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Title: The Complete Short Stories of W. Somerset Maugham,
   Vol. II
Author: Maugham, W. Somerset [William Somerset] (1874-1965)
Date of first publication: 1951
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Heinemann, 1961
Date first posted: 19 September 2018
Date last updated: 19 September 2018
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1565

This ebook was produced by Al Haines, Mark Akrigg,
Cindy Beyer & the Online Distributed Proofreading
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PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

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THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES OF W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM, VOL. II




TABLE OF CONTENTS

    Preface
    The Alien Corn
    The Creative Impulse
    Virtue
    The Man with the Scar
    The Closed Shop
    The Bum
    The Dream
    The Treasure
    The Colonel's Lady
    Miss King
    The Hairless Mexican
    Giulia Lazzari
    The Traitor
    His Excellency
    Mr. Harrington's Washing
    Lord Mountdrago
    Sanatorium
    The Social Sense
    The Verger
    In a Strange Land
    The Taipan
    The Consul
    A Friend in Need
    The Round Dozen
    The Human Element
    Jane




THE COMPLETE SHORT STORIES OF W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM




PREFACE


In this, the second volume of my collected stories, I have made a
somewhat different arrangement from that which I have made in the other
two. In those I put the stories I wrote in which the scene was laid in
Malaya. These are so long that I thought it would give the reader a rest
if I interspersed them with short ones set in other parts of the world,
so I divided them in each volume into four groups. But I wrote a batch
of stories dealing with the adventures of an agent in the Intelligence
Department during the First World War. I gave him the name of Ashenden.
Since they are connected by this character of my invention I have
thought it well, notwithstanding their great length, to put them all
together. They are founded on experiences of my own during that war, but
I should like to impress upon the reader that they are not what the
French call _reportage_, but works of fiction. Fact, as I said in the
preface to the volume in which these stories appeared, is a poor
story-teller. It starts a story at haphazard, generally long before the
beginning, rambles on inconsequently and tails off, leaving loose ends
hanging about, without a conclusion. The work of an agent in the
Intelligence Department is on the whole monotonous. A lot of it is
uncommonly useless. The material it offers for stories is scrappy and
pointless; the author has himself to make it coherent, dramatic and
probable. That is what I have tried to do in this particular series.

There is one more point I want to make. The reader will notice that many
of my stories are written in the first person singular. That is a
literary convention which is as old as the hills. It was used by
Petronius Arbiter in the _Satyricon_ and by many of the story-tellers in
_The Thousand and One Nights_. Its object is of course to achieve
credibility, for when someone tells you what he states happened to
himself you are more likely to believe that he is telling the truth than
when he tells you what happened to somebody else. It has besides the
merit from the story-teller's point of view that he need only tell you
what he knows for a fact and can leave to your imagination what he
doesn't or couldn't know. Some of the older novelists who wrote in the
first person were in this respect very careless. They would narrate long
conversations that they couldn't possibly have heard and incidents which
in the nature of things they couldn't possibly have witnessed. Thus they
lost the great advantage of verisimilitude which writing in the first
person singular offers. But the _I_ who writes is just as much a
character in the story as the other persons with whom it is concerned.
He may be the hero or he may be an onlooker or a confidant. But he is a
character. The writer who uses this device is writing fiction and if he
makes the _I_ of his story a little quicker on the uptake, a little more
level-headed, a little shrewder, a little braver, a little more
ingenious, a little wittier, a little wiser than he, the writer, really
is, the reader must show indulgence. He must remember that the author is
not drawing a faithful portrait of himself, but creating a character for
the particular purposes of his story.




THE ALIEN CORN


I had known the Blands a long time before I discovered that they had any
connection with Ferdy Rabenstein. Ferdy must have been nearly fifty when
I first knew him and at the time of which I write he was well over
seventy. He had altered little. His hair, coarse but abundant and curly,
was white, but he had kept his figure and held himself as gallantly as
ever. It was not hard to believe that in youth he had been as beautiful
as people said. He had still his fine Semitic profile and the lustrous
black eyes that had caused havoc in so many a Gentile breast. He was
very tall, lean, with an oval face and a clear skin. He wore his clothes
very well and in evening dress, even now, he was one of the handsomest
men I had ever seen. He wore then large black pearls in his shirt-front
and platinum and sapphire rings on his fingers. Perhaps he was rather
flashy, but you felt it was so much in character that it would have ill
become him to be anything else.

"After all, I am an Oriental," he said. "I can carry a certain barbaric
magnificence."

I have often thought that Ferdy Rabenstein would make an admirable
subject for a biography. He was not a great man, but within the limits
he set himself he made of his life a work of art. It was a masterpiece
in little, like a Persian miniature, and derived its interest from its
perfection. Unfortunately the materials are scanty. They would consist
of letters that may very well have been destroyed and the recollections
of people who are old now and will soon be dead. His memory is
extraordinary, but he would never write his memoirs, for he looks upon
his past as a source of purely private entertainment; and he is a man of
the most perfect discretion. Nor do I know anyone who could do justice
to the subject but Max Beerbohm. There is no one else in this hard world
of to-day who can look upon the trivial with such tender sympathy and
wring such a delicate pathos from futility. I wonder that Max, who must
have known Ferdy much better than I, and long before, was never tempted
to exercise his exquisite fancy on such a theme. He was born for Max to
write about. And who should have illustrated the elegant book that I see
in my mind's eye but Aubrey Beardsley? Thus would have been erected a
monument of triple brass and the ephemera imprisoned to succeeding ages
in the amber's translucency.

Ferdy's conquests were social and his venue was the great world. He was
born in South Africa and did not come to England till he was twenty. For
some time he was on the Stock Exchange, but on the death of his father
he inherited a considerable fortune, and retiring from business devoted
himself to the life of a man about town. At that period English society
was still a closed body and it was not easy for a Jew to force its
barriers, but to Ferdy they fell like the walls of Jericho. He was
handsome, he was rich, he was a sportsman and he was good company. He
had a house in Curzon Street, furnished with the most beautiful French
furniture, and a French chef, and a brougham. It would be interesting to
know the first steps in his wonderful career: they are lost in the dark
abysm of time. When I first met him he had been long established as one
of the smartest men in London: this was at a very grand house in Norfolk
to which I had been asked as a promising young novelist by the hostess
who took an interest in letters, but the company was very distinguished
and I was overawed. We were sixteen, and I felt shy and alone among
these Cabinet Ministers, great ladies and peers of the realm who talked
of people and things of which I knew nothing. They were civil to me, but
indifferent, and I was conscious that I was somewhat of a burden to my
hostess. Ferdy saved me. He sat with me, walked with me and talked with
me. He discovered that I was a writer and we discussed the drama and the
novel; he learnt that I had lived much on the Continent and he talked to
me pleasantly of France, Germany and Spain. He seemed really to seek my
society. He gave me the flattering impression that he and I stood apart
from the other members of the company and by our conversation upon
affairs of the spirit made that of the rest of them, the political
situation, the scandal of somebody's divorce and the growing
disinclination of pheasants to be killed, seem a little ridiculous. But
if Ferdy had at the bottom of his heart a feeling of ever so faint a
contempt for the hearty British gentry that surrounded us I am sure that
it was only to me that he allowed an inkling of it to appear, and
looking back I cannot but wonder whether it was not after all a suave
and very delicate compliment that he paid me. I think of course that he
liked to exercise his charm and I dare say the obvious pleasure his
conversation gave me gratified him, but he could have had no motive for
taking so much trouble over an obscure novelist other than his real
interest in art and letters. I felt that he and I at bottom were equally
alien in that company, I because I was a writer and he because he was a
Jew, but I envied the ease with which he bore himself. He was completely
at home. Everyone called him Ferdy. He seemed to be always in good
spirits. He was never at a loss for a quip, a jest or a repartee. They
liked him in that house because he made them laugh, but never made them
uncomfortable by talking over their heads. He brought a faint savour of
Oriental romance into their lives, but so cleverly that they only felt
more English. You could never be dull when he was by and with him
present you were safe from the fear of the devastating silences that
sometimes overwhelm a British company. A pause looked inevitable and
Ferdy Rabenstein had broken into a topic that interested everyone. An
invaluable asset to any party. He had an inexhaustible fund of Jewish
stories. He was a very good mimic and he assumed the Yiddish accent and
reproduced the Jewish gestures to perfection; his head sank into his
body, his face grew cunning, his voice oily, and he was a rabbi or an
old clothes merchant or a smart commercial traveller or a fat procuress
in Frankfort. It was as good as a play. Because he was himself a Jew and
insisted on it you laughed without reserve, but for my own part not
without an under-current of discomfort. I was not quite sure of a sense
of humour that made such cruel fun of his own race. I discovered
afterwards that Jewish stories were his speciality and I seldom met him
anywhere without hearing him tell sooner or later the last he had heard.

But the best story he told me on this occasion was not a Jewish one. It
struck me so that I have never forgotten it, but for one reason or
another I have never had occasion to tell it again. I give it here
because it is a curious little incident concerning persons whose names
at least will live in the social history of the Victorian Era and I
think it would be a pity if it were lost. He told me then that once when
quite a young man he was staying in the country in a house where Mrs.
Langtry, at that time at the height of her beauty and astounding
reputation, was also a guest. It happened to be within driving distance
of that in which lived the Duchess of Somerset, who had been Queen of
Beauty at the Eglinton Tournament, and knowing her slightly, it occurred
to him that it would be interesting to bring the two women together. He
suggested it to Mrs. Langtry, who was willing, and forthwith wrote to
the Duchess asking if he might bring the celebrated beauty to call on
her. It was fitting, he said, that the loveliest woman of this
generation (this was in the 'eighties) should pay her respects to the
loveliest woman of the last. "Bring her by all means," answered the
Duchess, "but I warn you that it will be a shock to her." They drove
over in a carriage and pair, Mrs. Langtry in a close-fitting blue bonnet
with long satin strings, which showed the fine shape of her head and
made her blue eyes even bluer, and were received by a little ugly old
hag who looked with irony out of her beady eyes at the radiant beauty
who had come to see her. They had tea, they talked and they drove home
again. Mrs. Langtry was very silent and when Ferdy looked at her he saw
that she was quietly weeping. When they got back to the house she went
to her room and would not come down to dinner that night. For the first
time she had realised that beauty dies.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Ferdy asked me for my address and a few days after I got back to London
invited me to dinner. There were only six of us, an American woman
married to an English peer, a Swedish painter, an actress and a
well-known critic. We ate very good food and drank excellent wine. The
conversation was easy and intelligent. After dinner Ferdy was persuaded
to play the piano. He only played Viennese waltzes, I discovered later
that they were his speciality, and the light, tuneful and sensual music
seemed to accord well with his discreet flamboyance. He played without
affectation, with a lilt, and he had a graceful touch. This was the
first of a good many dinners I had with him, he would ask me two or
three times a year, and as time passed I met him more and more
frequently at other people's houses. I rose in the world and perhaps he
came down a little. Of late years I had sometimes found him at parties
where other Jews were and I fancied that I read in his shining liquid
eyes, resting for a moment on these members of his race, a certain
good-natured amusement at the thought of what the world was coming to.
There were people who said he was a snob, but I do not think he was; it
just happened that in his early days he had never met any but the great.
He had a real passion for art and in his commerce with those that
produced it was at his best. With them he had never that faint air of
persiflage which when he was with very grand persons made you suspect
that he was never quite the dupe of their grandeur. His taste was
perfect and many of his friends were glad to avail themselves of his
knowledge. He was one of the first to value old furniture and he rescued
many a priceless piece from the attics of ancestral mansions and gave it
an honourable place in the drawing-room. It amused him to saunter round
the auction rooms and he was always willing to give his advice to great
ladies who desired at once to acquire a beautiful thing and make a
profitable investment. He was rich and good-natured. He liked to
patronise the arts and would take a great deal of trouble to get
commissions for some young painter whose talent he admired or an
engagement to play at a rich man's house for a violinist who could in no
other way get a hearing. But he never let his rich man down. His taste
was too good to deceive and civil though he might be to the mediocre he
would not lift a finger to help them. His own musical parties, very
small and carefully chosen, were a treat.

He never married.

"I am a man of the world," he said, "and I flatter myself that I have no
prejudices, _tous les gots sont dans la nature_, but I do not think I
could bring myself to marry a Gentile. There's no harm in going to the
opera in a dinner jacket, but it just would never occur to me to do so."

"Then why didn't you marry a Jewess?"

(I did not hear this conversation, but the lively and audacious creature
who thus tackled him told me of it.)

"Oh, my dear, our women are so prolific. I could not bear the thought of
peopling the world with a little Ikey and a little Jacob and a little
Rebecca and a little Leah and a little Rachel."

But he had had affairs of note and the glamour of past romance still
clung to him. He was in his youth of an amorous complexion. I have met
old ladies who told me that he was irresistible, and when in reminiscent
mood they talked to me of this woman and that who had completely lost
her head over him, I divined that, such was his beauty, they could not
find it in their hearts to blame them. It was interesting to hear of
great ladies that I had read of in the memoirs of the day or had met as
respectable dowagers garrulous over their grandsons at Eton or making a
mess of a hand at bridge and bethink myself that they had been consumed
with sinful passion for the handsome Jew. Ferdy's most notorious amour
was with the Duchess of Hereford, the loveliest, the most gallant and
dashing of the beauties of the end of Queen Victoria's reign. It lasted
for twenty years. He had doubtless flirtations meanwhile, but their
relations were stable and recognised. It was proof of his marvellous
tact that when at last they ended he exchanged an ageing mistress for a
loyal friend. I remember meeting the pair not so very long ago at
luncheon. She was an old woman, tall and of a commanding presence, but
with a mask of paint on a ravaged face. We were lunching at the Carlton
and Ferdy, our host, came a few minutes late. He offered us a cocktail
and the Duchess told him we had already had one.

"Ah, I wondered why your eyes were so doubly bright," he said.

The old raddled woman flushed with pleasure.

My youth passed, I grew middle-aged, I wondered how soon I must begin to
describe myself as elderly; I wrote books and plays, I travelled, I
underwent experiences, I fell in love and out of it; and still I kept
meeting Ferdy at parties. War broke out and was waged, millions of men
were killed and the face of the world was changed. Ferdy did not like
the war. He was too old to take part in it, and his German name was
awkward, but he was discreet and took care not to expose himself to
humiliation. His old friends were faithful to him and he lived in a
dignified but not too strict seclusion. But then peace came and with
courage he set himself to making the best of changed conditions. Society
was mixed now, parties were rowdy, but Ferdy fitted himself to the new
life. He still told his funny Jewish stories, he still played charmingly
the waltzes of Strauss, he still went round auction rooms and told the
new rich what they ought to buy. I went to live abroad, but whenever I
was in London I saw Ferdy and now there was something a little uncanny
in him. He did not give in. He had never known a day's illness. He
seemed never to grow tired. He still dressed beautifully. He was
interested in everybody. His mind was alert and people asked him to
dinner, not for old times' sake, but because he was worth his salt. He
still gave charming little concerts at his house in Curzon Street.

It was when he invited me to one of these that I made the discovery that
started the recollections of him I have here set down. We were dining at
a house in Hill Street, a large party, and the women having gone
upstairs Ferdy and I found ourselves side by side. He told me that Lea
Makart was coming to play for him on the following Friday evening and he
would be glad if I would come.

"I'm awfully sorry," I said, "but I'm going down to the Blands."

"What Blands?"

"They live in Sussex at a place called Tilby."

"I didn't know you knew them."

He looked at me rather strangely. He smiled. I didn't know what amused
him.

"Oh, yes, I've known them for years. It's a very nice house to stay at."

"Adolph is my nephew."

"Sir Adolphus?"

"It suggests one of the bucks of the Regency, doesn't it? But I will not
conceal from you that he was named Adolf."

"Everyone I know calls him Freddy."

"I know, and I understand that Miriam, his wife, only answers to the
name of Muriel."

"How does he happen to be your nephew?"

"Because Hannah Rabenstein, my sister, married Alfons Bleikogel, who
ended life as Sir Alfred Bland, first Baronet, and Adolf, their only
son, in due course became Sir Adolphus Bland, second Baronet."

"Then Freddy Bland's mother, the Lady Bland who lives in Portland Place,
is your sister?"

"Yes, my sister Hannah. She was the eldest of the family. She's eighty,
but in full possession of her faculties and a remarkable woman."

"I've never met her."

"I think your friends the Blands would just as soon you didn't. She has
never lost her German accent."

"Do you never see them?" I asked.

"I haven't spoken to them for twenty years. I am such a Jew and they are
so English." He smiled. "I could never remember that their names were
Freddy and Muriel. I used to come out with an Adolf or a Miriam at
awkward moments. And they didn't like my stories. It was better that we
should not meet. When the war broke out and I would not change my name
it was the last straw. It was too late, I could never have accustomed my
friends to think of me as anything but Ferdy Rabenstein; I was quite
content. I was not ambitious to be a Smith, a Brown or a Robinson."

Though he spoke facetiously, there was in his tone the faintest possible
derision and I felt, hardly felt even, the sensation was so shadowy,
that, as it had often vaguely seemed to me before, there was in the
depth of his impenetrable heart a cynical contempt for the Gentiles he
had conquered.

"Then you don't know the two boys?" I said.

"No."

"The eldest is called George, you know. I don't think he's so clever as
Harry, the other one, but he's an engaging youth. I think you'd like
him."

"Where is he now?"

"Well, he's just been sent down from Oxford. I suppose he's at home.
Harry's still at Eton."

"Why don't you bring George to lunch with me?"

"I'll ask him. I should think he'd love to come."

"It has reached my ears that he's been a little troublesome."

"Oh, I don't know. He wouldn't go into the army, which is what they
wanted. They rather fancied the Guards. And so he went to Oxford
instead. He didn't work and he spent a great deal of money and he
painted the town red. It was all quite normal."

"What was he sent down for?"

"I don't know. Nothing of any consequence."

At that moment our host rose and we went upstairs. When Ferdy bade me
good-night he asked me not to forget about his great-nephew.

"Ring me up," he said. "Wednesday would suit me. Or Friday."

                 *        *        *        *        *

Next day I went down to Tilby. It was an Elizabethan mansion standing in
a spacious park, in which roamed fallow deer, and from its windows you
had wide views of rolling downs. It seemed to me that as far as the eye
could reach the land belonged to the Blands. His tenants must have found
Sir Adolphus a wonderful landlord, for I never saw farms kept in such
order, the barns and cow-sheds were spick and span and the pigsties were
a picture; the public-houses looked like old English water-colours and
the cottages he had built on the estate combined admirably
picturesqueness and convenience. It must have cost him a pot of money to
run the place on these lines. Fortunately he had it. The park with its
grand old trees (and its nine-hole golf course) was tended like a
garden, and the wide-stretching gardens were the pride of the
neighbourhood. The magnificent house, with its steep roofs and mullioned
windows, had been restored by the most celebrated architect in England
and furnished by Lady Bland, with taste and knowledge, in a style that
perfectly fitted it.

"Of course it's very simple," she said. "Just an English house in the
country."

The dining-room was adorned with old English sporting pictures and the
Chippendale chairs were of incredible value. In the drawing-room were
portraits by Reynolds and Gainsborough and landscapes by Old Crome and
Richard Wilson. Even in my bedroom with its four-post bed were
water-colours by Birket Foster. It was very beautiful and a treat to
stay there, but though it would have distressed Muriel Bland beyond
anything to know it, it entirely missed oddly enough the effect she had
sought. It did not give you for a moment the impression of an English
house. You had the feeling that every object had been bought with a
careful eye to the general scheme. You missed the dull Academy portraits
that hung in the dining-room beside a Carlo Dolci that an ancestor had
brought back from the grand tour, and the water-colours painted by a
great-aunt that cluttered up the drawing-room so engagingly. There was
no ugly Victorian sofa that had always been there and that it never
occurred to anybody to take away and no needlework chairs that an
unmarried daughter had so painstakingly worked at about the time of the
Great Exhibition. There was beauty but no sentiment.

And yet how comfortable it was and how well looked after you were! And
what a cordial greeting the Blands gave you! They seemed really to like
people. They were generous and kindly. They were never happier than when
they were entertaining the county, and though they had not owned the
property for more than twenty years they had established themselves
firmly in the favour of their neighbours. Except perhaps in their
splendour and the competent way in which the estate was run there was
nothing to suggest that they had not been settled there for centuries.

Freddy had been at Eton and Oxford. He was now in the early fifties. He
was quiet in manner, courtly, very clever, I imagine, but a trifle
reserved. He had great elegance, but it was not an English elegance; he
had grey hair and a short pointed grey beard, fine dark eyes and an
aquiline nose. He was just above middle height; I don't think you would
have taken him for a Jew, but rather for a foreign diplomat of some
distinction. He was a man of character, but gave you, strangely enough,
notwithstanding the success he had had in life, an impression of faint
melancholy. His successes had been financial and political; in the world
of sport, for all his perseverance, he had never shone. For many years
he had followed hounds, but he was a bad rider and I think it must have
been a relief to him when he could persuade himself that middle age and
pressure of business forced him to give up hunting. He had excellent
shooting and gave grand parties for it, but he was a poor shot; and
despite the course in his park he never succeeded in being more than an
indifferent golfer. He knew only too well how much these things meant in
England and his incapacity was a bitter disappointment to him. However
George would make up for it.

George was scratch at golf, and though tennis was not his game he played
much better than the average; the Blands had had him taught to shoot as
soon as he was old enough to hold a gun and he was a fine shot; they had
put him on a pony when he was two and Freddy, watching him mount his
horse, knew that out hunting when the boy came to a fence he felt
exhilaration and not that sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach
which, though he had chased the fox with such grim determination, had
always made the sport a torture to him. George was so tall and slim, his
curly hair, of a palish brown, was so fine, his eyes were so blue, he
was the perfect type of the young Englishman. He had the engaging
candour of the breed. His nose was straight, though perhaps a trifle
fleshy, and his lips were perhaps a little full and sensual, but he had
beautiful teeth, and his smooth skin was like ivory. George was the
apple of his father's eye. He did not like Harry, his second son, so
well. He was rather stocky, broad-shouldered and strong for his age, but
his black eyes, shining with cleverness, his coarse dark hair and his
big nose revealed his race. Freddy was severe with him, and often
impatient, but with George he was all indulgence. Harry would go into
the business, he had brains and push, but George was the heir. George
would be an English gentleman.

George had offered to motor me down in the roadster his father had given
him as a birthday present. He drove very fast and we arrived before the
rest of the guests. The Blands were sitting on the lawn and tea was laid
out under a magnificent cedar.

"By the way," I said presently, "I saw Ferdy Rabenstein the other day
and he wants me to bring George to lunch with him."

I had not mentioned the invitation to George on the way because I
thought that if there had been a family coldness I had better address
his parents as well.

"Who in God's name is Ferdy Rabenstein?" said George.

How brief is human glory! A generation back such a question would have
seemed grotesque.

"He's by way of being your great-uncle," I replied.

A glance had passed from father to mother when I first spoke.

"He's a horrid old man," said Muriel.

"I don't think it's in the least necessary for George to resume
relationships that were definitely severed before he was born," said
Freddy with decision.

"Anyhow I've delivered the message," said I, feeling somewhat snubbed.

"I don't want to see the old blighter," said George.

The conversation was broken off by the arrival of other guests and in a
little while George went off to play golf with one of his Oxford
friends.

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was not till next day that the matter was referred to again. I had
played an unsatisfactory round with Freddy Bland in the morning and
several sets of what is known as country-house tennis in the afternoon
and was sitting alone with Muriel on the terrace. In England we have so
much bad weather that it is only fair that a beautiful day should be
more beautiful than anywhere in the world and this June evening was
perfect. The blue sky was cloudless and the air was balmy; before us
stretched green rolling downs, and woods, and in the distance you saw
the red roofs of a little village church. It was a day when to be alive
was sufficient happiness. Detached lines of poetry hovered vaguely in my
memory. Muriel and I had been chatting desultorily.

"I hope you didn't think it rather horrid of us to refuse to let George
lunch with Ferdy," she said suddenly. "He's such a fearful snob, isn't
he?"

"D'you think so? He's always been very nice to me."

"We haven't been on speaking terms for twenty years. Freddy never
forgave him for his behaviour during the war. So unpatriotic, I thought,
and one really must draw the line somewhere. You know, he absolutely
refused to drop his horrible German name. With Freddy in Parliament and
running munitions and all that sort of thing it was quite impossible. I
don't know why he should want to see George. He can't mean anything to
him."

"He's an old man. George and Harry are his great-nephews. He must leave
his money to someone."

"We'd rather not have his money," said Muriel coldly.

Of course I didn't care a row of pins whether George went to lunch with
Ferdy Rabenstein, and I was quite willing to let the matter drop, but
evidently the Elands had talked it over and Muriel felt that some
explanation was due to me.

"Of course you know that Freddy has Jewish blood in him," she said.

She looked at me sharply. Muriel was rather a big blonde woman and she
spent a great deal of time trying to keep down the corpulence to which
she was predisposed. She had been very pretty when young and even now
was a comely person; but her round blue eyes, slightly prominent, her
fleshy nose, the shape of her face and the back of her neck, her
exuberant manner, betrayed her race. No Englishwoman, however
fair-haired, ever looked like that. And yet her observation was designed
to make me take it for granted that she was a Gentile. I answered
discreetly:

"So many people have nowadays."

"I know. But there's no reason to dwell on it, is there? After all,
we're absolutely English; no one could be more English than George, in
appearance and manner and everything; I mean, he's such a fine sportsman
and all that sort of thing, I can't see any object in his knowing Jews
just because they happen to be distant connections of his."

"It's very difficult in England now not to know Jews, isn't it?"

"Oh, I know, in London one does meet a good many, and I think some of
them are very nice. They're so artistic. I don't go so far as to say
that Freddy and I deliberately avoid them, of course I wouldn't do that,
but it just happens that we don't really know any of them very well. And
down here, there simply aren't any to know."

I could not but admire the convincing manner in which she spoke. It
would not have surprised me to be told that she really believed every
word she said.

"You say that Ferdy might leave George his money. Well, I don't believe
it's so very much anyway; it was quite a comfortable fortune before the
war, but that's nothing nowadays. Besides we're hoping that George will
go in for politics when he's a little older, and I don't think it would
do him any good in the constituency to inherit money from a Mr.
Rabenstein."

"Is George interested in politics?" I asked, to change the conversation.

"Oh, I do hope so. After all, there's the family constituency waiting
for him. It's a safe Conservative seat and one can't expect Freddy to go
on with the grind of the House of Commons indefinitely."

Muriel was grand. She talked already of the constituency as though
twenty generations of Elands had sat for it. Her remark, however, was my
first intimation that Freddy's ambition was not satisfied.

"I suppose Freddy would go to the House of Lords when George was old
enough to stand."

"We've done a good deal for the party," said Muriel.

Muriel was a Catholic and she often told you that she had been educated
in a convent--"Such sweet women, those nuns, I always said that if I had
a daughter I should have sent her to a convent too"--but she liked her
servants to be Church of England, and on Sunday evenings we had what was
called supper because the fish was cold and there was ice-cream, so that
they could go to church, and we were waited on by two footmen instead of
four. It was still light when we finished and Freddy and I, smoking our
cigars, walked up and down the terrace in the gloaming. I suppose Muriel
had told him of her conversation with me, and it may be that his refusal
to let George see his great-uncle still troubled him, but being subtler
than she he attacked the question more indirectly. He told me that he
had been very much worried about George. It had been a great
disappointment that he had refused to go into the army.

"I should have thought he'd have loved the life," he said.

"And he would certainly have looked marvellous in his Guards uniform."

"He would, wouldn't he?" returned Freddy, ingenuously. "I wonder he
could resist that."

He had been completely idle at Oxford; although his father had given him
a very large allowance, he had got monstrously into debt; and now he had
been sent down. But though he spoke so tartly I could see that he was
not a little proud of his scapegrace son, he loved him with oh, such an
un-English love, and in his heart it flattered him that George had cut
such a dash.

"Why should you worry?" I said. "You don't really care if George has a
degree or not."

Freddy chuckled.

"No, I don't suppose I do really. I always think the only important
thing about Oxford is that people know you were there, and I dare say
that George isn't any wilder than the other young men in his set. It's
the future I'm thinking of. He's so damned idle. He doesn't seem to want
to do anything but have a good time."

"He's young, you know."

"He's net interested in politics, and though he's so good at games he's
not even very keen on sport. He seems to spend most of his time
strumming the piano."

"That's a harmless amusement."

"Oh, yes, I don't mind that, but he can't go on loafing indefinitely.
You see, all this will be his one day." Freddy gave a sweeping gesture
that seemed to embrace the whole county, but I knew that he did not own
it all yet. "I'm very anxious that he should be fit to assume his
responsibilities. His mother is very ambitious for him, but I only want
him to be an English gentleman."

Freddy gave me a sidelong glance as though he wanted to say something
but hesitated in case I thought it ridiculous; but there is one
advantage in being a writer that, since people look upon you as of no
account, they will often say things to you that they would not to their
equals. He thought he would risk it.

"You know, I've got an idea that nowhere in the world now is the Greek
ideal of life so perfectly cultivated as by the English country
gentleman living on his estates. I think his life has the beauty of a
work of art."

I could not but smile when I reflected that it was impossible for the
English country gentleman in these days to do anything of the sort
without a packet of money safely invested in American Bonds, but I
smiled with sympathy. I thought it rather touching that this Jewish
financier should cherish so romantic a dream.

"I want him to be a good landlord. I want him to take his part in the
affairs of the country. I want him to be a thorough sportsman."

"Poor mutt," I thought, but said: "Well, what are your plans for George
now?"

"I think he has a fancy for the diplomatic service. He's suggested going
to Germany to learn the language."

"A very good idea, I should have thought."

"For some reason he's got it into his head that he wants to go to
Munich."

"A nice place."

                 *        *        *        *        *

Next day I went back to London and shortly after my arrival rang up
Ferdy.

"I'm sorry, but George isn't able to come to lunch on Wednesday."

"What about Friday?"

"Friday's no good either." I thought it useless to beat about the bush.
"The fact is, his people aren't keen on his lunching with you."

There was a moment's silence. Then:

"I see. Well, will you come on Wednesday anyway?"

"Yes, I'd like to," I answered.

So on Wednesday at half-past one I strolled round to Curzon Street.
Ferdy received me with the somewhat elaborate graciousness that he
cultivated. He made no reference to the Blands. We sat in the
drawing-room and I could not help reflecting what an eye for beautiful
objects that family had. The room was more crowded than the fashion of
to-day approves and the gold snuffboxes in vitrines, the French china,
appealed to a taste that was not mine; but they were no doubt choice
pieces; and the Louis XV suite, with its beautiful _petit point_, must
have been worth an enormous lot of money. The pictures on the walls by
Lancret, Pater and Watteau did not greatly interest me, but I recognised
their intrinsic excellence. It was a proper setting for this aged man of
the world. It fitted his period. Suddenly the door opened and George was
announced. Ferdy saw my surprise and gave me a little smile of triumph.

"I'm very glad you were able to come after all," he said as he shook
George's hand.

I saw him in a glance take in his great-nephew whom he saw to-day for
the first time. George was very well dressed. He wore a short black
coat, striped trousers and the grey double-breasted waistcoat which at
that time was the mode. You could only wear it with elegance if you were
tall and thin and your belly was slightly concave. I felt sure that
Ferdy knew exactly who George's tailor was and what haberdasher he went
to and approved of them. George, so smart and trim, wearing his clothes
so beautifully, certainly looked very handsome. We went down to
luncheon. Ferdy had the social graces at his fingers' ends and he put
the boy at his ease, but I saw that he was carefully appraising him;
then, I do not know why, he began to tell some of his Jewish stories. He
told them with gusto and with his wonderful mimicry. I saw George flush,
and though he laughed at them, I could see that it was with
embarrassment. I wondered what on earth had induced Ferdy to be so
tactless. But he was watching George and he told story after story. It
looked as though he would never stop. I wondered if for some reason I
could not grasp he was taking a malicious pleasure in the boy's obvious
discomfiture. At last we went upstairs and to make things easier I asked
Ferdy to play the piano. He played us three or four little waltzes. He
had lost none of his exquisite lightness nor his sense of their lilting
rhythm. Then he turned to George.

"Do you play?" he asked him.

"A little."

"Won't you play something?"

"I'm afraid I only play classical music. I don't think it would interest
you."

Ferdy smiled slightly, but did not insist. I said it was time for me to
go and George accompanied me.

"What a filthy old Jew," he said as soon as we were in the street. "I
hated those stories of his."

"They're his great stunt. He always tells them."

"Would you if you were a Jew?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"How is it you came to lunch after all?" I asked George.

He chuckled. He was a light-hearted creature, with a sense of humour,
and he shook off the slight irritation his great-uncle had caused him.

"He went to see Granny. You don't know Granny, do you?"

"No."

"She treats daddy like a kid in Etons. Granny said I was to go to lunch
with great-uncle Ferdy and what Granny says goes."

"I see."

A week or two later George went to Munich to learn German. I happened
then to go on a journey and it was not till the following spring that I
was again in London. Soon after my arrival I found myself sitting next
to Muriel Bland at dinner. I asked after George.

"He's still in Germany," she said.

"I see in the papers that you're going to have a great beano at Tilby
for his coming of age."

"We're going to entertain the tenants and they're making George a
presentation."

She was less exuberant than usual, but I did not pay much attention to
the fact. She led a strenuous life and it might be that she was tired. I
knew she liked to talk of her son, so I continued.

"I suppose George has been having a grand time in Germany," I said.

She did not answer for a moment and I gave her a glance. I was surprised
to see that her eyes were filled with tears.

"I'm afraid George has gone mad," she said.

"What _do_ you mean?"

"We've been so frightfully worried, Freddy's so angry, he won't even
discuss it. I don't know what we're going to do."

Of course it immediately occurred to me that George, who, I supposed,
like most young Englishmen sent to learn the language, had been put with
a German family, had fallen in love with the daughter of the house and
wanted to marry her. I had a pretty strong suspicion that the Blands
were intent on his making a very grand marriage.

"Why, what's happened?" I asked.

"He wants to become a pianist."

"A what?"

"A professional pianist."

"What on earth put that idea in his head?"

"Heaven knows. We didn't know anything about it. We thought he was
working for his exam. I went out to see him. I thought I'd like to know
that he was getting on all right. Oh, my dear. He looks like nothing on
earth. And he used to be so smart; I could have cried. He told me he
wasn't going in for the exam, and had never had any intention of doing
so; he'd only suggested the diplomatic service so that we'd let him go
to Germany and he'd be able to study music."

"But has he any talent?"

"Oh, that's neither here nor there. Even if he had the genius of
Paderewski we couldn't have George traipsing around the country playing
at concerts. No one can deny that I'm very artistic, and so is Freddy,
we love music and we've always known a lot of artists, but George will
have a very great position, it's out of the question. We've set our
hearts on his going into Parliament. He'll be very rich one day. There's
nothing he can't aspire to."

"Did you point all that out to him?"

"Of course I did. He laughed at me. I told him he'd break his father's
heart. He said his father could always fall back on Harry. Of course I'm
devoted to Harry, and he's as clever as a monkey, but it was always
understood that he was to go into the business; even though I am his
mother I can see that he hasn't got the advantages that George has. Do
you know what he said to me? He said that if his father would settle
five pounds a week on him he would resign everything in Harry's favour
and Harry could be his father's heir and succeed to the baronetcy and
everything. It's too ridiculous. He said that if the Crown Prince of
Roumania could abdicate a throne he didn't see why he couldn't abdicate
a baronetcy. But you can't do that. Nothing can prevent him from being
third baronet and if Freddy should be granted a peerage from succeeding
to it at Freddy's death. Do you know, he even wants to drop the name of
Bland and take some horrible German name."

I could not help asking what.

"Bleikogel or something like that," she answered.

That was a name I recognised. I remembered Ferdy telling me that Hannah
Rabenstein had married Alfons Bleikogel who became eventually Sir Alfred
Bland, first Baronet. It was all very strange. I wondered what had
happened to the charming and so typically English boy whom I had seen
only a few months before.

"Of course when I came home and told Freddy he was furious. I've never
seen him so angry. He foamed at the mouth. He wired to George to come
back immediately and George wired back to say he couldn't on account of
his work."

"Is he working?"

"From morning till night. That's the maddening part of it. He never did
a stroke of work in his life. Freddy used to say he was born idle."

"H'm."

"Then Freddy wired to say that if he didn't come he'd stop his allowance
and George wired back: 'Stop it.' That put the lid on. You don't know
what Freddy can be when his back is up."

I knew that Freddy had inherited a large fortune, but I knew also that
he had immensely increased it, and I could well imagine that behind the
courteous and amiable Squire of Tilby there was a ruthless man of
affairs. He had been used to having his own way and I could believe that
when crossed he would be hard and cruel.

"We'd been making George a very handsome allowance, but you know how
frightfully extravagant he was. We didn't think he'd be able to hold out
long and in point of fact within a month he wrote to Ferdy and asked him
to lend him a hundred pounds. Ferdy went to my mother-in-law, she's his
sister, you know, and asked her what it meant. Though they hadn't spoken
for twenty years Freddy went to see him and begged him not to send
George a penny, and he promised he wouldn't. I don't know how George has
been making both ends meet. I'm sure Freddy's right, but I can't help
being rather worried. If I hadn't given Freddy my word of honour that I
wouldn't send him anything I think I'd have slipped a few notes in a
letter in case of accident. I mean, it's awful to think that perhaps he
hasn't got enough to eat."

"It'll do him no harm to go short for a bit."

"We were in an awful hole, you know. We'd made all sorts of preparations
for his coming of age, and I'd issued hundreds of invitations. Suddenly
George said he wouldn't come. I was simply frantic. I wrote and wired. I
would have gone over to Germany only Freddy wouldn't let me. I
practically went down on my bended knees to George. I begged him not to
put us in such a humiliating position. I mean, it's the sort of thing
it's so difficult to explain. Then my mother-in-law stepped in. You
don't know her, do you? She's an extraordinary old woman. You'd never
think she was Freddy's mother. She was German originally, but of very
good family."

"Oh?"

"To tell you the truth I'm rather frightened of her. She tackled Freddy
and then she wrote to George herself. She said that if he'd come home
for his twenty-first birthday she'd pay any debts he had in Munich and
we'd all give a patient hearing to anything he had to say. He agreed to
that and we're expecting him one day next week. But I'm not looking
forward to it, I can tell you."

She gave a deep sigh. When we were walking upstairs after dinner Freddy
addressed me.

"I see Muriel has been telling you about George. The damned fool! I have
no patience with him. Fancy wanting to be a pianist. It's so
ungentlemanly."

"He's very young, you know," I said soothingly.

"He's had things too easy for him. I've been much too indulgent. There's
never been a thing he wanted that I haven't given him. I'll learn him."

                 *        *        *        *        *

The Blands had a discreet apprehension of the uses of advertisement and
I gathered from the papers that the celebrations at Tilby of George's
twenty-first birthday were conducted in accordance with the usage of
English county families. There was a dinner-party and a ball for the
gentry and a collation and a dance in marquees on the lawn for the
tenants. Expensive bands were brought down from London. In the
illustrated papers were pictures of George surrounded by his family
being presented with a solid silver tea-set by the tenantry. They had
subscribed to have his portrait painted, but since his absence from the
country had made it impossible for him to sit, the tea-service had been
substituted. I read in the columns of the gossip writers that his father
had given him a hunter, his mother a gramophone that changed its own
records, his grandmother the dowager Lady Bland an _Encyclopdia
Britannica_ and his great-uncle Ferdinand Rabenstein a _Virgin and
Child_ by Pellegrino da Modena. I could not help observing that these
gifts were bulky and not readily convertible into cash. From Ferdy's
presence at the festivities I concluded that George's unaccountable
vagary had effected a reconciliation between uncle and nephew. I was
right. Ferdy did not at all like the notion of his great-nephew becoming
a professional pianist. At the first hint of danger to its prestige the
family drew together and a united front was presented to oppose George's
designs. Since I was not there I only know from hearsay what happened
when the birthday celebrations were over. Ferdy told me something and so
did Muriel, and later George gave me his version. The Blands had very
much the impression that when George came home and found himself
occupying the centre of the stage, when, surrounded by splendour, he saw
for himself once more how much it meant to be the heir of a great
estate, he would weaken. They surrounded him with love. They flattered
him. They hung on his words. They counted on the goodness of his heart
and thought that if they were very kind to him he would not have the
courage to cause them pain. They seemed to take it for granted that he
had no intention of going back to Germany and in conversation included
him in all their plans. George did not say very much. He seemed to be
enjoying himself. He did not open a piano. Things looked as though they
were going very well. Peace descended on the troubled house. Then one
day at luncheon when they were discussing a garden-party to which they
had all been asked for one day of the following week, George said
pleasantly:

"Don't count on me. I shan't be here."

"Oh, George, why not?" asked his mother.

"I must get back to my work. I'm leaving for Munich on Monday."

There was an awful pause. Everyone looked for something to say, but was
afraid of saying the wrong thing, and at last it seemed impossible to
break it. Luncheon was finished in silence. Then George went into the
garden and the others, old Lady Bland and Ferdy, Muriel and Sir
Adolphus, into the morning-room. There was a family council. Muriel
wept. Freddy flew into a temper. Presently from the drawing-room they
heard the sound of someone playing a nocturne of Chopin. It was George.
It was as though now he had announced his decision he had gone for
comfort, rest and strength to the instrument he loved. Freddy sprang to
his feet.

"Stop that noise," he cried. "I won't have him play the piano in my
house."

Muriel rang for a servant and gave him a message.

"Will you tell Mr. Bland that her ladyship has a bad headache and would
he mind not playing the piano."

Ferdy, the man of the world, was deputed to have a talk with George. He
was authorised to make him certain promises if he would give up the idea
of becoming a pianist. If he did not wish to go into the diplomatic
service his father would not insist, but if he would stand for
Parliament he was prepared to pay his election expenses, give him a flat
in London and make him an allowance of five thousand a year. I must say
it was a handsome offer. I do not know what Ferdy said to the boy. I
suppose he painted to him the life that a young man could lead in London
on such an income. I am sure he made it very alluring. It availed
nothing. All George asked was five pounds a week to be able to continue
his studies and to be left alone. He was indifferent to the position
that he might some day enjoy. He didn't want to hunt. He didn't want to
shoot. He didn't want to be a Member of Parliament. He didn't want to be
a millionaire. He didn't want to be a baronet. He didn't want to be a
peer. Ferdy left him defeated and in a state of considerable
exasperation.

After dinner that evening there was a battle royal. Freddy was a
quick-tempered man, unused to opposition, and he gave George the rough
side of his tongue. I gather that it was very rough indeed. The women
who sought to restrain his violence were sternly silenced. Perhaps for
the first time in his life Freddy would not listen to his mother. George
was obstinate and sullen. He had made up his mind and if his father
didn't like it he could lump it. Freddy was peremptory. He forbade
George to go back to Germany. George answered that he was twenty-one and
his own master. He would go where he chose. Freddy swore he would not
give him a penny.

