THE MAN UPSTAIRS

AND OTHER STORIES

by P. G. Wodehouse

CONTENTS

THE MAN UPSTAIRS

SOMETHING TO WORRY ABOUT

DEEP WATERS

WHEN DOCTORS DISAGREE

BY ADVICE OF COUNSEL

ROUGH-HEW THEM HOW WE WILL

THE MAN WHO DISLIKED CATS

RUTH IN EXILE

ARCHIBALD'S BENEFIT

THE MAN, THE MAID, AND THE MIASMA

THE GOOD ANGEL

POTS O' MONEY

OUT OF SCHOOL

THREE FROM DUNSTERVILLE

THE TUPPENNY MILLIONAIRE

AHEAD OF SCHEDULE

SIR AGRAVAINE

THE GOAL-KEEPER AND THE PLUTOCRAT

IN ALCALA

THE MAN UPSTAIRS

There were three distinct stages in the evolution of Annette Brougham'sattitude towards the knocking in the room above. In the beginning ithad been merely a vague discomfort. Absorbed in the composition of herwaltz, she had heard it almost subconsciously. The second stage set inwhen it became a physical pain like red-hot pincers wrenching her mindfrom her music. Finally, with a thrill in indignation, she knew it forwhat it was--an insult. The unseen brute disliked her playing, and wasintimating his views with a boot-heel. 

Defiantly, with her foot on the loud pedal, she struck--almostslapped--the keys once more. 

'Bang!' from the room above. 'Bang! Bang!'

Annette rose. Her face was pink, her chin tilted. Her eyes sparkledwith the light of battle. She left the room and started to mount thestairs. No spectator, however just, could have helped feeling a pang ofpity for the wretched man who stood unconscious of imminent doom, possibly even triumphant, behind the door at which she was on the pointof tapping. 

'Come in!' cried the voice, rather a pleasant voice; but what is apleasant voice if the soul be vile?

Annette went in. The room was a typical Chelsea studio, scantilyfurnished and lacking a carpet. In the centre was an easel, behindwhich were visible a pair of trousered legs. A cloud of grey smoke wascurling up over the top of the easel. 

'I beg your pardon, ' began Annette. 

'I don't want any models at present, ' said the Brute. 'Leave your cardon the table. '

'I am not a model, ' said Annette, coldly. 'I merely came--'

At this the Brute emerged from his fortifications and, removing hispipe from his mouth, jerked his chair out into the open. 

'I beg your pardon, ' he said. 'Won't you sit down?'

How reckless is Nature in the distribution of her gifts! Not only hadthis black-hearted knocker on floors a pleasant voice, but, inaddition, a pleasing exterior. He was slightly dishevelled at themoment, and his hair stood up in a disordered mop; but in spite ofthese drawbacks, he was quite passably good-looking. Annette admittedthis. Though wrathful, she was fair. 

'I thought it was another model, ' he explained. 'They've been coming inat the rate of ten an hour ever since I settled here. I didn't objectat first, but after about the eightieth child of sunny Italy had shownup it began to get on my nerves. '

Annette waited coldly till he had finished. 

'I am sorry, ' she said, in a this-is-where-you-get-yours voice, 'if myplaying disturbed you. '

One would have thought nobody but an Eskimo wearing his furs and winterunder-clothing could have withstood the iciness of her manner; but theBrute did not freeze. 

'I am sorry, ' repeated Annette, well below zero, 'if my playingdisturbed you. I live in the room below, and I heard you knocking. '

'No, no, ' protested the young man, affably; 'I like it. Really I do. '

'Then why knock on the floor?' said Annette, turning to go. 'It is sobad for my ceiling, ' she said over shoulder. 'I thought you would notmind my mentioning it. Good afternoon. '

'No; but one moment. Don't go. '

She stopped. He was surveying her with a friendly smile. She noticedmost reluctantly that he had a nice smile. His composure began toenrage her more and more. Long ere this he should have been writhing ather feet in the dust, crushed and abject. 

'You see, ' he said, 'I'm awfully sorry, but it's like this. I lovemusic, but what I mean is, you weren't playing a _tune_. It wasjust the same bit over and over again. '

'I was trying to get a phrase, ' said Annette, with dignity, but lesscoldly. In spite of herself she was beginning to thaw. There wassomething singularly attractive about this shock-headed youth. 

'A phrase?'

'Of music. For my waltz. I am composing a waltz. '

A look of such unqualified admiration overspread the young man's facethat the last remnants of the ice-pack melted. For the first time sincethey had met Annette found herself positively liking this blackguardlyfloor-smiter. 

'Can you compose music?' he said, impressed. 

'I have written one or two songs. '

'It must be great to be able to do things--artistic things, I mean, like composing. '

'Well, you do, don't you? You paint. '

The young man shook his head with a cheerful grin. 

'I fancy, ' he said, 'I should make a pretty good house-painter. I wantscope. Canvas seems to cramp me. '

It seemed to cause him no discomfort. He appeared rather amused thanotherwise. 

'Let me look. '

She crossed over to the easel. 

'I shouldn't, ' he warned her. 'You really want to? Is this not mererecklessness? Very well, then. '

To the eye of an experienced critic the picture would certainly haveseemed crude. It was a study of a dark-eyed child holding a large blackcat. Statisticians estimate that there is no moment during the day whenone or more young artists somewhere on the face of the globe are notpainting pictures of children holding cats. 

'I call it "Child and Cat", ' said the young man. 'Rather a neat title, don't you think? Gives you the main idea of the thing right away. That, ' he explained, pointing obligingly with the stem of his pipe, 'isthe cat. '

Annette belonged to that large section of the public which likes ordislikes a picture according to whether its subject happens to pleaseor displease them. Probably there was not one of the million or sochild-and-cat eyesores at present in existence which she would not haveliked. Besides, he had been very nice about her music. 

'I think it's splendid, ' she announced. 

The young man's face displayed almost more surprise than joy. 

'Do you really?' he said. 'Then I can die happy--that is, if you'll letme come down and listen to those songs of yours first. '

'You would only knock on the floor, ' objected Annette. 

'I'll never knock on another floor as long as I live, ' said theex-brute, reassuringly. 'I hate knocking on floors. I don't seewhat people want to knock on floors _for_, anyway. '

Friendships ripen quickly in Chelsea. Within the space of an hour and aquarter Annette had learned that the young man's name was Alan Beverley(for which Family Heraldic affliction she pitied rather than despisedhim), that he did not depend entirely on his work for a living, havinga little money of his own, and that he considered this a fortunatething. From the very beginning of their talk he pleased her. She foundhim an absolutely new and original variety of the unsuccessful painter. Unlike Reginald Sellers, who had a studio in the same building, andsometimes dropped in to drink her coffee and pour out his troubles, hedid not attribute his non-success to any malice or stupidity on thepart of the public. She was so used to hearing Sellers lash thePhilistine and hold forth on unappreciated merit that she could hardlybelieve the miracle when, in answer to a sympathetic bromide on thepopular lack of taste in Art, Beverley replied that, as far as he wasconcerned, the public showed strong good sense. If he had been strivingwith every nerve to win her esteem, he could not have done it moresurely than with that one remark. Though she invariably listened with asweet patience which encouraged them to continue long after the pointat which she had begun in spirit to throw things at them, Annette hadno sympathy with men who whined. She herself was a fighter. She hatedas much as anyone the sickening blows which Fate hands out to thestruggling and ambitious; but she never made them the basis of amonologue act. Often, after a dreary trip round the offices of themusic-publishers, she would howl bitterly in secret, and even gnaw herpillow in the watches of the night; but in public her pride kept herunvaryingly bright and cheerful. 

Today, for the first time, she revealed something of her woes. Therewas that about the mop-headed young man which invited confidences. Shetold him of the stony-heartedness of music-publishers, of thedifficulty of getting songs printed unless you paid for them, of theirwretched sales. 

'But those songs you've been playing, ' said Beverley, 'they've beenpublished?'

'Yes, those three. But they are the only ones. '

'And didn't they sell?'

'Hardly at all. You see, a song doesn't sell unless somebody well knownsings it. And people promise to sing them, and then don't keep theirword. You can't depend on what they say. '

'Give me their names, ' said Beverley, 'and I'll go round tomorrow andshoot the whole lot. But can't you do anything?'

'Only keep on keeping on. '

'I wish, ' he said, 'that any time you're feeling blue about things youwould come up and pour out the poison on me. It's no good bottling itup. Come up and tell me about it, and you'll feel ever so much better. Or let me come down. Any time things aren't going right just knock onthe ceiling. '

She laughed. 

'Don't rub it in, ' pleaded Beverley. 'It isn't fair. There's nobody sosensitive as a reformed floor-knocker. You will come up or let me comedown, won't you? Whenever I have that sad, depressed feeling, I go outand kill a policeman. But you wouldn't care for that. So the only thingfor you to do is to knock on the ceiling. Then I'll come charging downand see if there's anything I can do to help. '

'You'll be sorry you ever said this. '

'I won't, ' he said stoutly. 

'If you really mean it, it _would_ be a relief, ' she admitted. 'Sometimes I'd give all the money I'm ever likely to make for someoneto shriek my grievances at. I always think it must have been so nicefor the people in the old novels, when they used to say: "Sit down andI will tell you the story of my life. " Mustn't it have been heavenly?'

'Well, ' said Beverley, rising, 'you know where I am if I'm wanted. Right up there where the knocking came from. '

'Knocking?' said Annette. 'I remember no knocking. '

'Would you mind shaking hands?' said Beverley. 

 * * * * *

A particularly maddening hour with one of her pupils drove her up thevery next day. Her pupils were at once her salvation and her despair. They gave her the means of supporting life, but they made life hardlyworth supporting. Some of them were learning the piano. Others thoughtthey sang. All had solid ivory skulls. There was about a teaspoonful ofgrey matter distributed among the entire squad, and the pupil Annettehad been teaching that afternoon had come in at the tail-end of thedivision. 

In the studio with Beverley she found Reginald Sellers, standing in acritical attitude before the easel. She was not very fond of him. Hewas a long, offensive, patronizing person, with a moustache that lookedlike a smear of charcoal, and a habit of addressing her as 'Ah, littleone!'

Beverley looked up. 

'Have you brought your hatchet, Miss Brougham? If you have, you're justin time to join in the massacre of the innocents. Sellers has beensmiting my child and cat hip and thigh. Look at his eye. There! Did yousee it flash then? He's on the warpath again. '

'My dear Beverley, ' said Sellers, rather stiffly, 'I am merelyendeavouring to give you my idea of the picture's defects. I am sorryif my criticism has to be a little harsh. '

'Go right on, ' said Beverley, cordially. 'Don't mind me; it's all formy good. '

'Well, in a word, then, it is lifeless. Neither the child nor the catlives. '

He stepped back a pace and made a frame of his hands. 

'The cat now, ' he said. 'It is--how shall I put it? It hasno--no--er--'

'That kind of cat wouldn't, ' said Beverley. 'It isn't that breed. '

'I think it's a dear cat, ' said Annette. She felt her temper, alwaysquick, getting the better of her. She knew just how incompetentSellers was, and it irritated her beyond endurance to see Beverley'sgood-humoured acceptance of his patronage. 

'At any rate, ' said Beverley, with a grin, 'you both seem to recognizethat it is a cat. You're solid on that point, and that's something, seeing I'm only a beginner. '

'I know, my dear fellow; I know, ' said Sellers, graciously. 'Youmustn't let my criticism discourage you. Don't think that your worklacks promise. Far from it. I am sure that in time you will do verywell indeed. Quite well. '

A cold glitter might have been observed in Annette's eyes. 

'Mr Sellers, ' she said, smoothly, 'had to work very hard himself beforehe reached his present position. You know his work, of course?'

For the first time Beverley seemed somewhat confused. 

'I--er--why--' he began. 

'Oh, but of course you do, ' she went on, sweetly. 'It's in all themagazines. '

Beverley looked at the great man with admiration, and saw that he hadflushed uncomfortably. He put this down to the modesty of genius. 

'In the advertisement pages, ' said Annette. 'Mr Sellers drew thatpicture of the Waukeesy Shoe and the Restawhile Settee and the tin ofsardines in the Little Gem Sardine advertisement. He is very good atstill life. '

There was a tense silence. Beverley could almost hear the voice of thereferee uttering the count. 

'Miss Brougham, ' said Sellers at last, spitting out the words, 'hasconfined herself to the purely commercial side of my work. There isanother. '

'Why, of course there is. You sold a landscape for five pounds onlyeight months ago, didn't you? And another three months before that. '

It was enough. Sellers bowed stiffly and stalked from the room. 

Beverley picked up a duster and began slowly to sweep the floor withit. 

'What are you doing?' demanded Annette, in a choking voice. 

'The fragments of the wretched man, ' whispered Beverley. 'They must beswept up and decently interred. You certainly have got the punch, MissBrougham. '

He dropped the duster with a startled exclamation, for Annette hadsuddenly burst into a flood of tears. With her face buried in her handsshe sat in her chair and sobbed desperately. 

'Good Lord!' said Beverley, blankly. 

'I'm a cat! I'm a beast! I hate myself!'

'Good Lord!' said Beverley, blankly. 

'I'm a pig! I'm a fiend!'

'Good Lord!' said Beverley, blankly. 

'We're all struggling and trying to get on and having hard luck, andinstead of doing what I can to help, I go and t-t-taunt him with notbeing able to sell his pictures! I'm not fit to live! _Oh!_'

'Good Lord!' said Beverley, blankly. 

A series of gulping sobs followed, diminishing by degrees into silence. Presently she looked up and smiled, a moist and pathetic smile. 

'I'm sorry, ' she said, 'for being so stupid. But he was so horrid andpatronizing to you, I couldn't help scratching. I believe I'm the worstcat in London. '

'No, this is, ' said Beverley, pointing to the canvas. 'At least, according to the late Sellers. But, I say, tell me, isn't the deceaseda great artist, then? He came curveting in here with his chest out andstarted to slate my masterpiece, so I naturally said, "What-ho! 'Tis agenius!" Isn't he?'

'He can't sell his pictures anywhere. He lives on the little he can getfrom illustrating advertisements. And I t-taunt--'

'_Please!_' said Beverley, apprehensively. 

She recovered herself with a gulp. 

'I can't help it, ' she said, miserably. 'I rubbed it in. Oh, it washateful of me! But I was all on edge from teaching one of my awfulpupils, and when he started to patronize you--'

She blinked. 

'Poor devil!' said Beverley. 'I never guessed. Good Lord!'

Annette rose. 

'I must go and tell him I'm sorry, ' she said. 'He'll snub me horribly, but I must. '

She went out. Beverley lit a pipe and stood at the window lookingthoughtfully down into the street. 

 * * * * *

It is a good rule in life never to apologize. The right sort of peopledo not want apologies, and the wrong sort take a mean advantage ofthem. Sellers belonged to the latter class. When Annette, meek, penitent, with all her claws sheathed, came to him and grovelled, heforgave her with a repulsive magnanimity which in a less subdued moodwould have stung her to renewed pugnacity. As it was, she allowedherself to be forgiven, and retired with a dismal conviction that fromnow on he would be more insufferable than ever. 

Her surmise proved absolutely correct. His visits to the newcomer'sstudio began again, and Beverley's picture, now nearing completion, came in for criticism enough to have filled a volume. The good humourwith which he received it amazed Annette. She had no proprietaryinterest in the painting beyond what she acquired from a growing regardfor its parent (which disturbed her a good deal when she had time tothink of it); but there were moments when only the recollection of herremorse for her previous outbreak kept her from rending the critic. Beverley, however, appeared to have no artistic sensitivenesswhatsoever. When Sellers savaged the cat in a manner which should havebrought the S. P. C. A. Down upon him, Beverley merely beamed. Hislong-sufferingness was beyond Annette's comprehension. 

She began to admire him for it. 

To make his position as critic still more impregnable, Sellers was nowable to speak as one having authority. After years of floundering, hisluck seemed at last to have turned. His pictures, which for months hadlain at an agent's, careened like crippled battleships, had at lengthbegun to find a market. Within the past two weeks three landscapes andan allegorical painting had sold for good prices; and under theinfluence of success he expanded like an opening floweret. WhenEpstein, the agent, wrote to say that the allegory had been purchasedby a Glasgow plutocrat of the name of Bates for one hundred and sixtyguineas, Sellers' views on Philistines and their crass materialism andlack of taste underwent a marked modification. He spoke with somefriendliness of the man Bates. 

'To me, ' said Beverley, when informed of the event by Annette, 'thematter has a deeper significance. It proves that Glasgow has at lastproduced a sober man. No drinker would have dared face that allegory. The whole business is very gratifying. '

Beverley himself was progressing slowly in the field of Art. He hadfinished the 'Child and Cat', and had taken it to Epstein together witha letter of introduction from Sellers. Sellers' habitual attitude nowwas that of the kindly celebrity who has arrived and wishes to give theyoungsters a chance. 

Since its departure Beverley had not done much in the way of actualexecution. Whenever Annette came to his studio he was either sitting ina chair with his feet on the window-sill, smoking, or in the sameattitude listening to Sellers' views on art. Sellers being on theupgrade, a man with many pounds to his credit in the bank, had moreleisure now. He had given up his advertisement work, and was planning agreat canvas--another allegorical work. This left him free to devote agood deal of time to Beverley, and he did so. Beverley sat and smokedthrough his harangues. He may have been listening, or he may not. Annette listened once or twice, and the experience had the effect ofsending her to Beverley, quivering with indignation. 

'Why do you _let_ him patronize you like that?' she demanded. 'Ifanybody came and talked to me like that about my music, I'd--I'd--Idon't know what I'd do. Yes, even if he were really a great musician. '

'Don't you consider Sellers a great artist, then, even now?'

'He seems to be able to sell his pictures, so I suppose they must begood; but nothing could give him the right to patronize you as hedoes. '

'"My learned friend's manner would be intolerable in an emperor to ablack-beetle, "' quoted Beverley. 'Well, what are we going to do aboutit?'

'If only you could sell a picture, too!'

'Ah! Well, I've done my part of the contract. I've delivered the goods. There the thing is at Epstein's. The public can't blame me if itdoesn't sell. All they've got to do is to waltz in in their thousandsand fight for it. And, by the way, talking of waltzes--'

'Oh, it's finished, ' said Annette, dispiritedly. 'Published too, forthat matter. '

'Published! What's the matter, then? Why this drooping sadness? Whyaren't you running around the square, singing like a bird?'

'Because, ' said Annette, 'unfortunately, I had to pay the expenses ofpublication. It was only five pounds, but the sales haven't caught upwith that yet. If they ever do, perhaps there'll be a new edition. '

'And will you have to pay for that?'

'No. The publishers would. '

'Who are they?'

'Grusczinsky and Buchterkirch. '

'Heavens, then what are you worrying about? The thing's a cert. A manwith a name like Grusczinsky could sell a dozen editions by himself. Helped and inspired by Buchterkirch, he will make the waltz the talk ofthe country. Infants will croon it in their cots. '

'He didn't seem to think so when I saw him last. '

'Of course not. He doesn't know his own power. Grusczinsky's shrinkingdiffidence is a by-word in musical circles. He is the genuine HumanViolet. You must give him time. '

'I'll give him anything if he'll only sell an edition or two, ' saidAnnette. 

The outstanding thing was that he did. There seemed no particularreason why the sale of that waltz should not have been as small and asslow as that of any other waltz by an unknown composer. But almostwithout warning it expanded from a trickle into a flood. Grusczinsky, beaming paternally whenever Annette entered the shop--which wasoften--announced two new editions in a week. Beverley, his artisticgrowth still under a watchful eye of Sellers, said he had never hadany doubts as to the success of the thing from the moment when a singlephrase in it had so carried him away that he had been compelled to stamphis applause enthusiastically on the floor. Even Sellers forgot his owntriumphs long enough to allow him to offer affable congratulations. Andmoney came rolling in, smoothing the path of life. 

Those were great days. There was a hat ... 

Life, in short, was very full and splendid. There was, indeed, but onething which kept it from being perfect. The usual drawback to success isthat it annoys one's friends so; but in Annette's case this drawback wasabsent. Sellers' demeanour towards her was that of an old-establishedinmate welcoming a novice into the Hall of Fame. Her pupils--worthysouls, though bone-headed--fawned upon her. Beverley seemed more pleasedthan anyone. Yet it was Beverley who prevented her paradise from beingcomplete. Successful herself, she wanted all her friends to be successful;but Beverley, to her discomfort, remained a cheery failure, and worse, absolutely refused to snub Sellers. It was not as if Sellers' advice andcomments were disinterested. Beverley was simply the instrument on whichhe played his songs of triumph. It distressed Annette to such an extentthat now, if she went upstairs and heard Sellers' voice in the studio, she came down again without knocking. 

 * * * * *

One afternoon, sitting in her room, she heard the telephone-bell ring. 

The telephone was on the stairs, just outside her door. She went outand took up the receiver. 

'Halloa!' said a querulous voice. 'Is Mr Beverley there?'

Annette remembered having heard him go out. She could always tell hisfootstep. 

'He is out, ' she said. 'Is there any message?'

'Yes, ' said the voice, emphatically. 'Tell him that Rupert Morrisonrang up to ask what he was to do with all this great stack of musicthat's arrived. Does he want it forwarded on to him, or what?' Thevoice was growing high and excited. Evidently Mr Morrison was in astate of nervous tension when a man does not care particularly whohears his troubles so long as he unburdens himself of them to someone. 

'Music?' said Annette. 

'Music!' shrilled Mr Morrison. 'Stacks and stacks and stacks of it. Ishe playing a practical joke on me, or what?' he demanded, hysterically. Plainly he had now come to regard Annette as a legitimate confidante. She was listening. That was the main point. He wanted someone--he didnot care whom--who would listen. 'He lends me his rooms, ' wailed MrMorrison, 'so that I can be perfectly quiet and undisturbed while Iwrite my novel, and, first thing I know, this music starts to arrive. How can I be quiet and undisturbed when the floor's littered two yardshigh with great parcels of music, and more coming every day?'

Annette clung weakly to the telephone box. Her mind was in a whirl, butshe was beginning to see many things. 

'Are you there?' called Mr Morrison. 

'Yes. What--what firm does the music come from?'

'What's that?'

'Who are the publishers who send the music?'

'I can't remember. Some long name. Yes, I've got it. Grusczinsky andsomeone. '

'I'll tell Mr Beverley, ' said Annette, quietly. A great weight seemedto have settled on her head. 

'Halloa! Halloa! Are you there?' came Mr Morrison's voice. 

'Yes?'

'And tell him there are some pictures, too. '

'Pictures?'

'Four great beastly pictures. The size of elephants. I tell you, thereisn't room to move. And--'

Annette hung up the receiver. 

 * * * * *

Mr Beverley, returned from his walk, was racing up the stairs three ata time in his energetic way, when, as he arrived at Annette's door, itopened. 

'Have you a minute to spare?' said Annette. 

'Of course. What's the trouble? Have they sold another edition of thewaltz?'

'I have not heard, Mr--Bates. '

For once she looked to see the cheerful composure of the man upstairsbecome ruffled; but he received the blow without agitation. 

'You know my name?' he said. 

'I know a good deal more than your name. You are a Glasgowmillionaire. '

'It's true, ' he admitted, 'but it's hereditary. My father was onebefore me. '

'And you use your money, ' said Annette, bitterly, 'creating fools'paradises for your friends, which last, I suppose, until you grow tiredof the amusement and destroy them. Doesn't it ever strike you, MrBates, that it's a little cruel? Do you think Mr Sellers will settledown again cheerfully to hack-work when you stop buying his pictures, and he finds out that--that--'

'I shan't stop, ' said the young man. 'If a Glasgow millionaire mayn'tbuy Sellers' allegorical pictures, whose allegorical pictures may hebuy? Sellers will never find out. He'll go on painting and I'll go onbuying, and all will be joy and peace. '

'Indeed! And what future have you arranged for me?'

'You?' he said, reflectively. 'I want to marry you. '

Annette stiffened from head to foot. He met her blazing eyes with alook of quiet devotion. 

'Marry me?'

'I know what you are thinking, ' he said. 'Your mind is dwelling on theprospect of living in a house decorated throughout with Sellers'allegorical pictures. But it won't be. We'll store them in the attic. '

She began to speak, but he interrupted her. 

'Listen!' he said. 'Sit down and I will tell you the story of my life. We'll skip the first twenty-eight years and three months, merelymentioning that for the greater part of that time I was looking forsomebody just like you. A month and nine days ago I found you. You werecrossing the Embankment. I was also on the Embankment. In a taxi. Istopped the taxi, got out, and observed you just stepping into theCharing Cross Underground. I sprang--'

'This does not interest me, ' said Annette. 

'The plot thickens, ' he assured her. 'We left our hero springing, Ithink. Just so. Well, you took the West End train and got off at SloaneSquare. So did I. You crossed Sloane Square, turned up King's Road, andfinally arrived here. I followed. I saw a notice up, "Studio to Let". Ireflected that, having done a little painting in an amateur way, Icould pose as an artist all right; so I took the studio. Also the nameof Alan Beverley. My own is Bill Bates. I had often wondered what itwould feel like to be called by some name like Alan Beverley or CyrilTrevelyan. It was simply the spin of the coin which decided me infavour of the former. Once in, the problem was how to get to know you. When I heard you playing I knew it was all right. I had only to keepknocking on the floor long enough--'

'Do--you--mean--to--tell--me'--Annette's voice trembled 'do you mean totell me that you knocked that time simply to make me come up?'

'That was it. Rather a scheme, don't you think? And now, would you mindtelling me how you found out that I had been buying your waltz? Thoseremarks of yours about fools' paradises were not inspired solely bythe affairs of Sellers. But it beats me how you did it. I sworeRozinsky, or whatever his name is, to secrecy. '

'A Mr Morrison, ' sad Annette, indifferently, 'rang up on the telephoneand asked me to tell you that he was greatly worried by the piles ofmusic which were littering the rooms you lent him. '

The young man burst into a roar of laughter. 

'Poor old Morrison! I forgot all about him. I lent him my rooms at theAlbany. He's writing a novel, and he can't work if the slightest thinggoes wrong. It just shows--'

'Mr Bates!'

'Yes?'

'Perhaps you didn't intend to hurt me. I dare say you meant only to bekind. But--but--oh, can't you see how you have humiliated me? You havetreated me like a child, giving me a make-believe success just to--justto keep me quiet, I suppose. You--'

He was fumbling in his pocket. 

'May I read you a letter?' he said. 

'A letter?'

'Quite a short one. It is from Epstein, the picture-dealer. This iswhat he says. "Sir, " meaning me, not "Dear Bill, " mind you--just "Sir. ""I am glad to be able to inform you that I have this morning receivedan offer of ten guineas for your picture, 'Child and Cat'. Kindly letme know if I am to dispose of it at this price. "'

'Well?' said Annette, in a small voice. 

'I have just been to Epstein's. It seems that the purchaser is a MissBrown. She gave an address in Bayswater. I called at the address. NoMiss Brown lives there, but one of your pupils does. I asked her if shewas expecting a parcel for Miss Brown, and she said that she had hadyour letter and quite understood and would take it in when it arrived. '

Annette was hiding her face in her hands. 

'Go away!' she said, faintly. 

Mr Bates moved a step nearer. 

'Do you remember that story of the people on the island who eked out aprecarious livelihood by taking in one another's washing?' he asked, casually. 

'Go away!' cried Annette. 

'I've always thought, ' he said, 'that it must have drawn them veryclose together--made them feel rather attached to each other. Don'tyou?'

'Go away!'

'I don't want to go away. I want to stay and hear you say you'll marryme. '

'_Please_ go away! I want to think. '

She heard him moving towards the door. He stopped, then went on again. The door closed quietly. Presently from the room above came the soundof footsteps--footsteps pacing monotonously to and fro like those of ananimal in a cage. 

Annette sat listening. There was no break in the footsteps. 

Suddenly she got up. In one corner of the room was a long pole used forraising and lowering the window-sash. She took it, and for a momentstood irresolute. Then with a quick movement, she lifted it andstabbed three times at the ceiling. 

SOMETHING TO WORRY ABOUT

A girl stood on the shingle that fringes Millbourne Bay, gazing at thered roofs of the little village across the water. She was a prettygirl, small and trim. Just now some secret sorrow seemed to betroubling her, for on her forehead were wrinkles and in her eyes a lookof wistfulness. She had, in fact, all the distinguishing marks of onewho is thinking of her sailor lover. 

But she was not. She had no sailor lover. What she was thinking of wasthat at about this time they would be lighting up the shop-windows inLondon, and that of all the deadly, depressing spots she had evervisited this village of Millbourne was the deadliest. 

The evening shadows deepened. The incoming tide glistened oilily as itrolled over the mud flats. She rose and shivered. 

'Goo! What a hole!' she said, eyeing the unconscious village morosely. '_What_ a hole!'

 * * * * *

This was Sally Preston's first evening in Millbourne. She had arrivedby the afternoon train from London--not of her own free will. Left toherself, she would not have come within sixty miles of the place. London supplied all that she demanded from life. She had been born inLondon; she had lived there ever since--she hoped to die there. Sheliked fogs, motor-buses, noise, policemen, paper-boys, shops, taxi-cabs, artificial light, stone pavements, houses in long, grey rows, mud, banana-skins, and moving-picture exhibitions. Especially moving-pictureexhibitions. It was, indeed, her taste for these that had caused herbanishment to Millbourne. 

The great public is not yet unanimous on the subject of moving-pictureexhibitions. Sally, as I have said, approved of them. Her father, onthe other hand, did not. An austere ex-butler, who let lodgings inEbury Street and preached on Sundays in Hyde Park, he looked askanceat the 'movies'. It was his boast that he had never been inside atheatre in his life, and he classed cinema palaces with theatres aswiles of the devil. Sally, suddenly unmasked as an habitual frequenterof these abandoned places, sprang with one bound into prominence asthe Bad Girl of the Family. Instant removal from the range oftemptation being the only possible plan, it seemed to Mr Preston thata trip to the country was indicated. 

He selected Millbourne because he had been butler at the Hall there, and because his sister Jane, who had been a parlour-maid at theRectory, was now married and living in the village. 

Certainly he could not have chosen a more promising reformatory forSally. Here, if anywhere, might she forget the heady joys of thecinema. Tucked away in the corner of its little bay, which anaccommodating island converts into a still lagoon, Millbourne liesdozing. In all sleepy Hampshire there is no sleepier spot. It is aplace of calm-eyed men and drowsy dogs. Things crumble away and are notreplaced. Tradesmen book orders, and then lose interest and forget todeliver the goods. Only centenarians die, and nobody worries aboutanything--or did not until Sally came and gave them something to worryabout. 

 * * * * *

Next door to Sally's Aunt Jane, in a cosy little cottage with awonderful little garden, lived Thomas Kitchener, a large, grave, self-sufficing young man, who, by sheer application to work, hadbecome already, though only twenty-five, second gardener at the Hall. Gardening absorbed him. When he was not working at the Hall he wasworking at home. On the morning following Sally's arrival, it being aThursday and his day off, he was crouching in a constrained attitude inhis garden, every fibre of his being concentrated on the interment of aplump young bulb. Consequently, when a chunk of mud came sailing overthe fence, he did not notice it. 

A second, however, compelled attention by bursting like a shell on theback of his neck. He looked up, startled. Nobody was in sight. He waspuzzled. It could hardly be raining mud. Yet the alternative theory, that someone in the next garden was throwing it, was hardly lessbizarre. The nature of his friendship with Sally's Aunt Jane and oldMr Williams, her husband, was comfortable rather than rollicking. Itwas inconceivable that they should be flinging clods at him. 

As he stood wondering whether he should go to the fence and look over, or simply accept the phenomenon as one of those things which no fellowcan understand, there popped up before him the head and shoulders of agirl. Poised in her right hand was a third clod, which, seeing thatthere was now no need for its services, she allowed to fall to theground. 

'Halloa!' she said. 'Good morning. '

She was a pretty girl, small and trim. Tom was by way of being thestrong, silent man with a career to think of and no time for botheringabout girls, but he saw that. There was, moreover, a certain alertnessin her expression rarely found in the feminine population ofMillbourne, who were apt to be slightly bovine. 

'What do you think _you're_ messing about at?' she said, affably. 

Tom was a slow-minded young man, who liked to have his thoughts wellunder control before he spoke. He was not one of your gay rattlers. Besides, there was something about this girl which confused him to anextraordinary extent. He was conscious of new and strange emotions. Hestood staring silently. 

'What's your name, anyway?'

He could answer that. He did so. 

'Oh! Mine's Sally Preston. Mrs Williams is my aunt. I've come fromLondon. '

Tom had no remarks to make about London. 

'Have you lived here all your life?'

'Yes, ' said Tom. 

'My goodness! Don't you ever feel fed up? Don't you want a change?'

Tom considered the point. 

'No, ' he said. 

'Well, _I_ do. I want one now. '

'It's a nice place, ' hazarded Tom. 

'It's nothing of the sort. It's the beastliest hole in existence. It'sabsolutely chronic. Perhaps you wonder why I'm here. Don't think I_wanted_ to come here. Not me! I was sent. It was like this. ' Shegave him a rapid summary of her troubles. 'There! Don't you call it abit thick?' she concluded. 

Tom considered this point, too. 

'You must make the best of it, ' he said, at length. 

'I won't! I'll make father take me back. '

Tom considered this point also. Rarely, if ever, had he been given somany things to think about in one morning. 

'How?' he inquired, at length. 

'I don't know. I'll find some way. You see if I don't. I'll get awayfrom here jolly quick, I give you _my_ word. '

Tom bent low over a rose-bush. His face was hidden, but the brown ofhis neck seemed to take on a richer hue, and his ears were undeniablycrimson. His feet moved restlessly, and from his unseen mouth thereproceeded the first gallant speech his lips had ever framed. Merelyconsidered as a speech, it was, perhaps, nothing wonderful; but fromTom it was a miracle of chivalry and polish. 

What he said was: 'I hope not. '

And instinct telling him that he had made his supreme effort, and thatanything further must be bathos, he turned abruptly and stalked intohis cottage, where he drank tea and ate bacon and thought chaoticthoughts. And when his appetite declined to carry him more than half-waythrough the third rasher, he understood. He was in love. 

These strong, silent men who mean to be head-gardeners before they arethirty, and eliminate woman from their lives as a dangerous obstacle tothe successful career, pay a heavy penalty when they do fall in love. The average irresponsible young man who has hung about North Street onSaturday nights, walked through the meadows and round by the mill andback home past the creek on Sunday afternoons, taken his seat in thebrake for the annual outing, shuffled his way through the polka at thetradesmen's ball, and generally seized all legitimate opportunitiesfor sporting with Amaryllis in the shade, has a hundred advantageswhich your successful careerer lacks. There was hardly a moment duringthe days which followed when Tom did not regret his neglectededucation. 

For he was not Sally's only victim in Millbourne. That was the trouble. Her beauty was not of that elusive type which steals imperceptibly intothe vision of the rare connoisseur. It was sudden and compelling. Ithit you. Bright brown eyes beneath a mass of fair hair, a determinedlittle chin, a slim figure--these are disturbing things; and theyouths of peaceful Millbourne sat up and took notice as one youth. Throw your mind back to the last musical comedy you saw. Recall theleading lady's song with chorus of young men, all proffering devotionsimultaneously in a neat row. Well, that was how the lads of thevillage comported themselves towards Sally. 

Mr and Mrs Williams, till then a highly-esteemed but little-frequentedcouple, were astonished at the sudden influx of visitors. The cottagebecame practically a _salon_. There was not an evening when thelittle sitting-room looking out on the garden was not packed. It istrue that the conversation lacked some of the sparkle generally foundin the better class of _salon_. To be absolutely accurate, therewas hardly any conversation. The youths of Melbourne were sturdy andhonest. They were the backbone of England. England, in her hour ofneed, could have called upon them with the comfortable certainty that, unless they happened to be otherwise engaged, they would leap to heraid. 

But they did not shine at small-talk. Conversationally they were aspent force after they had asked Mr Williams how his rheumatism was. Thereafter they contented themselves with sitting massively about incorners, glowering at each other. Still, it was all very jolly andsociable, and helped to pass the long evenings. And, as Mrs Williamspointed out, in reply to some rather strong remarks from Mr Williams onthe subject of packs of young fools who made it impossible for a man toget a quiet smoke in his own home, it kept them out of the public-houses. 

Tom Kitchener, meanwhile, observed the invasion with growing dismay. Shyness barred him from the evening gatherings, and what was going onin that house, with young bloods like Ted Pringle, Albert Parsons, Arthur Brown, and Joe Blossom (to name four of the most assiduous)exercising their fascinations at close range, he did not like tothink. Again and again he strove to brace himself up to join the feastsof reason and flows of soul which he knew were taking place nightlyaround the object of his devotions, but every time he failed. Habit isa terrible thing; it shackles the strongest, and Tom had fallen intothe habit of inquiring after Mr Williams' rheumatism over the gardenfence first thing in the morning. 

It was a civil, neighbourly thing to do, but it annihilated the onlyexcuse he could think of for looking in at night. He could not helphimself. It was like some frightful scourge--the morphine habit, orsomething of that sort. Every morning he swore to himself that nothingwould induce him to mention the subject of rheumatism, but no soonerhad the stricken old gentleman's head appeared above the fence thanout it came. 

'Morning, Mr Williams. '

'Morning, Tom. '

Pause, indicative of a strong man struggling with himself; then:

'How's the rheumatism, Mr Williams?'

'Better, thank'ee, Tom. '

And there he was, with his guns spiked. 

However, he did not give up. He brought to his wooing the samedetermination which had made him second gardener at the Hall attwenty-five. He was a novice at the game, but instinct told him that agood line of action was to shower gifts. He did so. All he had to showerwas vegetables, and he showered them in a way that would have caused thegoddess Ceres to be talked about. His garden became a perfect crater, erupting vegetables. Why vegetables? I think I hear some heckler cry. Why not flowers--fresh, fair, fragrant flowers? You can do a lot withflowers. Girls love them. There is poetry in them. And, what is more, there is a recognized language of flowers. Shoot in a rose, or acalceolaria, or an herbaceous border, or something, I gather, and youhave made a formal proposal of marriage without any of the trouble ofrehearsing a long speech and practising appropriate gestures in frontof your bedroom looking-glass. Why, then, did not Thomas Kitchener giveSally Preston flowers? Well, you see, unfortunately, it was now lateautumn, and there were no flowers. Nature had temporarily exhausted herfloral blessings, and was jogging along with potatoes and artichokesand things. Love is like that. It invariably comes just at the wrongtime. A few months before there had been enough roses in TomKitchener's garden to win the hearts of a dozen girls. Now there wereonly vegetables, 'Twas ever thus. 

It was not to be expected that a devotion so practically displayedshould escape comment. This was supplied by that shrewd observer, oldMr Williams. He spoke seriously to Tom across the fence on the subjectof his passion. 

'Young Tom, ' he said, 'drop it. '

Tom muttered unintelligibly. Mr Williams adjusted the top-hat withoutwhich he never stirred abroad, even into his garden. He blinkedbenevolently at Tom. 

'You're making up to that young gal of Jane's, ' he proceeded. 'Youcan't deceive _me_. All these p'taties, and what not. _I_ seenyour game fast enough. Just you drop it, young Tom. '

'Why?' muttered Tom, rebelliously. A sudden distaste for old MrWilliams blazed within him. 

'Why? 'Cos you'll only burn your fingers if you don't, that's why. Ibeen watching this young gal of Jane's, and I seen what sort of a younggal she be. She's a flipperty piece, that's what she be. You marry thatyoung gal, Tom, and you'll never have no more quiet and happiness. She'd just take and turn the place upsy-down on you. The man as marriesthat young gal has got to be master in his own home. He's got to showher what's what. Now, you ain't got the devil in you to do that, Tom. You're what I might call a sort of a sheep. I admires it in you, Tom. Ilike to see a young man steady and quiet, same as what you be. Sothat's how it is, you see. Just you drop this foolishness, young Tom, and leave that young gal be, else you'll burn your fingers, same aswhat I say. '

And, giving his top-hat a rakish tilt, the old gentleman ambledindoors, satisfied that he had dropped a guarded hint in a pleasant andtactful manner. 

It is to be supposed that this interview stung Tom to swift action. Otherwise, one cannot explain why he should not have been just asreticent on the subject nearest his heart when bestowing on Sally thetwenty-seventh cabbage as he had been when administering the hundredand sixtieth potato. At any rate, the fact remains that, as thatfateful vegetable changed hands across the fence, something resemblinga proposal of marriage did actually proceed from him. As a sustainedpiece of emotional prose it fell short of the highest standard. Most ofit was lost at the back of his throat, and what did emerge was mainlyinaudible. However, as she distinctly caught the word 'love' twice, andas Tom was shuffling his feet and streaming with perspiration, andlooking everywhere at once except at her, Sally grasped the situation. Whereupon, without any visible emotion, she accepted him. 

Tom had to ask her to repeat her remark. He could not believe hisluck. It is singular how diffident a normally self-confident man canbecome, once he is in love. When Colonel Milvery, of the Hall, hadinformed him of his promotion to the post of second gardener, Tom haddemanded no _encore_. He knew his worth. He was perfectly awarethat he was a good gardener, and official recognition of the fact lefthim gratified, but unperturbed. But this affair of Sally was quiteanother matter. It had revolutionized his standards of value--forcedhim to consider himself as a man, entirely apart from his skill as agardener. And until this moment he had had grave doubt as to whether, apart from his skill as a gardener, he amounted to much. 

He was overwhelmed. He kissed Sally across the fence humbly. Sally, forher part, seemed very unconcerned about it all. A more critical manthan Thomas Kitchener might have said that, to all appearances, thething rather bored Sally. 

'Don't tell anybody just yet, ' she stipulated. 

Tom would have given much to be allowed to announce his triumphdefiantly to old Mr Williams, to say nothing of making a considerablenoise about it in the village; but her wish was law, and he reluctantlyagreed. 

 * * * * *

There are moments in a man's life when, however enthusiastic agardener he may be, his soul soars above vegetables. Tom's shot with ajerk into the animal kingdom. The first present he gave Sally in hiscapacity of fiance was a dog. 

It was a half-grown puppy with long legs and a long tail, belongingto no one species, but generously distributing itself among about six. Sally loved it, and took it with her wherever she went. And on one ofthese rambles down swooped Constable Cobb, the village policeman, pointing out that, contrary to regulations, the puppy had no collar. 

It is possible that a judicious meekness on Sally's part might haveaverted disaster. Mr Cobb was human, and Sally was lookingparticularly attractive that morning. Meekness, however, did not comeeasily to Sally. In a speech which began as argument and ended (MrCobb proving solid and unyielding) as pure cheek, she utterly routedthe constable. But her victory was only a moral one, for as she turnedto go Mr Cobb, dull red and puffing slightly, was already enteringparticulars of the affair in his note-book, and Sally knew that thelast word was with him. 

On her way back she met Tom Kitchener. He was looking very tough andstrong, and at the sight of him a half-formed idea, which she hadregretfully dismissed as impracticable, of assaulting Constable Cobb, returned to her in an amended form. Tom did not know it, but thereason why she smiled so radiantly upon him at that moment was that shehad just elected him to the post of hired assassin. While she did notwant Constable Cobb actually assassinated, she earnestly desired himto have his helmet smashed down over his eyes; and it seemed to herthat Tom was the man to do it. 

She poured out her grievance to him and suggested her scheme. She evenelaborated it. 

'Why shouldn't you wait for him one night and throw him into the creek?It isn't deep, and it's jolly muddy. '

'Um!' said Tom, doubtfully. 

'It would just teach him, ' she pointed out. 

But the prospect of undertaking the higher education of the police didnot seem to appeal to Tom. In his heart he rather sympathized withConstable Cobb. He saw the policeman's point of view. It is all verywell to talk, but when you are stationed in a sleepy village where noone ever murders, or robs, or commits arson, or even gets drunk anddisorderly in the street, a puppy without a collar is simply a godsend. A man must look out for himself. 

He tried to make this side of the question clear to Sally, but failedsignally. She took a deplorable view of his attitude. 

'I might have known you'd have been afraid, ' she said, with acontemptuous jerk of her chin. 'Good morning. '

Tom flushed. He knew he had never been afraid of anything in his life, except her; but nevertheless the accusation stung. And as he was stillafraid of her he stammered as he began to deny the charge. 

'Oh, leave off!' said Sally, irritably. 'Suck a lozenge. '

'I'm not afraid, ' said Tom, condensing his remarks to their minimum ashis only chance of being intelligible. 

'You are. '

'I'm not. It's just that I--'

A nasty gleam came into Sally's eyes. Her manner was haughty. 

'It doesn't matter. ' She paused. 'I've no doubt Ted Pringle will dowhat I want. '

For all her contempt, she could not keep a touch of uneasiness from hereyes as she prepared to make her next remark. There was a look aboutTom's set jaw which made her hesitate. But her temper had run away withher, and she went on. 

'I am sure he will, ' she said. 'When we became engaged he said that hewould do anything for me. '

There are some speeches that are such conversational knockout blowsthat one can hardly believe that life will ever pick itself up and goon again after them. Yet it does. The dramatist brings down thecurtain on such speeches. The novelist blocks his reader's path with azareba of stars. But in life there are no curtains, no stars, nothingfinal and definite--only ragged pauses and discomfort. There was sucha pause now. 

'What do you mean?' said Tom at last. 'You promised to marry me. '

'I know I did--and I promised to marry Ted Pringle!'

That touch of panic which she could not wholly repress, the panic thatcomes to everyone when a situation has run away with them like astrange, unmanageable machine, infused a shade too much of the defiantinto Sally's manner. She had wished to be cool, even casual, but shewas beginning to be afraid. Why, she could not have said. Certainly shedid not anticipate violence on Tom's part. Perhaps that was it. Perhapsit was just because he was so quiet that she was afraid. She had alwayslooked on him contemptuously as an amiable, transparent lout, and nowhe was puzzling her. She got an impression of something formidablebehind his stolidity, something that made her feel mean andinsignificant. 

She fought against the feeling, but it gripped her; and, in spite ofherself, she found her voice growing shrill and out of control. 

'I promised to marry Ted Pringle, and I promised to marry Joe Blossom, and I promised to marry Albert Parsons. And I was going to promise tomarry Arthur Brown and anybody else who asked me. So now you know! Itold you I'd make father take me back to London. Well, when he hearsthat I've promised to marry four different men, I bet he'll have mehome by the first train. '

She stopped. She had more to say, but she could not say it. She stoodlooking at him. And he looked at her. His face was grey and his mouthoddly twisted. Silence seemed to fall on the whole universe. 

Sally was really afraid now, and she knew it. She was feeling verysmall and defenceless in an extremely alarming world. She could nothave said what it was that had happened to her. She only knew that lifehad become of a sudden very vivid, and that her ideas as to what wasamusing had undergone a striking change. A man's development is a slowand steady process of the years--a woman's a thing of an instant. Inthe silence which followed her words Sally had grown up. 

Tom broke the silence. 

'Is that true?' he said. 

His voice made her start. He had spoken quietly, but there was a newnote in it, strange to her. Just as she could not have said what it wasthat had happened to her, so now she could not have said what hadhappened to Tom. He, too, had changed, but how she did not know. Yetthe explanation was simple. He also had, in a sense, grown up. He wasno longer afraid of her. 

He stood thinking. Hours seemed to pass. 

'Come along!' he said, at last, and he began to move off down the road. 

Sally followed. The possibility of refusing did not enter her mind. 

'Where are you going?' she asked. It was unbearable, this silence. 

He did not answer. 

In this fashion, he leading, she following, they went down the roadinto a lane, and through a gate into a field. They passed into a secondfield, and as they did so Sally's heart gave a leap. Ted Pringle wasthere. 

Ted Pringle was a big young man, bigger even than Tom Kitchener, and, like Tom, he was of silent habit. He eyed the little processioninquiringly, but spoke no word. There was a pause. 

'Ted, ' said Tom, 'there's been a mistake. '

He stepped quickly to Sally's side, and the next moment he had swungher off her feet and kissed her. 

To the type of mind that Millbourne breeds, actions speak louder thanwords, and Ted Pringle, who had gaped, gaped no more. He sprangforward, and Tom, pushing Sally aside, turned to meet him. 

I cannot help feeling a little sorry for Ted Pringle. In the light ofwhat happened, I could wish that it were possible to portray him as ahulking brute of evil appearance and worse morals--the sort of personconcerning whom one could reflect comfortably that he deserved all hegot. I should like to make him an unsympathetic character, over whosedownfall the reader would gloat. But honesty compels me to own that Tedwas a thoroughly decent young man in every way. He was a good citizen, a dutiful son, and would certainly have made an excellent husband. Furthermore, in the dispute on hand he had right on his side fully asmuch as Tom. The whole affair was one of those elemental clashings ofman and man where the historian cannot sympathize with either side atthe expense of the other, but must confine himself to a mere statementof what occurred. And, briefly, what occurred was that Tom, bringing tothe fray a pent-up fury which his adversary had had no time togenerate, fought Ted to a complete standstill in the space of twominutes and a half. 

Sally had watched the proceedings, sick and horrified. She had neverseen men fight before, and the terror of it overwhelmed her. Hervanity received no pleasant stimulation from the thought that it wasfor her sake that this storm had been let loose. For the moment hervanity was dead, stunned by collision with the realities. She foundherself watching in a dream. She saw Ted fall, rise, fall again, andlie where he had fallen; and then she was aware that Tom was speaking. 

'Come along!'

She hung back. Ted was lying very still. Gruesome ideas presentedthemselves. She had just accepted them as truth when Ted wriggled. Hewriggled again. Then he sat up suddenly, looked at her with unseeingeyes, and said something in a thick voice. She gave a little sob ofrelief. It was ghastly, but not so ghastly as what she had beenimagining. 

Somebody touched her arm. Tom was by her side, grim and formidable. Hewas wiping blood from his face. 

'Come along!'

She followed him without a word. And presently, behold, in anotherfield, whistling meditatively and regardless of impending ill, AlbertParsons. 

In everything that he did Tom was a man of method. He did not departfrom his chosen formula. 

'Albert, ' he said, 'there's been a mistake. '

And Albert gaped, as Ted had gaped. 

Tom kissed Sally with the gravity of one performing a ritual. 

The uglinesses of life, as we grow accustomed to them, lose their powerto shock, and there is no doubt that Sally looked with a different eyeupon this second struggle. She was conscious of a thrill ofexcitement, very different from the shrinking horror which had seizedher before. Her stunned vanity began to tingle into life again. Thefight was raging furiously over the trampled turf, and quite suddenly, as she watched, she was aware that her heart was with Tom. 

It was no longer two strange brutes fighting in a field. It was her manbattling for her sake. 

She desired overwhelmingly that he should win, that he should not behurt, that he should sweep triumphantly over Albert Parsons as he hadswept over Ted Pringle. 

Unfortunately, it was evident, even to her, that he was being hurt, andthat he was very far from sweeping triumphantly over Albert Parsons. Hehad not allowed himself time to recover from his first battle, and hisblows were slow and weary. Albert, moreover, was made of sterner stuffthan Ted. Though now a peaceful tender of cows, there had been a timein his hot youth when, travelling with a circus, he had fought, weekin, week out, relays of just such rustic warriors as Tom. He knew theirmethods--their headlong rushes, their swinging blows. They were themerest commonplaces of life to him. He slipped Tom, he side-steppedTom, he jabbed Tom; he did everything to Tom that a trained boxer cando to a reckless novice, except knock the fight out of him, untilpresently, through the sheer labour of hitting, he, too, grew weary. 

Now, in the days when Albert Parsons had fought whole families of Tomsin an evening, he had fought in rounds, with the boss holding thewatch, and half-minute rests, and water to refresh him, and all orderlyand proper. Today there were no rounds, no rests, no water, and thepeaceful tending of cows had caused flesh to grow where there had beenonly muscle. Tom's headlong rushes became less easy to side-step, hisswinging blows more difficult than the scientific counter that shot outto check them. As he tired Tom seemed to regain strength. The tide ofthe battle began to ebb. He clinched, and Tom threw him off. Hefeinted, and while he was feinting Tom was on him. It was the climax ofthe battle--the last rally. Down went Albert, and stayed down. Physically, he was not finished; but in his mind a question had frameditself--the question. 'Was it worth it?'--and he was answering, 'No. 'There were other girls in the world. No girl was worth all thistrouble. 

He did not rise. 

'Come along!' said Tom. 

He spoke thickly. His breath was coming in gasps. He was a terriblespectacle, but Sally was past the weaker emotions. She was back in theStone Age, and her only feeling was one of passionate pride. She triedto speak. She struggled to put all she felt into words, but somethingkept her dumb, and she followed him in silence. 

In the lane outside his cottage, down by the creek, Joe Blossom wasclipping a hedge. The sound of footsteps made him turn. 

He did not recognize Tom till he spoke. 

'Joe, there's been a mistake, ' said Tom. 

'Been a gunpowder explosion, more like, ' said Joe, a simple, practicalman. 'What you been doin' to your face?'

'She's going to marry me, Joe. '

Joe eyed Sally inquiringly. 

'Eh? You promised to marry _me_. '

'She promised to marry all of us. You, me, Ted Pringle, and AlbertParsons. '

'Promised--to--marry--all--of--us!'

'That's where the mistake was. She's only going to marry me. I--I'vearranged it with Ted and Albert, and now I've come to explain to you, Joe. '

'You promised to marry--!'

The colossal nature of Sally's deceit was plainly troubling JoeBlossom. He expelled his breath in a long note of amazement. Then hesummed up. 

'Why you're nothing more nor less than a Joshua!'

The years that had passed since Joe had attended the villageSunday-school had weakened his once easy familiarity with thecharacters of the Old Testament. It is possible that he had somebodyelse in his mind. 

Tom stuck doggedly to his point. 

'You can't marry her, Joe. '

Joe Blossom raised his shears and clipped a protruding branch. Thepoint under discussion seemed to have ceased to interest him. 

'Who wants to?' he said. 'Good riddance!'

They went down the lane. Silence still brooded over them. The wordsshe wanted continued to evade her. 

They came to a grassy bank. Tom sat down. He was feeling unutterablytired. 

'Tom!'

He looked up. His mind was working dizzily. 

'You're going to marry me, ' he muttered. 

She sat down beside him. 

'I know, ' she said. 'Tom, dear, lay your head on my lap and go tosleep. '

If this story proves anything (beyond the advantage of being in goodtraining when you fight), it proves that you cannot get away from themoving pictures even in a place like Millbourne; for as Sally satthere, nursing Tom, it suddenly struck her that this was the verysituation with which that 'Romance of the Middle Ages' film ended. Youknow the one I mean. Sir Percival Ye Something (which has slipped mymemory for the moment) goes out after the Holy Grail; meets damsel indistress; overcomes her persecutors; rescues her; gets wounded, and isnursed back to life in her arms. Sally had seen it a dozen times. Andevery time she had reflected that the days of romance are dead, andthat that sort of thing can't happen nowadays. 

DEEP WATERS

Historians of the social life of the later Roman Empire speak of acertain young man of Ariminum, who would jump into rivers and swim in'em. When his friends said, 'You fish!' he would answer, 'Oh, pish!Fish can't swim like _me_, they've no vim in 'em. '

Just such another was George Barnert Callender. 

On land, in his land clothes, George was a young man who excited littleremark. He looked very much like other young men. He was much about theordinary height. His carriage suggested the possession of an ordinaryamount of physical strength. Such was George--on shore. But remove hisclothes, drape him in a bathing-suit, and insert him in the water, andinstantly, like the gentleman in _The Tempest_, he 'suffered asea-change into something rich and strange. ' Other men puffed, snorted, and splashed. George passed through the ocean with the silent dignity ofa torpedo. Other men swallowed water, here a mouthful, there a pint, anon, maybe, a quart or so, and returned to the shore like founderingderelicts. George's mouth had all the exclusiveness of a fashionableclub. His breast-stroke was a thing to see and wonder at. When he didthe crawl, strong men gasped. When he swam on his back, you felt thatthat was the only possible method of progression. 

George came to Marvis Bay at about five o'clock one evening in July. Marvis Bay has a well-established reputation as a summer resort, and, while not perhaps in every respect the paradise which the excitablewriter of the local guide-book asserts it to be, on the whole it earnsits reputation. Its sands are smooth and firm, sloping almostimperceptibly into the ocean. There is surf for those who like it, andsmoother water beyond for those whose ideals in bathing are notconfined to jumping up and down on a given jelly-fish. At the northernend of the beach there is a long pier. It was to this that George madehis way on his arrival. 

It was pleasant on the pier. Once you had passed the initial zareba offruit stands, souvenir stands, ice-cream stands, and the lair of theenthusiast whose aim in life it was to sell you picture post-cards, andhad won through to the long walk where the seats were, you werepractically alone with Nature. At this hour of the day the place wasdeserted; George had it to himself. He strolled slowly along. The waterglittered under the sun-rays, breaking into a flurry of white foam asit reached the beach. A cool breeze blew. The whole scenic arrangementswere a great improvement on the stuffy city he had left. Not thatGeorge had come to Marvis Bay with the single aim of finding anantidote to metropolitan stuffiness. There was a more important reason. In three days Marvis Bay was to be the scene of the production of_Fate's Footballs_, a comedy in four acts by G. Barnert Callender. For George, though you would not have suspected it from his exterior, was one of those in whose cerebra the grey matter splashes restlesslyabout, producing strong curtains and crisp dialogue. The company wasdue at Marvis Bay on the following evening for the last spasm ofrehearsals. 

George's mind, as he paced the pier, was divided between the beautiesof Nature and the forthcoming crisis in his affairs in the ratio ofone-eighth to the former and seven-eighths to the latter. At the momentwhen he had left London, thoroughly disgusted with the entiretheatrical world in general and the company which was rehearsing_Fate's Footballs_ in particular, rehearsals had just reached thatstage of brisk delirium when the author toys with his bottle of poisonand the stage-manager becomes icily polite. _The Footpills_--asArthur Mifflin, the leading juvenile in the great play, insisted uponcalling it, much to George's disapproval--was his first piece. Neverbefore had he been in one of those kitchens where many cooks prepare, and sometimes spoil, the theatrical broth. Consequently the chaosseemed to him unique. Had he been a more experienced dramatist, he wouldhave said to himself, 'Twas ever thus. ' As it was, what he said tohimself--and others--was more forcible. 

He was trying to dismiss the whole thing from his mind--a feat whichhad hitherto proved beyond his powers--when Fate, in an unusuallykindly mood, enabled him to do so in a flash by presenting to hisjaundiced gaze what, on consideration, he decided was the mostbeautiful girl he had ever seen. 'When a man's afraid, ' shrewdly singsthe bard, 'a beautiful maid is a cheering sight to see'. In the presentinstance the sight acted on George like a tonic. He forgot that the ladyto whom an injudicious management had assigned the role of heroine in_Fate's Footballs_ invariably--no doubt from the best motives--omittedto give the cynical _roue_ his cue for the big speech in Act IIIHis mind no longer dwelt on the fact that Arthur Mifflin, an estimableperson in private life, and one who had been a friend of his atCambridge, preferred to deliver the impassioned lines of the greatrenunciation scene in a manner suggesting a small boy (and a suffererfrom nasal catarrh at that) speaking a piece at a Sunday-school treat. The recollection of the hideous depression and gloom which the leadingcomedian had radiated in great clouds fled from him like some grislynightmare before the goddess of day. Every cell in his brain wasoccupied, to the exclusion of all other thoughts, by the girl swimmingin the water below. 

She swam well. His practised eye saw that. Her strong, easy strokescarried her swiftly over the swell of the waves. He stared, transfixed. He was a well-brought-up young man, and he knew how ill-bred it was tostare; but this was a special occasion. Ordinary rules of conventionaletiquette could not apply to a case like this. He stared. More, hegaped. As the girl passed on into the shadow of the pier he leanedfarther over the rail, and his neck extended in joints like atelescope. 

At this point the girl turned to swim on her back. Her eyes met his. Hers were deep and clear; his, bulging. For what seemed an eternity toGeorge, she continued to look at him. Then, turning over again, sheshot past under the pier. 

George's neck was now at its full stretch. No power of will or musclecould add another yard to it. Realizing this, he leaned farther overthe rail, and farther still. His hat slid from his hand. He grabbed atit, and, overbalancing, fell with a splash into the water. 

Now, in ordinary circumstances, to fall twelve feet into the ocean withall his clothes on would have incommoded George little. He would hardlyhave noticed it. He would have swum to shore with merely a feeling ofamused self-reproach akin to that of the man who absent-mindedly walksinto a lamp-post in the street. When, therefore, he came to thesurface he prepared without agitation to strike out in his usual boldfashion. At this moment, however, two hands, grasping him beneath thearms, lifted his head still farther from the waves, and a voice in hisear said, 'Keep still; don't struggle. There's no danger. '

George did not struggle. His brain, working with the cool rapidity of abuzz-saw in an ice-box, had planned a line of action. Few things aremore difficult in this world for a young man than the securing of anintroduction to the right girl under just the right conditions. When heis looking his best he is presented to her in the midst of a crowd, andis swept away after a rapid hand-shake. When there is no crowd he hastoothache, or the sun has just begun to make his nose peel. Thousandsof young lives have been saddened in this manner. 

