THE GARDEN PARTY

By Katherine Mansfield

CONTENTS

1. At the Bay

2. The Garden Party

3. The Daughters of the Late Colonel

4. Mr. And Mrs. Dove

5. The Young Girl

6. Life of Ma Parker

7. Marriage a la Mode

8. The Voyage

9. Miss Brill

10. Her First Ball

11. The Singing Lesson

12. The Stranger

13. Bank Holiday

14. An Ideal Family

15. The Lady's-Maid

1. AT THE BAY. 

Chapter 1. I. 

Very early morning. The sun was not yet risen, and the whole of CrescentBay was hidden under a white sea-mist. The big bush-covered hills at theback were smothered. You could not see where they ended and the paddocksand bungalows began. The sandy road was gone and the paddocks andbungalows the other side of it; there were no white dunes covered withreddish grass beyond them; there was nothing to mark which was beach andwhere was the sea. A heavy dew had fallen. The grass was blue. Big dropshung on the bushes and just did not fall; the silvery, fluffy toi-toiwas limp on its long stalks, and all the marigolds and the pinks in thebungalow gardens were bowed to the earth with wetness. Drenched were thecold fuchsias, round pearls of dew lay on the flat nasturtium leaves. Itlooked as though the sea had beaten up softly in the darkness, as thoughone immense wave had come rippling, rippling--how far? Perhaps if youhad waked up in the middle of the night you might have seen a big fishflicking in at the window and gone again. .. . 

Ah-Aah! sounded the sleepy sea. And from the bush there came the soundof little streams flowing, quickly, lightly, slipping between the smoothstones, gushing into ferny basins and out again; and there was thesplashing of big drops on large leaves, and something else--what wasit?--a faint stirring and shaking, the snapping of a twig and then suchsilence that it seemed some one was listening. 

Round the corner of Crescent Bay, between the piled-up masses of brokenrock, a flock of sheep came pattering. They were huddled together, asmall, tossing, woolly mass, and their thin, stick-like legs trottedalong quickly as if the cold and the quiet had frightened them. Behindthem an old sheep-dog, his soaking paws covered with sand, ran alongwith his nose to the ground, but carelessly, as if thinking of somethingelse. And then in the rocky gateway the shepherd himself appeared. Hewas a lean, upright old man, in a frieze coat that was covered with aweb of tiny drops, velvet trousers tied under the knee, and a wide-awakewith a folded blue handkerchief round the brim. One hand was crammedinto his belt, the other grasped a beautifully smooth yellow stick. Andas he walked, taking his time, he kept up a very soft light whistling, an airy, far-away fluting that sounded mournful and tender. The olddog cut an ancient caper or two and then drew up sharp, ashamed of hislevity, and walked a few dignified paces by his master's side. The sheepran forward in little pattering rushes; they began to bleat, and ghostlyflocks and herds answered them from under the sea. "Baa! Baaa!" For atime they seemed to be always on the same piece of ground. There aheadwas stretched the sandy road with shallow puddles; the same soakingbushes showed on either side and the same shadowy palings. Thensomething immense came into view; an enormous shock-haired giant withhis arms stretched out. It was the big gum-tree outside Mrs. Stubbs'shop, and as they passed by there was a strong whiff of eucalyptus. And now big spots of light gleamed in the mist. The shepherd stoppedwhistling; he rubbed his red nose and wet beard on his wet sleeve and, screwing up his eyes, glanced in the direction of the sea. The sunwas rising. It was marvellous how quickly the mist thinned, sped away, dissolved from the shallow plain, rolled up from the bush and was goneas if in a hurry to escape; big twists and curls jostled and shoulderedeach other as the silvery beams broadened. The far-away sky--a bright, pure blue--was reflected in the puddles, and the drops, swimming alongthe telegraph poles, flashed into points of light. Now the leaping, glittering sea was so bright it made one's eyes ache to look at it. Theshepherd drew a pipe, the bowl as small as an acorn, out of his breastpocket, fumbled for a chunk of speckled tobacco, pared off a fewshavings and stuffed the bowl. He was a grave, fine-looking old man. As he lit up and the blue smoke wreathed his head, the dog, watching, looked proud of him. 

"Baa! Baaa!" The sheep spread out into a fan. They were just clear ofthe summer colony before the first sleeper turned over and lifted adrowsy head; their cry sounded in the dreams of little children. .. Wholifted their arms to drag down, to cuddle the darling little woollylambs of sleep. Then the first inhabitant appeared; it was the Burnells'cat Florrie, sitting on the gatepost, far too early as usual, lookingfor their milk-girl. When she saw the old sheep-dog she sprang upquickly, arched her back, drew in her tabby head, and seemed to give alittle fastidious shiver. "Ugh! What a coarse, revolting creature!" saidFlorrie. But the old sheep-dog, not looking up, waggled past, flingingout his legs from side to side. Only one of his ears twitched to provethat he saw, and thought her a silly young female. 

The breeze of morning lifted in the bush and the smell of leaves and wetblack earth mingled with the sharp smell of the sea. Myriads of birdswere singing. A goldfinch flew over the shepherd's head and, perching onthe tiptop of a spray, it turned to the sun, ruffling its small breastfeathers. And now they had passed the fisherman's hut, passed thecharred-looking little whare where Leila the milk-girl lived with herold Gran. The sheep strayed over a yellow swamp and Wag, the sheep-dog, padded after, rounded them up and headed them for the steeper, narrowerrocky pass that led out of Crescent Bay and towards Daylight Cove. "Baa!Baa!" Faint the cry came as they rocked along the fast-drying road. Theshepherd put away his pipe, dropping it into his breast-pocket so thatthe little bowl hung over. And straightway the soft airy whistling beganagain. Wag ran out along a ledge of rock after something that smelled, and ran back again disgusted. Then pushing, nudging, hurrying, the sheeprounded the bend and the shepherd followed after out of sight. 

Chapter 1. II. 

A few moments later the back door of one of the bungalows opened, and afigure in a broad-striped bathing suit flung down the paddock, clearedthe stile, rushed through the tussock grass into the hollow, staggeredup the sandy hillock, and raced for dear life over the big porousstones, over the cold, wet pebbles, on to the hard sand that gleamedlike oil. Splish-Splosh! Splish-Splosh! The water bubbled round hislegs as Stanley Burnell waded out exulting. First man in as usual! He'dbeaten them all again. And he swooped down to souse his head and neck. 

"Hail, brother! All hail, Thou Mighty One!" A velvety bass voice camebooming over the water. 

Great Scott! Damnation take it! Stanley lifted up to see a dark headbobbing far out and an arm lifted. It was Jonathan Trout--there beforehim! "Glorious morning!" sang the voice. 

"Yes, very fine!" said Stanley briefly. Why the dickens didn't thefellow stick to his part of the sea? Why should he come barging over tothis exact spot? Stanley gave a kick, a lunge and struck out, swimmingoverarm. But Jonathan was a match for him. Up he came, his black hairsleek on his forehead, his short beard sleek. 

"I had an extraordinary dream last night!" he shouted. 

What was the matter with the man? This mania for conversation irritatedStanley beyond words. And it was always the same--always some piffleabout a dream he'd had, or some cranky idea he'd got hold of, or somerot he'd been reading. Stanley turned over on his back and kicked withhis legs till he was a living waterspout. But even then. .. "I dreamed Iwas hanging over a terrifically high cliff, shouting to some one below. "You would be! thought Stanley. He could stick no more of it. He stoppedsplashing. "Look here, Trout, " he said, "I'm in rather a hurry thismorning. "

"You're WHAT?" Jonathan was so surprised--or pretended to be--that hesank under the water, then reappeared again blowing. 

"All I mean is, " said Stanley, "I've no time to--to--to fool about. I want to get this over. I'm in a hurry. I've work to do thismorning--see?"

Jonathan was gone before Stanley had finished. "Pass, friend!" said thebass voice gently, and he slid away through the water with scarcelya ripple. .. But curse the fellow! He'd ruined Stanley's bathe. What anunpractical idiot the man was! Stanley struck out to sea again, andthen as quickly swam in again, and away he rushed up the beach. He feltcheated. 

Jonathan stayed a little longer in the water. He floated, gently movinghis hands like fins, and letting the sea rock his long, skinny body. Itwas curious, but in spite of everything he was fond of Stanley Burnell. True, he had a fiendish desire to tease him sometimes, to poke fun athim, but at bottom he was sorry for the fellow. There was somethingpathetic in his determination to make a job of everything. You couldn'thelp feeling he'd be caught out one day, and then what an almightycropper he'd come! At that moment an immense wave lifted Jonathan, rodepast him, and broke along the beach with a joyful sound. What a beauty!And now there came another. That was the way to live--carelessly, recklessly, spending oneself. He got on to his feet and began to wadetowards the shore, pressing his toes into the firm, wrinkled sand. Totake things easy, not to fight against the ebb and flow of life, but togive way to it--that was what was needed. It was this tension that wasall wrong. To live--to live! And the perfect morning, so fresh and fair, basking in the light, as though laughing at its own beauty, seemed towhisper, "Why not?"

But now he was out of the water Jonathan turned blue with cold. He achedall over; it was as though some one was wringing the blood out of him. And stalking up the beach, shivering, all his muscles tight, he too felthis bathe was spoilt. He'd stayed in too long. 

Chapter 1. III. 

Beryl was alone in the living-room when Stanley appeared, wearing a blueserge suit, a stiff collar and a spotted tie. He looked almost uncannilyclean and brushed; he was going to town for the day. Dropping into hischair, he pulled out his watch and put it beside his plate. 

"I've just got twenty-five minutes, " he said. "You might go and see ifthe porridge is ready, Beryl?"

"Mother's just gone for it, " said Beryl. She sat down at the table andpoured out his tea. 

"Thanks!" Stanley took a sip. "Hallo!" he said in an astonished voice, "you've forgotten the sugar. "

"Oh, sorry!" But even then Beryl didn't help him; she pushed the basinacross. What did this mean? As Stanley helped himself his blueeyes widened; they seemed to quiver. He shot a quick glance at hissister-in-law and leaned back. 

"Nothing wrong, is there?" he asked carelessly, fingering his collar. 

Beryl's head was bent; she turned her plate in her fingers. 

"Nothing, " said her light voice. Then she too looked up, and smiled atStanley. "Why should there be?"

"O-oh! No reason at all as far as I know. I thought you seemed rather--"

At that moment the door opened and the three little girls appeared, eachcarrying a porridge plate. They were dressed alike in blue jerseys andknickers; their brown legs were bare, and each had her hair plaitedand pinned up in what was called a horse's tail. Behind them came Mrs. Fairfield with the tray. 

"Carefully, children, " she warned. But they were taking the verygreatest care. They loved being allowed to carry things. "Have you saidgood morning to your father?"

"Yes, grandma. " They settled themselves on the bench opposite Stanleyand Beryl. 

"Good morning, Stanley!" Old Mrs. Fairfield gave him his plate. 

"Morning, mother! How's the boy?"

"Splendid! He only woke up once last night. What a perfect morning!" Theold woman paused, her hand on the loaf of bread, to gaze out of theopen door into the garden. The sea sounded. Through the wide-openwindow streamed the sun on to the yellow varnished walls and bare floor. Everything on the table flashed and glittered. In the middle there wasan old salad bowl filled with yellow and red nasturtiums. She smiled, and a look of deep content shone in her eyes. 

"You might cut me a slice of that bread, mother, " said Stanley. "I'veonly twelve and a half minutes before the coach passes. Has anyone givenmy shoes to the servant girl?"

"Yes, they're ready for you. " Mrs. Fairfield was quite unruffled. 

"Oh, Kezia! Why are you such a messy child!" cried Beryl despairingly. 

"Me, Aunt Beryl?" Kezia stared at her. What had she done now? She hadonly dug a river down the middle of her porridge, filled it, and waseating the banks away. But she did that every single morning, and no onehad said a word up till now. 

"Why can't you eat your food properly like Isabel and Lottie?" Howunfair grown-ups are!

"But Lottie always makes a floating island, don't you, Lottie?"

"I don't, " said Isabel smartly. "I just sprinkle mine with sugar and puton the milk and finish it. Only babies play with their food. "

Stanley pushed back his chair and got up. 

"Would you get me those shoes, mother? And, Beryl, if you've finished, I wish you'd cut down to the gate and stop the coach. Run in to yourmother, Isabel, and ask her where my bowler hat's been put. Wait aminute--have you children been playing with my stick?"

"No, father!"

"But I put it here. " Stanley began to bluster. "I remember distinctlyputting it in this corner. Now, who's had it? There's no time to lose. Look sharp! The stick's got to be found. "

Even Alice, the servant-girl, was drawn into the chase. "You haven'tbeen using it to poke the kitchen fire with by any chance?"

Stanley dashed into the bedroom where Linda was lying. "Mostextraordinary thing. I can't keep a single possession to myself. They'vemade away with my stick, now!"

"Stick, dear? What stick?" Linda's vagueness on these occasions couldnot be real, Stanley decided. Would nobody sympathize with him?

"Coach! Coach, Stanley!" Beryl's voice cried from the gate. 

Stanley waved his arm to Linda. "No time to say good-bye!" he cried. Andhe meant that as a punishment to her. 

He snatched his bowler hat, dashed out of the house, and swung down thegarden path. Yes, the coach was there waiting, and Beryl, leaning overthe open gate, was laughing up at somebody or other just as if nothinghad happened. The heartlessness of women! The way they took it forgranted it was your job to slave away for them while they didn't eventake the trouble to see that your walking-stick wasn't lost. Kellytrailed his whip across the horses. 

"Good-bye, Stanley, " called Beryl, sweetly and gaily. It was easy enoughto say good-bye! And there she stood, idle, shading her eyes with herhand. The worst of it was Stanley had to shout good-bye too, for thesake of appearances. Then he saw her turn, give a little skip and runback to the house. She was glad to be rid of him!

Yes, she was thankful. Into the living-room she ran and called "He'sgone!" Linda cried from her room: "Beryl! Has Stanley gone?" Old Mrs. Fairfield appeared, carrying the boy in his little flannel coatee. 

"Gone?"

"Gone!"

Oh, the relief, the difference it made to have the man out of the house. Their very voices were changed as they called to one another; theysounded warm and loving and as if they shared a secret. Beryl went overto the table. "Have another cup of tea, mother. It's still hot. " Shewanted, somehow, to celebrate the fact that they could do what theyliked now. There was no man to disturb them; the whole perfect day wastheirs. 

"No, thank you, child, " said old Mrs. Fairfield, but the way at thatmoment she tossed the boy up and said "a-goos-a-goos-a-ga!" to himmeant that she felt the same. The little girls ran into the paddock likechickens let out of a coop. 

Even Alice, the servant-girl, washing up the dishes in the kitchen, caught the infection and used the precious tank water in a perfectlyreckless fashion. 

"Oh, these men!" said she, and she plunged the teapot into the bowl andheld it under the water even after it had stopped bubbling, as if it toowas a man and drowning was too good for them. 

Chapter 1. IV. 

"Wait for me, Isa-bel! Kezia, wait for me!"

There was poor little Lottie, left behind again, because she found it sofearfully hard to get over the stile by herself. When she stood on thefirst step her knees began to wobble; she grasped the post. Then you hadto put one leg over. But which leg? She never could decide. And when shedid finally put one leg over with a sort of stamp of despair--then thefeeling was awful. She was half in the paddock still and half in thetussock grass. She clutched the post desperately and lifted up hervoice. "Wait for me!"

"No, don't you wait for her, Kezia!" said Isabel. "She's such a littlesilly. She's always making a fuss. Come on!" And she tugged Kezia'sjersey. "You can use my bucket if you come with me, " she said kindly. "It's bigger than yours. " But Kezia couldn't leave Lottie all byherself. She ran back to her. By this time Lottie was very red in theface and breathing heavily. 

"Here, put your other foot over, " said Kezia. 

"Where?"

Lottie looked down at Kezia as if from a mountain height. 

"Here where my hand is. " Kezia patted the place. 

"Oh, there do you mean!" Lottie gave a deep sigh and put the second footover. 

"Now--sort of turn round and sit down and slide, " said Kezia. 

"But there's nothing to sit down on, Kezia, " said Lottie. 

She managed it at last, and once it was over she shook herself and beganto beam. 

"I'm getting better at climbing over stiles, aren't I, Kezia?"

Lottie's was a very hopeful nature. 

The pink and the blue sunbonnet followed Isabel's bright red sunbonnetup that sliding, slipping hill. At the top they paused to decide whereto go and to have a good stare at who was there already. Seen frombehind, standing against the skyline, gesticulating largely with theirspades, they looked like minute puzzled explorers. 

The whole family of Samuel Josephs was there already with theirlady-help, who sat on a camp-stool and kept order with a whistle thatshe wore tied round her neck, and a small cane with which she directedoperations. The Samuel Josephs never played by themselves or managedtheir own game. If they did, it ended in the boys pouring water downthe girls' necks or the girls trying to put little black crabs into theboys' pockets. So Mrs. S. J. And the poor lady-help drew up what shecalled a "brogramme" every morning to keep them "abused and out ofbischief. " It was all competitions or races or round games. Everythingbegan with a piercing blast of the lady-help's whistle and ended withanother. There were even prizes--large, rather dirty paper parcels whichthe lady-help with a sour little smile drew out of a bulging stringkit. The Samuel Josephs fought fearfully for the prizes and cheated andpinched one another's arms--they were all expert pinchers. The only timethe Burnell children ever played with them Kezia had got a prize, and when she undid three bits of paper she found a very small rustybutton-hook. She couldn't understand why they made such a fuss. .. . 

But they never played with the Samuel Josephs now or even went to theirparties. The Samuel Josephs were always giving children's parties atthe Bay and there was always the same food. A big washhand basin ofvery brown fruit-salad, buns cut into four and a washhand jug full ofsomething the lady-help called "Limonadear. " And you went away in theevening with half the frill torn off your frock or something spilled alldown the front of your open-work pinafore, leaving the Samuel Josephsleaping like savages on their lawn. No! They were too awful. 

On the other side of the beach, close down to the water, two littleboys, their knickers rolled up, twinkled like spiders. One was digging, the other pattered in and out of the water, filling a small bucket. Theywere the Trout boys, Pip and Rags. But Pip was so busy digging and Ragswas so busy helping that they didn't see their little cousins until theywere quite close. 

"Look!" said Pip. "Look what I've discovered. " And he showed them an oldwet, squashed-looking boot. The three little girls stared. 

"Whatever are you going to do with it?" asked Kezia. 

"Keep it, of course!" Pip was very scornful. "It's a find--see?"

Yes, Kezia saw that. All the same. .. . 

"There's lots of things buried in the sand, " explained Pip. "They getchucked up from wrecks. Treasure. Why--you might find--"

"But why does Rags have to keep on pouring water in?" asked Lottie. 

"Oh, that's to moisten it, " said Pip, "to make the work a bit easier. Keep it up, Rags. "

And good little Rags ran up and down, pouring in the water that turnedbrown like cocoa. 

"Here, shall I show you what I found yesterday?" said Pip mysteriously, and he stuck his spade into the sand. "Promise not to tell. "

They promised. 

"Say, cross my heart straight dinkum. "

The little girls said it. 

Pip took something out of his pocket, rubbed it a long time on the frontof his jersey, then breathed on it and rubbed it again. 

"Now turn round!" he ordered. 

They turned round. 

"All look the same way! Keep still! Now!"

And his hand opened; he held up to the light something that flashed, that winked, that was a most lovely green. 

"It's a nemeral, " said Pip solemnly. 

"Is it really, Pip?" Even Isabel was impressed. 

The lovely green thing seemed to dance in Pip's fingers. Aunt Beryl hada nemeral in a ring, but it was a very small one. This one was as big asa star and far more beautiful. 

Chapter 1. V. 

As the morning lengthened whole parties appeared over the sand-hillsand came down on the beach to bathe. It was understood that at eleveno'clock the women and children of the summer colony had the sea tothemselves. First the women undressed, pulled on their bathing dressesand covered their heads in hideous caps like sponge bags; then thechildren were unbuttoned. The beach was strewn with little heaps ofclothes and shoes; the big summer hats, with stones on them to keep themfrom blowing away, looked like immense shells. It was strange that eventhe sea seemed to sound differently when all those leaping, laughingfigures ran into the waves. Old Mrs. Fairfield, in a lilac cotton dressand a black hat tied under the chin, gathered her little brood and gotthem ready. The little Trout boys whipped their shirts over their heads, and away the five sped, while their grandma sat with one hand in herknitting-bag ready to draw out the ball of wool when she was satisfiedthey were safely in. 

The firm compact little girls were not half so brave as the tender, delicate-looking little boys. Pip and Rags, shivering, crouching down, slapping the water, never hesitated. But Isabel, who could swim twelvestrokes, and Kezia, who could nearly swim eight, only followed on thestrict understanding they were not to be splashed. As for Lottie, shedidn't follow at all. She liked to be left to go in her own way, please. And that way was to sit down at the edge of the water, her legsstraight, her knees pressed together, and to make vague motions with herarms as if she expected to be wafted out to sea. But when a bigger wavethan usual, an old whiskery one, came lolloping along in her direction, she scrambled to her feet with a face of horror and flew up the beachagain. 

"Here, mother, keep those for me, will you?"

Two rings and a thin gold chain were dropped into Mrs Fairfield's lap. 

"Yes, dear. But aren't you going to bathe here?"

"No-o, " Beryl drawled. She sounded vague. "I'm undressing farther along. I'm going to bathe with Mrs. Harry Kember. "

"Very well. " But Mrs. Fairfield's lips set. She disapproved of Mrs HarryKember. Beryl knew it. 

Poor old mother, she smiled, as she skimmed over the stones. Poor oldmother! Old! Oh, what joy, what bliss it was to be young. .. . 

"You look very pleased, " said Mrs. Harry Kember. She sat hunched up onthe stones, her arms round her knees, smoking. 

"It's such a lovely day, " said Beryl, smiling down at her. 

"Oh my dear!" Mrs. Harry Kember's voice sounded as though she knewbetter than that. But then her voice always sounded as though sheknew something better about you than you did yourself. She was a long, strange-looking woman with narrow hands and feet. Her face, too, waslong and narrow and exhausted-looking; even her fair curled fringelooked burnt out and withered. She was the only woman at the Bay whosmoked, and she smoked incessantly, keeping the cigarette between herlips while she talked, and only taking it out when the ash was so longyou could not understand why it did not fall. When she was not playingbridge--she played bridge every day of her life--she spent her timelying in the full glare of the sun. She could stand any amount ofit; she never had enough. All the same, it did not seem to warm her. Parched, withered, cold, she lay stretched on the stones like a pieceof tossed-up driftwood. The women at the Bay thought she was very, veryfast. Her lack of vanity, her slang, the way she treated men as thoughshe was one of them, and the fact that she didn't care twopence abouther house and called the servant Gladys "Glad-eyes, " was disgraceful. Standing on the veranda steps Mrs. Kember would call in her indifferent, tired voice, "I say, Glad-eyes, you might heave me a handkerchief ifI've got one, will you?" And Glad-eyes, a red bow in her hair instead ofa cap, and white shoes, came running with an impudent smile. It was anabsolute scandal! True, she had no children, and her husband. .. Here thevoices were always raised; they became fervent. How can he have marriedher? How can he, how can he? It must have been money, of course, buteven then!

Mrs. Kember's husband was at least ten years younger than she was, andso incredibly handsome that he looked like a mask or a most perfectillustration in an American novel rather than a man. Black hair, darkblue eyes, red lips, a slow sleepy smile, a fine tennis player, aperfect dancer, and with it all a mystery. Harry Kember was like a manwalking in his sleep. Men couldn't stand him, they couldn't get a wordout of the chap; he ignored his wife just as she ignored him. How didhe live? Of course there were stories, but such stories! They simplycouldn't be told. The women he'd been seen with, the places he'd beenseen in. .. But nothing was ever certain, nothing definite. Some of thewomen at the Bay privately thought he'd commit a murder one day. Yes, even while they talked to Mrs. Kember and took in the awful concoctionshe was wearing, they saw her, stretched as she lay on the beach; butcold, bloody, and still with a cigarette stuck in the corner of hermouth. 

Mrs. Kember rose, yawned, unsnapped her belt buckle, and tugged at thetape of her blouse. And Beryl stepped out of her skirt and shed herjersey, and stood up in her short white petticoat, and her camisole withribbon bows on the shoulders. 

"Mercy on us, " said Mrs. Harry Kember, "what a little beauty you are!"

"Don't!" said Beryl softly; but, drawing off one stocking and then theother, she felt a little beauty. 

"My dear--why not?" said Mrs. Harry Kember, stamping on her ownpetticoat. Really--her underclothes! A pair of blue cotton knickers anda linen bodice that reminded one somehow of a pillow-case. .. "And youdon't wear stays, do you?" She touched Beryl's waist, and Beryl sprangaway with a small affected cry. Then "Never!" she said firmly. 

"Lucky little creature, " sighed Mrs. Kember, unfastening her own. 

Beryl turned her back and began the complicated movements of some onewho is trying to take off her clothes and to pull on her bathing-dressall at one and the same time. 

"Oh, my dear--don't mind me, " said Mrs. Harry Kember. "Why be shy? Ishan't eat you. I shan't be shocked like those other ninnies. " And shegave her strange neighing laugh and grimaced at the other women. 

But Beryl was shy. She never undressed in front of anybody. Was thatsilly? Mrs. Harry Kember made her feel it was silly, even somethingto be ashamed of. Why be shy indeed! She glanced quickly at her friendstanding so boldly in her torn chemise and lighting a fresh cigarette;and a quick, bold, evil feeling started up in her breast. Laughingrecklessly, she drew on the limp, sandy-feeling bathing-dress that wasnot quite dry and fastened the twisted buttons. 

"That's better, " said Mrs. Harry Kember. They began to go down thebeach together. "Really, it's a sin for you to wear clothes, my dear. Somebody's got to tell you some day. "

The water was quite warm. It was that marvellous transparent blue, flecked with silver, but the sand at the bottom looked gold; when youkicked with your toes there rose a little puff of gold-dust. Now thewaves just reached her breast. Beryl stood, her arms outstretched, gazing out, and as each wave came she gave the slightest little jump, sothat it seemed it was the wave which lifted her so gently. 

"I believe in pretty girls having a good time, " said Mrs. Harry Kember. "Why not? Don't you make a mistake, my dear. Enjoy yourself. " Andsuddenly she turned turtle, disappeared, and swam away quickly, quickly, like a rat. Then she flicked round and began swimming back. She wasgoing to say something else. Beryl felt that she was being poisonedby this cold woman, but she longed to hear. But oh, how strange, howhorrible! As Mrs. Harry Kember came up close she looked, in her blackwaterproof bathing-cap, with her sleepy face lifted above the water, just her chin touching, like a horrible caricature of her husband. 

Chapter 1. VI. 

In a steamer chair, under a manuka tree that grew in the middle ofthe front grass patch, Linda Burnell dreamed the morning away. She didnothing. She looked up at the dark, close, dry leaves of the manuka, atthe chinks of blue between, and now and again a tiny yellowish flowerdropped on her. Pretty--yes, if you held one of those flowers on thepalm of your hand and looked at it closely, it was an exquisite smallthing. Each pale yellow petal shone as if each was the careful work of aloving hand. The tiny tongue in the centre gave it the shape of a bell. And when you turned it over the outside was a deep bronze colour. Butas soon as they flowered, they fell and were scattered. You brushed themoff your frock as you talked; the horrid little things got caught inone's hair. Why, then, flower at all? Who takes the trouble--or thejoy--to make all these things that are wasted, wasted. .. It was uncanny. 

On the grass beside her, lying between two pillows, was the boy. Soundasleep he lay, his head turned away from his mother. His fine dark hairlooked more like a shadow than like real hair, but his ear was a bright, deep coral. Linda clasped her hands above her head and crossed her feet. It was very pleasant to know that all these bungalows were empty, thateverybody was down on the beach, out of sight, out of hearing. She hadthe garden to herself; she was alone. 

Dazzling white the picotees shone; the golden-eyed marigold glittered;the nasturtiums wreathed the veranda poles in green and gold flame. Ifonly one had time to look at these flowers long enough, time to get overthe sense of novelty and strangeness, time to know them! But as soon asone paused to part the petals, to discover the under-side of the leaf, along came Life and one was swept away. And, lying in her cane chair, Linda felt so light; she felt like a leaf. Along came Life like a windand she was seized and shaken; she had to go. Oh dear, would it alwaysbe so? Was there no escape?

. .. Now she sat on the veranda of their Tasmanian home, leaning againsther father's knee. And he promised, "As soon as you and I are oldenough, Linny, we'll cut off somewhere, we'll escape. Two boys together. I have a fancy I'd like to sail up a river in China. " Linda saw thatriver, very wide, covered with little rafts and boats. She saw theyellow hats of the boatmen and she heard their high, thin voices as theycalled. .. 

"Yes, papa. "

But just then a very broad young man with bright ginger hair walkedslowly past their house, and slowly, solemnly even, uncovered. Linda'sfather pulled her ear teasingly, in the way he had. 

"Linny's beau, " he whispered. 

"Oh, papa, fancy being married to Stanley Burnell!"

Well, she was married to him. And what was more she loved him. Notthe Stanley whom every one saw, not the everyday one; but a timid, sensitive, innocent Stanley who knelt down every night to say hisprayers, and who longed to be good. Stanley was simple. If he believedin people--as he believed in her, for instance--it was with his wholeheart. He could not be disloyal; he could not tell a lie. And howterribly he suffered if he thought any one--she--was not being deadstraight, dead sincere with him! "This is too subtle for me!" He flungout the words, but his open, quivering, distraught look was like thelook of a trapped beast. 

But the trouble was--here Linda felt almost inclined to laugh, thoughHeaven knows it was no laughing matter--she saw her Stanley so seldom. There were glimpses, moments, breathing spaces of calm, but all the restof the time it was like living in a house that couldn't be cured of thehabit of catching on fire, on a ship that got wrecked every day. And itwas always Stanley who was in the thick of the danger. Her whole timewas spent in rescuing him, and restoring him, and calming him down, andlistening to his story. And what was left of her time was spent in thedread of having children. 

Linda frowned; she sat up quickly in her steamer chair and clasped herankles. Yes, that was her real grudge against life; that was what shecould not understand. That was the question she asked and asked, andlistened in vain for the answer. It was all very well to say it wasthe common lot of women to bear children. It wasn't true. She, for one, could prove that wrong. She was broken, made weak, her courage was gone, through child-bearing. And what made it doubly hard to bear was, she didnot love her children. It was useless pretending. Even if she had hadthe strength she never would have nursed and played with the littlegirls. No, it was as though a cold breath had chilled her through andthrough on each of those awful journeys; she had no warmth left to givethem. As to the boy--well, thank Heaven, mother had taken him; he wasmother's, or Beryl's, or anybody's who wanted him. She had hardlyheld him in her arms. She was so indifferent about him that as he laythere. .. Linda glanced down. 

The boy had turned over. He lay facing her, and he was no longer asleep. His dark-blue, baby eyes were open; he looked as though he was peepingat his mother. And suddenly his face dimpled; it broke into a wide, toothless smile, a perfect beam, no less. 

"I'm here!" that happy smile seemed to say. "Why don't you like me?"

There was something so quaint, so unexpected about that smile that Lindasmiled herself. But she checked herself and said to the boy coldly, "Idon't like babies. "

"Don't like babies?" The boy couldn't believe her. "Don't like me?" Hewaved his arms foolishly at his mother. 

Linda dropped off her chair on to the grass. 

"Why do you keep on smiling?" she said severely. "If you knew what I wasthinking about, you wouldn't. "

But he only squeezed up his eyes, slyly, and rolled his head on thepillow. He didn't believe a word she said. 

"We know all about that!" smiled the boy. 

Linda was so astonished at the confidence of this little creature. .. Ahno, be sincere. That was not what she felt; it was something fardifferent, it was something so new, so. .. The tears danced in her eyes;she breathed in a small whisper to the boy, "Hallo, my funny!"

But by now the boy had forgotten his mother. He was serious again. Something pink, something soft waved in front of him. He made a grab atit and it immediately disappeared. But when he lay back, another, likethe first, appeared. This time he determined to catch it. He made atremendous effort and rolled right over. 

Chapter 1. VII. 

The tide was out; the beach was deserted; lazily flopped the warm sea. The sun beat down, beat down hot and fiery on the fine sand, bakingthe grey and blue and black and white-veined pebbles. It sucked up thelittle drop of water that lay in the hollow of the curved shells; itbleached the pink convolvulus that threaded through and throughthe sand-hills. Nothing seemed to move but the small sand-hoppers. Pit-pit-pit! They were never still. 

Over there on the weed-hung rocks that looked at low tide like shaggybeasts come down to the water to drink, the sunlight seemed to spin likea silver coin dropped into each of the small rock pools. They danced, they quivered, and minute ripples laved the porous shores. Lookingdown, bending over, each pool was like a lake with pink and blue housesclustered on the shores; and oh! the vast mountainous country behindthose houses--the ravines, the passes, the dangerous creeks andfearful tracks that led to the water's edge. Underneath waved thesea-forest--pink thread-like trees, velvet anemones, and orangeberry-spotted weeds. Now a stone on the bottom moved, rocked, and therewas a glimpse of a black feeler; now a thread-like creature wavered byand was lost. Something was happening to the pink, waving trees; theywere changing to a cold moonlight blue. And now there sounded thefaintest "plop. " Who made that sound? What was going on down there? Andhow strong, how damp the seaweed smelt in the hot sun. .. 

The green blinds were drawn in the bungalows of the summer colony. Overthe verandas, prone on the paddock, flung over the fences, there wereexhausted-looking bathing-dresses and rough striped towels. Each backwindow seemed to have a pair of sand-shoes on the sill and some lumps ofrock or a bucket or a collection of pawa shells. The bush quivered ina haze of heat; the sandy road was empty except for the Trouts' dogSnooker, who lay stretched in the very middle of it. His blue eyewas turned up, his legs stuck out stiffly, and he gave an occasionaldesperate-sounding puff, as much as to say he had decided to make an endof it and was only waiting for some kind cart to come along. 

"What are you looking at, my grandma? Why do you keep stopping and sortof staring at the wall?"

Kezia and her grandmother were taking their siesta together. The littlegirl, wearing only her short drawers and her under-bodice, her arms andlegs bare, lay on one of the puffed-up pillows of her grandma's bed, andthe old woman, in a white ruffled dressing-gown, sat in a rocker at thewindow, with a long piece of pink knitting in her lap. This roomthat they shared, like the other rooms of the bungalow, was of lightvarnished wood and the floor was bare. The furniture was of theshabbiest, the simplest. The dressing-table, for instance, was apacking-case in a sprigged muslin petticoat, and the mirror above wasvery strange; it was as though a little piece of forked lightning wasimprisoned in it. On the table there stood a jar of sea-pinks, pressedso tightly together they looked more like a velvet pincushion, and aspecial shell which Kezia had given her grandma for a pin-tray, andanother even more special which she had thought would make a very niceplace for a watch to curl up in. 

"Tell me, grandma, " said Kezia. 

The old woman sighed, whipped the wool twice round her thumb, and drewthe bone needle through. She was casting on. 

"I was thinking of your Uncle William, darling, " she said quietly. 

"My Australian Uncle William?" said Kezia. She had another. 