"All right, I'll earn money."

"You! You've never done a stroke of work in your life. What do you
expect to do to earn money?"

"Sell old clothes," grinned George.

There was a gasp from all of them. Muriel was so taken aback that she
said a stupid thing.

"Like a Jew?"

"Well, aren't I a Jew? And aren't you a Jewess and isn't daddy a Jew?
We're all Jews, the whole gang of us, and everyone knows it and what the
hell's the good of pretending we're not?"

Then a very dreadful thing happened. Freddy burst suddenly into tears.
I'm afraid he didn't behave very much like Sir Adolphus Bland, Bart.,
M.P., and the good old English gentleman he so much wanted to be, but
like an emotional Adolf Bleikogel who loved his son and wept with
mortification because the great hopes he had set on him were brought to
nothing and the ambition of his life was frustrated. He cried noisily
with great loud sobs and pulled his beard and beat his breast and rocked
to and fro. Then they all began to cry, old Lady Bland and Muriel, and
Ferdy, who sniffed and blew his nose and wiped the tears streaming down
his face, and even George cried. Of course it was very painful, but to
our rough Anglo-Saxon temperament I am afraid it must seem also a trifle
ridiculous. No one tried to console anybody else. They just sobbed and
sobbed. It broke up the party.

But it had no result on the situation. George remained obdurate. His
father would not speak to him. There were more scenes. Muriel sought to
excite his pity; he was deaf to her piteous entreaties, he did not seem
to mind if he broke her heart, he did not care two hoots if he killed
his father. Ferdy appealed to him as a sportsman and a man of the world.
George was flippant and indeed personally offensive. Old Lady Bland with
her guttural German accent and strong common-sense argued with him, but
he would not listen to reason. It was she, however, who at last found a
way out. She made George acknowledge that it was no use to throw away
all the beautiful things the world laid at his feet unless he had
talent. Of course he thought he had, but he might be mistaken. It was
not worth while to be a second-rate pianist. His only excuse, his only
justification, was genius. If he had genius his family had no right to
stand in his way.

"You can't expect me to show genius already," said George. "I shall have
to work for years."

"Are you sure you are prepared for that?"

"It's my only wish in the world. I'll work like a dog. I only want to be
given my chance."

This was the proposition she made. His father was determined to give him
nothing and obviously they could not let the boy starve. He had
mentioned five pounds a week. Well, she was willing to give him that
herself. He could go back to Germany and study for two years. At the end
of that time he must come back and they would get some competent and
disinterested person to hear him play, and if then that person said he
showed promise of becoming a first-rate pianist no further obstacles
would be placed in his way. He would be given every advantage, help and
encouragement. If on the other hand that person decided that his natural
gifts were not such as to ensure ultimate success he must promise
faithfully to give up all thoughts of making music his profession and in
every way accede to his father's wishes. George could hardly believe his
ears.

"Do you mean that, Granny?"

"I do."

"But will daddy agree?"

"I vill see dat he does," she answered.

George seized her in his arms and impetuously kissed her on both cheeks.

"Darling," he cried.

"Ah, but de promise?"

He gave her his solemn word of honour that he would faithfully abide-by
the terms of the arrangement. Two days later he went back to Germany.
Though his father consented unwillingly to his going, and indeed could
not help doing so, he would not be reconciled to him and when he left
refused to say good-bye to him. I imagine that in no manner could he
have caused himself such pain. I permit myself a trite remark. It is
strange that men, inhabitants for so short a while of an alien and
inhuman world should go out of their way to cause themselves so much
unhappiness.

                 *        *        *        *        *

George had stipulated that during his two years of study his family
should not visit him, so that when Muriel heard some months before he
was due to come home that I was passing through Munich on my way to
Vienna, whither business called me, it was not unnatural that she should
ask me to look him up. She was anxious to have first-hand information
about him. She gave me George's address and I wrote ahead, telling him I
was spending a day in Munich, and asked him to lunch with me. His answer
awaited me at the hotel. He said he worked all day and could not spare
the time to lunch with me, but if I would come to his studio about six
he would like so show me that and if I had nothing better to do would
love to spend the evening with me. So soon after six I went to the
address he gave me. He lived on the second floor of a large block of
flats and when I came to his door I heard the sound of piano-playing. It
stopped when I rang and George opened the door for me. I hardly
recognised him. He had grown very fat. His hair was extremely long, it
curled all over his head in picturesque confusion; and he had certainly
not shaved for three days. He wore a grimy pair of Oxford bags, a tennis
shirt and slippers. He was not very clean and his finger-nails were
rimmed with black. It was a startling change from the spruce, slim youth
so elegantly dressed in such beautiful clothes that I had last seen. I
could not but think it would be a shock to Ferdy to see him now. The
studio was large and bare; on the walls were three or four unframed
canvases of a highly cubist nature, there were several arm-chairs much
the worse for wear, and a grand piano. Books were littered about and old
newspapers and art magazines. It was dirty and untidy and there was a
frowzy smell of stale beer and stale smoke.

"Do you live here alone?" I asked.

"Yes, I have a woman who comes in twice a week and cleans up. But I make
my own breakfast and lunch."

"Can you cook?"

"Oh, I only have bread and cheese and a bottle of beer for lunch. I dine
at a _Bierstube_."

It was pleasant to discover that he was very glad to see me. He seemed
in great spirits and extremely happy. He asked after his relations and
we talked of one thing and another. He had a lesson twice a week and for
the rest of the time practised. He told me that he worked ten hours a
day.

"That's a change," I said.

He laughed.

"Daddy said I was born tired. I wasn't really lazy. I didn't see the use
of working at things that bored me."

I asked him how he was getting on with the piano. He seemed to be
satisfied with his progress and I begged him to play to me.

"Oh, not now, I'm all in, I've been at it all day. Let's go out and dine
and come back here later and then I'll play. I generally go to the same
place, there are several students I know there, and it's rather fun."

Presently we set out. He put on socks and shoes and a very old golf
coat, and we walked together through the wide quiet streets. It was a
brisk cold day. His step was buoyant. He looked round him with a sigh of
delight.

"I love Munich," he said. "It's the only city in the world where there's
art in the very air you breathe. After all, art is the only thing that
matters, isn't it? I loathe the idea of going home."

"All the same I'm afraid you'll have to."

"I know. I'll go all right, but I'm not going to think about it till the
time comes."

"When you do, you might do worse than get a haircut. If you don't mind
my saying so you look almost too artistic to be convincing."

"You English, you're such Philistines," he said.

He took me to a rather large restaurant in a side street, crowded even
at that early hour with people dining and furnished heavily in the
German medieval style. A table covered with a red cloth, well away from
the air, was reserved for George and his friends and when we went to it
four or five youths were at it. There was a Pole studying Oriental
languages, a student of philosophy, a painter (I suppose the author of
George's cubist pictures), a Swede, and a young man who introduced
himself to me, clicking his heels, as Hans Reiting, _Dichter_, namely
Hans Reiting, poet. Not one of them was more than twenty-two and I felt
a trifle out of it. They all addressed George as _du_ and I noticed that
his German was extremely fluent. I had not spoken it for some time and
mine was rusty, so that I could not take much part in the lively
conversation. But nevertheless I thoroughly enjoyed myself. They ate
sparingly, but drank a good deal of beer. They talked of art and women.
They were very revolutionary and though gay very much in earnest. They
were contemptuous of everyone you had ever heard of, and the only point
on which they all agreed was that in this topsy-turvy world only the
vulgar could hope for success. They argued points of technique with
animation, and contradicted one another, and shouted and were obscene.
They had a grand time.

At about eleven George and I walked back to his studio. Munich is a city
that frolics demurely and except about the Marienplatz the streets were
still and empty. When we got in he took off his coat and said:

"Now I'll play to you."

I sat in one of the dilapidated arm-chairs and a broken spring stuck
into my behind, but I made myself as comfortable as I could. George
played Chopin. I know very little of music and that is one of the
reasons for which I have found this story difficult to write. When I go
to a concert at the Queen's Hall and in the intervals read the programme
it is all Greek to me. I know nothing of harmony and counterpoint. I
shall never forget how humiliated I felt once when, having come to
Munich for a Wagner Festival, I went to a wonderful performance of
_Tristan und Isolde_ and never heard a note of it. The first few bars
sent me off and I began to think of what I was writing, my characters
leapt into life and I heard their long conversations, I suffered their
pains and was a party to their joy; the years swept by and all sorts of
things happened to me, the spring brought me its rapture and in the
winter I was cold and hungry; and I loved and I hated and I died. I
suppose there were intervals in which I walked round and round the
garden and probably ate _Schinken-Brdchen_ and drank beer, but I have
no recollection of them. The only thing I know is that when the curtain
for the last time fell I woke with a start. I had had a wonderful time,
but I could not help thinking it was very stupid of me to come such a
long way and spend so much money if I couldn't pay attention to what I
heard and saw.

I knew most of the things George played. They were the familiar pieces
of concert programmes. He played with a great deal of dash. Then he
played Beethoven's _Appassionata_. I used to play it myself when I
played the piano (very badly) in my far distant youth and I still knew
every note of it. Of course it is a classic and a great work, it would
be foolish to deny it, but I confess that at this time of day it leaves
me cold. It is like _Paradise Lost_, splendid, but a trifle stolid. This
too George played with vigour. He sweated profusely. At first I could
not make out what was the matter with his playing, something did not
seem to me quite right, and then it struck me that the two hands did not
exactly synchronise, so that there was ever so slight an interval
between the bass and the treble; but I repeat, I am ignorant of these
things; what disconcerted me might have been merely the effect of his
having drunk a good deal of beer that evening or indeed only my fancy. I
said all I could think of to praise him.

"Of course I know I need a lot more work. I'm only a beginner, but I
know I can do it. I feel it in my bones. It'll take me ten years, but
then I shall be a pianist."

He was tired and came away from the piano. It was after midnight and I
suggested going, but he would not hear of it. He opened a couple of
bottles of beer and lit his pipe. He wanted to talk.

"Are you happy here?" I asked him.

"Very," he answered gravely. "I'd like to stay for ever. I've never had
such fun in my life. This evening, for instance. Wasn't it grand?"

"It was very jolly. But one can't go on leading the student's life. Your
friends here will grow older and go away."

"Others'll come. There are always students here and people like that."

"Yes, but you'll grow older too. Is there anything more lamentable than
the middle-aged man who tries to go on living the undergraduate's life?
The old fellow who wants to be a boy among boys, and tries to persuade
himself that they'll accept him as one of themselves--how ridiculous he
is. It can't be done."

"I feel so at home here. My poor father wants me to be an English
gentleman. It gives me gooseflesh. I'm not a sportsman. I don't care a
damn for hunting and shooting and playing cricket. I was only acting."

"You gave a very natural performance."

"It wasn't till I came here that I knew it wasn't real. I loved Eton,
and Oxford was a riot, but all the same I knew I didn't belong. I played
the part all right, because acting's in my blood, but there was always
something in me that wasn't satisfied. The house in Grosvenor Square is
a freehold and daddy paid a hundred and eighty thousand pounds for
Tilby; I don't know if you understand what I mean, I felt they were just
furnished houses we'd taken for the season and one of these days we'd
pack up and the real owners would come back."

I listened to him attentively, but I wondered how much he was describing
what he had obscurely felt and how much he imagined now in his changed
circumstances that he had felt.

"I used to hate hearing great-uncle Ferdy tell his Jewish stories. I
thought it so damned mean. I understand now; it was a safety valve. My
God, the strain of being a man about town. It's easier for daddy, he can
play the old English squire at Tilby, but in the City he can be himself.
He's all right. I've taken the make-up off and my stage clothes and at
last I can be my real self too. What a relief! You know, I don't like
English people. I never really know where I am with you. You're so dull
and conventional. You never let yourselves go. There's no freedom in
you, freedom of the soul, and you're such funks. There's nothing in the
world you're so frightened of as doing the wrong thing."

"Don't forget that you're English yourself, George," I murmured.

He laughed.

"I? I'm not English. I haven't got a drop of English blood in me. I'm a
Jew and you know it, and a German Jew into the bargain. I don't want to
be English. I want to be a Jew. My friends are Jews. You don't know how
much more easy I feel with them. I can be myself. We did everything we
could to avoid Jews at home; Mummy, because she was blonde, thought she
could get away with it and pretended she was a Gentile. What rot! D'you
know, I have a lot of fun wandering about the Jewish parts of Munich and
looking at the people. I went to Frankfort once, there are a lot of them
there, and I walked about and looked at the frowzy old men with their
hooked noses and the fat women with their false hair. I felt such a
sympathy for them, I felt I belonged to them, I could have kissed them.
When they looked at me I wondered if they knew that I was one of them. I
wish to God I knew Yiddish. I'd like to become friends with them, and go
into their houses and eat Kosher food and all that sort of thing. I
wanted to go to a synagogue, but I was afraid I'd do the wrong thing and
be kicked out. I like the smell of the Ghetto and the sense of life, and
the mystery and the dust and the squalor and the romance. I shall, never
get the longing for it out of my head now. That's the real thing. All
the rest is only pretence."

"You'll break your father's heart," I said.

"It's his or mine. Why can't he let me go? There's Harry. Harry would
love to be squire of Tilby. He'd be an English gentleman all right. You
know, mummy's set her heart on my marrying a Christian. Harry would love
to. He'll found the good old English family all right. After all, I ask
so little. I only want five pounds a week, and they can keep the title
and the park and the Gainsboroughs and the whole bag of tricks."

"Well, the fact remains that you gave your solemn word of honour to go
back after two years."

"I'll go back all right," he said sullenly. "Lea Makart has promised to
come and hear me play."

"What'll you do if she says you're no good?"

"Shoot myself," he said gaily.

"What nonsense," I answered in the same tone.

"Do _you_ feel at home in England?"

"No," I said, "but then I don't feel at home anywhere else."

But he was quite naturally not interested in me.

"I loathe the idea of going back. Now that I know what life has to offer
I wouldn't be an English country gentleman for anything in the world. My
God, the boredom of it!"

"Money's a very nice thing and I've always understood it's very pleasant
to be an English peer."

"Money means nothing to me. I want none of the things it can buy, and I
don't happen to be a snob."

It was growing very late and I had to get up early next day. It seemed
unnecessary for me to pay too much attention to what George said. It was
the sort of nonsense a young man might very well indulge in when thrown
suddenly among painters and poets. Art is strong wine and needs a strong
head to carry it. The divine fire burns most efficiently in those who
temper its fury with horse sense. After all, George was not twenty-three
yet. Time teaches. And when all was said and done his future was no
concern of mine. I bade him good-night and walked back to my hotel. The
stars were shining in the indifferent sky. I left Munich in the morning.

                 *        *        *        *        *

I did not tell Muriel on my return to London what George had said to me,
or what he looked like, but contented myself with assuring her that he
was well and happy, working very hard, and seemed to be leading a
virtuous and sober life. Six months later he came home. Muriel asked me
to go down to Tilby for the week-end: Ferdy was bringing Lea Makart to
hear George play and he particularly wished me to be there. I accepted.
Muriel met me at the station.

"How did you find George?" I asked.

"He's very fat, but he seems in great spirits. I think he's pleased to
be back again. He's been very sweet to his father."

"I'm glad of that."

"Oh, my dear, I do hope Lea Makart will say he's no good. It'll be such
a relief to all of us."

"I'm afraid it'll be a terrible disappointment to him."

"Life is full of disappointments," said Muriel crisply. "But one learns
to put up with them."

I gave her a smile of amusement. We were sitting in a Rolls, and there
was a footman as well as a chauffeur on the box. She wore a string of
pearls that had probably cost forty thousand pounds. I recollected that
in the birthday honours Sir Adolphus Bland had not been one of the three
gentlemen on whom the King had been pleased to confer a peerage.

Lea Makart was able to make only a flying visit. She was playing that
evening at Brighton and would motor over to Tilby on the Sunday morning
for luncheon. She was returning to London the same day because she had a
concert in Manchester on the Monday. George was to play in the course of
the afternoon.

"He's practising very hard," his mother told me. "That's why he didn't
come with me to meet you."

We turned in at the park gates and drove up the imposing avenue of elms
that led to the house. I found that there was no party.

I met the dowager Lady Bland for the first time. I had always been
curious to see her. I had had in my mind's eye a somewhat sensational
picture of an old, old Jewish woman who lived alone in her grand house
in Portland Place and, with a finger in every pie, ruled her family with
a despotic hand. She did not disappoint me. She was of a commanding
presence, rather tall, and stout without being corpulent. Her
countenance was markedly Hebraic. She wore a rather heavy moustache and
a wig of a peculiarly metallic brown. Her dress was very grand, of black
brocade, and she had a row of large diamond stars on her breast and
round her neck a chain of diamonds. Diamond rings gleamed on her
wrinkled hands. She spoke in a rather loud harsh voice and with a strong
German accent. When I was introduced to her she fixed me with shining
eyes. She summed me up with despatch and to my fancy at all events made
no attempt to conceal from me that the judgment she formed was
unfavourable.

"You have known my brother Ferdinand for many years, is it not so?" she
said, rolling a guttural R. "My brother Ferdinand has always moved in
very good society. Where is Sir Adolphus, Muriel? Does he know your
guest is arrived? And will you not send for George? If he does not know
his pieces by now he will not know them by to-morrow."

Muriel explained that Freddy was finishing a round of golf with his
secretary and that she had had George told I was there. Lady Bland
looked as though she thought Muriel's replies highly unsatisfactory and
turned again to me.

"My daughter-in-law tells me you have been in Italy?"

"Yes, I've only just come back."

"It is a beautiful country. How is the King?"

I said I did not know.

"I used to know him when he was a little boy. He was not very strong
then. His mother, Queen Margherita, was a great friend of mine. They
thought he would never marry. The Duchess of Aosta was very angry when
he fell in love with that Princess of Montenegro."

She seemed to belong to some long-past period of history, but she was
very alert and I imagine that little escaped her beady eyes. Freddy,
very spruce in plus-fours, presently came in. It was amusing and yet a
little touching to see this grey-bearded man, as a rule somewhat
domineering, so obviously on his best behaviour with the old lady. He
called her Mamma. Then George came in. He was as fat as ever, but he had
taken my advice and had his hair cut; he was losing his boyish looks,
but he was a powerful and well set-up young man. It was good to see the
pleasure he took in his tea. He ate quantities of sandwiches and great
hunks of cake. He had still a boy's appetite. His father watched him
with a tender smile and as I looked at him I could not be surprised at
the attachment which they all so obviously felt for him. He had an
ingenuousness, a charm and an enthusiasm which were certainly very
pleasant. There was about him a generosity of demeanour, a frankness and
a natural cordiality which could not but make people take to him. I do
not know whether it was owing to a hint from his grandmother or merely
of his own good nature, but it was plain that he was going out of his
way to be nice to his father; and in his father's soft eyes, in the way
he hung upon the boy's words, in his pleased, proud and happy look, you
felt how bitterly the estrangement of the last two years had weighed on
him. He adored George.

                 *        *        *        *        *

We played golf in the morning, a three-ball match, since Muriel, having
to go to Mass, could not join us, and at one Ferdy arrived in Lea
Makart's car. We sat down to luncheon. Of course Lea Makart's reputation
was well known to me. She was acknowledged to be the greatest woman
pianist in Europe. She was a very old friend of Ferdy's, who with his
interest and patronage had greatly helped her at the beginning of her
career, and it was he who had arranged for her to come and give her
opinion of George's chances. At one time I went as often as I could to
hear her play. She had no affectations; she played as a bird sings,
without any appearance of effort, very naturally, and the silvery notes
dripped from her light fingers in a curiously spontaneous manner, so
that it gave you the impression that she was improvising those
complicated rhythms. They used to tell me that her technique was
wonderful. I could never make up my mind how much the delight her
playing gave me was due to her person. In those days she was the most
ethereal thing you could imagine, and it was surprising that a creature
so sylphlike should be capable of so much power. She was very slight,
pale, with enormous eyes and magnificent black hair, and at the piano
she had a childlike wistfulness that was most appealing. She was very
beautiful in a hardly human way and when she played, a little smile on
her closed lips, she seemed to be remembering things she had heard in
another world. Now, however, a woman in the early forties, she was
sylphlike no more; she was stout and her face had broadened; she had no
longer that lovely remoteness, but the authority of her long succession
of triumphs. She was brisk, business-like and somewhat overwhelming. Her
vitality lit her with a natural spotlight as his sanctity surrounds the
saint with a halo. She was not interested in anything very much but her
own affairs, but since she had humour and knew the world she was able to
invest them with gaiety. She held the conversation, but did not absorb
it. George talked little. Every now and then she gave him a glance, but
did not try to draw him in. I was the only Gentile at the table. All but
old Lady Bland spoke perfect English, yet I could not help feeling that
they did not speak like English people; I think they rounded their
vowels more than we do, they certainly spoke louder, and the words
seemed not to fall, but to gush from their lips. I think if I had been
in another room where I could hear the tone but not the words of their
speech I should have thought it was in a foreign language that they were
conversing. The effect was slightly disconcerting.

Lea Makart wished to set out for London at about six, so it was arranged
that George should play at four. Whatever the result of the audition, I
felt that I, a stranger in the circle which her departure must render
exclusively domestic, would be in the way and so, pretending an early
engagement in town next morning, I asked her if she would take me with
her in her car.

At a little before four we all wandered into the drawing-room. Old Lady
Bland sat on a sofa with Ferdy; Freddy, Muriel and I made ourselves
comfortable in arm-chairs; and Lea Makart sat by herself. She chose
instinctively a high-backed Jacobean chair that had somewhat the air of
a throne, and in a yellow dress, with her olive skin, she looked very
handsome. She had magnificent eyes. She was very much made up and her
mouth was scarlet.

George gave no sign of nervousness. He was already seated at the piano
when I went in with his father and mother, and he watched us quietly
settling ourselves down. He gave me the shadow of a smile. When he saw
that we were all at our ease he began to play. He played Chopin. He
played two waltzes that were familiar to me, a polonaise and an _tude_.
He played with a great deal of brio. I wish I knew music well enough to
give an exact description of his playing. It had strength, and a
youthful exuberance, but I felt that he missed what to me is the
peculiar charm of Chopin, the tenderness, the nervous melancholy, the
wistful gaiety and the slightly faded romance that reminds me always of
an Early Victorian keepsake. And again I had the vague sensation, so
slight that it almost escaped me, that the two hands did not quite
synchronise. I looked at Ferdy and saw him give his sister a look of
faint surprise, Muriel's eyes were fixed on the pianist, but presently
she dropped them and for the rest of the time stared at the floor. His
father looked at him too, and his eyes were steadfast, but unless I was
much mistaken he went pale and his face betrayed something like dismay.
Music was in the blood of all of them, all their lives they had heard
the greatest pianists in the world, and they judged with instinctive
precision. The only person whose face betrayed no emotion was Lea
Makart. She listened very attentively. She was as still as an image in a
niche.

At last he stopped and turning round on his seat faced her. He did not
speak.

"What is it you want me to tell you?" she asked.

They looked into one another's eyes.

"I want you to tell me whether I have any chance of becoming in time a
pianist in the first rank."

"Not in a thousand years."

For a moment there was dead silence. Freddy's head sank and he looked
down at the carpet at his feet. His wife put out her hand and took his.
But George continued to look steadily at Lea Makart.

"Ferdy has told me the circumstances," she said at last. "Don't think
I'm influenced by them. Nothing of this is very important." She made a
great sweeping gesture that took in the magnificent room with the
beautiful things it contained and all of us. "If I thought you had in
you the makings of an artist I shouldn't hesitate to beseech you to give
up everything for art's sake. Art is the only thing that matters. In
comparison with art, wealth and rank and power are not worth a straw."
She gave us a look so sincere that it was void of insolence. "We are the
only people who count. We give the world significance. You are only our
raw material."

I was not too pleased to be included with the rest under that heading,
but that is neither here nor there.

"Of course I can see that you've worked very hard. Don't think it's been
wasted. It will always be a pleasure to you to be able to play the piano
and it will enable you to appreciate great playing as no ordinary person
can hope to do. Look at your hands. They're not a pianist's hands."

Involuntarily I glanced at George's hands. I had never noticed them
before. I was astounded to see how podgy they were and how short and
stumpy the fingers.

"Your ear is not quite perfect. I don't think you can ever hope to be
more than a very competent amateur. In art the difference between the
amateur and the professional is immeasurable."

George did not reply. Except for his pallor no one would have known that
he was listening to the blasting of all his hopes. The silence that fell
was quite awful. Lea Makart's eyes suddenly filled with tears.

"But don't take my opinion alone," she said. "After all, I'm not
infallible. Ask somebody else. You know how good and generous Paderewski
is. I'll write to him about you and you can go down and play to him. I'm
sure he'll hear you."

George now gave a little smile. He had very good manners and whatever he
was feeling did not want to make the situation too difficult for others.

"I don't think that's necessary, I am content to accept your verdict. To
tell you the truth it's not so very different from my master's in
Munich."

He got up from the piano and lit a cigarette. It eased the strain. The
others moved a little in their chairs. Lea Makart smiled at George.

"Shall I play to you?" she said.

"Yes, do."

She got up and went to the piano. She took off the rings with which her
fingers were laden. She played Bach. I do not know the names of the
pieces, but I recognised the stiff ceremonial of the frenchified little
German courts and the sober, thrifty comfort of the burghers, and the
dancing on the village green, the green trees that looked like Christmas
trees, and the sunlight on the wide German country, and a tender
cosiness; and in my nostrils there was a warm scent of the soil and I
was conscious of a sturdy strength that seemed to have its roots deep in
mother earth, and of an elemental power that was timeless and had no
home in space. She played beautifully, with a soft brilliance that made
you think of the full moon shining at dusk in the summer sky. With
another part of me I watched the others and I saw how intensely they
were conscious of the experience. They were rapt. I wished with all my
heart that I could get from music the wonderful exaltation that
possessed them. She stopped, a smile hovered on her lips, and she put on
her rings. George gave a little chuckle.

"That clinches it, I fancy," he said.

The servants brought in tea and after tea Lea Makart and I bade the
company farewell and got into the car. We drove up to London. She talked
all the way, if not brilliantly at all events with immense gusto; she
told me of her early years in Manchester and of the struggle of her
beginnings. She was very interesting. She never even mentioned George;
the episode was of no consequence, it was finished and she thought of it
no more.

We little knew what was happening at Tilby. When we left George went out
on the terrace and presently his father joined him. Freddy had won the
day, but he was not happy. With his more than feminine sensitiveness he
felt all that George was feeling, and George's anguish simply broke his
heart. He had never loved his son more than then. When he appeared
George greeted him with a little smile. Freddy's voice broke. In a
sudden and overwhelming emotion he found it in him to surrender the
fruits of his victory.

"Look here, old boy," he said, "I can't bear to think that you've had
such a disappointment. Would you like to go back to Munich for another
year and then see?"

George shook his head.

"No, it wouldn't be any good. I've had my chance. Let's call it a day."

"Try not to take it too hard."

"You see, the only thing in the world I want is to be a pianist. And
there's nothing doing. It's a bit thick if you come to think of it."

George, trying so hard to be brave, smiled wanly.

"Would you like to go round the world? You can get one of your Oxford
pals to go with you and I'll pay all the expenses. You've been working
very hard for a long time."

"Thanks awfully, daddy, we'll talk about it. I'm just going for a stroll
now."

"Shall I come with you?"

"I'd rather go alone."

Then George did a strange thing. He put his arm round his father's neck,
and kissed him on the lips. He gave a funny little moved laugh and
walked away. Freddy went back to the drawing-room. His mother, Ferdy and
Muriel were sitting there.

"Freddy, why don't you marry the boy?" said the old lady. "He is
twenty-three. It would take his mind off his troubles and when he is
married and has a baby he will soon settle down like everybody else."

"Whom is he to marry, mamma?" asked Sir Adolphus, smiling.

"That's not so difficult. Lady Frielinghausen came to see me the other
day with her daughter Violet. She is a very nice maiden and she will
have money of her own. Lady Frielinghausen gave me to understand that
her Sir Jacob would come down very handsome if Violet made a good
match."

Muriel flushed.

"I hate Lady Frielinghausen. George is much too young to marry. He can
afford to marry anyone he likes."

Old Lady Bland gave her daughter a strange look.

"You are a very foolish girl, Miriam," she said, using the name Muriel
had long discarded. "As long as I am here I shall not allow you to
commit a foolishness."

She knew as well as if Muriel had said it in so many words that she
wanted George to marry a Gentile, but she knew also that so long as she
was alive neither Freddy nor his wife would dare to suggest it.

But George did not go for a walk. Perhaps because the shooting season
was about to open he took it into his head to go into the gun-room. He
began to clean the gun that his mother had given him on his twentieth
birthday. No one had used it since he went to Germany. Suddenly the
servants were startled by a report. When they went into the gun-room
they found George lying on the floor shot through the heart. Apparently
the gun had been loaded and George while playing about with it had
accidentally shot himself. One reads of such accidents in the paper
often.




THE CREATIVE IMPULSE


I suppose that very few people know how Mrs. Albert Forrester came to
write _The Achilles Statue_; and since it has been acclaimed as one of
the great novels of our time I cannot but think that a brief account of
the circumstances that gave it birth must be of interest to all serious
students of literature; and indeed, if, as the critics say, this is a
book that will live, the following narrative, serving a better purpose
than to divert an idle hour, may be regarded by the historian of the
future as a curious footnote to the literary annals of our day.

Everyone of course remembers the success that attended the publication
of _The Achilles Statue_. Month after month printers were kept busy
printing, binders were kept busy binding, edition after edition; and the
publishers, both in England and America, were hard put to it to fulfil
the pressing orders of the booksellers. It was promptly translated into
every European tongue and it has been recently announced that it will
soon be possible to read it in Japanese and in Urdu. But it had
previously appeared serially in magazines on both sides of the Atlantic
and from the editors of these Mrs. Albert Forrester's agent had wrung a
sum that can only be described as thumping. A dramatisation of the work
was made, which ran for a season in New York, and there is little doubt
that when the play is produced in London it will have an equal success.
The film rights have been sold at a great price. Though the amount that
Mrs. Albert Forrester is reputed (in literary circles) to have made is
probably exaggerated, there can be no doubt that she will have earned
enough money from this one book to save her for the rest of her life
from any financial anxiety.

It is not often that a book meets with equal favour from the public and
the critics, and that she, of all persons, had (if I may so put it)
squared the circle must have proved the more gratifying to Mrs. Albert
Forrester, since, though she had received the commendation of the
critics in no grudging terms (and indeed had come to look upon it as her
due) the public had always remained strangely insensible to her merit.
Each work she published, a slender volume beautifully printed and bound
in white buckram, was hailed as a masterpiece, always to the length of a
column, and in the weekly reviews which you see only in the dusty
library of a very long-established club even to the extent of a page;
and all well-read persons read and praised it. But well-read persons
apparently do not buy books, and she did not sell. It was indeed a
scandal that so distinguished an author, with an imagination so delicate
and a style so exquisite, should remain neglected of the vulgar. In
America she was almost completely unknown; and though Mr. Carl van
Vechten had written an article berating the public for its obtuseness,
the public remained callous. Her agent, a warm admirer of her genius,
had blackmailed an American publisher into taking two of her books by
refusing, unless he did so, to let him have others (trashy novels
doubtless) that he badly wanted, and they had been duly published. The
reception they received from the press was flattering and showed that in
America the best minds were sensitive to her talent; but when it came to
the third book the American publisher (in the coarse way publishers
have) told the agent that any money he had to spare he preferred to
spend on synthetic gin.

Since _The Achilles Statue_ Mrs. Albert Forrester's previous books have
been republished (and Mr. Carl van Vechten has written another article
pointing out sadly, but firmly, that he had drawn the attention of the
reading world to the merits of this exceptional writer fully fifteen
years ago), and they have been so widely advertised that they can
scarcely have escaped the cultured reader's attention. It is
unnecessary, therefore, for me to give an account of them; and it would
certainly be no more than cold potatoes after those two subtle articles
by Mr. Carl van Vechten. Mrs. Albert Forrester began to write early. Her
first work (a volume of elegies) appeared when she was a maiden of
eighteen; and from then on she published, every two or three years, for
she had too exalted a conception of her art to hurry her production, a
volume either of verse or prose. When _The Achilles Statue_ was written
she had reached the respectable age of fifty-seven, so that it will be
readily surmised that the number of her works was considerable. She had
given the world half a dozen volumes of verse, published under Latin
titles, such as _Felicitas_, _Pax Maris_ and _Aes Triplex_, all of the
graver kind, for her muse, disinclined to skip on a light, fantastic
toe, trod a somewhat solemn measure. She remained faithful to the Elegy,
and the Sonnet claimed much of her attention; but her chief distinction
was to revive the Ode, a form of poetry that the poets of the present
day somewhat neglect; and it may be asserted with confidence that her
_Ode to President Fallires_ will find a place in every anthology of
English verse. It is admirable not only for the noble sonority of its
rhythms, but also for its felicitous description of the pleasant land of
France. Mrs. Albert Forrester wrote of the valley of the Loire with its
memories of du Bellay, of Chartres and the jewelled windows of its
cathedral, of the sun-swept cities of Provence, with a sympathy all the
more remarkable since she had never penetrated further into France than
Boulogne, which she visited shortly after her marriage on an excursion
steamer from Margate. But the physical mortification of being extremely
seasick and the intellectual humiliation of discovering that the
inhabitants of that popular seaside resort could not understand her
fluent and idiomatic French made her determine not to expose herself a
second time to experiences that were at once undignified and unpleasant;
and she never again embarked on the treacherous element which she,
however, sang (_Pax Maris_) in numbers both grave and sweet.

There are some fine passages too in the _Ode to Woodrow Wilson_, and I
regret that, owing to a change in her sentiments towards that no doubt
excellent man, the author decided not to reprint it. But I think it must
be admitted that Mrs. Albert Forrester's most distinguished work was in
prose. She wrote several volumes of brief, but perfectly constructed,
essays on such subjects as Autumn in Sussex, Queen Victoria, Death,
Spring in Norfolk, Georgian Architecture, Monsieur de Diaghileff and
Dante; she also wrote works, both erudite and whimsical, on the Jesuit
Architecture of the XVIIth Century and on the Literary Aspect of the
Hundred Years' War. It was her prose that gained her that body of
devoted admirers, fit though few, as with her rare gift of phrase she
herself put it, that proclaimed her the greatest master of the English
language that this century has seen. She admitted herself that it was
her style, sonorous yet racy, polished yet eloquent, that was her strong
point; and it was only in her prose that she had occasion to exhibit the
delicious, but restrained, humour that her readers found so
irresistible. It was not a humour of ideas, nor even a humour of words;
it was much more subtle than that, it was a humour of punctuation: in a
flash of inspiration she had discovered the comic possibilities of the
semi-colon, and of this she had made abundant and exquisite use. She was
able to place it in such a way that if you were a person of culture with
a keen sense of humour, you did not exactly laugh through a
horse-collar, but you giggled delightedly, and the greater your culture
the more delightedly you giggled. Her friends said that it made every
other form of humour coarse and exaggerated. Several writers had tried
to imitate her; but in vain: whatever else you might say about Mrs.
Albert Forrester you were bound to admit that she was able to get every
ounce of humour out of the semi-colon and no one else could get within a
mile of her.

Mrs. Albert Forrester lived in a flat not far from the Marble Arch,
which combined the advantage of a good address and a moderate rent. It
had a handsome drawing-room on the street and a large bedroom for Mrs.
Albert Forrester, a darkish dining-room at the back and a small poky
bedroom, next door to the kitchen, for Mr. Albert Forrester, who paid
the rent. It was in the handsome drawing-room that Mrs. Albert Forrester
every Tuesday afternoon received her friends. It was a severe and chaste
apartment. On the walls was a paper designed by William Morris himself
and on this, in plain black frames, mezzotints collected before
mezzotints grew expensive; the furniture was of the Chippendale period,
but for the roll-top desk, vaguely Louis XVI in character, at which Mrs.
Albert Forrester wrote her works. This was pointed out to visitors the
first time they came to see her, and there were few who looked at it
without emotion. The carpet was thick and the lights discreet. Mrs.
Albert Forrester sat in a straight-backed grandfather's chair covered
with red damask. There was nothing ostentatious about it, but since it
was the only comfortable chair in the room it set her apart as it were
and above her guests. Tea was dispensed by a female of uncertain age,
silent and colourless, who was never introduced to anyone but who was
known to look upon it as a privilege to be allowed to save Mrs. Albert
Forrester from the irksome duty of pouring out tea. She was thus able to
devote herself entirely to conversation, and it must be admitted that
her conversation was excellent. It was not sprightly; and since it is
difficult to indicate punctuation in speech it may have seemed to some
slightly lacking in humour, but it was of wide range, solid, instructive
and interesting. Mrs. Albert Forrester was well acquainted with social
science, jurisprudence and theology. She had read much and her memory
was retentive. She had a pretty gift for quotation, which is a
serviceable substitute for wit, and having for thirty years known more
or less intimately a great many distinguished people, she had a great
many interesting anecdotes to tell, which she placed with tact and which
she did not repeat more than was pardonable. Mrs. Albert Forrester had
the gift of attracting the most varied persons and you were liable at
one and the same time to meet in her drawing-room an ex-Prime Minister,
a newspaper proprietor and the ambassador of a First Class Power. I
always imagined that these great people came because they thought that
here they rubbed shoulders with Bohemia, but with a Bohemia sufficiently
neat and clean for them to be in no danger that the dirt would come off
on them. Mrs. Albert Forrester was deeply interested in politics and I
myself heard a Cabinet Minister tell her frankly that she had a
masculine intelligence. She had been opposed to Female Suffrage, but
when it was at last granted to women she began to dally with the idea of
going into Parliament. Her difficulty was that she did not know which
party to choose.

"After all," she said, with a playful shrug of her somewhat massive
shoulders, "I cannot form a party of one."

Like many serious patriots, in her inability to know for certain which
way the cat would jump she held her political opinions in suspense; but
of late she had been definitely turning towards Labour as the best hope
of the country, and if a safe seat were offered her it was felt fairly
certain that she would not hesitate to come out into the open as a
champion of the oppressed proletariat.

Her drawing-room was always open to foreigners, to Czecho-Slovaks,
Italians and Frenchmen if they were distinguished and to Americans even
if they were obscure. But she was not a snob and you seldom met there a
duke unless he was of a peculiarly serious turn and a peeress only if in
addition to her rank she had the passport of some small social solecism
such as having been divorced, written a novel or forged a cheque, which
might give her claim on Mrs. Albert Forrester's catholic sympathies. She
did not much care for painters, who were shy and silent; and musicians
did not interest her: even if they consented to play, and if they were
celebrated they were too often reluctant, their music was a hindrance to
conversation: if people wanted music they could go to a concert; for her
part she preferred the more subtle music of the soul. But her
hospitality to writers, especially if they were promising and little
known, was warm and constant. She had an eye for budding talent and
there were few of the famous writers who from time to time drank a dish
of tea with her whose first efforts she had not encouraged and whose
early steps she had not guided. Her own position was too well assured
for her to be capable of envy, and she had heard the word genius
attached to her name too often to feel a trace of jealousy because the
talents of others brought them a material success that was denied to
her.

Mrs. Albert Forrester, confident in the judgment of posterity, could
afford to be disinterested. With these elements then it is no wonder
that she had succeeded in creating something as near the French Salon of
the Eighteenth Century as our barbarous nation has ever reached. To be
invited to "eat a bun and drink a cup of tea on Tuesday" was a privilege
that few failed to recognise; and when you sat on your Chippendale chair
in the discreetly lit but austere room, you could not but feel that you
were living literary history. The American Ambassador once said to Mrs.
Albert Forrester:

"A cup of tea with you, Mrs. Forrester, is one of the richest
intellectual treats which it has ever been my lot to enjoy."

It was indeed on occasion a trifle overwhelming. Mrs. Albert Forrester's
taste was so perfect, she so inevitably admired the right thing and made
the just observation about it, that sometimes you almost gasped for air.
For my part I found it prudent to fortify myself with a cocktail or two
before I exposed myself to the rarefied atmosphere of her society.
Indeed, I very nearly found myself for ever excluded from it, for one
afternoon, presenting myself at the door, instead of asking the maid who
opened it: "Is Mrs. Forrester at home?" I asked: "Is there Divine
Service to-day?"

Of course it was said in pure inadvertence, but it was unfortunate that
the maid sniggered and one of Mrs. Albert Forrester's most devoted
admirers, Ellen Hannaway, happened to be at the moment in the hall
taking off her galoshes. She told my hostess what I had said before I
got into the drawing-room, and as I entered Mrs. Albert Forrester fixed
me with an eagle eye.

"Why did you ask if there was Divine Service to-day?" she inquired.

I explained that I was absent-minded, but Mrs. Albert Forrester held me
with a gaze that I can only describe as compelling.

"Do you mean to suggest that my parties are..." she searched for a
word. "Sacramental?"

I did not know what she meant, but did not like to show my ignorance
before so many clever people, and I decided that the only thing was to
seize my trowel and the butter.

"Your parties are like you, dear lady, perfectly beautiful and perfectly
divine."

A little tremor passed through Mrs. Albert Forrester's substantial
frame. She was like a man who enters suddenly a room filled with
hyacinths; the perfume is so intoxicating that he almost staggers. But
she relented.

"If you were trying to be facetious," she said, "I should prefer you to
exercise your facetiousness on my guests rather than on my maids....
Miss Warren will give you some tea."

Mrs. Albert Forrester dismissed me with a wave of the hand, but she did
not dismiss the subject, since for the next two or three years whenever
she introduced me to someone she never failed to add:

"You must make the most of him, he only comes here as a penance. When he
comes to the door he always asks: Is there Divine Service to-day? So
amusing, isn't he?"

But Mrs. Albert Forrester did not confine herself to weekly tea-parties:
every Saturday she gave a luncheon of eight persons; this according to
her opinion being the perfect number for general conversation and her
dining-room conveniently holding no more. If Mrs. Albert Forrester
flattered herself upon anything it was not that her knowledge of English
prosody was unique, but that her luncheons were celebrated. She chose
her guests with care and an invitation to one of them was more than a
compliment, it was a consecration. Over the luncheon-table it was
possible to keep the conversation on a higher level than in the mixed
company of a tea-party and few can have left her dining-room without
taking away with them an enhanced belief in Mrs. Albert Forrester's
ability and a brighter faith in human nature. She only asked men, since,
stout enthusiast for her sex as she was and glad to see women on other
occasions, she could not but realise that they were inclined at table to
talk exclusively to their next-door neighbours and thus hinder the
general exchange of ideas that made her own parties an entertainment not
only of the body but of the soul. For it must be said that Mrs. Albert
Forrester gave you uncommonly good food, excellent wine and a first-rate
cigar. Now to anyone who has partaken of literary hospitality this must
appear very remarkable, since literary persons for the most part think
highly and live plainly; their minds are occupied with the things of the
spirit and they do not notice that the roast mutton is underdone and the
potatoes cold: the beer is all right, but the wine has a sobering
effect, and it is unwise to touch the coffee. Mrs. Albert Forrester was
pleased enough to receive compliments on the fare she provided.