How different was George's case! By this simple accident, he reflected, as, helping the good work along with an occasional surreptitiousleg-stroke, he was towed shorewards, there had been formed anacquaintanceship, if nothing more, which could not lightly be broken. Agirl who has saved a man from drowning cannot pass him by next day witha formal bow. And what a girl, too! There had been a time, in extremeyouth, when his feminine ideal was the sort of girl who has fuzzy, golden hair, and drops things. Indeed in his first year at theUniversity he had said--and written--as much to one of the type, theepisode concluding with a strong little drama, in which a wrathful, cheque-signing father had starred, supported by a subdued, misogynisticson. Which things, aided by the march of time, had turned George'stastes towards the healthy, open-air girl, who did things instead ofdropping them. 

The pleasantest functions must come to an end sooner or later; and indue season George felt his heels grate on the sand. His preserverloosed her hold. They stood up and faced each other. George began toexpress his gratitude as best he could--it was not easy to find neat, convincing sentences on the spur of the moment--but she cut him short. 

'Of course, it was nothing. Nothing at all, ' she said, brushing thesea-water from her eyes. 'It was just lucky I happened to be there. '

'It was splendid, ' said the infatuated dramatist. 'It was magnificent. It--'

He saw that she was smiling. 

'You're very wet, ' she said. 

George glanced down at his soaked clothes. It had been a nice suitonce. 

'Hadn't you better hurry back and change into something dry?'

Looking round about him, George perceived that sundry of theinquisitive were swooping down, with speculation in their eyes. It wastime to depart. 

'Have you far to go?'

'Not far. I'm staying at the Beach View Hotel. '

'Why, so am I. I hope we shall meet again. '

'We shall, ' said George confidently. 

'How did you happen to fall in?'

'I was--er--I was looking at something in the water. '

'I thought you were, ' said the girl, quietly. 

George blushed. 

'I know, ' he said, 'it was abominably rude of me to stare like that;but--'

'You should learn to swim, ' interrupted the girl. 'I can't understandwhy every boy in the country isn't made to learn to swim before he'sten years old. And it isn't a bit difficult, really. I could teach youin a week. '

The struggle between George and George's conscience was brief. Theconscience, weak by nature and flabby from long want of exercise, hadno sort of chance from the start. 

'I wish you would, ' said George. And with those words he realized thathe had definitely committed himself to his hypocritical role. Tillthat moment explanation would have been difficult, but possible. Now itwas impossible. 

'I will, ' said the girl. 'I'll start tomorrow if you like. ' She wadedinto the water. 

'We'll talk it over at the hotel, ' she said, hastily. 'Here comes acrowd of horrid people. I'm going to swim out again. '

She hurried into deeper water, while George, turning, made his waythrough a growing throng of goggling spectators. Of the fifteen who gotwithin speaking distance of him, six told him that he was wet. Theother nine asked him if he had fallen. 

 * * * * *

Her name was Vaughan, and she was visiting Marvis Bay in company withan aunt. So much George ascertained from the management of the hotel. Later, after dinner, meeting both ladies on the esplanade, he gleanedfurther information--to wit, that her first name was Mary, that heraunt was glad to make his acquaintance, liked Marvis Bay but preferredTrouville, and thought it was getting a little chilly and would goindoors. 

The elimination of the third factor had a restorative effect uponGeorge's conversation, which had begun to languish. In feminine societyas a rule he was apt to be constrained, but with Mary Vaughan it wasdifferent. Within a couple of minutes he was pouring out his troubles. The cue-withholding leading lady, the stick-like Mifflin, the funerealcomedian--up they all came, and she, gently sympathetic, wasendeavouring, not without success, to prove to him that things were notso bad as they seemed. 

'It's sure to be all right on the night, ' she said. 

How rare is the combination of beauty and intelligence! George thoughthe had never heard such a clear-headed, well-expressed remark. 

'I suppose it will, ' he said, 'but they were very bad when I left. Mifflin, for instance. He seems to think Nature intended him for aNapoleon of Advertising. He has a bee in his bonnet about booming thepiece. Sits up at nights, when he ought to be sleeping or studying hispart, thinking out new schemes for advertising the show. And thecomedian. His speciality is drawing me aside and asking me to write innew scenes for him. I couldn't stand it any longer. I just came awayand left them to fight it out among themselves. '

'I'm sure you have no need to worry. A play with such a good story iscertain to succeed. '

George had previously obliged with a brief description of the plot of_The Footpills_. 

'Did you like the story?' he said, tenderly. 

'I thought it was fine. '

'How sympathetic you are!' cooed George, glutinously, edging a littlecloser. 'Do you know--'

'Shall we be going back to the hotel?' said the girl. 

 * * * * *

Those noisome creatures, the hired murderers of _Fate's Footpills_, descended upon Marvis Bay early next afternoon, and George, meetingthem at the station, in reluctant pursuance of a promise given toArthur Mifflin, felt moodily that, if only they could make theiracting one-half as full of colour as their clothes, the play would beone of the most pronounced successes of modern times. In the forefrontgleamed, like the white plumes of Navarre, the light flannel suit ofArthur Mifflin, the woodenest juvenile in captivity. 

His woodenness was, however, confined to stage rehearsals. It may bementioned that, once the run of a piece had begun, he was sufficientlyvolatile, and in private life he was almost excessively so--a factwhich had been noted at an early date by the keen-eyed authorities ofhis University, the discovery leading to his tearing himself away fromAlma Mater by request with some suddenness. He was a long, slenderyouth, with green eyes, jet-black hair, and a passionate fondness forthe sound of his own voice. 

'Well, here we are, ' he said, kicking breezily at George's leg with hiscane. 

'I saw you, ' said George, coldly, side-stepping. 

'The whole team, ' continued Mr Mifflin; 'all bright, bonny, and trainedto the minute. '

'What happened after I left?' George asked. 'Has anybody begun to actyet? Or are they waiting till the dress-rehearsal?'

'The rehearsals, ' admitted Mr Mifflin, handsomely, 'weren't perfect;but you wait. It'll be all right on the night. '

George thought he had never heard such a futile, vapid remark. 

'Besides, ' said Mr Mifflin, 'I have an idea which will make the show. Lend me your ear--both ears. You shall have them back. Tell me: whatpulls people into a theatre? A good play? Sometimes. But failing that, as in the present case, what? Fine acting by the leading juvenile? Wehave that, but it is not enough. No, my boy; advertisement is thething. Look at all these men on the beach. Are they going to roll in oftheir own free wills to see a play like _The Footpills_? Not onyour life. About the time the curtain rises every man of them will besitting in his own private corner of the beach--'

'How many corners do you think the beach has?'

'Gazing into a girl's eyes, singing, "Shine on, thou harvest moon", andtelling her how his boss is practically dependent on his advice. Youknow. '

'I don't, ' said George, coldly. 

'Unless, ' proceeded Mr Mifflin, 'we advertise. And by advertise, Imean advertise in the right way. We have a Press-agent, but for all thegood he does he might be back on the old farm, gathering in the hay. Luckily for us, I am among those present. I have brains, I haveresource. What's that?'

'I said nothing. '

'I thought you did. Well, I have an idea which will drag these peoplelike a magnet. I thought it out coming down in the train. '

'What is it?'

'I'll tell you later. There are a few details to be worked upon first. Meanwhile, let us trickle to the sea-front and take a sail in one ofthose boats. I am at my best in a boat. I rather fancy Nature intendedme for a Viking. '

Matters having been arranged with the financier to whom the boatbelonged, they set forth. Mr Mifflin, having remarked, 'Yo-ho!' in ameditative voice, seated himself at the helm, somewhat saddened by hisfailure to borrow a quid of tobacco from the _Ocean Beauty's_proprietor. For, as he justly observed, without properties and make-up, where were you? George, being skilled in the ways of boats, was incharge of the sheet. The summer day had lost its oppressive heat. Thesun no longer beat down on the face of the waters. A fresh breeze hadsprung up. George, manipulating the sheet automatically, fell into areverie. A moment comes in the life of every man when an inward voicewhispers to him, 'This is The One!' In George's case the voice had notwhispered; it had shouted. From now onward there could be but one womanin the world for him. From now onwards--The _Ocean Beauty_ gave asudden plunge. George woke up. 

'What the deuce are you doing with that tiller?' he inquired. 

'My gentle somnambulist, ' said Mr Mifflin, aggrieved, 'I was doingnothing with this tiller. We will now form a commission to inquire intowhat you were doing with that sheet. Were you asleep?'

'My fault, ' said George; 'I was thinking. '

'If you must break the habit of a lifetime, ' said Mr Mifflin, complainingly, 'I wish you would wait till we get ashore. You nearlyupset us. '

'It shan't happen again. They are tricky, these sailing boats--turnover in a second. Whatever you do, don't get her broadside on. There'smore breeze out here than I thought there was. '

Mr Mifflin uttered a startled exclamation. 

'What's the matter?' asked George. 

'Just like a flash, ' said Mr Mifflin, complacently. 'It's always theway with me. Give me time, and the artistic idea is bound to come. Justsome little thought, some little, apparently obvious, idea which stampsthe man of genius. It beats me why I didn't think of it before. Why, ofcourse, a costume piece with a male star is a hundred times moreeffective. '

'What are you talking about?'

'I see now, ' continued Mr Mifflin, 'that there was a flaw in myoriginal plan. My idea was this. We were talking in the train aboutthe bathing down here, and Jane happened to say she could swim some, and it suddenly came to me. '

Jane was the leading woman, she who omitted to give cues. 

'I said to myself, "George is a sportsman. He will be delighted to doa little thing like that". '

'Like to do what?'

'Why, rescue Jane. '

'What!'

'She and you, ' said Mr Mifflin, 'were to go in swimming together, while I waited on the sands, holding our bone-headed Press-agent on aleash. About a hundred yards from the shore up go her arms. Piercingscream. Agitated crowds on the beach. What is the matter? What hashappened? A touch of cramp. Will she be drowned? No! G. BarnertCallender, author of _Fate's Footballs_, which opens at the BeachTheatre on Monday evening next, at eight-fifteen sharp, will save her. See! He has her. He is bringing her in. She is safe. How pleased hermother will be! And the public, what a bit of luck for them! They willbe able to see her act at eight-fifteen sharp on Monday after all. Backyou come to the shore. Cheering crowds. Weeping women. Strongsituation. I unleash the Press-agent, and off he shoots, in time to getthe story into the evening paper. It was a great idea, but I see nowthere were one or two flaws in it. '

'You do, do you?' said George. 

'It occurs to me on reflection that after all you wouldn't have agreedto it. A something, I don't know what, which is lacking in your nature, would have made you reject the scheme. '

'I'm glad that occurred to you. '

'And a far greater flaw was that it was too altruistic. It boomed youand it boomed Jane, but I didn't get a thing out of it. My revisedscheme is a thousand times better in every way. '

'Don't say you have another. '

'I have. And, ' added Mr Mifflin, with modest pride, 'it is a winner. This time I unhesitatingly assert that I have the goods. In about oneminute from now you will hear me exclaim, in a clear musical voice, thesingle word, "Jump!" That is your cue to leap over the side as quick asyou can move, for at that precise moment this spanking craft is goingto capsize. '

George spun round in his seat. Mr Mifflin's face was shining withkindly enthusiasm. The shore was at least two hundred yards away, andthat morning he had had his first swimming-lesson. 

'A movement of the tiller will do it. These accidents are commonobjects of the seashore. I may mention that I can swim just enough tokeep myself afloat; so it's up to you. I wouldn't do this for everyone, but, seeing that we were boys together--Are you ready?'

'Stop!' cried George. 'Don't do it! Listen!'

'Are you ready?'

The _Ocean Beauty_ gave a plunge. 

'You lunatic! Listen to me. It--'

'Jump!' said Mr Mifflin. 

George came to the surface some yards from the overturned boat, and, looking round for Mr Mifflin, discovered that great thinker treadingwater a few feet away. 

'Get to work, George, ' he remarked. 

It is not easy to shake one's fist at a man when in deep water, butGeorge managed it. 

'For twopence, ' he cried, 'I'd leave you to look after yourself. '

'You can do better than that, ' said Mr Mifflin. 'I'll give youthreepence to tow me in. Hurry up. It's cold. '

In gloomy silence George gripped him by the elbows. Mr Mifflin lookedover his shoulder. 

'We shall have a good house, ' he said. 'The stalls are full already, and the dress-circle's filling. Work away, George, you're doing fine. This act is going to be a scream from start to finish. '

With pleasant conversation he endeavoured to while away the monotony ofthe journey; but George made no reply. He was doing some rapidthinking. With ordinary luck, he felt bitterly, all would have beenwell. He could have gone on splashing vigorously under his teacher'scare for a week, gradually improving till he emerged into a reasonablyproficient swimmer. But now! In an age of miracles he might haveexplained away his present performance; but how was he to--And thenthere came to him an idea--simple, as all great ideas are, butmagnificent. 

He stopped and trod water. 

'Tired?' said Mr Mifflin. 'Well, take a rest, ' he added, kindly, 'takea rest. No need to hurry. '

'Look here, ' said George, 'this piece is going to be recast. We'regoing to exchange parts. You're rescuing me. See? Never mind why. Ihaven't time to explain it to you now. Do you understand?'

'No, ' said Mr Mifflin. 

'I'll get behind you and push you; but don't forget, when we get to theshore, that you've done the rescuing. '

Mr Mifflin pondered. 

'Is this wise?' he said. 'It is a strong part, the rescuer, but I'm notsure the other wouldn't suit my style better. The silent hand-grip, thecatch in the voice. You want a practised actor for that. I don't thinkyou'd be up to it, George. '

'Never mind about me. That's how it's going to be. '

Mr Mifflin pondered once more. 

'No, ' he said at length, 'it wouldn't do. You mean well, George, but itwould kill the show. We'll go on as before. '

'Will we?' said George, unpleasantly. 'Would you like to know what I'mgoing to do to you, then? I'm going to hit you very hard under the jaw, and I'm going to take hold of your neck and squeeze it till you loseconsciousness, and then I'm going to drag you to the beach and tellpeople I had to hit you because you lost your head and struggled. '

Mr Mifflin pondered for the third time. 

'You are?' he said. 

'I am, ' said George. 

'Then, ' said Mr Mifflin, cordially, 'say no more. I take your point. Myobjections are removed. But, ' he concluded, 'this is the last time Icome bathing with you, George. '

Mr Mifflin's artistic misgivings as to his colleague's ability tohandle so subtle a part as that of rescuee were more than justified ontheir arrival. A large and interested audience had collected by thetime they reached the shore, an audience to which any artist shouldhave been glad to play; but George, forcing his way through, hurried tothe hotel without attempting to satisfy them. Not a single silenthand-shake did he bestow on his rescuer. There was no catch in his voiceas he made the one remark which he did make--to a man with whiskers whoasked him if the boat had upset. As an exhibition of rapid footworkhis performance was good. In other respects it was poor. 

He had just changed his wet clothes--it seemed to him that he hadbeen doing nothing but change his wet clothes since he had come toMarvis Bay--when Mr Mifflin entered in a bathrobe. 

'They lent me this downstairs, ' he explained, 'while they dried myclothes. They would do anything for me. I'm the popular hero. My boy, you made the mistake of your life when you threw up the rescuer part. It has all the fat. I see that now. The rescuer plays the other man offthe stage every time. I've just been interviewed by the fellow on thelocal newspaper. He's correspondent to a couple of London papers. Thecountry will ring with this thing. I've told them all the parts I'veever played and my favourite breakfast food. There's a man coming up totake my photograph tomorrow. _Footpills_ stock has gone up with arun. Wait till Monday and see what sort of a house we shall draw. Bythe way, the reporter fellow said one funny thing. He asked if youweren't the same man who was rescued yesterday by a girl. I said ofcourse not--that you had only come down yesterday. But he stuck to itthat you were. '

'He was quite right. '

'What!'

'I was. '

Mr Mifflin sat down on the bed. 

'This fellow fell off the pier, and a girl brought him in. '

George nodded. 

'And that was you?'

George nodded. 

Mr Mifflin's eyes opened wide. 

'It's the heat, ' he declared, finally. 'That and the worry ofrehearsals. I expect a doctor could give the technical name for it. It's a what-do-you-call-it--an obsession. You often hear of cases. Fellows who are absolutely sane really, but cracked on one particularsubject. Some of them think they're teapots and things. You've got acraving for being rescued from drowning. What happens, old man? Do yousuddenly get the delusion that you can't swim? No, it can't be that, because you were doing all the swimming for the two of us just now. Idon't know, though. Maybe you didn't realize that you were swimming?'

George finished lacing his shoe and looked up. 

'Listen, ' he said; 'I'll talk slow, so that you can understand. Supposeyou fell off a pier, and a girl took a great deal of trouble to get youto the shore, would you say, "Much obliged, but you needn't have beenso officious. I can swim perfectly well?"'

Mr Mifflin considered this point. Intelligence began to dawn in hisface. 'There is more in this than meets the eye, ' he said. 'Tell meall. '

'This morning'--George's voice grew dreamy--'she gave me aswimming-lesson. She thought it was my first. Don't cackle like that. There's nothing to laugh at. '

Mr Mifflin contradicted this assertion. 

'There is you, ' he said, simply. 'This should be a lesson to you, George. Avoid deceit. In future be simple and straightforward. Take meas your model. You have managed to scrape through this time. Don't riskit again. You are young. There is still time to make a fresh start. Itonly needs will-power. Meanwhile, lend me something to wear. They aregoing to take a week drying my clothes. '

 * * * * *

There was a rehearsal at the Beach Theatre that evening. Georgeattended it in a spirit of resignation and left it in one of elation. Three days had passed since his last sight of the company at work, andin those three days, apparently, the impossible had been achieved. There was a snap and go about the piece now. The leading lady had atlength mastered that cue, and gave it out with bell-like clearness. Arthur Mifflin, as if refreshed and braced by his salt-water bath, wasinfusing a welcome vigour into his part. And even the comedian, Georgecould not help admitting, showed signs of being on the eve of becomingfunny. It was with a light heart and a light step that he made his wayback to the hotel. 

In the veranda were a number of basket-chairs. Only one was occupied. He recognized the occupant. 

'I've just come back from a rehearsal, ' he said, seating himself besideher. 

'Really?'

'The whole thing is different, ' he went on, buoyantly. 'They know theirlines. They act as if they meant it. Arthur Mifflin's fine. Thecomedian's improved till you wouldn't know him. I'm awfully pleasedabout it. '

'Really?'

George felt damped. 

'I thought you might be pleased, too, ' he said, lamely. 

'Of course I am glad that things are going well. Your accident thisafternoon was lucky, too, in a way, was it not? It will interest peoplein the play. '

'You heard about it?'

'I have been hearing about nothing else. '

'Curious it happening so soon after--'

'And so soon before the production of your play. Most curious. '

There was a silence. George began to feel uneasy. You could never tellwith women, of course. It might be nothing; but it looked uncommonly asif--

He changed the subject. 

'How is your aunt this evening, Miss Vaughan?'

'Quite well, thank you. She went in. She found it a little chilly. '

George heartily commended her good sense. A little chilly did not beginto express it. If the girl had been like this all the evening, hewondered her aunt had not caught pneumonia. He tried again. 

'Will you have time to give me another lesson tomorrow?' he said. 

She turned on him. 

'Mr Callender, don't you think this farce has gone on long enough?'

Once, in the dear, dead days beyond recall, when but a happy child, George had been smitten unexpectedly by a sportive playmate a barehalf-inch below his third waistcoat-button. The resulting emotionswere still green in his memory. As he had felt then, so did he feelnow. 

'Miss Vaughan! I don't understand. '

'Really?'

'What have I done?'

'You have forgotten how to swim. '

A warm and prickly sensation began to manifest itself in the region ofGeorge's forehead. 

'Forgotten!'

'Forgotten. And in a few months. I thought I had seen you before, andtoday I remembered. It was just about this time last year that I sawyou at Hayling Island swimming perfectly wonderfully, and today you aretaking lessons. Can you explain it?'

A frog-like croak was the best George could do in that line. 

She went on. 

'Business is business, I suppose, and a play has to be advertisedsomehow. But--'

'You don't think--' croaked George. 

'I should have thought it rather beneath the dignity of an author; but, of course, you know your own business best. Only I object to being aconspirator. I am sorry for your sake that yesterday's episodeattracted so little attention. Today it was much more satisfactory, wasn't it? I am so glad. '

There was a massive silence for about a hundred years. 

'I think I'll go for a short stroll, ' said George. 

 * * * * *

Scarcely had he disappeared when the long form of Mr Mifflin emergedfrom the shadow beyond the veranda. 

'Could you spare me a moment?'

The girl looked up. The man was a stranger. She inclined her headcoldly. 

'My name is Mifflin, ' said the other, dropping comfortably into thechair which had held the remains of George. 

The girl inclined her head again more coldly; but it took more thanthat to embarrass Mr Mifflin. Dynamite might have done it, but notcoldness. 

'_The_ Mifflin, ' he explained, crossing his legs. 'I overheardyour conversation just now. '

'You were listening?' said the girl, scornfully. 

'For all I was worth, ' said Mr Mifflin. 'These things are very much amatter of habit. For years I have been playing in pieces where I havehad to stand concealed up stage, drinking in the private conversationof other people, and the thing has become a second nature to me. However, leaving that point for a moment, what I wish to say is that Iheard you--unknowingly, of course--doing a good man a grave injustice. '

'Mr Callender could have defended himself if he had wished. '

'I was not referring to George. The injustice was to myself. '

'To you?'

'I was the sole author of this afternoon's little drama. I like George, but I cannot permit him to pose in any way as my collaborator. Georgehas old-fashioned ideas. He does not keep abreast of the times. He canwrite plays, but he needs a man with a big brain to boom them for him. So, far from being entitled to any credit for this afternoon's work, hewas actually opposed to it. '

'Then why did he pretend you had saved him?' she demanded. 

'George's, ' said Mr Mifflin, 'is essentially a chivalrous nature. Atany crisis demanding a display of the finer feelings he is there withthe goods before you can turn round. His friends frequently wranglewarmly as to whether he is most like Bayard, Lancelot, or HappyHooligan. Some say one, some the other. It seems that yesterday yousaved him from a watery grave without giving him time to explain thathe could save himself. What could he do? He said to himself, "She mustnever know!" and acted accordingly. But let us leave George, andreturn--'

'Thank you, Mr Mifflin. ' There was a break in her laugh. 'I don't thinkthere is any necessity. I think I understand now. It was very clever ofyou. '

'It was more than cleverness, ' said Mr Mifflin, rising. 'It wasgenius. '

 * * * * *

A white form came to meet George as he re-entered the veranda. 

'Mr Callender!'

He stopped. 

'I'm very sorry I said such horrid things to you just now. I have beentalking to Mr Mifflin, and I want to say I think it was ever so niceand thoughtful of you. I understand everything. '

George did not, by a good deal; but he understood sufficient for hisneeds. He shot forward as if some strong hand were behind him with aneedle. 

'Miss Vaughan--Mary--I--'

'I think I hear aunt calling, ' said she. 

 * * * * *

But a benevolent Providence has ordained that aunts cannot call forever; and it is on record that when George entered his box on the twohundredth night of that great London success, _Fate's Footballs_, he did not enter it alone. 

WHEN DOCTORS DISAGREE

It is possible that, at about the time at which this story opens, youmay have gone into the Hotel Belvoir for a hair-cut. Many people did;for the young man behind the scissors, though of a singularly gloomycountenance, was undoubtedly an artist in his line. He clippedjudiciously. He left no ridges. He never talked about the weather. Andhe allowed you to go away unburdened by any bottle of hair-food. 

It is possible, too, that, being there, you decided that you might aswell go the whole hog and be manicured at the same time. 

It is not unlikely, moreover, that when you had got over the firstshock of finding your hands so unexpectedly large and red, you feltdisposed to chat with the young lady who looked after that branch ofthe business. In your genial way you may have permitted a note of gay(but gentlemanly) badinage to creep into your end of the dialogue. 

In which case, if you had raised your eyes to the mirror, you wouldcertainly have observed a marked increase of gloom in the demeanour ofthe young man attending to your apex. He took no official notice of thematter. A quick frown. A tightening of the lips. Nothing more. Jealousas Arthur Welsh was of all who inflicted gay badinage, howevergentlemanly, on Maud Peters, he never forgot that he was an artist. Never, even in his blackest moments, had he yielded to the temptationto dig the point of the scissors the merest fraction of an inch into aclient's skull. 

But Maud, who saw, would understand. And, if the customer was anobservant man, he would notice that her replies at that juncture becamesomewhat absent, her smile a little mechanical. 

 * * * * *

Jealousy, according to an eminent authority, is the 'hydra ofcalamities, the sevenfold death'. Arthur Welsh's was all that and a bitover. It was a constant shadow on Maud's happiness. No fair-minded girlobjects to a certain tinge of jealousy. Kept within proper bounds, itis a compliment; it makes for piquancy; it is the gin in theginger-beer of devotion. But it should be a condiment, not a fluid. 

It was the unfairness of the thing which hurt Maud. Her conscience wasclear. She knew girls--several girls--who gave the young men with whomthey walked out ample excuse for being perfect Othellos. If she hadever flirted on the open beach with the baritone of the troupe ofpierrots, like Jane Oddy, she could have excused Arthur's attitude. If, like Pauline Dicey, she had roller-skated for a solid hour with ablack-moustached stranger while her fiance floundered in Mug's Alleyshe could have understood his frowning disapprovingly. But she was notlike Pauline. She scorned the coquetries of Jane. Arthur was the centreof her world, and he knew it. Ever since the rainy evening when he hadsheltered her under his umbrella to her Tube station, he had knownperfectly well how things were with her. And yet just because, in astrictly business-like way, she was civil to her customers, he mustscowl and bite his lip and behave generally as if it had been broughtto his notice that he had been nurturing a serpent in his bosom. It wasworse than wicked--it was unprofessional. 

She remonstrated with him. 

'It isn't fair, ' she said, one morning when the rush of customers hadceased and they had the shop to themselves. 

Matters had been worse than usual that morning. After days of rain andgreyness the weather had turned over a new leaf. The sun glinted amongthe bottles of Unfailing Lotion in the window, and everything in theworld seemed to have relaxed and become cheerful. Unfortunately, everything had included the customers. During the last few days theyhad taken their seats in moist gloom, and, brooding over the prospectof coming colds in the head, had had little that was pleasant to say tothe divinity who was shaping their ends. But today it had beendifferent. Warm and happy, they had bubbled over with gay small-talk. 

'It isn't fair, ' she repeated. 

Arthur, who was stropping a razor and whistling tunelessly, raised hiseyebrows. His manner was frosty. 

'I fail to understand your meaning, ' he said. 

'You know what I mean. Do you think I didn't see you frowning when Iwas doing that gentleman's nails?'

The allusion was to the client who had just left--a jovial individualwith a red face, who certainly had made Maud giggle a good deal. Andwhy not? If a gentleman tells really funny stories, what harm is therein giggling? You had to be pleasant to people. If you snubbedcustomers, what happened? Why, sooner or later, it got round to theboss, and then where were you? Besides, it was not as if the red-facedcustomer had been rude. Write down on paper what he had said to her, and nobody could object to it. Write down on paper what she had said tohim, and you couldn't object to that either. It was just Arthur'ssilliness. 

She tossed her head. 

'I am gratified, ' said Arthur, ponderously--in happier moments Maudhad admired his gift of language; he read a great deal: encyclopediasand papers and things--'I am gratified to find that you had time tobestow a glance on me. You appeared absorbed. '

Maud sniffed unhappily. She had meant to be cold and dignifiedthroughout the conversation, but the sense of her wrongs was beginningto be too much for her. A large tear splashed on to her tray oforange-sticks. She wiped it away with the chamois leather. 

'It isn't fair, ' she sobbed. 'It isn't. You know I can't help it ifgentlemen talk and joke with me. You know it's all in the day's work. I'm expected to be civil to gentlemen who come in to have their handsdone. Silly I should look sitting as if I'd swallowed a poker. I_do_ think you might understand, Arthur, you being in theprofession yourself. '

He coughed. 

'It isn't so much that you talk to them as that you seem to like--'

He stopped. Maud's dignity had melted completely. Her face was buriedin her arms. She did not care if a million customers came in, all atthe same time. 

'Maud!'

She heard him moving towards her, but she did not look up. The nextmoment his arms were round her, and he was babbling. 

And a customer, pushing open the door unnoticed two minutes later, retired hurriedly to get shaved elsewhere, doubting whether Arthur'smind was on his job. 

For a time this little thunderstorm undoubtedly cleared the air. For aday or two Maud was happier than she ever remembered to have been. Arthur's behaviour was unexceptionable. He bought her a wrist-watch--light brown leather, very smart. He gave her some chocolates to eat inthe Tube. He entertained her with amazing statistics, culled from theweekly paper which he bought on Tuesdays. He was, in short, the perfectlover. On the second day the red-faced man came in again. Arthur joinedin the laughter at his stories. Everything seemed ideal. 

It could not last. Gradually things slipped back into the old routine. Maud, looking up from her work, would see the frown and the bitten lip. She began again to feel uncomfortable and self-conscious as she worked. Sometimes their conversation on the way to the Tube was almost formal. 

It was useless to say anything. She had a wholesome horror of being oneof those women who nagged; and she felt that to complain again wouldamount to nagging. She tried to put the thing out of her mind, but itinsisted on staying there. In a way she understood his feelings. Heloved her so much, she supposed, that he hated the idea of herexchanging a single word with another man. This, in the abstract, wasgratifying; but in practice it distressed her. She wished she were somesort of foreigner, so that nobody could talk to her. But then theywould look at her, and that probably would produce much the sameresults. It was a hard world for a girl. 

And then the strange thing happened. Arthur reformed. One might almostsay that he reformed with a jerk. It was a parallel case to thosesudden conversions at Welsh revival meetings. On Monday evening he hadbeen at his worst. On the following morning he was a changed man. Noteven after the original thunderstorm had he been more docile. Maudcould not believe that first. The lip, once bitten, was stretched in asmile. She looked for the frown. It was not there. 

Next day it was the same; and the day after that. When a week had goneby, and still the improvement was maintained, Maud felt that she mightnow look upon it as permanent. A great load seemed to have been takenoff her mind. She revised her views on the world. It was a very goodworld, quite one of the best, with Arthur beaming upon it like a sun. 

A number of eminent poets and essayists, in the course of the last fewcenturies, have recorded, in their several ways, their opinion that onecan have too much of a good thing. The truth applies even to such agood thing as absence of jealousy. Little by little Maud began to growuneasy. It began to come home to her that she preferred the old Arthur, of the scowl and the gnawed lip. Of him she had at least been sure. Whatever discomfort she may have suffered from his spirited imitationsof Othello, at any rate they had proved that he loved her. She wouldhave accepted gladly an equal amount of discomfort now in exchange forthe same certainty. She could not read this new Arthur. His thoughtswere a closed book. Superficially, he was all that she could havewished. He still continued to escort her to the Tube, to buy heroccasional presents, to tap, when conversing, the pleasantlysentimental vein. But now these things were not enough. Her heart wastroubled. Her thoughts frightened her. The little black imp at the backof her mind kept whispering and whispering, till at last she was forcedto listen. 'He's tired of you. He doesn't love you any more. He's tiredof you. '

 * * * * *

It is not everybody who, in times of mental stress, can find ready tohand among his or her personal acquaintances an expert counsellor, prepared at a moment's notice to listen with sympathy and advise withtact and skill. Everyone's world is full of friends, relatives, andothers, who will give advice on any subject that may be presented tothem; but there are crises in life which cannot be left to the amateur. It is the aim of a certain widely read class of paper to fill thisvoid. 

Of this class _Fireside Chat_ was one of the best-knownrepresentatives. In exchange for one penny its five hundred thousandreaders received every week a serial story about life in highestcircles, a short story packed with heart-interest, articles on theremoval of stains and the best method of coping with the cold mutton, anecdotes of Royalty, photographs of peeresses, hints on dress, chatsabout baby, brief but pointed dialogues between Blogson and Snogson, poems, Great Thoughts from the Dead and Brainy, half-hours in theeditor's cosy sanctum, a slab of brown paper, and--the journal'sleading feature--Advice on Matters of the Heart. The weeklycontribution of the advice specialist of _Fireside Chat_, entitled'In the Consulting Room, by Dr Cupid', was made up mainly of Answers toCorrespondents. He affected the bedside manner of the kind, breezy oldphysician; and probably gave a good deal of comfort. At any rate, healways seemed to have plenty of cases on his hands. 

It was to this expert that Maud took her trouble. She had been aregular reader of the paper for several years; and had, indeed, consulted the great man once before, when he had replied favourably toher query as to whether it would be right for her to accept caramelsfrom Arthur, then almost a stranger. It was only natural that sheshould go to him now, in an even greater dilemma. The letter was noteasy to write, but she finished it at last; and, after an anxiousinterval, judgement was delivered as follows:

'Well, well, well! Bless my soul, what is all this? M. P. Writes me:

'I am a young lady, and until recently was very, very happy, exceptthat my fiance, though truly loving me, was of a very jealousdisposition, though I am sure I gave him no cause. He would scowl whenI spoke to any other man, and this used to make me unhappy. But forsome time now he has quite changed, and does not seem to mind at all, and though at first this made me feel happy, to think that he had gotover his jealousy, I now feel unhappy because I am beginning to beafraid that he no longer cares for me. Do you think this is so, andwhat ought I to do?'

'My dear young lady, I should like to be able to reassure you; but itis kindest sometimes, you know, to be candid, however it may hurt. Ithas been my experience that, when jealousy flies out of the window, indifference comes in at the door. In the old days a knight would joustfor the love of a ladye, risking physical injury rather than permitothers to rival him in her affections. I think, M. P. , that you shouldendeavour to discover the true state of your fiance's feelings. I donot, of course, advocate anything in the shape of unwomanly behaviour, of which I am sure, my dear young lady, you are incapable; but I thinkthat you should certainly try to pique your fiance, to test him. Atyour next ball, for instance, refuse him a certain number of dances, onthe plea that your programme is full. At garden-parties, at-homes, andso on, exhibit pleasure in the society and conversation of othergentlemen, and mark his demeanour as you do so. These little testsshould serve either to relieve your apprehensions, provided they aregroundless, or to show you the truth. And, after all, if it is thetruth, it must be faced, must it not, M. P. ?'

Before the end of the day Maud knew the whole passage by heart. Themore her mind dwelt on it, the more clearly did it seem to express whatshe had felt but could not put into words. The point about joustingstruck her as particularly well taken. She had looked up 'joust' in thedictionary, and it seemed to her that in these few words was containedthe kernel of her trouble. In the old days, if any man had attempted torival him in her affections (outside business hours), Arthur wouldundoubtedly have jousted--and jousted with the vigour of one who meansto make his presence felt. Now, in similar circumstances, he wouldprobably step aside politely, as who should say, 'After you, my dearAlphonse. '

There was no time to lose. An hour after her first perusal of DrCupid's advice, Maud had begun to act upon it. By the time the firstlull in the morning's work had come, and there was a chance for privateconversation, she had invented an imaginary young man, a shadowyLothario, who, being introduced into her home on the previous Sunday byher brother Horace, had carried on in a way you wouldn't believe, paying all manner of compliments. 

'He said I had such white hands, ' said Maud. 

Arthur nodded, stropping a razor the while. He appeared to be bearingthe revelations with complete fortitude. Yet, only a few weeks before, a customer's comment on this same whiteness had stirred him to hisdepths. 

'And this morning--what do you think? Why, he meets me as bold as youplease, and gives me a cake of toilet soap. Like his impudence!'

She paused, hopefully. 

'Always useful, soap, ' said Arthur, politely sententious. 

'Lovely it was, ' went on Maud, dully conscious of failure, butstippling in like an artist the little touches which give atmosphereand verisimilitude to a story. 'All scented. Horace will tease me aboutit, I can tell you. '

She paused. Surely he must--Why, a sea-anemone would be torn withjealousy at such a tale. 

Arthur did not even wince. He was charming about it. Thought it verykind of the young fellow. Didn't blame him for being struck by thewhiteness of her hands. Touched on the history of soap, which hehappened to have been reading up in the encyclopedia at the freelibrary. And behaved altogether in such a thoroughly gentlemanlyfashion that Maud stayed awake half the night, crying. 

 * * * * *

If Maud had waited another twenty-four hours there would have been noneed for her to have taxed her powers of invention, for on thefollowing day there entered the shop and her life a young man who wasnot imaginary--a Lothario of flesh and blood. He made his entry withthat air of having bought most of the neighbouring property whichbelongs exclusively to minor actors, men of weight on the StockExchange, and American professional pugilists. 

Mr 'Skipper' Shute belonged to the last-named of the three classes. Hehad arrived in England two months previously for the purpose of holdinga conference at eight-stone four with one Joseph Edwardes, to settle aquestion of superiority at that weight which had been vexing thesporting public of two countries for over a year. Having successfullyout-argued Mr Edwardes, mainly by means of strenuous work in theclinches, he was now on the eve of starting on a lucrative music-halltour with his celebrated inaudible monologue. As a result of thesethings he was feeling very, very pleased with the world in general, andwith Mr Skipper Shute in particular. And when Mr Shute was pleased withhimself his manner was apt to be of the breeziest. 

He breezed into the shop, took a seat, and, having cast an experiencedeye at Maud, and found her pleasing, extended both hands, and observed, 'Go the limit, kid. '

At any other time Maud might have resented being addressed as 'kid' bya customer, but now she welcomed it. With the exception of a slightthickening of the lobe of one ear, Mr Shute bore no outward signs ofhis profession. And being, to use his own phrase, a 'swell dresser', hewas really a most presentable young man. Just, in fact, what Maudneeded. She saw in him her last hope. If any faint spark of his ancientfire still lingered in Arthur, it was through Mr Shute that it must befanned. 

She smiled upon Mr Shute. She worked on his robust fingers as if itwere an artistic treat to be permitted to handle them. So carefully didshe toil that she was still busy when Arthur, taking off his apron andputting on his hat, went out for his twenty-minutes' lunch, leavingthem alone together. 

The door had scarcely shut when Mr Shute bent forward. 

'Say!'

He sank his voice to a winning whisper. 

'You look good to muh, ' he said, gallantly. 

'The idea!' said Maud, tossing her head. 

'On the level, ' Mr Shute assured her. 

Maud laid down her orange-sticks. 

'Don't be silly, ' she said. 'There--I've finished. '

'I've not, ' said Mr Shute. 'Not by a mile. Say!'

'Well?'

'What do you do with your evenings?'

'I go home. '

'Sure. But when you don't? It's a poor heart that never rejoices. Don'tyou ever whoop it up?'

'Whoop it up?'

'The mad whirl, ' explained Mr Shute. 'Ice-cream soda and buck-wheatcakes, and a happy evening at lovely Luna Park. '

'I don't know where Luna Park is. '

'What did they teach you at school? It's out in that direction, ' saidMr Shute, pointing over his shoulder. 'You go straight on about threethousand miles till you hit little old New York; then you turn to theright. Say, don't you ever get a little treat? Why not come along tothe White City some old evening? This evening?'

'Mr Welsh is taking me to the White City tonight. '

'And who is Mr Welsh?'

'The gentleman who has just gone out. '

'Is that so? Well, he doesn't look a live one, but maybe it's justbecause he's had bad news today. You never can tell. ' He rose. 'Farewell, Evelina, fairest of your sex. We shall meet again; so keep astout heart. '

And, taking up his cane, straw hat, and yellow gloves, Mr Shutedeparted, leaving Maud to her thoughts. 

She was disappointed. She had expected better results. Mr Shute hadlowered with ease the record for gay badinage, hitherto held by thered-faced customer; yet to all appearances there had been no change inArthur's manner. But perhaps he had scowled (or bitten his lip), andshe had not noticed it. Apparently he had struck Mr Shute, an unbiasedspectator, as gloomy. Perhaps at some moment when her eyes had been onher work--She hoped for the best. 

Whatever his feelings may have been during the afternoon, Arthur wasundeniably cheerful that evening. He was in excellent spirits. Hislight-hearted abandon on the Wiggle-Woggle had been noted and commentedupon by several lookers-on. Confronted with the Hairy Ainus, he hadtouched a high level of facetiousness. And now, as he sat with herlistening to the band, he was crooning joyously to himself inaccompaniment to the music, without, it would appear, a care in theworld. 

Maud was hurt and anxious. In a mere acquaintance this blithe attitudewould have been welcome. It would have helped her to enjoy her evening. But from Arthur at that particular moment she looked for somethingelse. Why was he cheerful? Only a few hours ago she had been--yes, flirting with another man before his very eyes. What right had he to becheerful? He ought to be heated, full of passionate demands for anexplanation--a flushed, throaty thing to be coaxed back into a goodtemper and then forgiven--all this at great length--for having been ina bad one. Yes, she told herself, she had wanted certainty one way orthe other, and here it was. Now she knew. He no longer cared for her. 

She trembled. 

'Cold?' said Arthur. 'Let's walk. Evenings beginning to draw in now. Lum-da-diddley-ah. That's what I call a good tune. Give me somethinglively and bright. Dumty-umpty-iddley-ah. Dum tum--'

'Funny thing--' said Maud, deliberately. 

'What's a funny thing?'

'The gentleman in the brown suit whose hands I did this afternoon--'

'He was, ' agreed Arthur, brightly. 'A very funny thing. '

Maud frowned. Wit at the expense of Hairy Ainus was one thing--at herown another. 

'I was about to say, ' she went on precisely, 'that it was a funnything, a coincidence, seeing that I was already engaged, that thegentleman in the brown suit whose hands I did this afternoon shouldhave asked me to come here, to the White City, with him tonight. '

For a moment they walked on in silence. To Maud it seemed a hopefulsilence. Surely it must be the prelude to an outburst. 

'Oh!' he said, and stopped. 

Maud's heart gave a leap. Surely that was the old tone?

A couple of paces, and he spoke again. 

'I didn't hear him ask you. '

His voice was disappointingly level. 

'He asked me after you had gone out to lunch. '

'It's a nuisance, ' said Arthur, cheerily, 'when things clash like that. But perhaps he'll ask you again. Nothing to prevent you coming heretwice. Well repays a second visit, I always say. I think--'

'You shouldn't, ' said a voice behind him. 'It hurts the head. Well, kid, being shown a good time?'

The possibility of meeting Mr Shute had not occurred to Maud. She hadassumed that, being aware that she would be there with another, hewould have stayed away. It may, however, be remarked that she did notknow Mr Shute. He was not one of your sensitive plants. He smiledpleasantly upon her, looking very dapper in evening dress and a silkhat that, though a size too small for him, shone like a mirror. 

Maud hardly knew whether she was glad or sorry to see him. It did notseem to matter much now either way. Nothing seemed to matter much, infact. Arthur's cheery acceptance of the news that she receivedinvitations from others had been like a blow, leaving her numb andlistless. 

She made the introductions. The two men eyed each other. 

'Pleased to meet you, ' said Mr Shute. 

'Weather keeps up, ' said Arthur. 

And from that point onward Mr Shute took command. 

It is to be assumed that this was not the first time that Mr Shute hadmade one of a trio in these circumstances, for the swift dexterity withwhich he lost Arthur was certainly not that of a novice. So smoothlywas it done that it was not until she emerged from the Witching Waves, guided by the pugilist's slim but formidable right arm, that Maudrealized that Arthur had gone. 

She gave a little cry of dismay. Secretly she was beginning to besomewhat afraid of Mr Shute. He was showing signs of being about tostep out of the role she had assigned to him and attempt something on alarger scale. His manner had that extra touch of warmth which makes allthe difference. 

'Oh! He's gone!' she cried. 

'Sure, ' said Mr Shute. 'He's got a hurry-call from the Uji Village. The chief's cousin wants a hair-cut. '

'We must find him. We must. '

'Surest thing you know, ' said Mr Shute. 'Plenty of time. '

'We must find him. '

Mr Shute regarded her with some displeasure. 

'Seems to be ace-high with you, that dub, ' he said. 

'I don't understand you. '

'My observation was, ' explained Mr Shute, coldly, 'that, judging fromappearances, that dough-faced lemon was Willie-boy, the first and onlylove. '

Maud turned on him with flaming cheeks. 

'Mr Welsh is nothing to me! Nothing! Nothing!' she cried. 

She walked quickly on. 

'Then, if there's a vacancy, star-eyes, ' said the pugilist at her side, holding on a hat which showed a tendency to wobble, 'count me in. Directly I saw you--see here, what's the idea of this road-work? Wearen't racing--'

Maud slowed down. 

'That's better. As I was saying, directly I saw you, I said to myself, "That's the one you need. The original candy kid. The--"'

His hat lurched drunkenly as he answered the girl's increase of speed. He cursed it in a brief aside. 

'That's what I said. "The original candy kid. " So--'

He shot out a restraining hand. 'Arthur!' cried Maud. 'Arthur!'

'It's not my name' breathed Mr Shute, tenderly. 'Call me Clarence. '

Considered as an embrace, it was imperfect. At these moments a silkhat a size too small handicaps a man. The necessity of having to becareful about the nap prevented Mr Shute from doing himself completejustice. But he did enough to induce Arthur Welsh, who, having sightedthe missing ones from afar, had been approaching them at a walkingpace, to substitute a run for the walk, and arrive just as Maudwrenched herself free. 

Mr Shute took off his hat, smoothed it, replaced it with extreme care, and turned his attention to the new-comer. 

'Arthur!' said Maud. 

Her heart gave a great leap. There was no mistaking the meaning in theeye that met hers. He cared! He cared!

'Arthur!'

He took no notice. His face was pale and working. He strode up to MrShute. 

'Well?' he said between his teeth. 

An eight-stone-four champion of the world has many unusual experiencesin his life, but he rarely encounters men who say 'Well?' to himbetween their teeth. Mr Shute eyed this freak with profound wonder. 

'I'll teach you to--to kiss young ladies!'

Mr Shute removed his hat again and gave it another brush. This gave himthe necessary time for reflection. 

'I don't need it, ' he said. 'I've graduated. '

'Put them up!' hissed Arthur. 

Almost a shocked look spread itself over the pugilist's face. So mightRaphael have looked if requested to draw a pavement-picture. 

'You aren't speaking to ME?' he said, incredulously. 

'Put them up!'

Maud, trembling from head to foot, was conscious of one overwhelmingemotion. She was terrified--yes. But stronger than the terror was thegreat wave of elation which swept over her. All her doubts hadvanished. At last, after weary weeks of uncertainty, Arthur was aboutto give the supreme proof. He was going to joust for her. 

A couple of passers-by had paused, interested, to watch developments. You could never tell, of course. Many an apparently promising row nevergot any farther than words. But, glancing at Arthur's face, theycertainly felt justified in pausing. Mr Shute spoke. 

'If it wasn't, ' he said, carefully, 'that I don't want trouble with theSociety for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, I'd--'

He broke off, for, to the accompaniment of a shout of approval from thetwo spectators, Arthur had swung his right fist, and it had taken himsmartly on the side of the head. 

Compared with the blows Mr Shute was wont to receive in the exercise ofhis profession, Arthur's was a gentle tap. But there was onecircumstance which gave it a deadliness all its own. Achilles had hisheel. Mr Shute's vulnerable point was at the other extremity. Insteadof countering, he uttered a cry of agony, and clutched wildly with bothhands at his hat. 

He was too late. It fell to the ground and bounded away, with itsproprietor in passionate chase. Arthur snorted and gently chafed hisknuckles. 

There was a calm about Mr Shute's demeanour as, having given histreasure a final polish and laid it carefully down, he began to advanceon his adversary, which was more than ominous. His lips were a thinline of steel. The muscles stood out over his jaw-bones. Crouching inhis professional manner, he moved forward softly, like a cat. 

And it was at this precise moment, just as the two spectators, reinforced now by eleven other men of sporting tastes, werecongratulating themselves on their acumen in having stopped to watch, that Police-Constable Robert Bryce, intruding fourteen stones of boneand muscle between the combatants, addressed to Mr Shute thesememorable words: ''Ullo, 'ullo! 'Ullo, 'ullo, 'ul-_lo_!'

Mr Shute appealed to his sense of justice. 

'The mutt knocked me hat off. '

'And I'd do it again, ' said Arthur, truculently. 

'Not while I'm here you wouldn't, young fellow, ' said Mr Bryce, withdecision. 'I'm surprised at you, ' he went on, pained. 'And you look arespectable young chap, too. You pop off. '

A shrill voice from the crowd at this point offered the constable allcinematograph rights if he would allow the contest to proceed. 

'And you pop off, too, all of you, ' continued Mr Bryce. 'Blest if Iknow what kids are coming to nowadays. And as for you, ' he said, addressing Mr Shute, 'all you've got to do is to keep that face ofyours closed. That's what you've got to do. I've got my eye on you, mind, and if I catch you a-follerin' of him'--he jerked his thumb overhis shoulder at Arthur's departing figure--'I'll pinch you. Sure asyou're alive. ' He paused. 'I'd have done it already, ' he added, pensively, 'if it wasn't me birthday. '

 * * * * *

Arthur Welsh turned sharply. For some time he had been dimly aware thatsomebody was calling his name. 

'Oh, Arthur!'

She was breathing quickly. He could see the tears in her eyes. 

'I've been running. You walked so fast. '

He stared down at her gloomily. 

'Go away, ' he said. 'I've done with you. '

She clutched at his coat. 

'Arthur, listen--listen! It's all a mistake. I thought you--you didn'tcare for me any more, and I was miserable, and I wrote to the paper andasked what should I do, and they said I ought to test you and try andmake you jealous, and that that would relieve my apprehensions. And Ihated it, but I did it, and you didn't seem to care till now. And youknow that there's nobody but you. '

'You--The paper? What?' he stammered. 

'Yes, yes, yes. I wrote to _Fireside Chat_, and Dr Cupid said thatwhen jealousy flew out of the window indifference came in at the door, and that I must exhibit pleasure in the society of other gentlemen andmark your demeanour. So I--Oh!'

Arthur, luckier than Mr Shute, was not hampered by a too small silkhat. 

It was a few moments later, as they moved slowly towards theFlip-Flap--which had seemed to both of them a fitting climax forthe evening's emotions--that Arthur, fumbling in his waist-coat pocket, produced a small slip of paper. 

'What's that?' Maud asked. 

'Read it, ' said Arthur. 'It's from _Home Moments_, in answer to aletter I sent them. And, ' he added with heat, 'I'd like to have fiveminutes alone with the chap who wrote it. '

And under the electric light Maud read

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS

_By the Heart Specialist_

Arthur W. --Jealousy, Arthur W. , is not only the most wicked, but themost foolish of passions. Shakespeare says:

 _It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock The meat it feeds on. _

You admit that you have frequently caused great distress to the younglady of your affections by your exhibition of this weakness. Exactly. There is nothing a girl dislikes or despises more than jealousy. Be aman, Arthur W. Fight against it. You may find it hard at first, butpersevere. Keep a smiling face. If she seems to enjoy talking to othermen, show no resentment. Be merry and bright. Believe me, it is theonly way. 

BY ADVICE OF COUNSEL

The traveller champed meditatively at his steak. He paid no attentionto the altercation which was in progress between the waiter and the manat the other end of the dingy room. The sounds of strife ceased. Thewaiter came over to the traveller's table and stood behind his chair. He was ruffled. 

'If he meant lamb, ' he said, querulously, 'why didn't he say "lamb", so's a feller could hear him? I thought he said "ham", so I broughtham. Now Lord Percy gets all peevish. '

He laughed bitterly. The traveller made no reply. 

'If people spoke distinct, ' said the waiter, 'there wouldn't be halfthe trouble there is in the world. Not half the trouble there wouldn'tbe. I shouldn't be here, for one thing. In this restawrong, I mean. ' Asigh escaped him. 

'I shouldn't, ' he said, 'and that's the truth. I should be getting upwhen I pleased, eating and drinking all I wanted, and carrying on sameas in the good old days. You wouldn't think, to look at me, would younow, that I was once like the lily of the field?'

The waiter was a tall, stringy man, who gave the impression of havingno spine. In that he drooped, he might have been said to resemble aflower, but in no other respect. He had sandy hair, weak eyes set closetogether, and a day's growth of red stubble on his chin. One could notsee him in the lily class. 

'What I mean to say is, I didn't toil, neither did I spin. Ah, them washappy days! Lying on me back, plenty of tobacco, something cool in ajug--'

He sighed once more. 

'Did you ever know a man of the name of Moore? Jerry Moore?'

The traveller applied himself to his steak in silence. 

'Nice feller. Simple sort of feller. Big. Quiet. Bit deaf in one ear. Straw-coloured hair. Blue eyes. 'Andsome, rather. Had a 'ouse justoutside of Reigate. Has it still. Money of his own. Left him by his pa. Simple sort of feller. Not much to say for himself. I used to know himwell in them days. Used to live with him. Nice feller he was. Big. Bithard of hearing. Got a sleepy kind of grin, like this--something. '

The traveller sipped his beer in thoughtful silence. 

'I reckon you never met him, ' said the waiter. 'Maybe you never knewGentleman Bailey, either? We always called him that. He was one ofthese broken-down Eton or 'Arrer fellers, folks said. We struck up apartnership kind of casual, both being on the tramp together, and aftera while we 'appened to be round about Reigate. And the first house wecome to was this Jerry Moore's. He come up just as we was sliding tothe back door, and grins that sleepy grin. Like this--something. "'Ullo!" he says. Gentleman kind of gives a whoop, and hollers, "If itain't my old pal, Jerry Moore! Jack, " he says to me, "this is my oldpal, Mr Jerry Moore, wot I met in 'appier days down at Ramsgate onesummer. "

'They shakes hands, and Jerry Moore says, "Is this a friend of yours, Bailey?" looking at me. Gentleman introduces me. "We are partners, " hesays, "partners in misfortune. This is my friend, Mr Roach. "

'"Come along in, " says Jerry. 

'So we went in, and he makes us at home. He's a bachelor, and lives allby himself in this desirable 'ouse. 

'Well, I seen pretty quick that Jerry thinks the world of Gentleman. All that evening he's acting as if he's as pleased as Punch to havehim there. Couldn't do enough for him. _It_ was a bit of _all_right, I said to meself. It was, too. 

'Next day we gets up late and has a good breakfast, and sits on thelawn and smokes. The sun was shining, the little birds was singing, andthere wasn't a thing, east, west, north, or south, that looked likework. If I had been asked my address at that moment, on oath, Iwouldn't have hesitated a second. I should have answered, "No. 1, EasyStreet. " You see, Jerry Moore was one of these slow, simple fellers, and you could tell in a moment what a lot he thought of Gentleman. Gentleman, you see, had a way with him. Not haughty, he wasn't. Moreaffable, I should call it. He sort of made you feel that all men areborn equal, but that it was awful good of him to be talking to you, andthat he wouldn't do it for everybody. It went down proper with JerryMoore. Jerry would sit and listen to him giving his views on things bythe hour. By the end of the first day I was having visions of sittingin that garden a white-baked old man, and being laid out, when my timeshould come, in Jerry's front room. '

He paused, his mind evidently in the past, among the cigars and bigbreakfasts. Presently he took up his tale. 

'This here Jerry Moore was a simple sort of feller. Deafies are likethat. Ever noticed? Not that Jerry was a real deafy. His hearing was abit off, but he could foller you if you spoke to him nice and clear. Well, I was saying, he was kind of simple. Liked to put in his dayspottering about the little garden he'd made for himself, looking afterhis flowers and his fowls, and sit of an evening listening to Gentleman'olding forth on Life. He was a philosopher, Gentleman was. And Jerrytook everything he said as gospel. He didn't want no proofs. 'E andthe King of Denmark would have been great pals. He just sat by with hisbig blue eyes getting rounder every minute and lapped it up. 

'Now you'd think a man like that could be counted on, wouldn't you?Would he want anything more? Not he, you'd say. You'd be wrong. Believeme, there isn't a man on earth that's fixed and contented but what awoman can't knock his old Paradise into 'ash with one punch. 

'It wasn't long before I begin to notice a change in Jerry. He neverhad been what you'd call a champion catch-as-catch-can talker, but nowhe was silenter than ever. And he got a habit of switching Gentlemanoff from his theories on Life in general to Woman in particular. Thissuited Gentleman just right. What he didn't know about Woman wasn'tknowledge. 

'Gentleman was too busy talking to have time to get suspicious, but Iwasn't; and one day I draws Gentleman aside and puts it to himstraight. "Gentleman, " I says, "Jerry Moore is in love!"

'Well, this was a nasty knock, of course, for Gentleman. He knew aswell as I did what it would mean if Jerry was to lead home a blushingbride through that front door. It would be outside into the cold, hardworld for the bachelor friends. Gentleman sees that quick, and his jawdrops. I goes on. "All the time, " I says, "that you're talking away ofan evening, Jerry's seeing visions of a little woman sitting in yourchair. And you can bet we don't enter into them visions. He may dreamof little feet pattering about the house, " I says, "but they aren'tours; and you can 'ave something on that both ways. Look alive, Gentleman, " I says, "and think out some plan, or we might as well bepadding the hoof now. "

'Well, Gentleman did what he could. In his evening discourses hestarted to give it to Woman all he knew. Began to talk about Delilahsand Jezebels and Fools-there-was and the rest of it, and what a mug afeller was to let a female into 'is cosy home, who'd only make himspend his days hooking her up, and his nights wondering how to get backthe blankets without waking her. My, he was crisp! Enough to have givenRomeo the jumps, you'd have thought. But, lor! It's no good talking tothem when they've got it bad. 

'A few days later we caught him with the goods, talking in the road toa girl in a pink dress. 

'I couldn't but admit that Jerry had picked one right from the top ofthe basket. This wasn't one of them languishing sort wot sits about incosy corners and reads story-books, and don't care what's happening inthe home so long as they find out what became of the hero in his duelwith the Grand Duke. She was a brown, slim, wiry-looking little thing. _You_ know. Held her chin up and looked you up and down with eyesthe colour of Scotch whisky, as much as to say, "Well, what_about_ it?" You could tell without looking at her, just by thefeel of the atmosphere when she was near, that she had as much snap andgo in her as Jerry Moore hadn't, which was a good bit. I knew, just assure as I was standing there on one leg, that this was the sort of girlwho would have me and Gentleman out of that house about three secondsafter the clergyman had tied the knot. 

'Jerry says, "These are my friends, Miss Tuxton--Mr Bailey and MrRoach. They are staying with me for a visit. This is Miss Jane Tuxton, "he says to us. "I was just going to see Miss Tuxton home, " he says, sort of wistful. "Excellent, " says Gentleman. "We'll come too. " And weall goes along. There wasn't much done in the way of conversation. Jerry never was one for pushing out the words; nor was I, when in thepresence of the sect; and Miss Jane had her chin in the air, as if shethought me and Gentleman was not needed in any way whatsoever. Theonly talk before we turned her in at the garden gate was done byGentleman, who told a pretty long story about a friend of his in UpperSydenham who had been silly enough to marry, and had had trouble eversince. 

'That night, after we had went to bed, I said to Gentleman, "Gentleman, " I says, "what's going to be done about this? We've gotabout as much chance, if Jerry marries that girl, " I says, "as a coupleof helpless chocolate creams at a school-girls' picnic. " "If, " saysGentleman. "He ain't married her yet. That is a girl of character, Jack. Trust me. Didn't she strike you as a girl who would like a manwith a bit of devil in him, a man with some go in him, a you-be-darnedkind of man? Does Jerry fill the bill? He's more like a doormat with'Welcome' written on it, than anything else. "

'Well, we seen a good deal of Miss Jane in the next week or so. Wekeeps Jerry under--what's it the heroine says in the melodrama? "Oh, cruel, cruel, S. P. Something. " Espionage, that's it. We keeps Jerryunder espionage, and whenever he goes trickling round after the girl, we goes trickling round after him. 

'"Things is running our way, " says Gentleman to me, after one of thesemeetings. "That girl is getting cross with Jerry. She wants RecklessRudolf, not a man who stands and grins when other men butt in on himand his girl. Mark my words, Jack. She'll get tired of Jerry, and gooff and marry a soldier, and we'll live happy ever after. " "Think so?"I says. "Sure of it, " said Gentleman. 

'It was the Sunday after this that Jerry Moore announces to us, wriggling, that he had an engagement to take supper with Jane and herfolks. He'd have liked to have slipped away secret, but we was keepinghim under espionage too crisp for that, so he has to tell us. "Excellent, " said Gentleman. "It will be a great treat to Jack andmyself to meet the family. We will go along with you. " So off we allgoes, and pushes our boots in sociable fashion under the Tuxton table. I looked at Miss Jane out of the corner of my eye; and, honest, thatchin of hers was sticking out a foot, and Jerry didn't dare look ather. Love's young dream, I muses to myself, how swift it fades when aman has the nature and disposition of a lop-eared rabbit!

'The Tuxtons was four in number, not counting the parrot, and all male. There was Pa Tuxton, an old feller with a beard and glasses; a fatuncle; a big brother, who worked in a bank and was dressed like Mosesin all his glory; and a little brother with a snub nose, that cheekyyou'd have been surprised. And the parrot in its cage and a fat yellowdog. And they're all making themselves pleasant to Jerry, the wealthyfuture son-in-law, something awful. It's "How are the fowls, MrMoore?" and "A little bit of this pie, Mr Moore; Jane made it, " andJerry sitting there with a feeble grin, saying "Yes" and "No" andnothing much more, while Miss Jane's eyes are snapping like Fifth ofNovember fireworks. I could feel Jerry's chances going back a mile aminute. I felt as happy as a little child that evening. I sang goingback home. 

