a cry of pain and Robert Stonehouserolled down the stairs, bumping his head and catching his arm cruellyin the banisters. He was on his feet instantly. He heard Christinecoming and he ran on, down into the hall, where he caught up his littleboots, which she had been cleaning for him, and after a desperatestruggle with the latch, out into the road--sobbing and blood-stained, heart-broken with shame and loneliness and despair. 

2

His relationship with the Brothers Banditti across the hill waspeculiar. It was one of Dr. Stonehouse's many theories of life thatchildren should be independent, untrammelled alike by parentalrestrictions and education, and except on the very frequent occasionswhen this particular theory collided with his comfort and hisconviction that his son was being disgracefully neglected, Robert livedthe life of a lonely and illiterate guttersnipe. He did not know hewas lonely. He did not want to play with the other children in theTerrace. But he did know that for some mysterious reason or other theydid not want to play with him. The trim nursemaids drew their starchedand shining darlings to one side when he passed, and he in turn scowledat them with a fierce contempt to which, all unknown, was added twodrops of shame and bitterness. But even among the real guttersnipes ofthe neighbourhood he was an outcast. He did not know how to play withother children. He was ignorant alike of their ways and their games, and, stiff with an agonizing shyness, he bore himself before themarrogantly. It was natural that they in turn hated him. Like youngwolves they flaired a member of a strange and alien pack--a creaturewho broke their unwritten laws--and at first they had hunted himpitilessly, throwing mud and stones at him, pushing him from thepavement, jeering at him. But they had not reckoned with theStonehouse rages. He had flung himself on them. He had fought themsingly, by twos and threes--the whole pack. In single combat he hadthrashed the grocer's boy who was several inches taller and two yearsolder than himself. But even against a dozen his white-hot fury, whichignored alike pain and discretion, made him dangerous and utterlyunbeatable. From all encounters he had come out battered, blood-stained, literally in shreds, but clothed in lonely victory. 

Now they only jeered at him from a safe distance. They made cruel andbiting references to the Stonehouse _menage_, flying with mock shrieksof terror when he was unwise enough to attempt pursuit. Usually hewent his way, his head up, swallowing his tears. 

But the Brothers Banditti belonged to him. 

On the other side of the hill was a large waste plot of ground. Abuilder with more enterprise than capital had begun the erection ofup-to-date villas but had gone bankrupt in the process, and now nothingremained of his ambition but a heap of somewhat squalid ruins. Here, after school hours, the Brothers met and played and plotted. 

They had not always been Banditti. Before Robert's advent they hadbeen the nice children of the nicest people of the neighbourhood. Their games had been harmless, if apathetic, and they had always gonehome punctually and clean. The parents considered the waste land as agreat blessing. Robert had come upon them in the course of his lonelyprowlings, and from a distance had watched them play hide and seek. Hehad despised them and their silly game, but, on the other hand, theydid not know who he was and would not make fun of him and taunt himwith unpaid bills, and it had been rather nice to listen to theircheerful voices. The ruins, too, had fired his imagination. He hadviewed them much as a general views the scene of a prospective battle. And then--strangest attraction of all--there had been Frances Wilmot. She was different from any other little girl he had ever seen. She wasclean and had worn a neat green serge dress with neat brown shoes andstockings which toned with her short curly brown hair, but she did notshine or look superior or disdainful. Nor had she been playing withher companions, though they ran back to her from time to time as thoughin some secret way she had led their game. When Robert had come uponher she was sitting on the foundations of what was to have been amagnificent portico, her arms clasped about her knees, and a curiousintent look on her pointed delicate face. That intent look, as he wasto discover, was very constant with her. It was as though she werealways watching something of absorbing interest which no one else couldsee. Sometimes it amused her, and and then a flicker of laughter ranup from her mouth to her grey eyes and danced there. At other timesshe was sorry. Her face was like still water, ruffled by invisiblewinds and mirroring distant clouds and sunshine. 

Robert had watched her, motionless and unobserved, for several minutes. It had been a very unhappy day. Christine had gone off in a greathurry on some dark errand in the city connected with "raising money" ona reversion and had forgotten to wash him, and though he did not likebeing washed, the process did at least make him feel that someone caredabout him. Now at sight of this strange little girl an almostoverpowering desire to cry had come over him--to fling himself intosomeone's arms and cry his heart out. 

She had not sat there for long. She had got up and movedabout--flitted rather--so that Robert, who had never heard of ametaphor, thought of a brown leaf dancing in little gusts of wind. Andthen suddenly she had seen him and stood still. His heart had begun topound against his ribs. For it was just like that that in his dreamshis mother stood, looking at him. She, too, had grey eyes, serene andgrave, penetrating into one's very heart. 

And after a moment she had smiled. 

"Hallo!"

Robert's voice, half choked with tears had croaked back "Hallo!" andshe had come a little nearer to him. 

"What's your name?"

"Robert--Robert Stonehouse. "

"Where do you come from?"

He had jerked his head vaguely in the direction of the hill, for he didnot want her to know. 

"Over there. "

"Why are you crying?"

"I--I don't know. "

"Would you like to play with us?"

"Yes--I--I think I would. "

She had called the other children and they had come at once and stoodround her, gazing wide-eyed at him, not critically or unkindly, butlike puppies considering a new companion. The girl in the green sergefrock had taken him by the hand. 

"This is a friend of mine, Robert Stonehouse. He's going to play withus. Tag--Robert!"

And she had tapped him on the arm and was off like a young deer. 

All his awkwardness and shyness had dropped from him like a disguise. No one knew that he was a strange little boy or that his father owedmoney to all the tradespeople. He was just like anyone else. And hehad run faster than the fastest of them. He had wanted to show herthat he was not just a cry baby. And whenever he had come near her hehad been all warm with happiness. 

In three days the nice children had become the Brothers Banditti withRobert Stonehouse as their chief. Having admitted the stranger intotheir midst he had gone straight to their heads like wine. He was arebel and an outlaw who had suddenly come into power. At heart he wasolder than any of them. He knew things about reversions and bailiffsand life generally that none of them had ever heard of in theirwell-ordered homes. He was strong and knew how to fight. The nicechildren had never fought but they found they liked it. Once, like anavenging Attila, he had led them across the hill and fallen upon hisancient enemies with such awful effect that they never raised theirheads again. And the Banditti had returned home whooping and drunkwith victory and the newly discovered joy of battle. His hand wasnaturally against all authority. He led them in dark plottings againsttheir governesses and nursemaids, and even against the Law itself aspersonified by an elderly, somewhat pompous policeman whose beatincluded their territory. On foggy afternoons they pealed thedoorbells of such as had complaint against them, and from concealmentgloated over the indignant maids who had been lured down severalflights of stairs to answer their summons. And no longer were theynice children who returned home clean and punctual to the bosom oftheir families. 

Very rarely had the Banditti showed signs of revolt against Robert'sdespotism, and each time he had won them back with ease which sowed thefirst seeds of cynicism in his mind. It happened to be another of theelder Stonehouse's theories--which he had been known to expoundeloquently to his creditors--that children should be taught the use ofmoney, and at such times as the Stonehouse family prospered Robert'spocket bulged with sums that staggered the very imagination of hisfollowers. He appeared among them like a prince--lavish, reckless, distributing chocolates of superior lineage with a haughty magnificencethat brought the disaffected cringing to his feet. 

But even with them he was not really happy. At heart he was still astrange little boy, different from the rest. There was a shadow overhim. He knew that apart from him they were nice, ordinary children, and that he was a man full of sorrows and mystery and bitterexperience. He despised them. They could be bought and bribed andbullied. But if he could have been ordinary as they were, with quiet, ordinary homes and people who loved one another and paid their bills, he would have cried with joy. 

When he did anything particularly bold and reckless he looked out ofthe corners of his eyes at Frances Wilmot to see if at last he hadimpressed her. For she eluded him. She never defied his authority, and very rarely took part in his escapades. But she was always there, sometimes in the midst, sometimes just on the fringe, like a bird, intent on business of its own, coming and going in the heart of humanaffairs. Sometimes she seemed hardly to be aware of him, and sometimesshe treated him as though there were an unspoken intimacy between themwhich made him glow with pride for days afterwards. She would put herarm about him and walk with him in the long happy silence ofcomradeship. And once, quite unexpectedly, she had seemed gravelytroubled. "Are you a good little boy, Robert?" she had asked, asthough she really expected him to know, and relieve her mind about it. 

And afterwards he had cried to himself, for he was sure that he was nota good little boy at all. He was sure that if she knew about hisfather and the bailiffs she would turn away in sorrow and disgust. 

He knew that she too was different from the others, but with a greaterdifference than his own. He knew that the Banditti looked up to herfor the something in her that he lacked, that if she lifted a fingeragainst him, his authority would be gone. And the knowledge darkenedeverything. It was not that he cried about his leadership. He wouldhave thrown it at her feet gladly. But he longed to prove to her thatif he was not a good little boy he was, at any rate, a terribly finefellow. He had to make her look up to him and admire him like the restof the Banditti, otherwise he would never hold her fast. Andeverything served to that end. Before her he swaggered monstrously. He did things which turned him sick with fear. Once he had climbed tothe top of a dizzy wall in the ruins, and had postured on the narrowedge, the bricks crumbling under him, the dust rising in clouds, sothat he looked like a small devil dancing in mid-air. And when he hadreached ground again he had found her reading a book. Then, theplaudits of the awestruck Banditti sounded like jeers. Nothing hadever hurt so much. 

About the time that the Banditti first came into his life the vision ofhis mother began to grow not less wonderful, but less distinct. Sheseemed to stand a little farther off, as though very gradually she weredrawing away into the other world, where she belonged. And often itwas Frances who played with him in his secret stories. 

3

He threw his indoor shoes into the area. In the next street, beyondpursuit, he sat down on a doorstep and, put on his boots, lacing themwith difficulty, for he was half blind with tears and anger. He couldnot make up his mind how to kill Edith. Nothing seemed quite badenough. He thought of boiling her in oil or rolling her down hill in acask full of spikes, after the manner of some fairy story thatChristine had told him. It was not the pain, though his arm felt asthough it had been wrenched out of its socket, and the blood trickledin a steady stream from his bumped forehead. It was the indignity, theoutrage, the physical humiliation that had to be paid back. It madehim tremble with fury and a kind of helpless terror to realize that, because he was little, any common woman could shake and beat him andtreat him as though he belonged to her. He would tell his father. Even his father, who had so far forgotten himself as to marry such acreature, would see that there were things one couldn't endure. Or hewould call up the Banditti and plot a devastating retaliation. 

In the meantime he was glad he had bitten her. 

He walked on unsteadily. The earth still undulated and threatenedevery now and then to rise up like a wave in front of him and cast himdown. He was growing cold and stiff, too, in the reaction. He hadstopped crying, but his teeth chattered and his sobs had degeneratedinto monotonous, soul-shattering hiccoughs. Passers-by looked at himdisapprovingly. Evidently that nasty little boy from No. 10 had beenfighting again. 

He had counted on the Banditti, but the Banditti were not on theirusual hunting-ground. An ominous silence answered the accustomedwar-cry, uttered in an unsteady falsetto, and the ruins had a more thanusually dejected look, as though they had suddenly lost all hope ofthemselves. He called again, and this time, like an earth-sprite, Frances Wilmot rose up from a sheltered corner and waved to him. Shehad a book in her hand, and she rubbed her eyes and rumpled up hershort hair as though rousing herself from a dream. 

"I did hear you, " she said, "but I was working something out. I'lltell you all about it in a minute. But what's happened? Why is yourface all bleeding?"

She seemed so concerned about him that he was glad of his wounds. Andyet she had the queer effect of making him want to cry again. Thatwouldn't do. She wouldn't respect him if he cried. He thrust hishands deep into his pockets and knitted his fair brows into a fearfulStonehouse scowl. 

"Oh, it's nothing. I've had a row--at home. That's all. My father'snew wife h-hit me--and I b-bit her. Jolly hard. And then I felldownstairs. "

"Why did she hit you?"

"Oh, I don't know. She's just a beast----"

"Of course you know. Don't be silly. "

"Well, she said I'd been smoking, and I said I hadn't----"

"Had you? You look awfully green. "

"Yes, I had. "

"What's the good of telling lies?"

"It's no good telling the truth, " Robert answered stolidly. "They onlyget crosser than ever. She hadn't any right to hit me. She's not evena relation. "

"She's your step-mother. "

He began to tremble again uncontrollably. 

"She's n-not. Not any sort of a mother. My mother's dead. "

It was the first time he had ever said it, even to himself. It threw achill over him, so that for a moment he stopped thinking of Edith andhis coming black revenge. He had done something that could never beundone. He had closed and locked a great iron door in his mother'sface. "She's just a beast, " he repeated stubbornly. "I'd like to killher. "

Frances considered him with her head a little on one side. It was likeher not to enter into any argument. One couldn't tell what she wasthinking. And yet one knew that she was feeling things. 

"I'd wipe that blood off, " she said. "It's trickling on to yourcollar. No, not with your hand. Where's your hanky?"

He tried to look contemptuous. He did, in fact, despise handkerchiefs. The nice little girls in the Terrace had handkerchiefs, ostentatiouslyclean. He had seen them, and they filled his soul with loathing. Nowhe was ashamed. It seemed that even Frances expected him to have ahandkerchief. 

"I haven't got one, " he said. 

"How do you blow your nose, then?"

"I don't, " he explained truculently. 

She executed one of her queer little dances, very solemnly and intentlyand disconcertingly. It seemed to be her way of withdrawing intoherself at critical moments. When she stopped he was sure she had beenlaughing. Laughter still twinkled at the corners of her mouth and inher eyes. 

"Well, I'm going to tidy you up, anyhow. Come sit down here. "

He obeyed at once. It comforted him just to be near her. It was likesitting by a fire on a cold day when you were half frozen. Somethingin you melted and came to life and stretched itself, something that wasitself gentle and compassionate. It was difficult to remember that hemeant to kill Edith frightfully, though his mind was quite made up onthe subject. Meantime Frances had produced her own handkerchief--alarge clean one--and methodically rubbed away the blood and some of thetear stains, and as much of the dirt as could be managed without soapand water. This done, she refolded the handkerchief with its soiledside innermost, and tied it neatly round the wounded head, leaving twolong ends which stood up like rabbit's ears. A gust of April windwagged them comically, and made mock of the sorrowful, grubby faceunderneath. Even Frances, who was only nine herself, must have seenthat the sorrow was not the ordinary childish thing that came and went, leaving no trace. In a way it was always there. When he was notlaughing and shouting you saw it--a careworn, anxious look, as thoughhe were always afraid something might pounce out on him. It ought tohave been pathetic, but somehow or other it was not. For one thing, hewas not an angel-child, bearing oppression meekly. He was much morelike a yellow-haired imp waiting sullenly for a chance to pounce back, and the whole effect of him was at once furtive and obstinate. Indeed, anyone who knew nothing of the Stonehouse temper and duns and forgottenbirthdays would have dismissed him as an ugly, disagreeable little boy. 

But Frances Wilmot, who knew nothing of these things either, croucheddown beside him, her arm about his shoulder. 

"Poor Robert!"

He began to hiccough again. He had to clench his teeth and his fistsnot to betray the fact that the hiccoughs were really convulsivelyswallowed sobs asserting themselves. He wanted to confide in her, butif she knew the truth about his home and his people she wouldn't playwith him any more. She would know then that he wasn't nice. Andbesides, he had some dim notion of protecting her from the things heknew. 

"You t-t-tied me up jolly well, " he said. "It's comfy now. It wasaching hard. "

"I like tying up things, " she explained easily, "You see, I'm going tobe a doctor. "

The rabbit's ears stopped waving for a minute in sheer astonishment. 

"Girls aren't doctors. "

"Yes, they are. Heaps of them. I'm reading up already, in that book. It's all about first-aid. There's the bandage I did for you. You canread how it's done. "

He couldn't. And he was ashamed again. In his shame he began toswagger. 

"My father's a doctor--awfully clever----"

"Is he? How jolly! Why didn't you tell me? Has he lots of patients?"

"Lots. All over the world. But he doesn't think much of otherdoctors. L-licensed h-humbugs, he calls them. "

She drew away a little, her face between her hands, and he felt thatsomehow he had failed again--that she had slipped through his fingers. If only for a moment she had looked up to him and believed in him theevil spirit that was climbing up on to his shoulders would have fledaway. There was a stout piece of stick lying amidst the rubble at hisfeet, and he took it up and felt it as a swordsman tests his blade. 

"I'm going to be a doctor too, " he said truculently. "A big doctor. Ishall make piles of money, and have three ass-assistants. P'r'aps, ifyou're any good you shall be one of them. "

She did not answer. The intent, observing look had come into her eyes. The cool wind lifted the brown hair so that it was like a live thingfloating about her head. She seemed as lovely to him as his mother. He wanted terribly to say to her, "It's my birthday, Francey, and theyhaven't even wished me many happy returns;" but that would have shownher how little he was, and how unhappy. Instead, he began to lunge andparry with an invisible opponent, talking in a loud, fierce voice. 

"I wish the others would come. I've got a topping plan. Edith goesshopping 'bout six o'clock when it's almost dark. We'll wait at thecorner of John Street and jump out at her and shriek like Red Indians. And then she'll drop dead with fright. She's such a silly beast----"

Then to his amazement he saw that Francey had grown quite white. Hermouth quivered. It was as though she were going to cry. And he hadnever seen her cry. 

"They--they aren't coming, Robert. "

"N-not coming? W-why not?"

"There's been a row. Someone complained. Their people won't let themcome any more. Not to play with you. They say--they say----"

He went on fighting, swinging his sword, over his head, faster andfaster. Someone was pressing his heart so that he could hardlybreathe. It was all over. They knew. Everything was going. Finished. 

"What do they say?"

"They say you're not a nice little boy----"

There were some tall weeds growing out of the tumbled bricks. Heslashed at them through the mist that was blinding him. He would cuttheir heads off, one after another--just to show her. 

"I don't care--I don't care----"

"That's why I waited this afternoon. I wanted to tell you. And thatI'd come--if you liked--sometimes--as often as I could----"

"I don't care--I don't care, " he chanted. 

One weed had fallen, cut in two as by a razor. Now another. You hadto be jolly strong to break them clean off like that. He wasn'tmissing once. 

"Don't!"

"I shall. Why shouldn't I? You couldn't do it like that. "

Another. No one to play with any more. Never to be able to pretendagain that one was just like everyone else. People drawing away andsaying to each other, "He's not a nice little boy!"

"Please--please, don't, Robert!"

"Why not? They're only weeds--beastly, ugly things. "

"They've not done you any harm. It's a shame to hurt them. I likethem. "

"They're no good. It's practice. I'm a soldier. I'm cutting theenemy to pieces. "

A red rage was mounting in him. He hardly knew that she had stood upuntil he saw her face gleaming at him through the mist. She was whiterthan ever, and her eyes had lost their distant look and blazed with ananger profounder, more deadly, than his own. 

"You shan't!"

"Shan't I?"

She caught the descending stick. He tried to tear it from her, andthey fought each other almost in silence, except for the sound of theirquick, painful breath. He grew frantic, twisting and writhing. Hebegan to curse her as his father cursed Christine. But her slim brownwrists were like steel. And suddenly, looking into her eyes he sawthat she wasn't angry now. She knew that she was stronger than he. She was just sorry for him, for everything. 

He dropped the stick. He turned on his heel, gulping hard. 

"I don't fight with girls, " he said. 

He walked away steadily with his head up. He did not once look back ather. But as he climbed the hill he seemed to himself to grow smallerand smaller, more and more tired and lonely. He had lost her. Hewould never play with her again. The Brothers Banditti had gone eachto his home. They sat by the fireside with their people, and were nicechildren. To-morrow they would play just as though nothing hadhappened. And Francey would be there, dancing in and out----

He stumbled a little. The hiccoughs were definitely sobs, hard-drawn, shaking him from head to foot. It was his birthday. And at the bottomof the hill, hidden in evening mist, the big dark house waited for him. 

4

There was light showing in the dining-room window, so that he knew hisfather had come home. At that all his sorrow and sense of a grievouswrong done to him was swallowed up in abject physical terror. Evenlater in life, when things had shrunk into reasonable proportions, itwas difficult for him to see his father as others had seen him, as anunhappy not unlovable man, gifted with an erratic genius which had beenperverted into an amazing facility for living on other people's money, and cursed with the temper of a maniac. To Robert Stonehouse hisfather was from first to last the personification of nightmare. 

He stood now in the deep shadow of the porch, trying to make up hismind to ring the bell. His legs and arms had become ice-cold andrefused to move. There did not seem to be anything alive in him excepthis heart, which was beating all over him, in his throat and head andbody, with a hundred terrible little hammers. He thought of the Princein the story which Christine had read aloud to him. The Prince, whowas a fine and dashing fellow, had gone straight to the black enchantedcave where the dragon lived, and had thumped on the door with the hiltof his gold sword and shouted: "Open, Sesame!" And when the dooropened, he had gone straight in, without turning a hair, and slain thedragon and rescued the Princess. 

Somehow the story did not make him braver. He had no sword, and hisclothes were not of the finest silk threaded with gold. He was a smallboy in a patched sailor-suit, with a bandage round his head and a dirtyface--cold, hungry and buffeted by a day of storms. He wished he couldstay there in the shadow until he died, and never have to fight anyoneagain, or screw himself to face his father, or live through any morerows. But it seemed you didn't die just because you wanted to. Allthat happened was that you grew colder and more miserable, knowing thatthe row would be a great deal worse when it came. Goaded by thisreasoning, he crept down the area steps to the back door which, by amerciful chance, had been left unlocked, and made his way on tiptoealong the dark stone passage to the kitchen. 

It was a servantless period. But there was a light in the servants'living-room, and the red comforting glow of a fire. The bailiff livedthere. Robert could hear him shuffling his feet in the fender, andsniffing and clearing his throat as though the silence bothered him, and he were trying to make himself at home. For a moment Robert longedto go in and sit beside him, not saying anything, but just basking inthe quiet warmth, protected by the presence of the Law which seemed soastonishingly tolerant in the matter of the Stonehouse shortcomings. For the bailiff was a good-natured man. He had endeavoured to make itclear to Robert from the beginning, by means of sundry winks andsmiles, that he understood the whole situation, which was one in whichany gentleman might find himself, and that he meant to act like afriend. But Robert had only scowled at him. And even now, frightenedas he was, he disdained all parley. The bailiff was an enemy, and whenit came to a fight the Stonehouse family stood shoulder to shoulder. So he crept past the cheerful light like a hunted mouse, and up thestairs to the green-baize door, which shut off the kitchen from thelibrary and dining-room. 

It was an important door. Dr. Stonehouse had had it made specially tomuffle sounds from the servants' quarters whilst he was working. Hehad never worked, and there had been very rarely any servants todisturb him, but the door remained invested with a kind of solemnity. Among other virtues it opened at a touch, itself noiseless. 

To Robert it was the veritable entrance to the dragon's cave. On oneside of it everything was dim and quiet. And then it swung back, andyou fell through into the dragon's clutches. You heard the awful roar, and your heart fainted within you, He fell over the top step. He felt he was going to be sick again. Itwas the old, familiar sound. He had heard it so often, it was so muchpart of his daily life that it ought not to have frightened him. Butit was always new, always more terrifying. Each time it had new notesof incalculable menace. It was like a brutal hammer, crashing down onbruised flesh and shrinking, quivering nerves, never quite killing you, but with each blow leaving you less capable of endurance. 

His father, Christine and Edith were in the dining-room. Robert knewthey were all there, though he could not see them. The dining-roomdoor at the end of the unlit passage stood half open, showing thehandsome mahogany sideboard and the two Chippendale chairs on eitherside guarding it like lions. They had a curious tense, still look, asthough what they saw in the hidden side of the room struck them stiffwith astonishment and horror. 

Dr. Stonehouse was speaking. His voice was so low-pitched that Robertcould not hear what he said. It was like the murderous, meaninglessgrowling of a mad dog; every now and then it seemed to break free--toexplode into a shattering roar--and then with a frightful effort to bedragged back, held down, in order that it might leap out again with aredoubled violence. It was punctuated by the sharp, spiteful smack ofa fist brought down into the open hand. 

Edith whined and once Christine spoke, her clear still voice patientand resolute. 

Robert crouched where he had fallen. The baize door swung back, andtouched him very softly like a hand out of the dark. It comforted him. It reminded him that he had only to choose, and it would stand betweenhim and this threatening terror--that it would give him time to rushback down the stone stairs--out into the street--further and furthertill they would never find him again. But he could not move. Hecouldn't leave Christine like that. His heart was sick with pity forher. Why did his father speak to her like that? Didn't he see howgood and faithful she was? Didn't he know that he, Robert, his son, had no one else in the whole world?

His father was speaking more clearly--shouting each word by itself. 

"You understand what I say, Christine. Either you do what I tell you, or you get out of here; and, by God, this time you shan't come back. You'll never set eyes on him again. "

"I shall always take care of Robert. I promised Constance when she wasdying. She begged of me----"

"It's a lie--a damned lie! You're not fit to have control over my son. You can't be trusted. You're a bad friend----"

"I have done all I can. I have told you there is only one thingleft--to sell this house---start afresh. "

"Very well, then. That's your last word--and mine. "

Suddenly it was still. The stillness was more terrible than anythingRobert had ever heard. He gulped and turned like a small, panic-stricken animal. At the bottom of the stairs against the lightfrom the kitchen he could see the bailiff's bulky, honest shadow. 

"Look 'ere, little mister, what's wrong up there? Anything I cando----"

The silence was gone. It was broken by the overturning of a chair, bya quiet, sinister scuffling--Edith's voice whining, terrified, thrilledby a silly triumph. 

"Don't--don't, Jim. Remember yourself----"

The door was dashed open, and something fell across the light, andthere was Christine huddled beneath the sideboard, her head restingagainst its cruel corner. Her face was towards Robert. He was not toforget it so long as he lived. It was so white and still, so angerless. 

His paralysing terror was gone. He leapt to his feet. He raced downthe passage, flinging himself on his father, beating him with hisfists, shrieking:

"You devil--you devil!"

After that ho did not know what happened. He seemed to be enveloped ina cloud of struggling figures. He heard the bailiff's voice booming, "Come now, sir, this won't do; I am surprised at a gentleman like you!"and his father's answer, incoherent, shaken with rage and shame. Thenhe must have found his way upstairs. He never remembered how he gotthere, but he was lying in his bed, in all his clothes, his head hiddenbeneath the blankets, twitching from head to foot as though his bodyhad gone mad. 

Downstairs the lock of the front door clicked. There was somethingsteadfast and reassuring in the sound, as though it were trying to senda message. "Don't worry, I shall come back. " But Robert could notfeel or care any more. He was struggling with his body as a helplessrider struggles with a frantic runaway horse. He found out for thefirst time that his body wasn't himself at all. It was something else. It did what it wanted to. He could only cling on to it for dear life. But gradually it seemed to weaken, to yield to his exhausted efforts atcontrol, and at last lay stretched out, relaxed, drenched with an icysweat. The real himself sank into seas of darkness from whichconvulsive, tearing shudders, less and less frequent, dragged him, withthrobbing heart and starting eyes, back to the surface. 

His bandage had slipped off. He held it tight between his hands. Hewas too numb and stupefied even to think of Francey, but there wasmagic in that dirty, blood-stained handkerchief. It might have been asaint's relic, or a Red Indian's totem, preserving him from evil. Heknew nothing about saints or totems, but he knew that Francey was goodand stronger than any of them. 

Downstairs the silence remained unbroken. It was an aghast silence, heavy with remorse and shame and self-loathing. It was like the thickdregs lying at the bottom of the cup. But to Robert it was justsilence. He sank into it, deeper and deeper, until he slept. 

He began to dream. The dreams walked about inside his brain, and werered-coloured as though they were lit up by the glow of a hiddenfurnace. All the people who took part in them came and went in greathaste. Or they made up hurried tableaux--Francey holding the stick andlooking at him in white anger, Christine huddled on the floor, hisfather black and monstrous towering over her. Finally, they alldisappeared together, and Robert knew that it was because the Dragonhad woken up and was coming to devour them. He was climbing up fromthe dining-room. Robert heard his tread on the stairs--heavy, stumbling footsteps such as one would expect from a dragon on a narrow, twisting staircase. They came nearer and nearer, and with every thudRobert seemed to be lifted with a jerk from the depths in which he waslying, and to be aware of his body stiffening in terror. 

Then at the last step the Dragon fell, and Robert was awake. He satbolt upright. There had been no mistaking that dull thump. Itlingered in his ears like the echo of a thunder-clap. The Dragon hadfallen and killed himself, for he did not move. It was pitch dark inthe room, but very slowly and quietly, under the pressure of aninvisible hand, the door opposite his bed began to open. The lightoutside made a widening slit in the darkness. It was like sitting in atheatre watching the curtain go up on a nightmare. He could see thebanisters, the glow from the hall beneath, and something black with awhite smudge at the end of it lying stretched out from the head of thestairs. His body crawled out of bed. He himself wanted to hide underthe clothes, but his body would not let him. It carried him on againsthis will. When he was near enough he saw that the long black thing wasa man's arm and the white smudge a hand, clenched and inert, on the redcarpet. His body tottered out on the landing. It was his father lyingstretched on the stairs, face downwards. 

He tried to scream, but his throat and tongue were dry and swollen. Nor could he touch that still thing, in its passivity more terriblethan in its violence. He was afraid that every moment it would liftits face, and show him some new unthinkable horror. He skirted it asthough it might leap upon him and devour him, and rushed downstairs, faster and faster, with a thousand devils hunting at his heels. 

And then he seemed again to be dreaming. The bailiff ran up from thekitchen in his shirt-sleeves, and he and Edith went up the stairstogether, leaving him alone in the library. The fire had gone out, buthe cowered up against the grate, hiding his face in his arms. 

They were moving the Dragon. Bump--bump--bump--bump. He thought heheard Edith cry out, "Oh, God!" and then silence again. PresentlyEdith stood in the doorway, looking at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and yet there was an air of importance, of solemn triumph about her. 

"Your father is--is very ill. The man downstairs has gone for thedoctor, and I am going to ask Christine to come round. You must be agood boy, Robert. You must do as I tell you and go to bed. "

So they meant to leave him alone in the house with that dreadful stillthing lying somewhere upstairs. Or perhaps it wasn't really still. Itmight have strange powers now. You might come upon it anywhere. Youcouldn't be sure. It might even be in your bed. He did not want todisobey Edith. Just then he could have clung to her. But he could notgo up those stairs. He could not pass those open doors, gaping withunspeakable things. He felt that if he kept very still, hiding hisface, They would not touch him. There seemed to be a thin--frightfullythin--partition between him and the world in which they lived, and thatby a sudden movement he might break through. He had to hold fast tohis body. It was beginning to run away again, to start into longagonized shudderings. 

At last a key turned in the latch. Invisible people went up the stairsin silence. But he knew that Christine was among them. He knewbecause of the sense of sweet security and rest that came over him. Hetumbled on to the hearthrug and fell asleep. 

He was cold and stiff when the opening of the library door wakened him. He did not know who had opened the door. All he saw was Christinecoming down the stairs. Her face was old and almost silver grey. Shewas not crying like Edith, whose sniffs came assertively and at regularintervals from somewhere in the hall. There was a still, withdrawnlook about her, as though she were contemplating something unbreakablethat had at last been broken, as though a light had gone out in her forever. So that Robert could not run to her as he had meant to do. 

It was Edith speaking. 

"You won't leave me, will you, Christine? Poor Jim! And then thatman--I should die of fright. Besides, it wouldn't be right--notproper--to-morrow one of my sisters----"

"Very well. I will spend the night here. But Robert must go to mypeople. They won't mind now. I shall be back in half an hour. "

She helped him into his reefer coat, which she had brought down withher. And still he could not speak to her. She was a long way off fromhim. As they went into the hall he hid his face against her arm forfear of the things that he might see. But once they were outside, andthe good night wind rushed against his face, a great intoxicating joycame over him. He wanted to dance and shout. The Dragon was dead. Noone could frighten them again. 

"Aren't we ever coming back, Christine?"

"No, dear, I don't think so. "

He looked back at the grim, high house. For a moment a sorrow as deepas joy rushed over him. It was as though he knew that somethingbesides the Dragon had died up there in that dimly lit room--as thoughhe were saying good-bye to something he would never find, though hehunted the world over. 

He had been a little boy. He would never be quite a little boy again. 

Or perhaps the Dragon wasn't dead at all--perhaps Dragons never died, but lived on and on, hiding in secret places, waiting to pounce out onyou and drag you back. 

He seized Christine's hand. 

"Let's run, " he whispered. "Let's run fast. "

II

1

He discovered that there were people in the world who could make sceneswithout noise. They were like the crocodiles he had met on his visitto the Zoo, lying malignantly inert in their oily water. But onetwitch of the tail, one blink of a lightless eye, was more terrifyingthan the roar of a lion. 

No one made a noise in Christine's home. The two sisters looked atRobert as though he were a small but disagreeable smell that they triedpolitely to ignore. They asked him if he wanted a second helping invoices of glacial courtesy. They said things to each other and atChristine which were quiet and deadly as the rustle of a snake in thegrass. Robert had never fled from his father as he fled from theirrestrained disgust. He had never been more aware of storm than in thesmother of the heavily carpeted, decorously silent rooms. It broke, three days later, not with thunder and lightning, but with the briefmalicious rattle of a machine-gun. 

"You ought not to have brought him here. You have no pride. But, then, you never had. At least some consideration for our feelingsmight have been expected. We have suffered enough. If you knew whatpeople said---- Mrs. Stonehouse has been talking. She offered totake the child. As his natural guardian she had the right. Anunpardonable, undignified interference----"

Christine hardly answered. Her fragile face wore the look of quietobstinacy which had braved James Stonehouse and the worst disasters. Robert had seen it too often not to understand. But now his father wasdead, and instead; inexplicably, he had become the source of trouble. He disgraced Christine. Her people hated her because she was good tohim. He felt the shame of it all over him like a horrible kind ofuncleanliness, and beneath the shame a burning sense of wrong. He hidin dark places. He refused to answer even when Christine called him. He skulked miserably past Christine's sisters when he met them in thepassage. He scowled at them, his head down, like a hobbled, angrylittle bull. And Christine's sisters drew in their nostrils in a lastgenteel effort at self-control. 

Christine packed his trunk with ragged odds and ends of clothing, andthey made a long journey to No. 14, Acacia Grove, where Christine hadtaken two furnished rooms and a scullery, which served also as kitchenand bath-room. Acacia Grove was the deformed extremity of amisbegotten suburb. There were five acacia trees planted on eitherside of the unfinished roadway, but they had been blighted in theiryouth, and their branches were spinsterish and threadbare. Behind thehouses were a few dingy fields, and then a biscuit factory, an obscene, congested-looking building with belching chimneys. 

Every morning at nine o'clock Robert walked with Christine to thecorner of the road, and a jolly, red-faced 'bus, rollicking through theneighbourhood like a slightly intoxicated reveller who has landed bymistake in a gathering of Decayed Gentlefolk, carried her offcitywards, and at dusk returned her again, grey and worn, with wisps oftired brown hair hanging about her face and bundles of solemn lettersand folded parchment documents bulging from her dispatch-case. Thenshe and Robert shopped together at the Stores, and afterwards shecooked over a gas-jet in the scullery, and they had supper together, almost in the dark, but very peacefully. 

It was too peaceful. One couldn't believe in it. When supper was overRobert washed up and Christine uncovered the decrepit, second-handtypewriter which she had bought, and began to copy from the letters, bending lower and lower over the crabbed writing and sighing deeply andimpatiently as her fingers blundered at the keys. On odd nights, whenthere was no copying to be done, she tried to teach Robert his lettersand words of one syllable, but they were both too tired, and he yawnedand kicked the table and was cross and stupid with sleepiness. At nineo'clock he washed himself cautiously and crept into the little bedbeside her big one and lay curled up, listening to the reassuringclick-click of the typewriter, until suddenly it was broad daylightagain, and there was Christine getting breakfast. 

In the day-time Robert played ball in the quiet street or sat with hiselbows on the window-sill and watched the people go in and out of thehouses opposite. The people were grey and furtive-looking, as thoughthey were afraid of attracting the notice of some dangerous monster andhad tried to take on the colour of their surroundings inself-protection. They seemed to ask nothing more for themselves thanthat they should be forgotten. Robert knew how they felt. He feltlike that himself. He was never sure that he was really safe. Hedared not ask questions lest he should find out that his father wasn'tdead after all, or that they were on the brink of some new convulsion. He did not even ask where Christine went in the day-time, or what hadbecome of Edith, or where their money came from. He clung desperatelyto an ignorance which allowed him to believe that he and Christinewould always live like this, quietly and happily. When the landlady'sshadow came heavy-footed up the stairs, he hid himself and stuffed hisfingers in his ears lest he should hear her threaten them with instantexpulsion. (It was incredible that she and Christine should be talkingamicably about the weather. ) Or when they went to the butcher's, hehung behind in dread anticipation of the red-faced man's insolent "Andwhat about that there little account of ours, Ma'am?" But thered-faced man smiled ingratiatingly and patted him on the back andcalled him a fine young fellow. Christine counted out her money at thedesk. It made Robert dizzy with joy and pride to see her pay her bill, and tears came into his throat and nearly choked him. On the way homehe behaved abominably, chased cats or threw stones with a recklessdisregard for their neighbours' windows, and Christine, looking intohis flushed, excited face, had a movement that was like the shadow ofhis own secret fear. 

"Robert, Robert, don't be so wild. You might hurt yourself--or someoneelse. It frightens me. "

And then at once he walked quietly beside her, chilled and dispirited. At any moment the new-found commonplaces might drop from him, andeveryone would find out--the neighbours who nodded kindly and thetradespeople who bowed them out of their shops--just as Francey and theBanditti had found out--and turn away from him, ashamed and sorry. 

He did not think of Francey very often. For when he did it was almostalways in those last moments together that he remembered her--theFrancey who was too strong for him, the Francey who knew that he was anasty little boy who couldn't even beat a girl--who told lies--theFrancey who despised him. And then it was as though his body had beenbruised afresh from head to foot. But he still had her handkerchief. He even kept it hidden from Christine lest she should insist on washingit. For by now it was incredibly dirty. 

In the day-time he never thought of his father at all. But in hissleep one nightmare returned repeatedly. It never varied; it wasdefinite and horrible. In it his father, grown to demonic proportions, towered over Christine's huddled body, his eyes terrible, his fistsclenched and raised to strike. Then in that moment, at the very heightof his awful fear and helpless hatred, the wonderful truth burst uponRobert, and he danced gleefully, full of cruel triumph, about theblack, suddenly impotent figure, shouting:

"You can't--you're dead--you're dead--you can't----"

And then he would wake up with a hideous start, sweating, his eyes hotwith unshed tears, and Christine's hand would come to him out of thedarkness and clasp his in reassuring firmness. 

There was another dream. Or, rather, it was half a dream and half oneof these stories that he told himself just before he fell asleep. Itcame to him at dusk when he stood at the gate and waited for Christineto come home. In the long day of silent games he had lost touch, little by little, with reality. Hunger had made him faint and drowsy. Things changed, became unfamiliar, fantastic. Between the stuntedtrees he could see the afterglow of the sunset like the reflection of ablazing city. The road then was full of silence and shadow. The draboutlines grew faint and the mean houses were merged into the vastershapes of night. Robert waited, motionless, breathless. He was surethat something was coming to him down the path of fading light. He didnot know what it was. Once, indeed, it had been Francey, with herqueer dancing step, her hair flying about her head like a flock oflittle red-brown birds. She had hovered before him, on tiptoe, asthough the next gust of wind would blow her on her way down the street, and looked at him. They had not spoken, but he had seen in her eyeshow sorry she was that she had not understood. And a warm content hadflowed over him. All the sore, aching places were healed and comforted. 

But that had been only once. And then he wasn't sure that he hadn'tmade it up. At all other times the thing was outside himself toostrange to have been imagined. It shook him from head to foot withdread and longing. He wanted to run to meet it, to plunge into it, reckless and shouting, as into a warm, dancing, summer sea. And yet itmenaced him. It was of fire and colour, of the rumble and thud ofarmies, of laughter and singing and distant broken music. It was alljust round the comer. If he hurried he would see it, lose himself init, march to the tune he could never quite catch. But he was afraid, and whilst he tried to make up his mind the light faded. The soundsdied. After all, it was only Christine, trudging wearily through thedusk. 

2

The six forms were marshalled in squares down the centre of thedrill-hall, Form I, with Robert Stonehouse at the bottom, holding theplace of dishonour under the shadow of the Headmaster's rostrum. Robert did not know that he was at the bottom of Form I, or that such athing as Form I existed. He did not know that he was older than theeldest of his class-mates, but he was aware of being unusually anduncomfortably large. Under the curious stare that had greeted him onhis first appearance and which now pressed on him from the rear andsides, he felt himself shoot up, inch by inch, into a horribleconspicuousness, whilst his feet grew flat and leaden, and his handswere too swollen to squeeze into his trousers pockets. 

". . . We have left undone those things which we ought to have done andwe have done those things which we ought not to have done . . . "

He wondered what they were saying. It sounded rather like one of thosetongue-twisters which his father had taught him in a playfulmoment--"round the rugged rock the ragged robber ran"--but it wasevidently no joking matter. And it was something which everyone knewexcept himself. The urchin on his left piped it out in an assured, self-satisfied treble. The clergyman kneeling behind the raised deskcame in with a bang at the beginning of each sentence, and thensubsided into an indistinguishable murmur. Evidently he knew what hewas saying so well that he did not need even to think about it, for hiseyes wandered over his folded hands as though in methodical search forsomebody. They reached Form I, and Robert, who saw them coming, brokeinstinctively into a panic-stricken gabble. Of all the poems whichChristine had read aloud to him, Casablanca was the only one he couldremember, and he had got as far as "whence all but he had fled" beforehe saw that it was of no good. The subterfuge had been recognized. The clergyman had stopped praying and was gazing at him earnestly. Robert gazed back, fascinated and open-mouthed. 

". . . And there is no health in us . . . "

But the strain of that encounter was too much for him. He tried toescape, first to the ceiling and finally to his boots. The starepursued him, pointed at him. In a moment the whole school would be onhis track. His eyes, rolling desperately to their corners, encountereda little dark man who had led in Form I and now stood sideways on, soas to keep his charge under constant survey. Even in that moment ofacute despair he arrested Robert's attention. There was something oddabout him--something distressful and indignant. Whilst he prayed hemade jerky, irritable movements which fluttered out the wings of hisgown, so that with his sleek black hair and pointed face he looked likea large angry blackbird, trapped and tied by the foot. 

"But Thou, O Lord, have mercy upon us . . . "

And then, suddenly, an amazing conviction broke upon Robert. Thelittle man wasn't praying at all. His lips moved, but the movement wasall wrong. He was repeating two words, over and over again, at greatspeed and with a suppressed violence. They looked familiar--painfully, elusively familiar. Robert felt that in another moment he wouldrecognize them:

". . . Spare Thou them that are penitent . . . "

Now Robert knew for certain. It was his father's favourite answer toall expostulations. Of course that was it. "Damned rot--damnedrot--damned rot. " The little man was swearing passionately to himself. It was incredible, but there was no mistake possible. And in the fullblast of the discovery his dark eyes, hunted and angry-looking behindtheir round glasses, met Robert's, widened, passed on, and came backagain. It was an extraordinary moment. Robert could not have lookedaway to save his life. He knew that he had betrayed himself. Thelittle man knew that he knew. He grew very red, coughed, and blew hisnose violently, his eyes meantime returning repeatedly to Robert'sflushed and frightened face with an expression utterly unfathomable. It was almost as though he were trying to signal----

"Amen!" declared the whole school with infinite relief and satisfaction. 

The clergyman sighed deeply and raised himself painfully from his knees. 

"Hymn number 503. "

A boy came out from the class next to Robert's and walked to the piano, and Robert forgot everything else, even his own imminent disgrace. Hehad never seen such red hair before--deep red with a touch of purple, like the leaves of a beech tree in autumn--or such a freckled face. The freckles lay thick on the small unimportant nose and clashedpainfully against the roots of the amazing hair. They crowded out theflaxen eyebrows altogether. And yet he was pretty in a wistful, whimsical sort of way. He made Robert want to laugh. Someone close toRobert did titter, and muttered, "Go it, Carrots!" and Robert saw thatthe boy had heard and was horribly frightened. He winced and faltered, and Robert poked out viciously with his elbow. 

"Shut up!" he whispered, His victim was too astonished even to retaliate. 

The red-haired boy had reached the piano. And at once a change cameover him. He wasn't frightened any more. He played the first verseover without a stumble, calmly, confidently, as though he knew that nowno one had the right to laugh. The light from an upper window made ahalo of his blazing head and lit up his small round face, faintly andabsurdly grave, but with something elfish and eager lurking behind thegravity. Robert stared at him as an Ancient Briton might have staredat the first lordly Roman who crossed his ken. He felt uncouth andcumbersome and stupid. And yet he could have knocked the red-headedboy down easily with one hand. 

The clergyman led the singing. The urchin on Robert's right hadproduced a hymn-book from his pocket and opened it and found his placewith the same air of smug efficiency. Robert had no book. He longedfor one. He knew that the clergyman was watching him again. Hiscompanion nudged him, and by a stab of a stumpy, inky forefingerindicated the verse which he himself was singing in an aggressivetreble. But Robert only stared helplessly. At another time he mighthave recognized "God--love--dove--" and other words of one syllable, and he liked the tune. But now he could see nothing but the clergymanand think of nothing but the little dark man. He wondered madly whatthe latter was singing now and whether he had managed to fit in "damnedrot--damned rot" to the music. But he did not dare to look. 

A second prod roused him with a ghastly self-betraying start. 

"You gotter sing, " the small boy whispered fiercely; "gotter sing, idjit. "

"Wh-a-a-t?"

Robert made a loud, unexpected noise in his throat. His companionchoked, spluttered and buried his impertinent face in a grubbyhandkerchief. The dark man left his post hastily and stationed himselfimmediately at Robert's side in anticipation of a further outbreak. Someone in the rear giggled hysterically. Robert dropped his head andriveted his swimming eyes on the clergyman's boots. He made no furtherattempt to save himself. He was caught by his mysterious, relentlessdestiny. He had been found out. 

3

Mr. Morton, the headmaster, believed in Hygiene and the EducationalValue of Beauty. The classroom smelt vividly of carbolic. There was alarge lithograph of "Love and Life" on the pure white wall and a pot offlowers on the high window-sill. Maps, blackboards and all otherparaphernalia of learning were kept in merciful concealment. 

Robert took possession of the desk nearest him and was at once ejected. Its rightful owner scowled darkly at him. At the next desk he tried toanchor himself, and there was a scuffle and a smothered exchange ofblows, from which he escaped with a scraped shin and a strange, unfamiliar sense of being afraid. There was no fight in him. Hedidn't want to fight. He wanted to belong--to be one of the herd--andhe knew dimly that he would first have to learn its laws and submit toits tortures. He tried to grin back when the titter, which seemedendemic, broke out afresh as he stumbled on his ignominious pilgrimage, but the unasked-for partition in their amusement seemed to exasperatethem. They whispered things to one another. They commented on hisclothes. He realized suddenly how poorly dressed he was. There was apatch on the knee of his trousers and a mended tear on his shinyjacket. His finger-nails weren't very clean. Christine had gone offtoo early to be sure that he had done them, and he had never thoughtmuch of that sort of thing. Now he was paralysed with shame. He couldfeel the tears strangling him. 

Fortunately the desk in the far corner belonged to nobody. It was oldand battered and covered with the undecipherable carvings of hispredecessors, but at once he loved it. It was his. Its retiredposition seemed to offer him protection. He hid behind it, drawing along, shuddering sigh of thankfulness. 

The little dark man stood on the raised platform and surveyed them all. His expression was nearly a grimace; as though he had just swallowed adisagreeable medicine. He pursed his lips and held tight to the lapelsof his coat, his piercing yet distressful eyes blinking rapidly behindtheir glasses with a kind of nervous malice. 

"Well, my delightful and learned young friends----"

The class wilted in anticipation. But before he spoke again the dooropened and they rose thankfully with a shuffle of feet andsurreptitious clatter of desks. The clergyman waved to them. If thelittle dark man was like a blackbird, captive and resentful, thenewcomer was like a meagre and somewhat fluttered hen. His hands andwrists were long and yellow and sinewy. He wore no cuffs, but onecould see the beginnings of his Jaeger undervest under the blacksleeve. He rubbed his chin or smoothed the back of his small headalmost ceaselessly. 

"You can sit down, boys. One moment, Mr. Ricardo, one momentonly----"

He spoke in an undertone. Robert knew it was about him. They bothlooked in his direction. The little man jerked his head. 

"Robert Stonehouse. "

He sat motionless, trying to hide from them. But it was of no good. The clergyman made an elevating gesture, and he rose automatically asthough he were tied to that gentleman's hand by an invisible string. The desk was much too small for him and he had to wiggle to get freefrom it. The lid banged. Instantly every boy had turned in his seatto gaze at him, and he saw that this was the worst place that couldhave fallen to his lot. In his corner he was trapped, a sea ofmocking, curious faces between him and his tormentors. 

The clergyman smiled palely at him. 

"I understand that you are a new boy, Stonehouse, and I don't wish tobe too severe with you. At the same time we must begin as we are to goon. And you were not behaving very well at prayers this morning, wereyou?"

Robert moved his lips soundlessly. But no answer was expected of him. The question was rhetorical. "You weren't, " the enemy said, "attending. You were trying to make your companions laugh----"This, at least, was unbearably unjust. 

"I wasn't, " Robert interrupted loudly. 

Someone moved to compassion hissed, "Say 'sir'--say sir, '" but he wasbeyond help. From that moment on he was beyond fear. He dug himselfin, dogged and defiant. 

"Come now, Stonehouse, I saw you myself. You were only pretending tojoin in, now weren't you? How was it? Didn't you know the prayer?"

"No. "

"Don't be so abrupt, my boy. Say 'sir' when you answer me. How is itthat you don't know it? You go to church, don't you?"