"If people do me the honour to break bread with me," she said, "it is
only fair that I should give them as good food as they can get at home."

But if the flattery was excessive she deprecated it.

"You really embarrass me when you give me a meed of praise which is not
my due. You must praise Mrs. Bulfinch."

"Who is Mrs. Bulfinch?"

"My cook."

"She's a treasure then, but you're not going to ask me to believe that
she's responsible for the wine."

"Is it good? I'm terribly ignorant of such things; I put myself entirely
in the hands of my wine merchant."

But if mention was made of the cigars Mrs. Albert Forrester beamed.

"Ah, for them you must compliment Albert. It is Albert who chooses the
cigars and I am given to understand that no one knows more about a cigar
than Albert."

She looked at her husband, who sat at the end of the table, with the
proud bright eyes of a pedigree hen (a Buff Orpington for choice)
looking at her only chick. Then there was a quick flutter of
conversation as the guests, anxious to be civil to their host and
relieved at length to find an occasion, expressed their appreciation of
his peculiar merit.

"You're very kind," he said. "I'm glad you like them."

Then he would give a little discourse on cigars, explaining the
excellencies he sought and regretting the deterioration in quality which
had followed on the commercialisation of the industry. Mrs. Albert
Forrester listened to him with a complacent smile, and it was plain that
she enjoyed this little triumph of his. Of course you cannot go on
talking of cigars indefinitely and as soon as she perceived that her
guests were growing restive she broached a topic of more general, and it
may be of more significant, interest. Albert subsided into silence. But
he had had his moment.

It was Albert who made Mrs. Forrester's luncheons to some less
attractive than her tea-parties, for Albert was a bore; but though
without doubt perfectly conscious of the fact, she made a point that he
should come to them and in fact had fixed upon Saturdays (for the rest
of the week he was busy) in order that he should be able to. Mrs. Albert
Forrester felt that her husband's presence on these festive occasions
was an unavoidable debt that she paid to her own self-respect. She would
never by a negligence admit to the world that she had married a man who
was not spiritually her equal, and it may be that in the silent watches
of the nights she asked herself where indeed such could have been found.
Mrs. Albert Forrester's friends were troubled by no such reticence and
they said it was dreadful that such a woman should be burdened with such
a man. They asked each other how she had ever come to marry him and
(being mostly celibate) answered despairingly that no one ever knew why
anybody married anybody else.

It was not that Albert was a verbose and aggressive bore; he did not
buttonhole you with interminable stories or pester you with pointless
jokes; he did not crucify you on a platitude or hamstring you with a
commonplace; he was just dull. A cipher. Clifford Boyleston, for whom
the French Romantics had no secrets and who was himself a writer of
merit, had said that when you looked into a room into which Albert had
just gone there was nobody there. This was thought very clever by Mrs.
Albert Forrester's friends and Rose Waterford, the well-known novelist
and the most fearless of women, had ventured to repeat it to Mrs. Albert
Forrester. Though she pretended to be annoyed, she had not been able to
prevent the smile that rose to her lips. Her behaviour towards Albert
could not but increase the respect in which her friends held her. She
insisted that whatever in their secret hearts they thought of him, they
should treat him with the decorum that was due to her husband. Her own
demeanour was admirable. If he chanced to make an observation she
listened to him with a pleasant expression and when he fetched her a
book that she wanted or gave her his pencil to make a note of an idea
that had occurred to her, she always thanked him. Nor would she allow
her friends pointedly to neglect him, and though, being a woman of tact,
she saw that it would be asking too much of the world if she took him
about with her always, and she went out much alone, yet her friends knew
that she expected them to ask him to dinner at least once a year. He
always accompanied her to public banquets when she was going to make a
speech, and if she delivered a lecture she took care that he should have
a seat on the platform.

Albert was, I believe, of average height, but perhaps because you never
thought of him except in connection with his wife (of imposing
dimensions) you only thought of him as a little man. He was spare and
frail and looked older than his age. This was the same as his wife's.
His hair, which he kept very short, was white and meagre, and he wore a
stubby white moustache; his was a face, thin and lined, without a
noticeable feature; and his blue eyes, which once might have been
attractive, were now pale and tired. He was always very neatly dressed
in pepper-and-salt trousers, which he chose always of the same pattern,
a black coat and a grey tie with a small pearl pin in it. He was
perfectly unobtrusive, and when he stood in Mrs. Albert Forrester's
drawing-room to receive the guests whom she had asked to luncheon you
noticed him as little as you noticed the quiet and gentlemanly
furniture. He was well-mannered and it was with a pleasant, courteous
smile that he shook hands with them.

"How do you do? I'm very glad to see you," he said if they were friends
of some standing. "Keeping well, I hope?"

But if they were strangers of distinction coming for the first time to
the house, he went to the door as they entered the drawing-room, and
said:

"I am Mrs. Albert Forrester's husband. I will introduce you to my wife."

Then he led the visitor to where Mrs. Albert Forrester stood, with her
back to the light, and she with a glad and eager gesture advanced to
make the stranger welcome.

It was agreeable to see the demure pride he took in his wife's literary
reputation and the self-effacement with which he furthered her
interests. He was always there when he was wanted and never when he
wasn't. His tact, if not deliberate, was instinctive. Mrs. Albert
Forrester was the first to acknowledge his merits.

"I really don't know what I should do without him," she said. "He's
invaluable to me. I read him everything I write and his criticisms are
often very useful."

"Molire and his cook," said Miss Waterford.

"Is that funny, dear Rose?" asked Mrs. Forrester, somewhat acidly.

When Mrs. Albert Forrester did not approve of a remark, she had a way
that put many persons to confusion of asking you whether it was a joke
which she was too dense to see. But it was impossible to embarrass Miss
Waterford. She was a lady who in the course of a long life had had many
affairs, but only one passion, and this was for printer's ink. Mrs.
Albert Forrester tolerated rather than approved her.

"Come, come, my dear," she replied, "you know very well that he wouldn't
exist without you. He wouldn't know us. It must be wonderful to him to
come in contact with all the best brains and the most distinguished
people of our day."

"It may be that the bee would perish without the hive which shelters it,
but the bee nevertheless has a significance of its own."

And since Mrs. Albert Forrester's friends, though they knew all about
art and literature, knew little about natural history, they had no reply
to this observation. She went on.

"He doesn't interfere with me. He knows subconsciously when I don't want
to be disturbed and, indeed, when I am following out a train of thought
I find his presence in the room a comfort rather than a hindrance to
me."

"Like a Persian cat," said Miss Waterford.

"But like a very well-trained, well-bred, and well-mannered Persian
cat," answered Mrs. Forrester severely, thus putting Miss Waterford in
her place.

But Mrs. Albert Forrester had not finished with her husband.

"We who belong to the intelligentsia," she said, "are apt to live in a
world too exclusively our own. We are interested in the abstract rather
than in the concrete, and sometimes I think that we survey the bustling
world of human affairs in too detached a manner and from too serene a
height. Do you not think that we stand in danger of becoming a little
inhuman? I shall always be grateful to Albert because he keeps me in
contact with the man in the street."

It was on account of this remark, to which none of her friends could
deny the rare insight and subtlety that characterised so many of her
utterances, that for some time Albert was known in her immediate circle
as The Man in the Street. But this was only for a while, and it was
forgotten. He then became known as The Philatelist. It was Clifford
Boyleston, with his wicked wit, who invented the name. One day, his poor
brain exhausted by the effort to sustain a conversation with Albert, he
had asked in desperation:

"Do you collect stamps?"

"No," answered Albert mildly. "I'm afraid I don't."

But Clifford Boyleston had no sooner asked the question than he saw its
possibilities. He had written a book on Baudelaire's aunt by marriage,
which had attracted the attention of all who were interested in French
literature, and was well known in his exhaustive studies of the French
spirit to have absorbed a goodly share of the Gallic quickness and the
Gallic brilliancy. He paid no attention to Albert's disclaimer, but at
the first opportunity informed Mrs. Albert Forrester's friends that he
had at last discovered Albert's secret. He collected stamps. He never
met him afterwards without asking him:

"Well, Mr. Forrester, how is the stamp collection?" Or: "Have you been
buying any stamps since I saw you last?"

It mattered little that Albert continued to deny that he collected
stamps, the invention was too apt not to be made the most of; Mrs.
Albert Forrester's friends insisted that he did, and they seldom spoke
to him without asking him how he was getting on. Even Mrs. Albert
Forrester, when she was in a specially gay humour, would sometimes speak
of her husband as The Philatelist. The name really did seem to fit
Albert like a glove. Sometimes they spoke of him thus to his face and
they could not but appreciate the good nature with which he took it; he
smiled unresentfully and presently did not even protest that they were
mistaken.

Of course Mrs. Albert Forrester had too keen a social sense to
jeopardise the success of her luncheons by allowing her more
distinguished guests to sit on either side of Albert. She took care that
only her older and more intimate friends should do this, and when the
appointed victims came in she would say to them:

"I know you won't mind sitting by Albert, will you?"

They could only say that they would be delighted, but if their faces too
plainly expressed their dismay she would pat their hands playfully and
add:

"Next time you shall sit by me. Albert is so shy with strangers and you
know so well how to deal with him."

They did: they simply ignored him. So far as they were concerned the
chair in which he sat might as well have been empty. There was so sign
that it annoyed him to be taken no notice of by persons who after all
were eating food he paid for, since the earnings of Mrs. Forrester could
certainly not have provided her guests with spring salmon and forced
asparagus. He sat quiet and silent, and if he opened his mouth it was
only to give a direction to one of the maids. If a guest were new to him
he would let his eyes rest on him in a stare that would have been
embarrassing if it had not been so childlike. He seemed to be asking
himself what this strange creature was; but what answer his mild
scrutiny gave him he never revealed. When the conversation grew animated
he would look from one speaker to the other, but again you could not
tell from his thin, lined face what he thought of the fantastic notions
that were bandied across the table.

Clifford Boyleston said that all the wit and wisdom he heard passed over
his head like water over a duck's back. He had given up trying to
understand and now only made a semblance of listening. But Harry
Oakland, the versatile critic, said that Albert was taking it all in; he
found it all too, too marvellous, and with his poor, muddled brain he
was trying desperately to make head or tail of the wonderful things he
heard. Of course in the City he must boast of the distinguished persons
he knew, perhaps there he was a light of learning and letters, an
authority on the ideal; it would be perfectly divine to hear what he
made of it all. Harry Oakland was one of Mrs. Albert Forrester's
staunchest admirers, and had written a brilliant and subtle essay on her
style. With his refined and even beautiful features he looked like a San
Sebastian who had had an accident with a hair-restorer; for he was
uncommonly hirsute. He was a very young man, not thirty, but he had been
in turn a dramatic critic, and a critic of fiction, a musical critic and
a critic of painting. But he was getting a little tired of art and
threatened to devote his talents in future to the criticism of sport.

Albert, I should explain, was in the City and it was a misfortune that
Mrs. Forrester's friends thought she bore with meritorious fortitude
that he was not even rich. There would have been something romantic in
it if he had been a merchant-prince who held the fate of nations in his
hand or sent argosies, laden with rare spices, to those ports of the
Levant the names of which have provided many a poet with so rich and
rare a rhyme. But Albert was only a currant merchant and was supposed to
make no more than just enabled Mrs. Albert Forrester to conduct her life
with distinction and even with liberality. Since his occupation kept him
in his office till six o'clock he never managed to get to Mrs. Albert
Forrester's Tuesdays till the most important visitors were gone. By the
time he arrived, there were seldom more than three or four of her more
intimate friends in the drawing-room, discussing with freedom and humour
the guests who had departed, and when they heard Albert's key in the
front door they realised with one accord that it was late. In a moment
he opened the door in his hesitating way and looked mildly in. Mrs.
Albert Forrester greeted him with a bright smile.

"Come in, Albert, come in. I think you know everybody here."

Albert entered and shook hands with his wife's friends.

"Have you just come from the City?" she asked eagerly, though she knew
there was nowhere else he could have come from. "Would you like a cup of
tea?"

"No, thank you, my dear. I had tea in my office."

Mrs. Albert Forrester smiled still more brightly and the rest of the
company thought she was perfectly wonderful with him.

"Ah, but I know you like a second cup. I will pour it out for you
myself."

She went to the tea-table and, forgetting that the tea had been stewing
for an hour and a half and was stone cold, poured him out a cup and
added milk and sugar. Albert took it with a word of thanks, and meekly
stirred it, but when Mrs. Forrester resumed the conversation which his
appearance had interrupted, without tasting it put it quietly down. His
arrival was the signal for the party finally to break up and one by one
the remaining guests took their departure. On one occasion, however, the
conversation was so absorbing and the point at issue so important that
Mrs. Albert Forrester would not hear of their going.

"It must be settled once for all. And after all," she remarked in a
manner that for her was almost arch, "this is a matter on which Albert
may have something to say. Let us have the benefit of his opinion."

It was when women were beginning to cut their hair and the subject of
discussion was whether Mrs. Albert Forrester should or should not
shingle. Mrs. Albert Forrester was a woman of authoritative presence.
She was large-boned and her bones were well-covered; had she not been so
tall and strong it might have suggested itself to you that she was
corpulent. But she carried her weight gallantly. Her features were a
little larger than life-size and it was this that gave her face
doubtless the look of virile intellectuality that it certainly
possessed. Her skin was dark and you might have thought that she had in
her veins some trace of Levantine blood: she admitted that she could not
but think there was in her a gypsy strain and that would account, she
felt, for the wild and lawless passion that sometimes characterised her
poetry. Her eyes were large and black and bright, her nose like the
great Duke of Wellington's, but more fleshy, and her chin square and
determined. She had a big mouth, with full red lips, which owed nothing
to cosmetics, for of these Mrs. Albert Forrester had never deigned to
make use; and her hair, thick, solid and grey, was piled on the top of
her head in such a manner as to increase her already commanding height.
She was in appearance an imposing, not to say an alarming, female.

She was always very suitably dressed in rich materials of sombre hue and
she looked every inch a woman of letters; but in her discreet way (being
after all human and susceptible to vanity) she followed the fashions and
the cut of her gowns was modish. I think for some time she had hankered
to shingle her hair, but she thought it more becoming to do it at the
solicitation of her friends than on her own initiative.

"Oh, you must, you must," said Harry Oakland, in his eager, boyish way.
"You'd look too, too wonderful."

Clifford Boyleston, who was now writing a book on Madame de Maintenon,
was doubtful. He thought it a dangerous experiment.

"I think," he said, wiping his eye-glasses with a cambric handkerchief,
"I think when one has made a type one should stick to it. What would
Louis XIV have been without his wig?"

"I'm hesitating," said Mrs. Forrester. "After all, we must move with the
times. I am of my day and I do not wish to lag behind. America, as
Wilhelm Meister said, is here and now." She turned brightly to Albert.
"What does my lord and master say about it? What is your opinion,
Albert? To shingle or not to shingle, that is the question."

"I'm afraid my opinion is not of great importance, my dear," he answered
mildly.

"To me it is of the greatest importance," answered Mrs. Albert
Forrester, flatteringly.

She could not but see how beautifully her friends thought she treated
The Philatelist.

"I insist," she proceeded, "I insist. No one knows me as you do, Albert.
Will it suit me?"

"It might," he answered. "My only fear is that with your--statuesque
appearance short hair would perhaps suggest,--well, shall we say, the
Isle of Greece where burning Sappho loved and sung."

There was a moment's embarrassed pause. Rose Waterford smothered a
giggle, but the others preserved a stony silence. Mrs. Forrester's smile
froze on her lips. Albert had dropped a brick.

"I always thought Byron a very mediocre poet," said Mrs. Albert
Forrester at last.

The company broke up. Mrs. Albert Forrester did not shingle, nor indeed
was the matter ever again referred to.

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was towards the end of another of Mrs. Albert Forrester's Tuesdays
that the event occurred that had so great an influence on her literary
career.

It had been one of her most successful parties. The leader of the Labour
Party had been there and Mrs. Albert Forrester had gone as far as she
could without definitely committing herself to intimate to him that she
was prepared to throw in her lot with Labour. The time was ripe and if
she was ever to adopt a political career she must come to a decision. A
member of the French Academy had been brought by Clifford Boyleston and,
though she knew he was wholly unacquainted with English, it had
gratified her to receive his affable compliment on her ornate and yet
pellucid style. The American Ambassador had been there and a young
Russian prince whose authentic Romanoff blood alone prevented him from
looking a gigolo. A duchess who had recently divorced her duke and
married a jockey had been very gracious; and her strawberry leaves,
albeit sere and yellow, undoubtedly added tone to the assembly. There
had been quite a galaxy of literary lights. But now all, all were gone
but Clifford Boyleston, Harry Oakland, Rose Waterford, Oscar Charles and
Simmons. Oscar Charles was a little, gnome-like creature, young but with
the wizened face of a cunning monkey, with gold spectacles, who earned
his living in a government office but spent his leisure in the pursuit
of literature. He wrote little articles for the sixpenny weeklies and
had a spirited contempt for the world in general. Mrs. Albert Forrester
liked him, thinking he had talent, but though he always expressed the
keenest admiration for her style (it was indeed he who had named her the
mistress of the semi-colon), his acerbity was so general that she also
somewhat feared him. Simmons was her agent; a round-faced man who wore
glasses so strong that his eyes behind them looked strange and
misshapen. They reminded you of the eyes of some uncouth crustacean that
you had seen in an aquarium. He came regularly to Mrs. Albert
Forrester's parties, partly because he had the greatest admiration for
her genius and partly because it was convenient for him to meet
prospective clients in her drawing-room.

Mrs. Albert Forrester, for whom he had long laboured with but a trifling
recompense, was not sorry to put him in the way of earning an honest
penny, and she took care to introduce him, with warm expressions of
gratitude, to anyone who might be supposed to have literary wares to
sell. It was not without pride that she remembered that the notorious
and vastly lucrative memoirs of Lady St. Swithin had been first mooted
in her drawing-room.

They sat in a circle of which Mrs. Albert Forrester was the centre and
discussed brightly and, it must be confessed, somewhat maliciously the
various persons who had been that day present. Miss Warren, the pallid
female who had stood for two hours at the tea-table, was walking
silently round the room collecting cups that had been left here and
there. She had some vague employment, but was always able to get off in
order to pour out tea for Mrs. Albert Forrester, and in the evening she
typed Mrs. Albert Forrester's manuscripts. Mrs. Albert Forrester did not
pay her for this, thinking quite rightly that as it was she did a great
deal for the poor thing; but she gave her the seats for the cinema that
were sent her for nothing and often presented her with articles of
clothing for which she had no further use.

Mrs. Albert Forrester in her rather deep, full voice was talking in a
steady flow and the rest were listening to her with attention. She was
in good form and the words that poured from her lips could have gone
straight down on paper without alteration. Suddenly there was a noise in
the passage as though something heavy had fallen and then the sound of
an altercation.

Mrs. Albert Forrester stopped and a slight frown darkened her really
noble brow.

"I should have thought they knew by now that I will not have this
devastating racket in the flat. Would you mind ringing the bell, Miss
Warren, and asking what is the reason of this tumult?"

Miss Warren rang the bell and in a moment the maid appeared. Miss Warren
at the door, in order not to interrupt Mrs. Albert Forrester, spoke to
her in undertones. But Mrs. Albert Forrester somewhat irritably
interrupted herself.

"Well, Carter, what is it? Is the house falling down or has the Red
Revolution at last broken out?"

"If you please, ma'am, it's the new cook's box," answered the maid. "The
porter dropped it as he was bringing it in and the cook got all upset
about it."

"What do you mean by 'the new cook'?"

"Mrs. Bulfinch went away this afternoon, ma'am," said the maid.

Mrs. Albert Forrester stared at her.

"This is the first I've heard of it. Had Mrs. Bulfinch given notice? The
moment Mr. Forrester comes in tell him that I wish to speak to him."

"Very good, ma'am."

The maid went out and Miss Warren slowly returned to the tea-table.
Mechanically, though nobody wanted them, she poured out several cups of
tea.

"What a catastrophe!" cried Miss Waterford.

"You must get her back," said Clifford Boyleston. "She's a treasure,
that woman, a remarkable cook, and she gets better and better every
day."

But at that moment the maid came in again with a letter on a small
plated salver and handed it to her mistress.

"What is this?" said Mrs. Albert Forrester.

"Mr. Forrester said I was to give you this letter when you asked for
him, ma'am," said the maid.

"Where is Mr. Forrester then?"

"Mr. Forrester's gone, ma'am," answered the maid as though the question
surprised her.

"Gone? That'll do. You can go."

The maid left the room and Mrs. Albert Forrester, with a look of
perplexity on her large face, opened the letter. Rose Waterford has told
me that her first thought was that Albert, fearful of his wife's
displeasure at the departure of Mrs. Bulfinch, had thrown himself in the
Thames. Mrs. Albert Forrester read the letter and a look of
consternation crossed her face.

"Oh, monstrous," she cried. "Monstrous! Monstrous!"

"What is it, Mrs. Forrester?"

Mrs. Albert Forrester pawed the carpet with her foot like a restive,
high-spirited horse pawing the ground, and crossing her arms with a
gesture that is indescribable (but that you sometimes see in a fishwife
who is going to make the very devil of a scene) bent her looks upon her
curious and excessively startled friends.

"Albert has eloped with the cook."

There was a gasp of dismay. Then something terrible happened. Miss
Warren, who was standing behind the tea-table, suddenly choked. Miss
Warren, who never opened her mouth and whom no one ever spoke to, Miss
Warren, whom not one of them, though he had seen her every week for
three years, would have recognised in the street, Miss Warren suddenly
burst into uncontrollable laughter. With one accord, aghast, they turned
and stared at her. They felt as Balaam must have felt when his ass broke
into speech. She positively shrieked with laughter. There was a nameless
horror about the sight, as though something had on a sudden gone wrong
with a natural phenomenon, and you were just as startled as though the
chairs and tables without warning began to skip about the floor in an
antic dance. Miss Warren tried to contain herself, but the more she
tried the more pitilessly the laughter shook her, and seizing a
handkerchief she stuffed it in her mouth and hurried from the room. The
door slammed behind her.

"Hysteria," said Clifford Boyleston.

"Pure hysteria, of course," said Harry Oakland.

But Mrs. Albert Forrester said nothing.

The letter had dropped at her feet and Simmons, the agent, picked it up
and handed it to her. She would not take it.

"Read it," she said. "Read it aloud."

Mr. Simmons pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and holding the
letter very close to his eyes read as follows:

    _My Dear_,

    _Mrs. Bulfinch is in need of a change and has decided to leave,
    and as I do not feel inclined to stay on here without her I am
    going too. I have had all the literature I can stand and I am
    fed up with art._

    _Mrs. Bulfinch does not care about marriage, but if you care to
    divorce me she is willing to marry me. I hope you will find the
    new cook satisfactory. She has excellent references. It may save
    you trouble if I inform you that Mrs. Bulfinch and I are living
    at 411, Kennington Road, S.E._

                                                         _Albert._

No one spoke. Mr. Simmons slipped his spectacles back on to the bridge
of his nose. The fact was that none of them, brilliant as they were and
accustomed to find topics of conversation to suit every occasion, could
think of an appropriate remark. Mrs. Albert Forrester was not the kind
of woman to whom you could offer condolences and each was too much
afraid of the other's ridicule to venture upon the obvious. At last
Clifford Boyleston came bravely to the rescue.

"One doesn't know what to say," he observed.

There was another silence and then Rose Waterford spoke.

"What does Mrs. Bulfinch look like?" she asked.

"How should I know?" answered Mrs. Albert Forrester, somewhat peevishly.
"I have never looked at her. Albert always engaged the servants, she
just came in for a moment so that I could see if her aura was
satisfactory."

"But you must have seen her every morning when you did the
housekeeping."

"Albert did the housekeeping. It was his own wish, so that I might be
free to devote myself to my work. In this life one has to limit
oneself."

"Did Albert order your luncheons?" asked Clifford Boyleston.

"Naturally. It was his province."

Clifford Boyleston slightly raised his eyebrows. What a fool he had been
never to guess that it was Albert who was responsible for Mrs.
Forrester's beautiful food! And of course it was owing to him that the
excellent Chablis was always just sufficiently chilled to run coolly
over the tongue, but never so cold as to lose its bouquet and its
savour.

"He certainly knew good food and good wine."

"I always told you he had his points," answered Mrs. Albert Forrester,
as though he were reproaching her. "You all laughed at him. You would
not believe me when I told you that I owed a great deal to him."

There was no answer to this and once more silence, heavy and ominous,
fell on the party. Suddenly Mr. Simmons flung a bombshell.

"You must get him back."

So great was her surprise that if Mrs. Albert Forrester had not been
standing against the chimney-piece she would undoubtedly have staggered
two paces to the rear.

"What on earth do you mean?" she cried. "I will never see him again as
long as I live. Take him back? Never. Not even if he came and begged me
on his bended knees."

"I didn't say take him back; I said, get him back."

But Mrs. Albert Forrester paid no attention to the misplaced
interruption.

"I have done everything for him. What would he be without me? I ask you.
I have given him a position which never in his remotest dreams could he
have aspired to."

None could deny that there was something magnificent in the indignation
of Mrs. Albert Forrester, but it appeared to have little effect on Mr.
Simmons.

"What are you going to live on?"

Mrs. Albert Forrester flung him a glance totally devoid of amiability.

"God will provide," she answered in freezing tones.

"I think it very unlikely," he returned.

Mrs. Albert Forrester shrugged her shoulders. She wore an outraged
expression. But Mr. Simmons made himself as comfortable as he could on
his chair and lit a cigarette.

"You know you have no warmer admirer of your art than me," he said.

"Than I," corrected Clifford Boyleston.

"Or than you," went on Mr. Simmons blandly. "We all agree that there is
no one writing now whom you need fear comparison with. Both in prose and
verse you are absolutely first class. And your style--well, everyone
knows your style."

"The opulence of Sir Thomas Browne with the limpidity of Cardinal
Newman," said Clifford Boyleston. "The raciness of John Dryden with the
precision of Jonathan Swift."

The only sign that Mrs. Albert Forrester heard was the smile that
hesitated for a brief moment at the corners of her tragic mouth.

"And you have humour."

"Is there anyone in the world," cried Miss Waterford, "who can put such
a wealth of wit and satire and comic observation into a semi-colon?"

"But the fact remains that you don't sell," pursued Mr. Simmons
imperturbably. "I've handled your work for twenty years and I tell you
frankly that I shouldn't have grown fat on my commission, but I've
handled it because now and again I like to do what I can for good work.
I've always believed in you and I've hoped that sooner or later we might
get the public to swallow you. But if you think you can make your living
by writing the sort of stuff you do I'm bound to tell you that you
haven't a chance."

"I have come into the world too late," said Mrs. Albert Forrester. "I
should have lived in the eighteenth century when the wealthy patron
rewarded a dedication with a hundred guineas."

"What do you suppose the currant business brings in?"

Mrs. Albert Forrester gave a little sigh.

"A pittance. Albert always told me he made about twelve hundred a year."

"He must be a very good manager. But you couldn't expect him on that
income to allow you very much. Take my word for it, there's only one
thing for you to do and that's to get him back."

"I would rather live in a garret. Do you think I'm going to submit to
the affront he has put upon me? Would you have me battle for his
affections with my cook? Do not forget that there is one thing which is
more valuable to a woman like me than her ease and that is her dignity."

"I was just coming to that," said Mr. Simmons coldly.

He glanced at the others and those strange, lopsided eyes of his looked
more than ever monstrous and fish-like.

"There is no doubt in my mind," he went on, "that you have a very
distinguished and almost unique position in the world of letters. You
stand for something quite apart. You never prostituted your genius for
filthy lucre and you have held high the banner of pure art. You're
thinking of going into Parliament. I don't think much of politics
myself, but there's no denying that it would be a good advertisement and
if you get in I daresay we could get you a lecture tour in America on
the strength of it. You have ideals and this I can say, that even the
people who've never read a word you've written respect you. But in your
position there's one thing you can't afford to be and that's a joke."

Mrs. Albert Forrester gave a distinct start.

"What on earth do you mean by that?"

"I know nothing about Mrs. Bulfinch and for all I know she's a very
respectable woman, but the fact remains that a man doesn't run away with
his cook without making his wife ridiculous. If it had been a dancer or
a lady of title I daresay it wouldn't have done you any harm, but a cook
would finish you. In a week you'd have all London laughing at you, and
if there's one thing that kills an author or a politician it is
ridicule. You must get your husband back and you must get him back
pretty damned quick."

A dark flush settled on Mrs. Albert Forrester's face, but she did not
immediately reply. In her ears there rang on a sudden the outrageous and
unaccountable laughter that had sent Miss Warren flying from the room.

"We're all friends here and you can count on our discretion."

Mrs. Forrester looked at her friends and she thought that in Rose
Waterford's eyes there was already a malicious gleam. On the wizened
face of Oscar Charles was a whimsical look. She wished that in a moment
of abandon she had not betrayed her secret. Mr. Simmons, however, knew
the literary world and allowed his eyes to rest on the company.

"After all you are the centre and head of their set. Your husband has
not only run away from you but also from them. It's not too good for
them either. The fact is that Albert Forrester has made you all look a
lot of damned fools."

"All," said Clifford Boyleston. "We're all in the same boat. He's quite
right, Mrs. Forrester. The Philatelist must come back."

"_Et tu, Brute._"

Mr. Simmons did not understand Latin and if he had would probably not
have been moved by Mrs. Albert Forrester's exclamation. He cleared his
throat.

"My suggestion is that Mrs. Albert Forrester should go and see him
to-morrow, fortunately we have his address, and beg him to reconsider
his decision. I don't know what sort of things a woman says on these
occasions, but Mrs. Forrester has tact and imagination and she must say
them. If Mr. Forrester makes any conditions she must accept them. She
must leave no stone unturned."

"If you play your cards well there is no reason why you shouldn't bring
him back here with you to-morrow evening," said Rose Waterford lightly.

"Will you do it, Mrs. Forrester?"

For two minutes, at least, turned away from them, she stared at the
empty fireplace; then, drawing herself to her full height, she faced
them.

"For my art's sake, not for mine. I will not allow the ribald laughter
of the Philistine to besmirch all that I hold good and true and
beautiful."

"Capital," said Mr. Simmons, rising to his feet, "I'll look in on my way
home to-morrow and I hope to find you and Mr. Forrester billing and
cooing side by side like a pair of turtle-doves."

He took his leave, and the others, anxious not to be left alone with
Mrs. Albert Forrester and her agitation, in a body followed his example.

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was latish in the afternoon next day when Mrs. Albert Forrester,
imposing in black silk and a velvet toque, set out from her flat in
order to get a bus from the Marble Arch that would take her to Victoria
Station. Mr. Simmons had explained to her by telephone how to reach the
Kennington Road with expedition and economy. She neither felt nor looked
like Delilah. At Victoria she took the tram that runs down the Vauxhall
Bridge Road. When she crossed the river she found herself in a part of
London more noisy, sordid and bustling than that to which she was
accustomed, but she was too much occupied with her thoughts to notice
the varied scene. She was relieved to find that the tram went along the
Kennington Road and asked the conductor to put her down a few doors from
the house she sought. When it did and rumbled on leaving her alone in
the busy street, she felt strangely lost, like a traveller in an eastern
tale set down by a djinn in an unknown city. She walked slowly, looking
to right and left, and notwithstanding the emotions of indignation and
embarrassment that fought for the possession of her somewhat opulent
bosom, she could not but reflect that here was the material for a very
pretty piece of prose. The little houses held about them the feeling of
a bygone age when here it was still almost country, and Mrs. Albert
Forrester registered in her retentive memory a note that she must look
into the literary associations of the Kennington Road. Number four
hundred and eleven was one of a row of shabby houses that stood some way
back from the street; in front of it was a narrow strip of shabby grass,
and a paved way led up to a latticed wooden porch that badly needed a
coat of paint. This and the straggling, stunted creeper that grew over
the front of the house gave it a falsely rural air which was strange and
even sinister in that road down which thundered a tumultuous traffic.
There was something equivocal about the house that suggested that here
lived women to whom a life of pleasure had brought an inadequate reward.

The door was opened by a scraggy girl of fifteen with long legs and a
tousled head.

"Does Mrs. Bulfinch live here, do you know?"

"You've rung the wrong bell. Second floor." The girl pointed to the
stairs and at the same time screamed shrilly: "Mrs. Bulfinch, a party to
see you. Mrs. Bulfinch."

Mrs. Albert Forrester walked up the dingy stairs. They were covered with
torn carpet. She walked slowly, for she did not wish to get out of
breath. A door opened as she reached the second floor and she recognised
her cook.

"Good-afternoon, Bulfinch," said Mrs. Albert Forrester, with dignity. "I
wish to see your master."

Mrs. Bulfinch hesitated for the shadow of a second, then held the door
wide open.

"Come in, ma'am." She turned her head. "Albert, here's Mrs. Forrester to
see you."

Mrs. Forrester stepped by quickly and there was Albert sitting by the
fire in a leather-covered, but rather shabby, arm-chair, with his feet
in slippers, and in shirt-sleeves. He was reading the evening paper and
smoking a cigar. He rose to his feet as Mrs. Albert Forrester came in.
Mrs. Bulfinch followed her visitor into the room and closed the door.

"How are you, my dear?" said Albert cheerfully. "Keeping well, I hope."

"You'd better put on your coat, Albert," said Mrs. Bulfinch. "What
_will_ Mrs. Forrester think of you, finding you like that? I never."

She took the coat, which was hanging on a peg, and helped him into it;
and like a woman familiar with the peculiarities of masculine dress
pulled down his waistcoat so that it should not ride over his collar.

"I received your letter, Albert," said Mrs. Forrester.

"I supposed you had, or you wouldn't have known my address, would you?"

"Won't you sit down, ma'am?" said Mrs. Bulfinch, deftly dusting a chair,
part of a suite covered in plum-coloured velvet, and pushing it
forwards.

Mrs. Albert Forrester with a slight bow seated herself.

"I should have preferred to see you alone, Albert," she said.

His eyes twinkled.

"Since anything you have to say concerns Mrs. Bulfinch as much as it
concerns me I think it much better that she should be present."

"As you wish."

Mrs. Bulfinch drew up a chair and sat down. Mrs. Albert Forrester had
never seen her before but with a large apron over a print dress. She was
wearing now an open-work blouse of white silk, a black skirt, and
high-heeled, patent-leather shoes with silver buckles. She was a woman
of about five-and-forty, with reddish hair and a reddish face, not
pretty, but with a good-natured look, and buxom. She reminded Mrs.
Albert Forrester of a serving-wench, somewhat overblown, in a jolly
picture by an old Dutch master.

"Well, my dear, what have you to say to me?" asked Albert.

Mrs. Albert Forrester gave him her brightest and most affable smile. Her
great black eyes shone with tolerant good-humour.

"Of course you know that this is perfectly absurd, Albert. I think you
must be out of your mind."

"Do you, my dear? Fancy that."

"I'm not angry with you, I'm only amused, but a joke's a joke and should
not be carried too far. I've come to take you home."

"Was my letter not quite clear?"

"Perfectly. I ask no questions and I will make no reproaches. We will
look upon this as a momentary aberration and say no more about it."

"Nothing will induce me ever to live with you again, my dear," said
Albert in, however, a perfectly friendly fashion.

"You're not serious?"

"Quite."

"Do you love this woman?"

Mrs. Albert Forrester still smiled with an eager and somewhat metallic
brightness. She was determined to take the matter lightly. With her
intimate sense of values she realised that the scene was comic. Albert
looked at Mrs. Bulfinch and a smile broke out on his withered face.

"We get on very well together, don't we, old girl?"

"Not so bad," said Mrs. Bulfinch.

Mrs. Albert Forrester raised her eyebrows; her husband had never in all
their married life called her "old girl": nor indeed would she have
wished it.

"If Bulfinch has any regard or respect for you she must know that the
thing is impossible. After the life you've led and the society you've
moved in she can hardly expect to make you permanently happy in
miserable furnished lodgings."

"They're not furnished lodgings, ma'am," said Mrs. Bulfinch. "It's all
me own furniture. You see, I'm very independent-like and I've always
liked to have a home of me own. So I keep these rooms on whether I'm in
a situation or whether I'm not, and so I always have some place to go
back to."

"And a very nice cosy little place it is," said Albert.

Mrs. Albert Forrester looked about her. There was a kitchen range in the
fireplace on which a kettle was simmering and on the mantelshelf was a
black marble clock flanked by black marble candelabra. There was a large
table covered with a red cloth, a dresser, and a sewing-machine. On the
walls were photographs and framed pictures from Christmas supplements. A
door at the back, covered with a red plush portire, led into what,
considering the size of the house, Mrs. Albert Forrester (who in her
leisure moments had made a somewhat extensive study of architecture)
could not but conclude was the only bedroom. Mrs. Bulfinch and Albert
lived in a contiguity that allowed no doubt about their relations.

"Have you not been happy with me, Albert?" asked Mrs. Forrester in a
deeper tone.

"We've been married for thirty-five years, my dear. It's too long. It's
a great deal too long. You're a good woman in your way, but you don't
suit me. You're literary and I'm not. You're artistic and I'm not."

"I've always taken care to make you share in all my interests. I've
taken great pains that you shouldn't be overshadowed by my success. You
can't say that I've ever left you out of things."

"You're a wonderful writer, I don't deny it for a moment, but the truth
is I don't like the books you write."

"That, if I may be permitted to say so, merely shows that you have very
bad taste. All the best critics admit their power and their charm."

"And I don't like your friends. Let me tell you a secret, my dear. Often
at your parties I've had an almost irresistible impulse to take off all
my clothes just to see what would happen."

"Nothing would have happened," said Mrs. Albert Forrester with a slight
frown. "I should merely have sent for the doctor."

"Besides you haven't the figure for that, Albert," said Mrs. Bulfinch.

Mr. Simmons had hinted to Mrs. Albert Forrester that if the need arose
she must not hesitate to use the allurements of her sex in order to
bring back her erring husband to the conjugal roof, but she did not in
the least know how to do this. It would have been easier, she could not
but reflect, had she been in evening dress.

"Does the fidelity of five-and-thirty years count for nothing? I have
never looked at another man, Albert. I'm used to you. I shall be lost
without you."

"I've left all my menus with the new cook, ma'am. You've only got to
tell her how many to luncheon and she'll manage," said Mrs. Bulfinch.
"She's very reliable and she has as light a hand with pastry as anyone I
ever knew."

Mrs. Albert Forrester began to be discouraged. Mrs. Bulfinch's remark,
well-meant no doubt, made it difficult to bring the conversation on to
the plane on which emotion could be natural.

"I'm afraid you're only wasting your time, my dear," said Albert. "My
decision is irrevocable. I'm not very young any more and I want someone
to take care of me. I shall of course make you as good an allowance as I
can. Corinne wants me to retire."

"Who is Corinne?" asked Mrs. Forrester with the utmost surprise.

"It's my name," said Mrs. Bulfinch. "My mother was half French."

"That explains a great deal," replied Mrs. Forrester, pursing her lips,
for though she admired the literature of our neighbours she knew that
their morals left much to be desired.

"What I say is, Albert's worked long enough, and it's about time he
started enjoying himself. I've got a little bit of property at
Clacton-on-Sea. It's a very healthy neighbourhood and the air is
wonderful. We could live there very comfortable. And what with the beach
and the pier there's always something to do. They're a very nice lot of
people down there. If you don't interfere with nobody, nobody'll
interfere with you."

"I discussed the matter with my partners to-day and they're willing to
buy me out. It means a certain sacrifice. When everything is settled I
shall have an income of nine hundred pounds a year. There are three of
us, so it gives us just three hundred a year apiece."

"How am I to live on that?" cried Mrs. Albert Forrester. "I have my
position to keep up."

"You have a fluent, a fertile and a distinguished pen, my dear."

Mrs. Albert Forrester impatiently shrugged her shoulders.

"You know very well that my books don't bring me in anything but
reputation. The publishers always say that they lose by them and in fact
they only publish them because it gives them prestige."

It was then that Mrs. Bulfinch had the idea that was to have
consequences of such magnitude.

"Why don't you write a good thrilling detective story?" she asked.

"Me?" exclaimed Mrs. Albert Forrester, for the first time in her life
regardless of grammar.

"It's not a bad idea," said Albert. "It's not a bad idea at all."

"I should have the critics down on me like a thousand of bricks."

"I'm not so sure of that. Give the highbrow the chance of being lowbrow
without demeaning himself and he'll be so grateful to you, he won't know
what to do."

"For this relief much thanks," murmured Mrs. Albert Forrester
reflectively.

"My dear, the critics'll eat it. And written in your beautiful English
they won't be afraid to call it a masterpiece."

"The idea is preposterous. It's absolutely foreign to my genius. I could
never hope to please the masses."

"Why not? The masses want to read good stuff, but they dislike being
bored. They all know your name, but they don't read you, because you
bore them. The fact is, my dear, you're dull."

"I don't know how you can say that, Albert," replied Mrs. Albert
Forrester, with as little resentment as the equator might feel if
someone called it chilly. "Everyone knows and acknowledges that I have
an exquisite sense of humour and there is nobody who can extract so much
good wholesome fun from a semi-colon as I can."

"If you can give the masses a good thrilling story and let them think at
the same time that they are improving their minds you'll make a
fortune."

"I've never read a detective story in my life," said Mrs. Albert
Forrester. "I once heard of a Mr. Barnes of New York and I was told that
he had written a book called _The Mystery of a Hansom Cab_. But I never
read it."

"Of course you have to have the knack," said Mrs. Bulfinch. "The first
thing to remember is that you don't want any love-making, it's out of
place in a detective story, what you want is murder, and sleuth-hounds,
and you don't want to be able to guess who done it till the last page."

"But you must play fair with your reader, my dear," said Albert. "It
always annoys me when suspicion has been thrown on the secretary or the
lady of title and it turns out to be the second footman who's never done
more than say, 'The carriage is at the door.' Puzzle your reader as much
as you can, but don't make a fool of him."

"I love a good detective story," said Mrs. Bulfinch. "Give me a lady in
evening dress, just streaming with diamonds, lying on the library floor
with a dagger in her heart, and I know I'm going to have a treat."

"There's no accounting for tastes," said Albert. "Personally, I prefer a
respectable family solicitor, with side-whiskers, gold watch-chain, and
a benign appearance, lying dead in Hyde Park."

"With his throat cut?" asked Mrs. Bulfinch eagerly.