'Gentleman's pleased, too. "Jack, " he says to me when we're in bed, "this is too easy. In my most sanguinary dreams I hardly hoped forthis. No girl of spirit's going to love a man who behaves that way toher parents. The way to win the heart of a certain type of girl, " hesays, beginning on his theories, "the type to which Jane Tuxtonbelongs, is to be rude to her family. I've got Jane Tuxton sized up andlabelled. Her kind wants her folks to dislike her young man. She wantsto feel that she's the only one in the family that's got the sense tosee the hidden good in Willie. She doesn't want to be one of a crowdhollering out what a nice young man he is. It takes some pluck in a manto stand up to a girl's family, and that's what Jane Tuxton is lookingfor in Jerry. Take it from one who has studied the sect, " saysGentleman, "from John o' Groat's to Land's End, and back again. "

'Next day Jerry Moore's looking as if he'd only sixpence in the worldand had swallowed it. "What's the matter, Jerry?" says Gentleman. Jerryheaves a sigh. "Bailey, " he says, "and you, Mr Roach, I expect you bothseen how it is with me. I love Miss Jane Tuxton, and you seen foryourselves what transpires. She don't value me, not tuppence. " "Say notso, " says Gentleman, sympathetic. "You're doing fine. If you knew thesect as I do you wouldn't go by mere superficial silences andchin-tiltings. I can read a girl's heart, Jerry, " he says, patting himon the shoulder, "and I tell you you're doing fine. All you want nowis a little rapid work, and you win easy. To make the thing a cert, "he says, getting up, "all you have to do is to make a dead set at herfolks. " He winks at me. "Don't just sit there like you did last night. Show 'em you've got something in you. You know what folks are: theythink themselves the most important things on the map. Well, go towork. Consult them all you know. Every opportunity you get. There'snothing like consulting a girl's folks to put you in good with her. "And he pats Jerry on the shoulder again and goes indoors to find hispipe. 

'Jerry turns to me. "Do you think that's really so?" he says. I says, "I do. " "He knows all about girls, I reckon, " says Jerry. "You can goby him every time, " I says. "Well, well, " says Jerry, sort ofthoughtful. '

The waiter paused. His eye was sad and dreamy. Then he took up theburden of his tale. 

'First thing that happens is that Gentleman has a sore tooth on thenext Sunday, so don't feel like coming along with us. He sits at home, dosing it with whisky, and Jerry and me goes off alone. 

'So Jerry and me pikes off, and once more we prepares to settle downaround the board. I hadn't noticed Jerry particular, but just now Icatches sight of his face in the light of the lamp. Ever see one ofthose fighters when he's sitting in his corner before a fight, waitingfor the gong to go? Well, Jerry looks like that; and it surprises me. 

'I told you about the fat yellow dog that permeated the Tuxton'shouse, didn't I? The family thought a lot of that dog, though of allthe ugly brutes I ever met he was the worst. Sniffing round andgrowling all the time. Well, this evening he comes up to Jerry just ashe's going to sit down, and starts to growl. Old Pa Tuxton looks overhis glasses and licks his tongue. "Rover! Rover!" he says, kind ofmild. "Naughty Rover; he don't like strangers, I'm afraid. " Jerry looksat Pa Tuxton, and he looks at the dog, and I'm just expecting him tosay "No" or "Yes", same as the other night, when he lets out a nastylaugh--one of them bitter laughs. "Ho!" he says. "Ho! don't he? Thenperhaps he'd better get further away from them. " And he ups with hisboot and--well, the dog hit the far wall. 

'Jerry sits down and pulls up his chair. "I don't approve, " he says, fierce, "of folks keeping great, fat, ugly, bad-tempered yellow dogsthat are a nuisance to all. I don't like it. "

'There was a silence you could have scooped out with a spoon. Have youever had a rabbit turn round on you and growl? That's how we all feltwhen Jerry outs with them crisp words. They took our breath away. 

'While we were getting it back again the parrot, which was in its cage, let out a squawk. Honest, I jumped a foot in my chair. 

'Jerry gets up very deliberate, and walks over to the parrot. "Isthis a menagerie?" he says. "Can't a man have supper in peace withoutan image like you starting to holler? Go to sleep. "

'We was all staring at him surprised, especially Uncle Dick Tuxton, whose particular pet the parrot was. He'd brought him home all the wayfrom some foreign parts. 

'"Hello, Billy!" says the bird, shrugging his shoulders and puffinghimself up. "R-r-r-r! R-r-r-r! 'lo, Billy! 'lo, 'lo, 'lo! R-r WAH!"

'Jerry gives its cage a bang. 

'"Don't talk back at me, " he says, "or I'll knock your head off. Youthink because you've got a green tail you're someone. " And he stalksback to his chair and sits glaring at Uncle Dick. 

'Well, all this wasn't what you might call promoting an easy flow ofconversation. Everyone's looking at Jerry, 'specially me, wonderingwhat next, and trying to get their breath, and Jerry's frowning at thecold beef, and there's a sort of awkward pause. Miss Jane is the firstto get busy. She bustles about and gets the food served out, and webegins to eat. But still there's not so much conversation that you'dnotice it. This goes on till we reaches the concluding stages, and thenUncle Dick comes up to the scratch. 

'"How is the fowls, Mr Moore?" he says. 

'"Gimme some more pie, " says Jerry. "What?"

'Uncle Dick repeats his remark. 

'"Fowls?" says Jerry. "What do you know about fowls? Your notion of afowl is an ugly bird with a green tail, a Wellington nose, and--gimme abit of cheese. "

'Uncle Dick's fond of the parrot, so he speaks up for him. "Polly'salways been reckoned a handsome bird, " he says. 

'"He wants stuffing, " says Jerry. 

'And Uncle Dick drops out of the talk. 

'Up comes big brother, Ralph his name was. He's the bank-clerk and adude. He gives his cuffs a flick, and starts in to make things jollyall round by telling a story about a man he knows named Wotherspoon. Jerry fixes him with his eye, and, half-way through, interrupts. 

'"That waistcoat of yours is fierce, " he says. 

'"Pardon?" says Ralph. 

'"That waistcoat of yours, " says Jerry. "It hurts me eyes. It's like anelectric sign. "

'"Why, Jerry, " I says, but he just scowls at me and I stops. 

'Ralph is proud of his clothes, and he isn't going to stand this. Heglares at Jerry and Jerry glares at him. 

'"Who do you think you are?" says Ralph, breathing hard. 

'"Button up your coat, " says Jerry. 

'"Look 'ere!" says Ralph. 

'"Cover it up, I tell you, " says Jerry. "Do you want to blind me?" PaTuxton interrupts. 

'"Why, Mr Moore, " he begins, sort of soothing; when the small brother, who's been staring at Jerry, chips in. I told you he was cheeky. 

'He says, "Pa, what a funny nose Mr Moore's got!"

'And that did it. Jerry rises, very slow, and leans across the tableand clips the kid brother one side of the ear-'ole. And then there's ageneral imbroglio, everyone standing up and the kid hollering and thedog barking. 

'"If you'd brought him up better, " says Jerry, severe, to Pa Tuxton, "this wouldn't ever have happened. "

Pa Tuxton gives a sort of howl. 

'"Mr Moore, " he yells, "what is the meaning of this extraordinarybehaviour? You come here and strike me child--"

'Jerry bangs on the table. 

'"Yes, " he says, "and I'd strike him again. Listen to me, " he says. "Youthink just because I'm quiet I ain't got no spirit. You think all I cando is to sit and smile. You think--Bah! You aren't on to the hiddendepths in me character. I'm one of them still waters that runs deep. I'm--Here, you get out of it! Yes, all of you! Except Jane. Jane and mewants this room to have a private talk in. I've got a lot of things tosay to Jane. Are you going?"

'I turns to the crowd. I was awful disturbed. "You mustn't take anynotice, " I says. "He ain't well. He ain't himself. " When just then theparrot cuts with another of them squawks. Jerry jumps at it. 

'"You first, " he says, and flings the cage out of the window. "Nowyou, " he says to the yellow dog, putting him out through the door. Andthen he folds his arms and scowls at us, and we all notice suddenlythat he's very big. We look at one another, and we begins to edgetowards the door. All except Jane, who's staring at Jerry as if he's aghost. 

'"Mr Moore, " says Pa Tuxton, dignified, "we'll leave you. You'redrunk. "

'"I'm not drunk, " says Jerry. "I'm in love. "

'"Jane, " says Pa Tuxton, "come with me, and leave this ruffian tohimself. "

'"Jane, " says Jerry, "stop here, and come and lay your head on myshoulder. "

'"Jane, " says Pa Tuxton, "do you hear me?"

'"Jane, " says Jerry, "I'm waiting. "

'She looks from one to the other for a spell, and then she moves towhere Jerry's standing. 

'"I'll stop, " she says, sort of quiet. 

'And we drifts out. '

The waiter snorted. 

'I got back home quick as I could, ' he said, 'and relates theproceedings to Gentleman. Gentleman's rattled. "I don't believe it, " hesays. "Don't stand there and tell me Jerry Moore did them things. Why, it ain't in the man. 'Specially after what I said to him about the wayhe ought to behave. How could he have done so?" Just then in comesJerry, beaming all over. "Boys, " he shouts, "congratulate me. It's allright. We've fixed it up. She says she hadn't known me properly before. She says she'd always reckoned me a sheep, while all the time I was oneof them strong, silent men. " He turns to Gentleman--'

The man at the other end of the room was calling for his bill. 

'All right, all right, ' said the waiter. 'Coming! He turns toGentleman, ' he went on rapidly, 'and he says, "Bailey, I owe it all toyou, because if you hadn't told me to insult her folks--"'

He leaned on the traveller's table and fixed him with an eye thatpleaded for sympathy. 

''Ow about that?' he said. 'Isn't that crisp? "Insult her folks!" Themwas his very words. "Insult her folks. "'

The traveller looked at him inquiringly. 

'Can you beat it?' said the waiter. 

'I don't know what you are saying, ' said the traveller. 'If it isimportant, write it on a slip of paper. I am stone-deaf. '

ROUGH-HEW THEM HOW WE WILL

Paul Boielle was a waiter. The word 'waiter' suggests a soft-voiced, deft-handed being, moving swiftly and without noise in an atmosphere ofluxury and shaded lamps. At Bredin's Parisian Cafe and Restaurant inSoho, where Paul worked, there were none of these things; and Paulhimself, though he certainly moved swiftly, was by no means noiseless. His progress through the room resembled in almost equal proportions thefinish of a Marathon race, the star-act of a professional juggler, anda monologue by an Earl's Court side-showman. Constant acquaintancerendered regular habitues callous to the wonder, but to a stranger thesight of Paul tearing over the difficult between-tables course, hishands loaded with two vast pyramids of dishes, shouting as he went themystic word, 'Comingsarecominginamomentsaresteaksareyessarecomingsare!'was impressive to a degree. For doing far less exacting feats on thestage music-hall performers were being paid fifty pounds a week. Paulgot eighteen shillings. 

What a blessing is poverty, properly considered. If Paul had receivedmore than eighteen shillings a week he would not have lived in anattic. He would have luxuriated in a bed-sitting-room on the secondfloor; and would consequently have missed what was practically agenuine north light. The skylight which went with the attic was soarranged that the room was a studio in miniature, and, as Paul wasengaged in his spare moments in painting a great picture, nothing couldhave been more fortunate; for Paul, like so many of our public men, lived two lives. Off duty, the sprinting, barking juggler of Bredin'sParisian Cafe became the quiet follower of Art. Ever since hischildhood he had had a passion for drawing and painting. He regrettedthat Fate had allowed him so little time for such work; but after all, he reflected, all great artists had had their struggles--so why nothe? Moreover, they were now nearly at an end. An hour here, an hourthere, and every Thursday a whole afternoon, and the great picture waswithin measurable distance of completion. He had won through. Withoutmodels, without leisure, hungry, tired, he had nevertheless triumphed. A few more touches, and the masterpiece would be ready for purchase. Andafter that all would be plain sailing. Paul could forecast the scene soexactly. The picture would be at the dealer's, possibly--one must notbe too sanguine--thrust away in some odd corner. The wealthyconnoisseur would come in. At first he would not see the masterpiece;other more prominently displayed works would catch his eye. He wouldturn from them in weary scorn, and then!... Paul wondered how big thecheque would be. 

There were reasons why he wanted the money. Looking at him as hecantered over the linoleum at Bredin's, you would have said that hismind was on his work. But it was not so. He took and executed orders asautomatically as the penny-in-the-slot musical-box in the corner tookpennies and produced tunes. His thoughts were of Jeanne Le Brocq, hisco-worker at Bredin's, and a little cigar shop down Brixton way whichhe knew was in the market at a reasonable rate. To marry the former andown the latter was Paul's idea of the earthly paradise, and it was thewealthy connoisseur, and he alone, who could open the gates. 

Jeanne was a large, slow-moving Norman girl, stolidly handsome. Onecould picture her in a de Maupassant farmyard. In the clatter andbustle of Bredin's Parisian Cafe she appeared out of place, like a cowin a boiler-factory. To Paul, who worshipped her with all the fervourof a little man for a large woman, her deliberate methods seemed allthat was beautiful and dignified. To his mind she lent a tone to thevulgar whirlpool of gorging humanity, as if she had been some goddessmixing in a Homeric battle. The whirlpool had other views--andexpressed them. One coarse-fibred brute, indeed, once went so far as toaddress to her the frightful words, ''Urry up, there, Tottie! Lookslippy. ' It was wrong, of course, for Paul to slip and spill an orderof scrambled eggs down the brute's coatsleeve, but who can blame him?

Among those who did not see eye to eye with Paul in his views ondeportment in waitresses was M. Bredin himself, the owner of theParisian Cafe; and it was this circumstance which first gave Paul theopportunity of declaring the passion which was gnawing him with thefierce fury of a Bredin customer gnawing a tough steak against timeduring the rush hour. He had long worshipped her from afar, but nothingmore intimate than a 'Good morning, Miss Jeanne', had escaped him, till one day during a slack spell he came upon her in the littlepassage leading to the kitchen, her face hidden in her apron, her backjerking with sobs. 

Business is business. Paul had a message to deliver to the cookrespecting 'two fried, coffee, and one stale'. He delivered it andreturned. Jeanne was still sobbing. 

'Ah, Miss Jeanne, ' cried Paul, stricken, 'what is the matter? What isit? Why do you weep?'

'The _patron_, ' sobbed Jeanne. 'He--'

'My angel, ' said Paul, 'he is a pig. '

This was perfectly true. No conscientious judge of character could havedenied that Paul had hit the bull's eye. Bredin was a pig. He lookedlike a pig; he ate like a pig; he grunted like a pig. He had the lavishembonpoint of a pig. Also a porcine soul. If you had tied a bit of blueribbon round his neck you could have won prizes with him at a show. 

Paul's eyes flashed with fury. 'I will slap him in the eye, ' he roared. 

'He called me a tortoise. '

'And kick him in the stomach, ' added Paul. 

Jeanne's sobs were running on second speed now. The anguish wasdiminishing. Paul took advantage of the improved conditions to slide anarm part of the way round her waist. In two minutes he had said as muchas the ordinary man could have worked off in ten. All good stuff, too. No padding. 

Jeanne's face rose from her apron like a full moon. She was tooastounded to be angry. 

Paul continued to babble. Jeanne looked at him with growing wrath. Thatshe, who received daily the affectionate badinage of gentlemen inbowler hats and check suits, who had once been invited to the WhiteCity by a solicitor's clerk, should be addressed in this way by awaiter! It was too much. She threw off his hand. 

'Wretched little man!' she cried, stamping angrily. 

'My angel!' protested Paul. 

Jeanne uttered a scornful laugh. 

'You!' she said. 

There are few more withering remarks than 'You!' spoken in a certainway. Jeanne spoke it in just that way. 

Paul wilted. 

'On eighteen shillings a week, ' went on Jeanne, satirically, 'you wouldsupport a wife, yes? Why--'

Paul recovered himself. He had an opening now, and proceeded to use it. 

'Listen, ' he said. 'At present, yes, it is true, I earn but eighteenshillings a week, but it will not always be so, no. I am not only awaiter. I am also an artist. I have painted a great picture. For awhole year I have worked, and now it is ready. I will sell it, andthen, my angel--?'

Jeanne's face had lost some of its scorn. She was listening with somerespect. 'A picture?' she said, thoughtfully. 'There is money inpictures. '

For the first time Paul was glad that his arm was no longer round herwaist. To do justice to the great work he needed both hands forpurposes of gesticulation. 

'There is money in this picture, ' he said. 'Oh, it is beautiful. I callit "The Awakening". It is a woodland scene. I come back from my workhere, hot and tired, and a mere glance at that wood refreshes me. It isso cool, so green. The sun filters in golden splashes through thefoliage. On a mossy bank, between two trees, lies a beautiful girlasleep. Above her, bending fondly over her, just about to kiss thatflower-like face, is a young man in the dress of a shepherd. At thelast moment he has looked over his shoulder to make sure that there isnobody near to see. He is wearing an expression so happy, so proud, that one's heart goes out to him. '

'Yes, there might be money in that, ' cried Jeanne. 

'There is, there is!' cried Paul. 'I shall sell it for many francs to awealthy connoisseur. And then, my angel--'

'You are a good little man, ' said the angel, patronizingly. 'Perhaps. We will see. '

Paul caught her hand and kissed it. She smiled indulgently. 'Yes, ' shesaid. 'There might be money. These English pay much money for pictures. '

 * * * * *

It is pretty generally admitted that Geoffrey Chaucer, the eminent poetof the fourteenth century, though obsessed with an almost Rooseveltianpassion for the new spelling, was there with the goods when it came toprofundity of thought. It was Chaucer who wrote the lines:

 The lyfe so short, the craft so long to lerne, Th' assay so hard, so sharpe the conquering. 

Which means, broadly, that it is difficult to paint a picture, but agreat deal more difficult to sell it. 

Across the centuries Paul Boielle shook hands with Geoffrey Chaucer. 'So sharpe the conquering' put his case in a nutshell. 

The full story of his wanderings with the masterpiece would read likean Odyssey and be about as long. It shall be condensed. 

There was an artist who dined at intervals at Bredin's Parisian Cafe, and, as the artistic temperament was too impatient to be suited byJeanne's leisurely methods, it had fallen to Paul to wait upon him. Itwas to this expert that Paul, emboldened by the geniality of theartist's manner, went for information. How did monsieur sell hispictures? Monsieur said he didn't, except once in a blue moon. But whenhe did? Oh, he took the thing to the dealers. Paul thanked him. Afriend of him, he explained, had painted a picture and wished to sellit. 

'Poor devil!' was the artist's comment. 

Next day, it happening to be a Thursday, Paul started on his travels. He started buoyantly, but by evening he was as a punctured balloon. Every dealer had the same remark to make--to wit, no room. 

'Have you yet sold the picture?' inquired Jeanne, when they met. 'Notyet, ' said Paul. 'But they are delicate matters, these negotiations. Iuse finesse. I proceed with caution. '

He approached the artist again. 

'With the dealers, ' he said, 'my friend has been a little unfortunate. They say they have no room. '

'_I_ know, ' said the artist, nodding. 

'Is there, perhaps, another way?'

'What sort of a picture is it?' inquired the artist. 

Paul became enthusiastic. 

'Ah! monsieur, it is beautiful. It is a woodland scene. A beautifulgirl--'

'Oh! Then he had better try the magazines. They might use it for acover. '

Paul thanked him effusively. On the following Thursday he visiteddivers art editors. The art editors seemed to be in the same unhappycondition as the dealers. 'Overstocked!' was their cry. 

'The picture?' said Jeanne, on the Friday morning. 'Is it sold?'

'Not yet, ' said Paul, 'but--'

'Always but!'

'My angel!'

'Bah!' said Jeanne, with a toss of her large but shapely head. 

By the end of the month Paul was fighting in the last ditch, wanderingdisconsolately among those who dwell in outer darkness and have grimythumbs. Seven of these in all he visited on that black Thursday, andeach of the seven rubbed the surface of the painting with a grimythumb, snorted, and dismissed him. Sick and beaten, Paul took themasterpiece back to his skylight room. 

All that night he lay awake, thinking. It was a weary bundle of nervesthat came to the Parisian Cafe next morning. He was late in arriving, which was good in that it delayed the inevitable question as to thefate of the picture, but bad in every other respect. M. Bredin, squatting behind the cash-desk, grunted fiercely at him; and, worse, Jeanne, who, owing to his absence, had had to be busier than suited herdisposition, was distant and haughty. A murky gloom settled upon Paul. 

Now it so happened that M. Bredin, when things went well with him, waswont to be filled with a ponderous amiability. It was not often thatthis took a practical form, though it is on record that in an exuberantmoment he once gave a small boy a halfpenny. More frequently it merelyled him to soften the porcine austerity of his demeanour. Today, business having been uncommonly good, he felt pleased with the world. He had left his cash-desk and was assailing a bowl of soup at one ofthe side-tables. Except for a belated luncher at the end of the roomthe place was empty. It was one of the hours when there was a lull inthe proceedings at the Parisian Cafe. Paul was leaning, wrapped in thegloom, against the wall. Jeanne was waiting on the proprietor. 

M. Bredin finished his meal and rose. He felt content. All was wellwith the world. As he lumbered to his desk he passed Jeanne. Hestopped. He wheezed a compliment. Then another. Paul, from his place bythe wall, watched with jealous fury. 

M. Bredin chucked Jeanne under the chin. 

As he did so, the belated luncher called 'Waiter!' but Paul wasotherwise engaged. His entire nervous system seemed to have beenstirred up with a pole. With a hoarse cry he dashed forward. He woulddestroy this pig who chucked his Jeanne under the chin. 

The first intimation M. Bredin had of the declaration of war was theimpact of a French roll on his ear. It was one of those nobbly, chunkyrolls with sharp corners, almost as deadly as a piece of shrapnel. M. Bredin was incapable of jumping, but he uttered a howl and his vastbody quivered like a stricken jelly. A second roll, whizzing by, slapped against the wall. A moment later a cream-bun burst in stickyruin on the proprietor's left eye. 

The belated luncher had been anxious to pay his bill and go, but hecame swiftly to the conclusion that this was worth stopping on for. Heleaned back in his chair and watched. M. Bredin had entrenched himselfbehind the cash-desk, peering nervously at Paul through the cream, andPaul, pouring forth abuse in his native tongue, was brandishing achocolate eclair. The situation looked good to the spectator. 

It was spoiled by Jeanne, who seized Paul by the arm and shook him, adding her own voice to the babel. It was enough. The eclair fell tothe floor. Paul's voice died away. His face took on again its crushed, hunted expression. The voice of M. Bredin, freed from competition, roseshrill and wrathful. 

'The marksman is getting sacked, ' mused the onlooker, diagnosing thesituation. 

He was right. The next moment Paul, limp and depressed, had retired tothe kitchen passage, discharged. It was here, after a few minutes, thatJeanne found him. 

'Fool! Idiot! Imbecile!' said Jeanne. 

Paul stared at her without speaking. 

'To throw rolls at the _patron_. Imbecile!'

'He--' began Paul. 

'Bah! And what if he did? Must you then attack him like a mad dog? Whatis it to you?'

Paul was conscious of a dull longing for sympathy, a monstrous senseof oppression. Everything was going wrong. Surely Jeanne must betouched by his heroism? But no. She was scolding furiously. SupposeAndromeda had turned and scolded Perseus after he had slain thesea-monster! Paul mopped his forehead with his napkin. The bottom haddropped out of his world. 

'Jeanne!'

'Bah! Do not talk to me, idiot of a little man. Almost you lost me myplace also. The _patron_ was in two minds. But I coaxed him. Afine thing that would have been, to lose my good place through yourfoolishness. To throw rolls. My goodness!'

She swept back into the room again, leaving Paul still standing by thekitchen door. Something seemed to have snapped inside him. How long hestood there he did not know, but presently from the dining-room camecalls of 'Waiter!' and automatically he fell once more into his work, as an actor takes up his part. A stranger would have noticed nothingremarkable in him. He bustled to and fro with undiminished energy. 

At the end of the day M. Bredin paid him his eighteen shillings with agrunt, and Paul walked out of the restaurant a masterless man. 

He went to his attic and sat down on the bed. Propped up against thewall was the picture. He looked at it with unseeing eyes. He stareddully before him. 

Then thoughts came to him with a rush, leaping and dancing in his mindlike imps in Hades. He had a curious sense of detachment. He seemed tobe watching himself from a great distance. 

This was the end. The little imps danced and leaped; and then oneseparated itself from the crowd, to grow bigger than, the rest, topirouette more energetically. He rose. His mind was made up. He wouldkill himself. 

He went downstairs and out into the street. He thought hard as hewalked. He would kill himself, but how?

His preoccupation was so great that an automobile, rounding a corner, missed him by inches as he crossed the road. The chauffeur shoutedangrily at him as he leapt back. 

Paul shook his fist at the retreating lights. 

'Pig!' he shouted. 'Assassin! Scoundrel! Villain! Would you kill me? Iwill take your number, rascal. I will inform the police. Villain!'

A policeman had strolled up and was eyeing him curiously. Paul turnedto him, full of his wrongs. 

'Officer, ' he cried, 'I have a complaint. These pigs of chauffeurs!They are reckless. They drive so recklessly. Hence the great number ofaccidents. '

'Awful!' said the policeman. 'Pass along, sonny. '

Paul walked on, fuming. It was abominable that these chauffeurs--Andthen an idea came to him. He had found a way. 

 * * * * *

It was quiet in the Park. He had chosen the Park because it was darkand there would be none to see and interfere. He waited long in theshadow by the roadside. Presently from the darkness there came thedistant drone of powerful engines. Lights appeared, like the blazingeyes of a dragon swooping down to devour its prey. 

He ran out into the road with a shout. 

It was an error, that shout. He had intended it for an inarticulatefarewell to his picture, to Jeanne, to life. It was excusable to thedriver of the motor that he misinterpreted it. It seemed to him a cryof warning. There was a great jarring of brakes, a scuttering of lockedwheels on the dry road, and the car came to a standstill a full yardfrom where he stood. 

'What the deuce--' said a cool voice from behind the lights. 

Paul struck his chest and folded his arms. 

'I am here, ' he cried. 'Destroy me!'

'Let George do it, ' said the voice, in a marked American accent. 'Inever murder on a Friday; it's unlucky. If it's not a rude question, which asylum are you from? Halloa!'

The exclamation was one of surprise, for Paul's nerves had finallygiven way, and he was now in a heap on the road, sobbing. 

The man climbed down and came into the light. He was a tall young manwith a pleasant, clean-cut face. He stopped and shook Paul. 

'Quit that, ' he said. 'Maybe it's not true. And if it is, there'salways hope. Cut it out. What's the matter? All in?'

Paul sat up, gulping convulsively. He was thoroughly unstrung. Thecold, desperate mood had passed. In its place came the old feeling ofdesolation. He was a child, aching for sympathy. He wanted to tell histroubles. Punctuating his narrative with many gestures and anoccasional gulp, he proceeded to do so. The American listenedattentively. 

'So you can't sell your picture, and you've lost your job, and yourgirl has shaken you?' he said. 'Pretty bad, but still you've no call togo mingling with automobile wheels. You come along with me to my hotel, and tomorrow we'll see if we can't fix up something. '

 * * * * *

There was breakfast at the hotel next morning, a breakfast to put heartinto a man. During the meal a messenger dispatched in a cab to Paul'slodgings returned with the canvas. A deferential waiter informed theAmerican that it had been taken with every possible care to his suite. 

'Good, ' said the young man. 'If you're through, we'll go and have alook at it. '

They went upstairs. There was the picture resting against a chair. 

'Why, I call that fine, ' said the young man. 'It's a cracker jack. '

Paul's heart gave a sudden leap. Could it be that here was the wealthyconnoisseur? He was wealthy, for he drove an automobile and lived in anexpensive hotel. He was a connoisseur, for he had said that the picturewas a crackerjack. 

'Monsieur is kind, ' murmured Paul. 

'It's a bear-cat, ' said the young man, admiringly. 

'Monsieur is flattering, ' said Paul, dimly perceiving a compliment. 

'I've been looking for a picture like that, ' said the young man, 'formonths. '

Paul's eyes rolled heavenwards. 

'If you'll make a few alterations, I'll buy it and ask for more. '

'Alterations, monsieur?'

'One or two small ones. ' He pointed to the stooping figure of theshepherd. 'Now, you see this prominent citizen. What's he doing!'

'He is stooping, ' said Paul, fervently, 'to bestow upon his loved one akiss. And she, sleeping, all unconscious, dreaming of him--'

'Never mind about her. Fix your mind on him. Willie is the "star" inthis show. You have summed him up accurately. He is stooping. Stoopinggood. Now, if that fellow was wearing braces and stooped like that, you'd say he'd burst those braces, wouldn't you?'

With a somewhat dazed air Paul said that he thought he would. Till nowhe had not looked at the figure from just that view-point. 

'You'd say he'd bust them?'

'Assuredly, monsieur. '

'No!' said the young man, solemnly, tapping him earnestly on the chest. 'That's where you're wrong. Not if they were Galloway's Tried andProven. Galloway's Tried and Proven will stand any old strain you careto put on them. See small bills. Wear Galloway's Tried and Proven, andfate cannot touch you. You can take it from me. I'm the company'sgeneral manager. '

'Indeed, monsieur!'

'And I'll make a proposition to you. Cut out that mossy bank, and makethe girl lying in a hammock. Put Willie in shirt-sleeves instead of abath-robe, and fix him up with a pair of the Tried and Proven, and I'llgive you three thousand dollars for that picture and a retaining fee offour thousand a year to work for us and nobody else for any number ofyears you care to mention. You've got the goods. You've got just thetouch. That happy look on Willie's face, for instance. You can see in aminute why he's so happy. It's because he's wearing the Tried andProven, and he knows that however far he stoops they won't break. Isthat a deal?'

Paul's reply left no room for doubt. Seizing the young man firmly roundthe waist, he kissed him with extreme fervour on both cheeks. 

'Here, break away!' cried the astonished general manager. 'That's noway to sign a business contract. '

 * * * * *

It was at about five minutes after one that afternoon that ConstableThomas Parsons, patrolling his beat, was aware of a man motioning tohim from the doorway of Bredin's Parisian Cafe and Restaurant. The manlooked like a pig. He grunted like a pig. He had the lavish_embonpoint_ of a pig. Constable Parsons suspected that he had aporcine soul. Indeed, the thought flitted across Constable Parsons'mind that, if he were to tie a bit of blue ribbon round his neck, hecould win prizes with him at a show. 

'What's all this?' he inquired, halting. 

The stout man talked volubly in French. Constable Parsons shook hishead. 

'Talk sense, ' he advised. 

'In dere, ' cried the stout man, pointing behind him into therestaurant, 'a man, a--how you say?--yes, sacked. An employe whom Iyesterday sacked, today he returns. I say to him, "Cochon, va!"'

'What's that?'

'I say, "Peeg, go!" How you say? Yes, "pop off!" I say, "Peeg, popoff!" But he--no, no; he sits and will not go. Come in, officer, andexpel him. '

With massive dignity the policeman entered the restaurant. At one ofthe tables sat Paul, calm and distrait. From across the room Jeannestared freezingly. 

'What's all this?' inquired Constable Parsons. Paul looked up. 

'I too, ' he admitted, 'I cannot understand. Figure to yourself, monsieur. I enter this cafe to lunch, and this man here would expelme. '

'He is an employe whom I--I myself--have but yesterday dismissed, 'vociferated M. Bredin. 'He has no money to lunch at my restaurant. '

The policeman eyed Paul sternly. 

'Eh?' he said. 'That so? You'd better come along. '

Paul's eyebrows rose. 

Before the round eyes of M. Bredin he began to produce from his pocketsand to lay upon the table bank-notes and sovereigns. The cloth wascovered with them. 

He picked up a half-sovereign. 

'If monsieur, ' he said to the policeman, 'would accept this as a slightconsolation for the inconvenience which this foolish person here hascaused him--'

'Not half, ' said Mr Parsons, affably. 'Look here'--he turned to thegaping proprietor--'if you go on like this you'll be getting yourselfinto trouble. See? You take care another time. '

Paul called for the bill of fare. 

It was the inferior person who had succeeded to his place as waiter whoattended to his needs during the meal; but when he had lunched it wasJeanne who brought his coffee. 

She bent over the table. 

'You sold your picture, Paul--yes?' she whispered. 'For much money? Howglad I am, dear Paul. Now we will--'

Paul met her glance coolly. 

'Will you be so kind, ' he said, 'as to bring me also a cigarette, mygood girl?'

THE MAN WHO DISLIKED CATS

It was Harold who first made us acquainted, when I was dining one nightat the Cafe Britannique, in Soho. It is a peculiarity of the CafeBritannique that you will always find flies there, even in winter. Snowwas falling that night as I turned in at the door, but, glancing aboutme, I noticed several of the old faces. My old acquaintance, Percy thebluebottle, looking wonderfully fit despite his years, was doing deepbreathing exercises on a mutton cutlet, and was too busy to do morethan pause for a moment to nod at me; but his cousin, Harold, alwaysactive, sighted me and bustled up to do the honours. 

He had finished his game of touch-last with my right ear, and wascircling slowly in the air while he thought out other ways ofentertaining me, when there was a rush of air, a swish of napkin, andno more Harold. 

I turned to thank my preserver, whose table adjoined mine. He was aFrenchman, a melancholy-looking man. He had the appearance of one whohas searched for the leak in life's gas-pipe with a lighted candle; ofone whom the clenched fist of Fate has smitten beneath thetemperamental third waistcoat-button. 

He waved my thanks aside. 'It was a bagatelle, ' he said. We becamefriendly. He moved to my table, and we fraternized over our coffee. 

Suddenly he became agitated. He kicked at something on the floor. Hiseyes gleamed angrily. 

'Ps-s-st!' he hissed. 'Va-t'en!'

I looked round the corner of the table, and perceived the restaurantcat in dignified retreat. 

'You do not like cats?' I said. 

'I 'ate all animals, monsieur. Cats especially. ' He frowned. He seemedto hesitate. 

'I will tell you my story, ' he said. 'You will sympathize. You have asympathetic face. It is the story of a man's tragedy. It is the storyof a blighted life. It is the story of a woman who would not forgive. It is the story--'

'I've got an appointment at eleven, ' I said. 

He nodded absently, drew at his cigarette, and began:

 * * * * *

I have conceived my 'atred of animals, monsieur, many years ago inParis. Animals are to me a symbol for the lost dreams of youth, forambitions foiled, for artistic impulses cruelly stifled. You areastonished. You ask why I say these things. I shall tell you. 

I am in Paris, young, ardent, artistic. I wish to paint pictures. I'ave the genius, the ent'usiasm. I wish to be disciple of the greatBouguereau. But no. I am dependent for support upon an uncle. He isrich. He is proprietor of the great Hotel Jules Priaulx. My name isalso Priaulx. He is not sympathetic. I say, 'Uncle, I 'ave the genius, the ent'usiasm. Permit me to paint. ' He shakes his head. He say, 'Iwill give you position in my hotel, and you shall earn your living. 'What choice? I weep, but I kill my dreams, and I become cashier at myuncle's hotel at a salary of thirty-five francs a week. I, the artist, become a machine for the changing of money at dam bad salary. Whatwould you? What choice? I am dependent. I go to the hotel, and there Ilearn to 'ate all animals. Cats especially. 

I will tell you the reason. My uncle's hotel is fashionable hotel. RichAmericans, rich Maharajahs, rich people of every nation come to myuncle's hotel. They come, and with them they have brought their pets. Monsieur, it was the existence of a nightmare. Wherever I have lookedthere are animals. Listen. There is an Indian prince. He has with himtwo dromedaries. There is also one other Indian prince. With him is agiraffe. The giraffe drink every day one dozen best champagne to keephis coat good. I, the artist, have my bock, and my coat is not good. There is a guest with a young lion. There is a guest with an alligator. But especially there is a cat. He is fat. His name is Alexander. Hebelongs to an American woman. She is fat. She exhibits him to me. He iswrapped in a silk and fur creation like an opera cloak. Every day sheexhibits him. It is 'Alexander this' and 'Alexander that', till I 'ateAlexander very much. I 'ate all the animals, but especially Alexander. 

And so, monsieur, it goes on, day by day, in this hotel that is aZoological Garden. And every day I 'ate the animals the more. Butespecially Alexander. 

We artists, monsieur, we are martyrs to our nerves. It becameinsupportable, this thing. Each day it became more insupportable. Atnight I dream of all the animals, one by one--the giraffe, the twodromedaries, the young lion, the alligator, and Alexander. EspeciallyAlexander. You have 'eard of men who cannot endure the society of acat--how they cry out and jump in the air if a cat is among thosepresent. _Hein_? Your Lord Roberts? Precisely, monsieur. I haveread so much. Listen, then. I am become by degrees almost like 'im. Ido not cry out and jump in the air when I see the cat Alexander, but Igrind my teeth and I 'ate 'im. 

Yes, I am the sleeping volcano, and one morning, monsieur, I havesuffered the eruption. It is like this. I shall tell you. 

Not only at that time am I the martyr to nerves, but also to toothache. That morning I 'ave 'ad the toothache very bad. I 'ave been in pain themost terrible. I groan as I add up the figures in my book. 

As I groan I 'ear a voice. 

'Say good morning to M. Priaulx, Alexander. ' Conceive my emotions, monsieur, when this fat, beastly cat is placed before me upon my desk!

It put the cover upon it. No, that is not the phrase. The lid. It putthe lid upon it. All my smothered 'atred of the animal burst forth. Icould no longer conceal my 'atred. 

I rose. I was terrible. I seized 'im by the tail. I flung him--I didnot know where. I did not care. Not then. Afterwards, yes, but notthen. 

Your Longfellow has a poem. 'I shot an arrow into the air. It fell toearth, I know not where. ' And then he has found it. The arrow in the'eart of a friend. Am I right? Also was that the tragedy with me. Iflung the cat Alexander. My uncle, on whom I am dependent, is passingat the moment. He has received the cat in the middle of his face. 

My companion, with the artist's instinct for the 'curtain', paused. Helooked round the brightly-lit restaurant. From every side arose theclatter of knife and fork, and the clear, sharp note of those who dranksoup. In a distant corner a small waiter with a large voice was callingthe cook names through the speaking-tube. It was a cheerful scene, butit brought no cheer to my companion. He sighed heavily and resumed:

 * * * * *

I 'urry over that painful scene. There is blooming row. My uncle is'ot-tempered man. The cat is 'eavy cat. I 'ave thrown 'im very hard, for my nerves and my toothache and my 'atred 'ave given me the giant'sstrength. Alone is this enough to enrage my 'ot-tempered uncle. I amthere in his hotel, you will understand, as cashier, not ascat-thrower. And now, besides all this, I have insulted valuablepatron. She 'ave left the hotel that day. 

There are no doubts in my mind as to the outcome. With certainty Iawait my _conge_. And after painful scene I get it. I am to go. Atonce. He 'ave assured the angry American woman that I go at once. 

He has called me into his private office. 'Jean, ' he has said to me, atthe end of other things, 'you are a fool, dolt, no-good imbecile. Igive you good place in my hotel, and you spend your time flinging cats. I will 'ave no more of you. But even now I cannot forget that you aremy dear brother's child. I will now give you one thousand francs andnever see you again. '

I have thanked him, for to me it is wealth. Not before have I ever hadone thousand francs of my own. 

I go out of the hotel. I go to a _cafe_ and order a bock. I smokea cigarette. It is necessary that I think out plans. Shall I with myone thousand francs rent a studio in the Quarter and commence my lifeas artist? No. I have still the genius, the ent'usiasm, but I have notthe training. To train myself to paint pictures I must study long, andeven one thousand francs will not last for ever. Then what shall I do?I do not know. I order one other bock, and smoke more cigarettes, butstill I do not know. 

And then I say to myself, 'I will go back to my uncle, and plead withhim. I will seize favourable opportunity. I will approach him afterdinner when he is in good temper. But for that I must be close at hand. I must be--what's your expression?--"Johnny-on-the-spot". '

My mind is made up. I have my plan. 

I have gone back to my uncle's hotel, and I have engaged not tooexpensive bedroom. My uncle does not know. He still is in his privateoffice. I secure my room. 

I dine cheaply that night, but I go to theatre and also to supper afterthe theatre, for have I not my thousand francs? It is late when I reachmy bedroom. 

I go to bed. I go to sleep. 

But I do not sleep long. I am awakened by a voice. 

It is a voice that says, 'Move and I shoot! Move and I shoot!' I liestill. I do not move. I am courageous, but I am unarmed. 

And the voice says again, 'Move and I shoot!' Is it robbers? Is it somemarauder who has made his way to my room to plunder me?

I do not know. Per'aps I think yes. 

'Who are you?' I have asked. 

There is no answer. 

I take my courage in my 'ands. I leap from my bed. I dash for the door. No pistol has been fire. I have reached the passage, and have shoutedfor assistance. 

Hotel officials run up. Doors open. 'What is it?' voices cry. 

'There is in my room an armed robber, ' I assure them. 

And then I have found--no, I am mistaken. My door, you will understand, is open. And as I have said these words, a large green parrot comes'opping out. My assassin is nothing but a green parrot. 

'Move and I shoot!' it has said to those gathered in the corridor. Itthen has bitten me in the 'and and passed on. 

I am chagrined, monsieur. But only for a moment. Then I forget mychagrin. For a voice from a door that 'as opened says with joy, 'It ismy Polly, which I 'ave this evening lost I'

I turn. I gasp for admiration. It is a beautiful lady in a pinkdressing-gown which 'ave spoken these words. 

She has looked at me. I 'ave looked at her. I forget everything butthat she is adorable. I forget those who stand by. I forget that theparrot has bitten me in the 'and. I forget even that I am standingthere in pyjamas, with on my feet nothing. I can only gaze at her andworship. 

I have found words. 

'Mademoiselle, ' I have said, 'I am rejoiced that I have been the meansof restoring to you your bird. '

She has thanked me with her eyes, and then with words also. I ambewitched. She is divine. I care not that my feet are cold. I couldwish to stand there talking all night. 

She has given a cry of dismay. 

'Your 'and! It is wounded!'

I look at my 'and. Yes, it is bleeding, where the bird 'ave bitten it. 

'Tchut, mademoiselle, ' I have said. 'It is a bagatelle. '

But no. She is distressed. She is what your poet Scott 'ave said, aministering angel thou. She 'ave torn her 'andkerchief and is bindingup my wound. I am enchanted. Such beauty! Such kindness! 'Ardly can Iresist to fall on my knees before 'er and declare my passion. 

We are twin souls. She has thanked me again. She has scolded theparrot. She has smiled upon me as she retires to her room. It isenough. Nothing is said, but I am a man of sensibility and discernment, and I understand that she will not be offended if I seek to renew ourfriendship on a more suitable occasion. 

The doors shut. The guests have returned to bed, the hotel servants totheir duties. And I go back to my room. But not to sleep. It is verylate, but I do not sleep. I lie awake and think of 'er. 

You will conceive, Monsieur, with what mixed feelings I descend nextmorning. On the one 'and, I must keep the sharp look-out for my uncle, for 'im I must avoid till he shall have--what do you say in youridiom? Yes, I have it--simmered down and tucked in his shirt. On theother 'and, I must watch for my lady of the parrot. I count the minutestill we shall meet again. 

I avoid my uncle with success, and I see 'er about the hour of_dejeuner_. She is talking to old gentleman. I have bowed. Shehave smiled and motioned me to approach. 

'Father, ' she has said, 'this is the gentleman who caught Polly. '

We have shaken hands. He is indulgent papa. He has smiled and thankedme also. We have confided to each other our names. He is English. Heowns much land in England. He has been staying in Paris. He is rich. His name is 'Enderson. He addresses his daughter, and call her Marion. In my 'eart I also call her Marion. You will perceive that I am, as yousay, pretty far gone. 

The hour of _dejeuner_ has arrived. I entreat them to be myguests. I can run to it, you understand, for there are still in mypockets plenty of my uncle's francs. They consent. I am in 'eaven. 

All is well. Our friendship has progressed with marvellous speed. Theold gentleman and I are swiftly the dear old pals. I 'ave confided to'im my dreams of artistic fame, and he has told me 'ow much he dislikesyour Lloyd George. He has mentioned that he and Miss Marion depart forLondon that day. I am desolate. My face tumbles. He has observed mydespair. He has invited me to visit them in London. 

Imagine my chagrin. To visit them in London is the one thing I desireto do. But how? I accept gratefully, but I ask myself how it is to bedone? I am poor blighter with no profession and nine 'undred francs. He'as taken it for granted that I am wealthy. 

What shall I do? I spend the afternoon trying to form a plan. And thenI am resolved. I will go to my uncle and say: 'Uncle, I have themagnificent chance to marry the daughter of wealthy English landowner. Already I 'ave her gratitude. Soon--for I am young, 'andsome, debonair--I shall 'ave her love. Give me one more chance, uncle. Bedecent old buck, and put up the money for this affair. '

These words I have resolved to say to my uncle. 

I go back to the hotel. I enter his private office. I reveal no secretwhen I say that he is not cordial. 

'Ten thousand devils!' he has cried. 'What do you here?'

I 'asten to tell him all, and plead with him to be decent old buck. Hedoes not believe. 

Who is he? he asks. This English landowner? How did I meet him? Andwhere?

I tell him. He is amazed. 

'You 'ad the infernal impudence to take room in my hotel?' he hascried. 

I am crafty. I am diplomat. 

'Where else, dear uncle?' I say. 'In all Paris there is no such 'omefrom 'ome. The cuisine--marvellous! The beds--of rose-leaves! Theattendance--superb! If only for one night, I have said to myself, Imust stay in this of all hotels. '

I 'ave--what do you say?--touched the spot. 

'In what you say, ' he has said, more calmly, 'there is certainlysomething. It is a good hotel, this of mine!'

The only hotel, I have assured him. The Meurice? _Chut!_ I snap myfingers. The Ritz? Bah! Once again I snap my fingers. 'In all Paristhere is no hotel like this. '

He 'as simmered down. His shirt is tucked in. 'Tell me again this planof yours, Jean. '

When I leave 'im we have come to an understanding. It is agreed betweenus that I am to 'ave one last chance. He will not spoil this promisingship for the 'a'porth of tar. He will give me money for my purpose. Buthe has said, as we part, if I fail, his 'ands shall be washed of me. Hecannot now forget that I am his dear brother's child; but if I fail toaccomplish the conquest of the divine Miss Marion, he thinks he will beable to. 

It is well. A week later I follow the 'Endersons to London. 

For the next few days, monsieur, I am in Paradise. My 'ost has muchnice 'ouse in Eaton Square. He is rich, popular. There is much society. And I--I have the _succes fou_. I am young, 'andsome, debonair. Icannot speak the English very well--not so well as I now speak 'im--butI manage. I get along. I am intelligent, amiable. Everyone loves me. 

No, not everyone. Captain Bassett, he does not love me. And why?Because he loves the charming Miss Marion, and observes that already Iam succeeding with her like a 'ouse on fire. He is _ami defamille_. He is captain in your Garde Ecossais, and my 'ost told me'e has distinguished himself as soldier pretty much. It may be so. Assoldier, per'aps. But at conversation he is not so good. He is quitenice fellow, you understand--'andsome, yes; distinguished, yes. But hedoes not sparkle. He has not my _verve_, my _elan_. I--how doyou say?--I make the rings round him. 

But, _Chut_! At that moment I would have made the rings round the'ole British Army. Yes, and also the Corps Diplomatique. For I aminspired. Love 'as inspired me. I am conqueror. 

But I will not weary you, monsieur, with the details of my wooing. Youare sympathetic, but I must not weary you. Let us say that I 'ave infour days or five made progress the most remarkable, and proceed to thetragic end. 

Almost could I tell it in four words. In them one would say that it isset forth. There was in London at that time popular a song, a comic, vulgar song of the 'Alls, 'The Cat Came Back'. You 'ave 'eard it? Yes?I 'eard it myself, and without emotion. It had no sinister warning forme. It did not strike me as omen. Yet, in those four words, monsieur, is my tragedy. 

How? I shall tell you. Every word is a sword twisted in my 'eart, but Ishall tell you. 

One afternoon we are at tea. All is well. I am vivacious, gay; MissMarion, charming, gracious. There is present also an aunt, Mr'Enderson's sister; but 'er I do not much notice. It is to Marion Ispeak--both with my lips and also with my eyes. 

As we sit, Captain Bassett is announced. 

He has entered. We have greeted each other politely but coldly, for weare rivals. There is in his manner also a something which I do not muchlike--a species of suppressed triumph, of elation. 

I am uneasy--but only yet vaguely, you will understand. I have not theforeboding that he is about to speak my death-sentence. 

He addresses Miss Marion. There is joy in his voice. 'Miss 'Enderson, 'he has said, 'I have for you the bally good news. You will remember, isn't it, the cat belonging to the American woman in the hotel atParis, of which you have spoken to me? Last night at dinner I have beenseated beside her. At first I am not certain is it she. Then I say thatthere cannot be two Mrs Balderstone Rockmettlers in Europe, so Imention to her the cat. And, to cut the long story short, I haveventured to purchase for you as a little present the cat Alexander. '

I have uttered a cry of horror, but it is not 'eard because of MissMarion's cry of joy. 

'Oh, Captain Bassett, ' she has said, 'how very splendid of you! Eversince I first saw him have I loved Alexander. I cannot tell you howgrateful I am. But it amazes me that you should have been able toinduce her to part with 'im. In Paris she has refused all my offers. '

He has paused, embarrassed. 

'The fact is, ' he has said, 'there is between her and Alexander acertain coolness. He 'as deceived 'er, and she loves him no more. Immediately upon arrival in London, he had the misfortune to 'ave sixfine kittens. 'Owever, out of evil cometh good, and I have thus beenable to secure 'im for you. 'E is downstairs in a basket!'

Miss Marion 'as rung the bell and commanded for him to be broughtinstantly. 

I will not describe the meeting, monsieur. You are sympathetic. Youwill understand my feelings. Let us 'urry on. 

Figure yourself, monsieur, to what extent I was now 'arassed. I amartist. I am a man of nerves. I cannot be gay, brilliant, debonair inthe presence of a cat. Yet always the cat is there. It is terrible. 

I feel that I am falling behind in the race. 'Er gratitude has made herthe more gracious to Captain Bassett. She smiles upon him. And, likeChanticleer at the sight of the sun, he flaps his wings and crows. Heis no longer the silent listener. It is I who have become the silentlistener. 

I have said to myself that something must be done. 

Chance has shown me the way. One afternoon I am by fortune alone in the'all. In his cage the parrot Polly is 'opping. I address him throughthe bars. 

'Move and I shoot I' he has cried. 

The tears have filled my eyes. 'Ow it has brought the 'ole scene backto me!

As I weep, I perceive the cat Alexander approaching. 

I have formed a plan. I have opened the cage-door and released theparrot. The cat, I think, will attack the parrot of which Miss'Enderson is so fond. She will love him no more. He will be expelled. 

 * * * * *

He paused. I suppose my face must have lost some of its allegedsympathy as he set forth this fiendish plot. Even Percy the bluebottleseemed shocked. He had settled on the sugar-bowl, but at these words herose in a marked manner and left the table. 

'You do not approve?' he said. 

I shrugged my shoulders. 

'It's no business of mine, ' I said. 'But don't you think yourself itwas playing it a bit low down? Didn't the thought present itself to youin a shadowy way that it was rather rough on the bird?'

'It did, monsieur. But what would you? It is necessary to break eggs inorder to make an omelette. All is fair, you say, in love and war, andthis was both. Moreover, you must understand, I do not dictate hismovements to the parrot. He is free agent. I do but open the cage-door. Should he 'op out and proceed to the floor where is the cat, that ishis affair. I shall continue, yes?'

 * * * * *

_Alors!_ I open the cage-door and disappear discreetly. It is notpolitic that I remain to witness what shall transpire. It is for me toestablish an alibi. I go to the drawing-room, where I remain. 

At dinner that night Mr 'Enderson has laughed. 

'In the 'all this afternoon, ' he has said, 'I have seen by chance thedickens of a funny occurrence. That parrot of yours, Marion, hadescaped once again from its cage and was 'aving an argument with thatcat which Captain Bassett has given to you. '

'Oh! I hope that Alexander 'as not hurt poor Polly, of whom I am veryfond, ' she has said. 

'The affair did not come to blows, ' has said Mr 'Enderson. 'You maytrust that bird to take care of himself, my dear. When I came upon thescene the cat was crouching in a corner, with his fur bristling and hisback up, while Polly, standing before 'im, was telling 'im not to moveor he would shoot. Nor did he move, till I 'ad seized the parrot andreplaced him in the cage, when he shot upstairs like a streak oflightning. By sheer force of character that excellent bird 'ad won thebloodless victory. I drink to 'im!'

You can conceive my emotion as I listen to this tale. I am like thepoet's mice and men whose best-kid schemes have gone away. I ambaffled. I am discouraged. I do not know what I shall do. I must findanother plan, but I do not know what. 

How shall I remove the cat? Shall I kill 'im? No, for I might besuspect. 

Shall I 'ire someone to steal 'im? No, for my accomplice might betrayme. 

Shall I myself steal 'im? Ah! that is better. That is a very good plan. 

Soon I have it perfected, this plan. Listen, monsieur; it is asfollows. It is simple, but it is good. I will await my opportunity. Iwill remove the cat secretly from the 'ouse. I will take him to anoffice of the District Messenger Boys. I will order a messenger tocarry him at once to the Cats' House, and to request M. Le Directeurimmediately to destroy him. It is a simple plan, but it is good. 

I carry it through without a 'itch. It is not so difficult to securethe cat. 'E is asleep in the drawing-room. There is nobody at hand. Ihave in my bedroom a 'at-box which I have brought from Paris. I havebrought it with me to the drawing-room. I have placed in it the cat. Ihave escaped from the 'ouse. The cat has uttered a cry, but none has'eard. I have reached the office of the District Messenger Boys. I have'anded over the cat in its box. The manager is courteous, sympathetic. A messenger has started in a cab for the Cats' House. I have breatheda sigh of relief. I am saved. 

That is what I say to myself as I return. My troubles are over, andonce more I can be gay, debonair, vivacious with Miss Marion, for nolonger will there be present the cat Alexander to 'arass me. 

When I have returned there is commotion in the 'ouse. I pass on thestairs domestics calling 'Puss, puss!' The butler is chirruping loudlyand poking beneath the furniture with a umbrella. All is confusion andagitation. 

In the drawing-room is Miss Marion. She is distressed. 

'Nowhere, ' she has said, 'can there be found the cat Alexander of whomI am so fond. Nowhere in the 'ouse is he, Where can he be? He is lost. '

I am gentle, sympathetic. I endeavour to console her. I 'int to herthat am I not sufficient substitute for a beastly cat? She is, however, inconsolable. I must be patient. I must wait my time. 

Captain Bassett is announced. He is informed of what has 'appened. Heis distressed. He has the air as if he, too, would endeavour to begentle, sympathetic. But I am Johnny-on-the-spot. I stay till he 'asgone. 

Next day again it is 'Puss, puss!' Again the butler has explored underthe furniture with the umbrella. Again Miss Marion is distressed. Again'ave I endeavoured to console. 

This time I think I am not so unsuccessful. I am, you understand, young, 'andsome, sympathetic. In another two ticks I am about to seize'er 'and and declare my passion. 

But, before I can do so, Captain Bassett is announced. 

I gaze at him as at unsuccessful rival. I am confident. I am conqueror. Ah, I little know! It is in the moments of our highest 'ope, monsieur, that we are destroyed. 

Captain Bassett, he, too, 'as the air of the conqueror. 

He has begun to speak. 

'Miss 'Enderson, ' he has said, 'I have once more the bally good news. Irather fancy that I 'ave tracked down the missing Alexander, do you notknow?'

Miss Marion 'as cried cut with joy. But I am calm, for is not Alexanderalready yesterday destroyed?

'It is like this, ' he has resumed. 'I have thought to myself where islost cat most likely to be? And I have answered, "In the Cats' House. "I go this morning to the Cats' House, and there I see a cat which iseither lost Alexander or his living image. Exactly is he the same toall appearances as the lost Alexander. But there is, when I try topurchase 'im, some curious 'itch which they do not explain. They must'ave time, they say, to consider. They cannot at once decide. '

'Why, what nonsense!' Miss Marion 'ave cried. 'If the cat is my cat, surely then must they return 'im to me! Come, ' she has said, 'let usall three at once in a taxi-cab go to the Cats' House. If the all threeof us identify the lost Alexander, then must they return 'im. '

Monsieur, I am uneasy. I have foreboding. But I go. What choice? We goin a taxi-cab to the Cats' House. 

The _directeur_ is courteous and sympathetic. He has introduced usto the cat, and my 'eart 'as turned to water, for it is Alexander. Whyhas he not been destroyed?

The _directeur_ is speaking. I 'ear him in a dream. 

'If you identify 'im as your cat, miss, ' he has said, 'the matter isended. My 'esitation when you, sir, approached me this morning on thematter was due to the fact that a messenger was sent with instructionsthat he be destroyed at once. '

'Rather rough, wasn't it, that, on the messenger, yes, ' Captain Bassetthas said. He is facetious, you understand, for he is conqueror. 

I am silent. I am not facetious. For already I feel--how do yousay?--my fowl is cooked. 

'Not the messenger, sir, ' the _directeur_ has said. 'You 'avemisunderstood me. It was the cat which was to be destroyed as perinstructions of the anonymous sender. '

'Who could have played such a wicked trick?' Miss Marion has asked, indignant. 

The _directeur_ has stooped, and from behind a table he hasbrought a 'at-box. 

'In this, ' he has said, 'the above animal was conveyed. But with it wasno accompanying letter. The sender was anonymous. '

'Per'aps, ' Captain Bassett has said--and still more in a dream I 'earhim--'per'aps on the 'at-box there is some bally name or other, do younot know--what?'

I clutch at the table. The room is spinning round and round. I have nostomach--only emptiness. 

'Why, bless me, ' the _directeur_ has said, 'you're quite right, sir. So there is. Funny of me not to have before observed it. There isa name, and also an address. It is the name of Jean Priaulx, and theaddress is the Hotel Jules Priaulx, Paris. '

My companion stopped abruptly. He passed a handkerchief over hisforehead. With a quick movement he reached for his glass of liqueurbrandy and drained it at a gulp. 

'Monsieur, ' he said, 'you will not wish me to describe the scene? Thereis no need for me--_hein?_--to be Zolaesque. You can imagine?'

'She chucked you?' In moments of emotion it is the simplest languagethat comes to the lips. 

He nodded. 

'And married Captain Bassett?'

He nodded again. 

'And your uncle?' I said. 'How did he take it?'

He sighed. 

'There was once more, ' he said, 'blooming row, monsieur. '

'He washed his hands of you?'

'Not altogether. He was angry, but he gave me one more chance. I amstill 'is dear brother's child, and he cannot forget it. Anacquaintance of his, a man of letters, a M. Paul Sartines, was in needof a secretary. The post was not well paid, but it was permanent. Myuncle insist that I take it. What choice? I took it. It is the postwhich I still 'old. '

He ordered another liqueur brandy and gulped it down. 

'The name is familiar to you, monsieur? You 'ave 'eard of M. Sartines?'

'I don't think I have. Who is he?'

'He is a man of letters, a _savant_. For five years he has beenoccupied upon a great work. It is with that that I assist him bycollecting facts for 'is use. I 'ave spent this afternoon in theBritish Museum collecting facts. Tomorrow I go again. And the next day. And again after that. The book will occupy yet another ten years beforeit is completed. It is his great work. '

'It sounds as if it was, ' I said. 'What's it about?'

He signalled to the waiter. 

'_Garcon_, one other liqueur brandy. The book, monsieur, is a'_Istory of the Cat in Ancient Egypt. _'

RUTH IN EXILE

The clock struck five--briskly, as if time were money. Ruth Warden gotup from her desk and, having put on her hat, emerged into the outeroffice where M. Gandinot received visitors. M. Gandinot, the ugliestman in Roville-sur-Mer, presided over the local _mont-de-piete_, and Ruth served him, from ten to five, as a sort of secretary-clerk. Her duties, if monotonous, were simple. They consisted of sitting, detached and invisible, behind a ground-glass screen, and enteringdetails of loans in a fat book. She was kept busy as a rule, forRoville possesses two casinos, each offering the attraction of_petits chevaux_, and just round the corner is Monte Carlo. Verybrisk was the business done by M. Gandinot, the pawnbroker, and veryfrequent were the pitying shakes of the head and clicks of the tongueof M. Gandinot, the man; for in his unofficial capacity Ruth's employerhad a gentle soul, and winced at the evidences of tragedy whichpresented themselves before his official eyes. 

He blinked up at Ruth as she appeared, and Ruth, as she looked at him, was conscious, as usual, of a lightening of the depression which, nowadays, seemed to have settled permanently upon her. The peculiarquality of M. Gandinot's extraordinary countenance was that it inducedmirth--not mocking laughter, but a kind of smiling happiness. Itpossessed that indefinable quality which characterizes the Billiken, due, perhaps, to the unquenchable optimism which shone through theirregular features; for M. Gandinot, despite his calling, believed inhis fellow-man. 

'You are going, mademoiselle?'

As Ruth was wearing her hat and making for the door, and as she alwaysleft at this hour, a purist might have considered the questionsuperfluous; but M. Gandinot was a man who seized every opportunity ofpractising his English. 

'You will not wait for the good papa who calls so regularly for you?'

'I think I won't today, M. Gandinot. I want to get out into the air. Ihave rather a headache. Will you tell my father I have gone to thePromenade?'

M. Gandinot sighed as the door closed behind her. Ruth's depression hadnot escaped his notice. He was sorry for her. And not without cause, for Fate had not dealt too kindly with Ruth. 