"Yes, of course. "

"The one I never saw?"

"That was the one. "

"Well, what happened to him?" Kezia knew perfectly well, but she wantedto be told again. 

"He went to the mines, and he got a sunstroke there and died, " said oldMrs. Fairfield. 

Kezia blinked and considered the picture again. .. A little man fallenover like a tin soldier by the side of a big black hole. 

"Does it make you sad to think about him, grandma?" She hated hergrandma to be sad. 

It was the old woman's turn to consider. Did it make her sad? To lookback, back. To stare down the years, as Kezia had seen her doing. Tolook after them as a woman does, long after they were out of sight. Didit make her sad? No, life was like that. 

"No, Kezia. "

"But why?" asked Kezia. She lifted one bare arm and began to draw thingsin the air. "Why did Uncle William have to die? He wasn't old. "

Mrs. Fairfield began counting the stitches in threes. "It justhappened, " she said in an absorbed voice. 

"Does everybody have to die?" asked Kezia. 

"Everybody!"

"Me?" Kezia sounded fearfully incredulous. 

"Some day, my darling. "

"But, grandma. " Kezia waved her left leg and waggled the toes. They feltsandy. "What if I just won't?"

The old woman sighed again and drew a long thread from the ball. 

"We're not asked, Kezia, " she said sadly. "It happens to all of ussooner or later. "

Kezia lay still thinking this over. She didn't want to die. It meant shewould have to leave here, leave everywhere, for ever, leave--leave hergrandma. She rolled over quickly. 

"Grandma, " she said in a startled voice. 

"What, my pet!"

"You're not to die. " Kezia was very decided. 

"Ah, Kezia"--her grandma looked up and smiled and shook her head--"don'tlet's talk about it. "

"But you're not to. You couldn't leave me. You couldn't not be there. "This was awful. "Promise me you won't ever do it, grandma, " pleadedKezia. 

The old woman went on knitting. 

"Promise me! Say never!"

But still her grandma was silent. 

Kezia rolled off her bed; she couldn't bear it any longer, and lightlyshe leapt on to her grandma's knees, clasped her hands round the oldwoman's throat and began kissing her, under the chin, behind the ear, and blowing down her neck. 

"Say never. .. Say never. .. Say never--" She gasped between the kisses. Andthen she began, very softly and lightly, to tickle her grandma. 

"Kezia!" The old woman dropped her knitting. She swung back in therocker. She began to tickle Kezia. "Say never, say never, say never, "gurgled Kezia, while they lay there laughing in each other's arms. "Come, that's enough, my squirrel! That's enough, my wild pony!" saidold Mrs. Fairfield, setting her cap straight. "Pick up my knitting. "

Both of them had forgotten what the "never" was about. 

Chapter 1. VIII. 

The sun was still full on the garden when the back door of the Burnells'shut with a bang, and a very gay figure walked down the path to thegate. It was Alice, the servant-girl, dressed for her afternoon out. Shewore a white cotton dress with such large red spots on it and so manythat they made you shudder, white shoes and a leghorn turned up underthe brim with poppies. Of course she wore gloves, white ones, stainedat the fastenings with iron-mould, and in one hand she carried a verydashed-looking sunshade which she referred to as her "perishall. "

Beryl, sitting in the window, fanning her freshly-washed hair, thoughtshe had never seen such a guy. If Alice had only blacked her face witha piece of cork before she started out, the picture would have beencomplete. And where did a girl like that go to in a place like this? Theheart-shaped Fijian fan beat scornfully at that lovely bright mane. Shesupposed Alice had picked up some horrible common larrikin and they'dgo off into the bush together. Pity to have made herself so conspicuous;they'd have hard work to hide with Alice in that rig-out. 

But no, Beryl was unfair. Alice was going to tea with Mrs Stubbs, who'dsent her an "invite" by the little boy who called for orders. She hadtaken ever such a liking to Mrs. Stubbs ever since the first time shewent to the shop to get something for her mosquitoes. 

"Dear heart!" Mrs. Stubbs had clapped her hand to her side. "I neverseen anyone so eaten. You might have been attacked by canningbals. "

Alice did wish there'd been a bit of life on the road though. Made herfeel so queer, having nobody behind her. Made her feel all weak in thespine. She couldn't believe that some one wasn't watching her. And yetit was silly to turn round; it gave you away. She pulled up her gloves, hummed to herself and said to the distant gum-tree, "Shan't be longnow. " But that was hardly company. 

Mrs. Stubbs's shop was perched on a little hillock just off the road. Ithad two big windows for eyes, a broad veranda for a hat, and the sign onthe roof, scrawled MRS. STUBBS'S, was like a little card stuck rakishlyin the hat crown. 

On the veranda there hung a long string of bathing-dresses, clingingtogether as though they'd just been rescued from the sea rather thanwaiting to go in, and beside them there hung a cluster of sandshoes soextraordinarily mixed that to get at one pair you had to tear apart andforcibly separate at least fifty. Even then it was the rarest thingto find the left that belonged to the right. So many people had lostpatience and gone off with one shoe that fitted and one that was alittle too big. .. Mrs. Stubbs prided herself on keeping somethingof everything. The two windows, arranged in the form of precariouspyramids, were crammed so tight, piled so high, that it seemed only aconjurer could prevent them from toppling over. In the left-hand cornerof one window, glued to the pane by four gelatine lozenges, therewas--and there had been from time immemorial--a notice. 

LOST! HANSOME GOLE BROOCH SOLID GOLD ON OR NEAR BEACH REWARD OFFERED

Alice pressed open the door. The bell jangled, the red serge curtainsparted, and Mrs. Stubbs appeared. With her broad smile and the longbacon knife in her hand, she looked like a friendly brigand. Alice waswelcomed so warmly that she found it quite difficult to keep up her"manners. " They consisted of persistent little coughs and hems, pulls ather gloves, tweaks at her skirt, and a curious difficulty in seeing whatwas set before her or understanding what was said. 

Tea was laid on the parlour table--ham, sardines, a whole poundof butter, and such a large johnny cake that it looked like anadvertisement for somebody's baking-powder. But the Primus stove roaredso loudly that it was useless to try to talk above it. Alice sat downon the edge of a basket-chair while Mrs. Stubbs pumped the stovestill higher. Suddenly Mrs. Stubbs whipped the cushion off a chair anddisclosed a large brown-paper parcel. 

"I've just had some new photers taken, my dear, " she shouted cheerfullyto Alice. "Tell me what you think of them. "

In a very dainty, refined way Alice wet her finger and put the tissueback from the first one. Life! How many there were! There were threedozzing at least. And she held it up to the light. 

Mrs. Stubbs sat in an arm-chair, leaning very much to one side. Therewas a look of mild astonishment on her large face, and well there mightbe. For though the arm-chair stood on a carpet, to the left of it, miraculously skirting the carpet-border, there was a dashing water-fall. On her right stood a Grecian pillar with a giant fern-tree on eitherside of it, and in the background towered a gaunt mountain, pale withsnow. 

"It is a nice style, isn't it?" shouted Mrs. Stubbs; and Alice hadjust screamed "Sweetly" when the roaring of the Primus stove dieddown, fizzled out, ceased, and she said "Pretty" in a silence that wasfrightening. 

"Draw up your chair, my dear, " said Mrs. Stubbs, beginning to pour out. "Yes, " she said thoughtfully, as she handed the tea, "but I don't careabout the size. I'm having an enlargemint. All very well for Christmascards, but I never was the one for small photers myself. You get nocomfort out of them. To say the truth, I find them dis'eartening. "

Alice quite saw what she meant. 

"Size, " said Mrs. Stubbs. "Give me size. That was what my poor dearhusband was always saying. He couldn't stand anything small. Gave himthe creeps. And, strange as it may seem, my dear"--here Mrs. Stubbscreaked and seemed to expand herself at the memory--"it was dropsy thatcarried him off at the larst. Many's the time they drawn one and a halfpints from 'im at the 'ospital. .. It seemed like a judgmint. "

Alice burned to know exactly what it was that was drawn from him. Sheventured, "I suppose it was water. "

But Mrs. Stubbs fixed Alice with her eyes and replied meaningly, "It wasliquid, my dear. "

Liquid! Alice jumped away from the word like a cat and came back to it, nosing and wary. 

"That's 'im!" said Mrs. Stubbs, and she pointed dramatically to thelife-size head and shoulders of a burly man with a dead white rose inthe buttonhole of his coat that made you think of a curl of cold muttingfat. Just below, in silver letters on a red cardboard ground, were thewords, "Be not afraid, it is I. "

"It's ever such a fine face, " said Alice faintly. 

The pale-blue bow on the top of Mrs. Stubbs's fair frizzy hair quivered. She arched her plump neck. What a neck she had! It was bright pink whereit began and then it changed to warm apricot, and that faded to thecolour of a brown egg and then to a deep creamy. 

"All the same, my dear, " she said surprisingly, "freedom's best!" Hersoft, fat chuckle sounded like a purr. "Freedom's best, " said Mrs. Stubbs again. 

Freedom! Alice gave a loud, silly little titter. She felt awkward. Hermind flew back to her own kitching. Ever so queer! She wanted to be backin it again. 

Chapter 1. IX. 

A strange company assembled in the Burnells' washhouse after tea. Roundthe table there sat a bull, a rooster, a donkey that kept forgetting itwas a donkey, a sheep and a bee. The washhouse was the perfect place forsuch a meeting because they could make as much noise as they liked, andnobody ever interrupted. It was a small tin shed standing apart from thebungalow. Against the wall there was a deep trough and in the corner acopper with a basket of clothes-pegs on top of it. The little window, spun over with cobwebs, had a piece of candle and a mouse-trap on thedusty sill. There were clotheslines criss-crossed overhead and, hangingfrom a peg on the wall, a very big, a huge, rusty horseshoe. The tablewas in the middle with a form at either side. 

"You can't be a bee, Kezia. A bee's not an animal. It's a ninseck. "

"Oh, but I do want to be a bee frightfully, " wailed Kezia. .. A tiny bee, all yellow-furry, with striped legs. She drew her legs up under her andleaned over the table. She felt she was a bee. 

"A ninseck must be an animal, " she said stoutly. "It makes a noise. It'snot like a fish. "

"I'm a bull, I'm a bull!" cried Pip. And he gave such a tremendousbellow--how did he make that noise?--that Lottie looked quite alarmed. 

"I'll be a sheep, " said little Rags. "A whole lot of sheep went pastthis morning. "

"How do you know?"

"Dad heard them. Baa!" He sounded like the little lamb that trots behindand seems to wait to be carried. 

"Cock-a-doodle-do!" shrilled Isabel. With her red cheeks and bright eyesshe looked like a rooster. 

"What'll I be?" Lottie asked everybody, and she sat there smiling, waiting for them to decide for her. It had to be an easy one. 

"Be a donkey, Lottie. " It was Kezia's suggestion. "Hee-haw! You can'tforget that. "

"Hee-haw!" said Lottie solemnly. "When do I have to say it?"

"I'll explain, I'll explain, " said the bull. It was he who had thecards. He waved them round his head. "All be quiet! All listen!" And hewaited for them. "Look here, Lottie. " He turned up a card. "It's got twospots on it--see? Now, if you put that card in the middle and somebodyelse has one with two spots as well, you say 'Hee-haw, ' and the card'syours. "

"Mine?" Lottie was round-eyed. "To keep?"

"No, silly. Just for the game, see? Just while we're playing. " The bullwas very cross with her. 

"Oh, Lottie, you are a little silly, " said the proud rooster. 

Lottie looked at both of them. Then she hung her head; her lip quivered. "I don't want to play, " she whispered. The others glanced at one anotherlike conspirators. All of them knew what that meant. She would go awayand be discovered somewhere standing with her pinny thrown over herhead, in a corner, or against a wall, or even behind a chair. 

"Yes, you do, Lottie. It's quite easy, " said Kezia. 

And Isabel, repentant, said exactly like a grown-up, "Watch me, Lottie, and you'll soon learn. "

"Cheer up, Lot, " said Pip. "There, I know what I'll do. I'll give youthe first one. It's mine, really, but I'll give it to you. Here youare. " And he slammed the card down in front of Lottie. 

Lottie revived at that. But now she was in another difficulty. "Ihaven't got a hanky, " she said; "I want one badly, too. "

"Here, Lottie, you can use mine. " Rags dipped into his sailor blouse andbrought up a very wet-looking one, knotted together. "Be very careful, "he warned her. "Only use that corner. Don't undo it. I've got a littlestarfish inside I'm going to try and tame. "

"Oh, come on, you girls, " said the bull. "And mind--you're not to lookat your cards. You've got to keep your hands under the table till I say'Go. '"

Smack went the cards round the table. They tried with all their might tosee, but Pip was too quick for them. It was very exciting, sitting therein the washhouse; it was all they could do not to burst into a littlechorus of animals before Pip had finished dealing. 

"Now, Lottie, you begin. "

Timidly Lottie stretched out a hand, took the top card off her pack, hada good look at it--it was plain she was counting the spots--and put itdown. 

"No, Lottie, you can't do that. You mustn't look first. You must turn itthe other way over. "

"But then everybody will see it the same time as me, " said Lottie. 

The game proceeded. Mooe-ooo-er! The bull was terrible. He charged overthe table and seemed to eat the cards up. 

Bss-ss! said the bee. 

Cock-a-doodle-do! Isabel stood up in her excitement and moved her elbowslike wings. 

Baa! Little Rags put down the King of Diamonds and Lottie put down theone they called the King of Spain. She had hardly any cards left. 

"Why don't you call out, Lottie?"

"I've forgotten what I am, " said the donkey woefully. 

"Well, change! Be a dog instead! Bow-wow!"

"Oh yes. That's much easier. " Lottie smiled again. But when she andKezia both had a one Kezia waited on purpose. The others made signs toLottie and pointed. Lottie turned very red; she looked bewildered, andat last she said, "Hee-haw! Ke-zia. "

"Ss! Wait a minute!" They were in the very thick of it when the bullstopped them, holding up his hand. "What's that? What's that noise?"

"What noise? What do you mean?" asked the rooster. 

"Ss! Shut up! Listen!" They were mouse-still. "I thought I heard a--asort of knocking, " said the bull. 

"What was it like?" asked the sheep faintly. 

No answer. 

The bee gave a shudder. "Whatever did we shut the door for?" she saidsoftly. Oh, why, why had they shut the door?

While they were playing, the day had faded; the gorgeous sunset hadblazed and died. And now the quick dark came racing over the sea, overthe sand-hills, up the paddock. You were frightened to look in thecorners of the washhouse, and yet you had to look with all your might. And somewhere, far away, grandma was lighting a lamp. The blindswere being pulled down; the kitchen fire leapt in the tins on themantelpiece. 

"It would be awful now, " said the bull, "if a spider was to fall fromthe ceiling on to the table, wouldn't it?"

"Spiders don't fall from ceilings. "

"Yes, they do. Our Min told us she'd seen a spider as big as a saucer, with long hairs on it like a gooseberry. "

Quickly all the little heads were jerked up; all the little bodies drewtogether, pressed together. 

"Why doesn't somebody come and call us?" cried the rooster. 

Oh, those grown-ups, laughing and snug, sitting in the lamp-light, drinking out of cups! They'd forgotten about them. No, not reallyforgotten. That was what their smile meant. They had decided to leavethem there all by themselves. 

Suddenly Lottie gave such a piercing scream that all of them jumped offthe forms, all of them screamed too. "A face--a face looking!" shriekedLottie. 

It was true, it was real. Pressed against the window was a pale face, black eyes, a black beard. 

"Grandma! Mother! Somebody!"

But they had not got to the door, tumbling over one another, before itopened for Uncle Jonathan. He had come to take the little boys home. 

Chapter 1. X. 

He had meant to be there before, but in the front garden he had comeupon Linda walking up and down the grass, stopping to pick off a deadpink or give a top-heavy carnation something to lean against, or to takea deep breath of something, and then walking on again, with her littleair of remoteness. Over her white frock she wore a yellow, pink-fringedshawl from the Chinaman's shop. 

"Hallo, Jonathan!" called Linda. And Jonathan whipped off his shabbypanama, pressed it against his breast, dropped on one knee, and kissedLinda's hand. 

"Greeting, my Fair One! Greeting, my Celestial Peach Blossom!" boomedthe bass voice gently. "Where are the other noble dames?"

"Beryl's out playing bridge and mother's giving the boy his bath. .. Haveyou come to borrow something?"

The Trouts were for ever running out of things and sending across to theBurnells' at the last moment. 

But Jonathan only answered, "A little love, a little kindness;" and hewalked by his sister-in-law's side. 

Linda dropped into Beryl's hammock under the manuka-tree, and Jonathanstretched himself on the grass beside her, pulled a long stalk and beganchewing it. They knew each other well. The voices of children cried fromthe other gardens. A fisherman's light cart shook along the sandy road, and from far away they heard a dog barking; it was muffled as though thedog had its head in a sack. If you listened you could just hear the softswish of the sea at full tide sweeping the pebbles. The sun was sinking. 

"And so you go back to the office on Monday, do you, Jonathan?" askedLinda. 

"On Monday the cage door opens and clangs to upon the victim for anothereleven months and a week, " answered Jonathan. 

Linda swung a little. "It must be awful, " she said slowly. 

"Would ye have me laugh, my fair sister? Would ye have me weep?"

Linda was so accustomed to Jonathan's way of talking that she paid noattention to it. 

"I suppose, " she said vaguely, "one gets used to it. One gets used toanything. "

"Does one? Hum!" The "Hum" was so deep it seemed to boom from underneaththe ground. "I wonder how it's done, " brooded Jonathan; "I've nevermanaged it. "

Looking at him as he lay there, Linda thought again how attractive hewas. It was strange to think that he was only an ordinary clerk, thatStanley earned twice as much money as he. What was the matter withJonathan? He had no ambition; she supposed that was it. And yet one felthe was gifted, exceptional. He was passionately fond of music; everyspare penny he had went on books. He was always full of new ideas, schemes, plans. But nothing came of it all. The new fire blazed inJonathan; you almost heard it roaring softly as he explained, describedand dilated on the new thing; but a moment later it had fallen in andthere was nothing but ashes, and Jonathan went about with a look likehunger in his black eyes. At these times he exaggerated his absurdmanner of speaking, and he sang in church--he was the leader of thechoir--with such fearful dramatic intensity that the meanest hymn put onan unholy splendour. 

"It seems to me just as imbecile, just as infernal, to have to go to theoffice on Monday, " said Jonathan, "as it always has done and always willdo. To spend all the best years of one's life sitting on a stool fromnine to five, scratching in somebody's ledger! It's a queer use to makeof one's. .. One and only life, isn't it? Or do I fondly dream?" Herolled over on the grass and looked up at Linda. "Tell me, what is thedifference between my life and that of an ordinary prisoner. The onlydifference I can see is that I put myself in jail and nobody's evergoing to let me out. That's a more intolerable situation than the other. For if I'd been--pushed in, against my will--kicking, even--once thedoor was locked, or at any rate in five years or so, I might haveaccepted the fact and begun to take an interest in the flight offlies or counting the warder's steps along the passage with particularattention to variations of tread and so on. But as it is, I'm like aninsect that's flown into a room of its own accord. I dash against thewalls, dash against the windows, flop against the ceiling, do everythingon God's earth, in fact, except fly out again. And all the while I'mthinking, like that moth, or that butterfly, or whatever it is, 'Theshortness of life! The shortness of life!' I've only one night orone day, and there's this vast dangerous garden, waiting out there, undiscovered, unexplored. "

"But, if you feel like that, why--" began Linda quickly. 

"Ah!" cried Jonathan. And that "ah!" was somehow almost exultant. "There you have me. Why? Why indeed? There's the maddening, mysteriousquestion. Why don't I fly out again? There's the window or the door orwhatever it was I came in by. It's not hopelessly shut--is it? Why don'tI find it and be off? Answer me that, little sister. " But he gave her notime to answer. 

"I'm exactly like that insect again. For some reason"--Jonathan pausedbetween the words--"it's not allowed, it's forbidden, it's against theinsect law, to stop banging and flopping and crawling up the pane evenfor an instant. Why don't I leave the office? Why don't I seriouslyconsider, this moment, for instance, what it is that prevents meleaving? It's not as though I'm tremendously tied. I've two boys toprovide for, but, after all, they're boys. I could cut off to sea, orget a job up-country, or--" Suddenly he smiled at Linda and said ina changed voice, as if he were confiding a secret, "Weak. .. Weak. Nostamina. No anchor. No guiding principle, let us call it. " But then thedark velvety voice rolled out:

 "Would ye hear the story How it unfolds itself. .. "

and they were silent. 

The sun had set. In the western sky there were great masses ofcrushed-up rose-coloured clouds. Broad beams of light shone through theclouds and beyond them as if they would cover the whole sky. Overheadthe blue faded; it turned a pale gold, and the bush outlined againstit gleamed dark and brilliant like metal. Sometimes when those beams oflight show in the sky they are very awful. They remind you that up theresits Jehovah, the jealous God, the Almighty, Whose eye is upon you, everwatchful, never weary. You remember that at His coming the whole earthwill shake into one ruined graveyard; the cold, bright angels will driveyou this way and that, and there will be no time to explain what couldbe explained so simply. .. But to-night it seemed to Linda there wassomething infinitely joyful and loving in those silver beams. And nowno sound came from the sea. It breathed softly as if it would draw thattender, joyful beauty into its own bosom. 

"It's all wrong, it's all wrong, " came the shadowy voice of Jonathan. "It's not the scene, it's not the setting for. .. Three stools, threedesks, three inkpots and a wire blind. "

Linda knew that he would never change, but she said, "Is it too late, even now?"

"I'm old--I'm old, " intoned Jonathan. He bent towards her, he passed hishand over his head. "Look!" His black hair was speckled all over withsilver, like the breast plumage of a black fowl. 

Linda was surprised. She had no idea that he was grey. And yet, as hestood up beside her and sighed and stretched, she saw him, for the firsttime, not resolute, not gallant, not careless, but touched already withage. He looked very tall on the darkening grass, and the thought crossedher mind, "He is like a weed. "

Jonathan stooped again and kissed her fingers. 

"Heaven reward thy sweet patience, lady mine, " he murmured. "I must goseek those heirs to my fame and fortune. .. " He was gone. 

Chapter 1. XI. 

Light shone in the windows of the bungalow. Two square patches of goldfell upon the pinks and the peaked marigolds. Florrie, the cat, cameout on to the veranda, and sat on the top step, her white paws closetogether, her tail curled round. She looked content, as though she hadbeen waiting for this moment all day. 

"Thank goodness, it's getting late, " said Florrie. "Thank goodness, thelong day is over. " Her greengage eyes opened. 

Presently there sounded the rumble of the coach, the crack of Kelly'swhip. It came near enough for one to hear the voices of the men fromtown, talking loudly together. It stopped at the Burnells' gate. 

Stanley was half-way up the path before he saw Linda. "Is that you, darling?"

"Yes, Stanley. "

He leapt across the flower-bed and seized her in his arms. She wasenfolded in that familiar, eager, strong embrace. 

"Forgive me, darling, forgive me, " stammered Stanley, and he put hishand under her chin and lifted her face to him. 

"Forgive you?" smiled Linda. "But whatever for?"

"Good God! You can't have forgotten, " cried Stanley Burnell. "I'vethought of nothing else all day. I've had the hell of a day. I made upmy mind to dash out and telegraph, and then I thought the wire mightn'treach you before I did. I've been in tortures, Linda. "

"But, Stanley, " said Linda, "what must I forgive you for?"

"Linda!"--Stanley was very hurt--"didn't you realize--you must haverealized--I went away without saying good-bye to you this morning? Ican't imagine how I can have done such a thing. My confounded temper, ofcourse. But--well"--and he sighed and took her in his arms again--"I'vesuffered for it enough to-day. "

"What's that you've got in your hand?" asked Linda. "New gloves? Let mesee. "

"Oh, just a cheap pair of wash-leather ones, " said Stanley humbly. "Inoticed Bell was wearing some in the coach this morning, so, as Iwas passing the shop, I dashed in and got myself a pair. What are yousmiling at? You don't think it was wrong of me, do you?"

"On the con-trary, darling, " said Linda, "I think it was most sensible. "

She pulled one of the large, pale gloves on her own fingers and lookedat her hand, turning it this way and that. She was still smiling. 

Stanley wanted to say, "I was thinking of you the whole time I boughtthem. " It was true, but for some reason he couldn't say it. "Let's goin, " said he. 

Chapter 1. XII. 

Why does one feel so different at night? Why is it so exciting to beawake when everybody else is asleep? Late--it is very late! And yetevery moment you feel more and more wakeful, as though you were slowly, almost with every breath, waking up into a new, wonderful, far morethrilling and exciting world than the daylight one. And what is thisqueer sensation that you're a conspirator? Lightly, stealthily you moveabout your room. You take something off the dressing-table and put itdown again without a sound. And everything, even the bed-post, knowsyou, responds, shares your secret. .. 

You're not very fond of your room by day. You never think about it. You're in and out, the door opens and slams, the cupboard creaks. Yousit down on the side of your bed, change your shoes and dash out again. A dive down to the glass, two pins in your hair, powder your nose andoff again. But now--it's suddenly dear to you. It's a darling littlefunny room. It's yours. Oh, what a joy it is to own things! Mine--myown!

"My very own for ever?"

"Yes. " Their lips met. 

No, of course, that had nothing to do with it. That was all nonsenseand rubbish. But, in spite of herself, Beryl saw so plainly two peoplestanding in the middle of her room. Her arms were round his neck; heheld her. And now he whispered, "My beauty, my little beauty!"She jumped off her bed, ran over to the window and kneeled on thewindow-seat, with her elbows on the sill. But the beautiful night, thegarden, every bush, every leaf, even the white palings, even the stars, were conspirators too. So bright was the moon that the flowers werebright as by day; the shadow of the nasturtiums, exquisite lily-likeleaves and wide-open flowers, lay across the silvery veranda. Themanuka-tree, bent by the southerly winds, was like a bird on one legstretching out a wing. 

But when Beryl looked at the bush, it seemed to her the bush was sad. 

"We are dumb trees, reaching up in the night, imploring we know notwhat, " said the sorrowful bush. 

It is true when you are by yourself and you think about life, it isalways sad. All that excitement and so on has a way of suddenly leavingyou, and it's as though, in the silence, somebody called your name, andyou heard your name for the first time. "Beryl!"

"Yes, I'm here. I'm Beryl. Who wants me?"

"Beryl!"

"Let me come. "

It is lonely living by oneself. Of course, there are relations, friends, heaps of them; but that's not what she means. She wants some one whowill find the Beryl they none of them know, who will expect her to bethat Beryl always. She wants a lover. 

"Take me away from all these other people, my love. Let us go far away. Let us live our life, all new, all ours, from the very beginning. Let usmake our fire. Let us sit down to eat together. Let us have long talksat night. "

And the thought was almost, "Save me, my love. Save me!"

. .. "Oh, go on! Don't be a prude, my dear. You enjoy yourself whileyou're young. That's my advice. " And a high rush of silly laughterjoined Mrs. Harry Kember's loud, indifferent neigh. 

You see, it's so frightfully difficult when you've nobody. You're soat the mercy of things. You can't just be rude. And you've always thishorror of seeming inexperienced and stuffy like the other ninnies at theBay. And--and it's fascinating to know you've power over people. Yes, that is fascinating. .. 

Oh why, oh why doesn't "he" come soon?

If I go on living here, thought Beryl, anything may happen to me. 

"But how do you know he is coming at all?" mocked a small voice withinher. 

But Beryl dismissed it. She couldn't be left. Other people, perhaps, butnot she. It wasn't possible to think that Beryl Fairfield never married, that lovely fascinating girl. 

"Do you remember Beryl Fairfield?"

"Remember her! As if I could forget her! It was one summer at theBay that I saw her. She was standing on the beach in a blue"--no, pink--"muslin frock, holding on a big cream"--no, black--"straw hat. Butit's years ago now. "

"She's as lovely as ever, more so if anything. "

Beryl smiled, bit her lip, and gazed over the garden. As she gazed, shesaw somebody, a man, leave the road, step along the paddock beside theirpalings as if he was coming straight towards her. Her heart beat. Whowas it? Who could it be? It couldn't be a burglar, certainly not aburglar, for he was smoking and he strolled lightly. Beryl's heartleapt; it seemed to turn right over, and then to stop. She recognizedhim. 

"Good evening, Miss Beryl, " said the voice softly. 

"Good evening. "

"Won't you come for a little walk?" it drawled. 

Come for a walk--at that time of night! "I couldn't. Everybody's in bed. Everybody's asleep. "

"Oh, " said the voice lightly, and a whiff of sweet smoke reached her. "What does everybody matter? Do come! It's such a fine night. There'snot a soul about. "

Beryl shook her head. But already something stirred in her, somethingreared its head. 

The voice said, "Frightened?" It mocked, "Poor little girl!"

"Not in the least, " said she. As she spoke that weak thing within herseemed to uncoil, to grow suddenly tremendously strong; she longed togo!

And just as if this was quite understood by the other, the voice said, gently and softly, but finally, "Come along!"

Beryl stepped over her low window, crossed the veranda, ran down thegrass to the gate. He was there before her. 

"That's right, " breathed the voice, and it teased, "You're notfrightened, are you? You're not frightened?"

She was; now she was here she was terrified, and it seemed to hereverything was different. The moonlight stared and glittered; theshadows were like bars of iron. Her hand was taken. 

"Not in the least, " she said lightly. "Why should I be?"

Her hand was pulled gently, tugged. She held back. 

"No, I'm not coming any farther, " said Beryl. 

"Oh, rot!" Harry Kember didn't believe her. "Come along! We'll just goas far as that fuchsia bush. Come along!"

The fuchsia bush was tall. It fell over the fence in a shower. There wasa little pit of darkness beneath. 

"No, really, I don't want to, " said Beryl. 

For a moment Harry Kember didn't answer. Then he came close to her, turned to her, smiled and said quickly, "Don't be silly! Don't besilly!"

His smile was something she'd never seen before. Was he drunk? Thatbright, blind, terrifying smile froze her with horror. What was shedoing? How had she got here? the stern garden asked her as the gatepushed open, and quick as a cat Harry Kember came through and snatchedher to him. 

"Cold little devil! Cold little devil!" said the hateful voice. 

But Beryl was strong. She slipped, ducked, wrenched free. 

"You are vile, vile, " said she. 

"Then why in God's name did you come?" stammered Harry Kember. 

Nobody answered him. 

Chapter 1. XIII. 

A cloud, small, serene, floated across the moon. In that moment ofdarkness the sea sounded deep, troubled. Then the cloud sailed away, and the sound of the sea was a vague murmur, as though it waked out of adark dream. All was still. 

2. THE GARDEN PARTY. 

And after all the weather was ideal. They could not have had a moreperfect day for a garden-party if they had ordered it. Windless, warm, the sky without a cloud. Only the blue was veiled with a haze of lightgold, as it is sometimes in early summer. The gardener had been up sincedawn, mowing the lawns and sweeping them, until the grass and the darkflat rosettes where the daisy plants had been seemed to shine. As forthe roses, you could not help feeling they understood that roses arethe only flowers that impress people at garden-parties; the only flowersthat everybody is certain of knowing. Hundreds, yes, literally hundreds, had come out in a single night; the green bushes bowed down as thoughthey had been visited by archangels. 

Breakfast was not yet over before the men came to put up the marquee. 

"Where do you want the marquee put, mother?"

"My dear child, it's no use asking me. I'm determined to leaveeverything to you children this year. Forget I am your mother. Treat meas an honoured guest. "

But Meg could not possibly go and supervise the men. She had washedher hair before breakfast, and she sat drinking her coffee in a greenturban, with a dark wet curl stamped on each cheek. Jose, the butterfly, always came down in a silk petticoat and a kimono jacket. 

"You'll have to go, Laura; you're the artistic one. "

Away Laura flew, still holding her piece of bread-and-butter. It's sodelicious to have an excuse for eating out of doors, and besides, sheloved having to arrange things; she always felt she could do it so muchbetter than anybody else. 

Four men in their shirt-sleeves stood grouped together on the gardenpath. They carried staves covered with rolls of canvas, and they had bigtool-bags slung on their backs. They looked impressive. Laura wished nowthat she had not got the bread-and-butter, but there was nowhere to putit, and she couldn't possibly throw it away. She blushed and tried tolook severe and even a little bit short-sighted as she came up to them. 

"Good morning, " she said, copying her mother's voice. But that soundedso fearfully affected that she was ashamed, and stammered like a littlegirl, "Oh--er--have you come--is it about the marquee?"

"That's right, miss, " said the tallest of the men, a lanky, freckledfellow, and he shifted his tool-bag, knocked back his straw hat andsmiled down at her. "That's about it. "

His smile was so easy, so friendly that Laura recovered. What nice eyeshe had, small, but such a dark blue! And now she looked at the others, they were smiling too. "Cheer up, we won't bite, " their smile seemedto say. How very nice workmen were! And what a beautiful morning! Shemustn't mention the morning; she must be business-like. The marquee. 

"Well, what about the lily-lawn? Would that do?"

And she pointed to the lily-lawn with the hand that didn't hold thebread-and-butter. They turned, they stared in the direction. A littlefat chap thrust out his under-lip, and the tall fellow frowned. 

"I don't fancy it, " said he. "Not conspicuous enough. You see, with athing like a marquee, " and he turned to Laura in his easy way, "you wantto put it somewhere where it'll give you a bang slap in the eye, if youfollow me. "

Laura's upbringing made her wonder for a moment whether it was quiterespectful of a workman to talk to her of bangs slap in the eye. But shedid quite follow him. 

"A corner of the tennis-court, " she suggested. "But the band's going tobe in one corner. "

"H'm, going to have a band, are you?" said another of the workmen. He was pale. He had a haggard look as his dark eyes scanned thetennis-court. What was he thinking?

"Only a very small band, " said Laura gently. Perhaps he wouldn't mind somuch if the band was quite small. But the tall fellow interrupted. 

"Look here, miss, that's the place. Against those trees. Over there. That'll do fine. "

Against the karakas. Then the karaka-trees would be hidden. And theywere so lovely, with their broad, gleaming leaves, and their clustersof yellow fruit. They were like trees you imagined growing on a desertisland, proud, solitary, lifting their leaves and fruits to the sun in akind of silent splendour. Must they be hidden by a marquee?

They must. Already the men had shouldered their staves and were makingfor the place. Only the tall fellow was left. He bent down, pinched asprig of lavender, put his thumb and forefinger to his nose and snuffedup the smell. When Laura saw that gesture she forgot all about thekarakas in her wonder at him caring for things like that--caring forthe smell of lavender. How many men that she knew would have done sucha thing? Oh, how extraordinarily nice workmen were, she thought. Whycouldn't she have workmen for her friends rather than the silly boys shedanced with and who came to Sunday night supper? She would get on muchbetter with men like these. 

It's all the fault, she decided, as the tall fellow drew something onthe back of an envelope, something that was to be looped up or left tohang, of these absurd class distinctions. Well, for her part, she didn'tfeel them. Not a bit, not an atom. .. And now there came the chock-chockof wooden hammers. Some one whistled, some one sang out, "Are you rightthere, matey?" "Matey!" The friendliness of it, the--the--Just to provehow happy she was, just to show the tall fellow how at home she felt, and how she despised stupid conventions, Laura took a big bite of herbread-and-butter as she stared at the little drawing. She felt just likea work-girl. 