"No, stabbed in the back. There's something peculiarly attractive to the
reader in the murder of a middle-aged gentleman of spotless reputation.
It is pleasant to think that the most apparently blameless of us have a
mystery in our lives."

"I see what you mean, Albert," said Mrs. Bulfinch. "He was the
repository of a fatal secret."

"We can give you all the tips, my dear," said Albert, smiling mildly at
Mrs. Albert Forrester. "I've read hundreds of detective stories."

"You!"

"That's what first brought Corinne and me together. I used to pass them
on to her when I'd finished them."

"Many's the time I've heard him switch off the electric light as the
dawn was creeping through the window and I couldn't help smiling to
myself as I said: 'There, he's finished it at last, now he can have a
good sleep.'"

Mrs. Albert Forrester rose to her feet. She drew herself up.

"Now I see what a gulf separates us," she said, and her fine contralto
shook a little. "You have been surrounded for thirty years with all that
was best in English literature and you read hundreds of detective
novels."

"Hundreds and hundreds," interrupted Albert with a smile of
satisfaction.

"I came here willing to make any reasonable concession so that you
should come back to your home, but now I wish it no longer. You have
shown me that we have nothing in common and never had. There is an abyss
between us."

"Very well, my dear," said Albert gently, "I will submit to your
decision. But you think over the detective story."

"I will arise and go now," she murmured, "and go to Innisfree."

"I'll just show you downstairs," said Mrs. Bulfinch. "One has to be
careful of the carpet if one doesn't exactly know where the holes are."

With dignity, but not without circumspection, Mrs. Albert Forrester
walked downstairs and when Mrs. Bulfinch opened the door and asked her
if she would like a taxi she shook her head.

"I shall take the tram."

"You need not be afraid that I won't take good care of Mr. Forrester,
ma'am," said Mrs. Bulfinch pleasantly. "He shall have every comfort. I
nursed Mr. Bulfinch for three years during his last illness and there's
very little I don't know about invalids. Not that Mr. Forrester isn't
very strong and active for his years. And of course he'll have a hobby.
I always think a man should have a hobby. He's going to collect
postage-stamps."

Mrs. Albert Forrester gave a little start of surprise. But just then a
tram came in sight and, as a woman (even the greatest of them) will, she
hurried at the risk of her life into the middle of the road and waved
frantically. It stopped and she climbed in. She did not know how she was
going to face Mr. Simmons. He would be waiting for her when she got
home. Clifford Boyleston would probably be there too. They would all be
there and she would have to tell them that she had miserably failed. At
that moment she had no warm feeling of friendship for her little group
of devoted admirers. Wondering what the time was, she looked up at the
man sitting opposite her to see whether he was the kind of person she
could modestly ask, and suddenly started; for sitting there was a
middle-aged gentleman of the most respectable appearance, with
side-whiskers, a benign expression and a gold watch-chain. It was the
very man whom Albert had described lying dead in Hyde Park and she could
not but jump to the conclusion that he was a family solicitor. The
coincidence was extraordinary and really it looked as though the hand of
fate were beckoning to her. He wore a silk hat, a black coat and
pepper-and-salt trousers, he was somewhat corpulent, of a powerful
build, and by his side was a despatch-case. When the tram was half-way
down the Vauxhall Bridge Road he asked the conductor to stop and she saw
him go down a small, mean street. Why? Ah, why? When it reached
Victoria, so deeply immersed in thought was she, until the conductor
somewhat roughly told her where she was, she did not move. Edgar Allan
Poe had written detective stories. She took a bus. She sat inside,
buried in reflection, but when it arrived at Hyde Park Corner she
suddenly made up her mind to get out. She couldn't sit still any longer.
She felt she must walk. She entered the gates, walking slowly, and
looked about her with an air that was at once intent and abstracted.
Yes, there was Edgar Allan Poe; no one could deny that. After all he had
invented the genre, and everyone knew how great his influence had been
on the Parnassians. Or was it the Symbolists? Never mind. Baudelaire and
all that. As she passed the Achilles Statue she stopped for a minute and
looked at it with raised eyebrows.

At length she reached her flat and opening the door saw several hats in
the hall. They were all there. She went into the drawing-room.

"Here she is at last," cried Miss Waterford.

Mrs. Albert Forrester advanced, smiling with animation, and shook the
proffered hands. Mr. Simmons and Clifford Boyleston were there, Harry
Oakland and Oscar Charles.

"Oh, you poor things, have you had no tea?" she cried brightly. "I
haven't an idea what the time is, but I know I'm fearfully late."

"Well?" they said. "Well?"

"My dears, I've got something quite wonderful to tell you. I've had an
inspiration. Why should the devil have all the best tunes?"

"What _do_ you mean?"

She paused in order to give full effect to the surprise she was going to
spring upon them. Then she flung it at them without preamble.

"I'M GOING TO WRITE A DETECTIVE STORY."

They stared at her with open mouths. She held up her hand to prevent
them from interrupting her, but indeed no one had the smallest intention
of doing so.

"I am going to raise the detective story to the dignity of Art. It came
to me suddenly in Hyde Park. It's a murder story and I shall give the
solution on the very last page. I shall write it in an impeccable
English, and since it's occurred to me lately that perhaps I've
exhausted the possibilities of the semi-colon, I am going to take up the
colon. No one yet has explored its potentialities. Humour and mystery
are what I aim at. I shall call it _The Achilles Statue_."

"What a title!" cried Mr. Simmons, recovering himself before any of the
others. "I can sell the serial rights on the title and your name alone."

"But what about Albert?" asked Clifford Boyleston.

"Albert?" echoed Mrs. Forrester. "Albert?"

She looked at him as though for the life of her she could not think what
he was talking about. Then she gave a little cry as if she had suddenly
remembered.

"Albert! I knew I'd gone out on some errand and it absolutely slipped my
memory. I was walking through Hyde Park and I had this inspiration. What
a fool you'll all think me!"

"Then you haven't seen Albert?"

"My dear, I forgot all about him." She gave an amused laugh. "Let Albert
keep his cook. I can't bother about Albert now. Albert belongs to the
semi-colon period. I am going to write a detective story."

"My dear, you're too, too wonderful," said Harry Oakland.




VIRTUE


There are few things better than a good Havana. When I was young and
very poor and smoked a cigar only when somebody gave me one, I
determined that if ever I had money I would smoke a cigar every day
after luncheon and after dinner. This is the only resolution of my youth
that I have kept. It is the only ambition I have achieved that has never
been embittered by disillusion. I like a cigar that is mild, but
full-flavoured, neither so small that it is finished before you have
become aware of it nor so large as to be irksome, rolled so that it
draws without consciousness of effort on your part, with a leaf so firm
that it doesn't become messy on your lips and in such condition that it
keeps its savour to the very end. But when you have taken the last pull
and put down the shapeless stump and watched the final cloud of smoke
dwindle blue in the surrounding air it is impossible, if you have a
sensitive nature, not to feel a certain melancholy at the thought of all
the labour, the care and pains that have gone, the thought, the trouble,
the complicated organisation that have been required to provide you with
half an hour's delight. For this men have sweltered long years under
tropical suns and ships have scoured the seven seas. These reflections
become more poignant still when you are eating a dozen oysters (with
half a bottle of dry white wine) and they become almost unbearable when
it comes to a lamb cutlet. For these are animals and there is something
that inspires awe in the thought that since the surface of the earth
became capable of supporting life from generation to generation for
millions upon millions of years creatures have come into existence to
end at last upon a plate of crushed ice or on a silver grill. It may be
that a sluggish fancy cannot grasp the dreadful solemnity of eating an
oyster and evolution has taught us that the bivalve has through the ages
kept itself to itself in a manner that inevitably alienates sympathy.
There is an aloofness in it that is offensive to the aspiring spirit of
man and a self-complacency that is obnoxious to his vanity. But I do not
know how anyone can look upon a lamb cutlet without thoughts too deep
for tears: here man himself has taken a hand and the history of the race
is bound up with the tender morsel on your plate.

And sometimes even the fate of human beings is curious to consider. It
is strange to look upon this man or that, the quiet ordinary persons of
every day, the bank clerk, the dustman, the middle-aged girl in the
second row of the chorus, and think of the interminable history behind
them and of the long, long series of hazards by which from the primeval
slime the course of events has brought them at this moment to such and
such a place. When such tremendous vicissitudes have been needed to get
them here at all one would have thought some huge significance must be
attached to them; one would have thought that what befell them must
matter a little to the Life Spirit or whatever else it is that has
produced them. An accident befalls them. The thread is broken. The story
that began with the world is finished abruptly and it looks as though it
meant nothing at all. A tale told by an idiot. And is it not odd that
this event, of an importance so dramatic, may be brought about by a
cause so trivial?

An incident of no moment, that might easily not have happened, has
consequences that are incalculable. It looks as though blind chance
ruled all things. Our smallest actions may affect profoundly the whole
lives of people who have nothing to do with us. The story I have to tell
would never have happened if one day I had not walked across the street.
Life is really very fantastic and one has to have a peculiar sense of
humour to see the fun of it.

I was strolling down Bond Street one spring morning and having nothing
much to do till lunch-time thought I would look in at Sotheby's, the
auction rooms, to see whether there was anything on show that interested
me. There was a block in the traffic and I threaded my way through the
cars. When I reached the other side I ran into a man I had known in
Borneo coming out of a hatter's.

"Hullo, Morton," I said. "When did you come home?"

"I've been back about a week."

He was a District Officer. The Governor had given me a letter of
introduction to him and I wrote and told him I meant to spend a week at
the place he lived at and should like to put up at the government
rest-house. He met me on the ship when I arrived and asked me to stay
with him. I demurred. I did not see how I could spend a week with a
total stranger, I did not want to put him to the expense of my board,
and besides I thought I should have more freedom if I were on my own. He
would not listen to me.

"I've got plenty of room," he said, "and the rest-house is beastly. I
haven't spoken to a white man for six months and I'm fed to the teeth
with my own company."

But when Morton had got me and his launch had landed us at the bungalow
and he had offered me a drink he did not in the least know what to do
with me. He was seized on a sudden with shyness and his conversation,
which had been fluent and ready, ran dry. I did my best to make him feel
at home (it was the least I could do, considering that it was his own
house) and asked him if he had any new records. He turned on the
gramophone and the sound of rag-time gave him confidence.

His bungalow overlooked the river and his living-room was a large
verandah. It was furnished in the impersonal fashion that characterised
the dwellings of government officials who were moved here and there at
little notice according to the exigencies of the service. There were
native hats as ornaments on the walls and the horns of animals,
blow-pipes and spears. In the book-shelf were detective novels and old
magazines. There was a cottage piano with yellow keys. It was very
untidy, but not uncomfortable.

Unfortunately I cannot very well remember what he looked like. He was
young, twenty-eight, I learnt later, and he had a boyish and attractive
smile. I spent an agreeable week with him. We went up and down the river
and we climbed a mountain. We had tiffin one day with some planters who
lived twenty miles away and every evening we went to the club. The only
members were the managers of a kutch factory and his assistants, but
they were not on speaking terms with one another and it was only on
Morton's representations that they must not let him down when he had a
visitor that we could get up a rubber of bridge. The atmosphere was
strained. We came back to dinner, listened to the gramophone and went to
bed. Morton had little office work and one would have thought the time
hung heavy on his hands, but he had energy and high spirits; it was his
first post of the sort and he was happy to be independent. His only
anxiety was lest he should be transferred before he had finished a road
he was building. This was the joy of his heart. It was his own idea and
he had wheedled the government into giving him the money to make it; he
had surveyed the country himself and traced the path. He had solved
unaided the technical problems that presented themselves. Every morning,
before he went to his office, he drove out in a rickety old Ford to
where the coolies were working and watched the progress that had been
made since the day before. He thought of nothing else. He dreamt of it
at night. He reckoned that it would be finished in a year and he did not
want to take his leave till then. He could not have worked with more
zest if he had been a painter or a sculptor creating a work of art. I
think it was this eagerness that made me take a fancy to him. I liked
his zeal. I liked his ingenuousness. And I was impressed by the passion
for achievement that made him indifferent to the solitariness of his
life, to promotion and even to the thought of going home. I forget how
long the road was, fifteen or twenty miles, I think, and I forget what
purpose it was to serve. I don't believe Morton cared very much. His
passion was the artist's and his triumph was the triumph of man over
nature. He learnt as he went along. He had the jungle to contend
against, torrential rains that destroyed the labour of weeks, accidents
of topography; he had to collect his labour and hold it together; he had
inadequate funds. His imagination sustained him. His labours gained a
sort of epic quality and the vicissitudes of the work were a great saga
that unrolled itself with an infinity of episodes.

His only complaint was that the day was too short. He had office duties,
he was judge and tax collector, father and mother (at twenty-eight) of
the people in his district; he had now and then to make tours that took
him away from home. Unless he was on the spot nothing was done. He would
have liked to be there twenty-four hours a day driving the reluctant
coolies to further effort. It so happened that shortly before I arrived
an incident had occurred that filled him with jubilation. He had offered
a contract to a Chinese to make a certain section of the road and the
Chinese had asked more than Morton could afford to pay. Notwithstanding
interminable discussions they had been unable to arrive at an agreement
and Morton with rage in his heart saw his work held up. He was at his
wits' end. Then going down to his office one morning, he heard that
there had been a row in one of the Chinese gambling houses the night
before. A coolie had been badly wounded and his assailant was under
arrest. This assailant was the contractor. He was brought into court,
the evidence was clear and Morton sentenced him to eighteen months' hard
labour.

"Now he'll have to build the blasted road for nothing," said Morton, his
eyes glistening when he told me the story.

We saw the fellow at work one morning, in the prison sarong,
unconcerned. He was taking his misfortunes in good part.

"I've told him I'll remit the rest of his sentence when the road's
finished," said Morton, "and he's as pleased as Punch. Bit of a snip for
me, eh, what?"

When I left Morton I asked him to let me know when he came to England
and he promised to write to me as soon as he landed. On the spur of the
moment one gives these invitations and one is perfectly sincere about
them. But when one is taken at one's word a slight dismay seizes one.
People are so different at home from what they are abroad. There they
are easy, cordial and natural. They have interesting things to tell you.
They are immensely kind. You are anxious when your turn comes to do
something in return for the hospitality you have received. But it is not
easy. The persons who were so entertaining in their own surroundings are
very dull in yours. They are constrained and shy. You introduce them to
your friends and your friends find them a crashing bore. They do their
best to be civil, but sigh with relief when the strangers go and the
conversation can once more run easily in its accustomed channels. I
think the residents in far places early in their careers understand the
situation pretty well, as the result maybe of bitter and humiliating
experiences, for I have found that they seldom take advantage of the
invitation which on some outstation on the edge of the jungle has been
so cordially extended to them and by them as cordially accepted. But
Morton was different. He was a young man and single. It is generally the
wives that are the difficulty; other women look at their drab clothes,
in a glance take in their provincial air, and freeze them with their
indifference. But a man can play bridge and tennis, and dance. Morton
had charm. I had had no doubt that in a day or two he would find his
feet.

"Why didn't you let me know you were back?" I asked him.

"I thought you wouldn't want to be bothered with me," he smiled.

"What nonsense!"

Of course now as we stood in Bond Street on the kerb and chatted for a
minute he looked strange to me. I had never seen him in anything but
khaki shorts and a tennis shirt, except when we got back from the club
at night and he put on a pyjama jacket and a sarong for dinner. It is as
comfortable a form of evening dress as has ever been devised. He looked
a bit awkward in his blue serge suit. His face against a white collar
was very brown.

"How about the road?" I asked him.

"Finished. I was afraid I'd have to postpone my leave, we struck one or
two snags towards the end, but I made 'em hustle and the day before I
left I drove the Ford to the end and back without stopping."

I laughed. His pleasure was charming.

"What have you been doing with yourself in London?"

"Buying clothes."

"Been having a good time?"

"Marvellous. A bit lonely, you know, but I don't mind that. I've been to
a show every night. The Palmers, you know, I think you met them in
Sarawak, were going to be in town and we were going to do the play
together, but they had to go to Scotland because her mother's ill."

His words, said so breezily, cut me to the quick. His was the common
experience. It was heartbreaking. For months, for long months before it
was due, these people planned their leave and when they got off the ship
they were in such spirits they could hardly contain themselves. London.
Shops and clubs and theatres and restaurants. London. They were going to
have the time of their lives. London. It swallowed them. A strange
turbulent city, not hostile but indifferent, and they were lost in it.
They had no friends. They had nothing in common with the acquaintances
they made. They were more lonely than in the jungle. It was a relief
when at a theatre they ran across someone they had known in the East
(and perhaps been bored stiff by or disliked) and they could fix up an
evening together and have a good laugh and tell one another what a grand
time they were having and talk of common friends and at last confide to
one another a little shyly that they would not be sorry when their leave
was up and they were once again in harness. They went to see their
families and of course they were glad to see them, but it wasn't the
same as it had been, they did feel a bit out of it, and when you came
down to brass tacks the life people led in England was deadly. It was
grand fun to come home, but you couldn't live there any more, and
sometimes you thought of your bungalow overlooking the river and your
tours of the district and what a lark it was to run over once in a blue
moon to Sandakan or Kuching or Singapore.

And because I remembered what Morton had looked forward to when, the
road finished and off his chest, he went on leave I could not but feel a
pang when I thought of him dining by himself in a dismal club where he
knew nobody or alone in a restaurant in Soho and then going off to see a
play with no one by his side with whom he could enjoy it and no one to
have a drink with during the interval. And at the same time I reflected
that even if I had known he was in London I could have done nothing much
for him, for during the last week I had not had a moment free. That very
evening I was dining with friends and going to a play, and the next day
I was going abroad.

"What are you doing to-night?" I asked him.

"I'm going to the Pavilion. It's packed jammed full, but there's a
fellow over the road who's wonderful and he's got me a ticket that had
been returned. You can often get one seat, you know, when you can't get
two."

"Why don't you come and have supper with me? I'm taking some people to
the Haymarket and we're going on to Ciro's afterwards."

"I'd love to."

We arranged to meet at eleven and I left him to keep an engagement.

                 *        *        *        *        *

I was afraid the friends I had asked him to meet would not amuse Morton
very much, for they were distinctly middle-aged, but I could not think
of anyone young that at this season of the year I should be likely to
get hold of at the last moment. None of the girls I knew would thank me
for asking her to supper to dance with a shy young man from Malaya. I
could trust the Bishops to do their best for him, and after all it must
be jollier for him to have supper in a club with a good band where he
could see pretty women dancing than to go home to bed at eleven because
he had nowhere else in the world to go. I had known Charlie Bishop first
when I was a medical student. He was then a thin little fellow with
sandy hair and blunt features; he had fine eyes, dark and gleaming, but
he wore spectacles. He had a round, merry, red face. He was very fond of
the girls. I suppose he had a way with him, for with no money and no
looks, he managed to pick up a succession of young persons who gratified
his roving desires. He was clever and bumptious, argumentative and
quick-tempered. He had a caustic tongue. Looking back, I should say he
was a rather disagreeable young man, but I do not think he was a bore.
Now, half-way through the fifties, he was inclined to be stout and he
was very bald, but his eyes behind the gold-rimmed spectacles were still
bright and alert. He was dogmatic and somewhat conceited, argumentative
still and caustic, but he was good-natured and amusing. After you have
known a person so long his idiosyncrasies cease to trouble you. You
accept them as you accept your own physical defects. He was by
profession a pathologist and now and then he sent me a slim book he had
just published. It was severe and extremely technical and grimly
illustrated with photographs of bacteria. I did not read it. I gathered
from what I sometimes heard that Charlie's views on the subjects with
which he dealt were unsound. I do not believe that he was very popular
with the other members of his profession, he made no secret of the fact
that he looked upon them as a set of incompetent idiots; but he had his
job, it brought him in six or eight hundred a year, I think, and he was
completely indifferent to other people's opinion of him.

I liked Charlie Bishop because I had known him for thirty years, but I
liked Margery, his wife, because she was very nice. I was extremely
surprised when he told me he was going to be married. He was hard on
forty at the time and so fickle in his affections that I had made up my
mind he would remain single. He was very fond of women, but he was not
in the least sentimental, and his aims were loose. His views on the
female sex would in these idealistic days be thought crude. He knew what
he wanted and he asked for it, and if he couldn't get it for love or
money he shrugged his shoulders and went his way. To be brief, he did
not look to women to gratify his ideal but to provide him with
fornication. It was odd that though small and plain he found so many who
were prepared to grant his wishes. For his spiritual needs he found
satisfaction in unicellular organisms. He had always been a man who
spoke to the point, and when he told me he was going to marry a young
woman called Margery Hobson I did not hesitate to ask him why. He
grinned.

"Three reasons. First, she won't let me go to bed with her without.
Second, she makes me laugh like a hyena. And third, she's alone in the
world, without a single relation, and she must have someone to take care
of her."

"The first reason is just swank and the second is eyewash. The third is
the real one and it means that she's got you by the short hairs."

His eyes gleamed softly behind his large spectacles.

"I shouldn't be surprised if you weren't dead right."

"She's not only got you by the short hairs but you're as pleased as
Punch that she has."

"Come and lunch to-morrow and have a look at her. She's easy on the
eye."

Charlie was a member of a cock-and-hen club which at that time I used a
good deal and we arranged to lunch there. I found Margery a very
attractive young woman. She was then just under thirty. She was a lady.
I noticed the fact with satisfaction, but with a certain astonishment,
for it had not escaped my notice that Charlie was attracted as a rule by
women whose breeding left something to be desired. She was not
beautiful, but comely, with fine dark hair and fine eyes, a good colour
and a look of health. She had a pleasant frankness and an air of candour
that were very taking. She looked honest, simple and dependable. I took
an immediate liking to her. She was easy to talk to and though she did
not say anything very brilliant she understood what other people were
talking about; she was quick to see a joke and she was not shy. She gave
you the impression of being competent and business-like. She had a happy
placidity that suggested a good temper and an excellent digestion.

They seemed extremely pleased with one another. I had asked myself when
I first saw her why Margery was marrying this irritable little man,
baldish already and by no means young, but I discovered very soon that
it was because she was in love with him. They chaffed one another a good
deal and laughed a lot and every now and then their eyes met more
significantly and they seemed to exchange a little private message. It
was really rather touching.

A week later they were married at a registrar's office. It was a very
successful marriage. Looking back now after sixteen years I could not
but chuckle sympathetically at the thought of the lark they had made of
their life together. I had never known a more devoted couple. They had
never had very much money. They never seemed to want any. They had no
ambitions. Their life was a picnic that never came to an end. They lived
in the smallest flat I ever saw, in Panton Street, a small bedroom, a
small sitting-room and a bathroom that served also as a kitchen. But
they had no sense of home, they ate their meals in restaurants, and only
had breakfast in the flat. It was merely a place to sleep in. It was
comfortable, though a third person coming in for a whisky and soda
crowded it, and Margery with the help of a charwoman kept it as neat as
Charlie's untidiness permitted, but there was not a single thing in it
that had a personal note. They had a tiny car and whenever Charlie had a
holiday they took it across the Channel and started off, with a bag each
for all their luggage, to drive wherever the fancy took them. Breakdowns
never disturbed them, bad weather was part of the fun, a puncture was no
end of a joke and if they lost their way and had to sleep out in the
open they thought they were having the time of their lives.

Charlie continued to be irascible and contentious, but nothing he did
ever disturbed Margery's lovely placidity. She could calm him with a
word. She still made him laugh. She typed his monographs on obscure
bacteria and corrected the proofs of his articles in the scientific
magazines. Once I asked them if they ever quarrelled.

"No," she said, "we never seem to have anything to quarrel about.
Charlie has the temper of an angel."

"Nonsense," I said, "he's an overbearing, aggressive and cantankerous
fellow. He always has been."

She looked at him and giggled and I saw that she thought I was being
funny.

"Let him rave," said Charlie. "He's an ignorant fool and he uses words
of whose meaning he hasn't the smallest idea."

They were sweet together. They were very happy in one another's company
and were never apart if they could help it. Even after the long time
they had been married Charlie used to get into the car every day at
luncheon-time to come west and meet Margery at a restaurant. People used
to laugh at them, not unkindly, but perhaps with a little catch in the
throat, because when they were asked to go and spend a week-end in the
country Margery would write to the hostess and say they would like to
come if they could be given a double bed. They had slept together for so
many years that neither of them could sleep alone. It was often a trifle
awkward. Husbands and wives as a rule not only demanded separate rooms,
but were inclined to be peevish if asked to share the same bathroom.
Modern houses were not arranged for domestic couples, but among their
friends it became an understood thing that if you wanted the Bishops you
must give them a room with a double bed. Some people of course thought
it a little indecent, and it was never convenient, but they were a
pleasant pair to have to stay and it was worth while to put up with
their crankiness. Charlie was always full of spirits and in his caustic
way extremely amusing and Margery was peaceful and easy. They were no
trouble to entertain. Nothing pleased them more than to be left to go
out together for a long ramble in the country.

When a man marries, his wife sooner or later estranges him from his old
friends, but Margery on the contrary increased Charlie's intimacy with
them. By making him more tolerant she made him a more agreeable
companion. They gave you the impression not of a married couple, but,
rather amusingly, of two middle-aged bachelors living together; and when
Margery, as was the rule, found herself the only woman among half a
dozen men, ribald, argumentative and gay, she was not a bar to
good-fellowship but an asset. Whenever I was in England I saw them. They
generally dined at the club of which I have spoken and if I happened to
be alone I joined them.

When we met that evening for a snack before going to the play I told
them I had asked Morton to come to supper.

"I'm afraid you'll find him rather dull," I said. "But he's a very
decent sort of boy and he was awfully kind to me when I was in Borneo."

"Why didn't you let me know sooner?" cried Margery. "I'd have brought a
girl along."

"What do you want a girl for?" said Charlie. "There'll be you."

"I don't think it can be much fun for a young man to dance with a woman
of my advanced years," said Margery.

"Rot. What's your age got to do with it?" He turned to me. "Have you
ever danced with anyone who danced better?"

I had, but she certainly danced very well. She was light on her feet and
she had a good sense of rhythm.

"Never," I said heartily.

Morton was waiting for us when we reached Ciro's. He looked very
sunburned in his evening clothes. Perhaps it was because I knew that
they had been wrapped away in a tin box with moth balls for four years
that I felt he did not look quite at home in them. He was certainly more
at ease in khaki shorts. Charlie Bishop was a good talker and liked to
hear himself speak. Morton was shy. I gave him a cocktail and ordered
some champagne. I had a feeling that he would be glad to dance, but was
not quite sure whether it would occur to him to ask Margery. I was
acutely conscious that we all belonged to another generation.

"I think I should tell you that Mrs. Bishop is a beautiful dancer," I
said.

"Is she?" He flushed a little. "Will you dance with me?"

She got up and they took the floor. She was looking peculiarly nice that
evening, not at all smart, and I do not think her plain black dress had
cost more than six guineas, but she looked a lady. She had the advantage
of having extremely good legs and at that time skirts were still being
worn very short. I suppose she had a little make-up on, but in contrast
with the other women there she looked very natural. Shingled hair suited
her; it was not even touched with white and it had an attractive sheen.
She was not a pretty woman, but her kindliness, her wholesome air, her
good health gave you, if not the illusion that she was, at least the
feeling that it didn't at all matter. When she came back to the table
her eyes were bright and she had a heightened colour.

"How does he dance?" asked her husband.

"Divinely."

"You're very easy to dance with," said Morton.

Charlie went on with his discourse. He had a sardonic humour and he was
interesting because he was himself so interested in what he said. But he
spoke of things that Morton knew nothing about and though he listened
with a civil show of interest I could see that he was too much excited
by the gaiety of the scene, the music and the champagne to give his
attention to conversation. When the music struck up again his eyes
immediately sought Margery's. Charles caught the look and smiled.

"Dance with him, Margery. Good for my figure to see you take exercise."

They set off again and for a moment Charlie watched her with fond eyes.

"Margery's having the time of her life. She loves dancing and it makes
me puff and blow. Not a bad youth."

My little party was quite a success and when Morton and I, having taken
leave of the Bishops, walked together towards Piccadilly Circus he
thanked me warmly. He had really enjoyed himself. I said good-bye to
him. Next morning I went abroad.

                 *        *        *        *        *

I was sorry not to have been able to do more for Morton and I knew that
when I returned he would be on his way back to Borneo. I gave him a
passing thought now and then, but by the autumn when I got home he had
slipped my memory. After I had been in London a week or so I happened to
drop in one night at the club to which Charlie Bishop also belonged. He
was sitting with three or four men I knew and I went up. I had not seen
any of them since my return. One of them, a man called Bill Marsh, whose
wife, Janet, was a great friend of mine, asked me to have a drink.

"Where have you sprung from?" asked Charlie. "Haven't seen you about
lately."

I noticed at once that he was drunk. I was astonished. Charlie had
always liked his liquor, but he carried it well and never exceeded. In
years gone by, when we were very young, he got tight occasionally, but
probably more than anything to show what a great fellow he was, and it
is unfair to bring up against a man the excesses of his youth. But I
remembered that Charlie had never been very nice when he was drunk: his
natural aggressiveness was exaggerated then and he talked too much and
too loud; he was very apt to be quarrelsome. He was very dogmatic now,
laying down the law and refusing to listen to any of the objections his
rash statements called forth. The others knew he was drunk and were
struggling between the irritation his cantankerousness aroused in them
and the good-natured tolerance which they felt his condition demanded.
He was not an agreeable object. A man of that age, bald and fattish,
with spectacles, is disgusting drunk. He was generally rather dapper,
but he was untidy now and there was tobacco ash all over him. Charlie
called the waiter and ordered another whisky. The waiter had been at the
club for thirty years.

"You've got one in front of you, sir."

"Mind your own damned business," said Charlie Bishop. "Bring me a double
whisky right away or I'll report you to the secretary for insolence."

"Very good, sir," said the waiter.

Charlie emptied his glass at a gulp, but his hand was unsteady and he
spilled some of the whisky over himself.

"Well, Charlie, old boy, we'd better be toddling along," said Bill
Marsh. He turned to me. "Charlie's staying with us for a bit."

I was more surprised still. But I felt that something was wrong and
thought it safer not to say anything.

"I'm ready," said Charlie. "I'll just have another drink before I go. I
shall have a better night if I do."

It did not look to me as though the party would break up for some time,
so I got up and announced that I meant to stroll home.

"I say," said Bill, as I was about to go, "you wouldn't come and dine
with us to-morrow night, would you, just me and Janet and Charlie?"

"Yes, I'll come with pleasure," I said.

It was evident that something was up.

The Marshes lived in a terrace on the East side of Regent's Park. The
maid who opened the door for me asked me to go in to Mr. Marsh's study.
He was waiting for me there.

"I thought I'd better have a word with you before you went upstairs," he
said as he shook hands with me. "You know Margery's left Charlie?"

"No!"

"He's taken it very hard. Janet thought it was so awful for him alone in
that beastly little flat that we asked him to stay here for a bit. We've
done everything we could for him. He's been drinking like a fish. He
hasn't slept a wink for a fortnight."

"But she hasn't left him for good?"

I was astounded.

"Yes. She's crazy about a fellow called Morton."

"Morton. Who's he?"

It never struck me it was my friend from Borneo.

"Damn it all, you introduced him and a pretty piece of work you did.
Let's go upstairs. I thought I'd better put you wise."

He opened the door and we went out. I was thoroughly confused.

"But look here," I said.

"Ask Janet. She knows the whole thing. It beats me. I've got no patience
with Margery, and he must be a mess."

He preceded me into the drawing-room. Janet Marsh rose as I entered and
came forward to greet me. Charlie was sitting at the window, reading the
evening paper; he put it aside as I went up to him and shook his hand.
He was quite sober and he spoke in his usual rather perky manner, but I
noticed that he looked very ill. We had a glass of sherry and went down
to dinner. Janet was a woman of spirit. She was tall and fair and good
to look at. She kept the conversation going with alertness. When she
left us to drink a glass of port it was with instructions not to stay
more than ten minutes. Bill, as a rule somewhat taciturn, exerted
himself now to talk. I tumbled to the game. I was hampered by my
ignorance of what exactly had happened, but it was plain that the
Marshes wanted to prevent Charlie from brooding, and I did my best to
interest him. He seemed willing to play his part, he was always fond of
holding forth, and he discussed, from the pathologist's standpoint, a
murder that was just then absorbing the public. But he spoke without
life. He was an empty shell, and one had the feeling that though for the
sake of his host he forced himself to speak, his thoughts were
elsewhere. It was a relief when a knocking on the floor above indicated
to us that Janet was getting impatient. This was an occasion when a
woman's presence eased the situation. We went upstairs and played family
bridge. When it was time for me to go Charlie said he would walk with me
as far as the Marylebone Road.

"Oh, Charlie, it's so late, you'd much better go to bed," said Janet.

"I shall sleep better if I have a stroll before turning in," he replied.

She gave him a worried look. You cannot forbid a middle-aged professor
of pathology from going for a little walk if he wants to. She glanced
brightly at her husband.

"I daresay it'll do Bill no harm."

I think the remark was tactless. Women are often a little too managing.
Charlie gave her a sullen look.

"There's absolutely no need to drag Bill out," he said with some
firmness.

"I haven't the smallest intention of coming," said Bill, smiling. "I'm
tired out and I'm going to hit the hay."

I fancy we left Bill Marsh and his wife to a little argument.

"They've been frightfully kind to me," said Charlie, as we walked along
by the railings. "I don't know what I should have done without them. I
haven't slept for a fortnight."

I expressed regret but did not ask the reason, and we walked for a
little in silence. I presumed that he had come with me in order to talk
to me of what had happened, but I felt that he must take his own time. I
was anxious to show my sympathy, but afraid of saying the wrong thing; I
did not want to seem eager to extract confidences from him. I did not
know how to give him a lead. I was sure he did not want one. He was not
a man given to beating about the bush. I imagined that he was choosing
his words. We reached the corner.

"You'll be able to get a taxi at the church," he said. "I'll walk on a
bit further. Good-night."

He nodded and slouched off. I was taken aback. There was nothing for me
to do but to stroll on till I found a cab. I was having my bath next
morning when a telephone call dragged me out of it, and with a towel
round my wet body I took up the receiver. It was Janet.

"Well, what do you think of it all?" she said. "You seem to have kept
Charlie up pretty late last night. I heard him come home at three."

"He left me at the Marylebone Road," I answered. "He said nothing to me
at all."

"Didn't he?"

There was something in Janet's voice that suggested that she was
prepared to have a long talk with me. I suspected she had a telephone by
the side of her bed.

"Look here," I said quickly. "I'm having my bath."

"Oh, have you got a telephone in your bathroom?" she answered eagerly,
and I think with envy.

"No, I haven't." I was abrupt and firm. "And I'm dripping all over the
carpet."

"Oh!" I felt disappointment in her tone and a trace of irritation.
"Well, when can I see you? Can you come here at twelve?"

It was inconvenient, but I was not prepared to start an argument.

"Yes, good-bye."

I rang off before she could say anything more. In heaven when the
blessed use the telephone they will say what they have to say and not a
word beside.

I was devoted to Janet, but I knew that there was nothing that thrilled
her more than the misfortunes of her friends. She was only too anxious
to help them, but she wanted to be in the thick of their difficulties.
She was the friend in adversity. Other people's business was meat and
drink to her. You could not enter upon a love affair without finding her
somehow your confidante nor be mixed up in a divorce case without
discovering that she too had a finger in the pie. Withal she was a very
nice woman. I could not help then chuckling in my heart when at noon I
was shown in to Janet's drawing-room and observed the subdued eagerness
with which she received me. She was very much upset by the catastrophe
that had befallen the Bishops, but it was exciting, and she was tickled
to death to have someone fresh to whom she could tell all about it.
Janet had just that business-like expectancy that a mother has when she
is discussing with the family doctor her married daughter's first
confinement. Janet was conscious that the matter was very serious, and
she would not for a moment have been thought to regard it flippantly,
but she was determined to get every ounce of value out of it.

"I mean, no one could have been more horrified than I was when Margery
told me she'd finally made up her mind to leave Charlie," she said,
speaking with the fluency of a person who has said the same thing in the
same words a dozen times at least. "They were the most devoted couple
I'd ever known. It was a perfect marriage. They got on like a house on
fire. Of course Bill and I are devoted to one another, but we have awful
rows now and then. I mean, I could kill him sometimes."

"I don't care a hang about your relations with Bill," I said. "Tell me
about the Bishops. That's what I've come here for."

"I simply felt I must see you. After all you're the only person who can
explain it."

"Oh, God, don't go on like that. Until Bill told me last night I didn't
know a thing about it."

"That was my idea. It suddenly dawned on me that perhaps you didn't know
and I thought you might put your foot in it too awfully."

"Supposing you began at the beginning," I said.

"Well, you're the beginning. After all you started the trouble. You
introduced the young man. That's why I was so crazy to see you. You know
all about him. I never saw him. All I know is what Margery has told me
about him."

"At what time are you lunching?" I asked.

"Half-past one."

"So am I. Get on with the story."

But my remark had given Janet an idea.

"Look here, will you get out of your luncheon if I get out of mine. We
could have a snack here. I'm sure there's some cold meat in the house,
and then we needn't hurry. I don't have to be at the hairdresser's till
three."

"No, no, no," I said. "I hate the notion of that. I shall leave here at
twenty minutes past one at the latest."

"Then I shall just have to race through it. What do you think of Gerry?"

"Who's Gerry?"

"Gerry Morton. His name's Gerald."

"How should I know that?"

"You stayed with him. Weren't there any letters lying about?"

"I daresay, but I didn't happen to read them," I answered somewhat
tartly.

"Oh, don't be so stupid. I meant the envelopes. What's he like?"

"All right. Rather the Kipling type, you know. Very keen on his work.
Hearty. Empire-builder and all that sort of thing."

"I don't mean that," cried Janet, not without impatience. "I mean, what
does he look like?"

"More or less like everybody else, I think. Of course I should recognise
him if I saw him again, but I can't picture him to myself very
distinctly. He looks clean."

"Oh, my God," said Janet. "Are you a novelist or are you not? What's the
colour of his eyes?"

"I don't know."

"You must know. You can't spend a week with anyone without knowing if
their eyes are blue or brown. Is he fair or dark?"

"Neither."

"Is he tall or short?"

"Average, I should say."

"Are you trying to irritate me?"

"No. He's just ordinary. There's nothing in him to attract your
attention. He's neither plain nor good-looking. He looks quite decent.
He looks a gentleman."

"Margery says he has a charming smile and a lovely figure."

"I dare say."

"He's absolutely crazy about her."

"What makes you think that?" I asked dryly.

"I've seen his letters."

"Do you mean to say she's shown them to you?"

"Why, of course."

It is always difficult for a man to stomach the want of reticence that
women betray in their private affairs. They have no shame. They will
talk to one another without embarrassment of the most intimate matters.
Modesty is a masculine virtue. But though a man may know this
theoretically, each time he is confronted with women's lack of reserve
he suffers a new shock. I wondered what Morton would think if he knew
that not only were his letters read by Janet Marsh as well as by
Margery, but that she had been kept posted from day to day with the
progress of his infatuation. According to Janet he had fallen in love
with Margery at first sight. The morning after they had met at my little
supper party at Ciro's he had rung up and asked her to come and have tea
with him at some place where they could dance. While I listened to
Janet's story I was conscious of course that she was giving me Margery's
view of the circumstances and I kept an open mind. I was interested to
observe that Janet's sympathies were with Margery. It was true that when
Margery left her husband it was her idea that Charlie should come to
them for two or three weeks rather than stay on in miserable loneliness
in the deserted flat and she had been extraordinarily kind to him. She
lunched with him almost every day, because he had been accustomed to
lunch every day with Margery; she took him for walks in Regent's Park
and made Bill play golf with him on Sundays. She listened with wonderful
patience to the story of his unhappiness and did what she could to
console him. She was terribly sorry for him. But all the same she was
definitely on Margery's side and when I expressed my disapproval of her
she came down on me like a thousand of bricks. The affair thrilled her.
She had been in it from the beginning when Margery, smiling, flattered
and a little doubtful, came and told her that she had a young man to the
final scene when Margery, exasperated and distraught, announced that she
could not stand the strain any more and had packed her things and moved
out of the flat.

"Of course, at first I couldn't believe my ears," she said. "You know
how Charlie and Margery were. They simply lived in one another's
pockets. One couldn't help laughing at them, they were so devoted to one
another. I never thought him a very nice little man and heaven knows he
wasn't very attractive physically, but one couldn't help liking him
because he was so awfully nice to Margery. I rather envied her
sometimes. They had no money and they lived in a hugger-mugger sort of
way, but they were frightfully happy. Of course I never thought anything
would come of it. Margery was rather amused. 'Naturally I don't take it
very seriously,' she told me, 'but it is rather fun to have a young man
at my time of life. I haven't had any flowers sent me for years. I had
to tell him not to send any more because Charlie would think it so
silly. He doesn't know a soul in London and he loves dancing and he says
I dance like a dream. It's miserable for him going to the theatre by
himself all the time and we've done two or three matines together. It's
pathetic to see how grateful he is when I say I'll go out with him.' 'I
must say,' I said, 'he sounds rather a lamb.' 'He is,' she said. 'I knew
you'd understand. You don't blame me, do you?' 'Of course not, darling,'
I said, 'surely you know me better than that. I'd do just the same in
your place.'"

Margery made no secret of her outings with Morton and her husband
chaffed her good-naturedly about her beau. But he thought him a very
civil, pleasant-spoken young man and was glad that Margery had someone
to play with while he was busy. It never occurred to him to be jealous.
The three of them dined together several times and went to a show. But
presently Gerry Morton begged Margery to spend an evening with him
alone; she said it was impossible, but he was persuasive, he gave her no
peace; and at last she went to Janet and asked her to ring up Charlie
one day and ask him to come to dinner and make a fourth at bridge.
Charlie would never go anywhere without his wife, but the Marshes were
old friends, and Janet made a point of it. She invented some
cock-and-bull story that made it seem important that he should consent.
Next day Margery and she met. The evening had been wonderful. They had
dined at Maidenhead and danced there and then had driven home through
the summer night.

"He says he's crazy about me," Margery told her.

"Did he kiss you?" asked Janet.

"Of course," Margery chuckled. "Don't be silly, Janet. He is awfully
sweet and, you know, he has such a nice nature. Of course I don't
believe half the things he says to me."

"My dear, you're not going to fall in love with him."

"I have," said Margery.

"Darling, isn't it going to be rather awkward?"

"Oh, it won't last. After all he's going back to Borneo in the autumn."

"Well, one can't deny that it's made you look years younger."

"I know, and I feel years younger."

Soon they were meeting every day. They met in the morning and walked in
the Park together or went to a picture gallery. They separated for
Margery to lunch with her husband and after lunch met again and motored
into the country or to some place on the river. Margery did not tell her
husband. She very naturally thought he would not understand.

"How was it you never met Morton?" I asked Janet.