It would have amazed Mr Eugene Warden, that genial old gentleman, if, on one of those occasions of manly emotion when he was in the habit ofobserving that he had been nobody's enemy but his own, somebody hadhinted that he had spoiled his daughter's life. Such a thought hadnever entered his head. He was one of those delightful, irresponsible, erratic persons whose heads thoughts of this kind do not enter, and whoare about as deadly to those whose lives are bound up with theirs as aUpas tree. 

In the memory of his oldest acquaintance, Ruth's father had never doneanything but drift amiably through life. There had been a time when hehad done his drifting in London, feeding cheerfully from the hand of along-suffering brother-in-law. But though blood, as he was wont toremark while negotiating his periodical loans, is thicker than water, abrother-in-law's affection has its limits. A day came when Mr Wardenobserved with pain that his relative responded less nimbly to thetouch. And a little while later the other delivered his ultimatum. MrWarden was to leave England, and to stay away from England, to behaveas if England no longer existed on the map, and a small but sufficientallowance would be made to him. If he declined to do this, not anotherpenny of the speaker's money would he receive. He could choose. 

He chose. He left England, Ruth with him. They settled in Roville, thathaven of the exile who lives upon remittances. 

Ruth's connexion with the _mont-de-piete_ had come about almostautomatically. Very soon after their arrival it became evident that, toa man of Mr Warden's nature, resident a stone's-throw distant from twocasinos, the small allowance was not likely to go very far. Even ifRuth had not wished to work, circumstances could have compelled her. Asit was, she longed for something to occupy her, and, the vacancy at the_mont-de-piete_ occurring, she had snatched at it. There was acertain fitness in her working there. Business transactions with thatuseful institution had always been conducted by her, it being MrWarden's theory that Woman can extract in these crises just that extrafranc or two which is denied to the mere male. Through constantly goinground, running across, stepping over, and popping down to the_mont-de-piete_ she had established almost a legal claim on any postthat might be vacant there. 

And under M. Gandinot's banner she had served ever since. 

 * * * * *

Five minutes' walk took her to the Promenade des Anglais, thatapparently endless thoroughfare which is Roville's pride. The eveningwas fine and warm. The sun shone gaily on the white-walled houses, thebright Gardens, and the two gleaming casinos. But Ruth walkedlistlessly, blind to the glitter of it all. 

Visitors who go to Roville for a few weeks in the winter are apt tospeak of the place, on their return, in a manner that conveys theimpression that it is a Paradise on earth, with gambling facilitiesthrown in. But, then, they are visitors. Their sojourn comes to an end. Ruth's did not. 

A voice spoke her name. She turned, and saw her father, dapper as ever, standing beside her. 

'What an evening, my dear!' said Mr Warden. 'What an evening! Smell thesea!'

Mr Warden appeared to be in high spirits. He hummed a tune and twirledhis cane. He chirruped frequently to Bill, the companion of his walksabroad, a wiry fox-terrier of a demeanour, like his master's, bothjaunty and slightly disreputable. An air of gaiety pervaded hisbearing. 

'I called in at the _mont-de-piete_ but you had gone. Gandinottold me you had come here. What an ugly fellow that Gandinot is! But agood sort. I like him. I had a chat with him. '

The high spirits were explained. Ruth knew her father. She guessed, correctly, that M. Gandinot, kindest of pawnbrokers, had obliged, inhis unofficial capacity, with a trifling loan. 

'Gandinot ought to go on the stage, ' went on Mr Warden, pursuing histheme. 'With that face he would make his fortune. You can't helplaughing when you see it. One of these days--'

He broke off. Stirring things had begun to occur in the neighbourhoodof his ankles, where Bill, the fox-terrier, had encountered anacquaintance, and, to the accompaniment of a loud, gargling noise, wasendeavouring to bite his head off. The acquaintance, a gentleman ofuncertain breed, equally willing, was chewing Bill's paw with the gustoof a gourmet. An Irish terrier, with no personal bias towards eitherside, was dancing round and attacking each in turn as he cameuppermost. And two poodles leaped madly in and out of the melee, barking encouragement. 

It takes a better man than Mr Warden to break up a gathering of thiskind. The old gentleman was bewildered. He added his voice to thebabel, and twice smote Bill grievously with his cane with blowsintended for the acquaintance, but beyond that he effected nothing. Itseemed probable that the engagement would last till the combatants hadconsumed each other, after the fashion of the Kilkenny cats, when theresuddenly appeared from nowhere a young man in grey. 

The world is divided into those who can stop dog-fights and those whocannot. The young man in grey belonged to the former class. Within aminute from his entrance on the scene the poodles and the Irish terrierhad vanished; the dog of doubtful breed was moving off up the hill, yelping, with the dispatch of one who remembers an importantappointment, and Bill, miraculously calmed, was seated in the centre ofthe Promenade, licking honourable wounds. 

Mr Warden was disposed to effervesce with gratitude. The scene hadshaken him, and there had been moments when he had given his ankles upfor lost. 

'Don't mention it, ' said the young man. 'I enjoy arbitrating in theselittle disputes. Dogs seem to like me and trust my judgement. Iconsider myself as a sort of honorary dog. '

'Well, I am bound to say, Mr--?'

'Vince--George Vince. '

'My name is Warden. My daughter. '

Ruth inclined her head, and was conscious of a pair of very penetratingbrown eyes looking eagerly into hers in a manner which she thoroughlyresented. She was not used to the other sex meeting her gaze andholding it as if confident of a friendly welcome. She made up her mindin that instant that this was a young man who required suppression. 

'I've seen you several times out here since I arrived, Miss Warden, 'said Mr Vince. 'Four in all, ' he added, precisely. 

'Really?' said Ruth. 

She looked away. Her attitude seemed to suggest that she had finishedwith him, and would be obliged if somebody would come and sweep him up. 

As they approached the casino restlessness crept into Mr Warden'smanner. At the door he stopped and looked at Ruth. 

'I think, my dear--' he said. 

'Going to have a dash at the _petits chevaux?_' inquired Mr Vince. 'I was there just now. I have an infallible system. '

Mr Warden started like a war-horse at the sound of the trumpet. 

'Only it's infallible the wrong way, ' went on the young man. 'Well, Iwish you luck. I'll see Miss Warden home. '

'Please don't trouble, ' said Ruth, in the haughty manner which hadfrequently withered unfortunate fellow-exiles in their tracks. 

It had no such effect on Mr Vince. 

'I shall like it, ' he said. 

Ruth set her teeth. She would see whether he would like it. 

They left Mr Warden, who shot in at the casino door like a homingrabbit, and walked on in silence, which lasted till Ruth, suddenlybecoming aware that her companion's eyes were fixed on her face, turnedher head, to meet a gaze of complete, not to say loving, admiration. She flushed. She was accustomed to being looked at admiringly, butabout this particular look there was a subtle quality thatdistinguished it from the ordinary--something proprietorial. 

Mr Vince appeared to be a young man who wasted no time on conventionalconversation-openings. 

'Do you believe in affinities, Miss Warden?' he said, 'No, ' said Ruth. 

'You will before we've done, ' said Mr Vince, confidently. 'Why did youtry to snub me just now?'

'Did I?'

'You mustn't again. It hurts me. I'm a sensitive man. Diffident. Shy. Miss Warden, will you marry me?'

Ruth had determined that nothing should shake her from her icydetachment, but this did. She stopped with a gasp, and stared at him. 

Mr Vince reassured her. 

'I don't expect you to say "Yes". That was just a beginning--the shotfired across the bows by way of warning. In you, Miss Warden, I havefound my affinity. Have you ever considered this matter of affinities?Affinities are the--the--Wait a moment. '

He paused, reflecting. 

'I--' began Ruth. 

''Sh!' said the young man, holding up his hand. 

Ruth's eyes flashed. She was not used to having ''Sh!' said to her byyoung men, and she resented it. 

'I've got it, ' he declared, with relief. 'I knew I should, but thesegood things take time. Affinities are the zero on the roulette-board oflife. Just as we select a number on which to stake our money, so do weselect a type of girl whom we think we should like to marry. And justas zero pops up instead of the number, so does our affinity come alongand upset all our preconceived notions of the type of girl we shouldlike to marry. '

'I--' began Ruth again. 

'The analogy is in the rough at present. I haven't had time to condenseand polish it. But you see the idea. Take my case, for instance. When Isaw you a couple of days ago I knew in an instant that you were myaffinity. But for years I had been looking for a woman almost yourexact opposite. You are dark. Three days ago I couldn't have imaginedmyself marrying anyone who was not fair. Your eyes are grey. Three daysago my preference for blue eyes was a byword. You have a shockingtemper. Three days ago--'

'Mr Vince!'

'There!' said that philosopher, complacently. 'You stamped. The gentle, blue-eyed blonde whom I was looking for three days ago would havedrooped timidly. Three days ago my passion for timid droopers amountedto an obsession. '

Ruth did not reply. It was useless to bandy words with one who gavesuch clear evidence of being something out of the common run ofword-bandiers. No verbal attack could crush this extraordinary youngman. She walked on, all silence and stony profile, uncomfortablyconscious that her companion was in no way abashed by the former andwas regarding the latter with that frank admiration which had madeitself so obnoxious to her before, until they reached their destination. Mr Vince, meanwhile, chatted cheerfully, and pointed out objects ofinterest by the wayside. 

At the door Ruth permitted herself a word of farewell. 

'Good-bye, ' she said. 

'Till tomorrow evening, ' said Mr Vince. 'I shall be coming to dinner. '

Mr Warden ambled home, very happy and contented, two hours later, withhalf a franc in his pocket, this comparative wealth being due to thefact that the minimum stake permitted by the Roville casino is justdouble that sum. He was sorry not to have won, but his mind was toofull of rosy dreams to permit of remorse. It was the estimable oldgentleman's dearest wish that his daughter should marry some rich, open-handed man who would keep him in affluence for the remainder ofhis days, and to that end he was in the habit of introducing to hernotice any such that came his way. There was no question of coercingRuth. He was too tender-hearted for that. Besides he couldn't. Ruth wasnot the sort of girl who is readily coerced. He contented himself withgiving her the opportunity to inspect his exhibits. Roville is asociable place, and it was not unusual for him to make friends at thecasino and to bring them home, when made, for a cigar. Up to thepresent, he was bound to admit, his efforts had not been particularlysuccessful. Ruth, he reflected sadly, was a curious girl. She did notshow her best side to these visitors. There was no encouragement in hermanner. She was apt to frighten the unfortunate exhibits. But of thisyoung man Vince he had brighter hopes. He was rich. That was proved bythe very handsome way in which he had behaved in the matter of a smallloan when, looking in at the casino after parting from Ruth, he hadfound Mr Warden in sore straits for want of a little capital to back abrand-new system which he had conceived through closely observing therun of the play. He was also obviously attracted by Ruth. And, as hewas remarkably presentable--indeed, quite an unusually good-lookingyoung man--there seemed no reason why Ruth should not be equallyattracted by him. The world looked good to Mr Warden as he fell asleepthat night. 

Ruth did not fall asleep so easily. The episode had disturbed her. Anew element had entered her life, and one that gave promise ofproducing strange by-products. 

When, on the following evening, Ruth returned from the stroll on thePromenade which she always took after leaving the _mont-de-piete_, with a feeling of irritation towards things in general, this feelingwas not diminished by the sight of Mr Vince, very much at his ease, standing against the mantelpiece of the tiny parlour. 

'How do you do?' he said. 'By an extraordinary coincidence I happenedto be hanging about outside this house just now, when your father camealong and invited me in to dinner. Have you ever thought much aboutcoincidences, Miss Warden? To my mind, they may be described as thezero on the roulette-board of life. '

He regarded her fondly. 

'For a shy man, conscious that the girl he loves is inspecting himclosely and making up her mind about him, ' he proceeded, 'theseunexpected meetings are very trying ordeals. You must not form yourjudgement of me too hastily. You see me now, nervous, embarrassed, tongue-tied. But I am not always like this. Beneath this crust ofdiffidence there is sterling stuff, Miss Warden. People who know mehave spoken of me as a little ray of sun--But here is your father. '

Mr Warden was more than usually disappointed with Ruth during dinner. It was the same old story. So far from making herself pleasant to thisattractive stranger, she seemed positively to dislike him. She wasbarely civil to him. With a sigh Mr Warden told himself that he did notunderstand Ruth, and the rosy dreams he had formed began to fade. 

Ruth's ideas on the subject of Mr Vince as the days went by werechaotic. Though she told herself that she thoroughly objected to him, he had nevertheless begun to have an undeniable attraction for her. Inwhat this attraction consisted she could not say. When she tried toanalyse it, she came to the conclusion that it was due to the fact thathe was the only element in her life that made for excitement. Since hisadvent the days had certainly passed more swiftly for her. The deadlevel of monotony had been broken. There was a certain fascination inexerting herself to suppress him, which increased daily as each attemptfailed. 

Mr Vince put this feeling into words for her. He had a maddening habitof discussing the progress of his courtship in the manner of animpartial lecturer. 

'I am making headway, ' he observed. 'The fact that we cannot meetwithout your endeavouring to plant a temperamental left jab on myspiritual solar plexus encourages me to think that you are beginning atlast to understand that we are affinities. To persons of spirit likeourselves the only happy marriage is that which is based on a firmfoundation of almost incessant quarrelling. The most beautiful line inEnglish poetry, to my mind, is, "We fell out, my wife and I. " You wouldbe wretched with a husband who didn't like you to quarrel with him. Theposition of affairs now is that I have become necessary to you. If Iwent out of your life now I should leave an aching void. You wouldstill have that beautiful punch of yours, and there would be nobody toexercise it on. You would pine away. From now on matters should, Ithink, move rapidly. During the course of the next week I shallendeavour to propitiate you with gifts. Here is the first of them. '

He took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it her. It was apencil-sketch, rough and unfinished, but wonderfully clever. Even Ruthcould appreciate that--and she was a prejudiced observer, for thesketch was a caricature of herself. It represented her, drawn up to herfull height, with enormous, scornful eyes and curling lips, and theartist had managed to combine an excellent likeness while accentuatingeverything that was marked in what she knew had come to be her normalexpression of scorn and discontent. 

'I didn't know you were an artist, Mr Vince, ' she said, handing itback. 

'A poor amateur. Nothing more. You may keep it. '

'I have not the slightest wish to keep it. '

'You haven't?'

'It is not in the least clever, and it is very impertinent of you toshow it to me. The drawing is not funny. It is simply rude. '

'A little more, ' said Mr Vince, 'and I shall begin to think you don'tlike it. Are you fond of chocolates?'

Ruth did not answer. 

'I am sending you some tomorrow. '

'I shall return them. '

'Then I shall send some more, and some fruit. Gifts!' soliloquized MrVince. 'Gifts! That is the secret. Keep sending gifts. If men wouldonly stick to gifts and quarrelling, there would be fewer bachelors. '

On the morrow, as promised, the chocolates arrived, many pounds of themin a lordly box. The bludgeoning of fate had not wholly scotched inRuth a human weakness for sweets, and it was with a distinct effortthat she wrapped the box up again and returned it to the sender. Shewent off to her work at the _mont-de-piete_ with a glow ofsatisfaction which comes to those who exhibit an iron will in tryingcircumstances. 

And at the _mont-de-piete_ there occurred a surprising incident. 

Surprising incidents, as Mr Vince would have said, are the zero on theroulette-board of life. They pop up disturbingly when least expected, confusing the mind and altering pre-conceived opinions. And this was avery surprising incident indeed. 

Ruth, as has been stated, sat during her hours of work behind aground-glass screen, unseen and unseeing. To her the patrons of theestablishment were mere disembodied voices--wheedling voices, patheticvoices, voices that protested, voices that hectored, voices thatwhined, moaned, broke, appealed to the saints, and in various otherways endeavoured to instil into M. Gandinot more spacious and princelyviews on the subject advancing money on property pledged. She wassitting behind her screen this morning, scribbling idly on theblotting-pad, for there had been a lull in the business, when the dooropened, and the polite, 'Bonjour, monsieur, ' of M. Gandinot announcedthe arrival of another unfortunate. 

And then, shaking her like an electric shock, came a voice that sheknew--the pleasant voice of Mr Vince. 

The dialogues that took place on the other side of the screen wereoften protracted and always sordid, but none had seemed to Ruth sointerminable, so hideously sordid, as this one. 

Round and round its miserable centre--a silver cigarette-case--thedreary argument circled. The young man pleaded; M. Gandinot, adamant inhis official role, was immovable. 

Ruth could bear it no longer. She pressed her hands over her burningears, and the voices ceased to trouble her. 

And with the silence came thought, and a blaze of understanding thatflashed upon her and made all things clear. She understood now why shehad closed her ears. 

Poverty is an acid which reacts differently on differing natures. Ithad reduced Mr Eugene Warden's self-respect to a minimum. Ruth's it hadreared up to an abnormal growth. Her pride had become a weed that ranriot in her soul, darkening it and choking finer emotions. Perhaps itwas her father's naive stratagems for the enmeshing of a wealthyhusband that had produced in her at last a morbid antipathy to theidea of playing beggar-maid to any man's King Cophetua. The state ofmind is intelligible. The Cophetua legend never has been told from thebeggar-maid's point of view, and there must have been moments when, ifa woman of spirit, she resented that monarch's somewhat condescendingattitude, and felt that, secure in his wealth and magnificence, he hadtaken her grateful acquiescence very much for granted. 

This, she saw now, was what had prejudiced her against George Vince. She had assumed that he was rich. He had conveyed the impression ofbeing rich. And she had been on the defensive against him accordingly. Now, for the first time, she seemed to know him. A barrier had beenbroken down. The royal robes had proved tinsel, and no longer disguisedthe man she loved. 

A touch on her arm aroused her. M. Gandinot was standing by her side. Terms, apparently had been agreed upon and the interview concluded, forin his hand was a silver cigarette-case. 

'Dreaming, mademoiselle? I could not make you hear. The more I call toyou, the more you did not answer. It is necessary to enter this loan. '

He recited the details and Ruth entered them in her ledger. This done, M. Gandinot, doffing his official self, sighed. 

'It is a place of much sorrow, mademoiselle, this office. How he wouldnot take no for an answer, that young man, recently departed. Afellow-countryman of yours, mademoiselle. You would say, "What does thisyoung man, so well-dressed, in a _mont-de-piete_?" But I knowbetter, I, Gandinot. You have an expression, you English--I heard it inParis in a cafe, and inquired its meaning--when you say of a man that heswanks. How many young men have I seen here, admirably dressed--rich, you would say. No, no. The _mont-de-piete_ permits no secrets. Toswank, mademoiselle, what is it? To deceive the world, yes. But not the_mont-de-piete_. Yesterday also, when you had departed, was hehere, that young man. Yet here he is once more today. He spends hismoney quickly, alas! that poor young swanker. '

When Ruth returned home that evening she found her father in thesitting-room, smoking a cigarette. He greeted her with effusion, butwith some uneasiness--for the old gentleman had nerved himself to adelicate task. He had made up his mind tonight to speak seriously toRuth on the subject of her unsatisfactory behaviour to Mr Vince. Themore he saw of that young man the more positive was he that this wasthe human gold-mine for which he had been searching all these wearyyears. Accordingly, he threw away his cigarette, kissed Ruth on theforehead, and began to speak. 

It had long been Mr Warden's opinion that, if his daughter had a fault, it was a tendency towards a quite unnecessary and highly inconvenientfrankness. She had not that tact which he would have liked a daughterof his to possess. She would not evade, ignore, agree not to see. Shewas at times painfully blunt. 

This happened now. He was warming to his subject when she interruptedhim with a question. 

'What makes you think Mr Vince is rich, father?' she asked. 

Mr Warden was embarrassed. The subject of Mr Vince's opulence had notentered into his discourse. He had carefully avoided it. The fact thathe was thinking of it and that Ruth knew that he was thinking of it, and that he knew that Ruth knew, had nothing to do with the case. Thequestion was not in order, and it embarrassed him. 

'I--why--I don't--I never said he was rich, my dear. I have no doubtthat he has ample--'

'He is quite poor. '

Mr Warden's jaw fell slightly. 

'Poor? But, my dear, that's absurd!' he cried. 'Why, only thisevening--'

He broke off abruptly, but it was too late. 

'Father, you've been borrowing money from him!'

Mr Warden drew in his breath, preparatory to an indignant denial, buthe altered his mind and remained silent. As a borrower of money he hadevery quality but one. He had come to look on her perspicacity in thismatter as a sort of second sight. It had frequently gone far tospoiling for him the triumph of success. 

'And he has to pawn things to live!' Her voice trembled. 'He was at the_mont-de-piete_ today. And yesterday too. I heard him. He wasarguing with M. Gandinot--haggling--'

Her voice broke. She was sobbing helplessly. The memory of it was tooraw and vivid. 

Mr Warden stood motionless. Many emotions raced through his mind, butchief among them the thought that this revelation had come at a veryfortunate time. An exceedingly lucky escape, he felt. He was aware, also, of a certain measure of indignation against this deceitful youngman who had fraudulently imitated a gold-mine with what might have beendisastrous results. 

The door opened and Jeanne, the maid-of-all-work, announced Mr Vince. 

He entered the room briskly. 

'Good evening!' he said. 'I have brought you some more chocolates, MissWarden, and some fruit. Great Scott! What's the matter?'

He stopped, but only for an instant. The next he had darted across theroom, and, before the horrified eyes of Mr Warden, was holding Ruth inhis arms. She clung to him. 

Bill, the fox-terrier, over whom Mr Vince had happened to stumble, wasthe first to speak. Almost simultaneously Mr Warden joined in, andthere was a striking similarity between the two voices, for Mr Warden, searching for words, emitted as a preliminary to them a sort ofpassionate yelp. 

Mr Vince removed the hand that was patting Ruth's shoulder and waved itreassuringly at him. 

'It's all right, ' he said. 

'All right! All _right_!'

'Affinities, ' explained Mr Vince over his shoulder. 'Two hearts thatbeat as one. We're going to be married. What's the matter, dear? Don'tyou worry; you're all right. '

'I refuse!' shouted Mr Warden. 'I absolutely refuse. '

Mr Vince lowered Ruth gently into a chair and, holding her hand, inspected the fermenting old gentleman gravely. 

'You refuse?' he said. 'Why, I thought you liked me. '

Mr Warden's frenzy had cooled. It had been something foreign to hisnature. He regretted it. These things had to be managed with restraint. 

'My personal likes and dislikes, ' he said, 'have nothing to do with thematter, Mr Vince. They are beside the point. I have my daughter toconsider. I cannot allow her to marry a man without a penny. '

'Quite right, ' said Mr Vince, approvingly. 'Don't have anything to dowith the fellow. If he tries to butt in, send for the police. '

Mr Warden hesitated. He had always been a little ashamed of Ruth'soccupation. But necessity compelled. 

'Mr Vince, my daughter is employed at the _mont-de-piete, _ and wasa witness to all that took place this afternoon. '

Mr Vince was genuinely agitated. He looked at Ruth, his face full ofconcern. 

'You don't mean to say you have been slaving away in that stuffy--GreatScott! I'll have you out of that quick. You mustn't go there again. '

He stooped and kissed her. 

'Perhaps you had better let me explain, ' he said. 'Explanations, Ialways think, are the zero on the roulette-board of life. They'realways somewhere about, waiting to pop up. Have you ever heard ofVince's Stores, Mr Warden? Perhaps they are since your time. Well, myfather is the proprietor. One of our specialities is children's toys, but we haven't picked a real winner for years, and my father when Ilast saw him seemed so distressed about it that I said I'd see if Icouldn't whack out an idea for something. Something on the lines of theBilliken, only better, was what he felt he needed. I'm not used tobrain work, and after a spell of it I felt I wanted a rest. I came hereto recuperate, and the very first morning I got an inspiration. You mayhave noticed that the manager of the _mont-de-piete_ here isn'tstrong on conventional good looks. I saw him at the casino, and thething flashed on me. He thinks his name's Gandinot, but it isn't. It'sUncle Zip, the Hump-Curer, the Man who Makes You Smile. '

He pressed Ruth's hand affectionately. 

'I lost track of him, and it was only the day before yesterday that Idiscovered who he was and where he was to be found. Well, you can't goup to a man and ask him to pose as a model for Uncle Zip, theHump-Curer. The only way to get sittings was to approach him in theway of business. So I collected what property I had and waded in. That's the whole story. Do I pass?'

Mr Warden's frosty demeanour had gradually thawed during this recital, and now the sun of his smile shone out warmly. He gripped Mr Vince'shand with every evidence of esteem, and after that he did what wascertainly the best thing, by passing gently from the room. On his face, as he went, was a look such as Moses might have worn on the summit ofPisgah. 

It was some twenty minutes later that Ruth made a remark. 

'I want you to promise me something, ' she said. 'Promise that youwon't go on with that Uncle Zip drawing. I know it means ever so muchmoney, but it might hurt poor M. Gandinot's feelings, and he has beenvery kind to me. '

'That settles it, ' said Mr Vince. 'It's hard on the children of GreatBritain, but say no more. No Uncle Zip for them. '

Ruth looked at him, almost with awe. 

'You really won't go on with it? In spite of all the money you wouldmake? Are you always going to do just what I ask you, no matter what itcosts you?'

He nodded sadly. 

'You have sketched out in a few words the whole policy of my marriedlife. I feel an awful fraud. And I had encouraged you to look forwardto years of incessant quarrelling. Do you think you can manage withoutit? I'm afraid it's going to be shockingly dull for you, ' said MrVince, regretfully. 

ARCHIBALD'S BENEFIT

Archibald Mealing was one of those golfers in whom desire outrunsperformance. Nobody could have been more willing than Archibald. Hetried, and tried hard. Every morning before he took his bath he wouldstand in front of his mirror and practise swings. Every night before hewent to bed he would read the golden words of some master on thesubject of putting, driving, or approaching. Yet on the links most ofhis time was spent in retrieving lost balls or replacing America. Whether it was that Archibald pressed too much or pressed too little, whether it was that his club deviated from the dotted line which joinedthe two points A and B in the illustrated plate of the man making thebrassy shot in the _Hints on Golf_ book, or whether it was that hewas pursued by some malignant fate, I do not know. Archibald ratherfavoured the last theory. 

The important point is that, in his thirty-first year, after sixseasons of untiring effort, Archibald went in for a championship, andwon it. 

Archibald, mark you, whose golf was a kind of blend of hockey, Swedishdrill, and buck-and-wing dancing. 

I know the ordeal I must face when I make such a statement. I seeclearly before me the solid phalanx of men from Missouri, some urgingme to tell it to the King of Denmark, others insisting that I producemy Eskimos. Nevertheless, I do not shrink. I state once more that inhis thirty-first year Archibald Mealing went in for a golfchampionship, and won it. 

 * * * * *

Archibald belonged to a select little golf club, the members of whichlived and worked in New York, but played in Jersey. Men of substance, financially as well as physically, they had combined their superfluouscash and with it purchased a strip of land close to the sea. This landhad been drained--to the huge discomfort of a colony of mosquitoeswhich had come to look on the place as their private property--andconverted into links, which had become a sort of refuge for incompetentgolfers. The members of the Cape Pleasant Club were easygoing refugeesfrom other and more exacting clubs, men who pottered rather than racedround the links; men, in short, who had grown tired of having to stoptheir game and stand aside in order to allow perspiring experts to whizpast them. The Cape Pleasant golfers did not make themselves slaves tothe game. Their language, when they foozled, was gently regretfulrather than sulphurous. The moment in the day's play which they enjoyedmost was when they were saying: 'Well, here's luck!' in the club-house. 

It will, therefore, be readily understood that Archibald's inability todo a hole in single figures did not handicap him at Cape Pleasant as itmight have done at St. Andrews. His kindly clubmates took him to theirbosoms to a man, and looked on him as a brother. Archibald's was one ofthose admirable natures which prompt their possessor frequently toremark: 'These are on me!' and his fellow golfers were not slow toappreciate the fact. They all loved Archibald. 

Archibald was on the floor of his bedroom one afternoon, picking up thefragments of his mirror--a friend had advised him to practise theWalter J. Travis lofting shot--when the telephone bell rang. He took upthe receiver, and was hailed by the comfortable voice of McCay, theclub secretary. 

'Is that Mealing?' asked McCay. 'Say, Archie, I'm putting your namedown for our championship competition. That's right, isn't it?'

'Sure, ' said Archibald. 'When does it start?'

'Next Saturday. '

'That's me. '

'Good for you. Oh, Archie. '

'Hello?'

'A man I met today told me you were engaged. Is that a fact?'

'Sure, ' murmured Archibald, blushfully. 

The wire hummed with McCay's congratulations. 

'Thanks, ' said Archibald. 'Thanks, old man. What? Oh, yes. Milsom's hername. By the way, her family have taken a cottage at Cape Pleasant forthe summer. Some distance from the links. Yes, very convenient, isn'tit? Good-bye. '

He hung up the receiver and resumed his task of gathering up thefragments. Now McCay happened to be of a romantic and sentimentalnature. He was by profession a chartered accountant, and inclined to bestout; and all rather stout chartered accountants are sentimental. McCay was the sort of man who keeps old ball programmes and bundles ofletters tied round with lilac ribbon. At country houses, where theylingered in the porch after dinner to watch the moonlight flooding thequiet garden, it was McCay and his colleague who lingered longest. McCay knew Ella Wheeler Wilcox by heart, and could take Browningwithout anaesthetics. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, thatArchibald's remark about his fiancee coming to live at Cape Pleasantshould give him food for thought. It appealed to him. 

He reflected on it a good deal during the day, and, running acrossSigsbee, a fellow Cape Pleasanter, after dinner that night at theSybarites' Club, he spoke of the matter to him. It so happened thatboth had dined excellently, and were looking on the world with a sortof cosy benevolence. They were in the mood when men pat small boys onthe head and ask them if they mean to be President when they grow up. 

'I called up Archie Mealing today, ' said McCay. 'Did you know he wasengaged?'

'I did hear something about it. Girl of the name of Wilson, or--'

'Milsom. She's going to spend the summer at Cape Pleasant, Archie tellsme. '

'Then she'll have a chance of seeing him play in the championshipcompetition. '

McCay sucked his cigar in silence for a while, watching with dreamyeyes the blue smoke as it curled ceiling-ward. When he spoke his voicewas singularly soft. 

'Do you know, Sigsbee, ' he said, sipping his Maraschino with a gentlemelancholy--'do you know, there is something wonderfully pathetic to mein this business. I see the whole thing so clearly. There was a kind ofquiver in the poor old chap's voice when he said: "She is coming toCape Pleasant, " which told me more than any words could have done. Itis a tragedy in its way, Sigsbee. We may smile at it, think it trivial;but it is none the less a tragedy. That warm-hearted, enthusiasticgirl, all eagerness to see the man she loves do well--Archie, poor oldArchie, all on fire to prove to her that her trust in him is notmisplaced, and the end--Disillusionment--Disappointment--Unhappiness. '

'He ought to keep his eye on the ball, ' said the more practicalSigsbee. 

'Quite possibly, ' continued McCay, 'he has told her that he will winthis championship. '

'If Archie's mutt enough to have told her that, ' said Sigsbeedecidedly, 'he deserves all he gets. Waiter, two Scotch highballs. '

McCay was in no mood to subscribe to this stony-hearted view. 

'I tell you, ' he said, 'I'm _sorry_ for Archie! I'm _sorry_for the poor old chap. And I'm more than sorry for the girl. '

'Well, I don't see what we can do, ' said Sigsbee. 'We can hardly beexpected to foozle on purpose, just to let Archie show off before hisgirl. '

McCay paused in the act of lighting his cigar, as one smitten with agreat thought. 

'Why not?' he said. 'Why not, Sigsbee? Sigsbee, you've hit it. '

'Eh?'

'You have! I tell you, Sigsbee, you've solved the whole thing. Archie'ssuch a bully good fellow, why not give him a benefit? Why not let himwin this championship? You aren't going to tell me that you carewhether you win a tin medal or not?'

Sigsbee's benevolence was expanding under the influence of the Scotchhighball and his cigar. Little acts of kindness on Archie's part, herea cigar, there a lunch, at another time seats for the theatre, began torise to the surface of his memory like rainbow-coloured bubbles. Hewavered. 

'Yes, but what about the rest of the men?' he said. 'There will be adozen or more in for the medal. '

'We can square them, ' said McCay confidently. 'We will broach thematter to them at a series of dinners at which we will be joint hosts. They are white men who will be charmed to do a little thing like thatfor a sport like Archie. '

'How about Gossett?' said Sigsbee. 

McCay's face clouded. Gossett was an unpopular subject with members ofthe Cape Pleasant Golf Club. He was the serpent in their Eden. Nobodyseemed quite to know how he had got in, but there, unfortunately, hewas. Gossett had introduced into Cape Pleasant golf a cheerlessatmosphere of the rigour of the game. It was to enable them to avoidjust such golfers as Gossett that the Cape Pleasanters had foundedtheir club. Genial courtesy rather than strict attention to the ruleshad been the leading characteristics of their play till his arrival. Upto that time it had been looked on as rather bad form to exact apenalty. A cheery give-and-take system had prevailed. Then Gossett hadcome, full of strange rules, and created about the same stir in thecommunity which a hawk would create in a gathering of middle-ageddoves. 

'You can't square Gossett, ' said Sigsbee. 

McCay looked unhappy. 

'I forgot him, ' he said. 'Of course, nothing will stop him trying towin. I wish we could think of something. I would almost as soon see himlose as Archie win. But, after all, he does have off days sometimes. '

'You need to have a very off day to be as bad as Archie. '

They sat and smoked in silence. 

'I've got it, ' said Sigsbee suddenly. 'Gossett is a fine golfer, butnervous. If we upset his nerves enough, he will go right off hisstroke. Couldn't we think of some way?'

McCay reached out for his glass. 

'Yours is a noble nature, Sigsbee, ' he said. 

'Oh, no, ' said the paragon modestly. 'Have another cigar?'

 * * * * *

In order that the render may get the mental half-Nelson on the plot ofthis narrative which is so essential if a short story is to charm, elevate, and instruct, it is necessary now, for the nonce (but only forthe nonce), to inspect Archibald's past life. 

Archibald, as he had stated to McCay, was engaged to a MissMilsom--Miss Margaret Milsom. How few men, dear reader, are engaged togirls with _svelte_ figures, brown hair, and large blue eyes, nowsparkling and vivacious, now dreamy and soulful, but always large andblue! How few, I say. You are, dear reader, and so am I, but who else?Archibald was one of the few who happened to be. 

He was happy. It is true that Margaret's mother was not, as it were, wrapped up in him. She exhibited none of that effervescent joy at hisappearance which we like to see in our mothers-in-law elect. On thecontrary, she generally cried bitterly whenever she saw him, and at theend of ten minutes was apt to retire sobbing to her room, where sheremained in a state of semi-coma till an advanced hour. She was by wayof being a confirmed invalid, and something about Archibald seemed toget right in among her nerve centres, reducing them for the time beingto a complicated hash. She did not like Archibald. She said she likedbig, manly men. Behind his back she not infrequently referred to him asa 'gaby'; sometimes even as that 'guffin'. 

She did not do this to Margaret, for Margaret, besides being blue-eyed, was also a shade quick-tempered. Whenever she discussed Archibald, itwas with her son Stuyvesant. Stuyvesant Milsom, who thought Archibald abit of an ass, was always ready to sit and listen to his mother on thesubject, it being, however, an understood thing that at the conclusionof the seance she yielded one or two saffron-coloured bills towards hisracing debts. For Stuyvesant, having developed a habit of backinghorses which either did not start at all or else sat down and thoughtin the middle of the race, could always do with ten dollars or so. Hisprices for these interviews worked out, as a rule, at about three centsa word. 

In these circumstances it was perhaps natural that Archibald andMargaret should prefer to meet, when they did meet, at some other spotthan the Milsom home. It suited them both better that they shouldarrange a secret tryst on these occasions. Archibald preferred itbecause being in the same room as Mrs Milsom always made him feel likea murderer with particularly large feet; and Margaret preferred itbecause, as she told Archibald, these secret meetings lent a touch ofpoetry to what might otherwise have been a commonplace engagement. 

Archibald thought this charming; but at the same time he could notconceal from himself the fact that Margaret's passion for the poeticcut, so to speak, both ways. He admired and loved the loftiness of hersoul, but, on the other hand, it was a tough job having to live up toit. For Archibald was a very ordinary young man. They had tried toinoculate him with a love of poetry at school, but it had not taken. Until he was thirty he had been satisfied to class all poetry (exceptthat of Mr George Cohan) under the general heading of punk. Then he metMargaret, and the trouble began. On the day he first met her, at apicnic, she had looked so soulful, so aloof from this world, that hehad felt instinctively that here was a girl who expected more from aman than a mere statement that the weather was great. It so chancedthat he knew just one quotation from the classics, to wit, Tennyson'scritique of the Island-Valley of Avilion. He knew this because he hadhad the passage to write out one hundred and fifty times at school, onthe occasion of his being caught smoking by one of the faculty whohappened to be a passionate admirer of the 'Idylls of the King'. 

A remark of Margaret's that it was a splendid day for a picnic and thatthe country looked nice gave him his opportunity. 

'It reminds me, ' he said, 'it reminds me strongly of the Island-Valleyof Avilion, where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, nor ever windblows loudly; but it lies deep-meadow'd, happy, fair, with orchardlawns.... '

He broke off here to squash a hornet; but Margaret had heard enough. 'Are you fond of the poets, Mr Mealing?' she said, with a far-off look. 

'Me?' said Archibald fervently. 'Me? Why, I eat 'em alive!'

 * * * * *

And that was how all the trouble had started. It had meant unremittingtoil for Archibald. He felt that he had set himself a standard fromwhich he must not fall. He bought every new volume of poetry which waspraised in the press, and learned the reviews by heart. Every eveninghe read painfully a portion of the classics. He plodded through thepoetry sections of Bartlett's _Familiar Quotations_. Margaret'sdevotion to the various bards was so enthusiastic, and her reading sowide, that there were times when Archibald wondered if he could endurethe strain. But he persevered heroically, and so far had not been foundwanting. But the strain was fearful. 

 * * * * *

The early stages of the Cape Pleasant golf tournament need no detaileddescription. The rules of match play governed the contests, andArchibald disposed of his first three opponents before the twelfthhole. He had been diffident when he teed off with McCay in the firstround, but, finding that he defeated the secretary with ease, he metone Butler in the second round with more confidence. Butler, too, herouted; with the result that, by the time he faced Sigsbee in roundthree, he was practically the conquering hero. Fortune seemed to bebeaming upon him with almost insipid sweetness. When he was trapped inthe bunker at the seventh hole, Sigsbee became trapped as well. When hesliced at the sixth tee, Sigsbee pulled. And Archibald, striking abrilliant vein, did the next three holes in eleven, nine, and twelve;and, romping home, qualified for the final. 

Gossett, that serpent, meanwhile, had beaten each of his threeopponents without much difficulty. 

The final was fixed for the following Thursday morning. Gossett, whowas a broker, had made some frivolous objection about the difficulty ofabsenting himself from Wall Street, but had been overruled. WhenSigsbee pointed out that he could easily defeat Archibald and get tothe city by lunch-time if he wished, and that in any case his partnerwould be looking after things, he allowed himself to be persuaded, though reluctantly. It was a well-known fact that Gossett was in themidst of some rather sizeable deals at that time. 

Thursday morning suited Archibald admirably. It had occurred to himthat he could bring off a double event. Margaret had arrived at CapePleasant on the previous evening, and he had arranged by telephone tomeet her at the end of the board-walk, which was about a mile from thelinks, at one o'clock, supply her with lunch, and spend the afternoonwith her on the water. If he started his match with Gossett ateleven-thirty, he would have plenty of time to have his game and be atthe end of the board-walk at the appointed hour. He had no delusionsabout the respective merits of Gossett and himself as golfers. He knewthat Gossett would win the necessary ten holes off the reel. It wassaddening, but it was a scientific fact. There was no avoiding it. Onesimply had to face it. 

Having laid these plans, he caught the train on the Thursday morningwith the consoling feeling that, however sadly the morning might begin, it was bound to end well. 

The day was fine, the sun warm, but tempered with a light breeze. Oneor two of the club had come to watch the match, among them Sigsbee. 

Sigsbee drew Gossett aside. 

'You must let me caddie for you, old man, ' he said. 'I know yourtemperament so exactly. I know how little it takes to put you off yourstroke. In an ordinary game you might take one of these boys, I know, but on an important occasion like this you must not risk it. A grubbyboy, probably with a squint, would almost certainly get on yournerves. He might even make comments on the game, or whistle. But Iunderstand you. You must let me carry your clubs. '

'It's very good of you, ' said Gossett. 

'Not at all, ' said Sigsbee. 

 * * * * *

Archibald was now preparing to drive off from the first tee. He didthis with great care. Everyone who has seen Archibald Mealing play golfknows that his teeing off is one of the most impressive sights everwitnessed on the links. He tilted his cap over his eyes, waggled hisclub a little, shifted his feet, waggled his club some more, gazedkeenly towards the horizon for a moment, waggled his club again, andfinally, with the air of a Strong Man lifting a bar of iron, raised itslowly above his head. Then, bringing it down with a sweep, he drovethe ball with a lofty slice some fifty yards. It was rarely that hefailed either to slice or pull his ball. His progress from hole to holewas generally a majestic zigzag. 

Gossett's drive took him well on the way to the green. He holed out infive. Archibald, mournful but not surprised, made his way to the secondtee. 

The second hole was shorter. Gossett won it in three. The third he tookin six, the fourth in four. Archibald began to feel that he might justas well not be there. He was practically a spectator. 

At this point he reached in his pocket for his tobacco-pouch, toconsole himself with smoke. To his dismay he found it was not there. Hehad had it in the train, but now it had vanished. This added to hisgloom, for the pouch had been given to him by Margaret, and he hadalways thought it one more proof of the way her nature towered over thenatures of other girls that she had not woven a monogram on it inforget-me-nots. This record pouch was missing, and Archibald mournedfor the loss. 

His sorrows were not alleviated by the fact that Gossett won the fifthand sixth holes. 

It was now a quarter past twelve, and Archibald reflected with moodysatisfaction that the massacre must soon be over, and that he wouldthen be able to forget it in the society of Margaret. 

As Gossett was about to drive off from the seventh tee, a telegraph boyapproached the little group. 

'Mr Gossett, ' he said. 

Gossett lowered his driver, and wheeled round, but Sigsbee had snatchedthe envelope from the boy's hand. 

'It's all right, old man, ' he said. 'Go right ahead. I'll keep it safefor you. '

'Give it to me, ' said Gossett anxiously. 'It may be from the office. Something may have happened to the market. I may be needed. '

'No, no, ' said Sigsbee, soothingly. 'Don't you worry about it. Betternot open it. It might have something in it that would put you off yourstroke. Wait till the end of the game. '

'Give it to me. I want to see it. '

Sigsbee was firm. 

'No, ' he said. 'I'm here to see you win this championship and I won'thave you taking any risks. Besides, even if it was important, a fewminutes won't make any difference. '

'Well, at any rate, open it and read it. '

'It is probably in cipher, ' said Sigsbee. 'I wouldn't understand it. Play on, old man. You've only a few more holes to win. '

Gossett turned and addressed his ball again. Then he swung. The clubtipped the ball, and it rolled sluggishly for a couple of feet. Archibald approached the tee. Now there were moments when Archibaldcould drive quite decently. He always applied a considerable amount ofmuscular force to his efforts. It was in that direction, as a rule, heerred. On this occasion, whether inspired by his rival's failure ormerely favoured by chance, he connected with his ball at precisely theright moment. It flew from the tee, straight, hard, and low, struck theground near the green, bounded on and finally rocked to within a footof the hole. No such long ball had been driven on the Cape Pleasantlinks since their foundation. 

That it should have taken him three strokes to hole out from thispromising position was unfortunate, but not fatal, for Gossett, whoseemed suddenly to have fallen off his game, only reached the green inseven. A moment later a murmur of approval signified the fact thatArchibald had won his first hole. 

'Mr Gossett, ' said a voice. 

Those murmuring approval observed that the telegraph boy was once morein their midst. This time he bore two missives. Sigsbee dexterouslyimpounded both. 

'No, ' he said with decision. 'I absolutely refuse to let you look atthem till the game is over. I know your temperament. '

Gossett gesticulated. 

'But they must be important. They must come from my office. Where elsewould I get a stream of telegrams? Something has gone wrong. I amurgently needed. '

Sigsbee nodded gravely. 

'That is what I fear, ' he said. 'That is why I cannot risk having youupset. Time enough, Gossett, for bad news after the game. Play on, man, and dismiss it from your mind. Besides, you couldn't get back to NewYork just yet, in any case. There are no trains. Dismiss the wholething from your mind and just play your usual, and you're sure to win. '

Archibald had driven off during this conversation, but without hisprevious success. This time he had pulled his ball into some longgrass. Gossett's drive was, however, worse; and the subsequent movementof the pair to the hole resembled more than anything else themanoeuvres of two men rolling peanuts with toothpicks as the result ofan election bet. Archibald finally took the hole in twelve afterGossett had played his fourteenth. 

When Archibald won the next in eleven and the tenth in nine, hope beganto flicker feebly in his bosom. But when he won two more holes, bringing the score to like-as-we-lie, it flamed up within him like abeacon. 

The ordinary golfer, whose scores per hole seldom exceed those ofColonel Bogey, does not understand the whirl of mixed sensations whichthe really incompetent performer experiences on the rare occasions whenhe does strike a winning vein. As stroke follows stroke, and hecontinues to hold his opponent, a wild exhilaration surges through him, followed by a sort of awe, as if he were doing something wrong, evenirreligious. Then all these yeasty emotions subside and are blendedinto one glorious sensation of grandeur and majesty, as of a giantamong pygmies. 

By the time that Archibald, putting with the care of one brushing fliesoff a sleeping Venus, had holed out and won the thirteenth, he was inthe full grip of this feeling. And as he walked to the fifteenth tee, after winning the fourteenth, he felt that this was Life, that till nowhe had been a mere mollusc. 

Just at that moment he happened to look at his watch, and the sight waslike a douche of cold water. The hands stood at five minutes to one. 

 * * * * *

Let us pause and ponder on this point for a while. Let us not dismissit as if it were some mere trivial, everyday difficulty. You, dearreader, play an accurate, scientific game and beat your opponent withease every time you go the links, and so do I; but Archibald was notlike us. This was the first occasion on which he had ever felt that hewas playing well enough to give him a chance of defeating a really goodman. True, he had beaten McCay, Sigsbee, and Butler in the earlierrounds; but they were ignoble rivals compared with Gossett. To defeatGossett, however, meant the championship. On the other hand, he waspassionately devoted to Margaret Milsom, whom he was due to meet at theend of the board-walk at one sharp. It was now five minutes to one, andthe end of the board-walk still a mile away. 

The mental struggle was brief but keen. A sharp pang, and his mind wasmade up. Cost what it might, he must stay on the links. If Margaretbroke off the engagement--well, it might be that Time would heal thewound, and that after many years he would find some other girl for whomhe might come to care in a wrecked, broken sort of way. But a chancelike this could never come again. What is Love compared with holing outbefore your opponent?

The excitement now had become so intense that a small boy, followingwith the crowd, swallowed his chewing-gum; for a slight improvement hadbecome noticeable in Gossett's play, and a slight improvement in theplay of almost anyone meant that it became vastly superior toArchibald's. At the next hole the improvement was not marked enough tohave its full effect, and Archibald contrived to halve. This made himtwo up and three to play. What the average golfer would consider acommanding lead. But Archibald was no average golfer. A commandinglead for him would have been two up and one to play. 

To give the public of his best, your golfer should have his mind cooland intent upon the game. Inasmuch as Gossett was worrying about thetelegrams, while Archibald, strive as he might to dismiss it, washaunted by a vision of Margaret standing alone and deserted on theboard-walk, play became, as it were, ragged. Fine putting enabledGossett to do the sixteenth hole in twelve, and when, winning theseventeenth in nine, he brought his score level with Archibald's thematch seemed over. But just then--

'Mr Gossett!' said a familiar voice. 

Once more was the much-enduring telegraph boy among those present. 

'T'ree dis time!' he observed. 

Gossett sprang, but again the watchful Sigsbee was too swift. 

'Be brave, Gossett--be brave, ' he said. 'This is a crisis in the game. Keep your nerve. Play just as if nothing existed outside the links. Tolook at these telegrams now would be fatal. '

Eye-witnesses of that great encounter will tell the story of the lasthole to their dying day. It was one of those Titanic struggles whichTime cannot efface from the memory. Archibald was fortunate in gettinga good start. He only missed twice before he struck his ball on thetee. Gossett had four strokes ere he achieved the feat. Nor didArchibald's luck desert him in the journey to the green. He was out ofthe bunker in eleven. 

Gossett emerged only after sixteen. Finally, when Archibald'stwenty-first stroke sent the ball trickling into the hole, Gossetthad played his thirtieth. 

The ball had hardly rested on the bottom of the hole before Gossett hadbegun to tear the telegrams from their envelopes. As he read, his eyesbulged in their sockets. 

'Not bad news, I hope, ' said a sympathetic bystander. 

Sigsbee took the sheaf of telegrams. 

The first ran: 'Good luck. Hope you win. McCay. ' The second also ran:'Good luck. Hope you win. McCay. ' So, singularly enough, did the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh. 

'Great Scott!' said Sigsbee. 'He seems to have been pretty anxious notto run any risk of missing you, Gossett. '

As he spoke, Archibald, close beside him, was looking at his watch. Thehands stood at a quarter to two. 

Margaret and her mother were seated in the parlour when Archibaldarrived. Mrs Milsom, who had elicited the fact that Archibald had notkept his appointment, had been saying 'I told you so' for some time, and this had not improved Margaret's temper. When, therefore, Archibald, damp and dishevelled, was shown in, the chill in the airnearly gave him frost-bite. Mrs Milsom did her celebrated imitation ofthe Gorgon, while Margaret, lightly humming an air, picked up a weeklypaper and became absorbed in it. 

'Margaret, let me explain, ' panted Archibald. Mrs Milsom was understoodto remark that she dared say. Margaret's attention was riveted by afashion plate. 

'Driving in a taximeter to the ferry this morning, ' resumed Archibald, 'I had an accident. '

This was the result of some rather feverish brainwork on the way fromthe links to the cottage. 

The periodical flopped to the floor. 

'Oh, Archie, are you hurt?'

'A few scratches, nothing more; but it made me miss my train. '

'What train did you catch?' asked Mrs Milsom sepulchrally. 

'The one o'clock. I came straight on here from the station. '

'Why, ' said Margaret, 'Stuyvesant was coming home on the one o'clocktrain. Did you see him?'

Archibald's jaw dropped slightly. 

'Er--no, ' he said. 

'How curious, ' said Margaret. 

'Very curious, ' said Archibald. 

'Most curious, ' said Mrs Milsom. 

They were still reflecting on the singularity of this fact when thedoor opened, and the son of the house entered in person. 

'Thought I should find you here, Mealing, ' he said. 'They gave me thisat the station to give to you; you dropped it this morning when you gotout of the train. '

He handed Archibald the missing pouch. 

'Thanks, ' said the latter huskily. 'When you say this morning, of courseyou mean this afternoon, but thanks all the same--thanks--thanks. '

'No, Archibald Mealing, he does _not_ mean this afternoon, ' saidMrs Milsom. 'Stuyvesant, speak! From what train did that guf--did MrMealing alight when he dropped the tobacco-pouch?'

 * * * * *

'The ten o'clock, the fellow told me. Said he would have given it backto him then only he sprinted off in the deuce of a hurry. '

Six eyes focused themselves upon Archibald. 

'Margaret, ' he said, 'I will not try to deceive you--'

'You may try, ' observed Mrs Milsom, 'but you will not succeed. '

'Well, Archibald?'

Archibald fingered his collar. 

'There was no taximeter accident. '

'Ah!' said Mrs Milsom. 

'The fact is, I have been playing in a golf tournament. '

Margaret uttered an exclamation of surprise. 

'Playing golf!'

Archibald bowed his head with manly resignation. 

'Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you arrange for us to meet on thelinks? I should have loved it. '

Archibald was amazed. 

'You take an interest in golf, Margaret? You! I thought you scorned it, considered it an unintellectual game. I thought you considered allgames unintellectual. '

'Why, I play golf myself. Not very well. '

'Margaret! Why didn't you tell me?'

'I thought you might not like it. You were so spiritual, so poetic. Ifeared you would despise me. '

Archibald took a step forward. His voice was tense and trembling. 

'Margaret, ' he said, 'this is no time for misunderstandings. We must beopen with one another. Our happiness is at stake. Tell me honestly, doyou like poetry really?'

Margaret hesitated, then answered bravely:

'No, Archibald, ' she said, 'it is as you suspect. I am not worthy ofyou. I do _not_ like poetry. Ah, you shudder! You turn away! Yourface grows hard and scornful!'

'I don't!' yelled Archibald. 'It doesn't! It doesn't do anything ofthe sort! You've made me another man!'

She stared, wild-eyed, astonished. 

'What! Do you mean that you, too--'

'I should just say I do. I tell you I hate the beastly stuff. I onlypretended to like it because I thought you did. The hours I've spentlearning it up! I wonder I've not got brain fever. '

'Archie! Used you to read it up, too? Oh, if I'd only known!'

'And you forgive me--this morning, I mean?'

'Of course. You couldn't leave a golf tournament. By the way, how didyou get on?'

Archibald coughed. 

'Rather well, ' he said modestly. 'Pretty decently. In fact, not badly. As a matter of fact, I won the championship. '

'The championship!' whispered Margaret. 'Of America?'

'Well, not _absolutely_ of America, ' said Archibald. 'But all thesame, a championship. '

'My hero. '

'You won't be wanting me for a while, I guess?' said Stuyvesantnonchalantly. 'Think I'll smoke a cigarette on the porch. '

And sobs from the stairs told that Mrs Milsom was already on her way toher room. 

THE MAN, THE MAID, AND THE MIASMA

Although this story is concerned principally with the Man and the Maid, the Miasma pervades it to such an extent that I feel justified inputting his name on the bills. Webster's Dictionary gives the meaningof the word 'miasma' as 'an infection floating in the air; a deadlyexhalation'; and, in the opinion of Mr Robert Ferguson, his lateemployer, that description, though perhaps a little too flattering, onthe whole summed up Master Roland Bean pretty satisfactorily. Until theprevious day he had served Mr Ferguson in the capacity of office-boy;but there was that about Master Bean which made it practicallyimpossible for anyone to employ him for long. A syndicate of Galahad, Parsifal, and Marcus Aurelius might have done it, but to an ordinaryerring man, conscious of things done which should not have been done, and other things equally numerous left undone, he was too oppressive. One conscience is enough for any man. The employer of Master Bean hadto cringe before two. Nobody can last long against an office-boy whoseeyes shine with quiet, respectful reproof through gold-rimmedspectacles, whose manner is that of a middle-aged saint, and whoobviously knows all the Plod and Punctuality books by heart and ordershis life by their precepts. Master Bean was a walking edition of_Stepping-Stones to Success, Millionaires who Have Never Smoked_, and _Young Man, Get up Early_. Galahad, Parsifal, and MarcusAurelius, as I say, might have remained tranquil in his presence, butRobert Ferguson found the contract too large. After one month he hadbraced himself up and sacked the Punctual Plodder. 

Yet now he was sitting in his office, long after the last clerk hadleft, long after the hour at which he himself was wont to leave, hismind full of his late employee. 

Was this remorse? Was he longing for the touch of the vanished hand, the gleam of the departed spectacles? He was not. His mind was full ofMaster Bean because Master Bean was waiting for him in the outeroffice; and he lingered on at his desk, after the day's work was done, for the same reason. Word had been brought to him earlier in theevening, that Master Roland Bean would like to see him. The answer tothat was easy: 'Tell him I'm busy. ' Master Bean's admirably dignifiedreply was that he understood how great was the pressure of MrFerguson's work, and that he would wait till he was at liberty. Liberty! Talk of the liberty of the treed possum, but do not use theword in connexion with a man bottled up in an office, with Roland Beanguarding the only exit. 

Mr Ferguson kicked the waste-paper basket savagely. The unfairness ofthe thing hurt him. A sacked office-boy ought to stay sacked. He had nobusiness to come popping up again like Banquo's ghost. It was notplaying the game. 

The reader may wonder what was the trouble--why Mr Ferguson could notstalk out and brusquely dispose of his foe; but then the reader has notemployed Master Bean for a month. Mr Ferguson had, and his nerve hadbroken. 

A slight cough penetrated the door between the two offices. Mr Fergusonrose and grabbed his hat. Perhaps a sudden rush--he shot out with thetense concentration of one moving towards the refreshment-room at astation where the train stops three minutes. 

'Good evening, sir!' was the watcher's view-hallo. 

'Ah, Bean, ' said Mr Ferguson, flitting rapidly, 'you still here? Ithought you had gone. I'm afraid I cannot stop now. Some other time--'

He was almost through. 

'I fear, sir, that you will be unable to get out, ' said Master Bean, sympathetically. 'The building is locked up. '

Men who have been hit by bullets say the first sensation is merely asort of dull shock. So it was with Mr Ferguson. He stopped in histracks and stared. 

'The porter closes the door at seven o'clock punctually, sir. It is nownearly twenty minutes after the hour. '

Mr Ferguson's brain was still in the numbed stage. 

'Closes the door?' he said. 

'Yes, sir. '

'Then how are we to get out?'

'I fear we cannot get out, sir. '

Mr Ferguson digested this. 

'I am no longer in your employment, sir, ' said Master Bean, respectfully, 'but I hope that in the circumstances you will permit meto remain here during the night. '

'During the night!'

'It would enable me to sleep more comfortably than on the stairs. '

'But we can't stop here all night, ' said Mr Ferguson, feebly. 

He had anticipated an unpleasant five minutes in Master Bean's company. Imagination boggled at the thought of an unpleasant thirteen hours. 

He collapsed into a chair. 

'I called, ' said Master Bean, shelving the trivial subject of theprospective vigil, 'in the hope that I might persuade you, sir, toreconsider your decision in regard to my dismissal. I can assure you, sir, that I am extremely anxious to give satisfaction. If you wouldtake me back and inform me how I have fallen short, I would endeavourto improve, I--'

'We can't stop here all night, ' interrupted Mr Ferguson, bounding fromhis chair and beginning to pace the floor. 

'Without presumption, sir, I feel that if you were to give me anotherchance I should work to your satisfaction. I should endeavour--'

Mr Ferguson stared at him in dumb horror. He had a momentary vision ofa sleepless night spent in listening to a nicely-polished speech forthe defence. He was seized with a mad desire for flight. He could notleave the building, but he must get away somewhere and think. 

He dashed from the room and raced up the dark stairs. And as he arrivedat the next floor his eye was caught by a thin pencil of light whichproceeded from a door on the left. 

No shipwrecked mariner on a desert island could have welcomed theappearance of a sail with greater enthusiasm. He bounded at the door. He knew to whom the room belonged. It was the office of one Blaythwayt;and Blaythwayt was not only an acquaintance, but a sportsman. Quitepossibly there might be a pack of cards on Blaythwayt's person to helppass the long hours. And if not, at least he would be company and hisoffice a refuge. He flung open the door without going through theformality of knocking. Etiquette is not for the marooned. 

'I say, Blaythwayt--' he began, and stopped abruptly. 

The only occupant of the room was a girl. 

'I beg your pardon, ' he said, 'I thought--'

He stopped again. His eyes, dazzled with the light, had not seenclearly. They did so now. 

'You!' he cried. 

The girl looked at him, first with surprise, then with a coolhostility. There was a long pause. Eighteen months had passed sincethey had parted, and conversation does not flow easily after eighteenmonths of silence, especially if the nature of the parting has beenbitter and stormy. 

He was the first to speak. 

'What are you doing here?' he said. 

'I thought my doings had ceased to interest you, ' she said. 'I am MrBlaythwayt's secretary, I have been here a fortnight. I have wonderedif we should meet. I used to see you sometimes in the street. '

'I never saw you. '

'No?' she said indifferently. 

He ran his hand through his hair in a dazed way. 

'Do you know we are locked in?' he said. 

He had expected wild surprise and dismay. She merely clicked her tonguein an annoyed manner. 

'Again!' she said. 'What a nuisance! I was locked in only a week ago. '

He looked at her with unwilling respect, the respect of the novice forthe veteran. She was nothing to him now, of course. She had passed outof his life. But he could not help remembering that long ago--eighteenmonths ago--what he had admired most in her had been this same spirit, this game refusal to be disturbed by Fate's blows. It braced him up. 

He sat down and looked curiously at her. 

'So you left the stage?' he said. 

'I thought we agreed when we parted not to speak to one another, ' saidshe, coldly. 

'Did we? I thought it was only to meet as strangers. '

'It's the same thing. '

'Is it? I often talk to strangers. '

'What a bore they must think you!' she said, hiding one-eighth of ayawn with the tips of two fingers. 'I suppose, ' she went on, with faintinterest, 'you talk to them in trains when they are trying to readtheir paper?'

'I don't force my conversation on anyone. '

'Don't you?' she said, raising her eyebrows in sweet surprise. 'Onlyyour company--is that it?'

'Are you alluding to the present occasion?'

'Well, you have an office of your own in this building, I believe. '

'I have. '

'Then why--'

'I am at perfect liberty, ' he said, with dignity, 'to sit in my friendBlaythwayt's office if I choose. I wish to see Mr Blaythwayt. '

'On business?'

He proved that she had established no corner in raised eyebrows. 