"No. "

"Say 'sir. '"

"Sir. "

"Well, chapel, then. You go to chapel, no doubt?"

Robert stared blankly. 

"You don't? But surely your mother takes you----"

"I haven't got a mother. " His voice sounded in his own ears like ashout. He scowled down at the faces nearest him. He was ready tofight them now. If they were going to say anything about his mother, good or bad, he would fly at them, just as he had flown at his oldaggressors in the Terrace, regardless of size and numbers. 

"Your father, then?"

"I haven't got a father. "

His questioner smiled faintly, not without asperity. 

"Come, come, you are not yet a gentleman in independent circumstances. Who takes care of you?"

"Christine. "

"And who, pray, is Christine?"

Who was Christine? It was as though suddenly the corner of a curtainhad been raised for a moment, letting him look through into a strangenew country. 

"I don't know. "

The clergyman waved his hand, damping down the titters that splutteredup nervously, threatening to explode outright. He himself had an airof slight dishevelment, as though his ideas had been blown about by arude wind. 

"I remember--Mr. Morton spoke to me--your guardian, of course. Youshould answer properly. But still, surely you have been taught--somereligious instruction. You say your prayers, don't you?"

"No. " He added after a moment of sudden, vivid recollection: "Not now. "

It was nothing short of a debacle. He had pulled out the keystone ofan invisible edifice which had come tumbling about their ears, leavinghim in safety. Without knowing how or why, he knew he had got thebetter of them all. The grins died out of the upturned faces. Theylooked at him with amazement, with horror, yes--with respect. 

"But you have been taught your catechism--to--to believe in God?"

"No. "

"But the hymn--at least you could have sung the hymn, my poor boy. Youcan read, can't you?"

"No. "

The awe passed before a storm of unchecked laughter. For onespectacular moment he had held them all helpless, every one of them, bythe sheer audacity of his admissions. Now with one word he hadfallen--an ignominious, comic outcast. The clergyman turned away, shaken but satisfied. 

"You have a great deal to learn. I doubt if Mr. Morton quiterealized---- A heavy task in front of you, too, Mr. Ricardo. Oneword, please----"

They spoke in undertones. Robert slid back into his seat. He couldfeel exultant glances sting and pierce him on every side. And yet whenthe door closed he had to look up. He was driven by a relentlesscuriosity to meet the worst. Mr. Ricardo had resumed his place. Hedid not so much as glance at Robert. He clung on to the lapels of hiscoat and blinked up at the window as though nothing had happened. Butthere was something impish twitching at the corners of his nervousmouth. 

"My delightful young friends, " he said, "you will be kind enough toleave Stonehouse in peace both now and hereafter. I know your amiablepropensities, and my own conviction is that he is probably worth thepack of you. Get out your history books----"

So he was a friend. A powerful friend. But not powerful enough. Noone looked at Robert again. And yet he knew, with all the certainty ofinherited instinct, that they were waiting for him. 

4

He went out into the school-yard like an early Christian into thearena. He knew exactly what to expect. It was just the Terrace overagain. He would have to fight them all until they learnt to leave himalone. Somehow he knew for certain that to be left alone was the besthe could expect. They would never really forgive him for beingdifferent from themselves. It was very mysterious. It couldn't be hisfather or the unpaid bills any more. It seemed that if you were borndifferent you remained different, however hard you tried. He hadwanted so much to go to school, to run with a band again, to play gameswith them and have them call out, "Hallo, Stonehouse!" as he heardother boys call to each other across the street. He had meant to beexactly like them at all costs. It had seemed so easy, since hisfather was dead and Christine paid the butcher. But at once he hadbeen found out, a marked man. He hadn't got a father and mother likeordinary people, he didn't go to church, he didn't say his prayers, hecouldn't read, and he didn't know who God was--or even Christine----

There was a moment of suspense before the attack opened. Like an old, experienced general he made his way with apparent indifference towardsthe wall. But he was not quite quick enough. Someone prodded himsharply in the back. Someone hissed in mocking imitation:

"I don't know--I don't know!"

He was too cunning to retaliate. He waited till he had reached hischosen ground, then he turned with his fists clenched. The storm hadalready gathered. It was only a little school, and the story of thenew boy's "break" with old Jaegers had reached even the big louts wholingered on in Form VI. They made a rough half-circle round theirintended victim, only partially malevolent in their intentions. Thefact that he had bearded a contemptible old beast like Jaegers wasrather in his favour than otherwise, but his assertion that he did notsay his prayers and knew nothing about God smacked of superiority. Hehad to be taken down. And, anyhow, a new boy was an object ofcuriosity and his preliminary persecution a time-honoured custom. Afight was not in their calculations--the very idea of a new boyventuring to fight beyond their imaginations. And Robert did not wantto fight. He felt oddly weary and disinclined. But to him there wasno other outcome possible. It was his only tradition. It blinded himto what was kindly or only mischievous in the faces round him. He hada momentary glimpse of the red-headed boy who stood just outside thecircle, munching an apple and staring at him with astonished blue eyes, and then his attention fixed itself on his enemy-in-chief. There wasno mistaking him. He was a big, lumpy fellow, fifteen years of age, with an untidy mouth, the spots of a premature adolescence and an airof heavy self-importance. When he spoke, the rest fell into awedattention. 

"Hallo, new kid, what's your name?"

"Robert Stonehouse. "

"Don't be so abrupt, my boy, "--a delighted titter from the smallfry--"say 'sir' when you answer me. "

"I shan't. "

The little colourless eyes widened in sheer incredulity. For a momentthe role of humorist was forgotten. 

"Look here--no cheek, or I'll smack your head. "

"He hasn't been properly brought up, " one of the spotty youth'scompanions remarked, not ill-naturedly. "Can't expect him to havemanners. He never had a father or a mother, poor darling----"

"Then where did he come from?"

"God made him. "

"He told old Jaegers he'd never even heard of God. "

"Dear, dear, what a naughty boy. He doesn't even say his prayers. "

"But he lives with a lady called Christine----"

"How nice for him. Is she a pretty lady, Stonehouse?" Up till nownothing had stirred in him. He hadn't cared. He had indeed feltsomething of the superiority which they suspected in him. If that wasall they could do---- Now, suddenly, the blood rushed to the roots ofhis fair hair. 

"Shut up. You leave Christine alone. "

The big boy was too delighted to be angry. 

"Hoity-toity. She must be a high-stepper. No trespassers allowed--eh, what? young cockalorum. Come on, what's she like? Who is she?

"He doesn't know. "

"She isn't his mother. "

"He says she isn't. "

"P'r'aps he doesn't know that either. P'r'aps that's what shesays----"

The full extent of the innuendo, like the majority of the audience, hedid not understand, but he saw the wink which passed between the twoelder boys. Ever since that day when he had gathered flowers for hismother in Kensal Green Cemetery he had known of dark things, justbeyond his understanding. He had wandered in the midst of them toolong not to be aware of them on the instant. And it was againstChristine--who had suffered from them so terribly--they dared---- Agreat sigh tore itself free from him. He put his head down. He flewat the spotty youth like a stone from a catapult, and they went downtogether in a cloud of dust. 

After that, as in most of his uneven, desperate encounters, he hardlyknew what happened. He felt nothing. In reality it was an absurdspectacle. The spotty youth, bounding up from his momentarydiscomfiture, caught Robert by the collar and smacked him shamefully, severely, as the outrage merited. And when justice had been satisfied, he released the culprit, and Robert, without pause, returned, fightingwith fists and feet and teeth, as he had learnt to do from direnecessity. It was unprecedented. The spotty youth gasped. Hiscompanions offered intervention. 

"I'll hold the beggar. "

But honour was at stake. The small fry, startled out of caution, weretittering in hysterical excitement. 

"Th-thanks--you keep out of it--I'll manage him. "'

The second beating was more drastic. The third was ineffectual. Thespotty youth, besides being exhausted, was demoralized with sheerbewilderment. He was not clever, and when events ran out of their rutshe lost his head. He had made the same discovery that the Terrace boyshad made long since, namely that short of killing Robert Stonehousethere was no way of beating him, and he drew back, panting, dishevelled, his manly collar limp and his eyes wild. 

"There--that'll teach you----"

Robert laughed. He put his tongue out. He knew it was vulgar but itwas the only retaliation he had breath for. His clothes were dusty andtorn, his nose bloody. He was a frightful object. But he knew that hehad won. 

The spotty youth wiped his hands on his handkerchief with exaggerateddisgust. 

"Dirty little beast. I wouldn't touch him again--not with the end of abarge pole. "

He never did. Nobody did. Though he did not know it, it was Robert'slast fight. But he had won immunity at a high cost. The small fryskirted him as they went out through the school gates. It was morethan fear. They distrusted him. He was not one of them. He did notkeep their laws. His wickedness was not their wickedness, his couragenot their courage. He ought not to have fought a boy in the sixthform. He ought to have taken his beating quietly. Even if he had"blubbed" they might afterwards have taken him to their bosoms inunderstanding and inarticulate sympathy. As it was, he was a devil--aforeign devil, outside the caste for ever. 

Only the small red-haired boy, waiting cautiously till everyone elsewas out of sight, came after him as he trailed forlornly down thestreet. He was still chewing meditatively at the core of his apple, and his eyes, vividly blue amidst the freckles, considered Robert outof their corners with solemn astonishment. 

"I say, Stonehouse, you can fight. "

Robert nodded. He was still breathless. 

"I--I'm used to it. "

"I'm glad you kicked that beast Saunders. You hurt him, too. I sawhim make a face. I wish I could fight like that. But I'm no good atit. I'm not 'fraid--not really--but I just hate it. You like it, don't you?"

Robert swaggered a little. 

"Rather. "

There was a moment's silence, "I say--if you like it--would you mind licking Dickson Minor for me?He's always ragging me--you see, I've a rotten time--because of myhair, and about playing the piano. Dickson's the worst. I'd beawfully glad, if you wouldn't mind, of course. "

Robert surreptitiously wiped the blood from his nose on to his sleeve. As usual he had no handkerchief. A warm, delicious solace flowed overhis battered spirit. His heart swelled till it hurt him. It openedwide to the little red-haired boy. If only Francey could see himnow--the defender of the oppressed. But he did not dare to think ofthat. After all, he might cry. 

He nodded negligently. 

"All right. I don't mind. "

"P'r'aps, when he knows you're standing up for me, he'll leave mealone. "

"He'd better. "

"My name's Rufus--Rufus Cosgrave. You see, I was born like this, andmy father thought it would be a good joke. I call it beastly. "

"Mine's Robert. "

The red-haired boy meditated a little longer. He rubbed his armagainst Robert's softly like a young pony. 

"I say, let's be friends--shall we?"

Robert gulped and turned his head away. 

"All right. I don't mind. "

They parted shyly at the corner of Cosgrave's road--a neat double fileof vastly superior villas, as Robert realized with a faint sinking ofthe heart; but Robert did not go home. He made his way out to thedingy fields behind the biscuit factory, and watched the local rag andbobtail play football, lying hidden in the long grass under the wall sothat they should not see him and fall upon him. Even when it grew duskand he knew that Christine must be almost home, he still wandered aboutthe streets. He was hungry and footsore, his head and body ached, buthe put off the moment when he would have to face her to the very last. He loved her, and he was not really afraid, though he knew that thesight of his torn, blood-stained clothes would rouse her to a queerunreasonable despair; but he had talked so much, so proudly and soconfidently of going to school. And now, how should he tell the taleof his disgrace, how make clear to her the misery which theunfathomable gulf between himself and his companions caused in him, orthat because a red-haired, freckled small boy had asked him to fightDickson Minor he had lain in the grass with his face hidden in his armsand wept tears of sacred happiness? There were things you could nevertell, least of all to people whom you loved. They were locked up inyou, and the key had been lost long since. 

The street lamps came to life one by one. He strolled down AcaciaGrove, whistling and swinging his legs with an exaggeratedcarelessness. He could see their light in the upper window of No. 14. He was sure that Christine would watch for him, and when the hall dooropened suddenly, he stopped short, shrinking from their encounter. Butit was a man who came out of the gate towards him. For one moment anawful, reasonless terror made him half turn to run, to run headlong, never to come back; the next, he recognized the slight, jerky limpwhich made his form master so comically bird-like, and stood still, knowing that now Christine had heard everything, the very worst. Probably Mr. Ricardo had come to tell her that she must take him away, that he was too bad and too stupid to be with other boys, and a lumpgathered in his throat because he would never see Rufus Cosgrave again:never fight for him. 

Mr. Ricardo halted, peering through the dusk. 

"That you, Stonehouse?"

"Yes"--he added painfully, because the little man had been kind tohim--"sir. "

"Your--Miss Forsyth is getting anxious about you. Why are you so late?"

Robert muttered "Football, " knowing it was a lie, and that somehow orother his companion knew it too. He heard Mr. Ricardo sigh deeply andwearily. 

"Well, I'm very late myself. I don't know this neighbourhood. Isthere a station or a 'bus near here?"

"There's a 'bus. " Robert pointed eagerly. "I'll show you if you like. "

"Thanks--if it doesn't take you too long. "

They walked side by side in silence, Mr. Ricardo's stick tappingsmartly on the pavement, he himself apparently deep in thought. Itseemed to Robert that he had escaped, until suddenly a thin hand tookhim by the shoulder and shook him with a friendly impatience. 

"Football. Nonsense. A boy like you doesn't play football. He hasn'thad the chance. Besides, it's not his line. He plays a lone game. No. You've been moping round--crying possibly. Well, I do that myselfsometimes. It's a crying business, unless you've got nerves and guts. But you've got that all right. I saw you fight that stupid bullySaunders from my window, and you beat him, too. I was fighting withyou, though you didn't know it. It was I who kicked him that time youcaught him on the shin. "

Robert would have laughed had he been less miserable, and had he notcaught beneath Mr. Ricardo's brief amusement a real and angrysatisfaction. In the dark, too, he had an uneasy feeling that afterall he was going to be found out. 

"And then after you'd stood up to and beaten a fellow twice your sizeyou went away by yourself and howled. Shall I tell you why? You'll beastonished. Probably you won't understand in the least. You criedbecause you're a young idiot. You find yourself in a herd ofhalf-baked living creatures, and you see that they are wearing chainsround their ankles and rings through their noses so that they can'tmove or breathe properly, and you think to yourself that that's theproper thing, and you come crying home for someone to tie you up likethe rest. It's natural. It's the race instinct and has had its uses. But it's dangerous. It kills most of us. We start out with brains touse and eyes to see with and hands to make with and we end up bythinking nothing and seeing nothing and making nothing that hasn't beenthought and seen and made for the last two thousand years. Most of us, even when we know what is happening to us, are cowed and blackmailedinto surrender. We have to compromise--there are circumstances--alwayscircumstances--unless we are very strong--we give in--beaten out ofshape----"

His sentences, that had become painful and disjointed, broke off, andthere was another silence. Robert could say nothing. He was dazedwith the many words, half of which, it was true, he had not understoodat all. And yet they excited him. They seemed to pierce through andtouch some sleeping thing in himself which stirred and answered: "Yes, yes, that's true--that's true. "

The pressure on his shoulders increased a little. 

"But you're not afraid of anything, are you, Stonehouse?"

"No--no, sir. I don't think so--not really----"

"I don't think you are, either. I liked the way you stood up to thatpoor faggot of hereditary superstitions and prejudices who was tryingto frighten you into being as big a humbug as himself. He'll never getover it. I daresay he'll make things very unpleasant for you in hischarming Christian way. How old are you, Stonehouse?"

"Ten--nearly, sir. "

"You're big and precocious for your age. You'll get the better of him. But if you'd been brought up with other children you'd have whined andcringed--'Yes, sir, ' 'No, sir'--and been a beastly canting hypocriteall your life. You're wonderfully lucky if you only knew it, Stonehouse. You're nearly ten, and you can't read and you don't sayyour prayers and your catechism and you know nothing about GodAlmighty. You've a sporting chance of becoming a man----"

Robert stumbled over his own feet. A deeper, almost overpowering, tiredness had come over him. And yet he was fascinated. He had to tryto understand. 

"Isn't there--I mean--isn't there anyone like God?"

Mr. Ricardo stopped short. He made a strange, wild gesture. Standingthere in the half-darkness he was more than ever like some poor hobbledbird trying desperately, furiously to beat its way back to freedom. 

"Superstition--superstition, Stonehouse--the most crushing, damnablechain of all, the symbol of cowardice, of greed and vanity, the enemyof truth and knowledge, the hot-bed on which we breed the miserablehalf-men who cumber this earth, a pitiable myth----"

He had almost shouted. It was as though he had been addressing a vastaudience. His voice dropped now, and he walked on, peering about himanxiously. 

"Well--well, you are too young. There are things you can't understand. But I shall teach you. No, there is no God, Stonehouse. "

Robert was vaguely sorry. It was true that he had no clear idea ofGod, and yet in some way He had been mixed up with the bands and musicand marching crowds that were always just round the corner. In hisexpansive, genial moments, so rare towards the end. Dr. Stonehouse hadbeen known to say, "God bless you, Christine, " and that had alwaysmeant a few hours' peace. It seemed very sad. 

"What are you going to be, Stonehouse?"

"A doctor, sir. "

"Why?"

It was impossible to tell the whole truth--namely, that because Franceyhad said she was to be a doctor he had said he would be one too, and abetter one at that. He gave half-measure. 

"I want to be. "

"Well, that's a good reason. It might be a great profession, but ithas its liars and tricksters like the rest. It is eaten up by littlemen who wrap themselves in priestly garments and hide their ignorancebehind oracular silences. They play up to the superstitious weaknessof the mob, and replace one religion by another. They don't care whatbeastly misery and evil they keep alive so long as they can pull offtheir particular little stunts. You mustn't be like that, Stonehouse. To be free--to be free--and strong enough to go one's way and trampledown the people who try to turn you aside; that is the only thing worthwhile. Don't let them catch you, Stonehouse. You don't know howcunning they can be--cunning and cruel. "

He sighed again, and Robert did not try to answer. He had given up allhope of understanding, and his tiredness was now such that he had toset his teeth to keep the tears back. At the corner they waited insilence watching the jolly, yellow-eyed 'bus rumble towards them downthe High Street. 

"Your guardian will tell you what we have arranged, " Mr. Ricardo saidabruptly and with a complete change of tone. "In a month you will readbetter than any of them. As to the rest, you will have to compromise. So long as you know what you are doing and don't humbug yourself, there's no harm done. With the necessity you will shake yourself free. You can say, 'I believe in God the Father Almighty' with your lips andin your heart, as I do, damned rot--damned rot. '"

He laughed, and in the lamplight Robert saw his face, puckered with animpish, malicious merriment. Robert laughed too. So he had guessedright. He felt proud and pleased. 

"Good night, Stonehouse. "

"Good night, sir. "

Robert took off his battered cap politely as did other boys. Mr. Ricardo scrambled into the 'bus with an unexpected agility, and fromthe bright interior in which he sat a huddled, faceless shadow, hewaved. Robert waved back. A fresh rush of elation had lifted him outof his sorrowful weariness. His disgrace had been miraculously turnedto a kind of secret triumph. He was different; but then, howdifferent! He didn't wear chains or a ring through his nose. He wasgoing to know things that no one else knew. And one day he would bebig and free. 

5

It did not last. By the time he had dragged himself up to the top oftheir stairs there was nothing left but hunger, the consciousness oftattered, blood-stained clothes, and a sore, tired body. After all, hewas only a small boy who had wanted to play with other boys, and hadbeen cast out. Even Mr. Ricardo could never make them play with him. 

It was dark in the sitting-room. Against the grey, ghostly light ofthe window he could see Christine bowed over her typewriter. She wasso still that she frightened him. All the terrors of night which layin wait for him ever since his fathers dead hand had touched his doorand opened it, rushed down upon him with a sweep of black, smotheringwings. He called out "Christine! Christine!" in a choked voice, andshe moved at once, and he saw her profile, sharp-drawn and unfamiliar. 

"Is that you, Robert? What is it, dear?"

So she had not been worrying about him at all. She did not know thatit was long past their usual supper-time. She had been thinking ofsomething else. It made her seem a terrifyingly long way off, and heshuffled across the room to her, and touched her to make sure of her. And it was strange that her hand glided over him anxiously, questioningly, as though in the darkness she too had been afraid anduncertain. 

"Your form-master, Mr. Ricardo, has been here. We've been talkingabout you. Is your coat very, very torn?"

"Not--not very. "

"Never mind. I'll mend it afterwards--when you've gone to bed. "

Because he was so tired himself the unutterable weariness in her voicesmote him on the heart unbearably. He had never heard it before. Itmade him think of her, for the first time, not just as Christine, wholooked after him and loved him, but as someone apart whom, perhaps, hedid not know at all. Hadn't they asked him, "Who is Christine?" Andhe hadn't answered. He hadn't known. 

"Mr. Ricardo says you will need a lot of help to pick up with the otherboys. Poor little Robert! But he takes an interest in you, and youare to go to his house in the afternoon to be coached, and in a fewweeks you will know as much as any of them. "

He did not know what "coaching" meant, but all of a sudden he hadbecome afraid of Mr. Ricardo. He did not want to go to him. He knewthat Mr. Ricardo would not like him to play with other boys, even if hegot a chance. He would want him to be alone and different always. 

"He doesn't believe in God, " Robert asserted accusingly. "He said hedidn't. "

"Perhaps not, dear. "

"Doesn't that matter?"

"I don't suppose God minds--if He exists. "

"Don't you believe in Him, Christine?"

"I don't know. People say they believe too easily. I expect I believeas much as the others. With most of us it's just--just a hope. "

They had never talked together in that way before. It made her morethan ever someone apart from him, who had her own thoughts, and perhapsher own secret way of being unhappy. He was frightened again, not ofthe darkness now, but of something nearer--something so real and deadlythat the old spectres became almost comic, like ghosts made up ofdust-sheets and broom-handles. Supposing Christine went still furtherfrom him--supposing she left him altogether alone? She wouldn't do itof her free will, but there were things people couldn't help. Peopledied. The thought was a cruel hand twining itself into the strings ofhis heart. He tried to see her face. Was she young? He didn't know. He had never thought about it. She had been grown-up. That coveredeverything. Now in the pale, unreal light her face and hair were astrange dead gray, and she was old--old. 

"Christine, how--how long do people live?"

"It depends. Sometimes to a hundred--sometimes just a minute. 

"But if one is careful, Christine--I mean, really careful?"

"It doesn't always help, Robert. And even if it did, the people whoneed to live most have to take risks----" She broke off, followingher thought further till it was far beyond his reach. "In fifteenyears you will be grown up. You will be able to take care of yourself. What will you be then?"

"A doctor, " he said firmly; "and I'll look after you, Christine, andyou'll live for ever and ever. "

"A doctor--a doctor!" She seemed startled, almost frightened. "Yes, of course. Your father would want it. He was always proud of hisprofession, though he made fun. But it will mean more--waiting alittle longer. "

She brooded, her hand covering her eyes, and he crept nearer to her, pressing himself against her arm, trying to draw her back. 

"Christine, who--who are you?"

"I don't know, Robert, I don't know----"

"I mean--why do you look after me? You're not my mother. "

"Why, I love you. "

"But you didn't at the beginning. You couldn't have done. "

"Your father and I were friends. Yes, always--always--right througheverything--to the very end. When your mother came into our lives, Iloved her almost more. That will seem very strange to you one of thesedays, but it was true. When she was dying she asked me to take care ofyou both. " She drew herself up, and pushed the untidy wisps of hairout of her face, and with that gesture she seemed suddenly to growvigorous and young. "Why, Robert, it's better than if you were my ownson; it's as though in you I had a little of those two always with me. "

"Christine, you won't ever leave me, will you?"

For now his fear had him by the throat. She didn't--she never hadbelonged to him. It was his father and his mother, who were dead. 

"Of course not--not so long as you need me. You mustn't worry. It'sbecause we're both tired and hungry. We'll get supper. "

Her voice was its old self. But whilst she laid the cloth he stoodpressed against the window and looked out with blind eyes into thedarkness, so that she should not see his slow, hot tears. He was awareof great and bitter loss. But he loved Christine more than he had everdone. His love had ceased to be instinctive. It had become consciousof itself and of her separateness. And it would never be quite freeagain from pain. 

III

1

Long before he could read words of three syllables, Robert had learnt theOrigin of Man, and had made a vivid, somewhat fanciful picture of thatpersonage's pathetic beginnings as a miasm floating on the earth'ssurface, and of his accidental, no less pathetic progression as a Survivalof the Fittest. He gathered that even more than old Jaegers, Mr. Ricardohated God Almighty and Jesus Christ, the latter of whom was intimatelyconnected with something called a Sun Myth--chiefly, Robert supposed, because He was the Son of God. Mr. Ricardo could not leave these twoalone. He hunted them down, he badgered and worried them, he covered themwith gibes and insults. It seemed to Robert sometimes that even themultiplication table was really a disguised missile hurled in theirunsuspecting and non-existent faces. 

Mr. Ricardo appeared to have no friends. As far as Robert could make out, when he was not at school he sat at his desk in the untidy, stuffy atticin the still more untidy, stuffy boarding-house where he lived, and wrotefeverishly. What he wrote Robert did not know. There was an air ofmystery about the whole business, as though he were concocting a deadlyexplosive which might go off at any moment. Sometimes he seemed dated, sometimes cast down by the results, but always doggedly resolved. 

"It is a long, hard struggle, Stonehouse, " he would say. "There are morefools in this world than you could conceive possible. Thank your starsyour friend isn't one of them. A fine, intelligent woman--a unique woman. "

He talked a good deal about Christine and women in general. 

"When once we can get them on our side, " was one of his dark sayings, "thelast trench will be in our hands. "

Then, one evening, to Robert's astonished displeasure, he walked home withhim, and somehow drifted up their dark stairs to the little sitting-roomwhere Christine was laying supper. It appeared that he had come to givean account of his pupil's progress, but he was oddly excited, and whenChristine invited him to share their meal--surely he could have seen therewasn't enough to go round, Robert thought--he accepted with a transparent, childlike eagerness that made Robert stare at him as at a stranger. Andafter supper, with the self-conscious air of a man who has waited for thismoment, be produced from his coat pocket a crumpled newspaper with thetitle _Unshackled_ printed in aggressive letters on its pale-green cover. 

"In my leisure time I write a good deal on a subject very dear to me, MissForsyth, " he said and screwed up his sharp nose in a kind of nervousanguish. "I have here an article published last week--you are abroad-minded, intelligent woman--I thought perhaps it might interestyou--if you would care to glance over it. "

Christine lay back in her chair, her face in shadow. But the lamplightfell on her two hands. Red and misshapen as they were now, they werestill noble hands, and their repose had dignity and beauty. 

"Won't you read it to us, Mr. Ricardo? My eyes are tired at night. "

He cleared his throat. 

"It is an answer to Bishop Crawford's recent letter to _The Times_, whichyou may have seen. I have called it 'Unmasking the Oracle. '"

Robert leant out of the window and watched the sun sink into mist andsmoke. He wished Mr. Ricardo hadn't come; and that he would go away soon. In a few minutes the light would begin to die, and the sharp black linesof the roofs and spires, which on the ruins of their dull selves seemed tobe built anew into a witchlike fantastic city, would be lost to him foranother night. Robert did not want to hear about God and the origin ofman now. He kicked impatiently. Christine would sit up later than ever. And, besides with Mr. Ricardo's voice rising and falling, growing shrillerand more passionate, one could not listen to that low, mysterious hum thatwas so like a far-off music. 

Mr. Ricardo made a sweeping, crushing gesture. "That, surely, settles thecontroversy. He will hardly be able to answer that, I think. "

Christine stirred, and opened her eyes, and smiled a little. 

"I could not answer it, at any rate. It sounds very clever. " She tookthe paper from him and held it to the light, and Robert turned, hopingthat now he would really go. "But--but I didn't quite understand--have Ilost the place?--this is by E. T. Richards. "

Then Robert saw an astonishing thing. Suddenly Mr. Ricardo seemed toshrivel--to cower back into himself. His fierce, triumphant energy hadgone as at a blasting touch of magic. He looked ashamed and broken. 

"A _nom de plume_--_a nom de guerre_, rather, Miss Forsyth--youunderstand--in my opinion--the scholastic profession--the stronghold ofthe worst bigotry and prejudice--for myself I should not care--I havealways wanted to come out into the open--but I have a sister--poorgirl!--a long, sad illness--for her sake--I can't afford----"

Christine folded the paper gently as though she were afraid of hurting it. 

"Of course. It would be unwise--unnecessary. Why should one sacrificeoneself to fight something that doesn't exist?"

He clenched his fists. 

"One must fight error, Miss Forsyth. "

"At any rate it's brave of you to try--to do what you think is right. " Andnow it seemed she was trying to find something that would comforthim--just as she had once given Robert peppermint balls when he had hurthimself. "If ever you feel inclined, won't you come again--and read tous?"

He looked at her with dark, tragic eyes. 

"Thank you, thank you. "

Robert went with him to the door, and for a moment he wavered on thesteps, blinking, and squeezing his soft hat between his bony hands. 

"A great woman--a kind woman--you must be worth her while, Stonehouse. "

And then, without so much as a "good night, " he limped down the steps andalong the street, flitting in and out of the lamplight like a hunted bat. 

It was the first of many tiresome evening visits. But the next day he wasalways himself again, and the class wilted under his merciless, contemptuous sarcasms. Only Robert was not afraid. He knew that the lashwould never come his way, and he could feel the little man's unspokenpride, when he showed himself quicker than his companions, like a secretMasonic pressure of the hand. And there was something else. It was adiscovery that made him at first almost dizzy with astonishment. Hewasn't stupid. Just as he was stronger, so he was cleverer than boysolder than himself. He could do things at once over which they botchedand bungled. He outstripped them when he chose. Even his ignorance didnot handicap him for long. For Mr. Ricardo had kept his promise. Hetaught well, and in those long afternoons in the hot boarding-house atticRobert had raced over the lost ground. He did not always want to work. He gazed out of the window, half his mind busy planning what he and RufusCosgrave would do when they met at the corner of the street, but he couldnot help understanding what was so obvious, and there were moments whensheer interest swept him off his feet, and even Rufus was forgotten. Hetook an audacious pleasure, too, in leaping suddenly over the heads of thewhole class to the first place. He did not always bother. He liked towait for some really teasing question, and then, when silence had becomehopeless, hold up his hand. Mr. Ricardo would look towards him, apparently incredulous and satirical, but Robert could read the messagewhich the narrowed eyes twinkled at him. 

"Of course you understand, Stonehouse. "

And then he would answer and sweep the sullen class with a cool, exasperating indifference as he sat down. For he did not want them anymore. He returned instinctive enmity with the scorn of a growingconfidence. It was rather fine to stand by yourself, especially when youhad one friend who thought you splendid whatever you did, who clung toyou, and whom you had to protect. When he walked arm in arm with RufusCosgrave in the playground he trailed his coat insolently, and thechallenge was not once accepted. From the biggest boys to Dickson Minor, no one cared to risk the limitless possibilities of an encounter, and theword "carrots" was not so much as whispered in his hearing. 

Then in the late afternoon the real day seemed to begin. Then thehardness and distrust with which he had unconsciously armed himself fellaway, and he and Rufus Cosgrave sat side by side in the sooty grass behindthe biscuit factory, and with arms clasped about their scarred and grubbyknees planned out the vague but glorious time that waited for them. Rufuswas to be a Civil Servant. He did not seem to care much for the prospector even to be very clear as to what would be expected of him. He felt, with Robert, that a Civil Servant sounded servile and romanceless, butunfortunately the profession, whatever it was, ran in the family. 

"My father's one, you know. So I've got to. I'd rather play the piano. But, of course, I wouldn't say so to anyone but you. It sounds toobeastly silly----"

"I'd say whatever I wanted to, " Robert retorted grandly, "I'll always saywhat I want to and do what I jolly well like when I'm grown up anyhow. You can if you're strong enough. "

"But then people hate you, " Rufus said sadly. 

"That doesn't matter a bit. "

"Don't you mind people not liking you?"

"Rather not. "

Rufus fumbled anxiously. 

"Wouldn't you be pleased if--if you were asked to play in the eleven--andthe chaps cheered you like they do Christopher when he kicks a goal?"

"I shouldn't care--not a button. " But he knew even then that it was nottrue. His heart had leapt at the very thought. He drew his fair browstogether in the portentous Stonehouse scowl. "It's silly to mind whatsilly people think. And kicking goals is no good. I'm going to be adoctor--not just the ordinary sort--a big doctor--and I'll discoverthings--and people like Christopher'll come and beg me to keep them alive. "

Rufus sighed deeply. 

"I wish I was like that. I mind awfully--being ragged, and all that. Iwas awfully miserable until you came. If you went away--or didn't careany more--I don't know what I'd do. But if I went away you wouldn'tmind----"

"Yes, I would. "

"But you're so much stronger. "

"I like being strongest. "

And then and there he expounded the doctrine of the Survival, and Rufusbegan to shiver all over like a frightened pony. 

"I think it's perfectly beastly. What'll happen to me? Anyone can lickme. I wouldn't have a chance. "

The tears came into his round, blue eyes and trickled down his freckledcheeks, and a sudden choking tenderness, a dim perception of all that thisone friend meant to him, made Robert fling his arms about him and hug himclose. 

"Yes--you would. Because I'll look after you--always--honest injun. "

2

There was one secret that he never told to anyone--not even to Cosgrave. He was ashamed of it. He knew it was silly--sillier than in believing inGod--and he had almost succeeded in forgetting it when it came true. Ithappened. Just when he was least expecting it it came round the corner. First the music, a long way off, but growing louder and fiercer so that itseemed as though his fancy had suddenly jumped out of his brain and wasrunning about by itself, doing just what it liked; then lights, torcheswith streaming flags of fire that put out the street lamps altogether, andthe shadows of people marching--running--leaping--capering. 

Robert ran too. He did not stop to think what it was. He was wild withexcitement, and as he ran he bounded into the air and waved his arms in apent-up joy of living and moving. He never had much chance to run. Youcouldn't run by yourself for nothing. People stared or were annoyed whenyou bumped against them. But now there was something to run for. Therewas no one to see or hear him in the deserted Grove, and with each boundhe let out an unearthly, exultant whoop. 

At the corner where Acacia Grove met the High Street Rufus Cosgravesquirmed out of the pushing, jostling crowd and caught hold of him. Hewas capless, panting. His red hair stood on end. In the flickering torchlight he looked like a small, delirious Loga. 

"I say--Stonehouse--I was coming for you--it's a circus--they're going allthe way down to the Green--they've got their tent there--if we could onlyclimb up somewhere--I can't see a thing--not even the elephant's legs. "

"If we cut round by Griffith's Road we'll get there first, " Robertshouted. "Only we've got to run like mad. "

He seized Rufus by the hand and they shot free of the procession, up anddown dim and decorous streets, swerving round corners and past astonishedpolicemen whose "Now then, you young devils" was lost in the clatter oftheir feet. Cosgrave gasped, but Robert's hold was relentless, compelling. He could have run faster by himself, but somehow he could notlet Cosgrave go. "You've got to stick it, " he hissed fiercely. "It'sonly a minute. "

Cosgrave had no choice but to "stick it. " It did not even occur to him toresist though his eyes seemed to be bulging out of his head and his lungson the point of bursting. But the reward was near at hand. There, at thebottom of Griffith's Road, they could see it--the Green, unfamiliar withits garish lights and the ghostly, gleaming tents. 

"We've done it!" Robert shouted. "Hurrah--hurrah!"

They had, in fact, time to spare. The procession was still only half-waydown the High Street, a dull red glow, like the mouth of a fiery cave, widening with every minute as though to swallow them. There was, indeed, a disconcerting crowd gathered round the chief entrance, but Robert waslike a general, cool and vigorous, strung up to the finest pitch ofcunning. He wormed his way under the ropes, he edged and insinuatedhimself between the idle and good-natured onlookers, with Cosgrave, tossedand buffeted, but still in tow, struggling in the backwash. At last theywere through, next to the entrance, and in the very front row of all. 

"Now you'll see the elephant, " Robert laughed triumphantly, "every bit ofhim, "

"Oh, my word!" Cosgrave gasped. "Oh, my word!"

It was coming. It made itself felt even before it came into sight by thesudden tensity of the crowd, the anxious pressure from behind, thedetermined pushing back by the righteously indignant in front, the craningof necks, and indistinguishable, thrilling murmur. A small boy, whomRobert recognized as the butcher's son, evidently torn between the dignityand excitement of his new post, stalked ahead and thrust printed noticesinto the outstretched hands. Robert seized hold of one, but he was tooexcited to read. He felt Rufus poke him insistently. 

"What's it say--what's it say?"

"Shut up--I don't know--look for yourself. "

There they were. The six torch-bearers were dressed like mediaeval pages, or near enough. Their tight-fitting cotton hose, sagging a little at theknees, were sky-blue, and their tunics green and slashed with yellow. They wore jaunty velvet caps and fascinating daggers, ready to hand. Asthey reached the entrance to the tent they halted, and with some uneasyshuffling formed up on either side, making a splendid passage of fire forthe ten Moorish horsemen who rode next, fierce fellows these, armed to theteeth, with black, shining faces and rolling eyes. A band struck upinside the tent to welcome them, and they rode through, scarcely bendingtheir proud heads--much to the relief of the more timorous members of thecrowd who had eyed the rear end of their noble steeds with a naturalanxiety. Unfortunately the torches smoked a good deal, and there was somegrumbling. 

"'Ere, take the stinking thing out of me eyes, can't yer?"

"Right down dangerous, I calls it. If one of them there sparks gets intome 'at I'll be all ablaze in half a jiffy. And oo'll pay for thefeathers, I'd like to know?"

"Oh, shut up--shut up!" Robert whispered bitterly. "Why can't everyoneshut up?"

"The Biggest and Best Show in Europe, " Rufus was reading aloud in asqueaky treble; "un-pre-ce-dented spectacles--performing sea-lions--greatchariot-race--the Legless Wonder from Iceland--Warogha, the MissingLink--the greatest living Lady Equestrian, Madame Gloria Marotti, Mad-rad--oh, I can't read that--Gyp Labelle, the darling of the FoliesBergeres--what's Folies Bergeres, Robert----? Oh, my word--my word!"

It was the Shetland ponies that had saved Robert the trouble of replyingthat he didn't know. After the ferocious magnificence of the Moorishgentlemen, they came as a sort of comic relief. Everyone laughed, andeven the lady with the feather hat recovered her good temper. 

"Why, you could keep one of them in the back yard--not an inch bigger thanour collie, is he, 'Enry? And Jim's not full grown--not by 'alf. "

"As though anyone cared about her beastly collie!" Robert thought. 

The elephants, a small one and a big one together to show their absurdproportions, came next. The earth shook under them. They waved theirtrunks hopefully from side to side, and their little brown eyes, whichseemed to have no relation to their bodies, peered out like prisoners outof the peep-holes of a monstrous moving prison. When the man next toRobert offered the smallest of them an empty paper-bag it curled its trunkover his head and opened its pointed mouth and let out a piercing squealof protest which alarmed its tormentor, and caused his neighbours toregard him with nervous disapproval. But the big elephant seemed toexercise a soothing influence over its companion. It waved its trunknegligently as though in contemptuous dismissal of a commonplace incident. 

"My dear, " it said, "that's all you can expect of such people. "

There were men seated on the big elephants' necks, their legs tuckedcomfortably behind the enormous flapping ears. They looked mysterious andproud in their position. They wore turbans and carried sticks withpointed iron spikes at the head, and when they came to the low entrance ofthe tent they prodded their huge beasts, which went down on their knees, painfully yet with a kind of sorrowful pride, and blundered through amidstthe admiring murmur of the crowd. 

"The way they manage them big brutes!" declared the lady with thefeathered hat disconsolately. "And there's our George, a proper 'umanbeing, and can't be got to do a thing--nohow. "

The band inside had stopped, beaten in the hard-fought contest with itsrival at the far end of the procession, which thereupon broke out intothroaty triumphant trumpet blasts and exultant roll of drums. Rufusclutched wildly at Robert's sleeve. 

"Oh, my word, just look at her! Oh, my word!"

Robert craned forward, peering round the embonpoint of the man next him. The procession now scarcely moved, and there was a space between the lastelephant and the great coal-black horse that followed--a wide, solemnspace, that invited you to realize that this was the finest sight you hadever seen in your life. He was indeed a splendid, terrifying creature. As Rufus Cosgrave said loudly, he was not like a human horse at all. Onecould imagine him having just burst out of hell, still breathing fire andsmoke and rolling his eyes in the anguish of his bridled wickedness. Inthe glare from the tent-door he gleamed darkly, a wild thing of blackflames, and those in the front row of the crowd trod nervously on the toesof those behind, edging out of reach of his restless, dancing hoofs. Forit seemed impossible that the woman in the saddle should be really hismaster. And yet she sat upright and unconcerned. In its black, close-fitting habit, her supple body looked a living, vital part of thesplendid beast. She was his brain, stronger than his savage instinct, andevery threatening move of his great limbs was dictated to him without asound, almost without a gesture. A touch of a slender, patent-leatherboot set him prancing, an imperceptible twist of the wrist and he stoodstock still, foam-necked and helpless. It was a proud--an awe-inspiringspectacle. And it was not only her fearless strength. She was fair andbeautiful. So Robert saw her. He saw nothing else. He gazed and gazed, heart-stricken. He did not hear Rufus speak to him, or the band which wasblaring out a Viennese waltz, an old thing, whistled and danced half todeath long since, but which, having perhaps a spark of immortal youth leftamong the embers, had not lost its power to make the pulses quicken. Indeed it even played a humble part in this great moment in Robert's life. Though he did not hear it, it poured emotion into the heated, dusty air. It painted the tawdry show with richer colours. It was the rider'sinvisible retinue. At a touch from her heel the horse danced to it, inperfect time, arching his great neck, and rolling his wild eyes. 

She was proud, too. Robert saw how she disdained the gaping multitude. She rode with haughtily lifted head and only once her glance, under thewhite, arrogant lids, dropped for an instant. Was it chance, was it theagonized intensity of his own gaze which drew it to the small boy almostunder her horse's hoofs? (For he had held his ground. He was not afraid. Unlike the rest, his trust in her was limitless and unquestioning. And ifshe chose to ride him down, he would not care, no more than a fanaticworshipper beneath the wheels of a Juggernaut. ) Now under her eyes hisheart stood still, his knees shook. She did not smile; she did notrecognize his naked, shameless adoration. And that too was well. A smilewould have lowered her, brought her down from her superb distance. Hishappiness choked him. She was the embodiment of everything that he hadheard pass in the distance from the silent dusks of AcaciaGrove--splendour and power, laughter and music, the beat of a secret pulseanswering the tread of invisible processions. She came riding out of themists of his fancy into light, a living reality that he could take holdof, and set up in his empty temple. She was not his mother, nor Francey, nor God, but she was everything that in their vague and different waysthese three had been to him before he lost them. She was something to beworshipped, to be died for, if necessary, with joy and pride. 

But in a moment it was over. She looked away from him and rode forward, like a monarch into a grandly illuminated castle, amidst the whisperedplaudits of her people. 

A little girl on a Shetland pony rode at her heels, Robert saw her withoutwanting to see her. She obtruded herself vulgarly. She was dressed as apage, her painfully thin legs looking like sticks of peppermint in theirparti-coloured tights, and either was, or pretended to be, terrified ofher minute and tubbily good-natured mount. At its first move forward shefell upon its neck with shrill screams and clung on grotesquely, rightingherself at last to make mock faces at the grinning crowd. 

"Oh, la, la--la-la!"

She was a plain child with a large nose, slightly Jewish in line, a widemouth, and a mass of crinkly fair hair that stood out in a pert halo abouther head. Robert hated her for the brief moment in which she invaded hisconsciousness. It was quite evident that she was trying to draw attentionfrom the splendid creature who had preceded her to her own puny andoutrageous self, and that by some means or other she succeeded. Shegesticulated, she drew herself up in horrible imitation of a proud andnoble bearing, she pretended that the rotund pony was prancing to themusic, and, finally, burst into fits of laughter. The crowd laughed withher, helplessly as though at a huge joke which she shared with each one ofthem in secret. 

"Oh, la la, la la. "

The man at Robert's side wiped his eyes. 

"Well, did you see that? Upon my word----"

"A baggage--that's what I call 'er, " the feathered lady retorted severely. "Mark my words--a baggage. "

Rufus jogged Robert in the side. 

"Wasn't she a joke? Didn't she make you scream?"

Robert hated them all. Beastly, despicable people who liked beastly, despicable things. 

More horsemen, camels, clowns on foot and clowns on donkeys. Finally theband, slightly winded by this time, and playing raggedly. Thetorch-bearers formed up, and a large gentleman in riding boots stood for amoment in the light. 

"To-morrow evening at eight o'clock--the first performance of the GreatestShow in Europe--a unique opportunity--better book your seats early, ladiesand gentlemen----"

Then the flaps of the tent fell and all the lights and sounds seemed to goout at once. The crowd melted away, and only Robert and his companionremained gazing spellbound at the closed and silent cave which hadswallowed all the enchantment. 

Rufus put his hands into his hair and tugged it desperately. 

"Oh, if only I could go--if only I could---- Don't you want to go, Robert?"

Robert woke partially from his dream. 

"I'm going. " He turned, and with his hands thrust into his pockets beganto walk homewards. Rufus trotted feverishly at his side. 

"I say, are you really? But then you've got no people; jolly for you. Iwish I hadn't. My pater's so beastly strict; I'm scared of him. I say, when will you go?"

"To-morrow night, of course. "

"Have you got the money?"

"No, but I'll get it. "

"Oh, I say, I wish I could. P'r'aps I could too. I've got money--yes, Ihave, even if it is in a beastly tin box. What's the good of saving tillyou're grown up? I shan't want it then like I do now. It's silly. Allgrown-up people are silly. When I'm grown up I'll be different. I say, Robert, I can come with you, can't I?"

"Oh, yes--if you want to. " He was indifferent. It puzzled him slightlythat Rufus should be so eager. What did he know of the true inwardness ofwhat he had seen? What had it got to do with him, anyway?

Rufus brooded, his freckled face puckered with anxious contriving. 

"I say, I've got an idea! I'll tell the pater you've asked me to comeover and spend the evening with you at your place. It'll be sort of true, won't it? And then he'll never think about the money. You won't mind, will you? It'll never come out--and if it does, I'll say I made it up. "

"I don't care. All right. "

Rufus drew a great sigh of relief. 

"Isn't it ripping? Oh, I say, I wish it was to-morrow night. I hope Idon't die first. What did you like best, Robert? Who are you keenest on?"

Robert did not answer. It would have been sacrilege to talk her over--todrag her down into a silly controversy. He longed for the moment whenRufus would have to leave him. He wanted to be alone and silent. Eventhe thought of Christine and of her inevitable questions hurt him like thetouch of a rough, unfeeling hand. 

"I liked that kid best--that girl on the funny pony. She must have beenat the Folies Bergeres, don't you think? Folies Bergeres sounds French, and she was making sort of French noises. She made me laugh. " Somethingwistful and hungry came into his shrill voice. He pressed close toRobert's side. "I like people who make me laugh. I like them better thananything in the world, don't you? It's jolly to be able to laugh likethat--right from one's inside----"

But Robert only smiled scornfully, hugging his secret closer to himself. 

3

She came on for the last time in the Final, when the whole circus, including the Legless Wonder, paraded round the ring to the competitiveefforts of both bands. Robert's eyes followed her with anguish. Itwasn't happiness any more. He might have been a condemned man countingthe last minutes of his life. He was almost glad when it was over and herupright figure had vanished under the arch. People began to fidget andreach for their hats and coats. A grubby youth with a hot, red face and atray slung round his neck pushed his way between the benches shouting:"Signed photographs of the c'lebrities, twopence each!" in a raucousindifferent voice. Robert waved to him, and he took no notice. 

"Hi--hi!" Robert called faintly. 

The youth stopped. He was terribly bored at first, but his boredom becamea cynical amusement. There were twenty different photographs of MadameGloria Moretti:

Madame Moretti full face, side face, three-quarter face, on her famoushorse Arabesque, with her beautiful foot on Arabesque's prostrate form, inevening dress, stepping into her car--a car, at any rate--and so on, with"Gloria Moretti" scrawled nobly across every one of them. Robert boughtthem all. He stuffed them into his coat pockets, into his trouserpockets. He dropped them. He dropped the pennies and sixpences which hetried to count into the tray with shaking fingers. He was drunk andreckless with his despairing love. The sales-boy winked at everyone ingeneral. 

"Takin' it 'ard, ain't 'e, the young dawg?"

People smiled tolerantly. Their smiles said as plainly as possible: "Weremember being just as silly as that, " and Robert hated them. It wasn'ttrue. They didn't remember. They had forgotten. Or, if they rememberedat all, it was only the things they had done, not what they had felt--thefrightful pain that was an undreamed-of happiness, and the joy that torethe heart out of you, and the wonder of a new discovery. You lostyourself, You gave everything that you were and had. You asked nothing, hoped for nothing. And suddenly you became strong so that you were notafraid any more of anything in the world--not of punishment nor disgrace, nor even laughter. 

But they pretended to understand. Their pretence made you despise andpity them. It was a horrid thing, as though a skeleton came to life andjiggled its bones and mouthed at you, "You see, I used to do that too. "That was why you told lies to them--even to Christine. 

He had forgotten his cap. The sales-boy ran after him with it and stuckit on his thick fair hair back to front. 

"There--you'll be losing your 'ead next!"

It was dusk outside. The evening performance began at once, and already athick black stream of people was pouring up the roped gangways andfrothing and seething at the box offices. As they came out of thedarkness they had a mystical air of suddenly returned life. They werepilgrims' souls surging at the entrance of Paradise. In a little whilethey would see her. Not that they would know what they saw. They wouldnot be able to understand how great, how brave and splendid she was. Intheir blindness of heart they would prefer the ugly little French girlwith her shrill voice and absurd caperings; their clapping would behalf-hearted, polite, and there would be no passionate, insistent pair ofhands to beat up their flagging enthusiasm and bring her back once moreinto the arena, bowing in regal scorn of them. 