"Oh, she didn't want me to. You see, we belong to the same generation,
Margery and I. I quite understand that."

"I see."

"Of course I did everything I could. When she went out with Gerry she
was always supposed to be with me."

"I am a person who likes to cross a "t" and dot an "i".

"Were they having an affair?" I asked.

"Oh, no. Margery isn't that sort of woman at all."

"How do you know?"

"She would have told me."

"I suppose she would."

"Of course I asked her. But she denied it point-blank and I'm sure she
was telling me the truth. There's never been anything of that sort
between them at all."

"It seems rather odd to me."

"Well, you see, Margery is a very good woman."

I shrugged my shoulders.

"She was absolutely loyal to Charlie. She wouldn't have deceived him for
anything in the world. She couldn't bear the thought of having any
secret from him. As soon as she knew she was in love with Gerry she
wanted to tell Charlie. Of course I begged her not to. I told her it
wouldn't do any good and it would only make Charlie miserable. And after
all, the boy was going away in a couple of months, it didn't seem much
good to make a lot of fuss about a thing that couldn't possibly last."

But Gerry's imminent departure was the cause of the crash. The Bishops
had arranged to go abroad as usual and proposed to motor through
Belgium, Holland and the North of Germany. Charlie was busy with maps
and guides. He collected information from friends about hotels and
roads. He looked forward to his holiday with the bubbling excitement of
a schoolboy. Margery listened to him discussing it with a sinking heart.
They were to be away four weeks and in September Gerry was sailing. She
could not bear to lose so much of the short time that remained to them
and the thought of the motor tour filled her with exasperation. As the
interval grew shorter and shorter she grew more and more nervous. At
last she decided that there was only one thing to do.

"Charlie, I don't want to come on this trip," she interrupted him
suddenly, one day when he was talking to her of some restaurant he had
just heard of. "I wish you'd get someone else to go with you."

He looked at her blankly. She was startled at what she had said and her
lips trembled a little.

"Why, what's the matter?"

"Nothing's the matter. I don't feel like it. I want to be by myself for
a bit."

"Are you ill?"

She saw the sudden fear in his eyes. His concern drove her beyond her
endurance.

"No. I've never been better in my life. I'm in love."

"You? Whom with?"

"Gerry."

He looked at her in amazement. He could not believe his ears. She
mistook his expression.

"It's no good blaming me. I can't help it. He's going away in a few
weeks. I'm not going to waste the little time he has left."

He burst out laughing.

"Margery, how can you make such a damned fool of yourself? You're old
enough to be his mother."

She flushed.

"He's just as much in love with me as I am with him."

"Has he told you so?"

"A thousand times."

"He's a bloody liar, that's all."

He chuckled. His fat stomach rippled with mirth. He thought it a huge
joke. I daresay Charlie did not treat his wife in the proper way. Janet
seemed to think he should have been tender and compassionate. _He should
have understood._ I saw the scene that was in her mind's eye, the stiff
upper lip, the silent sorrow, and the final renunciation. Women are
always sensitive to the beauty of the self-sacrifice of others. Janet
would have sympathised also if he had flown into a violent passion,
broken one or two pieces of furniture (which he would have had to
replace), or given Margery a sock in the jaw. But to laugh at her was
unpardonable. I did not point out that it is very difficult for a rather
stout and not very tall professor of pathology, aged fifty-five, to act
all of a sudden like a cave-man. Anyhow, the excursion to Holland was
given up and the Bishops stayed in London through August. They were not
very happy. They lunched and dined together every day because they had
been in the habit of doing so for so many years and the rest of the time
Margery spent with Gerry. The hours she passed with him made up for all
she had to put up with and she had to put up with a good deal. Charlie
had a ribald and sarcastic humour and he made himself very funny at her
expense and at Gerry's. He persisted in refusing to take the matter
seriously. He was vexed with Margery for being so silly, but apparently
it never occurred to him that she might have been unfaithful to him. I
commented upon this to Janet.

"He never suspected it even," she said. "He knew Margery much too well."

The weeks passed and at last Gerry sailed. He went from Tilbury and
Margery saw him off. When she came back she cried for forty-eight hours.
Charlie watched her with increasing exasperation. His nerves were much
frayed.

"Look here, Margery," he said at last, "I've been very patient with you,
but now you must pull yourself together. This is getting past a joke."

"Why can't you leave me alone?" she cried. "I've lost everything that
made life lovely to me."

"Don't be such a fool," he said.

I do not know what else he said. But he was unwise enough to tell her
what he thought of Gerry and I gather that the picture he drew was
virulent. It started the first violent scene they had ever had. She had
borne Charlie's jibes when she knew that she would see Gerry in an hour
or next day, but now that she had lost him for ever she could bear them
no longer. She had held herself in for weeks: now she flung her
self-control to the winds. Perhaps she never knew exactly what she said
to Charlie. He had always been irascible and at last he hit her. They
were both frightened when he had. He seized a hat and flung out of the
flat. During all that miserable time they had shared the same bed, but
when he came back, in the middle of the night, he found that she had
made herself up a shake-down on the sofa in the sitting-room.

"You can't sleep there," he said. "Don't be so silly. Come to bed."

"No, I won't, let me alone."

For the rest of the night they wrangled, but she had her way and now
made up her bed every night on the sofa. But in that tiny flat they
could not get away from one another; they could not even get out of
sight or out of hearing of one another. They had lived in such intimacy
for so many years that it was an instinct for them to be together. He
tried to reason with her. He thought her incredibly stupid and argued
with her interminably in the effort to show her how wrong-headed she
was. He could not leave her alone. He would not let her sleep, and he
talked half through the night till they were both exhausted. He thought
he could talk her out of love. For two or three days at a time they
would not speak to one another. Then one day, coming home, he found her
crying bitterly; the sight of her tears distracted him; he told her how
much he loved her and sought to move her by the recollection of all the
happy years they had spent together. He wanted to let bygones be
bygones. He promised never to refer to Gerry again. Could they not
forget the nightmare they had been through? But the thought of all that
a reconciliation implied revolted her. She told him she had a racking
headache and asked him to give her a sleeping draught. She pretended to
be still asleep when he went out next morning, but the moment he was
gone she packed up her things and left. She had a few trinkets that she
had inherited and by selling them she got a little money. She took a
room at a cheap boarding-house and kept her address a secret from
Charlie.

It was when he found she had left him that he went all to pieces. The
shock of her flight broke him. He told Janet that his loneliness was
intolerable. He wrote to Margery imploring her to come back, and asked
Janet to intercede for him; he was willing to promise anything; he
abased himself. Margery was obdurate.

"Do you think she'll ever go back?" I asked Janet.

"She says not."

I had to leave then, for it was nearly half-past one and I was bound for
the other end of London.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Two or three days later I got a telephone message from Margery asking if
I could see her. She suggested coming to my rooms. I asked her to tea. I
tried to be nice to her; her affairs were no business of mine, but in my
heart I thought her a very silly woman and I dare say my manner was
cold. She had never been handsome and the passing years had changed her
little. She had still those fine dark eyes and her face was
astonishingly unlined. She was very simply dressed and if she wore
make-up it was so cunningly put on that I did not perceive it. She had
still the charm she had always had of perfect naturalness and of a
kindly humour.

"I want you to do something for me if you will," she began without
beating about the bush.

"What is it?"

"Charlie is leaving the Marshes to-day and going back to the flat. I'm
afraid his first few days there will be rather difficult; it would be
awfully nice of you if you'd ask him to dinner or something."

"I'll have a look at my book."

"I'm told he's been drinking heavily. It's such a pity. I wish you could
give him a hint."

"I understand he's had some domestic worries of late," I said, perhaps
acidly.

Margery flushed. She gave me a pained look. She winced as though I had
struck her.

"Of course you've known him ever so much longer than you've known me.
It's natural that you should take his part."

"My dear, to tell you the truth I've known him all these years chiefly
on your account. I have never very much liked him, but I thought you
were awfully nice."

She smiled at me and her smile was very sweet. She knew that I meant
what I said.

"Do you think I was a good wife to him?"

"Perfect."

"He used to put people's backs up. A lot of people didn't like him, but
I never found him difficult."

"He was awfully fond of you."

"I know. We had a wonderful time together. For sixteen years we were
perfectly happy." She paused and looked down. "I had to leave him. It
became quite impossible. That cat-and-dog life we were leading was too
awful."

"I never see why two persons should go on living together if they don't
want to."

"You see, it was awful for us. We'd always lived in such close intimacy.
We could never get away from one another. At the end I hated the sight
of him."

"I don't suppose the situation was easy for either of you."

"It wasn't my fault that I fell in love. You see, it was quite a
different love from the one I'd felt for Charlie. There was always
something maternal in that and protective. I was so much more reasonable
than he was. He was unmanageable, but I could always manage him. Gerry
was different." Her voice grew soft and her face was transfigured with
glory. "He gave me back my youth. I was a girl to him and I could depend
on his strength and be safe in his care."

"He seemed to me a very nice lad," I said slowly. "I imagine he'll do
well. He was very young for the job he had when I ran across him. He's
only twenty-nine now, isn't he?"

She smiled softly. She knew quite well what I meant.

"I never made any secret of my age to him. He says it doesn't matter."

I knew this was true. She was not the woman to have lied about her age.
She had found a sort of fierce delight in telling him the truth about
herself.

"How old are you?"

"Forty-four."

"What are you going to do now?"

"I've written to Gerry and told him I've left Charlie. As soon as I hear
from him I'm going out to join him."

I was staggered.

"You know, it's a very primitive little colony he's living in. I'm
afraid you'll find your position rather awkward."

"He made me promise that if I found my life impossible after he left I'd
go to him."

"Are you sure you're wise to attach so much importance to the things a
young man says when he's in love?"

Again that really beautiful look of exaltation came into her face.

"Yes, when the young man happens to be Gerry."

My heart sank. I was silent for a moment. Then I told her the story of
the road Gerry Morton had built. I dramatised it, and I think I made it
rather effective.

"What did you tell me that for?" she asked when I finished.

"I thought it rather a good story."

She shook her head and smiled.

"No, you wanted to show me that he was very young and enthusiastic, and
so keen on his work that he hadn't much time to waste on other
interests. I wouldn't interfere with his work. You don't know him as I
do. He's incredibly romantic. He looks upon himself as a pioneer. I've
caught from him something of his excitement at the idea of taking part
in the opening up of a new country. It is rather splendid, isn't it? It
makes life here seem very humdrum and commonplace. But of course it's
very lonely there. Even the companionship of a middle-aged woman may be
worth having."

"Are you proposing to marry him?" I asked.

"I leave myself in his hands. I want to do nothing that he does not
wish."

She spoke with so much simplicity, there was something so touching in
her self-surrender, that when she left me I no longer felt angry with
her. Of course I thought her very foolish, but if the folly of men made
one angry one would pass one's life in a state of chronic ire. I thought
all would come right. She said Gerry was romantic. He was, but the
romantics in this workaday world only get away with their nonsense
because they have at bottom a shrewd sense of reality: the mugs are the
people who take their vapourings at their face value. The English are
romantic; that is why other nations think them hypocritical; they are
not: they set out in all sincerity for the Kingdom of God, but the
journey is arduous and they have reason to pick up any gilt-edged
investment that offers itself by the way. The British soul, like
Wellington's armies, marches on its belly. I supposed that Gerry would
go through a bad quarter of an hour when he received Margery's letter.
My sympathies were not deeply engaged in the matter and I was only
curious to see how he would extricate himself from the pass he was in. I
thought Margery would suffer a bitter disappointment; well, that would
do her no great harm, and then she would go back to her husband and I
had no doubt the pair of them, chastened, would live in peace, quiet and
happiness for the rest of their lives.

The event was different. It happened that it was quite impossible for me
to make any sort of engagement with Charlie Bishop for some days, but I
wrote to him and asked him to dine with me one evening in the following
week. I proposed, though with misgiving, that we should go to a play; I
knew he was drinking like a fish, and when tight he was noisy. I hoped
he would not make a nuisance of himself in the theatre. We arranged to
meet at our club and dine at seven because the piece we were going to
began at a quarter past eight. I arrived. I waited. He did not come. I
rang up his flat, but could get no reply, so concluded that he was on
his way. I hate missing the beginning of a play and I waited impatiently
in the hall so that when he came we could go straight upstairs. To save
time I had ordered dinner. The clock pointed to half-past seven, then a
quarter to eight; I did not see why I should wait for him any longer, so
walked up to the dining-room and ate my dinner alone. He did not appear.
I put a call through from the dining-room to the Marshes and presently
was told by a waiter that Bill Marsh was at the end of the wire.

"I say, do you know anything about Charlie Bishop?" I said. "We were
dining together and going to a play and he hasn't turned up."

"He died this afternoon?"

"What?"

My exclamation was so startled that two or three people within earshot
looked up. The dining-room was full and the waiters were hurrying to and
fro. The telephone was on the cashier's desk and a wine waiter came up
with a bottle of hock and two long-stemmed glasses on a tray and gave
the cashier a chit. The portly steward showing two men to a table
jostled me.

"Where are you speaking from?" asked Bill.

I suppose he heard the clatter that surrounded me. When I told him he
asked me if I could come round as soon as I had finished my dinner.
Janet wanted to speak to me.

"I'll come at once," I said.

I found Janet and Bill sitting in the drawing-room. He was reading the
paper and she was playing patience. She came forward swiftly when the
maid showed me in. She walked with a sort of spring, crouching a little,
on silent feet, like a panther stalking his prey. I saw at once that she
was in her element. She gave me her hand and turned her face away to
hide her eyes brimming with tears. Her voice was low and tragic.

"I brought Margery here and put her to bed. The doctor has given her a
sedative. She's all in. Isn't it awful?" She gave a sound that was
something between a gasp and a sob. "I don't know why these things
always happen to me."

The Bishops had never kept a servant but a charwoman went in every
morning, cleaned the flat and washed up the breakfast things. She had
her own key. That morning she had gone in as usual and done the
sitting-room. Since his wife had left him Charlie's hours had been
irregular and she was not surprised to find him asleep. But the time
passed and she knew he had his work to go to. She went to the
bedroom-door and knocked. There was no answer. She thought she heard him
groaning. She opened the door softly. He was lying in bed, on his back,
and was breathing stertorously. He did not wake. She called him.
Something about him frightened her. She went to the flat on the same
landing. It was occupied by a journalist. He was still in bed when she
rang, and opened the door to her in pyjamas.

"Beg pardon, sir," she said, "but would you just come and 'ave a look at
my gentleman. I don't think he's well."

The journalist walked across the landing and into Charlie's flat. There
was an empty bottle of veronal by the bed.

"I think you'd better fetch a policeman," he said.

A policeman came and rang through to the police-station for an
ambulance. They took Charlie to Charing Cross Hospital. He never
recovered consciousness. Margery was with him at the end.

"Of course there'll have to be an inquest," said Janet. "But it's quite
obvious what happened. He'd been sleeping awfully badly for the last
three or four weeks and I suppose he'd been taking veronal. He must have
taken an overdose by accident."

"Is that what Margery thinks?" I asked.

"She's too upset to think anything, but I told her I was positive he
hadn't committed suicide. I mean, he wasn't that sort of a man. Am I
right, Bill?"

"Yes, dear," he answered.

"Did he leave any letter?"

"No, nothing. Oddly enough Margery got a letter from him this morning,
well, hardly a letter, just a line. 'I'm so lonely without you,
darling.' That's all. But of course that means nothing and she's
promised to say nothing about it at the inquest. I mean, what is the use
of putting ideas in people's heads? Everyone knows that you never can
tell with veronal, I wouldn't take it myself for anything in the world,
and it was quite obviously an accident. Am I right, Bill?"

"Yes, dear," he answered.

I saw that Janet was quite determined to believe that Charlie Bishop had
not committed suicide, but how far in her heart she believed what she
wanted to believe I was not sufficiently expert in female psychology to
know. And of course it might be that she was right. It is unreasonable
to suppose that a middle-aged scientist should kill himself because his
middle-aged wife leaves him and it is extremely plausible that,
exasperated by sleeplessness, and in all probability far from sober, he
took a larger dose of the sleeping-draught than he realised. Anyhow that
was the view the coroner took of the matter. It was indicated to him
that of late Charles Bishop had given way to habits of intemperance
which had caused his wife to leave him, and it was quite obvious that
nothing was further from his thoughts than to put an end to himself. The
coroner expressed his sympathy with the widow and commented very
strongly on the dangers of sleeping-draughts.

I hate funerals, but Janet begged me to go to Charlie's. Several of his
colleagues at the hospital had intimated their desire to come, but at
Margery's wish they were dissuaded; and Janet and Bill, Margery and I
were the only persons who attended it. We were to fetch the hearse from
the mortuary and they offered to call for me on their way. I was on the
look-out for the car and when I saw it drive up went downstairs, but
Bill got out and met me just inside the door.

"Half a minute," he said. "I've got something to say to you. Janet wants
you to come back afterwards and have tea. She says it's no good Margery
moping and after tea we'll play a few rubbers of bridge. Can you come?"

"Like this?" I asked.

I had a tail-coat on and a black tie and my evening dress trousers.

"Oh, that's all right. It'll take Margery's mind off."

"Very well."

But we did not play bridge after all. Janet, with her fair hair, was
very smart in her deep mourning and she played the part of the
sympathetic friend with amazing skill. She cried a little, wiping her
eyes delicately so as not to disturb the black on her eyelashes, and
when Margery sobbed broken-heartedly put her arm tenderly through hers.
She was a very present help in trouble. We returned to the house. There
was a telegram for Margery. She took it and went upstairs. I presumed it
was a message of condolence from one of Charlie's friends who had just
heard of his death. Bill went to change and Janet and I went up to the
drawing-room and got the bridge table out. She took off her hat and put
it on the piano.

"It's no good being hypocritical," she said. "Of course Margery has been
frightfully upset, but she must pull herself together now. A rubber of
bridge will help her to get back to her normal state. Naturally I'm
dreadfully sorry about poor Charlie, but as far as he was concerned I
don't believe he'd ever have got over Margery's leaving him and one
can't deny that it has made things much easier for her. She wired to
Gerry this morning."

"What about?"

"To tell him about poor Charlie."

At that moment the maid came to the room.

"Will you go up to Mrs. Bishop, please, ma'am? She wants to see you."

"Yes, of course."

She went out of the room quickly and I was left alone. Bill joined me
presently and we had a drink. At last Janet came back. She handed a
telegram to me. It read as follows:

    _For God's sake await letter.  Gerry._

"What do you think it means?" she asked me.

"What it says," I replied.

"Idiot! Of course I've told Margery that it doesn't mean anything, but
she's rather worried. It must have crossed her cable telling him that
Charles was dead. I don't think she feels very much like bridge after
all. I mean, it would be rather bad form to play on the very day her
husband has been buried."

"Quite," I said.

"Of course he may wire in answer to the cable. He's sure to do that,
isn't he? The only thing we can do now is to sit tight and wait for his
letter."

I saw no object in continuing the conversation. I left. In a couple of
days Janet rang me up to tell me that Margery had received a telegram of
condolence from Morton. She repeated it to me.

    _Dreadfully distressed to hear sad news. Deeply sympathise with
    your great grief.  Love.  Gerry._

"What do you think of it?" she asked me.

"I think it's very proper."

"Of course he couldn't say he was as pleased as Punch, could he?"

"Not with any delicacy."

"And he did put in _love_."

I imagined how those women had examined the two telegrams from every
point of view and scrutinised every word to press from it every possible
shade of meaning. I almost heard their interminable conversations.

"I don't know what'll happen to Margery if he lets her down now," Janet
went on. "Of course it remains to be seen if he's a gentleman."

"Rot," I said and rang off quickly.

In the course of the following days I dined with the Marshes a couple of
times. Margery looked tired. I guessed that she awaited the letter that
was on the way with sickening anxiety. Grief and fear had worn her to a
shadow, she seemed very fragile now and she had acquired a spiritual
look that I had never seen in her before. She was very gentle, very
grateful for every kindness shown her, and in her smile, unsure and a
little timid, was an infinite pathos. Her helplessness was very
appealing. But Morton was several thousand miles away. Then one morning
Janet rang me up.

"The letter has come. Margery says I can show it to you. Will you come
round?"

Her tense voice told me everything. When I arrived Janet gave it to me.
I read it. It was a very careful letter and I guessed that Morton had
written it a good many times. It was very kind and he had evidently
taken great pains to avoid saying anything that could possibly wound
Margery; but what transpired was his terror. It was obvious that he was
shaking in his shoes. He had felt apparently that the best way to cope
with the situation was to be mildly facetious and he made very good fun
of the white people in the colony. What would they say if Margery
suddenly turned up? He would be given the order of the boot pretty damn
quick. People thought the East was free and easy; it wasn't, it was more
suburban than Clapham. He loved Margery far too much to bear the
thoughts of those horrible women out there turning up their noses at
her. And besides he had been sent to a station ten days from anywhere;
she couldn't live in his bungalow exactly and of course there wasn't a
hotel, and his work took him out into the jungle for days at a time. It
was no place for a woman anyhow. He told her how much she meant to him,
but she mustn't bother about him and he couldn't help thinking it would
be better if she went back to her husband. He would never forgive
himself if he thought he had come between her and Charlie. Yes, I am
quite sure it had been a difficult letter to write.

"Of course he didn't know then that Charlie was dead. I've told Margery
that changes everything."

"Does she agree with you?"

"I think she's being rather unreasonable. What do you make of the
letter?"

"Well, it's quite plain that he doesn't want her."

"He wanted her badly enough two months ago."

"It's astonishing what a change of air and a change of scene will do for
you. It must seem to him already like a year since he left London. He's
back among his old friends and his old interests. My dear, it's no good
Margery kidding herself; the life there has taken him back and there's
no place for her."

"I've advised her to ignore the letter and go straight out to him."

"I hope she's too sensible to expose herself to a very terrible rebuff."

"But then what's to happen to her? Oh, it's too cruel. She's the best
woman in the world. She has real goodness."

"It's funny if you come to think of it, it's her goodness that has
caused all the trouble. Why on earth didn't she have an affair with
Morton? Charlie would have known nothing about it and wouldn't have been
a penny the worse. She and Morton could have had a grand time and when
he went away they could have parted with the consciousness that a
pleasant episode had come to a graceful end. It would have been a jolly
recollection, and she could have gone back to Charlie satisfied and
rested and continued to make him the excellent wife she had always
been."

Janet pursed her lips. She gave me a look of disdain.

"There is such a thing as virtue, you know."

"Virtue be damned. A virtue that only causes havoc and unhappiness is
worth nothing. You can call it virtue if you like. I call it cowardice."

"The thought of being unfaithful to Charlie while she was living with
him revolted her. There are women like that, you know."

"Good gracious, she could have remained faithful to him in spirit while
she was being unfaithful to him in the flesh. That is a feat of
legerdemain that women find it easy to accomplish."

"What an odious cynic you are."

"If it's cynical to look truth in the face and exercise common-sense in
the affairs of life, then certainly I'm a cynic and odious if you like.
Let's face it, Margery's a middle-aged woman, Charlie was fifty-five and
they'd been married for sixteen years. It was natural enough that she
should lose her head over a young man who made a fuss of her. But don't
call it love. It was physiology. She was a fool to take anything he said
seriously. It wasn't himself speaking, it was his starved sex, he'd
suffered from sexual starvation, at least as far as white women are
concerned, for four years; it's monstrous that she should seek to ruin
his life by holding him to the wild promises he made then. It was an
accident that Margery took his fancy; he wanted her, and because he
couldn't get her wanted her more. I dare say he thought it love; believe
me, it was only letch. If they'd gone to bed together Charlie would be
alive to-day. It's her damned virtue that caused the whole trouble."

"How stupid you are. Don't you see that she couldn't help herself? She
just doesn't happen to be a loose woman."

"I prefer a loose woman to a selfish one and a wanton to a fool."

"Oh, shut up. I didn't ask you to come here in order to make yourself
absolutely beastly."

"What did you ask me to come here for?"

"Gerry is your friend. You introduced him to Margery. If she's in the
soup it's on his account. But _you_ are the cause of the whole trouble.
It's your duty to write to him and tell him he must do the right thing
by her."

"I'm damned if I will," I said.

"Then you'd better go."

I started to do so.

"Well, at all events it's a mercy that Charlie's life was insured," said
Janet.

Then I turned on her.

"And you have the nerve to call me a cynic."

I will not repeat the opprobrious word I flung at her as I slammed the
door behind me. But Janet is all the same a very nice woman. I often
think it would be great fun to be married to her.




THE MAN WITH THE SCAR


It was on account of the scar that I first noticed him, for it ran,
broad and red, in a great crescent from his temple to his chin. It must
have been due to a formidable wound and I wondered whether this had been
caused by a sabre or by a fragment of shell. It was unexpected on that
round, fat and good-humoured face. He had small and undistinguished
features, and his expression was artless. His face went oddly with his
corpulent body. He was a powerful man of more than common height. I
never saw him in anything but a very shabby grey suit, a khaki shirt and
a battered sombrero. He was far from clean. He used to come into the
Palace Hotel at Guatemala City every day at cocktail time and strolling
leisurely round the bar offer lottery tickets for sale. If this was the
way he made his living it must have been a poor one for I never saw
anyone buy, but now and then I saw him offered a drink. He never refused
it. He threaded his way among the tables with a sort of rolling walk as
though he were accustomed to traverse long distances on foot, paused at
each table, with a little smile mentioned the numbers he had for sale
and then, when no notice was taken of him, with the same smile passed
on. I think he was for the most part a trifle the worse for liquor.

I was standing at the bar one evening, my foot on the rail, with an
acquaintance--they make a very good dry Martini at the Palace Hotel in
Guatemala City--when the man with the scar came up. I shook my head as
for the twentieth time since my arrival he held out for my inspection
his lottery tickets. But my companion nodded affably.

"_Qu tal, general?_ How is life?"

"Not so bad. Business is none too good, but it might be worse."

"What will you have, general?"

"A brandy."

He tossed it down and put the glass back on the bar. He nodded to my
acquaintance.

"_Gracias. Hasta luego._"

Then he turned away and offered his tickets to the men who were standing
next to us.

"Who is your friend?" I asked. "That's a terrific scar on his face."

"It doesn't add to his beauty, does it? He's an exile from Nicaragua.
He's a ruffian of course and a bandit, but not a bad fellow. I give him
a few _pesos_ now and then. He was a revolutionary general, and if his
ammunition hadn't given out he'd have upset the government and be
Minister of War now instead of selling lottery tickets in Guatemala.
They captured him, along with his staff, such as it was, and tried him
by court-martial. Such things are rather summary in these countries, you
know, and he was sentenced to be shot at dawn. I guess he knew what was
coming to him when he was caught. He spent the night in gaol and he and
the others, there were five of them altogether, passed the time playing
poker. They used matches for chips. He told me he'd never had such a run
of bad luck in his life; they were playing with a short pack, Jacks to
open, but he never held a card; he never improved more than half a dozen
times in the whole sitting and no sooner did he buy a new stack than he
lost it. When day broke and the soldiers came into the cell to fetch
them for execution he had lost more matches than a reasonable man could
use in a lifetime.

"They were led into the patio of the gaol and placed against a wall, the
five of them side by side, with the firing party facing them. There was
a pause and our friend asked the officer in charge of them what the
devil they were keeping him waiting for. The officer said that the
general commanding the government troops wished to attend the execution
and they awaited his arrival.

"'Then I have time to smoke another cigarette,' said our friend. 'He was
always unpunctual.'

"But he had barely lit it when the general--it was San Ignacio, by the
way: I don't know whether you ever met him--followed by his A.D.C. came
into the patio. The usual formalities were performed and San Ignacio
asked the condemned men whether there was anything they wished before
the execution took place. Four of the five shook their heads, but our
friend spoke.

"'Yes, I should like to say good-bye to my wife.'

"'_Bueno_,' said the general, 'I have no objection to that. Where is
she?'

"'She is waiting at the prison door.'

"'Then it will not cause a delay of more than five minutes.'

"'Hardly that, _Seor General_,' said our friend.

"'Have him placed on one side.'

"Two soldiers advanced and between them the condemned rebel walked to
the spot indicated. The officer in command of the firing squad on a nod
from the general gave an order, there was a ragged report, and the four
men fell. They fell strangely, not together, but one after the other,
with movements that were almost grotesque, as though they were puppets
in a toy theatre. The officer went up to them and into one who was still
alive emptied two barrels of his revolver. Our friend finished his
cigarette and threw away the stub.

"There was a little stir at the gateway. A woman came into the patio,
with quick steps, and then, her hand on her heart, stopped suddenly. She
gave a cry and with outstretched arms ran forward.

"'_Caramba_,' said the General.

"She was in black, with a veil over her hair, and her face was dead
white. She was hardly more than a girl, a slim creature, with little
regular features and enormous eyes. But they were distraught with
anguish. Her loveliness was such that as she ran, her mouth slightly
open and the agony of her face beautiful, a gasp of surprise was wrung
from those indifferent soldiers who looked at her.

"The rebel advanced a step or two to meet her. She flung herself into
his arms and with a hoarse cry of passion: _alma de mi corazn_, soul of
my heart, he pressed his lips to hers. And at the same moment he drew a
knife from his ragged shirt--I haven't a notion how he managed to retain
possession of it--and stabbed her in the neck. The blood spurted from
the cut vein and dyed his shirt. Then he flung his arms round her and
once more pressed his lips to hers.

"It happened so quickly that many did not know what had occurred, but
from the others burst a cry of horror; they sprang forward and seized
him. They loosened his grasp and the girl would have fallen if the
A.D.C. had not caught her. She was unconscious. They laid her on the
ground and with dismay on their faces stood round watching her. The
rebel knew where he was striking and it was impossible to staunch the
blood. In a moment the A.D.C. who had been kneeling by her side rose.

"'She's dead,' he whispered.

"The rebel crossed himself.

"'Why did you do it?" asked the general.

"'I loved her.'

"A sort of sigh passed through those men crowded together and they
looked with strange faces at the murderer. The general stared at him for
a while in silence.

"'It was a noble gesture,' he said at last. 'I cannot execute this man.
Take my car and have him led to the frontier. _Seor_, I offer you the
homage which is due from one brave man to another.'

"A murmur of approbation broke from those who listened. The A.D.C.
tapped the rebel on the shoulder, and between the two soldiers without a
word he marched to the waiting car."

My friend stopped and for a little I was silent. I must explain that he
was a Guatemalecan and spoke to me in Spanish. I have translated what he
told me as well as I could, but I have made no attempt to tone down his
rather high-flown language. To tell the truth I think it suits the
story.

"But how then did he get the scar?" I asked at length.

"Oh, that was due to a bottle that burst when I was opening it. A bottle
of ginger ale."

"I never liked it," said I.




THE CLOSED SHOP


Nothing would induce me to tell the name of the happy country in which
the incidents occurred that I am constrained to relate; but I see no
harm in admitting that it is a free and independent state on the
continent of America. This is vague enough in all conscience and can
give rise to no diplomatic incident. Now the president of this free and
independent state had an eye to a pretty woman and there came to his
capital, a wide and sunny town with a plaza, a cathedral that was not
without dignity and a few old Spanish houses, a young person from
Michigan of such a pleasing aspect that his heart went out to her. He
lost no time in declaring his passion and was gratified to learn that it
was returned, but he was mortified to discover that the young person
regarded his possession of a wife and her possession of a husband as a
bar to their union. She had a feminine weakness for marriage. Though it
seemed unreasonable to the president, he was not the man to refuse a
pretty woman the gratification of her whim and promised to make such
arrangements as would enable him to offer her wedlock. He called his
attorneys together and put the matter before them. He had long thought,
he said, that for a progressive country their marriage laws were
remarkably out of date and he proposed therefore radically to amend
them. The attorneys retired and after a brief interval devised a divorce
law that was satisfactory to the president. But the state of which I
write was always careful to do things in a constitutional way, for it
was a highly civilised, democratic and reputable country. A president
who respects himself and his oath of office cannot promulgate a law,
even if it is to his own interest, without adhering to certain forms,
and these things take time; the president had barely signed the decree
that made the new divorce law valid when a revolution broke out and he
was very unfortunately hanged on a lamp-post in the plaza in front of
the cathedral that was not without dignity. The young person of pleasing
aspect left town in a hurry, but the law remained. Its terms were
simple. On the payment of one hundred dollars gold and after a residence
of thirty days a man could divorce his wife or a wife her husband
without even apprising the other party of the intended step. Your wife
might tell you that she was going to spend a month with her aged mother
and one morning at breakfast when you looked through your mail you might
receive a letter from her informing you that she had divorced you and
was already married to another.

Now it was not long before the happy news spread here and there that at
a reasonable distance from New York was a country, the capital of which
had an equable climate and tolerable accommodation, where a woman could
release herself, expeditiously and with economy, from the irksome bonds
of matrimony. The fact that the operation could be performed without the
husband's knowledge saved her from those preliminary and acrimonious
discussions that are so wearing to the nerves. Every woman knows that
however much a man may argue about a proposition he will generally
accept a fact with resignation. Tell him you want a Rolls-Royce and he
will say he can't afford it, but buy it and he will sign his cheque like
a lamb. So in a very short time beautiful women in considerable numbers
began to come down to the pleasant, sunny town; tired business women and
women of fashion, women of pleasure and women of leisure; they came from
New York, Chicago and San Francisco, they came from Georgia and they
came from Dakota, they came from all the states in the Union. The
passenger accommodation on the ships of the United Fruit Line was only
just adequate to the demand, and if you wanted a stateroom to yourself
you had to engage it six months in advance. Prosperity descended upon
the capital of this enterprising state and in a very little while there
was not a lawyer in it who did not own a Ford car. Don Agosto, the
proprietor of the Grand Hotel, went to the expense of building several
bathrooms, but he did not grudge it; he was making a fortune, and he
never passed the lamp-post on which the outgoing president had been
hanged without giving it a jaunty wave of his hand.

"He was a great man," he said. "One day they will erect a statue to
him."

I have spoken as though it were only women who availed themselves of
this convenient and reasonable law, and this might indicate that in the
United States it is they rather than men who desire release from the
impediment of Holy Matrimony. I have no reason to believe that this is
so. Though it was women in great majority who travelled to this country
to get a divorce, I ascribe this to the fact that it is always easy for
them to get away for six weeks (a week there, a week back and thirty
days to establish a domicile) but it is difficult for men to leave their
affairs so long. It is true that they could go there during their summer
holidays, but then the heat is somewhat oppressive; and besides, there
are no golf links: it is reasonable enough to suppose that many a man
will hesitate to divorce his wife when he can only do it at the cost of
a month's golf. There were of course two or three males spending their
thirty days at the Grand Hotel, but they were generally, for a reason
that is obscure, commercial travellers. I can but imagine that by the
nature of their avocations they were able at one and the same time to
pursue freedom and profit.

Be this as it may, the fact remains that the inmates of the Grand Hotel
were for the most part women, and very gay it was in the patio at
luncheon and at dinner when they sat at little square tables under the
arches discussing their matrimonial troubles and drinking champagne. Don
Agosto did a roaring trade with the generals and colonels (there were
more generals than colonels in the army of this state), the lawyers,
bankers, merchants and the young sparks of the town who came to look at
these beautiful creatures. But the perfect is seldom realised in this
world. There is always something that is not quite right and women
engaged in getting rid of their husbands are very properly in an
agitated condition. It makes them at times hard to please. Now it must
be confessed that this delightful little city, notwithstanding its
manifold advantages, somewhat lacked places of amusement. There was but
one cinema and this showed films that had been wandering too long from
their happy home in Hollywood. In the day-time you could have
consultations with your lawyer, polish your nails and do a little
shopping, but the evenings were intolerable. There were many complaints
that thirty days was a long time and more than one impatient young thing
asked her lawyer why they didn't put a little pep into their law and do
the whole job in eight and forty hours. Don Agosto, however, was a man
of resource and presently he had an inspiration: he engaged a troupe of
wandering Guatemaltecans who played the marimba. There is no music in
the world that sets the toes so irresistibly tingling and in a little
while everyone in the patio began dancing. It is of course obvious that
twenty-five beautiful women cannot dance with three commercial
travellers, but there were all these generals and colonels and there
were all the young sparks of the town. They danced divinely and they had
great liquid black eyes. The hours flew, the days tripped one upon the
heels of the other so quickly that the month passed before you realised
it, and more than one of Don Agosto's guests when she bade him farewell
confessed that she would willingly have stayed longer. Don Agosto was
radiant. He liked to see people enjoy themselves. The marimba band was
worth twice the money he paid for it, and it did his heart good to see
his ladies dance with the gallant officers and the young men of the
town. Since Don Agosto was thrifty he always turned off the electric
light on the stairs and in the passages at ten o'clock at night and the
gallant officers and the young men of the town improved their English
wonderfully.

Everything went as merrily as a marriage bell, if I may use a phrase
that, however hackneyed, in this connection is irresistible, till one
day Madame Coralie came to the conclusion that she had had enough of it.
For one man's meat is another man's poison. She dressed herself and went
to call on her friend Carmencita. After she had in a few voluble words
stated the purpose of her visit, Carmencita called a maid and told her
to run and fetch La Gorda. They had a matter of importance which they
wished to discuss with her. La Gorda, a woman of ample proportions with
a heavy moustache, soon joined them and over a bottle of Malaga the
three of them held a momentous conversation. The result of it was that
they indited a letter to the president asking for an audience. The new
president was a hefty young man in the early thirties who, a few years
before, had been a stevedore in the employment of an American firm, and
he had risen to his present exalted station by a natural eloquence and
an effective use of his gun when he wanted to make a point or emphasise
a statement. When one of his secretaries placed the letter before him he
laughed.

"What do those three old faggots want with me?"

But he was a good-natured fellow and accessible. He did not forget that
he had been elected by the people, as one of the people, to protect the
people. He had also during his early youth been employed for some months
by Madame Coralie to run errands. He told his secretary that he would
see them at ten o'clock next morning. They went at the appointed hour to
the palace and were led up a noble stairway to the audience chamber; the
official who conducted them knocked softly on the door; a barred judas
was opened and a suspicious eye appeared. The president had no intention
of suffering the fate of his predecessor if he could help it and no
matter who his visitors were did not receive them without precaution.
The official gave the three ladies' names, the door was opened, but not
too wide, and they slipped in. It was a handsome room and various
secretaries at little tables, in their shirt-sleeves and with a revolver
on each hip, were busy typing. One or two other young men, heavily
armed, were lying on sofas reading the papers and smoking cigarettes.
The president, also in his shirt-sleeves, with a revolver in his belt,
was standing with his thumbs in the sleeve-holes of his waistcoat. He
was tall and stout, of a handsome and even dignified presence.

"_Qu tal_?" he cried, jovially, with a flash of his white teeth. "What
brings you here, _seoras_?"

"How well you're looking, Don Manuel," said La Gorda. "You are a fine
figure of a man."

He shook hands with them, and his staff, ceasing their strenuous
activity, leaned back and cordially waved their hands to the three
ladies. They were old friends and the greetings, if a trifle sardonic,
were hearty. I must disclose the fact now (which I could without doubt
do in a manner so discreet that I might be misunderstood; but if you
have to say something you may just as well say it plainly as not) that
these three ladies were the Madams of the three principal brothels in
the capital of this free and independent state. La Gorda and Carmencita
were of Spanish origin and were very decently dressed in black, with
black silk shawls over their heads, but Madame Coralie was French and
she wore a toque. They were all of mature age and of modest demeanour.

The president made them sit down, and offered them madeira and
cigarettes, but they refused.

"No, thank you, Don Manuel," said Madame Coralie. "It is on business
that we have come to see you."

"Well, what can I do for you?"

La Gorda and Carmencita looked at Madame Coralie and Madame Coralie
looked at La Gorda and Carmencita. They nodded and she saw that they
expected her to be their spokeswoman.

"Well, Don Manuel, it is like this. We are three women who have worked
hard for many years and not a breath of scandal has ever tarnished our
good names. There are not in all the Americas three more distinguished
houses than ours and they are a credit to this beautiful city. Why, only
last year I spent five hundred dollars to supply my _sala principal_
with plate-glass mirrors. We have always been respectable and we have
paid our taxes with regularity. It is hard now that the fruits of our
labours should be snatched away from us. I do not hesitate to say that
after so many years of honest and conscientious attention to business it
is unjust that we should have to submit to such treatment."

The president was astounded.

"But, Coralie, my dear, I do not know what you mean. Has anyone dared to
claim money from you that the law does not sanction or that I know
nothing about?"

He gave his secretaries a suspicious glance. They tried to look
innocent, but though they were, only succeeded in looking uneasy.

"It is the law we complain of. Ruin stares us in the face."

"Ruin?"

"So long as this new divorce law is in existence we can do no business
and we may just as well shut up our beautiful houses."

Then Madame Coralie explained in a manner so frank that I prefer to
paraphrase her speech that owing to this invasion of the town by
beautiful ladies from a foreign land the three elegant houses on which
she and her two friends paid rates and taxes were utterly deserted. The
young men of fashion preferred to spend their evenings at the Grand
Hotel where they received for soft words entertainment which at the
regular establishments they could only have got for hard cash.

"You cannot blame them," said the president.

"I don't," cried Madame Coralie. "I blame the women. They have no right
to come and take the bread out of our mouths. Don Manuel, you are one of
the people, you are not one of these aristocrats; what will the country
say if you allow us to be driven out of business by blacklegs? I ask you
is it just, is it honest?"

"But what can I do?" said the president. "I cannot lock them up in their
rooms for thirty days. How am I to blame if these foreigners have no
sense of decency?"

"It's different for a poor girl," said La Gorda. "She has her way to
make. But that these women do that sort of thing when they're not
obliged to, no, that I shall never understand."

"It is a bad and wicked law," said Carmencita.

The president sprang to his feet and threw his arms akimbo.

"You are not going to ask me to abrogate a law that has brought peace
and plenty to this country. I am of the people and I was elected by the
people, and the prosperity of my fatherland is very near my heart.
Divorce is our staple industry and the law shall be repealed only over
my dead body."

"Oh, _Maria Santissima_, that it should come to this," said Carmencita.
"And me with two daughters in a convent in New Orleans. Ah, in this
business one often has unpleasantness, but I always consoled myself by
thinking that my daughters would marry well, and when the time came for
me to retire they would inherit my business. Do you think I can keep
them in a convent in New Orleans for nothing?"

"And who is going to keep my son at Harvard if I have to close my house,
Don Manuel?" asked La Gorda.

"As for myself," said Madame Coralie, "I do not care. I shall return to
France. My dear mother is eighty-seven years of age and she cannot live
very much longer. It will be a comfort to her if I spend her last
remaining years by her side. But it is the injustice of it that hurts.
You have spent many happy evenings in my house, Don Manuel, and I am
wounded that you should let us be treated like this. Did you not tell me
yourself that it was the proudest day of your life when you entered as
an honoured guest the house in which you had once been employed as
errand boy?"