'I fear, ' he said, 'that I cannot discuss my affairs with MrBlaythwayt's employees. I must see him personally. '

'Mr Blaythwayt is not here. '

'I will wait. '

'He will not be here for thirteen hours. '

I'll wait. '

'Very well, ' she burst out; 'you have brought it on yourself. You'veonly yourself to blame. If you had been good and had gone back to youroffice, I would have brought you down some cake and cocoa. '

'Cake and cocoa!' said he, superciliously. 

'Yes, cake and cocoa, ' she snapped. 'It's all very well for you to turnup your nose at them now, but wait. You've thirteen hours of this infront of you. I know what it is. Last time I had to spend the nighthere I couldn't get to sleep for hours, and when I did I dreamed that Iwas chasing chocolate _eclairs_ round and round Trafalgar Square. And I never caught them either. Long before the night was finished Iwould have given _anything_ for even a dry biscuit. I made up mymind I'd always keep something here in case I ever got locked inagain--yes, smile. You'd better while you can. '

He was smiling, but wanly. Nobody but a professional fasting man couldhave looked unmoved into the Inferno she had pictured. Then he rallied. 

'Cake!' he said, scornfully. 

She nodded grimly. 

'Cocoa!'

Again that nod, ineffably sinister. 

'I'm afraid I don't care for either, ' he said. 

'If you will excuse me, ' she said, indifferently, 'I have a little workthat I must finish. '

She turned to her desk, leaving him to his thoughts. They were notexhilarating. He had maintained a brave front, but inwardly he quailed. Reared in the country, he had developed at an early age a fine, healthyappetite. Once, soon after his arrival in London, he had allowed adangerous fanatic to persuade him that the secret of health was to gowithout breakfast. 

His lunch that day had cost him eight shillings, and only decent shamehad kept the figure as low as that. He knew perfectly well that longere the dawn of day his whole soul would be crying out for cake, squealing frantically for cocoa. Would it not be better to--no, athousand times no! Death, but not surrender. His self-respect was atstake. Looking back, he saw that his entire relations with this girlhad been a series of battles of will. So far, though he had certainlynot won, he had not been defeated. He must not be defeated now. 

He crossed his legs and sang a gay air under his breath. 

'If you wouldn't mind, ' said the girl, looking up. 

'I beg your pardon?'

'Your groaning interrupts my work. '

'I was not groaning. I was singing. '

'Oh, I'm sorry!'

'Not at all. '

Eight bars rest. 

Mr Ferguson, deprived of the solace of song, filled in the time bygazing at the toiler's back-hair. It set in motion a train ofthought--an express train bound for the Land of Yesterday. It recalleddays in the woods, evenings on the lawn. It recalled sunshine--storm. Plenty of storm. Minor tempests that burst from a clear sky, apparentlywithout cause, and the great final tornado. There had been cause enoughfor that. Why was it, mused Mr Ferguson, that every girl in everycountry town in every county of England who had ever recited 'Curfewshall not ring tonight' well enough to escape lynching at the hands ofa rustic audience was seized with the desire to come to London and goon the stage?

He sighed. 

'Please don't snort, ' said a cold voice, from behind the back-hair. 

There was a train-wreck in the Land of Yesterday. Mr Ferguson, theonly survivor, limped back into the Present. 

The Present had little charm, but at least it was better than thecakeless Future. He fixed his thoughts on it. He wondered how MasterBean was passing the time. Probably doing deep-breathing exercises, orreading a pocket Aristotle. The girl pushed back her chair and rose. 

She went to a small cupboard in the corner of the room, and from itproduced in instalments all that goes to make cake and cocoa. She didnot speak. Presently, filling Space, there sprang into being an Odour;and as it reached him Mr Ferguson stiffened in his chair, bracinghimself as for a fight to the death. It was more than an odour. It wasthe soul of the cocoa singing to him. His fingers gripped the arms ofthe chair. This was the test. 

The girl separated a section of cake from the parent body. She caughthis eye. 

'You had better go, ' she said. 'If you go now it's just possible that Imay--but I forgot, you don't like cocoa. '

'No, ' said he, resolutely, 'I don't. '

She seemed now in the mood for conversation. 

'I wonder why you came up here at all, ' she said. 

'There's no reason why you shouldn't know. I came up here because mylate office-boy is downstairs. '

'Why should that send you up?'

'You've never met him or you wouldn't ask. Have you ever had to facesomeone who is simply incarnate Saintliness and Disapproval, who--'

'Are you forgetting that I was engaged to you for several weeks?'

He was too startled to be hurt. The idea of himself as a Roland Beanwas too new to be assimilated immediately. It called for meditation. 

'Was I like that?' he said at last, almost humbly. 

'You know you were. Oh, I'm not thinking only about your views on thestage! It was everything. Whatever I did you were there to disapprovelike a--like a--like an aunt, ' she concluded triumphantly. 'You weretoo good for anything. If only you would, just once, have donesomething wrong. I think I'd have--But you couldn't. You're simplyperfect. '

A man will remain cool and composed under many charges. Hint that histastes are criminal, and he will shrug his shoulders. But accuse himof goodness, and you rouse the lion. 

Mr Ferguson's brow darkened. 

'As a matter of fact, ' he said, haughtily, 'I was to have had supperwith a chorus-girl this very night. '

'How very appalling!' said she, languidly. 

She sipped her cocoa. 

'I suppose you consider that very terrible?' she said. 

'For a beginner. '

She crumbled her cake. Suddenly she looked up. 

'Who is she?' she demanded, fiercely. 

'I beg your pardon?' he said, coming out of a pleasant reverie. 

'Who is this girl?'

'She--er--her name--her name is Marie--Marie Templeton. '

She seemed to think for a moment. 

'That dear old lady?' she said. ' I know her quite well. '

'What!'

'"Mother" we used to call her. Have you met her son?'

'Her son?'

'A rather nice-looking man. He plays heavy parts on tour. He's marriedand has two of the sweetest children. Their grandmother is devoted tothem. Hasn't she ever mentioned them to you?'

She poured herself out another cup of cocoa. Conversation againlanguished. 

'I suppose you're very fond of her?' she said at length. 

'I'm devoted to her. ' He paused. 'Dear little thing!' he added. 

She rose and moved to the door. There was a nasty gleam in her eyes. 

'You aren't going?' he said. 

'I shall be back in a moment. I'm just going to bring your poor littleoffice-boy up here. He must be missing you. '

He sprang up, but she had gone. Leaning over the banisters, he heard adoor open below, then a short conversation, and finally footstepsclimbing the stairs. 

It was pitch dark on the landing. He stepped aside, and they passedwithout seeing him. Master Bean was discoursing easily on cocoa, theprocesses whereby it was manufactured, and the remarkable distanceswhich natives of Mexico had covered with it as their only food. Thedoor opened, flooding the landing with light, and Mr Ferguson, steppingfrom ambush, began to descend the stairs. 

The girl came to the banisters. 

'Mr Ferguson!'

He stopped. 

'Did you want me?' he asked. 

'Are you going back to your office?'

'I am. I hope you will enjoy Bean's society. He has a fund of usefulinformation on all subjects. '

He went on. After a while she returned to the room and closed the door. 

Mr Ferguson went into his office and sat down. 

 * * * * *

There was once a person of the name of Simeon Stylites, who took up aposition on top of a pillar and stayed there, having no otherengagements, for thirty years. Mr Ferguson, who had read Tennyson'spoem on the subject, had until tonight looked upon this as a prettygood thing. Reading the lines:

 ... Thrice ten years, Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs, In hunger and in thirsts, fevers and colds, In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes, and cramps, ... Patient on this tall pillar I have borne. Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and snow, he had gathered roughly, as it were, that Simeon had not beencomfortable. He had pitied him. But now, sitting in his office-chair, he began to wonder what the man had made such a fuss about. Hesuspected him of having had a touch of the white feather in him. It wasnot as if he had not had food. He talked about 'hungers and thirsts', but he must have had something to eat, or he could not have stayed thecourse. Very likely, if the truth were known, there was somebody belowwho passed him up regular supplies of cake and cocoa. 

He began to look on Simeon as an overrated amateur. 

Sleep refused to come to him. It got as far as his feet, but nofarther. He rose and stamped to restore the circulation. 

It was at this point that he definitely condemned Simeon Stylites as asybaritic fraud. 

If this were one of those realistic Zolaesque stories I would describethe crick in the back that--but let us hurry on. 

It was about six hours later--he had no watch, but the numbers ofaches, stitches, not to mention cramps, that he had experienced couldnot possibly have been condensed into a shorter period--that his manlyspirit snapped. Let us not judge him too harshly. The girl upstairs hadbroken his heart, ruined his life, and practically compared him toRoland Bean, and his pride should have built up an impassable wallbetween them, but--she had cake and cocoa. In similar circumstancesKing Arthur would have grovelled before Guinevere. 

He rushed to the door and tore it open. There was a startledexclamation from the darkness outside. 

'I hope I didn't disturb you, ' said a meek voice. 

Mr Ferguson did not answer. His twitching nostrils were drinking in afamiliar aroma. 

'Were you asleep? May I come in? I've brought you some cake and cocoa. '

He took the rich gifts from her in silence. There are moments in aman's life too sacred for words. The wonder of the thing had struck himdumb. An instant before and he had had but a desperate hope of winningthese priceless things from her at the cost of all his dignity andself-respect. He had been prepared to secure them through a shower ofbiting taunts, a blizzard of razor-like 'I told you so's'. Yet here hewas, draining the cup, and still able to hold his head up, look theworld in the face, and call himself a man. 

His keen eye detected a crumb on his coat-sleeve. This retrieved andconsumed, he turned to her, seeking explanation. 

She was changed. The battle-gleam had faded from her eyes. She seemedscared and subdued. Her manner was of one craving comfort andprotection. 'That awful boy!' she breathed. 

'Bean?' said Mr Ferguson, picking a crumb off the carpet. 

'He's frightful. '

'I thought you might get a little tired of him! What has he beendoing?'

'Talking. I feel battered. He's like one of those awful encyclopediasthat give you a sort of dull leaden feeling in your head directly youopen them. Do you know how many tons of water go over Niagara Fallsevery year?'

'No. '

'He does. '

'I told you he had a fund of useful information. The Purpose andTenacity books insist on it. That's how you Catch your Employer's Eye. One morning the boss suddenly wants to know how many horsehair sofasthere are in Brixton, the number of pins that would reach from LondonBridge to Waterloo. You tell him, and he takes you into partnership. Later you become a millionaire. But I haven't thanked you for thecocoa. It was fine. '

He waited for the retort, but it did not come. A pleased wondermentfilled him. Could these things really be thus?

'And it isn't only what he says, ' she went on. 'I know what you meanabout him now. It's his accusing manner. '

'I've tried to analyse that manner. I believe it's the spectacles. '

'It's frightful when he looks at you; you think of all the wrong thingsyou have ever done or ever wanted to do. '

'Does he have that effect on you?' he said, excitedly. 'Why, thatexactly describes what I feel. '

The affinities looked at one another. 

She was the first to speak. 

'We always did think alike on most things, didn't we?' she said. 

'Of course we did. '

He shifted his chair forward. 

'It was all my fault, ' he said. 'I mean, what happened. '

'It wasn't. It--'

'Yes, it was. I want to tell you something. I don't know if it willmake any difference now, but I should like you to know it. It's this. I've altered a good deal since I came to London. For the better, Ithink. I'm a pretty poor sort of specimen still, but at least I don'timagine I can measure life with a foot-rule. I don't judge the worldany longer by the standards of a country town. London has knocked someof the corners off me. I don't think you would find me the Bean typeany longer. I don't disapprove of other people much now. Not as ahabit. I find I have enough to do keeping myself up to the mark. '

'I want to tell you something, too, ' she said. 'I expect it's too late, but never mind. I want you to hear it. I've altered, too, since I cameto London. I used to think the Universe had been invented just to lookon and wave its hat while I did great things. London has put a largepiece of cold ice against my head, and the swelling has gone down. I'mnot the girl with ambitions any longer. I just want to keep employed, and not have too bad a time when the day's work is over. '

He came across to where she sat. 

'We said we would meet as strangers, and we do. We never have knowneach other. Don't you think we had better get acquainted?' he said. 

There was a respectful tap at the door. 

'Come in?' snapped Mr Ferguson. 'Well?' Behind the gold-rimmedspectacles of Master Bean there shone a softer look than usual, a lookrather complacent than disapproving. 

'I must apologize, sir, for intruding upon you. I am no longer in youremployment, but I do hope that in the circumstances you will forgivemy entering your private office. Thinking over our situation just nowan idea came to me by means of which I fancy we might be enabled toleave the building. '

'What!'

'It occurred to me, sir, that by telephoning to the nearestpolice-station--'

'Good heavens!' cried Mr Ferguson. 

Two minutes later he replaced the receiver. 

'It's all right, ' he said. 'I've made them understand the trouble. They're bringing a ladder. I wonder what the time is? It must be aboutfour in the morning. '

Master Bean produced a Waterbury watch. 

'The time, sir, is almost exactly half past ten. '

'Half past ten! We must have been here longer than three hours. Yourwatch is wrong. '

'No, sir, I am very careful to keep it exactly right. I do not wish torun any risk of being unpunctual. '

'Half past ten!' cried Mr Ferguson. 'Why, we're in heaps of time tolook in at the Savoy for supper. This is great. I'll phone them to keepa table. '

'Supper! I thought--'

She stopped. 

'What's that? Thought what?'

'Hadn't you an engagement for supper?'

He stared at her. 

'Whatever gave you that idea? Of course not. '

'I thought you said you were taking Miss Templeton--'

'Miss Temp--Oh!' His face cleared. 'Oh, there isn't such a person. Iinvented her. I had to when you accused me of being like our friend theMiasma. Legitimate self-defence. '

'I do not wish to interrupt you, sir, when you are busy, ' said MasterBean, 'but--'

'Come and see me tomorrow morning, ' said Mr Ferguson. 

 * * * * *

'Bob, ' said the girl, as the first threatening mutters from theorchestra heralded an imminent storm of melody, 'when that boy comestomorrow, what are going to do?'

'Call up the police. '

'No, but you must do something. We shouldn't have been here if ithadn't been for him. '

'That's true!' He pondered. 'I've got it; I'll get him a job withRaikes and Courtenay. '

'Why Raikes and Courtenay?'

'Because I have a pull with them. But principally, ' said Mr Ferguson, with a devilish grin, 'because they live in Edinburgh, which, as youare doubtless aware, is a long, long way from London. '

He bent across the table. 

'Isn't this like old times?' he said. 'Do you remember the first time Iever ki--'

Just then the orchestra broke out. 

THE GOOD ANGEL

Any man under thirty years of age who tells you he is not afraid of anEnglish butler lies. He may not show his fear. Outwardly he may bebrave--aggressive even, perhaps to the extent of calling the great man'Here!' or 'Hi!' But, in his heart, when he meets that, cold, blue, introspective eye, he quakes. 

The effect that Keggs, the butler at the Keiths', had on MartinRossiter was to make him feel as if he had been caught laughing in acathedral. He fought against the feeling. He asked himself who Keggswas, anyway; and replied defiantly that Keggs was a Menial--and anoverfed Menial. But all the while he knew that logic was useless. 

When the Keiths had invited him to their country home he had beendelighted. They were among his oldest friends. He liked Mr Keith. Heliked Mrs Keith. He loved Elsa Keith, and had done so from boyhood. 

But things had gone wrong. As he leaned out of his bedroom window atthe end of the first week, preparatory to dressing for dinner, he wasmore than half inclined to make some excuse and get right out of theplace next day. The bland dignity of Keggs had taken all the heart outof him. 

Nor was it Keggs alone who had driven his thoughts towards flight. Keggs was merely a passive evil, like toothache or a rainy day. Whathad begun actively to make the place impossible was a perfectlypestilential young man of the name of Barstowe. 

The house-party at the Keiths had originally been, from Martin'sview-point, almost ideal. The rest of the men were of the speechless, moustache-tugging breed. They had come to shoot, and they shot. Whenthey were not shooting they congregated in the billiard-room anddevoted their powerful intellects exclusively to snooker-pool, leavingMartin free to talk undisturbed to Elsa. He had been doing this forfive days with great contentment when Aubrey Barstowe arrived. MrsKeith had developed of late leanings towards culture. In her town housea charge of small-shot, fired in any direction on a Thursdayafternoon, could not have failed to bring down a poet, a novelist, or apainter. Aubrey Barstowe, author of _The Soul's Eclipse_ and otherpoems, was a constant member of the crowd. A youth of insinuatingmanners, he had appealed to Mrs Keith from the start; and unfortunatelythe virus had extended to Elsa. Many a pleasant, sunshiny Thursdayafternoon had been poisoned for Martin by the sight of Aubrey and Elsatogether on a distant settee, matching temperaments. The rest is toopainful. It was a rout. The poet did not shoot, so that when Martinreturned of an evening his rival was about five hours of soul-to-soultalk up and only two to play. And those two, the after-dinner hours, which had once been the hours for which Martin had lived, were puretorture. 

So engrossed was he with his thoughts that the first intimation he hadthat he was not alone in the room was a genteel cough. Behind him, holding a small can, was Keggs. 

'Your 'ot water, sir, ' said the butler, austerely but not unkindly. 

Keggs was a man--one must use that word, though it seems grosslyinadequate--of medium height, pigeon-toed at the base, bulgy half-wayup, and bald at the apex. His manner was restrained and dignified, hisvoice soft and grave. 

But it was his eye that quelled Martin. That cold, blue, dukes-have-treated-me-as-an-elder-brother eye. 

He fixed it upon him now, as he added, placing the can on the floor. 'It is Frederick's duty, but tonight I hundertook it. '

Martin had no answer. He was dazed. Keggs had spoken with the proudhumility of an emperor compelled by misfortune to shine shoes. 

'Might I have a word with you, sir?'

'Ye-e-ss, yes, ' stammered Martin. 'Won't you take a--I mean, yes, certainly. '

'It is perhaps a liberty, ' began Keggs. He paused, and raked Martinwith the eye that had rested on dining dukes. 

'Not at all, ' said Martin, hurriedly. 

'I should like, ' went on Keggs, bowing, 'to speak to you on a somewhatintimate subject--Miss Elsa. '

Martin's eyes and mouth opened slowly. 

'You are going the wrong way to work, if you will allow me to say so, sir. '

Martin's jaw dropped another inch. 

'Wha-a--'

'Women, sir, ' proceeded Keggs, 'young ladies--are peculiar. I have had, if I may say so, certain hopportunities of observing their ways. MissElsa reminds me in some respects of Lady Angelica Fendall, whom I hadthe honour of knowing when I was butler to her father, Lord Stockleigh. Her ladyship was hinclined to be romantic. She was fond of poetry, likeMiss Elsa. She would sit by the hour, sir, listening to young Mr Knoxreading Tennyson, which was no part of his duties, he being employed byhis lordship to teach Lord Bertie Latin and Greek and what not. You mayhave noticed, sir, that young ladies is often took by Tennyson, hespecially in the summertime. Mr Barstowe was reading Tennyson to MissElsa in the 'all when I passed through just now. _The Princess_, if I am not mistaken. '

'I don't know what the thing was, ' groaned Martin. 'She seemed to beenjoying it. '

'Lady Angelica was greatly addicted to _The Princess_. Young MrKnox was reading portions of that poem to her when his lordship comeupon them. Most rashly his lordship made a public hexpose and packed MrKnox off next day. It was not my place to volunteer advice, but I couldhave told him what would happen. Two days later her ladyship slips awayto London early in the morning, and they're married at aregistry-office. That is why I say that you are going the wrong way towork with Miss Elsa, sir. With certain types of 'igh spirited young ladyhopposition is useless. Now, when Mr Barstowe was reading to Miss Elsaon the occasion to which I 'ave alluded, you were sitting by, trying toengage her attention. It's not the way, sir. You should leave themalone together. Let her see so much of him, and nobody else but him, that she will grow tired of him. Fondness for poetry, sir, is very muchlike the whisky 'abit. You can't cure a man what has got that byhopposition. Now, if you will permit me to offer a word of advice, sir, I say, let Miss Elsa 'ave all the poetry she wants. '

Martin was conscious of one coherent feeling at the conclusion of thisaddress, and that was one of amazed gratitude. A lesser man who hadentered his room and begun to discuss his private affairs would havehad reason to retire with some speed; but that Keggs should descendfrom his pedestal and interest himself in such lowly matters was adifferent thing altogether. 

'I'm very much obliged--' he was stammering, when the butler raised adeprecatory hand. 

'My interest in the matter, ' he said, smoothly, 'is not entirelyhaltruistic. For some years back, in fact, since Miss Elsa came out, wehave had a matrimonial sweepstake in the servants' hall at eachhouse-party. The names of the gentlemen in the party are placed in a hatand drawn in due course. Should Miss Elsa become engaged to any memberof the party, the pool goes to the drawer of his name. Should noengagement occur, the money remains in my charge until the followingyear, when it is added to the new pool. Hitherto I have 'ad themisfortune to draw nothing but married gentlemen, but on this occasionI have secured you, sir. And I may tell you, sir, ' he added, withstately courtesy, 'that, in the opinion of the servants' hall, yourchances are 'ighly fancied, --very 'ighly. The pool has now reachedconsiderable proportions, and, 'aving had certain losses on the Turfvery recent, I am extremely anxious to win it. So I thought, if I mighttake the liberty, sir, I would place my knowledge of the sex at yourdisposal. You will find it sound in every respect. That is all. Thankyou, sir. '

Martin's feelings had undergone a complete revulsion. In the last fewminutes the butler had shed his wings and grown horns, cloven feet, anda forked tail. His rage deprived him of words. He could only gurgle. 

'Don't thank me, sir, ' said the butler, indulgently. 'I ask no thanks. We are working together for a common hobject, and any little 'elp I canprovide is given freely. '

'You old scoundrel!' shouted Martin, his wrath prevailing even againstthat blue eye. 'You have the insolence to come to me and--'

He stopped. The thought of these hounds, these demons, coolly gossipingand speculating below stairs about Elsa, making her the subject oflittle sporting flutters to relieve the monotony of country life, choked him. 

'I shall tell Mr Keith, ' he said. 

The butler shook his bald head gravely. 

'I shouldn't, sir. It is a 'ighly fantastic story, and I don't think hewould believe it. '

'Then I'll--Oh, get out!'

Keggs bowed deferentially. 

'If you wish it, sir, ' he said, 'I will withdraw. If I may make thesuggestion, sir, I think you should commence to dress. Dinner will beserved in a few minutes. Thank you, sir. '

He passed softly out of the room. 

 * * * * *

It was more as a demonstration of defiance against Keggs than becausehe really hoped that anything would come of it that Martin approachedElsa next morning after breakfast. Elsa was strolling on the terrace infront of the house with the bard, but Martin broke in on the conferencewith the dogged determination of a steam-drill. 

'Coming out with the guns today, Elsa?' he said. 

She raised her eyes. There was an absent look in them. 

'The guns?' she said. 'Oh, no; I hate watching men shoot. '

'You used to like it. '

'I used to like dolls, ' she said, impatiently. 

Mr Barstowe gave tongue. He was a slim, tall, sickeningly beautifulyoung man, with large, dark eyes, full of expression. 

'We develop, ' he said. 'The years go by, and we develop. Our soulsexpand--timidly at first, like little, half-fledged birds stealing outfrom the--'

'I don't know that I'm so set on shooting today, myself, ' said Martin. 'Will you come round the links?'

'I am going out in the motor with Mr Barstowe, ' said Elsa. 

'The motor!' cried Mr Barstowe. 'Ah, Rossiter, that is the very poetryof motion. I never ride in a motor-car without those words ofShakespeare's ringing in my mind: "I'll put a girdle round about theearth in forty minutes. "'

'I shouldn't give way to that sort of thing if I were you, ' saidMartin. 'The police are pretty down on road-hogging in these parts. '

'Mr Barstowe was speaking figuratively, ' said Elsa, with disdain. 

'Was he?' grunted Martin, whose sorrows were tending to make him everyday more like a sulky schoolboy. 'I'm afraid I haven't got a poeticsoul. '

'I'm afraid you haven't, ' said Elsa. 

There was a brief silence. A bird made itself heard in a neighbouringtree. 

'"The moan of doves in immemorial elms, "' quoted Mr Barstowe, softly. 

'Only it happens to be a crow in a beech, ' said Martin, as the birdflew out. 

Elsa's chin tilted itself in scorn. Martin turned on his heel andwalked away. 

'It's the wrong way, sir; it's the wrong way, ' said a voice. 'I washobserving you from a window, sir. It's Lady Angelica over again. Hopposition is useless, believe me, sir. '

Martin faced round, flushed and wrathful. The butler went on unmoved:'Miss Elsa is going for a ride in the car today, sir. '

'I know that. '

'Uncommonly tricky things, these motor-cars. I was saying so toRoberts, the chauffeur, just as soon as I 'eard Miss Elsa was going outwith Mr Barstowe. I said, "Roberts, these cars is tricky; break downwhen you're twenty miles from hanywhere as soon as look at you. Roberts, " I said, slipping him a sovereign, "'ow awful it would be ifthe car should break down twenty miles from hanywhere today!"'

Martin stared. 

'You bribed Roberts to--'

'Sir! I gave Roberts the sovereign because I am sorry for him. He is apoor man, and has a wife and family to support. '

'Very well, ' said Martin, sternly; 'I shall go and warn Miss Keith. '

'Warn her, sir!'

'I shall tell her that you have bribed Roberts to make the car breakdown so that--'

Keggs shook his head. 

'I fear she would hardly credit the statement, sir. She might eventhink that you was trying to keep her from going for your own pussonalends. '

'I believe you are the devil, ' said Martin. 

'I 'ope you will come to look on me, sir, ' said Keggs, unctuously, 'asyour good hangel. '

Martin shot abominably that day, and, coming home in the evening gloomyand savage, went straight to his room, and did not reappear tilldinner-time. Elsa had been taken in by one of the moustache-tuggers. Martin found himself seated on her other side. It was so pleasant to benear her, and to feel that the bard was away at the other end of thetable, that for the moment his spirits revived. 

'Well, how did you like the ride?' he asked, with a smile. 'Did you putthat girdle round the world?'

She looked at him--once. The next moment he had an uninterrupted viewof her shoulder, and heard the sound of her voice as she prattled gailyto the man on her other side. 

His heart gave a sudden bound. He understood now. The demon butler hadhad his wicked way. Good heavens! She had thought he was taunting her!He must explain at once. He--

'Hock or sherry, sir?'

He looked up into Kegg's expressionless eyes. The butler was wearinghis on-duty mask. There was no sign of triumph in his face. 

'Oh, sherry. I mean hock. No, sherry. Neither. '

This was awful. He must put this right. 

'Elsa, ' he said. 

She was engrossed in her conversation with her neighbour. 

From down the table in a sudden lull in the talk came the voice of MrBarstowe. He seemed to be in the middle of a narrative. 

'Fortunately, ' he was saying, 'I had with me a volume of Shelley, andone of my own little efforts. I had read Miss Keith the whole of thelatter and much of the former before the chauffeur announced that itwas once more possible--'

'Elsa, ' said the wretched man, 'I had no idea--you don't think--'

She turned to him. 

'I beg your pardon?' she said, very sweetly. 

'I swear I didn't know--I mean, I'd forgotten--I mean--'

She wrinkled her forehead. 

'I'm really afraid I don't understand. '

'I mean, about the car breaking down. '

'The car? Oh, yes. Yes, it broke down. We were delayed quite a littlewhile. Mr Barstowe read me some of his poems. It was perfectly lovely. I was quite sorry when Roberts told us we could go on again. But do youreally mean to tell me, Mr Lambert, that you--'

And once more the world became all shoulder. 

When the men trailed into the presence of the ladies for that briefseance on which etiquette insisted before permitting the stampede tothe billiard-room, Elsa was not to be seen. 

'Elsa?' said Mrs Keith in answer to Martin's question. 'She has gone tobed. The poor child has a headache. I am afraid she had a tiring day. '

There was an early start for the guns next morning, and as Elsa did notappear at breakfast Martin had to leave without seeing her. Hisshooting was even worse than it had been on the previous day. 

It was not until late in the evening that the party returned to thehouse. Martin, on the way to his room, met Mrs Keith on the stairs. Sheappeared somewhat agitated. 

'Oh, Martin, ' she said. 'I'm so glad you're back. Have you seenanything of Elsa?'

'Elsa?'

'Wasn't she with the guns?'

'With the guns' said Martin, puzzled. 'No. '

'I have seen nothing of her all day. I'm getting worried. I can't thinkwhat can have happened to her. Are you sure she wasn't with the guns?'

'Absolutely certain. Didn't she come in to lunch?'

'No. Tom, ' she said, as Mr Keith came up, 'I'm so worried about Elsa. Ihaven't seen her all day. I thought she must be out with the guns. '

Mr Keith was a man who had built up a large fortune mainly byconsistently refusing to allow anything to agitate him. He carried thispolicy into private life. 

'Wasn't she in at lunch?' he asked, placidly. 

'I tell you I haven't seen her all day. She breakfasted in her room--'

'Late?'

'Yes. She was tired, poor girl. '

'If she breakfasted late, ' said Mr Keith, 'she wouldn't need any lunch. She's gone for a stroll somewhere. '

'Would you put back dinner, do you think?' inquired Mrs Keith, anxiously. 

'I am not good at riddles, ' said Mr Keith, comfortably, 'but I cananswer that one. I would not put back dinner. I would not put backdinner for the King. '

Elsa did not come back for dinner. Nor was hers the only vacant place. Mr Barstowe had also vanished. Even Mr Keith's calm was momentarilyruffled by this discovery. The poet was not a favourite of his--it wasonly reluctantly that he had consented to his being invited at all; andthe presumption being that when two members of a house-party disappearsimultaneously they are likely to be spending the time in each other'ssociety, he was annoyed. Elsa was not the girl to make a fool ofherself, of course, but--He was unwontedly silent at dinner. 

Mrs Keith's anxiety displayed itself differently. She was franklyworried, and mentioned it. By the time the fish had been reachedconversation at the table had fixed itself definitely on the onetopic. 

'It isn't the car this time, at any rate, ' said Mr Keith. 'It hasn'tbeen out today. '

'I can't understand it, ' said Mrs Keith for the twentieth time. Andthat was the farthest point reached in the investigation of themystery. 

By the time dinner was over a spirit of unrest was abroad. The companysat about in uneasy groups. Snooker-pool was, if not forgotten, at anyrate shelved. Somebody suggested search-parties, and one or two of themoustache-tuggers wandered rather aimlessly out into the darkness. 

Martin was standing in the porch with Mr Keith when Keggs approached. As his eyes lit on him, Martin was conscious of a sudden solidifying ofthe vague suspicion which had been forming in his mind. And yet thatsuspicion seemed so wild. How could Keggs, with the worst intentions, have had anything to do with this? He could not forcibly have abductedthe missing pair and kept them under lock and key. He could not havestunned them and left them in a ditch. Nevertheless, looking at himstanding there in his attitude of deferential dignity, with the lightfrom the open door shining on his bald head, Martin felt perfectlycertain that he had in some mysterious fashion engineered the wholething. 

'Might I have a word, sir, if you are at leisure?'

'Well, Keggs?'

'Miss Elsa, sir. '

'Yes?'

Kegg's voice took on a sympathetic softness. 

'It was not my place, sir, to make any remark while in the dining-room, but I could not 'elp but hoverhear the conversation. I gathered fromremarks that was passed that you was somewhat hat a loss to account forMiss Elsa's non-appearance, sir. '

Mr Keith laughed shortly. 

'You gathered that, eh?'

Keggs bowed. 

'I think, sir, that possibly I may be hable to throw light on thematter. '

'What!' cried Mr Keith. 'Great Scott, man! then why didn't you say soat the time? Where is she?'

'It was not my place, sir, to henter into the conversation of thedinner-table, ' said the butler, with a touch of reproof. 'If I mightspeak now, sir?'

Mr Keith clutched at his forehead. 

'Heavens above! Do you want a signed permit to tell me where mydaughter is? Get on, man, get on!'

'I think it 'ighly possible, sir, that Miss Elsa and Mr Barstowe may beon the hisland in the lake, sir. ' About half a mile from the house wasa picturesque strip of water, some fifteen hundred yards in width and alittle less in length, in the centre of which stood a small and denselywooded island. It was a favourite haunt of visitors at the house whenthere was nothing else to engage their attention, but during the pastweek, with shooting to fill up the days, it had been neglected. 

'On the island?' said Mr Keith. 'What put that idea into your head?'

'I 'appened to be rowing on the lake this morning, sir. I frequentlyrow of a morning, sir, when there are no duties to detain me in the'ouse. I find the hexercise hadmirable for the 'ealth. I walk brisklyto the boat-'ouse, and--'

'Yes, yes. I don't want a schedule of your daily exercises. Cut out theathletic reminiscences and come to the point. '

'As I was rowing on the lake this morning, sir, I 'appened to see aboat 'itched up to a tree on the hisland. I think that possibly MissElsa and Mr Barstowe might 'ave taken a row out there. Mr Barstowewould wish to see the hisland, sir, bein' romantic. '

'But you say you saw the boat there this morning?'

'Yes, sir. '

'Well, it doesn't take all day to explore a small island. What's keptthem all this while?'

'It is possible, sir, that the rope might not have 'eld. Mr Barstowe, if I might say so, sir, is one of those himpetuous literary pussons, and possibly he homitted to see that the knot was hadequately tied. Or'--his eye, grave and inscrutable, rested for a moment onMartin's--'some party might 'ave come along and huntied it a-puppus. '

'Untied it on purpose?' said Mr Keith. 'What on earth for?'

Keggs shook his head deprecatingly, as one who, realizing hislimitations, declines to attempt to probe the hidden sources of humanactions. 

'I thought it right, sir, to let you know, ' he said. 

'Right? I should say so. If Elsa has been kept starving all day on thatisland by that long-haired--Here, come along, Martin. '

He dashed off excitedly into the night. Martin remained for a momentgazing fixedly at the butler. 

'I 'ope, sir, ' said Keggs, cordially, 'that my hinformation will proveof genuine hassistance. '

'Do you know what I should like to do to you?' said Martin slowly. 

'I think I 'ear Mr Keith calling you, sir. '

'I should like to take you by the scruff of your neck and--'

'There, sir! Didn't you 'ear 'im then? Quite distinct it was. '

Martin gave up the struggle with a sense of blank futility. What couldyou do with a man like this? It was like quarrelling with WestminsterAbbey. 

'I should 'urry, sir, ' suggested Keggs, respectfully. 'I think Mr Keithmust have met with some haccident. '

His surmise proved correct. When Martin came up he found his hostseated on the ground in evident pain. 

'Twisted my ankle in a hole, ' he explained, briefly. 'Give me an armback to the house, there's a good fellow, and then run on down to thelake and see if what Keggs said is true. '

Martin did as he was requested--so far, that is to say, as the firsthalf of the commission was concerned. As regarded the second, he tookit upon himself to make certain changes. Having seen Mr Keith to hisroom, he put the fitting-out of the relief ship into the good hands ofa group of his fellow guests whom he discovered in the porch. Elsa'sfeelings towards her rescuer might be one of unmixed gratitude; but itmight, on the other hand, be one of resentment. He did not wish her toconnect him in her mind with the episode in any way whatsoever. Martinhad once released a dog from a trap, and the dog had bitten him. He hadbeen on an errand of mercy, but the dog had connected him with hissufferings and acted accordingly. It occurred to Martin that Elsa'sframe of mind would be uncommonly like that dog's. 

The rescue-party set off. Martin lit a cigarette, and waited in theporch. 

It seemed a very long time before anything happened, but at last, as hewas lighting his fifth cigarette, there came from the darkness thesound of voices. They drew nearer. Someone shouted:

'It's all right. We've found them. '

Martin threw away his cigarette and went indoors. 

 * * * * *

Elsa Keith sat up as her mother came into the room. Two nights and aday had passed since she had taken to her bed. 

'How are you feeling today, dear?'

'Has he gone, mother?'

'Who?'

'Mr Barstowe?'

'Yes, dear. He left this morning. He said he had business with hispublisher in London. '

'Then I can get up, ' said Elsa, thankfully. 

'I think you're a little hard on poor Mr Barstowe, Elsa. It was just anaccident, you know. It was not his fault that the boat slipped away. '

'It was, it was, it _was_!' cried Elsa, thumping the pillowmalignantly. 'I believe he did it on purpose, so that he could read mehis horrid poetry without my having a chance to escape. I believethat's the only way he can get people to listen to it. '

'But you used to like it, darling. You said he had such a musicalvoice. '

'Musical voice!' The pillow became a shapeless heap. 'Mother, it waslike a nightmare! If I had seen him again I should have had hysterics. It was _awful_! If he had been even the least bit upset himself Ithink I could have borne up. But he _enjoyed_ it! He _revelled_in it! He said it was like Omar Khayyam in the Wilderness and Shelley's_Epipsychidion_, whatever that is; and he prattled on and on andread and read till my head began to split. Mother'--her voice sank toa whisper--'I hit him!'

'Elsa!'

'I did!' she went on, defiantly. 'I hit him as hard as I could, andhe--he'--she broke off into a little gurgle of laughter--'he trippedover a bush and fell right down; and I wasn't a bit ashamed. I didn'tthink it unladylike or anything. I was just as proud as I could be. Andit stopped him talking. '

'But, Elsa, _dear_! Why?'

'The sun had just gone down; and it was a lovely sunset, and the skylooked like a great, beautiful slice of underdone beef; and I said soto him, and he said, sniffily, that he was afraid he didn't see theresemblance. And I asked him if he wasn't starving. And he said no, because as a rule all that he needed was a little ripe fruit. And thatwas when I hit him. '

'Elsa!'

'Oh, I know it was awfully wrong, but I just had to. And now I'll getup. It looks lovely out. '

Martin had not gone out with the guns that day. Mrs Keith had assuredhim that there was nothing wrong with Elsa, that she was only tired, but he was anxious, and had remained at home, where bulletins couldreach him. As he was returning from a stroll in the grounds he heardhis name called, and saw Elsa lying in the hammock under the trees nearthe terrace. 

'Why, Martin, why aren't you out with the guns?' she said. 

'I wanted to be on the spot so that I could hear how you were. '

'How nice of you! Why don't you sit down?'

'May I?'

Elsa fluttered the pages of her magazine. 

'You know, you're a very restful person, Martin. You're so big andoutdoory. How would you like to read to me for a while? I feel solazy. '

Martin took the magazine. 

'What shall I read? Here's a poem by--'

Elsa shuddered. 

'Oh, please, no, ' she cried. 'I couldn't bear it. I'll tell you what Ishould love--the advertisements. There's one about sardines. I startedit, and it seemed splendid. It's at the back somewhere. '

'Is this it--Langley and Fielding's sardines?'

'That's it. '

Martin began to read. 

'"Langley and Fielding's sardines. When you want the daintiest, mostdelicious sardines, go to your grocer and say, 'Langley and Fielding's, please!' You will then be sure of having the finest Norwegian smokedsardines, packed in the purest olive oil. "'

Elsa was sitting with her eyes closed and a soft smile of pleasurecurving her mouth. 

'Go on, ' she said, dreamily. 

'"Nothing nicer. "' resumed Martin, with an added touch of eloquence asthe theme began to develop, '"for breakfast, lunch, or supper. Probablyyour grocer stocks them. Ask him. If he does not, write to us. Pricefivepence per tin. The best sardines and the best oil!"'

'Isn't it _lovely_?' she murmured. 

Her hand, as it swung, touched his. He held it. She opened her eyes. 

'Don't stop reading, ' she said. 'I never heard anything so soothing. '

'Elsa!'

He bent towards her. She smiled at him. Her eyes were dancing. 

'Elsa, I--'

'Mr Keith, ' said a quiet voice, 'desired me to say--'

Martin started away. He glared up furiously. Gazing down upon themstood Keggs. The butler's face was shining with a gentle benevolence. 

'Mr Keith desired me to say that he would be glad if Miss Elsa wouldcome and sit with him for a while. '

'I'll come at once, ' said Elsa, stepping from the hammock. 

The butler bowed respectfully and turned away. They stood watching himas he moved across the terrace. 

'What a saintly old man Keggs looks, ' said Elsa. 'Don't you think so?He looks as if he had never even thought of doing anything heshouldn't. I wonder if he ever has?'

'I wonder!' said Martin. 

'He looks like a stout angel. What were you saying, Martin, when hecame up?'

POTS O'MONEY

Owen Bentley was feeling embarrassed. He looked at Mr Sheppherd, andwith difficulty restrained himself from standing on one leg andtwiddling his fingers. At one period of his career, before theinfluence of his uncle Henry had placed him in the London and SuburbanBank, Owen had been an actor. On the strength of a batting average ofthirty-three point nought seven for Middlesex, he had been engaged bythe astute musical-comedy impresario to whom the idea first occurredthat, if you have got to have young men to chant 'We are merry and gay, tra-la, for this is Bohemia, ' in the Artists' Ball scene, you mightjust as well have young men whose names are known to the public. He hadnot been an actor long, for loss of form had put him out of first-classcricket, and the impresario had given his place in the next piece to agoogly bowler who had done well in the last Varsity match; but he hadbeen one long enough to experience that sinking sensation which isknown as stage-fright. And now, as he began to explain to Mr Sheppherdthat he wished for his consent to marry his daughter Audrey, he foundhimself suffering exactly the same symptoms. 

From the very start, from the moment when he revealed the fact that hisincome, salary and private means included, amounted to less than twohundred pounds, he had realized that this was going to be one of hisfailures. It was the gruesome Early Victorianness of it all that tookthe heart out of him. Mr Sheppherd had always reminded him of a heavyfather out of a three-volume novel, but, compared with his demeanour ashe listened now, his attitude hitherto had been light and whimsical. Until this moment Owen had not imagined that this sort of thing everhappened nowadays outside the comic papers. By the end of the secondminute he would not have been surprised to find himself sailing throughthe air, urged by Mr Sheppherd's boot, his transit indicated by adotted line and a few stars. 

Mr Sheppherd's manner was inclined to bleakness. 

'This is most unfortunate, ' he said. 'Most unfortunate. I have mydaughter's happiness to consider. It is my duty as a father. ' Hepaused. 'You say you have no prospects? I should have supposed thatyour uncle--? Surely, with his influence--?'

'My uncle shot his bolt when he got me into the bank. That finishedhim, as far as I'm concerned. I'm not his only nephew, you know. Thereare about a hundred others, all trailing him like bloodhounds. '

Mr Sheppherd coughed the small cough of disapproval. He was feelingmore than a little aggrieved. 

He had met Owen for the first time at dinner at the house of his uncleHenry, a man of unquestioned substance, whose habit it was to inviteeach of his eleven nephews to dinner once a year. But Mr Sheppherd didnot know this. For all he knew, Owen was in the habit of hobnobbingwith the great man every night. He could not say exactly that it wassharp practice on Owen's part to accept his invitation to call, and, having called, to continue calling long enough to make the presentdeplorable situation possible; but he felt that it would have been inbetter taste for the young man to have effaced himself and behaved morelike a bank-clerk and less like an heir. 

'I am exceedingly sorry for this, Mr Bentley, ' he said, 'but you willunderstand that I cannot--It is, of course, out of the question. Itwould be best, in the circumstances, I think, if you did not see mydaughter again--'

'She's waiting in the passage outside, ' said Owen, simply. 

'--after today. Good-bye. '

Owen left the room. Audrey was hovering in the neighbourhood of thedoor. She came quickly up to him, and his spirits rose, as they alwaysdid, at the sight of her. 

'Well?' she said. 

He shook his head. 

'No good, ' he said. 

Audrey considered the problem for a moment, and was rewarded with anidea. 

'Shall I go in and cry?'

'It wouldn't be of any use. '

'Tell me what happened. '

'He said I mustn't see you again. '

'He didn't mean it. '

'He thinks he did. '

Audrey reflected. 

'We shall simply have to keep writing, then. And we can talk on thetelephone. That isn't seeing each other. Has your bank a telephone?'

'Yes. But--'

'That's all right, then. I'll ring you up every day. '

'I wish I could make some money, ' said Owen, thoughtfully. 'But I seemto be one of those chaps who can't. Nothing I try comes off. I've neverdrawn anything except a blank in a sweep. I spent about two pounds onsixpenny postal orders when the Limerick craze was on, and didn't win athing. Once when I was on tour I worked myself to a shadow, dramatizinga novel. Nothing came of that, either. '

'What novel?'

'A thing called _White Roses, _ by a woman named Edith Butler. '

Audrey looked up quickly. 

'I suppose you knew her very well? Were you great friends?'

'I didn't know her at all. I'd never met her. I just happened to buythe thing at a bookstall, and thought it would make a good play. Iexpect it was pretty bad rot. Anyhow, she never took the trouble tosend it back or even to acknowledge receipt. '

'Perhaps she never got it?'

'I registered it. '

'She was a cat, ' said Audrey, decidedly. 'I'm glad of it, though. Ifanother woman had helped you make a lot of money, I should have died ofjealousy. '

Routine is death to heroism. For the first few days after his partingwith Mr Sheppherd, Owen was in heroic mood, full of vaguely dashingschemes, regarding the world as his oyster, and burning to get at it, sword in hand. But routine, with its ledgers and its copying-ink andits customers, fell like a grey cloud athwart his horizon, blotting outrainbow visions of sudden wealth, dramatically won. Day by day the glowfaded and hopelessness grew. 

If the glow did not entirely fade it was due to Audrey, who more thanfulfilled her promise of ringing him up on the telephone. She rang himup at least once, frequently several times, every day, a fact which wasnoted and commented upon in a harshly critical spirit by the head ofhis department, a man with no soul and a strong objection to doing hissubordinates' work for them. 

As a rule, her conversation, though pleasing, was discursive and lackedcentral motive, but one morning she had genuine news to impart. 

'Owen'--her voice was excited--'have you seen the paper today? Thenlisten. I'll read it out. Are you listening? This is what it says: "ThePiccadilly Theatre will reopen shortly with a dramatized version ofMiss Edith Butler's popular novel, _White Roses_, prepared by theauthoress herself. A strong cast is being engaged, including--" Andthen a lot of names. What are you going to do about it, Owen?'

'What am I going to do?'

'Don't you see what's happened? That awful woman has stolen your play. She has waited all these years, hoping you would forget. What are youlaughing at?'

'I wasn't laughing. '

'Yes, you were. It tickled my ear. I'll ring off if you do it again. You don't believe me. Well, you wait and see if I'm not--'

'Edith Butler's incapable of such a thing. '

There was a slight pause at the other end of the wire. 

'I thought you said you didn't know her, ' said Audrey, jealously. 

'I don't--I don't, ' said Owen, hastily. 'But I've read her books. They're simply chunks of superfatted sentiment. She's a sort ofliterary onion. She compels tears. A woman like that couldn't steal aplay if she tried. '

'You can't judge authors from their books. You must go and see the playwhen it comes on. Then you'll see I'm right. I'm absolutely certainthat woman is trying to swindle you. Don't laugh in that horrid way. Very well, I told you I should ring off, and now I'm going to. '

At the beginning of the next month Owen's annual holiday arrived. Theauthorities of the London and Suburban Bank were no niggards. Theyrecognized that a man is not a machine. They gave their employees tendays in the year in which to tone up their systems for another twelvemonths' work. 

Owen spent his boyhood in the Shropshire village of which his fatherhad been rector, and thither he went when his holiday came round, tothe farm of one Dorman. He was glad of the chance to get to Shropshire. There is something about the country there, with its green fields andminiature rivers, that soothes the wounded spirit and forms a pleasantbackground for sentimental musings. 

It was comfortable at the farm. The household consisted of Mr Dorman, an old acquaintance, his ten-year-old son George, and Mr Dorman'smother, an aged lady with a considerable local reputation as a wisewoman. Rumour had it that the future held no mysteries for her, and itwas known that she could cure warts, bruised fingers, and even thebotts by means of spells. 

Except for these, Owen had fancied that he was alone in the house. Itseemed not, however. There was a primeval piano in his sitting-room, and on the second morning it suited his mood to sit down at this andsing 'Asthore', the fruity pathos of which ballad appealed to himstrongly at this time, accompanying himself by an ingenious arrangementin three chords. He had hardly begun, however, when Mr Dorman appeared, somewhat agitated. 

'If you don't mind, Mr Owen, ' he said. 'I forgot to tell you. There's alit'ery gent boarding with me in the room above, and he can't bear tobe disturbed. '

A muffled stamping from the ceiling bore out his words. 

'Writing a book he is, ' continued Mr Dorman. 'He caught young George aclip over the ear-'ole yesterday for blowing his trumpet on the stairs. Gave him sixpence afterwards, and said he'd skin him if he ever did itagain. So, if you don't mind--'

'Oh, all right, ' said Owen. 'Who is he?'

'Gentleman of the name of Prosser. '

Owen could not recollect having come across any work by anyone of thatname; but he was not a wide reader; and, whether the man above was acelebrity or not, he was entitled to quiet. 

'I never heard of him, ' he said, 'but that's no reason why I shoulddisturb him. Let him rip. I'll cut out the musical effects in future. '

The days passed smoothly by. The literary man remained invisible, though occasionally audible, tramping the floor in the frenzy ofcomposition. Nor, until the last day of his visit, did Owen see old MrsDorman. 

That she was not unaware of his presence in the house, however, wasindicated on the last morning. He was smoking an after-breakfast pipeat the open window and waiting for the dog-cart that was to take him tothe station, when George, the son of the house, entered. 

George stood in the doorway, grinned, and said:

'Farsezjerligranmatellyerforchbythecards?'

'Eh?' said Owen. 

The youth repeated the word. 

'Once again. '

On the second repetition light began to creep in. A boyhood spent inthe place, added to this ten days' stay, had made Owen something of alinguist. 

'Father says would I like grandma to do what?'

'Tell yer forch'n by ther cards. '

'Where is she?'

'Backyarnder. '

Owen followed him into the kitchen, where he found Mr Dorman, thefarmer, and, seated at the table, fumbling with a pack of cards, an oldwoman, whom he remembered well. 

'Mother wants to tell your fortune, ' said Mr Dorman, in a hoarse aside. 'She always will tell visitors' fortunes. She told Mr Prosser's, and hedidn't half like it, because she said he'd be engaged in two months andmarried inside the year. He said wild horses wouldn't make him do it. '

'She can tell me that if she likes. I shan't object. '

'Mother, here's Mr Owen. '

'I seed him fast enough, ' said the old woman, briskly. 'Shuffle, an' cutthree times. '

She then performed mysterious manoeuvres with the cards. 

'I see pots o' money, ' announced the sibyl. 

'If she says it, it's there right enough, ' said her son. 

'She means my bonus, ' said Owen. 'But that's only ten pounds. And I loseit if I'm late twice more before Christmas. '

'It'll come sure enough. '

'Pots, ' said the old woman, and she was still mumbling the encouragingword when Owen left the kitchen and returned to the sitting-room. 

He laughed rather ruefully. At that moment he could have found a usefor pots o' money. 

He walked to the window, and looked out. It was a glorious morning. Theheat-mist was dancing over the meadow beyond the brook, and from thefarmyard came the liquid charawks of care-free fowls. It seemed wickedto leave these haunts of peace for London on such a day. 

An acute melancholy seized him. Absently, he sat down at the piano. Theprejudices of literary Mr Prosser had slipped from his mind. Softly atfirst, then gathering volume as the spirit of the song gripped him, hebegan to sing 'Asthore'. He became absorbed. 

He had just, for the sixth time, won through to 'Iyam-ah waiting for-ertheeee-yass-thorre, ' and was doing some intricate three-chord workpreparatory to starting over again, when a loaf of bread whizzed pasthis ear. It missed him by an inch, and crashed against a plasterstatuette of the Infant Samuel on the top of the piano. 

It was a standard loaf, containing eighty per cent of semolina, and itpractically wiped the Infant Samuel out of existence. At the samemoment, at his back, there sounded a loud, wrathful snort. 

He spun round. The door was open, and at the other side of the tablewas standing a large, black-bearded, shirt-sleeved man, in an attituderather reminiscent of Ajax defying the lightning. His hands trembled. His beard bristled. His eyes gleamed ferociously beneath enormouseyebrows. As Owen turned, he gave tongue in a voice like the dischargeof a broadside. 

'Stop it!'

Owen's mind, wrenched too suddenly from the dreamy future to the vividpresent, was not yet completely under control. He gaped. 

'Stop--that--infernal--noise!' roared the man. 

He shot through the door, banging it after him, and pounded up thestairs. 

Owen was annoyed. The artistic temperament was all very well, butthere were limits. It was absurd that obscure authors should behave inthis way. Prosser! Who on earth was Prosser? Had anyone ever heard ofhim? No! Yet here he was going about the country clipping small boysover the ear-hole, and flinging loaves of bread at bank-clerks as if hewere Henry James or Marie Corelli. Owen reproached himself bitterly forhis momentary loss of presence of mind. If he had only kept his head, he could have taken a flying shot at the man with the marmalade-pot. Ithad been within easy reach. Instead of which, he had merely stood andgaped. Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, 'Itmight have been. '

His manly regret was interrupted by the entrance of Mr Dorman with theinformation that the dog-cart was at the door. 

 * * * * *

Audrey was out of town when Owen arrived in London, but she returned aweek later. The sound of her voice through the telephone did much tocure the restlessness from which he had been suffering since theconclusion of his holiday. But the thought that she was so near yet soinaccessible produced in him a meditative melancholy which envelopedhim like a cloud that would not lift. His manner became distrait. Helost weight. 

If customers were not vaguely pained by his sad, pale face, it was onlybecause the fierce rush of modern commercial life leaves your businessman little leisure for observing pallor in bank-clerks. What did painthem was the gentle dreaminess with which he performed his duties. Hewas in the Inward Bills Department, one of the features of which wasthe sudden inrush, towards the end of each afternoon, of hatless, energetic young men with leather bags strapped to their left arms, clamouring for mysterious crackling documents, much fastened with pins. Owen had never quite understood what it was that these young men didwant, and now his detached mind refused even more emphatically tograpple with the problem. He distributed the documents at random withthe air of a preoccupied monarch scattering largess to the mob, and thesubsequent chaos had to be handled by a wrathful head of the departmentin person. 

Man's power of endurance is limited. At the end of the second week theoverwrought head appealed passionately for relief, and Owen was removedto the Postage Department, where, when he had leisure from answeringAudrey's telephone calls, he entered the addresses of letters in alarge book and took them to the post. He was supposed also to stampthem, but a man in love cannot think of everything, and he was apt attimes to overlook this formality. 

One morning, receiving from one of the bank messengers the usualintimation that a lady wished to speak to him on the telephone, he wentto the box and took up the receiver. 

'Is that you, Owen? Owen, I went to _White Roses_ last night. Haveyou been yet?'

'Not yet. '

'Then you must go tonight. Owen, I'm _certain_ you wrote it. It'sperfectly lovely. I cried my eyes out. If you don't go tonight, I'llnever speak to you again, even on the telephone. Promise. '

'Must I?'

'Yes, you must. Why, suppose it _is_ yours! It may mean a fortune. The stalls were simply packed. I'm going to ring up the theatre now andengage a seat for you, and pay for it myself. '

'No--I say--' protested Owen. 

'Yes, I shall. I can't trust you to go if I don't. And I'll ring upearly tomorrow to hear all about it. Good-bye. '

Owen left the box somewhat depressed. Life was quite gloomy enough asit was, without going out of one's way to cry one's eyes out oversentimental plays. 

His depression was increased by the receipt, on his return to hisdepartment, of a message from the manager, stating that he would liketo see Mr Bentley in his private room for a moment. Owen never enjoyedthese little chats with Authority. Out of office hours, in the circleof his friends, he had no doubt the manager was a delightful andentertaining companion; but in his private room his conversation wasless enjoyable. 

The manager was seated at his table, thoughtfully regarding theceiling. His resemblance to a stuffed trout, always striking, wassubtly accentuated, and Owen, an expert in these matters, felt that hisfears had been well founded--there was trouble in the air. Somebody hadbeen complaining of him, and he was now about, as the phrase went, tobe 'run-in'. 

A large man, seated with his back to the door, turned as he entered, and Owen recognized the well-remembered features of Mr Prosser, theliterary loaf-slinger. 

Owen regarded him without resentment. Since returning to London he hadtaken the trouble of looking up his name in _Who's Who_ and hadfound that he was not so undistinguished as he had supposed. He was, itappeared, a Regius Professor and the author of some half-dozen works onsociology--a record, Owen felt, that almost justified loaf-slinging andearhole clipping in moments of irritation. 

The manager started to speak, but the man of letters anticipated him. 

'Is this the fool?' he roared. 'Young man, I have no wish to be hard ona congenital idiot who is not responsible for his actions, but I mustinsist on an explanation. I understand that you are in charge of thecorrespondence in this office. Well, during the last week you havethree times sent unstamped letters to my fiancee, Miss Vera Delane, Woodlands, Southbourne, Hants. What's the matter with you? Do you thinkshe likes paying twopence a time, or what is it?'

Owen's mind leaped back at the words. They recalled something to him. Then he remembered. 

He was conscious of a not unpleasant thrill. He had not known that hewas superstitious, but for some reason he had not been able to getthose absurd words of Mr Dorman's mother out of his mind. And here wasanother prediction of hers, equally improbable, fulfilled to theletter. 

'Great Scott!' he cried. 'Are you going to be married?'

Mr Prosser and the manager started simultaneously. 

'Mrs Dorman said you would be, ' said Owen. 'Don't you remember?'

Mr Prosser looked keenly at him. 

'Why, I've seen you before, ' he said. 'You're the young turnip-headedscallywag at the farm. '

'That's right, ' said Owen. 

'I've been wanting to meet you again. I thought the whole thing over, and it struck me, ' said Mr Prosser, handsomely, 'that I may have seemeda little abrupt at our last meeting. '

'No, no. '

'The fact is, I was in the middle of an infernally difficult passage ofmy book that morning, and when you began--'

'It was my fault entirely. I quite understand. '

Mr Prosser produced a card-case. 

'We must see more of each other, ' he said. 'Come and have a bit ofdinner some night. Come tonight. '

'I'm very sorry. I have to go to the theatre tonight. '

'Then come and have a bit of supper afterwards. Excellent. Meet me atthe Savoy at eleven-fifteen. I'm glad I didn't hit you with that loaf. Abruptness has been my failing through life. My father was just thesame. Eleven-fifteen at the Savoy, then. '

The manager, who had been listening with some restlessness to theconversation, now intervened. He was a man with a sense of fitness ofthings, and he objected to having his private room made the scene ofwhat appeared to be a reunion of old college chums. He hinted as much. 

'Ha! Prrumph!' he observed, disapprovingly. 'Er--Mr Bentley, that isall. You may return to your work--ah'mmm! Kindly be more carefulanother time in stamping the letters. '

'Yes, by Jove, ' said Mr Prosser, suddenly reminded of his wrongs, 'that's right. Exercise a little ordinary care, you ivory-skulledyoung son of a gun. Do you think Miss Delane is _made_ oftwopences? Keep an eye on him, ' he urged the manager. 'These youngfellows nowadays want someone standing over them with a knout all thetime. Be more careful another time, young man. Eleven-fifteen, remember. Make a note of it, or you'll go forgetting _that_. '

 * * * * *

The seat Audrey had bought for him at the Piccadilly Theatre proved tobe in the centre of the sixth row of stalls--practically a death-trap. Whatever his sufferings might be, escape was impossible. He wassecurely wedged in. 

The cheaper parts of the house were sparsely occupied, but the stallswere full. Owen, disapproving of the whole business, refused to buy aprogramme, and settled himself in his seat prepared for the worst. Hehad a vivid recollection of _White Roses_, the novel, and he didnot anticipate any keen enjoyment from it in its dramatized form. Hehad long ceased to be a, member of that large public for which MissEdith Butler catered. The sentimental adventures of governesses inducal houses--the heroine of _White Roses_ was a governess--nolonger contented his soul. 

There is always a curiously dream-like atmosphere about a play foundedon a book. One seems to have seen it all before. During the whole ofthe first act Owen attributed to this his feeling of familiarity withwhat was going on on the stage. At the beginning of the second act hefound himself anticipating events. But it was not till the third actthat the truth sank in. 

The third was the only act in which, in his dramatization, he had takenany real liberties with the text of the novel. But in this act he hadintroduced a character who did not appear in the novel--a creature ofhis own imagination. And now, with bulging eyes, he observed thiscreature emerge from the wings, and heard him utter lines which he nowclearly remembered having written. 

Audrey had been right! Serpent Edith Butler had stolen his play. 

His mind, during the remainder of the play, was active. By the time thefinal curtain fell and he passed out into the open air he had perceivedsome of the difficulties of the case. To prove oneself the author of anoriginal play is hard, but not impossible. Friends to whom one hadsketched the plot may come forward as witnesses. One may have preservedrough notes. But a dramatization of a novel is another matter. Alldramatizations of any given novel must necessarily be very much alike. 

He started to walk along Piccadilly, and had reached Hyde Park Cornerbefore he recollected that he had an engagement to take supper with MrProsser at the Savoy Hotel. He hailed a cab. 

'You're late, ' boomed the author of sociological treatises, as heappeared. 'You're infernally late. I suppose, in your woollen-headedway, you forgot all about it. Come along. We'll just have time for anolive and a glass of something before they turn the lights out. '

Owen was still thinking deeply as he began his supper. Surely there wassome way by which he could prove his claims. What had he done with theoriginal manuscript? He remembered now. He had burnt it. It had seemedmere useless litter then. Probably, he felt bitterly, the woman Butlerhad counted on this. 