For he, Robert, had brought her back twice, just because he wouldn'tstop--had beaten his hands till even now they were hot and swollen. Shehad not known, and he would not have had her know for the whole world. That was part of the mystery. You yourself were as nothing. 

But it did hurt intolerably to think that perhaps because he was not thereshe would not be called back so often. It was as though he betrayedher--broke his allegiance. That afternoon, when it had seemed that theevening could never really come, he had told himself that this was thelast time; but now, standing on the dim outskirts of the crowd, thephotographs that he hadn't been able to fit into his pockets held fast inhis burning hands, he saw how impossible, how even wrong and faithlessthat decision had been. So long as a shilling remained to him he had togo, he had to take his place among her loyal people. It meant being"found out" hopelessly and violently. They--the mysterious "they" ofauthority--might destroy him utterly. That would be the most splendidthing of all. He would have done all that he could do. He would havelaid his last tribute at her unconscious feet and gone out in fire andthunder. 

He had actually joined the box-office queue when Rufus Cosgrave found him. Rufus had been running hard and he was out of breath, and his blue eyeshad a queer, strained look, as though they had wanted to cry and had nothad the time. And on his dead-white face the freckles stood out, ludicrously vivid. 

"Oh, I say, Robert, where have you been? I waited and waited for you. And then I went round to your place--and Miss Forsyth said she didn't knowand she seemed awfully worried--and--and--oh, I say--you're not goingagain, are you?"

Robert nodded calmly. But his heart had begun to beat thickly with thepremonition of disaster. 

"Yes, I am. "

"You might have told me--oh, I say, do listen--do come out a minute--I'min an awful hole--there's going to be an awful row--I'm--I'm so beastlyscared----"

He was shivering. He did not seem to know that people were looking athim. His voice was squeaky and broken. He tugged at Robert's sleeve. "Oh, I say--do come----"

Robert looked ahead of him. It meant losing his place. Instead of beingso close to her that he could smell the warm, sweet scent of her as shepassed, he would have to peer between peopled heads, and she would be afar-off vision to him. And yet, oddly enough, it did not occur to him torefuse. He stood out, and they walked together towards the dark, huddledarmy of caravans beyond the tents. 

"What is it? What's the row?"

"It's Father--he's got wind of something--Mother told me--he's going toopen my money-box when he comes home to-night. I didn't know he'd keptcount--just the sort of beastly thing he would do--and oh, Robert, when hefinds out I've been cramming him he'll kill me--he will, really----"

At another time Robert might have consoled him with the assurance thateven the beastliest sort of father might hesitate to risk his neck on suchslight provocation, but he himself was overwrought with three days ofperil, of desperate subterfuge and feverish alternations between joy andanguish. Now, in the mysterious twilight, the most terrible, as the mostwonderful things seemed not merely possible but likely. It made it allthe more terrible that Rufus should have to endure so much because he hadtaken a fancy to a silly kid who laughed like a hyena till you laughedyourself, however much you hated her. 

He held Cosgrave's sticky hand tight, and at that loyal understandingpressure Cosgrave began to cry, shaking from head to foot, jerking out hiswords between his chattering teeth. 

"It's s-stupid to cry--I do w-wish I w-wasn't always c-crying abouteverything--after all--he c-can't kill me more than once, can he? Buthe's such a beast. He h-hates anyone else to h-have a good time and telllies. He's always so j-jolly glad to let into me or mother--and when hefinds out we've been stuffing him he--he goes mad--and preaches for daysand days. Mother's a brick. She gave me a shilling to put back--buthe--he keeps her short, and she has to tell about every penny. She saysshe'll have to pretend she lost it. And it's not enough, anyway. Oh--Robert, you don't know what a row there'll be. "

But Robert knew. He felt the cruel familiar ruffling of the nerves. Heheard the thud of his father's step, the horrible boom of his father'svoice, "You're a born liar, Christine--you're making my son into a liar. "It was as though Dr. Stonehouse had pushed off the earth that covered himand stood up. 

It was awful that Rufus should be frightened too. It wasn't fair. Hewasn't strong enough. 

"I say--we'll have to do something. How much did you take out?"

"'Bout three shillings--there was an extra penny or two--p'r'aps hewouldn't notice that, though--I thought p'r'aps--oh, I don't know what Ithought--but I had to come to tell you--I hadn't anyone else----"

Robert nodded. He stopped and looked back towards the big central tent. It had grown at once larger and vaguer. The lighted entrance had a sortof halo round it like the moon before it is going to rain. There was anempty, sinking feeling in his stomach, and he too had begun to tremble, inlittle, uncontrollable gusts. He let go his hold on Rufus's hand so thathe should not know. 

"I've got two bob--somewhere, " he heard himself saying casually and rathergrandly. 

He knew now that he would never see her again. There was no struggle inhis mind, because there did not seem to be any choice. It wasn't thatlittle Cosgrave counted more--he hardly counted at all in that moment. But she, if she knew he existed, would expect him to do the right, thefine thing. Francey would have expected it. And she was only a meregirl. How much more this noble, wonderful woman? It was better thanclapping. Somewhere at the back of his mind was the idea that he offeredher a more gallant tribute, and that one day she would know that he hadstuck up for Cosgrave for her sake, and, remote and godlike though shewas, be just a little pleased. The comfort of it was a faint warm lightshowing through his darkness. It was all he had. As he dug those last, most precious shillings out of the chaos of his pockets he felt himself gosick and faint, just as he had done when, in a desperate fight, a boybigger than himself had kicked his shin. 

"There--you can put them back, can't you? He'll never know----"

Rufus stopped crying instantly, after the miraculous fashion of his years. He cut an elfish caper. He rubbed himself against his saviour like somesmall grateful animal. 

"I say, you are a brick. I knew you'd help somehow. Won't he be sold, though? I'll just love to see his beastly face! What luck--not having afather, like you. I say, though, is that all you've got? You won't beable to go to the show now--and you're so keen, aren't you?"

"It doesn't matter, " Robert answered carelessly. "I don't mind much--notreally. "

He began to walk on, Rufus tagging valiantly at his heels. 

"And--and if anyone asks--you'll say I was at your place--doingprep. --won't you?"

"Oh, rather----"

"It's awfully decent of you. You don't mind telling fibs, do you, Robert?"

"One has to, " Robert answered austerely. "Everyone has to. "

Now that it was all over and he turned his back on her for ever, thesplendid glow of renunciation began to fade. Life stretched before him, ablack limitless emptiness. He wished agonizedly that Arabesque had gonemad and bolted and that he had stopped him and saved his rider's life, dying gloriously and at once, instead of miserably and by inches, likethis. He felt that in a moment the pain in his throat would get thebetter of him and he would begin to cry. 

They stopped at the far end of the Green where it was dark and they couldhardly see each other. He heard Cosgrave breathing heavily through hisnose, almost snorting, and then a timid, shamefaced whisper:

"You are decent to me. I say--I do love you so, Robert. "

It was an awful thing to have said. They both knew it. If anyone hadoverheard them the shame would have haunted them to their death. And yetit was wonderful too. Never to be forgotten. 

"You oughtn't to say rotten, stupid things like that--like silly girls. "And then, as though it had been torn from him. "I love you too, Rufus. "

After that he ran madly so that Rufus could not overtake him--above all sothat he could not hear the band which had begun to play the opening march. 

4

But before he had stopped running he had begun to plot again. Even thoughhe had made the great renunciation he could not help hoping. It was thekind of hope that, when one is very young, follows on the heels ofabsolute despair, and is based on magical impossibilities. It was likehis birthday hopes, which had been known to rise triumphant above the mostobvious and discouraging facts. After all there was to-morrow. He wouldtell Christine everything--open his heart to her as to a good andunderstanding friend--and she would give him six-pence so that he couldstand in the cheap places, or perhaps a shilling so that he could gotwice. He would tell her how he had saved Cosgrave from a fearful row, and she would approve of him and sympathize with Cosgrave, who had suchbeastly, understanding people. 

He would hug her and say;

"It's jolly to have someone like you, Christine!"

And she would be enormously pleased, and in the dusk they would sit closetogether and he would tell her of his superb being who changed the courseof his life, who was like his mother and Francey and God rolled into one, and for whose sake he had emptied the housekeeping purse. 

Perhaps it would all have happened just as he planned it, could it havehappened then and there. But the front door was closed and he had to waita long time for the landlady's heavy answering tread. When she came atlast it was from upstairs--he could tell by her breathing and a familiarcreak--and a cold dead hand laid itself on his heart and squeezed the hopeout of it. They had been talking about him--those two grown-up people. He knew the kind of things they had said: "It's very tiresome of him to beout so late, Mrs. Withers, " and, "Boys is worritting, outrageous critters, M'am, " and the cruel impossibility of reaching their far-off imperviousunderstanding lamed him before the door had opened. 

Mrs. Withers' lumpy figure loomed up grotesquely against the yellow murk. 

"Is that you, Master Robert? You'd better run up quick. Your aunt isgoing to give you a jacketing, I can tell you. "

"Aunt" was the term with which Mrs. Withers covered up what she consideredprivately to be an ambiguous relationship. 

Robert slunk past her. He crawled upstairs with an aggressivedeliberation. He would show how much he cared. He was not afraid ofChristine. He had seen her unhappy too often. In a way he knew that hewas stronger than she was. For she was old and had no one to love buthimself. 

All the same he was afraid. With every step he took he seemed to climbfarther and farther into the midst of fear. It was all around him--in theclose, airless dark and in the deathly quiet light that came from the opendoorway overhead. What was waiting for him there? His father, risenunimaginably loathsome from the grave? For he could never be in the darkwithout thinking of his father. Or something else? At least he knew thatthe never-really-believed-in time of peace was over and that the monsterwhich had lain hidden and quiescent so long was crouched somewhere closeto him, ready to leap out. 

Christine sat by the table under the light. There was a drawer beside herwhich she had evidently torn out of its place in panic-stricken haste, forthe floor about her was littered with its contents--gloves andhandkerchiefs and ribbons. She held a shabby, empty purse in her limphand, and it was as though she had sat down because she had no longer thestrength to stand. He had not known before how grey her hair was. Herface was grey, too, and withered like a dead leaf. 

He stood hesitating in the doorway and they looked at one another. Therewas no question of punishment or reproof between them. It was the olddays over again when they had clung together in the face of a commonperil--helpless and horribly afraid. She tried to smile and push theempty purse out of sight as though it were of no account at all. And allat once he was ashamed and miserable with pity. 

"I was beginning to get quite worried about you. " He could hardly hearher. "Where have you been, Robert?"

He answered heavily, not moving from the doorway where he hung like asullen shadow. 

"At the Circus. "

"Is there a Circus? Why didn't Mrs. Withers tell me? If I had known thatI shouldn't have worried. I expect you were there yesterday too--and theday before, weren't you, dear?"

He nodded, and she began to bundle everything back into the drawer, asthough at last a tiresome question had been satisfactorily settled. 

"I knew it was all right. Mr. Ricardo was here this afternoon. Hethought I was ill--he thought you had told him you couldn't come because Iwas ill. I said I had had to stay at home--it was easier--I knew therehad been a mistake. "

The old life again. They were confederates and she had lied to shield himeven from herself. She was looking past him as though she saw someonestanding behind him in the dark passage. He was so sure of it that hewanted to turn round. But he did not dare. 

"I wish I'd known. We--we might have gone together. I used to be veryfond of a good circus. Did they have elephants? Robert--Robert, dear, why didn't you tell me about it?"

He shook his head. He knew now that he could never have told her or madeher understand. She would have thought him silly--or disloyal. She wouldnever see that this new love had nothing to do with the Robert who woulddie if Christine left him. It had to do with another boy who longed forbands and processions and worshipped happy, splendid people who did nothave to tell lies and who were so strong and fearless that even fierceanimals had to obey them. They were different. They did not live in thesame life. You could love them without pain or pity. 

It was a secret thing, inside himself. If he tried to drag it out andshow it her, no one could tell what would happen to it. 

She sighed deeply. 

"It's this being away all day. If I had been at home you would have askedme for the money, wouldn't you? And then you forgot to tell me. But I'vebeen a little worried. You didn't take it all, did you, dear?"

"Yes, I did. I spent it at the Circus. And then I gave some to Cosgrave. "

He saw the blood rush up wildly into her white face. The next minute shehad laughed--a gay, unfamiliar laugh--and he winced and shivered as thoughshe had struck him. 

"Why, that's so like your father--that's just what your father would havedone. He loved doing kind, generous things--giving money away. "

And now he knew for certain who it was who stood behind him in the darkpassage. He could not bear it. He slammed the door to, closing his eyestight so that he should not see. He ran to her, pressing himself againsther, stammering passionately. 

"I'm not like my father--I'm not--I'm not. I won't be. "

She petted him tenderly. She was grave now and sure of herself. 

"You mustn't say that, Robert. Your father was a wonderful man, in manyways. People didn't understand him--only your mother and I. If yourmother had lived it would all have been quite different. He wasunfortunate and often very unhappy. The world thinks so much of money. But he despised it. It was nothing to him. You're like that too. Youdidn't realize, did you? It didn't seem a great deal. It was just abeginning. But I have had to do without food. I've been hungrysometimes--I think I ought to tell you this, so that you mayunderstand--I've looked into shop-windows at lunch-time. You see, it wasto pay for the time when you are preparing to be a doctor. It meanshundreds of pounds, Robert. But I calculated that if I saved a littleevery week--I'd manage it--if I didn't die or lose my work. "

"Don't, Christine--please don't! Oh, Christine!"

"If I lost my work--Mr. Percy is very kind. He is an old friend and knowsthe position. But he has his business to consider. I'm not quick--myeyes aren't strong. There are younger, cleverer people. We've got tolook things in the face, Robert. If I lost my work there would be nothingbetween us and the workhouse--nothing--nothing--nothing. "

He was shivering as if with bitter cold. His teeth chattered in his head. He caught a ghost-like glimpse of a boy in the glass opposite--a strange, unfamiliar figure with a white, tear-stained face and haggard eyes andfair hair all on end. 

"Oh, Christine--I'm frightened!"

"You think money must come from somewhere. Something will turn up. Thatwas what your father used to say. He was so hopeful. It wasn't possiblethat it shouldn't turn up. But I was younger and stronger then--I can'tbegin again. --I can't--I can't. If you're not good, Robert, I can't goon. "

"I will be good. I won't tell lies. I won't spend money ever again. Iwon't love anyone but you. I won't be a doctor; I'll be somethingcheap--now. "

He had forgotten the photographs. He still held them in onetight-clenched hand. But she had seen them. And all at once she bracedherself although to meet an implacable enemy. She was not tender anymore. She was the Christine who had faced bailiffs and his father'sstrange, gay friends--ice-cold and bitter and relentless. She took thepictures from him. With a terrible ironic calm she sorted them from hispockets, and spread them out on the table like a pack of cards. He darednot look at her. He was afraid to see what she was seeing. She had tornopen the door of his secret chamber, and there in that blasting light washis treasure, naked, defenceless. He could have cried out in his dread, "Only don't say anything--don't say anything!"

"So that's what you liked so much, Robert--that's what you spent the moneyon. It's the old story--beginning again--only worse. " She added, almostto herself:

"A vulgar, common woman. "

She put her face between her hands. He could hear her quiet crying. Itwas awful. His love for her was a torture. Because she was not wonderfulat all but human and pitiful like himself, he felt her grief like a knifeturning and turning in his own heart. But he could not comfort her. Hecould only stare aghast at that row of faces--grinning, smirking, arrogant, insolent faces. 

It was true. The jolly lights had been turned out. The band had stoppedplaying. 

A vulgar, common woman!

 * * * * *

He stood with his back to the Circus entrance where he could smell thesawdust and hear the hum of the audience crowding into their seats. Theinvisible band gave funny noises like a man clearing his throat. Therewas still a number of people coming in--some strolling idly, others pulledalong by their excited charges. It was queer, Robert thought, that theyshould be excited. The smell of the sawdust made him feel rather sick. 

He gave out his last handbill. Nobody noticed him. They took the slip ofpaper which he thrust into their hands without looking at him. He wentand stood at the box-office where the big man in riding boots was countingout his money. It was a high box-office, so that Robert had to stand ontip-toe to be seen. 

"I've finished, " he said. 

The man glanced at him and then remembered. 

"Oh, yes, you're the young feller. Given 'em all out, eh? Not thrown 'emon the rubbish heap? Well, what is it?"

"I want my sixpence. "

"Oh, sixpence I promised you, did I? Well, here's a shilling seat. That'll do better, eh, what? You can go in now. "

"I want my sixpence. "

"You don't want--don't want to go to the Circus?"

"I don't like Circuses. "

The big man stared down at the white set face gazing stolidly back at himover the wooded ledge. He tossed the coin indignantly across. 

"Well, of all the unnatural, ungrateful young jackanapes----"

But he was so astonished that he had to lean out of his box and watch theblasphemer--a quaint figure, bowed as though under a heavy burden, itshands thrust hard into its trousers pockets--stalk away from the greattent and without so much as a backward glance lose itself among the crowd. 

PART II

I

1

They came to an idle halt near Cleopatra's needle, and leaning againstthe Embankment wall, looked across the river to the warehouses opposite, which, in the evening mist, had the look of stark cliffs guarded by asolitary watchful lion. The smaller of the two young men took off hissoft hat and set it beside him so that he could let the wind brushthrough his thick red hair. He held himself very straight, his slenderbody taut with solemn exultation. 

"If only one could do something with it, " he said; "eat it--hug it--getinside of it somehow--belong to it. It hurts--this gaping like anoutsider. Look now--one shade of purple upon another. Isn't itunendurably beautiful? But if one could write a sonnet--or a sonata--orpaint a picture---- That's where the real artist has the pull over uspoor devils who can only feel things. He wouldn't just stand here. He'dget out his fountain pen or his paint-box and make it all his for everand ever. Think of Whistler now--what he would do with it. "

"I can't, " Stonehouse said. "Who's Whistler?"

Cosgrave laughed in anticipation of his little joke. "Nobody, oldfellow. At least, he never discovered any bugs. "

The wind snatched up his forgotten hat and it sailed off up river intothe darkness like a large unwieldy bird. He looked after it ruefully. 

"That was a new hat. I'll have to go home without one, and the Paterwill think I've been in a drunken brawl, and there'll be a beastly row. "

"That's the one thing he'll never believe. Well, I don't care. It'll beover soon. If I've passed that exam. I'll get away and he won't be ableto nag me any more. And you, do think I've passed, don't you, Stonehouse?"

"If you didn't imagine your answers afterwards. "

"Honour bright, I didn't. I believe I did a lot better, really. Youknow, I'm so awfully happy to-night I'd believe anything. It's queer howthis old river fits in with one's moods, isn't it? Last time we werehere I wanted to drown myself, and there it was ready to hand, as itwere--offering eternal oblivion--and all that. I thought of all theother fellows who had drowned themselves, and felt no end cheered up. And now it makes me think of escape--of getting away fromeverything--sailing to strange, new countries----"

"The last time you were here, " Stonehouse said, "you'd just come out ofthe exam. If you really answered as you say you did, there was no reasonfor your wanting to drown yourself. "

"But I did. You're such a distrustful beggar. You think I just imaginethings. No, I'll tell you what it was--I didn't care. There I was--I'dswotted and swotted. I'd thought that if only I could squeeze throughI'd be the happiest man on earth. And then, when it was all over I beganto think: 'What's it all for, what's it all about? What's the good?'Suppose I have passed, I'll get some beastly little job in some stuffyGovernment office, 200 pounds a year, if I'm lucky. And then if I'm goodand not too bright they'll raise me to 250 pounds in a couple of years'time, and so it'll go on--nothing but fug, and dinge, and skimping, andplanning--with a fortnight at the seaside once a year or a run over toParis. I suppose it was good enough for our grandfathers, Stonehouse--this just keeping alive? But it didn't seem good enough tome. Don't you feel like that sometimes--when you think of the time whenyou'll be able to stick M. D. , or whatever it is, after your name--asthough, after all, it didn't matter a brace of shakes?"

Robert Stonehouse roused himself from his lounging attitude and thrusthis hands deep into his trousers pockets. There was a nip in the wind, and he had no overcoat. 

"No. When I've got through this next year I shall feel that I've climbedout of a black pit and that the world's before me--to do what I likewith. "

"Well--you're different. " Cosgrave sighed, but not unhappily. "You'regoing to do what you want to do, and I expect you'll be great guns at it. I dare say if I were to play the piano all day long--decently, you know, as I do sometimes, inside me at any rate--and get money for it, I'd thinkit worth while---- But it takes a lot to make one feel that way abouta Government office. "

His voice was quenched by a sudden rush of traffic--a tram that jangledand swayed, a purring limousine full of vague, glittering figures, and agreat belated lorry lumbering in pursuit like an uncouth participant insome fantastic race. They roared past and vanished, and into the emptyspace of quiet there flowed back the undertones of the river, solitaryfootfalls, the voice of the drowsing city. The loneliness becamesomething magical. It changed the colour of Cosgrave's thoughts. Hepressed closer to his companion, and, with his elbows on the balustradeand his hands clenched in his hair, spoke in an awed whisper. 

"It does seem worth while now. That's what's so extraordinary. I feel Ican stick anything--even being a Government clerk all my life. I don'teven seem to mind home like I did. I'm in love. That's what it is. You've never been in love, have you, Stonehouse?"

"No. "

"You're such a cast-iron fellow. I don't know how I have the nerve totell you things. Sometimes I think you don't care a snap for anything inthe world, except just getting on. "

Robert Stonehouse hunched his shoulders against the wind. There was morethan physical discomfort in the movement--a kind of secret distress andresentment. 

"You do talk a lot of sentimental rubbish, " he said. "It seems to meit's only a hindrance--this caring so much for people. It gets in aman's way. Not that it matters to you just now. You've got a slacktime. You can afford to fool around. "

"You think I'm a milksop, " Cosgrave said patiently, "I don't mind. Idare say it's true. There's not much fight in me. I don't seem able todo without people like you can. I think, sometimes, if I hadn't had youto back me up I'd never have been able to stick things. Of course, I'mnot clever, either. But you're wrong about being in love. It doesn'tget in one's way. It helps. Everything seems different. "

Stonehouse was silent, his fair, straight brows contracted. When hespoke at last it was dispassionately and impersonally, as one giving aconsidered judgment. But his voice was rather absurdly young. 

"You may be right. I hadn't thought about it before. It didn't seemimportant enough. There was a woman I knew when I was a kid--a commoncreature--who was fond of saying that 'it was love that made the world goround. ' (My father married her for her money, which didn't go round atall. ) Still, in her way, she was stating a kind of biological fact. Ifpeople without much hold on life didn't fall in love they'd becomeextinct. They wouldn't have the guts to push on or the cheek toperpetuate themselves. But they do fall in love, and I suppose, as yousay, things seem different. _They_ seem different--worth while. So theymarry and have children, which seems worth while too--different fromother people's children, at any rate, or they wouldn't be able to bearthe sight of them. What you call love is just a sort of trick played onyou. If crowds are of any use I suppose it's justified. It's a big'if, ' though. "

Cosgrave smiled into the dark. 

"It sounds perfectly beastly. Not a bit encouraging. But I don't care, somehow. Do you mind if I tell you about her? I've got to talk tosomebody. "

"I don't mind. But I don't want to stand here any longer. It's cold, and, besides, I've got to be up west by six. "

They turned and strolled on toward Westminster. Robert Stonehouse stillkept his hands thrust into his pockets, and the position, gave hisheavy-shouldered figure a hunched fighting look, as though he had sethimself to stride out against a tearing storm. He took no notice ofCosgrave, who talked on rapidly, stammering a little and scrambling forhis words. The wind blew his hair on end, and he walked with his smallwistful nose lifted to the invisible stars. 

"You see, I can't tell anyone at home about her. It's not as though shewere even what people call a lady. (Oh, I'm perfectly sane--I don'thumbug myself. ) Mother'd have a fit, and the Pater only looks at thatkind of thing in one way--his own particularly disgusting way. She dropsher aitches sometimes. But she's good, and she's pretty as a flower. Imet her at a dance club. I'd never been to such a place before. Andthen one evening it suddenly came over me that I wanted to be among a lotof people who were having a good time. So I plunged. You pay sixpence, you know, and everybody dances with everybody. Of course I can't dance. She saw me hanging round and looking glum, I suppose, and she was nice tome. She taught me a few steps, and I told her about the exam, and howworried I was about it, and we became friends. I've never had agirl-friend before. It's amazing. And she's different, anyway----She's on the stage--in the chorus to begin with--but you'd think they'dgiven her a lead, she's so happy about it. That's what I love about her. Everything seems jolly to her. She enjoys things like a kid--a 'busride, a cinema, our little suppers together. She loves just being alive, you know. It's extraordinary--I say, are you listening, Stonehouse?"

"I didn't know you wanted me to listen. I thought you wanted to talk. Iwas thinking of an operation I saw once--you wouldn't understand--it wasa ticklish job, and the man lost his head. He tried to hide it, but Iknew, and he saw I knew. A man like that oughtn't to operate. "

"And did the other fellow die?"

"Oh, yes. But he would have died anyway, probably. It wasn't that thatmattered. It was losing his nerve like that. "

"If I saw an operation, " Cosgrave said humbly, "I should be sick. "

Stonehouse had not heard. They reached the bridge in silence, and undera street lamp stopped to take leave of one another. It was theircustomary walk and the customary ending, and each wondered in hisdifferent way how it was that they should always want to meet and to talkto one another of things that only one of them could understand. 

"Why does he bother with me?" Cosgrave thought. 

But he was sorry for Robert, partly because he guessed that he was hungryand partly because he knew that he was not in love. 

"I wish you'd come along too, " he said a little breathlessly; "I want youto meet her, you know--for us all to be friends together--just a quietsupper--and my treat, of course. "

It was very transparent. He tried to look up at his companion boldly andinnocently. But the light from the street lamp fell into his strangeblue eyes, with their look of young and anxious hopefulness, and madethem blink. Robert Stonehouse laughed. He knew what was in Cosgrave'smind, and it seemed to him half comic and half pathetic and ratherirritating. 

"I don't suppose you have enough to pay for supper, anyway, " he saidroughly, "or you'll go without your lunch to-morrow. Don't be an idiot. Look after yourself and I'll look after myself. Besides, if you thinkI'm not going to have a square meal to-night you're enormously mistaken. I'm going to dine well--where you'll never Set your foot, not untilyou're earning more than 250 pounds a year, at any rate. "

"Word of honour?"

"Oh, word of honour, of course. "

A shy relief came into the pinched and freckled face. 

"Oh, well then--but I do want you to meet all the same; you see, she'dlike it--she knows all about you. I'm always bragging about you. Perhaps I could bring her round--if Miss Forsyth wouldn't mind--if she'swell enough. "

Robert Stonehouse half turned away, as though shrinking from anunwelcome, painful touch. 

"She's all right. "

"Then may we come? I'm not afraid of Miss Forsyth. She's anunderstanding person. She won't think people common because of theiraitches. Give her my love, won't you, Robert. And good night. "

"Oh, good night!" He added quickly, sullenly: "You look blue with cold. Why don't you wear a decent coat? It's idiotic!"

"Because my coat isn't decent. I don't want her to see me shabby. And Ilike to pretend I'm rather a strong, dashing fellow who doesn't mindthings. Besides, look at yourself!"

"I'm different. "

"You needn't rub it in. " He was gay now with an expectation that bubbledup in him like a fountain. He made as though to salute Robert solemnlyand then remembered and clutched at his wind-blown hair instead. "Oh, myhat! Well, it will make Connie laugh like anything!" he said. 

2

To be a habitue of Brown's was to prove yourself a person of some meansand solid discrimination. At Brown's you could get cuts from the joint, a porter-house steak, apple tart, and a good boiled pudding as nowhereelse in the world. You went in through the swinging doors an ordinaryand fallible human being, and you came out feeling you had been fed onthe very stuff which made the Empire. You were slightly stupefied, butyou were also superbly, magnificently unbeatable. 

Mr. Brown was an Englishman. But he did not glory in the fact. It was, as he had explained to Robert one night, his kindly, serious face glowingin the reflection from the grill, a tragedy. 

"To be born an Englishman and a cook--it's like being born a bird withoutwings. You can't soar--not however hard you try--not above roasts andboils. Take vegetables. An Englishman natur'lly boils. And it's nogood going against nature. You're a doctor--or going to be--and you knowthat. You've got to do the best you can, but you can't do more. That'smy motto. But if I'd been born a Frenchman---- Well it's no usedreaming. If them potatoes are ready, Jim, so'm I. "

Mr. Brown had taken a fancy to Robert Stonehouse from the moment that thelatter had challenged him on the very threshold of his kitchen andexplained, coolly and simply, his needs and his intentions. Mr. Brownwas frankly a Romantic, and Robert made up to him for the souffles andother culinary adventures which Fate had denied him. He liked to dreamhimself into Robert's future. 

"One of these days I'll be pointing you out to my specialcustomers--'Yes, sir, that's Sir Robert himself. Comes here everySaturday night for old times' sake. Used to work here with me--waitedwith his own hands, sir--for two square meals and ten per cent. Of histips. You don't get young men like that these days--no, sir. "

Robert accepted his prophetic vision gravely. It was what he meant tohappen, and it did not seem to him to be amusing. 

Brown's was tucked away in a quiet West End side street, and there wasonly one entrance. At six o'clock the tables were still empty, andRobert walked through into the employees' dressing-room. He put on hiswhite jacket, slightly stained with iodoform, and a black apron whichconcealed his unprofessional grey trousers, and went to work in thepantry, laying out plates and dishes in proper order, after the manner ofa general marshalling his troops for action. He was deft handed, andresponsible for fewer breakages than any of the old-timers--foreignersfor the most--who flitted up and down the passages with the look of batsstartled from their belfries and only half awake. Through an open, glasswindow he could see into the huge kitchen, where Mr. Brown brooded overhis oven, and catch rich, sensuous odours that went to his head like somany etherealized cocktails. He had not eaten since the morning, andthough he was too strong to faint, it grew increasingly difficult to fixhis mind on the examination question which he had set himself. He foundhimself wondering instead, what would happen if old Brown lost his_flair_ for the psychological moment in roasts, and why it was that a manwho had performed an operation successfully a hundred times shouldsuddenly go to pieces over it? What made him lose faith in himself?Nerves? A matter of the liver? We were only at the beginning of ourinvestigations. And then poor little Cosgrave, who as suddenly began tobelieve in himself and in life generally because he had fallen in lovewith a chorus girl!

The head waiter looked round the pantry door. He was a passionateSocialist who, in his spare time, preached the extermination of all suchas did not work for their daily bread. But he disliked Robert bitterly, as a species of bourgeois blackleg. 

"You're wanted. There's a party of ten just come in. Hurry up, can'tyer?"

Robert put down his plates and went into the dining-room with the winelist. His table-napkin he carried neatly folded over one arm. 

And there was Francey Wilmot. 

She had other people with her, but he saw her first. He could not havemistaken her. Of course, she had changed. She was taller, for onething, and wore evening dress instead of the plain brown frock that heremembered. But her thick hair had always been short, and now it wasdone up it did not seem much shorter. And it still had that quaint airof being brushed up from her head by a secret, rushing wind--of wantingto fly away with her. She was burnt, too, with an alien sun and wind. Her face and neck were a golden brown, and in reckless contrast with herwhite shoulders. One saw how little she cared. She sat with her elbowson the table, and the sight of the supple hands and strong, slenderwrists stopped Robert Stonehouse short, as though a deep, old wound whichhad not troubled him for years had suddenly begun to hurt again. And yethow happy he had been, as a little boy, when she had just touched him. 

It was evidently a celebration in her honour. A tall young man with sidewhiskers who came in late presented her with a bunch of roses in the nameof the whole company and with a gay, exaggerated homage. They were ajolly crowd. They had in common their youth and an appearance ofgood-natured disregard for the things that ordinary people cared about. Otherwise they were of all sorts and conditions, like their clothes. Twoor three were in evening dress, and one girl who sat at the end of thetable and smoked incessantly wore a shabby coat and skirt and a raffishbillycock hat. Chelsea or the University Schools was stamped on all ofthem. There wasn't much that they didn't know, and there was very littlethat they believed in--not even themselves. For they were of the verynewest type, and would have scorned to admit to a Purpose or a Faith. But they could not help being young and rather liking one another, andthe good food and the promise of a riotous evening. 

Robert knew their kind. He even knew by sight the side-whiskered youngman who now clapped his hands like an Eastern potentate. He had been ofRobert's year at the University, and had been ploughed twice. 

"Wine-ho! Fellow creatures, what is it to be? In honour of the occasionand to show our contempt of circumstances, shall we say a magnum ofHeidsieck? All in favour wave their paws----"

The girl in the billycock hat blew a great puff of smoke towards him. 

"Oh, death and damnation, Howard! Haven't I been explaining to you allthe afternoon that I owe rent for a fortnight to a devil in female form, and that unless someone buys 'A Sunset over the Surrey Cliffs seen UpsideDown, ' Gerty will be on the streets? Make it beer with a dash o'bitters. "

Finally it was Francey who decided. She beckoned, not looking at him, and Robert with a little obsequious bow, handed her the wine card andwaited at her elbow. He was not afraid of Howard's recognition. Theyhad never spoken to one another, and in any case Howard would not believehis eyes. 

It was strange to stand near to her again and to recognize the littlethings about her that had fascinated small Robert Stonehouse--the line ofher neck, the brown mole at the corner of her eye which people werealways trying to rub off, the way her hair curled up from her temples intwo unmistakable horns. He had teased her about them in his shy, clumsyway. A very subtle and sweet warmth emanated from her like a breath. Ittook him back to the day when he had huddled close to her, hiccoughingwith grief and anger, and yet deeply, deliriously happy because she wassorry for him. It made him giddy with a sense of unreality, as thoughthe present and the intervening years were only part of one of his nightstories, which, after their tiresome, undeviating custom, had got tangledup in a monstrous, impossible dream. And then a new fancy tookpossession of him. He wanted to bend closer to her and say, veryquietly, as though he were suggesting an order, "What about yourhandkerchief? Do you want it back, Francey?"

Amidst his austerely disciplined thoughts the impulse was like a mad, freakish intruder, and it frightened him, so that he drew back sharply. 

"Cider-cup, " she said. "It's my feast--and I like seeing the fruit andpretending I can taste it. And then Howard won't get drunk and recitepoetry. Three orders, waiter. "

He took the wine card, but she held it a moment longer, as thoughsomething had suddenly attracted her attention. Their hands had almosttouched. 

"Yes--three orders will be enough. "

The company groaned, but submitted. In reality they were too stimulatedalready by an invisible, exuberant spirit among them to care much. Fromwhere he waited for Francey's order on the threshold of the pantry Robertcould see and hear them. It was really the old days over again. Fundamentally things outside himself did not change much. The BrothersBanditti had grown up. They were not nice children any more. Theinnocent building-ground and nefarious plottings against unpopularauthority had given place to restaurants and more subtle wickednesses. But still Francey played her queer, elusive role among them. She was ofthem--and yet she stood a little apart, a little on one side. ProbablyHoward thought himself their real leader. They did not talk to herdirectly very much, nor she to them. But all the time they were playingup to her, trying to draw her attention to themselves and make her laughwith them. She did laugh. It did not seem to matter to her at all thatthey were often crude and blatant and sometimes common in theirself-expression. She laughed from her heart. But her laughter was alittle different. It sat by itself, an elfish thing, with a touch ofseriousness about it, its arms hugging its knees, and looked beyond themall and saw how much bigger and finer the joke was than they thought it. She was the spirit of their good humour. They could not have donewithout her. 

And he, Robert Stonehouse, stood outside the circle, as in reality he hadalways done. But now he did not want to belong. He knew now how ithindered men to run with the herd--even to have friends. It wasted timeand strength. And these people were no good anyhow. Howard was one ofthese dissipated duffers who later on would settle down as a miraculouslyrespectable and incapable G. P. The rest were vague, rattle-brainedeccentrics who would fizzle out, no one would know how or care. 

Only Francey---- But even in the old days it was only because ofFrancey that the Banditti had meant anything to him. 

The head waiter pushed across the counter a jug of yellowish liquid inwhich floated orange peel and a few tinned, dubious-looking cherries. 

"Take it, for God's sake! People who want muck like that ought to keepto Soho. "

Robert poured out with an eye trained to accurate measurements in thelaboratory. It was his practice to do well everything that he had to do. Otherwise you lost tone--you weakened your own fibre so that when the bigthing came along you slumped. But he could not forget Francey Wilmot'snearness. It did not surprise him any more. But it charged him withunrest, and he and his unrest frightened him. He knew how to masterordinary emotion. Even when he carried off the Franklin Scholarship inthe teeth of a brilliant opposition he had not allowed himself a moment'striumph. It was all in the day's work--a single step on the road whichhe had mapped out deliberately. But this was outside his experience. Ithad pounced on him from nowhere, shaking him. 

He had to look up at her again. And then he saw that she was looking athim too, steadily, with a deep, inquiring kindness. 

It was as though she had said aloud:

"Are you really a good little boy, Robert?"

The cider poured over the edge of the glass and over the table-cloth andin a dismal stream on to the lap of the girl with the raffish billycockhat. 

"Well, that settles that, " she said good-humouredly. "My only skirt, friends. She can't turn me out in my petticoat, can she? Oh, leave italone, garcong; it doesn't matter a tinker's curse----"

He could not help it. In the midst of his angry confusion he still hadto seek out her verdict on him--just as Robert Stonehouse had always donewhen he had been peculiarly heroic or unfortunate. And there it was, dancing beneath her gravity, her unforgotten, magic laughter. 

At half-past ten Brown's cleared its last table. Robert Stonehouserolled down his sleeves, picked up the parcel which had been placed readyfor him on the pantry counter, said good-night to the head waiter, whodid not answer, and with his coat-collar turned up about his ears wentout in the street. It was quiet as a country lane and empty except forthe girl who waited beyond the lamp light. He knew her instantly, and inturn two sensations that were equally foreign and unfamiliar seized him. The first was sheer panic, and the second was a sense of inevitability. The second was the oddest of the two, because he did not believe in Fate, but he did believe in his own will. 

It was his own will, therefore, that made him walk steadily andindifferently towards her. His head bent as though he did not see her. It was really the wind in her hair now. It caught the ends of her long, loose coat and carried them out behind her. Her slender feet moveduncertainly in the circle of lamp-light. Any moment they might breakinto one of the quaint little dances. Or the wind might carry her offaltogether in a mysterious gust down the street and out of sight. It waslike his vision of her that evening in Acacia Grove. It made him feelmore and more unreal and frightened of himself. 

He was almost past her when he spoke. 

"Robert Stonehouse, " she said rather authoritatively, as though sheexpected him to run away; "Robert Stonehouse----"

He stopped short with his heart beating in his throat. But he did nottake the hand that she held out to him. He could only stare at her, frowning in his distress, and she asked: "You do know who I am, don'tyou?"

"Yes. Francey--Francey Wilmot--Miss Wilmot. " He forced himself to stopstammering, and added stiffly: "I did not know you had recognized me. "

"Didn't you? I thought---- Well, I did recognize you anyhow. I wasso astonished at first that I thought it was a sort of materialization. But you were absurdly the same. And then when you poured the cider outon to poor Gerty's skirt----"

"Was that one of my childish customs?" he asked. "I'd forgotten. "

"I nearly stood up and shook hands. "

"I'm glad you didn't. "

"I thought you'd feel like that. I remembered that you had been rather atouchy little boy----"

"I was thinking of your friends. Howard, for instance. "

"Why, do you know Howard?"

"By sight. "

"If you've never even spoken to him you can't, of course, tell what hewould have felt. Do you mind walking home with me? I don't live farfrom here, and we can talk better. "

He held his ground, obstinate and defiant. It was unjust that anyone, knowing himself to be brilliantly clever, should yet be made an oaf by anincident so trivial. 

"I'm sorry. I don't see what we can have to talk about. I'm not keen onchildish recollections. I haven't time for them. And it's fairlyobvious we don't move in the same set and are not likely to meet again. "He burst out rudely. "I suppose you were just curious----"

"Of course. You'd be curious if you found me selling flowers inPiccadilly. You'd come up and say: 'allo! Francey, what have you beendoing with yourself?' And you'd have tried to give me a leg up, if itonly ran to buying a gardenia for old times' sake. "

He suspected her of poking fun at him. And yet there was that subtleunderlying seriousness about her and a frank, disarming kindliness. 

"You think I'm down on my luck, " he retorted, "and so anybody has a rightto butt in. "

"Not a right. Of course, if I'd met you in Bond Street, all sleek andpolished, I shouldn't have dreamed of butting in. I should have said tomyself, 'Well, that's the end of the little Robert Stonehouse saga as faras I'm concerned, ' and I don't suppose I should ever have thought of youagain. But now I shall have to go on thinking--and wondering whathappened--and worrying. " She drew her cloak closer about her like a birdfolding its wings, and added prosaically: "I say, don't you find itrather cold standing about here?"

He turned with her and walked on sullenly, his head down to the wind. Hethought: "I shall tell her nothing at all. " But to his astonishment shewas silent, and finally he had to speak himself. 

"I'm afraid this silly business has broken up your party. Or was itgetting too lively for you? Howard's beanos used to have a considerablereputation. "

"He often seems drunk when he isn't, " she returned tranquilly. "I thinkit's because he enjoys things more than most people are able to. Itwasn't that. I wanted to see you so much, and I knew Brown's would beclosing about now. So I sent them to a theatre. It seemed the safestplace. "

"And they went like lambs. But, then, the Banditti always did. "

"Oh, the Banditti!" He guessed that she was smiling to herself. "TheBanditti wouldn't have grown up like that. They were much toonice--never quite really wicked, were they? Just carried off their feet. Still, they were never quite the same after you left. I think theyalways hankered a little after the good old days when they rangdoor-hells and chivied their governesses. Probably they will never be sohappy again. "

"They had you. It was you they really cared about. Everybody did whatyou liked. "

"You didn't. "

"I did--in the end. "

It was odd that they should be both thinking of that last encounter andthat they should speak of it so guardedly, as though it were still adelicate matter. 

"I didn't know you were never coming again. I waited for you in theafternoon--for weeks and weeks. "

"Did you?" He looked at her quickly, taken off his guard, and then awayagain with a scornful laugh. "Oh, I don't believe it. You knew I wasn'tnice--not your sort. You're just making it up. "

"I wonder why you say that?" she asked dispassionately. "It's cheap andstupid. You're not really stupid and you weren't cheap, even if youweren't nice. And you know that I don't tell lies. "

For a moment he was too startled and too ashamed to answer. Cheap. Thatwas just the word for it. The sort of thing that common young men saidto their common young women. And, of course, he did know. Her integritywas a thing you felt. But he could never bring himself to tell her thathe had been afraid to believe too easily, or that he did not want to haveto remember her afterwards, waiting there day by day, in their desertedplayground. It troubled him already, like a vague, indefinite pain. 

He did not even apologize. 

"I suppose I should have come back sooner or later. But I didn't havethe chance. My father died that night--unexpectedly. " He brushed asideher low interjection. 

"Oh, I was jolly glad. But after that we had to clear out. There was nomoney at all. "

"But you lived in a big house. Your father was a great doctor. "

"I was a great liar, " he retorted impatiently. "I suppose I wanted toimpress you. Perhaps he was a great doctor. Anyhow, he never did anywork. There was a bailiff in the house when he died and a pile of bills. And not much else. "

"What happened, then? Did you go with your stepmother? I remember howyou hated her! You wouldn't admit that she was a mother of any sort. "

"No. I don't know what became of her. I never saw her again after thatnight. I think she went to live with her own people. Christine tookcare of me. "

"I don't remember Christine. I don't think you ever told me about her. "

"I wouldn't have known how to explain. I don't know now. She was a sortof friend--my father's and mother's friend. There was an understandingbetween her and my mother--a promise--I don't know what. So she took meaway with her. Not that she had any money, either. We went to live intwo rooms in the suburbs, and she worked for us both. She had neverworked before--not for money--and she wasn't young. But she did it. "

"A great sort of friend. And she came through too----?"

He did not answer at once, and he felt her look at him quickly, anxiously, as though she had felt him shrink back into himself. Sheheard something in his silence that he did not want her to hear. He puthis head down to the wind again, hiding a white, hard face. 

"Oh, yes, and we still live in two rooms--over a garage in Drayton Mews. My room 'folds up' in the day-time, and she sits there and knits woollenthings for the shops. She has to take life easily now. She had anillness, and her eyes trouble her. But she's better--much better. Andnext year everything will be different. "

The street had run out into the still shadows of a great dim square. Fora moment they hesitated like travellers on the verge of unknown country;then Francey crossed over to the iron-palinged garden and they walked onside by side under the trees that rattled their grimy, fleshless limbs inan eerie dance. There was no one else stirring. The eyes of the statelyGeorgian houses were already closed in the weariness of their sad old age. 

But she asked no questions. She seemed to have drifted away from him ona secret journey of her own. He had to draw her back--make herrealize----

"I shall be a doctor then, " he said challengingly. 

"You said you would be a doctor. We quarrelled about it. "

"How you remember things----"

"You were such a strange little boy. Besides, you remember them too. "

"That's different. I've never had anyone else----" He caught himselfup. "I suppose you think I'm still bragging?"

"You never bragged. You always did what you said you were going todo--even stupid things, like climbing that old wall. "

So she had seen him, after all. She had watched--perhaps a littlefrightened for him, a little impressed by his reckless daring. 

"Oh, well, I admit it didn't seem likely. People think you have to havea lot of money. We've often laughed about it. For we hadn't anythingexcept what we saved from week to week. And yet we've done it. You cando anything so long as you don't mind what you do. It depends on thestuff you're made of. "

He threw his head up and walked freely, with open shoulders. After all, he was proud of those years, and had a right to be. They had testedevery inch of him, and it would have been stupid to pretend that he didnot know his own mettle. He heard his footsteps ring out through thefitful whimpering of the wind and they seemed to mark the rhythm of hislife--a steady, resolute progression. The lighter fall of FranceyWilmot's feet beside him was like an echo. But yet it had its ownquality. Not less resolute. 

He heard her say quickly, almost to herself:

"It must have been hard going--but awfully worth while. An adventure. Ican't be sorry for anyone who suffers on an adventure--any sort ofadventure--even if it's only in oneself. "

She was more moved than he could understand. But the wind, dashed withice-cold rain, blew them closer to one another. He could feel the warmthof her arm against his. It was difficult to seem prosaic and casual. 

"That's just it. Worth while. Why do people want 'chances' and'equality' and things made smooth for them? What's the use of anythingif there isn't a top and a bottom to it? What's the use of having enoughto eat if you haven't been hungry? I'm going to be a doctor, and I mighthave slumped into the gutter. I'm jolly glad there is a gutter to slumpinto----" He broke off, and then went on more deliberately. "Christine and I mapped it out one night when I was ten years old. Afterschool hours I used to run errands and sell newspapers. On half-holidaysI went down into the West End and hunted taxis for people coming out oftheatres. I took my exams and scholarship one after the other. Wecounted on that. I kept on earning in one way or another all through myfirst M. B. And during the two years I've walked the Wards. Now I've hadto drop out for a bit to make enough to carry through my finals. Christine's illness was the only thing we hadn't reckoned with. "

Her voice had an odd, troubling huskiness. 

"You must be frightfully strong. But then you always were. You used tobeat everyone----"

"I'm like that now. I've got a dozen lives--like a cat. And one lifedoesn't know what the other one's doing. " He laughed. "Before breakfastI wash down the car of the man who owns our garage. The rest of themorning I coach fellows for the Matric. In the afternoon I swot formyself. You see how I spend my evenings. Brown's been very decent tome. I get part of my tips and two meals--one for myself and one to takehome. " He showed her the parcel that he carried. "Cold chicken and ricemould, " he said carelessly. "We couldn't afford that. "

He did not tell her that there had been times when, to keep theircompact, they had gone without altogether, when Christine had faintedover her typewriter and he had watched her from out of a horrible, quivering mist--too sick with hunger to help, or even to care much. Hedid not want Francey to be sorry for him. 

"And the tips?" she asked, with grave concern. "I hope we played thegame. But poor old Howard is always so hard up----"

"Oh, good enough. Usually I get more than the others, and they hate mefor it. I'm quicker and I've got clean hands. People like that. "

"I saw your hands first, " Francey said, "and I knew at once that you weresomething different. "

It was too dark for her to see his face. Yet he turned away hastily. Hespoke as though he did not care at all. 

"Brown's a smart fellow. He knows what's coming, and what people areworth to him. We've got an agreement that when I'm Sir Robert I'm toboost the old place and do his operations free. I think he'll be rathersick if he doesn't need any. "

It was half a joke, but if she had laughed--laughed in the wrong way--thechances were that he would have turned on his heel and left her withoutso much as a good-night. For he was strung up to an abnormal, cruelsensitiveness. Whatever else they did, people did not laugh at him. Hehad never given them the chance that he had given her. He had learnt tobe silent, and now she had made him talk and the result had been anuncouth failure. He had thrown his hardships at her like a parvenu hisriches. If she did not see through his crudeness to what was real inhim, she could only see that he was a rather funny young man whoswaggered outrageously. And that was not to be endured. 

But she did not laugh at all. 

"You're sure of yourself, Robert. "

"Yes--I am. "

"I'm sure of myself, too. Because I'm sure of things outside myself. "

He did not try to understand her. He was wrestling with the expressionof his own experiences. He threw out his free hand and turned it andclosed the powerful, slender fingers, as though he were moulding someinvisible substance. 

"Outside things are colourless and lifeless--sort of plastic stuff--untilwe get hold of them. We twist them to the best shapes we can. Nothinghappens to us that isn't exactly like ourselves. Even what people callaccidents. Even a man's diseases. I've seen that in the Wards. Peopledie as they live, and they live as they are----"

And now she did laugh, throwing back her head, and he laughed with her, shyly but not resentfully. It was as though a crisis in theirrelationship had been passed. He could trust her to understand. And heknew that though what he had said was true, it had also sounded young andsententious. 

"You think I'm talking rot, don't you?"