"I do not deny it. I stood champagne all round." Don Manuel walked up
and down the large hall, shrugging his shoulders as he went, and now and
then, deep in thought, he gesticulated. "I am of the people, elected by
the people," he cried, "and the fact is, these women are blacklegs." He
turned to his secretaries with a dramatic gesture. "It is a stain on my
administration. It is against all my principles to allow unskilled
foreign labour to take the bread out of the mouths of honest and
industrious people. These ladies are quite right to come to me and
appeal for my protection. I will not allow the scandal to continue."

It was of course a pointed and effective speech, but all who heard it
knew that it left things exactly where they were. Madame Coralie
powdered her nose and gave it, a commanding organ, a brief look in her
pocket mirror.

"Of course I know what human nature is," she said, "and I can well
understand that time hangs heavily on the hands of these creatures."

"We could build a golfcourse," hazarded one of the secretaries. "It is
true that this would only occupy them by day."

"If they want men why can't they bring them with them?" said La Gorda.

"_Caramba!_" cried the president, and with that stood on a sudden quite
still. "There is the solution."

He had not reached his exalted station without being a man of insight
and resource. He beamed.

"We will amend the law. Men shall come in as before without let or
hindrance, but women only accompanied by their husbands or with their
written consent." He saw the look of consternation which his secretaries
gave him, and he waved his hand. "But the immigration authorities shall
receive instructions to interpret the word husband with the widest
latitude."

"_Maria Santissima_!" cried Madame Coralie. "If they come with a friend
he will take care that no one else interferes with them and our
customers will return to the houses where for so long they have been so
hospitably entertained. Don Manuel, you are a great man and one of these
days they will erect a statue to you."

It is often the simplest expedients that settle the most formidable
difficulties. The law was briefly amended according to the terms of Don
Manuel's suggestion and, whereas prosperity continued to pour its
blessings on the wide and sunny capital of this free and independent
state, Madame Coralie was enabled profitably to pursue her useful
avocations, Carmencita's two daughters completed their expensive
education in the convent at New Orleans, and La Gorda's son successfully
graduated at Harvard.




THE BUM


God knows how often I had lamented that I had not half the time I needed
to do half the things I wanted. I could not remember when last I had had
a moment to myself. I had often amused my fancy with the prospect of
just one week's complete idleness. Most of us when not busy working are
busy playing; we ride, play tennis or golf, swim or gamble; but I saw
myself doing nothing at all. I would lounge through the morning, dawdle
through the afternoon and loaf through the evening. My mind would be a
slate and each passing hour a sponge that wiped out the scribblings
written on it by the world of sense. Time, because it is so fleeting,
time, because it is beyond recall, is the most precious of human goods
and to squander it is the most delicate form of dissipation in which man
can indulge. Cleopatra dissolved in wine a priceless pearl, but she gave
it to Antony to drink; when you waste the brief golden hours you take
the beaker in which the gem is melted and dash its contents to the
ground. The gesture is grand and like all grand gestures absurd. That of
course is its excuse. In the week I promised myself I should naturally
read, for to the habitual reader reading is a drug of which he is the
slave; deprive him of printed matter and he grows nervous, moody and
restless; then, like the alcoholic bereft of brandy who will drink
shellac or methylated spirit, he will make do with the advertisements of
a paper five years old; he will make do with a telephone directory. But
the professional writer is seldom a disinterested reader. I wished my
reading to be but another form of idleness. I made up my mind that if
ever the happy day arrived when I could enjoy untroubled leisure I would
complete an enterprise that had always tempted me, but which hitherto,
like an explorer making reconnaissances into an undiscovered country, I
had done little more than enter upon: I would read the entire works of
Nick Carter.

But I had always fancied myself choosing my moment with surroundings to
my liking, not having it forced upon me; and when I was suddenly faced
with nothing to do and had to make the best of it (like a steamship
acquaintance whom in the wide waste of the Pacific Ocean you have
invited to stay with you in London and who turns up without warning and
with all his luggage) I was not a little taken aback. I had come to Vera
Cruz from Mexico City to catch one of the Ward Company's white cool
ships to Yucatan; and found to my dismay that, a dock strike having been
declared over-night, my ship would not put in. I was stuck in Vera Cruz.
I took a room in the Hotel Diligencias overlooking the plaza, and spent
the morning looking at the sights of the town. I wandered down side
streets and peeped into quaint courts. I sauntered through the parish
church; it is picturesque with its gargoyles and flying buttresses, and
the salt wind and the blazing sun have patined its harsh and massive
walls with the mellowness of age; its cupola is covered with white and
blue tiles. Then I found that I had seen all that was to be seen and I
sat down in the coolness of the arcade that surrounded the square and
ordered a drink. The sun beat down on the plaza with a merciless
splendour. The coco-palms drooped dusty and bedraggled. Great black
buzzards perched on them for a moment uneasily, swooped to the ground to
gather some bit of offal, and then with lumbering wings flew up to the
church tower. I watched the people crossing the square; negroes,
Indians, Creoles and Spanish, the motley people of the Spanish Main; and
they varied in colour from ebony to ivory. As the morning wore on, the
tables around me filled up, chiefly with men, who had come to have a
drink before luncheon, for the most part in white ducks, but some
notwithstanding the heat in the dark clothes of professional
respectability. A small band, a guitarist, a blind fiddler and a
harpist, played rag-time and after every other tune the guitarist came
round with a plate. I had already bought the local paper and I was
adamant to the newsvendors who pertinaciously sought to sell me more
copies of the same sheet. I refused, oh, twenty times at least, the
solicitations of grimy urchins who wanted to shine my spotless shoes;
and having come to the end of my small change I could only shake my head
at the beggars who importuned me. They gave one no peace. Little Indian
women, in shapeless rags, each one with a baby tied in the shawl on her
back, held out skinny hands and in a whimper recited a dismal screed;
blind men were led up to my table by small boys; the maimed, the halt,
the deformed exhibited the sores and the monstrosities with which nature
or accident had afflicted them; and half naked, underfed children whined
endlessly their demand for coppers. But these kept their eyes open for
the fat policeman who would suddenly dart out on them with a thong and
give them a sharp cut on the back or over the head. Then they would
scamper, only to return again when, exhausted by the exercise of so much
energy, he relapsed into lethargy.

But suddenly my attention was attracted by a beggar who, unlike the rest
of them and indeed the people sitting round me, swarthy and
black-haired, had hair and beard of a red so vivid that it was
startling. His beard was ragged and his long mop of hair looked as
though it had not been brushed for months. He wore only a pair of
trousers and a cotton singlet, but they were tatters, grimy and foul,
that barely held together. I have never seen anyone so thin; his legs,
his naked arms were but skin and bone and through the rents of his
singlet you saw every rib of his wasted body; you could count the bones
of his dust-covered feet. Of that starveling band he was easily the most
abject. He was not old, he could not well have been more than forty, and
I could not but ask myself what had brought him to this pass. It was
absurd to think that he would not have worked if work he had been able
to get. He was the only one of the beggars who did not speak. The rest
of them poured forth their litany of woe and if it did not bring the
alms they asked continued until an impatient word from you chased them
away. He said nothing. I suppose he felt that his look of destitution
was all the appeal he needed. He did not even hold out his hand, he
merely looked at you, but with such wretchedness in his eyes, such
despair in his attitude, it was dreadful; he stood on and on, silent and
immobile, gazing steadfastly, and then, if you took no notice of him, he
moved slowly to the next table. If he was given nothing he showed
neither disappointment nor anger. If someone offered him a coin he
stepped forward a little, stretched out his claw-like hand, took it
without a word of thanks and impassively went his way. I had nothing to
give him and when he came to me, so that he should not wait in vain, I
shook my head.

"_Dispense Usted por Dios_," I said, using the polite Castillian formula
with which the Spaniards refuse a beggar.

But he paid no attention to what I said. He stood in front of me, for as
long as he stood at the other tables, looking at me with tragic eyes. I
have never seen such a wreck of humanity. There was something terrifying
in his appearance. He did not look quite sane. At length he passed on.

It was one o'clock and I had lunch. When I awoke from my siesta it was
still very hot, but towards evening a breath of air coming in through
the windows which I had at last ventured to open tempted me into the
plaza. I sat down under my arcade and ordered a long drink. Presently
people in greater numbers filtered into the open space from the
surrounding streets, the tables in the restaurants round it filled up,
and in the kiosk in the middle the band began to play. The crowd grew
thicker. On the free benches people sat huddled together like dark
grapes clustered on a stalk. There was a lively hum of conversation. The
big black buzzards flew screeching overhead, swooping down when they saw
something to pick up, or scurrying away from under the feet of the
passers-by. As twilight descended they swarmed, it seemed from all parts
of the town, towards the church tower; they circled heavily about it and
hoarsely crying, squabbling and jangling, settled themselves uneasily to
roost. And again bootblacks begged me to have my shoes cleaned, newsboys
pressed dank papers upon me, beggars whined their plaintive demand for
alms. I saw once more that strange, red-bearded fellow and watched him
stand motionless, with the crushed and piteous air, before one table
after another. He did not stop before mine. I supposed he remembered me
from the morning and having failed to get anything from me then thought
it useless to try again. You do not often see a red-haired Mexican, and
because it was only in Russia that I had seen men of so destitute a mien
I asked myself if he was by chance a Russian. It accorded well enough
with the Russian fecklessness that he should have allowed himself to
sink to such a depth of degradation. Yet he had not a Russian face; his
emaciated features were clear-cut, and his blue eyes were not set in the
head in a Russian manner; I wondered if he could be a sailor, English,
Scandinavian or American, who had deserted his ship and by degrees sunk
to this pitiful condition. He disappeared. Since there was nothing else
to do, I stayed on till I got hungry, and when I had eaten came back. I
sat on till the thinning crowd suggested it was bed-time. I confess that
the day had seemed long and I wondered how many similar days I should be
forced to spend there.

But I woke after a little while and could not get to sleep again. My
room was stifling. I opened the shutters and looked out at the church.
There was no moon, but the bright stars faintly lit its outline. The
buzzards were closely packed on the cross above the cupola and on the
edges of the tower, and now and then they moved a little. The effect was
uncanny. And then, I have no notion why, that red scarecrow recurred to
my mind and I had suddenly a strange feeling that I had seen him before.
It was so vivid that it drove away from me the possibility of sleep. I
felt sure that I had come across him, but when and where I could not
tell. I tried to picture the surroundings in which he might take his
place, but I could see no more than a dim figure against a background of
fog. As the dawn approached it grew a little cooler and I was able to
sleep.

I spent my second day at Vera Cruz as I had spent the first. But I
watched for the coming of the red-haired beggar, and as he stood at the
tables near mine I examined him with attention. I felt certain now that
I had seen him somewhere. I even felt certain that I had known him and
talked to him, but I still could recall none of the circumstances. Once
more he passed my table without stopping and when his eyes met mine I
looked in them for some gleam of recollection. Nothing. I wondered if I
had made a mistake and thought I had seen him in the same way as
sometimes, by some queer motion of the brain, in the act of doing
something you are convinced that you are repeating an action that you
have done at some past time. I could not get out of my head the
impression that at some moment he had entered into my life. I racked my
brains. I was sure now that he was either English or American. But I was
shy of addressing him. I went over in my mind the possible occasions
when I might have met him. Not to be able to place him exasperated me as
it does when you try to remember a name that is on the tip of your
tongue and yet eludes you. The day wore on.

Another day came, another morning, another evening. It was Sunday and
the plaza was more crowded than ever. The tables under the arcade were
packed. As usual the red-haired beggar came along, a terrifying figure
in his silence, his threadbare rags and his pitiful distress. He was
standing in front of a table only two from mine, mutely beseeching, but
without a gesture. Then I saw the policeman who at intervals tried to
protect the public from the importunities of all these beggars sneak
round a column and give him a resounding whack with his thong. His thin
body winced, but he made no protest and showed no resentment; he seemed
to accept the stinging blow as in the ordinary course of things and with
his slow movements slunk away into the gathering night of the plaza. But
the cruel stripe had whipped my memory and suddenly I remembered.

Not his name, that escaped me still, but everything else. He must have
recognised me, for I have not changed very much in twenty years, and
that was why after that first morning he had never paused in front of my
table. Yes, it was twenty years since I had known him. I was spending a
winter in Rome and every evening I used to dine in a restaurant in the
Via Sistina where you got excellent macaroni and a good bottle of wine.
It was frequented by a little band of English and American art students,
and one or two writers; and we used to stay late into the night engaged
in interminable arguments upon art and literature. He used to come in
with a young painter who was a friend of his. He was only a boy then, he
could not have been more than twenty-two; and with his blue eyes,
straight nose and red hair he was pleasing to look at. I remembered that
he spoke a great deal of Central America, he had had a job with the
American Fruit Company, but had thrown it over because he wanted to be a
writer. He was not popular among us because he was arrogant and we were
none of us old enough to take the arrogance of youth with tolerance. He
thought us poor fish and did not hesitate to tell us so. He would not
show us his work, because our praise meant nothing to him and he
despised our censure. His vanity was enormous. It irritated us; but some
of us were uneasily aware that it might perhaps be justified. Was it
possible that the intense consciousness of genius that he had, rested on
no grounds? He had sacrificed everything to be a writer. He was so
certain of himself that he infected some of his friends with his own
assurance.

I recalled his high spirits, his vitality, his confidence in the future
and his disinterestedness. It was impossible that it was the same man,
and yet I was sure of it. I stood up, paid for my drink and went out
into the plaza to find him. My thoughts were in a turmoil. I was aghast.
I had thought of him now and then and idly wondered what had become of
him. I could never have imagined that he was reduced to this frightful
misery. There are hundreds, thousands of youths who enter upon the hard
calling of the arts with extravagant hopes; but for the most part they
come to terms with their mediocrity and find somewhere in life a niche
where they can escape starvation. This was awful. I asked myself what
had happened. What hopes deferred had broken his spirit, what
disappointments shattered him and what lost illusions ground him to the
dust? I asked myself if nothing could be done. I walked round the plaza.
He was not in the arcades. There was no hope of finding him in the crowd
that circled round the bandstand. The light was waning and I was afraid
I had lost him. Then I passed the church and saw him sitting on the
steps. I cannot describe what a lamentable object he looked. Life had
taken him, rent him on its racks, torn him limb from limb, and then
flung him, a bleeding wreck, on the stone steps of that church. I went
up to him.

"Do you remember Rome?" I said.

He did not move. He did not answer. He took no more notice of me than if
I were not standing before him. He did not look at me. His vacant blue
eyes rested on the buzzards that were screaming and tearing at some
object at the bottom of the steps. I did not know what to do. I took a
yellow-backed note out of my pocket and pressed it in his hand. He did
not give it a glance. But his hand moved a little, the thin claw-like
fingers closed on the note and scrunched it up; he made it into a little
ball and then edging it on to his thumb flicked it into the air so that
it fell among the jangling buzzards. I turned my head instinctively and
saw one of them seize it in his beak and fly off followed by two others
screaming behind it. When I looked back the man was gone.

I stayed three more days in Vera Cruz. I never saw him again.




THE DREAM


It chanced that in August, 1917, the work upon which I was then engaged
obliged me to go from New York to Petrograd and I was instructed for
safety's sake to travel by way of Vladivostok. I landed there in the
morning and passed an idle day as best I could. The Trans-Siberian train
was due to start, so far as I remember, at about nine in the evening. I
dined at the station restaurant by myself. It was crowded and I shared a
small table with a man whose appearance entertained me. He was a
Russian, a tall fellow, but amazingly stout, and he had so vast a paunch
that he was obliged to sit well away from the table. His hands, small
for his size, were buried in rolls of fat. His hair, long, dark and
thin, was brushed carefully across his crown in order to conceal his
baldness, and his huge sallow face, with its enormous double chin,
clean-shaven, gave you an impression of indecent nakedness. His nose was
small, a funny little button upon that mass of flesh, and his black
shining eyes were small too. But he had a large, red and sensual mouth.
He was dressed neatly enough in a black suit. It was not worn but
shabby; it looked as if it had been neither pressed nor brushed since he
had had it.

The service was bad and it was almost impossible to attract the
attention of a waiter. We soon got into conversation. The Russian spoke
good and fluent English. His accent was marked but not tiresome. He
asked me many questions about myself and my plans, which--my occupation
at the time making caution necessary--I answered with a show of
frankness but with dissimulation. I told him I was a journalist. He
asked me whether I wrote fiction and when I confessed that in my leisure
moments I did, he began to talk of the later Russian novelists. He spoke
intelligently. It was plain that he was a man of education.

By this time we had persuaded the waiter to bring us some cabbage soup,
and my acquaintance pulled a small bottle of vodka from his pocket which
he invited me to share. I do not know whether it was the vodka or the
natural loquaciousness of his race that made him communicative, but
presently he told me, unasked, a good deal about himself. He was of
noble birth, it appeared, a lawyer by profession, and a radical. Some
trouble with the authorities had made it necessary for him to be much
abroad, but now he was on his way home. Business had detained him at
Vladivostok, but he expected to start for Moscow in a week and if I went
there he would be charmed to see me.

"Are you married?" he asked me.

I did not see what business it was of his, but I told him that I was. He
sighed a little.

"I am a widower," he said. "My wife was a Swiss, a native of Geneva. She
was a very cultivated woman. She spoke English, German and Italian
perfectly. French, of course, was her native tongue. Her Russian was
much above the average for a foreigner. She had scarcely the trace of an
accent."

He called a waiter who was passing with a tray full of dishes and asked
him, I suppose--for then I knew hardly any Russian--how much longer we
were going to wait for the next course. The waiter, with a rapid but
presumably reassuring exclamation, hurried on, and my friend sighed.

"Since the revolution the waiting in restaurants has become abominable."

He lighted his twentieth cigarette and I, looking at my watch, wondered
whether I should get a square meal before it was time for me to start.

"My wife was a very remarkable woman," he continued. "She taught
languages at one of the best schools for the daughters of noblemen in
Petrograd. For a good many years we lived together on perfectly friendly
terms. She was, however, of a jealous temperament and unfortunately she
loved me to distraction."

It was difficult for me to keep a straight face. He was one of the
ugliest men I had ever seen. There is sometimes a certain charm in the
rubicund and jovial fat man, but this saturnine obesity was repulsive.

"I do not pretend that I was faithful to her. She was not young when I
married her and we had been married for ten years. She was small and
thin, and she had a bad complexion. She had a bitter tongue. She was a
woman who suffered from a fury of possession, and she could not bear me
to be attracted to anyone but her. She was jealous not only of the women
I knew, but of my friends, my cat and my books. On one occasion in my
absence she gave away a coat of mine merely because I liked none of my
coats so well. But I am of an equable temperament. I will not deny that
she bored me, but I accepted her acrimonious disposition as an act of
God and no more thought of rebelling against it than I would against bad
weather or a cold in the head. I denied her accusations as long as it
was possible to deny them, and when it was impossible I shrugged my
shoulders and smoked a cigarette.

"The constant scenes she made me did not very much affect me. I led my
own life. Sometimes, indeed, I wondered whether it was passionate love
she felt for me or passionate hate. It seemed to me that love and hate
were very near allied.

"So we might have continued to the end of the chapter if one night a
very curious thing had not happened. I was awakened by a piercing scream
from my wife. Startled, I asked her what was the matter. She told me
that she had had a fearful nightmare; she had dreamt that I was trying
to kill her. We lived at the top of a large house and the well round
which the stairs climbed was broad. She had dreamt that just as we had
arrived at our own floor I had caught hold of her and attempted to throw
her over the balusters. It was six storeys to the stone floor at the
bottom and it meant certain death.

"She was much shaken. I did my best to soothe her. But next morning, and
for two or three days after, she referred to the subject again and,
notwithstanding my laughter, I saw that it dwelt in her mind. I could
not help thinking of it either, for this dream showed me something that
I had never suspected. She thought I hated her, she thought I would
gladly be rid of her; she knew of course that she was insufferable, and
at some time or other the idea had evidently occurred to her that I was
capable of murdering her. The thoughts of men are incalculable and ideas
enter our minds that we should be ashamed to confess. Sometimes I had
wished that she might run away with a lover, sometimes that a painless
and sudden death might give me my freedom; but never, never had the idea
come to me that I might deliberately rid myself of an intolerable
burden.

"The dream made an extraordinary impression upon both of us. It
frightened my wife, and she became for a little less bitter and more
tolerant. But when I walked up the stairs to our apartment it was
impossible for me not to look over the balusters and reflect how easy it
would be to do what she had dreamt. The balusters were dangerously low.
A quick gesture and the thing was done. It was hard to put the thought
out of my mind. Then some months later my wife awakened me one night. I
was very tired and I was exasperated. She was white and trembling. She
had had the dream again. She burst into tears and asked me if I hated
her. I swore by all the saints of the Russian calendar that I loved her.
At last she went to sleep again. It was more than I could do. I lay
awake. I seemed to see her falling down the well of the stairs, and I
heard her shriek and the thud as she struck the stone floor. I could not
help shivering."

The Russian stopped and beads of sweat stood on his forehead. He had
told the story well and fluently so that I had listened with attention.
There was still some vodka in the bottle; he poured it out and swallowed
it at a gulp.

"And how did your wife eventually die?" I asked after a pause.

He took out a dirty handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

"By an extraordinary coincidence she was found late one night at the
bottom of the stairs with her neck broken."

"Who found her?"

"She was found by one of the lodgers who came in shortly after the
catastrophe."

"And where were you?"

I cannot describe the look he gave me of malicious cunning. His little
black eyes sparkled.

"I was spending the evening with a friend of mine. I did not come in
till an hour later."

At that moment the waiter brought us the dish of meat that we had
ordered, and the Russian fell upon it with good appetite. He shovelled
the food into his mouth in enormous mouthfuls.

I was taken aback. Had he really been telling me in this hardly veiled
manner that he had murdered his wife? That obese and sluggish man did
not look like a murderer; I could not believe that he would have had the
courage. Or was he making a sardonic joke at my expense?

In a few minutes it was time for me to go and catch my train. I left him
and I have not seen him since. But I have never been able to make up my
mind whether he was serious or jesting.




THE TREASURE


Richard Harenger was a happy man. Notwithstanding what the pessimists,
from Ecclesiastes onwards, have said, this is not so rare a thing to
find in this unhappy world, but Richard Harenger knew it, and that is a
very rare thing indeed. The golden mean which the ancients so highly
prized is out of fashion, and those who follow it must put up with
polite derision from those who see no merit in self-restraint and no
virtue in common-sense. Richard Harenger shrugged a polite and amused
shoulder. Let others live dangerously, let others burn with a hard
gem-like flame, let others stake their fortunes on the turn of a card,
walk the tight-rope that leads to glory or the grave, or hazard their
lives for a cause, a passion or an adventure. He neither envied the fame
their exploits brought them nor wasted his pity on them when their
efforts ended in disaster.

But it must not be inferred from this that Richard Harenger was a
selfish or a callous man. He was neither. He was considerate and of a
generous disposition. He was always ready to oblige a friend and he was
sufficiently well off to be able to indulge himself in the pleasure of
helping others. He had some money of his own and he occupied in the Home
Office a position that brought him an adequate stipend. The work suited
him. It was regular, responsible and pleasant. Every day when he left
the office he went to his club to play bridge for a couple of hours, and
on Saturdays and Sundays he played golf. He went abroad for his
holidays, staying at good hotels, and visited churches, galleries and
museums. He was a regular first-nighter. He dined out a good deal. His
friends liked him. He was easy to talk to. He was well-read,
knowledgeable and amusing. He was besides of a personable exterior, not
remarkably handsome, but tall, slim and erect of carriage, with a lean,
intelligent face; his hair was growing thin, for he was now approaching
the age of fifty, but his brown eyes retained their smile and his teeth
were all his own. He had from nature a good constitution and he had
always taken care of himself. There was no reason in the world why he
should not be a happy man, and if there had been in him a trace of
self-complacency he might have claimed that he deserved to be.

He had the good fortune even to sail safely through those perilous,
unquiet straits of marriage in which so many wise and good men have made
shipwreck. Married for love in the early twenties, his wife and he,
after some years of almost perfect felicity, had drifted gradually
apart. Neither of them wished to marry anyone else, so there was no
question of divorce (which indeed Richard Harenger's situation in the
government service made undesirable), but for convenience sake, with the
help of the family lawyer, they arranged a separation which left them
free to lead their lives as each one wished without interference from
the other. They parted with mutual expressions of respect and good will.

Richard Harenger sold his house in St. John's Wood and took a flat
within convenient walking distance of Whitehall. It had a sitting-room
which he lined with his books, a dining-room into which his Chippendale
furniture just fitted, a nice-sized bedroom for himself, and beyond the
kitchen a couple of maids' rooms. He brought his cook, whom he had had
for many years, from St. John's Wood, but needing no longer so large a
staff dismissed the rest of the servants and applied at a registry
office for a house-parlourmaid. He knew exactly what he wanted and he
explained his needs to the superintendent of the agency with precision.
He wanted a maid who was not too young, first because young women are
flighty and secondly because, though he was of mature age and a man of
principle, people would talk, the porter and the tradesmen if nobody
else, and both for the sake of his own reputation and that of the young
person he considered that the applicant should have reached years of
discretion. Besides that he wanted a maid who could clean silver well.
He had always had a fancy for old silver, and it was reasonable to
demand that the forks and spoons that had been used by a woman of
quality under the reign of Queen Anne should be treated with tenderness
and respect. He was of a hospitable nature and liked to give at least
once a week little dinners of not less than four people and not more
than eight. He could trust his cook to send in a meal that his guests
would take pleasure in eating and he desired his parlourmaid to wait
with neatness and dispatch. Then he needed a perfect valet. He dressed
well, in a manner that suited his age and condition, and he liked his
clothes to be properly looked after. The parlourmaid he was looking for
must be able to press trousers and iron a tie, and he was very
particular that his shoes should be well shone. He had small feet and he
took a good deal of trouble to have well-cut shoes. He had a large
supply and he insisted that they should be treed up the moment he took
them off. Finally the flat must be kept clean and tidy. It was of course
understood that any applicant for the post must be of irreproachable
character, sober, honest, reliable and of a pleasing exterior. In return
for this he was prepared to offer good wages, reasonable liberty and
ample holidays. The superintendent listened without batting an eyelash
and, telling him that she was quite sure she could suit him, sent him a
string of candidates which proved that she had not paid the smallest
attention to a word he said. He saw them all personally. Some were
obviously inefficient, some looked fast, some were too old, others too
young, some lacked the presence he thought essential; there was not one
to whom he was inclined even to give a trial. He was a kindly, polite
man and he declined their services with a smile and a pleasant
expression of regret. He did not lose patience. He was prepared to
interview house-parlourmaids till he found one who was suitable.

Now it is a funny thing about life, if you refuse to accept anything but
the best you very often get it: if you utterly decline to make do with
what you can get, then somehow or other you are very likely to get what
you want. It is as though fate said, this man's a perfect fool, he's
asking for perfection, and then just out of her feminine wilfulness
flung it in his lap. One day the porter of the flats said to Richard
Harenger out of a blue sky:

"I hear you're lookin' for a house-parlourmaid, sir. There's someone I
know lookin' for a situation as might do."

"Can you recommend her personally?"

Richard Harenger had the sound opinion that one servant's recommendation
of another was worth much more than that of an employer.

"I can vouch for her respectability. She's been in some very good
situations."

"I shall be coming in to dress about seven. If that's convenient to her
I could see her then."

"Very good, sir. I'll see that she's told."

He had not been in more than five minutes when the cook, having answered
a ring at the front door, came in and told him that the person the
porter had spoken to him about had called.

"Show her in," he said.

He turned on some more light so that he could see what the applicant
looked like and, getting up, stood with his back to the fireplace. A
woman came in and stood just inside the door in a respectful attitude.

"Good-evening," he said. "What is your name?"

"Pritchard, sir."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-five, sir."

"Well, that's a reasonable age."

He gave his cigarette a puff and looked at her reflectively. She was on
the tall side, nearly as tall as he, but he guessed that she wore high
heels. Her black dress fitted her station. She held herself well. She
had good features and a rather high colour.

"Will you take off your hat?" he asked.

She did so and he saw that she had pale brown hair. It was neatly and
becomingly dressed. She looked strong and healthy. She was neither fat
nor thin. In a proper uniform she would look very presentable. She was
not inconveniently handsome, but she was certainly a comely, in another
class of life you might almost have said a handsome, woman. He proceeded
to ask her a number of questions. Her answers were satisfactory. She had
left her last place for an adequate reason. She had been trained under a
butler and appeared to be well acquainted with her duties. In her last
place she had been head parlourmaid of three, but she did not mind
undertaking the work of the flat single-handed. She had valeted a
gentleman before who had sent her to a tailor's to learn how to press
clothes. She was a little shy, but neither timid nor ill-at-ease.
Richard asked her his questions in his amiable, leisurely way and she
answered them with modest composure. He was considerably impressed. He
asked her what references she could give. They seemed extremely
satisfactory.

"Now look here," he said, "I'm very much inclined to engage you. But I
hate changes, I've had my cook for twelve years: if you suit me and the
place suits you I hope you'll stay. I mean, I don't want you to come to
me in three or four months and say that you're leaving to get married."

"There's not much fear of that, sir. I'm a widow. I don't believe
marriage is much catch for anyone in my position, sir. My husband never
did a stroke of work from the day I married him to the day he died, and
I had to keep him. What I want now is a good home."

"I'm inclined to agree with you," he smiled. "Marriage is a very good
thing, but I think it's a mistake to make a habit of it."

She very properly made no reply to this, but waited for him to announce
his decision. She did not seem anxious about it. He reflected that if
she was as competent as she appeared she must be well aware that she
would have no difficulty in finding a place. He told her what wages he
was offering and these seemed to be satisfactory to her. He gave her the
necessary information about the place, but she gave him to understand
that she was already apprised of this, and he received the impression,
which amused rather than disconcerted him, that she had made certain
enquiries about him before applying for the situation. It showed
prudence on her part and good sense.

"When would you be able to come in if I engaged you? I haven't got
anybody at the moment. The cook's managing as best she can with a char,
but I should like to get settled as soon as possible."

"Well, sir, I was going to give myself a week's holiday, but if it's a
matter of obliging a gentleman I don't mind giving that up. I could come
in to-morrow if it was convenient."

Richard Harenger gave her his attractive smile.

"I shouldn't like you to do without a holiday that I dare say you've
been looking forward to. I can very well go on like this for another
week. Go and have your holiday and come to me when it's over."

"Thank you very much, sir. Would it do if I came in to-morrow week?"

"Quite well."

When she left, Richard Harenger felt he had done a good day's work. It
looked as though he had found exactly what he was after. He rang for the
cook and told her he had engaged a house-parlourmaid at last.

"I think you'll like her, sir," she said. "She came in and 'ad a talk
with me this afternoon. I could see at once she knew her duties. And
she's not one of them flighty ones."

"We can but try, Mrs. Jeddy. I hope you gave me a good character."

"Well, I said you was particular, sir. I said you was a gentleman as
liked things just so."

"I admit that."

"She said she didn't mind that. She said she liked a gentleman as knew
what was what. She said there's no satisfaction in doing things proper
if nobody notices. I expect you'll find she'll take a rare lot of pride
in her work."

"That's what I want her to do. I think we might go farther and fare
worse."

"Well, sir, there is that to it, of course. And the proof of the
pudding's the eating. But if you ask my opinion I think she's going to
be a real treasure."

And that is precisely what Pritchard turned out. No man was ever better
served. The way she shone shoes was marvellous, and he set out of a fine
morning for his walk to the office with a more jaunty step because you
could almost see yourself reflected in them. She looked after his
clothes with such attention that his colleagues began to chaff him about
being the best-dressed man in the Civil Service. One day, coming home
unexpectedly, he found a line of socks and handkerchiefs hung up to dry
in the bathroom. He called Pritchard.

"D'you wash my socks and handkerchiefs yourself, Pritchard? I should
have thought you had enough to do without that."

"They do ruin them so at the laundry, sir. I prefer to do them at home
if you have no objection."

She knew exactly what he should wear on every occasion, and without
asking him was aware whether she should put out a dinner jacket and a
black tie in the evening or a dress coat and a white one. When he was
going to a party where decorations were to be worn he found his neat
little row of medals automatically affixed to the lapel of his coat. He
soon ceased to choose every morning from his wardrobe the tie he wanted,
for he found that she put out for him without fail the one he would have
himself selected. Her taste was perfect. He supposed she read his
letters, for she always knew what his movements were, and if he had
forgotten at what hour he had an engagement he had no need to look in
his book, for Pritchard could tell him. She knew exactly what tone to
use with persons with whom she conversed on the telephone. Except with
tradesmen, with whom she was apt to be peremptory, she was always
polite, but there was a distinct difference in her manner if she was
addressing one of Mr. Harenger's literary friends or the wife of a
Cabinet Minister. She knew by instinct with whom he wished to speak and
with whom he didn't. From his sitting-room he sometimes heard her with
placid sincerity assuring a caller that he was out, and then she would
come in and tell him that So-and-So had rung up, but she thought he
wouldn't wish to be disturbed.

"Quite right, Pritchard," he smiled.

"I knew she only wanted to bother you about that concert," said
Pritchard.

His friends made appointments with him through her, and she would tell
him what she had done on his return in the evening.

"Mrs. Soames rang up, sir, and asked if you would lunch with her on
Thursday, the eighth, but I said you were very sorry but you were
lunching with Lady Versinder. Mr. Oakley rang up and asked if you'd go
to a cocktail party at the Savoy next Tuesday at six. I said you would
if you possibly could, but you might have to go to the dentist's."

"Quite right."

"I thought you could see when the time came, sir."

She kept the flat like a new pin. On one occasion soon after she entered
his service, Richard coming back from a holiday took out a book from his
shelves and at once noticed that it had been dusted. He rang the bell.

"I forgot to tell you when I went away under no circumstances ever to
touch my books. When books are taken out to be dusted they're never put
back in the right place. I don't mind my books being dirty, but I hate
not being able to find them."

"I'm very sorry, sir," said Pritchard. "I know some gentlemen are very
particular and I took care to put back every book exactly where I took
it from."

Richard Harenger gave his books a glance. So far as he could see every
one was in its accustomed place. He smiled.

"I apologise, Pritchard."

"They were in a muck, sir. I mean, you couldn't open one without getting
your hands black with dust."

She certainly kept his silver as he had never had it kept before. He
felt called upon to give her a special word of praise.

"Most of it's Queen Anne and George I, you know," he explained.

"Yes, I know, sir. When you've got something good like that to look
after it's a pleasure to keep it like it should be."

"You certainly have a knack for it. I never knew a butler who kept his
silver as well as you do."

"Men haven't the patience women have," she replied modestly.

As soon as he thought Pritchard had settled down in the place he resumed
the little dinners he was fond of giving once a week. He had already
discovered that she knew how to wait at table, but it was with a warm
sense of complacency that he realised then how competently she could
manage a party. She was quick, silent and watchful. A guest had hardly
felt the need of something before Pritchard was at his elbow offering
him what he wanted. She soon learned the tastes of his more intimate
friends and remembered that one liked water instead of soda with his
whisky and that another particularly fancied the knuckle end of a leg of
lamb. She knew exactly how cold a hock should be not to ruin its taste
and how long claret should have stood in the room to bring out its
bouquet. It was a pleasure to see her pour out a bottle of burgundy in
such a fashion as not to disturb the grounds. On one occasion she did
not serve the wine Richard had ordered. He somewhat sharply pointed this
out to her.

"I opened the bottle sir, and it was slightly corked. So I got the
Chambertin, as I thought it was safer."

"Quite right, Pritchard."

Presently he left this matter entirely in her hands, for he discovered
that she knew perfectly what wines his guests would like. Without orders
from him she would provide the best in his cellar and his oldest brandy
if she thought they were the sort of people who knew what they were
drinking. She had no belief in the palate of women, and when they were
of the party was apt to serve the champagne which had to be drunk before
it went off. She had the English servant's instinctive knowledge of
social differences and neither rank nor money blinded her to the fact
that someone was not a gentleman, but she had favourites among his
friends, and when someone she particularly liked was dining, with the
air of a cat that has swallowed a canary she would pour out for him a
bottle of a wine that Harenger kept for very special occasions. It
amused him.

"You've got on the right side of Pritchard, old boy," he exclaimed.
"There aren't many people she gives this wine to."

Pritchard became an institution. She was known very soon to be the
perfect parlourmaid. People envied Harenger the possession of her as
they envied nothing else that he had. She was worth her weight in gold.
Her price was above rubies. Richard Harenger beamed with
self-complacency when they praised her.

"Good masters make good servants," he said gaily.

One evening, when they were sitting over their port and she had left the
room, they were talking about her.

"It'll be an awful blow when she leaves you."

"Why should she leave me? One or two people have tried to get her away
from me, but she turned them down. She knows where she's well off."

"She'll get married one of these days."

"I don't think she's that sort."

"She's a good-looking woman."

"Yes, she has quite a decent presence."

"What are you talking about? She's a very handsome creature. In another
class of life she'd be a well-known society beauty with her photograph
in all the papers."

At that moment Pritchard came in with the coffee. Richard Harenger
looked at her. After seeing her every day, off and on, for four years it
was now--my word, how time flies--he had really forgotten what she
looked like. She did not seem to have changed much since he had first
seen her. She was no stouter than then, she still had the high colour,
and her regular features bore the same expression which was at once
intent and vacuous. The black uniform suited her. She left the room.

"She's a paragon and there's no doubt about it."

"I know she is," answered Harenger. "She's perfection. I should be lost
without her. And the strange thing is that I don't very much like her."

"Why not?"

"I think she bores me a little. You see, she has no conversation. I've
often tried to talk to her. She answers when I speak to her, but that's
all. In four years she's never volunteered a remark of her own. I know
absolutely nothing about her. I don't know if she likes me or if she's
completely indifferent to me. She's an automaton. I respect her, I
appreciate her, I trust her. She has every quality in the world and I've
often wondered why it is that with all that I'm so completely
indifferent to her. I think it must be that she is entirely devoid of
charm."

They left it at that.

Two or three days after this, since it was Pritchard's night out and he
had no engagement, Richard Harenger dined by himself at his club. A
page-boy came to him and told him that they had just rung up from his
flat to say that he had gone out without his keys and should they be
brought along to him in a taxi? He put his hand to his pocket. It was a
fact. By a singular chance he had forgotten to replace them when he had
changed into a blue serge suit before coming out to dinner. His
intention had been to play bridge, but it was an off-night at the club
and there seemed little chance of a decent game; it occurred to him that
it would be a good opportunity to see a picture that he had heard talked
about, so he sent back the message by the page that he would call for
the keys himself in half an hour.

He rang at the door of his flat and it was opened by Pritchard. She had
the keys in her hand.

"What are you doing here, Pritchard?" he asked. "It's your night out,
isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. But I didn't care about going, so I told Mrs. Jeddy she could
go instead."

"You ought to get out when you have the chance," he said, with his usual
thoughtfulness. "It's not good for you to be cooped up here all the
time."

"I get out now and then on an errand, but I haven't been out in the
evening for the last month."

"Why on earth not?"

"Well, it's not very cheerful going out by yourself, and somehow I don't
know anyone just now that I'm particularly keen on going out with."

"You ought to have a bit of fun now and then. It's good for you."

"I've got out of the habit of it somehow."

"Look here, I'm just going to the cinema. Would you like to come along
with me?"

He spoke in kindliness, on the spur of the moment, and the moment he had
said the words half regretted them.

"Yes, sir, I'd like to," said Pritchard.

"Run along then and put on a hat."

"I shan't be a minute."

She disappeared and he went into the sitting-room and lit a cigarette.
He was a little amused at what he was doing, and pleased too; it was
nice to be able to make someone happy with so little trouble to himself.
It was characteristic of Pritchard that she had shown neither surprise
nor hesitation. She kept him waiting about five minutes, and when she
came back he noticed that she had changed her dress. She wore a blue
frock in what he supposed was artificial silk, a small black hat with a
blue brooch on it, and a silver fox round her neck. He was a trifle
relieved to see that she looked neither shabby nor showy. It would never
occur to anyone who happened to see them that this was a distinguished
official in the Home Office taking his housemaid to the pictures.

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, sir."

"It doesn't matter at all," he said graciously.

He opened the front door for her and she went out before him. He
remembered the familiar anecdote of Louis XIV and the courtier and
appreciated the fact that she had not hesitated to precede him. The
cinema for which they were bound was at no great distance from Mr.
Harenger's flat and they walked there. He talked about the weather and
the state of the roads and Adolf Hitler. Pritchard made suitable
replies. They arrived just as Mickey the Mouse was starting and this put
them in a good humour. During the four years she had been in his service
Richard Harenger had hardly ever seen Pritchard even smile, and now it
diverted him vastly to hear her peal upon peal of joyous laughter. He
enjoyed her pleasure. Then the principal attraction was thrown on the
screen. It was a good picture and they both watched it with breathless
excitement. Taking his cigarette-case out to help himself he
automatically offered it to Pritchard.

"Thank you, sir," she said, taking one.

He lit it for her. Her eyes were on the screen and she was almost
unconscious of his action. When the picture was finished they streamed
out with the crowd into the street. They walked back towards the flat.
It was a fine starry night.

"Did you like it?" he said.

"Like anything, sir. It was a real treat."

A thought occurred to him.

"By the way, did you have any supper to-night?"

"No, sir, I didn't have time."

"Aren't you starving?"

"I'll have a bit of bread and cheese when I get in and I'll make meself
a cup of cocoa."

"That sounds rather grim." There was a feeling of gaiety in the air, and
the people who poured past them, one way and another, seemed filled with
a pleasant elation. In for a penny, in for a pound, he said to himself.
"Look here, would you like to come and have a bit of supper with me
somewhere?"

"If you'd like to, sir."

"Come on."

He hailed a cab. He was feeling very philanthropic and it was not a
feeling that he disliked at all. He told the driver to go to a
restaurant in Oxford Street which was gay, but at which he was confident
there was no chance of meeting anyone he knew. There was an orchestra
and people danced. It would amuse Pritchard to see them. When they sat
down a waiter came up to them.

"They've got a set supper here," he said, thinking that was what she
would like. "I suggest we have that. What would you like to drink? A
little white wine?"

"What I really fancy is a glass of ginger beer," she said.

Richard Harenger ordered himself a whisky and soda. She ate the supper
with hearty appetite, and though Harenger was not hungry, to put her at
her ease he ate too. The picture they had just seen gave them something
to talk about. It was quite true what they had said the other night,
Pritchard was not a bad-looking woman, and even if someone had seen them
together he would not have minded. It would make rather a good story for
his friends when he told them how he had taken the incomparable
Pritchard to the cinema and then afterwards to supper. Pritchard was
looking at the dancers with a faint smile on her lips.

"Do you like dancing?" he said.