"Laura, Laura, where are you? Telephone, Laura!" a voice cried from thehouse. 

"Coming!" Away she skimmed, over the lawn, up the path, up the steps, across the veranda, and into the porch. In the hall her father andLaurie were brushing their hats ready to go to the office. 

"I say, Laura, " said Laurie very fast, "you might just give a squiz atmy coat before this afternoon. See if it wants pressing. "

"I will, " said she. Suddenly she couldn't stop herself. She ran atLaurie and gave him a small, quick squeeze. "Oh, I do love parties, don't you?" gasped Laura. 

"Ra-ther, " said Laurie's warm, boyish voice, and he squeezed his sistertoo, and gave her a gentle push. "Dash off to the telephone, old girl. "

The telephone. "Yes, yes; oh yes. Kitty? Good morning, dear. Come tolunch? Do, dear. Delighted of course. It will only be a very scratchmeal--just the sandwich crusts and broken meringue-shells and what'sleft over. Yes, isn't it a perfect morning? Your white? Oh, I certainlyshould. One moment--hold the line. Mother's calling. " And Laura satback. "What, mother? Can't hear. "

Mrs. Sheridan's voice floated down the stairs. "Tell her to wear thatsweet hat she had on last Sunday. "

"Mother says you're to wear that sweet hat you had on last Sunday. Good. One o'clock. Bye-bye. "

Laura put back the receiver, flung her arms over her head, took a deepbreath, stretched and let them fall. "Huh, " she sighed, and the momentafter the sigh she sat up quickly. She was still, listening. All thedoors in the house seemed to be open. The house was alive with soft, quick steps and running voices. The green baize door that led to thekitchen regions swung open and shut with a muffled thud. And now therecame a long, chuckling absurd sound. It was the heavy piano being movedon its stiff castors. But the air! If you stopped to notice, was the airalways like this? Little faint winds were playing chase, in at the topsof the windows, out at the doors. And there were two tiny spots ofsun, one on the inkpot, one on a silver photograph frame, playing too. Darling little spots. Especially the one on the inkpot lid. It was quitewarm. A warm little silver star. She could have kissed it. 

The front door bell pealed, and there sounded the rustle of Sadie'sprint skirt on the stairs. A man's voice murmured; Sadie answered, careless, "I'm sure I don't know. Wait. I'll ask Mrs Sheridan. "

"What is it, Sadie?" Laura came into the hall. 

"It's the florist, Miss Laura. "

It was, indeed. There, just inside the door, stood a wide, shallow trayfull of pots of pink lilies. No other kind. Nothing but lilies--cannalilies, big pink flowers, wide open, radiant, almost frighteningly aliveon bright crimson stems. 

"O-oh, Sadie!" said Laura, and the sound was like a little moan. Shecrouched down as if to warm herself at that blaze of lilies; she feltthey were in her fingers, on her lips, growing in her breast. 

"It's some mistake, " she said faintly. "Nobody ever ordered so many. Sadie, go and find mother. "

But at that moment Mrs. Sheridan joined them. 

"It's quite right, " she said calmly. "Yes, I ordered them. Aren't theylovely?" She pressed Laura's arm. "I was passing the shop yesterday, andI saw them in the window. And I suddenly thought for once in my life Ishall have enough canna lilies. The garden-party will be a good excuse. "

"But I thought you said you didn't mean to interfere, " said Laura. Sadiehad gone. The florist's man was still outside at his van. She puther arm round her mother's neck and gently, very gently, she bit hermother's ear. 

"My darling child, you wouldn't like a logical mother, would you? Don'tdo that. Here's the man. "

He carried more lilies still, another whole tray. 

"Bank them up, just inside the door, on both sides of the porch, please, " said Mrs. Sheridan. "Don't you agree, Laura?"

"Oh, I do, mother. "

In the drawing-room Meg, Jose and good little Hans had at last succeededin moving the piano. 

"Now, if we put this chesterfield against the wall and move everythingout of the room except the chairs, don't you think?"

"Quite. "

"Hans, move these tables into the smoking-room, and bring a sweeperto take these marks off the carpet and--one moment, Hans--" Jose lovedgiving orders to the servants, and they loved obeying her. She alwaysmade them feel they were taking part in some drama. "Tell mother andMiss Laura to come here at once. 

"Very good, Miss Jose. "

She turned to Meg. "I want to hear what the piano sounds like, justin case I'm asked to sing this afternoon. Let's try over 'This life isWeary. '"

Pom! Ta-ta-ta Tee-ta! The piano burst out so passionately thatJose's face changed. She clasped her hands. She looked mournfully andenigmatically at her mother and Laura as they came in. 

 "This Life is Wee-ary, A Tear--a Sigh. A Love that Chan-ges, This Life is Wee-ary, A Tear--a Sigh. A Love that Chan-ges, And then. .. Good-bye!"

But at the word "Good-bye, " and although the piano sounded moredesperate than ever, her face broke into a brilliant, dreadfullyunsympathetic smile. 

"Aren't I in good voice, mummy?" she beamed. 

 "This Life is Wee-ary, Hope comes to Die. A Dream--a Wa-kening. "

But now Sadie interrupted them. "What is it, Sadie?"

"If you please, m'm, cook says have you got the flags for thesandwiches?"

"The flags for the sandwiches, Sadie?" echoed Mrs. Sheridan dreamily. And the children knew by her face that she hadn't got them. "Let mesee. " And she said to Sadie firmly, "Tell cook I'll let her have them inten minutes. "

Sadie went. 

"Now, Laura, " said her mother quickly, "come with me into thesmoking-room. I've got the names somewhere on the back of an envelope. You'll have to write them out for me. Meg, go upstairs this minute andtake that wet thing off your head. Jose, run and finish dressing thisinstant. Do you hear me, children, or shall I have to tell your fatherwhen he comes home to-night? And--and, Jose, pacify cook if you do gointo the kitchen, will you? I'm terrified of her this morning. "

The envelope was found at last behind the dining-room clock, though howit had got there Mrs. Sheridan could not imagine. 

"One of you children must have stolen it out of my bag, because Iremember vividly--cream cheese and lemon-curd. Have you done that?"

"Yes. "

"Egg and--" Mrs. Sheridan held the envelope away from her. "It lookslike mice. It can't be mice, can it?"

"Olive, pet, " said Laura, looking over her shoulder. 

"Yes, of course, olive. What a horrible combination it sounds. Egg andolive. "

They were finished at last, and Laura took them off to the kitchen. Shefound Jose there pacifying the cook, who did not look at all terrifying. 

"I have never seen such exquisite sandwiches, " said Jose's rapturousvoice. "How many kinds did you say there were, cook? Fifteen?"

"Fifteen, Miss Jose. "

"Well, cook, I congratulate you. "

Cook swept up crusts with the long sandwich knife, and smiled broadly. 

"Godber's has come, " announced Sadie, issuing out of the pantry. She hadseen the man pass the window. 

That meant the cream puffs had come. Godber's were famous for theircream puffs. Nobody ever thought of making them at home. 

"Bring them in and put them on the table, my girl, " ordered cook. 

Sadie brought them in and went back to the door. Of course Laura andJose were far too grown-up to really care about such things. All thesame, they couldn't help agreeing that the puffs looked very attractive. Very. Cook began arranging them, shaking off the extra icing sugar. 

"Don't they carry one back to all one's parties?" said Laura. 

"I suppose they do, " said practical Jose, who never liked to be carriedback. "They look beautifully light and feathery, I must say. "

"Have one each, my dears, " said cook in her comfortable voice. "Yer mawon't know. "

Oh, impossible. Fancy cream puffs so soon after breakfast. The very ideamade one shudder. All the same, two minutes later Jose and Laura werelicking their fingers with that absorbed inward look that only comesfrom whipped cream. 

"Let's go into the garden, out by the back way, " suggested Laura. "Iwant to see how the men are getting on with the marquee. They're suchawfully nice men. "

But the back door was blocked by cook, Sadie, Godber's man and Hans. 

Something had happened. 

"Tuk-tuk-tuk, " clucked cook like an agitated hen. Sadie had her handclapped to her cheek as though she had toothache. Hans's face wasscrewed up in the effort to understand. Only Godber's man seemed to beenjoying himself; it was his story. 

"What's the matter? What's happened?"

"There's been a horrible accident, " said Cook. "A man killed. "

"A man killed! Where? How? When?"

But Godber's man wasn't going to have his story snatched from under hisvery nose. 

"Know those little cottages just below here, miss?" Know them? Ofcourse, she knew them. "Well, there's a young chap living there, name ofScott, a carter. His horse shied at a traction-engine, corner of HawkeStreet this morning, and he was thrown out on the back of his head. Killed. "

"Dead!" Laura stared at Godber's man. 

"Dead when they picked him up, " said Godber's man with relish. "Theywere taking the body home as I come up here. " And he said to the cook, "He's left a wife and five little ones. "

"Jose, come here. " Laura caught hold of her sister's sleeve and draggedher through the kitchen to the other side of the green baize door. Thereshe paused and leaned against it. "Jose!" she said, horrified, "howeverare we going to stop everything?"

"Stop everything, Laura!" cried Jose in astonishment. "What do youmean?"

"Stop the garden-party, of course. " Why did Jose pretend?

But Jose was still more amazed. "Stop the garden-party? My dear Laura, don't be so absurd. Of course we can't do anything of the kind. Nobodyexpects us to. Don't be so extravagant. "

"But we can't possibly have a garden-party with a man dead just outsidethe front gate. "

That really was extravagant, for the little cottages were in a lane tothemselves at the very bottom of a steep rise that led up to the house. A broad road ran between. True, they were far too near. They werethe greatest possible eyesore, and they had no right to be in thatneighbourhood at all. They were little mean dwellings painted achocolate brown. In the garden patches there was nothing but cabbagestalks, sick hens and tomato cans. The very smoke coming out of theirchimneys was poverty-stricken. Little rags and shreds of smoke, sounlike the great silvery plumes that uncurled from the Sheridans'chimneys. Washerwomen lived in the lane and sweeps and a cobbler, anda man whose house-front was studded all over with minute bird-cages. Children swarmed. When the Sheridans were little they were forbidden toset foot there because of the revolting language and of what they mightcatch. But since they were grown up, Laura and Laurie on their prowlssometimes walked through. It was disgusting and sordid. They cameout with a shudder. But still one must go everywhere; one must seeeverything. So through they went. 

"And just think of what the band would sound like to that poor woman, "said Laura. 

"Oh, Laura!" Jose began to be seriously annoyed. "If you're going tostop a band playing every time some one has an accident, you'll lead avery strenuous life. I'm every bit as sorry about it as you. I feel justas sympathetic. " Her eyes hardened. She looked at her sister just as sheused to when they were little and fighting together. "You won't bring adrunken workman back to life by being sentimental, " she said softly. 

"Drunk! Who said he was drunk?" Laura turned furiously on Jose. Shesaid, just as they had used to say on those occasions, "I'm goingstraight up to tell mother. "

"Do, dear, " cooed Jose. 

"Mother, can I come into your room?" Laura turned the big glassdoor-knob. 

"Of course, child. Why, what's the matter? What's given you such acolour?" And Mrs. Sheridan turned round from her dressing-table. She wastrying on a new hat. 

"Mother, a man's been killed, " began Laura. 

"Not in the garden?" interrupted her mother. 

"No, no!"

"Oh, what a fright you gave me!" Mrs. Sheridan sighed with relief, andtook off the big hat and held it on her knees. 

"But listen, mother, " said Laura. Breathless, half-choking, she toldthe dreadful story. "Of course, we can't have our party, can we?" shepleaded. "The band and everybody arriving. They'd hear us, mother;they're nearly neighbours!"

To Laura's astonishment her mother behaved just like Jose; it was harderto bear because she seemed amused. She refused to take Laura seriously. 

"But, my dear child, use your common sense. It's only by accident we'veheard of it. If some one had died there normally--and I can't understandhow they keep alive in those poky little holes--we should still behaving our party, shouldn't we?"

Laura had to say "yes" to that, but she felt it was all wrong. She satdown on her mother's sofa and pinched the cushion frill. 

"Mother, isn't it terribly heartless of us?" she asked. 

"Darling!" Mrs. Sheridan got up and came over to her, carrying the hat. Before Laura could stop her she had popped it on. "My child!" said hermother, "the hat is yours. It's made for you. It's much too young forme. I have never seen you look such a picture. Look at yourself!" Andshe held up her hand-mirror. 

"But, mother, " Laura began again. She couldn't look at herself; sheturned aside. 

This time Mrs. Sheridan lost patience just as Jose had done. 

"You are being very absurd, Laura, " she said coldly. "People like thatdon't expect sacrifices from us. And it's not very sympathetic to spoileverybody's enjoyment as you're doing now. "

"I don't understand, " said Laura, and she walked quickly out of the roominto her own bedroom. There, quite by chance, the first thing she sawwas this charming girl in the mirror, in her black hat trimmed withgold daisies, and a long black velvet ribbon. Never had she imagined shecould look like that. Is mother right? she thought. And now shehoped her mother was right. Am I being extravagant? Perhaps it wasextravagant. Just for a moment she had another glimpse of that poorwoman and those little children, and the body being carried intothe house. But it all seemed blurred, unreal, like a picture in thenewspaper. I'll remember it again after the party's over, she decided. And somehow that seemed quite the best plan. .. 

Lunch was over by half-past one. By half-past two they were all readyfor the fray. The green-coated band had arrived and was established in acorner of the tennis-court. 

"My dear!" trilled Kitty Maitland, "aren't they too like frogs forwords? You ought to have arranged them round the pond with the conductorin the middle on a leaf. "

Laurie arrived and hailed them on his way to dress. At the sight of himLaura remembered the accident again. She wanted to tell him. If Laurieagreed with the others, then it was bound to be all right. And shefollowed him into the hall. 

"Laurie!"

"Hallo!" He was half-way upstairs, but when he turned round and sawLaura he suddenly puffed out his cheeks and goggled his eyes at her. "My word, Laura! You do look stunning, " said Laurie. "What an absolutelytopping hat!"

Laura said faintly "Is it?" and smiled up at Laurie, and didn't tell himafter all. 

Soon after that people began coming in streams. The band struck up; thehired waiters ran from the house to the marquee. Wherever you lookedthere were couples strolling, bending to the flowers, greeting, movingon over the lawn. They were like bright birds that had alighted in theSheridans' garden for this one afternoon, on their way to--where? Ah, what happiness it is to be with people who all are happy, to presshands, press cheeks, smile into eyes. 

"Darling Laura, how well you look!"

"What a becoming hat, child!"

"Laura, you look quite Spanish. I've never seen you look so striking. "

And Laura, glowing, answered softly, "Have you had tea? Won't you havean ice? The passion-fruit ices really are rather special. " She ran toher father and begged him. "Daddy darling, can't the band have somethingto drink?"

And the perfect afternoon slowly ripened, slowly faded, slowly itspetals closed. 

"Never a more delightful garden-party. .. " "The greatest success. .. ""Quite the most. .. "

Laura helped her mother with the good-byes. They stood side by side inthe porch till it was all over. 

"All over, all over, thank heaven, " said Mrs. Sheridan. "Round up theothers, Laura. Let's go and have some fresh coffee. I'm exhausted. Yes, it's been very successful. But oh, these parties, these parties! Whywill you children insist on giving parties!" And they all of them satdown in the deserted marquee. 

"Have a sandwich, daddy dear. I wrote the flag. "

"Thanks. " Mr. Sheridan took a bite and the sandwich was gone. He tookanother. "I suppose you didn't hear of a beastly accident that happenedto-day?" he said. 

"My dear, " said Mrs. Sheridan, holding up her hand, "we did. It nearlyruined the party. Laura insisted we should put it off. "

"Oh, mother!" Laura didn't want to be teased about it. 

"It was a horrible affair all the same, " said Mr. Sheridan. "The chapwas married too. Lived just below in the lane, and leaves a wife andhalf a dozen kiddies, so they say. "

An awkward little silence fell. Mrs. Sheridan fidgeted with her cup. Really, it was very tactless of father. .. 

Suddenly she looked up. There on the table were all those sandwiches, cakes, puffs, all uneaten, all going to be wasted. She had one of herbrilliant ideas. 

"I know, " she said. "Let's make up a basket. Let's send that poorcreature some of this perfectly good food. At any rate, it will be thegreatest treat for the children. Don't you agree? And she's sure tohave neighbours calling in and so on. What a point to have it all readyprepared. Laura!" She jumped up. "Get me the big basket out of thestairs cupboard. "

"But, mother, do you really think it's a good idea?" said Laura. 

Again, how curious, she seemed to be different from them all. To takescraps from their party. Would the poor woman really like that?

"Of course! What's the matter with you to-day? An hour or two ago youwere insisting on us being sympathetic, and now--"

Oh well! Laura ran for the basket. It was filled, it was heaped by hermother. 

"Take it yourself, darling, " said she. "Run down just as you are. No, wait, take the arum lilies too. People of that class are so impressed byarum lilies. "

"The stems will ruin her lace frock, " said practical Jose. 

So they would. Just in time. "Only the basket, then. And, Laura!"--hermother followed her out of the marquee--"don't on any account--"

"What mother?"

No, better not put such ideas into the child's head! "Nothing! Runalong. "

It was just growing dusky as Laura shut their garden gates. A big dogran by like a shadow. The road gleamed white, and down below in thehollow the little cottages were in deep shade. How quiet it seemed afterthe afternoon. Here she was going down the hill to somewhere where a manlay dead, and she couldn't realize it. Why couldn't she? She stoppeda minute. And it seemed to her that kisses, voices, tinkling spoons, laughter, the smell of crushed grass were somehow inside her. She had noroom for anything else. How strange! She looked up at the pale sky, andall she thought was, "Yes, it was the most successful party. "

Now the broad road was crossed. The lane began, smoky and dark. Women inshawls and men's tweed caps hurried by. Men hung over the palings; thechildren played in the doorways. A low hum came from the mean littlecottages. In some of them there was a flicker of light, and a shadow, crab-like, moved across the window. Laura bent her head and hurried on. She wished now she had put on a coat. How her frock shone! And thebig hat with the velvet streamer--if only it was another hat! Were thepeople looking at her? They must be. It was a mistake to have come; sheknew all along it was a mistake. Should she go back even now?

No, too late. This was the house. It must be. A dark knot of peoplestood outside. Beside the gate an old, old woman with a crutch sat in achair, watching. She had her feet on a newspaper. The voices stopped asLaura drew near. The group parted. It was as though she was expected, asthough they had known she was coming here. 

Laura was terribly nervous. Tossing the velvet ribbon over her shoulder, she said to a woman standing by, "Is this Mrs. Scott's house?" and thewoman, smiling queerly, said, "It is, my lass. "

Oh, to be away from this! She actually said, "Help me, God, " as shewalked up the tiny path and knocked. To be away from those staring eyes, or to be covered up in anything, one of those women's shawls even. I'lljust leave the basket and go, she decided. I shan't even wait for it tobe emptied. 

Then the door opened. A little woman in black showed in the gloom. 

Laura said, "Are you Mrs. Scott?" But to her horror the woman answered, "Walk in please, miss, " and she was shut in the passage. 

"No, " said Laura, "I don't want to come in. I only want to leave thisbasket. Mother sent--"

The little woman in the gloomy passage seemed not to have heard her. "Step this way, please, miss, " she said in an oily voice, and Laurafollowed her. 

She found herself in a wretched little low kitchen, lighted by a smokylamp. There was a woman sitting before the fire. 

"Em, " said the little creature who had let her in. "Em! It's a younglady. " She turned to Laura. She said meaningly, "I'm 'er sister, miss. You'll excuse 'er, won't you?"

"Oh, but of course!" said Laura. "Please, please don't disturb her. I--Ionly want to leave--"

But at that moment the woman at the fire turned round. Her face, puffedup, red, with swollen eyes and swollen lips, looked terrible. She seemedas though she couldn't understand why Laura was there. What did it mean?Why was this stranger standing in the kitchen with a basket? What was itall about? And the poor face puckered up again. 

"All right, my dear, " said the other. "I'll thenk the young lady. "

And again she began, "You'll excuse her, miss, I'm sure, " and her face, swollen too, tried an oily smile. 

Laura only wanted to get out, to get away. She was back in the passage. The door opened. She walked straight through into the bedroom, where thedead man was lying. 

"You'd like a look at 'im, wouldn't you?" said Em's sister, and shebrushed past Laura over to the bed. "Don't be afraid, my lass, "--and nowher voice sounded fond and sly, and fondly she drew down the sheet--"'elooks a picture. There's nothing to show. Come along, my dear. "

Laura came. 

There lay a young man, fast asleep--sleeping so soundly, so deeply, thathe was far, far away from them both. Oh, so remote, so peaceful. He wasdreaming. Never wake him up again. His head was sunk in the pillow, hiseyes were closed; they were blind under the closed eyelids. He was givenup to his dream. What did garden-parties and baskets and lace frocksmatter to him? He was far from all those things. He was wonderful, beautiful. While they were laughing and while the band was playing, this marvel had come to the lane. Happy. .. Happy. .. All is well, said thatsleeping face. This is just as it should be. I am content. 

But all the same you had to cry, and she couldn't go out of the roomwithout saying something to him. Laura gave a loud childish sob. 

"Forgive my hat, " she said. 

And this time she didn't wait for Em's sister. She found her way out ofthe door, down the path, past all those dark people. At the corner ofthe lane she met Laurie. 

He stepped out of the shadow. "Is that you, Laura?"

"Yes. "

"Mother was getting anxious. Was it all right?"

"Yes, quite. Oh, Laurie!" She took his arm, she pressed up against him. 

"I say, you're not crying, are you?" asked her brother. 

Laura shook her head. She was. 

Laurie put his arm round her shoulder. "Don't cry, " he said in his warm, loving voice. "Was it awful?"

"No, " sobbed Laura. "It was simply marvellous. But Laurie--" Shestopped, she looked at her brother. "Isn't life, " she stammered, "isn'tlife--" But what life was she couldn't explain. No matter. He quiteunderstood. 

"Isn't it, darling?" said Laurie. 

3. THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL. 

Chapter 3. I. 

The week after was one of the busiest weeks of their lives. Even whenthey went to bed it was only their bodies that lay down and rested;their minds went on, thinking things out, talking things over, wondering, deciding, trying to remember where. .. 

Constantia lay like a statue, her hands by her sides, her feet justoverlapping each other, the sheet up to her chin. She stared at theceiling. 

"Do you think father would mind if we gave his top-hat to the porter?"

"The porter?" snapped Josephine. "Why ever the porter? What a veryextraordinary idea!"

"Because, " said Constantia slowly, "he must often have to go tofunerals. And I noticed at--at the cemetery that he only had a bowler. "She paused. "I thought then how very much he'd appreciate a top-hat. Weought to give him a present, too. He was always very nice to father. "

"But, " cried Josephine, flouncing on her pillow and staring across thedark at Constantia, "father's head!" And suddenly, for one awful moment, she nearly giggled. Not, of course, that she felt in the least likegiggling. It must have been habit. Years ago, when they had stayed awakeat night talking, their beds had simply heaved. And now the porter'shead, disappearing, popped out, like a candle, under father's hat. .. Thegiggle mounted, mounted; she clenched her hands; she fought it down; shefrowned fiercely at the dark and said "Remember" terribly sternly. 

"We can decide to-morrow, " she said. 

Constantia had noticed nothing; she sighed. 

"Do you think we ought to have our dressing-gowns dyed as well?"

"Black?" almost shrieked Josephine. 

"Well, what else?" said Constantia. "I was thinking--it doesn't seemquite sincere, in a way, to wear black out of doors and when we're fullydressed, and then when we're at home--"

"But nobody sees us, " said Josephine. She gave the bedclothes such atwitch that both her feet became uncovered, and she had to creep up thepillows to get them well under again. 

"Kate does, " said Constantia. "And the postman very well might. "

Josephine thought of her dark-red slippers, which matched herdressing-gown, and of Constantia's favourite indefinite green ones whichwent with hers. Black! Two black dressing-gowns and two pairs of blackwoolly slippers, creeping off to the bathroom like black cats. 

"I don't think it's absolutely necessary, " said she. 

Silence. Then Constantia said, "We shall have to post the papers withthe notice in them to-morrow to catch the Ceylon mail. .. How many lettershave we had up till now?"

"Twenty-three. "

Josephine had replied to them all, and twenty-three times when she cameto "We miss our dear father so much" she had broken down and had to useher handkerchief, and on some of them even to soak up a very light-bluetear with an edge of blotting-paper. Strange! She couldn't have putit on--but twenty-three times. Even now, though, when she said over toherself sadly "We miss our dear father so much, " she could have cried ifshe'd wanted to. 

"Have you got enough stamps?" came from Constantia. 

"Oh, how can I tell?" said Josephine crossly. "What's the good of askingme that now?"

"I was just wondering, " said Constantia mildly. 

Silence again. There came a little rustle, a scurry, a hop. 

"A mouse, " said Constantia. 

"It can't be a mouse because there aren't any crumbs, " said Josephine. 

"But it doesn't know there aren't, " said Constantia. 

A spasm of pity squeezed her heart. Poor little thing! She wished she'dleft a tiny piece of biscuit on the dressing-table. It was awful tothink of it not finding anything. What would it do?

"I can't think how they manage to live at all, " she said slowly. 

"Who?" demanded Josephine. 

And Constantia said more loudly than she meant to, "Mice. "

Josephine was furious. "Oh, what nonsense, Con!" she said. "What havemice got to do with it? You're asleep. "

"I don't think I am, " said Constantia. She shut her eyes to make sure. She was. 

Josephine arched her spine, pulled up her knees, folded her arms so thather fists came under her ears, and pressed her cheek hard against thepillow. 

Chapter 3. II. 

Another thing which complicated matters was they had Nurse Andrewsstaying on with them that week. It was their own fault; they had askedher. It was Josephine's idea. On the morning--well, on the last morning, when the doctor had gone, Josephine had said to Constantia, "Don't youthink it would be rather nice if we asked Nurse Andrews to stay on for aweek as our guest?"

"Very nice, " said Constantia. 

"I thought, " went on Josephine quickly, "I should just say thisafternoon, after I've paid her, 'My sister and I would be very pleased, after all you've done for us, Nurse Andrews, if you would stay on fora week as our guest. ' I'd have to put that in about being our guest incase--"

"Oh, but she could hardly expect to be paid!" cried Constantia. 

"One never knows, " said Josephine sagely. 

Nurse Andrews had, of course, jumped at the idea. But it was a bother. It meant they had to have regular sit-down meals at the proper times, whereas if they'd been alone they could just have asked Kate if shewouldn't have minded bringing them a tray wherever they were. Andmeal-times now that the strain was over were rather a trial. 

Nurse Andrews was simply fearful about butter. Really they couldn'thelp feeling that about butter, at least, she took advantage of theirkindness. And she had that maddening habit of asking for just an inchmore of bread to finish what she had on her plate, and then, at the lastmouthful, absent-mindedly--of course it wasn't absent-mindedly--takinganother helping. Josephine got very red when this happened, and shefastened her small, bead-like eyes on the tablecloth as if she saw aminute strange insect creeping through the web of it. But Constantia'slong, pale face lengthened and set, and she gazed away--away--farover the desert, to where that line of camels unwound like a thread ofwool. .. 

"When I was with Lady Tukes, " said Nurse Andrews, "she had such a daintylittle contrayvance for the buttah. It was a silvah Cupid balanced onthe--on the bordah of a glass dish, holding a tayny fork. And when youwanted some buttah you simply pressed his foot and he bent down andspeared you a piece. It was quite a gayme. "

Josephine could hardly bear that. But "I think those things are veryextravagant" was all she said. 

"But whey?" asked Nurse Andrews, beaming through her eyeglasses. "Noone, surely, would take more buttah than one wanted--would one?"

"Ring, Con, " cried Josephine. She couldn't trust herself to reply. 

And proud young Kate, the enchanted princess, came in to see what theold tabbies wanted now. She snatched away their plates of mock somethingor other and slapped down a white, terrified blancmange. 

"Jam, please, Kate, " said Josephine kindly. 

Kate knelt and burst open the sideboard, lifted the lid of the jam-pot, saw it was empty, put it on the table, and stalked off. 

"I'm afraid, " said Nurse Andrews a moment later, "there isn't any. "

"Oh, what a bother!" said Josephine. She bit her lip. "What had webetter do?"

Constantia looked dubious. "We can't disturb Kate again, " she saidsoftly. 

Nurse Andrews waited, smiling at them both. Her eyes wandered, spying ateverything behind her eyeglasses. Constantia in despair went back to hercamels. Josephine frowned heavily--concentrated. If it hadn't beenfor this idiotic woman she and Con would, of course, have eaten theirblancmange without. Suddenly the idea came. 

"I know, " she said. "Marmalade. There's some marmalade in the sideboard. Get it, Con. "

"I hope, " laughed Nurse Andrews--and her laugh was like a spoon tinklingagainst a medicine-glass--"I hope it's not very bittah marmalayde. "

Chapter 3. III. 

But, after all, it was not long now, and then she'd be gone for good. And there was no getting over the fact that she had been very kindto father. She had nursed him day and night at the end. Indeed, bothConstantia and Josephine felt privately she had rather overdone the notleaving him at the very last. For when they had gone in to say good-byeNurse Andrews had sat beside his bed the whole time, holding his wristand pretending to look at her watch. It couldn't have been necessary. It was so tactless, too. Supposing father had wanted to saysomething--something private to them. Not that he had. Oh, far from it!He lay there, purple, a dark, angry purple in the face, and never evenlooked at them when they came in. Then, as they were standing there, wondering what to do, he had suddenly opened one eye. Oh, what adifference it would have made, what a difference to their memory of him, how much easier to tell people about it, if he had only opened both! Butno--one eye only. It glared at them a moment and then. .. Went out. 

Chapter 3. IV. 

It had made it very awkward for them when Mr. Farolles, of St. John's, called the same afternoon. 

"The end was quite peaceful, I trust?" were the first words he said ashe glided towards them through the dark drawing-room. 

"Quite, " said Josephine faintly. They both hung their heads. Both ofthem felt certain that eye wasn't at all a peaceful eye. 

"Won't you sit down?" said Josephine. 

"Thank you, Miss Pinner, " said Mr. Farolles gratefully. He folded hiscoat-tails and began to lower himself into father's arm-chair, butjust as he touched it he almost sprang up and slid into the next chairinstead. 

He coughed. Josephine clasped her hands; Constantia looked vague. 

"I want you to feel, Miss Pinner, " said Mr. Farolles, "and you, MissConstantia, that I'm trying to be helpful. I want to be helpful to youboth, if you will let me. These are the times, " said Mr Farolles, verysimply and earnestly, "when God means us to be helpful to one another. "

"Thank you very much, Mr. Farolles, " said Josephine and Constantia. 

"Not at all, " said Mr. Farolles gently. He drew his kid gloves throughhis fingers and leaned forward. "And if either of you would like alittle Communion, either or both of you, here and now, you have onlyto tell me. A little Communion is often very help--a great comfort, " headded tenderly. 

But the idea of a little Communion terrified them. What! In thedrawing-room by themselves--with no--no altar or anything! The pianowould be much too high, thought Constantia, and Mr. Farolles could notpossibly lean over it with the chalice. And Kate would be sure to comebursting in and interrupt them, thought Josephine. And supposing thebell rang in the middle? It might be somebody important--about theirmourning. Would they get up reverently and go out, or would they have towait. .. In torture?

"Perhaps you will send round a note by your good Kate if you would carefor it later, " said Mr. Farolles. 

"Oh yes, thank you very much!" they both said. 

Mr. Farolles got up and took his black straw hat from the round table. 

"And about the funeral, " he said softly. "I may arrange that--as yourdear father's old friend and yours, Miss Pinner--and Miss Constantia?"

Josephine and Constantia got up too. 

"I should like it to be quite simple, " said Josephine firmly, "and nottoo expensive. At the same time, I should like--"

"A good one that will last, " thought dreamy Constantia, as if Josephinewere buying a nightgown. But, of course, Josephine didn't say that. "Onesuitable to our father's position. " She was very nervous. 

"I'll run round to our good friend Mr. Knight, " said Mr. Farollessoothingly. "I will ask him to come and see you. I am sure you will findhim very helpful indeed. "

Chapter 3. V. 

Well, at any rate, all that part of it was over, though neither of themcould possibly believe that father was never coming back. Josephine hadhad a moment of absolute terror at the cemetery, while the coffin waslowered, to think that she and Constantia had done this thing withoutasking his permission. What would father say when he found out? For hewas bound to find out sooner or later. He always did. "Buried. You twogirls had me buried!" She heard his stick thumping. Oh, what wouldthey say? What possible excuse could they make? It sounded such anappallingly heartless thing to do. Such a wicked advantage to take ofa person because he happened to be helpless at the moment. Theother people seemed to treat it all as a matter of course. They werestrangers; they couldn't be expected to understand that father was thevery last person for such a thing to happen to. No, the entire blame forit all would fall on her and Constantia. And the expense, she thought, stepping into the tight-buttoned cab. When she had to show him thebills. What would he say then?

She heard him absolutely roaring. "And do you expect me to pay for thisgimcrack excursion of yours?"

"Oh, " groaned poor Josephine aloud, "we shouldn't have done it, Con!"

And Constantia, pale as a lemon in all that blackness, said in afrightened whisper, "Done what, Jug?"

"Let them bu-bury father like that, " said Josephine, breaking down andcrying into her new, queer-smelling mourning handkerchief. 

"But what else could we have done?" asked Constantia wonderingly. "Wecouldn't have kept him, Jug--we couldn't have kept him unburied. At anyrate, not in a flat that size. "

Josephine blew her nose; the cab was dreadfully stuffy. 

"I don't know, " she said forlornly. "It is all so dreadful. I feel weought to have tried to, just for a time at least. To make perfectlysure. One thing's certain"--and her tears sprang out again--"father willnever forgive us for this--never!"

Chapter 3. VI. 

Father would never forgive them. That was what they felt more than everwhen, two mornings later, they went into his room to go throughhis things. They had discussed it quite calmly. It was even down onJosephine's list of things to be done. "Go through father's things andsettle about them. " But that was a very different matter from sayingafter breakfast:

"Well, are you ready, Con?"

"Yes, Jug--when you are. "

"Then I think we'd better get it over. "

It was dark in the hall. It had been a rule for years never to disturbfather in the morning, whatever happened. And now they were going toopen the door without knocking even. .. Constantia's eyes were enormous atthe idea; Josephine felt weak in the knees. 

"You--you go first, " she gasped, pushing Constantia. 

But Constantia said, as she always had said on those occasions, "No, Jug, that's not fair. You're the eldest. "

Josephine was just going to say--what at other times she wouldn't haveowned to for the world--what she kept for her very last weapon, "Butyou're the tallest, " when they noticed that the kitchen door was open, and there stood Kate. .. 

"Very stiff, " said Josephine, grasping the doorhandle and doing her bestto turn it. As if anything ever deceived Kate!