"I only think you've changed, " she answered, with a quick gravity. "Notoutside. Outside you're just a few feet bigger and the round lines havebecome straight. But when you were a little boy you used to cry a gooddeal. "

"I don't see--how did you know?"

"I did know. There were certain smears--I don't think you liked havingyour face washed--and a red, tired, look under the eyes. The point isthat now I can't imagine your ever having cried at all. "

"I haven't. " He calculated solemnly. "Not for more than twelve years. I remember, because it was after I had played truant at the circus. "

But he did not want to tell her about the circus. He stopped short andlooked at his watch in the lamplight. 

"Nearly twelve. We've been prowling round this place for an hour. I'vegot to get home and work. I thought you said you lived near here. "

"I do. Over the way. The big house. I've two rooms on the top floor. Rather jolly--and near St. Mary's----"

"What--what do you want with St. Mary's?"

But she had already begun to cross the road, and the wind, coming down aside street with a shriek, sent her scudding before it like a leaf. Shewas half-way up the grey stone steps before he overtook her. She turnedon him, the short ends of her hair flying wickedly. 

"Of course, it's only right and natural that you should talk of nothingbut yourself. "

He stammered breathlessly. 

"I didn't think--I'm sorry----"

"Do you suppose you're the only person who does what they say they'regoing to do?"

"What--not--not a doctor, Francey?"

"Not yet. I'm two years behind you. This will be my first year in theWards. Next year you will be full-blown--perhaps on the staff--and Ishall have to trot behind you and believe everything you say. " Shesmiled rather gravely. "You will have got the big stick, after all. "

He looked up at her, holding on to the spiked railing that guarded theyawning area. But he had a queer feeling that he had let go ofeverything else that he had held fast to--that he was gliding down-billin a reckless abandonment to an unknown feeling. He knew too little ofemotion to know that he was happy. 

"Why--I shall be there too. I'll be on a surgical post--dresser for oldRogers. And he's going to take me on his private rounds. "

It was not what he had meant to say. He had meant to say, "We shall seeeach other. " Perhaps she guessed. Her hand rested on his, warm andstrong and kind, as though nothing had changed at all. Because they weregrown up she did not hold back in a conventional reserve. If only hecould have cried she would have sat down on the steps beside him, and puther arm about him, and comforted him. 

"And I want to meet Christine, " she said. 

He nodded. 

"Rather. "

"And it's been fine--our meeting again. But didn't you always know itwould happen?"

"I believe I did. Yes, I did. I used to imagine----"

And then he knew and saw that she knew too. He saw it in the suddendarkening of her steady eyes, in the perplexity of her drawn brows. Hefelt it in her hand that scarcely moved, as though even now it would notshrink from whatever was the truth. It came and went like a flare offire across the storm. And when it had gone, they could not believe thatit had ever been. They were both shaken with astonishment. And yet, hadn't they always known?

"Good-night, Robert Stonehouse. "

"Good-night. "

But he could not move. He watched the blank door open, and her slendershadow stand out for a moment against the yellow gas-light of the hall. She did not look back. Perhaps she too was spell-bound. The door closedwith an odd sound as though the house had clicked its tongue ingood-natured amusement. 

"Now you see how it happens, Robert Stonehouse!"

At any rate, the spell was broken. Hugging his parcel dangerously closehe raced back to the shelter of the trees and waited. High over head thehouse opened a bright eye at him. He waved back at it with an absurd, incredible boyishness. 

Then he walked on deliberately, firmly. 

What was it he had to set his mind on?

Of course. That question of therapeutics----

II

1

"I don't understand it, " Christine said. "It seems to me better thananything you've ever read to me. "

She counted her stitches for the second time, and looked up at the sunthat showed its face over the stable roof opposite, as though at a lampwhich did not burn as well as it used to do. In the dusty golden lightshe was like a figure in a tapestry. Perhaps in its early days it hadbeen a trifle crude, a trifle harsh in colour, but now worn andthreadbare, trembling on decay, it had attained a rare and exquisitebeauty. 

She smiled back blindly into the little room. 

"Don't you think so, Robert?"

Mr. Ricardo also looked at Robert, eagerly, pathetically. 

"It was to gain your opinion--reinforce my own judgment--solely forthat purpose--difficult to obtain, the impartial opinion of a trainedmind----"

He had grown into a habit of talking like that--in broken disjointedsentences, which only Robert and Christine who knew his thoughts couldunderstand. And now, in the midst of his scattered manuscript hewaited, rubbing his shiny knees with his thin, grey, not very cleanhands. 

But Robert looked at Francey. He had sat all the time with his armscrossed on the oil-clothed table and looked at her, frankly andunconsciously as a savage or a street boy might have done. He was tootired to care. He had come straight from giving the limousineunderneath an extra washing down for the Whitsun holidays and oil stilllingered in his nails, and there was a faint forgotten smear of it onhis cheek, and another near the thick upstanding hair where he hadrubbed his hand across. They came as almost humorous relief in a facein which there were things ten years too old--the harsh and bonystructure showing where there should have been a round boyishness, andthe full mouth set in a fierce, relentless negation of itself. But theoil smears and the eyes that shone out from under the fair overhangingbrows were again almost too young. They made the strength pathetic. 

He, too, sat in the sunlight, which was not kind to his green, threadbare clothes. But the sun only came into the stable yard for anhour or two, and as it withdrew itself slowly along the length of thetable he shifted his position to move with it, unconsciously, like atired animal. Francey, cross-legged and smoking, on the couch which atnight unfolded itself into a bed, saw the movement and smiled at him. Her eyes were as steady in their serenity as his were steady withhunger. She did not change colour, so that whatever she understoodfrom that long scrutiny did not trouble her. He leant forward, asthough he were afraid of missing some subtle half-tone in her voice. 

"Mr. Ricardo thinks I'm unprejudiced. He's forgotten the times when hepulled my ears and smacked my head. But you are different, Francey. You can say what you think. "

"But it wouldn't be at all helpful, " she answered very solemnly. "Tobegin with, I have the scientific mind, and I cannot accept as a basisof argument an entirely untested hypothesis. "

Connie Edwards thereupon gave vent to an artificial groan of anguish, followed by an explosive giggle which would have lost her her half ofRufus Cosgrave's chair had he not put his arm round her. There wereonly three chairs in the room, and as two of them had been alreadyoccupied when she and her companion had, as she expressed it, "blownin" half an hour previously, they had perched together, listening withclasped hands and an air of insincere solemnity. For Mr. Ricardo hadnot stopped reading. He had gone on as though he had not heard theirboisterous entry, and even now would have seemed unaware of theirexistence but for something bitter and antagonistic in the hunch of histhin shoulders. His dark, biting eyes avoided them like those of asullen child who does not want to see. But Miss Edwards appeared to benot easily depressed. She waved her hand in friendly thanks for thecigarette case which Francey tossed across to her, and, having selectedher cigarette with blunt, viciously manicured fingers, poked Cosgravefor a match. 

"Gawd Almighty, and Little Connie K. O. 'ed in the first round by anuntested hypo--hypo---- What was it, Ruffles dear? (Oh, do stopsqueezing my hand! This isn't the pictures, and it's a match Iwant--not love. ) An untested hypothesis. Thank you, dearie. I wonderif He's feeling as sore about it as I am?"

She gurgled over her cigarette, and Cosgrave smiled at everyone inturn, as though he had said aloud, "Isn't she a splendid joke?" Helooked almost mystically happy. 

"Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven, " Mr. Ricardo muttered. "Mark it, mark it, Robert--the shallow thinking, shallow jesting, shallowliving----"

Miss Edwards winked at Francey, and Francey looked back at her with herunderstanding kindliness. It seemed to Robert that ever since ConnieEdwards had burst into the room Francey had changed. The change wassubtle and difficult to lay hold of, like Francey herself. Mentallyshe was always moving about, quietly, light-footedly, just as she haddone among the bricks and rubble of their old playground, peeringthoughtfully at things which nobody else saw or looking at them fromsome new point of view. You couldn't be sure what they were or whythey interested her. And now--he had almost seen her do it--she hadshifted her position, come over to Connie Edward's side, and was gazingover her shoulder, with her own brown head tilted a little on one ear, and was saying in Connie's vernacular:

"Well, so that's how it looks to you? And, I say, you're right. It'sa scream----"

In her mysterious way she had found something she liked in ConnieEdwards, with her awful hat and her outrageous, three-inch heels andher common prettiness. Cosgrave obviously was crazy about her. Heseemed to cling to her because she had an insatiable hunger for thethings he couldn't afford. One could see that he had tried to modelhimself to her taste. He wore a gardenia and a spotted tie. And, bearing these insignia of vulgarity, he looked more than ever patheticand over-delicate. 

Cosgrave was an idiot who had lost his balance. But Francey wasanother matter. The Francey who had asked "And are you a good littleboy?" accepted Connie Edwards without question. Because it wasridiculous to be hurt about it Robert grew angry with her and frownedaway from her, and talked to Mr. Ricardo as though there were no oneelse in the room. 

"I can't think why they didn't take it, sir. It's fine stuff. A shadetoo long for a magazine article. It may have been that, of course. "

But Mr. Ricardo bent down and began to gather up his manuscript. Thepaper was of all kinds and sizes, covered with crabbed writing andfierce erasures. It was oddly like himself--disordered, a littledesperate, not very clean. When he had all the sheets together he satwith them hugged against his breast and bent closer to Christine, speaking in a mysterious whisper. 

"It's not that. Robert knows it isn't, but he doesn't care any more. He'll say anything. But I know. I've guessed it a long time. Peoplehave found out. They say to one another, when I send in my papers, 'This man is a liar. Every morning of his life he gives his assent tolies. And now he is going to teach the very lies he pretends toexterminate. We can't have anything to do with a man like that. ' Andthere's a conspiracy, Miss Christine, a conspiracy----" His voicebegan to rise and tremble. "They've taken me off my old classes underthe pretext that they are too much for me. They've set me on toScripture. Then they told me I had to remember--remembercircumstances--to prevent myself from saying what I thought of suchdevilish cruelty. But I saw that they wanted me to break out so thatthey could get rid of me altogether, and I held my tongue. One ofthese days, though, I shall stand up in the open places and tell thetruth. I shall say what they have done to me----"

He had forgotten, if he had ever fully realized, that there werestrangers about him. He shook his fist and shouted, whilst the slow, hopeless tears rolled down the sunken yellow cheeks onto the dirtymanuscript. 

They stared at him in consternation, all but Francey, who uncurledherself negligently and slid from the sofa. 

"It's past my tea-time, " she announced, "and I want my tea. "

It was as though she had neither seen nor cared. Christine turned herfaded, groping eyes thankfully in her direction. 

"Of course, my dear. Robert--please----"

"No, " he said; "we don't have tea, Francey. "

"But, Robert, at least when we have guests----"

"Or guests, " he added, with a set, white face. 

Cosgrave laughed. He made a comic grimace. He seemed utterlyirrepressible and irresponsible, like a colt let out for the first timein a wide field. 

"You don't know this fellow like I do, Miss Wilmot. A nasty Spartan. But if you'll put a shilling in the gas meter we'll get cakes and aquarter of tea. He doesn't need to have any if he doesn't want it, buthe can't grudge us a corner of table and half a chair each. MissChristine's on our side, aren't you, Miss Christine? And oh, Connie, there's a pastrycook's round the corner where they make jam-puffs likethey did when I was a kid----"

"I'll put the kettle on, " Francey said, nodding to him. 

She passed close to Robert. She even gave him a quick, friendly touch. He could almost hear her say, "Tag, Robert!" but he would not look ather. And yet the moment after he knew that it was all make-believe. His anger was a sham, protecting something that was fragile and afraidof pain. Now that she had gone out of the barren little room she hadtaken with her the sense of a secret, gracious intimacy which had beenits warmth and colour. He saw that the sunlight had shrunk to a palegold finger whose tip rested lingeringly on the windowsill, and he felttired and cold and work-soiled. 

He got up and followed her awkwardly, with a sullen face and achildishly beating heart. The kettle was already on the gas, andFrancey gazing into an open cupboard that was scarcely smaller than thekitchen itself. 

"It's like a boy's chemist shop, " she said casually, as though she hadexpected him, "with the doses done up in little white paper packets. Is it a game, Robert?"

"A sort of game. We used to use too much of everything, and at the endof the week there'd be nothing left. So we doled it out like that. "

"Yes, I see. A jolly good idea. That way you couldn't over-eatyourselves. "

"I--I suppose you think I was an awful beast about the tea, don't you?"

"No, I didn't--I don't. "

"I was--much firmer than I would have been, but I wanted you to stay. So I couldn't give in. "

"If it had been just Cosgrave and Miss Edwards?"

"It wouldn't have mattered--not so much. "

"I wasn't hurt. It was tactless of me. But I wanted the tea. Iforgot. And I wanted to stay, too. I haven't learnt to do withoutthings that I want. "

"You think I don't want them?"

She closed the cupboard door abruptly. The kitchen was so small thatwhen she turned they had to stand close to one another to avoid fallingback into the sink or burning themselves against the gas jet. He sawthat the fine colour had gone out of her face. She looked unfamiliarlytired. 

"I think you want them terribly. I suppose I'm not heroic. I don'tlike your saying 'No' always--always. "

"I shall get what I really want in the end. "

She sighed, reflected, and then laughed rather ruefully. 

"Oh, well, get the cups now, at any rate. "

"There are only three, Francey. "

"You and I will have to share, then. "

So she made him happy--just as she had done when they had beenchildren--with a sudden comradely gesture. 

But in the next room Mr. Ricardo had begun to talk again. They had tohear him. He was not crying any more. His voice sounded hard andembittered. 

"He's changed. He doesn't care. He pretended to listen. He waslooking at that girl. She's a strange girl. I don't trust her. Shebelieves in myths. Oh, yes, I know. She did not say so, but I cansmell out an enemy. She will try to wreck everything. So it is inlife. We give everything--sacrifice everything--to pass on ourknowledge, our experience, and in the end they break away from us--theygo their own road. "

Robert could not hear Christine's answer. He felt that Ricardo hadthrown out his arms in one of his wild gestures. "Not gratitude--notgratitude. He was to have carried on my fight. To have been free as Iam not----"

Miss Edwards and Rufus Cosgrave came racketing back up the steep andcreaking stairs. It was like the whirlwind entry of some boisterouscomet dragging at its rear a bewildered, happy tail. They were asexultant as though their paper bags contained priceless loot rescuedfrom overwhelming forces. 

"Hurry up there, Mr. Stonehouse. Don't keep the lady waiting. Tea andpuff, as ordered, ma'am. No, ma'am, no tipping allowed in thisestablishment. But anything left under the plate will be sent to theSociety for the Cure of the Grouch among Superior Waiters. "

She jollied Christine, whose answering smile was like a little puzzledghost. She nourished a heavily scented handkerchief in theprofessional manner and grinned at Robert, whose open hostility did notso much as ruffle the fringe of her good humour. In her raffish, rakish world poverty and wry, eccentric-tempered people abounded, andwere just part of an enormous joke. And Rufus Cosgrave, who gaped ather in wonder and admiration, saw that she was right. Poor old Robertand exams, and beastly, bullying fathers and hard-upness--the lattermore especially--were all supremely funny. 

But Robert would not look at the jam-puff which she pushed across tohim. 

"Thanks. I hate the beastly stuff. "

And yet it was a flaky thing, oozing, as Rufus had declared, with realraspberry jam. And he was very young. But he would not give way. Could not. It seemed trivial, and yet it was vital, too. There wassomething in him which stood up straight and unbendable. Once brokenit could never be set up again. And gradually a sense of lonelinesscrept over him. He went and stood next Ricardo, who, like himself, would have no share in the festivity. And the old man blinked up athim with a kind of triumph. 

"And we're going to a hill that I know of, " Francey was saying. "Noone else knows of it. In fact, it's only there when I am. You go bytrain, and after that you have to walk. I don't know the way. Itcomes by inspiration. When you get to the top you can see the whole ofEngland, and there are always flowers. I'm taking Howard's gang, andyou people must come along too. It's what you want. A good time----"

"_All_ the time, " said Miss Edwards, blowing away the crumbs. 

"My people are going in a char-a-banc to Brighton, " Rufus said. "ButI'll give them the slip. There's sure to be a beastly row anyhow. "

"That's my brave boy! Who cares for rows? Take me. Our Mr. Reilly'shad the nerve to fix up a rehearsal for the new French dame what'scoming to ginger up our show--and, oh, believe me, it needs it--but amI down-hearted? No! Anyway, if she's half the stuff they say she isthey'll never notice poor little Connie's gone to bury her fifthgrandmother. So I'll be with you, lady, and kind regards and manythanks. "

"And you, too. Miss Forsyth?"

Christine shook her head. She was frowning up out of the open window alittle anxiously. 

"What would you do with a tired old woman?"

"Ruffles will carry you. Throw out your chest, Ruffles, and lookfierce. What's the use of a hefty brute like that if it isn't useful?"

"And when you're on my hill, " Francey said with a mysterious nod, "you'll understand it better than any of us. " She looked away from thegrey, upturned face. She added almost to herself: "How dark it ishere! The sun has gone down behind the roof. "

"Has it? Yes, it went so suddenly. I wondered"--she picked up herknitting, and began to roll it together--"if Robert could go?" shemurmured. 

"Robert can go. I knew before I asked. "

But he flung round on her in a burst of extraordinary resentment. 

"I can't. You seem to think I can do anything and everything thatcomes into your head. People like you never really understand. We'repoor. We haven't the money or the time to--to fool round. Nor hasCosgrave, but he likes to pretend--humbug himself and anyone else sillyenough to believe in him. "

It was as though something long smouldering amongst them had blazed up. Cosgrave banged the table with his clenched fist. His freckles werelike small suns shining out of his dead-white face. 

"You--you leave me alone, Stonehouse. I--I'm n-not a kid any more. And I d-don't pretend. Connie knows I haven't a c-cent in the worldexcept what poor mother sneaks out of the housekeeping. But I'm s-sickof living as I've done--always grinding, always afraid of everything. If I c-can't have my fun out of life I d-don't want to live at all. I'm not going to Heaven to make up for it--Mr. Ricardo has just told usthat--so what's the use? You've g-got your work and that satisfiesyou. Mine doesn't satisfy me. So when you t-talk about me--you'rejust t-talking through your hat. "

Miss Edwards threw up her hands in mock horror. 

"Oh, my angel child, what a temper! And to think I nearly married him!"

She choked with laughter. And underneath the thin flooring, as thoughroused by her irreverent merriment, the big car shook itself awake witha roar and splutter of indignation. But the sliding doors were thrownopen, and its rage died down at the prospect of release. It began topurr complacently, greedily. 

It was strange how the sound quieted them. They looked towards thewindow as though for the first time they were aware of somethingoutside that came to them from beyond the low, confining roofs--aspring wind blowing from far-off places. 

"Six cylinder, " Cosgrave muttered with feverish eyes. "Do you know, ifI had that thing living under me I'd--I'd go off with it one night, andI'd go on and on and never come back. "

Connie Edwards patted his head. She winked at Francey, but Francey waslooking at Robert's sullen back. 

"No, you wouldn't. Not for six months or so, anyhow. "

He laughed shamefacedly. 

"Oh, well, of course I'm rotting. I can't drive a go-cart. Never hadthe chance. Oh, I say, Robert, don't grouch. I didn't mean to berude. Of course, you're right in a way. But I get that sort of stuffat home, and if I get it here I don't know what I'll do. "

"Oh, you're right, too, " Robert muttered. "It's not my business. "

Cosgrave appealed sadly to Francey. 

"He's wild with me. But a picnic--you'd think any human being might goon a picnic----"

"You're going, " she answered quietly, "and Robert too. "

He did not take up the challenge. He was too miserable. He had notmeant to break out like that. As in the old days, he hungered for herapproval, her good smile of understanding. But as in the old days, too, beneath it all, was the dim consciousness of an antagonism, oftheir two wills poised against one another. 

The car purred louder with exultation. It came sliding out into thenarrow, cobbled street. It waited a moment, gathering itself together. 

"I wonder where it's going, " Cosgrave dreamed. "I hope a jolly longway--right to the other end of England. I'd like to think of it goingon and on through the whole world. "

Christine leaned forward, peering out dimly. 

"Are the trees out yet, Robert?"

They looked at her in silence. It was a strange thing to ask. And yetnot strange at all. All day long she sat there and saw nothing but thesquat, red-faced stable opposite. Or if she went out it was to buycheaply from the barrows in a mean side street. And now she wasremembering that there were trees somewhere, perhaps in bloom. 

Even Miss Edwards looked queerly dashed and distressed. 

"Now you're asking something, Miss Forsyth. There are trees in thislittle old village, but they aren't real somehow, and I never notice'em. Well, we'll know on Monday. Please Heaven, it doesn't rain. "

"I want to get out, " Cosgrave muttered; "out of here--right away----"

"I've not had a picnic--not since I was a kid. But I haven't forgottenit, though. Heaps to eat--and an appetite---- Oh, my!"

"And you can go on eating and eating, " Francey added greedily, "and itdoesn't seem to matter. "

"Egg and cress sandwiches----"

"Ham pie----"

"Sardines----"

"Russian salad--mayonnaise----"

"And something jolly in a bottle. "

They laughed at one another. But after that the quiet returned again. Francey sat with her hands clasped behind her head and her chairtip-tilted against the wall. To Robert, who watched her from out ofthe shadow, she seemed to be drifting farther and farther away on adark, quiet, flowing river. 

It grew to dusk. The car had long since set out on its unknownjourney. The narrow street with its pungent stable odour had sunk intoone of those deep silences which lie scattered like secret pools alongthe route of London's endless processions. And presently Mr. Ricardo, who had not moved or spoken, but had sat hunched together like acaptive bird, leant forward with his finger to his lips. 

Christine had fallen asleep. Her hands lay folded upon her work andher face was still lifted to the black ridge of roof where the sun hadvanished. There was enchantment about her sleep, as though in the verymidst of them she had begun to live a new, mysterious life of her own. She had been the shadowy onlooker. She became the central figure amongthem. 

Mr. Ricardo rose noiselessly. He looked at no one. He passed themlike a ghost. They heard him creeping down the stairs and hishurrying, unequal footsteps on the empty street. Cosgrave and ConnieEdwards nodded to one another and took hands and were gone. Francey, too, slipped to her feet. She gathered up her hat and coat, hersilence effortless. She did not so much as glance at Robert, but atthe head of the steep, ladder-like stairs he overtook her. 

"Francey--listen----"

With one foot on the lower step, her back against the wall, she waitedfor him. It was too dark for them to see each other clearly. Theywere shadows to one another. They spoke in whispers, as though theywere afraid of waking something more than the sleeper in the roombehind them. He could not have told how he knew that her face was wet. 

"I wanted to say--I don't know why I behaved like that. I'm notusually--nervy--uncontrolled. I don't think I've ever lost my temperbefore. I've had so little to do with people. Perhaps that's it. I've gone my own way alone----"

"And now that our ways have crossed, " she began with a sad irony. 

"No--not crossed--come together--run out together into thehigh-road----" He clenched his hands till they were bloodless in theeffort to speak. "You see, a few weeks ago I wouldn't have lost mytemper--and I wouldn't have said queer, silly things like this----I'm a sort of kaleidoscope that someone's shaken up. I don't knowmyself; things have been hard--but awfully simple. I've only thoughtof--wanted--the one thing. It doesn't seem to me that I've had tofight until now. You don't understand--what it has been----"

"I do--I do!" she interrupted hurriedly. "I've seen Christine--and theway you live--and that dreadful cupboard. Oh, I'm not sorry foryou--only afraid. You're nothing but a boy----"

"You needn't be afraid. I'll pull through. It's only another yearnow. But I can't be like the other people you know--who can be jollyand easy-going--because they're not going anywhere at all. Can't yoube patient, Francey?"

"Was I impatient?" He felt her humour flicker up like a flame in thedarkness. "I suppose I was. It was the jam-puff. You hurt theirfeelings. And it was such a little thing. "

"I hate jam-puffs, " he said, but humbly, because it was not the truth, and he could never explain. 

"Come with us, Robert. "

"I can't. "

"But you want to come?"

"That's just it. I don't know why. It would be waste oftime--money--everything--all wrong. What have I to do with Howard andthat lot--with girls like Connie Edwards?"

"--and me, " she added, smiling to herself. 

"Or you with them?"

"Oh, they're my friends. As you say, they're not going anywhere--justdawdling along and picking up things by the wayside--queer, interestingthings----"

"I've no use for them, " he said doggedly. 

"--And Christine wanted to go. " She added after a moment, gently, asthough she were feeling through the dark, "--is dying to go, Robert. "

"You're just imagining it. She's never cared for things likethat--only for my getting ahead with my work--my finals. "

"Didn't you hear her ask about the trees?"

He looked back over his shoulder like a suddenly frightened child. 

"Yes. It--it didn't mean anything, though. It was just for somethingto say. "

"She said a great deal more than she meant to. "

"We've mapped out everything--every ha'penny--every minute. "

"Let me help, Robert. I've got such a lot. I've no one else. I couldmake it easier for you both. I should be happier, too. And you couldpay me back afterwards with interest--a hundred per cent. --I don't carewhat. "

But now feeling through the dark she had reached the barrier. Heanswered stonily. 

"Thanks. We've never owed anything. We shan't begin now. "

She slipped into her coat. She tugged her soft hat down over her hair. There was more than anger in her quick, impatient movements. She wasgoing because she couldn't bear it any more. She had given in. Shewould never come back. And at that fear he broke out with a desperatecunning. 

"It's too bad to be angry with me. I--I want to go. "

"And I've asked you----?

"Because you want me?"

"Of course. It will be the first chance we've had to really talk----"

"It can't matter--just for once, " he pleaded with himself. 

"It might matter a great deal. "

She went on down the stairs, very slowly, lingeringly. He leant overthe creaking banisters, trying to see her. 

"Francey--you duffer--you haven't even told me where to meet you. "

"Paddington--the Booking Office--10. 15. "

He held his breath. Her voice had sounded like that of a spiritlaughing out of the black veil beneath. It did not come again. Hecould not even hear her footsteps. She had vanished. But he waited, trembling before the wonder of his own impulse. 

Supposing he had yielded--had taken her hands and kissed them--kissedthat pale, beloved face, he who had never kissed anyone but Christinesince his mother died?

He had not done it. It had been too difficult to yield. But he stoodthere, dreaming, with his hot eyes pressed into his hands, whilst outof the magic quiet rose wave after wave of enchantment, engulfing him. 

2

They agreed that Francey had not boasted about her hill. It stood upboldly out of the rolling sea of field and common land and wastree-crowned, with primroses shining amongst the young grass. From itssummit they could see toy villages and church, spires and motors andchar-a-bancs running like alarmed insects along the white, windinglanes. But apparently no one saw the hill. No one came to it. Sinceit was everything that picnic parties demanded in the way of a hill, itwas only reasonable to accept Francey's theory that it was not reallythere at all--or at most only there for her particular convenience. 

They spread their table-cloth on its slope and under the dappledshadows of the half-fledged trees, with Christine presiding on the highground. Her wispy grey hair fluttered out from under the wide blackhat, and she looked pretty and pathetic, with her shabby black bag andher old umbrella, like a witch, as Howard said, who had been caughtwhilst absent-mindedly gathering toad-stools and carried here intriumph to bless their mortal festivity. 

"The umbrella keeps off rain, " he explained mysteriously, "and besidesthat, it's a necromantic Handley-Page which might fly off with her atany minute. When you see it opening, stand clear and hold on toyourselves. "

He made a limerick on this particular fancy. It was a very badlimerick, as bad, probably, as his theories on pyridine and itsrelation to the alkaloids which had floored him in his last exam. ; butthe Gang applauded enthusiastically, and drank to Christine out of mugsof beer. Unlicked and cynical as they were, they seemed to have achivalrous tenderness for her. And she was at home among them--silent, smiling wistfully down upon their commonplace eccentricities, as thoughthrough the mist of her coming blindness they were somehow lovable. 

They ate outrageously of fearsome things. Yet over her third meringueConnie Edwards broke down with lamentations for the lost powers ofyouth. 

"I can remember eating five of 'em, " she said, "and coming home to atea of winkles and bloater paste. Oh Gawd! I'll be in my grave beforeI can turn round. "

She had been from the start in an unusually pensive and philosophicmood--a trifle wide-eyed and even awe-struck. It seemed that the nightbefore the "French dame" had appeared unexpectedly during arehearsal--a peculiarly gingerless performance according to Connie'saccount--and had watched from the wings awhile, and then, unasked andapparently without premeditation, had broken in among them and at theedge of the footlights, to a gaping, empty theatre, had danced and sunga little song. 

"A French song, " Connie said solemnly. "Not a word of the blessedthing could we understand, and yet we were all hugging ourselves. Notpretty either--a mere bone and a yank of hair--and no more voice than asparrow. But you just went along too. Couldn't help it. Andafterwards we played up as though we liked it, and hadn't been pluggingat the rottenest show in England for the last ten weeks. And shelaughed and clapped her hands, and our tongues hung out we were thatpleased. She's It, friends. It. Gyp Labelle from the Folies Bergeresand absolutely It. "

Rufus Cosgrave rolled over on his face and lay blinking out of the longgrass like a sleepy, red-headed satyr. 

"Gyp Labelle, " he said drowsily, "Gyp Labelle!"

Robert knew that he was thinking of the Circus. And he did not want tothink about the Circus. He pushed the memory from him. He was gladwhen Howard said gravely:

"That's genius. That's what we poor devils pray to and pray for. Weknow we haven't got it, but we're always hoping that if we agonize andsweat long enough, one day God will lean out of His cloud and touch uswith His finger. "

"Michael Angelo, " said Gertie Sumners, with a kind of sombre triumph. "The Sistine Chapel. I've got a print of it in my room. That's whereyou saw it. " She leaned back against a tree trunk with her knees drawnup to her chin, and blew out clouds of smoke, and looked more thanusually grey and dishevelled and in need of a bath. "In a way it'slike that with Jeffries. He rubs his beastly old thumb over myrottenest charcoal sketch, and it's a masterpiece. "

Robert, lying outstretched at Francey's feet, wondered at them--attheir talk of genius in connection with a revue star and a smudgy, underpaid studio hack, more still at their reverence for a God in Whomthey certainly did not believe. 

Miss Edwards snatched off her cartwheel hat smothered with impossiblepoppies, and sent it spinning down the hill. 

"What's the good?" she demanded fiercely. "We're just nothing at all. We're young now. But when we aren't young, what's going to happen tothe bunch of us?"

"This is a picnic, " Howard reminded her. "Not a funeral. You haven'teaten enough. Have a pickle. "

But the shadow lingered. It was like the shadow thrown by the whiteclouds riding the light spring wind. It put out the naming colours ofthe grass and flowers. It was as though winter, slinking sullenly toits lair, showed its teeth at them in sinister reminder. Then it wasgone. It was difficult to believe it could return. 

Robert looked up shyly into Francey's face, and she smiled down at himwith her warm eyes. They had scarcely spoken to one another, butsomething delicate and exquisite had been born between them in theirsilence. He was afraid to touch it, and afraid almost to move. Hefelt very close to her, very sure that she was living with him, withdrawn secretly from the rest into the strange world that he haddiscovered. He was happy. And happiness like this was new to him andterrifying. He was like a waif from the streets, pale and gaunt andyoung, with dazzled eyes gazing for the first time into great distances. 

"Italy----" Gertie Sumners muttered. She threw away her cigarette, andsat with her sickly face between her hands. "I've got to get therebefore I die. Think of all the swine that hoof about the SistineChapel yawning their fat heads off, and me who'd give my immortal soulfor an hour----"

"You'll go, " Howard said, blinking kindly at her. "I'll take you. We'll get out of this for good and all. I'll bust a bank or forge acheque. You've got the divine right to go, old dear!"

Robert stirred, drawing himself a little nearer to Francey, touchingher rough tweed skirt humbly, secretly, as a Catholic might touch asacred relic for comfort and protection. They were talking a languagethat he could not understand---they were occupied with things that hedespised, not knowing what they were; they made him ashamed of hisignorance and angry with his shame. He could not free himself of hisfirst conviction that they were really the Banditti--inferior children, who yet had something that he had not. He was cleverer than they were. He would be a great man when they had wilted from their brief, shallow-soiled youth to a handful of dry stubble. (This Gertie Sumnerswould not even live long. He recognized already the thumb-marks ofdisease in her sunken cheeks. ) And yet he was an outsider, blunderingin their wake. Just because they accepted him, taking it for grantedhe was one of them, they deepened his isolation. He could not talktheir talk. He could not play with them. He had tried. The oldhunger "to belong" had driven him. But he was stiff with strength andclumsy with purpose. If he and Francey had not belonged to oneanother, he would have been overwhelmed in loneliness. 

He shut his ears against them. But when she spoke he had tolisten--jealously, fearfully. 

"It would be no use, Howard. You'd come back. You can't strip offyour nationality like an old-fashioned coat and throw it away. Allthis--isn't it English and different from any other country in theworld--deeply, deeply different, just as we are different?England--she's a human, lovely woman, quiet and broad-bosomed, busyabout her home, and only sometimes, in the spring and autumn, she stopsa little to dream her mystic dreams. In the summer and winter shepretends to forget. She's anxious about many things--how she shallkeep us warm and fed--a little stupid-seeming, with wells of all sortsof kindly wisdom. 

"And Italy--the saint, the austere spirit, close to God, preparingherself for God, with unspeakable visions of Him. Where I lived"--shemade a sudden passionate gesture of delight--"we looked over theCampagna, and there were three hills close to one another with townsperched on their crest, as far from the world and comfort as they couldget. And at night they were like the three kings with their goldencrowns and dark flowing robes, waiting for God to show them the sign. 

"But we build our towns in the valleys and sheltered places. We likeour trains to be punctual, and to do things in decent order. Wepretend to be a practical and reasonable people. We're of our soil. In Italy what do trains matter--or when they come and go--when, even tothose who don't believe in Him at all, it's only God who matters?" Shelaughed, shaking herself free. "So you'll come back, Howard--becauseyou're part of all this. You'll always hate waiting for your train, and you'll always be a little ashamed of your dreams. And you'll neverbe real anywhere else. "

Howard applauded solemnly. 

"I'll make a poem of that--one day, when I'm awfully drunk, and don'tknow what I'm doing. "

But Robert sat up sharply, frowning at her, white, almost accusing. 

"When did you live in Italy, Francey?"

"Last year--all last year. "

"You mean--you chucked your work--everything--just to play round----?"

Howard yawned prodigiously. 

"You don't get our Francey's point of view, Stonehouse. You don'tunderstand. "

"Just to play round, " she echoed to herself. Then she laughed andunclasped her hands from about her knees and stood up effortlessly, stretching out her arms like a sleepy child. "And now I'm going togather sticks for a fire and primroses to take home. Coming Robert?"

"No, " he muttered. 

Howard rolled over in the grass. 

"Sulky young idiot--if I wasn't half asleep--or I'd been asked----"

His voice died into an unintelligible murmur. 

So she went alone. The rest, heavy with food and sunshine, nibbledjadedly at the remnants of the feast, exchanging broken, drowsycomments. Perhaps Gertie Sumners was brooding over the three kingswith their golden crowns. But Robert knelt and watched Francey rundown the hill-side, faster and faster, like a brown shadow. There wasa thick belt of beech trees at the bottom, and she ran into them andwas lost. 

He rose stiffly. He did not want the others to see--he did not want toknow himself, that he was following her. He strolled indolently aboutthe crest of the hill, whistling to the breeze, his eyes hunting thewood beneath like the eyes of a young setter at heel. But when at lasthe was out of sight he slipped his leash and was off, runningrecklessly, headlong. The hill rose up behind him and sent him downits hillocky slopes as though before the horns of an avalanche. Thewind blew the scent of trees and flowers and young grass against hisburning face. It was like draughts of a cold, clear wine. It was likerunning full-tilt down Acacia Grove leaping and whooping. 

It was frightening, too--a hand fumbling at the heart--this fiercecoming to life of something dormant, this breaking free----

The wood had swallowed her. He drew up panting in the cool twilight. Beyond the faint breathing of the leaves overhead and the secretmovement of hidden things, there was no sound. He walked on quickly. At first it was only suspense, childish, thrilling. Then it was morethan that. His heart began to beat quickly. He tried to call her, butthe quiet daunted him. The wood was a still, green pool into which shehad dropped and vanished. It was an enchanted wood. There wasenchantment all about her. They had seemed so near to one another--andthen in a moment she had slipped away from him into a life of her ownwhere he could not follow. 

He had to find her and hold her fast. Nothing else mattered--neitherhis work, nor his career, nor Christine. It was terrible how littlethey seemed now--a handful of dust--beside this mounting, imperativedesire. He had been so invulnerable. In wanting nothing but what wasin himself he had been able to defy exterior events. Now he wasstripped of his defence. He could be hurt. He could be madedesperately happy or unhappy by things which he had thought trivial andpurposeless--the playthings of inferior children. 

He came upon her suddenly. She knelt in the long grass, idle, with afew scattered primroses in her lap as though in the midst of gatheringthem she had been overtaken by a dream. He called her by name, angrily, because of what he suffered. He stumbled to her and flunghimself down beside her and held her close to him, ruthless with desireand his child's fear. 

In that sheer physical explosion his whole personality blazed up andseemed to melt away, flowing into new form. He had dashed down thehill, a crude, exultant boy, into the whole storm and mystery ofmanhood. And for all his fierceness his heart was small within him, afraid of her, and of itself, and its own hunger. 

At last he let her go. He tore himself from her and dropped face downin the grass, trembling with grief and shame. He heard her say:"Robert--dear Robert, " very quietly, and her hand touched him, passinglike a breath of cool wind over his hair and neck. He kissed ithumbly, pressing it to his wet, hot cheek. 

"I was frightened, Francey--and jealous--of everything--of the thingsyou love that I don't even know of--of the places you've been to--ofyour friends--your money--your work. I thought you'd run away toItaly--or somewhere else where I couldn't follow--that I'd lostyou----"

He saw her face and how deeply stirred she was. She had blazed up inanswer to him, but that very fire lit up something in her which was notnew, but which now stood out full armed--a clear-eyed austerity. 

"I felt, too, as though I were running away--to the ends of theworld--but not from you, Robert. I wanted you to come too. I askedyou. You're not frightened now, are you?"

"Not so much. "

"Let's be quiet--quite quiet, Robert. We've got to talk this out, haven't we? I've got to understand. Sit here and help me tie thesetogether. They're for Christine. It'll make it easier for us. Youdidn't mean this to happen. It was the sun and wind--it goes to one'shead like being out of prison after years and years. You mustn't makea mistake. You would never forgive yourself or me. I'd understand ifyou said: 'It was just to-day and being happy. ' But I won't play atour being in love with one another, Robert. "

"It isn't a mistake, I'm not playing. I don't pretend I meant to letyou know. I was frightened. I wanted to hold fast to you. But I'vebeen sure ever since that night at Brown's----"

"And yet you wanted to avoid me----"

He nodded. Ho knelt beside her, very white and earnest, with his handsclenched on his thighs. 

"That was because I knew. I didn't think about it. But I knew allright. And I was afraid it would upset everything to care. "

"Doesn't it?"

"Not caring for you. Of course, I know all about life. I'm young andI've never looked at a girl. I've always realized that it would benatural to fall in love--perhaps worse than most men--and that if itwas with a girl like Cosgrave's it would be sheer damnation. I'd haveto fight it down. But loving you is different. It'll make mestronger. I'll work harder and better because I love you. I'll dobigger things because of you. "

Her head was bowed over her primroses. The sunlight falling betweenthe trees on her wild brown hair kindled a smouldering colour in itsdisorder. He watched her, fascinated and abashed by the knowledge thatshe was smiling to herself. And suddenly, roughly like an ashamed boy, he took a grey and blood-stained rag from his inner pocket and tossedit into her lap. 

"Do you remember that?"

She picked it up gingerly, amusedly. 

"Is it a handkerchief, Robert?"

"Don't you remember it?" he repeated with triumph, as though in someway he had beaten her. 

For a moment she was silent. And when she looked at him her eyes wereno longer smiling. 

"You kept it like that----?"

"I wouldn't even wash it. I hid it. It's got dirtier and dirtier. "

"It must be horribly germy, Robert. We'll wash it together. Asmembers of the medical profession we couldn't have it on ourconscience----"

They laughed then, freely, out of the depth of their happiness. Shelaid her hand in his and he bent his head to kiss it. 

"You do trust me, Francey?"

"Trust you?"

"You don't think it's weak of me to love you? You know I'll pass myfinals, don't you--that I'll be all right? People might think I hadn'tthe right to love you till I was sure. But, then, I am sure--deadsure. "

"I'm sure, too. " Her voice sounded brooding, a little husky. She tookhis hand and laid it on her lap, spreading out the fingers as though toexamine each one in turn. "It's a clever, beautiful hand, Robert--muchthe most beautiful part of you. It will do clever, wonderful things. What will _you_ do?"

(As though, he thought, his hands were something apart and she wasinquiring deeper into what was vitally him. )

He told her. It reassured him to go back to his foundations and tofind them still standing. He lost his tongue-tied clumsiness and spokerapidly, clearly, with brief, strong gestures. His haggard youth gaveplace to a forcible, aggressive maturity. He was like an architect whohad planned for every inch and stone of his masterpiece. Next year hewould pass his finals. He would take posts as locum tenens whenever hecould and keep his hospital connexions warm. In five years he wouldsave enough to specialize--the throat gave wide opportunities forresearch. There were men already interested in him who would send himwork. In ten years Harley Street--if not before. 

In the midst of it all he faltered and broke off to ask:

"Why do you love me, Francey?"

And then, impulsively, she flung her arm about him and drew him closeto her. His head was on her breast, and for one uncertain moment shewas not Francey Wilmot at all, but the warm living spirit of thesunlight, of the quiet trees and the grass in which they lay--of allthe things of which he was afraid. 

"Because you're such an odd, sad, little boy----"

3

After tea it began to rain, not dismally, but in a gentle way as peoplecry who have been too happy. 

"In this jolly old country fine weather means bad weather, " ConnieEdwards commented cynically. She had reason to be depressed. Theimpossible poppies dripped tears of blood over the brim of thecartwheel hat. But apart from that misfortune she had never got overher original mood of puzzled dissatisfaction, and she and Cosgravewalked droopingly down the narrow lane arm in arm and almost wordless. 

So much of winter days was left that it was dark when they reached thefoot of the hill--the eerie luminous darkness of the country when thereis a moon riding somewhere behind the clouds. Robert could seeChristine and Francey just ahead of him. Christine had taken Francey'sarm, and they talked together in undertones like people who have secretthings to say to one another. How small Christine was! She seemed tohave shrunk into a handful of a woman as though the sun had witheredher. She walked timidly, with bowed head, feeling her way. Her voicelifted for a moment into the old clearness. 

"His father was a wonderful man--a wonderful, good man. Unhappy. Veryunfortunate. Not meant for this world. His mother was my dear friend. If they had lived--those two---- I did what I could--I think theywill be satisfied--it makes me happy----"

She murmured wearily. And Francey bent her head to listen. Robertloved her for the tenderness of that gesture. Yet it was bitter, too, that they should talk of his father. He wanted to go up to them andtell the truth brutally to Christine's face. He would have liked tohave told them the one dream which he carried over from his sleep. Butit would have been useless. Christine would only smile with a cruel, loving wisdom. 

"You don't understand. You were only a child. Your father was sounhappy----"

The myth had become an invulnerable reality and had grown golden in thetwilight of her coming blindness. James Stonehouse had been a goodman, a faithful friend, and broken-hearted husband. If those two hadlived everything would have been different. She threw her hallowedpicture of them on the screen of the dripping dusk so that they seemedto live. Robert saw them too. That was his mother walking atChristine's side, and then his father---- In a sort of shatteringvision Robert saw him, a man of promise, black-browed with the riddleof his failure, a man of many hungers, seduced by rootless passions, lured to miserable shipwreck because he could not keep to any course, because he could not give up worthlessness for worth. 

Himself----

He staggered before the brief hallucination. The moisture broke out onhis white face. It wasn't enough to hate his father. He had to befought down day by day. He was always there, waiting to pounce out. He lay on his face, pretending to be dead----

It was gone. He shook himself free as from the touch of an evil, insinuating hand out of the dark. This love was his strength. IfFrancey were like his mother, then she was also good. It was these ragand bobtail friends that poisoned everything. They would have to beshaken off. Francey was a child, fond of gaiety and pleasure, with noone to guide her. She didn't understand. 

Howard and Gertie Sumners were walking behind him now with theluncheon-basket between them, talking earnestly in muffled whispersthat were too intimate, and behind them again came the Gang itself, laughing, jostling one another, exchanging facetiousness in theirmedical-Chelsea jargon. 

His father would have liked them. Connie Edwards, no doubt, would havebeen one of those dazzling, noisy phenomena that burst periodically onthe Stonehouse horizon. 

Supposing he should come to like them too--to tolerate their ways, their loose living, loose thinking----?

He remembered how that very afternoon he had tried to be one of them, and sickened before himself. 

Francey called to him through the darkness. 

"Miss Forsyth's so tired, Robert. Couldn't you carry her?"

And he took Christine in his arms, whilst she laughed and protestedfeebly. It was awful to feel how little she was. Her head restedagainst his shoulder. 

"It's a longer road than I thought. You're very strong, Robert. Yourfather was strong too. "

It had been a successful day. And yet, as they sat packed closetogether in the dim, third-class carriage, they were like captives whohad escaped and were being taken back into captivity. The sickly, overhead light fell on their tired faces, out of which the blood, called up by the sun and wind, had receded, leaving their city pallor. Connie Edwards had indeed produced a lip-stick from her gaudy bead bag, but after a fretful effort had flung it back. 

"What's the good? Who cares----?"

And Cosgrave huddled closer to her, wan-eyed, hunted-looking. It wasthe ghost of that exam that wouldn't be laid--the prophetic vision ofthe row that waited for him, grinding its teeth. 

Only Gertie Sumners and Howard had a queer, remote look, as though inthat recent muffled exchange they had reached some desperate resolve. 

The wet, gleaming platform slid away from them. There was a faint redlight in the west where the sunset had been drowned. Christine turnedher face towards it. She was like a little old child. Her little feetin the shabby, worn-out shoes scarcely touched the floor. Her droopinghat was askew--forgotten. 

"It has been a wonderful day. But I mustn't come again. I'm too old. It's silly to fall in love with life when one is old. "

Robert leant across to her. He ached with his love and pity. 

"Tired, Christine?"

"A little. But it has been worth while. You carried me so nicely--sobig and strong. "

She leant against Francey, nodding and smiling to reassure him. Andpresently she was asleep. He saw how Francey shifted her arm so thatit encircled the bowed figure, and every ugly thing that had dogged himin that lonely, haunted walk vanished before the kind steadfastness ofher eyes. 

It was as though she had said aloud:

"We'll take care of her together. We won't let her die before we'vemade her very, very happy. "

Then he took out a note-book and made a shaky sketch of a pompous, drunken-looking house with a huge door, on which were two brass plates, side by side, bearing the splendid inscriptions:

 Dr. Frances Stonehouse, Robert Stonehouse, M. D. , F. R. C. S. Hours 10--1

He showed it to her and they smiled at one another, and there was noone else in the carriage but themselves and their happiness. 

III

1

It meant a tightening--a screwing up of his whole life. Time had to befound. The hours had to be packed closer to make room for her. Hegrasped after fresh opportunities to make money with a white-hotassiduity. He worked harder. For he was hag-ridden by hisunfaithfulness. He drew up a remorseless programme of his days, andafter that Francey might only walk home with him from the hospital. And there was an hour on Sunday evening when he was too tired foranything else. 

It meant a ceaseless, active negation: a "No" to the simple wish to buyher a bunch of flowers, "No" to the longing to walk a little fartherwith her in the quiet dusk, "No" to the very thought of her. 

2

As usual, on the way home, they discussed their best "cases. " Therewas No. 10 in A Ward, a raddled woman of the streets who had beenbrought in the night before as the result of a _crime passionnel_, andwhose injuries had been the subject of long deliberations. Even beforethey had reached the hospital archway Robert and Francey agreed thatRogers' air of mystery was simply a professional disguise for completebafflement. 

"It's the sort of case I'd like to have, " Robert said. "Something youcan get your teeth into and worry. I believe if I were on myown--given a free hand--I'd work it out--pull her through. Rogers maytoo. But just now he's marking time. And there's nothing to hope fromtime in a job like that. No constitution. Rotten all through. Still, it would be a feather in one's cap. "

He brooded fiercely, intently, like a hound on a hot scent. Peopleturned to look at the big, shabby young man with the sunken, burningeyes that stared through them as though they had been so many shadows. He did not, in fact, see them at all. He made his way by sheerinstinct across the crowded street. 

"She's terribly afraid of death, " Francey said. "It's awful to be soafraid. It must make life itself terrible. "

"They'll operate soon as they dare--an exploratory operation. If onlyI could have a say--a real say! It's maddening to know so much--to besure of oneself. I don't believe Rogers would take me out on hisprivate work if he knew I knew all I do. I'm glad we're on a surgicalpost together, Francey. I don't know what I'd do if I hadn't got youto talk things over with. "

"You daren't talk of anything else, " she answered unexpectedly. "You're frightened of our being happy together. You're always tryingto justify yourself. "

"I'm not--what rubbish!"

He tried to laugh at her. It was so like Francey to dash off down aside issue. And yet it was true. He did try to think as much as hecould of that side of their common life. It did add an appearance ofstability and reason to the splendid unreason of his loving her. Itmade up to him for those dismaying breaks when her face and body stoodlike a scorching pillar of fire between himself and his work, to findthat when they were together they could be sternly practical, discusstheir eases and criticize their superiors as though, beneath it all, there were not this golden, insurgent sea whose high tides swirled overhis landmarks. Not destroying them. 