Mr Prosser concluded an animated conversation with a waiter on thesubject of the wines of France, leaned forward, and, having helpedhimself briskly to anchovies, began to talk. He talked loudly andrapidly. Owen, his thoughts far away, hardly listened. 

Presently the waiter returned with the selected brand. He filled Owen'sglass, and Owen drank, and felt better. Finding his glass magicallyfull once more, he emptied it again. And then suddenly he found himselflooking across the table at his Host, and feeling a sense of absoluteconviction that this was the one man of all others whom he would haveselected as a confidant. How kindly, though somewhat misty, his facewas! How soothing, if a little indistinct, his voice!

'Prosser, ' he said, 'you are a man of the world, and I should like youradvice. What would you do in a case like this? I go to a theatre to seea play, and what do I find?'

He paused, and eyed his host impressively. 

'What's that tune they're playing?' said Mr Prosser. 'You hear iteverywhere. One of these Viennese things, I suppose. '

Owen was annoyed. He began to doubt whether, after all, Mr Prosser'svirtues as a confidant were not more apparent than real. 

'I find, by Jove, ' he continued, 'that I wrote the thing myself. '

'It's not a patch on _The Merry Widow_, ' said Mr Prosser. 

Owen thumped the table. 

'I tell you I find I wrote the thing myself. '

'What thing?'

'This play I'm telling you about. This _White Roses_ thing. '

He found that he had at last got his host's ear. Mr Prosser seemedgenuinely interested. 

'What do you mean?'

Owen plunged on with his story. He started from its dim beginning, fromthe days when he had bought the novel on his journey from Bath toCheltenham. He described his methods of work, his registering of thepackage, his suspense, his growing resignation. He sketched theprogress of his life. He spoke of Audrey and gave a crispcharacter-sketch of Mr Sheppherd. He took his hearer right up tothe moment when the truth had come home to him. 

Towards the end of his narrative the lights went out, and he finishedhis story in the hotel courtyard. In the cool air he felt revived. Theoutlines of Mr Prosser became sharp and distinct again. 

The sociologist listened admirably. He appeared absorbed, and did notinterrupt once. 

'What makes you so certain that this was your version?' he asked, asthey passed into the Strand. 

Owen told him of the creature of his imagination in Act III. 

'But you have lost your manuscript?'

'Yes; I burnt it. '

'Just what one might have expected you to do, ' said Mr Prosser, unkindly. 'Young man, I begin to believe that there may be something inthis. You haven't got a ghost of a proof that would hold water in acourt of law, of course; but still, I'm inclined to believe you. Forone thing, you haven't the intelligence to invent such a story. '

Owen thanked him. 

'In fact, if you can answer me one question I shall be satisfied. '

It seemed to Owen that Mr Prosser was tending to get a little abovehimself. As an intelligent listener he had been of service, but thatappeared to be no reason why he should constitute himself a sort ofjudge and master of the ceremonies. 

'That's very good of you, ' he said; 'but will Edith Butler besatisfied? That's more to the point. '

'I _am_ Edith Butler, ' said Mr Prosser. 

Owen stopped. 'You?'

'You need not babble it from the house-tops. You are the only personbesides my agent who knows it, and I wouldn't have told you if I couldhave helped it. It isn't a thing I want known. Great Scott, man, don'tgoggle at me like a fish! Haven't you heard of pseudonyms before?'

'Yes, but--'

'Well, never mind. Take it from me that I _am_ Edith Butler. Nowlisten to me. That manuscript reached me when I was in the country. There was no name on it. That in itself points strongly to the factthat you were its author. It was precisely the chuckle-headed sort ofthing you would have done, to put no name on the thing. '

'I enclosed a letter, anyhow. '

'There was a letter enclosed. I opened the parcel out of doors. Therewas a fresh breeze blowing at the time. It caught the letter, and thatwas the last I saw of it. I had read as far as "Dear Madam". But onething I do remember about it, and that was that it was sent from somehotel in Cheltenham, and I could remember it if I heard it. Now, then?'

'I can tell it you. It was Wilbraham's. I was stopping there. '

'You pass, ' said Mr Prosser. 'It was Wilbraham's. '

Owen's heart gave a jump. For a moment he walked on air. 

'Then do you mean to say that it's all right--that you believe--'

'I do, ' said Mr Prosser. 'By the way, ' he said, 'the notice of _WhiteRoses_ went up last night. '

Owen's heart turned to lead. 

'But--but--' he stammered. 'But tonight the house was packed. '

'It was. Packed with paper. All the merry dead-heads in London werethere. It has been the worst failure this season. And, by George, ' hecried, with sudden vehemence, 'serve 'em right. If I told them once itwould fail in England, I told them a hundred times. The London publicwon't stand that sort of blithering twaddle. '

Owen stopped and looked round. A cab was standing across the road. Hesignalled to it. He felt incapable of walking home. No physical blowcould have unmanned him more completely than this hideousdisappointment just when, by a miracle, everything seemed to be runninghis way. 

'Sooner ride than walk, ' said Mr Prosser, pushing his head through theopen window. 'Laziness--slackness--that's the curse of the modern youngman. Where shall I tell him to drive to?'

Owen mentioned his address. It struck him that he had not thanked hishost for his hospitality. 

'It was awfully good of you to give me supper, Mr Prosser, ' he said. 'I've enjoyed it tremendously. '

'Come again, ' said Mr Prosser. 'I'm afraid you're disappointed aboutthe play?'

Owen forced a smile. 

'Oh, no, that's all right, ' he said. 'It can't be helped. '

Mr Prosser half turned, then thrust his head through the window again. 

'I knew there was something I had forgotten to say, ' he said. 'I oughtto have told you that the play was produced in America before it cameto London. It ran two seasons in New York and one in Chicago, and thereare three companies playing it still on the road. Here's my card. Comeround and see me tomorrow. I can't tell you the actual figuresoff-hand, but you'll be all right. You'll have pots o' money. '

OUT OF SCHOOL

Mark you, I am not defending James Datchett. I hold no brief for James. On the contrary, I am very decidedly of the opinion that he should nothave done it. I merely say that there were extenuating circumstances. Just that. Ext. Circ. Nothing more. 

Let us review the matter calmly and judicially, not condemning Jamesoff-hand, but rather probing the whole affair to its core, to see if wecan confirm my view that it is possible to find excuses for him. 

We will begin at the time when the subject of the Colonies first showeda tendency to creep menacingly into the daily chit-chat of his UncleFrederick. 

James's Uncle Frederick was always talking more or less about theColonies, having made a substantial fortune out in Western Australia, but it was only when James came down from Oxford that the thing becamereally menacing. Up to that time the uncle had merely spoken of theColonies _as_ Colonies. Now he began to speak of them withsinister reference to his nephew. He starred James. It became a case of'Frederick Knott presents James Datchett in "The Colonies", ' and thereseemed every prospect that the production would be an early one; for ifthere was one section of the public which Mr Knott disliked more thananother, it was Young Men Who Ought To Be Out Earning Their LivingsInstead Of Idling At Home. He expressed his views on the subject withsome eloquence whenever he visited his sister's house. Mrs Datchett wasa widow, and since her husband's death had been in the habit ofaccepting every utterance of her brother Frederick as a piece ofgenuine all-wool wisdom; though, as a matter of fact, James's uncle hadjust about enough brain to make a jay-bird fly crooked, and no more. Hehad made his money through keeping sheep. And any fool can keep sheep. However, he had this reputation for wisdom, and what he said went. Itwas not long, therefore, before it was evident that the ranks of theY. M. W. O. T. B. O. E. T. L. I. O. I. A. H. Were about to lose a member. 

James, for his part, was all against the Colonies. As a setting for hiscareer, that is to say. He was no Little Englander. He had no earthlyobjection to Great Britain _having Colonies. _ By all means haveColonies. They could rely on him for moral support. But when it came tolegging it out to West Australia to act as a sort of valet to UncleFrederick's beastly sheep--no. Not for James. For him the literarylife. Yes, that was James's dream--to have a stab at the literary life. At Oxford he had contributed to the _Isis, _ and since coming downhad been endeavouring to do the same to the papers of the Metropolis. He had had no success so far. But some inward voice seemed to tellhim--(Read on. Read on. This is no story about the young beginner'sstruggles in London. We do not get within fifty miles of Fleet Street. )

A temporary compromise was effected between the two parties by thesecuring for James of a post as assistant-master at Harrow House, theprivate school of one Blatherwick, M. A. , the understanding being thatif he could hold the job he could remain in England and write, if itpleased him, in his spare time. But if he fell short in any way as ahandler of small boys he was to descend a step in the animal kingdomand be matched against the West Australian sheep. There was to be nosecond chance in the event of failure. From the way Uncle Fredericktalked James almost got the idea that he attached a spiritualimportance to a connexion with sheep. He seemed to strive with a sortof religious frenzy to convert James to West Australia. So James wentto Harrow House with much the same emotions that the Old Guard musthave felt on their way up the hill at Waterloo. 

Harrow House was a grim mansion on the outskirts of Dover. It isbetter, of course, to be on the outskirts of Dover than actually init, but when you have said that you have said everything. James'simpressions of that portion of his life were made up almost entirely ofchalk. Chalk in the school-room, chalk all over the country-side, chalkin the milk. In this universe of chalk he taught bored boys therudiments of Latin, geography, and arithmetic, and in the evenings, after a stately cup of coffee with Mr Blatherwick in his study, went tohis room and wrote stories. The life had the advantage of offering fewdistractions. Except for Mr Blatherwick and a weird freak who came upfrom Dover on Tuesdays and Fridays to teach French, he saw nobody. 

It was about five weeks from the beginning of term that the river oflife at Harrow House became ruffled for the new assistant-master. 

I want you to follow me very closely here. As far as the excusing ofJames's conduct is concerned, it is now or never. If I fail at thispoint to touch you, I have shot my bolt. 

Let us marshal the facts. 

In the first place it was a perfectly ripping morning. 

Moreover he had received at breakfast a letter from the editor of amonthly magazine accepting a short story. 

This had never happened to him before. 

He was twenty-two. 

And, just as he rounded the angle of the house, he came upon Violet, taking the air like himself. 

Violet was one of the housemaids, a trim, energetic little person withround blue eyes and a friendly smile. She smiled at James now. Jameshalted. 

'Good morning, sir, ' said Violet. 

From my list of contributory causes I find that I have omitted oneitem--viz. , that there did not appear to be anybody else about. 

James looked meditatively at Violet. Violet looked smilingly at James. The morning was just as ripping as it had been a moment before. Jameswas still twenty-two. And the editor's letter had not ceased to cracklein his breast-pocket. 

Consequently James stooped, and--in a purely brotherly way--kissedViolet. 

This, of course, was wrong. It was no part of James's duties asassistant-master at Harrow House to wander about bestowing brotherlykisses on housemaids. On the other hand, there was no great harm done. In the circles in which Violet moved the kiss was equivalent to thehand-shake of loftier society. Everybody who came to the back doorkissed Violet. The carrier did; so did the grocer, the baker, thebutcher, the gardener, the postman, the policeman, and the fishmonger. They were men of widely differing views on most points. On religion, politics, and the prospects of the entrants for the three o'clock racetheir opinions clashed. But in one respect they were unanimous. Whenever they came to the back door of Harrow House they all kissedViolet. 

'I've had a story accepted by the _Universal Magazine_, ' saidJames, casually. 

'Have you, sir?' said Violet. 

'It's a pretty good magazine. I shall probably do a great deal for itfrom time to time. The editor seems a decent chap. '

'Does he, sir?'

'I shan't tie myself up in any way, of course, unless I get very goodterms. But I shall certainly let him see a good lot of my stuff. Jollymorning, isn't it?'

He strolled on; and Violet, having sniffed the air for a few moreminutes with her tip-tilted nose, went indoors to attend to her work. 

Five minutes later James, back in the atmosphere of chalk, was writingon the blackboard certain sentences for his class to turn into Latinprose. A somewhat topical note ran through them. As thus:

'The uncle of Balbus wished him to tend sheep in the Colonies(_Provincia_). '

'Balbus said that England was good enough for him (_placeo_). '

'Balbus sent a story (versus) to Maecenas, who replied that he hoped touse it in due course. '

His mind floated away from the classroom when a shrill voice broughthim back. 

'Sir, please, sir, what does "due course" mean?'

James reflected. 'Alter it to "immediately, "' he said. 

'Balbus is a great man, ' he wrote on the blackboard. 

Two minutes later he was in the office of an important magazine, andthere was a look of relief on the editor's face, for James hadpractically promised to do a series of twelve short stories for him. 

 * * * * *

It has been well observed that when a writer has a story rejected heshould send that story to another editor, but that when he has oneaccepted he should send another story to that editor. Acting on thisexcellent plan, James, being off duty for an hour after tea, smoked apipe in his bedroom and settled down to work on a second effort for theUniversal. 

He was getting on rather well when his flow of ideas was broken by aknock on the door. 

'Come in, ' yelled James. (Your author is notoriously irritable. )

The new-comer was Adolf. Adolf was one of that numerous band of Swissand German youths who come to this country prepared to give theirservices ridiculously cheap in exchange for the opportunity of learningthe English language. Mr Blatherwick held the view that for a privateschool a male front-door opener was superior to a female, arguing thatthe parents of prospective pupils would be impressed by the sight of aman in livery. He would have liked something a bit more imposing thanAdolf, but the latter was the showiest thing that could be got for themoney, so he made the best of it, and engaged him. After all, anastigmatic parent, seeing Adolf in a dim light, might be impressed byhim. You never could tell. 

'Well?' said James, glaring. 

'Anysing vrom dze fillage, sare?'

The bulk of Adolf's perquisites consisted of the tips he received forgoing to the general store down the road for tobacco, stamps, and soon. 'No. Get out, ' growled James, turning to his work. 

He was surprised to find that Adolf, so far from getting out, came inand shut the door. 

'Zst!' said Adolf, with a finger on his lips. 

James stared. 

'In dze garten zis morning, ' proceeded his visitor, grinning like agargoyle, 'I did zee you giss Violed. Zo!'

James's heart missed a beat. Considered purely as a situation, hispresent position was not ideal. He had to work hard, and there was notmuch money attached to the job. But it was what the situation stood forthat counted. It was his little rock of safety in the midst of asurging ocean of West Australian sheep. Once let him lose his grip onit, and there was no chance for him. He would be swept away beyond hopeof return. 

'What do you mean?' he said hoarsely. 

'In dze garten. I you vrom a window did zee. You und Violed. Zo!' AndAdolf, in the worst taste, gave a realistic imitation of the scene, himself sustaining the role of James. 

James said nothing. The whole world seemed to be filled with a vastbaa-ing, as of countless flocks. 

'Lizzun!' said Adolf. 'Berhaps I Herr Blazzervig dell. Berhaps not Ido. Zo!'

James roused himself. At all costs he must placate this worm. MrBlatherwick was an austere man. He would not overlook such a crime. 

He appealed to the other's chivalry. 

'What about Violet?' he said. 'Surely you don't want to lose the poorgirl her job? They'd be bound to sack her, too. '

Adolf's eyes gleamed. 

'Zo? Lizzun! When I do gom virst here, I myself do to giss Violed vuncevish. But she do push dze zide of my face, and my lof is durned tohate. '

James listened attentively to this tabloid tragedy, but made nocomment. 

'Anysing vrom dze fillage, sare?'

Adolf's voice was meaning. James produced a half-crown. 

'Here you are, then. Get me half a dozen stamps and keep the change. '

'Zdamps? Yes, sare. At vunce. '

James's last impression of the departing one was of a vast and greasygrin, stretching most of the way across his face. 

 * * * * *

Adolf, as blackmailer, in which role he now showed himself, differed insome respects from the conventional blackmailer of fiction. It may bethat he was doubtful as to how much James would stand, or it may bethat his soul as a general rule was above money. At any rate, in actualspecie he took very little from his victim. He seemed to wish to besent to the village oftener than before, but that was all. Half a crowna week would have covered James's financial loss. 

But he asserted himself in another way. In his most light-heartedmoments Adolf never forgot the reason which had brought him to England. He had come to the country to learn the language, and he meant to doit. The difficulty which had always handicapped him hitherto--namely, the poverty of the vocabularies of those in the servants' quarters--wasnow removed. He appointed James tutor-in-chief of the English languageto himself, and saw that he entered upon his duties at once. 

The first time that he accosted James in the passage outside theclassroom, and desired him to explain certain difficult words in aleading article of yesterday's paper, James was pleased. Adolf, hethought, regarded the painful episode as closed. He had accepted thehalf-crown as the full price of silence, and was now endeavouring to befriendly in order to make amends. 

This right-minded conduct gratified James. He felt genially disposedtoward Adolf. He read the leading article, and proceeded to give a fulland kindly explanation of the hard words. He took trouble over it. Hewent into the derivations of the words. He touched on certain rathertricky sub-meanings of the same. Adolf went away with any doubts hemight have had of James's capabilities as a teacher of Englishdefinitely scattered. He felt that he had got hold of the right man. 

There was a shade less geniality in James's manner when the same thinghappened on the following morning. But he did not refuse to help theuntutored foreigner. The lecture was less exhaustive than that of theprevious morning, but we must suppose that it satisfied Adolf, for hecame again next day, his faith in his teacher undiminished. 

James was trying to write a story. He turned on the student. 

'Get out!' he howled. 'And take that beastly paper away. Can't you seeI'm busy? Do you think I can spend all my time teaching you to read?Get out!'

'Dere some hard vord vos, ' said Adolf, patiently, 'of which I gannotdze meaning. '

James briefly cursed the hard word. 

'But, ' proceeded Adolf, 'of one vord, of dze vord "giss", I dze meaningknow. Zo!'

James looked at him. There was a pause. 

Two minutes later the English lesson was in full swing. 

 * * * * *

All that James had ever heard or read about the wonderful devotion tostudy of the modern German young man came home to him during the nexttwo weeks. Our English youth fritters away its time in idleness andpleasure-seeking. The German concentrates. Adolf concentrated like aporous plaster. Every day after breakfast, just when the success ofJames's literary career depended on absolute seclusion, he would cometrotting up for his lesson. James's writing practically ceased. 

This sort of thing cannot last. There is a limit, and Adolf reached itwhen he attempted to add night-classes to the existing curriculum. 

James, as had been said, was in the habit of taking coffee with MrBlatherwick in his study after seeing the boys into bed. It was whilehe was on his way to keep this appointment, a fortnight after his firstinterview with Adolf, that the young student waylaid him with theevening paper. 

Something should have warned Adolf that the moment was not well chosen. To begin with, James had a headache, the result of a hard day with theboys. Then that morning's English lesson had caused him to forgetentirely an idea which had promised to be the nucleus of an excellentplot. And, lastly, passing through the hall but an instant before, hehad met Violet, carrying the coffee and the evening post to the study, and she had given him two long envelopes addressed in his ownhandwriting. He was brooding over these, preparatory to opening them, at the very moment when Adolf addressed him. 

'Eggscuse, ' said Adolf, opening the paper. 

James's eyes gleamed ominously. 

'Zere are here, ' continued Adolf, unseeing, 'some beyond-gombarison hardvords vich I do nod onderstand. For eggsample--'

It was at this point that James kicked him. 

Adolf leaped like a stricken chamois. 

'Vot iss?' he cried. 

With these long envelopes in his hand James cared for nothing. Hekicked Adolf again. 

'Zo!' said the student, having bounded away. He added a few words inhis native tongue, and proceeded. 'Vait! Lizzun! I zay to you, vait!Brezendly, ven I haf dze zilver bolished und my odder dudies zonumerous berformed, I do Herr Blazzervig vil vith von liddle szdoryvich you do know go. Zo!'

He shot off to his lair. 

James turned away and went down the passage to restore his nervoustissues with coffee. 

Meanwhile, in the study, leaning against the mantelpiece in moodyreflection, Mr Blatherwick was musing sadly on the hardships of theschoolmaster's life. The proprietor of Harrow House was a long, graveman, one of the last to hold out against the anti-whisker crusade. Hehad expressionless hazel eyes, and a general air of being present inbody but absent in spirit. Mothers who visited the school to introducetheir sons put his vagueness down to activity of mind. 'That busybrain, ' they thought, 'is never at rest. Even while he is talking tous some abstruse point in the classics is occupying his mind. '

What was occupying his mind at the present moment was the thoroughlyunsatisfactory conduct of his wife's brother, Bertie Baxter. The moretensely he brooded over the salient points in the life-history of hiswife's brother, Bertie Baxter, the deeper did the iron become embeddedin his soul. Bertie was one of Nature's touchers. This is the age ofthe specialist, Bertie's speciality was borrowing money. He was a manof almost eerie versatility in this direction. Time could not withernor custom stale his infinite variety. He could borrow with a breezybluffness which made the thing practically a hold-up. And anon, whenhis victim had steeled himself against this method, he could extractanother five-pound note from his little hoard with the delicacy of oneplaying spillikins. Mr Blatherwick had been a gold-mine to him foryears. As a rule, the proprietor of Harrow House unbelted withoutcomplaint, for Bertie, as every good borrower should, had that knack ofmaking his victim feel during the actual moment of paying over, as ifhe had just made a rather good investment. But released from the spellof his brother-in-law's personal magnetism, Mr Blatherwick was apt tobrood. He was brooding now. Why, he was asking himself morosely, shouldhe be harassed by this Bertie? It was not as if Bertie was penniless. He had a little income of his own. No, it was pure lack ofconsideration. Who was Bertie that he--

At this point in his meditations Violet entered with the after-dinnercoffee and the evening post. 

Mr Blatherwick took the letters. There were two of them, and one hesaw, with a rush of indignation, was in the handwriting of hisbrother-in-law. Mr Blatherwick's blood simmered. So the fellow thoughthe could borrow by post, did he? Not even trouble to pay a visit, eh?He tore the letter open, and the first thing he saw was a cheque forfive pounds. 

Mr Blatherwick was astounded. That a letter from his brother-in-lawshould not contain a request for money was surprising; that it shouldcontain a cheque, even for five pounds, was miraculous. 

He opened the second letter. It was short, but full of the finest, noblest sentiments; to wit, that the writer, Charles J. Pickersgill, having heard the school so highly spoken of by his friend, Mr HerbertBaxter, would be glad if Mr Blatherwick could take in his three sons, aged seven, nine, and eleven respectively, at the earliest convenientdate. 

Mr Blatherwick's first feeling was one of remorse that even in thoughthe should have been harsh to the golden-hearted Bertie. His next wasone of elation. 

Violet, meanwhile, stood patiently before him with the coffee. MrBlatherwick helped himself. His eye fell on Violet. 

Violet was a friendly, warm-hearted little thing. She saw that MrBlatherwick had had good news; and, as the bearer of the letters whichhad contained it, she felt almost responsible. She smiled kindly up atMr Blatherwick. 

Mr Blatherwick's dreamy hazel eye rested pensively upon her. The majorportion of his mind was far away in the future, dealing with visions ofa school grown to colossal proportions, and patronized by millionaires. The section of it which still worked in the present was just largeenough to enable him to understand that he felt kindly, and even almostgrateful, to Violet. Unfortunately it was too small to make him see howwrong it was to kiss her in a vague, fatherly way across the coffeetray just as James Datchett walked into the room. 

James paused. Mr Blatherwick coughed. Violet, absolutely unmoved, supplied James with coffee, and bustled out of the room. 

She left behind her a somewhat massive silence. 

Mr Blatherwick coughed again. 

'It looks like rain, ' said James, carelessly. 

'Ah?' said Mr Blatherwick. 

'Very like rain, ' said James. 

'Indeed!' said Mr Blatherwick. 

A pause. 

'Pity if it rains, ' said James. 

'True, ' said Mr Blatherwick. 

Another pause. 

'Er--Datchett, ' said Mr Blatherwick. 

'Yes, ' said James. 

'I--er--feel that perhaps--'

James waited attentively. 

'Have you sugar?'

'Plenty, thanks, ' said James. 

'I shall be sorry if it rains, ' said Mr Blatherwick. 

Conversation languished. 

James laid his cup down. 

'I have some writing to do, ' he said. 'I think I'll be going upstairsnow. '

'Er--just so, ' said Mr Blatherwick, with relief. 'Just so. An excellentidea. '

 * * * * *

'Er--Datchett, ' said Mr Blatherwick next day, after breakfast. 

'Yes?' said James. 

A feeling of content was over him this morning. The sun had brokenthrough the clouds. One of the long envelopes which he had received onthe previous night had turned out, on examination, to contain a letterfrom the editor accepting the story if he would reconstruct certainpassages indicated in the margin. 

'I have--ah--unfortunately been compelled to dismiss Adolf, ' said MrBlatherwick. 

'Yes?' said James. He had missed Adolf's shining morning face. 

'Yes. After you had left me last night he came to my study with amalicious--er--fabrication respecting yourself which I neednot--ah--particularize. '

James looked pained. Awful thing it is, this nourishing vipers in one'sbosom. 

'Why, I've been giving Adolf English lessons nearly every day lately. No sense of gratitude, these foreigners, ' he said, sadly. 

'So I was compelled, ' proceeded Mr Blatherwick, 'to--in fact, just so. '

James nodded sympathetically. 

'Do you know anything about West Australia?' he asked, changing thesubject. 'It's a fine country, I believe. I had thought of going thereat one time. '

'Indeed?' said Mr Blatherwick. 

'But I've given up the idea now, ' said James. 

THREE FROM DUNSTERVILLE

Once upon a time there was erected in Longacre Square, New York, alarge white statue, labelled 'Our City', the figure of a woman inGrecian robes holding aloft a shield. Critical citizens objected to itfor various reasons, but its real fault was that its symbolism wasfaulty. The sculptor should have represented New York as a conjuror inevening dress, smiling blandly as he changed a rabbit into a bowl ofgoldfish. For that, above all else, is New York's speciality. Itchanges. 

Between 1 May, when she stepped off the train, and 16 May, when shereceived Eddy Moore's letter containing the information that he hadfound her a post as stenographer in the office of Joe Rendal, it hadchanged Mary Hill quite remarkably. 

Mary was from Dunsterville, which is in Canada. Emigrations fromDunsterville were rare. It is a somnolent town; and, as a rule, youngmen born there follow in their father's footsteps, working on thepaternal farm or helping in the paternal store. Occasionally a daringspirit will break away, but seldom farther than Montreal. Two only ofthe younger generation, Joe Rendal and Eddy Moore, had set out to maketheir fortunes in New York; and both, despite the gloomy prophecies ofthe village sages, had prospered. 

Mary, third and last emigrant, did not aspire to such heights. All shedemanded from New York for the present was that it should pay her aliving wage, and to that end, having studied by stealth typewriting andshorthand, she had taken the plunge, thrilling with excitement and theromance of things; and New York had looked at her, raised its eyebrows, and looked away again. If every city has a voice, New York's at thatmoment had said 'Huh!' This had damped Mary. She saw that there weregoing to be obstacles. For one thing, she had depended so greatly onEddy Moore, and he had failed her. Three years before, at a churchfestival, he had stated specifically that he would die for her. Perhapshe was still willing to do that--she had not inquired--but, at anyrate, he did not see his way to employing her as a secretary. He hadbeen very nice about it. He had smiled kindly, taken her address, andsaid he would do what he could, and had then hurried off to meet a manat lunch. But he had not given her a position. And as the days went byand she found no employment, and her little stock of money dwindled, and no word came from Eddy, New York got to work and changed heroutlook on things wonderfully. What had seemed romantic became merelyfrightening. What had been exciting gave her a feeling of dazedhelplessness. 

But it was not until Eddy's letter came that she realized thecompleteness of the change. On 1 May she would have thanked Eddypolitely for his trouble, adding, however, that she would really prefernot to meet poor Joe again. On 16 May she welcomed him as somethingHeaven-sent. The fact that she was to be employed outweighed athousand-fold the fact that her employer was to be Joe. 

It was not that she disliked Joe. She was sorry for him. 

She remembered Joe, a silent, shambling youth, all hands, feet, andshyness, who had spent most of his spare time twisting his fingers andstaring adoringly at her from afar. The opinion of those in the socialwhirl of Dunsterville had been that it was his hopeless passion for herthat had made him fly to New York. It would be embarrassing meeting himagain. It would require tact to discourage his silent worshippingwithout wounding him more deeply. She hated hurting people. 

But, even at the cost of that, she must accept the post. To refusemeant ignominious retreat to Dunsterville, and from that her priderevolted. She must revisit Dunsterville in triumph or not at all. 

Joe Rendal's office was in the heart of the financial district, situated about half-way up a building that, to Mary, reared amidst theless impressive architecture of her home-town, seemed to reach nearlyto the sky. A proud-looking office-boy, apparently baffled andmortified by the information that she had an appointment, took hername, and she sat down, filled with a fine mixed assortment ofemotions, to wait. 

For the first time since her arrival in New York she felt almost easyin her mind. New York, with its shoving, jostling, hurrying crowds; agiant fowl-run, full of human fowls scurrying to and fro; clucking, ever on the look-out for some desired morsel, and ever ready to swoopdown and snatch it from its temporary possessor, had numbed her. Butnow she felt a slackening of the strain. New York might be too much forher, but she could cope with Joe. 

The haughty boy returned. Mr Rendal was disengaged. She rose and wentinto an inner room, where a big man was seated at a desk. 

It was Joe. There was no doubt about that. But it was not the Joe sheremembered, he of the twisted ringers and silent stare. In his case, New York had conjured effectively. He was better-looking, better-dressed, improved in every respect. In the old days one had noticed the handsand feet and deduced the presence of Joe somewhere in the background. Now they were merely adjuncts. It was with a rush of indignation thatMary found herself bucolic and awkward. Awkward with Joe! It was anoutrage. 

His manner heightened the feeling. If he had given the least sign ofembarrassment she might have softened towards him. He showed noembarrassment whatever. He was very much at his ease. He was cheerful. He was even flippant. 

'Welcome to our beautiful little city, ' he said. 

Mary was filled with a helpless anger. What right had he to ignore thepast in this way, to behave as if her presence had never reduced him topulp?

'Won't you sit down?' he went on. 'It's splendid, seeing you again, Mary. You're looking very well. How long have you been in New York?Eddy tells me you want to be taken on as a secretary. As it happens, there is a vacancy for just that in this office. A big, wide vacancy, left by a lady who departed yester-day in a shower of burning words andhairpins. She said she would never return, and between ourselves, thatwas the right guess. Would you mind letting me see what you can do?Will you take this letter down?'

Certainly there was something compelling about this new Joe. Mary tookthe pencil and pad which he offered--and she took them meekly. Untilthis moment she had always been astonished by the reports whichfiltered through to Dunsterville of his success in the big city. Ofcourse, nobody had ever doubted his perseverance; but it takessomething more than perseverance to fight New York fairly and squarely, and win. And Joe had that something. He had force. He was sure ofhimself. 

'Read it please, ' he said, when he had finished dictating. 'Yes, that'sall right. You'll do. '

For a moment Mary was on the point of refusing. A mad desire grippedher to assert herself, to make plain her resentment at this revolt ofthe serf. Then she thought of those scuttling, clucking crowds, and herheart failed her. 

'Thank you, ' she said, in a small voice. 

As she spoke the door opened. 

'Well, well, well!' said Joe. 'Here we all are! Come in, Eddy. Maryhas just been showing me what she can do. '

If time had done much for Joe, it had done more for his fellow-emigrant, Eddy Moore. He had always been good-looking and--according to localstandards--presentable. Tall, slim, with dark eyes that made you catchyour breath when they looked into yours, and a ready flow of speech, he had been Dunsterville's prize exhibit. And here he was with all hisexcellence heightened and accentuated by the polish of the city. Hehad filled out. His clothes were wonderful. And his voice, when hespoke, had just that same musical quality. 

'So you and Joe have fixed it up? Capital! Shall we all go and lunchsomewhere?'

'Got an appointment, ' said Joe. 'I'm late already. Be here at twosharp, Mary. ' He took up his hat and went out. 

The effect of Eddy's suavity had been to make Mary forget the positionin which she now stood to Joe. Eddy had created for the moment quite anold-time atmosphere of good fellowship. She hated Joe for shatteringthis and reminding her that she was his employee. Her quick flush wasnot lost on Eddy. 

'Dear old Joe is a little abrupt sometimes, ' he said. 'But--'

'He's a pig!' said Mary, defiantly. 

'But you mustn't mind it. New York makes men like that. '

'It hasn't made you--not to me, at any rate. Oh, Eddy, ' she cried, impulsively, 'I'm frightened. I wish I had never come here. You're theonly thing in this whole city that isn't hateful. '

'Poor little girl!' he said. 'Never mind. Let me take you and give yousome lunch. Come along. '

Eddy was soothing. There was no doubt of that. He stayed her withminced chicken and comforted her with soft shelled crab. His voice wasa lullaby, lulling her Joe-harassed nerves to rest. 

They discussed the dear old days. A carper might have said that Eddywas the least bit vague on the subject of the dear old days. A carpermight have pointed out that the discussion of the dear old days, whenyou came to analyse it, was practically a monologue on Mary's part, punctuated with musical 'Yes, yes's' from her companion. But who careswhat carpers think? Mary herself had no fault to find. In the roar ofNew York Dunsterville had suddenly become very dear to her, and shefound in Eddy a sympathetic soul to whom she could open her heart. 

'Do you remember the old school, Eddy, and how you and I used to walkthere together, you carrying my dinner-basket and helping me overthe fences?'

'Yes, yes. '

'And we'd gather hickory-nuts and persimmons?'

'Persimmons, yes, ' murmured Eddy. 

'Do you remember the prizes the teacher gave the one who got best marksin the spelling class? And the treats at Christmas, when we all gottwelve sticks of striped peppermint candy? And drawing the water out ofthe well in that old wooden bucket in the winter, and pouring it out inthe playground and skating on it when it froze? And wasn't it cold inthe winter, too! Do you remember the stove in the schoolroom? How weused to crowd round it!'

'The stove, yes, ' said Eddy, dreamily. 'Ah, yes, the stove. Yes, yes. Those were the dear old days!' Mary leaned her elbows on the table andher chin on her hands, and looked across at him with sparkling eyes. 

'Oh, Eddy, ' she said, 'you don't know how nice it is to meet someonewho remembers all about those old times! I felt a hundred million milesfrom Dunsterville before I saw you, and I was homesick. But now it'sall different. '

'Poor little Mary!'

'Do you remember--?'

He glanced at his watch with some haste. 

'It's two o'clock, ' he said. 'I think we should be going. '

Mary's face fell. 

'Back to that pig, Joe! I hate him. And I'll show him that I do!'

Eddy looked almost alarmed. 

'I--I shouldn't do that, ' he said. 'I don't think I should do that. It's only his manner at first. You'll get to like him better. He's anawfully good fellow really, Joe. And if you--er--quarrelled with himyou might find it hard--what I mean is, it's not so easy to pick upjobs in New York, I shouldn't like to think of you, Mary, ' he added, tenderly, 'hunting for a job--tired--perhaps hungry--'

Mary's eyes filled with tears. 

'How good you are, Eddy!' she said. 'And I'm horrid, grumbling when Iought to be thanking you for getting me the place. I'll be nice tohim--if I can--as nice as I can. '

'That's right. Do try. And we shall be seeing quite a lot of eachother. We must often lunch together. '

Mary re-entered the office not without some trepidation. Two hours agoit would have seemed absurd to be frightened of Joe, but Eddy hadbrought it home to her again how completely she was dependent on herformer serf's good-will. And he had told her to be back at two sharp, and it was now nearly a quarter past. 

The outer office was empty. She went on into the inner room. 

She had speculated as she went on Joe's probable attitude. She hadpictured him as annoyed, even rude. What she was not prepared for wasto find him on all fours, grunting and rooting about in a pile ofpapers. She stopped short. 

'What _are_ you doing?' she gasped. 

'I can't think what you meant, ' he said. 'There must be some mistake. I'm not even a passable pig. I couldn't deceive a novice. '

He rose and dusted his knees. 

'Yet you seemed absolutely certain in the restaurant just now. Did younotice that you were sitting near to a sort of jungle of potted palms?I was lunching immediately on the other side of the forest. '

Mary drew herself up and fixed him with an eye that shone with rage andscorn. 

'Eavesdropper!' she cried. 

'Not guilty, ' he said, cheerfully. 'I hadn't a notion that you werethere till you shouted, "That pig Joe, I hate him!" and almost directlyafterwards I left. '

'I did not shout. '

'My dear girl, you cracked a wine-glass at my table. The man I waslunching with jumped clean out of his seat and swallowed his cigar. Youought to be more careful!'

Mary bit her lip. 

'And now, I suppose, you are going to dismiss me?'

'Dismiss you? Not much. The thing has simply confirmed my high opinionof your qualifications. The ideal secretary must have two qualities:she must be able to sec. And she must think her employer a pig. Youfill the bill. Would you mind taking down this letter?'

 * * * * *

Life was very swift and stimulating for Mary during the early days ofher professional career. The inner workings of a busy broker's officeare always interesting to the stranger. She had never understood howbusiness men made their money, and she did not understand now; but itdid not take her long to see that if they were all like Joe Rendal theyearned it. There were days of comparative calm. There were days thatwere busy. And there were days that packed into the space of a fewhours the concentrated essence of a music-hall knock-about sketch, anearthquake, a football scrummage, and the rush-hour on the Tube; whenthe office was full of shouting men, when strange figures dived in andout and banged doors like characters in an old farce, and Harold, theproud office-boy, lost his air of being on the point of lunching with aduke at the club and perspired like one of the proletariat. On theseoccasions you could not help admiring Joe, even if you hated him. Whena man is doing his own job well, it is impossible not to admire him. And Joe did his job well, superlatively well. He was everywhere. Whereothers trotted, he sprang. Where others raised their voices, he yelled. Where others were in two places at once, he was in three and movingtowards a fourth. 

These upheavals had the effect on Mary of making her feel curiouslylinked to the firm. On ordinary days work was work, but on theseoccasions of storm and stress it was a fight, and she looked on everymember of the little band grouped under the banner of J. Rendal as abrother-in-arms. For Joe, while the battle raged, she would have doneanything. Her resentment at being under his orders vanished completely. He was her captain, and she a mere unit in the firing line. It was aprivilege to do what she was told. And if the order came sharp andabrupt, that only meant that the fighting was fierce and that she wasall the more fortunate in being in a position to be of service. 

The reaction would come with the end of the fight. Her privatehostilities began when the firm's ceased. She became an ordinaryindividual again, and so did Joe. And to Joe, as an ordinaryindividual, she objected. There was an indefinable something in hismanner which jarred on her. She came to the conclusion that it wasprincipally his insufferable good-humour. If only he would lose histemper with her now and then, she felt he would be bearable. He lost itwith others. Why not with her? Because, she told herself bitterly, hewanted to show her that she mattered so little to him that it was notworth while quarrelling with her; because he wanted to put her in thewrong, to be superior. She had a perfect right to hate a man whotreated her in that way. 

She compared him, to his disadvantage, with Eddy. Eddy, during thesedays, continued to be more and more of a comfort. It rather surprisedher that he found so much time to devote to her. When she had firstcalled on him, on her arrival in the city, he had given her theimpression--more, she admitted, by his manner than his words--that shewas not wanted. He had shown no disposition to seek her company. Butnow he seemed always to be on hand. To take her out to lunch appearedto be his chief hobby. 

One afternoon Joe commented on it, with that air of suppressing anindulgent smile which Mary found so trying. 

'I saw you and Eddy at Stephano's just now, ' he said, between sentencesof a letter which he was dictating. 'You're seeing a great deal ofEddy, aren't you?'

'Yes, ' said Mary. 'He's very kind. He knows I'm lonely. ' She paused. '_He_ hasn't forgotten the old days, ' she said, defiantly. 

Joe nodded. 

'Good old Eddy!' he said. 

There was nothing in the words to make Mary fire up, but much in theway they were spoken, and she fired up accordingly. 

'What do you mean?' she cried. 

'Mean?' queried Joe. 

'You're hinting at something. If you have anything to say against Eddy, why don't you say it straight out?'

'It's a good working rule in life never to say anything straight out. Speaking in parables, I will observe that, if America was a monarchyinstead of a republic and people here had titles, Eddy would be acertainty for first Earl of Pearl Street. '

Dignity fought with curiosity in Mary for a moment. The latter won. 

'I don't know what you mean! Why Pearl Street?'

'Go and have a look at it. '

Dignity recovered its ground. Mary tossed her head. 

'We are wasting a great deal of time, ' she said, coldly. 'Shall I takedown the rest of this letter?'

'Great idea!' said Joe, indulgently. 'Do. '

 * * * * *

A policeman, brooding on life in the neighbourhood of City Hall Parkand Broadway that evening, awoke with a start from his meditations tofind himself being addressed by a young lady. The young lady had largegrey eyes and a slim figure. She appealed to the aesthetic taste of thepoliceman. 

'Hold to me, lady, ' he said, with gallant alacrity. 'I'll see yezacrost. '

'Thank you, I don't want to cross, ' she said. 'Officer!'

The policeman rather liked being called 'Officer'. 

'Ma'am?' he beamed. 

'Officer, do you know a street called Pearl Street?'

'I do that, ma'am. '

She hesitated. 'What sort of street is it?'

The policeman searched in his mind for a neat definition. 

'Darned crooked, miss, ' he said. 

He then proceeded to point the way, but the lady had gone. 

It was a bomb in a blue dress that Joe found waiting for him at theoffice next morning. He surveyed it in silence, then raised his handsover his head, 'Don't shoot, ' he said. 'What's the matter?'

'What right had you to say that about Eddy? You know what I mean--aboutPearl Street. '

Joe laughed. 

'Did you take a look at Pearl Street?'

Mary's anger blazed out. 

'I didn't think you could be so mean and cowardly, ' she cried. 'Youought to be ashamed to talk about people behind their backs, when--when--besides, if he's what you say, how did it happen thatyou engaged me on his recommendation?'

He looked at her for an instant without replying. 'I'd have engagedyou, ' he said, 'on the recommendation of a syndicate of forgers andthree-card-trick men. '

He stood fingering a pile of papers on the desk. 

'Eddy isn't the only person who remembers the old days, Mary, ' he saidslowly. 

She looked at him, surprised. There was a note in his voice that shehad not heard before. She was conscious of a curious embarrassment anda subtler feeling which she could not analyse. But before she couldspeak, Harold, the office-boy, entered the room with a card, and theconversation was swept away on a tidal wave of work. 

 * * * * *

Joe made no attempt to resume it. That morning happened to be one ofthe earthquake, knock-about-sketch mornings, and conversation, whatthere was of it, consisted of brief, strenuous remarks of a purelybusiness nature. 

But at intervals during the day Mary found herself returning to hiswords. Their effect on her mind puzzled her. It seemed to her thatsomehow they caused things to alter their perspective. In some way Joehad become more human. She still refused to believe that Eddy was notall that was chivalrous and noble, but her anger against Joe for hisinsinuations had given way to a feeling of regret that he should havemade them. She ceased to look on him as something wantonly malevolent, a Thersites recklessly slandering his betters. She felt that there musthave been a misunderstanding somewhere and was sorry for it. 

Thinking it over, she made up her mind that it was for her to removethis misunderstanding. The days which followed strengthened thedecision; for the improvement in Joe was steadily maintained. Theindefinable something in his manner which had so irritated her hadvanished. It had been, when it had existed, so nebulous that words werenot needed to eliminate it. Indeed, even now she could not say exactlyin what it had consisted. She only knew that the atmosphere hadchanged. Without a word spoken on either side it seemed that peace hadbeen established between them, and it amazed her what a difference itmade. She was soothed and happy, and kindly disposed to all men, andevery day felt more strongly the necessity of convincing Joe and Eddyof each other's merits, or, rather, of convincing Joe, for Eddy, sheadmitted, always spoke most generously of the other. 

For a week Eddy did not appear at the office. On the eighth day, however, he rang her up on the telephone, and invited her to lunch. 

Later in the morning Joe happened to ask her out to lunch. 

'I'm so sorry, ' said Mary; 'I've just promised Eddy. He wants me tomeet him at Stephano's, but--' She hesitated. 'Why shouldn't we alllunch together?' she went on, impulsively. 

She hurried on. This was her opening, but she felt nervous. The subjectof Eddy had not come up between them since that memorable conversationa week before, and she was uncertain of her ground. 

'I wish you liked Eddy, Joe, ' she said. 'He's very fond of you, and itseems such a shame that--I mean--we're all from the same old town, and--oh, I know I put it badly, but--'

'I think you put it very well, ' said Joe; 'and if I could like a man toorder I'd do it to oblige you. But--well, I'm not going to keep harpingon it. Perhaps you'll see through Eddy yourself one of these days. '

A sense of the hopelessness of her task oppressed Mary. She put on herhat without replying, and turned to go. 

At the door some impulse caused her to glance back, and as she did soshe met his eye, and stood staring. He was looking at her as she had sooften seen him look three years before in Dunsterville--humbly, appealingly, hungrily. 

He took a step forward. A sort of panic seized her. Her fingers were onthe door-handle. She turned it, and the next moment was outside. 

She walked slowly down the street. She felt shaken. She had believed sothoroughly that his love for her had vanished with his shyness andawkwardness in the struggle for success in New York. His words, hismanner--everything had pointed to that. And now--it was as if thosethree years had not been. Nothing had altered, unless it were--herself. 

Had she altered? Her mind was in a whirl. This thing had affected her likesome physical shock. The crowds and noises of the street bewildered her. If only she could get away from them and think quietly--

And then she heard her name spoken, and looked round, to see Eddy. 

'Glad you could come, ' he said. 'I've something I want to talk to youabout. It'll be quiet at Stephano's. '

She noticed, almost unconsciously, that he seemed nervous. He wasunwontedly silent. She was glad of it. It helped her to think. 

He gave the waiter an order, and became silent again, drumming withhis fingers on the cloth. He hardly spoke till the meal was over andthe coffee was on the table. Then he leant forward. 

'Mary, ' he said, 'we've always been pretty good friends, haven't we?'

His dark eyes were looking into hers. There was an expression in themthat was strange to her. He smiled, but it seemed to Mary that therewas effort behind the smile. 

'Of course we have, Eddy, ' she said. He touched her hand. 

'Dear little Mary!' he said, softly. 

He paused for a moment. 

'Mary, ' he went on, 'you would like to do me a good turn? You would, wouldn't you, Mary?'

'Why, Eddy, of course!'

He touched her hand again. This time, somehow, the action grated onher. Before, it had seemed impulsive, a mere spontaneous evidenceof friendship. Now there was a suggestion of artificiality, --ofcalculation. She drew back a little in her chair. Deep down in hersome watchful instinct had sounded an alarm. She was on guard. 

He drew in a quick breath. 

'It's nothing much. Nothing at all. It's only this. I--I--Joe will bewriting a letter to a man called Weston on Thursday--Thursdayremember. There won't be anything in it--nothing of importance--nothingprivate--but--I--I want you to mail me a copy of it, Mary. A--a copyof--'

She was looking at him open-eyed. Her face was white and shocked. 

'For goodness' sake, ' he said, irritably, 'don't look like that. I'mnot asking you to commit murder. What's the matter with you? Look here, Mary; you'll admit you owe me something, I suppose? I'm the only man inNew York that's ever done anything for you. Didn't I get you your job?Well, then, it's not as if I were asking you to do anything dangerous, or difficult, or--'

She tried to speak, but could not. He went on rapidly. He did not lookat her. His eyes wandered past her, shifting restlessly. 

'Look here, ' he said; 'I'll be square with you. You're in New York tomake money. Well, you aren't going to make it hammering a typewriter. I'm giving you your chance. I'm going to be square with you. Let me seethat letter, and--'

His voice died away abruptly. The expression on his face changed. Hesmiled, and this time the effort was obvious. 

'Halloa, Joe!' he said. 

Mary turned. Joe was standing at her side. He looked very large andwholesome and restful. 

'I don't want to intrude, ' he said; 'but I wanted to see you, Eddy, andI thought I should catch you here. I wrote a letter to Jack Westonyesterday--after I got home from the office--and one to you; andsomehow I managed to post them in the wrong envelopes. It doesn'tmatter much, because they both said the same thing. '

'The same thing?'

'Yes; I told you I should be writing to you again on Thursday, to tipyou something good that I was expecting from old Longwood. Jack Westonhas just rung me up on the 'phone to say that he got a letter thatdoesn't belong to him. I explained to him and thought I'd drop in hereand explain to you. Why, what's your hurry, Eddy?'

Eddy had risen from his seat. 

'I'm due back at the office, ' he said, hoarsely. 

'Busy man! I'm having a slack day. Well, good-bye. I'll see Mary back. '

Joe seated himself in the vacant chair. 

'You're looking tired, ' he said. 'Did Eddy talk too much?'

'Yes, he did ... Joe, you were right. '

'Ah--Mary!' Joe chuckled. 'I'll tell you something I didn't tell Eddy. It wasn't entirely through carelessness that I posted those letters inthe wrong envelopes. In fact, to be absolutely frank, it wasn't throughcarelessness at all. There's an old gentleman in Pittsburgh by the nameof John Longwood, who occasionally is good enough to inform me of someof his intended doings on the market a day or so before the rest of theworld knows them, and Eddy has always shown a strong desire to getearly information too. Do you remember my telling you that yourpredecessor at the office left a little abruptly? There was a reason. Iengaged her as a confidential secretary, and she overdid it. Sheconfided in Eddy. From the look on your face as I came in I gatheredthat he had just been proposing that you should perform a similar actof Christian charity. Had he?'

Mary clenched her hands. 

'It's this awful New York!' she cried. 'Eddy was never like that inDunsterville. '

'Dunsterville does not offer quite the same scope, ' said Joe. 

'New York changes everything, ' Mary returned. 'It has changed Eddy--ithas changed you. '

He bent towards her and lowered his voice. 

'Not altogether, ' he said. 'I'm just the same in one way. I've tried topretend I had altered, but it's no use. I give it up. I'm still justthe same poor fool who used to hang round staring at you inDunsterville. '

A waiter was approaching the table with the air, which waiterscultivate, of just happening by chance to be going in that direction. Joe leaned farther forward, speaking quickly. 

'And for whom, ' he said, 'you didn't care a single, solitary snap ofyour fingers, Mary. '

She looked up at him. The waiter hovered, poising for his swoop. Suddenly she smiled. 

'New York has changed me too, Joe, ' she said. 

'Mary!' he cried. 

'Ze pill, sare, ' observed the waiter. 

Joe turned. 

'Ze what!' he exclaimed. 'Well, I'm hanged! Eddy's gone off and left meto pay for his lunch! That man's a wonder! When it comes to brain-work, he's in a class by himself. ' He paused. 'But I have the luck, ' he said. 

THE TUPPENNY MILLIONAIRE

In the crowd that strolled on the Promenade des Etrangers, enjoying themorning sunshine, there were some who had come to Roville for theirhealth, others who wished to avoid the rigours of the English spring, and many more who liked the place because it was cheap and close toMonte Carlo. 

None of these motives had brought George Albert Balmer. He was therebecause, three weeks before, Harold Flower had called him a vegetable. 

What is it that makes men do perilous deeds? Why does a man go overNiagara Falls in a barrel? Not for his health. Half an hour with askipping-rope would be equally beneficial to his liver. No; in ninecases out of ten he does it to prove to his friends and relations thathe is not the mild, steady-going person they have always thought him. Observe the music-hall acrobat as he prepares to swing from the roof byhis eyelids. His gaze sweeps the house. 'It isn't true, ' it seems tosay. 'I'm not a jelly-fish. '

It was so with George Balmer. 

In London at the present moment there exist some thousands ofrespectable, neatly-dressed, mechanical, unenterprising young men, employed at modest salaries by various banks, corporations, stores, shops, and business firms. They are put to work when young, and theystay put. They are mussels. Each has his special place on the rock, andremains glued to it all his life. 

To these thousands George Albert Balmer belonged. He differed in nodetail from the rest of the great army. He was as respectable, asneatly-dressed, as mechanical, and as unenterprising. His life wasbounded, east, west, north, and south, by the Planet Insurance Company, which employed him; and that there were other ways in which a man mightfulfil himself than by giving daily imitations behind a counter of amechanical figure walking in its sleep had never seriously crossed hismind. 

On George, at the age of twenty-four, there descended, out of a dearsky, a legacy of a thousand pounds. 

Physically, he remained unchanged beneath the shock. No trace of hauteurcrept into his bearing. When the head of his department, calling hisattention to a technical flaw in his work of the previous afternoon, addressed him as 'Here, you--young what's-your-confounded-name!' hedid not point out that this was no way to speak to a gentleman ofproperty. You would have said that the sudden smile of Fortune hadfailed to unsettle him. 

But all the while his mind, knocked head over heels, was lying in alimp heap, wondering what had struck it. 

To him, in his dazed state, came Harold Flower. Harold, messenger to thePlanet Insurance Company and one of the most assiduous money-borrowersin London, had listened to the office gossip about the legacy as if tothe strains of some grand, sweet anthem. He was a bibulous individualof uncertain age, who, in the intervals of creeping about his duties, kept an eye open for possible additions to his staff of creditors. Mostof the clerks at the Planet had been laid under contribution by him intheir time, for Harold had a way with him that was good for threepenceany pay-day, and it seemed to him that things had come to a sorry passif he could not extract something special from Plutocrat Balmer in hishour of rejoicing. 

Throughout the day he shadowed George, and, shortly before closing-time, backed him into a corner, tapped him on the chest, and requested thetemporary loan of a sovereign. 

In the same breath he told him that he was a gentleman, that amessenger's life was practically that of a blanky slave, and that ayoung man of spirit who wished to add to his already large fortunewould have a bit on Giant Gooseberry for the City and Suburban. He thenpaused for a reply. 

Now, all through the day George had been assailed by a steady stream ofdetermined ear-biters. Again and again he had been staked out as anore-producing claim by men whom it would have been impolitic to rebuff. He was tired of lending, and in a mood to resent unauthorized demands. Harold Flower's struck him as particularly unauthorized. He said so. 

It took some little time to convince Mr Flower that he really meant it, but, realizing at last the grim truth, he drew a long breath and spoke. 

'Ho!' he said. 'Afraid you can't spare it, can't you? A gentleman comesand asks you with tack and civility for a temp'y loan of about 'arfnothing, and all you do is to curse and swear at him. Do you know whatI call you--you and your thousand quid? A tuppenny millionaire, that'swhat I call you. Keep your blooming money. That's all I ask. _Keep_ it. Much good you'll get out of it. I know your sort. You'll never have any pleasure of it. Not you. You're the careful sort. You'll put it into Consols, _you_ will, and draw your three-ha'pencea year. Money wasn't meant for your kind. It don't _mean_ nothingto you. You ain't got the go in you to appreciate it. A vegetable--that'sall you are. A blanky little vegetable. A blanky little gor-blimeyvegetable. I seen turnips with more spirit in 'em that what you've got. And Brussels sprouts. Yes, _and_ parsnips. '

It is difficult to walk away with dignity when a man with a hoarsevoice and a watery eye is comparing you to your disadvantage with aparsnip, and George did not come anywhere near achieving the feat. Buthe extricated himself somehow, and went home brooding. 

Mr Flower's remarks rankled particularly because it so happened thatConsols were the identical investment on which he had decided. HisUncle Robert, with whom he lived as a paying guest, had stronglyadvocated them. Also they had suggested themselves to himindependently. 

But Harold Flower's words gave him pause. They made him think. For twoweeks and some days he thought, flushing uncomfortably whenever he metthat watery but contemptuous eye. And then came the day of his annualvacation, and with it inspiration. He sought out the messenger, whomtill now he had carefully avoided. 

'Er--Flower, ' he said. 

'Me lord?'

'I am taking my holiday tomorrow. Will you forward my letters? I willwire you the address. I have not settled on my hotel yet. I am poppingover'--he paused--'I am popping over, ' he resumed, carelessly, 'toMonte. '

'To who?' inquired Mr Flower. 

'To Monte. Monte Carlo, you know. '

Mr Flower blinked twice rapidly, then pulled himself together. 

'Yus, I _don't_ think!' he said. 

And that settled it. 

The George who strolled that pleasant morning on the Promenade desStrangers differed both externally and internally from the George whohad fallen out with Harold Flower in the offices of the PlanetInsurance Company. For a day after his arrival he had clung to the garbof middle-class England. On the second he had discovered that this wasunpleasantly warm and, worse, conspicuous. At the Casino Municipalethat evening he had observed a man wearing an arrangement in brightyellow velvet without attracting attention. The sight had impressedhim. Next morning he had emerged from his hotel in a flannel suit solight that it had been unanimously condemned as impossible by his UncleRobert, his Aunt Louisa, his Cousins Percy, Eva, and Geraldine, and hisAunt Louisa's mother, and at a shop in the Rue Lasalle had spent twentyfrancs on a Homburg hat. And Roville had taken it without blinking. 

Internally his alteration had been even more considerable. Roville wasnot Monte Carlo (in which gay spot he had remained only long enough tosend a picture post-card to Harold Flower before retiring down thecoast to find something cheaper), but it had been a revelation to him. For the first time in his life he was seeing colour, and it intoxicatedhim. The silky blueness of the sea was startling. The pure white of thegreat hotels along the promenade and the Casino Municipale fascinatedhim. He was dazzled. At the Casino the pillars were crimson and cream, the tables sky-blue and pink. Seated on a green-and-white striped chairhe watched a _revue_, of which from start to finish he understoodbut one word--'out', to wit--absorbed in the doings of a red-moustachedgentleman in blue who wrangled in rapid French with a black-moustachedgentleman in yellow, while a snow-white _commere_ and a _compere_in a mauve flannel suit looked on at the brawl. 

It was during that evening that there flitted across his mind the firstsuspicion he had ever had that his Uncle Robert's mental outlook was alittle limited. 

And now, as he paced the promenade, watching the stir and bustle of thecrowd, he definitely condemned his absent relative as a narrow-mindedchump. 

If the brown boots which he had polished so assiduously in his bedroomthat morning with the inside of a banana-skin, and which now gleamedfor the first time on his feet, had a fault, it was that they were ashade tight. To promenade with the gay crowd, therefore, for any lengthof time was injudicious; and George, warned by a red-hot shootingsensation that the moment had arrived for rest, sank down gracefully ona seat, to rise at once on discovering that between him and it wassomething oblong with sharp corners. 

It was a book--a fat new novel. George drew it out and inspected it. There was a name inside--Julia Waveney. 

George, from boyhood up, had been raised in that school of thoughtwhose watchword is 'Findings are keepings', and, having ascertainedthat there was no address attached to the name, he was on the point, Iregret to say, of pouching the volume, which already he looked upon ashis own, when a figure detached itself from the crowd, and he foundhimself gazing into a pair of grey and, to his startled conscience, accusing eyes. 

'Oh, thank you! I was afraid it was lost. '

She was breathing quickly, and there was a slight flush on her face. She took the book from George's unresisting hand and rewarded him witha smile. 

'I missed it, and I couldn't think where I could have left it. Then Iremembered that I had been sitting here. Thank you so much. '

She smiled again, turned, and walked away, leaving George to reckon upall the social solecisms he had contrived to commit in the space of asingle moment. He had remained seated, he reminded himself, throughoutthe interview; one. He had not raised his hat, that fascinating Homburgsimply made to be raised with a debonair swish under such conditions;two. Call it three, because he ought to have raised it twice. He hadgaped like a fool; four. And, five, he had not uttered a single word ofacknowledgement in reply to her thanks. 

Five vast bloomers in under a minute I What could she have thought ofhim? The sun ceased to shine. What sort of an utter outsider could shehave considered him? An east wind sprang up. What kind of a Cockneybounder and cad could she have taken him for? The sea turned to an oilygrey; and George, rising, strode back in the direction of his hotel ina mood that made him forget that he had brown boots on at all. 

His mind was active. Several times since he had come to Roville he hadbeen conscious of a sensation which he could not understand, a vague, yearning sensation, a feeling that, splendid as everything was in thisparadise of colour, there was nevertheless something lacking. Now heunderstood. You had to be in love to get the full flavour of thesevivid whites and blues. He was getting it now. His mood of dejectionhad passed swiftly, to be succeeded by an exhilaration such as he hadonly felt once in his life before, about half-way through a dinnergiven to the Planet staff on a princely scale by a retiring generalmanager. 

He was exalted. Nothing seemed impossible to him. He would meet thegirl again on the promenade, he told himself, dashingly renew theacquaintance, show her that he was not the gaping idiot he hadappeared. His imagination donned its seven-league boots. He saw himselfproposing--eloquently--accepted, married, living happily ever after. 

It occurred to him that an excellent first move would be to find outwhere she was staying. He bought a paper and turned to the list ofvisitors. Miss Waveney. Where was it. He ran his eye down the column. 

And then, with a crash, down came his air-castles in hideous ruin. 

'Hotel Cercle de la Mediterranee. Lord Frederick Weston. The Countessof Southborne and the Hon. Adelaide Liss. Lady Julia Waveney--'

He dropped the paper and hobbled on to his hotel. His boots had begunto hurt him again, for he no longer walked on air. 

 * * * * *

At Roville there are several institutions provided by the municipalityfor the purpose of enabling visitors temporarily to kill thought. Chiefamong these is the Casino Municipale, where, for a price, the sorrowfulmay obtain oblivion by means of the ingenious game of _boule_. Disappointed lovers at Roville take to _boule_ as in other placesthey might take to drink. It is a fascinating game. A wooden-faced highpriest flicks a red india-rubber ball into a polished oaken bowl, atthe bottom of which are holes, each bearing a number up to nine. Theball swings round and round like a planet, slows down, stumbles amongthe holes, rests for a moment in the one which you have backed, thenhops into the next one, and you lose. If ever there was a pastimecalculated to place young Adam Cupid in the background, this is it. 