It couldn't be helped. That girl was. .. Then the door was shut behindthem, but--but they weren't in father's room at all. They might havesuddenly walked through the wall by mistake into a different flataltogether. Was the door just behind them? They were too frightened tolook. Josephine knew that if it was it was holding itself tight shut;Constantia felt that, like the doors in dreams, it hadn't any handleat all. It was the coldness which made it so awful. Or thewhiteness--which? Everything was covered. The blinds were down, a clothhung over the mirror, a sheet hid the bed; a huge fan of white paperfilled the fireplace. Constantia timidly put out her hand; she almostexpected a snowflake to fall. Josephine felt a queer tingling in hernose, as if her nose was freezing. Then a cab klop-klopped over thecobbles below, and the quiet seemed to shake into little pieces. 

"I had better pull up a blind, " said Josephine bravely. 

"Yes, it might be a good idea, " whispered Constantia. 

They only gave the blind a touch, but it flew up and the cord flewafter, rolling round the blind-stick, and the little tassel tapped as iftrying to get free. That was too much for Constantia. 

"Don't you think--don't you think we might put it off for another day?"she whispered. 

"Why?" snapped Josephine, feeling, as usual, much better now that sheknew for certain that Constantia was terrified. "It's got to be done. But I do wish you wouldn't whisper, Con. "

"I didn't know I was whispering, " whispered Constantia. 

"And why do you keep staring at the bed?" said Josephine, raising hervoice almost defiantly. "There's nothing on the bed. "

"Oh, Jug, don't say so!" said poor Connie. "At any rate, not so loudly. "

Josephine felt herself that she had gone too far. She took a wide swerveover to the chest of drawers, put out her hand, but quickly drew it backagain. 

"Connie!" she gasped, and she wheeled round and leaned with her backagainst the chest of drawers. 

"Oh, Jug--what?"

Josephine could only glare. She had the most extraordinary feeling thatshe had just escaped something simply awful. But how could she explainto Constantia that father was in the chest of drawers? He was in thetop drawer with his handkerchiefs and neckties, or in the next withhis shirts and pyjamas, or in the lowest of all with his suits. Hewas watching there, hidden away--just behind the door-handle--ready tospring. 

She pulled a funny old-fashioned face at Constantia, just as she used toin the old days when she was going to cry. 

"I can't open, " she nearly wailed. 

"No, don't, Jug, " whispered Constantia earnestly. "It's much better notto. Don't let's open anything. At any rate, not for a long time. "

"But--but it seems so weak, " said Josephine, breaking down. 

"But why not be weak for once, Jug?" argued Constantia, whisperingquite fiercely. "If it is weak. " And her pale stare flew from the lockedwriting-table--so safe--to the huge glittering wardrobe, and she beganto breathe in a queer, panting away. "Why shouldn't we be weak for oncein our lives, Jug? It's quite excusable. Let's be weak--be weak, Jug. It's much nicer to be weak than to be strong. "

And then she did one of those amazingly bold things that she'd doneabout twice before in their lives: she marched over to the wardrobe, turned the key, and took it out of the lock. Took it out of the lock andheld it up to Josephine, showing Josephine by her extraordinary smilethat she knew what she'd done--she'd risked deliberately father being inthere among his overcoats. 

If the huge wardrobe had lurched forward, had crashed down onConstantia, Josephine wouldn't have been surprised. On the contrary, she would have thought it the only suitable thing to happen. But nothinghappened. Only the room seemed quieter than ever, and the bigger flakesof cold air fell on Josephine's shoulders and knees. She began toshiver. 

"Come, Jug, " said Constantia, still with that awful callous smile, andJosephine followed just as she had that last time, when Constantia hadpushed Benny into the round pond. 

Chapter 3. VII. 

But the strain told on them when they were back in the dining-room. Theysat down, very shaky, and looked at each other. 

"I don't feel I can settle to anything, " said Josephine, "until I've hadsomething. Do you think we could ask Kate for two cups of hot water?"

"I really don't see why we shouldn't, " said Constantia carefully. Shewas quite normal again. "I won't ring. I'll go to the kitchen door andask her. "

"Yes, do, " said Josephine, sinking down into a chair. "Tell her, justtwo cups, Con, nothing else--on a tray. "

"She needn't even put the jug on, need she?" said Constantia, as thoughKate might very well complain if the jug had been there. 

"Oh no, certainly not! The jug's not at all necessary. She can pourit direct out of the kettle, " cried Josephine, feeling that would be alabour-saving indeed. 

Their cold lips quivered at the greenish brims. Josephine curved hersmall red hands round the cup; Constantia sat up and blew on the wavysteam, making it flutter from one side to the other. 

"Speaking of Benny, " said Josephine. 

And though Benny hadn't been mentioned Constantia immediately looked asthough he had. 

"He'll expect us to send him something of father's, of course. But it'sso difficult to know what to send to Ceylon. "

"You mean things get unstuck so on the voyage, " murmured Constantia. 

"No, lost, " said Josephine sharply. "You know there's no post. Onlyrunners. "

Both paused to watch a black man in white linen drawers running throughthe pale fields for dear life, with a large brown-paper parcel in hishands. Josephine's black man was tiny; he scurried along glistening likean ant. But there was something blind and tireless about Constantia'stall, thin fellow, which made him, she decided, a very unpleasant personindeed. .. On the veranda, dressed all in white and wearing a cork helmet, stood Benny. His right hand shook up and down, as father's did when hewas impatient. And behind him, not in the least interested, sat Hilda, the unknown sister-in-law. She swung in a cane rocker and flicked overthe leaves of the "Tatler. "

"I think his watch would be the most suitable present, " said Josephine. 

Constantia looked up; she seemed surprised. 

"Oh, would you trust a gold watch to a native?"

"But of course, I'd disguise it, " said Josephine. "No one would knowit was a watch. " She liked the idea of having to make a parcel such acurious shape that no one could possibly guess what it was. Sheeven thought for a moment of hiding the watch in a narrow cardboardcorset-box that she'd kept by her for a long time, waiting for it tocome in for something. It was such beautiful, firm cardboard. But, no, it wouldn't be appropriate for this occasion. It had lettering on it:"Medium Women's 28. Extra Firm Busks. " It would be almost too much of asurprise for Benny to open that and find father's watch inside. 

"And of course it isn't as though it would be going--ticking, I mean, "said Constantia, who was still thinking of the native love of jewellery. "At least, " she added, "it would be very strange if after all that timeit was. "

Chapter 3. VIII. 

Josephine made no reply. She had flown off on one of her tangents. She had suddenly thought of Cyril. Wasn't it more usual for the onlygrandson to have the watch? And then dear Cyril was so appreciative, anda gold watch meant so much to a young man. Benny, in all probability, had quite got out of the habit of watches; men so seldom wore waistcoatsin those hot climates. Whereas Cyril in London wore them from year's endto year's end. And it would be so nice for her and Constantia, when hecame to tea, to know it was there. "I see you've got on grandfather'swatch, Cyril. " It would be somehow so satisfactory. 

Dear boy! What a blow his sweet, sympathetic little note had been! Ofcourse they quite understood; but it was most unfortunate. 

"It would have been such a point, having him, " said Josephine. 

"And he would have enjoyed it so, " said Constantia, not thinking whatshe was saying. 

However, as soon as he got back he was coming to tea with his aunties. Cyril to tea was one of their rare treats. 

"Now, Cyril, you mustn't be frightened of our cakes. Your Auntie Con andI bought them at Buszard's this morning. We know what a man's appetiteis. So don't be ashamed of making a good tea. "

Josephine cut recklessly into the rich dark cake that stood for herwinter gloves or the soling and heeling of Constantia's only respectableshoes. But Cyril was most unmanlike in appetite. 

"I say, Aunt Josephine, I simply can't. I've only just had lunch, youknow. "

"Oh, Cyril, that can't be true! It's after four, " cried Josephine. Constantia sat with her knife poised over the chocolate-roll. 

"It is, all the same, " said Cyril. "I had to meet a man at Victoria, andhe kept me hanging about till. .. There was only time to get lunch andto come on here. And he gave me--phew"--Cyril put his hand to hisforehead--"a terrific blow-out, " he said. 

It was disappointing--to-day of all days. But still he couldn't beexpected to know. 

"But you'll have a meringue, won't you, Cyril?" said Aunt Josephine. "These meringues were bought specially for you. Your dear father was sofond of them. We were sure you are, too. "

"I am, Aunt Josephine, " cried Cyril ardently. "Do you mind if I takehalf to begin with?"

"Not at all, dear boy; but we mustn't let you off with that. "

"Is your dear father still so fond of meringues?" asked Auntie Congently. She winced faintly as she broke through the shell of hers. 

"Well, I don't quite know, Auntie Con, " said Cyril breezily. 

At that they both looked up. 

"Don't know?" almost snapped Josephine. "Don't know a thing like thatabout your own father, Cyril?"

"Surely, " said Auntie Con softly. 

Cyril tried to laugh it off. "Oh, well, " he said, "it's such a long timesince--" He faltered. He stopped. Their faces were too much for him. 

"Even so, " said Josephine. 

And Auntie Con looked. 

Cyril put down his teacup. "Wait a bit, " he cried. "Wait a bit, AuntJosephine. What am I thinking of?"

He looked up. They were beginning to brighten. Cyril slapped his knee. 

"Of course, " he said, "it was meringues. How could I have forgotten?Yes, Aunt Josephine, you're perfectly right. Father's most frightfullykeen on meringues. "

They didn't only beam. Aunt Josephine went scarlet with pleasure; AuntieCon gave a deep, deep sigh. 

"And now, Cyril, you must come and see father, " said Josephine. "Heknows you were coming to-day. "

"Right, " said Cyril, very firmly and heartily. He got up from his chair;suddenly he glanced at the clock. 

"I say, Auntie Con, isn't your clock a bit slow? I've got to meet a manat--at Paddington just after five. I'm afraid I shan't be able to stayvery long with grandfather. "

"Oh, he won't expect you to stay very long!" said Aunt Josephine. 

Constantia was still gazing at the clock. She couldn't make up her mindif it was fast or slow. It was one or the other, she felt almost certainof that. At any rate, it had been. 

Cyril still lingered. "Aren't you coming along, Auntie Con?"

"Of course, " said Josephine, "we shall all go. Come on, Con. "

Chapter 3. IX. 

They knocked at the door, and Cyril followed his aunts intograndfather's hot, sweetish room. 

"Come on, " said Grandfather Pinner. "Don't hang about. What is it?What've you been up to?"

He was sitting in front of a roaring fire, clasping his stick. He had athick rug over his knees. On his lap there lay a beautiful pale yellowsilk handkerchief. 

"It's Cyril, father, " said Josephine shyly. And she took Cyril's handand led him forward. 

"Good afternoon, grandfather, " said Cyril, trying to take his hand outof Aunt Josephine's. Grandfather Pinner shot his eyes at Cyril in theway he was famous for. Where was Auntie Con? She stood on the other sideof Aunt Josephine; her long arms hung down in front of her; her handswere clasped. She never took her eyes off grandfather. 

"Well, " said Grandfather Pinner, beginning to thump, "what have you gotto tell me?"

What had he, what had he got to tell him? Cyril felt himself smilinglike a perfect imbecile. The room was stifling, too. 

But Aunt Josephine came to his rescue. She cried brightly, "Cyril sayshis father is still very fond of meringues, father dear. "

"Eh?" said Grandfather Pinner, curving his hand like a purplemeringue-shell over one ear. 

Josephine repeated, "Cyril says his father is still very fond ofmeringues. "

"Can't hear, " said old Colonel Pinner. And he waved Josephine away withhis stick, then pointed with his stick to Cyril. "Tell me what she'strying to say, " he said. 

(My God!) "Must I?" said Cyril, blushing and staring at Aunt Josephine. 

"Do, dear, " she smiled. "It will please him so much. "

"Come on, out with it!" cried Colonel Pinner testily, beginning to thumpagain. 

And Cyril leaned forward and yelled, "Father's still very fond ofmeringues. "

At that Grandfather Pinner jumped as though he had been shot. 

"Don't shout!" he cried. "What's the matter with the boy? Meringues!What about 'em?"

"Oh, Aunt Josephine, must we go on?" groaned Cyril desperately. 

"It's quite all right, dear boy, " said Aunt Josephine, as though he andshe were at the dentist's together. "He'll understand in a minute. " Andshe whispered to Cyril, "He's getting a bit deaf, you know. " Then sheleaned forward and really bawled at Grandfather Pinner, "Cyril onlywanted to tell you, father dear, that his father is still very fond ofmeringues. "

Colonel Pinner heard that time, heard and brooded, looking Cyril up anddown. 

"What an esstrordinary thing!" said old Grandfather Pinner. "What anesstrordinary thing to come all this way here to tell me!"

And Cyril felt it was. 

"Yes, I shall send Cyril the watch, " said Josephine. 

"That would be very nice, " said Constantia. "I seem to remember lasttime he came there was some little trouble about the time. "

Chapter 3. X. 

They were interrupted by Kate bursting through the door in her usualfashion, as though she had discovered some secret panel in the wall. 

"Fried or boiled?" asked the bold voice. 

Fried or boiled? Josephine and Constantia were quite bewildered for themoment. They could hardly take it in. 

"Fried or boiled what, Kate?" asked Josephine, trying to begin toconcentrate. 

Kate gave a loud sniff. "Fish. "

"Well, why didn't you say so immediately?" Josephine reproached hergently. "How could you expect us to understand, Kate? There are a greatmany things in this world you know, which are fried or boiled. " Andafter such a display of courage she said quite brightly to Constantia, "Which do you prefer, Con?"

"I think it might be nice to have it fried, " said Constantia. "On theother hand, of course, boiled fish is very nice. I think I prefer bothequally well. .. Unless you. .. In that case--"

"I shall fry it, " said Kate, and she bounced back, leaving their dooropen and slamming the door of her kitchen. 

Josephine gazed at Constantia; she raised her pale eyebrows until theyrippled away into her pale hair. She got up. She said in a verylofty, imposing way, "Do you mind following me into the drawing-room, Constantia? I've got something of great importance to discuss with you. "

For it was always to the drawing-room they retired when they wanted totalk over Kate. 

Josephine closed the door meaningly. "Sit down, Constantia, " she said, still very grand. She might have been receiving Constantia for thefirst time. And Con looked round vaguely for a chair, as though she feltindeed quite a stranger. 

"Now the question is, " said Josephine, bending forward, "whether weshall keep her or not. "

"That is the question, " agreed Constantia. 

"And this time, " said Josephine firmly, "we must come to a definitedecision. "

Constantia looked for a moment as though she might begin going over allthe other times, but she pulled herself together and said, "Yes, Jug. "

"You see, Con, " explained Josephine, "everything is so changed now. "Constantia looked up quickly. "I mean, " went on Josephine, "we're notdependent on Kate as we were. " And she blushed faintly. "There's notfather to cook for. "

"That is perfectly true, " agreed Constantia. "Father certainly doesn'twant any cooking now, whatever else--"

Josephine broke in sharply, "You're not sleepy, are you, Con?"

"Sleepy, Jug?" Constantia was wide-eyed. 

"Well, concentrate more, " said Josephine sharply, and she returnedto the subject. "What it comes to is, if we did"--and this she barelybreathed, glancing at the door--"give Kate notice"--she raised her voiceagain--"we could manage our own food. "

"Why not?" cried Constantia. She couldn't help smiling. The idea was soexciting. She clasped her hands. "What should we live on, Jug?"

"Oh, eggs in various forms!" said Jug, lofty again. "And, besides, thereare all the cooked foods. "

"But I've always heard, " said Constantia, "they are considered so veryexpensive. "

"Not if one buys them in moderation, " said Josephine. But she toreherself away from this fascinating bypath and dragged Constantia afterher. 

"What we've got to decide now, however, is whether we really do trustKate or not. "

Constantia leaned back. Her flat little laugh flew from her lips. 

"Isn't it curious, Jug, " said she, "that just on this one subject I'venever been able to quite make up my mind?"

Chapter 3. XI. 

She never had. The whole difficulty was to prove anything. How did oneprove things, how could one? Suppose Kate had stood in front of herand deliberately made a face. Mightn't she very well have been in pain?Wasn't it impossible, at any rate, to ask Kate if she was making a faceat her? If Kate answered "No"--and, of course, she would say "No"--whata position! How undignified! Then again Constantia suspected, she wasalmost certain that Kate went to her chest of drawers when she andJosephine were out, not to take things but to spy. Many times she hadcome back to find her amethyst cross in the most unlikely places, underher lace ties or on top of her evening Bertha. More than once she hadlaid a trap for Kate. She had arranged things in a special order andthen called Josephine to witness. 

"You see, Jug?"

"Quite, Con. "

"Now we shall be able to tell. "

But, oh dear, when she did go to look, she was as far off from a proofas ever! If anything was displaced, it might so very well have happenedas she closed the drawer; a jolt might have done it so easily. 

"You come, Jug, and decide. I really can't. It's too difficult. "

But after a pause and a long glare Josephine would sigh, "Now you've putthe doubt into my mind, Con, I'm sure I can't tell myself. "

"Well, we can't postpone it again, " said Josephine. "If we postpone itthis time--"

Chapter 3. XII. 

But at that moment in the street below a barrel-organ struck up. Josephine and Constantia sprang to their feet together. 

"Run, Con, " said Josephine. "Run quickly. There's sixpence on the--"

Then they remembered. It didn't matter. They would never have to stopthe organ-grinder again. Never again would she and Constantia be told tomake that monkey take his noise somewhere else. Never would sound thatloud, strange bellow when father thought they were not hurrying enough. The organ-grinder might play there all day and the stick would notthump. 

 "It never will thump again, It never will thump again, played the barrel-organ. 

What was Constantia thinking? She had such a strange smile; she lookeddifferent. She couldn't be going to cry. 

"Jug, Jug, " said Constantia softly, pressing her hands together. "Do youknow what day it is? It's Saturday. It's a week to-day, a whole week. "

 "A week since father died, A week since father died, "

cried the barrel-organ. And Josephine, too, forgot to be practical andsensible; she smiled faintly, strangely. On the Indian carpet there fella square of sunlight, pale red; it came and went and came--and stayed, deepened--until it shone almost golden. 

"The sun's out, " said Josephine, as though it really mattered. 

A perfect fountain of bubbling notes shook from the barrel-organ, round, bright notes, carelessly scattered. 

Constantia lifted her big, cold hands as if to catch them, and then herhands fell again. She walked over to the mantelpiece to her favouriteBuddha. And the stone and gilt image, whose smile always gave her sucha queer feeling, almost a pain and yet a pleasant pain, seemed to-dayto be more than smiling. He knew something; he had a secret. "I knowsomething that you don't know, " said her Buddha. Oh, what was it, whatcould it be? And yet she had always felt there was. .. Something. 

The sunlight pressed through the windows, thieved its way in, flashedits light over the furniture and the photographs. Josephine watched it. When it came to mother's photograph, the enlargement over the piano, itlingered as though puzzled to find so little remained of mother, exceptthe earrings shaped like tiny pagodas and a black feather boa. Why didthe photographs of dead people always fade so? wondered Josephine. Assoon as a person was dead their photograph died too. But, of course, this one of mother was very old. It was thirty-five years old. Josephineremembered standing on a chair and pointing out that feather boa toConstantia and telling her that it was a snake that had killed theirmother in Ceylon. .. Would everything have been different if mother hadn'tdied? She didn't see why. Aunt Florence had lived with them until theyhad left school, and they had moved three times and had their yearlyholiday and. .. And there'd been changes of servants, of course. 

Some little sparrows, young sparrows they sounded, chirped on thewindow-ledge. "Yeep--eyeep--yeep. " But Josephine felt they were notsparrows, not on the window-ledge. It was inside her, that queer littlecrying noise. "Yeep--eyeep--yeep. " Ah, what was it crying, so weak andforlorn?

If mother had lived, might they have married? But there had been nobodyfor them to marry. There had been father's Anglo-Indian friends beforehe quarrelled with them. But after that she and Constantia never met asingle man except clergymen. How did one meet men? Or even if they'd metthem, how could they have got to know men well enough to be more thanstrangers? One read of people having adventures, being followed, and soon. But nobody had ever followed Constantia and her. Oh yes, there hadbeen one year at Eastbourne a mysterious man at their boarding-house whohad put a note on the jug of hot water outside their bedroom door! Butby the time Connie had found it the steam had made the writing too faintto read; they couldn't even make out to which of them it was addressed. And he had left next day. And that was all. The rest had been lookingafter father, and at the same time keeping out of father's way. But now?But now? The thieving sun touched Josephine gently. She lifted her face. She was drawn over to the window by gentle beams. .. 

Until the barrel-organ stopped playing Constantia stayed before theBuddha, wondering, but not as usual, not vaguely. This time her wonderwas like longing. She remembered the times she had come in here, creptout of bed in her nightgown when the moon was full, and lain on thefloor with her arms outstretched, as though she was crucified. Why? Thebig, pale moon had made her do it. The horrible dancing figures on thecarved screen had leered at her and she hadn't minded. She rememberedtoo how, whenever they were at the seaside, she had gone off by herselfand got as close to the sea as she could, and sung something, somethingshe had made up, while she gazed all over that restless water. There hadbeen this other life, running out, bringing things home in bags, gettingthings on approval, discussing them with Jug, and taking them back toget more things on approval, and arranging father's trays and trying notto annoy father. But it all seemed to have happened in a kind of tunnel. It wasn't real. It was only when she came out of the tunnel into themoonlight or by the sea or into a thunderstorm that she really feltherself. What did it mean? What was it she was always wanting? What didit all lead to? Now? Now?

She turned away from the Buddha with one of her vague gestures. She wentover to where Josephine was standing. She wanted to say something toJosephine, something frightfully important, about--about the future andwhat. .. 

"Don't you think perhaps--" she began. 

But Josephine interrupted her. "I was wondering if now--" she murmured. They stopped; they waited for each other. 

"Go on, Con, " said Josephine. 

"No, no, Jug; after you, " said Constantia. 

"No, say what you were going to say. You began, " said Josephine. 

"I. .. I'd rather hear what you were going to say first, " said Constantia. 

"Don't be absurd, Con. "

"Really, Jug. "

"Connie!"

"Oh, Jug!"

A pause. Then Constantia said faintly, "I can't say what I was going tosay, Jug, because I've forgotten what it was. .. That I was going to say. "

Josephine was silent for a moment. She stared at a big cloud where thesun had been. Then she replied shortly, "I've forgotten too. "

4. MR. AND MRS. DOVE. 

Of course he knew--no man better--that he hadn't a ghost of a chance, he hadn't an earthly. The very idea of such a thing was preposterous. So preposterous that he'd perfectly understand it if her father--well, whatever her father chose to do he'd perfectly understand. In fact, nothing short of desperation, nothing short of the fact that this waspositively his last day in England for God knows how long, would havescrewed him up to it. And even now. .. He chose a tie out of the chestof drawers, a blue and cream check tie, and sat on the side of his bed. Supposing she replied, "What impertinence!" would he be surprised? Notin the least, he decided, turning up his soft collar and turning it downover the tie. He expected her to say something like that. He didn't see, if he looked at the affair dead soberly, what else she could say. 

Here he was! And nervously he tied a bow in front of the mirror, jammedhis hair down with both hands, pulled out the flaps of his jacketpockets. Making between 500 and 600 pounds a year on a fruit farm in--ofall places--Rhodesia. No capital. Not a penny coming to him. No chanceof his income increasing for at least four years. As for looks and allthat sort of thing, he was completely out of the running. He couldn'teven boast of top-hole health, for the East Africa business had knockedhim out so thoroughly that he'd had to take six months' leave. He wasstill fearfully pale--worse even than usual this afternoon, he thought, bending forward and peering into the mirror. Good heavens! What hadhappened? His hair looked almost bright green. Dash it all, he hadn'tgreen hair at all events. That was a bit too steep. And then the greenlight trembled in the glass; it was the shadow from the tree outside. Reggie turned away, took out his cigarette case, but remembering how themater hated him to smoke in his bedroom, put it back again and driftedover to the chest of drawers. No, he was dashed if he could think of oneblessed thing in his favour, while she. .. Ah!. .. He stopped dead, foldedhis arms, and leaned hard against the chest of drawers. 

And in spite of her position, her father's wealth, the factthat she was an only child and far and away the most populargirl in the neighbourhood; in spite of her beauty and hercleverness--cleverness!--it was a great deal more than that, therewas really nothing she couldn't do; he fully believed, had it beennecessary, she would have been a genius at anything--in spite of thefact that her parents adored her, and she them, and they'd as soon lether go all that way as. .. In spite of every single thing you could thinkof, so terrific was his love that he couldn't help hoping. Well, wasit hope? Or was this queer, timid longing to have the chance of lookingafter her, of making it his job to see that she had everything shewanted, and that nothing came near her that wasn't perfect--just love?How he loved her! He squeezed hard against the chest of drawers andmurmured to it, "I love her, I love her!" And just for the moment he waswith her on the way to Umtali. It was night. She sat in a corner asleep. Her soft chin was tucked into her soft collar, her gold-brown lashes layon her cheeks. He doted on her delicate little nose, her perfect lips, her ear like a baby's, and the gold-brown curl that half covered it. They were passing through the jungle. It was warm and dark and far away. Then she woke up and said, "Have I been asleep?" and he answered, "Yes. Are you all right? Here, let me--" And he leaned forward to. .. He bentover her. This was such bliss that he could dream no further. But itgave him the courage to bound downstairs, to snatch his straw hat fromthe hall, and to say as he closed the front door, "Well, I can only trymy luck, that's all. "

But his luck gave him a nasty jar, to say the least, almost immediately. Promenading up and down the garden path with Chinny and Biddy, theancient Pekes, was the mater. Of course Reginald was fond of the materand all that. She--she meant well, she had no end of grit, and so on. But there was no denying it, she was rather a grim parent. And there hadbeen moments, many of them, in Reggie's life, before Uncle Alick diedand left him the fruit farm, when he was convinced that to be a widow'sonly son was about the worst punishment a chap could have. And what madeit rougher than ever was that she was positively all that he had. Shewasn't only a combined parent, as it were, but she had quarrelled withall her own and the governor's relations before Reggie had won his firsttrouser pockets. So that whenever Reggie was homesick out there, sittingon his dark veranda by starlight, while the gramophone cried, "Dear, what is Life but Love?" his only vision was of the mater, tall andstout, rustling down the garden path, with Chinny and Biddy at herheels. .. 

The mater, with her scissors outspread to snap the head of a deadsomething or other, stopped at the sight of Reggie. 

"You are not going out, Reginald?" she asked, seeing that he was. 

"I'll be back for tea, mater, " said Reggie weakly, plunging his handsinto his jacket pockets. 

Snip. Off came a head. Reggie almost jumped. 

"I should have thought you could have spared your mother your lastafternoon, " said she. 

Silence. The Pekes stared. They understood every word of the mater's. Biddy lay down with her tongue poked out; she was so fat and glossy shelooked like a lump of half-melted toffee. But Chinny's porcelain eyesgloomed at Reginald, and he sniffed faintly, as though the whole worldwere one unpleasant smell. Snip, went the scissors again. Poor littlebeggars; they were getting it!

"And where are you going, if your mother may ask?" asked the mater. 

It was over at last, but Reggie did not slow down until he was outof sight of the house and half-way to Colonel Proctor's. Then only henoticed what a top-hole afternoon it was. It had been raining all themorning, late summer rain, warm, heavy, quick, and now the sky wasclear, except for a long tail of little clouds, like duckings, sailingover the forest. There was just enough wind to shake the last drops offthe trees; one warm star splashed on his hand. Ping!--another drummedon his hat. The empty road gleamed, the hedges smelled of briar, and howbig and bright the hollyhocks glowed in the cottage gardens. And herewas Colonel Proctor's--here it was already. His hand was on the gate, his elbow jogged the syringa bushes, and petals and pollen scatteredover his coat sleeve. But wait a bit. This was too quick altogether. He'd meant to think the whole thing out again. Here, steady. But he waswalking up the path, with the huge rose bushes on either side. It can'tbe done like this. But his hand had grasped the bell, given it a pull, and started it pealing wildly, as if he'd come to say the house was onfire. The housemaid must have been in the hall, too, for the front doorflashed open, and Reggie was shut in the empty drawing-room before thatconfounded bell had stopped ringing. Strangely enough, when it did, thebig room, shadowy, with some one's parasol lying on top of the grandpiano, bucked him up--or rather, excited him. It was so quiet, and yetin one moment the door would open, and his fate be decided. The feelingwas not unlike that of being at the dentist's; he was almost reckless. But at the same time, to his immense surprise, Reggie heard himselfsaying, "Lord, Thou knowest, Thou hast not done much for me. .. " Thatpulled him up; that made him realize again how dead serious it was. Toolate. The door handle turned. Anne came in, crossed the shadowy spacebetween them, gave him her hand, and said, in her small, soft voice, "I'm so sorry, father is out. And mother is having a day in town, hat-hunting. There's only me to entertain you, Reggie. "

Reggie gasped, pressed his own hat to his jacket buttons, and stammeredout, "As a matter of fact, I've only come. .. To say good-bye. "

"Oh!" cried Anne softly--she stepped back from him and her grey eyesdanced--"what a very short visit!"

Then, watching him, her chin tilted, she laughed outright, a long, softpeal, and walked away from him over to the piano, and leaned against it, playing with the tassel of the parasol. 

"I'm so sorry, " she said, "to be laughing like this. I don't know why Ido. It's just a bad ha--habit. " And suddenly she stamped her grey shoe, and took a pocket-handkerchief out of her white woolly jacket. "I reallymust conquer it, it's too absurd, " said she. 

"Good heavens, Anne, " cried Reggie, "I love to hear you laughing! Ican't imagine anything more--"

But the truth was, and they both knew it, she wasn't always laughing;it wasn't really a habit. Only ever since the day they'd met, ever sincethat very first moment, for some strange reason that Reggie wished toGod he understood, Anne had laughed at him. Why? It didn't matter wherethey were or what they were talking about. They might begin by beingas serious as possible, dead serious--at any rate, as far as he wasconcerned--but then suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, Anne wouldglance at him, and a little quick quiver passed over her face. Her lipsparted, her eyes danced, and she began laughing. 

Another queer thing about it was, Reggie had an idea she didn't herselfknow why she laughed. He had seen her turn away, frown, suck in hercheeks, press her hands together. But it was no use. The long, soft pealsounded, even while she cried, "I don't know why I'm laughing. " It was amystery. .. 

Now she tucked the handkerchief away. 

"Do sit down, " said she. "And smoke, won't you? There are cigarettes inthat little box beside you. I'll have one too. " He lighted a match forher, and as she bent forward he saw the tiny flame glow in the pearlring she wore. "It is to-morrow that you're going, isn't it?" said Anne. 

"Yes, to-morrow as ever was, " said Reggie, and he blew a little fan ofsmoke. Why on earth was he so nervous? Nervous wasn't the word for it. 

"It's--it's frightfully hard to believe, " he added. 

"Yes--isn't it?" said Anne softly, and she leaned forward and rolledthe point of her cigarette round the green ash-tray. How beautifulshe looked like that!--simply beautiful--and she was so small in thatimmense chair. Reginald's heart swelled with tenderness, but it was hervoice, her soft voice, that made him tremble. "I feel you've been herefor years, " she said. 

Reginald took a deep breath of his cigarette. "It's ghastly, this ideaof going back, " he said. 

"Coo-roo-coo-coo-coo, " sounded from the quiet. 

"But you're fond of being out there, aren't you?" said Anne. She hookedher finger through her pearl necklace. "Father was saying only the othernight how lucky he thought you were to have a life of your own. " Andshe looked up at him. Reginald's smile was rather wan. "I don't feelfearfully lucky, " he said lightly. 

"Roo-coo-coo-coo, " came again. And Anne murmured, "You mean it'slonely. "

"Oh, it isn't the loneliness I care about, " said Reginald, and hestumped his cigarette savagely on the green ash-tray. "I could stand anyamount of it, used to like it even. It's the idea of--" Suddenly, to hishorror, he felt himself blushing. 

"Roo-coo-coo-coo! Roo-coo-coo-coo!"

Anne jumped up. "Come and say good-bye to my doves, " she said. "They'vebeen moved to the side veranda. You do like doves, don't you, Reggie?"

"Awfully, " said Reggie, so fervently that as he opened the French windowfor her and stood to one side, Anne ran forward and laughed at the dovesinstead. 

To and fro, to and fro over the fine red sand on the floor of the dovehouse, walked the two doves. One was always in front of the other. Oneran forward, uttering a little cry, and the other followed, solemnlybowing and bowing. "You see, " explained Anne, "the one in front, she'sMrs. Dove. She looks at Mr. Dove and gives that little laugh and runsforward, and he follows her, bowing and bowing. And that makes her laughagain. Away she runs, and after her, " cried Anne, and she sat back onher heels, "comes poor Mr. Dove, bowing and bowing. .. And that's theirwhole life. They never do anything else, you know. " She got up and tooksome yellow grains out of a bag on the roof of the dove house. "Whenyou think of them, out in Rhodesia, Reggie, you can be sure that is whatthey will be doing. .. "

Reggie gave no sign of having seen the doves or of having heard a word. For the moment he was conscious only of the immense effort it took totear his secret out of himself and offer it to Anne. "Anne, do you thinkyou could ever care for me?" It was done. It was over. And in the littlepause that followed Reginald saw the garden open to the light, the bluequivering sky, the flutter of leaves on the veranda poles, and Anneturning over the grains of maize on her palm with one finger. Thenslowly she shut her hand, and the new world faded as she murmuredslowly, "No, never in that way. " But he had scarcely time to feelanything before she walked quickly away, and he followed her down thesteps, along the garden path, under the pink rose arches, across thelawn. There, with the gay herbaceous border behind her, Anne facedReginald. "It isn't that I'm not awfully fond of you, " she said. "Iam. But"--her eyes widened--"not in the way"--a quiver passed over herface--"one ought to be fond of--" Her lips parted, and she couldn't stopherself. She began laughing. "There, you see, you see, " she cried, "it'syour check t-tie. Even at this moment, when one would think one reallywould be solemn, your tie reminds me fearfully of the bow-tie that catswear in pictures! Oh, please forgive me for being so horrid, please!"

Reggie caught hold of her little warm hand. "There's no question offorgiving you, " he said quickly. "How could there be? And I do believe Iknow why I make you laugh. It's because you're so far above me in everyway that I am somehow ridiculous. I see that, Anne. But if I were to--"

"No, no. " Anne squeezed his hand hard. "It's not that. That's all wrong. I'm not far above you at all. You're much better than I am. You'remarvellously unselfish and. .. And kind and simple. I'm none of thosethings. You don't know me. I'm the most awful character, " said Anne. "Please don't interrupt. And besides, that's not the point. The pointis"--she shook her head--"I couldn't possibly marry a man I laughed at. Surely you see that. The man I marry--" breathed Anne softly. She brokeoff. She drew her hand away, and looking at Reggie she smiled strangely, dreamily. "The man I marry--"

And it seemed to Reggie that a tall, handsome, brilliant strangerstepped in front of him and took his place--the kind of man that Anneand he had seen often at the theatre, walking on to the stage fromnowhere, without a word catching the heroine in his arms, and after onelong, tremendous look, carrying her off to anywhere. .. 

Reggie bowed to his vision. "Yes, I see, " he said huskily. 