In those latter times he loved her humbly, with wonder and passionateself-abasement. But in their work they stood further away from oneanother. He could criticize her, and that gave him a heady sense ofpower and freedom. He never forgot the year that she had deliberatelythrown away. And even now, when she stood at the beginning of the roadwhich he had already passed over, she seemed to him full of strangecuriosities and wayward, purposeless interests. There were days whenan ugly Chinese print, picked up in some back-street pawnshop, or themisfortunes of one of her raffish hangers-on, or some wild student rag, appeared to wipe out the vital business of life. She was known to bebrilliant, but he distrusted her power of leaping to conclusions overthe head of his own mathematical and exact reasoning. He distrustedstill more her tendency to be right in the teeth of every sort ofevidence to the contrary. It seemed that she took into hercalculations factors that no one else found, significant, unprofessional straws in the wind, things she could not even explain. 

And yet she understood when he talked about his work, and that alonewas like a gift to him. No one else understood--for that matter, noone else had had to listen. He knew that Christine was too tired, andpoor overburdened Cosgrave would only have gazed helplessly at him, wondering why this strong, self-sufficient friend should pour out suchunintelligible stuff over his own aching head. So he had learnt to besilent. Even now it was difficult to begin. He stammered and was shyand distrustful and eager, sometimes crudely self-confident, like achild who has played alone too long. 

And Francey listened, for the most part critical and dispassionate, butwith sudden gestures of unmotivated tenderness: as when in the midst ofhis dissertation on a theory of insanity and crime she had kissed him. 

Sometimes for them both the prose and poetry of their relationship metand clasped hands. That was when they took their walk down HarleyStreet to have another look at the house which was one day to beadorned with the celebrated brass plates. At present it was solidlyoccupied by several eminent-sounding medical gentlemen who would haveto be ruthlessly dislodged when their time came. 

For it was the best house in the street, and, of course, the DoctorsRobert and Francey Stonehouse would have to have the best. 

And once they quarrelled about nothing at all, or abouteverything--they hardly knew. It was an absurd quarrel, which blazedup and went out again like fire in stubble. Perhaps they had waitedtoo long for their allotted hour together--dreamed too much about it, so that when it came they could hardly bear it, and almost longed forit to be over. And in the midst of it Mr. Ricardo drifted in on one ofhis strange, distressful visits to Christine, and drove them out ofdoors to roam the drowsy Sunday streets, hand in hand, like any otherpair of vulgar, homeless lovers. For Francey could not stay when Mr. Ricardo came. His hatred of her was a burning, poisonous sore thatgave no peace to any of them. 

"It's a sort of jealousy, " Robert reflected. "We three have alwaysheld together. He's had no one else to care about. And now you'vecome, and he thinks you want to take me away from him. "

"I do, " Francey said unexpectedly. 

"Not in the way he means. "

"You don't know----"

"He's been good to me. I'd never have got through without him. Ican't have him hurt. And you will fight him, Francey. I know he'scrabbed and bitter, but so would you be if you'd been twisted out ofshape all your life. And you only do it for the fun of the thing. Fundamentally, you think alike. "

"We don't, that's just it. I'm sorry for him, and if it had beenanything less vital I'd compromise--he'd compromise, too, perhaps. We'd both lie low and look pleasant about our differences. But as itis we can't help ourselves. We've got to stand up and fight----"

"I say, that sounds jolly dramatic. "

"It is rather. "

"Next thing you'll be saying you believe in God. "

"Well, I do----"

He stopped short and let go her hand. He was physically ashamed anduncomfortable. He tried to laugh, but for the moment they were face toface, and he could not mistake her seriousness. They were likestrangers, peering at each other through the grey dusk. 

"Look here, Francey, dearest, you don't expect me to believe that?You're just joking, aren't you? You're--you're a modern woman, with ascientific training, too. You can't believe in an old, worn-out myth. "

"I didn't say that. "

"'An untested hypothesis, '" he quoted teasingly, but with a stirringanger. 

"I don't know about that, either. We're both bound by our professionto admit an empirical test. And if we human beings can't survivewithout God----"

"But we can--we do. "

"I can't. "

He threw up his head. 

"Why do women always become personal when they argue?"

"And why do rationalists always become irrational?"

They walked on slowly, apart, vaguely afraid. He wanted to change thesubject, to take her by the arm and hold her fast. For she wasdrifting away from him. Her voice sounded remote and troubling, like alittle old tune that he could not quite remember. Its emotion frettedhis overstrained nerves. He wanted to close his ears against it. Itwas a trivial tune which might become a torment. 

"It's not only me. It's everyone. Most of us are frightfully unhappy. Don't you realize that? And the more we understand life the moredesperate we get. Savages and children may do without a god, but wecan't. We know too much. Even the stupidest--the most careless of us. Think of Howard and Gertie and all that lot. Every second word is'What's the good? What's it all about?' They make a great deal ofnoise to cover up their unhappiness. They're terrified of lonelinessand silence. And one day it'll have to be faced. "

"Oh, if you're going to take Howard as an example--" he interrupted. 

"--and Rufus Cosgrave, " she added. 

He laughed with a boyish malice. 

"Cosgrave doesn't need a god. He's got me. I'll look after him. "

"You think you can? And then we ourselves. We're different, aren'twe? We've got our work. We're going to do big things. For whom?--forwhat? For our fellow-creatures? But if we don't care for ourfellow-creatures? And we don't, do we? Not naturally. TheBrotherhood of Man is just dangerous nonsense. Naturally men loatheone another in the mass. How can we pretend to love some of thosepeople we see every day in the wards with their terrible faces--theirterrible minds? But the idea of God does somehow translate them--itgets underneath the ugliness--they do become in some mystic way mybrothers and my sisters. "

He found it strangely difficult to answer calmly. It would have beeneasier to have bludgeoned her into silence by a shouted "It's allsnivelling, wretched rot!" like an angry schoolboy. He did not knowwhy he was so angry. Perhaps Ricardo was right. It was somethingvital. He could feel the old man's shadow at his side, his handplucking his sleeve, urging him on, claiming his loyalty. They wereallies fighting together against a poisonous miasma that sapped men'sbrains--their intellectual integrity. 

"Piling one fallacy on another isn't argument, Francey. We don't needto like our fellow-creatures. It's a mistake to care. Emotion upsetsone's judgment. Scientists--the best men in the profession--try toeliminate personal feeling altogether. They're out for knowledge forits own sake. That's good enough for them. "

"And the end of that--organized, scientific beastliness, like modernwar. Knowledge perverted to every sort of deviltry. Huge swollenheads and miserable withered hearts. One of these days we'll blowourselves to pieces----"

They were both breathless and more than a little incoherent. They hadentered into a playful tussle, and now they were fighting one anotherwith set teeth. 

"I don't believe you believe a word you're saying, " he stammered. "Youknow as well as I do that it's only since we began to throw offsuperstition that we've begun to move. Or perhaps you don't want tomove--don't believe in progress. "

"Progress towards what?" she flung back impetuously. "Perfection?Some point where we'd have no poverty, no war, no ignorance, no deatheven; where we'd all have every mortal thing we want? The millennium?That's only another word for Hell. It's only by pretending that thereare things we want, and that we should be happy if we had them, that wecan believe in happiness at all. All this unrest, this sick despairevery morning of our lives when we drag ourselves out of bed and wonderwhy we bother--it's just because we've begun to suspect that themillennium is of no use to us. We've got to have more than that--somesort of spiritual background--or cut our throats. "

"Wild rhapsodizing, Francey. You don't know a thing. "

"I don't. Nor do you. When I said I believed, I meant I hoped--Itrusted. And if there isn't a God at the end of it all, you people whowant to keep us alive for the sake of the knowledge you get out of uswill have to make one up. "

Whereat, suddenly, in a cool, refreshing gust, their sense of humourreturned and blew them close to one another. They laughed and tookhands again--a little shyly, like lovers who had been parted for a longtime. 

"What rot--our quarrelling over nothing at all, " Robert said, "whenwe've only got this hour together. I wanted to say 'I love you, Francey--I love you, dear' over and over again. Say 'I love you too, Robert. '"

"I love you too, " she answered soberly. 

But the crack was there--a mere fissure in the ground between them--aplace to be avoided even in their thoughts. 

3

At night when his work was over and the unrest grew too strong to befought, he crept down the black, creaking stairs, through the sleepingbackwater of Drayton Mews, and out into the streets. He walked fast, with his head down, guiltily, like a man flying from a crime. But inthe grave square where Francey Wilmot lived he slackened speed, and, under the thick mantle of the trees, stood so still that he was only adeeper shadow. Then release came. It was like gentle summer rainfalling on his fever. There was no one to see his weakness. He couldthink and feel simply and naturally as a lover, without remorse. Sometimes a light burnt in her window, and then he knew that she wasworking, making up for those queer, wild play-hours. He could imagineher under the shaded lamplight, the books heaped round her, and herhands clenched hard in the thick brown hair. He could feel the peace, the rich, deep stillness round her. And a loving tenderness, exquisiteand delicate as a dream, welled up in him. He said things out of hisheart to her that he had never said: broken, stumbling things, meltedin the white-heat of their truth into a kind of poetry of which theburden never changed. "I can't live without you--I can't live withoutyou. " He could have knelt before her, burying his burning face in herlap in strange humility--childlike surrender. 

And when the window was dark he knew that she had gone out to dance, tothe theatre, with friends whom he did not know, belonging to that otherlife in which he had no part. And then his loneliness was like a blacksea. He leant against the railings, weak with weariness and hunger, fighting his boy's tears, until she came. He did not speak to her. She never knew that he was there. He hid, his heart stifling him, until the door closed on her. Then, since she had come back to him, belonged to him again, he could go in peace. 

The others--Howard and Gertie and even Connie now--went in and out, risking ruthless ejection if she were hard pressed, to sit in the bestchairs, with their feet in the fender and drink coffee and smokeendlessly whilst they poured their good-natured cynicism over life. Ifthey were hungry they rifled Francey's larder, and if they were hard upthey borrowed her money. But after the one time Robert never went. Hedid not want to meet them. And besides the big square room with itsmark of other stately days--its panelled walls, rich ceilings and nobledoors--was his enemy. It was steeped in a mellow, unconscious luxurythat threatened him. There were relics from Francey's old home, trophies from her Italian wanderings, books that his hands itched justto touch, and things of strange troubling beauty. A bronze statue of anaked faun stood in the corner where the light fell upon it, and seemedto gather into itself everything that he feared--a joyous dancing tosome far-off music. 

The room would not let him forget that Francey held money, which he hadhad to squeeze his life dry to get, lightly and indifferently. Shegave it with both hands. She had always had enough, and it seemed toher a little thing. Between people who cared for one another itcounted less than a word, and his sullen refusal of every trivialpleasure and relief that lay in her power to give them hurt and puzzledher. She saw in it only a bitter pride. 

"You might at least let me make Christine's life easier in littlethings, " she said. 

He could not tell her that Christine would have been afraid for him, ashe was afraid of the deep chairs that had seemed to clasp his tiredbody in drowsy arms, of the rugs that drank up every harsh sound, ofthe warm, fragrant atmosphere that was like a blow in the face of theirchill and barren poverty. 

So after that one time he kept away. But he could always see the roomand Francey working there, and the slender, joyful body of the faunpoised on the verge of its mystic dance. 

Once, Francey was too strong for him, and they bought tickets for thetheatre, and he sat hunched beside her in the front row of the cheapseats and stared down at the great square of light like an outcastgazing at the golden gates of Paradise. It was _The Tempest_, and hehardly understood. It broke over him in overpowering sound and colour. He was dazed and blinded. He forgot Francey. He sat with his gauntwhite face between his bands and watched them pass: Prospero, Miranda, Ferdinand, Ariel--figures of a noble, glittering company--and wretched, uncouth Caliban crouched on the outskirts of their lives, pining forhis lost kingdom. But in the interval he was silent, awkward and heavywith an emotion that could not find an outlet. He felt her hand closeover his--an, almost anxious hand. 

"Robert, you like it, don't you? You're not bored?" He turned to lookdazedly at her, stammering in his confusion. 

"I've never been to a theatre before. "

"Never? Oh, my dear----"

"Only to a circus, long ago. " He drew back hastily into himself. Hedid not want her to be sorry like that. He would not let her see howshaken he was. "I never wanted to go, " he said. 

After that they walked home together, and in the empty street that ledinto her square a moonlight spirit of phantasy seemed to possess her, and she sang under her breath and danced in front of him, rathersolemnly as she had done as a little girl:

 "Come unto these yellow sands And then take hands. . . "

He caught hold of her. Everything was unreal--they themselves and theunfamiliar street, painted with silver and black shadows. 

"Don't--you're dancing away from me; there's nothing for you to danceto. "

She smiled back wistfully. 

 "'The isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears; and sometimes voices. . . '"

"I don't hear them, " he muttered clumsily. 

"Caliban heard them----"

"And you're Ariel, " he said, with sudden, sorrowful understanding. "Ariel!"

From the steps of the dark house she looked down at him, her eager facesmiling palely in the white, still light. 

"Ariel wasn't a woman, dear duffer. You'll have to read it. I'll lendit to you. And then we'll go again. "

He shook his head. 

"No. "

"Yes--often--often, Robert. We've been nearer to one another than everbefore--just these last minutes--quite, quite close. We've got to findeach other in pleasure too. "

He rallied all his strength. He said stiffly, pompously:

"It's been awfully nice, of course. And thank you for taking me. ButI don't really care for that sort of thing. "

And for a moment they remained facing one another whilst the joy diedout of her eyes, leaving a queer distress. Then they shook hands andhe left her, coldly, prosaically, as though nothing had happened. Buthe was like a drunken man who had fallen into a sea of glory. 

 "The clouds, methought, would open, and show riches Ready to drop upon me. . . "

There was all that work that he had meant to do before morning. Itseemed far off--more unreal and fantastic than a fairy tale. His heartand brain, ached with willingness and loathing. 

 ". . . That, when I wak'd, I cried to dream again. . . "

He set his teeth. He clenched his hands till they hurt him. 

"I'll have to keep away from all that, " he thought aloud, "altogether--till I don't care any more. "

IV

1

After all, Rufus Cosgrave had imagined his answers. Connie Edwards metRobert as he came out of the hospital gates and told him. It was rainingdismally, with an ill-tempered wind blustering down the crowded street, and she had not dressed for bad weather. Perhaps she did not admitunpleasant possibilities even into her wardrobe. Perhaps she could notafford to do so. Her thin, paper-soled shoes, with the Louis XIV heels, and the cheap silk stockings which showed up to her knees, made her looklike some bedraggled, long-legged bird-of-Paradise. A gaudy parasolcould not protect her flopping hat, or her complexion, which had bothsuffered. Or she had been crying. But she did not sound as though shehad been crying. She sounded breathless and resentful. 

"He heard this afternoon, " she said. "And what must he do but comebursting round to my place--half an hour before I'm due to start for theshow--and carry on like a madman. Scared stiff, I was. Tried to make meswear I'd marry him and start for Timbuctoo to-morrow, and when Iwouldn't, wanted to shoot himself and me too--as though I'd made a muckof things. Well, I'd done my best, and when it came to that sort ofsob-stuff I'd had enough. What's he take me for? Get me into troublewith my landlady--making a row like that. "

Robert heard her out in silence, and his intent, expressionless scrutinyseemed to flick her on the raw. She stamped her foot at him. "Oh, forthe Lord's sake, get a move on---do something, can't you? I didn't comehere to be stared at as though I were a disease!"

"Where is he?"

"If I knew----! My place probably--with the gas full on--committingsuicide--making a rotten scandal. You've got to come and dig him out. "

"Where do you live?"

"Ten minutes from here. 10E Stanton Place. I'll show you a short way. I ran like a hare, hoping I'd catch you, and you'd put a bit of senseinto the poor looney's head. Serves me right--taking on with his sort. "

"Well--we'd better hurry, " Robert said. 

"Thanks. I said I'd show you the way. I'm not coming in. Don't youbelieve it. I've had enough. All I ask is--get him out and keep himout. "

"You're through with him?"

Her habitual good-natured gaiety was gone. She looked disrupted andsavagely afraid, like an animal that has escaped capture by a franticeffort. And yet it was difficult to imagine Rufus Cosgrave capturing orfrightening anyone. 

"You bet I'm through with him. You tell him so--tell him I don't want tosee him again--I won't be bothered----" She broke off, and added, witha kind of rough relenting: "Put it any blessed way you like--say what'strue--we've had our good times together--and it seems they're over--we'veno use for one another. "

"You mean--now he's failed. "

"What do _you_ mean--'now he's failed'? What's his rotten old exam gotto do with me? I don't even know what it's about. "

"You took the good time whilst you could get it, and now when you can'thope for anything more----"

She stopped short, and they faced each other with an antagonism thatneither gave nor asked for quarter. They had always been enemies, andnow that the gloves were off they were almost glad. 

"So that's my line. Cradle-snatching. Vamping the helpless infant!" Sheburst into a fit of angry, ugly laughter. "A good time! Running roundwith a poor kid with ten shillings a week pocket-money--eating in beastlycheap restaurants--riding on the tops of 'buses when some girls I knoware feeding at the Ritz and rolling round in limousines. That's what Iget for being soft. And now because I won't shoot myself, or go off tonowhere steerage, I'm a bad, abandoned woman. What d'you take me for?"

"What you are, " he said. 

She went dead white under her streaky paint. 

"You--you've got no right to say that. You're a devil--a stuck-updevil--I hate you--I'd have always hated you if I'd bothered to mind. I--I gave _him_ a good time. That's the truth. He was down and out whenI met him, and I set him on his feet. I didn't mind what I missed--orthe other girls guying me--I made him laugh and believe he had as good achance in the world as anyone else. I put a bit of fun into him. Iliked the kid. I--I like him now. If he wanted a good time to-morrowI'd run round with him again. But I'm no movie heroine--I'm not out forpoison and funerals and slow music. Life's too damn serious for my sortto make a wail and a moan about it. "

He stood close to her. He almost menaced her. He did in fact lookdangerous enough with his white, set face and unflinching eyes in whichstood two points of metallic light. If he had seen himself then he mighthave cowered away as from a ghost. 

"I don't care a rap about you. I do care about my friend. You've got tostand by Cosgrave till he's over the worst. "

"I won't--I won't!"

"I'll make you. You took him up. You made him think you cared abouthim. You're responsible----"

"I'm not--I won't be responsible; it's not my line. I've got myself tolook after. "

She had the look of someone struggling against an invisibleentanglement--a pitiable, rather horrible look of naked purpose. Shemeant to cut free at whatever cost. 

"You little beast!" he said. 

He was sick with contempt. He swung away from her, and she stood in themiddle of the pavement and called names after him like a drunken, furiousstreet-girl. She did not seem to be even aware of the people who staredat her. When he was almost out of hearing, she added:

"Give him my love!" shrilly, vindictively, as though it had been a finalinsult. But he took no notice and now, at any rate, she was cryingbitterly enough. 

2

"E" proved to be the top room of No. 10, a dingy lodging-house whosefront door, in accordance with the uncertain habits of its patrons, stoodopen from year's end to year's end. Robert went in unnoticed. He ran upthe steep, narrow stairs, with their tattered carpeting, two steps at atime. A queer elation surged beneath his anger and distress. Cosgrave'sfailure was like a personal challenge--a defiance thrown in his teeth. The old fight was on again. It was against odds. But then, he hadalways fought against odds--won against them. 

The room was Connie Edwards herself. It seemed to rush out at him in atearing rage, flaunting its vulgar finery and its odour of bad scent andcheap cigarette smoke. It made him sick, and he brushed it out of hisconsciousness. He did not see the poor attempts to make it decent andattractive--the bed disguised beneath a faded Liberty cretonne, asentimental Christ hanging between a galaxy of matinee heroes, nor afull-length woman's portrait, across which was scrawled "Gyp Labelle" inletters large enough to conceal half of her outrageous nakedness. Therewere even a few flowers, drooping forlornly out of a dusty vase, and acollection of theatrical posters, to lend a touch, of seriousprofessionalism. 

But the end of it all was a frowzy, hopeless disorder. 

Cosgrave lay huddled over the littered table by the open window. The reduntidy head made a patch of grotesque colour in the general murk. Helooked like a poor rag doll that had been torn and battered in some wildcarnival scrimmage and flung aside. 

There was not much in him--not much fight, as he himself said. Not thesort to survive. Life was too strong--too difficult for him. He bungledeverything--even an exam. It would be wiser, more consistent to let himdrift. And yet at sight of that futile breakdown, it was not impatienceor contempt that Robert felt, but a choking tenderness--a fierce pity. He had to protect him--pull him through. He had promised so much--heforgot when: that afternoon lying in the long, sooty grass behind thebiscuit factory, or that night when he had dragged Cosgrave breathlessand staggering in pursuit of the Greatest Show in Europe. It did notmatter. It had become part of himself. And Cosgrave had always trustedhim--believed in him. 

"It's all right, old man; it's only me--Robert. " For Cosgrave had leaptup with an eager cry, and now stood staring at him open-mouthed. Thelight was behind him, and the open mouth and blank, shadowy face made aqueer, ghastly effect, as though a drowned man had suddenly stood up. Then he sagged pitifully, and Robert caught him by the shoulders andshook him with a rough, boyish impatience. "Don't be an idiot. Itdoesn't matter all that much. Exams are not everything. Everyone knowsthat. We'll find something else. If your people are too beastly, you'llcome and share with us. I'll see you through--it'll be all right. "

But a baffling change came over Cosgrave. He shook himself free. Hestood upright, looking at Robert with a kind of stony dignity. 

"Where is she?"

"Who?"

"Connie. She sent you, didn't she?"

"Yes. We met----"

"Where is she?"

"I don't know. Gone to the theatre probably. "

"Isn't she coming back?"

"Not now. "

"Didn't she send a message?"

"She said--it was finish between you. She's a little rotter, Cosgrave. "

"She made me laugh, " Cosgrave said simply. "I don't mind about theexam. --or about anything now. I suppose I was bound to fail. But I wasso jolly happy. I'd never had a good time like that. It's all over now. She doesn't care. She said she couldn't be tied up with a lot oftrouble. That's what I am. A lot of trouble. It was allbunkum--make-believe--to think I could be anything else. "

So it wasn't his failure. It wasn't even the loss of a good-for-nothingchorus-girl. It was a loss far more subtle. The recognition of it lamedRobert Stonehouse, knocked the power out of him, as though someone hadstruck and paralysed a vital nerve centre. He could only stammerfutilely:

"She's not worth bothering about. "

Cosgrave slumped back into his chair. His hands lay on the table, halfclenched as though they had let go and didn't care any more. He lookedat Robert wide-eyed with a sudden absolute knowledge. 

"That's it, " he said. "Not worth bothering about--nothing in this wholebeastly, rotten, world. . . . . . "

3

A convenient uncle found him a berth as clerk to a trading firm in WestAfrica, and with a cheap Colonial outfit and 10 pounds in his pocket, Cosgrave set out for the particular swamp which was to be the scene ofhis future career. He went docilely, with limp handshakes and dull, pathetic eyes. If he betrayed any feeling at all, it was a sort ofrelief at getting away from everybody. But emotionally he was dead--likecheap champagne gone flat, as he expressed it in one twisted mood ofself-revelation. 

Probably he was thinking of Connie Edwards and of their last spreetogether. 

But he never spoke of her. 

And it was very unlikely that the swamp would give him a chance to seeany of them again. 

After all, he had stood for something. He was a rudderless little craftthat had come leaking and tumbling willy-nilly in the wake of the biggervessel. But also he had been a sort of talisman. He had protectedRobert as the weak, when they are humble and loving, can protect thestrong, giving them greater confidence, making their defeat impossible. With his going went security. Little old fears came crawling out oftheir hiding-places. At night when Robert climbed the dark stairs totheir stable-attic, they set upon him. They clawed his heart. He calledto Christine before he saw her, and the answering silence made him sickwith panic. It was reasonless panic, for Christine often fell asleep atdusk. She was difficult to wake and when she woke it was strangely, witha look of bewilderment, like a traveller who has come home after a longabsence. Once she had spoken his father's name with a ringing joy, andhe had answered roughly and had seen her shrink back into herself. Herlittle hands trembled, fumbling apologetically with the shabby bag shealways carried. She was like a girl who, in one withering tragic moment, had become old. But his aching love found no outlet, no word of regretor tenderness. It recoiled back on himself in a dead weight of pain. 

He began to watch himself like a sick man. There were hours when he knewhis brain to be losing edge--black periods of hideous impotency which, when they passed, left him shaken and wet with terror. Supposing, at theend of everything, be failed? He didn't care so much. His very power ofcaring had been dissipated. His single purpose lost itself amidstincompatible dreams. He was being torn asunder--and there was a limit toendurance. 

Cosgrave had failed. He couldn't concentrate. He was always looking forhappiness. He had fallen in love and wasted himself and made a mess ofhis life. 

It was mad to fall in love. 

And yet the worst dread of all was the dread of losing Francey. Itseemed even the most unreasonable, for they had their work in common andthey loved one another. There was no doubting their love. They werevery young and might have to wait, but he could trust her to wait all herlife. He knew dimly that she had been fond of him as a little boy, andhad gone on being fond of him, simply and unconsciously, because it wasnot possible for her to forget. She would love him in the same way. That steadfastness was like a light shining through the mists of hercharacter--through her sudden fancies, her shadowy withdrawals. 

And still he was afraid, and sometimes he suspected that she was afraidtoo. It was as though inexorable forces were rising up in both of them, essentially of them, and yet outside their control, two dark antagonismswaiting sorrowfully to join issue. 

4

It had happened suddenly--not without warning. One little event trod onthe heels of another, rubble skirling down the mountain-side, growing toan avalanche. 

Or, again, Cosgrave might have been the odd, unlikely keystone of theirdaily life. He had not seemed to matter much, but now that he had beentorn out the bridge between them crumbled. 

It had been a day full of bitterness--of set-backs, which to RobertStonehouse were like pointing fingers. They were the outward expressionsof his disorder. He did not believe in luck, but in a man's strength orweakness, and he knew by the things that happened to him that he wasweakening. A private operation had gone badly. He had bungled with hisdressings, so that the surgeon had turned on him in a burst of irritation. 

"Better go home and sleep it off, Stonehouse. "

He had not gone. He would not admit that he was ill--dared not. Allillness now meant the end of everything. It would wipe out all that theyhad endured if he were to break down now. It would kill Christine. Shemust not even guess. 

He hung about the hospital common-room. The summer heat surging up fromthe burning pavements stagnated between the faded walls. He could nottouch the food that he had brought with him. He was faint and sick, andthe long table at which he sat, with its white blur of newspapers, roseand fell as though it were floating on an oily sea. But he held out. Atfive o'clock he was to meet Francey at the gates, and, as though she hadsome magic gift of relief, he strained towards that time, his headbetween his hands, his ears counting the seconds that dripped heavily, drowsily from the moon-faced clock. 

And then she did not come. Outwardly it was only one more trifle, capable of simple explanations. But he saw it through a disfiguring hazeof fever, and it was deadly in its significance. He hardly waited. Hecrossed the thoroughfare, and once in a side street stumbled into ashambling run. He did not stop until he reached her house. His formerreluctance broke before the imperative need to see her and make sure ofher. He stormed the broad, deep, carpeted stairs, pursued by a senselesspanic, But at the top his strength failed him. He felt his brainthrobbing in torture against his skull. 

The old maid-servant nodded gravely, sympathetically. 

"Yes, she's in, sir, but very busy--going away--sir. " Going away. Hewavered in the dim hall, trying to control his flying thoughts. Goingaway. And she had said nothing the night before--had not even warnedhim. Some unexpected, untoward event striking in the dark. Illness. Along separation. (And yet, he argued, he could not live without her. She had no people who could claim her. They were dead. No one to comebetween them. And there was her work. She would never leave that again. )

But there she stood in the midst of the disorder of a sudden going. Opensuit-cases, clothes strewn about the floor, she herself in some loose, bright-coloured wrap, her brown hair tousled and her brows knit inperplexity. She stopped short at sight of him, smiling ruefully, herarms full. 

"Oh, my dear--I'd forgotten. " (Then she must have seen his face with itsdead whiteness, for she added quickly, half laughing): "Not you. Onlythe time. I've not been at the hospital, and I thought I had still halfan hour. I've had to run round like mad, and even now I've got a hundredthings to do----"

He gulped. He said: "Where are you going?" in a flat, emotionless voice, as though he did not care. 

For a moment she did not answer. She let the clothes drop, forgotten, onthe sofa. He could see her weighing--considering what she should say tohim. 

"Italy--Rome--I expect----"

"Italy--when?"

"I've got to be at the hospital to-morrow. Wednesday probably. I don'tbelieve it'll be for long. I hope not. A week or two. I've got leavefor a month. "

"Why are you going?"

And now he could not keep the harsh break out of his voice. He could nothide the physical weakness which made it impossible for him to stand. And yet, though she looked at him, she seemed unaware that he wassuffering. She was absorbed in some difficulty of her own, set on herown immediate purpose. He knew that mood. It was the other side of herfitful, whimsical way of life that she could be as relentless, as deadlyresolute and patient in attainment as himself. 

"It's about Howard, " she said, abruptly coming to a decision. "I wasn'tsure at first what to do about it. I didn't want anyone to know. Butyou're different. We have to share things. Howard and Gertie--they'veboth gone--gone off--no one knows where. "

"Together?"

"I'm pretty certain of it. At any rate, Gertie, who couldn't even payher rent, has vanished, and Howard--I heard about Howard this morning. "

"What did you hear about him?"

"It was from Salter. You probably don't know him. He came to me becausehe knew I was a friend of Howard's. He was frightfully upset. It seemsthere was some sort of club which a crowd of students were collectingfor, and he and Howard held the funds. It wasn't much--150 pounds--andHoward drew it out two days ago. "

"Does that astonish you?" Robert asked. 

She seemed not to hear the scorn and irony of the question. She went onpacking deliberately, and he watched her, not knowing what he would sayor do. The tide was rising faster. His dread would carry him off hisfeet. 

"No. I was sure things were coming to a crisis. "

"He was no good. Anyone could see that. "

"I didn't see it. "

"Well, you see it now, " he flung at her with a hard triumph. 

"I don't. "

"A mean thief----"

"Not mean, Robert. "

"I don't know anything meaner than stealing money from a lot of hard-upstudents. "

"There was Gertie, " she said as though that were some sort of extenuation. 

"Gertie--they've gone off on some rotten spree--not even married. "

(He hated himself--the beastly righteousness of his voice, hiscontemptible exultation. It was as though he were under some horridspell which twisted his love and anguish into the expressions of aspiteful prig. Why couldn't he tell her of those deadly, shapelessfears, of his loneliness, his sorrowful jealousies? He was shut up inthe iron fastness of his own will--gagged and helpless. )

He saw her start. She stopped definitely in her work as though she wereat last aware of some struggle between them. The room was growing dark, and she came a little nearer, trying to see his face. 

"I don't suppose so. I don't think it would occur to them. "

"No--that's what I should imagine. "

"You're awfully hard on people, Robert. "

"That sort of thing makes me sick. It ought to make you sick. I don'tknow why it doesn't. You don't seem to care--to have any standards. You're unmoral in your outlook--perhaps you're too young--you don'trealize. A rotter like Howard who takes other people's money just toenjoy himself--a girl like Gertie Sumners who goes off with the first manwho asks her----"

"You don't understand, Robert. "

"No, " he said with a laugh, "I don't. "

"Gertie Sumners hasn't long to live. I sent her to the hospital lastweek, and they told her honestly. And she wanted so much to see Italy. I don't think Howard cares for her or she for him, except in a comradelysort of way. They loved the same things--and he was sorry--he wanted togive her her one good time. "

"He told you all that, I suppose?"

"No, " she answered soberly. "But I know. "

He waited a moment. He was trying desperately to hold back--to stophimself. He was sorry about Gertie Sumners. But everything was againsthim. The room was against him--the faun dancing noiselessly among theshadows, the little things that Francey had gathered about her, the dearpersonal things that can become terrible in their poignancy, Franceyherself, standing there slender and grave-eyed, judging him, weighinghim. They were all leagued together. They spoke with one voice. "Webelong TO one another. We understand. But you don't belong. You areoutside. "

"I don't see, at any rate, " he said, "what it has got to do with you--orwhy you should be going away. "

"I'm going after them. There's no one else. Howard will expectprosecution. He will think that he'll never be able to come home. He'spretty reckless, but they will be thinking of that all the time. It willspoil everything for them. "

"And what can you do?"

"I can tell them it's all right. "

"How can it be?"

"It is, " she said curtly. "The money has been paid back. "

"Paid back!" Understanding burst upon him. "_You_ paid it?"

He stood up. He knew that resentment flickered in her--a fine, dangerousresentment against him because he had dragged so simple and obvious athing out of its insignificance. But his own anger was like a mad, runaway horse, rushing him to destruction. 

"It was stupid of him not to have come to me in the first place, " shesaid, with an effort. "He should have known----"

He broke in fiercely. 

"You can't--can't go like that. "

"I must. If they had left an address--but, of course, they haven't. I'll have to track them down. It won't be so difficult. " A spark ofgaiety lit up her serious eyes. "I'll find Gertie lying on her back inthe Sistine Chapel. She'll scorn the mirrors. "

"You can't leave your work like that. "

"The hospital people have been awfully decent about it. "

"You told them----?"

"I told them I had urgent, personal business. "

"You told them a lie, then?"

(Steady. Steady. But it was too late. His only hope lay in herunderstanding--her pity. )

"It wasn't a lie. My friends are my business. "

"Your friends!" he echoed. 

There was silence between them. She was controlled enough not to answer. It would have been better if she had returned taunt for taunt so that atlast in the white heat of conflict his prison might have melted and lethim free. But there followed a cold, deadly interlude, in which theirantagonism hardened itself with reason and bitterness. He went and stoodby the window looking out on to the dim square. He said at last roughly, authoritatively:

"Don't go. I don't want you to go. "

(If only he could have gone on--driven the words over his setlips--"because I'm afraid--because I'm at breaking-point--because I can'tdo without you. I'm frightened of life. I've been starved in body andheart too long. I'm frightened because Christine is hard to wake atnight--because I can't work any more. ")

"I've got to, " she said briefly, sternly. 

He walked from the window to the door. 

"You don't care. You care more for these two than you do for me. I'velived hard and clean. I don't lie or steal. I've never thought of anygirl but you. And you put me second to a feckless thief and a----"

She stopped him. Not with a word or gesture, but with the sheer upwardblaze of a chivalrous anger. And it was not only anger. That would havebeen bearable. It was sorrow, reproach, a kind of grieving bewilderment, as though he had changed before her eyes. 

"You'd--you'd better go, Robert. We're both of us out of hand. We'llsee each other to-morrow. It will be different then. "

He went without a word. But on the dark stairs he stood still, leaningback against the wall, his wet face between his hands. He said aloud:"Oh, Francey. Francey, I can't live without you!" He would have goneback to tell her, but he was physically at the end of everything, and atthe mercy of the power outside himself. He thought:

"There's still to-morrow. I'll tell her everything. I'll help her toget away. I'll make her understand that it wasn't Howard. To-morrow itwill be all right. "

And so went on. And the stolid Georgian door closed with a hard metallicclick, setting its teeth against him. 

"Now you see how it happens, Robert Stonehouse!"

5

But he came out of a night of fever and hallucination with very littleleft but the will to keep on. Apathy, like a thin protecting skin, hadgrown over him, shielding him from further hurt. He did not want to feelor care any more. The very memory of that "scene" with Francey made himshrink with a kind of physical disgust. Only no more of that. Back towork--back to reason. If she wished to go in pursuit of Howard andGertie she would have to go. It seemed strange to him now that he shouldhave minded so desperately. 

Christine called to him as he passed her door. 

"Is that you, Robert? Have you had your breakfast? Wait, dear--I'll getit for you. "

But he crept down the stairs as though he had not heard. Only not somuch caring--if only he could forget that he cared. 

"Good-bye, dearest, good-bye!"

Her voice followed him, plaintive and clear. It seemed to lodge itselfin his heart so that ever afterwards he had only to think of her to hearit like the echo of a small, sad bell. He went on stubbornly, in silence. 

He did not try to see Francey. They met inevitably in the wake of thesurgeon on whose post they worked, but they did not speak. Their eyesavoided one another. Yet he could not forget her. It was not the oldconsciousness that had been full of mystery and delight. It hurt. Hefelt her unsapped joyous living like a blow on his own aching weariness. He thought bitterly of her. How easy life had been for her! She playedat living. Her airy fancies, her belief in God, her vagrant tendernessfor the rag and bobtail of the earth were all part of that same thing. She had never suffered. Her people had died, but they had died in theodour of sanctity and wealth. She had never had to ask herself: "If Ifall out, what will become of us?" She saw pain and poverty through thesoftening veil of her own well-being. Nothing could really hurt her. 

(And yet how lovable she was! He watched her covertly as she stood atthe surgeon's elbow--a little graver than usual--a little paler. To-daythere was no warm glance with a flicker of a smile in its serene depthsto greet him. Her hands were thrust boyishly into the pockets of herwhite coat, and there was an air of austere earnestness about her thatsat quaintly, charmingly upon her youth. He loved the businesslikesimplicity of her dress--the dark, tailored skirt and white silkshirt--immaculate--expressive of her real ability, an accustomed wealth. He flaired and hated its expensiveness. )

Money. That lay at the root of everything. If she were ill--what wouldit matter? A mere set-back. Her work would wait for her. Money wouldwave anxiety from her door. So she was never ill. Even though she lovedhim and they had quarrelled she had kept her fresh skin and clear eyes. Even if she had worried a little, in the end she had slept peacefully. (He felt his own shabbiness, his exhaustion, his burning hands and eyes, his dry and bitter mouth like a sort of uncleanliness. )

And there in the midst of his jagged thoughts there flickered a redanger--a desire to hurt too, to strike, to come to grips at last with herlaughing philosophy of life--to tear it down and batter it into the dustand misery in which he stood. 

They had come to No. 10's bedside. Things had gone badly with No. 10. She had stood a successful operation, but there had been severehaemorrhage, and, as Robert had said, there was no constitution to fightat the turning point. Her face just showed above the creaseless sheet. Death had already begun to clear away the mask of vice and cynicism and alost prettiness peered through. But the eyes were terribly alive andold. So long as they kept open there could be no mistaking her. Theytravelled from face to face, and sought and questioned. Her voicesounded reedy and far-off. 

"Not going this trip, am I, doctor?"

Rogers patted the bed. 

"Certainly not. Going along fine. What do you expect to feel like--witha hole like that in your inside? Next time you have a young man, see hedoesn't carry firearms. "

One of the eyes tried to wink--pitifully, obscenely. 

"You bet your life. Don't want to die just yet. "

"Nobody does. "

They drew a little apart. Rogers consulted with his colleague. Theserious loss of blood must be made good. A transfusion. There was ayoung man who had offered himself. A suitable subject. This afternoonat the latest. 

They moved on. Robert spoke to the man next him. But he knew thatFrancey heard him. He meant her to hear. 

"It's crazy. They ought to be glad to let a woman like that slip out. If she lives she'll only infect more people with her rottenness. She'sbetter dead. Instead of that they'll suck out somebody else's vitalityto save her. The better the life the more pleased they'll be to risk it. This sacrificing the strong to the weak--a snivelling sentimentality. "

The man he spoke to glanced at him curiously--it was not usual for RobertStonehouse to speak to anyone--and said something about the medicalprofession and the sanctity of life. Robert laughed. He argued it overwith himself. It was true. For that matter Howard and Gertie and Conniewould all be better dead. There was no use or purpose in their living. Only sentimentalists like Francey wanted to patch them up and keep themon their feet. 

People who cluttered up life ought to be cleared out of it. 

He felt light-headed, yet extraordinarily sure of himself again. Heanswered Rogers' questions with the old lucidity. And presently he foundhimself in the corridor, still arguing his theme over. He would prove toFrancey that she must let Howard and Gertie go to the devil and theywould never quarrel again. 

He came to the head of the stairs where they met after the morning's work. 

The steps were very broad and white and shallow, and gave the impressionof great distance. Mr. Ricardo, at the bottom of them, was a blackspeck--a bird that had blundered into the building by mistake and beatenitself breathless against the walls. As he saw Robert he began to draghimself up, limping. He seemed to shrivel then to a mere face, strickenand yellow, that gaped and mouthed. 

Robert did not move. He stood leaning against the balustrade. It was asthough an iron fist had smashed through the protecting wall about him, letting in a rush of bitter wind. 

"Robert--Robert!"

He nodded. 

"I'm coming----"

For he had known instantly. 

6

The tragic journey through the streets was over. They stood beside her. Robert knew too much to struggle, but Ricardo's voice went on, saying thesame things over and over again, pleading. 

"Do something--do something. Wake her, Robert, dear boy, for God's sake. What is the use of all your studying if you can't even wake her?"

"It's no use, " he said. 

"She was sitting there--I was to have read her the last chapter--she wasso quiet--asleep she seemed---for an hour--I sat--not moving--then I wasafraid!"

Robert nodded. 

She had laid his supper for him. It was much too early for her to havelaid it. She had spread muslin over the bread and cheese. And then shehad sat down quietly in her chair by the window and waited. (How longhad she waited there? Many years perhaps. It had been very lonely forher. ) Her head was thrown back a little, and her closed eyes lifted tothe light that came over the stable roofs. The grey hair hung in wispsabout the transparent face--very still, as though the air had died too. She had changed profoundly, indefinably. She looked younger, and therewas a new serenity about the faintly opened mouth. Her hands laypeacefully on the little shabby bag. Her little feet in the ill-fittingshoes just reached the ground. In a way it was all so familiar. And yethe felt that if he touched her he would find out that this was notChristine at all. This was something that had belonged to her--aspoignant, as heart-rending as a dress that she had worn. 

"Robert, isn't there anything--to do?"

"No. "

They had nothing to say to one another. They had made a strangetrio--lonely and outcast by necessity--but now a link had snapped and itwas all over. They stood apart, each by himself. Ricardo, crouchingagainst the window-sill, pressed his hand to his side as though he werehurt and bleeding to death. He said, almost inaudibly:

"I've no one. Nobody will ever listen. She believed in me. She wassure that one day--I would go out--and tell the truth. She knew Iwasn't--a cowardly--beaten, old man. "

Robert could not touch her whilst Ricardo stood there crying. Her reposewas too dominating. And if he touched her something terrible andincalculable might happen. He felt as though he were standing on theedge of a precipice, and that suddenly he might let go and pitch over. 

It had come true at last--his boy's nightmare that had grown up withhim--that only waited for darkness to show itself. Christine had lefthim. She was dead, and it seemed that he had no one in the world. ForFrancey, loving him as she did, had failed him. But Christine had neverfailed him. Never at any time had she asked, "Are you a good little boy, Robert?" It would never have occurred to her. She was so sure. She hadloved him and, believed in him unfalteringly, and, in her quiet way, diedfor him. 

Ricardo drew himself up. He plucked at Robert's sleeve. A change hadcome over him in the last minutes. His sunken brown eyes had dried andbecome rather terribly alert. Something too fine--too exquisitelybalanced in him had been disturbed and broken beyond hope. 

"It proves what I have suspected for a long time, Robert. You know it'snot a light thing to make an enemy like that. He's taken his time, butyou see in the end he has taken everything I had. First he made me aliar and a hypocrite. Then he took you. He sent that girl specially tocome between us. And now Miss Christine. I suppose he thinks that'sdone for me. But it's a great mistake to make people desperate, Robert. You should always leave them some little thing that they care for andwhich makes them cowards. Now, you see, I simply don't care any more. Idon't care for myself or even my poor sister. I'm going to fight him inthe open, gloves off. I'll wrestle with him and prevail. I'll give blowfor blow. I'm going now to Hyde Park to tell people the truth about him. They take him altogether too lightly, Robert. They're inclined to laughat him as of no account. That's a great mistake, too. I shall warnthem. " He nodded mysteriously. "God is a devil--a cruel, dangerousdevil. "

Then he bent and kissed Christine's hand, very solemnly and tenderly, assome battered, comical Don Quixote might have done before setting out ona last fantastic quest. And presently Robert heard him patter down thenarrow stairs and over the cobbles to the open street. 

They were alone now. He bent over her and said: "Christine--Christine, "reassuringly, so that she should not be afraid, and gathered her in hisarms. How little she was--no heavier than a child--and cold. Her greyhead rested against his shoulder. If she had only stirred and laughed, and said: "Your father was strong too!" he would have answered gently. He would have been glad that the memory of his father could make herhappy. But it was all too late. 

He carried her into her room. It was like her to have left it so neatand ordered--each thing in its place--her out-door shoes standingdecorously together under the window, and her best skirt peeping out frombehind the cretonne curtain. Her hair-brush, with the comb planted inits bristles, lay exactly in the middle of the pine-wood dressing-table. When she had put it there, she had not known that it was for the lasttime. 

Or had she known? She had called out to him so insistently. She hadwanted to say good-bye. And he had gone on, not answering. 

They said that people, at the end, saw their whole life pass before them. Perhaps she had seen hers. Perhaps she had trodden the old road that hewas travelling over now. Only her vision of it would be different. Itwas James Stonehouse and Robert's mother that she would see--radiantfigures of wonderful, unlucky people--and little Robert, who belonged toboth of them, tagging in the rear. 

But he saw her--Christine lying white and still under the great mahoganyside-board, Christine coming back day after day in gallant patience toscrub the floors and his ears, and pay the bills and chase away the duns, and do whatever was necessary to keep the staggering Stonehouse menage onits feet. 

She had held him close to her and comforted him. 

Her splendid faithfulness. 

He laid her on the narrow bed against the wall, and smoothed her dressand folded her hands over her breast. Her bag, which he had gathered upwith her rolled on to the floor. A book fell out. He picked it upmechanically. It was a little Bible, and on the fly-leaf was written:

 "From JIM and CONSTANCE to their friend, CHRISTINE. "

The writing was his father's. It had faded, but one could still see howregular and beautiful it was. Then the date. His own birthday--thefirst of all the unfortunate birthdays. 

He looked at it for a long time, stupidly, not realizing. Then suddenlyhe saw it--in a new light. Ricardo. How frightfully--excruciatinglyfunny. Ricardo. He felt that he was going to laugh--shout withlaughter. It was horrible. Laughter rising and falling---like a sort ofawful sickness--choking him. 

Instead his heart broke. He flung himself down beside her and pressedhis face against her cold, thin cheek. And, instead of laughter, sobsthat tore him to pieces--and at last, in mercy, tears. 

"Oh, Christine, Christine--my own darling! I did love you--I never toldyou--you never, never knew how much!"

The earth-old cry of unavailing, inevitable remorse. 

7

So there was no one but Francey now. 

He did not know what he hoped, or indeed if he hoped for anything. Heturned to her instinctively. And when the door of the ward opened hedid, in fact, feel a faint lifting of the flat indifference which hadfollowed on that one difficult rending surrender. He went to meet her. If she had looked at him with her usual straightness, she might haveremembered the boy of whom she had been fond--a small, queer boy, who didnot like having his face washed, and who came to her truculent andswaggering, with smears under his red eyes. 

Even then it is doubtful whether she could have changed the course onwhich both of them were set. 

He did not want her to see. And yet, unknown to himself, he did count onher instant understanding, on some releasing, quickening word or lookthat would give back life to the dead thing in him. But her eyes, preoccupied and unhappy, avoided him. He could not have appealed to her. He could not have said, as he had meant to do, "Christine is dead. " Hewas silenced by the certain knowledge that all real communication betweenthem had been broken off. 

"No. 10 is going to pull through, " she said. 

They walked slowly down the corridor. He found it difficult to keep hisfeet. He wondered vaguely why she should talk of No. 10 when Christinewas dead. He was puzzled---confused. 

"It seemed likely, " he muttered. "Rogers had got his teeth into her. "

"I suppose you think he was a fool to try?"

(What was she talking about? He would have to arrange for the funeral. And the money. He did not know whether there would be money enough. Itwas hideous--to think of a thing like that--to have to go into a shop andsay to some bored shopkeeper: "I want a nice cheap coffin, please. " ForChristine--for whom he had never been able to buy so much as a bunch offlowers. )

"I--I don't know. "

"You see, I heard what you said. "

(What had he said? He tried to remember. No. 10. Better dead. Yes, ofcourse that was it. He couldn't go back on that. His mind seemed tostrain and stagger under the challenge like a half-dead horse under thewhip. )

"She didn't hear me, anyway. "

"I want to know--was it just--just a sort of pose--or did you mean it?"

"It was true. "

"That doesn't seem to me to matter. It was a beastly thing to havethought--beastlier to have said----"

He stopped short, as though she had struck him across the face. For aninstant he was blind with pain, but afterwards he steadied, grew deadlycool and clear-headed. There was a constant movement in the corridor andhe turned abruptly, almost with authority, into an empty operatingtheatre. Instinctively he had chosen his ground. Here was symbolizedeverything that he trusted and believed in--a cool, dispassionateseeking, the ruthless cutting out of waste. Yet in the half-light theplace surrounded them both with a ghostly, almost sinister unreality. Its stark immaculateness lay like a chill, ironic hand on their distress. It made mock of their unhappiness. It divested them of their humanity. The nauseating sweetness that still lingered in the sterilized air waslike incense offered up on the grotesque sacrificial altar that stoodbare and brutal beneath the glass-domed roof. 

And now Robert saw Francey's face. It was white and pinched andunfamiliar, as though all her humour and whimsical laughter andloving-kindness had been twisted awry in a bitter fight with pain. Buthe knew her eyes of old. Long ago he had seen them with the same burningdeadly anger. And he knew that it was all over. Their patientantagonism had come to grips at last over the bodies of their sufferinglove for one another. 

Even then she held back. 

"You don't know how hard life can be. It was hard for her----" But atthat he burst out laughing, and she added quickly, reading his thought:"Nothing that you've gone through is of any use if it hasn't taught youpity. "

"Your pity would take a half-dead rat from a terrier. "

"You have no right to judge, " she persisted. 

He smiled with white lips. 

"Oh, yes, I have! We all have. We condemn men to prison--to death. "

"You do believe in God, " she said bitterly. "You believe in yourself. "

"It comes to this, Francey, doesn't it? You're through with me? Youdon't care any more?"

Her eyes narrowed with a kind of desperate humour. It was as though fora moment she had regained her old vision of him--a sad queer little boy. 