"I used to be a rare one for it when I was a girl. I never danced much
after I was married. My husband was a bit shorter than me and somehow I
never think it looks well unless the gentleman's taller, if you know
what I mean. I suppose I shall be getting too old for it soon."

Richard was certainly taller than his parlourmaid. They would look all
right. He was fond of dancing and he danced well. But he hesitated. He
did not want to embarrass Pritchard by asking her to dance with him. It
was better not to go too far perhaps. And yet what did it matter? It was
a drab life she led. She was so sensible, if she thought it a mistake he
was pretty sure she would find a decent excuse.

"Would you like to take a turn, Pritchard?" he said, as the band struck
up again.

"I'm terribly out of practice, sir."

"What does that matter?"

"If you don't mind, sir," she answered coolly, rising from her seat.

She was not in the least shy. She was only afraid that she would not be
able to follow his step. They moved on to the floor. He found she danced
very well.

"Why, you dance perfectly, Pritchard," he said.

"It's coming back to me."

Although she was a big woman she was light on her feet and she had a
natural sense of rhythm. She was very pleasant to dance with. He gave a
glance at the mirrors that lined the walls and he could not help
reflecting that they looked very well together. Their eyes met in the
mirror; he wondered whether she was thinking that too. They had two more
dances and then Richard Harenger suggested that they should go. He paid
the bill and they walked out. He noticed that she threaded her way
through the crowd without a trace of self-consciousness. They got into a
taxi and in ten minutes were at home.

"I'll go up the back way, sir," said Pritchard.

"There's no need to do that. Come up in the lift with me."

He took her up, giving the night-porter an icy glance, so that he should
not think it strange that he came back at that somewhat late hour with
his parlourmaid, and with his latch-key let her into the flat.

"Well, good-night, sir," she said. "Thank you very much. It's been a
real treat for me."

"Thank _you_ Pritchard. I should have had a very dull evening by myself.
I hope you've enjoyed your outing."

"That I have, sir, more than I can say."

It had been a success. Richard Harenger was satisfied with himself. It
was a kindly thing for him to have done. It was a very agreeable
sensation to give anyone so much real pleasure. His benevolence warmed
him and for a moment he felt a great love in his heart for the whole
human race.

"Good-night, Pritchard," he said, and because he felt happy and good he
put his arm round her waist and kissed her on the lips.

Her lips were very soft. They lingered on his and she returned his kiss.
It was the warm, hearty embrace of a healthy woman in the prime of life.
He found it very pleasant and he held her to him a little more closely.
She put her arms round his neck.

                 *        *        *        *        *

As a general rule he did not wake till Pritchard came in with his
letters, but next morning he woke at half-past seven. He had a curious
sensation that he did not recognise. He was accustomed to sleep with two
pillows under his head and he suddenly grew aware of the fact that he
had only one. Then he remembered and with a start looked round. The
other pillow was beside his own. Thank God, no sleeping head rested
there, but it was plain that one had. His heart sank. He broke out into
a cold sweat.

"My God, what a fool I've been!" he cried out loud.

How could he have done anything so stupid? What on earth had come over
him? He was the last man to play about with servant girls. What a
disgraceful thing to do! At his age and in his position. He had not
heard Pritchard slip away. He must have been asleep. It wasn't even as
if he'd liked her very much. She wasn't his type. And, as he had said
the other night, she rather bored him. Even now he only knew her as
Pritchard. He had no notion what her first name was. What madness! And
what was to happen now? The position was impossible. It was obvious he
couldn't keep her, and yet to send her away for what was his fault as
much as hers seemed shockingly unfair. How idiotic to lose the best
parlourmaid a man ever had just for an hour's folly!

"It's that damned kindness of heart of mine," he groaned.

He would never find anyone else to look after his clothes so admirably
or clean the silver so well. She knew all his friends' telephone numbers
and she understood wine. But of course she must go. She must see for
herself that after what had happened things could never be the same. He
would make her a handsome present and give her an excellent reference.
At any minute she would be coming in now. Would she be arch, would she
be familiar? Or would she put on airs? Perhaps even she wouldn't trouble
to come in with his letters. It would be awful if he had to ring the
bell and Mrs. Jeddy came in and said: Pritchard's not up yet, sir, she's
having a lie in after last night.

"What a fool I've been! What a contemptible cad!"

There was a knock at the door. He was sick with anxiety.

"Come in."

Richard Harenger was a very unhappy man.

Pritchard came in as the clock struck. She wore the print dress she was
in the habit of wearing during the early part of the day.

"Good-morning, sir," she said.

"Good-morning."

She drew the curtains and handed him his letters and the papers. Her
face was impassive. She looked exactly as she always looked. Her
movements had the same competent deliberation that they always had. She
neither avoided Richard's glance nor sought it.

"Will you wear your grey, sir? It came back from the tailor's
yesterday."

"Yes."

He pretended to read his letters, but he watched her from under his
eyelashes. Her back was turned to him. She took his vest and drawers and
folded them over a chair. She took the studs out of the shirt he had
worn the day before and studded a clean one. She put out some clean
socks for him and placed them on the seat of a chair with the suspenders
to match by the side. Then she put out his grey suit and attached the
braces to the back buttons of the trousers. She opened his wardrobe and
after a moment's reflection chose a tie to go with the suit. She
collected on her arm the suit of the day before and picked up the shoes.

"Will you have breakfast now, sir, or will you have your bath first?"

"I'll have breakfast now," he said.

"Very good, sir."

With her slow quiet movements, unruffled, she left the room. Her face
bore that rather serious, deferential, vacuous look it always bore. What
had happened might have been a dream. Nothing in Pritchard's demeanour
suggested that she had the smallest recollection of the night before. He
gave a sigh of relief. It was going to be all right. She need not go,
she need not go. Pritchard was the perfect parlourmaid. He knew that
never by word nor gesture would she ever refer to the fact that for a
moment their relations had been other than those of master and servant.
Richard Harenger was a very happy man.




THE COLONEL'S LADY


All this happened two or three years before the outbreak of the war.

The Peregrines were having breakfast. Though they were alone and the
table was long they sat at opposite ends of it. From the walls George
Peregrine's ancestors, painted by the fashionable painters of the day,
looked down upon them. The butler brought in the morning post. There
were several letters for the colonel, business letters, _The Times_ and
a small parcel for his wife Evie. He looked at his letters and then,
opening _The Times_, began to read it. They finished breakfast and rose
from the table. He noticed that his wife hadn't opened the parcel.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Only some books."

"Shall I open it for you?"

"If you like."

He hated to cut string and so with some difficulty untied the knots.

"But they're all the same," he said when he had unwrapped the parcel.
"What on earth d'you want six copies of the same book for?" He opened
one of them. "Poetry." Then he looked at the title page. _When Pyramids
Decay_, he read, by E. K. Hamilton. Eva Katherine Hamilton: that was his
wife's maiden name. He looked at her with smiling surprise. "Have you
written a book, Evie? You are a slyboots."

"I didn't think it would interest you very much. Would you like a copy?"

"Well, you know poetry isn't much in my line, but--yes, I'd like a copy;
I'll read it. I'll take it along to my study. I've got a lot to do this
morning."

He gathered up _The Times_, his letters and the book, and went out. His
study was a large and comfortable room, with a big desk, leather
arm-chairs and what he called "trophies of the chase" on the walls. On
the bookshelves were works of reference, books on farming, gardening,
fishing and shooting, and books on the last war, in which he had won an
M.C. and a D.S.O. For before his marriage he had been in the Welsh
Guards. At the end of the war he retired and settled down to the life of
a country gentleman in the spacious house, some twenty miles from
Sheffield, which one of his forebears had built in the reign of George
III. George Peregrine had an estate of some fifteen hundred acres which
he managed with ability; he was a Justice of the Peace and performed his
duties conscientiously. During the season he rode to hounds two days a
week. He was a good shot, a golfer and though now a little over fifty
could still play a hard game of tennis. He could describe himself with
propriety as an all-round sportsman.

He had been putting on weight lately, but was still a fine figure of a
man; tall, with grey curly hair, only just beginning to grow thin on the
crown, frank blue eyes, good features and a high colour. He was a
public-spirited man, chairman of any number of local organisations and,
as became his class and station, a loyal member of the Conservative
Party. He looked upon it as his duty to see to the welfare of the people
on his estate and it was a satisfaction to him to know that Evie could
be trusted to tend the sick and succour the poor. He had built a cottage
hospital on the outskirts of the village and paid the wages of a nurse
out of his own pocket. All he asked of the recipients of his bounty was
that at elections, county or general, they should vote for his
candidate. He was a friendly man, affable to his inferiors, considerate
with his tenants and popular with the neighbouring gentry. He would have
been pleased and at the same time slightly embarrassed if someone had
told him he was a jolly good fellow. That was what he wanted to be. He
desired no higher praise.

It was hard luck that he had no children. He would have been an
excellent father, kindly but strict, and would have brought up his sons
as gentlemen's sons should be brought up, sent them to Eton, you know,
taught them to fish, shoot and ride. As it was, his heir was a nephew,
son of his brother killed in a motor accident, not a bad boy, but not a
chip off the old block, no, sir, far from it; and would you believe it,
his fool of a mother was sending him to a co-educational school. Evie
had been a sad disappointment to him. Of course she was a lady, and she
had a bit of money of her own; she managed the house uncommonly well and
she was a good hostess. The village people adored her. She had been a
pretty little thing when he married her, with a creamy skin, light brown
hair and a trim figure, healthy too and not a bad tennis player; he
couldn't understand why she'd had no children; of course she was faded
now, she must be getting on for five and forty; her skin was drab, her
hair had lost its sheen and she was as thin as a rail. She was always
neat and suitably dressed, but she didn't seem to bother how she looked,
she wore no make-up and didn't even use lipstick; sometimes at night
when she dolled herself up for a party you could tell that once she'd
been quite attractive, but ordinarily she was--well, the sort of woman
you simply didn't notice. A nice woman, of course, a good wife, and it
wasn't her fault if she was barren, but it was tough on a fellow who
wanted an heir of his own loins; she hadn't any vitality, that's what
was the matter with her. He supposed he'd been in love with her when he
asked her to marry him, at least sufficiently in love for a man who
wanted to marry and settle down, but with time he discovered that they
had nothing much in common. She didn't care about hunting, and fishing
bored her. Naturally they'd drifted apart. He had to do her the justice
to admit that she'd never bothered him. There'd been no scenes. They had
no quarrels. She seemed to take it for granted that he should go his own
way. When he went up to London now and then she never wanted to come
with him. He had a girl there, well, she wasn't exactly a girl, she was
thirty-five if she was a day, but she was blonde and luscious and he
only had to wire ahead of time and they'd dine, do a show and spend the
night together. Well, a man, a healthy normal man had to have some fun
in his life. The thought crossed his mind that if Evie hadn't been such
a good woman she'd have been a better wife; but it was not the sort of
thought that he welcomed and he put it away from him.

George Peregrine finished his _Times_ and being a considerate fellow
rang the bell and told the butler to take it to Evie. Then he looked at
his watch. It was half-past ten and at eleven he had an appointment with
one of his tenants. He had half an hour to spare.

"I'd better have a look at Evie's book," he said to himself.

He took it up with a smile. Evie had a lot of highbrow books in her
sitting-room, not the sort of books that interested him, but if they
amused her he had no objection to her reading them. He noticed that the
volume he now held in his hand contained no more than ninety pages. That
was all to the good. He shared Edgar Allan Poe's opinion that poems
should be short. But as he turned the pages he noticed that several of
Evie's had long lines of irregular length and didn't rhyme. He didn't
like that. At his first school, when he was a little boy, he remembered
learning a poem that began: _The boy stood on the burning deck_, and
later, at Eton, one that started: _Ruin seize thee, ruthless king_; and
then there was Henry V; they'd had to take that, one half. He stared at
Evie's pages with consternation.

"That's not what I call poetry," he said.

Fortunately it wasn't all like that. Interspersed with the pieces that
looked so odd, lines of three or four words and then a line of ten or
fifteen, there were little poems, quite short, that rhymed, thank God,
with the lines all the same length. Several of the pages were just
headed with the word Sonnet, and out of curiosity he counted the lines;
there were fourteen of them. He read them. They seemed all right, but he
didn't quite know what they were all about. He repeated to himself:
_Ruin seize thee, ruthless king_.

"Poor Evie," he sighed.

At that moment the farmer he was expecting was ushered into the study,
and putting the book down he made him welcome. They embarked on their
business.

"I read your book, Evie," he said as they sat down to lunch. "Jolly
good. Did it cost you a packet to have it printed?"

"No, I was lucky. I sent it to a publisher and he took it."

"Not much money in poetry, my dear," he said in his good-natured, hearty
way.

"No, I don't suppose there is. What did Bannock want to see you about
this morning?"

Bannock was the tenant who had interrupted his reading of Evie's poems.

"He's asked me to advance the money for a pedigree bull he wants to buy.
He's a good man and I've half a mind to do it."

George Peregrine saw that Evie didn't want to talk about her book and he
was not sorry to change the subject. He was glad she had used her maiden
name on the title page; he didn't suppose anyone would ever hear about
the book, but he was proud of his own unusual name and he wouldn't have
liked it if some damned penny-a-liner had made fun of Evie's effort in
one of the papers.

During the few weeks that followed he thought it tactful not to ask Evie
any questions about her venture into verse, and she never referred to
it. It might have been a discreditable incident that they had silently
agreed not to mention. But then a strange thing happened. He had to go
to London on business and he took Daphne out to dinner. That was the
name of the girl with whom he was in the habit of passing a few
agreeable hours whenever he went to town.

"Oh, George," she said, "is that your wife who's written a book they're
all talking about?"

"What on earth d'you mean?"

"Well, there's a fellow I know who's a critic. He took me out to dinner
the other night and he had a book with him. 'Got anything for me to
read?' I said. 'What's that?' 'Oh, I don't think that's your cup of
tea,' he said. 'It's poetry. I've just been reviewing it.' 'No poetry
for me,' I said. 'It's about the hottest stuff I ever read,' he said.
'Selling like hot cakes. And it's damned good.'"

"Who's the book by?" asked George.

"A woman called Hamilton. My friend told me that wasn't her real name.
He said her real name was Peregrine. 'Funny,' I said, 'I know a fellow
called Peregrine.' 'Colonel in the army,' he said. 'Lives near
Sheffield.'"

"I'd just as soon you didn't talk about me to your friends," said George
with a frown of vexation.

"Keep your shirt on, dearie. Who d'you take me for? I just said: 'It's
not the same one.'" Daphne giggled. "My friend said: 'They say he's a
regular Colonel Blimp.'"

George had a keen sense of humour.

"You could tell them better than that," he laughed. "If my wife had
written a book I'd be the first to know about it, wouldn't I?"

"I suppose you would."

Anyhow the matter didn't interest her and when the colonel began to talk
of other things she forgot about it. He put it out of his mind too.
There was nothing to it, he decided, and that silly fool of a critic had
just been pulling Daphne's leg. He was amused at the thought of her
tackling that book because she had been told it was hot stuff and then
finding it just a lot of bosh cut up into unequal lines.

He was a member of several clubs and next day he thought he'd lunch at
one in St. James's Street. He was catching a train back to Sheffield
early in the afternoon. He was sitting in a comfortable arm-chair having
a glass of sherry before going into the dining-room when an old friend
came up to him.

"Well, old boy, how's life?" he said. "How d'you like being the husband
of a celebrity?"

George Peregrine looked at his friend. He thought he saw an amused
twinkle in his eyes.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he answered.

"Come off it, George. Everyone knows E. K. Hamilton is your wife. Not
often a book of verse has a success like that. Look here, Henry Dashwood
is lunching with me. He'd like to meet you."

"Who the devil is Henry Dashwood and why should he want to meet me?"

"Oh, my dear fellow, what do you do with yourself all the time in the
country? Henry's about the best critic we've got. He wrote a wonderful
review of Evie's book. D'you mean to say she didn't show it you?"

Before George could answer his friend had called a man over. A tall,
thin man, with a high forehead, a beard, a long nose and a stoop, just
the sort of man whom George was prepared to dislike at first sight.
Introductions were effected. Henry Dashwood sat down.

"Is Mrs. Peregrine in London by any chance? I should very much like to
meet her," he said.

"No, my wife doesn't like London. She prefers the country," said George
stiffly.

"She wrote me a very nice letter about my review. I was pleased. You
know, we critics get more kicks than halfpence. I was simply bowled over
by her book. It's so fresh and original, very modern without being
obscure. She seems to be as much at her ease in free verse as in the
classical metres." Then because he was a critic he thought he should
criticise. "Sometimes her ear is a trifle at fault, but you can say the
same of Emily Dickinson. There are several of those short lyrics of hers
that might have been written by Landor."

All this was gibberish to George Peregrine. The man was nothing but a
disgusting highbrow. But the colonel had good manners and he answered
with proper civility: Henry Dashwood went on as though he hadn't spoken.

"But what makes the book so outstanding is the passion that throbs in
every line. So many of these young poets are so anmic, cold, bloodless,
dully intellectual, but here you have real naked, earthy passion; of
course deep, sincere emotion like that is tragic----ah, my dear Colonel,
how right Heine was when he said that the poet makes little songs out of
his great sorrows. You know, now and then, as I read and re-read those
heartrending pages I thought of Sappho."

This was too much for George Peregrine and he got up.

"Well, it's jolly nice of you to say such nice things about my wife's
little book. I'm sure she'll be delighted. But I must bolt, I've got to
catch a train and I want to get a bite of lunch."

"Damned fool," he said irritably to himself as he walked upstairs to the
dining-room.

He got home in time for dinner and after Evie had gone to bed he went
into his study and looked for her book. He thought he'd just glance
through it again to see for himself what they were making such a fuss
about, but he couldn't find it. Evie must have taken it away.

"Silly," he muttered.

He'd told her he thought it jolly good. What more could a fellow be
expected to say? Well, it didn't matter. He lit his pipe and read the
_Field_ till he felt sleepy. But a week or so later it happened that he
had to go into Sheffield for the day. He lunched there at his club. He
had nearly finished when the Duke of Haverel came in. This was the great
local magnate and of course the colonel knew him, but only to say how
d'you do to; and he was surprised when the Duke stopped at his table.

"We're so sorry your wife couldn't come to us for the week-end," he
said, with a sort of shy cordiality. "We're expecting rather a nice lot
of people."

George was taken aback. He guessed that the Haverels had asked him and
Evie over for the week-end and Evie, without saying a word to him about
it, had refused. He had the presence of mind to say he was sorry too.

"Better luck next time," said the Duke pleasantly and moved on.

Colonel Peregrine was very angry and when he got home he said to his
wife:

"Look here, what's this about our being asked over to Haverel? Why on
earth did you say we couldn't go? We've never been asked before and it's
the best shooting in the county."

"I didn't think of that. I thought it would only bore you."

"Damn it all, you might at least have asked me if I wanted to go."

"I'm sorry."

He looked at her closely. There was something in her expression that he
didn't quite understand. He frowned.

"I suppose _I_ was asked?" he barked.

Evie flushed a little.

"Well, in point of fact you weren't."

"I call it damned rude of them to ask you without asking me."

"I suppose they thought it wasn't your sort of party. The Duchess is
rather fond of writers and people like that, you know. She's having
Henry Dashwood, the critic, and for some reason he wants to meet me."

"It was damned nice of you to refuse, Evie."

"It's the least I could do," she smiled. She hesitated a moment.
"George, my publishers want to give a little dinner-party for me one day
towards the end of the month and of course they want you to come too."

"Oh, I don't think that's quite my mark. I'll come up to London with you
if you like. I'll find someone to dine with."

Daphne.

"I expect it'll be very dull, but they're making rather a point of it.
And the day after, the American publisher who's taken my book is giving
a cocktail party at Claridge's. I'd like to you come to that if you
wouldn't mind."

"Sounds like a crashing bore, but if you really want me to come I'll
come."

"It would be sweet of you."

George Peregrine was dazed by the cocktail party. There were a lot of
people. Some of them didn't look so bad, a few of the women were
decently turned out, but the men seemed to him pretty awful. He was
introduced to everyone as Colonel Peregrine, E. K. Hamilton's husband,
you know. The men didn't seem to have anything to say to him, but the
women gushed.

"You _must_ be proud of your wife. Isn't it _wonderful_? You know, I
read it right through at a sitting, I simply couldn't put it down, and
when I'd finished I started again at the beginning and read it right
through a second time. I was simply _thrilled_."

The English publisher said to him:

"We've not had a success like this with a book of verse for twenty
years. I've never seen such reviews."

The American publisher said to him:

"It's swell. It'll be a smash hit in America. You wait and see."

The American publisher had sent Evie a great spray of orchids. Damned
ridiculous, thought George. As they came in, people were taken up to
Evie, and it was evident that they said flattering things to her, which
she took with a pleasant smile and a word or two of thanks. She was a
trifle flushed with the excitement, but seemed quite at her ease. Though
he thought the whole thing a lot of stuff and nonsense George noted with
approval that his wife was carrying it off in just the right way.

"Well, there's one thing," he said to himself, "you can see she's a lady
and that's a damned sight more than you can say of anyone else here."

He drank a good many cocktails. But there was one thing that bothered
him. He had a notion that some of the people he was introduced to looked
at him in rather a funny sort of way, he couldn't quite make out what it
meant, and once when he strolled by two women who were sitting together
on a sofa he had the impression that they were talking about him and
after he passed he was almost certain they tittered. He was very glad
when the party came to an end.

In the taxi on their way back to their hotel Evie said to him:

"You were wonderful, dear. You made quite a hit. The girls simply raved
about you: they thought you so handsome."

"Girls," he said bitterly. "Old hags."

"Were you bored, dear?"

"Stiff."

She pressed his hand in a gesture of sympathy.

"I hope you won't mind if we wait and go down by the afternoon train.
I've got some things to do in the morning."

"No, that's all right. Shopping?"

"I do want to buy one or two things, but I've got to go and be
photographed. I hate the idea, but they think I ought to be. For
America, you know."

He said nothing. But he thought. He thought it would be a shock to the
American public when they saw the portrait of the homely, desiccated
little woman who was his wife. He'd always been under the impression
that they liked glamour in America.

He went on thinking, and next morning when Evie had gone out he went to
his club and up to the library. There he looked up recent numbers of
_The Times Literary Supplement_, _The New Statesman_ and _The
Spectator_. Presently he found reviews of Evie's book. He didn't read
them very carefully, but enough to see that they were extremely
favourable. Then he went to the bookseller's in Piccadilly where he
occasionally bought books. He'd made up his mind that he had to read
this damned thing of Evie's properly, but he didn't want to ask her what
she'd done with the copy she'd given him. He'd buy one for himself.
Before going in he looked in the window and the first thing he saw was a
display of _When Pyramids Decay_. Damned silly title! He went in. A
young man came forward and asked if he could help him.

"No, I'm just having a look round." It embarrassed him to ask for Evie's
book and he thought he'd find it for himself and then take it to the
salesman. But he couldn't see it anywhere and at last, finding the young
man near him, he said in a carefully casual tone: "By the way, have you
got a book called _When Pyramids Decay_?"

"The new edition came in this morning. I'll get a copy."

In a moment the young man returned with it. He was a short, rather stout
young man, with a shock of untidy carroty hair and spectacles. George
Peregrine, tall, upstanding, very military, towered over him.

"Is this a new edition then?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. The fifth. It might be a novel the way it's selling."

George Peregrine hesitated a moment.

"Why d'you suppose it's such a success? I've always been told no one
reads poetry."

"Well, it's good, you know. I've read it meself." The young man, though
obviously cultured, had a slight Cockney accent, and George quite
instinctively adopted a patronising attitude. "It's the story they like.
Sexy, you know, but tragic."

George frowned a little. He was coming to the conclusion that the young
man was rather impertinent. No one had told him anything about there
being a story in the damned book and he had not gathered that from
reading the reviews. The young man went on:

"Of course it's only a flash in the pan, if you know what I mean. The
way I look at it, she was sort of inspired like by a personal
experience, like Housman was with _The Shropshire Lad_. She'll never
write anything else."

"How much is the book?" said George coldly to stop his chatter. "You
needn't wrap it up, I'll just slip it into my pocket."

The November morning was raw and he was wearing a greatcoat.

At the station he bought the evening papers and magazines and he and
Evie settled themselves comfortably in opposite corners of a first-class
carriage and read. At five o'clock they went along to the restaurant-car
to have tea and chatted a little. They arrived. They drove home in the
car which was waiting for them. They bathed, dressed for dinner, and
after dinner Evie, saying she was tired out, went to bed. She kissed
him, as was her habit, on the forehead. Then he went into the hall, took
Evie's book out of his greatcoat pocket and going into the study began
to read it. He didn't read verse very easily and though he read with
attention, every word of it, the impression he received was far from
clear. Then he began at the beginning again and read it a second time.
He read with increasing malaise, but he was not a stupid man and when he
had finished he had a distinct understanding of what it was all about.
Part of the book was in free verse, part in conventional metres, but the
story it related was coherent and plain to the meanest intelligence. It
was the story of a passionate love affair between an older woman,
married, and a young man. George Peregrine made out the steps of it as
easily as if he had been doing a sum in simple addition.

Written in the first person, it began with the tremulous surprise of the
woman, past her youth, when it dawned upon her that the young man was in
love with her. She hesitated to believe it. She thought she must be
deceiving herself. And she was terrified when on a sudden she discovered
that she was passionately in love with him. She told herself it was
absurd; with the disparity of age between them nothing but unhappiness
could come to her if she yielded to her emotion. She tried to prevent
him from speaking but the day came when he told her that he loved her
and forced her to tell him that she loved him too. He begged her to run
away with him. She couldn't leave her husband, her home; and what life
could they look forward to, she an ageing woman, he so young? How could
she expect his love to last? She begged him to have mercy on her. But
his love was impetuous. He wanted her, he wanted her with all his heart,
and at last trembling, afraid, desirous, she yielded to him. Then there
was a period of ecstatic happiness. The world, the dull, humdrum world
of every day, blazed with glory. Love songs flowed from her pen. The
woman worshipped the young, virile body of her lover. George flushed
darkly when she praised his broad chest and slim flanks, the beauty of
his legs and the flatness of his belly.

Hot stuff, Daphne's friend had said. It was that all right. Disgusting.

There were sad little pieces in which she lamented the emptiness of her
life when as must happen he left her, but they ended with a cry that all
she had to suffer would be worth it for the bliss that for a while had
been hers. She wrote of the long, tremulous nights they passed together
and the languor that lulled them to sleep in one another's arms. She
wrote of the rapture of brief stolen moments when, braving all danger,
their passion overwhelmed them and they surrendered to its call.

She thought it would be an affair of a few weeks, but miraculously it
lasted. One of the poems referred to three years having gone by without
lessening the love that filled their hearts. It looked as though he
continued to press her to go away with him, far away, to a hill town in
Italy, a Greek island, a walled city in Tunisia, so that they could be
together always, for in another of the poems she besought him to let
things be as they were. Their happiness was precarious. Perhaps it was
owing to the difficulties they had to encounter and the rarity of their
meetings that their love had retained for so long its first enchanting
ardour. Then on a sudden the young man died. How, when or where George
could not discover. There followed a long, heartbroken cry of bitter
grief, grief she could not indulge in, grief that had to be hidden. She
had to be cheerful, give dinner-parties and go out to dinner, behave as
she had always behaved, though the light had gone out of her life and
she was bowed down with anguish. The last poem of all was a set of four
short stanzas in which the writer, sadly resigned to her loss, thanked
the dark powers that rule man's destiny that she had been privileged at
least for a while to enjoy the greatest happiness that we poor human
beings can ever hope to know.

It was three o'clock in the morning when George Peregrine finally put
the book down. It had seemed to him that he heard Evie's voice in every
line, over and over again he came upon turns of phrase he had heard her
use, there were details that were as familiar to him as to her: there
was no doubt about it; it was her own story she had told, and it was as
plain as anything could be that she had had a lover and her lover had
died. It was not anger so much that he felt, nor horror or dismay,
though he was dismayed and he was horrified, but amazement. It was as
inconceivable that Evie should have had a love affair, and a wildly
passionate one at that, as that the trout in a glass case over the
chimney-piece in his study, the finest he had ever caught, should
suddenly wag its tail. He understood now the meaning of the amused look
he had seen in the eyes of that man he had spoken to at the club, he
understood why Daphne when she was talking about the book had seemed to
be enjoying a private joke, and why those two women at the cocktail
party had tittered when he strolled past them.

He broke out into a sweat. Then on a sudden he was seized with fury and
he jumped up to go and awake Evie and ask her sternly for an
explanation. But he stopped at the door. After all, what proof had he? A
book. He remembered that he'd told Evie he thought it jolly good. True,
he hadn't read it, but he'd pretended he had. He would look a perfect
fool if he had to admit that.

"I must watch my step," he muttered.

He made up his mind to wait for two or three days and think it all over.
Then he'd decide what to do. He went to bed, but he couldn't sleep for a
long time.

"Evie," he kept on saying to himself. "Evie, of all people."

They met at breakfast next morning as usual. Evie was as she always was,
quiet, demure and self-possessed, a middle-aged woman who made no effort
to look younger than she was, a woman who had nothing of what he still
called It. He looked at her as he hadn't looked at her for years. She
had her usual placid serenity. Her pale-blue eyes were untroubled. There
was no sign of guilt on her candid brow. She made the same little casual
remarks she always made.

"It's nice to get back to the country again after those two hectic days
in London. What are you going to do this morning?"

It was incomprehensible.

Three days later he went to see his solicitor. Henry Blane was an old
friend of George's as well as his lawyer. He had a place not far from
Peregrine's and for years they had shot over one another's preserves.
For two days a week he was a country gentleman and for the other five a
busy lawyer in Sheffield. He was a tall, robust fellow, with a
boisterous manner and a jovial laugh, which suggested that he liked to
be looked upon essentially as a sportsman and a good fellow and only
incidentally as a lawyer. But he was shrewd and worldly-wise.

"Well, George, what's brought you here to-day?" he boomed as the colonel
was shown into his office. "Have a good time in London? I'm taking my
missus up for a few days next week. How's Evie?"

"It's about Evie I've come to see you," said Peregrine, giving him a
suspicious look. "Have you read her book?"

His sensitivity had been sharpened during those last days of troubled
thought and he was conscious of a faint change in the lawyer's
expression. It was as though he were suddenly on his guard.

"Yes, I've read it. Great success, isn't it? Fancy Evie breaking out
into poetry. Wonders will never cease."

George Peregrine was inclined to lose his temper.

"It's made me look a perfect damned fool."

"Oh, what nonsense, George! There's no harm in Evie's writing a book.
You ought to be jolly proud of her."

"Don't talk such rot. It's her own story. You know it and everyone else
knows it. I suppose I'm the only one who doesn't know who her lover
was."

"There is such a thing as imagination, old boy. There's no reason to
suppose the whole thing isn't made up."

"Look here, Henry, we've known one another all our lives. We've had all
sorts of good times together. Be honest with me. Can you look me in the
face and tell me you believe it's a made-up story?"

Harry Blane moved uneasily in his chair. He was disturbed by the
distress in old George's voice.

"You've got no right to ask me a question like that. Ask Evie."

"I daren't," George answered after an anguished pause. "I'm afraid she'd
tell me the truth."

There was an uncomfortable silence.

"Who was the chap?"

Harry Blane looked at him straight in the eye.

"I don't know, and if I did I wouldn't tell you."

"You swine. Don't you see what a position I'm in? Do you think it's very
pleasant to be made absolutely ridiculous?"

The lawyer lit a cigarette and for some moments silently puffed it.

"I don't see what I can do for you," he said at last.

"You've got private detectives you employ, I suppose. I want you to put
them on the job and let them find everything out."

"It's not very pretty to put detectives on one's wife, old boy; and
besides, taking for granted for a moment that Evie had an affair, it was
a good many years ago and I don't suppose it would be possible to find
out a thing. They seem to have covered their tracks pretty carefully."

"I don't care. You put the detectives on. I want to know the truth."

"I won't, George. If you're determined to do that you'd better consult
someone else. And look here, even if you got evidence that Evie had been
unfaithful to you what would you do with it? You'd look rather silly
divorcing your wife because she'd committed adultery ten years ago."

"At all events I could have it out with her."

"You can do that now, but you know just as well as I do that if you do
she'll leave you. D'you want her to do that?"

George gave him an unhappy look.

"I don't know. I always thought she'd been a damned good wife to me. She
runs the house perfectly, we never have any servant trouble; she's done
wonders with the garden and she's splendid with all the village people.
But damn it, I have my self-respect to think of. How can I go on living
with her when I know that she was grossly unfaithful to me?"

"Have you always been faithful to her?"

"More or less, you know. After all, we've been married for nearly
twenty-four years and Evie was never much for bed."

The solicitor slightly raised his eyebrows, but George was too intent on
what he was saying to notice.

"I don't deny that I've had a bit of fun now and then. A man wants it.
Women are different."

"We only have men's word for that," said Harry Blane, with a faint
smile.

"Evie's absolutely the last woman I'd have suspected of kicking over the
traces. I mean, she's a very fastidious, reticent woman. What on earth
made her write the damned book?"

"I suppose it was a very poignant experience and perhaps it was a relief
to her to get it off her chest like that."

"Well, if she had to write it why the devil didn't she write it under an
assumed name?"

"She used her maiden name. I suppose she thought that was enough, and it
would have been if the book hadn't had this amazing boom."

George Peregrine and the lawyer were sitting opposite one another with a
desk between them. George, his elbow on the desk, his cheek on his hand,
frowned at his thought.

"It's so rotten not to know what sort of a chap he was. One can't even
tell if he was by way of being a gentleman. I mean, for all I know he
may have been a farm-hand or a clerk in a lawyer's office."

Harry Blane did not permit himself to smile and when he answered there
was in his eyes a kindly, tolerant look.

"Knowing Evie so well I think the probabilities are that he was all
right. Anyhow I'm sure he wasn't a clerk in my office."

"It's been a shock to me," the colonel sighed. "I thought she was fond
of me. She couldn't have written that book unless she hated me."

"Oh, I don't believe that. I don't think she's capable of hatred."

"You're not going to pretend that she loves me."

"No."

"Well, what does she feel for me?"

Harry Blane leaned back in his swivel chair and looked at George
reflectively.

"Indifference, I should say."

The colonel gave a little shudder and reddened.

"After all, you're not in love with her, are you?"

George Peregrine did not answer directly.

"It's been a great blow to me not to have any children, but I've never
let her see that I think she's let me down. I've always been kind to
her. Within reasonable limits I've tried to do my duty by her."

The lawyer passed a large hand over his mouth to conceal the smile that
trembled on his lips.

"It's been such an awful shock to me," Peregrine went on. "Damn it all,
even ten years ago Evie was no chicken and God knows, she wasn't much to
look at. It's so ugly." He sighed deeply. "What would _you_ do in my
place?"

"Nothing."

George Peregrine drew himself bolt upright in his chair and he looked at
Harry with the stern set face that he must have worn when he inspected
his regiment.

"I can't overlook a thing like this. I've been made a laughing-stock. I
can never hold up my head again."

"Nonsense," said the lawyer sharply, and then in a pleasant, kindly
manner. "Listen, old boy: the man's dead; it all happened a long while
back. Forget it. Talk to people about Evie's book, rave about it, tell
'em how proud you are of her. Behave as though you had so much
confidence in her, you _knew_ she could never have been unfaithful to
you. The world moves so quickly and people's memories are so short.
They'll forget."

"I shan't forget."

"You're both middle-aged people. She probably does a great deal more for
you than you think and you'd be awfully lonely without her. I don't
think it matters if you don't forget. It'll be all to the good if you
can get it into that thick head of yours that there's a lot more in Evie
than you ever had the gumption to see."

"Damn it all, you talk as if _I_ was to blame."

"No, I don't think you were to blame, but I'm not so sure that Evie was
either. I don't suppose she wanted to fall in love with this boy. D'you
remember those verses right at the end? The impression they gave me was
that though she was shattered by his death, in a strange sort of way she
welcomed it. All through she'd been aware of the fragility of the tie
that bound them. He died in the full flush of his first love and had
never known that love so seldom endures; he'd only known its bliss and
beauty. In her own bitter grief she found solace in the thought that
he'd been spared all sorrow."

"All that's a bit above my head, old boy. I see more or less what you
mean."

George Peregrine stared unhappily at the inkstand on the desk. He was
silent and the lawyer looked at him with curious, yet sympathetic, eyes.

"Do you realise what courage she must have had never by a sign to show
how dreadfully unhappy she was?" he said gently.

Colonel Peregrine sighed.

"I'm broken. I suppose you're right; it's no good crying over spilt milk
and it would only make things worse if I made a fuss."

"Well?"

George Peregrine gave a pitiful little smile.

"I'll take your advice. I'll do nothing. Let them think me a damned fool
and to hell with them. The truth is, I don't know what I'd do without
Evie. But I'll tell you what, there's one thing I shall never understand
till my dying day: What in the name of heaven did the fellow ever see in
her?"




MISS KING


It was not till the beginning of September that Ashenden, a writer by
profession, who had been abroad at the outbreak of the war, managed to
get back to England. He chanced soon after his arrival to go to a party
and was there introduced to a middle-aged colonel whose name he did not
catch. He had some talk with him. As he was about to leave, this officer
came up to him and asked:

"I say, I wonder if you'd mind coming to see me. I'd rather like to have
a chat with you."

"Certainly," said Ashenden. "Whenever you like."

"What about to-morrow at eleven?"

"All right."

"I'll just write down my address. Have you a card on you?"

Ashenden gave him one and on this the colonel scribbled in pencil the
name of a street and the number of a house. When Ashenden walked along
next morning to keep his appointment he found himself in a street of
rather vulgar red-brick houses in a part of London that had once been
fashionable, but was now fallen in the esteem of the house-hunter who
wanted a good address. On the house at which Ashenden had been asked to
call there was a board up to announce that it was for sale, the shutters
were closed and there was no sign that anyone lived in it. He rang the
bell and the door was opened by a non-commissioned officer so promptly
that he was startled. He was not asked his business, but led immediately
into a long room at the back, once evidently a dining-room, the florid
decoration of which looked oddly out of keeping with the office
furniture, shabby and sparse, that was in it. It gave Ashenden the
impression of a room in which the brokers had taken possession. The
colonel, who was known in the Intelligence Department, as Ashenden later
discovered, by the letter R., rose when he came in and shook hands with
him. He was a man somewhat above the middle height, lean, with a yellow,
deeply-lined face, thin grey hair and a toothbrush moustache. The thing
immediately noticeable about him was the closeness with which his blue
eyes were set. He only just escaped a squint. They were hard and cruel
eyes, and very wary; and they gave him a cunning, shifty look. Here was
a man that you could neither like nor trust at first sight. His manner
was pleasant and cordial.

He asked Ashenden a good many questions and then, without further to-do,
suggested that he had particular qualifications for the secret service.
Ashenden was acquainted with several European languages and his
profession was excellent cover; on the pretext that he was writing a
book he could without attracting attention visit any neutral country. It
was while they were discussing this point that R. said:

"You know, you ought to get material that would be very useful to you in
your work."

"I shouldn't mind that," said Ashenden.

"I'll tell you an incident that occurred only the other day and I can
vouch for its truth. I thought at the time it would make a damned good
story. One of the French ministers went down to Nice to recover from a
cold and he had some very important documents with him that he kept in a
despatch-case. They were very important indeed. Well, a day or two after
he arrived he picked up a yellow-haired lady at some restaurant or other
where there was dancing, and he got very friendly with her. To cut a
long story short, he took her back to his hotel--of course it was a very
imprudent thing to do--and when he came to himself in the morning the
lady and the despatch-case had disappeared. They had one or two drinks
up in his room and his theory is that when his back was turned the woman
slipped a drug into his glass."

R. finished and looked at Ashenden with a gleam in his close-set eyes.

"Dramatic, isn't it?" he asked.

"Do you mean to say that happened the other day?"

"The week before last."

"Impossible," cried Ashenden. "Why, we've been putting that incident on
the stage for sixty years, we've written it in a thousand novels. Do you
mean to say that life has only just caught up with us?"

R. was a trifle disconcerted.

"Well, if necessary, I could give you names and dates, and believe me,
the Allies have been put to no end of trouble by the loss of the
documents that the despatch-case contained."

"Well, sir, if you can't do better than that in the secret service,"
sighed Ashenden, "I'm afraid that as a source of inspiration to the
writer of fiction it's a wash-out. We really _can't_ write that story
much longer."

It did not take them long to settle things and when Ashenden rose to go
he had already made careful note of his instructions. He was to start
for Geneva next day. The last words that R. said to him, with a
casualness that made them impressive, were:

"There's just one thing I think you ought to know before you take on
this job. And don't forget it. If you do well you'll get no thanks and
if you get into trouble you'll get no help. Does that suit you?"

"Perfectly."

"Then I'll wish you good-afternoon."

                 *        *        *        *        *

Ashenden was on his way back to Geneva. The night was stormy and the
wind blew cold from the mountains, but the stodgy little steamer plodded
sturdily through the choppy waters of the lake. A scudding rain, just
turning into sleet, swept the deck in angry gusts, like a nagging woman
who cannot leave a subject alone. Ashenden had been to France in order
to write and dispatch a report. A day or two before, about five in the
afternoon, an Indian agent of his had come to see him in his rooms; it
was only by a lucky chance that he was in, for he had no appointment
with him, and the agent's instructions were to come to the hotel only in
a case of urgent importance. He told Ashenden that a Bengali in the
German service had recently come from Berlin with a black cane trunk in
which were a number of documents interesting to the British Government.
At that time the Central Powers were doing their best to foment such an
agitation in India as would make it necessary for Great Britain to keep
their troops in the country and perhaps send others from France. It had
been found possible to get the Bengali arrested in Berne on a charge
that would keep him out of harm's way for a while, but the black cane
trunk could not be found. Ashenden's agent was a very brave and very
clever fellow and he mixed freely with such of his countrymen as were
disaffected to the interests of Great Britain. He had just discovered
that the Bengali before going to Berne had, for greater safety, left the
trunk in the cloakroom at Zrich station, and now that he was in gaol,
awaiting trial, was unable to get the _bulletin_ by which it might be
obtained into the hands of any of his confederates. It was a matter of
great urgency for the German Intelligence Department to secure the
contents of the trunk without delay, and since it was impossible for
them to get hold of it by the ordinary official means, they had decided
to break into the station that very night and steal it. It was a bold
and ingenious scheme and Ashenden felt a pleasant exhilaration (for a
great deal of his work was uncommonly dull) when he heard of it. He
recognised the dashing and unscrupulous touch of the head of the German
secret service at Berne. But the burglary was arranged for two o'clock
on the following morning and there was not a moment to lose. He could
trust neither the telegraph nor the telephone to communicate with the
British officer at Berne, and since the Indian agent could not go (he
was taking his life in his hands by coming to see Ashenden and if he
were noticed leaving his room it might easily be that he would be found
one day floating in the lake with a knife thrust in his back), there was
nothing for it but to go himself.