"Do you?" said Anne. "Oh, I do hope you do. Because I feel so horridabout it. It's so hard to explain. You know I've never--" She stopped. Reggie looked at her. She was smiling. "Isn't it funny?" she said. "I can say anything to you. I always have been able to from the verybeginning. "

He tried to smile, to say "I'm glad. " She went on. "I've never known anyone I like as much as I like you. I've never felt so happy with any one. But I'm sure it's not what people and what books mean when they talkabout love. Do you understand? Oh, if you only knew how horrid I feel. But we'd be like. .. Like Mr. And Mrs. Dove. "

That did it. That seemed to Reginald final, and so terribly true that hecould hardly bear it. "Don't drive it home, " he said, and he turned awayfrom Anne and looked across the lawn. There was the gardener's cottage, with the dark ilex-tree beside it. A wet, blue thumb of transparentsmoke hung above the chimney. It didn't look real. How his throatached! Could he speak? He had a shot. "I must be getting along home, " hecroaked, and he began walking across the lawn. But Anne ran after him. "No, don't. You can't go yet, " she said imploringly. "You can't possiblygo away feeling like that. " And she stared up at him frowning, bitingher lip. 

"Oh, that's all right, " said Reggie, giving himself a shake. "I'll. .. I'll--" And he waved his hand as much to say "get over it. "

"But this is awful, " said Anne. She clasped her hands and stood in frontof him. "Surely you do see how fatal it would be for us to marry, don'tyou?"

"Oh, quite, quite, " said Reggie, looking at her with haggard eyes. 

"How wrong, how wicked, feeling as I do. I mean, it's all very well forMr. And Mrs. Dove. But imagine that in real life--imagine it!"

"Oh, absolutely, " said Reggie, and he started to walk on. But again Annestopped him. She tugged at his sleeve, and to his astonishment, thistime, instead of laughing, she looked like a little girl who was goingto cry. 

"Then why, if you understand, are you so un-unhappy?" she wailed. "Whydo you mind so fearfully? Why do you look so aw-awful?"

Reggie gulped, and again he waved something away. "I can't help it, " hesaid, "I've had a blow. If I cut off now, I'll be able to--"

"How can you talk of cutting off now?" said Anne scornfully. She stampedher foot at Reggie; she was crimson. "How can you be so cruel? I can'tlet you go until I know for certain that you are just as happy as youwere before you asked me to marry you. Surely you must see that, it's sosimple. "

But it did not seem at all simple to Reginald. It seemed impossiblydifficult. 

"Even if I can't marry you, how can I know that you're all thatway away, with only that awful mother to write to, and that you'remiserable, and that it's all my fault?"

"It's not your fault. Don't think that. It's just fate. " Reggie took herhand off his sleeve and kissed it. "Don't pity me, dear little Anne, " hesaid gently. And this time he nearly ran, under the pink arches, alongthe garden path. 

"Roo-coo-coo-coo! Roo-coo-coo-coo!" sounded from the veranda. "Reggie, Reggie, " from the garden. 

He stopped, he turned. But when she saw his timid, puzzled look, shegave a little laugh. 

"Come back, Mr. Dove, " said Anne. And Reginald came slowly across thelawn. 

5. THE YOUNG GIRL. 

In her blue dress, with her cheeks lightly flushed, her blue, blue eyes, and her gold curls pinned up as though for the first time--pinned upto be out of the way for her flight--Mrs. Raddick's daughter might havejust dropped from this radiant heaven. Mrs. Raddick's timid, faintlyastonished, but deeply admiring glance looked as if she believed it, too; but the daughter didn't appear any too pleased--why should she?--tohave alighted on the steps of the Casino. Indeed, she was bored--boredas though Heaven had been full of casinos with snuffy old saints forcroupiers and crowns to play with. 

"You don't mind taking Hennie?" said Mrs. Raddick. "Sure you don't?There's the car, and you'll have tea and we'll be back here on thisstep--right here--in an hour. You see, I want her to go in. She's notbeen before, and it's worth seeing. I feel it wouldn't be fair to her. "

"Oh, shut up, mother, " said she wearily. "Come along. Don't talk somuch. And your bag's open; you'll be losing all your money again. "

"I'm sorry, darling, " said Mrs. Raddick. 

"Oh, do come in! I want to make money, " said the impatient voice. "It'sall jolly well for you--but I'm broke!"

"Here--take fifty francs, darling, take a hundred!" I saw Mrs. Raddickpressing notes into her hand as they passed through the swing doors. 

Hennie and I stood on the steps a minute, watching the people. He had avery broad, delighted smile. 

"I say, " he cried, "there's an English bulldog. Are they allowed to takedogs in there?"

"No, they're not. "

"He's a ripping chap, isn't he? I wish I had one. They're such fun. Theyfrighten people so, and they're never fierce with their--the people theybelong to. " Suddenly he squeezed my arm. "I say, do look at that oldwoman. Who is she? Why does she look like that? Is she a gambler?"

The ancient, withered creature, wearing a green satin dress, a blackvelvet cloak and a white hat with purple feathers, jerked slowly, slowlyup the steps as though she were being drawn up on wires. She stared infront of her, she was laughing and nodding and cackling to herself; herclaws clutched round what looked like a dirty boot-bag. 

But just at that moment there was Mrs. Raddick again with--her--andanother lady hovering in the background. Mrs. Raddick rushed at me. Shewas brightly flushed, gay, a different creature. She was like a womanwho is saying "good-bye" to her friends on the station platform, withnot a minute to spare before the train starts. 

"Oh, you're here, still. Isn't that lucky! You've not gone. Isn't thatfine! I've had the most dreadful time with--her, " and she waved toher daughter, who stood absolutely still, disdainful, looking down, twiddling her foot on the step, miles away. "They won't let her in. Iswore she was twenty-one. But they won't believe me. I showed the manmy purse; I didn't dare to do more. But it was no use. He simplyscoffed. .. And now I've just met Mrs. MacEwen from New York, and she justwon thirteen thousand in the Salle Privee--and she wants me to go backwith her while the luck lasts. Of course I can't leave--her. But ifyou'd--"

At that "she" looked up; she simply withered her mother. "Why can'tyou leave me?" she said furiously. "What utter rot! How dare you makea scene like this? This is the last time I'll come out with you. Youreally are too awful for words. " She looked her mother up and down. "Calm yourself, " she said superbly. 

Mrs. Raddick was desperate, just desperate. She was "wild" to go backwith Mrs. MacEwen, but at the same time. .. 

I seized my courage. "Would you--do you care to come to tea with--us?"

"Yes, yes, she'll be delighted. That's just what I wanted, isn't it, darling? Mrs. MacEwen. .. I'll be back here in an hour. .. Or less. .. I'll--"

Mrs. R. Dashed up the steps. I saw her bag was open again. 

So we three were left. But really it wasn't my fault. Hennie lookedcrushed to the earth, too. When the car was there she wrapped her darkcoat round her--to escape contamination. Even her little feet looked asthough they scorned to carry her down the steps to us. 

"I am so awfully sorry, " I murmured as the car started. 

"Oh, I don't mind, " said she. "I don't want to look twenty-one. Whowould--if they were seventeen! It's"--and she gave a faint shudder--"thestupidity I loathe, and being stared at by old fat men. Beasts!"

Hennie gave her a quick look and then peered out of the window. 

We drew up before an immense palace of pink-and-white marble withorange-trees outside the doors in gold-and-black tubs. 

"Would you care to go in?" I suggested. 

She hesitated, glanced, bit her lip, and resigned herself. "Oh well, there seems nowhere else, " said she. "Get out, Hennie. "

I went first--to find the table, of course--she followed. But the worstof it was having her little brother, who was only twelve, with us. Thatwas the last, final straw--having that child, trailing at her heels. 

There was one table. It had pink carnations and pink plates with littleblue tea-napkins for sails. 

"Shall we sit here?"

She put her hand wearily on the back of a white wicker chair. 

"We may as well. Why not?" said she. 

Hennie squeezed past her and wriggled on to a stool at the end. He feltawfully out of it. She didn't even take her gloves off. She lowered hereyes and drummed on the table. When a faint violin sounded she wincedand bit her lip again. Silence. 

The waitress appeared. I hardly dared to ask her. "Tea--coffee? Chinatea--or iced tea with lemon?"

Really she didn't mind. It was all the same to her. She didn't reallywant anything. Hennie whispered, "Chocolate!"

But just as the waitress turned away she cried out carelessly, "Oh, youmay as well bring me a chocolate, too. "

While we waited she took out a little, gold powder-box with a mirror inthe lid, shook the poor little puff as though she loathed it, and dabbedher lovely nose. 

"Hennie, " she said, "take those flowers away. " She pointed with her puffto the carnations, and I heard her murmur, "I can't bear flowers ona table. " They had evidently been giving her intense pain, for shepositively closed her eyes as I moved them away. 

The waitress came back with the chocolate and the tea. She put thebig, frothing cups before them and pushed across my clear glass. Hennieburied his nose, emerged, with, for one dreadful moment, a littletrembling blob of cream on the tip. But he hastily wiped it off like alittle gentleman. I wondered if I should dare draw her attention toher cup. She didn't notice it--didn't see it--until suddenly, quite bychance, she took a sip. I watched anxiously; she faintly shuddered. 

"Dreadfully sweet!" said she. 

A tiny boy with a head like a raisin and a chocolate body cameround with a tray of pastries--row upon row of little freaks, littleinspirations, little melting dreams. He offered them to her. "Oh, I'mnot at all hungry. Take them away. "

He offered them to Hennie. Hennie gave me a swift look--it must havebeen satisfactory--for he took a chocolate cream, a coffee eclair, a meringue stuffed with chestnut and a tiny horn filled with freshstrawberries. She could hardly bear to watch him. But just as the boyswerved away she held up her plate. 

"Oh well, give me one, " said she. 

The silver tongs dropped one, two, three--and a cherry tartlet. "I don'tknow why you're giving me all these, " she said, and nearly smiled. "Ishan't eat them; I couldn't!"

I felt much more comfortable. I sipped my tea, leaned back, and evenasked if I might smoke. At that she paused, the fork in her hand, openedher eyes, and really did smile. "Of course, " said she. "I always expectpeople to. "

But at that moment a tragedy happened to Hennie. He speared his pastryhorn too hard, and it flew in two, and one half spilled on the table. Ghastly affair! He turned crimson. Even his ears flared, and one ashamedhand crept across the table to take what was left of the body away. 

"You utter little beast!" said she. 

Good heavens! I had to fly to the rescue. I cried hastily, "Will you beabroad long?"

But she had already forgotten Hennie. I was forgotten, too. She wastrying to remember something. .. She was miles away. 

"I--don't--know, " she said slowly, from that far place. 

"I suppose you prefer it to London. It's more--more--"

When I didn't go on she came back and looked at me, very puzzled. "More--?"

"Enfin--gayer, " I cried, waving my cigarette. 

But that took a whole cake to consider. Even then, "Oh well, thatdepends!" was all she could safely say. 

Hennie had finished. He was still very warm. 

I seized the butterfly list off the table. "I say--what about an ice, Hennie? What about tangerine and ginger? No, something cooler. Whatabout a fresh pineapple cream?"

Hennie strongly approved. The waitress had her eye on us. The order wastaken when she looked up from her crumbs. 

"Did you say tangerine and ginger? I like ginger. You can bring me one. "And then quickly, "I wish that orchestra wouldn't play things fromthe year One. We were dancing to that all last Christmas. It's toosickening!"

But it was a charming air. Now that I noticed it, it warmed me. 

"I think this is rather a nice place, don't you, Hennie?" I said. 

Hennie said: "Ripping!" He meant to say it very low, but it came outvery high in a kind of squeak. 

Nice? This place? Nice? For the first time she stared about her, tryingto see what there was. .. She blinked; her lovely eyes wondered. A verygood-looking elderly man stared back at her through a monocle on a blackribbon. But him she simply couldn't see. There was a hole in the airwhere he was. She looked through and through him. 

Finally the little flat spoons lay still on the glass plates. Hennielooked rather exhausted, but she pulled on her white gloves again. Shehad some trouble with her diamond wrist-watch; it got in her way. Shetugged at it--tried to break the stupid little thing--it wouldn't break. Finally, she had to drag her glove over. I saw, after that, she couldn'tstand this place a moment longer, and, indeed, she jumped up and turnedaway while I went through the vulgar act of paying for the tea. 

And then we were outside again. It had grown dusky. The sky wassprinkled with small stars; the big lamps glowed. While we waited forthe car to come up she stood on the step, just as before, twiddling herfoot, looking down. 

Hennie bounded forward to open the door and she got in and sank backwith--oh--such a sigh!

"Tell him, " she gasped, "to drive as fast as he can. "

Hennie grinned at his friend the chauffeur. "Allie veet!" said he. Thenhe composed himself and sat on the small seat facing us. 

The gold powder-box came out again. Again the poor little puff wasshaken; again there was that swift, deadly-secret glance between her andthe mirror. 

We tore through the black-and-gold town like a pair of scissors tearingthrough brocade. Hennie had great difficulty not to look as though hewere hanging on to something. 

And when we reached the Casino, of course Mrs. Raddick wasn't there. There wasn't a sign of her on the steps--not a sign. 

"Will you stay in the car while I go and look?"

But no--she wouldn't do that. Good heavens, no! Hennie could stay. Shecouldn't bear sitting in a car. She'd wait on the steps. 

"But I scarcely like to leave you, " I murmured. "I'd very much rathernot leave you here. "

At that she threw back her coat; she turned and faced me; her lipsparted. "Good heavens--why! I--I don't mind it a bit. I--I likewaiting. " And suddenly her cheeks crimsoned, her eyes grew dark--fora moment I thought she was going to cry. "L--let me, please, " shestammered, in a warm, eager voice. "I like it. I love waiting!Really--really I do! I'm always waiting--in all kinds of places. .. "

Her dark coat fell open, and her white throat--all her soft young bodyin the blue dress--was like a flower that is just emerging from its darkbud. 

6. LIFE OF MA PARKER. 

When the literary gentleman, whose flat old Ma Parker cleaned everyTuesday, opened the door to her that morning, he asked after hergrandson. Ma Parker stood on the doormat inside the dark little hall, and she stretched out her hand to help her gentleman shut the doorbefore she replied. "We buried 'im yesterday, sir, " she said quietly. 

"Oh, dear me! I'm sorry to hear that, " said the literary gentleman ina shocked tone. He was in the middle of his breakfast. He wore a veryshabby dressing-gown and carried a crumpled newspaper in one hand. But he felt awkward. He could hardly go back to the warm sitting-roomwithout saying something--something more. Then because these people setsuch store by funerals he said kindly, "I hope the funeral went off allright. "

"Beg parding, sir?" said old Ma Parker huskily. 

Poor old bird! She did look dashed. "I hope the funeral wasa--a--success, " said he. Ma Parker gave no answer. She bent her headand hobbled off to the kitchen, clasping the old fish bag that heldher cleaning things and an apron and a pair of felt shoes. The literarygentleman raised his eyebrows and went back to his breakfast. 

"Overcome, I suppose, " he said aloud, helping himself to the marmalade. 

Ma Parker drew the two jetty spears out of her toque and hung it behindthe door. She unhooked her worn jacket and hung that up too. Then shetied her apron and sat down to take off her boots. To take off her bootsor to put them on was an agony to her, but it had been an agony foryears. In fact, she was so accustomed to the pain that her face wasdrawn and screwed up ready for the twinge before she'd so much as untiedthe laces. That over, she sat back with a sigh and softly rubbed herknees. .. 

"Gran! Gran!" Her little grandson stood on her lap in his button boots. He'd just come in from playing in the street. 

"Look what a state you've made your gran's skirt into--you wicked boy!"

But he put his arms round her neck and rubbed his cheek against hers. 

"Gran, gi' us a penny!" he coaxed. 

"Be off with you; Gran ain't got no pennies. "

"Yes, you 'ave. "

"No, I ain't. "

"Yes, you 'ave. Gi' us one!"

Already she was feeling for the old, squashed, black leather purse. 

"Well, what'll you give your gran?"

He gave a shy little laugh and pressed closer. She felt his eyelidquivering against her cheek. "I ain't got nothing, " he murmured. .. 

The old woman sprang up, seized the iron kettle off the gas stove andtook it over to the sink. The noise of the water drumming in thekettle deadened her pain, it seemed. She filled the pail, too, and thewashing-up bowl. 

It would take a whole book to describe the state of that kitchen. Duringthe week the literary gentleman "did" for himself. That is to say, heemptied the tea leaves now and again into a jam jar set aside for thatpurpose, and if he ran out of clean forks he wiped over one or twoon the roller towel. Otherwise, as he explained to his friends, his"system" was quite simple, and he couldn't understand why people madeall this fuss about housekeeping. 

"You simply dirty everything you've got, get a hag in once a week toclean up, and the thing's done. "

The result looked like a gigantic dustbin. Even the floor was litteredwith toast crusts, envelopes, cigarette ends. But Ma Parker bore him nogrudge. She pitied the poor young gentleman for having no one to lookafter him. Out of the smudgy little window you could see an immenseexpanse of sad-looking sky, and whenever there were clouds they lookedvery worn, old clouds, frayed at the edges, with holes in them, or darkstains like tea. 

While the water was heating, Ma Parker began sweeping the floor. "Yes, "she thought, as the broom knocked, "what with one thing and another I'vehad my share. I've had a hard life. "

Even the neighbours said that of her. Many a time, hobbling home withher fish bag she heard them, waiting at the corner, or leaning overthe area railings, say among themselves, "She's had a hard life, has MaParker. " And it was so true she wasn't in the least proud of it. It wasjust as if you were to say she lived in the basement-back at Number 27. A hard life!. .. 

At sixteen she'd left Stratford and come up to London as kitching-maid. Yes, she was born in Stratford-on-Avon. Shakespeare, sir? No, peoplewere always arsking her about him. But she'd never heard his name untilshe saw it on the theatres. 

Nothing remained of Stratford except that "sitting in the fire-placeof a evening you could see the stars through the chimley, " and "Motheralways 'ad 'er side of bacon, 'anging from the ceiling. " And there wassomething--a bush, there was--at the front door, that smelt ever sonice. But the bush was very vague. She'd only remembered it once ortwice in the hospital, when she'd been taken bad. 

That was a dreadful place--her first place. She was never allowed out. She never went upstairs except for prayers morning and evening. It was afair cellar. And the cook was a cruel woman. She used to snatch away herletters from home before she'd read them, and throw them in the rangebecause they made her dreamy. .. And the beedles! Would you believeit?--until she came to London she'd never seen a black beedle. Here Maalways gave a little laugh, as though--not to have seen a black beedle!Well! It was as if to say you'd never seen your own feet. 

When that family was sold up she went as "help" to a doctor's house, andafter two years there, on the run from morning till night, she marriedher husband. He was a baker. 

"A baker, Mrs. Parker!" the literary gentleman would say. Foroccasionally he laid aside his tomes and lent an ear, at least, to thisproduct called Life. "It must be rather nice to be married to a baker!"

Mrs. Parker didn't look so sure. 

"Such a clean trade, " said the gentleman. 

Mrs. Parker didn't look convinced. 

"And didn't you like handing the new loaves to the customers?"

"Well, sir, " said Mrs. Parker, "I wasn't in the shop above a great deal. We had thirteen little ones and buried seven of them. If it wasn't the'ospital it was the infirmary, you might say!"

"You might, indeed, Mrs. Parker!" said the gentleman, shuddering, andtaking up his pen again. 

Yes, seven had gone, and while the six were still small her husband wastaken ill with consumption. It was flour on the lungs, the doctor toldher at the time. .. Her husband sat up in bed with his shirt pulled overhis head, and the doctor's finger drew a circle on his back. 

"Now, if we were to cut him open here, Mrs. Parker, " said the doctor, "you'd find his lungs chock-a-block with white powder. Breathe, mygood fellow!" And Mrs. Parker never knew for certain whether she saw orwhether she fancied she saw a great fan of white dust come out of herpoor dead husband's lips. .. 

But the struggle she'd had to bring up those six little children andkeep herself to herself. Terrible it had been! Then, just when they wereold enough to go to school her husband's sister came to stop with themto help things along, and she hadn't been there more than two monthswhen she fell down a flight of steps and hurt her spine. And for fiveyears Ma Parker had another baby--and such a one for crying!--to lookafter. Then young Maudie went wrong and took her sister Alice with her;the two boys emigrated, and young Jim went to India with the army, andEthel, the youngest, married a good-for-nothing little waiter who diedof ulcers the year little Lennie was born. And now little Lennie--mygrandson. .. 

The piles of dirty cups, dirty dishes, were washed and dried. Theink-black knives were cleaned with a piece of potato and finished offwith a piece of cork. The table was scrubbed, and the dresser and thesink that had sardine tails swimming in it. .. 

He'd never been a strong child--never from the first. He'd been one ofthose fair babies that everybody took for a girl. Silvery fair curls hehad, blue eyes, and a little freckle like a diamond on one side of hisnose. The trouble she and Ethel had had to rear that child! The thingsout of the newspapers they tried him with! Every Sunday morning Ethelwould read aloud while Ma Parker did her washing. 

"Dear Sir, --Just a line to let you know my little Myrtil was laid outfor dead. .. After four bottils. .. Gained 8 lbs. In 9 weeks, and is stillputting it on. "

And then the egg-cup of ink would come off the dresser and the letterwould be written, and Ma would buy a postal order on her way to worknext morning. But it was no use. Nothing made little Lennie put iton. Taking him to the cemetery, even, never gave him a colour; a niceshake-up in the bus never improved his appetite. 

But he was gran's boy from the first. .. 

"Whose boy are you?" said old Ma Parker, straightening up from the stoveand going over to the smudgy window. And a little voice, so warm, soclose, it half stifled her--it seemed to be in her breast under herheart--laughed out, and said, "I'm gran's boy!"

At that moment there was a sound of steps, and the literary gentlemanappeared, dressed for walking. 

"Oh, Mrs. Parker, I'm going out. "

"Very good, sir. "

"And you'll find your half-crown in the tray of the inkstand. "

"Thank you, sir. "

"Oh, by the way, Mrs. Parker, " said the literary gentleman quickly, "youdidn't throw away any cocoa last time you were here--did you?"

"No, sir. " "Very strange. I could have sworn I left a teaspoonful ofcocoa in the tin. " He broke off. He said softly and firmly, "You'llalways tell me when you throw things away--won't you, Mrs. Parker?" Andhe walked off very well pleased with himself, convinced, in fact, he'd shown Mrs. Parker that under his apparent carelessness he was asvigilant as a woman. 

The door banged. She took her brushes and cloths into the bedroom. Butwhen she began to make the bed, smoothing, tucking, patting, the thoughtof little Lennie was unbearable. Why did he have to suffer so? That'swhat she couldn't understand. Why should a little angel child have toarsk for his breath and fight for it? There was no sense in making achild suffer like that. 

. .. From Lennie's little box of a chest there came a sound as thoughsomething was boiling. There was a great lump of something bubbling inhis chest that he couldn't get rid of. When he coughed the sweat sprangout on his head; his eyes bulged, his hands waved, and the great lumpbubbled as a potato knocks in a saucepan. But what was more awful thanall was when he didn't cough he sat against the pillow and never spokeor answered, or even made as if he heard. Only he looked offended. 

"It's not your poor old gran's doing it, my lovey, " said old Ma Parker, patting back the damp hair from his little scarlet ears. But Lenniemoved his head and edged away. Dreadfully offended with her helooked--and solemn. He bent his head and looked at her sideways asthough he couldn't have believed it of his gran. 

But at the last. .. Ma Parker threw the counterpane over the bed. No, shesimply couldn't think about it. It was too much--she'd had too muchin her life to bear. She'd borne it up till now, she'd kept herselfto herself, and never once had she been seen to cry. Never by a livingsoul. Not even her own children had seen Ma break down. She'd kept aproud face always. But now! Lennie gone--what had she? She had nothing. He was all she'd got from life, and now he was took too. Why must itall have happened to me? she wondered. "What have I done?" said old MaParker. "What have I done?"

As she said those words she suddenly let fall her brush. She foundherself in the kitchen. Her misery was so terrible that she pinned onher hat, put on her jacket and walked out of the flat like a person ina dream. She did not know what she was doing. She was like a person sodazed by the horror of what has happened that he walks away--anywhere, as though by walking away he could escape. .. 

It was cold in the street. There was a wind like ice. People wentflitting by, very fast; the men walked like scissors; the women trodlike cats. And nobody knew--nobody cared. Even if she broke down, if atlast, after all these years, she were to cry, she'd find herself in thelock-up as like as not. 

But at the thought of crying it was as though little Lennie leapt inhis gran's arms. Ah, that's what she wants to do, my dove. Gran wantsto cry. If she could only cry now, cry for a long time, over everything, beginning with her first place and the cruel cook, going on to thedoctor's, and then the seven little ones, death of her husband, thechildren's leaving her, and all the years of misery that led up toLennie. But to have a proper cry over all these things would take along time. All the same, the time for it had come. She must do it. Shecouldn't put it off any longer; she couldn't wait any more. .. Where couldshe go?

"She's had a hard life, has Ma Parker. " Yes, a hard life, indeed! Herchin began to tremble; there was no time to lose. But where? Where?

She couldn't go home; Ethel was there. It would frighten Ethel outof her life. She couldn't sit on a bench anywhere; people would comearsking her questions. She couldn't possibly go back to the gentleman'sflat; she had no right to cry in strangers' houses. If she sat on somesteps a policeman would speak to her. 

Oh, wasn't there anywhere where she could hide and keep herself toherself and stay as long as she liked, not disturbing anybody, andnobody worrying her? Wasn't there anywhere in the world where she couldhave her cry out--at last?

Ma Parker stood, looking up and down. The icy wind blew out her aproninto a balloon. And now it began to rain. There was nowhere. 

7. MARRIAGE A LA MODE. 

On his way to the station William remembered with a fresh pang ofdisappointment that he was taking nothing down to the kiddies. Poorlittle chaps! It was hard lines on them. Their first words always wereas they ran to greet him, "What have you got for me, daddy?" and he hadnothing. He would have to buy them some sweets at the station. But thatwas what he had done for the past four Saturdays; their faces had fallenlast time when they saw the same old boxes produced again. 

And Paddy had said, "I had red ribbing on mine bee-fore!"

And Johnny had said, "It's always pink on mine. I hate pink. "

But what was William to do? The affair wasn't so easily settled. In theold days, of course, he would have taken a taxi off to a decent toyshopand chosen them something in five minutes. But nowadays they had Russiantoys, French toys, Serbian toys--toys from God knows where. It was overa year since Isabel had scrapped the old donkeys and engines and so onbecause they were so "dreadfully sentimental" and "so appallingly badfor the babies' sense of form. "

"It's so important, " the new Isabel had explained, "that they shouldlike the right things from the very beginning. It saves so much timelater on. Really, if the poor pets have to spend their infant yearsstaring at these horrors, one can imagine them growing up and asking tobe taken to the Royal Academy. "

And she spoke as though a visit to the Royal Academy was certainimmediate death to any one. .. 

"Well, I don't know, " said William slowly. "When I was their age I usedto go to bed hugging an old towel with a knot in it. "

The new Isabel looked at him, her eyes narrowed, her lips apart. 

"Dear William! I'm sure you did!" She laughed in the new way. 

Sweets it would have to be, however, thought William gloomily, fishingin his pocket for change for the taxi-man. And he saw the kiddieshanding the boxes round--they were awfully generous little chaps--whileIsabel's precious friends didn't hesitate to help themselves. .. 

What about fruit? William hovered before a stall just inside thestation. What about a melon each? Would they have to share that, too?Or a pineapple, for Pad, and a melon for Johnny? Isabel's friends couldhardly go sneaking up to the nursery at the children's meal-times. Allthe same, as he bought the melon William had a horrible vision of oneof Isabel's young poets lapping up a slice, for some reason, behind thenursery door. 

With his two very awkward parcels he strode off to his train. Theplatform was crowded, the train was in. Doors banged open and shut. There came such a loud hissing from the engine that people looked dazedas they scurried to and fro. William made straight for a first-classsmoker, stowed away his suit-case and parcels, and taking a huge wad ofpapers out of his inner pocket, he flung down in the corner and began toread. 

"Our client moreover is positive. .. We are inclined to reconsider. .. Inthe event of--" Ah, that was better. William pressed back his flattenedhair and stretched his legs across the carriage floor. The familiar dullgnawing in his breast quietened down. "With regard to our decision--" Hetook out a blue pencil and scored a paragraph slowly. 

Two men came in, stepped across him, and made for the farther corner. Ayoung fellow swung his golf clubs into the rack and sat down opposite. The train gave a gentle lurch, they were off. William glanced up and sawthe hot, bright station slipping away. A red-faced girl raced along bythe carriages, there was something strained and almost desperate in theway she waved and called. "Hysterical!" thought William dully. Then agreasy, black-faced workman at the end of the platform grinned at thepassing train. And William thought, "A filthy life!" and went back tohis papers. 

When he looked up again there were fields, and beasts standing forshelter under the dark trees. A wide river, with naked childrensplashing in the shallows, glided into sight and was gone again. The skyshone pale, and one bird drifted high like a dark fleck in a jewel. 

"We have examined our client's correspondence files. .. " The lastsentence he had read echoed in his mind. "We have examined. .. " Williamhung on to that sentence, but it was no good; it snapped in themiddle, and the fields, the sky, the sailing bird, the water, all said, "Isabel. " The same thing happened every Saturday afternoon. When hewas on his way to meet Isabel there began those countless imaginarymeetings. She was at the station, standing just a little apart fromeverybody else; she was sitting in the open taxi outside; she was atthe garden gate; walking across the parched grass; at the door, or justinside the hall. 

And her clear, light voice said, "It's William, " or "Hillo, William!" or"So William has come!" He touched her cool hand, her cool cheek. 

The exquisite freshness of Isabel! When he had been a little boy, it washis delight to run into the garden after a shower of rain and shake therose-bush over him. Isabel was that rose-bush, petal-soft, sparkling andcool. And he was still that little boy. But there was no running intothe garden now, no laughing and shaking. The dull, persistent gnawing inhis breast started again. He drew up his legs, tossed the papers aside, and shut his eyes. 

"What is it, Isabel? What is it?" he said tenderly. They were in theirbedroom in the new house. Isabel sat on a painted stool before thedressing-table that was strewn with little black and green boxes. 

"What is what, William?" And she bent forward, and her fine light hairfell over her cheeks. 

"Ah, you know!" He stood in the middle of the room and he felt astranger. At that Isabel wheeled round quickly and faced him. 

"Oh, William!" she cried imploringly, and she held up the hair-brush:"Please! Please don't be so dreadfully stuffy and--tragic. You're alwayssaying or looking or hinting that I've changed. Just because I've got toknow really congenial people, and go about more, and am frightfully keenon--on everything, you behave as though I'd--" Isabel tossed backher hair and laughed--"killed our love or something. It's so awfullyabsurd"--she bit her lip--"and it's so maddening, William. Even this newhouse and the servants you grudge me. "

"Isabel!"

"Yes, yes, it's true in a way, " said Isabel quickly. "You think they areanother bad sign. Oh, I know you do. I feel it, " she said softly, "everytime you come up the stairs. But we couldn't have gone on living inthat other poky little hole, William. Be practical, at least! Why, therewasn't enough room for the babies even. "

No, it was true. Every morning when he came back from chambers it was tofind the babies with Isabel in the back drawing-room. They were havingrides on the leopard skin thrown over the sofa back, or they wereplaying shops with Isabel's desk for a counter, or Pad was sitting onthe hearthrug rowing away for dear life with a little brass fire shovel, while Johnny shot at pirates with the tongs. Every evening they each hada pick-a-back up the narrow stairs to their fat old Nanny. 

Yes, he supposed it was a poky little house. A little white house withblue curtains and a window-box of petunias. William met their friends atthe door with "Seen our petunias? Pretty terrific for London, don't youthink?"

But the imbecile thing, the absolutely extraordinary thing was that hehadn't the slightest idea that Isabel wasn't as happy as he. God, whatblindness! He hadn't the remotest notion in those days that she reallyhated that inconvenient little house, that she thought the fat Nannywas ruining the babies, that she was desperately lonely, pining for newpeople and new music and pictures and so on. If they hadn't gone to thatstudio party at Moira Morrison's--if Moira Morrison hadn't said as theywere leaving, "I'm going to rescue your wife, selfish man. She's likean exquisite little Titania"--if Isabel hadn't gone with Moira toParis--if--if. .. 

The train stopped at another station. Bettingford. Good heavens! They'dbe there in ten minutes. William stuffed that papers back into hispockets; the young man opposite had long since disappeared. Now theother two got out. The late afternoon sun shone on women in cottonfrocks and little sunburnt, barefoot children. It blazed on a silkyyellow flower with coarse leaves which sprawled over a bank of rock. Theair ruffling through the window smelled of the sea. Had Isabel the samecrowd with her this week-end, wondered William?

And he remembered the holidays they used to have, the four of them, witha little farm girl, Rose, to look after the babies. Isabel wore a jerseyand her hair in a plait; she looked about fourteen. Lord! how his noseused to peel! And the amount they ate, and the amount they slept in thatimmense feather bed with their feet locked together. .. William couldn'thelp a grim smile as he thought of Isabel's horror if she knew the fullextent of his sentimentality. 

*****

"Hillo, William!" She was at the station after all, standing just as hehad imagined, apart from the others, and--William's heart leapt--she wasalone. 

"Hallo, Isabel!" William stared. He thought she looked so beautiful thathe had to say something, "You look very cool. "

"Do I?" said Isabel. "I don't feel very cool. Come along, your horridold train is late. The taxi's outside. " She put her hand lightly on hisarm as they passed the ticket collector. "We've all come to meet you, "she said. "But we've left Bobby Kane at the sweet shop, to be calledfor. "

"Oh!" said William. It was all he could say for the moment. 

There in the glare waited the taxi, with Bill Hunt and Dennis Greensprawling on one side, their hats tilted over their faces, while on theother, Moira Morrison, in a bonnet like a huge strawberry, jumped up anddown. 

"No ice! No ice! No ice!" she shouted gaily. 

And Dennis chimed in from under his hat. "Only to be had from thefishmonger's. "

And Bill Hunt, emerging, added, "With whole fish in it. "

"Oh, what a bore!" wailed Isabel. And she explained to William howthey had been chasing round the town for ice while she waited forhim. "Simply everything is running down the steep cliffs into the sea, beginning with the butter. "

"We shall have to anoint ourselves with butter, " said Dennis. "May thyhead, William, lack not ointment. "

"Look here, " said William, "how are we going to sit? I'd better get upby the driver. "

"No, Bobby Kane's by the driver, " said Isabel. "You're to sit betweenMoira and me. " The taxi started. "What have you got in those mysteriousparcels?"

"De-cap-it-ated heads!" said Bill Hunt, shuddering beneath his hat. 

"Oh, fruit!" Isabel sounded very pleased. "Wise William! A melon and apineapple. How too nice!"

"No, wait a bit, " said William, smiling. But he really was anxious. "Ibrought them down for the kiddies. "

"Oh, my dear!" Isabel laughed, and slipped her hand through his arm. "They'd be rolling in agonies if they were to eat them. No"--she pattedhis hand--"you must bring them something next time. I refuse to partwith my pineapple. "

"Cruel Isabel! Do let me smell it!" said Moira. She flung her armsacross William appealingly. "Oh!" The strawberry bonnet fell forward:she sounded quite faint. 