"You say that because you want to shirk the truth. You're almostglad--presently you will be very glad. You never did want to care--notfrom the first. Caring got in your way. You will be free now. " Shewaited, and then added very quietly, without anger: "I love you. I daresay I always shall--but I couldn't live with you--it would break my heartif we should come to hate one another. Don't think any more about it. I'll have gone to-morrow, and I'll try to arrange not to come back tillyou're through. It will be all right. "

"Francey, it's such a foolish thing to quarrel about. "

"It's everything, " she said simply. 

She turned to go. Even then he could have stopped her. He could havesaid: "Francey, Christine died this morning!" and their sad enmity mighthave melted in grief and pity. But what she had said was true. It waseverything. And his reason, his will, rising up out of the general ruin, monstrous and powerful, stood like an admonishing shadow at his elbow. 

"It's much better. There's nothing to make a coward of you now. You'refree. "

He half held out his hand, but it was only a convulsive, dying movement. He let her go. 

PART III

I

1

As to Gyp Labelle, if she had known the part she played in their lives, which in the nature of things was not possible, she would have brokeninto that famous laugh of hers. 

To her, at any rate, it would have seemed immensely, excruciatingly funny. 

As the result of an exchange of two remarkably casual notes they met atBrown's for dinner. Brown's had occurred to both of them as a naturalmeeting-place. Cosgrave, it is true, had only dined there once and thatfree (as a friend of Brown's friend), but the impression made upon astomach accustomed to Soho and tea-shop fare had been indelible. Stonehouse himself dined there as a matter of custom. Besides, there wasa touch of sentiment to their choice--a rather bitter sharp-tastingsentiment like an aperitif. 

Brown himself had aged considerably, and did not remember very well. 

"Old friend of the doctor's, sir? Well, so am I. Getting on--gettingon. But I'm waiting till I can squeeze my money's worth out of him. When's that knighthood coming, doctor? I want to be able to tell thatstory--as good a story as you'd read anywhere. He's got to keep mealive, sir, till it comes true. "

He went off to the kitchen tittering to himself over an ancient jokewhich, together with his "feeling" for the psychological moment in thematter of roasts, was about all that was left him. 

Stonehouse, his chin resting in his hand, studied the menu from whichthey had already chosen. 

"When the last Honours List came out, he was quite serious and patheticabout it, " he said. "Things move either too slowly or too quickly forold people. He does realize that I make quite a good story as I stand, but he wants the finishing touches--the King clasping me by the hand, orkissing me on both cheeks, or whatever he thinks happens on thoseoccasions--and wedding bells as a grand finale. "

"The place seems to have grown shabby, " Cosgrave said. "Or perhaps it'sonly me. "

"Oh, no. It is shabby. And perhaps you've noticed, they don't wait hereas they used to. "

Cosgrave looked directly at his companion, almost for the first time, andcaught a spark in the eyes that stared into his--a rather dangerousspark, which cleverer people than himself had found difficult to makesure of. Then he laughed flatly. 

"You can see how funny it is now----"

"I always did. "

"--because you were so sure it would pan out--like this. How long is it?"

"About eight years. "

"My word! Let's--let's look at one another and take stock. "

Stonehouse sat back and bore the inspection with a faint smile. He knewhimself, and how he impressed others. The eight years had done a greatdeal for him. His strength had cast its crudeness and had attained acertain grace--the ease of absolute control and tried confidence initself. He still dressed badly--indifferently, rather--but his body hadtoned down to the level of the fine hands, which he held loosely claspedupon the table. 

He looked at once very young and very fine drawn and, as Cosgravethought, a little cruel. 

"You seem--awfully well and prosperous, Robert. And a sight betterlooking. "

Stonehouse laughed. All he said in reply was:

"And you look prosperous and ill. What was it? Enteric?"

Cosgrave shrugged his thin shoulders. He was still flamboyantlyred-headed and generously freckled, but now that the first flush ofexcitement had ebbed, his face showed a parchment yellow. His eyes, wistful in their setting, were faded, as though a relentless tropical sunhad drunk up their once vivid, boyish colouring. 

"Oh yes, that and a few other trifles. I think I've housed most WestAfrican bugs in my time. Everyone had them, but I was such poor pasturethat I got off better than most. Three of my superiors died of 'em, andI stepped right into their shoes. It pays, you see, if you can hold out. People like a fellow who isn't always clamouring to come home--and youbet I never did. But, finally, I took an overdue leave and a hunk ofsavings and trekked back. I'd always planned it--a good time, youknow--but somehow it hasn't come off. I expect I left it too long. Inthe end I didn't really want to come at all--wanted to lie down and die, but hadn't the strength of mind to insist. I'd been in London a weekbefore I wrote you--just drifting round--too weak-kneed to take the firststep. I tore up that idiotic note three times. "

"Well, as long as you posted the fourth effort, " Stonehouse said, "it'sall right. "

They fell then unexpectedly into one of those difficult silences whichbeset the road of friends who have been separated too long. The paststood at their elbow like an importunate and shabby ghost. And yet itwas all they had to lead them back into the old intimacy. 

"We've got too much to say, " Cosgrave broke out at last, with a painfuleffort, "too much ground to cover--and I dare say we don't want to coverit. If we'd written--but I never heard from you after that oneletter--after Miss Christine's death. "

"I was ill, " Stonehouse explained, eating tranquilly. "I got through myfinals with a temperature which would have astonished my examiners, andthen I went to pieces altogether. Had to go into hospital myself. Anervous breakdown. Three months I had of it. They were very decent tome, and when I came out they got me a berth as ship's doctor on one ofthe smaller transatlantic liners. I got hold of things again and pulledthem my way. But I didn't want to look back. My illness had made adefinite break--I wanted to keep free. "

Cosgrave nodded. He had been playing with his food, and now a look ofdisgust and weariness came into his thin face. 

"I can understand that. I suppose it would have been better if I'd leftwell alone, and not written at all. "

"It wouldn't have made much difference, " Stonehouse said: "A week or two. Sooner or later we'd have run into one another. People who've been atschool together always seem to. And you and I especially. "

"I don't know. I was always a poor specimen--I never meant much to you. "

Stonehouse looked up at him and smiled. This time it was an unmistakablesmile and rather charming, like a warm line of light falling across hisface. 

"I was awfully glad to get your letter, " he said. "I'd begun to worryrather. "

Cosgrave flushed up. 

"That's--that's about the nicest thing that's happened to me for a longtime. I'd probably cry with pleasure--only I don't seem able to feelmuch anyway. It's those damn bugs, I suppose!"

"I'll pull you out of that. "

"Got me diagnosed already?"

"It's not very difficult. "

"I suppose--I suppose you're an awful swell, Stonehouse. "

"Not yet. I'm better at my job than a great many men who are swells. But I'm young--that'll cure itself. Oh, yes--I'm all right. Things havegone on coming my way. I'll tell you about it sometime. "

Cosgrave's eyes had rounded with their old solemn admiration. 

"A fashionable West-End surgeon--oh, my word! I say, have you got abed-side manner tucked away somewhere?"

"No. That's not fashionable for one thing, and for another, it wouldn'tsuit my style. I'm not interested in people. I'm interested in theirdiseases. They know it, and rather like it. " A touch of chill scornshowed itself for a moment in his face. "They're frightened of me. I'mas good as an electric shock to their lethargic, overfed carcasses. Theycan't get over a young man with his way to make who wipes his boots onthem. They have to come back for more. "

Cosgrave gave his little toneless laugh. 

"I wish to God you'd frighten me. You know, when I felt how rotten I wasI thought of you. You always bucked me up--I believe I had a fool ideathat I'd find you in some scrubby suburban practice. Shows the bugs musthave got into my brain too, doesn't it? Now I suppose I'll have to askyou to reduce your fees. "

"I'll let you down easy. Say, a guinea a consultation!"

"I could manage that--if you don't want to consult too often. I've gotmy bit saved. Not much to squander on out there, except whisky, and Inever took to that. Besides--my father's dead. He didn't mean to leaveme his money--you know how he loathed me--but there was a mix-up over thewill that was to cut me out--not properly witnessed or something. Anyhow, I came out into a few thousand. Rather a joke on the old man, wasn't it?"

"One might almost hope for another life if one were sure he were grindinghis teeth over it. "

A faint perplexity flickered across the sallow face. 

"Oh, I don't know. I don't seem to bear him any particular grudge now. Perhaps it would be better if I could. When one's young one judges veryharshly. Parents and kids don't understand each other--not really--anddon't always love each other either, if the truth were known. Why shouldthey? The old man and I were like strangers tied to one another by theleg. I used to think if I could pay him back for all the beastly timeshe gave me I'd die happy. But I don't feel like that now. I expect hewas pretty miserable himself. There's too much of that sort of thing forus to wish it on to one another. "

"You're very tolerant, " Stonehouse said. "I'm not. But then I haven'tinherited anything. " He stopped abruptly and his manner hardened. ButCosgrave did not pursue the subject. His interest had suddenly slumpedinto what was evidently an habitual apathy, and only when they had paidtheir bill and drifted out into the street did he revert for a moment tothe past. 

"And the Gang--and Frances Wilmot?" he asked. He looked shyly at hiscompanion's profile, which showed up for a moment in a bold, tranquiloutline against the lamplight. It betrayed nothing. 

"We might walk back to my rooms and talk in peace. Oh--Francey Wilmot?I don't know much. She went abroad--finished her course very late--shewas always a bit of a dilettante. People with money usually are. "

Cosgrave said no more. He knew all he wanted to know. It saddened him. Somehow he had counted on that half-divined romance, had played with itin his fancy as with a kind of vicarious happiness. 

3

On board the S. S. _Launceston_ there had arrived, an hour before sailing, an American gentleman--a certain Mr. Horace Fletcher, who, having beencalled home suddenly, had had to take what accommodation he could get onthe first available boat. Two days later he had lain unconscious, strapped to the captain's table, whilst the ship's doctor, a young man, himself in the horrible throes of seasickness, had performed a radicaloperation for acute mastoiditis. There had been no facilities. Thewhole thing had been in the last degree makeshift. The half-trainedstewardess had held his instruments ready for him, and the sea-sickness, comic in retrospect, had weighed heavily against Mr. Fletcher's chance ofseeing land again. Nevertheless, the eminent New York surgeon, consultedat the first opportunity, had pronounced the operation a neatperformance--under the circumstances a masterpiece. 

It was the nearest possible approach to a medical advertisement. Mr. Fletcher was a member of a well-known New York family, and the papers hadgiven the story, with fantastic details as to the ship's doctor's career, a first-page prominence. Mr. Fletcher himself had proved to be bothgenerous and grateful. In assessing the value of his own life at 1, 000pounds, he had argued with good humour and good sense, he had erred onthe side of modesty, and Robert Stonehouse, having weighed the argumentgravely, had accepted its practical conclusion as just and reasonable. He had taken rooms, thereupon, if not actually in Harley Street, at leastunder the ramparts, fitted them out with the most modern surgicalappliances that his capital allowed, and had sat down to wait. Fortunately he had learnt the art of starving before. He slept in agarret, and the bottom drawer of the handsome mahogany desk in hisconsulting-room knew the grim secret of his mid-day meals. But in sixmonths the tide had turned. Doctors had remembered him from his hospitaldays when, if they had not liked him, they had learnt to respect hisgenius and his courage, and had sent him patients. The patientsthemselves, oddly enough, took a fancy to this gaunt, very serious youngman, who so obviously cared nothing at all about them, but whose interestin their diseases was almost passionate. And within two years the tidehad brought him in sight of land. 

This was what he had meant by "getting hold of things again and pullingthem his way. " There was perhaps something rather simple in a theory oflife which had necessitated so much suffering on the part of Mr. Fletcherin order that Dr. Stonehouse might take the first long stride in hiscareer. But Cosgrave, listening to Stonehouse's own account of theincident, saw in it only an example of a strange, inexorable truth. Whatmen called "Fate" was the shadow of themselves. They imposed theircharacters upon events, significant or insignificant, willingly orunwillingly. Beyond that there was no such thing as Fate at all. 

They stepped back from the crowd into the shelter of the Piccadilly Tube. They had been walking the streets for an hour, and as much of their livesas they were able to tell one another had been told. Now they were bothbaffled and tired out. Of what had really happened to them they couldsay nothing, and their memories, disinterred in a kind of desperate haste("Do you remember that row with Dickson about my hair, Robert?") hadcrumbled, after a moment's apparent vitality, into a heap of dust. Itwas all too utterly dead--too unreal to both of them. The things thathad mattered so much, which had seemed so laughable or so tragic, werelike the repetition of a story in which they could only force a politeinterest. Their laughter, their exclamations, sounded shallow andinsincere. 

And yet it was borne in upon them that they did still care for oneanother. They had had no other friendship to compare with this. Strictly speaking, there had been no other friends. There had beenacquaintances--people whom you talked to because you worked with them. 

Robert Stonehouse had always known his own loneliness. His patientsbelieved in him; his colleagues respected him. Their knowledge of himwent no further than the operating theatre where they knew him best. Hehad reckoned loneliness as an asset. But to feel it, as he felt it nowbeneath this stilted exchange, was to become aware of a dull, stupidpain. He found himself staring over the heads of the people, and wishingthat Cosgrave had never come back. And Cosgrave said gently, as thoughhe had read his thought and had made up his mind to have done withinsincerities:

"You're not to bother about me, Robert. It's been jolly, seeing youagain and all that, but we'd better let it end here. It always puzzledme--your caring, you know, about a hapless fellow like myself. It'sagainst your real principles. I'm a dead weight. I couldn't give anyonea solitary water-tight reason for my being alive. I think you did itbecause you'd got your teeth into me by accident and couldn't let go. Idon't want you to get your teeth into me again. "

"I don't believe, " Stonehouse said, with an impatient laugh, "that I everlet go at all. "

His attention fixed itself on the illuminated sign that hung from theportico of the Olympic Theatre opposite, and mechanically he began tospell out the flaming letters:

"Gyp Labelle--Gyp Labelle!" At first the name scarcely reached hisconsciousness, but in some strange way it focused his disquiet. It wasas though for a long time past he too had been indefinitely ill, and nowat an exasperating touch the poisoned blood rushed to a head of pain. Hefelt Cosgrave plucking at his sleeve, fretfully like a sick child, raisedto a sudden interest. 

"I say, Stonehouse, don't you remember?"

"The Circus? Yes, I was just thinking about it. It's not likely to bethe same though. "

"Why not? She was a nailer. Oh--but you didn't think so, did you? Itwas the woman on the horse--the big barmaid person--I forget hername--Madame--Madame----"

It was ridiculous--but even now it annoyed him to be reminded of heressential vulgarity. There was a glamour--almost a halo about her memorybecause of all that he had felt for her. A silly boy's passion. But hewould never feel like that again. 

"Well, she could ride, anyhow. I don't know what your long-leggedfavourite was good for. "

"She made me laugh, " Cosgrave said. He asked after a moment: "Have youever wanted anything so much as you wanted to go to that Circus, Stonehouse?"

"Oh, yes--crowds of things!"

"I don't believe it somehow. I know I haven't. Oh, I say, I wish Icould want again like that--anything--to get drunk--to go to thedogs--anything in the world. It's this damnable not wanting. Do youknow I've been trying every night this week to drift into that show--justto see if it were really that funny kid. I felt I ought to want to. Why, even the fellows down in Angola had heard of her. "

"She's probably well known in hotter places than that, " Stonehouseremarked. 

"Yes--so I gathered. That's what made them so keen. They used to talkof her--telling the wildest yarns, as though it did them good just tothink there was someone left alive who had so much go in them. Queer, isn't it? Do you remember what a susceptible chap I used to be--thatpoor little Connie--what's-her-name, whom I nearly scared out of her fivesenses? Well, I've not cared a snap for any woman since then. And Iwant to--I want to. I'd be so awfully happy if I could only care forsome nice girl and marry her. There was someone on the boat--such ajolly good sort--and I think if I only could have cared she'd have caredtoo. But I couldn't. I tried to work myself up--but it was likescratching on a dead nerve--as though something vital had gone clean outof me. "

His voice cracked. Stonehouse, startled from his own reflections, becameaware that Cosgrave, whose apathy had hung about them like a fog, hidingthem from each other, was on the point of tears--of breaking downhelplessly in the crowded entrance. And instantly their old relationshipwas re-born. He took him by the arm, sternly, authoritatively, as he hadalways done when little Rufus Cosgrave had begun to flag or cry. 

"You're coming home with me. When you're fit enough we'll do the showopposite and make a night of it. We'll see what going to the devil cando for you. "

"Perhaps she'd make me laugh again, " Cosgrave said, quaveringhysterically. 

4

At any rate he had kept faith with himself. That theatre-night withFrances Wilmot had been the first and last until now, and now assuredlyhe did not care any more. But it made him remember. How intoxicated hehad been! He had walked home like a man translated into a strangecountry--words had rushed past his ears in floods of music, and thesilver and black streets had been magic-built. Was it his youth, or hadFrancey, dancing before him, her head lifted to catch unearthlyharmonies, thrown a spell over his judgment? She had gone, and he wasolder--but he had a feeling that the disillusionment was not only inhimself. It was in the atmosphere about him--in the stale air, stampedon the stereotyped gilt and plush of the shabby theatre and on the facesof the people. He wondered whether they had all grown too old. Perhapsthe spirit which had driven them into these dark boxes to gazeopen-mouthed, crying or laughing, through a peep-hole into a world ofideal happiness, or even ideal sorrow, was dead and gone like their faithin God and every other futile shadow which they had tried to interposebetween themselves and truth. This that remained was perhaps no morethan a tradition--a convention. When people were bored or unhappy theysaid: "Let's go to a theatre!" and when they came out they wondered whythey had been, or what they had hoped for. 

Reality was beginning to press hard on men. It was driving them into aniron cul-de-sac, from which there was no escape. Suicide and madness, obscure and hideous maladies of the brain herded in it. Perhaps, afterall, there had been some value in those old fairy stories. And heremembered, with a faint movement of impatience, Francey Wilmot's finalshaft: "If there isn't a God you'll have to make one up. " But even if aman were to juggle with his own integrity, turn charlatan, there was nofaith-serum which you could inject into a patient's veins. 

Cosgrave sat limply in his stall, and by the reflected light from thestage Stonehouse could see his look of wan indifference. He was nobetter. All day long he lay on his bed in the small spare room Roberthad given him and stared up at the white ceiling. There was a crack, running zig-zag from the window to the door, which reminded him, so hesaid, of a river in Angola, a beastly slimy thing trailing throughmosquito-infested swamps and villainous-tangled jungles. When he dozedit became real, and he felt the heat descend on him like a sticky hand, and heard the menacing drone of the mosquitoes and the splash of oars asunfriendly natives who had tracked him along the water's edge shot outsuddenly from under the shadow of the mango trees in their longboats--deadly and swift as striking adders. 

And then, near the door, the river broke off--poured into the opensea--or fell over a cataract--he did not know what--and he woke up with asweating start and took his medicine. He was so painstakingly docileabout his medicine that Robert Stonehouse guessed he had no faith in it. Sometimes indeed he had an idea that Cosgrave was rather sorry for him, very much as old people are sorry for the young, knowing the end to alltheir enthusiasms. It was as though he had travelled ahead, and hadfound out how meaningless everything was, even his clever friend'sstrength and cleverness. 

So he did not get better. And the forces that Robert Stonehouse hadcounted on had failed. He had been a successful physician outside hisspecialty and his sheer indifference to his patients as human beings hadbeen one of his chief weapons. He braced them, imposing his sense ofvalues so that their own sufferings became insignificant, and they ceasedto worry so much about themselves. But with Cosgrave he was notindifferent. Some indefinable element of emotion had been thrown intothe scales, upsetting the delicate balance of his judgment. 

And his old influence had gone too. It had failed him from that momentin Connie Edwards' room when suddenly Cosgrave had realized the generalfutility of things. 

"I'll see him through all the same, " Stonehouse thought, with a kind ofviolence, "I'll pull him through. "

After the first few moments he had ignored the scene before him. It wasboring--imbecile. Even to him, with his contempt for the average ofhuman intelligence, it seemed incredible that the gyrating of a fewhalf-naked women and the silly obscenities of a comedian dressed in ahumourless caricature of a gentleman should hold the attention of sanemen for a minute. Now abruptly the orchestra caught hold of him, shookhim and dragged him back. It was playing something which he had heardbefore--on a street barrel-organ, and which he disliked now with anintensity for which he could give no reason. It was perhaps because hewanted to remain aloof and indifferent, and because it would not let himbe. It destroyed his isolation. His pulse caught up its beat like therest. His personality lost outline--merging itself into the cumbrousuncouth being of the audience. 

Though it was a rhythm rather than a tune it was not rag-time. Rag-timeStonehouse appreciated. He recognized it as a symptom of the _mal dusiecle_, a deliberate break with the natural rhythm of life, a desperateennui, the hysterical pressure upon an aching cancer. Ragtime twitchedat the nerves. This thing jostled you, bustled you. It was a shout--acaper--the ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay of its day, riotous and vulgar. It wasthe sort of thing coster-women danced to on the pavements of Epsom onDerby night. 

The stage, set with a stereotyped drawing-room, was empty as the curtainrose. Two hands, dead white under their load of emeralds, held the blackhangings over the centre doorway--then parted them brusquely. Stonehouseheard the audience stir in their seats, but there was only a faintapplause. No one had come to the theatre for any other purpose than tosee her, but they knew her history. And, after all, they wererespectable people. 

Cosgrave caught him by the arm. 

"Oh, my word--it's her right enough!"

She stood there, motionless, her fair head with its monstrous crest ofmany-coloured ostrich feathers flaming against the dead background. Herdress was impudent. It winked at its own transparent pretence atcovering a body which was, in fact, too slender, too nervously alive tobe quite beautiful (Stonehouse remembered her legs--the long, thin legsin the parti-coloured tights, like sticks of peppermint, belabouring therotund sides of her imperturbable pony). But her jewels clothed her. Their authentic fire seemed to blaze out of herself--to be fed by her. And each one of them, no doubt, had its romance--its scandal. That ropeof pearls in itself was a king's ransom. People nudged each other. Itwas part of the show that she should flaunt them. 

She had been a plain child, and now, if she was really pretty at all, itwas after the fashion of most French women, without right or reason, byforce of some secret magnetism that was not even physical. Her widemouth was open in a rather vacant, childish smile, and she was looking uptowards the gallery as though she were expecting something. "Hallo, everyone!" she said tentatively, gaily. They stared back at her, stolidand antagonistic, defying her. She began to laugh then, as she laughedevery night at the same moment, spontaneously, shrilly, helplessly, untilsuddenly she had them. It was like a whirlwind. It spared no one. Theywere like dead leaves dancing helplessly in its midst. Even Stonehousefelt it at his throat, a choking, senseless laughter. 

He saw Cosgrave lean forward, and in the half light he had a queer, startled look. With his thick red hair and small white face he mighthave been some sick thing of the woods scenting the air in answer tofar-off familiar piping's. He made Robert Stonehouse see the faun inFrances Wilmot's room, the room itself and Frances Wilmot, with her chinresting in her hands, gazing into the fire. The picture was gone almostbefore he knew what he had seen. But it was knife-sharp. It was asthough a hand fumbling over a blank wall had touched by accident a secretspring and a door had flown wide open, closing instantly. 

 "I'm Gyp Labelle; If you dance with me You must dance to my tune Whatever it be. "

She jumped into the incessant music as a child jumps into a whirlingskipping-rope. She had a quaint French accent, but she couldn't sing. She had no voice. And after that one doggerel verse she made a gestureof good-humoured contempt and danced. But she couldn't dance either. Itwas a wild gymnastic--a display of incredible, riotous energy, thedelirious caperings of a gutter-urchin caught in the midst of somegutter-urchin's windfall by a jolly tune. A long-haired youth leapt onto the stage from the stage-box, and caught her by the waist and swungher about him and over his shoulder so that her plumes swept the groundand the great chain of pearls made a circle of white light about themboth. 

"Those pearls!" Stonehouse heard a man behind him say loudly. "PrinceFrederick gave them to her. And then he shot himself. They belonged tothe family. He had no right, of course, but she wanted them. "

He could feel Cosgrave stir impatiently. 

It went on, as it seemed to him, for an incredible length of time. Itwas like a prairie fire that spread and blazed up, higher and brighter. And there was no escape. He had a queer conviction that his was the onlystatic spirit in the whole theatre, that secretly, in their hearts, theaudience had flung themselves into the riot with her, the oldest andstaidest of them, as perhaps they had often wanted to do when they hearda jolly tune like that. It was artless, graceless. One only needed tolet oneself go. 

 "I'm Gyp Labelle, Come dance with me. "

The jaded disgust and weariness were gone. Something had come into thetheatre that had not been there before. Nothing mattered either so muchor so little. The main business was to have a good time somehow--not toworry or care. 

She had whirled catherine-wheel fashion, head over heels from end to endof the stage. The long-haired youth swept the hair from his hot, blue-jowled face in time to catch her, and they stood side by side, shewith her thin arms stretched up straight in a gesture of triumph, herlips still parted in that curiously empty, expectant smile. 

Then it was over. Once the curtain rose to perfunctory applause. Peoplesettled back in their seats, or prepared to go. It was as though thefire had been withdrawn from a molten metal which began instantly toharden. A woman next to Stonehouse tittered. 

"So vulgar and silly--I don't know what people see in her. "

"I want to get away, " Cosgrave said sharply. "It's this beastlycloseness. "

He looked and walked as though he had been drinking. 

Although the show was not over, the majority of the audience had begun tostream out. Two men who loitered in the gangway in front of Stonehouseexchanged laconic comments. 

"A live wire, eh, what?"

For some reason or other Stonehouse saw clearly and remembered afterwardsthe face of the man who answered. It was bloated and full of a weary, humorous intelligence. 

"Life itself, my dear fellow, life itself!"

5

Cosgrave scarcely answered his companion's comments. He withdrewsuddenly into himself, and after that he shirked the subject, understandably enough, for if he had had illusions on her account theymust have been effectively shattered. But also he ceased to lie all dayon his bed and stare up at the mosquito-infested river of his nightmare. He grew restless and shy, as though he were engaged with secret businessof his own of which Stonehouse knew nothing, and of which he could saynothing. Yet Stonehouse had caught his eyes fixed on him with thedoubtful, rather wistful earnestness of a child trying to make up itsmind to confide. (There was still something pathetically young aboutRufus Cosgrave. Now that his body was growing stronger, youth peered outof his wan face like a famished prisoner demanding liberty. )

What he did with himself during the long hours when Stonehouse was in hisconsulting-room or on his rounds Stonehouse never asked. At night he satat the study window of his friend's flat (shabby and high up since allspare money was diverted to other and better purposes), and looked overthe roofs of the houses opposite, smoking and watching the dull red glowthat rose up from the blazing theatres westwards. 

"It is a fire, " he said once, "and all the cold, tired people in Londoncome to warm their hands at it. "

Robert Stonehouse went on with his writing under the lamplight. 

"Are you cold?"

"Not now. " He added unexpectedly: "You think I'd be all right, don'tyou, if only you could have a go at my tonsils or my adenoids? I believeyou're just waiting to have a go at them. "

"Your tonsils are septic, " Stonehouse agreed gravely. "I told you so, but I wouldn't advise anything drastic until you're stronger. We'llthink about it in a month or two. You're better already. "

Cosgrave chuckled to himself. In the shadow in which he sat the chucklesounded elfish and almost mocking. 

"Oh, yes, I'm better!"

Stonehouse took his first holiday for three years, and carried Cosgraveoff with him to a rough shooting-box in the Highlands lent him by agrateful and sporting patient, and for a week they tramped the moorstogether and stalked deer and fished in the salmon river that ran in andout among the desolate hills. The place was little more than ashepherd's cottage, growing grey and stubborn as a rock out of theheather, and beyond that proffered them occasionally by a morose anddistrustful gillie they had no help or other companionship. They wontheir food for themselves, cooked it by the smoking fire, and washedheroically in the icy river water. A sting of winter was already in thewind and a melancholy and bitter rain swept the hills, giving way atevening to unearthly sunsets. They saw themselves as pioneers at theworld's end. And Stonehouse, who had calculated its effect on Cosgrave, was himself caught up in the fierce, rough charm of that daily life. Hewho had never played since that circus night played now in passionateearnest. He proved a good shot, and, for all his inexperience, anindomitable and clever hunter. His close-confined physical energy couldnot shake itself. He liked the long and dogged pursuit, the cruel, oftenfruitless struggle up the mountain-sides, the patient waiting, thetriumph of that final shot from a hand unshaken by excitement or fatigue. A stag showing itself for an instant against the sky-line called up allthe stubborn purpose in him; then he would not turn back until either hisquarry had fallen to him, or night had swallowed them both. 

And Cosgrave, half forgotten, tagged docilely at his heels, or lay in thewet heather on the crest of a hill overlooking the world, and watched andwaited with strange, wide-open eyes. But he never gave the signal. Heshot nothing. His failure seemed to amuse and even please him. A faint, excited colour came into his cheeks, lashed up by the wind and rain. Andonce, a hare running out from under his feet, he gave a wild "halloo!"like a boy and set off in pursuit, headlong down the stony hillside, hisgun at full cock, threatening indiscriminate destruction. 

"You might have killed yourself, " Robert said angrily. But Cosgravelaughed, his eyes narrowed to blue-grey slits as though he did not wantStonehouse to see all that was in them. 

"I shouldn't have minded, " he panted, "going off on the crest likethat--I wanted to run--I forgot. "

"Well, for the Lord's sake, don't forget. "

But for an instant at least he knew what Cosgrave meant. It had been thesight of that downward rushing hill and the sudden choking exultation. He had felt it too--that night in Acacia Grove in pursuit of the GreatestShow--and once again. He could smell the scent of the trees and theyoung grass blowing in his face. 

And at the bottom there had been a mysterious wood like a deep, greenpool. 

Then on the eighth day Cosgrave disappeared. He had set out in the earlymorning for the nearest station to fetch their letters and freshprovisions, and at dusk a village youth reached Stonehouse with a notewhich had been scrawled in such haste that it was almost illegible. Itwas as though Cosgrave had yielded suddenly and utterly to a prolongedpressure. 

He had to go back to town. It was something urgent. Stonehouse was notto bother. He would be all right now. 

The next day Stonehouse stalked and brought down his first "Royal. " Thistime the chase had cost him every ounce of his endurance, and in thechill dusk he stood watching the gillie at his work on the lovely body(still so warm and lissom that one could almost see the last sorrowfulheaving of its golden flanks) with a kind of stolid triumph as though nowhe had wiped out that other failure, for he realized that he had beenboth too sanguine and too impatient. When you were angling a man with asick brain back to health, you had to go slowly--delicately. 

"It's because I care, " he thought, half amused and half angry. "And whydo I care? It's as he said--a rotten habit. "

But he returned to town. He tracked Cosgrave to his formerlodging-house, where a stout, heavily-breathing landlady showed everyreadiness to be communicative and helpful. 

"Yes, sir--he's here again--I think he was expecting you--mentioned yourname--he's out now and won't be back till late--dinner at the Carlton, hesaid. If you'd like to leave a note, sir----"

She led him upstairs and watched him with a fat amusement as he stoodsilent and frowning on the threshold. 

"It _is_ a fair mess, " she admitted blandly. "I was just trying to getthings a bit together when you rang, sir. I'm to throw away all that oldstuff, he said. A reg'lar new start he's making--_and_ a lively one, Idon't think. Theatres and supper parties ever since he's been back, sir, and right glad I've been to see it, though I don't 'old withcarryings-on, in a general way. But after them there tropiks he'd need achange. He was that down, sir, when he first came, I didn't know what tothink. "

The room might have belonged to a young dandy returned to London from thewilds of Central Africa. It was littered with half-open boxes, newsuits, a disorderly regiment of shining, unworn boots and shoes, a pileof ties that must have been chosen for sheer expensiveness. (Stonehouseremembered the spotted affair with which Cosgrave had wooed ConnieEdward's approval. ) The shabby suit in which Stonehouse had first methim had been flung with the other cast-offs into a far corner. It wasall very young and reckless and jolly. One could see the owner, as herampaged about the room, whistling and cursing in a good-humoured haste. 

"'Ere's 'is writing-table; I'll just make room for you, sir----"

He stopped her. 

"It doesn't matter. If he's to be at the Carlton I'll probably look himup myself. "

"Dining early, he said, sir--seven o'clock. "

"Yes--thank you. "

A folded, grey-tinted letter lay half hidden in the general melee. Ithad a bold, irrepressible look, as though it were aware of having blownthe room to smithereens and was rather amused. Stonehouse could see thelarge, sprawling hand that covered it. He touched it, not knowingwhy--nor yet that he was angry. Something that had been asleep in himfor a long time stirred uneasily and stretched itself. 

"Ladies"--his companion simpered---"always the ladies, sir. "

Stonehouse laughed. 

An hour later he was waiting for Cosgrave in the Carlton lounge. He hadnever been in the place before--or in any place like it--and it confusedand astonished him. He was like a monk who had come unprepared into thecrude noise and glitter of a society desperately pleasure-seeking. Hecould regard the men and women round him with contempt, but not withindifference, for they represented a force against which he had not yettried himself except in theory. And they set a new standard. Here hislife and his attainments were of no account. What mattered was that hewore his travelling clothes, and that he stood stockily in the gangwaylike a man who does not know what is expected of him. It was ridiculous, but it was true that he became ashamed. 

But he held his ground stubbornly. He was not aware of any definite planor expectation. If he had asked himself what he intended he would havesaid he meant to look after Cosgrave, who was in a bad way. As a friendand as a doctor he had the right. He would not have admitted that hisown personality had become involved, that he had felt himself obscurelychallenged. 

Then he saw Cosgrave. He saw him before his companion, though foreveryone else she obscured him utterly. She walked a few steps ahead, abizarre, fantastic figure, her fair head with its deep band of diamondslifted audaciously, the same fixed smile of childish expectancy on heroval, painted face. Her dress had left vulgarity behind. It was toomuch a part of herself--in its way too genuine--to be merely laughable. It was like her execrable dancing, the expression of an exuberant, inexhaustible life. As she walked, with short impatient steps, sheswayed the great ostrich-feather fan and twisted her rope of pearlsbetween her slender fingers. The open stare that greeted her seemed toamuse and please her. 

And Cosgrave. Saville Row, Stonehouse reflected rapidly andcontemptuously, must have been bribed to have turned out such perfectionat such short notice. Too much perfection and too new. An upstart youngrake. No, not quite that, either. Pain had lent an elusive beauty tothe plain and freckled face, and happiness had made it lovable. It wasobvious that he was trying to suppress his pride and astonishment athimself and not succeeding. The corners of his mouth quivered shyly andself-consciously, and the wide-open eyes were fixed with an engagingsteadfastness on the figure in front of him as though he knew that if helooked to the right or left he would give himself away altogether. Stonehouse could almost hear his voice, high-pitched and boyish. 

"Oh, I say, Robert, isn't it wonderful--isn't she splendid?"

Stonehouse himself stood right across their path. It was accidental, andnow he could not move. He had grown to rely too much on his emotionalinaccessibility, and the violence and suddenness of his anger transfixedhim. This woman had trapped Cosgrave. She had caught him in thedangerous moment of convalescence--in that rebound from inertia whichcarries men to an excess incredible to their normal conscience. And shewas infamous. She had broken one man after another. 

She could not have overlooked Stonehouse. Apart from his conspicuousclothes, his immobility and white-set face must have inevitably drawn herattention to him. Her eyes, very blue and shadowless, met his stare witha kind of bonhomie--almost a Masonic understanding--and theuncompromising antagonism that replied seemed to check her. Shehesitated, then as he at last stood back, passed on still smiling, butmechanically, as though something had surprised her into forgetting whyshe smiled. 

Cosgrave followed her. He brushed against Stonehouse without recognition. 

In that moment Stonehouse's anger ran away with him. Thrusting aside theprotests of a puzzled and rather frightened waiter he chose a table thatfaced them both. Cosgrave, blindly absorbed, never looked towards him, but twice she met his eyes, still with a faintly puzzled amusement, asthough every moment she expected to penetrate a mask of crude enmity to ano less crude admiration and desire. Then she spoke to Cosgravelaughingly, as Stonehouse knew, with the light curiosity of a woman whohas met something tantalizingly novel, and Cosgrave turned, uttered anexclamation, and a moment later came across. He acted like a mansuffering from aphasia. He seemed totally oblivious of the immediatepast. They might have been casual friends who had met casually. He wasradiant. 

"What luck your being here. I didn't know you went in for frivolity ofthis sort--if you call it frivolous dining in solitary state. Come overand join us. We're just having a bite before the show. You rememberMademoiselle Labelle, don't you?"

Stonehouse nodded assent. He left his table at once. He seemed frigidlycomposed, but he was sure that she would not be deceived. She knew toomuch about men--that was her business--and she meant to pay him out, makehim seem crude and absurd in his own eyes. 

"It's Stonehouse--my old friend--I was telling you about him--we don'tneed to introduce you, Mademoiselle. "

She gave him her hand, palm down, to kiss, and he turned it overdeliberately. The fingers were loaded to the knuckles. He reflectedthat each of these stones had its history, tragic, comic or merelysordid. He let her hand drop. He saw that the affront had not touchedher. Perhaps others had begun like that. 

"_Ce cher docteur_--'e don't like me, " she complained pathetically toCosgrave. "'E sit opposite to me and glare like a 'ungry tiger. Believeme, I grow quite cold with fear. Tell me why you don't like me, Monsieur?"

"He was only wanting to be asked, " Cosgrave broke in with his high, excited laugh. "Why, he introduced us. I was all down and out--couldn'tdecide which bridge to chuck myself off from--and he lugged me into yourshow. He said----"

"Well, what 'e say?"

Cosgrave blushed. 

"He said: 'Let's see what going to the devil can do for you. '"

She jerked a jewelled thumb at him, appealing to Stonehouse. 

"'E 'as cheek, that young man. 'E send in 'is card to my dressing-room, saying 'e got to meet me. _Comme ca_! As though anyone could just walkin! I was curious to see a young man with cheek like that. So I let 'imcome. _Et nous voila_!" She leant across to Stonehouse, speakingconfidentially, earnestly. "But you--_c'est autre chose_--_monsieur estbien range_--an artist perhaps for all that--'e see me dance and thinkperhaps, '_Voyons_--she cannot dance at all--nor sing--nor nozzings. Just enjoy 'erself. ' You think I don't deserve all I get, _hein_?"

"I think, " said Stonehouse smiling, "that there are others in yourprofession less fortunate, Mademoiselle. "

As, for instance, that woman in the hospital--Frances Wilmot's protegee. Queer how the memory of that ruined, frightened face peering over thebed-clothes and begging for life should come back to him after eightyears. And yet the connexion was obvious enough. He looked atMademoiselle Labelle with a new interest. It was impossible that sheshould have read his thoughts, but he knew by the little twist of her redmouth that she had understood his insult. She seemed to ponder over itdispassionately. 

"That's true--_c'est bien vrai, ca_. I 'ave been lucky. I shall alwaysbe lucky. Everybody knows that. They say: 'Our Gyp, she will 'ave agood time at 'er funeral. ' No, no. Monsieur Rufus, I will not drink. If I drink I might dance--'ere on this table--and ze company is so ver'respectable. Listen. " She laid her hand on Stonehouse's arm asunconsciously as though he had been an old friend. "Listen. They playze 'Gyp Gal-lop. ' That is because I am 'ere. Ze conductor, 'e knowme--he like 'is leetle joke. _C'est drole_--every time I 'ear it playedI want to get up and dance and dance----" She hummed under her breath, beating time with her cigarette. 

 "I'm Gyp Labelle; If you dance with me. . . . "

Obviously she knew that the severely elegant men and women on either handwatched her with a covert, chilly hostility. But there was somethingoddly simple in her acceptance of their attitude. Therein, no doubt, laysome of her power. She was herself. She didn't care. She was toostrong. She had ruined people like that--people every whit as hostile, and self-assured, and respectable--and had gone free without a scratch. She could afford to laugh at them, to ignore them, as it pleased her. 

(And what would Frances Wilmot with her wrong-headed toleration, haveurged in extenuation? A hard life, perhaps? Stonehouse smiledironically at himself. The old quarrel was like an ineradicable drop ofpoison in the blood. )

She smoked incessantly. She ate very little. And as time went on sheseemed to draw away from the two men into a kind of secret ecstasy ofenjoyment like some fierce animal scenting freedom. The sentences shedropped were shallow, impatient, even stupid. And yet there was RufusCosgrave with his hungry eyes fixed on her, trapped by the nameless forcethat lay behind her triviality, her daring commonness. 

She rose to go at last. 

"And you take him with you, _Monsieur le docteur_. If 'e sit many morenights in ze front row 'e find out, too, I can't dance, and then I breakmy 'eart. Besides, I 'ave my reputation to think of in this ver'propaire England, _hein_?"

"I'm coming with you, " Cosgrave said quietly. 

She shrugged her shoulder. 

"_Eh bien_, what can I do? They are all ze same. Good-bye, _Monsieur ledocteur_. You scare me stiff. But I like you. Nest time I 'ave zetummy-ache I ring you up. 

"I shouldn't--if I were you. "

"Why? You give me poison, p'raps?"

"I might, " he said. 

II

1

So Rufus Cosgrave disappeared, like an insignificant chip of woodsucked into a whirlpool, and this time Stonehouse made no attempt toplunge in after him. With other advanced and energetic men of hisprofession he stood committed to a new enterprise--the creation of aprivate hospital, which was to be a model to the hospitals of theworld--and he had no time to waste on a fool who wanted to ruinhimself. But though he never thought of Cosgrave, he could notaltogether forget him. At night he found himself turning instinctivelytowards the window where the delicate, rather plaintive profile hadshown faintly against the glow of the streets, and the empty framecaused him a sense of unrest, almost of insecurity, as though a ghosthad risen to convince him that the dead are never quite dead, and thenhad vanished. 

He took to returning to his consulting-rooms, where he regained hisbalance and his normal outlook. The sober reality of the place thrustghosts out-of-doors. Here was no lingering shadow of poverty to recallthem. The bright, cold instruments in their glass cases, the neatlyordered japanned tables, the cunning array of lights were there toremind him that he was a man who had made a record career for himselfand who was going farther. In the day-time he took them as a matter ofcourse, but now he regarded them rather solemnly. He went from one toanother, handling them, testing them, switching the lights of specialelectrical devices on and off, like a boy with a new and seriousplaything. There was no one to laugh at him, and he did not laugh athimself. He stood in the midst of his possessions, a littleinsolently, with his head up, as though he were calling them up one byone to bear him witness. He was self-made. He had torn his life outof the teeth of circumstance. There was not an instrument, not a chairor table in the lofty, dignified room that he had not paid for withsweat and sacrifice and deprivation. No one had given him help that hehad not earned. Even in himself he had been handicapped. The boy hehad been had wanted things terribly--silly, useless, gaudy things thatwould have ruined him as they had ruined his father. He remembered howin the twilight of Acacia Grove he had listened to the music of far-offprocessions, and had longed to run to meet them and march with thejolly, singing people, and how once it had all come true, and he hadlied and stolen. 

Once only. Then he had stamped temptation under foot. He had becomemaster of himself. And now he was not tempted any more by foolishdesires. He meant to do work that would put him in the front rank ofbig men. 

And, thinking of the old struggle, he threw out his hand, as he haddone that night when he had met Francey Wilmot, and clenched theslender, powerful fingers as though he had life by the throat, smilinga little in the cold, rather cruel way that Cosgrave knew--a theatricalgesture, had it been less passionately sincere. 

It was in his consulting-room that Cosgrave found him after aprolonged, muddle-headed search that had lasted till close on midnight. Cosgrave himself was drunk--less with wine than with a kind of headyexhilaration that made him in turn maudlingly sentimental or recklesslyhilarious. And yet there was a definite and serious purpose in hiscoming--a rather pathetic desire to "put himself right, " to getStonehouse, who leant against the mantleshelf watching him with a frankcontempt, to understand and sympathise. 

"Of course--you're mad with me--you've got every right to be--it was arotten thing to do--bolting like that--beastly ungrateful andinconsiderate. It was just because I couldn't explain. I knew youthought it was the fresh air and--and hunting down those poor jollylittle beggars--and all the time it was just a girl and a blessed tunerunning through my head. "

He began to hum, beating time with tipsy solemnity, and even then thewretched song brought something riotous and headlong into the subduedroom. 

The door seemed to have been flung violently open with an explosivegesture, as though some invisible showman had called out: "Look who'shere!" and the woman herself had catherine-wheeled into their midst, standing there in her exotic gorgeousness, with her arms spread out insalutation and her mouth parted in that rather simple smile. Robertcould almost smell the faint perfume that surrounded her like a cloud. It was ridiculous--yet for the moment she was so real, that he couldhave taken her by the shoulders and thrust her out. 

"And you did want me to get better, didn't you?" Cosgrave pleadedwistfully, "even if it wasn't with your medicine. And in a sort of wayit was your medicine, wasn't it? You made me go to see her. "

Stonehouse had to sit down and pretend to rearrange his papers in orderto hide how impatient he felt. 

"My professional vanity isn't wounded, if that's what you're gettingat. If you were better I'd be very glad. As far as I can see you'reonly drunk. "

"I know--a little--I'm not accustomed to it--but it's not that, Robert. Really, it isn't. I'm jolly all--the time--even in the early morning. Seem to have come back to life from a beastly long way off--all atonce--by special aeroplane. I don't think I've felt like thissince--since----"

"Since Connie Edwards' day, " Robert suggested. "But I expect you'veforgotten her. "

Cosgrave stared, round-eyed and open-mouthed and foolish. 

"Connie----? No--I haven't. You bet I haven't. Often wonder whatbecame of her. She was a jolly good sort. "

"You didn't think so by the time she'd finished with you. "

"I was an ass. A giddy, hysterical ass. I didn't understand. Poorold Connie! She could just swim for herself--but not for both of us. And I scared her stiff--tying myself round her neck like that. "

Stonehouse cut him short. 

"Nobody could accuse Mademoiselle Labelle of being a poor swimmer, " hesaid. (He wondered at the same moment whether there was somethingwrong with him. He was so intently conscious of her. He could see herlounging idly in the big chair opposite, so damnably sure of herselfand amused. He wanted to insult and, if possible, hurt her. )

"You're awfully down on people, Robert. Hard on 'em. Often wonder whyyou haven't chucked me off long ago. But that's an old story. Youought to like her for being able to swim well. It's what you doyourself. "

"I don't mind her swimming well, " Robert returned. "But I understandthat she's been able to drown quite a number of people better able tolook after themselves than you are. As far as you're concerned, itseems--rather a pity. "

Cosgrave shook his head. A certain quiet obstinacy, not altogetherthat of intoxication, came into his flushed face. And yet he lookedsorry and almost ashamed. 

"I'm not going to drown. You know--I hate standing out against you, Robert. You've been so--so jolly decent to me--and I believe inyou--more than in anything in the world. Always have done. If yousaid 'the earth's square, ' I'd say, 'Why, yes, so it is--old chap!' Butthis--this is different--it's like a dog eating grass--a sort ofinstinct. "

"Instinct!" Robert echoed ironically. "If you know where mostinstincts lead to----" He stopped, and then went on in a cold, matter-of-fact tone, as though he were diagnosing a disease. "It's notmy business--but since you've come here I'd be interested to hear whatyou think is going to be the end of it all. I might persuade you tolook facts in the face. By position you're a little suburban nobody, who was pushed out to West Africa to become a third-rate little trader. You've survived, and you've got a little money to burn. To you itseems a fortune. But it won't pay this woman's cigarette bills. Shemakes you ridiculous. "

"I am ridiculous, " Cosgrave interrupted patiently. "I always havebeen, you know. I expect I always shall be. I'm the square peg in theround hole--and that's always comic. But she doesn't laugh at me. She's just let me join in like a good sport. I know I'm out of place, too, among her smart pals--you needn't rub it in--but she doesn't seemto make any difference, I might be the smartest of the lot. I tellyou, when I think of the good times I've had, I feel--I feel"--absurdand drunken tears came into his eyes--"as though I were in church--I'mso awfully grateful. "

"Her smart pals pay pretty dearly for their good times. It will betime to be grateful when she's had enough of you. " It escaped himagainst his will. He knew the futility of such taunts which seemed tobetray an anger too senseless to be admitted. He did not care enoughto be angry. 

"You--you don't understand, old chap. Seems cheek--my saying that toyou. But you're not like other people--you don't need the things theyhave to have to keep going. And, anyhow, she's not responsible for theasses men make of themselves. " He was becoming more fuddled as thewarmth of the room closed over his wine-heated brain. But his eyes hadchanged. They had narrowed to two twinkling slits of gaysecretiveness. "More things in heaven and earth than you dream of, oldchap. But you don't dream, do you? Never did. Got your teeth intofacts--diseases--and getting on--and all that. What's a song and adance to you? But I wish you liked her, all the same. P'raps you do, only you won't own up. She liked you, you know. Fact is, it was shesent me along to dig you out. "

At that Stonehouse was caught up sharply out of his indifference. Heflushed and thrust his hands into his pockets to prevent them fromclenching themselves in absurd resentment. 

"What do you mean?"

Cosgrave nodded. But he looked suddenly confused and rather sulky, like a play-tired child who has been shaken out of its sleep to becross-examined. 

"Well--some people would be jolly flattered. There's to be a big beanoon her birthday--a supper party behind the scenes--and she said: 'Youbring along your nice, sad, little friend--_ce pauvre jeune homme_. 'You know, Stonehouse, it made me laugh, her describing you like that. I said: 'You don't need to be sorry for Robert Stonehouse. He can keephis own end up as well as anybody. ' But she said: '_Ce pauvre jeunehomme_. ' I couldn't get her to see you were a damned lucky fellow. "He dropped back into the corner of the chesterfield and yawned andstretched himself. "I want you to come too. Do you good. P'rapsshe's right. P'raps you've had a rotten time in your own way. ThoughI don't know--I'd be happy enough, if I were you--always seem to comeout on top--not to care for any damn thing on earth, except that--noteven Francey Wilmot--or even me--just a sort of pug-dog you trailedbehind on the end of a string--a sort of mascot. "

He was going to sleep. He waggled his arm feebly, groping forStonehouse. "Say you'll come. I'd be awfully proud--show you off, youknow. Always was--awfully proud--have such a pal. "

He was the very figure of stupid intoxication as he lay there with hiscrumpled evening clothes and disordered hair--and yet not ugly either, but in some way innocent and simple. (Robert could see little RufusCosgrave, excited and tired out after the chase to the Greatest Show inEurope, peering through the disguise of rowdy manhood. )

Stonehouse threw a rug over him, resigning himself to the inevitable. But when he had switched off the main lights he gave an involuntaryglance over the suddenly shadowed room as though to make sure that thedarkness had exorcised an alien and detestable presence. 