To the _boule_ tables that night fled George with his hopelesspassion. From the instant when he read the fatal words in the paper hehad recognized its hopelessness. All other obstacles he had beenprepared to overcome, but a title--no. He had no illusions as to hisplace in the social scale. The Lady Julias of this world did not marryinsurance clerks, even if their late mother's cousin had left them athousand pounds. That day-dream was definitely ended. It was a thing ofthe past--all over except the heartache. 

By way of a preliminary sip of the waters of Lethe, before beginningthe full draught, he placed a franc on number seven and lost. Anotherfranc on six suffered the same fate. He threw a five-franc cart-wheelrecklessly on evens. It won. 

It was enough. Thrusting his hat on the back of his head and wedginghimself firmly against the table, he settled down to make a night ofit. 

There is nothing like _boule_ for absorbing the mind. It was sometime before George became aware that a hand was prodding him in theribs. He turned, irritated. Immediately behind him, filling thelandscape, were two stout Frenchmen. But, even as he searched his brainfor words that would convey to them in their native tongue hisdisapproval of this jostling, he perceived that they, though stout andin a general way offensive, were in this particular respect guiltless. The prodding hand belonged to somebody invisible behind them. It wassmall and gloved, a woman's hand. It held a five-franc piece. 

Then in a gap, caused by a movement in the crowd, he saw the face ofLady Julia Waveney. 

She smiled at him. 

'On eight, please, would you mind?' he heard her say, and then thecrowd shifted again and she disappeared, leaving him holding the coin, his mind in a whirl. 

The game of _boule_ demands undivided attention from its devotees. To play with a mind full of other matters is a mistake. This mistakeGeorge made. Hardly conscious of what he was doing, he flung the coinon the board. She had asked him to place it on eight, and he thoughtthat he had placed it on eight. That, in reality, blinded by emotion, he had placed it on three was a fact which came home to him neitherthen nor later. 

Consequently, when the ball ceased to roll and a sepulchral voicecroaked the news that eight was the winning number, he fixed on thecroupier a gaze that began by being joyful and expectant and ended, thecroupier remaining entirely unresponsive, by being wrathful. 

He leaned towards him. 

'Monsieur, ' he said. _'Moi! J'ai jete cinq francs sur huit!'_

The croupier was a man with a pointed moustache and an air of havingseen all the sorrow and wickedness that there had ever been in theworld. He twisted the former and permitted a faint smile to deepen themelancholy of the latter, but he did not speak. 

George moved to his side. The two stout Frenchmen had strolled off, leaving elbow-room behind them. 

He tapped the croupier on the shoulder. 

'I say, ' he said. 'What's the game? _J'ai jete cinq francs surhuit, _ I tell you, _moi!_'

A forgotten idiom from the days of boyhood and French exercises came tohim. 

'_Moi qui parle_, ' he added. 

'_Messieurs, faites vos jeux_, ' crooned the croupier, in adetached manner. 

To the normal George, as to most Englishmen of his age, the onecardinal rule in life was at all costs to avoid rendering himselfconspicuous in public. Than George normal, no violet that ever hiditself in a mossy bank could have had a greater distaste for scenes. But tonight he was not normal. Roville and its colour had wrought asort of fever in his brain. _Boule_ had increased it. And love hadcaused it to rage. If this had been entirely his own affair it isprobable that the croupier's frigid calm would have quelled him and hewould have retired, fermenting but baffled. But it was not his ownaffair. He was fighting the cause of the only girl in the world. Shehad trusted him. Could he fail her? No, he was dashed if he could. Hewould show her what he was made of. His heart swelled within him. Athrill permeated his entire being, starting at his head and running outat his heels. He felt tremendous--a sort of blend of Oliver Cromwell, aBerserk warrior, and Sir Galahad. 

'Monsieur, ' he said again. 'Hi! What about it?'

This time the croupier did speak. 

'_C'est fini_, ' he said; and print cannot convey the pensive scornof his voice. It stung George, in his exalted mood, like a blow. Finished, was it? All right, now he would show them. They had asked forit, and now they should get it. How much did it come to? Five francsthe stake had been, and you got seven times your stake. And you gotyour stake back. He was nearly forgetting that. Forty francs in all, then. Two of those gold what-d'you-call'ems, in fact. Very well, then. 

He leaned forward quickly across the croupier, snatched the lid off thegold tray, and removed two louis. 

It is a remarkable fact in life that the scenes which we have rehearsedin our minds never happen as we have pictured them happening. In thepresent case, for instance, it had been George's intention to handlethe subsequent stages of this little dispute with an easy dignity. Hehad proposed, the money obtained, to hand it over to its rightfulowner, raise his hat, and retire with an air, a gallant champion of theoppressed. It was probably about one-sixteenth of a second after hishand had closed on the coins that he realized in the most vivid mannerthat these were not the lines on which the incident was to develop, and, with all his heart, he congratulated himself on having discardedthose brown boots in favour of a worn but roomy pair of gent's Oxfords. 

For a moment there was a pause and a silence of utter astonishment, while the minds of those who had witnessed the affair adjustedthemselves to the marvel, and then the world became full of startingeyes, yelling throats, and clutching hands. From all over the casinofresh units swarmed like bees to swell the crowd at the centre ofthings. Promenaders ceased to promenade, waiters to wait. Elderlygentlemen sprang on to tables. 

But in that momentary pause George had got off the mark. The table atwhich he had been standing was the one nearest to the door, and he hadbeen on the door side of it. As the first eyes began to start, thefirst throats to yell, and the first hands to clutch, he was passingthe counter of the money-changer. He charged the swing-door at fullspeed, and, true to its mission, it swung. He had a vague glimpse fromthe corner of his eye of the hat-and-cloak counter, and then he was inthe square with the cold night breeze blowing on his forehead and thestars winking down from the blue sky. 

A paper-seller on the pavement, ever the man of business, steppedforward and offered him the Paris edition of the _Daily Mail_, and, being in the direct line of transit, shot swiftly into the roadand fell into a heap, while George, shaken but going well, turned offto the left, where there seemed to be rather more darkness thananywhere else. 

And then the casino disgorged the pursuers. 

To George, looking hastily over his shoulder, there seemed a thousandof them. The square rang with their cries. He could not understandthem, but gathered that they were uncomplimentary. At any rate, theystimulated a little man in evening dress strolling along the pavementtowards him, to become suddenly animated and to leap from side to sidewith outstretched arms. 

Panic makes Harlequin three-quarters of us all. For one who had neverplayed Rugby football George handled the situation well. He drew thedefence with a feint to the left, then, swerving to the right, shotpast into the friendly darkness. From behind came the ringing of feetand an evergrowing din. 

It is one of the few compensations a fugitive pursued by a crowd enjoysthat, while he has space for his manoeuvres, those who pursue arehampered by their numbers. In the little regiment that pounded at hisheels it is probable that there were many faster runners than George. On the other hand, there were many slower, and in the early stages ofthe chase these impeded their swifter brethren. At the end of the firsthalf-minute, therefore, George, not sparing himself, had drawn wellahead, and for the first time found leisure for connected thought. 

His brain became preternaturally alert, so that when, rounding acorner, he perceived entering the main road from a side-street in frontof him a small knot of pedestrians, he did not waver, but was seizedwith a keen spasm of presence of mind. Without pausing in his stride, he pointed excitedly before him, and at the same moment shouted thewords, '_La! La! Vite! Vite!_'

His stock of French was small, but it ran to that, and for his purposeit was ample. The French temperament is not stolid. When the Frenchtemperament sees a man running rapidly and pointing into the middledistance and hears him shouting, '_La! La! Vite! Vite!_' it doesnot stop to make formal inquiries. It sprints like a mustang. It did sonow, with the happy result that a moment later George was racing downthe road, the centre and recognized leader of an enthusiastic band ofsix, which, in the next twenty yards, swelled to eleven. 

Five minutes later, in a wine-shop near the harbour, he was sipping thefirst glass of a bottle of cheap but comforting _vin ordinaire_while he explained to the interested proprietor, by means of a mixtureof English, broken French, and gestures that he had been helping tochase a thief, but had been forced by fatigue to retire prematurely forrefreshment. The proprietor gathered, however, that he had everyconfidence in the zeal of his still active colleagues. 

It is convincing evidence of the extent to which love had triumphedover prudence in George's soul that the advisability of lying hid inhis hotel on the following day did not even cross his mind. Immediatelyafter breakfast, or what passed for it at Roville, he set out for theHotel Cercle de la Mediterranee to hand over the two louis to theirowner. 

Lady Julia, he was informed on arrival, was out. The porter, politelygenial, advised monsieur to seek her on the Promenade des Etrangers. 

She was there, on the same seat where she had left the book. 

'Good morning, ' he said. 

She had not seen him coming, and she started at his voice. The flushwas back on her face as she turned to him. There was a look ofastonishment in the grey eyes. 

He held out the two louis. 

'I couldn't give them to you last night, ' he said. 

A horrible idea seized him. It had not occurred to him before. 

'I say, ' he stammered--'I say, I hope you don't think I had run offwith your winnings for good! The croupier wouldn't give them up, youknow, so I had to grab them and run. They came to exactly two louis. You put on five francs, you know, and you get seven times your stake. I--'

An elderly lady seated on the bench, who had loomed from behind aparasol towards the middle of these remarks, broke abruptly intospeech. 

'Who is this young man?'

George looked at her, startled. He had hardly been aware of herpresence till now. Rapidly he diagnosed her as a mother--or aunt. Shelooked more like an aunt. Of course, it must seem odd to her, hischarging in like this, a perfect stranger, and beginning to chat withher daughter, or niece, or whatever it was. He began to justifyhimself. 

'I met your--this young lady'--something told him that was not theproper way to put it, but hang it, what else could he say?--'at thecasino last night. '

He stopped. The effect of his words on the elderly lady was remarkable. Her face seemed to turn to stone and become all sharp points. Shestared at the girl. 

'So you were gambling at the casino last night?' she said. 

She rose from the seat, a frozen statue of displeasure. 

'I shall return to the hotel. When you have arranged your financialtransactions with your--friend, I should like to speak to you. You willfind me in my room. '

George looked after her dumbly. 

The girl spoke, in a curiously strained voice, as if she were speakingto herself. 

'I don't care, ' she said. 'I'm glad. '

George was concerned. 

'I'm afraid your mother is offended, Lady Julia. '

There was a puzzled look in her grey eyes as they met his. Then theylit up. She leaned back in the seat and began to laugh, softly atfirst, and then with a note that jarred on George. Whatever the humourof the situation--and he had not detected it at present--this mirth, hefelt, was unnatural and excessive. 

She checked herself at length, and a flush crept over her face. 

'I don't know why I did that, ' she said, abruptly. 'I'm sorry. Therewas nothing funny in what you said. But I'm not Lady Julia, and I haveno mother. That was Lady Julia who has just gone, and I am nothing moreimportant than her companion. '

'Her companion!'

'I had better say her late companion. It will soon be that. I hadstrict orders, you see, not to go near the casino without her--and Iwent. '

'Then--then I've lost you your job--I mean, your position! If it hadn'tbeen for me she wouldn't have known. I--'

'You have done me a great service, ' she said. 'You have cut the painterfor me when I have been trying for months to muster up the courage tocut it for myself. I don't suppose you know what it is to get into agroove and long to get out of it and not have the pluck. My brother hasbeen writing to me for a long time to join him in Canada. And I hadn'tthe courage, or the energy, or whatever it is that takes people out ofgrooves. I knew I was wasting my life, but I was fairly happy--atleast, not unhappy; so--well, there it was. I suppose women are likethat. '

'And now--?'

'And now you have jerked me out of the groove. I shall go out to Bob bythe first boat. '

He scratched the concrete thoughtfully with his stick. 

'It's a hard life out there, ' he said. 

'But it _is_ a life. '

He looked at the strollers on the promenade. They seemed very faraway--in another world. 

'Look here, ' he said, hoarsely, and stopped. 'May I sit down?' heasked, abruptly. 'I've got something to say, and I can't say it whenI'm looking at you. '

He sat down, and fastened his gaze on a yacht that swayed at anchoragainst the cloudless sky. 

'Look here, ' he said. 'Will you marry me?'

He heard her turn quickly, and felt her eyes upon him. He went ondoggedly. 

'I know, ' he said, 'we only met yesterday. You probably think I'm mad. '

'I don't think you're mad, ' she said, quietly. 'I only think you're tooquixotic. You're sorry for me and you are letting a kind impulse carryyou away, as you did last night at the casino. It's like you. '

For the first time he turned towards her. 

'I don't know what you suppose I am, ' he said, 'but I'll tell you. I'ma clerk in an insurance office. I get a hundred a year and ten days'holiday. Did you take me for a millionaire? If I am, I'm only atuppenny one. Somebody left me a thousand pounds a few weeks ago. That's how I come to be here. Now you know all about me. I don't knowanything about you except that I shall never love anybody else. Marryme, and we'll go to Canada together. You say I've helped you out ofyour groove. Well, I've only one chance of getting out of mine, andthat's through you. If you won't help me, I don't care if I get out ofit or not. Will you pull me out?'

She did not speak. She sat looking out to sea, past the many-colouredcrowd. 

He watched her face, but her hat shaded her eyes and he could readnothing in it. 

And then, suddenly, without quite knowing how it had got there, hefound that her hand was in his, and he was clutching it as a drowningman clutches a rope. 

He could see her eyes now, and there was a message in them that set hisheart racing. A great content filled him. She was so companionable, such a friend. It seemed incredible to him that it was only yesterdaythat they had met for the first time. 

'And now, ' she said, 'would you mind telling me your name?'

 * * * * *

The little waves murmured as they rolled lazily up the beach. Somewherebehind the trees in the gardens a band had begun to play. The breeze, blowing in from the blue Mediterranean, was charged with salt andhappiness. And from a seat on the promenade, a young man swept thecrowd with a defiant gaze. 

'It isn't true, ' it seemed to say. 'I'm not a jelly-fish. '

AHEAD OF SCHEDULE

It was to Wilson, his valet, with whom he frequently chatted in airyfashion before rising of a morning, that Rollo Finch first disclosedhis great idea. Wilson was a man of silent habit, and men of silenthabit rarely escaped Rollo's confidences. 

'Wilson, ' he said one morning from the recesses of his bed, as thevalet entered with his shaving-water, 'have you ever been in love?'

'Yes, sir, ' said the valet, unperturbed. 

One would hardly have expected the answer to be in the affirmative. Like most valets and all chauffeurs, Wilson gave the impression ofbeing above the softer emotions. 

'What happened?' inquired Rollo. 

'It came to nothing, sir, ' said Wilson, beginning to strop the razorwith no appearance of concern. 

'Ah!' said Rollo. 'And I bet I know why. You didn't go the right way towork. '

'No, sir?'

'Not one fellow in a hundred does. I know. I've thought it out. I'vebeen thinking the deuce of a lot about it lately. It's dashed tricky, this making love. Most fellows haven't a notion how to work it. Nosystem. No system, Wilson, old scout. '

'No, sir?'

'Now, I _have_ a system. And I'll tell it you. It may do you a bitof good next time you feel that impulse. You're not dead yet. Now, mysystem is simply to go to it gradually, by degrees. Work by schedule. See what I mean?'

'Not entirely, sir. '

'Well, I'll give you the details. First thing, you want to find thegirl. '

'Just so, sir. '

'Well, when you've found her, what do you do? You just look at her. Seewhat I mean?'

'Not entirely, sir. '

'Look at her, my boy. That's just the start--the foundation. Youdevelop from that. But you keep away. That's the point. I've thoughtthis thing out. Mind you, I don't claim absolutely all the credit forthe idea myself. It's by way of being based on Christian Science. Absent treatment, and all that. But most of it's mine. All the finework. '

'Yes, sir?'

'Yes. Absolutely all the fine work. Here's the thing in a nutshell. Youfind the girl. Right. Of course, you've got to meet her once, just toestablish the connexion. Then you get busy. First week, looks. Justlook at her. Second week, letters. Write to her every day. Third week, flowers. Send her some every afternoon. Fourth week, presents with abit more class about them. Bit of jewellery now and then. See what Imean? Fifth week, --lunches and suppers and things. Sixth week, propose, though you can do it in the fifth week if you see a chance. You've gotto leave that to the fellow's judgement. Well, there you are. See whatI mean?'

Wilson stropped his master's razor thoughtfully. 

'A trifle elaborate, sir, is it not?' he said. 

Rollo thumped the counterpane. 

'I knew you'd say that. That's what nine fellows out of ten_would_ say. They'd want to rush it. I tell you, Wilson, oldscout, you _can't_ rush it. '

Wilson brooded awhile, his mind back in the passionate past. 

'In Market Bumpstead, sir--'

'What the deuce is Market Bumpstead?'

'A village, sir, where I lived until I came to London. '

'Well?'

'In Market Bumpstead, sir, the prevailing custom was to escort theyoung lady home from church, buy her some little present--some ribbons, possibly--next day, take her for a walk, and kiss her, sir. '

Wilson's voice, as he unfolded these devices of the dashing youth ofMarket Bumpstead, had taken on an animation quite unsuitable to aconscientious valet. He gave the impression of a man who does notdepend on idle rumour for his facts. His eye gleamed unprofessionallyfor a moment before resuming its habitual expression of quietintrospection. 

Rollo shook his head. 

'That sort of thing might work in a village, ' he said, 'but you wantsomething better for London. '

 * * * * *

Rollo Finch--in the present unsatisfactory state of the law parents maystill christen a child Rollo--was a youth to whom Nature had given acheerful disposition not marred by any superfluity of brain. Everyoneliked Rollo--the great majority on sight, the rest as soon as theyheard that he would be a millionaire on the death of his Uncle Andrew. There is a subtle something, a sort of nebulous charm, as it were, about young men who will be millionaires on the death of their UncleAndrew which softens the ruggedest misanthrope. 

Rollo's mother had been a Miss Galloway, of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, U. S. A. ; and Andrew Galloway, the world-famous Braces King, the inventorand proprietor of the inimitable 'Tried and Proven', was her brother. His braces had penetrated to every corner of the earth. Wherevercivilization reigned you would find men wearing Galloway's 'Tried andProven'. 

Between Rollo and this human benefactor there had always existedfriendly relations, and it was an open secret that, unless his unclewere to marry and supply the world with little Galloways as well asbraces, the young man would come into his money. 

So Rollo moved on his way through life, popular and happy. Always merryand bright. That was Rollo. 

Or nearly always. For there were moments--we all have our greyermoments--when he could have wished that Mr Galloway had been a trifleolder or a trifle less robust. The Braces potentate was at presentpassing, in excellent health, through the Indian summer of life. Hewas, moreover, as has been stated, by birth and residence a Pittsburghman. And the tendency of middle-aged Pittsburgh millionaires to marrychorus-girls is notoriously like the homing instinct of pigeons. Something--it may be the smoke--seems to work on them like a charm. 

In the case of Andrew Galloway, Nature had been thwarted up till now bythe accident of an unfortunate attachment in early life. The facts werenot fully known, but it was generally understood that his fiancee hadexercised Woman's prerogative and changed her mind. Also, that she haddone this on the actual wedding-day, causing annoyance to all, and hadclinched the matter by eloping to Jersey City with the prospectivebridegroom's own coachman. Whatever the facts, there was no doubt abouttheir result. Mr Galloway, having abjured woman utterly, had flunghimself with moody energy into the manufacture and propagation of his'Tried and Proven' Braces, and had found consolation in it ever since. He would be strong, he told himself, like his braces. Hearts might snapbeneath a sudden strain. Not so the 'Tried and Proven'. Love might tugand tug again, but never more should the trousers of passion break awayfrom the tough, masterful braces of self-control. 

As Mr Galloway had been in this frame of mind for a matter of elevenyears, it seemed to Rollo not unreasonable to hope that he mightcontinue in it permanently. He had the very strongest objection to hisuncle marrying a chorus-girl; and, as the years went on and thedisaster did not happen, his hopes of playing the role of heir till thefall of the curtain grew stronger and stronger. He was one of thoseyoung men who must be heirs or nothing. This is the age of thespecialist, and years ago Rollo had settled on his career. Even as aboy, hardly capable of connected thought, he had been convinced thathis speciality, the one thing he could do really well, was to inheritmoney. All he wanted was a chance. It would be bitter if Fate shouldwithhold it from him. 

He did not object on principle to men marrying chorus-girls. On thecontrary, he wanted to marry one himself. 

It was this fact which had given that turn to his thoughts which hadfinally resulted in the schedule. 

 * * * * *

The first intimation that Wilson had that the schedule was actually tobe put into practical operation was when his employer, one Mondayevening, requested him to buy a medium-sized bunch of the best redroses and deliver them personally, with a note, to Miss MargueriteParker at the stage-door of the Duke of Cornwall's Theatre. 

Wilson received the order in his customary gravely deferential manner, and was turning to go; but Rollo had more to add. 

'Flowers, Wilson, ' he said, significantly. 

'So I understood you to say, sir. I will see to it at once. '

'See what I mean? Third week, Wilson. '

'Indeed, sir?'

Rollo remained for a moment in what he would have called thought. 

'Charming girl, Wilson. '

'Indeed, sir?'

'Seen the show?'

'Not yet, sir. '

'You should, ' said Rollo, earnestly. 'Take my advice, old scout, andsee it first chance you get. It's topping. I've had the same seat inthe middle of the front row of the stalls for two weeks. '

'Indeed, sir?'

'Looks, Wilson! The good old schedule. '

'Have you noticed any satisfactory results, sir?'

'It's working. On Saturday night she looked at me five times. She's adelightful girl, Wilson. Nice, quiet girl--not the usual sort. I mether first at a lunch at Oddy's. She's the last girl on the O. P. Side. I'm sure you'd like her, Wilson. '

'I have every confidence in your taste, sir. '

'You'll see her for yourself this evening. Don't let the fellow at thestage-door put you off. Slip him half a crown or a couple of quid orsomething, and say you must see her personally. Are you a closeobserver, Wilson?'

'I think so, sir. '

'Because I want you to notice particularly how she takes it. See thatshe reads the note in your presence. I've taken a good deal of troubleover that note, Wilson. It's a good note. Well expressed. Watch herface while she's reading it. '

'Very good, sir. Excuse me, sir. '

'Eh?'

'I had almost forgotten to mention it. Mr Galloway rang up on thetelephone shortly before you came in. '

'What! Is he in England?'

Mr Galloway was in the habit of taking occasional trips to GreatBritain to confer with the general manager of his London branch. Rollohad grown accustomed to receiving no notice of these visits. 

'He arrived two days ago on the _Baltic_, sir. He left a messagethat he was in London for a week, and would be glad if you would dinewith him tomorrow at his club. '

Rollo nodded. On these occasions it was his practice to hold himselfunreservedly at Mr Galloway's disposal. The latter's invitations wereroyal commands. Rollo was glad that the visit had happened now. Inanother two weeks it might have been disastrous to the schedule. 

The club to which the Braces King belonged was a richly but gloomilyfurnished building in Pall Mall, a place of soft carpets, shadedlights, and whispers. Grave, elderly men moved noiselessly to and fro, or sat in meditative silence in deep arm-chairs. Sometimes the visitorfelt that he was in a cathedral, sometimes in a Turkish bath; while nowand then there was a suggestion of the waiting-room of a more thanusually prosperous dentist. It was magnificent, but not exhilarating. 

Rollo was shown into the smoking-room, where his uncle received him. There was a good deal of Mr Andrew Galloway. Grief, gnawing at hisheart, had not sagged his ample waistcoat, which preceded him as hemoved in much the same manner as Birnam Woods preceded the army ofMacduff. A well-nourished hand crept round the corner of the edificeand enveloped Rollo's in a powerful grip. 

'Ah, my boy!' bellowed Mr Galloway cheerfully. His voice was alwaysloud. 'Glad you've come. '

It would be absurd to say that Rollo looked at his uncle keenly. He wasnot capable of looking keenly at anyone. But certainly a puzzledexpression came into his face. Whether it was the heartiness of theother's handshake or the unusual cheeriness of his voice, he could notsay; but something gave him the impression that a curious change hadcome over the Braces King. When they had met before during the last fewyears Mr Galloway had been practically sixteen stone five of blood andiron--one of those stern, soured men. His attitude had been that of onefor whom Life's music had ceased. Had he then inserted another record?His manner conveyed that idea. 

Sustained thought always gave Rollo a headache. He ceased to speculate. 

'Still got the same _chef_ here, uncle?' he said. 'Deuced brainyfellow. I always like dining here. '

'Here!' Mr Galloway surveyed the somnolent occupants of the room withspirited scorn. 'We aren't going to dine in this forsaken oldmausoleum. I've sent in my resignation today. If I find myself wantingthis sort of thing at any time, I'll go to Paris and hunt up theMorgue. Bunch of old dead-beats! Bah! I've engaged a table at Romano's. That's more in my line. Get your coat, and let's be going. '

In the cab Rollo risked the headache. At whatever cost this thing mustbe pondered over. His uncle prattled gaily throughout the journey. Oncehe whooped--some weird, forgotten college yell, dragged from the mistydepths of the past. It was passing strange. And in this unusual mannerthe two rolled into the Strand, and drew up at Romano's door. 

Mr Galloway was a good trencherman. At a very early date he hadrealized that a man who wishes to make satisfactory braces must keephis strength up. He wanted a good deal here below, and he wanted itwarm and well cooked. It was, therefore, not immediately that hisdinner with Rollo became a feast of reason and a flow of soul. Indeed, the two revellers had lighted their cigars before the elder gave forthany remark that was not purely gastronomic. 

When he did jerk the conversation up on to a higher plane, he jerked ithard. He sent it shooting into the realms of the soulful with a whiz. 

'Rollo, ' he said, blowing a smoke-ring, 'do you believe in affinities?'

Rollo, in the act of sipping a liqueur brandy, lowered his glass insurprise. His head was singing slightly as the result of some ratherspirited Bollinger (extra sec), and he wondered if he had heard aright. 

Mr Galloway continued, his voice rising as he spoke. 

'My boy, ' he said, 'I feel young tonight for the first time in years. And, hang it, I'm not so old! Men have married at twice my age. '

Strictly speaking, this was incorrect, unless one counted Methuselah;but perhaps Mr Galloway spoke figuratively. 

'Three times my age, ' he proceeded, leaning back and blowing smoke, thereby missing his nephew's agitated start. 'Four times my age. Fivetimes my age. Six--'

He pulled himself together in some confusion. A generous wine, thatBollinger. He must be careful. 

He coughed. 

'Are you--you aren't--are you--' Rollo paused. 'Are you thinking ofgetting married, uncle?'

Mr Galloway's gaze was still on the ceiling. 

'A great deal of nonsense, ' he yelled severely, 'is talked about menlowering themselves by marrying actresses. I was a guest at asupper-party last night at which an actress was present. And a morecharming, sensible girl I never wish to meet. Not one of your silly, brainless chits who don't know the difference between lobster Newburgand canvas-back duck, and who prefer sweet champagne to dry. No, sir!Not one of your mincing, affected kind who pretend they never touchanything except a spoonful of cold _consomme_. No, sir! Good, healthyappetite. Enjoyed her food, and knew why she was enjoying it. I giveyou my word, my boy, until I met her I didn't know a woman existed whocould talk so damned sensibly about a _bavaroise au rhum_. '

He suspended his striking tribute in order to relight his cigar. 

'She can use a chafing-dish, ' he resumed, his voice vibrating withemotion. 'She told me so. She said she could fix chicken so that a manwould leave home for it. ' He paused, momentarily overcome. '_And_Welsh rarebits, ' he added reverently. 

He puffed hard at his cigar. 

'Yes, ' he said. 'Welsh rarebits, too. And because, ' he shoutedwrathfully, 'because, forsooth, she earns an honest living by singingin the chorus of a comic opera, a whole bunch of snivelling idiots willsay I have made a fool of myself. Let them!' he bellowed, sitting upand glaring at Rollo. 'I say, let them! I'll show them that AndrewGalloway is not the man to--to--is not the man--' He stopped. 'Well, anyway, I'll show them, ' he concluded rather lamely. 

Rollo eyed him with fallen jaw. His liqueur had turned to wormwood. Hehad been fearing this for years. You may drive out Nature with apitchfork, but she will return. Blood will tell. Once a Pittsburghmillionaire, always a Pittsburgh millionaire. For eleven years hisuncle had fought against his natural propensities, with apparentsuccess; but Nature had won in the end. His words could have no othermeaning. Andrew Galloway was going to marry a chorus-girl. 

Mr Galloway rapped on the table, and ordered another kummel. 

'Marguerite Parker!' he roared dreamily, rolling the words round histongue, like port. 

'Marguerite Parker!' exclaimed Rollo, bounding in his chair. 

His uncle met his eye sternly. 

'That was the name I said. You seem to know it. Perhaps you havesomething to say against the lady. Eh? Have you? Have you? I warn youto be careful. What do you know of Miss Parker? Speak!'

'Er--no, no. Oh, no! I just know the name, that's all. I--I ratherthink I met her once at lunch. Or it may have been somebody else. Iknow it was someone. '

He plunged at his glass. His uncle's gaze relaxed its austerity. 

'I hope you will meet her many more times at lunch, my boy. I hope youwill come to look upon her as a second mother. '

This was where Rollo asked if he might have a little more brandy. 

When the restorative came he drank it at a gulp; then looked across athis uncle. The great man still mused. 

'Er--when is it to be?' asked Rollo. 'The wedding, and all that?'

'Hardly before the Fall, I think. No, not before the Fall. I shall bebusy till then. I have taken no steps in the matter yet. '

'No steps? You mean--? Haven't you--haven't you proposed?'

'I have had no time. Be reasonable, my boy; be reasonable. '

'Oh!' said Rollo. 

He breathed a long breath. A suspicion of silver lining had becomevisible through the clouds. 

'I doubt, ' said Mr Galloway, meditatively, 'if I shall be able to findtime till the end of the week. I am very busy. Let me see. Tomorrow?No. Meeting of the shareholders. Thursday? Friday? No. No, it will haveto stand over till Saturday. After Saturday's matinee. That will doexcellently. '

 * * * * *

There is a dramatic spectacle to be observed every day in this land ofours, which, though deserving of recognition, no artist has yetpictured on canvas. We allude to the suburban season-ticket holder'ssudden flash of speed. Everyone must have seen at one time or another ahappy, bright-faced season-ticket holder strolling placidly towards thestation, humming, perhaps, in his light-heartedness, some gay air. Hefeels secure. Fate cannot touch him, for he has left himself for onceplenty of time to catch that 8. 50, for which he has so often sprintedlike the gazelle of the prairie. As he strolls, suddenly his eye fallson the church clock. The next moment with a passionate cry he isendeavouring to lower his record for the fifty-yard dash. All the whilehis watch has been fifteen minutes slow. 

In just such a case was Rollo Finch. He had fancied that he had plentyof time. And now, in an instant, the fact was borne in upon him that hemust hurry. 

For the greater part of the night of his uncle's dinner he laysleepless, vainly endeavouring to find a way out of the difficulty. Itwas not till early morning that he faced the inevitable. He hated toabandon the schedule. To do so meant changing a well-ordered advanceinto a forlorn hope. But circumstances compelled it. There are momentswhen speed alone can save love's season-ticket holder. 

On the following afternoon he acted. It was no occasion for stint. Hehad to condense into one day the carefully considered movements of twoweeks, and to the best of his ability he did so. He bought threebouquets, a bracelet, and a gold Billiken with ruby eyes, and sent themto the theatre by messenger-boy. With them went an invitation tosupper. 

Then, with the feeling that he had done all that was possible, hereturned to his flat and waited for the hour. 

He dressed with more than usual care that night. Your wise generalnever throws away a move. He was particular about his tie. As a rule, Wilson selected one for him. But there had been times when Wilson hadmade mistakes. One could not rely absolutely on Wilson's taste in ties. He did not blame him. Better men than Wilson had gone wrong over anevening tie. But tonight there must be no taking of chances. 

'Where do we keep our ties, Wilson?' he asked. 

'The closet to the right of the door, sir. The first twelve shallowshelves, counting from the top, sir. They contain a fair selection ofour various cravats. Replicas in bulk are to be found in the third nestof drawers in your dressing-room, sir. '

'I only want one, my good man. I'm not a regiment. Ah! I stake all onthis one. Not a word, Wilson. No discussion. This is the tie I wear. What's the time?'

'Eight minutes to eleven, sir. '

'I must be off. I shall be late. I shan't want you any more tonight. Don't wait for me. '

'Very good, sir. '

Rollo left the room, pale but determined, and hailed a taxi. 

 * * * * *

It is a pleasant spot, the vestibule of the Carlton Hotel. Glare--glitter--distant music--fair women--brave men. But one can havetoo much of it, and as the moments pass, and she does not arrive, achill seems to creep into the atmosphere. We wait on, hoping againsthope, and at last, just as waiters and commissionaires are beginning toeye us with suspicion, we face the truth. She is not coming. Then out wecrawl into cold, callous Pall Mall, and so home. You have been throughit, dear reader, and so have I. 

And so, at eleven forty-five that evening, had Rollo. For a fullthree-quarters of an hour he waited, scanning the face of each newarrival with the anxious scrutiny of a lost dog seeking its master; butat fourteen minutes to twelve the last faint flicker of hope had diedaway. A girl may be a quarter of an hour late for supper. She may behalf an hour late. But there is a limit, and to Rollo's mind forty-fiveminutes passed it. At ten minutes to twelve a uniformed officialoutside the Carlton signalled to a taxi-cab, and there entered it ayoung man whose faith in Woman was dead. 

Rollo meditated bitterly as he drove home. It was not so much the factthat she had not come that stirred him. Many things may keep a girlfrom supper. It was the calm way in which she had ignored theinvitation. When you send a girl three bouquets, a bracelet, and a goldBilliken with ruby eyes, you do not expect an entire absence ofrecognition. Even a penny-in-the-slot machine treats you better thanthat. It may give you hairpins when you want matches but at least ittakes some notice of you. 

He was still deep in gloomy thought when he inserted his latchkey andopened the door of his flat. 

He was roused from his reflections by a laugh from the sitting-room. Hestarted. It was a pleasant laugh, and musical, but it sent Rollodiving, outraged, for the handle of the door. What was a woman doing inhis sitting-room at this hour? Was his flat an hotel?

The advent of an unbidden guest rarely fails to produce a certain_gene_. The sudden appearance of Rollo caused a dead silence. 

It was broken by the fall of a chair on the carpet as Wilson rosehurriedly to his feet. 

Rollo stood in the doorway, an impressive statue of restrainedindignation. He could see the outlying portions of a girl in blue atthe further end of the table, but Wilson obscured his vision. 

'Didn't expect you back, sir, ' said Wilson. 

For the first time in the history of their acquaintance his accustomedcalm seemed somewhat ruffled. 

'So I should think, ' said Rollo. 'I believe you, by George!'

'You had better explain, Jim, ' said a dispassionate voice from the endof the table. 

Wilson stepped aside. 

'My wife, sir, ' he said, apologetically, but with pride. 

'Your wife!'

'We were married this morning, sir. '

The lady nodded cheerfully at Rollo. She was small and slight, with animpudent nose and a mass of brown hair. 

'Awfully glad to meet you, ' she said, cracking a walnut. 

Rollo gaped. 

She looked at him again. 

'We've met, haven't we? Oh yes, I remember. We met at lunch once. Andyou sent me some flowers. It was ever so kind of you, ' she said, beaming. 

She cracked another nut. She seemed to consider that the introductionswere complete and that formality could now be dispensed with once more. She appeared at peace with all men. 

The situation was slipping from Rollo's grip. He continued to gape. 

Then he remembered his grievance. 

'I think you might have let me know you weren't coming to supper. '

'Supper?'

'I sent a note to the theatre this afternoon. '

'I haven't been to the theatre today. They let me off because I wasgoing to be married. I'm so sorry. I hope you didn't wait long. '

Rollo's resentment melted before the friendliness of her smile. 

'Hardly any time, ' he said, untruthfully. 

'If I might explain, sir, ' said Wilson. 

'By George! If you can, you'll save me from a brainstorm. Cut loose, and don't be afraid you'll bore me. You won't. '

'Mrs Wilson and I are old friends, sir. We come from the same town. Infact--'

Rollo's face cleared. 

'By George! Market what's-its-name! Why, of course. Then she--'

'Just so, sir. If you recollect, you asked me once if I had ever beenin love, and I replied in the affirmative. '

'And it was--'

'Mrs Wilson and I were engaged to be married before either of us cameto London. There was a misunderstanding, which was entirely my--'

'Jim! It was mine. '

'No, it was all through my being a fool. '

'It was not. You know it wasn't!'

Rollo intervened. 

'Well?'

'And when you sent me with the flowers, sir--well, we talked it overagain, and--that was how it came about, sir. '

The bride looked up from her walnuts. 

'You aren't angry?' she smiled up at Rollo. 

'Angry?' He reflected. Of course, it was only reasonable that he shouldbe a little--well, not exactly angry, but--And then for the first timeit came to him that the situation was not entirely without itscompensations. Until that moment he had completely forgotten MrGalloway. 

'Angry?' he said. 'Great Scott, no! Jolly glad I came back in time toget a bit of the wedding-breakfast. I want it, I can tell you. I'mhungry. Here we all are, eh? Let's enjoy ourselves. Wilson, old scout, bustle about and give us your imitation of a bridegroom mixing a "B. And S. " for the best man. Mrs Wilson, if you'll look in at the theatretomorrow you'll find one or two small wedding presents waiting for you. Three bouquets--they'll be a bit withered, I'm afraid--a bracelet, anda gold Billiken with ruby eyes. I hope he'll bring you luck. Oh, Wilson!'

'Sir?'

'Touching this little business--don't answer if it's a delicatequestion, but I _should_ like to know--I suppose you didn't trythe schedule. What? More the Market Thingummy method, eh? The one youdescribed to me?'

'Market Bumpstead, sir?' said Wilson. 'On those lines. '

Rollo nodded thoughtfully. 

'It seems to me, ' he said, 'they know a thing or two down in MarketBumpstead. '

'A very rising little place, sir, ' assented Wilson. 

SIR AGRAVAINEA TALE OF KING ARTHUR'S ROUND TABLE

Some time ago, when spending a delightful week-end at the ancestralcastle of my dear old friend, the Duke of Weatherstonhope (pronouncedWop), I came across an old black-letter MS. It is on this that thestory which follows is based. 

I have found it necessary to touch the thing up a little here andthere, for writers in those days were weak in construction. Their ideaof telling a story was to take a long breath and start droning awaywithout any stops or dialogue till the thing was over. 

I have also condensed the title. In the original it ran, '"How it cameabout that ye good Knight Sir Agravaine ye Dolorous of ye Table Rounddid fare forth to succour a damsel in distress and after diversjourneyings and perils by flood and by field did win her for his brideand right happily did they twain live ever afterwards, " by Ambrose yemonk. '

It was a pretty snappy title for those days, but we have such a highstandard in titles nowadays that I have felt compelled to omit a fewyards of it. 

We may now proceed to the story. 

 * * * * *

The great tournament was in full swing. All through the afternoonboiler-plated knights on mettlesome chargers had hurled themselves oneach other's spears, to the vast contentment of all. Bright eyes shone;handkerchiefs fluttered; musical voices urged chosen champions to knockthe cover off their brawny adversaries. The cheap seats had long sincebecome hoarse with emotion. All round the arena rose the cries ofitinerant merchants: 'Iced malvoisie, ' 'Score-cards; ye cannot tell thejousters without a score-card. ' All was revelry and excitement. 

A hush fell on the throng. From either end of the arena a mountedknight in armour had entered. 

The herald raised his hand. 

'Ladeez'n gemmen! Battling Galahad and Agravaine the Dolorous. Galahadon my right, Agravaine on my left. Squires out of the ring. Time!'

A speculator among the crowd offered six to one on Galahad, but foundno takers. Nor was the public's caution without reason. 

A moment later the two had met in a cloud of dust, and Agravaine, shooting over his horse's crupper, had fallen with a metallic clang. 

He picked himself up, and limped slowly from the arena. He was notunused to this sort of thing. Indeed, nothing else had happened to himin his whole jousting career. 

The truth was that Sir Agravaine the Dolorous was out of his element atKing Arthur's court, and he knew it. It was this knowledge that hadgiven him that settled air of melancholy from which he derived histitle. 

Until I came upon this black-letter MS. I had been under theimpression, like, I presume, everybody else, that every Knight of theRound Table was a model of physical strength and beauty. Malory saysnothing to suggest the contrary. Nor does Tennyson. But apparentlythere were exceptions, of whom Sir Agravaine the Dolorous must havebeen the chief. 

There was, it seems, nothing to mitigate this unfortunate man'sphysical deficiencies. There is a place in the world for the strong, ugly man, and there is a place for the weak, handsome man. But to fallshort both in features and in muscle is to stake your all on brain. Andin the days of King Arthur you did not find the populace turning out todo homage to brain. It was a drug on the market. Agravaine was a gooddeal better equipped than his contemporaries with grey matter, but hisheight in his socks was but five feet four; and his muscles, though hehad taken three correspondence courses in physical culture, remaineddistressingly flaccid. His eyes were pale and mild, his nose snub, andhis chin receded sharply from his lower lip, as if Nature, designinghim, had had to leave off in a hurry and finish the job anyhow. Theupper teeth, protruding, completed the resemblance to a nervous rabbit. 

Handicapped in this manner, it is no wonder that he should feel sad andlonely in King Arthur's court. At heart he ached for romance; butromance passed him by. The ladies of the court ignored his existence, while, as for those wandering damsels who came periodically to Camelotto complain of the behaviour of dragons, giants, and the like, and toask permission of the king to take a knight back with them to fighttheir cause (just as, nowadays, one goes out and calls a policeman), hesimply had no chance. The choice always fell on Lancelot or some otherpopular favourite. 

 * * * * *

The tournament was followed by a feast. In those brave days almosteverything was followed by a feast. The scene was gay and animated. Fair ladies, brave knights, churls, varlets, squires, scurvy knaves, men-at-arms, malapert rogues--all were merry. All save Agravaine. Hesat silent and moody. To the jests of Dagonet he turned a deaf ear. Andwhen his neighbour, Sir Kay, arguing with Sir Percivale on currentform, appealed to him to back up his statement that Sir Gawain, thougha workman-like middle-weight, lacked the punch, he did not answer, though the subject was one on which he held strong views. He sat on, brooding. 

As he sat there, a man-at-arms entered the hall. 

'Your majesty, ' he cried, 'a damsel in distress waits without. '

There was a murmur of excitement and interest. 

'Show her in, ' said the king, beaming. 

The man-at-arms retired. Around the table the knights were strugglinginto an upright position in their seats and twirling their moustaches. Agravaine alone made no movement. He had been through this sort ofthing so often. What were distressed damsels to him? His wholedemeanour said, as plainly as if he had spoken the words, 'What's theuse?'

The crowd at the door parted, and through the opening came a figure atthe sight of whom the expectant faces of the knights turned pale withconsternation. For the new-comer was quite the plainest girl thosestately halls had ever seen. Possibly the only plain girl they had everseen, for no instance is recorded in our authorities of the existenceat that period of any such. 

The knights gazed at her blankly. Those were the grand old days ofchivalry, when a thousand swords would leap from their scabbards toprotect defenceless woman, if she were beautiful. The present seemedsomething in the nature of a special case, and nobody was quite certainas to the correct procedure. 

An awkward silence was broken by the king. 

'Er--yes?' he said. 

The damsel halted. 

'Your majesty, ' she cried, 'I am in distress. I crave help!'

'Just so, ' said the king, uneasily, flashing an apprehensive glance atthe rows of perturbed faces before him. 'Just _so_. What--er--what isthe exact nature of the--ah--trouble? Any assistance these gallantknights can render will, I am sure, be--ah--eagerly rendered. '

He looked imploringly at the silent warriors. As a rule, this speechwas the signal for roars of applause. But now there was not even amurmur. 

'I may say enthusiastically, ' he added. 

Not a sound. 

'Precisely, ' said the king, ever tactful. 'And now--you were saying?'

'I am Yvonne, the daughter of Earl Dorm of the Hills, ' said the damsel, 'and my father has sent me to ask protection from a gallant knightagainst a fiery dragon that ravages the country-side. '

'A dragon, gentlemen, ' said the king, aside. It was usually a safedraw. Nothing pleased the knight of that time more than a brisk boutwith a dragon. But now the tempting word was received in silence. 

'Fiery, ' said the king. 

Some more silence. 

The king had recourse to the direct appeal. 'Sir Gawain, this Courtwould be greatly indebted to you if--'

Sir Gawain said he had strained a muscle at the last tournament. 

'Sir Pelleas. '

The king's voice was growing flat with consternation. The situation wasunprecedented. 

Sir Pelleas said he had an ingrowing toe-nail. 

The king's eye rolled in anguish around the table. Suddenly it stopped. It brightened. His look of dismay changed to one of relief. 

A knight had risen to his feet. It was Agravaine. 

'Ah!' said the king, drawing a deep breath. 

Sir Agravaine gulped. He was feeling more nervous than he had ever feltin his life. Never before had he risen to volunteer his services in amatter of this kind, and his state of mind was that of a small boyabout to recite his first piece of poetry. 

It was not only the consciousness that every eye, except one of SirBalin's which had been closed in the tournament that afternoon, wasupon him. What made him feel like a mild gentleman in a post-office whohas asked the lady assistant if she will have time to attend to himsoon and has caught her eye, was the fact that he thought he hadobserved the damsel Yvonne frown as he rose. He groaned in spirit. Thisdamsel, he felt, wanted the proper goods or none at all. She might notbe able to get Sir Lancelot or Sir Galahad; but she was not going to besatisfied with a half-portion. 

The fact was that Sir Agravaine had fallen in love at first sight. Themoment he had caught a glimpse of the damsel Yvonne, he loved herdevotedly. To others she seemed plain and unattractive. To him she wasa Queen of Beauty. He was amazed at the inexplicable attitude of theknights around him. He had expected them to rise in a body to clamourfor the chance of assisting this radiant vision. He could hardlybelieve, even now, that he was positively the only starter. 

'This is Sir Agravaine the Dolorous, ' said the king to the damsel. 'Will you take him as your champion?'

Agravaine held his breath. But all was well. The damsel bowed. 

'Then, Sir Agravaine, ' said the king, 'perhaps you had better have yourcharger sent round at once. I imagine that the matter is pressing--timeand--er--dragons wait for no man. '

Ten minutes later Agravaine, still dazed, was jogging along to thehills, with the damsel by his side. 

It was some time before either of them spoke. The damsel seemedpreoccupied, and Agravaine's mind was a welter of confused thoughts, the most prominent of which and the one to which he kept returningbeing the startling reflection that he, who had pined for romance solong, had got it now in full measure. 

A dragon! Fiery withal. Was he absolutely certain that he was capableof handling an argument with a fiery dragon? He would have given muchfor a little previous experience of this sort of thing. It was too latenow, but he wished he had had the forethought to get Merlin to put up amagic prescription for him, rendering him immune to dragon-bites. Butdid dragons bite? Or did they whack at you with their tails? Or justblow fire?

There were a dozen such points that he would have liked to have settledbefore starting. It was silly to start out on a venture of this sortwithout special knowledge. He had half a mind to plead a forgottenengagement and go straight back. 

Then he looked at the damsel, and his mind was made up. What did deathmatter if he could serve her?

He coughed. She came out of her reverie with a start. 

'This dragon, now?' said Agravaine. 

For a moment the damsel did not reply. 'A fearsome worm, Sir Knight, 'she said at length. 'It raveneth by day and by night. It breathes firefrom its nostrils. '

'Does it!' said Agravaine. '_Does_ it! I You couldn't give someidea what it looks like, what kind of _size_ it is?'

'Its body is as thick as ten stout trees, and its head touches theclouds. '

'Does it!' said Agravaine thoughtfully. '_Does_ it!'

'Oh, Sir Knight, I pray you have a care. '

'I will, ' said Agravaine. And he had seldom said anything morefervently. The future looked about as bad as it could be. Any hopeshe may have entertained that this dragon might turn out tobe comparatively small and inoffensive were dissipated. This wasplainly no debilitated wreck of a dragon, its growth stunted byexcessive-fire-breathing. A body as thick as ten stout trees! He wouldnot even have the melancholy satisfaction of giving the creatureindigestion. For all the impression he was likely to make on that vastinterior, he might as well be a salted almond. 

As they were speaking, a dim mass on the skyline began to take shape. 

'Behold!' said the damsel. 'My father's castle. ' And presently theywere riding across the drawbridge and through the great gate, whichshut behind them with a clang. 

As they dismounted a man came out through a door at the farther end ofthe courtyard. 

'Father, ' said Yvonne, 'this is the gallant knight Sir Agravaine, whohas come to--' it seemed to Agravaine that she hesitated for a moment. 

'To tackle our dragon?' said the father. 'Excellent. Come right in. '

Earl Dorm of the Hills, was a small, elderly man, with what Agravaineconsidered a distinctly furtive air about him. His eyes were too closetogether, and he was over-lavish with a weak, cunning smile EvenAgravaine, who was in the mood to like the whole family, if possible, for Yvonne's sake, could not help feeling that appearances were againstthis particular exhibit. He might have a heart of gold beneath theoutward aspect of a confidence-trick expert whose hobby was dog-stealing, but there was no doubt that his exterior did not inspire a genial glowof confidence. 

'Very good of you to come, ' said the earl. 

'It's a pleasure, ' said Agravaine. 'I have been hearing all about thedragon. '

'A great scourge, ' agreed his host. 'We must have a long talk about itafter dinner. '

It was the custom in those days in the stately homes of England for thewhole strength of the company to take their meals together. The guestssat at the upper table, the ladies in a gallery above them, while theusual drove of men-at-arms, archers, malapert rogues, varlets, scurvyknaves, scullions, and plug-uglies attached to all medieval households, squashed in near the door, wherever they could find room. 

The retinue of Earl Dorm was not strong numerically--the householdbeing, to judge from appearances, one that had seen better days; but itstruck Agravaine that what it lacked in numbers it made up intoughness. Among all those at the bottom of the room there was not onewhom it would have been agreeable to meet alone in a dark alley. Ofall those foreheads not one achieved a height of more than one pointnought four inches. A sinister collection, indeed, and one which, Agravaine felt, should have been capable of handling without hisassistance any dragon that ever came into the world to stimulate theasbestos industry. 

He was roused from his reflections by the voice of his host. 

'I hope you are not tired after your journey, Sir Agravaine? My littlegirl did not bore you, I trust? We are very quiet folk here. Countrymice. But we must try to make your visit interesting. '

Agravaine felt that the dragon might be counted upon to do that. Hesaid as much. 

'Ah, yes, the dragon, ' said Earl Dorm, 'I was forgetting the dragon. Iwant to have a long talk with you about that dragon. Not now. Lateron. '

His eye caught Agravaine's, and he smiled that weak, cunning smile ofhis. And for the first time the knight was conscious of a curiousfeeling that all was not square and aboveboard in this castle. Aconviction began to steal over him that in some way he was being playedwith, that some game was afoot which he did not understand, that--in aword--there was dirty work at the cross-roads. 

There was a touch of mystery in the atmosphere which made him vaguelyuneasy. When a fiery dragon is ravaging the countryside to such anextent that the S. O. S. Call has been sent out to the Round Table, aknight has a right to expect the monster to be the main theme ofconversation. The tendency on his host's part was apparently to avoidtouching on the subject at all. He was vague and elusive; and the onetopic on which an honest man is not vague and elusive is that of fierydragons. It was not right. It was as if one should phone for the policeand engage them, on arrival, in a discussion on the day's footballresults. 

A wave of distrust swept over Agravaine. He had heard stories of robberchiefs who lured strangers into their strongholds and then held themprisoners while the public nervously dodged their anxious friends whohad formed subscription lists to make up the ransom. Could this be sucha case? The man certainly had an evasive manner and a smile which wouldhave justified any jury in returning a verdict without leaving the box. On the other hand, there was Yvonne. His reason revolted against theidea of that sweet girl being a party to any such conspiracy. 

No, probably it was only the Earl's unfortunate manner. Perhaps hesuffered from some muscular weakness of the face which made him smilelike that. 

Nevertheless, he certainly wished that he had not allowed himself to bedeprived of his sword and armour. At the time it had seemed to him thatthe Earl's remark that the latter needed polishing and the formerstropping betrayed only a kindly consideration for his guest's well-being. Now, it had the aspect of being part of a carefully-constructed plot. 

On the other hand--here philosophy came to his rescue--if anybody didmean to start anything, his sword and armour might just as well not bethere. Any one of those mammoth low-brows at the door could eat him, armour and all. 

He resumed his meal, uneasy but resigned. 

Dinner at Earl Dorm's was no lunch-counter scuffle. It started earlyand finished late. It was not till an advanced hour that Agravaine wasconducted to his room. 

The room which had been allotted to him was high up in the easterntower. It was a nice room, but to one in Agravaine's state ofsuppressed suspicion a trifle too solidly upholstered. The door was ofthe thickest oak, studded with iron nails. Iron bars formed a neatpattern across the only window. 

Hardly had Agravaine observed these things when the door opened, andbefore him stood the damsel Yvonne, pale of face and panting forbreath. 

She leaned against the doorpost and gulped. 

'Fly!' she whispered. 

Reader, if you had come to spend the night in the lonely castle of aperfect stranger with a shifty eye and a rogues' gallery smile, and onretiring to your room had found the door kick-proof and the windowbarred, and if, immediately after your discovery of these phenomena, awhite-faced young lady had plunged in upon you and urged you toimmediate flight, wouldn't that jar you?

It jarred Agravaine. 

'Eh?' he cried. 

'Fly! Fly, Sir Knight. '

Another footstep sounded in the passage. The damsel gave a startledlook over her shoulder. 

'And what's all this?'

Earl Dorm appeared in the dim-lit corridor. His voice had a nastytinkle in it. 

'Your--your daughter, ' said Agravaine, hurriedly, 'was just telling methat breakfast would--'

The sentence remained unfinished. A sudden movement of the earl's hand, and the great door banged in his face. There came the sound of a boltshooting into its socket. A key turned in the lock. He was trapped. 

Outside, the earl had seized his daughter by the wrist and wasadministering a paternal cross-examination. 

'What were you saying to him?'

Yvonne did not flinch. 

'I was bidding him fly. '

'If he wants to leave this castle, ' said the earl, grimly, 'he'll haveto. '

'Father, ' said Yvonne, ' I can't. '

'Can't what?'

'I can't. '

His grip on her wrist tightened. From the other side of the door camethe muffled sound of blows on the solid oak. 'Oh?' said Earl Dorm. 'You can't, eh? Well, listen to me. You've got to. Do you understand? Iadmit he might be better-looking, but--'

'Father, I love him. '

He released her wrist, and stared at her in the uncertain light. 

'You love him!'

'Yes. '

'Then what--? Why? Well, I never did understand women, ' he said atlast, and stumped off down the passage. 

While this cryptic conversation was in progress, Agravaine, his worstapprehensions realized, was trying to batter down the door. After a fewmoments, however, he realized the futility of his efforts, and sat downon the bed to think. 

At the risk of forfeiting the reader's respect, it must be admittedthat his first emotion was one of profound relief. If he was locked uplike this, it must mean that that dragon story was fictitious, and thatall danger was at an end of having to pit his inexperience against aravening monster who had spent a lifetime devouring knights. He hadnever liked the prospect, though he had been prepared to go throughwith it, and to feel that it was definitely cancelled made up for agood deal. 

His mind next turned to his immediate future. What were they going todo with him? On this point he felt tolerably comfortable. Thisimprisonment could mean nothing more than that he would be compelled todisgorge a ransom. This did not trouble him. He was rich, and, now thatthe situation had been switched to a purely business basis, he feltthat he could handle it. 

In any case, there was nothing to be gained by sitting up, so he wentto bed, like a good philosopher. 

The sun was pouring through the barred window when he was awoken by theentrance of a gigantic figure bearing food and drink. 

He recognized him as one of the scurvy knaves who had dined at thebottom of the room the night before--a vast, beetle-browed fellow witha squint, a mop of red hair, and a genius for silence. To Agravaine'sattempts to engage him in conversation he replied only with grunts, andin a short time left the room, closing and locking the door behind him. 

He was succeeded at dusk by another of about the same size andugliness, and with even less conversational _elan_. This one didnot even grunt. 

Small-talk, it seemed, was not an art cultivated in any great measureby the lower orders in the employment of Earl Dorm. 

The next day passed without incident. In the morning the strabismicplug-ugly with the red hair brought him food and drink, while in theevening the non-grunter did the honours. It was a peaceful life, buttending towards monotony, and Agravaine was soon in the frame of mindwhich welcomes any break in the daily round. 

He was fortunate enough to get it. 

He had composed himself for sleep that night, and was just droppingcomfortably off, when from the other side of the door he heard thesound of angry voices. 

It was enough to arouse him. On the previous night silence had reigned. Evidently something out of the ordinary was taking place. 

He listened intently and distinguished words. 

'Who was it I did see thee coming down the road with?'

'Who was it thou didst see me coming down the road with?'

'Aye, who was it I did see thee coming down the road with?'

'Who dost thou think thou art?'

'Who do I think that I am?'

'Aye, who dost thou think thou art?'

Agravaine could make nothing of it. As a matter of fact, he was hearingthe first genuine cross-talk that had ever occurred in those dim, pre-music-hall days. In years to come dialogue on these lines was tobe popular throughout the length and breadth of Great Britain. Buttill then it had been unknown. 

The voices grew angrier. To an initiated listener it would have beenplain that in a short while words would be found inadequate and thedagger, that medieval forerunner of the slap-stick, brought into play. But to Agravaine, all inexperienced, it came as a surprise whensuddenly with a muffled thud two bodies fell against the door. Therewas a scuffling noise, some groans, and then silence. 

And then with amazement he heard the bolt shoot back and a key grate inthe keyhole. 

The door swung open. It was dark outside, but Agravaine coulddistinguish a female form, and, beyond, a shapeless mass which he tookcorrectly to be the remains of the two plug-uglies. 

'It is I, Yvonne, ' said a voice. 

'What is it? What has been happening?'

'It was I. I set them against each other. They both loved one of thekitchen-maids. I made them jealous. I told Walt privily that she hadfavoured Dickon, and Dickon privily that she loved Walt. And now--'

She glanced at the shapeless heap, and shuddered. Agravaine nodded. 

'No wedding-bells for her, ' he said, reverently. 

'And I don't care. I did it to save you. But come! We are wasting time. Come! I will help you to escape. '

A man who has been shut up for two days in a small room is seldom slowoff the mark when a chance presents itself of taking exercise. Agravaine followed without a word, and together they crept down thedark staircase until they had reached the main hall. From somewhere inthe distance came the rhythmic snores of scurvy knaves getting theireight hours. 

Softly Yvonne unbolted a small door, and, passing through it, Agravainefound himself looking up at the stars, while the great walls of thecastle towered above him. 

'Good-bye, ' said Yvonne. 

There was a pause. For the first time Agravaine found himselfexamining the exact position of affairs. After his sojourn in theguarded room, freedom looked very good to him. But freedom meantparting from Yvonne. 

He looked at the sky and he looked at the castle walls, and he took astep back towards the door. 

'I'm not so sure I want to go, ' he said. 

'Oh, fly! Fly, Sir Knight!' she cried. 

'You don't understand, ' said Agravaine. 'I don't want to seem to besaying anything that might be interpreted as in the least derogatory toyour father in any way whatever, but without prejudice, surely he isjust a plain, ordinary brigand? I mean it's only a question of aransom? And I don't in the least object--'

'No, no, no. ' Her voice trembled. 'He would ask no ransom. '

'Don't tell me he kidnaps people just as a hobby!'

'You don't understand. He--No, I cannot tell you. Fly!'

'What don't I understand?'

She was silent. Then she began to speak rapidly. 'Very well. I willtell you. Listen. My father had six children, all daughters. We werepoor. We had to stay buried in this out-of-the-way spot. We saw no one. It seemed impossible that any of us should ever marry. My father was indespair. Then he said, "If we cannot get to town, the town must come tous. " So he sent my sister Yseult to Camelot to ask the king to let ushave a knight to protect us against a giant with three heads. There wasno giant, but she got the knight. It was Sir Sagramore. Perhaps youknew him?'

Agravaine nodded. He began to see daylight. 

'My sister Yseult was very beautiful. After the first day Sir Sagramoreforgot all about the giant, and seemed to want to do nothing elseexcept have Yseult show him how to play cat's cradle. They were marriedtwo months later, and my father sent my sister Elaine to Camelot toask for a knight to protect us against a wild unicorn. '

'And who bit?' asked Agravaine, deeply interested. 

'Sir Malibran of Devon. They were married within three weeks, and myfather--I can't go on. You understand now. '

'I understand the main idea, ' said Agravaine. 'But in my case--'

'You were to marry me, ' said Yvonne. Her voice was quiet and cold, butshe was quivering. 

Agravaine was conscious of a dull, heavy weight pressing on his heart. He had known his love was hopeless, but even hopelessness is the betterfor being indefinite. He understood now. 

'And you naturally want to get rid of me before it can happen, ' hesaid. 'I don't wonder. I'm not vain... Well, I'll go. I knew I had nochance. Good-bye. '

He turned. She stopped him with a sharp cry. 

'What do you mean? You cannot wish to stay now? I am saving you. '

'Saving me! I have loved you since the moment you entered the Hall atCamelot, ' said Agravaine. 

She drew in her breath. 

'You--you love me!'

They looked at each other in the starlight. She held out her hands. 