"A Lady in Love with a Pineapple, " said Dennis, as the taxi drew upbefore a little shop with a striped blind. Out came Bobby Kane, his armsfull of little packets. 

"I do hope they'll be good. I've chosen them because of the colours. There are some round things which really look too divine. And just lookat this nougat, " he cried ecstatically, "just look at it! It's a perfectlittle ballet. "

But at that moment the shopman appeared. "Oh, I forgot. They're none ofthem paid for, " said Bobby, looking frightened. Isabel gave the shopmana note, and Bobby was radiant again. "Hallo, William! I'm sitting by thedriver. " And bareheaded, all in white, with his sleeves rolled up to theshoulders, he leapt into his place. "Avanti!" he cried. .. 

After tea the others went off to bathe, while William stayed and madehis peace with the kiddies. But Johnny and Paddy were asleep, therose-red glow had paled, bats were flying, and still the bathers hadnot returned. As William wandered downstairs, the maid crossed the hallcarrying a lamp. He followed her into the sitting-room. It was a longroom, coloured yellow. On the wall opposite William some one had painteda young man, over life-size, with very wobbly legs, offering a wide-eyeddaisy to a young woman who had one very short arm and one very long, thin one. Over the chairs and sofa there hung strips of black material, covered with big splashes like broken eggs, and everywhere one lookedthere seemed to be an ash-tray full of cigarette ends. William sat downin one of the arm-chairs. Nowadays, when one felt with one hand down thesides, it wasn't to come upon a sheep with three legs or a cow that hadlost one horn, or a very fat dove out of the Noah's Ark. One fishedup yet another little paper-covered book of smudged-looking poems. .. Hethought of the wad of papers in his pocket, but he was too hungry andtired to read. The door was open; sounds came from the kitchen. Theservants were talking as if they were alone in the house. Suddenlythere came a loud screech of laughter and an equally loud "Sh!" They hadremembered him. William got up and went through the French windows intothe garden, and as he stood there in the shadow he heard the batherscoming up the sandy road; their voices rang through the quiet. 

"I think its up to Moira to use her little arts and wiles. "

A tragic moan from Moira. 

"We ought to have a gramophone for the weekends that played 'The Maid ofthe Mountains. '"

"Oh no! Oh no!" cried Isabel's voice. "That's not fair to William. Benice to him, my children! He's only staying until to-morrow evening. "

"Leave him to me, " cried Bobby Kane. "I'm awfully good at looking afterpeople. "

The gate swung open and shut. William moved on the terrace; they hadseen him. "Hallo, William!" And Bobby Kane, flapping his towel, began toleap and pirouette on the parched lawn. "Pity you didn't come, William. The water was divine. And we all went to a little pub afterwards and hadsloe gin. "

The others had reached the house. "I say, Isabel, " called Bobby, "wouldyou like me to wear my Nijinsky dress to-night?"

"No, " said Isabel, "nobody's going to dress. We're all starving. William's starving, too. Come along, mes amis, let's begin withsardines. "

"I've found the sardines, " said Moira, and she ran into the hall, holding a box high in the air. 

"A Lady with a Box of Sardines, " said Dennis gravely. 

"Well, William, and how's London?" asked Bill Hunt, drawing the cork outof a bottle of whisky. 

"Oh, London's not much changed, " answered William. 

"Good old London, " said Bobby, very hearty, spearing a sardine. 

But a moment later William was forgotten. Moira Morrison began wonderingwhat colour one's legs really were under water. 

"Mine are the palest, palest mushroom colour. "

Bill and Dennis ate enormously. And Isabel filled glasses, and changedplates, and found matches, smiling blissfully. At one moment, she said, "I do wish, Bill, you'd paint it. "

"Paint what?" said Bill loudly, stuffing his mouth with bread. 

"Us, " said Isabel, "round the table. It would be so fascinating intwenty years' time. "

Bill screwed up his eyes and chewed. "Light's wrong, " he said rudely, "far too much yellow"; and went on eating. And that seemed to charmIsabel, too. 

But after supper they were all so tired they could do nothing but yawnuntil it was late enough to go to bed. .. 

It was not until William was waiting for his taxi the next afternoonthat he found himself alone with Isabel. When he brought his suit-casedown into the hall, Isabel left the others and went over to him. Shestooped down and picked up the suit-case. "What a weight!" she said, andshe gave a little awkward laugh. "Let me carry it! To the gate. "

"No, why should you?" said William. "Of course, not. Give it to me. "

"Oh, please, do let me, " said Isabel. "I want to, really. " They walkedtogether silently. William felt there was nothing to say now. 

"There, " said Isabel triumphantly, setting the suit-case down, and shelooked anxiously along the sandy road. "I hardly seem to have seen youthis time, " she said breathlessly. "It's so short, isn't it? I feelyou've only just come. Next time--" The taxi came into sight. "I hopethey look after you properly in London. I'm so sorry the babies havebeen out all day, but Miss Neil had arranged it. They'll hate missingyou. Poor William, going back to London. " The taxi turned. "Good-bye!"She gave him a little hurried kiss; she was gone. 

Fields, trees, hedges streamed by. They shook through the empty, blind-looking little town, ground up the steep pull to the station. 

The train was in. William made straight for a first-class smoker, flungback into the corner, but this time he let the papers alone. He foldedhis arms against the dull, persistent gnawing, and began in his mind towrite a letter to Isabel. 

*****

The post was late as usual. They sat outside the house in long chairsunder coloured parasols. Only Bobby Kane lay on the turf at Isabel'sfeet. It was dull, stifling; the day drooped like a flag. 

"Do you think there will be Mondays in Heaven?" asked Bobby childishly. 

And Dennis murmured, "Heaven will be one long Monday. "

But Isabel couldn't help wondering what had happened to the salmon theyhad for supper last night. She had meant to have fish mayonnaise forlunch and now. .. 

Moira was asleep. Sleeping was her latest discovery. "It's so wonderful. One simply shuts one's eyes, that's all. It's so delicious. "

When the old ruddy postman came beating along the sandy road on histricycle one felt the handle-bars ought to have been oars. 

Bill Hunt put down his book. "Letters, " he said complacently, and theyall waited. But, heartless postman--O malignant world! There was onlyone, a fat one for Isabel. Not even a paper. 

"And mine's only from William, " said Isabel mournfully. 

"From William--already?"

"He's sending you back your marriage lines as a gentle reminder. "

"Does everybody have marriage lines? I thought they were only forservants. "

"Pages and pages! Look at her! A Lady reading a Letter, " said Dennis. 

"My darling, precious Isabel. " Pages and pages there were. As Isabelread on her feeling of astonishment changed to a stifled feeling. Whaton earth had induced William. .. ? How extraordinary it was. .. Whatcould have made him. .. ? She felt confused, more and more excited, evenfrightened. It was just like William. Was it? It was absurd, of course, it must be absurd, ridiculous. "Ha, ha, ha! Oh dear!" What was she todo? Isabel flung back in her chair and laughed till she couldn't stoplaughing. 

"Do, do tell us, " said the others. "You must tell us. "

"I'm longing to, " gurgled Isabel. She sat up, gathered the letter, and waved it at them. "Gather round, " she said. "Listen, it's toomarvellous. A love-letter!"

"A love-letter! But how divine!" "Darling, precious Isabel. " But she hadhardly begun before their laughter interrupted her. 

"Go on, Isabel, it's perfect. "

"It's the most marvellous find. "

"Oh, do go on, Isabel!"

"God forbid, my darling, that I should be a drag on your happiness. "

"Oh! oh! oh!"

"Sh! sh! sh!"

And Isabel went on. When she reached the end they were hysterical: Bobbyrolled on the turf and almost sobbed. 

"You must let me have it just as it is, entire, for my new book, " saidDennis firmly. "I shall give it a whole chapter. "

"Oh, Isabel, " moaned Moira, "that wonderful bit about holding you in hisarms!"

"I always thought those letters in divorce cases were made up. But theypale before this. "

"Let me hold it. Let me read it, mine own self, " said Bobby Kane. 

But, to their surprise, Isabel crushed the letter in her hand. Shewas laughing no longer. She glanced quickly at them all; she lookedexhausted. "No, not just now. Not just now, " she stammered. 

And before they could recover she had run into the house, through thehall, up the stairs into her bedroom. Down she sat on the side ofthe bed. "How vile, odious, abominable, vulgar, " muttered Isabel. Shepressed her eyes with her knuckles and rocked to and fro. And again shesaw them, but not four, more like forty, laughing, sneering, jeering, stretching out their hands while she read them William's letter. Oh, what a loathsome thing to have done. How could she have done it! "Godforbid, my darling, that I should be a drag on your happiness. " William!Isabel pressed her face into the pillow. But she felt that even thegrave bedroom knew her for what she was, shallow, tinkling, vain. .. 

Presently from the garden below there came voices. 

"Isabel, we're all going for a bathe. Do come!"

"Come, thou wife of William!"

"Call her once before you go, call once yet!"

Isabel sat up. Now was the moment, now she must decide. Would she gowith them, or stay here and write to William. Which, which should it be?"I must make up my mind. " Oh, but how could there be any question? Ofcourse she would stay here and write. 

"Titania!" piped Moira. 

"Isa-bel?"

No, it was too difficult. "I'll--I'll go with them, and write to Williamlater. Some other time. Later. Not now. But I shall certainly write, "thought Isabel hurriedly. 

And, laughing, in the new way, she ran down the stairs. 

8. THE VOYAGE. 

The Picton boat was due to leave at half-past eleven. It was a beautifulnight, mild, starry, only when they got out of the cab and started towalk down the Old Wharf that jutted out into the harbour, a faint windblowing off the water ruffled under Fenella's hat, and she put up herhand to keep it on. It was dark on the Old Wharf, very dark; the woolsheds, the cattle trucks, the cranes standing up so high, the littlesquat railway engine, all seemed carved out of solid darkness. Here andthere on a rounded wood-pile, that was like the stalk of a huge blackmushroom, there hung a lantern, but it seemed afraid to unfurl itstimid, quivering light in all that blackness; it burned softly, as iffor itself. 

Fenella's father pushed on with quick, nervous strides. Beside him hergrandma bustled along in her crackling black ulster; they went so fastthat she had now and again to give an undignified little skip to keep upwith them. As well as her luggage strapped into a neat sausage, Fenellacarried clasped to her her grandma's umbrella, and the handle, which wasa swan's head, kept giving her shoulder a sharp little peck as if it toowanted her to hurry. .. Men, their caps pulled down, their collars turnedup, swung by; a few women all muffled scurried along; and one tiny boy, only his little black arms and legs showing out of a white woolly shawl, was jerked along angrily between his father and mother; he looked like ababy fly that had fallen into the cream. 

Then suddenly, so suddenly that Fenella and her grandma both leapt, there sounded from behind the largest wool shed, that had a trail ofsmoke hanging over it, "Mia-oo-oo-O-O!"

"First whistle, " said her father briefly, and at that moment they camein sight of the Picton boat. Lying beside the dark wharf, all strung, all beaded with round golden lights, the Picton boat looked as if shewas more ready to sail among stars than out into the cold sea. Peoplepressed along the gangway. First went her grandma, then her father, thenFenella. There was a high step down on to the deck, and an old sailor ina jersey standing by gave her his dry, hard hand. They were there; theystepped out of the way of the hurrying people, and standing undera little iron stairway that led to the upper deck they began to saygood-bye. 

"There, mother, there's your luggage!" said Fenella's father, givinggrandma another strapped-up sausage. 

"Thank you, Frank. "

"And you've got your cabin tickets safe?"

"Yes, dear. "

"And your other tickets?"

Grandma felt for them inside her glove and showed him the tips. 

"That's right. "

He sounded stern, but Fenella, eagerly watching him, saw that he lookedtired and sad. "Mia-oo-oo-O-O!" The second whistle blared just abovetheir heads, and a voice like a cry shouted, "Any more for the gangway?"

"You'll give my love to father, " Fenella saw her father's lips say. Andher grandma, very agitated, answered, "Of course I will, dear. Go now. You'll be left. Go now, Frank. Go now. "

"It's all right, mother. I've got another three minutes. " To hersurprise Fenella saw her father take off his hat. He clasped grandma inhis arms and pressed her to him. "God bless you, mother!" she heard himsay. 

And grandma put her hand, with the black thread glove that was wornthrough on her ring finger, against his cheek, and she sobbed, "Godbless you, my own brave son!"

This was so awful that Fenella quickly turned her back on them, swallowed once, twice, and frowned terribly at a little green star on amast head. But she had to turn round again; her father was going. 

"Good-bye, Fenella. Be a good girl. " His cold, wet moustache brushed hercheek. But Fenella caught hold of the lapels of his coat. 

"How long am I going to stay?" she whispered anxiously. He wouldn't lookat her. He shook her off gently, and gently said, "We'll see about that. Here! Where's your hand?" He pressed something into her palm. "Here's ashilling in case you should need it. "

A shilling! She must be going away for ever! "Father!" cried Fenella. But he was gone. He was the last off the ship. The sailors put theirshoulders to the gangway. A huge coil of dark rope went flying throughthe air and fell "thump" on the wharf. A bell rang; a whistle shrilled. Silently the dark wharf began to slip, to slide, to edge away from them. Now there was a rush of water between. Fenella strained to see with allher might. "Was that father turning round?"--or waving?--or standingalone?--or walking off by himself? The strip of water grew broader, darker. Now the Picton boat began to swing round steady, pointing out tosea. It was no good looking any longer. There was nothing to be seen buta few lights, the face of the town clock hanging in the air, and morelights, little patches of them, on the dark hills. 

The freshening wind tugged at Fenella's skirts; she went back to hergrandma. To her relief grandma seemed no longer sad. She had put thetwo sausages of luggage one on top of the other, and she was sittingon them, her hands folded, her head a little on one side. There was anintent, bright look on her face. Then Fenella saw that her lips weremoving and guessed that she was praying. But the old woman gave her abright nod as if to say the prayer was nearly over. She unclaspedher hands, sighed, clasped them again, bent forward, and at last gaveherself a soft shake. 

"And now, child, " she said, fingering the bow of her bonnet-strings, "Ithink we ought to see about our cabins. Keep close to me, and mind youdon't slip. "

"Yes, grandma!"

"And be careful the umbrellas aren't caught in the stair rail. I saw abeautiful umbrella broken in half like that on my way over. "

"Yes, grandma. "

Dark figures of men lounged against the rails. In the glow oftheir pipes a nose shone out, or the peak of a cap, or a pair ofsurprised-looking eyebrows. Fenella glanced up. High in the air, alittle figure, his hands thrust in his short jacket pockets, stoodstaring out to sea. The ship rocked ever so little, and she thought thestars rocked too. And now a pale steward in a linen coat, holding atray high in the palm of his hand, stepped out of a lighted doorway andskimmed past them. They went through that doorway. Carefully over thehigh brass-bound step on to the rubber mat and then down such a terriblysteep flight of stairs that grandma had to put both feet on each step, and Fenella clutched the clammy brass rail and forgot all about theswan-necked umbrella. 

At the bottom grandma stopped; Fenella was rather afraid she was goingto pray again. But no, it was only to get out the cabin tickets. Theywere in the saloon. It was glaring bright and stifling; the air smelledof paint and burnt chop-bones and indiarubber. Fenella wished hergrandma would go on, but the old woman was not to be hurried. An immensebasket of ham sandwiches caught her eye. She went up to them and touchedthe top one delicately with her finger. 

"How much are the sandwiches?" she asked. 

"Tuppence!" bawled a rude steward, slamming down a knife and fork. 

Grandma could hardly believe it. 

"Twopence each?" she asked. 

"That's right, " said the steward, and he winked at his companion. 

Grandma made a small, astonished face. Then she whispered primly toFenella. "What wickedness!" And they sailed out at the further doorand along a passage that had cabins on either side. Such a very nicestewardess came to meet them. She was dressed all in blue, and hercollar and cuffs were fastened with large brass buttons. She seemed toknow grandma well. 

"Well, Mrs. Crane, " said she, unlocking their washstand. "We've got youback again. It's not often you give yourself a cabin. "

"No, " said grandma. "But this time my dear son's thoughtfulness--"

"I hope--" began the stewardess. Then she turned round and took a long, mournful look at grandma's blackness and at Fenella's black coat andskirt, black blouse, and hat with a crape rose. 

Grandma nodded. "It was God's will, " said she. 

The stewardess shut her lips and, taking a deep breath, she seemed toexpand. 

"What I always say is, " she said, as though it was her own discovery, "sooner or later each of us has to go, and that's a certingty. " Shepaused. "Now, can I bring you anything, Mrs Crane? A cup of tea? I knowit's no good offering you a little something to keep the cold out. "

Grandma shook her head. "Nothing, thank you. We've got a few winebiscuits, and Fenella has a very nice banana. "

"Then I'll give you a look later on, " said the stewardess, and she wentout, shutting the door. 

What a very small cabin it was! It was like being shut up in a box withgrandma. The dark round eye above the washstand gleamed at them dully. Fenella felt shy. She stood against the door, still clasping her luggageand the umbrella. Were they going to get undressed in here? Already hergrandma had taken off her bonnet, and, rolling up the strings, she fixedeach with a pin to the lining before she hung the bonnet up. Her whitehair shone like silk; the little bun at the back was covered with ablack net. Fenella hardly ever saw her grandma with her head uncovered;she looked strange. 

"I shall put on the woollen fascinator your dear mother crocheted forme, " said grandma, and, unstrapping the sausage, she took it out andwound it round her head; the fringe of grey bobbles danced at hereyebrows as she smiled tenderly and mournfully at Fenella. Thenshe undid her bodice, and something under that, and something elseunderneath that. Then there seemed a short, sharp tussle, and grandmaflushed faintly. Snip! Snap! She had undone her stays. She breathed asigh of relief, and sitting on the plush couch, she slowly and carefullypulled off her elastic-sided boots and stood them side by side. 

By the time Fenella had taken off her coat and skirt and put on herflannel dressing-gown grandma was quite ready. 

"Must I take off my boots, grandma? They're lace. "

Grandma gave them a moment's deep consideration. "You'd feel a greatdeal more comfortable if you did, child, " said she. She kissed Fenella. "Don't forget to say your prayers. Our dear Lord is with us when weare at sea even more than when we are on dry land. And because I am anexperienced traveller, " said grandma briskly, "I shall take the upperberth. "

"But, grandma, however will you get up there?"

Three little spider-like steps were all Fenella saw. The old woman gavea small silent laugh before she mounted them nimbly, and she peered overthe high bunk at the astonished Fenella. 

"You didn't think your grandma could do that, did you?" said she. And asshe sank back Fenella heard her light laugh again. 

The hard square of brown soap would not lather, and the water in thebottle was like a kind of blue jelly. How hard it was, too, to turn downthose stiff sheets; you simply had to tear your way in. If everythinghad been different, Fenella might have got the giggles. .. At last shewas inside, and while she lay there panting, there sounded from abovea long, soft whispering, as though some one was gently, gently rustlingamong tissue paper to find something. It was grandma saying herprayers. .. 

A long time passed. Then the stewardess came in; she trod softly andleaned her hand on grandma's bunk. 

"We're just entering the Straits, " she said. 

"Oh!"

"It's a fine night, but we're rather empty. We may pitch a little. "

And indeed at that moment the Picton Boat rose and rose and hung in theair just long enough to give a shiver before she swung down again, andthere was the sound of heavy water slapping against her sides. Fenellaremembered she had left the swan-necked umbrella standing up on thelittle couch. If it fell over, would it break? But grandma rememberedtoo, at the same time. 

"I wonder if you'd mind, stewardess, laying down my umbrella, " shewhispered. 

"Not at all, Mrs. Crane. " And the stewardess, coming back to grandma, breathed, "Your little granddaughter's in such a beautiful sleep. "

"God be praised for that!" said grandma. 

"Poor little motherless mite!" said the stewardess. And grandma wasstill telling the stewardess all about what happened when Fenella fellasleep. 

But she hadn't been asleep long enough to dream before she woke up againto see something waving in the air above her head. What was it? Whatcould it be? It was a small grey foot. Now another joined it. Theyseemed to be feeling about for something; there came a sigh. 

"I'm awake, grandma, " said Fenella. 

"Oh, dear, am I near the ladder?" asked grandma. "I thought it was thisend. "

"No, grandma, it's the other. I'll put your foot on it. Are we there?"asked Fenella. 

"In the harbour, " said grandma. "We must get up, child. You'd betterhave a biscuit to steady yourself before you move. "

But Fenella had hopped out of her bunk. The lamp was still burning, but night was over, and it was cold. Peering through that round eye shecould see far off some rocks. Now they were scattered over with foam;now a gull flipped by; and now there came a long piece of real land. 

"It's land, grandma, " said Fenella, wonderingly, as though they had beenat sea for weeks together. She hugged herself; she stood on one leg andrubbed it with the toes of the other foot; she was trembling. Oh, it hadall been so sad lately. Was it going to change? But all her grandmasaid was, "Make haste, child. I should leave your nice banana forthe stewardess as you haven't eaten it. " And Fenella put on her blackclothes again and a button sprang off one of her gloves and rolled towhere she couldn't reach it. They went up on deck. 

But if it had been cold in the cabin, on deck it was like ice. The sunwas not up yet, but the stars were dim, and the cold pale sky was thesame colour as the cold pale sea. On the land a white mist rose andfell. Now they could see quite plainly dark bush. Even the shapes of theumbrella ferns showed, and those strange silvery withered trees that arelike skeletons. .. Now they could see the landing-stage and some littlehouses, pale too, clustered together, like shells on the lid of a box. The other passengers tramped up and down, but more slowly than they hadthe night before, and they looked gloomy. 

And now the landing-stage came out to meet them. Slowly it swam towardsthe Picton boat, and a man holding a coil of rope, and a cart with asmall drooping horse and another man sitting on the step, came too. 

"It's Mr. Penreddy, Fenella, come for us, " said grandma. She soundedpleased. Her white waxen cheeks were blue with cold, her chin trembled, and she had to keep wiping her eyes and her little pink nose. 

"You've got my--"

"Yes, grandma. " Fenella showed it to her. 

The rope came flying through the air, and "smack" it fell on to thedeck. The gangway was lowered. Again Fenella followed her grandma on tothe wharf over to the little cart, and a moment later they were bowlingaway. The hooves of the little horse drummed over the wooden piles, thensank softly into the sandy road. Not a soul was to be seen; there wasnot even a feather of smoke. The mist rose and fell and the sea stillsounded asleep as slowly it turned on the beach. 

"I seen Mr. Crane yestiddy, " said Mr. Penreddy. "He looked himself then. Missus knocked him up a batch of scones last week. "

And now the little horse pulled up before one of the shell-like houses. They got down. Fenella put her hand on the gate, and the big, tremblingdew-drops soaked through her glove-tips. Up a little path of roundwhite pebbles they went, with drenched sleeping flowers on either side. Grandma's delicate white picotees were so heavy with dew that they werefallen, but their sweet smell was part of the cold morning. The blindswere down in the little house; they mounted the steps on to the veranda. A pair of old bluchers was on one side of the door, and a large redwatering-can on the other. 

"Tut! tut! Your grandpa, " said grandma. She turned the handle. Not asound. She called, "Walter!" And immediately a deep voice that soundedhalf stifled called back, "Is that you, Mary?"

"Wait, dear, " said grandma. "Go in there. " She pushed Fenella gentlyinto a small dusky sitting-room. 

On the table a white cat, that had been folded up like a camel, rose, stretched itself, yawned, and then sprang on to the tips of its toes. Fenella buried one cold little hand in the white, warm fur, and smiledtimidly while she stroked and listened to grandma's gentle voice and therolling tones of grandpa. 

A door creaked. "Come in, dear. " The old woman beckoned, Fenellafollowed. There, lying to one side on an immense bed, lay grandpa. Just his head with a white tuft and his rosy face and long silver beardshowed over the quilt. He was like a very old wide-awake bird. 

"Well, my girl!" said grandpa. "Give us a kiss!" Fenella kissed him. "Ugh!" said grandpa. "Her little nose is as cold as a button. What'sthat she's holding? Her grandma's umbrella?"

Fenella smiled again, and crooked the swan neck over the bed-rail. Abovethe bed there was a big text in a deep black frame:--

 "Lost! One Golden Hour Set with Sixty Diamond Minutes. No Reward Is Offered For It Is Gone For Ever!"

"Yer grandma painted that, " said grandpa. And he ruffled his white tuftand looked at Fenella so merrily she almost thought he winked at her. 

9. MISS BRILL. 

Although it was so brilliantly fine--the blue sky powdered with goldand great spots of light like white wine splashed over the JardinsPubliques--Miss Brill was glad that she had decided on her fur. The airwas motionless, but when you opened your mouth there was just a faintchill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and nowand again a leaf came drifting--from nowhere, from the sky. Miss Brillput up her hand and touched her fur. Dear little thing! It was nice tofeel it again. She had taken it out of its box that afternoon, shakenout the moth-powder, given it a good brush, and rubbed the life backinto the dim little eyes. "What has been happening to me?" said the sadlittle eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap at her again fromthe red eiderdown!. .. But the nose, which was of some black composition, wasn't at all firm. It must have had a knock, somehow. Never mind--alittle dab of black sealing-wax when the time came--when it wasabsolutely necessary. .. Little rogue! Yes, she really felt like thatabout it. Little rogue biting its tail just by her left ear. She couldhave taken it off and laid it on her lap and stroked it. She felta tingling in her hands and arms, but that came from walking, shesupposed. And when she breathed, something light and sad--no, not sad, exactly--something gentle seemed to move in her bosom. 

There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than lastSunday. And the band sounded louder and gayer. That was because theSeason had begun. For although the band played all the year round onSundays, out of season it was never the same. It was like some oneplaying with only the family to listen; it didn't care how it played ifthere weren't any strangers present. Wasn't the conductor wearing a newcoat, too? She was sure it was new. He scraped with his foot and flappedhis arms like a rooster about to crow, and the bandsmen sitting in thegreen rotunda blew out their cheeks and glared at the music. Now therecame a little "flutey" bit--very pretty!--a little chain of brightdrops. She was sure it would be repeated. It was; she lifted her headand smiled. 

Only two people shared her "special" seat: a fine old man in a velvetcoat, his hands clasped over a huge carved walking-stick, and a bigold woman, sitting upright, with a roll of knitting on her embroideredapron. They did not speak. This was disappointing, for Miss Brill alwayslooked forward to the conversation. She had become really quite expert, she thought, at listening as though she didn't listen, at sitting inother people's lives just for a minute while they talked round her. 

She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon. Last Sunday, too, hadn't been as interesting as usual. An Englishmanand his wife, he wearing a dreadful Panama hat and she button boots. Andshe'd gone on the whole time about how she ought to wear spectacles;she knew she needed them; but that it was no good getting any; they'd besure to break and they'd never keep on. And he'd been so patient. He'dsuggested everything--gold rims, the kind that curved round your ears, little pads inside the bridge. No, nothing would please her. "They'llalways be sliding down my nose!" Miss Brill had wanted to shake her. 

The old people sat on the bench, still as statues. Never mind, there wasalways the crowd to watch. To and fro, in front of the flower-beds andthe band rotunda, the couples and groups paraded, stopped to talk, togreet, to buy a handful of flowers from the old beggar who had his trayfixed to the railings. Little children ran among them, swooping andlaughing; little boys with big white silk bows under their chins, littlegirls, little French dolls, dressed up in velvet and lace. And sometimesa tiny staggerer came suddenly rocking into the open from under thetrees, stopped, stared, as suddenly sat down "flop, " until its smallhigh-stepping mother, like a young hen, rushed scolding to its rescue. Other people sat on the benches and green chairs, but they werenearly always the same, Sunday after Sunday, and--Miss Brill had oftennoticed--there was something funny about nearly all of them. They wereodd, silent, nearly all old, and from the way they stared they looked asthough they'd just come from dark little rooms or even--even cupboards!

Behind the rotunda the slender trees with yellow leaves down drooping, and through them just a line of sea, and beyond the blue sky withgold-veined clouds. 

Tum-tum-tum tiddle-um! tiddle-um! tum tiddley-um tum ta! blew the band. 

Two young girls in red came by and two young soldiers in blue met them, and they laughed and paired and went off arm-in-arm. Two peasant womenwith funny straw hats passed, gravely, leading beautiful smoke-coloureddonkeys. A cold, pale nun hurried by. A beautiful woman came along anddropped her bunch of violets, and a little boy ran after to hand them toher, and she took them and threw them away as if they'd been poisoned. Dear me! Miss Brill didn't know whether to admire that or not! And nowan ermine toque and a gentleman in grey met just in front of her. Hewas tall, stiff, dignified, and she was wearing the ermine toque she'dbought when her hair was yellow. Now everything, her hair, her face, even her eyes, was the same colour as the shabby ermine, and her hand, in its cleaned glove, lifted to dab her lips, was a tiny yellowish paw. Oh, she was so pleased to see him--delighted! She rather thoughtthey were going to meet that afternoon. She described where she'dbeen--everywhere, here, there, along by the sea. The day was socharming--didn't he agree? And wouldn't he, perhaps?. .. But he shook hishead, lighted a cigarette, slowly breathed a great deep puff into herface, and even while she was still talking and laughing, flicked thematch away and walked on. The ermine toque was alone; she smiled morebrightly than ever. But even the band seemed to know what she wasfeeling and played more softly, played tenderly, and the drum beat, "TheBrute! The Brute!" over and over. What would she do? What was going tohappen now? But as Miss Brill wondered, the ermine toque turned, raisedher hand as though she'd seen some one else, much nicer, just overthere, and pattered away. And the band changed again and played morequickly, more gayly than ever, and the old couple on Miss Brill's seatgot up and marched away, and such a funny old man with long whiskershobbled along in time to the music and was nearly knocked over by fourgirls walking abreast. 

Oh, how fascinating it was! How she enjoyed it! How she loved sittinghere, watching it all! It was like a play. It was exactly like a play. Who could believe the sky at the back wasn't painted? But it wasn't tilla little brown dog trotted on solemn and then slowly trotted off, likea little "theatre" dog, a little dog that had been drugged, that MissBrill discovered what it was that made it so exciting. They were allon the stage. They weren't only the audience, not only looking on;they were acting. Even she had a part and came every Sunday. No doubtsomebody would have noticed if she hadn't been there; she was part ofthe performance after all. How strange she'd never thought of it likethat before! And yet it explained why she made such a point of startingfrom home at just the same time each week--so as not to be late forthe performance--and it also explained why she had quite a queer, shy feeling at telling her English pupils how she spent her Sundayafternoons. No wonder! Miss Brill nearly laughed out loud. She was onthe stage. She thought of the old invalid gentleman to whom she read thenewspaper four afternoons a week while he slept in the garden. She hadgot quite used to the frail head on the cotton pillow, the hollowedeyes, the open mouth and the high pinched nose. If he'd been dead shemightn't have noticed for weeks; she wouldn't have minded. But suddenlyhe knew he was having the paper read to him by an actress! "An actress!"The old head lifted; two points of light quivered in the old eyes. "Anactress--are ye?" And Miss Brill smoothed the newspaper as though itwere the manuscript of her part and said gently; "Yes, I have been anactress for a long time. "

The band had been having a rest. Now they started again. And what theyplayed was warm, sunny, yet there was just a faint chill--a something, what was it?--not sadness--no, not sadness--a something that made youwant to sing. The tune lifted, lifted, the light shone; and it seemedto Miss Brill that in another moment all of them, all the whole company, would begin singing. The young ones, the laughing ones who were movingtogether, they would begin, and the men's voices, very resolute andbrave, would join them. And then she too, she too, and the others on thebenches--they would come in with a kind of accompaniment--something low, that scarcely rose or fell, something so beautiful--moving. .. And MissBrill's eyes filled with tears and she looked smiling at all theother members of the company. Yes, we understand, we understand, shethought--though what they understood she didn't know. 

Just at that moment a boy and girl came and sat down where the oldcouple had been. They were beautifully dressed; they were in love. Thehero and heroine, of course, just arrived from his father's yacht. Andstill soundlessly singing, still with that trembling smile, Miss Brillprepared to listen. 

"No, not now, " said the girl. "Not here, I can't. "

"But why? Because of that stupid old thing at the end there?" asked theboy. "Why does she come here at all--who wants her? Why doesn't she keepher silly old mug at home?"

"It's her fu-ur which is so funny, " giggled the girl. "It's exactly likea fried whiting. "

"Ah, be off with you!" said the boy in an angry whisper. Then: "Tell me, ma petite chere--"

"No, not here, " said the girl. "Not yet. "

*****

On her way home she usually bought a slice of honey-cake at the baker's. It was her Sunday treat. Sometimes there was an almond in her slice, sometimes not. It made a great difference. If there was an almond it waslike carrying home a tiny present--a surprise--something that might verywell not have been there. She hurried on the almond Sundays and struckthe match for the kettle in quite a dashing way. 

But to-day she passed the baker's by, climbed the stairs, went intothe little dark room--her room like a cupboard--and sat down on the redeiderdown. She sat there for a long time. The box that the fur came outof was on the bed. She unclasped the necklet quickly; quickly, withoutlooking, laid it inside. But when she put the lid on she thought sheheard something crying. 

10. HER FIRST BALL. 

Exactly when the ball began Leila would have found it hard to say. Perhaps her first real partner was the cab. It did not matter that sheshared the cab with the Sheridan girls and their brother. She sat backin her own little corner of it, and the bolster on which her hand restedfelt like the sleeve of an unknown young man's dress suit; and away theybowled, past waltzing lamp-posts and houses and fences and trees. 

"Have you really never been to a ball before, Leila? But, my child, howtoo weird--" cried the Sheridan girls. 

"Our nearest neighbour was fifteen miles, " said Leila softly, gentlyopening and shutting her fan. 

Oh dear, how hard it was to be indifferent like the others! She triednot to smile too much; she tried not to care. But every single thingwas so new and exciting. .. Meg's tuberoses, Jose's long loop of amber, Laura's little dark head, pushing above her white fur like a flowerthrough snow. She would remember for ever. It even gave her a pang tosee her cousin Laurie throw away the wisps of tissue paper he pulledfrom the fastenings of his new gloves. She would like to have kept thosewisps as a keepsake, as a remembrance. Laurie leaned forward and put hishand on Laura's knee. 

"Look here, darling, " he said. "The third and the ninth as usual. Twig?"

Oh, how marvellous to have a brother! In her excitement Leila felt thatif there had been time, if it hadn't been impossible, she couldn't havehelped crying because she was an only child, and no brother had eversaid "Twig?" to her; no sister would ever say, as Meg said to Jose thatmoment, "I've never known your hair go up more successfully than it hasto-night!"

But, of course, there was no time. They were at the drill hall already;there were cabs in front of them and cabs behind. The road was bright oneither side with moving fan-like lights, and on the pavement gay couplesseemed to float through the air; little satin shoes chased each otherlike birds. 

"Hold on to me, Leila; you'll get lost, " said Laura. 

"Come on, girls, let's make a dash for it, " said Laurie. 

Leila put two fingers on Laura's pink velvet cloak, and they weresomehow lifted past the big golden lantern, carried along the passage, and pushed into the little room marked "Ladies. " Here the crowd was sogreat there was hardly space to take off their things; the noise wasdeafening. Two benches on either side were stacked high with wraps. Twoold women in white aprons ran up and down tossing fresh armfuls. And everybody was pressing forward trying to get at the littledressing-table and mirror at the far end. 