So she was sorry for him. That, at any rate, was amusing. Or perhapsshe thought he was afraid of her in the obscure duel that was beingfought out between them. 

Cosgrave caught hold of him as he passed. 

"The end of it all will be that I'll go back to my old swamp and tellthe fellows that I've had a first-rate leave. I'll tell 'em about her, and they'll sit round open-mouthed--thinking I'm no end of a dog--andthat they'll do the same next time they get a chance. They'll beawfully bucked to hear there's a good time going after all. " Hepleaded drowsily: "Say you'll come though, Robert. You're such abrick. I'm beastly fond of you, you know. "

Robert Stonehouse withdrew his hand sharply from the hot, moist clasp. (How he had run that night! As though the devil had been after himinstead of poor breathless little Cosgrave with his innocentconfession. )

"Oh, I'll come, " he said. 

2

After all, nothing changed very much. Grown-up people masqueraded. They pretended to laugh at the young fools they had been and were stillbehind the elaborate disguise of adult reasonableness and worldlywisdom. For Robert Stonehouse, at any rate, it was ridiculously theold business over again--children whose games he despised and could notplay, despising him. 

It seemed that she had invited everyone and anyone whose name had comeinto her head, without regard for taste or sense, and the result, halfraffish and half brilliant, somehow justified her. The notable andnotorious men there, the bar-loungers whose life gave them a look ofalmost pathetic imbecility, the women of fashion and the toofashionable ladies of the chorus had, at least temporarily, acceptedsome common denominator. They rubbed shoulders in the stuffy, dingy, green-room with an air of complete good-fellowship. 

Robert Stonehouse stood alone among them, for nothing in his life hadprepared him to meet them. He had been accustomed to encounter andmaster significant hardship, not an apparently meaningless luxury andaimless pleasure. He knew how to deal with men and women whosesufferings put them in his power or with men of his own profession, butthese people with their enigmatic laughter, their Masonic greetings, almost their own language (which was the more troubling since it seemedhis very own), threw him from his security. They made himself-conscious and self-distrustful. They might be ten times moreworthless than he believed them to be, and he might be ten times abigger man than the Robert Stonehouse who had made such a good thing ofhis life. They had still the power to put him in the wrong and to makehim an oaf and an outsider. And they knew it. He felt their glancesslide over him furtively and a little mockingly. Yet outwardly heconformed to them. He wore his clothes well enough, and hisself-control covered over his real distress with a rather repellentarrogance. He was even handsome, as a plain man can become handsomewhose mind has dominated from the start over a fine body. And withthis air of power went his flagrant youthfulness. 

But the girl standing next him dropped him a flippant question withveiled irony and dislike in her stupid eyes, and turned away from himbefore he answered. She was a vulgar, garish little creature, and hecould afford to smile satirically (and perhaps too consciously) at thepowdered shoulder which she jerked up at him. And yet he was deeply, miserably shamed. 

It was like a play in which he was the only one who did not know hispart. Even Cosgrave played up--a little too triumphantly, showingoff--as a tried man-of-the-world. And at her given moment the starperformer made a dramatic entry into the midst of them, a cloak of paleblue brocade thrown over her scanty dress and her plumes still tossingfrom the elaborately tousled head. 

They greeted her with hand-clapping and laughter, and she held out herthin arms, embracing them as old friends. In her attitude and in hereyes which passed rapidly from one to another, there was good-humouredunderstanding. She knew probably what the more immaculate among themthought of her, and that they were there to boast about it as Englishpeople boast of having visited Montmartre at midnight. It was daringand amusing to be at this woman's notorious dinners. They thought theypatronized her, whatever else they knew. But in reality the joke wason her side. 

"_Allons_--to ze feast, friends. "

She had seen Robert Stonehouse, and she went straight to him, wavingthe rest aside like a flock of importunate pigeons, and took his arm. "You and I lead the way, _Monsieur le docteur_. "

He did not answer. He was glad that she had signalled him out. Itsmoothed his raw pride. And yet he thought: "This is her way of makingfun of me. " And he hated her and the scented warmth of her slim bodyas it brushed lightly against his. He hated his own excited triumph. For the first time he became aware of something definitely abnormal inhimself, as though a dead skin had been stripped off his senses and hehad begun to see and hear with a primitive and stupefying clearness. 

The rest followed them noisily along grimy, winding passages andbetween dusty wedges of improbable landscapes out on to the stage. Along table had been laid in the midst of the stereotyped drawing-room, which formed the scene of her grotesque dancing, and absurdly elaboratewaiters in powdered hair and knee-breeches hovered in the wings. Theywere not real waiters, and from the moment they came out into thefootlights the guests themselves became the chorus of a musical comedy. It was difficult to believe in the over-abundant flowers with which thetable was strewn or in the champagne lying ostentatiously in wait. 

The curtain had been left up, and the dim and dingy auditorium gapeddismally at them. The empty seats were threatening as a silent, starving mob pressed against the windows of a feasting-house. But thewoman on Stonehouse's arm waved to them. 

"I like it so. I see all my friends there--my old friends who aregone--God knows where. They sit and laugh and clap and nod to oneanother. They say: '_Voyons_, our Gyp still 'aving a good time. ' AndI kiss my 'and to them all. "

She kissed her hand and threw her head back in the familiar movement asthough she waited for their applause. And when it was over she lookedup into Robert Stonehouse's face. 

"_Monsieur le docteur_ is a leetle pale. One is always nervous atone's debut. You never act before, _hein_?"

"Not in a theatre like this, " he said. 

And he felt a momentary satisfaction because she knew that his answerhad a meaning which she did not understand. 

She persisted. 

"Monsieur Cosgrave say you would not come. To say you never donothing--only work and work. Is that true?"

"Yes. "

"Don't dance--don't go to the theatre--don't love no one--don't get aleetle drunk sometimes? Never, never?"

"No, " he said scornfully. 

"Don't want to, _hein_?"

"I hate that sort of thing. "

(But she was making him into a ridiculous prig. She turned the valuesof life topsy-turvy with that one ironic, good-natured gesture. )

"_Eh, bien_, it's a good thing for my sort there are not too many ofyour sort, my friend. But per'aps it is not quite so bad as it seems, for you 'are come after all. "

"I had to, " he thrust at her. 

"'Ow you say--professionally?"

"Yes. "

"But I 'ave not get ze tummy-ache--not yet. "

"I don't care about you. "

"You want to look after your leetle friend, _hein_?"

"Yes. "

She was unruffled--even concerned to satisfy him. 

"Well, then, you be policeman. You sit 'ere. It is always better towatch ze thief than ze _coffre-fort_. You keep an eye on me and see Idon't run away with 'im. _Voyons, mesdames et messieurs_, our friend'ere 'ave the place of honour. 'E sit next me and see I behave nice. 'E don't like me ver' much. 'E think me a bad woman. "

They laughed with her and at him. He felt himself colour up and try tolaugh back. (And it was oddly like his attempt to propitiate Form Iwhen it had gibed him on that bitter pilgrimage from desk to desk. ) Hetook his place at her right hand. He could see Cosgrave half-way downthe table, and his thin, freckled face with its look of absurdhappiness. He was unselfishly overjoyed that his friend should havebeen thus signalled out for honour. Perhaps he harboured some crazycertainty that after this Stonehouse would understand and even sharehis infatuation. He caught Robert's eye and smiled and noddedtriumphantly. 

"Now you see what she's really like, don't you?"

A string band, hidden in the orchestra under a roof of palms, playedthe first bars of her dance, and then stopped short and waitedsolemnly. She still stood, glass in hand. 

"It is my birthday. God and I alone know which one. I drink tomyself. I wish myself good luck. _Vive_ myself. _Vive_ Gyp Labelleand all who 'ave loved 'er and love 'er and shall love 'er!"

She drank her wine to the last drop, and the band began to play again, knitting the broken, noisy congratulations into a kind of triumphalchorus. It was very crude and theatrical and effective. It did notmatter, any more than it matters in a well-acted play, that the wholeincident had been rehearsed. It was as calculated and as spontaneousas that nightly, irresistible burst of laughter. 

Rufus Cosgrave stood up shyly in his place. Had he been dressed ashade less perfectly and resisted the gardenia in his button-hole, hewould have been better disguised. As it was, there could be nomistaking a little fellow from the suburbs who had got into badcompany. And in spite of the West Africa swamp and its peculiar formsof despairing vice, he was so frightfully innocent that he did not knowit, "And--and we're here to--to wish you luck too--that you go on--as youare--dancing and laughing--making us all laugh and dance withyou--however down in the dumps we are--for ever and ever--and to bringyou offerings--for you to remember us by. "

There must have been a great deal more to it than that. Stonehousecould see the notes clenched in one tense hand, but they had becomeindecipherable and he let them drop. He came from his place, stumblingover the back of somebody's chair, to where she stood, and laid a smallsquare box done up in tissue paper at her side. She laughed and caughthim by the ear, and kissed him on both flaming cheeks. 

"A precedent--fair play for all!" the man opposite Stonehouse shouted. 

They came then, one after another, treading on each other's heels, andshe waited for them, an audacious figure of Pleasure receiving custom, and kissed them, shading her kiss subtly so that each one became asecret little joke out of the past or lying in wait in the future, atwhich the rest could guess as they chose. Some of the women whom sheknew best joined in the stream. They bore her, for the most part, anodd affinity and no ill-will. They had set out on the same road andhad failed, and their failure stared out of their crudely paintedfaces. But perhaps they were grateful to her for not having forgottenthem--or for other more obscure reasons. They gave her what theycould--extemporary gifts some of them--a tawdry ring or a flower whichshe stuck jauntily among the outrageous feathers. The significantlysmall parcels she did not open--either from idle good nature or fromsheer indifference. Stonehouse wondered what Cosgrave's little boxcontained. Probably a year or two of the mosquito-infested swamp towhich he would soon return to boast of this night's extravaganza. 

"And you, _Monsieur le docteur_?"

For he had gone on eating and drinking with apparent tranquillity. 

"Oh, I have nothing--nothing but admiration, " he said smiling. 

She shook her head. 

"_Ca ne va pas_. The chief guest. Ah, no! That is not kind. Abirthday--_c'est une chose bien serieuse, voyons_. Who knows? Per'apsyou never 'ave another chance--and then you 'ave remorse--'orrible, terrible remorse. Or do you never 'ave remorse either, _Monsieur ledocteur_?"

"No--not yet. "

"You must not run ze risk, then. "

He thought savagely. 

"If I had a diamond stud she would make me give it her. "

He took a shilling from his pocket and laid it gravely in the midst ofher trophies. 

"Is that enough?"

And then before he could draw back she had kissed him between the eyes. 

"_Quite_, then. I keep it for a mascot, and you will rememberto-morrow morning, when you are ver' grave and important with some poorfrightened patient, that Gyp Labelle kiss you last night, and that youare not different from ze others, after all. And I will take myshilling from under my pillow, and say: 'Poor Gyp, that's what you'reworth, my friend!'"

"He doesn't know you yet. "

Robert Stonehouse looked up sharply. The interruption had started anew train of thought. Beyond the flushed face of the man opposite him, he could see the empty stalls, row after row of gaunt-ribbed andfeatureless spectators, watching him. The play had become a nightmarefarce in which he had chosen a ludicrous, impossible part. But he hadto go on now. 

"Except for Cosgrave there, I've known Mademoiselle Labelle longer thanany of you. I've known her ever since I was a boy. "

He felt rather than saw their expressions change. She too stared withan arrested interest, but he looked away from her to Cosgrave, smilingironically. If it humiliated her and made her ridiculous too--well, that was what he wanted. He wanted to pay her back--most of all forthe excitement boiling in him--the sense of having been toppled out ofhis serenity into a torrent of noise and colour by that audacious touchof her lips upon his face. And there was Cosgrave--and then again someolder score to be paid off--something far off and indistinct that wouldpresently come clear. 

"Don't you remember, Rufus?"

"Rather. But I know you a minute longer, Mademoiselle. I saw youbefore he did. "

"That was because Mademoiselle Moretti rode first. "

"Ah--the Circus!" She threw her head back, drawing a deep breaththrough her nostrils as though she savoured some long-lost perfumeblown in upon her by a sudden wind. "Now I remember too. Ze goodMoretti. She ride old Arabesque. 'E 'ave white spots all over 'im--on'is chest and what you call 'is paws, and every evening she 'ave topaint 'im like she paint 'er face. Madame Moretti--that was a goodsort--_bonne enfant_--what you say?--domestic--not really of ze Circusat all. She like to wash up and cook leetle _bonnes-bouches_ forsupper. She was a German--Fredechen we call 'er--and she could makeSauerkraut--_eh bien_, I--_moi qui vous parle_--_une bonneFrancaise_--I make myself sick with 'er Sauerkraut. Afterwards shegrow too stout and marry ze _proprietaire_ of what you call it?--apublic-'ouse--'Ze Crown and Garter' at some town where we stop a week. By now, I think she 'ave many children and a chin for each. "

Cosgrave laughed noisily. 

"Didn't I tell you, Robert? A barmaid!"

"Yes--you had better taste. " But he was hot with anger. "And then youcame at her heels, Mademoiselle. You rode--what was it--a donkey, afat pony? I forget which. Perhaps I was thinking too much of MadameMoretti. But I remember you were dressed as a page and wore colouredtights that didn't fit very well, and that everybody laughed because ofyour thin long legs. And you threw kisses to us--even Cosgrave gotone, didn't you, Cosgrave? And then I'm afraid I forgot youaltogether. You see, there were camels and elephants and a leglessWonder and I don't know what, and it was my first circus. "

"It must 'ave been a donkey, " she said, narrowing her eyes. "I 'averidden so many donkeys. "

He saw then that she did not mind at all the fact that she had oncebeen a circus-clown. Rather he had tossed her a memory on which shefeasted joyfully, almost greedily. She pushed her plate and glass awayfrom her, and sat with her face between her hands. 

"Well--I 'ave 'ad good times always--but per'aps they were ze best ofall. Ah, ze good old Circus--ze jolly life--one big family--monkeysand bears and camels and elephants and we poor 'umans, all shapes andsizes, long legs and short legs and no legs--loving andquarrelling--good friends always--Monsieur George with 'is big whip and'is silly soft 'eart--ze gay dinners after we 'ave 'ad full 'ouse andze no dinners at all when things go bad--and then ze journeys from townto town--sometimes it rain all day and sometimes it is so hot and thedust rise up and smother us. But always when we come near ze town webrighten up, we pretend we are not tired at all. We make jokes andwonder what it will be like 'ere. Always new faces--new streets--newpolicemen--and always ze same too--ze long procession and zetorchlights and ze music and ze people running like leetle streams downze side streets to join up and march along--ze leetle boys and girlswith bright eyes--shouting and waving, so glad to see us. "

It was not much that she said, and she did not say it to them. Shedisregarded them all, and yet by some magic, through the medium of thejerky, empty sentences she made them see the vulgar, gaudy thing as shewas seeing it. The subdued music, the tinkling of plates and glasses, they themselves made a background for her swift picture. They watchedit--the old third-rate circus--trail its cheap glitter and flare andbang out of darkness and across the stage and into darknessagain--tawdry and sordid, and yet kindly and gay and gallant-heartedtoo. 

Robert Stonehouse stared heavily in front of him. He had drunk--notmuch, but too much. He was not accustomed to drinking. The veryausterity of his life betrayed him. These people too--thesewomen--half-naked with their feverish, restless eyes--these men withtheir air of cynical and weary knowledge--were getting on his nerves. He wished he had not come. He wished he had not reminded her of thataccursed circus, for it had involved remembering. He had called up alittle old tune that would not be easily forgotten, that would go ongrinding itself round and round inside his brain, and when he hadchased it out would come back, popping out at him, bringing othersmall, pale ghosts to bear it company. He could see Cosgrave andhimself--the little boys with bright eyes--and feel the reverberationsof their astonishment, their incredulous delight. For a moment theyhad held fast to the tail-end of the jolly marching procession, andthen it had been ripped out of their feeble hands. But the processionwent on. It was always there, round the corner, with its music andfluttering lights, and if one was infirm of purpose like Cosgrave, orlike a certain James Stonehouse, one ran to meet it, flung oneself intoit, not counting the cost, lying and stealing. 

He heard her voice again and pressed his hands to his hot eyes like aman struggling back out of a deep sleep. 

"Where are they all now? _Dieu sait_. Monsieur Georges 'e die. Asfor me I go 'ome to ze old Folies Bergeres, and for six months Iwait--a leetle ugly nobody with long thin legs dancing with ten otherugly leetle nobodies with all sorts of legs be'ind La Jolleta. Youdon't remember 'er, '_hein_! Ah, _c'est vieux jeu ca_ and you are alltoo young, _Mesdames et Messieurs_. She was ze passion of yourgrandpapas. God knows why. Why do you all love me, _hein_? _UneMystere_. Well, she was ver' old then, but she 'ave ze good 'ealth andze thick skin of ze rhinoceros. And some'ow no one 'ave ze 'eart totell 'er. It become a sort of joke--'ow long she keep going--zeBoulevards make bets about it. But for me it is no joke. I am in a'urry, _moi_, and I know I can do better than she did ever--I 'avesomething--'ere--'ere--that she never 'ave. And so one night I put aleetle pinch of something that a good friend of mine give me in LaJolleta's champagne what she drink before she dance, and when zecall-boy come she lie there on ze sofa--'er mouth open--_commeca_--snoring--like a pink elephant asleep--'ow you say--squiffy--deadto ze world. Ze manager 'e tear 'is 'air out, and then I come and show'im and 'e let me go on instead because there is no one else. And thepeople boo and shriek at me, they are so angry and I make ze long noseat them all--and presently they laugh and laugh. "

They could see her. It wouldn't have seemed even impudent. Even thenshe had been too sure of herself. 

"And when I come off ze manager kiss me on both cheeks. _Et c'etaitfait_. "

They applauded joyously. Her brutal egotism was a good joke. Theyexpected nothing else from her. She was like an animal whose crueltyand cunning one could observe without moral qualms. 

"It was a mean thing to have done, " Stonehouse said loudly andtruculently--"a treacherous thing. "

A shadow was on Cosgrave's face. He leant towards her, almost pleading. 

"And La--La--what did you call her? La Jolleta--what became of her?"

She made a graphic gesture. 

"She went into the sack, little one---into the sack. She was old. Oneshould go gracefully. "

"You too, " Stonehouse said, in a savage undertone. 

"I---- Oh, no, _jamais, jamais_. " She lifted the monstrous crest ofplumage from her head and set it in the midst of the flowers andrumpled up her hair till she was like the child riding the fat pony. "You see yourself--I never grow old, my friend. "

"You are older already, " he persisted. 

But the man opposite broke in again. He leant towards Stonehouse, hisinflamed eye through the staring monocle fixing him with anextraordinary tipsy earnestness. 

"No, doctor, you are mis-mistaken. It would be intolerable--youunderstand--quite intolerable. There are things that--that must not betrue--as there are other things that must be true. We've staked ourlast penny on it, sir, and we've got to win. Mademoiselle here knowsall about it, and she'll play the game. A sport, doctor, a sport. Won't let old friends go bankrupt--no--certainly not. "

They laughed at him. It seemed unlikely that he himself knew what hewas talking about. But he shook his head and remained sunk in solemnmeditation, twirling the stem of his glass between thick, unsteadyfingers. The girl next him nudged him disgustedly. 

"Oh, wake up! You'll be crying in a minute. Talk of something else. "

"Tell us the story of the Duke and the Black Opal, Gyp. "

She waved them off. 

"No--no--that is not discreet. One must not tell tales. That mightfrighten someone 'ere who loves me. "

And she looked at Stonehouse, a little malicious and insolently, childishly sure. He leant towards her, speaking in an undertone, trying to stare her down. 

"Do you mean me, Mademoiselle?"

"And why not, _Monsieur le docteur_? Would it be so strange? You sayyou love nobody. But it seems you love ze poor fat Moretti--terribly, terribly, no doubt, so that you almost break your small 'eart for 'er. And per'aps someone else too. You say you don't drink--but you arejust a leetle drunk already. You are not different from ze rest. Itell you that before--and I know. I am a connoisseur. It iswritten--'ere in the eyes and in the mouth. It is dangerous, the wayyou live. _Quant a moi_--I don't want you, my friend--we two--thatwould be an eruption--a disaster--I should be afraid. "

She pretended to shudder, and a moment later seemed to forget himaltogether. She pressed her cigarette out on her plate and went overto the piano, touching Cosgrave lightly on the shoulder as she passedhim. 

"Come, my latest best-beloved, we 'ave to amuse ze company. We singour leetle song together. "

But first she made a deep low bow to the shadowy theatre. She kissedher fingers to the empty boxes that stared down at her with hollow, mournful eyes. (Were there ghosts there too, Stonehouse wonderedbitterly? The unlucky Frederick, perhaps, with the fatal hole gapingabove the temple, applauding, leaning towards her!)

She sang worse than usual. She was hoarse, and what voice she had gaveway altogether. It did not seem to matter either to her or to anyoneelse. What she could not sing she danced. There was a chorus and theyjoined in filling the gloom behind them with sullen, ironic echoes. She reduced them all, Stonehouse thought, to the cabaret from which shesprang. 

And it was comic to see Cosgrave with his head thrown back, playing thecommon, noisy stuff as though inspired. 

When it was over he swung round, gaping at them with drunken, confidential earnestness. 

"You know, when I was a kid I used to see myself--on a stage likethis--playing the Moonlight Sonata. "

She rumpled up his thick hair so that it stood on end like Loga's names. 

"You play my song ver' nice. And that is much better than playing zeMoonlight Sonata all wrong, my leetle friend. "

3

It was a sort of invisible catastrophe. 

No one else knew of it. In the day-time he himself did not believe init--did not, at first, think of it at all. It had all the astonishingunreality of past pain. He went his way as usual, was arbitrary andcocksure with his patients, and looked forward to the evening when hecould put them out of his mind altogether and give himself to his vitalwork. For the hospital had become a fact. It stood equipped andoccupied, an unrecognized but actual witness to his tenacity. Othermen would get the credit. The Committee who had appointed himconsulting surgeon, not without references to his unusual youth andtheir own daring break with tradition--had no suspicion that even thefund which, in a fit of inexplicable far-seeingness they had allottedto research, had been created under his ceaseless pressure. And noteven in his thoughts was he satirical at their expense. They hadprovided the money and done what he wanted and so served their purpose. Among his old colleagues he bore himself confidently but unobtrusively. He could afford to pay them an apparent deference. He was goingfarther than they were. His eyes were fixed on a future far beyond thecentres of their jealousies and ambitions when he would be freed fromthe wasteful struggle with petty ailments and petty people, and thelast pretence of being concerned with individual life. It was a timeof respite and revision. He was young--in his professionextraordinarily young--and he was able to look back, as a mountaineerlooks back from his first peep over the weary foothills, knowing thatthe bitter drudgery is past and that before him lies the true andsplendid adventure. 

That was in the day-time. But with the dusk, the discreet shutting ofdoors and the retreating steps of the last patient, a change came. Itwas like the subtle resistless withdrawal of a tide--a draining away ofpower. He could do nothing against it. He could only sit motionless, bowed over his papers, striving to keep a hold over the personalitythat was slipping from him. And then into the emptiness there flowedback slowly, painfully, a strange life--a stream choked and muddied atits source--breaking through. 

It was a physical thing. Some sort of nervous reaction. With thedread of that former break-down overshadowing him he yieldeddeliberately. He would leave the house and walk--anywhere--but alwayswhere there were people--down Regent Street, sweeping like a broadriver into a fiery, restless lake. There he let go altogether, and thecrowds carried him. He eddied with them in the glittering backwatersof the theatres, and studied the pallid, jaded faces that drifted inand out of the lamp-light with the exaggerated attention of a mind onguard against itself. He hated it all. It emphasized and justifiedhis aloofness from the mass of men. These people were sick andugly--sicklier and uglier in their pleasure-seeking than in theirstubborn struggle for survival, which had at least some elementaldignity. It was from their poisoned lives that women like Gyp Labellesucked their strength. It was their childish perverted instincts thatmade her possible. They made the very thought of immorality a grislyjoke. And yet their nearness, the touch of their ill-grown, ill-cared-for, or grossly over-nurtured bodies against his, the soundof their nasal strident voices brought him relief. He could not shakeoff their fascination for him. He was like a man hanging round thescene of some conquered, unforgotten vice. 

It was one dismal November evening that, turning aimlessly into a Sohoside-street, he came upon an old man who stood on a soap-box under alamp and preached. He held a Bible to the light and read from it, andat intervals leant forward and beat the tattered book with his openhand. 

"You hear that, men and women. This is the liar, the tyrant, theself-confessed devil whom you have worshipped from the beginning ofyour creation. You see for yourselves the sort of beast he is. Thereisn't a brute amongst us who would do the things he's done. He's madeyou fight and kill and torture each other for his sake. And all downthe ages he has laughed at you--he is laughing now because, afterall--he knows the truth--he knows what I tell you here night afternight"--and Mr. Ricardo leant forward and pointed a long, dirty fingerat the darkness--"that he doesn't exist--that he is a dream--a myth--ahope----"

Someone cheered--perhaps because the last words had a sound of eloquentconclusion--and Mr. Ricardo nodded and took breath. He was like ascarecrow image that had been stuck up by a freakish joker in a Londonstreet. The respectability that still clung to him made him the moreludicrous. His clothes were the ruined cast-offs of a middle-classtradesman, and over them he wore his old masters gown. It did notflutter out behind now, but lay dank and heavy along his sides like thewings of a shot bird. 

Robert Stonehouse stood back against the shuttered windows of a shopand stared at him. The sea, rushing out in some monstrous tidal wavehad left its floor littered with old wreckage, with dead, forgottenpeople who stirred and lifted themselves. A grotesque, privateresurrection. . . . 

The crowd around Mr. Ricardo listened in silence, not mocking him. There were wide-eyed, haunted-looking children, and men and women notquite sober who drifted out from the public-houses to gape heavily atthis cheaper form of entertainment. Possibly they thought he was somemissionary trying to induce them to sign the pledge. Some of them musthave known that he was mad. But even they did not laugh at him. Intotheir own dark and formless thoughts there may have come the dimrealization that they, too, were misshapen and outcast. The rainfalling in long, slanting lines through the dingy lamplight seemed tomerge them into a mournful kinship. 

He spoke rapidly, and for the most part the long, involved sentencesrolled themselves without meaning. But now and then somethingstruggled clear--a familiar phrase--an ironical echo. Then RobertStonehouse saw through the disfigurement to the man that had been--thepoor maimed and shackled fighter gibing and leering at hisfellow-prisoners. 

"And now, my delightful and learned young friends----"

And yet he had stood up for little Robert Stonehouse in those days--hadarmed him, and opened doors, and made himself into a stepping-stone tothe freedom he had never known. And had gone under. . . . 

"That is all for tonight, men and women. I thank you for your support. You may rest assured that the fight will go on. The end is in sight, and if need be I shall lead the last attack in person. "

Then he stepped down from his soap-box and swung it on to his shouldersby means of a cord, and went limping off in a strange and anxious haste. 

Stonehouse pushed roughly through the dispersing, purposeless crowd andcaught up with him as he was about to lose himself in a dark network oflittle squalid streets. He felt oddly young and diffident, for theschoolmaster is always the schoolmaster though he be mad and broken. 

"Mr. Ricardo--don't you remember me?"

The old man stopped and blinked up uncertainly from under the soddenbrim of his hat. His dirty claw-like hands clutched his coat togetherin an instinctive gesture of concealment. He seemed disturbed and evenrather offended at the interruption. 

"I--ah--I beg your pardon. No, I'm afraid not. It is--ah--notunnatural. You understand--I have too many supporters. "

"Yes--yes--of course. But you knew me years ago when I was a boy. Don't you remember Robert Stonehouse?"

It was evident that the name fanned some faint memory which flickeredup for a moment and then went out. 

"You will excuse me. It is possible. I have heard the name. But Ihave long since ceased to concern myself with persons. In a greatstruggle such as this individuals are submerged. "

He walked on again, slip-slopping in his shapeless boots through theslush, his head down to the rain. 

"Christine, " Robert said, "don't you remember Christine?"

(He himself had not thought of her for years, and now deliberately hehad conjured her up. )

Mr. Ricardo hunched his shoulders. He peered round at Stonehouse, frowning suspiciously. 

"You are very persistent, sir. Are you God?"

"No. "

"It is better to be quite frank with one another. Not an emissary ofGod?"

"No. "

He seemed only half satisfied. 

"You will excuse my asking. I have to be very careful. There havebeen certain signs of late that the enemy is anxious tonegotiate--to--ah--reach some compromise. No direct offer, youunderstand, but various feelers--hints--suggestions--terms of a mostunscrupulous and subtle nature--traps into which a man less--ah--warythan myself might well fall. This Christine--yes--yes--I have to be onmy guard. "

"I have nothing to do with God, " Robert said gently. "I'm a friend--onyour side. I'd like to help. If I knew where you lived so that Icould learn more about your work----"

But Mr. Ricardo shrank away from him. 

"I don't like the sound of that. I dare say I do you an injustice, young man, but I can't afford to take risks. My headquarters are mysecret. "

"Well"--he tried to speak in a matter-of-fact and reasonable way--"atany rate, a general must have munition. I'd like to help financially. You can't refuse me that. "

They were almost through the labyrinth of Soho and on the brink ofOxford Street. Mr. Ricardo stopped again with his hand spread out flatupon his breast in a gesture not without power and dignity. 

"You think I am a failure, sir, because I go poorly dressed. You aremistaken. In the struggle that I am carrying on, outward and materialthings are of no account. I might have all the wealth and all thearmies of the world, sir, and be further from victory than I am now. The fight is here, sir, in the spirit of man, and the weaker and poorerI become the nearer I am to the final effort. I am a fighter, sir, stripping himself--presently I shall throw off the last hindrance, andif the enemy will not show himself I shall seek him out--I shall forcehim to stand answer----" He broke off. The chain of white-hotcoherency had snapped and left him peering about him vaguely, and alittle anxiously, as though he were afraid someone had overheard him. 

"It has been very difficult--there were circumstances--so manycircumstances----" He sighed and finished on the tonelessparrot-note of the street orator: "My next meeting will be at MarbleArch, 3 p. M. , on Tuesday. Thank you for your attention, andgood-night. "

He lifted his hat and bowed to left and right as though to an assembledmultitude. The lamp-light threw his shadow on to the grey, wetpavements, and with the soap-box perched on his shoulders it was theshadow of a huge hunchback. Then he shuffled off, and Stonehouse lostsight of him almost at once in the dripping, uncertain darkness. 

He walked on mechanically, aimlessly. He was tired out and dejectedbeyond measure by this tragic encounter. It was not any immediateaffection for the old man, who had been no more to him than a strangeforce driving him on for its own purposes; it was the others he hadevoked--and, above all, the sense of common misfortune which no man canavert for ever. For the moment he lost faith in his own power tomaintain himself against a patient and faceless Nemesis. 

It was morbid--the old terrifying signs of breakdown--the pointingfinger. 

"Thus far and no further with your brain, Robert Stonehouse. "

And then, suddenly, he found that he was in a familiar street, and, stopping short, as though from old custom, to look up. There was thefinest house in Harley Street which they were to have decorated withtheir brass plates. If it had risen straight out of the ground at thebehest of his fancy he could not have been more painfully disconcerted. He had never known before that he had avoided it. He knew it now, andthe realization was like the opening of a door into a dark andunexplored chamber of his mind. He stood there shivering with cold, and wet, and weariness. Who lived there now, he wondered? The oldback-numbers whom they were to have ousted so ruthlessly? Well, hecould find out. Someone lived there, at any rate. He could see alight in one of the upper rooms. He crossed over and went up the stepscautiously, like a thief. All the brass plates but one had gone. Thatone shone brightly in the lamp-light, giving the door a one-eyed, impish look. He could read the letters distinctly, and yet he had tospell them over twice. It was as though she herself had suddenlyopened the door and spoken to him. 

 "Frances Wilmot, M. D. "

Then he turned and walked away. But at the next corner he stopped andlooked up again at the lighted window. What freakish fancy hadpossessed her----? Perhaps she was there now. He could see her inthe room that had been his enemy. And he had brief vision of himselfstanding there in the empty street as he had done when he had loved herso desperately, gazing up at that signal of warmth and comfort out ofthe depths of his own desolateness. 

He said "Francey!" under his breath, ironically, as though he haduttered a child's "open-sesame!" to prove that there had never been anymagic in the word. But the sound hurt him. 

This time he did not look back. 

Nor was there any reassurance to be found that night in the concretejustification of his life. He set himself down to work in vain. Oneghost called up another. The room with its solemn, bloodlessimpedimenta became--not a monument to his success, but a Moloch, towhom everything had been sacrificed--the joy of life, its laughter, itscolour--and Christine. And not only Christine. He had been sacrificedtoo. 

But he saw Christine most clearly. She sat in the big arm-chair wherehis patients waited for his verdict. She wore the big, floppy, blackhat that she had liked best, and the grey hair hung in the old untidywisps about her face. The chair was much too big for her. Her littlefeet hardly touched the ground. Her hands in the darned gloves werefolded gravely over the shabby bag. He could see her looking aboutdimly and hear the clear, small voice. 

"How wonderful of you, Robert! How proud your dear father would havebeen!"

He fidgeted with the papers on his table, rearranging, re-sorting, desperately trying not to suffer. But he would have torn the wholeplace down in ruins to have remembered that he had given her one day ofhappiness. 

Well, there had been that one day on Francey's hill--the picnic. Shehad liked that. The wood at the bottom, like a silent, deep, greenpool--and Francey's arms about his shoulders, Francey's mouth on his, giving him kiss for kiss. 

Ghosts everywhere--and no living soul who cared now whether he failedor won through, whether he suffered or was satisfied. Only Cosgraveperhaps--poor, unlucky little Cosgrave--always hunting forhappiness--breaking himself against life--going to the dogs for thesake of a rotten woman. 

He fell forward with his face hidden in his arms and lay there shakenby gusts of fever. They weakened gradually, and he fell asleep. Andin his sleep his father drew himself up suddenly, showing his terriblewhite face, and clutched at little Robert Stonehouse, who skirted himand ran screaming down the dark stairs. 

"You can't--you can't--you're dead. I'm grown up--I'm free--I'm notlike you--you can't--you can't----"

But the next morning he was himself again, sure and cool-headed andcool-hearted. He did not believe that he had suffered or in therecurrence of that terror. 

III

1

Probably she had expected him. It must have seemed to her, soStonehouse reflected as he followed the shrivelled old woman down apassage dim and gorgeous with an expensive and impossible Orientalism, a natural sequel to his enmity. Men did not hate her--or they did soat their peril. Then she would be most dangerous. The lucklessFrederick, so the story ran, had snubbed her at a charity bazaar, andhad made fun of her dancing. And he had stolen and finally shothimself for her sake. Perhaps she thought there was a sort ofinevitability in this programme. 

He had to wonder at and even admire the mad splendour of the place. Her taste was as crude and flamboyant as herself, but it too hadescaped vulgarity which at its worst is imitative of the best, a stupidsecond-handness, an aggressive insolent self-distrust. She was notashamed of what she was. She was herself all through, and she trustedherself absolutely. She wanted colour and there was colour. Shewanted Greek columns in a Chinese pagoda and they were there. Thehouse was like a temple built by a crazy architect to a crazy god, andevery stick and stone in it was a fanatic's offering. 

The old woman jerked her head and stood aside. Her toil-worn face withthe melancholy monkey eyes was inscrutable, but Stonehouse guessed atthe swift analysis he was undergoing. In his iron temper he couldafford to be amused. 

"Mademoiselle is within. "

The room was a huge square. To make it, two floors at least of therespectable Kensington house must have been sacrificed. The walls weredecorated with Egyptian frescoes and Chinese embroideries, and silkdivans which might have figured in a cinema producer's idea of aTurkish harem were set haphazard on the mosaic floor. In the centre astone fountain of the modern-primitive school and banked with flowerssplashed noisily. Somehow it offered Kensington the final insult. Butshe had wanted it, just as she had wanted the Greek columns. There waseven a certain magnificence about the room's absurdity. It was sohopelessly wrong that it attained a kind of perfection. 

She herself sat on the edge of the fountain and fed a gorgeous macawwho, from his gilded perch, received her offerings with a loftyfriendliness. But as Stonehouse entered she sprang up and ran to him, feeling through his pockets like an excited child. 

"The poison--the poison!" she demanded. 

He had to laugh. 

"I forgot it, " he said. 

"_C'est dommage_. You 'ave not taken it yourself by any chance?"

"No--I wouldn't do that at any rate. "

"_C'est vrai_. I ask--you 'ave an air _un peu souffrant_. Well, nevermind. It's droll though--I think about you just when you ring up--I'ave a damn pain--not ze tummy-ache this time--and I say: '_Le pauvrejeune homme_, 'ere is a chance for 'im to pay me out for kissing 'imwhen 'e don't want to be kissed. ' You remember--I say I send for youone day. But ze old pain--it 'as gone now. You--'ow do you say?--youconjure it away. "

"Your pains don't interest me, " he said. "For one thing I don'tbelieve you ever had any. I suppose you think a pain is the bestentertainment to offer a doctor. It's thoughtful of you, but I didn'tcome here to be amused. "

"Then I wonder what you want of me, " she remarked. She went back toher place on the fountain's edge, sitting amidst the flowers andcrushing them under her hands. The pose appealed to him asexpressively callous, and yet it was innocent too, the pose of a childor an animal who destroys without knowledge or ill-will. 

"Do people usually want things from you?" he asked. 

"Always--all ze time. "

"And you give so much. "

She eyed him seriously. 

"I give what I 'ave to give. "

"And take what you can get. "

"Like you, _Monsieur le docteur_. "

The absoluteness of his hatred made it possible for him to laugh withher. 

"My fees are fairly reasonable at any rate. I've helped some peoplefor nothing. "

"Because you love them?"

"No. "

"_C'est dommage aussi_. You should love someone. It is much'ealthier. I love everyone. Per'aps I love too much. I makeexperiments. You make experiments--and sometimes leetle mistakes. _Comme nous autres_. 'Ze operation was a _grand succes_--but zepatient die. ' I know. Some of mine die too. "

"Prince Frederick, for instance?"

She lifted the long chain of pearls about her neck and considered themdispassionately. 

"That _canard_! You think 'e give me these? _Ce pauvre_ Fredi! 'Ecouldn't 'ave given me a chain of pink coral. I could 'ave bought 'imand 'is funny little kingdom with my dress-money. 'E shoot 'imself. Well, that was 'is _affaire_. 'E 'ave no doubt explain 'imself to ze_bon Dieu_, who is particulaire about that sort of thing. As to ze oldpearls--my agent 'e set that story going--_pour encourager les autres_. "

"Cosgrave among them?" he suggested. 

"Monsieur Cosgrave? We won't talk about 'im just now, if you please. 'E make me ver' cross. I 'ate to be cross. It is ver' difficult to'ave a good time with English people. They are so damn thorough. Whenthey want to go to ze devil they want to go ze whole way. "

"Perhaps that's why I'm here, " he said ironically. 

"_Voyons--voyons, c'est ennuyeux_----" She broke off and gave a littlehusky, good-natured laugh. "I remember. You think me a bad woman. But I am not a bad woman at all. Ze leetle girls in ze chorus--theyare sometimes bad because they want things they 'ave no right to 'ave. They are just leetle girls with nothing to give, and they want to liveze big life and they tumble into ze gutter. They are ze ginger-beerwho pretend to be ze champagne. _Mais mot_--I am ze real champagne. Imake things seem jolly that are not jolly at all--ze woman who sit nextyou at dinner--ze food--ze bills who wait for you at 'ome--life. Ifyou take too much of me you 'ave ze 'eadache. _Enfin, ce n'est pas mafaute_. I 'ave so much to give. I 'ave so much life. One life--onecountry--one 'usband is not enough. But I am not bad. If there wasany sense in things they would give me an order and a nice longtitle--_Grande Maitresse de la Vie_--_Princesse de Joie_. " She liftedher eyebrows at him to see whether he appreciated the joke. "Ahwell--no. I talk too much about myself. Tell me instead what youthink of my leetle 'ome. _C'est joli, n'cest-ce-pas_?" She wavedtowards the Chinese embroideries and added, with a child's absolutecontent: "I like it. "

"I suppose you do, " he retorted. "It reminds me of a quaint old customI read about somewhere. When our early ancestors were building aparticularly important house they buried a few of the less importantcitizens alive under the foundations. It seemed to have a beneficialinfluence on the building process. "

She offered him her cigarette-case. She seemed to be considering hisremark carefully. Suddenly she laughed out with an unfeigned enjoyment. 

"I see. My victims, _hein_? You can make leetle jokes too. But whyso ver' serious? I'm not burying you, am I?"

"No. You couldn't. And you're not going to bury Cosgrave. Oh--Idon't want to waste my time and yours making accusations or appealingto what doesn't exist. I only want to point out to your--your businessinstinct that Cosgrave isn't worth burying. He's poor and he'sunlucky. He won't bring you luck or anything else. Much better to lethim go. "

"Let 'im go? But I want 'im to go! Yesterday I would not see 'im. Ididn't want to see 'im. "

"That was a good reason. It's all rather late in the day, though. Twomonths ago Cosgrave came to England with about 3000 pounds. I know, because he told me. And now that's gone. You know where. "

"I make a guess, my friend. "

"He bought you presents--outrageous for a man in his position. "

"Someone 'ave to buy them, " she explained good-humouredly. "I don'task about positions. It's not polite. "

"Now he's at the end of his tether. He's got to go back to his job. Last night he came to my rooms for the first time for weeks. Hewas--was almost mad. When he first came to England he was very ill. That does not concern you. But what may concern you is that he hasbecome dangerous. He threatened to shoot you. "

"Well, before 'e know me 'e threaten to shoot 'imself. Decidedly, 'eis getting better, that young man. "

Her shameless, infectious laughter caught him by the throat. He wantedto laugh too, and then thrust her empty, laughing face down into thewater of her comic fountain till she died. There were people who werebetter dead. He had said so and it was true, in spite of FranceyWilmot and her childish sentimentality. Suddenly the woman in thehospital and this riotous houri were definitely merged into onecomposite figure of a mindless greed and viciousness. He clenched hishands behind his back, hiding them. 

"If you would only sit down we should talk so much 'appier, " she saidregretfully. "You seem so far off--so 'igh up. Please sit down. "

"I don't want to. "

"Because you're afraid we might get jolly together, _hein_? Well, youstand up there then, and tell me something. Tell me. You don't lovenobody. You are a very big, 'ard young man, who 'ave made 'is way inze world and know 'ow rotten everybody else is. You 'ave 'ad 'ardtimes and 'ard times is ver' bad for everyone, except per'aps JesusChrist, for either they go under and are broken, un'appy people, orthey come out on top, and then zey are 'arder than anyone else. Well, you are ze big, 'ard young man. But you run after this leetle MonsieurRufus as though 'e was your baby brother. Well--'e is a nice leetlefellow--but 'e is just a leetle fellow--with a soft 'eart and a soft'ead. Not your sort. And, you're not 'is sort. 'E's frightened ofyou. 'E want someone who pat 'is 'ead and let 'im cry on 'is shoulder. You can't 'elp 'im--and you fuss over 'im--you come 'ere and try to put'is 'eart _affaires_ in order and it's no use at all. _C'est ridicule, enfin_. "

He looked away from her, so that she should not see that this time shehad struck home. She had knocked the weapon out of his hand, and forthe moment, in his astonishment and pain, he could not even hate her. It was true. He couldn't help Cosgrave any more. His strength andability were, as she said, of no use. That was what Cosgrave had meantwhen he had laughed about the adenoids. He had failed Cosgrave fromthe moment that Cosgrave had demanded love for himself and humantenderness. He had no tenderness to give. He was a hard young man. He said slowly, and with a curious humility:

"I used to back him up when he was a kid. He trusted me too--and it'sgot to be a sort of habit. I want him to be happy. "

"Because you are so un'appy yourself?"

"I'm all right, " he said stubbornly. And then he added, still notlooking at her. "Please give him up--so--so that he won't break hisheart over it. I'm not a rich man either, but I'll make it worth yourwhile. "

She sprang up with a gesture of amused exasperation. 

"'Ow _stupide_ you are, my clever friend. You are like ze old fatherin ze _Dame aux Camellias_. You make me quite cross. This Rufus--Ican't give 'im up. 'E don't belong to me. I never ask for 'im. 'Ecome into my dressing-room and I like 'im for 'is cheek and I give 'ima good time. Now he is _ennuyeux_. 'E want to marry me and make anhonest woman of me. " She patted Stonehouse on the shoulder with sodroll a grimace that he bit his lip to avoid a gust of ribald, incredible laughter. It was as though by some trick she changed thewhole aspect of things so that they became simply comic--scenes in ajolly, improper French farce. "And now I 'ope you see 'ow funny thatis. And please take Monsieur Cosgrave away and keep 'im away. I don'task no better. "

His anger revived against her. And it was a thing apart from Cosgravealtogether--a bitter personal anger. 

"It can't be done like that. You can't take drugs away from adrug-fiend at one swoop. Let him down gently--treat him as a frienduntil he has to go--get him to see reason. "

"No, " she said. "You don't understand. You 'ave not 'ad myexperience. If I let 'im 'ang on 'e get much worse. If I push 'imoff--poof!--an explosion! Then 'e find a nice leetle girl who is notlike me at all and marry--ver' respectable--and 'ave 'eaps of babies. That is what 'e want. But it is not my _affaire_--and I won't bebothered. I tell you 'e is too _ennuyeux_----"

He lashed out at her. 

"--and too poor. My God, you're no better than a woman of the streets. "

She assented with a certain gravity. 

"_C'est bien vrai, ca--bien vrai_. I was born in ze gutter--I crawlout of ze gutter by myself. I keep out of ze gutter--always. And Idon't cry and wring my 'ands when people try to kick me back again. Ikick them. I look after myself. Monsieur Cosgrave--and all thoseothers--they must look after themselves too. Do you think they botherabout me if I become _ennuyeuse_--like them--and cry because they don'tlove me and like some leetle girl in ze chorus better? Not they. Theywant fun and life from me--and I give them that. When they want morethey can--'ow you say?--get out?"

He stared at her in white-hot detestation. 

"I see. I've just wasted my time. You're--you're as infamous as theysay. You're taking everything he has, and now he can go and hanghimself. You're worse than a woman of the streets because you're moreclever. "

She kissed her fingers at him in good-humoured farewell. "I like youver' much--_quand meme_, " she said. "Next time I come and call on you, per'aps!"

2

That same night Cosgrave, frustrated at the theatre, tried to force anentrance to the Kensington house, and the old woman, seconded by aJapanese man-servant, flung him out again and into the arms of apoliceman who promptly arrested him. Stonehouse went bail for him, andthere was a strange, frantic scene in his own rooms. 

For this was not the gentle young man who had met Connie Edwards'infidelity with an apathetic resignation. He was violent andindignant. His sense of outrage was a sort of intoxication which gavean extraordinary forcefulness to his whole bearing. He stormed andthreatened--the misery that stared out of his haggard blue eyesshrivelling in the heat of an almost animal fury. (And yet hestammered too--which was comically what the other Rufus Cosgrave wouldhave done. )

"I--I love her. I've never loved anyone else. That Connie business--ab-boy and girl affair--a silly flirtation--this--the real thing. I--I'm a m-man now. N-no one's going to play fast and loose with me. No, by God! I'll see her--she's got to have it out with me. I've aright to an explanation at least--and by God I'll have one!"

"For what?" Stonehouse asked. 

"She loved me, " Cosgrave retorted. 

"I don't believe it. "

"You d-don't believe it? W-what do you know about it? Didn't shebehave as though she did? Didn't she go about with me? Didn't shetake things from me--no decent woman would have taken unless she lovedme?"

"She doesn't happen to be a decent woman, " Stonehouse observed. "To doher justice she doesn't pretend to be one. "

Cosgrave advanced upon him as though he would have struck him acrossthe face. But he stopped in time, not from remorse, but as thoughpulled up by a revelation of maddening absurdity. 

"Oh, you--you! You don't understand. You aren't capable ofunderstanding. You're a block--a machine--you don't feel--you g-goabout--rolling over p-people and things like--like a damnedsteam-roller. You're not a man at all. You don't love anyone--noteven yourself. What do you know about anything?"

He was grotesque in his scorn, and yet Stonehouse, leaning with anapparent negligence against the mantel-shelf, felt himself go deadwhite under the attack. He had lost Cosgrave. And he knew now that heneeded him desperately--more now than even in his desolatechildhood--that unconsciously he had hugged the knowledge of thatboyish affection and dependence to him with a secret pride as atalisman against he hardly knew what--utter isolation, a terrifyinghardness. He made up his mind to have done now with reserve, to showbefore it was too late at least some of that dwarfed and suffocatedfeeling. But he faltered over his first sentence. He had trainedhimself too long and too carefully to speak with that cold, ironicinflexion. He sounded in his own ears formal--unconvincing. 

"You're wrong. I do care. I care for you. You're my friend. I dounderstand, in part, at any rate. I can prove it. When I saw howunhappy you were I went to her--I tried to reason with her. "

He broke off altogether under the amazed stare that greeted thisstatement. The next instant Cosgrave had tossed his hands to heaven, shouting with a ribald laughter:

"Oh, my Heaven--you poor fish! You think you can cure everything. Ican imagine what you said: 'I suggest, Mademoiselle, that you reducethe doses gradually. '"

It was so nearly what he had said that Stonehouse flinched, andsuddenly Cosgrave seemed to feel an impatient compassion for him. "Oh, I'm a beast. It was jolly decent of you. You meant well. But youcan't help. "

And _that_ was what she had said. Stonehouse made no answer. He sawhimself as ridiculous and futile. He was sick with disgust at his ownpain. If he had lost Cosgrave he wanted to have done with the wholebusiness now--quickly and once and for all. 