'Agravaine!'

She drooped towards him, and he gathered her into his arms. For anovice, he did it uncommonly well. 

It was about six months later that Agravaine, having ridden into theforest, called upon a Wise Man at his cell. 

In those days almost anyone who was not a perfect bonehead could set upas a Wise Man and get away with it. All you had to do was to live in aforest and grow a white beard. This particular Wise Man, for a wonder, had a certain amount of rude sagacity. He listened carefully to whatthe knight had to say. 

'It has puzzled me to such an extent, ' said Agravaine, 'that I feltthat I must consult a specialist. You see me. Take a good look at me. What do you think of my personal appearance? You needn't hesitate. It'sworse than that. I am the ugliest man in England. '

'Would you go as far as that?' said the Wise Man, politely. 

'Farther. And everybody else thinks so. Everybody except my wife. Shetells me that I am a model of manly beauty. You know Lancelot? Well, she says I have Lancelot whipped to a custard. What do you make ofthat? And here's another thing. It is perfectly obvious to me that mywife is one of the most beautiful creatures in existence. I have seenthem all, and I tell you that she stands alone. She is literallymarooned in Class A, all by herself. Yet she insists that she is plain. What do you make of it?'

The Wise Man stroked his beard. 

'My son, ' he said, 'the matter is simple. True love takes no account oflooks. '

'No?' said Agravaine. 

'You two are affinities. Therefore, to you the outward aspect is nothing. Put it like this. Love is a thingummybob who what-d'you-call-its. '

'I'm beginning to see, ' said Agravaine. 

'What I meant was this. Love is a wizard greater than Merlin. He playsodd tricks with the eyesight. '

'Yes, ' said Agravaine. 

'Or, put it another way. Love is a sculptor greater than Praxiteles. Hetakes an unsightly piece of clay and moulds it into a thing divine. '

'I get you, ' said Agravaine. 

The Wise Man began to warm to his work. 

'Or shall we say--'

'I think I must be going, ' said Agravaine. 'I promised my wife I wouldbe back early. '

'We might put it--' began the Wise Man perseveringly. 

'I understand, ' said Agravaine, hurriedly. 'I quite see now. Good-bye. '

The Wise Man sighed resignedly. 

'Good-bye, Sir Knight, ' he said. 'Good-bye. Pay at ye desk. '

And Agravaine rode on his way marvelling. 

THE GOAL-KEEPER AND THE PLUTOCRAT

The main difficulty in writing a story is to convey to the readerclearly yet tersely the natures and dispositions of one's leadingcharacters. Brevity, brevity--that is the cry. Perhaps, after all, theplay-bill style is the best. In this drama of love, football(Association code), and politics, then, the principals are as follows, in their order of entry:

ISABEL RACKSTRAW (an angel). 

THE HON. CLARENCE TRESILLIAN (a Greek god). 

LADY RUNNYMEDE (a proud old aristocrat). 

MR RACKSTRAW (a multi-millionaire City man and Radical politician). 

More about Clarence later. For the moment let him go as a Greek god. There were other sides, too, to Mr Rackstraw's character, but for themoment let him go as a multi-millionaire City man and Radicalpolitician. Not that it is satisfactory; it is too mild. The Radicalpolitics of other Radical politicians were as skim-milk to the Radicalpolitics of Radical Politician Rackstraw. Where Mr Lloyd Georgereferred to the House of Lords as blithering backwoodsmen and asinineanachronisms, Mr Rackstraw scorned to be so guarded in his speech. Hedid not mince his words. His attitude towards a member of the peeragewas that of the terrier to the perambulating cat. 

It was at a charity bazaar that Isabel and Clarence first met. Isabelwas presiding over the Billiken, Teddy--bear, and Fancy Goods stall. There she stood, that slim, radiant girl, bouncing Ardent Youth out ofits father's hard--earned with a smile that alone was nearly worth themoney, when she observed, approaching, the handsomest man she had everseen. It was--this is not one of those mystery stories--it wasClarence Tresillian. Over the heads of the bevy of gilded youths whoclustered round the stall their eyes met. A thrill ran through Isabel. She dropped her eyes. The next moment Clarence had made his spring; thegilded youths had shredded away like a mist, and he was leaning towardsher, opening negotiations for the purchase of a yellow Teddy-bear atsixteen times its face value. 

He returned at intervals during the afternoon. Over the second Teddy-bearthey became friendly, over the third intimate. He proposed as she waswrapping up the fourth golliwog, and she gave him her heart and theparcel simultaneously. At six o'clock, carrying four Teddy-bears, sevenphotograph frames, five golliwogs, and a billiken, Clarence went hometo tell the news to his parents. 

Clarence, when not at the University, lived with his father and motherin Belgrave Square. His mother had been a Miss Trotter, of Chicago, andit was on her dowry that the Runnymedes contrived to make both endsmeet. For a noble family they were in somewhat straitened circumstancesfinancially. They lived, simply and without envy of their richfellow-citizens, on their hundred thousand pounds a year. They asked nomore. It enabled them to entertain on a modest scale. Clarence had beenable to go to Oxford; his elder brother, Lord Staines, into the Guards. The girls could buy an occasional new frock. On the whole, they were athoroughly happy, contented English family of the best sort. Mr Trotter, it is true, was something of a drawback. He was a rugged old taintedmillionaire of the old school, with a fondness for shirt-sleeves and atendency to give undue publicity to toothpicks. But he had been made tounderstand at an early date that the dead-line for him was the farthershore of the Atlantic Ocean, and he now gave little trouble. 

Having dressed for dinner, Clarence proceeded to the library, where hefound his mother in hysterics and his father in a state of collapse onthe sofa. Clarence was too well-bred to make any comment. A trueRunnymede, he affected to notice nothing, and, picking up the eveningpaper, began to read. The announcement of his engagement could bepostponed to a more suitable time. 

'Clarence!' whispered a voice from the sofa. 

'Yes, father?'

The silver-haired old man gasped for utterance. 

'I've lost my little veto, ' he said, brokenly, at length. 

'Where did you see it last?' asked Clarence, ever practical. 

'It's that fellow Rackstraw!' cried the old man, in feeble rage. 'Thatbounder Rackstraw! He's the man behind it all. The robber!'

'Clarence!'

It was his mother who spoke. Her voice seemed to rip the air into amillion shreds and stamp on them. There are few things more terriblethan a Chicago voice raised in excitement or anguish. 

'Mother?'

'Never mind your pop and his old veto. He didn't know he had one tillthe paper said he'd lost it. You listen to me. Clarence, we areruined. '

Clarence looked at her inquiringly. 

'Ruined much?' he asked. 

'Bed-rock, ' said his mother. 'If we have sixty thousand dollars a yearafter this, it's all we shall have. '

A low howl escaped from the stricken old man on the sofa. 

Clarence betrayed no emotion. 

'Ah, ' he said, calmly. 'How did it happen?'

'I've just had a cable from Chicago, from your grand-pop. He's beentrying to corner wheat. He always was an impulsive old gazook. '

'But surely, ' said Clarence, a dim recollection of something he hadheard or read somewhere coming to him, 'isn't cornering wheat a ratherprofitable process?'

'Sure, ' said his mother. 'Sure it is. I guess dad's try at corneringwheat was about the most profitable thing that ever happened--to theother fellows. It seems like they got busy and clubbed fifty-sevenvarieties of Hades out of your old grand-pop. He's got to give up a lotof his expensive habits, and one of them is sending money to us. That'show it is. '

'And on top of that, mind you, ' moaned Lord Runnymede, 'I lose mylittle veto. It's bitter--bitter. '

Clarence lit a cigarette and drew at it thoughtfully. 'I don't see howwe're going to manage on twelve thousand quid a year, ' he said. 

His mother crisply revised his pronouns. 

'We aren't, ' she said. 'You've got to get out and hustle. '

Clarence looked at her blankly. 

'Me?'

'You. '

'Work?'

'Work. '

Clarence drew a deep breath. 

'Work? Well, of course, mind you, fellows _do_ work, ' he went on, thoughtfully. 'I was lunching with a man at the Bachelor's onlyyesterday who swore he knew a fellow who had met a man whose cousinworked. But I don't see what I could do, don't you know. '

His father raised himself on the sofa. 

'Haven't I given you the education of an English gentleman?'

'That's the difficulty, ' said Clarence. 

'Can't you do _anything_?' asked his mother. 

'Well, I can play footer. By Jove, I'll sign on as a pro. I'll take anew name. I'll call myself Jones. I can get signed on in a minute. Anyclub will jump at me. '

This was no idle boast. Since early childhood Clarence had concentratedhis energies on becoming a footballer, and was now an exceedingly finegoal-keeper. It was a pleasing sight to see him, poised on one foot inthe attitude of a Salome dancer, with one eye on the man with the ball, the other gazing coldly on the rest of the opposition forward line, uncurl abruptly like the main-spring of a watch and stop a hot one. Clarence in goal was the nearest approach to an india-rubber acrobatand society contortionist to be seen off the music-hall stage. He was, in brief, hot stuff. He had the goods. 

Scarcely had he uttered these momentous words when the butler enteredwith the announcement that he was wanted by a lady on the telephone. 

It was Isabel, disturbed and fearful. 

'Oh, Clarence, ' she cried, 'my precious angel wonder-child, I don'tknow how to begin. '

'Begin just like that, ' said Clarence, approvingly. 'It's topping. Youcan't beat it. '

'Clarence, a terrible thing has happened. I told papa of ourengagement, and he wouldn't hear of it. He c-called you a a p-p-p--'

'A what?'

'A pr-pr-pr--'

'He's wrong. I'm nothing of the sort. He must be thinking of someoneelse. '

'A preposterous excrescence on the social cosmos. He doesn't like yourfather being an earl. '

'A man may be an earl and still a gentleman, ' said Clarence, notwithout a touch of coldness in his voice. 

'I forgot to tell him that. But I don't think it would make anydifference. He says I shall only marry a man who works. '

'I am going to work, dearest, ' said Clarence. 'I am going to work like ahorse. Something--I know not what--tells me I shall be rather good atwork. And one day when I--'

'Good-bye, ' said Isabel, hastily. 'I hear papa coming. '

 * * * * *

Clarence, as he had predicted, found no difficulty in obtainingemployment. He was signed on at once, under the name of Jones, byHoundsditch Wednesday, the premier metropolitan club, and embarked atonce on his new career. 

The season during which Clarence Tresillian kept goal for HoundsditchWednesday is destined to live long in the memory of followers ofprofessional football. Probably never in the history of the game hasthere been such persistent and widespread mortality among the moredistant relatives of office-boys and junior clerks. Statisticians haveestimated that if all the grandmothers alone who perished between themonths of September and April that season could have been placed end toend, they would have reached from Hyde Park Corner to the outskirts ofManchester. And it was Clarence who was responsible for thisholocaust. Previous to the opening of the season sceptics had shakentheir heads over the Wednesday's chances in the First League. Otherclubs had bought up the best men in the market, leaving only a mixedassortment of inferior Scotsmen, Irishmen, and Northcountrymen touphold the honour of the London club. 

And then, like a meteor, Clarence Tresillian had flashed upon the worldof football. In the opening game he had behaved in the goal-mouth likea Chinese cracker, and exhibited an absolutely impassable defence; andfrom then onward, except for an occasional check, Houndsditch Wednesdayhad never looked back. 

Among the spectators who flocked to the Houndsditch ground to watchClarence perform there appeared week after week a little, grey, dried-upman, insignificant except for a certain happy choice of language inmoments of emotion and an enthusiasm far surpassing that of theordinary spectator. To the trained eye there are subtle distinctionsbetween football enthusiasts. This man belonged to the comparativelysmall class of those who have football on the cerebrum. 

Fate had made Daniel Rackstraw a millionaire and a Radical, but atheart he was a spectator of football. He never missed a match. Hislibrary of football literature was the finest in the country. Hisfootball museum had but one equal, that of Mr Jacob Dodson, ofManchester. Between them the two had cornered, at enormous expense, thecurio market of the game. It was Rackstraw who had secured theauthentic pair of boots in which Bloomer had first played for England;but it was Dodson who possessed the painted india-rubber ball used byMeredith when a boy--probably the first thing except a nurse everkicked by that talented foot. The two men were friends, as far as rivalconnoisseurs can be friends; and Mr Dodson, when at leisure, wouldfrequently pay a visit to Mr Rackstraw's country house, where he wouldspend hours gazing wistfully at the Bloomer boots, buoyed up only bythe thoughts of the Meredith ball at home. 

Isabel saw little of Clarence during the winter months, except from adistance. She contented herself with clipping photographs of him fromthe sporting papers. Each was a little more unlike him than the last, and this lent variety to the collection. Her father marked her new-bornenthusiasm for the game with approval. It had been secretly a greatgrief to the old gentleman that his only child did not know thedifference between a linesman and an inside right, and, more, did notseem to care to know. He felt himself drawn closer to her. Anunderstanding, as pleasant as it was new and strange, began to springup between parent and child. 

As for Clarence, how easy it would be to haul up one's slacks topractically an unlimited extent on the subject of his emotions at thistime. One can figure him, after the game is over and the gay throng hasdispersed, creeping moodily--but what's the use? Brevity--that is thecry. Brevity. Let us on. 

The months sped by; the Cup-ties began, and soon it was evident thatthe Final must be fought out between Houndsditch Wednesday and Mr JacobDodson's pet team, Manchester United. With each match the Wednesdayseemed to improve. Clarence was a Gibraltar among goal-keepers. 

Those were delirious days for Daniel Rackstraw. Long before the fourthround his voice had dwindled to a husky whisper. Deep lines appeared onhis forehead; for it is an awful thing for a football enthusiast to becompelled to applaud, in the very middle of the Cup-ties, purely bymeans of facial expression. In this time of affliction he found Isabelan ever-increasing comfort to him. Side by side they would sit, and theold man's face would lose its drawn look, and light up, as her clearyoung soprano pealed out over the din, urging this player to shoot, that to kick some opponent in the face; or describing the referee in nouncertain terms as a reincarnation of the late Mr Dick Turpin. 

And now the day of the Final at the Crystal Palace approached, and allEngland was alert, confident of a record-breaking contest. But alas!How truly does Epictetus observe: 'We know not what awaiteth us roundthe corner, and the hand that counteth its chickens ere they be hatchedoft-times doth but step on the banana-skin. ' The prophets whoanticipated a struggle keener than any in football history weredestined to be proved false. 

It was not that their judgement of form was at fault. On the run of theseason's play Houndsditch Wednesday _v_. Manchester United shouldhave been the two most evenly-matched teams in the history of the game. Forward, the latter held a slight superiority; but this was balanced bythe inspired goal-keeping of Clarence Tresillian. Even the keenestsupporters of either side were not confident. They argued at length, figuring out the odds with the aid of stubs of pencils and the backs ofenvelopes, but they were not confident. Out of all those frenziedmillions two men alone had no doubts. Mr Daniel Rackstraw said that hedid not desire to be unfair to Manchester United. He wished it to beclearly understood that in their own class Manchester United mightquite possibly show to considerable advantage. In some rural league, for instance, he did not deny that they might sweep all before them. But when it came to competing with Houndsditch Wednesday--here wordsfailed Mr Rackstraw. 

Mr Jacob Dodson, interviewed by the _Manchester Weekly FootballBoot_, stated that his decision, arrived at after a close andcareful study of the work of both teams, was that Houndsditch Wednesdayhad rather less chance in the forthcoming tourney than a stuffed rat inthe Battersea Dogs' Home. It was his carefully-considered opinion thatin a contest with the second eleven of a village Church Lads' Brigade, Houndsditch Wednesday might, with an effort (conceding them that sliceof luck which so often turns the tide of a game), scrape home. But whenit was a question of meeting a team like Manchester United--here MrDodson, shrugging his shoulders despairingly, sank back in his chair, and watchful secretaries brought him round with oxygen. 

Throughout the whole country nothing but the approaching match wasdiscussed. Wherever civilization reigned, and in portions of Liverpool, one question alone was on every lip: Who would win? Octogenariansmumbled it. Infants lisped it. Tired City men, trampled under foot inthe rush for their tram, asked it of the ambulance attendants whocarried them to the hospital. 

And then, one bright, clear morning, when the birds sang and all Natureseemed fair and gay, Clarence Tresillian developed mumps. 

London was in a ferment. I could have wished to go into details, todescribe in crisp, burning sentences the panic that swept like atornado through a million homes. A little encouragement, the slightestsoftening of the editorial austerity and the thing would have beendone. But no. Brevity. That was the cry. Brevity. Let us on. 

Houndsditch Wednesday met Manchester United at the Crystal Palace, andfor nearly two hours the sweat of agony trickled unceasingly down thecorrugated foreheads of the patriots in the stands. The men fromManchester, freed from the fear of Clarence, smiled grim smiles andproceeded to pile up points. It was in vain that the Houndsditch backsand halfbacks skimmed like swallows about the field. They could notkeep the score down. From start to finish Houndsditch were a beatenside. 

London during that black period was a desert. Gloom gripped the City. In distant Brixton red-eyed wives faced silently-scowling husbands atthe evening meal, and the children were sent early to bed. Newsboyscalled the extras in a whisper. 

Few took the tragedy more nearly to heart than Daniel Rackstraw. Leaving the ground with the air of a father mourning over some prodigalson, he encountered Mr Jacob Dodson, of Manchester. 

Now, Mr Dodson was perhaps the slightest bit shy on the finer feelings. He should have respected the grief of a fallen foe. He should haveabstained from exulting. But he was in too exhilarated a condition tobe magnanimous. Sighting Mr Rackstraw, he addressed himself joyously tothe task of rubbing the thing in. Mr Rackstraw listened in silentanguish. 

'If we had had Jones--' he said at length. 

'That's what they all say, ' whooped Mr Dodson, 'Jones! Who's Jones?'

'If we had had Jones, we should have--' He paused. An idea had flashedupon his overwrought mind. 'Dodson, ' he said, 'look here. Wait tillJones is well again, and let us play this thing off again for anythingyou like a side in my private park. '

Mr Dodson reflected. 

'You're on, ' he said. 'What side bet? A million? Two million? Three?'

Mr Rackstraw shook his head scornfully. 

'A million? Who wants a million? I'll put up my Bloomer boot againstyour Meredith ball. Does that go?'

'I should say it did, ' said Mr Dodson, joyfully. 'I've been wantingthat boot for years. It's like finding it in one's Christmas stocking. '

'Very well, ' said Mr Rackstraw. 'Then let's get it fixed up. '

Honestly, it is but a dog's life, that of the short-story writer. Iparticularly wished at this point to introduce a description of MrRackstraw's country house and estate, featuring the private footballground with its fringe of noble trees. It would have served a doublepurpose, not only charming the lover of nature, but acting as a finestimulus to the youth of the country, showing them the sort of homethey would be able to buy some day if they worked hard and saved theirmoney. But no. You shall have three guesses as to what was the cry. Yougive it up? It was Brevity--brevity! Let us on. 

The two teams arrived at Mr Rackstraw's house in time for lunch. Clarence, his features once more reduced to their customaryfinely-chiselled proportions, alighted from the automobile with aswelling heart. Presently he found an opportunity to slip away andmeet Isabel. I will pass lightly over the meeting of the two lovers. I will not describe the dewy softness of their eyes, the catching oftheir breath, their murmured endearments. I could, mind you. It is atjust such descriptions that I am particularly happy. But I have growndiscouraged. My spirit is broken. It is enough to say that Clarence hadreached a level of emotional eloquence rarely met with among goal-keepersof the First League, when Isabel broke from him with a startledexclamation, and vanished; and, looking over his shoulder, Clarenceobserved Mr Daniel Rackstraw moving towards him. 

It was evident from the millionaire's demeanour that he had seennothing. The look on his face was anxious, but not wrathful. Hesighted Clarence, and hurried up to him. 

'Jones, ' he said, 'I've been looking for you. I want a word with you. '

'A thousand, if you wish it, ' said Clarence, courteously. 

'Now, look here, ' said Mr Rackstraw. 'I want to explain to you justwhat this game means to me. Don't run away with the idea I've had youfellows down to play an exhibition game just to keep me merry andbright. If Houndsditch wins today, K means that I shall be able to holdup my head again and look my fellow-man in the face, instead ofcrawling round on my stomach and feeling like a black-beetle under asteam-roller. Do you get that?'

'I do, ' replied Clarence. 

'And not only that, ' went on the millionaire. 'There's more. I have putup my Bloomer boot against Mr Dodson's Meredith hall as a side bet. Youunderstand what that means? It means that either you win or my life issoured for ever. See?'

'I have got you, ' said Clarence. 

'Good. Then what I wanted to say was this. Today is your day forkeeping goal as you've never kept goal before. Everything depends onyou. With you keeping goal like mother used to make it, Houndsditch aresafe. Otherwise they are completely in the bouillon. It's one thing orthe other. It's all up to you. Win, and there's four thousand poundswaiting for you above what you share with the others. '

Clarence waved his hand deprecatingly. 

'Mr Rackstraw, ' he said, 'keep your dross. I care nothing for money. All I ask of you, ' proceeded Clarence, 'is your consent to myengagement to your daughter. '

Mr Rackstraw looked sharply at him. 

'Repeat that, ' he said. 'I don't think I quite got it. '

'All I ask is your consent to my engagement to your daughter. '

'Young man, ' said Mr Rackstraw, not without a touch of admiration, 'Iadmire cheek. But there is a limit. That limit you have passed so farthat you'd need to look for it with a telescope. '

'You refuse your consent?'

'I never said you weren't a clever guesser. '

'Why?'

Mr Rackstraw laughed. One of those nasty, sharp, metallic laughs thathit you like a bullet. 

'How would you support my daughter?'

'I was thinking that you would help to some extent. '

'You were, were you?'

'I was. '

'Oh?'

Mr Rackstraw emitted another of those laughs. 

'Well, ' he said, 'it's off. You can take that as coming from anauthoritative source. No wedding-bells for you. '

Clarence drew himself up, fire flashing from his eyes and a bittersmile curving his expressive lips. 

'And no Meredith ball for you!' he cried. 

Mr Rackstraw started as if some strong hand had plunged an auger intohim. 

'What?' he shouted. 

Clarence shrugged his superbly-modelled shoulders in silence. 

'Come, come, ' said Mr Rackstraw, 'you wouldn't let a little privatedifference like that influence you in a really important thing likethis football match, would you?'

'I would. '

'You would practically blackmail the father of the girl you love?'

'Every time. '

'Her white-haired old father?'

'The colour of his hair would not affect me. '

'Nothing would move you?'

'Nothing. '

'Then, by George, you're just the son-in-law I want. You shall marryIsabel; and I'll take you into partnership in my business this veryday. I've been looking for a good able-bodied bandit like you foryears. You make Captain Kidd look like a preliminary three-round bout. My boy, we'll be the greatest combination, you and I, that the City hasever seen. Shake hands. '

For a moment Clarence hesitated. Then his better nature prevailed, andhe spoke. 

'Mr Rackstraw, ' he said, 'I cannot deceive you. '

'That won't matter, ' said the enthusiastic old man. 'I bet you'll beable to deceive everybody else. I see it in your eye. My boy, we'll bethe greatest--'

'My name is not Jones. '

'Nor is mine. What does that matter?'

'My name is Tresillian. The Hon. Tresillian. I am the younger son ofthe Earl of Runnymede. To a man of your political views--'

'Nonsense, nonsense, ' said Mr Rackstraw. 'What are political viewscompared with the chance of getting a goal-keeper like you into thefamily? I remember Isabel saying something to me about you, but Ididn't know who you were then. '

'I am a preposterous excrescence on the social cosmos, ' said Clarence, eyeing him doubtfully. 

'Then I'll be one too, ' cried Mr Rackstraw. 'I own I've set my faceagainst it hitherto, but circumstances alter cases. I'll ring up thePrime Minister on the phone tomorrow, and buy a title myself. '

Clarence's last scruple was removed. Silently he gripped the old man'shand, outstretched to meet his. 

Little remains to be said, but I am going to say it, if it snows. I amat my best in these tender scenes of idyllic domesticity. 

Four years have passed. Once more we are in the Rackstraw home. A ladyis coming down the stairs, leading by the hand her little son. It isIsabel. The years have dealt lightly with her. She is still the samestately, beautiful creature whom I would have described in detail longago if I had been given half a chance. At the foot of the stairs thechild stops and points at a small, round object in a glass case. 

'Wah?' he says. 

'That?' said Isabel. 'That is the ball Mr Meredith used to play withwhen he was a little boy. '

She looks at a door on the left of the hall, and puts a finger to herlip. 

'Hush!' she says. 'We must be quiet. Daddy and grandpa are busy inthere cornering wheat. '

And softly mother and child go out into the sunlit garden. 

IN ALCALA

In Alcala, as in most of New York's apartment houses, the schedule ofprices is like a badly rolled cigarette--thick in the middle and thinat both ends. The rooms half-way up are expensive; some of them almostas expensive as if Fashion, instead of being gone for ever, were stilllingering. The top rooms are cheap, the ground-floor rooms cheaperstill. 

Cheapest of all was the hall-bedroom. Its furniture was of thesimplest. It consisted of a chair, another chair, a worn carpet, and afolding-bed. The folding-bed had an air of depression and baffledhopes. For years it had been trying to look like a bookcase in thedaytime, and now it looked more like a folding-bed than ever. Therewas also a plain deal table, much stained with ink. At this, nightafter night, sometimes far into the morning, Rutherford Maxwell wouldsit and write stories. Now and then it happened that one would be agood story, and find a market. 

Rutherford Maxwell was an Englishman, and the younger son of anEnglishman; and his lot was the lot of the younger sons all the worldover. He was by profession one of the numerous employees of the NewAsiatic Bank, which has its branches all over the world. It is a sound, trustworthy institution, and steady-going relatives would assureRutherford that he was lucky to have got a berth in it. Rutherford didnot agree with them. However sound and trustworthy, it was not exactlyromantic. Nor did it err on the side of over-lavishness to those whoserved it. Rutherford's salary was small. So were his prospects--if heremained in the bank. At a very early date he had registered a vow thathe would not. And the road that led out of it for him was the uphillroad of literature. 

He was thankful for small mercies. Fate had not been over-kind up tothe present, but at least she had dispatched him to New York, thecentre of things, where he would have the chance to try, instead of tosome spot off the map. Whether he won or lost, at any rate he was inthe ring, and could fight. So every night he sat in Alcala, and wrote. Sometimes he would only try to write, and that was torture. 

There is never an hour of the day or night when Alcala is whollyasleep. The middle of the house is a sort of chorus-girl belt, while inthe upper rooms there are reporters and other nightbirds. Long after hehad gone to bed, Rutherford would hear footsteps passing his door andthe sound of voices in the passage. He grew to welcome them. Theyseemed to connect him with the outer world. But for them he was aloneafter he had left the office, utterly alone, as it is possible to beonly in the heart of a great city. Some nights he would hear scraps ofconversations, at rare intervals a name. He used to build up in hismind identities for the owners of the names. One in particular, Peggy, gave him much food for thought. He pictured her as bright andvivacious. This was because she sang sometimes as she passed his door. She had been singing when he first heard her name. 'Oh, cut it out, Peggy, ' a girl's voice had said. 'Don't you get enough of that tune atthe theatre?' He felt that he would like to meet Peggy. 

June came, and July, making an oven of New York, bringing close, scorching days and nights when the pen seemed made of lead; and stillRutherford worked on, sipping ice-water, in his shirt-sleeves, andfilling the sheets of paper slowly, but with a dogged persistence whichthe weather could not kill. Despite the heat, he was cheerful. Thingswere beginning to run his way a little now. A novelette, an airytrifle, conceived in days when the thermometer was lower and it waspossible to think, and worked out almost mechanically, had beenaccepted by a magazine of a higher standing than those which hithertohad shown him hospitality. He began to dream of a holiday in the woods. The holiday spirit was abroad. Alcala was emptying itself. It would notbe long before he too would be able to get away. 

He was so deep in his thoughts that at first he did not hear theknocking at the door. But it was a sharp, insistent knocking, andforced itself upon his attention. He got up and turned the handle. 

Outside in the passage was standing a girl, tall and sleepy-eyed. Shewore a picture-hat and a costume the keynote of which was a certainaggressive attractiveness. There was no room for doubt as to whichparticular brand of scent was her favourite at the moment. 

She gazed at Rutherford dully. Like Banquo's ghost, she had nospeculation in her eyes. Rutherford looked at her inquiringly, somewhatconscious of his shirt-sleeves. 

'Did you knock?' he said, opening, as a man must do, with theinevitable foolish question. 

The apparition spoke. 

'Say, ' she said, 'got a cigarette?'

'I'm afraid I haven't, ' said Rutherford, apologetically. 'I've beensmoking a pipe. I'm very sorry. '

'What?' said the apparition. 

'I'm afraid I haven't. '

'Oh!' A pause. 'Say, got a cigarette?'

The intellectual pressure of the conversation was beginning to be alittle too much for Rutherford. Combined with the heat of the night itmade his head swim. 

His visitor advanced into the room. Arriving at the table, she beganfiddling with its contents. The pen seemed to fascinate her. She pickedit up and inspected it closely. 

'Say, what d'you call this?' she said. 

'That's a pen, ' said Rutherford, soothingly. 'A fountain-pen. '

'Oh!' A pause. 'Say, got a cigarette?'

Rutherford clutched a chair with one hand, and his forehead with theother. He was in sore straits. 

At this moment Rescue arrived, not before it was needed. A brisk soundof footsteps in the passage, and there appeared in the doorway a secondgirl. 

'What do you think you're doing, Gladys?' demanded the new-comer. 'Youmustn't come butting into folks' rooms this way. Who's your friend?'

'My name is Maxwell, ' began Rutherford eagerly. 

'What say, Peggy?' said the seeker after cigarettes, dropping a sheetof manuscript to the floor. 

Rutherford looked at the girl in the doorway with interest. So this wasPeggy. She was little, and trim of figure. That was how he had alwaysimagined her. Her dress was simpler than the other's. The face beneaththe picture-hat was small and well-shaped, the nose delicatelytip-tilted, the chin determined, the mouth a little wide and suggestinggood-humour. A pair of grey eyes looked steadily into his beforetransferring themselves to the statuesque being at the table. 

'Don't monkey with the man's inkwell, Gladys. Come along up to bed. '

'What? Say, got a cigarette?'

'There's plenty upstairs. Come along. '

The other went with perfect docility. At the door she paused, andinspected Rutherford with a grave stare. 

'Good night, boy!' she said, with haughty condescension. 

'Good night!' said Rutherford. 

'Pleased to have met you. Good night. '

'Good night!' said Rutherford. 

'Good night!'

'Come along, Gladys, ' said Peggy, firmly. 

Gladys went. 

Rutherford sat down and dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief, feeling a little weak. He was not used to visitors. 

2

He had lit his pipe, and was re-reading his night's work preparatory toturning in, when there was another knock at the door. This time therewas no waiting. He was in the state of mind when one hears the smallestnoise. 

'Come in!' he cried. 

It was Peggy. 

Rutherford jumped to his feet. 

'Won't you--' he began, pushing the chair forward. 

She seated herself with composure on the table. She no longer wore thepicture-hat, and Rutherford, looking at her, came to the conclusionthat the change was an improvement. 

'This'll do for me, ' she said. 'Thought I'd just look in. I'm sorryabout Gladys. She isn't often like that. It's the hot weather. '

'It is hot, ' said Rutherford. 

'You've noticed it? Bully for you! Back to the bench for SherlockHolmes. Did Gladys try to shoot herself?'

'Good heavens, no! Why?'

'She did once. But I stole her gun, and I suppose she hasn't thought toget another. She's a good girl really, only she gets like thatsometimes in the hot weather. ' She looked round the room for a moment, then gazed unwinkingly at Rutherford. 'What did you say your name was?'she asked. 

'Rutherford Maxwell. '

'Gee! That's going some, isn't it? Wants amputation, a name like that. I call it mean to give a poor, defenceless kid a cuss-word like--what'sit? Rutherford? I got it--to go through the world with. Haven't you gotsomething shorter--Tom, or Charles or something?'

'I'm afraid not. '

The round, grey eyes fixed him again. 

'I shall call you George, ' she decided at last. 

'Thanks, I wish you would, ' said Rutherford. 

'George it is, then. You can call me Peggy. Peggy Norton's my name. '

'Thanks, I will. '

'Say, you're English, aren't you?' she said. 

'Yes. How did you know?'

'You're so strong on the gratitude thing. It's "Thanks, thanks, " allthe time. Not that I mind it, George. '

'Thanks. Sorry. I should say, "Oh, you Peggy!"'

She looked at him curiously. 

'How d'you like New York, George?'

'Fine--tonight. '

'Been to Coney?'

'Not yet. '

'You should. Say, what do you do, George?'

'What do I do?'

'Cut it out, George! Don't answer back as though we were a vaudevilleteam doing a cross-talk act. What do you do? When your boss crowds yourenvelope on to you Saturdays, what's it for?'

'I'm in a bank. '

'Like it?'

'Hate it!'

'Why don't you quit, then?'

'Can't afford to. There's money in being in a bank. Not much, it'strue, but what there is of it is good. '

'What are you doing out of bed at this time of night? They don't workyou all day, do they?'

'No; they'd like to, but they don't. I have been writing. '

'Writing what? Say, you don't mind my putting you on the witness-stand, do you? If you do, say so, and I'll cut out the District Attorney actand talk about the weather. '

'Not a bit, really, I assure you. Please ask as many questions as youlike. '

'Guess there's no doubt about your being English, George. We don't havetime over here to shoot it off like that. If you'd have just said"Sure!" I'd have got a line on your meaning. You don't mind me doingschool-marm, George, do you? It's all for your good. '

'Sure, ' said Rutherford, with a grin. 

She smiled approvingly. 

'That's better! You're Little Willie, the Apt Pupil, all right. Whatwere we talking about before we switched off on to the educationalrail? I know--about your writing. What were you writing?'

'A story. '

'For a paper?'

'For a magazine. '

'What! One of the fiction stories about the Gibson hero and the girlwhose life he saved, like you read?'

'That's the idea. '

She looked at him with a new interest. 

'Gee, George, who'd have thought it! Fancy you being one of thehigh-brows! You ought to hang out a sign. You look just ordinary. '

'Thanks!'

'I mean as far as the grey matter goes. I didn't mean you were a badlooker. You're not. You've got nice eyes, George. '

'Thanks. '

'I like the shape of your nose, too. '

'I say, thanks!'

'And your hair's just lovely!'

'I say, really. Thanks awfully!'

She eyed him in silence for a moment. Then she burst out:

'You say you don't like the bank?'

'I certainly don't. '

'And you'd like to strike some paying line of business?'

'Sure. '

'Then why don't you make your fortune by hiring yourself out to amuseum as the biggest human clam in captivity? That's what you are. Yousit there just saying "Thanks, " and "Bai Jawve, thanks awf'lly, " whilea girl's telling you nice things about your eyes and hair, and youdon't do a thing!'

Rutherford threw back his head and roared with laughter. 

'I'm sorry!' he said. 'Slowness is our national failing, you know. '

'I believe you. '

'Tell me about yourself. You know all about me, by now. What do you dobesides brightening up the dull evenings of poor devils of bank-clerks?'

'Give you three guesses. '

'Stage?'

'Gee! You're the human sleuth all right, all right! It's a home-runevery time when you get your deductive theories unlimbered. Yes, George; the stage it is. I'm an actorine--one of the pony ballet in_The Island of Girls_ at the Melody. Seen our show?'

'Not yet. I'll go tomorrow. '

'Great! I'll let them know, so that they can have the awning out andthe red carpet down. It's a cute little piece. '

'So I've heard. '

'Well, if I see you in front tomorrow, I'll give you half a smile, sothat you shan't feel you haven't got your money's worth. Good night, George!'

'Good night, Peggy!'

She jumped down from the table. Her eye was caught by the photographson the mantelpiece. She began to examine them. 

'Who are these Willies?' she said, picking up a group. 

'That is the football team of my old school. The lout with the sheepishsmirk, holding the ball, is myself as I was before the cares of theworld soured me. '

Her eye wandered along the mantelpiece, and she swooped down on acabinet photograph of a girl. 

'And who's _this_, George?' she cried. 

He took the photograph from her, and replaced it, with a curious blendof shyness and defiance, in the very centre of the mantelpiece. For amoment he stood looking intently at it, his elbows resting on theimitation marble. 

'Who is it?' asked Peggy. 'Wake up, George. Who's this?'

Rutherford started. 

'Sorry, ' he said. 'I was thinking about something. '

'I bet you were. You looked like it. Well, who is she?'

'Eh! Oh, that's a girl. '

Peggy laughed satirically. 

'Thanks awf'lly, as you would say. I've got eyes, George. '

'I noticed that, ' said Rutherford, smiling. 'Charming ones, too. '

'Gee! What would she say if she heard you talking like that!'

She came a step nearer, looking up at him. Their eyes met. 

'She would say, ' said Rutherford, slowly: '"I know you love me, and Iknow I can trust you, and I haven't the slightest objection to yourtelling Miss Norton the truth about her eyes. Miss Norton is a dear, good little sort, one of the best, in fact, and I hope you'll be greatpals!"'

There was a silence. 

'She'd say that, would she?' said Peggy, at last. 

'She would. '

Peggy looked at the photograph, and back again at Rutherford. 

'You're pretty fond of her, George, I guess, aren't you?'

'I am, ' said Rutherford, quietly. 

'George. '

'Yes?'

'George, she's a pretty good long way away, isn't she?'

She looked up at him with a curious light in her grey eyes. Rutherfordmet her glance steadily. 

'Not to me, ' he said. 'She's here now, and all the time. '

He stepped away and picked up the sheaf of papers which he had droppedat Peggy's entrance. Peggy laughed. 

'Good night, Georgie boy, ' she said. 'I mustn't keep you up any more, or you'll be late in the morning. And what would the bank do then?Smash or something, I guess. Good night, Georgie! See you again one ofthese old evenings. '

'Good night, Peggy!'

The door closed behind her. He heard her footsteps hesitate, stop, andthen move quickly on once more. 

3

He saw much of her after this first visit. Gradually it became anunderstood thing between them that she should look in on her returnfrom the theatre. He grew to expect her, and to feel restless when shewas late. Once she brought the cigarette-loving Gladys with her, butthe experiment was not a success. Gladys was languid and ratheroverpoweringly refined, and conversation became forced. After that, Peggy came alone. 

Generally she found him working. His industry amazed her. 

'Gee, George, ' she said one night, sitting in her favourite place onthe table, from which he had moved a little pile of manuscript to makeroom for her. 'Don't you ever let up for a second? Seems to me youwrite all the time. '

Rutherford laughed. 

'I'll take a rest, ' he said, 'when there's a bit more demand for mystuff than there is at present. When I'm in the twenty-cents-a-wordclass I'll write once a month, and spend the rest of my timetravelling. '

Peggy shook her head. 

'No travelling for mine, ' she said. 'Seems to me it's just cussednessthat makes people go away from Broadway when they've got plunks enoughto stay there and enjoy themselves. '

'Do you like Broadway, Peggy?'

'Do I like Broadway? Does a kid like candy? Why, don't you?'

'It's all right for the time. It's not my ideal. '

'Oh, and what particular sort of little old Paradise do _you_hanker after?'

He puffed at his pipe, and looked dreamily at her through the smoke. 

'Way over in England, Peggy, there's a county called Worcestershire. And somewhere near the edge of that there's a grey house with gables, and there's a lawn and a meadow and a shrubbery, and an orchard and arose-garden, and a big cedar on the terrace before you get to therose-garden. And if you climb to the top of that cedar, you can see theriver through the apple trees in the orchard. And in the distance thereare hills. And--'

'Of all the rube joints!' exclaimed Peggy, in deep disgust. 'Why, a dayof that would be about twenty-three hours and a bit too long for me. Broadway for mine! Put me where I can touch Forty-Second Street withoutover-balancing, and then you can leave me. I never thought you weresuch a hayseed, George. '

'Don't worry, Peggy. It'll be a long time, I expect, before I go there. I've got to make my fortune first. '

'Getting anywhere near the John D. Class yet?'

'I've still some way to go. But things are moving, I think. Do youknow, Peggy, you remind me of a little Billiken, sitting on thattable?'

'Thank _you_, George. I always knew my mouth was rather wide, butI did think I had Billiken to the bad. Do you do that sort of CandidFriend stunt with _her_?' She pointed to the photograph on themantelpiece. It was the first time since the night when they had metthat she had made any allusion to it. By silent agreement the subjecthad been ruled out between them. 'By the way, you never told me hername. '

'Halliday, ' said Rutherford, shortly. 

'What else?'

'Alice. '

'Don't bite at me, George! I'm not hurting you. Tell me about her. I'minterested. Does she live in the grey house with the pigs and chickensand all them roses, and the rest of the rube outfit?'

'No. '

'Be chummy, George. What's the matter with you?'

'I'm sorry, Peggy, ' he said. 'I'm a fool. It's only that it all seemsso damned hopeless! Here am I, earning about half a dollar a year, and--Still, it's no use kicking, is it? Besides, I may make a home-runwith my writing one of these days. That's what I meant when I said youwere a Billiken, Peggy. Do you know, you've brought me luck. Ever sinceI met you, I've been doing twice as well. You're my mascot. '

'Bully for me! We've all got our uses in the world, haven't we? Iwonder if it would help any if I was to kiss you, George?'

'Don't you do it. One mustn't work a mascot too hard. '

She jumped down, and came across the room to where he sat, looking downat him with the round, grey eyes that always reminded him of akitten's. 

'George!'

'Yes?'

'Oh, nothing!'

She turned away to the mantelpiece, and stood gazing at the photograph, her back towards him. 

'George!'

'Hullo?'

'Say, what colour eyes has she got?'

'Grey. '

'Like mine?'

'Darker than yours. '

'Nicer than mine?'

'Don't you think we might talk about something else?'

She swung round, her fists clenched, her face blazing. 

'I hate you!' she cried. 'I do! I wish I'd never seen you! I wish--'

She leaned on the mantelpiece, burying her face in her arms, and burstinto a passion of sobs. Rutherford leaped up, shocked and helpless. Hesprang to her, and placed a hand gently on her shoulder. 

'Peggy, old girl--'

She broke from him. 

'Don't you touch me! Don't you do it! Gee, I wish I'd never seen you!'

She ran to the door, darted through, and banged it behind her. 

Rutherford remained where he stood, motionless. Then, almostmechanically, he felt in his pocket for matches, and relit his pipe. 

Half an hour passed. Then the door opened slowly. Peggy came in. Shewas pale, and her eyes were red. She smiled--a pathetic little smile. 

'Peggy!'

He took a step towards her. 

She held out her hand. 

'I'm sorry, George. I feel mean. '

'Dear old girl, what rot!'

'I do. You don't know how mean I feel. You've been real nice to me, George. Thought I'd look in and say I was sorry. Good night, George!'

On the following night he waited, but she did not come. The nights wentby, and still she did not come. And one morning, reading his paper, hesaw that _The Island of Girls_ had gone west to Chicago. 

4

Things were not running well for Rutherford. He had had his vacation, agolden fortnight of fresh air and sunshine in the Catskills, and wasback in Alcala, trying with poor success, to pick up the threads of hiswork. But though the Indian Summer had begun, and there was energy inthe air, night after night he sat idle in his room; night after nightwent wearily to bed, oppressed with a dull sense of failure. He couldnot work. He was restless. His thoughts would not concentratethemselves. Something was wrong; and he knew what it was, though hefought against admitting it to himself. It was the absence of Peggythat had brought about the change. Not till now had he realized to thefull how greatly her visits had stimulated him. He had called herlaughingly his mascot; but the thing was no joke. It was true. Herabsence was robbing him of the power to write. 

He was lonely. For the first time since he had come to New York he wasreally lonely. Solitude had not hurt him till now. In his black momentsit had been enough for him to look up at the photograph on themantelpiece, and instantly he was alone no longer. But now thephotograph had lost its magic. It could not hold him. Always his mindwould wander back to the little, black-haired ghost that sat on thetable, smiling at him, and questioning him with its grey eyes. 

And the days went by, unvarying in their monotony. And always the ghostsat on the table, smiling at him. 

With the Fall came the reopening of the theatres. One by one theelectric signs blazed out along Broadway, spreading the message thatthe dull days were over, and New York was itself again. At the Melody, where ages ago _The Island of Girls_ had run its light-heartedcourse, a new musical piece was in rehearsal. Alcala was full oncemore. The nightly snatches of conversation outside his door hadrecommenced. He listened for her voice, but he never heard it. 

He sat up, waiting, into the small hours, but she did not come. Once hehad been trying to write, and had fallen, as usual, to brooding--therewas a soft knock at the door. In an instant he had bounded from hischair, and turned the handle. It was one of the reporters fromupstairs, who had run out of matches. Rutherford gave him a handful. The reporter went out, wondering what the man had laughed at. 

There is balm in Broadway, especially by night. Depression vanishesbefore the cheerfulness of the great white way when the lights are litand the human tide is in full flood. Rutherford had developed of late ahabit of patrolling the neighbourhood of Forty-Second Street attheatre-time. He found it did him good. There is a gaiety, a bonhomie, in the atmosphere of the New York streets. Rutherford loved to stand onthe sidewalk and watch the passers-by, weaving stories round them. 

One night his wanderings had brought him to Herald Square. The theatreswere just emptying themselves. This was the time he liked best. He drewto one side to watch, and as he moved he saw Peggy. 

She was standing at the corner, buttoning a glove. He was by her sidein an instant. 

'Peggy!' he cried. 

She was looking pale and tired, but the colour came back to her cheeksas she held out her hand. There was no trace of embarrassment in hermanner; only a frank pleasure at seeing him again. 

'Where have you been?' he said. 'I couldn't think what had become ofyou. '

She looked at him curiously. 

'Did you miss me, George?'

'Miss you? Of course I did. My work's been going all to pieces sinceyou went away. '

'I only came back last night. I'm in the new piece at the Madison. Gee, I'm tired, George! We've been rehearsing all day. '

He took her by the arm. 

'Come along and have some supper. You look worn out. By Jove, Peggy, it's good seeing you again! Can you walk as far as Rector's, or shall Icarry you?'

'Guess I can walk that far. But Rector's? Has your rich uncle died andleft you a fortune, George?'

'Don't you worry, Peggy. This is an occasion. I thought I was nevergoing to see you again. I'll buy you the whole hotel, if you like. '

'Just supper'll do, I guess. You're getting quite the rounder, George. '

'You bet I am. There are all sorts of sides to my character you'venever so much as dreamed of. '

They seemed to know Peggy at Rector's. Paul, the head waiter, beamedupon her paternally. One or two men turned and looked after her as shepassed. The waiters smiled slight but friendly smiles. Rutherford, intent on her, noticed none of these things. 

Despite her protests, he ordered an elaborate and expensive supper. Hewas particular about the wine. The waiter, who had been doubtful abouthim, was won over, and went off to execute the order, reflecting thatit was never safe to judge a man by his clothes, and that Rutherfordwas probably one of these eccentric young millionaires who didn't carehow they dressed. 

'Well?' said Peggy, when he had finished. 

'Well?' said Rutherford. 

'You're looking brown, George. '

'I've been away in the Catskills. '

'Still as strong on the rube proposition as ever?'

'Yes. But Broadway has its points, too. '

'Oh, you're beginning to see that? Gee, I'm glad to be back. I've hadenough of the Wild West. If anybody ever tries to steer you west ofEleventh Avenue, George, don't you go. There's nothing doing. How haveyou been making out at your writing stunt?'

'Pretty well. But I wanted you. I was lost without my mascot. I've gota story in this month's _Wilson's_. A long story, and paidaccordingly. That's why I'm able to go about giving suppers to greatactresses. '

'I read it on the train, ' said Peggy. 'It's dandy. Do you know what youought to do, George? You ought to turn it into a play. There's a heapof money in plays. '

'I know. But who wants a play by an unknown man?'

'I know who would want _Willie in the Wilderness_, if you made itinto a play, and that's Winfield Knight. Ever seen him?'

'I saw him in _The Outsider_. He's clever. '

'He's It, if he gets a part to suit him. If he doesn't, he don't amountto a row of beans. It's just a gamble. This thing he's in now is nogood. The part doesn't begin to fit him. In a month he'll be squealingfor another play, so's you can hear him in Connecticut. '

'He shall not squeal in vain, ' said Rutherford. 'If he wants my work, who am I that I should stand in the way of his simple pleasures? I'llstart on the thing tomorrow. '

'I can help you some too, I guess. I used to know Winfield Knight. Ican put you wise on lots of things about him that'll help you work upWillie's character so's it'll fit him like a glove. '

Rutherford raised his glass. 

'Peggy, ' he said, 'you're more than a mascot. You ought to be drawing abig commission on everything I write. It beats me how any of theseother fellows ever write anything without you there to help them. Iwonder what's the most expensive cigar they keep here? I must have it, whatever it is. _Noblesse oblige_. We popular playwrights mustn'tbe seen in public smoking any cheap stuff. '

 * * * * *

It was Rutherford's artistic temperament which, when they left therestaurant, made him hail a taxi-cab. Taxi-cabs are not for young mendrawing infinitesimal salaries in banks, even if those salaries aresupplemented at rare intervals by a short story in a magazine. Peggywas for returning to Alcala by car, but Rutherford refused tocountenance such an anti-climax. 

Peggy nestled into the corner of the cab, with a tired sigh, and therewas silence as they moved smoothly up Broadway. 

He peered at her in the dim light. She looked very small and wistfuland fragile. Suddenly an intense desire surged over him to pick her upand crush her to him. He fought against it. He tried to fix histhoughts on the girl at home, to tell himself that he was a man ofhonour. His fingers, gripping the edge of the seat, tightened tillevery muscle of his arm was rigid. 

The cab, crossing a rough piece of road, jolted Peggy from her corner. Her hand fell on his. 

'Peggy!' he cried, hoarsely. 

Her grey eyes were wet. He could see them glisten. And then his armswere round her, and he was covering her upturned face with kisses. 

The cab drew up at the entrance to Alcala. They alighted in silence, and without a word made their way through into the hall. From force ofhabit, Rutherford glanced at the letter-rack on the wall at the foot ofthe stairs. There was one letter in his pigeon-hole. 

Mechanically he drew it out; and, as his eyes fell on the handwriting, something seemed to snap inside him. 

He looked at Peggy, standing on the bottom stair, and back again at theenvelope in his hand. His mood was changing with a violence that lefthim physically weak. He felt dazed, as if he had wakened out of atrance. 

With a strong effort he mastered himself. Peggy had mounted a fewsteps, and was looking back at him over her shoulder. He could read themeaning now in the grey eyes. 

'Good night, Peggy, ' he said in a low voice. She turned, facing him, and for a moment neither moved. 

'Good night!' said Rutherford again. 

Her lips parted, as if she were about to speak, but she said nothing. 

Then she turned again, and began to walk slowly upstairs. 

He stood watching her till she had reached the top of the long flight. She did not look back. 

5

Peggy's nightly visits began afresh after this, and the ghost on thetable troubled Rutherford no more. His restlessness left him. He beganto write with a new vigour and success. In after years he wrote manyplays, most of them good, clear-cut pieces of work, but none that camefrom him with the utter absence of labour which made the writing of_Willie in the Wilderness_ a joy. He wrote easily, without effort. And always Peggy was there, helping, stimulating, encouraging. 

Sometimes, when he came in after dinner to settle down to work, hewould find a piece of paper on his table covered with her schoolgirlscrawl. It would run somewhat as follows:

'He is proud of his arms. They are skinny, but he thinks them thelimit. Better put in a shirt-sleeve scene for Willie somewhere. '

'He thinks he has a beautiful profile. Couldn't you make one of thegirls say something about Willie having the goods in that line?'

'He is crazy about golf. '

'He is proud of his French accent. Couldn't you make Willie speak alittle piece in French?'

'He' being Winfield Knight. 

 * * * * *

And so, little by little, the character of Willie grew, till it ceasedto be the Willie of the magazine story, and became Winfield Knighthimself, with improvements. The task began to fascinate Rutherford. Itwas like planning a pleasant surprise for a child. 'He'll like that, 'he would say to himself, as he wrote in some speech enabling Willie todisplay one of the accomplishments, real or imagined, of the absentactor. Peggy read it, and approved. It was she who suggested the bigspeech in the second act where Willie described the progress of hislove affair in terms of the golf-links. From her, too, came informationas to little traits in the man's character which the stranger would nothave suspected. 

As the play progressed Rutherford was amazed at the completeness of thecharacter he had built. It lived. Willie in the magazine story mighthave been anyone. He fitted into the story, but you could not see him. He had no real individuality. But Willie in the play! He felt that hewould recognize him in the street. There was all the difference betweenthe two that there is between a nameless figure in some cheap pictureand a portrait by Sargent. There were times when the story of the playseemed thin to him, and the other characters wooden, but in hisblackest moods he was sure of Willie. All the contradictions in thecharacter rang true: the humour, the pathos, the surface vanitycovering a real diffidence, the strength and weakness fighting oneanother. 

'You're alive, my son, ' said Rutherford, admiringly, as he read thesheets. 'But you don't belong to me. '

At last there came the day when the play was finished, when the lastline was written, and the last possible alteration made; and later, theday when Rutherford, bearing the brown-paper-covered package under hisarm, called at the Players' Club to keep an appointment with WinfieldKnight. 

Almost from the first Rutherford had a feeling that he had met the manbefore, that he knew him. As their acquaintance progressed--the actorwas in an expansive mood, and talked much before coming to business--thefeeling grew. Then he understood. This was Willie, and no other. Thelikeness was extraordinary. Little turns of thought, littleexpressions--they were all in the play. 

The actor paused in a description of how he had almost beaten achampion at golf, and looked at the parcel. 

'Is that the play?' he said. 

'Yes, ' said Rutherford. 'Shall I read it?'

'Guess I'll just look through it myself. Where's Act I? Here we are!Have a cigar while you're waiting?'

Rutherford settled himself in his chair, and watched the other's face. For the first few pages, which contained some tame dialogue betweenminor characters, it was blank. 

'"Enter Willie, "' he said. 'Am I Willie?'

'I hope so, ' said Rutherford, with a smile. 'It's the star part. '

'H'm. '

He went on reading. Rutherford watched him with furtive keenness. Therewas a line coming at the bottom of the page which he was then readingwhich ought to hit him, an epigram on golf, a whimsical thought putalmost exactly as he had put it himself five minutes back when tellinghis golf story. 

The shot did not miss fire. The chuckle from the actor and the sigh ofrelief from Rutherford were almost simultaneous. Winfield Knight turnedto him. 

'That's a dandy line about golf, ' said he. 

Rutherford puffed complacently at his cigar. 

'There's lots more of them in the piece, ' he said. 

'Bully for you, ' said the actor. And went on reading. 

Three-quarters of an hour passed before he spoke again. Then he lookedup. 

'It's me, ' he said; 'it's me all the time. I wish I'd seen this beforeI put on the punk I'm doing now. This is me from the drive off the tee. It's great! Say, what'll you have?'

Rutherford leaned back in his chair, his mind in a whirl. He hadarrived at last. His struggles were over. He would not admit of thepossibility of the play being a failure. He was a made man. He could gowhere he pleased, and do as he pleased. 

It gave him something of a shock to find how persistently his thoughtsrefused to remain in England. Try as he might to keep them there, theykept flitting back to Alcala. 

6

_Willie in the Wilderness_ was not a failure. It was a triumph. Principally, it is true, a personal triumph for Winfield Knight. Everyone was agreed that he had never had a part that suited him sowell. Critics forgave the blunders of the piece for the sake of itsprincipal character. The play was a curiously amateurish thing. It wasonly later that Rutherford learned craft and caution. When he wrote_Willie_ he was a colt, rambling unchecked through the field ofplay-writing, ignorant of its pitfalls. But, with all its faults, _Willie in the Wilderness_ was a success. It might, as one criticpointed out, be more of a monologue act for Winfield Knight than aplay, but that did not affect Rutherford. 

It was late on the opening night when he returned to Alcala. He hadtried to get away earlier. He wanted to see Peggy. But Winfield Knight, flushed with success, was in his most expansive mood. He seized uponRutherford and would not let him go. There was supper, a gay, uproarious supper, at which everybody seemed to be congratulatingeverybody else. Men he had never met before shook him warmly by thehand. Somebody made a speech, despite the efforts of the rest of thecompany to prevent him. Rutherford sat there, dazed, out of touch withthe mood of the party. He wanted Peggy. He was tired of all thisexcitement and noise. He had had enough of it. All he asked was to beallowed to slip away quietly and go home. He wanted to think, to tryand realize what all this meant to him. 

At length the party broke up in one last explosion of handshaking andcongratulations; and, eluding Winfield Knight, who proposed to take himoff to his club, he started to walk up Broadway. 

It was late when he reached Alcala. There was a light in his room. Peggy had waited up to hear the news. 

She jumped off the table as he came in. 

'Well?' she cried. 

Rutherford sat down and stretched out his legs. 

'It's a success, ' he said. 'A tremendous success!'

Peggy clapped her hands. 

'Bully for you, George! I knew it would be. Tell me all about it. WasWinfield good?'

'He was the whole piece. There was nothing in it but him. ' He rose andplaced his hands on her shoulders. 'Peggy, old girl, I don't know whatto say. You know as well as I do that it's all owing to you that thepiece has been a success. If I hadn't had your help--'

Peggy laughed. 

'Oh, beat it, George!' she said. 'Don't you come jollying me. I looklike a high-brow playwright, don't I! No; I'm real glad you've made ahit, George, but don't start handing out any story about it's not beingyour own. I didn't do a thing. '

'You did. You did everything. '

'I didn't. But, say, don't let's start quarrelling. Tell me more aboutit. How many calls did you take. '

He told her all that had happened. When he had finished, there was asilence. 

'I guess you'll be quitting soon, George?' said Peggy, at last. 'Nowthat you've made a home-run. You'll be going back to that rube joint, with the cows and hens--isn't that it?'

Rutherford did not reply. He was staring thoughtfully at the floor. Hedid not seem to have heard. 

'I guess that girl'll be glad to see you, ' she went on. 'Shall youcable tomorrow, George? And then you'll get married and go and live inthe rube house, and become a regular hayseed and--' She broke offsuddenly, with a catch in her voice. 'Gee, ' she whispered, halt toherself, 'I'll be sorry when you go, George. '

He sprang up. 

'Peggy!'

He seized her by the arm. He heard the quick intake of her breath. 

'Peggy, listen!' He gripped her till she winced with pain. 'I'm notgoing back. I'm never going back. I'm a cad, I'm a hound! I know I am. But I'm not going back. I'm going to stay here with you. I want you, Peggy. Do you hear? I want you!'

She tried to draw herself away, but he held her. 

'I love you, Peggy! Peggy, will you be my wife?'

There was utter astonishment in her grey eyes. Her face was very white. 

'Will you, Peggy?'

He dropped her arm. 

'Will you, Peggy?'

'No!' she cried. 

He drew back. 

'No!' she cried sharply, as if it hurt her to speak. 'I wouldn't playyou such a mean trick. I'm too fond of you, George. There's never beenanybody just like you. You've been mighty good to me. I've never met aman who treated me like you. You're the only real white man that's everhappened to me, and I guess I'm not going to play you a low-down tricklike spoiling your life. George, I thought you knew. Honest, I thoughtyou knew. How did you think I lived in a swell place like this, if youdidn't know? How did you suppose everyone knew me at Rector's? How didyou think I'd managed to find out so much about Winfield Knight? Can'tyou guess?'

She drew a long breath. 

'I--'

He interrupted her hoarsely. 

'Is there anyone now, Peggy?'

'Yes, ' she said, 'there is. '

'You don't love him, Peggy, do you?'

'Love him?' She laughed bitterly. 'No; I don't love him. '

'Then come to me, dear, ' he said. 

She shook her head in silence. Rutherford sat down, his chin resting inhis hands. She came across to him, and smoothed his hair. 

'It wouldn't do, George, ' she said. 'Honest, it wouldn't do. Listen. When we first met, I--I rather liked you, George, and I was mad at youfor being so fond of the other girl and taking no notice of me--not inthe way I wanted, and I tried--Gee, I feel mean. It was all my fault. Ididn't think it would matter. There didn't seem no chance then of yourbeing able to go back and have the sort of good time you wanted; and Ithought you'd just stay here and we'd be pals and--but now you can goback, it's all different. I couldn't keep you. It would be too mean. You see, you don't really want to stop. You think you do, but youdon't!'

'I love you, ' he muttered. 

'You'll forget me. It's all just a Broadway dream, George. Think of itlike that. Broadway's got you now, but you don't really belong. You'renot like me. It's not in your blood, so's you can't get it out. It'sthe chickens and roses you want really. Just a Broadway dream. That'swhat it is. George, when I was a kid, I remember crying and crying fora lump of candy in the window of a store till one of my brothers up andbought it for me just to stop the racket. Gee! For about a minute I wasthe busiest thing that ever happened, eating away. And then it didn'tseem to interest me no more. Broadway's like that for you, George. Yougo back to the girl and the cows and all of it. It'll hurt some, Iguess, but I reckon you'll be glad you did. '

She stooped swiftly, and kissed him on the forehead. 

'I'll miss you, dear, ' she said, softly, and was gone. 

 * * * * *

Rutherford sat on, motionless. Outside, the blackness changed to grey, and the grey to white. He got up. He felt very stiff and cold. 

'A Broadway dream!' he muttered. 

He went to the mantelpiece and took up the photograph. He carried it tothe window where he could see it better. 

A shaft of sunlight pierced the curtains and fell upon it.