A great quivering jet of gas lighted the ladies' room. It couldn't wait;it was dancing already. When the door opened again and there came aburst of tuning from the drill hall, it leaped almost to the ceiling. 

Dark girls, fair girls were patting their hair, tying ribbons again, tucking handkerchiefs down the fronts of their bodices, smoothingmarble-white gloves. And because they were all laughing it seemed toLeila that they were all lovely. 

"Aren't there any invisible hair-pins?" cried a voice. "How mostextraordinary! I can't see a single invisible hair-pin. "

"Powder my back, there's a darling, " cried some one else. 

"But I must have a needle and cotton. I've torn simply miles and milesof the frill, " wailed a third. 

Then, "Pass them along, pass them along!" The straw basket of programmeswas tossed from arm to arm. Darling little pink-and-silver programmes, with pink pencils and fluffy tassels. Leila's fingers shook as she tookone out of the basket. She wanted to ask some one, "Am I meant tohave one too?" but she had just time to read: "Waltz 3. 'Two, Two ina Canoe. ' Polka 4. 'Making the Feathers Fly, '" when Meg cried, "Ready, Leila?" and they pressed their way through the crush in the passagetowards the big double doors of the drill hall. 

Dancing had not begun yet, but the band had stopped tuning, and thenoise was so great it seemed that when it did begin to play it wouldnever be heard. Leila, pressing close to Meg, looking over Meg'sshoulder, felt that even the little quivering coloured flags strungacross the ceiling were talking. She quite forgot to be shy; she forgothow in the middle of dressing she had sat down on the bed with one shoeoff and one shoe on and begged her mother to ring up her cousins andsay she couldn't go after all. And the rush of longing she had had to besitting on the veranda of their forsaken up-country home, listening tothe baby owls crying "More pork" in the moonlight, was changed to a rushof joy so sweet that it was hard to bear alone. She clutched her fan, and, gazing at the gleaming, golden floor, the azaleas, the lanterns, the stage at one end with its red carpet and gilt chairs and the band ina corner, she thought breathlessly, "How heavenly; how simply heavenly!"

All the girls stood grouped together at one side of the doors, themen at the other, and the chaperones in dark dresses, smiling ratherfoolishly, walked with little careful steps over the polished floortowards the stage. 

"This is my little country cousin Leila. Be nice to her. Find herpartners; she's under my wing, " said Meg, going up to one girl afteranother. 

Strange faces smiled at Leila--sweetly, vaguely. Strange voicesanswered, "Of course, my dear. " But Leila felt the girls didn't reallysee her. They were looking towards the men. Why didn't the men begin?What were they waiting for? There they stood, smoothing their gloves, patting their glossy hair and smiling among themselves. Then, quitesuddenly, as if they had only just made up their minds that that waswhat they had to do, the men came gliding over the parquet. There was ajoyful flutter among the girls. A tall, fair man flew up to Meg, seizedher programme, scribbled something; Meg passed him on to Leila. "May Ihave the pleasure?" He ducked and smiled. There came a dark man wearingan eyeglass, then cousin Laurie with a friend, and Laura with a littlefreckled fellow whose tie was crooked. Then quite an old man--fat, witha big bald patch on his head--took her programme and murmured, "Let mesee, let me see!" And he was a long time comparing his programme, which looked black with names, with hers. It seemed to give him so muchtrouble that Leila was ashamed. "Oh, please don't bother, " she saideagerly. But instead of replying the fat man wrote something, glanced ather again. "Do I remember this bright little face?" he said softly. "Isit known to me of yore?" At that moment the band began playing; the fatman disappeared. He was tossed away on a great wave of music that cameflying over the gleaming floor, breaking the groups up into couples, scattering them, sending them spinning. .. 

Leila had learned to dance at boarding school. Every Saturday afternoonthe boarders were hurried off to a little corrugated iron missionhall where Miss Eccles (of London) held her "select" classes. But thedifference between that dusty-smelling hall--with calico texts on thewalls, the poor terrified little woman in a brown velvet toque withrabbit's ears thumping the cold piano, Miss Eccles poking the girls'feet with her long white wand--and this was so tremendous that Leila wassure if her partner didn't come and she had to listen to that marvellousmusic and to watch the others sliding, gliding over the golden floor, she would die at least, or faint, or lift her arms and fly out of one ofthose dark windows that showed the stars. 

"Ours, I think--" Some one bowed, smiled, and offered her his arm; shehadn't to die after all. Some one's hand pressed her waist, and shefloated away like a flower that is tossed into a pool. 

"Quite a good floor, isn't it?" drawled a faint voice close to her ear. 

"I think it's most beautifully slippery, " said Leila. 

"Pardon!" The faint voice sounded surprised. Leila said it again. Andthere was a tiny pause before the voice echoed, "Oh, quite!" and she wasswung round again. 

He steered so beautifully. That was the great difference between dancingwith girls and men, Leila decided. Girls banged into each other, andstamped on each other's feet; the girl who was gentleman always clutchedyou so. 

The azaleas were separate flowers no longer; they were pink and whiteflags streaming by. 

"Were you at the Bells' last week?" the voice came again. It soundedtired. Leila wondered whether she ought to ask him if he would like tostop. 

"No, this is my first dance, " said she. 

Her partner gave a little gasping laugh. "Oh, I say, " he protested. 

"Yes, it is really the first dance I've ever been to. " Leila was mostfervent. It was such a relief to be able to tell somebody. "You see, I've lived in the country all my life up till now. .. "

At that moment the music stopped, and they went to sit on two chairsagainst the wall. Leila tucked her pink satin feet under and fannedherself, while she blissfully watched the other couples passing anddisappearing through the swing doors. 

"Enjoying yourself, Leila?" asked Jose, nodding her golden head. 

Laura passed and gave her the faintest little wink; it made Leila wonderfor a moment whether she was quite grown up after all. Certainly herpartner did not say very much. He coughed, tucked his handkerchief away, pulled down his waistcoat, took a minute thread off his sleeve. Butit didn't matter. Almost immediately the band started and her secondpartner seemed to spring from the ceiling. 

"Floor's not bad, " said the new voice. Did one always begin with thefloor? And then, "Were you at the Neaves' on Tuesday?" And again Leilaexplained. Perhaps it was a little strange that her partners were notmore interested. For it was thrilling. Her first ball! She was only atthe beginning of everything. It seemed to her that she had never knownwhat the night was like before. Up till now it had been dark, silent, beautiful very often--oh yes--but mournful somehow. Solemn. And now itwould never be like that again--it had opened dazzling bright. 

"Care for an ice?" said her partner. And they went through the swingdoors, down the passage, to the supper room. Her cheeks burned, she wasfearfully thirsty. How sweet the ices looked on little glass plates andhow cold the frosted spoon was, iced too! And when they came back tothe hall there was the fat man waiting for her by the door. It gave herquite a shock again to see how old he was; he ought to have been on thestage with the fathers and mothers. And when Leila compared him with herother partners he looked shabby. His waistcoat was creased, there wasa button off his glove, his coat looked as if it was dusty with Frenchchalk. 

"Come along, little lady, " said the fat man. He scarcely troubled toclasp her, and they moved away so gently, it was more like walking thandancing. But he said not a word about the floor. "Your first dance, isn't it?" he murmured. 

"How did you know?"

"Ah, " said the fat man, "that's what it is to be old!" He wheezedfaintly as he steered her past an awkward couple. "You see, I've beendoing this kind of thing for the last thirty years. "

"Thirty years?" cried Leila. Twelve years before she was born!

"It hardly bears thinking about, does it?" said the fat man gloomily. Leila looked at his bald head, and she felt quite sorry for him. 

"I think it's marvellous to be still going on, " she said kindly. 

"Kind little lady, " said the fat man, and he pressed her a littlecloser, and hummed a bar of the waltz. "Of course, " he said, "you can'thope to last anything like as long as that. No-o, " said the fat man, "long before that you'll be sitting up there on the stage, looking on, in your nice black velvet. And these pretty arms will have turned intolittle short fat ones, and you'll beat time with such a different kindof fan--a black bony one. " The fat man seemed to shudder. "And you'llsmile away like the poor old dears up there, and point to your daughter, and tell the elderly lady next to you how some dreadful man tried tokiss her at the club ball. And your heart will ache, ache"--the fatman squeezed her closer still, as if he really was sorry for thatpoor heart--"because no one wants to kiss you now. And you'll say howunpleasant these polished floors are to walk on, how dangerous they are. Eh, Mademoiselle Twinkletoes?" said the fat man softly. 

Leila gave a light little laugh, but she did not feel like laughing. Wasit--could it all be true? It sounded terribly true. Was this first ballonly the beginning of her last ball, after all? At that the music seemedto change; it sounded sad, sad; it rose upon a great sigh. Oh, howquickly things changed! Why didn't happiness last for ever? For everwasn't a bit too long. 

"I want to stop, " she said in a breathless voice. The fat man led her tothe door. 

"No, " she said, "I won't go outside. I won't sit down. I'll just standhere, thank you. " She leaned against the wall, tapping with her foot, pulling up her gloves and trying to smile. But deep inside her a littlegirl threw her pinafore over her head and sobbed. Why had he spoiled itall?

"I say, you know, " said the fat man, "you mustn't take me seriously, little lady. "

"As if I should!" said Leila, tossing her small dark head and suckingher underlip. .. 

Again the couples paraded. The swing doors opened and shut. Now newmusic was given out by the bandmaster. But Leila didn't want to danceany more. She wanted to be home, or sitting on the veranda listening tothose baby owls. When she looked through the dark windows at the stars, they had long beams like wings. .. 

But presently a soft, melting, ravishing tune began, and a young manwith curly hair bowed before her. She would have to dance, out ofpoliteness, until she could find Meg. Very stiffly she walked intothe middle; very haughtily she put her hand on his sleeve. But in oneminute, in one turn, her feet glided, glided. The lights, the azaleas, the dresses, the pink faces, the velvet chairs, all became one beautifulflying wheel. And when her next partner bumped her into the fat manand he said, "Pardon, " she smiled at him more radiantly than ever. Shedidn't even recognise him again. 

11. THE SINGING LESSON. 

With despair--cold, sharp despair--buried deep in her heart like awicked knife, Miss Meadows, in cap and gown and carrying a little baton, trod the cold corridors that led to the music hall. Girls of all ages, rosy from the air, and bubbling over with that gleeful excitement thatcomes from running to school on a fine autumn morning, hurried, skipped, fluttered by; from the hollow class-rooms came a quick drumming ofvoices; a bell rang; a voice like a bird cried, "Muriel. " And then therecame from the staircase a tremendous knock-knock-knocking. Some one haddropped her dumbbells. 

The Science Mistress stopped Miss Meadows. 

"Good mor-ning, " she cried, in her sweet, affected drawl. "Isn't itcold? It might be win-ter. "

Miss Meadows, hugging the knife, stared in hatred at the ScienceMistress. Everything about her was sweet, pale, like honey. You wold nothave been surprised to see a bee caught in the tangles of that yellowhair. 

"It is rather sharp, " said Miss Meadows, grimly. 

The other smiled her sugary smile. 

"You look fro-zen, " said she. Her blue eyes opened wide; there came amocking light in them. (Had she noticed anything?)

"Oh, not quite as bad as that, " said Miss Meadows, and she gave theScience Mistress, in exchange for her smile, a quick grimace and passedon. .. 

Forms Four, Five, and Six were assembled in the music hall. The noisewas deafening. On the platform, by the piano, stood Mary Beazley, MissMeadows' favourite, who played accompaniments. She was turning themusic stool. When she saw Miss Meadows she gave a loud, warning "Sh-sh!girls!" and Miss Meadows, her hands thrust in her sleeves, the batonunder her arm, strode down the centre aisle, mounted the steps, turnedsharply, seized the brass music stand, planted it in front of her, andgave two sharp taps with her baton for silence. 

"Silence, please! Immediately!" and, looking at nobody, her glance sweptover that sea of coloured flannel blouses, with bobbing pink faces andhands, quivering butterfly hair-bows, and music-books outspread. Sheknew perfectly well what they were thinking. "Meady is in a wax. " Well, let them think it! Her eyelids quivered; she tossed her head, defyingthem. What could the thoughts of those creatures matter to some one whostood there bleeding to death, pierced to the heart, to the heart, bysuch a letter--

. .. "I feel more and more strongly that our marriage would be a mistake. Not that I do not love you. I love you as much as it is possible forme to love any woman, but, truth to tell, I have come to the conclusionthat I am not a marrying man, and the idea of settling down fills mewith nothing but--" and the word "disgust" was scratched out lightly and"regret" written over the top. 

Basil! Miss Meadows stalked over to the piano. And Mary Beazley, who waswaiting for this moment, bent forward; her curls fell over her cheekswhile she breathed, "Good morning, Miss Meadows, " and she motionedtowards rather than handed to her mistress a beautiful yellowchrysanthemum. This little ritual of the flower had been gone throughfor ages and ages, quite a term and a half. It was as much part of thelesson as opening the piano. But this morning, instead of taking it up, instead of tucking it into her belt while she leant over Mary and said, "Thank you, Mary. How very nice! Turn to page thirty-two, " what wasMary's horror when Miss Meadows totally ignored the chrysanthemum, madeno reply to her greeting, but said in a voice of ice, "Page fourteen, please, and mark the accents well. "

Staggering moment! Mary blushed until the tears stood in her eyes, butMiss Meadows was gone back to the music stand; her voice rang throughthe music hall. 

"Page fourteen. We will begin with page fourteen. 'A Lament. ' Now, girls, you ought to know it by this time. We shall take it all together;not in parts, all together. And without expression. Sing it, though, quite simply, beating time with the left hand. "

She raised the baton; she tapped the music stand twice. Down came Maryon the opening chord; down came all those left hands, beating the air, and in chimed those young, mournful voices:--

 "Fast! Ah, too Fast Fade the Ro-o-ses of Pleasure; Soon Autumn yields unto Wi-i-nter Drear. Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Mu-u-sic's Gay Measure Passes away from the Listening Ear. "

Good Heavens, what could be more tragic than that lament! Every note wasa sigh, a sob, a groan of awful mournfulness. Miss Meadows lifted herarms in the wide gown and began conducting with both hands. ". .. I feelmore and more strongly that our marriage would be a mistake. .. " shebeat. And the voices cried: "Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly. " What could havepossessed him to write such a letter! What could have led up to it!It came out of nothing. His last letter had been all about a fumed-oakbookcase he had bought for "our" books, and a "natty little hall-stand"he had seen, "a very neat affair with a carved owl on a bracket, holdingthree hat-brushes in its claws. " How she had smiled at that! So likea man to think one needed three hat-brushes! "From the Listening Ear, "sang the voices. 

"Once again, " said Miss Meadows. "But this time in parts. Still withoutexpression. " "Fast! Ah, too Fast. " With the gloom of the contraltosadded, one could scarcely help shuddering. "Fade the Roses of Pleasure. "Last time he had come to see her, Basil had worn a rose in hisbuttonhole. How handsome he had looked in that bright blue suit, withthat dark red rose! And he knew it, too. He couldn't help knowing it. First he stroked his hair, then his moustache; his teeth gleamed when hesmiled. 

"The headmaster's wife keeps on asking me to dinner. It's a perfectnuisance. I never get an evening to myself in that place. "

"But can't you refuse?"

"Oh, well, it doesn't do for a man in my position to be unpopular. "

"Music's Gay Measure, " wailed the voices. The willow trees, outsidethe high, narrow windows, waved in the wind. They had lost half theirleaves. The tiny ones that clung wriggled like fishes caught on aline. ". .. I am not a marrying man. .. " The voices were silent; the pianowaited. 

"Quite good, " said Miss Meadows, but still in such a strange, stony tonethat the younger girls began to feel positively frightened. "But nowthat we know it, we shall take it with expression. As much expression asyou can put into it. Think of the words, girls. Use your imaginations. 'Fast! Ah, too Fast, '" cried Miss Meadows. "That ought to break out--aloud, strong forte--a lament. And then in the second line, 'WinterDrear, ' make that 'Drear' sound as if a cold wind were blowing throughit. 'Dre-ear!'" said she so awfully that Mary Beazley, on the musicstool, wriggled her spine. "The third line should be one crescendo. 'Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Music's Gay Measure. ' Breaking on the first wordof the last line, Passes. ' And then on the word, 'Away, ' you must beginto die. .. To fade. .. Until 'The Listening Ear' is nothing more than afaint whisper. .. You can slow down as much as you like almost on the lastline. Now, please. "

Again the two light taps; she lifted her arms again. 'Fast! Ah, tooFast. ' ". .. And the idea of settling down fills me with nothing butdisgust--" Disgust was what he had written. That was as good as tosay their engagement was definitely broken off. Broken off! Theirengagement! People had been surprised enough that she had got engaged. The Science Mistress would not believe it at first. But nobody had beenas surprised as she. She was thirty. Basil was twenty-five. It had beena miracle, simply a miracle, to hear him say, as they walked home fromchurch that very dark night, "You know, somehow or other, I've got fondof you. " And he had taken hold of the end of her ostrich feather boa. "Passes away from the Listening Ear. "

"Repeat! Repeat!" said Miss Meadows. "More expression, girls! Oncemore!"

"Fast! Ah, too Fast. " The older girls were crimson; some of the youngerones began to cry. Big spots of rain blew against the windows, and onecould hear the willows whispering, ". .. Not that I do not love you. .. "

"But, my darling, if you love me, " thought Miss Meadows, "I don't mindhow much it is. Love me as little as you like. " But she knew he didn'tlove her. Not to have cared enough to scratch out that word "disgust, "so that she couldn't read it! "Soon Autumn yields unto Winter Drear. "She would have to leave the school, too. She could never face theScience Mistress or the girls after it got known. She would have todisappear somewhere. "Passes away. " The voices began to die, to fade, towhisper. .. To vanish. .. 

Suddenly the door opened. A little girl in blue walked fussily up theaisle, hanging her head, biting her lips, and twisting the silver bangleon her red little wrist. She came up the steps and stood before MissMeadows. 

"Well, Monica, what is it?"

"Oh, if you please, Miss Meadows, " said the little girl, gasping, "MissWyatt wants to see you in the mistress's room. "

"Very well, " said Miss Meadows. And she called to the girls, "I shallput you on your honour to talk quietly while I am away. " But they weretoo subdued to do anything else. Most of them were blowing their noses. 

The corridors were silent and cold; they echoed to Miss Meadows' steps. The head mistress sat at her desk. For a moment she did not look up. Shewas as usual disentangling her eyeglasses, which had got caught in herlace tie. "Sit down, Miss Meadows, " she said very kindly. And then shepicked up a pink envelope from the blotting-pad. "I sent for you justnow because this telegram has come for you. "

"A telegram for me, Miss Wyatt?"

Basil! He had committed suicide, decided Miss Meadows. Her hand flewout, but Miss Wyatt held the telegram back a moment. "I hope it's notbad news, " she said, so more than kindly. And Miss Meadows tore it open. 

"Pay no attention to letter, must have been mad, bought hat-standto-day--Basil, " she read. She couldn't take her eyes off the telegram. 

"I do hope it's nothing very serious, " said Miss Wyatt, leaning forward. 

"Oh, no, thank you, Miss Wyatt, " blushed Miss Meadows. "It's nothing badat all. It's"--and she gave an apologetic little laugh--"it's from myfiance saying that. .. Saying that--" There was a pause. "I see, " saidMiss Wyatt. And another pause. Then--"You've fifteen minutes more ofyour class, Miss Meadows, haven't you?"

"Yes, Miss Wyatt. " She got up. She half ran towards the door. 

"Oh, just one minute, Miss Meadows, " said Miss Wyatt. "I must say Idon't approve of my teachers having telegrams sent to them in schoolhours, unless in case of very bad news, such as death, " explained MissWyatt, "or a very serious accident, or something to that effect. Goodnews, Miss Meadows, will always keep, you know. "

On the wings of hope, of love, of joy, Miss Meadows sped back to themusic hall, up the aisle, up the steps, over to the piano. 

"Page thirty-two, Mary, " she said, "page thirty-two, " and, picking upthe yellow chrysanthemum, she held it to her lips to hide her smile. Then she turned to the girls, rapped with her baton: "Page thirty-two, girls. Page thirty-two. "

 "We come here To-day with Flowers o'erladen, With Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot, To-oo Congratulate. .. 

"Stop! Stop!" cried Miss Meadows. "This is awful. This is dreadful. " Andshe beamed at her girls. "What's the matter with you all? Think, girls, think of what you're singing. Use your imaginations. 'With Flowerso'erladen. Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot. ' And 'Congratulate. '"Miss Meadows broke off. "Don't look so doleful, girls. It ought to soundwarm, joyful, eager. 'Congratulate. ' Once more. Quickly. All together. Now then!"

And this time Miss Meadows' voice sounded over all the othervoices--full, deep, glowing with expression. 

12. THE STRANGER

It seemed to the little crowd on the wharf that she was never goingto move again. There she lay, immense, motionless on the grey crinkledwater, a loop of smoke above her, an immense flock of gulls screamingand diving after the galley droppings at the stern. You could just seelittle couples parading--little flies walking up and down the dish onthe grey crinkled tablecloth. Other flies clustered and swarmed at theedge. Now there was a gleam of white on the lower deck--the cook's apronor the stewardess perhaps. Now a tiny black spider raced up the ladderon to the bridge. 

In the front of the crowd a strong-looking, middle-aged man, dressedvery well, very snugly in a grey overcoat, grey silk scarf, thick glovesand dark felt hat, marched up and down, twirling his folded umbrella. Heseemed to be the leader of the little crowd on the wharf and at the sametime to keep them together. He was something between the sheep-dog andthe shepherd. 

But what a fool--what a fool he had been not to bring any glasses! Therewasn't a pair of glasses between the whole lot of them. 

"Curious thing, Mr. Scott, that none of us thought of glasses. We mighthave been able to stir 'em up a bit. We might have managed a littlesignalling. 'Don't hesitate to land. Natives harmless. ' Or: 'A welcomeawaits you. All is forgiven. ' What? Eh?"

Mr. Hammond's quick, eager glance, so nervous and yet so friendly andconfiding, took in everybody on the wharf, roped in even those old chapslounging against the gangways. They knew, every man-jack of them, thatMrs. Hammond was on that boat, and that he was so tremendously excitedit never entered his head not to believe that this marvellous fact meantsomething to them too. It warmed his heart towards them. They were, he decided, as decent a crowd of people--Those old chaps over by thegangways, too--fine, solid old chaps. What chests--by Jove! And hesquared his own, plunged his thick-gloved hands into his pockets, rockedfrom heel to toe. 

"Yes, my wife's been in Europe for the last ten months. On a visit toour eldest girl, who was married last year. I brought her up here, asfar as Salisbury, myself. So I thought I'd better come and fetch herback. Yes, yes, yes. " The shrewd grey eyes narrowed again and searchedanxiously, quickly, the motionless liner. Again his overcoat wasunbuttoned. Out came the thin, butter-yellow watch again, and for thetwentieth--fiftieth--hundredth time he made the calculation. 

"Let me see now. It was two fifteen when the doctor's launch went off. Two fifteen. It is now exactly twenty-eight minutes past four. That isto say, the doctor's been gone two hours and thirteen minutes. Two hoursand thirteen minutes! Whee-ooh!" He gave a queer little half-whistleand snapped his watch to again. "But I think we should have been told ifthere was anything up--don't you, Mr. Gaven?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Hammond! I don't think there's anything to--anything toworry about, " said Mr. Gaven, knocking out his pipe against the heel ofhis shoe. "At the same time--"

"Quite so! Quite so!" cried Mr. Hammond. "Dashed annoying!" He pacedquickly up and down and came back again to his stand between Mr. AndMrs. Scott and Mr. Gaven. "It's getting quite dark, too, " and he wavedhis folded umbrella as though the dusk at least might have had thedecency to keep off for a bit. But the dusk came slowly, spreading likea slow stain over the water. Little Jean Scott dragged at her mother'shand. 

"I wan' my tea, mammy!" she wailed. 

"I expect you do, " said Mr. Hammond. "I expect all these ladies wanttheir tea. " And his kind, flushed, almost pitiful glance roped them allin again. He wondered whether Janey was having a final cup of tea in thesaloon out there. He hoped so; he thought not. It would be just like hernot to leave the deck. In that case perhaps the deck steward would bringher up a cup. If he'd been there he'd have got it for her--somehow. Andfor a moment he was on deck, standing over her, watching her little handfold round the cup in the way she had, while she drank the only cup oftea to be got on board. .. But now he was back here, and the Lord onlyknew when that cursed Captain would stop hanging about in the stream. He took another turn, up and down, up and down. He walked as far as thecab-stand to make sure his driver hadn't disappeared; back he swervedagain to the little flock huddled in the shelter of the banana crates. Little Jean Scott was still wanting her tea. Poor little beggar! Hewished he had a bit of chocolate on him. 

"Here, Jean!" he said. "Like a lift up?" And easily, gently, he swungthe little girl on to a higher barrel. The movement of holding her, steadying her, relieved him wonderfully, lightened his heart. 

"Hold on, " he said, keeping an arm round her. 

"Oh, don't worry about Jean, Mr. Hammond!" said Mrs. Scott. 

"That's all right, Mrs. Scott. No trouble. It's a pleasure. Jean's alittle pal of mine, aren't you, Jean?"

"Yes, Mr. Hammond, " said Jean, and she ran her finger down the dent ofhis felt hat. 

But suddenly she caught him by the ear and gave a loud scream. "Lo-ok, Mr. Hammond! She's moving! Look, she's coming in!"

By Jove! So she was. At last! She was slowly, slowly turning round. Abell sounded far over the water and a great spout of steam gushed intothe air. The gulls rose; they fluttered away like bits of white paper. And whether that deep throbbing was her engines or his heart Mr. Hammondcouldn't say. He had to nerve himself to bear it, whatever it was. Atthat moment old Captain Johnson, the harbour-master, came striding downthe wharf, a leather portfolio under his arm. 

"Jean'll be all right, " said Mr. Scott. "I'll hold her. " He was just intime. Mr. Hammond had forgotten about Jean. He sprang away to greet oldCaptain Johnson. 

"Well, Captain, " the eager, nervous voice rang out again, "you've takenpity on us at last. "

"It's no good blaming me, Mr. Hammond, " wheezed old Captain Johnson, staring at the liner. "You got Mrs. Hammond on board, ain't yer?"

"Yes, yes!" said Hammond, and he kept by the harbour-master's side. "Mrs. Hammond's there. Hul-lo! We shan't be long now!"

With her telephone ring-ringing, the thrum of her screw filling the air, the big liner bore down on them, cutting sharp through the dark waterso that big white shavings curled to either side. Hammond and theharbour-master kept in front of the rest. Hammond took off his hat; heraked the decks--they were crammed with passengers; he waved his hat andbawled a loud, strange "Hul-lo!" across the water; and then turnedround and burst out laughing and said something--nothing--to old CaptainJohnson. 

"Seen her?" asked the harbour-master. 

"No, not yet. Steady--wait a bit!" And suddenly, between two greatclumsy idiots--"Get out of the way there!" he signed with hisumbrella--he saw a hand raised--a white glove shaking a handkerchief. Another moment, and--thank God, thank God!--there she was. There wasJaney. There was Mrs. Hammond, yes, yes, yes--standing by the rail andsmiling and nodding and waving her handkerchief. 

"Well that's first class--first class! Well, well, well!" He positivelystamped. Like lightning he drew out his cigar-case and offered it toold Captain Johnson. "Have a cigar, Captain! They're pretty good. Havea couple! Here"--and he pressed all the cigars in the case on theharbour-master--"I've a couple of boxes up at the hotel. "

"Thenks, Mr. Hammond!" wheezed old Captain Johnson. 

Hammond stuffed the cigar-case back. His hands were shaking, but he'dgot hold of himself again. He was able to face Janey. There she was, leaning on the rail, talking to some woman and at the same time watchinghim, ready for him. It struck him, as the gulf of water closed, howsmall she looked on that huge ship. His heart was wrung with such aspasm that he could have cried out. How little she looked to have comeall that long way and back by herself! Just like her, though. Just likeJaney. She had the courage of a--And now the crew had come forward andparted the passengers; they had lowered the rails for the gangways. 

The voices on shore and the voices on board flew to greet each other. 

"All well?"

"All well. "

"How's mother?"

"Much better. "

"Hullo, Jean!"

"Hillo, Aun' Emily!"

"Had a good voyage?"

"Splendid!"

"Shan't be long now!"

"Not long now. "

The engines stopped. Slowly she edged to the wharf-side. 

"Make way there--make way--make way!" And the wharf hands brought theheavy gangways along at a sweeping run. Hammond signed to Janey to staywhere she was. The old harbour-master stepped forward; he followed. Asto "ladies first, " or any rot like that, it never entered his head. 

"After you, Captain!" he cried genially. And, treading on the old man'sheels, he strode up the gangway on to the deck in a bee-line to Janey, and Janey was clasped in his arms. 

"Well, well, well! Yes, yes! Here we are at last!" he stammered. It wasall he could say. And Janey emerged, and her cool little voice--the onlyvoice in the world for him--said, "Well, darling! Have you been waiting long?"

No; not long. Or, at any rate, it didn't matter. It was over now. Butthe point was, he had a cab waiting at the end of the wharf. Was sheready to go off. Was her luggage ready? In that case they could cut offsharp with her cabin luggage and let the rest go hang until to-morrow. He bent over her and she looked up with her familiar half-smile. Shewas just the same. Not a day changed. Just as he'd always known her. Shelaid her small hand on his sleeve. 

"How are the children, John?" she asked. 

(Hang the children!) "Perfectly well. Never better in their lives. "

"Haven't they sent me letters?"

"Yes, yes--of course! I've left them at the hotel for you to digestlater on. "

"We can't go quite so fast, " said she. "I've got people to say good-byeto--and then there's the Captain. " As his face fell she gave his arm asmall understanding squeeze. "If the Captain comes off the bridge Iwant you to thank him for having looked after your wife so beautifully. "Well, he'd got her. If she wanted another ten minutes--As he gave wayshe was surrounded. The whole first-class seemed to want to say good-byeto Janey. 

"Good-bye, dear Mrs. Hammond! And next time you're in Sydney I'll expectyou. "

"Darling Mrs. Hammond! You won't forget to write to me, will you?"

"Well, Mrs. Hammond, what this boat would have been without you!"

It was as plain as a pikestaff that she was by far the most popularwoman on board. And she took it all--just as usual. Absolutely composed. Just her little self--just Janey all over; standing there with her veilthrown back. Hammond never noticed what his wife had on. It was all thesame to him whatever she wore. But to-day he did notice that she wore ablack "costume"--didn't they call it?--with white frills, trimmings hesupposed they were, at the neck and sleeves. All this while Janey handedhim round. 

"John, dear!" And then: "I want to introduce you to--"

Finally they did escape, and she led the way to her state-room. Tofollow Janey down the passage that she knew so well--that was so strangeto him; to part the green curtains after her and to step into the cabinthat had been hers gave him exquisite happiness. But--confound it!--thestewardess was there on the floor, strapping up the rugs. 

"That's the last, Mrs. Hammond, " said the stewardess, rising and pullingdown her cuffs. 

He was introduced again, and then Janey and the stewardess disappearedinto the passage. He heard whisperings. She was getting the tippingbusiness over, he supposed. He sat down on the striped sofa and took hishat off. There were the rugs she had taken with her; they looked good asnew. All her luggage looked fresh, perfect. The labels were written inher beautiful little clear hand--"Mrs. John Hammond. "

"Mrs. John Hammond!" He gave a long sigh of content and leaned back, crossing his arms. The strain was over. He felt he could have sat therefor ever sighing his relief--the relief at being rid of that horribletug, pull, grip on his heart. The danger was over. That was the feeling. They were on dry land again. 

But at that moment Janey's head came round the corner. 

"Darling--do you mind? I just want to go and say good-bye to thedoctor. "

Hammond started up. "I'll come with you. "

"No, no!" she said. "Don't bother. I'd rather not. I'll not be aminute. "

And before he could answer she was gone. He had half a mind to run afterher; but instead he sat down again. 

Would she really not be long? What was the time now? Out came the watch;he stared at nothing. That was rather queer of Janey, wasn't it? Whycouldn't she have told the stewardess to say good-bye for her? Why didshe have to go chasing after the ship's doctor? She could have senta note from the hotel even if the affair had been urgent. Urgent? Didit--could it mean that she had been ill on the voyage--she was keepingsomething from him? That was it! He seized his hat. He was going offto find that fellow and to wring the truth out of him at all costs. Hethought he'd noticed just something. She was just a touch too calm--toosteady. From the very first moment--

The curtains rang. Janey was back. He jumped to his feet. 

"Janey, have you been ill on this voyage? You have!"

"Ill?" Her airy little voice mocked him. She stepped over the rugs, andcame up close, touched his breast, and looked up at him. 

"Darling, " she said, "don't frighten me. Of course I haven't! Whatevermakes you think I have? Do I look ill?"

But Hammond didn't see her. He only felt that she was looking at himand that there was no need to worry about anything. She was here to lookafter things. It was all right. Everything was. 

The gentle pressure of her hand was so calming that he put his over hersto hold it there. And she said:

"Stand still. I want to look at you. I haven't seen you yet. You'vehad your beard beautifully trimmed, and you look--younger, I think, anddecidedly thinner! Bachelor life agrees with you. "

"Agrees with me!" He groaned for love and caught her close again. Andagain, as always, he had the feeling that he was holding something thatnever was quite his--his. Something too delicate, too precious, thatwould fly away once he let go. 

"For God's sake let's get off to the hotel so that we can be byourselves!" And he rang the bell hard for some one to look sharp withthe luggage. 

*****

Walking down the wharf together she took his arm. He had her on his armagain. And the difference it made to get into the cab after Janey--tothrow the red-and-yellow striped blanket round them both--to tell thedriver to hurry because neither of them had had any tea. No more goingwithout his tea or pouring out his own. She was back. He turned to her, squeezed her hand, and said gently, teasingly, in the "special" voicehe had for her: "Glad to be home again, dearie?" She smiled; she didn'teven bother to answer, but gently she drew his hand away as they came tothe brighter streets. 

"We've got the best room in the hotel, " he said. "I wouldn't be put offwith another. And I asked the chambermaid to put in a bit of a fire incase you felt chilly. She's a nice, attentive girl. And I thought nowwe were here we wouldn't bother to go home to-morrow, but spend the daylooking round and leave the morning after. Does that suit you? There'sno hurry, is there? The children will have you soon enough. .. I thought aday's sight-seeing might make a nice break in your journey--eh, Janey?"

"Have you taken the tickets for the day after?" she asked. 

"I should think I have!" He unbuttoned his overcoat and took out hisbulging pocket-book. "Here we are! I reserved a first-class carriage toCooktown. There it is--'Mr. And Mrs. John Hammond. ' I thought we mightas well do ourselves comfortably, and we don't want other people buttingin, do we? But if you'd like to stop here a bit longer--?"

"Oh, no!" said Janey quickly. "Not for the world! The day afterto-morrow, then. And the children--"

But they had reached the hotel. The manager was standing in the broad, brilliantly-lighted porch. He came down to greet them. A porter ran fromthe hall for their boxes. 

"Well, Mr. Arnold, here's Mrs. Hammond at last!"