There was a sense of finality in the shabby room. The invisible bondthat had held them through eight years of separation and silence hadgiven way. It was almost a physical thing. It checked and damped downCosgrave's excitement so that he said almost calmly:

"Well, I shan't attempt to see her again. You'll have thatsatisfaction. I'll get out of here--back to my jolly old swamp, wherethere aren't any beastly women--decent or indecent--only mosquitoes. "

He waited a moment, as though trying hard to finish on a warmer, moregenerous note. Perhaps some faint flicker of recollection revived inhim. But it could only illuminate a horrifying indifference. He wentout without so much as a "good-night. "

The morning papers gave the Kensington House incident due prominence. It was one more feather in Mademoiselle Labelle's outrageous head-gear. The Olympic had not so much as standing room for weeks after. 

Cosgrave kept his word. He did not see her again, and within a week hehad sailed for West Africa--to die. But ten days later Stonehousereceived a wireless, and a month later a letter and a photograph of afair-haired, tender-eyed, slightly bovine-looking girl in eveningdress. It appeared that she was a Good Woman and the daughter ofwealthy and doting parents, and that in all probability West Africawould see Rufus Cosgrave no more. 

So that was the end of their boyhood. Cosgrave had saved himself--orsomething outside Stonehouse's strength and wisdom had saved him. Theywould meet again and appear to be old friends. But the chapter oftheir real friendship, with all its inarticulate romance andtenderness, was closed finally. 

Stonehouse kept the photograph on the table of his consulting-room. Hebelieved that it amused him. 

3

Still he could not work at night. He resumed his haunted prowlingsthrough the streets. But he took care that he did not pass FranceyWilmot's house again. He knew now that he was afraid. He was ill, too, with a secret, causeless malady that baffled him. There werenights when he suffered the unspeakable torture of a man who feels thatthe absolute control over all his faculties, which he has taken forgranted, is slipping from him, and that his whole personality stands onthe verge of disintegration as on the edge of a bottomless pit. 

For some weeks he hunted for Mr. Ricardo in vain. He tried all thefavoured spots which a considerate country sets aside for itsdetractors and its lunatics so that they may express themselves freely, without success. Mr. Ricardo seemed to have taken fright and vanished. But one afternoon, returning from the hospital, Stonehouse met him byaccident, and followed him. He made no attempt to speak. He meant, this time, to find out where the old man lived, and, if possible, tocome to his assistance, and his experience taught him the danger andfutility of a direct approach. He followed therefore at a cautiousdistance that it was not always possible to maintain. Although it wasearly in the afternoon a dense but drifting fog wrapped the city in itsdank folds, and the figure in front of him sometimes loomed up like adistorted shadow and then in a moment plunged into a yellow pocket ofobscurity, and was lost. Then Stonehouse could only listen for hisfootfalls, quick and irregular, echoing with an uncanny loudness in thelow vault of the fog. 

Mr. Ricardo had evidently been speaking, for he carried the soap-boxslung over his shoulder, and he was in a great hurry. It wasextraordinary how fast the lame, half-starved old man could walk. 

They crossed the park and over to Grosvenor Place. There was no doubtthat Mr. Ricardo knew where he was going, but it flashed uponStonehouse that he was not going home. There was something pressed andsternly in earnest about the way he hurried, as though he had someimportant appointment to keep and knew that he was already late. OnceStonehouse had to run to keep him within hearing. 

They went the whole length of Victoria Street. Stonehouse had beenphysically tired out when he had started. Now he was not aware ofbeing tired at all. A gradually rising excitement carried him on, unconscious of himself. He had no idea what he expected, but he knewdefinitely that something deeply significant was about to happen tothem both, that they were running into some crisis. 

Outside the Abbey the fog became impenetrable. The traffic hadstopped, and the lights, patches of opaque rayless crimson, added tothe confusion. There were people moving, however, faceless ghosts withloud footfalls, feeling their way hesitatingly, and among them Mr. Ricardo vanished. Almost at once Stonehouse lost his own bearings. Inthe complete paralysis of all sense of direction which only fog canproduce, he crossed the wide street twice without knowing it. Then hecame up suddenly under the spread statue of Boadicea and into littleknots of people. A policeman was trying to move them on withoutsuccess. They hung about hopefully like children who cannot beconvinced that a show is really over. 

"It's no good messing round here. You aren't helping anyone. Betterbe getting home. "

Stonehouse knew what had happened. It was extraordinary how sure hewas. It was almost as though he had known all along. But he saidmechanically to one slouching shadow:

"What is it?"

A face, dripping and livid in the fog, like the face of a dead man, gaped at him. 

"Some old fellow gone over--no, he didn't tumble, I tell yer. Youcawn't tumble over a four-foot parapet. Chucked 'isself, and I don'tblame 'im. One of them police-launches 'as gone out to fish 'im out. But they won't get 'im. Not now, anyway. Can't see two feet in frontof yer, and the tide running out fast. "

Stonehouse felt his way to the parapet and peered over. Above thewater the fog was pitch-black and moving. It looked a solid mass. Hecould almost hear it slapping softly against the pillars of the bridgeas it flowed seawards. By now Mr. Ricardo had travelled with it a longway. His death did not seem to Stonehouse tragic, but only inevitableand ironical. It was as though someone had played a grave andsignificant, not unkindly, joke at Mr. Ricardo's expense. Nor didStonehouse feel remorse, for he knew that he could have done nothing. As Mr. Ricardo had said, it was not material things that had mattered. He had not killed himself because he was starving, but because the longstruggle of his spirit with the enigma of life had reached its crisis. He had gone out to meet it with a superb gesture of defiance, which hadalso been the signal of surrender and acknowledgment. 

The crowd had moved on at last. In the muffled silence and darknessStonehouse's thoughts became shadowy and fantastic. Though he did notgrieve he knew that a stone had shifted under the foundations of hismental security. Death took on a new aspect. It seemed unlikely thatit was so simply the end. 

He found himself wondering how far Mr. Ricardo had travelled on hisjourney, and whether he had met his enemy, and, face to face with him, had become reconciled. 

IV

1

He did not know why he had consented to receive her, unless it wasbecause he knew that they would meet inevitably sooner or later. Hefelt very able to meet her--cool, and hard and clear-thinking. It wasearly yet. A wintry sunlight rested on his neatly ordered table, andhe could smile at the idea that in a few hours he would begin to beafraid again. 

She had made no appointment. Urged by some caprice or other she haddriven up to his door and sent up her card with the pencilledinscription "_Me voici_!" Standing at his window he could just see thelong graceful lines of her Rolls-Royce, painted an amazing blue--paleblue was notoriously her colour--and the pale-blue clad figure of herchauffeur. It occurred to him that she had chosen the uniform simplyto make the man ridiculous--to show that there were no limits to heraudacity and power. She was, he thought, stronger than the men whothought they were ruling the destinies of nations. For she could riderough-shod over convention and prejudice and human dignity. She wasperhaps the last representative of an autocratic egotism in a world inwhich the individual will had almost ceased to exist. She seemed tohim the survival of an eternal evil. 

And yet when he saw her he laughed. She was so magnificentlyimpossible. It seemed that she had put on every jewel that she couldcarry. She was painted more profusely than usual, and her dress wasone of those fantastic creations with which producers endeavour tobluff through a peculiarly idiotic revue. But she carried it allwithout self-consciousness. It was as natural to her as gay plumage toa bird-of-paradise. 

She gave him her hand to kiss, and then laughed and shook hands insteadwith an exaggerated manliness. 

"I forget, " she said. "It is a bad 'abit. You see. I keep mypromise. I make ze return call. And 'ow kind of you to see me. "

"It didn't occur to you that I might refuse, " he told her. 

"No, that's true. I never thought about it. You 'ave a leetle timefor me, _hein_?"

"About ten minutes, " he said. 

He assumed a very professional attitude on the other side of his table. He wanted to nonplus and disconcert her, if such a thing were possible. Now that his first involuntary amusement was over he felt a return ofthe old malignant dislike. She had cost him Cosgrave's friendship, andhe wanted to hurt her--to get underneath that armour of soullessgood-humour. "I knew that you'd turn up one day or other, " he said. 

She looked at him with a rather wistful surprise. 

"'Ow clever of you! You knew? Don't I look well, _hein_? I feelwell--quite all right. But I say to myself: '_Voyons_--'alf an hourwith nothing to do. I pay that cross doctor a visit. ' I would 'avecome before, but I 'ave been so busy. We re'earse 'MademoisellePantalonne, ' ze first night to-morrow. You come? I send you a ticket. "

"Thanks. That form of entertainment wouldn't entertain me--exceptpathologically. And if I went to the theatre I'd rather leave myprofession outside. "

"Path--pathologically, " she echoed. "That sounds 'orrid--rather rude. You don't like me still, _hein_, doctor?"

"Does that surprise you?"

"It surprise me ver' much, " she admitted frankly. She picked up thephotograph on the table and examined it with an unconsciousimpertinence. "You like 'er?" she asked. "That sort of woman?"

"I don't know, " he said. "I've never met her. "

"She is not your wife?"

"She is Cosgrave's wife. "

It was evident that although the episode had been concluded less thanthree months before she had already almost forgotten it. 

"Cosgrave? _Ah oui, le cher petit Rufus_? There now--did I not tellyou? Didn't I 'ave reason? Tell me--'ow many babies 'ave 'e got?"

"They were married last month, " Stonehouse observed. 

"_Ah--la la_! But 'ow glad I am! I can see she is the right sort for'im. A nice leetle girl. But first 'e 'ave to 'ave a good time--justto give 'im confidence. Now 'e be a ver' good boy--a leetle dullper'aps, but ver' good and 'appy. I would write and tell 'im 'ow gladI am--but per'aps better not, _hein_?"

She winked, and there was an irresistible drollery in the grimace thatmade his lips twitch. And yet she was shameless--abominable. 

"The ten minutes are almost up, " he said, "and I suppose you came hereto consult me. "

He knew that she had not. She had come because he was a tantalizingobject, because she could not credit his invincibility, which was achallenge to her. She laughed, shrugging her shoulders. 

"You are an 'orrible fellow! You think of nothing but diseases andwickedness. I wonder if you 'ave ever 'ad a good time yourself--everlaughed, like I do, from ze 'eart?"

He looked away from her. He felt for a moment oddly uneasy anddistressed. 

"No, I don't suppose I have. "

"Ah, _c'est dommage, mon pauvre jeune homme_. But you don't like me. What can I do?"

"I don't expect you to do anything. "

"Not my business, _hein_? No one 'ave any business 'ere who 'ave notgot an illness. Ver' well. I will 'ave an illness--a ver' leetle one. No, not ze tummy-ache. _C'est vieux jeu ca_. But a leetle sorethroat. You know about throats, _hein_?"

"My specialty, " he said smiling back at her with hard eyes. 

"Bien, I 'ave a leetle sore throat--_fatigue plutot_--'e come and 'ego. I smoke too much. But I 'ave to smoke. It's no good what yousay. "

"I'm sure of that, " he said. 

He made her sit down in the white iron chair behind the screen and, adjusting his speculum, switched on the light. He was bitterly angrybecause she had forced this farce upon him. He felt that she waslaughing all over. The pretty pinkness of her open mouth nauseatedhim. He thought of all the men who had kissed her, and had been ruinedby her as though by the touch of a deadly plague. He pressed hertongue down with a deliberate roughness. 

"You 'urt, " she muttered. But her eyes were still amused. 

"A great many people get hurt here, " he said contemptuously, "and don'twhine about it. "

2

Ten minutes later they sat opposite each other by his table. She wascoughing and laughing and wiping her eyes. 

"_C'est abominable_, " she gasped, "_abominable_!"

He waited. He could afford to wait. He had the feeling of beingcarried on the breast of a deep, quiet sea. He could take his time. Her laughter and damnable light-heartedness no longer fretted andexasperated him. Rather it was a kind of bitter spice--a tensescrewing up of his exquisite sense of calm power. She was like atigress sprawling in the sunshine, not knowing that its heart isalready covered by a rifle. He prolonged the moment deliberately, savouring it. In that deliberation the woman in the hospital, FranceyWilmot, Cosgrave, and a host of faceless men who had gone under thiswoman's chariot wheels played their devious, sinister parts. Theygoaded him on and justified him. He became in his own eyes the figureof the Law, pronouncing sentence, weightily, without heat or passion orpity. 

"You do it on purpose, " she said, "you make me cough. "

He arranged his papers with precise hands. 

"I'm sorry--I know you came here as a joke. It isn't--not for you. It's serious. " He saw her smile, and though he went on speaking in thesame quiet, methodical tone, he felt that he had suddenly lost controlof himself. "Medical science isn't an exact science. Doctors arenever sure of anything until it has happened. But speaking with thatreservation I have to tell you that your case is hopeless--that youhave three--at the most four months----"

She had interrupted with a laugh, but the laugh itself had broken inhalf. She had read his face. After a long interval she asked aquestion--one word--almost inaudibly--and he nodded. 

"If you had come earlier one might have operated, " he said. "But evenso, it would have been doubtful. "

Already many men and women had received their final sentence here inthis room, and each had met it in his own way. The women were thequietest. Perhaps their lives had taught them to endure the hideousindignity of a well-ordered death-bed without that galling sense ofphysical humiliation which tormented men. For the most part theybecame immersed in practical issues--how the news was to be broken toothers, who would look after the house and the children, and how thelast scene might be acted with the least possible inconvenience anddistress for those who would have to witness it. Some men had ravedand stormed and pleaded, as though he had been a judge whose judgmentmight be revoked: "Not me--others--not me--not to-day--years hence. "They had paced his private room for hours, trying to get a hold overthemselves, devastated with shame and horror at the breakdown of theirconfident personalities. Some had risen to an impregnable dignity, finer than their lives. One or two had laughed. 

And this woman?

He looked up at last. He thought with a thrill that was not of pity, of a bird hit in full flight and mortally hurt, panting out its life inthe heather, its gay plumage limp and dishevelled. The jewels andoutrageous dress had become a jest that had turned against her. Ashadow of the empty, good-humoured smile still lingered on a paintedmouth palsied with fear. She was swaying slightly, rhythmically, backwards and forwards, and rubbing the palms of her hands on thecarved arms of her chair, and he could hear her breath, short andbroken like the shallow breathing of a sick animal. And yet he becameaware that she was thinking--thinking very rapidly--calling upunexpected reserves. 

"_Trois--mois--trois mois_. Well, but I don't feel so ill--I don'tfeel ill at all--per'aps for a leetle month--just a leetle month. "

He had no clue to her thought. She looked about her rather vaguely asthough everything had suddenly become unreal. There were tears on hercheeks, but they were the tears of her recent laughter. She rubbedthem off on the back of her hand with the unconscious gesture of astreet child. 

"I suffer much?"

"I'm afraid so. Though, of course, anyone who attends on you will dohis best. "

"Death so ugly--so sad. "

"Not always, " he said. 

It was true. She had been a beast of prey all her life. Now it washer turn to be overtaken and torn down. Only sentimentalists likeFrancey Wilmot could see in her a cause for pity or regret. 

They sat opposite each other through a long silence. He gave her time. He showed her consideration. He thought of the pale-blue chauffeurwaiting in the biting cold of a winter's afternoon. Well, he would bealive after she had become a loathsome fragment of corruption. He wasrevenged--they were all revenged on her now. 

She fumbled with her gold and jewelled bag. 

"What do I owe, _Monsieur le docteur_?"

"Three guineas. "

She put the money on the table. 

"That is ver' little for so much. I think--when I can't go on anymore--I come to your 'ospital. You take me in, _hein_? I 'ave afancy. "

He made an unwilling movement. It revolted him--this obtuseness thatwould not see that he hated her. 

"I can't prevent your coming if you want to. You would be more in yourelement in your own home. Even in their private rooms they don't allowthe kind of things you're accustomed to. There are regulations. Yourfriends won't like them. "

She looked up at him with a startled intentness. 

"_Mes pauvres amis_--I 'ave so many. They won't understand. They say:'That's one of Gyp's leetle jokes. ' They won't believe it--they won'tdare. "

She gave him her hand, and he touched it perfunctorily. 

"It's as you like, of course. You have only to let me know. "

"You are ver' kind. "

He showed her to the door, and rang the bell for the servant. From hisvantage point he saw the pale-blue chauffeur hold open the door of thepale-blue limousine. A few loiterers gaped. By an ironical chance abarrel-organ in the next street began to grind out the riotous, familiar gallop. It sounded far-off like a jeering echo:

 "I'm Gyp Labelle; If you dance with me You dance to my tune. . . "

A danse macabre. He wondered if she had brains or heart enough toappreciate the full bitterness of that chance. He could see her, inhis mind's eye, cowering back among the pale-blue cushions. 

The next morning he received a note from her and a ticket for the firstnight of "Mademoiselle Pantalonne"--"with her regards and thanks. "

3

He went. In the morning he had tossed the ticket aside, scornful andoutraged by such a poor gesture of bravado. But the night brought theold restlessness. He was driven by curiosity that he believed wasprofessional and impersonal. It was natural enough that he should wantto see how a woman of her stuff acted under sentence of death. Butonce in the theatre h e became aware of a black and solitary pridebecause he alone of all these people could taste the full flavour ofher performance. He had become omniscient. He saw behind the scenes. Whilst the orchestra played its jaunty overture he watched her. He sawher stare into her glass and dab on the paint, thicker and thicker, knowing now why she needed so much more, shrinking from the skull thatwas beginning to peer through the thin mask of flesh and blood. Heforesaw the moment, probably before the footlights, when the nakedhorror of it all would leap out on her and tear her down. Even in thatshe would no doubt seek the consolation of notoriety. It would be inall the papers. If she had the nerve to carry on people would crowd tosee her, as in the Roman days they had crowded to the circus (gloatingand stroking themselves secretly, thinking: "It is not I who amdying"). Or she would seek dramatic refuge in her absurd palace andsurround herself with tragic glamour, making use of her own death asshe had used the death of that infatuated and unhappy prince. 

And yet he was sick at heart. In flashes he saw his own attitude assomething hideous and abnormal. Then again he justified it, as he hadalways justified it. He found himself arguing the whole matter outwith Francey Wilmot--a cool and reasoned exposition such as he had beenincapable of at the crisis of their relationship. ("This woman is amalignant growth. Nature destroys her. Do you pretend to feel regretor pity?") But though he imagined the whole scene--saw himself asauthoritative and convincing--he could not re-create Francey Wilmot. She remained herself. Her eyes, fixed on him with that remembered lookof candid and questioning tenderness, blazed up into an anger asunexpectedly fierce and uncompromising. And he was not so strong. Hehad overworked all his life. Starved too often. The ground slippedfrom under his feet. 

It was a poor, vulgar show--a pantomime jerry-built to accommodate herparticular talent. She walked through it--the dumb but irresistiblemodel of a French atelier, who made fools of all her lovers, cheatedthem, sucked them dry and tossed them off with a merry cynicism. Whenthe mood took her she danced and her victims danced behind her, agrotesque ballet, laughing and clapping their hands, as though theircruel sufferings were, after all, a good joke. Neither they nor theaudience seemed to be aware that she could not dance at all, and thatshe was not even beautiful. 

It was an old stunt, disguised with an insolent carelessness. Theproducers had surely grinned to themselves over it. "We know what thepublic likes. Rubbish, and the older the better. Give it 'em. " Sheeven made her familiar entry between the curtains at the back of thestage, standing in the favourite attitude of simple, triumphantexpectation, and smiling with that rather foolish friendliness thatuntil now had never shaken her audiences from their frigidity. To themshe had always been a spectacle, a strange vital thing with a luridpast and a dubious future, shocking and stimulating. They would neverhave admitted that they liked her. But tonight they gave her a sort ofashamed welcome. Perhaps it was the dress she wore--the exaggeratedpeg-top trousers and bonnet of a conventional Quartier Latin which madeher look frank and boyish. Perhaps it was something more subtle. Stonehouse himself felt it. But then, he knew. He saw her as God sawher. If there was a God He certainly had His amusing moments. 

But he found himself clapping her with the rest, and that made himangry and afraid. It seemed that he could not control his actions anymore than his thoughts. The whole business had got an unnatural holdover him. He half got up to go, and then realized that he was tryingto escape. 

It was jolly music too. That at any rate her producers had toiled atwith some zeal. Incredibly stupid and artless and jolly. Anyone couldhave danced to it. And she was a gutter-urchin, flinging herself aboutin the sheer joy of life (with death capering at her heels). Hewatched her, leaning forward, waiting for some sign, the falteringgesture, a twitching grimace of realization. Or was it possible thatshe was too empty-hearted to feel even her own tragedy, too shallow tosuffer, too stupid to foresee? At least he knew with certainty that inthat heated, exhausted atmosphere pain had set in. 

He became aware that the sweat of it was on his own face--that hehimself was labouring under an intolerable physical burden. He knewtoo much. (If God had His amusing moments he had also to suffer, unless, as Mr. Ricardo had judged, he was a devil. ) She was facingwhat every man and woman in that theatre would have to face sooner orlater. How? She at any rate danced as though there were nothing inthe world but life. With each act her gestures, her very dress becamethe clearer expression of an insatiable, uncurbed lust of living. Atthe end, the orchestra, as though it could not help itself, broke intothe old doggerel tune that had helped to make her famous:

"I'm Gyp Labelle. "

She waltzed and somersaulted round the stage, and as the curtain fellshe stood before the footlights, panting, her thin arms raisedtriumphantly. He could see the tortured pulse leaping in her throat. He thought he read her lips as they moved in a voiceless exclamation:

"_Quand meme--quand meme_. "

The audience melted away indifferently. They, at any rate, did notknow what they had seen. 

And the next day he had another little note from her, written in agreat sprawling hand. She had made all her arrangements, and shethought she had better reserve rooms in his hospital in about sixweeks' time for about a month. After that, no doubt, she would requireless accommodation. 

A silly, fatuous effort, in execrable taste. 

V

1

Robert Stonehouse took a second leave that he could not afford and wentback to the grey cottage on the moors, and tramped the hills in hauntedsolitude. The spring ran beside him, a crude, bitter, young spring, gazing into the future with an earnest, passionate face, full ofarrogance and hope, and self-distrust. His own frustrated youth rosein him like a painful sap. He was much younger than the RobertStonehouse who, proud in his mature strength, had dragged an exhausted, secretively smiling Cosgrave on his relentless pursuit--young andinsecure, with odd nameless rushes of emotion and desire and grief thathad had no part in his ordered life. 

The hills had changed too. They had been the background to hisexploits. They had become brooding, mysterious partners whose purposewith him he had not fathomed. The things that ran across his path, thequaint furry hares and scurrying pheasants had ceased to be objects onwhich he could vent his strength and cunning. They were live things, deeply, secretly related to him and to a dying, very infamous woman, and his levelled gun sank time after time under the pressure of aninexplicable pity. He had stood resolutely aloof from life, and now itwas dragging him down into its warmth with invisible, resistless hands. Its values, which he had learnt to judge coldly and dispassionately, weighing one against another, were shifting like sand. He seemed tostand, naked and alone, in a changing, terrifying world. 

In those days the papers in their frivolous columns, were full of GypLabelle. Her press-agent was working frenziedly. It seemed that shehad quarrelled with her manager, torn her contract into shreds, andslapped his face. There were gay doings nightly at the Kensingtonhouse--orgies. One paper hinted at a certain South African millionaire. 

A last fling--the reckless gesture of a worthless panic-stricken soul, without dignity. 

Or perhaps she had found that his diagnosis had been a mistake. Or shewould not believe the truth. Or she was drugging herself intoforgetfulness. Perhaps she might even have the courage to make an endbefore the time came when forgetfulness would be impossible. 

He returned to town, drawn by an obsession of uncertainty. He foundthat she had arrived at her rooms in the hospital with the shrivelledold woman and the macaw and a gramophone. 

She had signed the register as Marie Dubois. 

"It is my real name, " she explained, "but you couldn't have a good timewith a name like that--_voyons_! Only one 'usband and 'eaps of babies. "

She was much nearer the end than he had supposed possible. The lastmonth had to be paid for. She lay very still under the gorgeous quiltwhich she had brought with her, and her hand, which she had stretchedout to him in friendly welcome, was like the claw of a bird. "Everyone'ere promise not to tell, " she said. "I'm just Marie Dubois. Even zeundertaker--'e must not know. You put on ze stone: 'Marie Dubois, zebeloved daughter of Georges and Marianne Dubois, rag-pickers of Paris. 'That will be a last leetle joke, hein?"

"It's as you wish, " he said coldly. 

He forced back the natural questions that came to him. He had adisordered conviction that he was fighting her for his sanity, for thevery ground on which he had built his life, and that he dared not yieldby so much as a kindly word. He did what lay in his power for her witha heart shut and barred. 

She brought a little of her world and her whole outlook with her. Onthe last day that she was able to be up she dressed herself in a gaymandarin's coat with a Chinese woman's trousers, and tried to do herdance for the benefit of a shocked and fascinated matron. Everymorning she wore a new cap to set off the deepening shadow ofdissolution. 

By the open fire the old woman embroidered ceaselessly. 

"She is making--'ow you call it?--my shroud. You see--with ze blueribbons. Blue--that's my colour--my lucky colour. As soon as I couldspeak I ask for blue ribbons in my pinafore. "

"I should have thought your mind might be better occupied now, " heretorted with brutal commonplaceness. 

She winked at him. 

"Oh, but I 'ave 'ad my leetle talk with _Monsieur le Cure_. 'E and Iare ze best of friends, though I never met 'im before. 'E understandabout ze blue ribbons. But Monsieur Robert is too clever. "

"It seems so, " he said scornfully. 

She questioned him from out of the thickening cloud of morphia. "Youdon't believe in God?" And then as he shook his head she smiledsleepily. "Well, it is still possible 'e exist, _Monsieur_--_Monsieurle docteur_. "

She lay quiet so that he thought she had fallen asleep, but the nextmoment her eyes had opened, widening on him with a startlingwakefulness. It was as though her whole personality had leapt to arms, and bursting through the narcotic, stood free with a gay and laughinggesture. "As to God--I don't know about 'im, but I exist--I go on. You bet your 'at on that, my friend. I don't know where I go--but I gosomewhere. And I dance. And if St. Peter sit at ze golden gates, likethey say in ze fairybook, I say to 'im: ''Ave you ever seen ze GypGalop?' And then I dance for 'im and ze angels play for me"--she noddedwickedly--"not 'ymn tunes. "

She was serious. She meant it. If she survived she survived as whatshe was or not at all. And looking down on her wasted, tortured body, Stonehouse had a momentary but extraordinarily vivid conviction thatwhat she had said was true. She would persist. Whatever elsehappened, Gyp Labelle would go on having a good time. She could not beextinguished. There was in her some virtue altogether apart from thebody--a blazing vitality, an unquenchable, burning spirit. 

He felt his hatred of her wither before it. 

"And 'e say: 'You dance ver' bad, Gyp, but you make me laugh. You goon and dance to ze others. ' For 'e know who I am. My poor parentsthey make ze mistake. They think: ''Ere is such a ver' nice, goodlittle _bebe_, and so they call me after my _Maman_, who is ver' niceand good too, and who love me ver' much--Marie--Marie Dubois. "

She turned her head towards the old woman bending lower and lower overher fine work, and, smiling at her, fell asleep. 

He returned, one night, to the hospital in the hope of being able towork in the laboratory, and instead, coming to her room, he went in. The action was so unpremeditated and unmotivated that he had closed thedoor before he knew what he had done. But the excuse he framed in hisconfusion was never uttered, for he had the right to appeardumbfounded. She sat, propped up like a painted wraith against a pileof gorgeous cushions, and all about her was scattered a barbarous lootof rings and bracelets, of strings of pearls, of unset stones, diamondsand emeralds, heaped carelessly on the table at her side, and twinklinglike little malevolent eyes out of the creases of her coverlet. 

The old woman wrote toilingly on a slip of paper. "Sh! This is ver'solemn. I could not sleep, and so I make my testament. " She put herfinger to her lips as though her whisper were only a part of a playfulmystery and beckoned him, and he went towards her, reluctant, yetunresisting like a man hypnotized. He had a childish longing to touchall that colour, to take up great handfuls of it and feel its warmthand let it drip through his fingers. The death that stared out of herpainted face, the silence and grim austerity of her surroundings madethat display of magnificence a fantastic parable. The stones were thelife that was going from her. She picked up each one in turn andcaressed it, and held it to the light, remembering who knew whatescapade, what splendid, reckless days, what tragedy. And yet therewas no regret and surely no remorse in her farewell of them. 

"_Ma Vieille_--she make a list of all. They will be sold--for zechildren of Paris--ze _gamins_--as I was--for a good time. " She heldout her hand: "_C'est joli, n'est ce pas_?"

He looked unwillingly. It was a black opal, and as she moved it itseemed to come to life, and a distant resentful fire gleamed out of itssullen depths. 

"Yes. But you oughtn't to have all--all this stuff about. No onecould be held responsible----"

"What does it matter? If someone take it--someone 'ave it. It won'tworry me. 'Ere, I tell you something--a story, _hein_, to amuse you?You remember our leetle dinner and 'ow I would not tell about ze GrandDuke and ze black opal? Well, I tell you now. It don't matter anymore. "

"No. You're doing yourself harm. You ought to sleep. "

"I don't want to--I can't. It is 'orrible to lie awake in ze darkand---- And you, too, Monsieur Robert, you don't feel you sleep muchto-night, _hein_?"

"No. "

"_Alors_--'ere we are--two poor fellows shipwrecked--we make a leetlefeast together--a feast of good stories. You say you don't like mever' much. But that is _ridicule_ now. One only 'ates when one isafraid, and you aren't afraid any more of poor Gyp. "

"Was I ever?" he demanded. 

"A leetle--per'aps? You think to yourself: 'If I love 'er----!'Bah, that is all finished. Come, I tell you my funny story. "

He had laughed. He was incredulous of himself. He sat on the edge ofher bed listening to her whisper, a tortured whisper which she madesupremely funny--a mock-conspirator's whisper which drew them close toone another in an outrageous intimacy. 

"At any rate you had made a good enemy that time, " he said. 

She panted. 

"Ah no--no. 'E 'ave a fine sense of humour, Monsieur ze Grand Duke. 'E laugh too. 'E say--'Gyp--you are ze ver' devil 'erself!' 'Ere, butthis ruby--I don't care much for rubies--but this one 'ave a real finestory. "

And so one by one the stones were taken up and held a moment, some tobe discarded with a name or a forgetful shrug, and some to linger awhile longer whilst she recalled their little ribald histories. And itseemed to Robert Stonehouse that gradually the room filled withinvisible personages who, as the jewels dropped from her waxen fingersinto the gaping box, bowed to her and took their leave. And at lastthey were all gone but one. He seemed to hear them, their footstepsreceding faintly along the corridors. 

She held an unset pearl in her hand. 

"This one 'ave a ver' nice leetle story. A brigand give it me when 'e'old up ze train between Mexico City and ze coast. A fine fellow--witha sombrero and a manner!" (She looked past Stonehouse, smiling, asthough she too saw the shadow twirling its black moustache and staringback at her with gallant admiration. ) "And brave too, _nombre deDios_! And 'e bow and say: 'One does not take ransom from MademoiselleLabelle. One pays tribute. ' And 'e give me this to remember 'imby--as I give it you, Monsieur Robert. "

He stood up sharply. 

"No--I--I don't care for that kind of thing. "

"For your wife, then!"

"I am not married. "

"But one day per'aps? You love someone, _hein_?" (Had she wilfullyforgotten? She studied his face with a wicked curiosity. He could notanswer her. ) "Give it 'er then--Monsieur Robert--_pour me faireplaisir_. "

"There is no one to give it to. "

"But there was----"

He tried desperately to regain the old sarcastic inflection. 

"No doubt it seems inevitable to you. "

"Tell me about 'er. _Voyons_, if you can't keep me alive, _Monsieurmon docteur_, you might at least amuse me. "

"There is nothing to tell. I will give you something that will makeyou sleep. "

"I do not want to sleep. That is bad, ugly sleep that you give me. Soyou quarrel. What you quarrel about, Monsieur Robert? Another woman?"

The sheer, grotesque truth of it drove him to an ironical assent. 

"As you say, another woman----"

"_Oh, la la_! So there was once upon a time a ver' serious young manwho forget to be quite serious. _Voyons_--you 'ave to tell me allnow--just as I tell you. "

He turned on her then. In five brief, savage sentences he had told herof Frances and the woman in the hospital. And when he had done he readher face with its tolerant good-humour, and the full enormity of it allburst over him like a flood of crude light. He turned away from herstammering:

"I've no business here--I've no business to be your doctor--or anyone'sdoctor. I think I must be going mad. "

She shook her head. 

"No--no--only too serious, _mon pauvre jeune homme_. But I likeyour--your Francey. I think she and I be good friends some'ow. Shewould see things 'ow I see them. "

(He thought crazily:

"Yes, she would sit by you and look over your shoulder at your rottenlife, and say: 'So that's the way it seems to you? And you're right. It's been a splendid joke. '")

"One of these days you be friends again too. And then you give 'er myleetle pearl. Say it's from Gyp, who is sorry she made so muchtrouble. Why not? You think it make her sad? It is not for that Igive it you. It is to give you pleasure too. "

He was labouring under an almost physical distress. She was poking funat him, at herself, at death. She was making him a partner of thievesand loose women. And yet:

"It must not make you sad at all. When you see it you laugh--just asyou laugh when I dance because I dance so ver' bad. Look 'ere, I 'avesomething that you give me too. " She dived back into the box andbrought out a shilling lying side by side with the pearl in the palm ofher open hand. "You tell 'er--that was all poor Gyp was worth to you, Monsieur Robert. "

He had taken it. She tried to laugh out loud, triumphantly, the famouslaugh. And then grey agony had her by the throat. She turned her facefrom him to the wall. 

He felt that the old woman had risen. She was moving towards them. Hesaid quietly:

"At least I can relieve you. "

She made a passionate, absolute gesture of refusal. An astonishednurse had entered. He gave brief instructions. He said good-night, not looking at the limp, quiet figure on the bed, and went out. 

He knew that he had seemed competent, unhurried and unmoved as befitteda man to whom death was the most salient feature of life. 

But he knew also that he had fled from her. 

In the crowd that went with him that night were Francey Wilmot andConnie Edwards and Cosgrave and all the people who had made up hisyouth. There were little old women who were Christines, and even JamesStonehouse was there, tragically and hopefully in search of somethingthat he had never found. Any moment he might turn his face towards hisson, and it would not be hideous, only perplexed and pitiful. 

It was as though an ugly, monstrous mass had been smashed to fragmentswhose facets shone with extraordinary, undreamed-of colours. 

Not only the bodies of the people drifted with him, but their livestouched his on every side. It became a sort of secret pressure. Theywere neither great nor beautiful. They were identical with the peoplehe had always seen on the streets and in the hospitals, sickly orgrossly commonplace, but he could no longer judge them as from a greatdistance. He was down in the thick of them. They concerned him--or hehad no other concern. He was part of their strangely wanderingprocession. He looked into their separate faces and thought: "This mansays 'I' to himself. And one day he will say: 'I am dying' (as MarieDubois said it). " And he recognized for the first time somethingcommon to them all that was not commonplace--an heroic quality. Atleast that stark fact remained that at their birth sentence of deathhad been passed upon them all. Before each one of them lay a blackadventure, and they went towards it, questioning or inarticulate, notknowing why they should endure so much, but facing the utter lonelinessof that final passage with patience and great courage. 

It was not ridiculous that they should demand their immortality, theleast and worst of them. Whether it was granted them or not, it was ajust demand, and the answer to it more vital than any other form ofknowledge. For it was conceivable that one day they would be toostrong and too proud to play the part of tragic buffoons in a senselessfarce. 

In the meantime men might well be pitiful with one another. 

"What was it she had said?"

"Nothing that you've gone through is of any use if it hasn't taught youpity. "

("Oh, Francey, Francey, if I had told you that Christine was dead wouldit have helped? Would you have had more patience with me?")

The quiet and emptiness of his own street restored him in some measureto his aloof scepticism. But even then he knew there was a disruptiveforce secretly at work in him, tearing down stone by stone hisconfidence and courage. He was afraid of shadows. A bowed figurecrouched against the railings of his house checked him as though aghost had lain in wait for him. He passed it hurriedly, running up thestone steps. The sound of a thin, clear voice calling him made himturn again, his head thrown up in a sort of defiance. 

"Monsieur--excuse--excuse--I wait 'ere so long. They tell me you comeback 'ere perhaps. But they don't know I 'ave come. I creep out----Monsieur she cannot sleep--she cannot sleep. They don't do nothing. It is not right. I cannot 'ave it--that she suffer so. "

He came back down the steps. He was conscious of having sighed deeply. He looked into the shrivelled, up-turned face, and saw the tears thatfilled the furrows with a slow moving stream. He had hardly noticedher before. Now she hurt him. A very little old woman. He saidbriefly, hiding a shaken voice:

"They do all they can. I can do no more. "

She reiterated with a peasant's obstinacy. 

"I will not 'ave it--I will not--not 'ave it--I cannot bear it. "

"Dr. Rutherford is there. I tell you he can do all that can be done. I offered her an injection--she would not have it. "

"She pretend--all ze time she pretend. Even before me, 'er mother, shepretend. But I know. "

"Her mother!"

He stepped back against the railings, freeing himself fretfully fromthe hand that clutched his arm. 

"If you are her mother she treats you strangely. She treats you like aservant. "

"Before others, Monsieur. She is different--of different stuff. We'ave always understood. If I am to be with 'er it must be as 'erservant. That is our affair. But you are not kind. You let 'ersuffer too much. I will not 'ave it. "

She drew herself up. She almost menaced him. He saw that she knew. As a physician he had done what lay in his power, but as a human beinghe had failed utterly and deliberately. Had always failed. And he wasaware of an incredible fear of her. 

"I will come now, " he stammered. 

He gave her such sleep that night that it seemed unlikely that shewould ever wake again. He knew that he had exceeded the limits ofmercy set down by his profession and that the nurse had lookedstrangely at him. But he was indifferent. It was as though he, too, had been momentarily released. 

Nor did he leave her again until the morning, but watched over her, whilst on the other side of the bed the old woman knelt, her facepressed against a still hand, a battered, sullen effigy of grief. 

3

From the beginning she had defied the regulations of the hospital, asshe had defied the rules of life, with an absolute success. Theinelastic, military system bent and stretched itself beneath hergood-humoured inability to believe that there could be any wilfulopposition, to her desires. The macaw had been a case in point, thegramophone another. After tea the old woman set the instrument goingfor her, and when the authorities protested, ostensibly on behalf ofneighbouring patients, it transpired that the patients rather liked itthan otherwise, and there were regular concerts, with the macawshrieking its occasional appreciation. 

She inquired interestedly into her neighbours. She seemed lessconcerned with their complaints than with their ages, their appearance, and the time when they would return to the outside world. With a youngman on her right hand she became intimate. It began with an exchangeof compliments and progressed through little folded notes which causedher infinite amusement to a system of code-tapping on the interveningwall, sufficiently scandalous in import, if her expression weresignificant. 

The nurses became her allies in this last grim flirtation, unawareapparently of its grimness. 

"Don't you let 'im know I am so bad, " she adjured them. "I tell 'im I'ave a leetle nothing at all, and that I am going 'ome next week to mydear 'usband. I think that make 'im laugh ver' much. 'E is ver'bored, that young man. 'E say if I 'ave supper with 'im, the firstnight 'e come out 'e won't--'ow you say?--grouse so much. I say my'usband ver' jealous, but that I fix it some'ow. 'E like that. Promise you won't tell?"

They promised. 

She was almost voiceless now. That she suffered hideously, Stonehouseknew, but not from her. He believed--in the turmoil of his mind healmost hoped--that when she was alone she broke down, but before themall she bore herself with an unflagging gallantry. It was thatgallantry of hers that dogged him, that would not let him rest orforget. It demanded of him something that he could not, and dared not, yield. 

And she was pitifully alone. The woman in the hospital had not beenmore forsaken by her world. As to Gyp Labelle she went her way, andthe gossip columns cautiously recorded the more startling items of thatprogress. It was as though some clever hand were building up afantastic figure that should pass at last into the mists of legend. 

Men laughed together over her. 

"What poor devil of a millionaire has the woman hobbled now?"

It was the matron who showed Stonehouse an illustrated paper whichproduced her full-length portrait. She sat on the edge of her absurdfountain and her hand was raised in a laughing gesture of farewell. Over the top was written: "Gyp off to Pastures new, " and underneath amessage which all the daily papers were to reproduce. 

"I want this way to thank all the friends who have been so very kind tome. We have had good times together. I miss you very much. I amgoing to find new friends now, but one day, I think, I dance for youagain. I love you all. I kiss my hands to you. _Au revoir_, Gyp. "

It was her vanity, that insatiable desire to figure impudently andtriumphantly in the public eye. He brought the paper to her. But atthe moment she was busy tapping feebly on the wall. She winked at him. 

"Sh! I tell 'im I go to-day. I make an appointment--next week--zeCarlton Grill--seven o'clock--'e 'ave to wait a long time, ze pooryoung man. There, it is finished. "

He showed her the picture without comment. He had to hold it forher--hold it very close--for she had exhausted herself with that lastgesture of bravado. And then, as she smiled, a protest born ofgathering distress and doubt burst from him. 

"Why do you allow--this--hideous, impossible pretence?"

He could feel the old woman turn towards him like a wild beastpreparing to spring. But she herself lay still, with closed eyes. Hehad to bend down to catch the remote suffering whisper. 

"_C'est vrai_. We 'ave--such good times. And they come 'ere--allthose kind people--who 'ave laughed so much--and bring flowers--andpretend it is not true. And they won't believe--and when they see itthey won't believe--they won't dare----" She tried to speak moreclearly, clinging to his hand for the first time, whilst a sweat ofagony broke out upon her face and made ghastly channels through itspaint and powder. "_Vous voyez_--for them--I am--ze good times. Theycome to me--for good times. When they are too sad--when things too'ard for them and they cannot believe any more--that ze good times comeagain--they think of me. '_Voyons, la_ Gyp, she 'ave a good timealways--she dance at 'er own funeral!' But if they see me 'ere--likethis--they go away--and think in their 'earts: '_Grand Dieu, c'estcomme ca avec nous tous_--_avec nous tous_, ' and they not laugh withme--any more. "

Her hand let go its hold--suddenly. 

They sent for him that night. Haemorrhage had set in. There was alight burning by her bedside, for she had complained of the darkness. She wore a lace cap trimmed with blue ribbons, but she had not hadstrength to paint her lips and cheeks again, and the old woman'sefforts had ended pitifully. She had grown very small in the last fewhours, and with her thin, daubed face and blood-stained lips, shelooked like a sorrowful travesty of the little circus clown who hadridden the fat pony and shouted "_Oh la--la_!" and blown kisses to thepeople. 

She smiled vaguely in Stonehouse's direction, but she was only halfconscious. Her hand strayed over the gorgeous quilt, stroking it witha kind of simple pleasure. 

(She was like that, too, he thought--a dash of gay, unashamed colour inthe sad scheme of things. )

Towards midnight she motioned to him and whispered something that hecould not understand. But the old woman rose heavily from her kneesand went over to the gramophone, thrusting aside with savage resolutionthe nurse who tried to intercept her. Stonehouse himself made aninvoluntary gesture. 

"Why not?" he said. "Let her alone. "

He stood close to her and waited. He felt that some part of him wasdying with her, that he stood with her before a black partition whichwas thinning slowly, and that presently they would both know whateverlay beyond. 

The macaw fidgeted on its golden perch, craning towards the light andblinking uneasily as though a strange thing had come into the room. The needle scratched under a shaking hand. 

 "I'm Gyp Labelle; Come dance with me. . . "

He bent over her so that his face almost touched hers. 

"I'm sorry--I'm sorry, Gyp. "

She turned her head a little, her lips moving. It was evident that shehad not really heard. But he knew that she had never borne him malice. 

And then suddenly it was over. He had broken through. Beyond wereunderstanding and peace and strange and difficult tears. He loved her, as beneath the fret and heat of passion Cosgrave and all those othershad loved her, for what she sincerely was and for the brave, gay thingshe had to give. He loved her more simply still as in rare moments oftheir lives men love one another, saying: "This is my brother--this ismy sister. " From his lonely arrogance his spirit flung itself down, grieving, beside her mysterious, incalculable good. 

He could hear the jolly bang-bang of the drum and the whoop of atrumpet. He could see her catherine-wheeling round the stage, and theman with the bloated face and tragic, intelligent eyes. 

"Life itself, my dear fellow, life itself. "

And she was dead. 

EPILOGUE

For a moment they stared at one another. He did not at once recognizeConnie Edwards, in the puritanical serge frock and with her air ofrather conscious sobriety, and he himself stood in the shadow. Hethought:

"She's wondering if I'm a tramp. " He felt like one, broken and shabby. 

"Dr. Wilmot?" he muttered. 

She leant closer. 

"Oh, hallo--Robert. " She corrected herself severely, and held the doorwide open. "Dr. Stonehouse--to be sure. Francey's upstairs. "

She led the way. It was almost as though she had been expecting him. At any rate, she was not surprised at all. But half-way up the stairsshe glanced back over her shoulder. 

"I don't usually open the door. I'm her secretary. And a damn goodone too. Rather a jest, eh, what?"

"Rather, " he said. 

And it was really the same room--a fire burning and the faun dancing inthe midst of its moving shadows. There was a faint, warm scent ofcigarette smoke and a solemn pile of books beside her deep chair. Itwouldn't be like Francey to rest under her laurels. 

She held both his hands in hers. She wore a loose, golden-brownwrapper such as she had always worn when she had been working hard. She had changed very little and a great deal. If something of thewhimsical mysteriousness of her youth had faded she had broadened anddeepened into a woman warm and generous as the earth. Her thick hairswept back from her face with the old wind-blown look, and her eyeswere candid and steadfast as they had ever been. But some sort of misthad been brushed away from them so that they saw more clearly andprofoundly. He thought: "She has seen a great many people suffer. Shedoesn't go away so often into herself. "

He had tried hard, over and over again, to imagine their meeting, buthe had never imagined that it would be so simple or that she would sayto him, as though the eight years had not happened:

"Why didn't you tell me about Christine, Robert?"

He said:

"It wouldn't have made any difference. "

"I've been waiting for you to tell me. "

He tried to smile. 

"You don't know how difficult it has been to come. I've been prowlingpast--night after night--trying to think what you'd say to me, if Iturned up. "

"You might have known. "

"I didn't--I don't know even now. "

She had made him sit down by the fire and she sat opposite him, bendingtowards him, with her slim, beautiful hands to the blaze. He felt thatshe knew, for all the outward signs of his prosperity, that he wasdestitute. He felt that his real self with which she had always beenso much concerned had been stripped naked, and that she was trying towarm and console him. She was wrapping him round with that unchangedtenderness. 

"It's--it's the old room!" he said. 

But his enmity was dead. He was at peace with it. He had beeninitiated. He had heard, very faintly it is true, but loud enough tounderstand, the music to which the faun danced. He was not theoutsider any more. 

"I wanted it to be the same. "

"And the house----"

"I took it as soon as I could get it. I made up my mind to live here, whatever it cost. You see, I was quite sure that you would go past oneof these days to have a look at it, and that you would say to yourself:'Why, there's Francey, after all! I'll go in----'"

But they both drew back instinctively. He blundered into a hurriedquestion. The Gang? What had happened to them all? It seemed thatGertie still lived, defying medical opinion and apparently feeding herstarved spirit on the treasures of the Vatican. Howard, who had becomea very bad artist and lived on selling copies of the masterpieces totourists, looked after her. 

"But they're not married, " Francey said. "Just friends. "

He said humbly:

"Well, he's been awfully decent to her. "

As to the rest, no one knew what had become of them. 

"And you've done splendidly, Robert, better than any of us. "

"I've been a failure, " he answered, "a rotten failure!"

She accepted the statement gravely, without protest, and that sinceritywas like a skilled hand on a wound. It brought comfort where afumbling kindness would have been unendurable. It made him strangely, deeply happy to know that she would see too that he had failed. "I'venever had pity on anyone--not even myself--I've learnt nothing thatmatters. "

For a while they sat silent, looking into the fire, like people who arewaiting and preparing themselves for some great event. And presently, without moving, in an undertone he began to tell her about the MarieDubois who had died, and how he had seen her long ago at the Circus, his first and only circus. He told her about the Circus itself. Hedid not choose his words, but stammered and fumbled and jumped from onething to another. He opened his heart and took out whatever he foundthere, and showed it to her very humbly, just as it was. It seemedcertain and imperative that after a little while they should both seethe pattern of it all. He told her about his love for his dead mother, and how his father had died and had come back, haunting him in hissleep. 

Then he remembered something he had never thought of before--how he hadlooked up at the window of the room where his father was lying dead, and had wanted to run--run fast. 

"But I think I've lived in that dark house all my life, " he said, "andI've gone about in it, blustering and swaggering and being hard andstrong because I was so desperately afraid--of life, of caring toomuch, of failing. And now--I've come out. "

And then he began to tremble all over and suddenly he was cryinghelplessly. 

She knelt beside him. She drew him into her arms. It was their momentin the green forest over again, but now there was no antagonism intheir love. She was the warm, good spirit of the life to which he hadbecome reconciled. They had belonged to one another from thebeginning. His fear had stood between them. But she had gone onloving him, steadfastly, because nothing else was possible to her. 

"Francey--do you remember--that time we fought one another--over anidiotic stick? I was such a young rotter--I wouldn't own up--that youwere stronger than I was. "

She took his wet hands and kissed them. It was as though she had saidaloud, smiling to herself:

"It's all right now, anyhow, you odd, sad little boy. "