The manager led them through the hall himself and pressed theelevator-bell. Hammond knew there were business pals of his sitting atthe little hall tables having a drink before dinner. But he wasn't goingto risk interruption; he looked neither to the right nor the left. Theycould think what they pleased. If they didn't understand, the more foolsthey--and he stepped out of the lift, unlocked the door of their room, and shepherded Janey in. The door shut. Now, at last, they were alonetogether. He turned up the light. The curtains were drawn; the fireblazed. He flung his hat on to the huge bed and went towards her. 

But--would you believe it!--again they were interrupted. This time itwas the porter with the luggage. He made two journeys of it, leaving thedoor open in between, taking his time, whistling through his teethin the corridor. Hammond paced up and down the room, tearing off hisgloves, tearing off his scarf. Finally he flung his overcoat on to thebedside. 

At last the fool was gone. The door clicked. Now they were alone. SaidHammond: "I feel I'll never have you to myself again. These cursedpeople! Janey"--and he bent his flushed, eager gaze upon her--"let'shave dinner up here. If we go down to the restaurant we'll beinterrupted, and then there's the confounded music" (the music he'dpraised so highly, applauded so loudly last night!). "We shan't be ableto hear each other speak. Let's have something up here in front of thefire. It's too late for tea. I'll order a little supper, shall I? Howdoes that idea strike you?"

"Do, darling!" said Janey. "And while you're away--the children'sletters--"

"Oh, later on will do!" said Hammond. 

"But then we'd get it over, " said Janey. "And I'd first have time to--"

"Oh, I needn't go down!" explained Hammond. "I'll just ring and give theorder. .. You don't want to send me away, do you?"

Janey shook her head and smiled. 

"But you're thinking of something else. You're worrying aboutsomething, " said Hammond. "What is it? Come and sit here--come and siton my knee before the fire. "

"I'll just unpin my hat, " said Janey, and she went over to thedressing-table. "A-ah!" She gave a little cry. 

"What is it?"

"Nothing, darling. I've just found the children's letters. That's allright! They will keep. No hurry now!" She turned to him, clasping them. She tucked them into her frilled blouse. She cried quickly, gaily: "Oh, how typical this dressing-table is of you!"

"Why? What's the matter with it?" said Hammond. 

"If it were floating in eternity I should say 'John!'" laughedJaney, staring at the big bottle of hair tonic, the wicker bottle ofeau-de-Cologne, the two hair-brushes, and a dozen new collars tied withpink tape. "Is this all your luggage?"

"Hang my luggage!" said Hammond; but all the same he liked being laughedat by Janey. "Let's talk. Let's get down to things. Tell me"--and asJaney perched on his knees he leaned back and drew her into the deep, ugly chair--"tell me you're really glad to be back, Janey. "

"Yes, darling, I am glad, " she said. 

But just as when he embraced her he felt she would fly away, so Hammondnever knew--never knew for dead certain that she was as glad as hewas. How could he know? Would he ever know? Would he always have thiscraving--this pang like hunger, somehow, to make Janey so much partof him that there wasn't any of her to escape? He wanted to blot outeverybody, everything. He wished now he'd turned off the light. Thatmight have brought her nearer. And now those letters from the childrenrustled in her blouse. He could have chucked them into the fire. 

"Janey, " he whispered. 

"Yes, dear?" She lay on his breast, but so lightly, so remotely. Theirbreathing rose and fell together. 

"Janey!"

"What is it?"

"Turn to me, " he whispered. A slow, deep flush flowed into his forehead. "Kiss me, Janey! You kiss me!"

It seemed to him there was a tiny pause--but long enough for him tosuffer torture--before her lips touched his, firmly, lightly--kissingthem as she always kissed him, as though the kiss--how could he describeit?--confirmed what they were saying, signed the contract. But thatwasn't what he wanted; that wasn't at all what he thirsted for. He feltsuddenly, horrible tired. 

"If you knew, " he said, opening his eyes, "what it's been like--waitingto-day. I thought the boat never would come in. There we were, hangingabout. What kept you so long?"

She made no answer. She was looking away from him at the fire. Theflames hurried--hurried over the coals, flickered, fell. 

"Not asleep, are you?" said Hammond, and he jumped her up and down. 

"No, " she said. And then: "Don't do that, dear. No, I was thinking. Asa matter of fact, " she said, "one of the passengers died last night--aman. That's what held us up. We brought him in--I mean, he wasn't buriedat sea. So, of course, the ship's doctor and the shore doctor--"

"What was it?" asked Hammond uneasily. He hated to hear of death. Hehated this to have happened. It was, in some queer way, as though he andJaney had met a funeral on their way to the hotel. 

"Oh, it wasn't anything in the least infectious!" said Janey. She wasspeaking scarcely above her breath. "It was heart. " A pause. "Poorfellow!" she said. "Quite young. " And she watched the fire flicker andfall. "He died in my arms, " said Janey. 

The blow was so sudden that Hammond thought he would faint. He couldn'tmove; he couldn't breathe. He felt all his strength flowing--flowinginto the big dark chair, and the big dark chair held him fast, grippedhim, forced him to bear it. 

"What?" he said dully. "What's that you say?"

"The end was quite peaceful, " said the small voice. "He just"--andHammond saw her lift her gentle hand--"breathed his life away at theend. " And her hand fell. 

"Who--else was there?" Hammond managed to ask. 

"Nobody. I was alone with him. "

Ah, my God, what was she saying! What was she doing to him! This wouldkill him! And all the while she spoke:

"I saw the change coming and I sent the steward for the doctor, but thedoctor was too late. He couldn't have done anything, anyway. "

"But--why you, why you?" moaned Hammond. 

At that Janey turned quickly, quickly searched his face. 

"You don't mind, John, do you?" she asked. "You don't--It's nothing todo with you and me. "

Somehow or other he managed to shake some sort of smile at her. Somehowor other he stammered: "No--go--on, go on! I want you to tell me. "

"But, John darling--"

"Tell me, Janey!"

"There's nothing to tell, " she said, wondering. "He was one ofthe first-class passengers. I saw he was very ill when he came onboard. .. But he seemed to be so much better until yesterday. He had asevere attack in the afternoon--excitement--nervousness, I think, aboutarriving. And after that he never recovered. "

"But why didn't the stewardess--"

"Oh, my dear--the stewardess!" said Janey. "What would he have felt? Andbesides. .. He might have wanted to leave a message. .. To--"

"Didn't he?" muttered Hammond. "Didn't he say anything?"

"No, darling, not a word!" She shook her head softly. "All the time Iwas with him he was too weak. .. He was too weak even to move a finger. .. "

Janey was silent. But her words, so light, so soft, so chill, seemed tohover in the air, to rain into his breast like snow. 

The fire had gone red. Now it fell in with a sharp sound and theroom was colder. Cold crept up his arms. The room was huge, immense, glittering. It filled his whole world. There was the great blind bed, with his coat flung across it like some headless man saying his prayers. There was the luggage, ready to be carried away again, anywhere, tossedinto trains, carted on to boats. 

. .. "He was too weak. He was too weak to move a finger. " And yet he diedin Janey's arms. She--who'd never--never once in all these years--neveron one single solitary occasion--

No; he mustn't think of it. Madness lay in thinking of it. No, hewouldn't face it. He couldn't stand it. It was too much to bear!

And now Janey touched his tie with her fingers. She pinched the edges ofthe tie together. 

"You're not--sorry I told you, John darling? It hasn't made you sad? Ithasn't spoilt our evening--our being alone together?"

But at that he had to hide his face. He put his face into her bosom andhis arms enfolded her. 

Spoilt their evening! Spoilt their being alone together! They wouldnever be alone together again. 

13. BANK HOLIDAY. 

A stout man with a pink face wears dingy white flannel trousers, a bluecoat with a pink handkerchief showing, and a straw hat much too smallfor him, perched at the back of his head. He plays the guitar. A littlechap in white canvas shoes, his face hidden under a felt hat likea broken wing, breathes into a flute; and a tall thin fellow, withbursting over-ripe button boots, draws ribbons--long, twisted, streamingribbons--of tune out of a fiddle. They stand, unsmiling, but notserious, in the broad sunlight opposite the fruit-shop; the pinkspider of a hand beats the guitar, the little squat hand, with abrass-and-turquoise ring, forces the reluctant flute, and the fiddler'sarm tries to saw the fiddle in two. 

A crowd collects, eating oranges and bananas, tearing off the skins, dividing, sharing. One young girl has even a basket of strawberries, but she does not eat them. "Aren't they dear!" She stares at the tinypointed fruits as if she were afraid of them. The Australian soldierlaughs. "Here, go on, there's not more than a mouthful. " But he doesn'twant her to eat them, either. He likes to watch her little frightenedface, and her puzzled eyes lifted to his: "Aren't they a price!" Hepushes out his chest and grins. Old fat women in velvet bodices--olddusty pin-cushions--lean old hags like worn umbrellas with a quiveringbonnet on top; young women, in muslins, with hats that might have grownon hedges, and high pointed shoes; men in khaki, sailors, shabby clerks, young Jews in fine cloth suits with padded shoulders and wide trousers, "hospital boys" in blue--the sun discovers them--the loud, bold musicholds them together in one big knot for a moment. The young ones arelarking, pushing each other on and off the pavement, dodging, nudging;the old ones are talking: "So I said to 'im, if you wants the doctor toyourself, fetch 'im, says I. "

"An' by the time they was cooked there wasn't so much as you could putin the palm of me 'and!"

The only ones who are quiet are the ragged children. They stand, asclose up to the musicians as they can get, their hands behind theirbacks, their eyes big. Occasionally a leg hops, an arm wags. A tinystaggerer, overcome, turns round twice, sits down solemn, and then getsup again. 

"Ain't it lovely?" whispers a small girl behind her hand. 

And the music breaks into bright pieces, and joins together again, andagain breaks, and is dissolved, and the crowd scatters, moving slowly upthe hill. 

At the corner of the road the stalls begin. 

"Ticklers! Tuppence a tickler! 'Ool 'ave a tickler? Tickle 'em up, boys. " Little soft brooms on wire handles. They are eagerly bought bythe soldiers. 

"Buy a golliwog! Tuppence a golliwog!"

"Buy a jumping donkey! All alive-oh!"

"Su-perior chewing gum. Buy something to do, boys. "

"Buy a rose. Give 'er a rose, boy. Roses, lady?"

"Fevvers! Fevvers!" They are hard to resist. Lovely, streaming feathers, emerald green, scarlet, bright blue, canary yellow. Even the babies wearfeathers threaded through their bonnets. 

And an old woman in a three-cornered paper hat cries as if it were herfinal parting advice, the only way of saving yourself or of bringing himto his senses: "Buy a three-cornered 'at, my dear, an' put it on!"

It is a flying day, half sun, half wind. When the sun goes in a shadowflies over; when it comes out again it is fiery. The men and women feelit burning their backs, their breasts and their arms; they feel theirbodies expanding, coming alive. .. So that they make large embracinggestures, lift up their arms, for nothing, swoop down on a girl, blurtinto laughter. 

Lemonade! A whole tank of it stands on a table covered with a cloth;and lemons like blunted fishes blob in the yellow water. It looks solid, like a jelly, in the thick glasses. Why can't they drink it withoutspilling it? Everybody spills it, and before the glass is handed backthe last drops are thrown in a ring. 

Round the ice-cream cart, with its striped awning and bright brasscover, the children cluster. Little tongues lick, lick round the creamtrumpets, round the squares. The cover is lifted, the wooden spoonplunges in; one shuts one's eyes to feel it, silently scrunching. 

"Let these little birds tell you your future!" She stands beside thecage, a shrivelled ageless Italian, clasping and unclasping herdark claws. Her face, a treasure of delicate carving, is tied in agreen-and-gold scarf. And inside their prison the love-birds fluttertowards the papers in the seed-tray. 

"You have great strength of character. You will marry a red-haired manand have three children. Beware of a blonde woman. " Look out! Lookout! A motor-car driven by a fat chauffeur comes rushing down the hill. Inside there a blonde woman, pouting, leaning forward--rushing throughyour life--beware! beware!

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am an auctioneer by profession, and if what Itell you is not the truth I am liable to have my licence taken away fromme and a heavy imprisonment. " He holds the licence across his chest; thesweat pours down his face into his paper collar; his eyes look glazed. When he takes off his hat there is a deep pucker of angry flesh on hisforehead. Nobody buys a watch. 

Look out again! A huge barouche comes swinging down the hill with twoold, old babies inside. She holds up a lace parasol; he sucks the knobof his cane, and the fat old bodies roll together as the cradle rocks, and the steaming horse leaves a trail of manure as it ambles down thehill. 

Under a tree, Professor Leonard, in cap and gown, stands beside hisbanner. He is here "for one day, " from the London, Paris and BrusselsExhibition, to tell your fortune from your face. And he stands, smilingencouragement, like a clumsy dentist. When the big men, romping andswearing a moment before, hand across their sixpence, and stand beforehim, they are suddenly serious, dumb, timid, almost blushing as theProfessor's quick hand notches the printed card. They are like littlechildren caught playing in a forbidden garden by the owner, steppingfrom behind a tree. 

The top of the hill is reached. How hot it is! How fine it is! Thepublic-house is open, and the crowd presses in. The mother sits on thepavement edge with her baby, and the father brings her out a glass ofdark, brownish stuff, and then savagely elbows his way in again. A reekof beer floats from the public-house, and a loud clatter and rattle ofvoices. 

The wind has dropped, and the sun burns more fiercely than ever. Outsidethe two swing-doors there is a thick mass of children like flies at themouth of a sweet-jar. 

And up, up the hill come the people, with ticklers and golliwogs, and roses and feathers. Up, up they thrust into the light and heat, shouting, laughing, squealing, as though they were being pushed bysomething, far below, and by the sun, far ahead of them--drawn up intothe full, bright, dazzling radiance to. .. What?

14. AN IDEAL FAMILY. 

That evening for the first time in his life, as he pressed through theswing door and descended the three broad steps to the pavement, oldMr. Neave felt he was too old for the spring. Spring--warm, eager, restless--was there, waiting for him in the golden light, ready in frontof everybody to run up, to blow in his white beard, to drag sweetly onhis arm. And he couldn't meet her, no; he couldn't square up once moreand stride off, jaunty as a young man. He was tired and, although thelate sun was still shining, curiously cold, with a numbed feeling allover. Quite suddenly he hadn't the energy, he hadn't the heart to standthis gaiety and bright movement any longer; it confused him. He wantedto stand still, to wave it away with his stick, to say, "Be off withyou!" Suddenly it was a terrible effort to greet as usual--tipping hiswide-awake with his stick--all the people whom he knew, the friends, acquaintances, shopkeepers, postmen, drivers. But the gay glance thatwent with the gesture, the kindly twinkle that seemed to say, "I'm amatch and more for any of you"--that old Mr. Neave could not manageat all. He stumped along, lifting his knees high as if he were walkingthrough air that had somehow grown heavy and solid like water. And thehomeward-looking crowd hurried by, the trams clanked, the light cartsclattered, the big swinging cabs bowled along with that reckless, defiant indifference that one knows only in dreams. .. 

It had been a day like other days at the office. Nothing special hadhappened. Harold hadn't come back from lunch until close on four. Wherehad he been? What had he been up to? He wasn't going to let his fatherknow. Old Mr. Neave had happened to be in the vestibule, saying good-byeto a caller, when Harold sauntered in, perfectly turned out as usual, cool, suave, smiling that peculiar little half-smile that women found sofascinating. 

Ah, Harold was too handsome, too handsome by far; that had been thetrouble all along. No man had a right to such eyes, such lashes, andsuch lips; it was uncanny. As for his mother, his sisters, and theservants, it was not too much to say they made a young god of him; theyworshipped Harold, they forgave him everything; and he had needed someforgiving ever since the time when he was thirteen and he had stolenhis mother's purse, taken the money, and hidden the purse in the cook'sbedroom. Old Mr. Neave struck sharply with his stick upon the pavementedge. But it wasn't only his family who spoiled Harold, he reflected, it was everybody; he had only to look and to smile, and down they wentbefore him. So perhaps it wasn't to be wondered at that he expected theoffice to carry on the tradition. H'm, h'm! But it couldn't be done. Nobusiness--not even a successful, established, big paying concern--couldbe played with. A man had either to put his whole heart and soul intoit, or it went all to pieces before his eyes. .. 

And then Charlotte and the girls were always at him to make the wholething over to Harold, to retire, and to spend his time enjoying himself. Enjoying himself! Old Mr. Neave stopped dead under a group of ancientcabbage palms outside the Government buildings! Enjoying himself! Thewind of evening shook the dark leaves to a thin airy cackle. Sitting athome, twiddling his thumbs, conscious all the while that his life'swork was slipping away, dissolving, disappearing through Harold's finefingers, while Harold smiled. .. 

"Why will you be so unreasonable, father? There's absolutely no needfor you to go to the office. It only makes it very awkward for us whenpeople persist in saying how tired you're looking. Here's this hugehouse and garden. Surely you could be happy in--in--appreciating it fora change. Or you could take up some hobby. "

And Lola the baby had chimed in loftily, "All men ought to have hobbies. It makes life impossible if they haven't. "

Well, well! He couldn't help a grim smile as painfully he began to climbthe hill that led into Harcourt Avenue. Where would Lola and her sistersand Charlotte be if he'd gone in for hobbies, he'd like to know? Hobbiescouldn't pay for the town house and the seaside bungalow, and theirhorses, and their golf, and the sixty-guinea gramophone in themusic-room for them to dance to. Not that he grudged them these things. No, they were smart, good-looking girls, and Charlotte was a remarkablewoman; it was natural for them to be in the swim. As a matter of fact, no other house in the town was as popular as theirs; no other familyentertained so much. And how many times old Mr. Neave, pushing the cigarbox across the smoking-room table, had listened to praises of his wife, his girls, of himself even. 

"You're an ideal family, sir, an ideal family. It's like something onereads about or sees on the stage. "

"That's all right, my boy, " old Mr. Neave would reply. "Try one ofthose; I think you'll like them. And if you care to smoke in the garden, you'll find the girls on the lawn, I dare say. "

That was why the girls had never married, so people said. They couldhave married anybody. But they had too good a time at home. They weretoo happy together, the girls and Charlotte. H'm, h'm! Well, well. Perhaps so. .. 

By this time he had walked the length of fashionable Harcourt Avenue;he had reached the corner house, their house. The carriage gates werepushed back; there were fresh marks of wheels on the drive. And then hefaced the big white-painted house, with its wide-open windows, its tullecurtains floating outwards, its blue jars of hyacinths on the broadsills. On either side of the carriage porch their hydrangeas--famous inthe town--were coming into flower; the pinkish, bluish masses of flowerlay like light among the spreading leaves. And somehow, it seemed to oldMr. Neave that the house and the flowers, and even the fresh marks onthe drive, were saying, "There is young life here. There are girls--"

The hall, as always, was dusky with wraps, parasols, gloves, piled onthe oak chests. From the music-room sounded the piano, quick, loud andimpatient. Through the drawing-room door that was ajar voices floated. 

"And were there ices?" came from Charlotte. Then the creak, creak of herrocker. 

"Ices!" cried Ethel. "My dear mother, you never saw such ices. Only twokinds. And one a common little strawberry shop ice, in a sopping wetfrill. "

"The food altogether was too appalling, " came from Marion. 

"Still, it's rather early for ices, " said Charlotte easily. 

"But why, if one has them at all. .. " began Ethel. 

"Oh, quite so, darling, " crooned Charlotte. 

Suddenly the music-room door opened and Lola dashed out. She started, she nearly screamed, at the sight of old Mr. Neave. 

"Gracious, father! What a fright you gave me! Have you just come home?Why isn't Charles here to help you off with your coat?"

Her cheeks were crimson from playing, her eyes glittered, the hairfell over her forehead. And she breathed as though she had come runningthrough the dark and was frightened. Old Mr. Neave stared at hisyoungest daughter; he felt he had never seen her before. So that wasLola, was it? But she seemed to have forgotten her father; it was notfor him that she was waiting there. Now she put the tip of her crumpledhandkerchief between her teeth and tugged at it angrily. The telephonerang. A-ah! Lola gave a cry like a sob and dashed past him. The door ofthe telephone-room slammed, and at the same moment Charlotte called, "Isthat you, father?"

"You're tired again, " said Charlotte reproachfully, and she stopped therocker and offered her warm plum-like cheek. Bright-haired Ethel peckedhis beard, Marion's lips brushed his ear. 

"Did you walk back, father?" asked Charlotte. 

"Yes, I walked home, " said old Mr. Neave, and he sank into one of theimmense drawing-room chairs. 

"But why didn't you take a cab?" said Ethel. "There are hundred of cabsabout at that time. "

"My dear Ethel, " cried Marion, "if father prefers to tire himself out, Ireally don't see what business of ours it is to interfere. "

"Children, children?" coaxed Charlotte. 

But Marion wouldn't be stopped. "No, mother, you spoil father, and it'snot right. You ought to be stricter with him. He's very naughty. " Shelaughed her hard, bright laugh and patted her hair in a mirror. Strange!When she was a little girl she had such a soft, hesitating voice; shehad even stuttered, and now, whatever she said--even if it was only"Jam, please, father"--it rang out as though she were on the stage. 

"Did Harold leave the office before you, dear?" asked Charlotte, beginning to rock again. 

"I'm not sure, " said Old Mr. Neave. "I'm not sure. I didn't see himafter four o'clock. "

"He said--" began Charlotte. 

But at that moment Ethel, who was twitching over the leaves of somepaper or other, ran to her mother and sank down beside her chair. 

"There, you see, " she cried. "That's what I mean, mummy. Yellow, withtouches of silver. Don't you agree?"

"Give it to me, love, " said Charlotte. She fumbled for hertortoise-shell spectacles and put them on, gave the page a little dabwith her plump small fingers, and pursed up her lips. "Very sweet!"she crooned vaguely; she looked at Ethel over her spectacles. "But Ishouldn't have the train. "

"Not the train!" wailed Ethel tragically. "But the train's the wholepoint. "

"Here, mother, let me decide. " Marion snatched the paper playfully fromCharlotte. "I agree with mother, " she cried triumphantly. "The trainoverweights it. "

Old Mr. Neave, forgotten, sank into the broad lap of his chair, and, dozing, heard them as though he dreamed. There was no doubt about it, hewas tired out; he had lost his hold. Even Charlotte and the girls weretoo much for him to-night. They were too. .. Too. .. But all his drowsingbrain could think of was--too rich for him. And somewhere at the backof everything he was watching a little withered ancient man climbing upendless flights of stairs. Who was he?

"I shan't dress to-night, " he muttered. 

"What do you say, father?"

"Eh, what, what?" Old Mr. Neave woke with a start and stared across atthem. "I shan't dress to-night, " he repeated. 

"But, father, we've got Lucile coming, and Henry Davenport, and Mrs. Teddie Walker. "

"It will look so very out of the picture. "

"Don't you feel well, dear?"

"You needn't make any effort. What is Charles for?"

"But if you're really not up to it, " Charlotte wavered. 

"Very well! Very well!" Old Mr. Neave got up and went to join thatlittle old climbing fellow just as far as his dressing-room. .. 

There young Charles was waiting for him. Carefully, as though everythingdepended on it, he was tucking a towel round the hot-water can. YoungCharles had been a favourite of his ever since as a little red-facedboy he had come into the house to look after the fires. Old Mr. Neavelowered himself into the cane lounge by the window, stretched out hislegs, and made his little evening joke, "Dress him up, Charles!" AndCharles, breathing intensely and frowning, bent forward to take the pinout of his tie. 

H'm, h'm! Well, well! It was pleasant by the open window, verypleasant--a fine mild evening. They were cutting the grass on the tenniscourt below; he heard the soft churr of the mower. Soon the girls wouldbegin their tennis parties again. And at the thought he seemed tohear Marion's voice ring out, "Good for you, partner. .. Oh, played, partner. .. Oh, very nice indeed. " Then Charlotte calling from theveranda, "Where is Harold?" And Ethel, "He's certainly not here, mother. " And Charlotte's vague, "He said--"

Old Mr. Neave sighed, got up, and putting one hand under his beard, hetook the comb from young Charles, and carefully combed the white beardover. Charles gave him a folded handkerchief, his watch and seals, andspectacle case. 

"That will do, my lad. " The door shut, he sank back, he was alone. .. 

And now that little ancient fellow was climbing down endless flightsthat led to a glittering, gay dining-room. What legs he had! They werelike a spider's--thin, withered. 

"You're an ideal family, sir, an ideal family. "

But if that were true, why didn't Charlotte or the girls stop him? Whywas he all alone, climbing up and down? Where was Harold? Ah, it wasno good expecting anything from Harold. Down, down went the little oldspider, and then, to his horror, old Mr. Neave saw him slip past thedining-room and make for the porch, the dark drive, the carriage gates, the office. Stop him, stop him, somebody!

Old Mr. Neave started up. It was dark in his dressing-room; the windowshone pale. How long had he been asleep? He listened, and throughthe big, airy, darkened house there floated far-away voices, far-awaysounds. Perhaps, he thought vaguely, he had been asleep for a long time. He'd been forgotten. What had all this to do with him--this house andCharlotte, the girls and Harold--what did he know about them? They werestrangers to him. Life had passed him by. Charlotte was not his wife. His wife!

. .. A dark porch, half hidden by a passion-vine, that drooped sorrowful, mournful, as though it understood. Small, warm arms were round his neck. A face, little and pale, lifted to his, and a voice breathed, "Good-bye, my treasure. "

My treasure! "Good-bye, my treasure!" Which of them had spoken? Why hadthey said good-bye? There had been some terrible mistake. She was hiswife, that little pale girl, and all the rest of his life had been adream. 

Then the door opened, and young Charles, standing in the light, put hishands by his side and shouted like a young soldier, "Dinner is on thetable, sir!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming, " said old Mr. Neave. 

15. THE LADY'S MAID. 

Eleven o'clock. A knock at the door. .. I hope I haven't disturbed you, madam. You weren't asleep--were you? But I've just given my lady hertea, and there was such a nice cup over, I thought, perhaps. .. 

. .. Not at all, madam. I always make a cup of tea last thing. She drinksit in bed after her prayers to warm her up. I put the kettle on when shekneels down and I say to it, "Now you needn't be in too much of a hurryto say your prayers. " But it's always boiling before my lady is halfthrough. You see, madam, we know such a lot of people, and they've allgot to be prayed for--every one. My lady keeps a list of the names in alittle red book. Oh dear! whenever some one new has been to see us andmy lady says afterwards, "Ellen, give me my little red book, " I feelquite wild, I do. "There's another, " I think, "keeping her out of herbed in all weathers. " And she won't have a cushion, you know, madam; shekneels on the hard carpet. It fidgets me something dreadful to seeher, knowing her as I do. I've tried to cheat her; I've spread outthe eiderdown. But the first time I did it--oh, she gave me such alook--holy it was, madam. "Did our Lord have an eiderdown, Ellen?" shesaid. But--I was younger at the time--I felt inclined to say, "No, butour Lord wasn't your age, and he didn't know what it was to have yourlumbago. " Wicked--wasn't it? But she's too good, you know, madam. WhenI tucked her up just now and seen--saw her lying back, her hands outsideand her head on the pillow--so pretty--I couldn't help thinking, "Nowyou look just like your dear mother when I laid her out!"

. .. Yes, madam, it was all left to me. Oh, she did look sweet. I did herhair, soft-like, round her forehead, all in dainty curls, and just toone side of her neck I put a bunch of most beautiful purple pansies. Those pansies made a picture of her, madam! I shall never forget them. I thought to-night, when I looked at my lady, "Now, if only the pansieswas there no one could tell the difference. "

. .. Only the last year, madam. Only after she'd got alittle--well--feeble as you might say. Of course, she was neverdangerous; she was the sweetest old lady. But how it took her was--shethought she'd lost something. She couldn't keep still, she couldn'tsettle. All day long she'd be up and down, up and down; you'd meet hereverywhere, --on the stairs, in the porch, making for the kitchen. Andshe'd look up at you, and she'd say--just like a child, "I've lost it, I've lost it. " "Come along, " I'd say, "come along, and I'll lay out yourpatience for you. " But she'd catch me by the hand--I was a favourite ofhers--and whisper, "Find it for me, Ellen. Find it for me. " Sad, wasn'tit?

. .. No, she never recovered, madam. She had a stroke at the end. Lastwords she ever said was--very slow, "Look in--the--Look--in--" And thenshe was gone. 

. .. No, madam, I can't say I noticed it. Perhaps some girls. But yousee, it's like this, I've got nobody but my lady. My mother died ofconsumption when I was four, and I lived with my grandfather, who kepta hair-dresser's shop. I used to spend all my time in the shop under atable dressing my doll's hair--copying the assistants, I suppose. Theywere ever so kind to me. Used to make me little wigs, all colours, thelatest fashions and all. And there I'd sit all day, quiet as quiet--thecustomers never knew. Only now and again I'd take my peep from under thetable-cloth. 

. .. But one day I managed to get a pair of scissors and--would youbelieve it, madam? I cut off all my hair; snipped it off all in bits, like the little monkey I was. Grandfather was furious! He caught hold ofthe tongs--I shall never forget it--grabbed me by the hand and shut myfingers in them. "That'll teach you!" he said. It was a fearful burn. I've got the mark of it to-day. 

. .. Well, you see, madam, he'd taken such pride in my hair. He used tosit me up on the counter, before the customers came, and do it somethingbeautiful--big, soft curls and waved over the top. I remember theassistants standing round, and me ever so solemn with the pennygrandfather gave me to hold while it was being done. .. But he always tookthe penny back afterwards. Poor grandfather! Wild, he was, at the frightI'd made of myself. But he frightened me that time. Do you know whatI did, madam? I ran away. Yes, I did, round the corners, in and out, Idon't know how far I didn't run. Oh, dear, I must have looked a sight, with my hand rolled up in my pinny and my hair sticking out. People musthave laughed when they saw me. .. 

. .. No, madam, grandfather never got over it. He couldn't bear the sightof me after. Couldn't eat his dinner, even, if I was there. So my aunttook me. She was a cripple, an upholstress. Tiny! She had to stand onthe sofas when she wanted to cut out the backs. And it was helping her Imet my lady. .. 

. .. Not so very, madam. I was thirteen, turned. And I don't remember everfeeling--well--a child, as you might say. You see there was my uniform, and one thing and another. My lady put me into collars and cuffs fromthe first. Oh yes--once I did! That was--funny! It was like this. Mylady had her two little nieces staying with her--we were at Sheldon atthe time--and there was a fair on the common. 

"Now, Ellen, " she said, "I want you to take the two young ladies for aride on the donkeys. " Off we went; solemn little loves they were; eachhad a hand. But when we came to the donkeys they were too shy to go on. So we stood and watched instead. Beautiful those donkeys were! They werethe first I'd seen out of a cart--for pleasure as you might say. Theywere a lovely silver-grey, with little red saddles and blue bridles andbells jing-a-jingling on their ears. And quite big girls--older than me, even--were riding them, ever so gay. Not at all common, I don't mean, madam, just enjoying themselves. And I don't know what it was, butthe way the little feet went, and the eyes--so gentle--and the softears--made me want to go on a donkey more than anything in the world!

. .. Of course, I couldn't. I had my young ladies. And what would I havelooked like perched up there in my uniform? But all the rest of the dayit was donkeys--donkeys on the brain with me. I felt I should have burstif I didn't tell some one; and who was there to tell? But when I went tobed--I was sleeping in Mrs. James's bedroom, our cook that was, atthe time--as soon as the lights was out, there they were, my donkeys, jingling along, with their neat little feet and sad eyes. .. Well, madam, would you believe it, I waited for a long time and pretended to beasleep, and then suddenly I sat up and called out as loud as I could, "Ido want to go on a donkey. I do want a donkey-ride!" You see, I had tosay it, and I thought they wouldn't laugh at me if they knew I was onlydreaming. Artful--wasn't it? Just what a silly child would think. .. 

. .. No, madam, never now. Of course, I did think of it at one time. Butit wasn't to be. He had a little flower-shop just down the road andacross from where we was living. Funny--wasn't it? And me such a one forflowers. We were having a lot of company at the time, and I was in andout of the shop more often than not, as the saying is. And Harry andI (his name was Harry) got to quarrelling about how things ought to bearranged--and that began it. Flowers! you wouldn't believe it, madam, the flowers he used to bring me. He'd stop at nothing. It waslilies-of-the-valley more than once, and I'm not exaggerating! Well, ofcourse, we were going to be married and live over the shop, and it wasall going to be just so, and I was to have the window to arrange. .. Oh, how I've done that window of a Saturday! Not really, of course, madam, just dreaming, as you might say. I've done it for Christmas--motto inholly, and all--and I've had my Easter lilies with a gorgeous star alldaffodils in the middle. I've hung--well, that's enough of that. The daycame he was to call for me to choose the furniture. Shall I ever forgetit? It was a Tuesday. My lady wasn't quite herself that afternoon. Notthat she'd said anything, of course; she never does or will. But I knewby the way that she kept wrapping herself up and asking me if it wascold--and her little nose looked. .. Pinched. I didn't like leaving her; Iknew I'd be worrying all the time. At last I asked her if she'd ratherI put it off. "Oh no, Ellen, " she said, "you mustn't mind about me. Youmustn't disappoint your young man. " And so cheerful, you know, madam, never thinking about herself. It made me feel worse than ever. I beganto wonder. .. Then she dropped her handkerchief and began to stoop down topick it up herself--a thing she never did. "Whatever are you doing!" Icried, running to stop her. "Well, " she said, smiling, you know, madam, "I shall have to begin to practise. " Oh, it was all I could do not toburst out crying. I went over to the dressing-table and made believeto rub up the silver, and I couldn't keep myself in, and I asked her ifshe'd rather I. .. Didn't get married. "No, Ellen, " she said--that was hervoice, madam, like I'm giving you--"No, Ellen, not for the wide world!"But while she said it, madam--I was looking in her glass; of course, shedidn't know I could see her--she put her little hand on her heart justlike her dear mother used to, and lifted her eyes. .. Oh, madam!

When Harry came I had his letters all ready, and the ring and a duckylittle brooch he'd given me--a silver bird it was, with a chain inits beak, and on the end of the chain a heart with a dagger. Quitethe thing! I opened the door to him. I never gave him time for a word. "There you are, " I said. "Take them all back, " I said, "it's all over. I'm not going to marry you, " I said, "I can't leave my lady. " White! heturned as white as a woman. I had to slam the door, and there Istood, all of a tremble, till I knew he had gone. When I opened thedoor--believe me or not, madam--that man was gone! I ran out into theroad just as I was, in my apron and my house-shoes, and there I stayedin the middle of the road. .. Staring. People must have laughed if theysaw me. .. 

. .. Goodness gracious!--What's that? It's the clock striking! And hereI've been keeping you awake. Oh, madam, you ought to have stoppedme. .. Can I tuck in your feet? I always tuck in my lady's feet, everynight, just the same. And she says, "Good night, Ellen. Sleep sound andwake early!" I don't know what I should do if she didn't say that, now. 

. .. Oh dear, I sometimes think. .. Whatever should I do if anything wereto. .. But, there, thinking's no good to any one--is it, madam? Thinkingwon't help. Not that I do it often. And if ever I do I pull myself upsharp, "Now, then, Ellen. At it again--you silly girl! If you can't findanything better to do than to start thinking!. .. "