There was a train to Berne that he could just catch and he put on his
hat and coat as he ran downstairs. He jumped into a cab. Four hours
later he rang the bell of the headquarters of the Intelligence
Department. His name was known there but to one person, and it was for
him that Ashenden asked. A tall tired-looking man, whom he had not met
before, came out and without a word led him into an office. Ashenden
told him his errand. The tall man looked at his watch.

"It's too late for us to do anything ourselves. We couldn't possibly get
to Zrich in time."

He reflected.

"We'll put the Swiss authorities on the job. They can telephone, and
when your friends attempt their little burglary, I have no doubt they'll
find the station well guarded. Anyhow, you had better get back to
Geneva."

He shook hands with Ashenden and showed him out. Ashenden was well aware
that he would never know what happened then. Being no more than a tiny
rivet in a vast and complicated machine, he never had the advantage of
seeing a completed action. He was concerned with the beginning or the
end of it, perhaps, or with some incident in the middle, but what his
own doings led to he had seldom a chance of discovering. It was as
unsatisfactory as those modern novels that give you a number of
unrelated episodes and expect you by piecing them together to construct
in your mind a connected narrative.

Notwithstanding his fur coat and his muffler, Ashenden was chilled to
the bone. It was warm in the saloon and there were good lights to read
by, but he thought it better not to sit there in case some habitual
traveller, recognising him, wondered why he made these constant journeys
between Geneva in Switzerland and Thonon in France; and so, making the
best of what shelter could be found, he passed the tedious time in the
darkness of the deck. He looked in the direction of Geneva, but could
see no lights, and the sleet, turning into snow, prevented him from
recognising the landmarks. Lake Leman, on fine days so trim and pretty,
artificial like a piece of water in a French garden, in this tempestuous
weather was as secret and as menacing as the sea. He made up his mind
that, on getting back to his hotel, he would have a fire lit in his
sitting-room, a hot bath, and dinner comfortably by the fireside in
pyjamas and a dressing-gown. The prospect of spending an evening by
himself with his pipe and a book was so agreeable that it made the
misery of that journey across the lake positively worth while. Two
sailors tramped past him heavily, their heads bent down to save
themselves from the sleet that blew in their faces, and one of them
shouted to him: _Nous arrivons_; they went to the side and withdrew a
bar to allow passage for the gangway, and looking again Ashenden through
the howling darkness saw mistily the lights of the quay. A welcome
sight. In two or three minutes the steamer was made fast and Ashenden,
muffled to the eyes, joined himself to the little knot of passengers
that waited to step ashore. Though he made the journey so often--it was
his duty to cross the lake into France once a week to deliver his
reports and to receive instructions--he had always a faint sense of
trepidation when he stood among the crowd at the gangway and waited to
land. There was nothing on his passport to show that he had been in
France; the steamer went round the lake touching French soil at two
places, but going from Switzerland to Switzerland, so that his journey
might have been to Vevey or to Lausanne; but he could never be sure that
the secret police had not taken note of him, and if he had been followed
and seen to land in France, the fact that there was no stamp on his
passport would be difficult to explain. Of course he had his story
ready, but he well knew that it was not a very convincing one, and
though it might be impossible for the Swiss authorities to prove that he
was anything but a casual traveller, he might nevertheless spend two or
three days in gaol, which would be uncomfortable, and then be firmly
conducted to the frontier, which would be mortifying. The Swiss knew
well that their country was the scene of all manner of intrigues; agents
of the secret service, spies, revolutionaries and agitators infested the
hotels of the principal towns and, jealous of their neutrality, they
were determined to prevent conduct that might embroil them with any of
the belligerent powers.

There were as usual two police officers on the quay to watch the
passengers disembark and Ashenden, walking past them with as unconcerned
an air as he could assume, was relieved when he had got safely by. The
darkness swallowed him up and he stepped out briskly for his hotel. The
wild weather with a scornful gesture had swept all the neatness from the
trim promenade. The shops were closed and Ashenden passed only an
occasional pedestrian who sidled along, scrunched up, as though he fled
from the blind wrath of the unknown. You had a feeling in that black and
bitter night that civilisation, ashamed of its artificiality, cowered
before the fury of elemental things. It was hail now that blew in
Ashenden's face and the pavement was wet and slippery so that he had to
walk with caution. The hotel faced the lake. When he reached it and a
page-boy opened the door for him, he entered the hall with a flurry of
wind that sent the papers on the porter's desk flying into the air.
Ashenden was dazzled by the light. He stopped to ask the porter if there
were letters for him. There was nothing, and he was about to get into
the lift when the porter told him that two gentlemen were waiting in his
room to see him. Ashenden had no friends in Geneva.

"Oh?" he answered, not a little surprised. "Who are they?"

He had taken care to get on friendly terms with the porter and his tips
for trifling services had been generous. The porter gave a discreet
smile.

"There is no harm in telling you. I think they are members of the
police."

"What do they want?" asked Ashenden.

"They did not say. They asked me where you were, and I told them you had
gone for a walk. They said they would wait till you came back."

"How long have they been there?"

"An hour."

Ashenden's heart sank, but he took care not to let his face betray his
concern.

"I'll go up and see them," he said. The liftman stood aside to let him
step into the lift, but Ashenden shook his head. "I'm so cold," he said,
"I'll walk up."

He wished to give himself a moment to think, but as he ascended the
three flights slowly his feet were like lead. There could be small doubt
why two police officers were so bent upon seeing him. He felt on a
sudden dreadfully tired. He did not feel he could cope with a multitude
of questions. And if he were arrested as a secret agent he must spend at
least the night in a cell. He longed more than ever for a hot bath and a
pleasant dinner by his fireside. He had half a mind to turn tail and
walk out of the hotel, leaving everything behind him; he had his
passport in his pocket and he knew by heart the hours at which trains
started for the frontier: before the Swiss authorities had made up their
minds what to do he would be in safety. But he continued to trudge
upstairs. He did not like the notion of abandoning his job so easily; he
had been sent to Geneva, knowing the risks, to do work of a certain
kind, and it seemed to him that he had better go through with it. Of
course it would not be very nice to spend two years in a Swiss prison,
but the chance of this was, like assassination to kings, one of the
inconveniences of his profession. He reached the landing of the third
floor and walked to his room. Ashenden had in him, it seems, a strain of
flippancy (on account of which, indeed, the critics had often reproached
him) and as he stood for a moment outside the door his predicament
appeared to him on a sudden rather droll. His spirits went up and he
determined to brazen the thing out. It was with a genuine smile on his
lips that he turned the handle and entering the room faced his visitors.

"Good-evening, gentlemen," said he.

The room was brightly lit, for all the lights were on, and a fire burned
in the hearth. The air was grey with smoke, since the strangers, finding
it long to wait for him, had been smoking strong and inexpensive cigars.
They sat in their greatcoats and bowler-hats as though they had only
just that moment come in; but the ashes in the little tray on the table
would alone have suggested that they had been long enough there to make
themselves familiar with their surroundings. They were two powerful men,
with black moustaches, on the stout side, heavily built, and they
reminded Ashenden of Fafner and Fasolt, the giants in _The Rhinegold_;
their clumsy boots, the massive way they sat in their chairs and the
ponderous alertness of their expression made it obvious that they were
members of the detective force. Ashenden gave his room an enveloping
glance. He was a neat creature and saw at once that his things, though
not in disorder, were not as he had left them. He guessed that an
examination had been made of his effects. That did not disturb him, for
he kept in his room no document that would compromise him; his code he
had learned by heart and destroyed before leaving England, and such
communications as reached him from Germany were handed to him by third
parties and transmitted without delay to the proper places. There was
nothing he need fear in a search, but the impression that it had been
made confirmed his suspicion that he had been denounced to the
authorities as a secret agent.

"What can I do for you, gentlemen?" he asked affably. "It's warm in
here, wouldn't you like to take off your coats--and hats?"

It faintly irritated him that they should sit there with their hats on.

"We're only staying a minute," said one of them. "We were passing and as
the _concierge_ said you would be in at once, we thought we would wait."

He did not remove his hat. Ashenden unwrapped his scarf and
disembarrassed himself of his heavy coat.

"Won't you have a cigar?" he asked, offering the box to the two
detectives in turn.

"I don't mind if I do," said the first, Fafner, taking one, upon which
the second, Fasolt, helped himself without a word, even of thanks.

The name on the box appeared to have a singular effect on their manners,
for both now took off their hats.

"You must have had a very disagreeable walk in this bad weather," said
Fafner, as he bit half an inch off the end of his cigar and spat it in
the fireplace.

Now it was Ashenden's principle (a good one in life as well as in the
Intelligence Department) always to tell as much of the truth as he
conveniently could; so he answered as follows:

"What do you take me for? I wouldn't go out in such weather if I could
help it. I had to go to Vevey to-day to see an invalid friend and I came
back by boat. It was bitter on the lake."

"We come from the police," said Fafner casually.

Ashenden thought they must consider him a perfect idiot if they imagined
he had not guessed that, but it was not a piece of information to which
it was discreet to reply with a pleasantry.

"Oh, really," he said.

"Have you your passport on you?"

"Yes. In these war-times I think a foreigner is wise always to keep his
passport on him."

"Very wise."

Ashenden handed the man the nice new passport, which gave no information
about his movements other than that he had come from London three months
before and had since then crossed no frontier. The detective looked at
it carefully and passed it on to his colleague.

"It appears to be all in order," he said.

Ashenden, standing in front of the fire to warm himself, a cigarette
between his lips, made no reply. He watched the detectives warily, but
with an expression, he flattered himself, of amiable unconcern. Fasolt
handed back the passport to Fafner, who tapped it reflectively with a
thick forefinger.

"The chief of police told us to come here," he said, and Ashenden was
conscious that both of them now looked at him with attention, "to make a
few enquiries of you."

Ashenden knew that when you have nothing apposite to say it is better to
hold your tongue; and when a man has made a remark that calls to his
mind for an answer, he is apt to find silence a trifle disconcerting.
Ashenden waited for the detective to proceed. He was not quite sure, but
it seemed to him that he hesitated.

"It appears that there have been a good many complaints lately of the
noise that people make when they come out of the Casino late at night.
We wish to know if you personally have been troubled by the disturbance.
It is evident that as your rooms look on the lake and the revellers pass
your windows, if the noise is serious, you must have heard it."

For an instant Ashenden was dumbfounded. What balderdash was this the
detective was talking to him (boom, boom, he heard the big drum as the
giant lumbered on the scene), and why on earth should the chief of
police send to him to find out if his beauty sleep had been disturbed by
vociferous gamblers? It looked very like a trap. But nothing is so
foolish as to ascribe profundity to what on the surface is merely inept;
it is a pitfall into which many an ingenuous reviewer has fallen
headlong. Ashenden had a confident belief in the stupidity of the human
animal, which in the course of his life had stood him in good stead. It
flashed across him that if the detective asked him such a question it
was because he had no shadow of proof that he was engaged in any illegal
practice. It was clear that he had been denounced, but no evidence had
been offered, and the search of his rooms had been fruitless. But what a
silly excuse was this to make for a visit and what a poverty of
invention it showed! Ashenden immediately thought of three reasons the
detectives might have given for seeking an interview with him and he
wished that he were on terms sufficiently familiar with them to make the
suggestions. This was really an insult to the intelligence. These men
were even stupider than he thought; but Ashenden had always a soft
corner in his heart for the stupid and now he looked upon them with a
feeling of unexpected kindliness. He would have liked to pat them
gently. But he answered the question with gravity.

"To tell you the truth, I am a very sound sleeper (the result doubtless
of a pure heart and an easy conscience), and I have never heard a
thing."

Ashenden looked at them for the faint smile that he thought his remark
deserved, but their countenances remained stolid. Ashenden, as well as
an agent of the British Government, was a humorist, and he stifled the
beginnings of a sigh. He assumed a slightly imposing air and adopted a
more serious tone.

"But even if I had been awakened by noisy people I should not dream of
complaining. At a time when there is so much trouble, misery and
unhappiness in the world, I cannot but think it very wrong to disturb
the amusement of persons who are lucky enough to be able to amuse
themselves."

"_En effet_," said the detective. "But the fact remains that people have
been disturbed and the chief of police thought the matter should be
enquired into."

His colleague, who had hitherto preserved a silence that was positively
sphinx-like, now broke it.

"I notice by your passport that you are an author, _monsieur_," he said.

Ashenden in reaction from his previous perturbation was feeling
exceedingly debonair and he answered with good-humour:

"It is true. It is a profession full of tribulation, but it has now and
then its compensations."

"_La gloire_," said Fafner politely.

"Or shall we say notoriety?" hazarded Ashenden.

"And what are you doing in Geneva?"

The question was put so pleasantly that Ashenden felt it behoved him to
be on his guard. A police officer amiable is more dangerous to the wise
than a police officer aggressive.

"I am writing a play," said Ashenden.

He waved his hand to the papers on his table. Four eyes followed his
gesture. A casual glance told him that the detectives had looked and
taken note of his manuscripts.

"And why should you write a play here rather than in your own country?"

Ashenden smiled upon them with even more affability than before, since
this was a question for which he had long been prepared, and it was a
relief to give the answer. He was curious to see how it would go down.

"_Mais, monsieur_, there is the war. My country is in turmoil, it would
be impossible to sit there quietly and write a play."

"Is it a comedy or a tragedy?"

"Oh, a comedy, and a light one at that," replied Ashenden. "The artist
needs peace and quietness. How do you expect him to preserve that
detachment of spirit that is demanded by creative work unless he can
have perfect tranquillity? Switzerland has the good fortune to be
neutral, and it seemed to me that in Geneva I should find the very
surroundings I wanted."

Fafner nodded slight to Fasolt, but whether to indicate that he thought
Ashenden an imbecile or whether in sympathy with his desire for a safe
retreat from a turbulent world, Ashenden had no means of knowing. Anyhow
the detective evidently came to the conclusion that he could learn
nothing more from talking to Ashenden, for his remarks grew now
desultory and in a few minutes he rose to go.

When Ashenden, having warmly shaken their hands, closed the door behind
the pair he heaved a great sigh of relief. He turned on the water for
his bath, as hot as he thought he could possibly bear it, and as he
undressed reflected comfortably over his escape.

The day before, an incident had occurred that had left him on his guard.
There was in his service a Swiss, known in the Intelligence Department
as Bernard, who had recently come from Germany, and Ashenden, desiring
to see him, had instructed him to go to a certain caf at a certain
time. Since he had not seen him before, so that there might be no
mistake he had informed him through an intermediary what question
himself would ask and what reply he was to give. He chose the luncheon
hour for the meeting, since then the caf was unlikely to be crowded,
and it chanced that on entering he saw but one man of about the age he
knew Bernard to be. He was by himself, and going up to him Ashenden
casually put to him the pre-arranged question. The pre-arranged answer
was given, and sitting down beside him, Ashenden ordered himself a
Dubonnet. The spy was a stocky little fellow, shabbily dressed, with a
bullet-shaped head, close-cropped, fair, with shifty blue eyes and a
sallow skin. He did not inspire confidence, and but that Ashenden knew
by experience how hard it was to find men willing to go into Germany he
would have been surprised that his predecessor had engaged him. He was a
German-Swiss and spoke French with a strong accent. He immediately asked
for his wages and these Ashenden passed over to him in an envelope. They
were in Swiss francs. He gave a general account of his stay in Germany
and answered Ashenden's careful questions. He was by calling a waiter
and had found a job in a restaurant near one of the Rhine bridges, which
gave him good opportunity to get the information that was required of
him. His reasons for coming to Switzerland for a few days were plausible
and there could apparently be no difficulty in his crossing the frontier
on his return. Ashenden expressed his satisfaction with his behaviour,
gave him his orders and was prepared to finish the interview.

"Very good," said Bernard. "But before I go back to Germany I want two
thousand francs."

"Do you?"

"Yes, and I want them now, before you leave this caf. It's a sum I have
to pay, and I've got to have it."

"I'm afraid I can't give it to you."

A scowl made the man's face even more unpleasant to look at than it was
before.

"You've got to."

"What makes you think that?"

The spy leaned forward and, not raising his voice, but speaking so that
only Ashenden could hear, burst out angrily:

"Do you think I'm going on risking my life for that beggarly sum you
give me? Not ten days ago a man was caught at Mainz and shot. Was that
one of your men?"

"We haven't got anyone at Mainz," said Ashenden, carelessly, and for all
he knew it was true. He had been puzzled not to receive his usual
communications from that place and Bernard's information might afford
the explanation. "You knew exactly what you were to get when you took on
the job, and if you weren't satisfied you needn't have taken it. I have
no authority to give you a penny more."

"Do you see what I've got here?" said Bernard.

He took a small revolver out of his pocket and fingered it
significantly.

"What are you going to do with it? Pawn it?"

With an angry shrug of the shoulders he put it back in his pocket.
Ashenden reflected that had he known anything of the technique of the
theatre Bernard would have been aware that it was useless to make a
gesture that had no ulterior meaning.

"You refuse to give me the money?"

"Certainly."

The spy's manner, which at first had been obsequious, was now somewhat
truculent, but he kept his head and never for a moment raised his voice.
Ashenden could see that Bernard, however big a ruffian, was a reliable
agent, and he made up his mind to suggest to R. that his salary should
be raised. The scene diverted him. A little way off two fat citizens of
Geneva, with black beards, were playing dominoes, and on the other side
a young man with spectacles was with great rapidity writing sheet after
sheet of an immensely long letter. A Swiss family (who knows, perhaps
Robinson by name), consisting of a father and mother and four children,
were sitting round a table making the best of two small cups of coffee.
The _caissire_ behind the counter, an imposing brunette with a large
bust encased in black silk, was reading the local paper. The
surroundings made the melodramatic scene in which Ashenden was engaged
perfectly grotesque. His own play seemed to him much more real.

Bernard smiled. His smile was not engaging.

"Do you know that I have only to go to the police and tell them about
you to have you arrested? Do you know what a Swiss prison is like?"

"No, I've often wondered lately. Do you?"

"Yes, and you wouldn't much like it."

One of the things that had bothered Ashenden was the possibility that he
would be arrested before he finished his play. He disliked the notion of
leaving it half done for an indefinite period. He did not know whether
he would be treated as a political prisoner or as a common criminal and
he had a mind to ask Bernard whether in the latter case (the only one
Bernard was likely to know anything about) he would be allowed writing
materials. He was afraid Bernard would think the inquiry an attempt to
laugh at him. But he was feeling comparatively at ease and was able to
answer Bernard's threat without heat.

"You could of course get me sentenced to two years' imprisonment."

"At least."

"No, that is the maximum, I understand, and I think it is quite enough.
I won't conceal from you that I should find it extremely disagreeable.
But not nearly so disagreeable as you would."

"What could you do?"

"Oh, we'd get you somehow. And after all, the war won't last for ever.
You are a waiter, you want your freedom of action. I promise you that if
I get into any trouble, you will never be admitted into any of the
Allied countries for the rest of your life. I can't help thinking it
would cramp your style."

Bernard did not reply, but looked down sulkily at the marble-topped
table. Ashenden thought this was the moment to pay for the drinks and
go.

"Think it over, Bernard," he said. "If you want to go back to your job,
you have your instructions, and your usual wages shall be paid through
the usual channels."

The spy shrugged his shoulders, and Ashenden, though not knowing in the
least what was the result of their conversation, felt that it behoved
him to walk out with dignity. He did so.

And now as he carefully put one foot into the bath, wondering if he
could bear it, he asked himself what Bernard had in the end decided on.
The water was just not scalding and he gradually let himself down into
it. On the whole it seemed to him that the spy had thought it would be
as well to go straight, and the source of his denunciation must be
looked for elsewhere. Perhaps in the hotel itself. Ashenden lay back,
and as his body grew used to the heat of the water gave a sigh of
satisfaction.

"Really," he reflected, "there are moments in life when all this to-do
that has led from the primeval slime to myself seems almost worth
while."

Ashenden could not but think he was lucky to have wriggled out of the
fix he had found himself in that afternoon. Had he been arrested and in
due course sentenced, R., shrugging his shoulders, would merely have
called him a damned fool and set about looking for someone to take his
place. Already Ashenden knew his chief well enough to be aware that when
he had told him that if he got into trouble he need look for no help he
meant exactly what he said.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Ashenden, lying comfortably in his bath, was glad to think that in all
probability he would be able to finish his play in peace. The police had
drawn a blank and though they might watch him from now on with some care
it was unlikely that they would take a further step until he had at
least roughed out his third act. It behoved him to be prudent (only a
fortnight ago his colleague at Lausanne had been sentenced to a term of
imprisonment), but it would be foolish to be alarmed: his predecessor in
Geneva, seeing himself, with an exaggerated sense of his own importance,
shadowed from morning till night, had been so affected by the nervous
strain that it had been found necessary to withdraw him. Twice a week
Ashenden had to go to the market to receive instructions that were
brought to him by an old peasant woman from French Savoy who sold butter
and eggs. She came in with the other market-women and the search at the
frontier was perfunctory. It was barely dawn when they crossed and the
officials were only too glad to have done quickly with these chattering
noisy women and get back to their warm fires and their cigars. Indeed
this old lady looked so bland and innocent, with her corpulence, her fat
red face, and her smiling good-natured mouth, it would have been a very
astute detective who could imagine that if he took the trouble to put
his hand deep down between those voluminous breasts of hers, he would
find a little piece of paper that would land in the dock an honest old
woman (who kept her son out of the trenches by taking this risk) and an
English writer approaching middle age. Ashenden went to the market about
nine when the housewives of Geneva for the most part had done their
provisioning, stopped in front of the basket by the side of which, rain
or wind, hot or cold, sat that indomitable creature and bought half a
pound of butter. She slipped the note into his hand when he was given
change for ten francs and he sauntered away. His only moment of risk was
when he walked back to his hotel with the paper in his pocket, and after
this scare he made up his mind to shorten as much as possible the period
during which it could be found on him.

Ashenden sighed, for the water was no longer quite so hot; he could not
reach the tap with his hand nor could he turn it with his toes (as every
properly regulated tap should turn) and if he got up enough to add more
hot-water he might just as well get out altogether. On the other hand he
could not pull out the plug with his foot in order to empty the bath and
so force himself to get out, nor could he find in himself the will-power
to step out of it like a man. He had often heard people tell him that he
possessed character and he reflected that people judge hastily in the
affairs of life because they judge on insufficient evidence: they had
never seen him in a hot, but diminishingly hot, bath. His mind, however,
wandered back to his play, and telling himself jokes and repartees that
he knew by bitter experience would never look so neat on paper nor sound
so well on the stage as they did then, he abstracted his mind from the
fact that his bath was growing almost tepid, when he heard a knock at
the door. Since he did not want anyone to enter, he had the presence of
mind not to say come in, but the knocking was repeated.

"Who is it?" he cried irascibly.

"A letter."

"Come in then. Wait a minute."

Ashenden heard his bedroom-door open and getting out of the bath flung a
towel round him and went in. A page-boy was waiting with a note. It
needed only a verbal answer. It was from a lady staying in the hotel
asking him to play bridge after dinner and was signed in the continental
fashion Baronne de Higgins. Ashenden, longing for a cosy meal in his own
room, in slippers and with a book leaned up against a reading-lamp, was
about to refuse when it occurred to him that in the circumstances it
might be discreet to show himself in the dining-room that night. It was
absurd to suppose that in that hotel the news would not have spread that
he had been visited by the police and it would be as well to prove to
his fellow-guests that he was not disconcerted. It had passed through
his mind that it might be someone in the hotel who had denounced him and
indeed the name of the sprightly baroness had not failed to suggest
itself to him. If it was she who had given him away there would be a
certain humour in playing bridge with her. He gave the boy a message
that he would be pleased to come and proceeded slowly to don his evening
clothes.

The Baroness von Higgins was an Austrian, who on settling in Geneva
during the first winter of the war had found it convenient to make her
name look as French as possible. She spoke English and French perfectly.
Her surname, so far from Teutonic, she owed to her grandfather, a
Yorkshire stable-boy, who had been taken over to Austria by a Prince
Blankenstein early in the nineteenth century. He had had a charming and
romantic career; a very good-looking man, he attracted the attention of
one of the arch-duchesses and then made such good use of his
opportunities that he ended his life as a baron and minister
plenipotentiary to an Italian court. The baroness, his only descendant,
after an unhappy marriage, the particulars of which she was fond of
relating to her acquaintance, had resumed her maiden name. She mentioned
not infrequently the fact that her grandfather had been an ambassador,
but never that he had been a stable-boy and Ashenden had learned this
interesting detail from Vienna; for as he grew friendly with her he had
thought it necessary to get a few particulars about her past, and he
knew among other things that her private income did not permit her to
live on the somewhat lavish scale on which she was living in Geneva.
Since she had so many advantages for espionage, it was fairly safe to
suppose that an alert secret service had enlisted her services and
Ashenden took it for granted that she was engaged somehow on the same
kind of work as himself. It increased if anything the cordiality of his
relations with her.

When he went into the dining-room it was already full. He sat down at
his table and feeling jaunty after his adventure ordered himself (at the
expense of the British Government) a bottle of champagne. The baroness
gave him a flashing, brilliant smile. She was a woman of more than
forty, but in a hard and glittering manner extremely beautiful. She was
a high-coloured blonde with golden hair of a metallic lustre, lovely no
doubt but not attractive, and Ashenden had from the first reflected that
it was not the sort of hair you would like to find in your soup. She had
fine features, blue eyes, a straight nose, and a pink and white skin,
but her skin was stretched over her bones a trifle tightly; she was
generously _dcollete_ and her white and ample bosom had the quality of
marble. There was nothing in her appearance to suggest the yielding
tenderness that the susceptible find so alluring. She was magnificently
gowned, but scantily bejewelled, so that Ashenden, who knew something of
these matters, concluded that the superior authority had given her
_carte blanche_ at a dressmaker's but had not thought it prudent or
necessary to provide her with rings or pearls. She was notwithstanding
so showy that but for R.'s story of the minister, Ashenden would have
thought the sight of her alone must have aroused in anyone on whom she
desired to exercise her wiles the sense of prudence.

While he waited for his dinner to be served, Ashenden cast his eyes over
the company. Most of the persons gathered were old friends by sight. At
that time Geneva was a hot-bed of intrigue and its home was the hotel at
which Ashenden was staying. There were Frenchmen there, Italians and
Russians, Turks, Rumanians, Greeks and Egyptians. Some had fled their
country, some doubtless represented it. There was a Bulgarian, an agent
of Ashenden's, whom for greater safety he had never even spoken to in
Geneva; he was dining that night with two fellow-countrymen and in a day
or so, if he was not killed in the interval, might have a very
interesting communication to make. Then there was a little German
prostitute, with china-blue eyes and a doll-like face, who made frequent
journeys along the lake and up to Berne, and in the exercise of her
profession got little titbits of information over which doubtless they
pondered with deliberation in Berlin. She was of course of a different
class from the baroness and hunted much easier game. But Ashenden was
surprised to catch sight of Count von Holzminden and wondered what on
earth he was doing there. This was the German agent in Vevey and he came
over to Geneva only on occasion. Once Ashenden had seen him in the old
quarter of the city, with its silent houses and deserted streets,
talking at a corner to a man whose appearance very much suggested the
spy and he would have given a great deal to hear what they said to one
another. It had amused him to come across the Count, for in London
before the war he had known him fairly well. He was of great family and
indeed related to the Hohenzollerns. He was fond of England; he danced
well, rode well and shot well; people said he was more English than the
English. He was a tall, thin fellow, in well-cut clothes, with a
close-cropped Prussian head, and that peculiar bend of the body as
though he were just about to bow to a royalty that you feel, rather than
see, in those who have spent their lives about a court. He had charming
manners and was much interested in the Fine Arts. But now Ashenden and
he pretended they had never seen one another before. Each of course knew
on what work the other was engaged and Ashenden had had a mind to chaff
him about it--it seemed absurd when he had dined with a man off and on
for years and played cards with him, to act as though he did not know
him from Adam--but refrained in case the German looked upon his
behaviour as further proof of the British frivolity in face of war.
Ashenden was perplexed: Holzminden had never set foot in that hotel
before and it was unlikely that he had done so now without good reason.

Ashenden asked himself whether this event had anything to do with the
unusual presence in the dining-room of Prince Ali. At that juncture it
was imprudent to ascribe any occurrence, however accidental it looked,
to the hazard of coincidence. Prince Ali was an Egyptian, a near
relation of the Khedive, who had fled his country when the Khedive was
deposed. He was a bitter enemy of the English and was known to be
actively engaged in stirring up trouble in Egypt. The week before, the
Khedive in great secrecy had passed three days at the hotel and the pair
of them had held constant meetings in the prince's apartments. He was a
little fat man with a heavy black moustache. He was living with his two
daughters and a certain pasha, Mustapha by name, who was his secretary
and managed his affairs. The four of them were now dining together; they
drank a great deal of champagne, but sat in a stolid silence. The two
princesses were emancipated young women who spent their nights dancing
in restaurants with the bloods of Geneva. They were short and stout,
with fine black eyes and heavy sallow faces; and they were dressed with
a rich loudness that suggested the Fish-market at Cairo rather than the
Rue de la Paix. His Highness usually ate upstairs but the princesses
dined every evening in the public dining-room: they were chaperoned
vaguely by a little old Englishwoman, a Miss King, who had been their
governess; but she sat at a table by herself and they appeared to pay no
attention to her. Once Ashenden, going along a corridor, had come upon
the elder of the two fat princesses berating the governess in French
with a violence that took his breath away. She was shouting at the top
of her voice and suddenly smacked the old woman's face. When she caught
sight of Ashenden she gave him a furious look and flinging into her room
slammed the door. He walked on as though he had noticed nothing.

On his arrival Ashenden had tried to scrape acquaintance with Miss King,
but she had received his advances not merely with frigidity but with
churlishness. He had begun by taking off his hat when he met her, and
she had given him a stiff bow, then he had addressed her and she had
answered with such brevity that it was evident that she wished to have
nothing much to do with him. But it was not his business to be
discouraged, so with what assurance he could muster he took the first
opportunity to enter into conversation with her. She drew herself up and
said in French, but with an English accent:

"I don't wish to make acquaintance with strangers."

She turned her back on him and, next time he saw her, cut him dead.

She was a tiny woman, just a few little bones in a bag of wrinkled skin,
and her face was deeply furrowed. It was obvious that she wore a wig, it
was of a mousy brown, very elaborate and not always set quite straight,
and she was heavily made up, with great patches of scarlet on her
withered cheeks and brilliantly red lips. She dressed fantastically in
gay clothes that looked as though they had been bought higgledy-piggledy
from an old-clothes shop and in the day-time she wore enormous,
extravagantly girlish hats. She tripped along in very small smart shoes
with very high heels. Her appearance was so grotesque that it created
consternation rather than amusement. People turned in the street and
stared at her with open mouths.

Ashenden was told that Miss King had not been to England since she was
first engaged as governess of the prince's mother and he could not but
be amazed to think of all she must have seen during those long years in
the harems of Cairo. It was impossible to guess how old she was. How
many of those short Eastern lives must have run their course under her
eyes and what dark secrets must she have known! Ashenden wondered where
she came from; an exile from her own country for so long, she must
possess in it neither family nor friends: he knew that her sentiments
were anti-English and if she had answered him so rudely he surmised that
she had been told to be on her guard against him. She never spoke
anything but French. Ashenden wondered what it was she thought of as she
sat there, at luncheon and dinner by herself. He wondered if ever she
read. After meals she went straight upstairs and was never seen in the
public sitting-rooms. He wondered what she thought of those two
emancipated princesses who wore garish frocks and danced with strange
men in second-rate cafs. But when Miss King passed him on her way out
of the dining-room it seemed to Ashenden that her mask of a face
scowled. She appeared actively to dislike him. Her gaze met his and the
pair of them looked at one another for a moment; he imagined that she
tried to put into her stare an unspoken insult. It would have been
pleasantly absurd in that painted, withered visage if it had not been
for some reason rather oddly pathetic.

But now the Baroness de Higgins, having finished her dinner, gathered up
her handkerchief and her bag, and with waiters bowing on either side
sailed down the spacious room. She stopped at Ashenden's table. She
looked magnificent.

"I'm so glad you can play bridge to-night," she said in perfect English,
with no more than a trace of German accent. "Will you come to my
sitting-room when you are ready and have your coffee?"

"What a lovely dress," said Ashenden.

"It is frightful. I have nothing to wear, I don't know what I shall do
now that I cannot go to Paris. Those horrible Prussians," and her r's
grew guttural as she raised her voice, "why did they want to drag my
poor country into this terrible war?"

She gave a sigh, and a flashing smile, and sailed on. Ashenden was among
the last to finish and when he left the dining-room it was almost empty.
As he walked past Count Holzminden, Ashenden feeling very gay hazarded
the shadow of a wink. The German agent could not be quite sure of it and
if he suspected it might rack his brains to discover what mystery it
portended. Ashenden walked up to the second floor and knocked at the
baroness's door.

"_Entrez, entrez_," she said and flung it open.

She shook both his hands with cordiality and drew him into the room. He
saw that the two persons who were to make the four had already arrived.
They were Prince Ali and his secretary. Ashenden was astounded.

"Allow me to introduce Mr. Ashenden to Your Highness," said the
baroness, speaking in her fluent French.

Ashenden bowed and took the proffered hand. The prince gave him a quick
look, but did not speak. Madame de Higgins went on:

"I do not know if you have met the Pasha."

"I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Ashenden," said the
prince's secretary, warmly shaking his hand. "Our beautiful baroness has
talked to us of your bridge and His Highness is devoted to the game.
_N'est ce pas, Altesse?_"

"_Oui, oui_," said the prince.

Mustapha Pasha was a huge fat fellow, of forty-five perhaps, with large
mobile eyes and a big black moustache. He wore a dinner jacket with a
large diamond in his shirt-front and the _tarboosh_ of his country. He
was exceedingly voluble, and the words tumbled out of his mouth
tumultuously, like marbles out of a bag. He took pains to be extremely
civil to Ashenden. The prince sat in silence, looking at Ashenden
quietly from under his heavy eyelids. He seemed shy.

"I have not seen you at the club, _Monsieur_," said the pasha. "Do you
not like baccarat?"

"I play but seldom."

"The baroness, who has read everything, tells me that you are a
remarkable writer. Unfortunately I do not read English."

The baroness paid Ashenden some very fulsome compliments to which he
listened with a proper and grateful politeness, and then, having
provided her guests with coffee and liqueurs, she produced the cards.
Ashenden could not but wonder why he had been asked to play. He had (he
flattered himself) few illusions about himself, and so far as bridge was
concerned none. He knew that he was a good player of the second class,
but he had played often enough with the best players in the world to
know that he was not in the same street with them. The game played now
was contract, with which he was not very familiar, and the stakes were
high; but the game was obviously but a pretext and Ashenden had no
notion what other game was being played under the rose. It might be that
knowing he was a British agent the prince and his secretary had desired
to see him in order to find out what sort of person he was. Ashenden had
felt for a day or two that something was in the air and this meeting
confirmed his suspicions, but he had not the faintest notion of what
nature this something was. His spies had told him of late nothing that
signified. He was now persuaded that he owed that visit of the Swiss
police to the kindly intervention of the baroness and it looked as
though the bridge-party had been arranged when it was discovered that
the detectives had been able to do nothing. The notion was mysterious,
but diverting, and as Ashenden played one rubber after another, joining
in the incessant conversation, he watched what was said by himself no
less closely than what was said by the others. The war was spoken of a
good deal and the baroness and the pasha expressed very anti-German
sentiments. The baroness's heart was in England whence her family (the
stable-boy from Yorkshire) had sprung and the pasha looked upon Paris as
his spiritual home. When the pasha talked of Montmartre and its life by
night the prince was roused from his silence.

"_C'est une bien belle ville, Paris_," he said.

"The Prince has a beautiful apartment there," said his secretary, "with
beautiful pictures and life-sized statues."

Ashenden explained that he had the greatest sympathy for the national
aspirations of Egypt and that he looked upon Vienna as the most pleasing
capital in Europe. He was as friendly to them as they were to him. But
if they were under the impression that they would get any information
out of him that they had not already seen in the Swiss papers he had a
notion that they were mistaken. At one moment he had a suspicion that he
was being sounded upon the possibility of selling himself. It was done
so discreetly that he could not be quite sure, but he had a feeling that
a suggestion floated in the air that a clever writer could do his
country a good turn and make a vast amount of money for himself if he
cared to enter into an arrangement that would bring to a troubled world
the peace that every humane man must so sincerely desire. It was plain
that nothing very much would be said that first evening, but Ashenden as
evasively as he could, more by general amiability than by words, tried
to indicate that he was willing to hear more of the subject. While he
talked with the pasha and the beautiful Austrian he was conscious that
the watchful eyes of Prince Ali were upon him, and had an uneasy
suspicion that they read too much of his thoughts. He felt rather than
knew that the prince was an able and astute man. It was possible that
after he left them the prince would tell the other two that they were
wasting their time and there was nothing to be done with Ashenden.

Soon after midnight, a rubber having been finished, the prince rose from
the table.

"It is getting late," he said, "and Mr. Ashenden has doubtless much to
do to-morrow. We must not keep him up."

Ashenden looked upon this as a signal to take himself off. He left the
three together to discuss the situation and retired not a little
mystified. He could only trust that they were no less puzzled than he.
When he got to his room he suddenly realised that he was dog-tired. He
could hardly keep his eyes open while he undressed, and the moment he
flung himself into bed he fell asleep.

He would have sworn that he had not been asleep five minutes when he was
dragged back to wakefulness by a knocking at the door. He listened for a
moment.

"Who is it?"

"It's the maid. Open. I have something to say to you."

Cursing, Ashenden turned on his light, ran a hand through his thinning
and rumpled hair (for like Julius Csar he disliked exposing an
unbecoming baldness) and unlocked and opened the door. Outside it stood
a tousled Swiss maid. She wore no apron and looked as though she had
thrown on her clothes in a hurry.

"The old English lady, the governess of the Egyptian princesses, is
dying and she wants to see you."

"Me?" said Ashenden. "It's impossible. I don't know her. She was all
right this evening."

He was confused and spoke his thoughts as they came to him.

"She asks for you. The doctor says, will you come. She cannot last much
longer."

"It must be a mistake. She can't want me."

"She said your name and the number of your room. She says quick, quick."

Ashenden shrugged his shoulders. He went back into his room to put on
slippers and a dressing-gown, and as an after-thought dropped a small
revolver into his pocket. Ashenden believed much more in his acuteness
than in a firearm, which is apt to go off at the wrong time and make a
noise, but there are moments when it gives you confidence to feel your
fingers round its butt, and this sudden summons seemed to him
exceedingly mysterious. It was ridiculous to suppose that those two
cordial stout Egyptian gentlemen were laying some sort of trap for him,
but in the work upon which Ashenden was engaged the dullness of routine
was apt now and again to slip quite shamelessly into the melodrama of
the sixties. Just as passion will make use brazenly of the hackneyed
phrase, so will chance show itself insensitive to the triteness of the
literary convention.

Miss King's room was two floors higher than Ashenden's, and as he
accompanied the chamber-maid along the corridor and up the stairs he
asked her what was the matter with the old governess. She was flurried
and stupid.

"I think she has had a stroke. I don't know. The night-porter woke me
and said Monsieur Bridet wanted me to get up at once."

Monsieur Bridet was the assistant-manager.

"What is the time?" asked Ashenden.

"It must be three o'clock."

They arrived at Miss King's door and the maid knocked. It was opened by
Monsieur Bridet. He had evidently been roused from his sleep; he wore
slippers on his bare feet, grey trousers and a frock-coat over his
pyjamas. He looked absurd. His hair as a rule plastered neatly on his
head stood on end. He was extremely apologetic.

"A thousand excuses for disturbing you, Monsieur Ashenden, but she kept
asking for you and the doctor said you should be sent for."

"It doesn't matter at all."

Ashenden walked in. It was a small back-room and all the lights were on.
The windows were closed and the curtains drawn. It was intensely hot.
The doctor, a bearded, grizzled Swiss, was standing at the bedside.
Monsieur Bridet, notwithstanding his costume and his evident harassment,
found in himself the presence of mind to remain the attentive manager,
and with ceremony effected the proper introduction.

"This is Mr. Ashenden, for whom Miss King has been asking. Dr. Arbos of
the Faculty of Medicine of Geneva."

Without a word the doctor pointed to the bed. On it lay Miss King. It
gave Ashenden a shock to look at her. She wore a large white cotton
nightcap (on entering Ashenden had noticed the brown wig on a stand on
the dressing-table) tied under the chin and a white, voluminous
nightdress that came high up in the neck. Nightcap and nightdress
belonged to a past age and reminded you of Cruikshank's illustrations to
the novels of Charles Dickens. Her face was greasy still with the cream
she had used before going to bed to remove her make-up, but she had
removed it summarily and there were streaks of black on her eyebrows and
of red on her cheeks. She looked very small, lying in the bed, no larger
than a child, and immensely old.

"She must be well over eighty," thought Ashenden.

She did not look human, but like a doll, the caricature of an old, old
witch that an ironic toymaker had amused himself with modelling. She lay
perfectly still on her back, the tiny little body hardly marked under
the flatness of the blanket, her face even smaller than usual because
she had removed her teeth; and you would have thought she was dead but
for the black eyes, strangely large in the shrunken mask, that stared
unblinkingly. Ashenden thought their expression changed when she saw
him.

"Well, Miss King, I'm sorry to see you like this," he said with forced
cheerfulness.

"She cannot speak," said the doctor. "She had another little stroke when
the maid went to fetch you. I have just given her an injection. She may
partly recover the use of her tongue in a little while. She has
something to say to you."

"I will gladly wait," said Ashenden.

He fancied that in those dark eyes he saw a look of relief. For a moment
or two the four of them stood round the bed and stared at the dying
woman.

"Well, if there is nothing I can do, I may just as well go back to bed,"
said Monsieur Bridet then.

"_Allez, mon ami_," said the doctor. "You can do nothing."

Monsieur Bridet turned to Ashenden.

"May I have a word with you?" he asked.

"Certainly."

The doctor noticed a sudden fear in Miss King's eyes.

"Do not be alarmed," he said kindly. "Monsieur Ashenden is not going. He
will stay as long as you wish."

The assistant-manager took Ashenden to the door and partly closed it so
that those within should not hear his undertones.

"I can count on your discretion, Monsieur Ashenden, can I not? It is a
very disagreeable thing to have anyone die in a hotel. The other guests
do not like it and we must do all we can to prevent their knowing. I
shall have the body removed the first possible moment and I shall be
extremely obliged if you will not say that there has been a death."

"You can have every confidence in me," said Ashenden.

"It is very unfortunate that the manager should be away for the night. I
am afraid he will be exceedingly displeased. Of course if it had been
possible I would have sent for an ambulance and had her taken to the
hospital, but the doctor said she might die before we got her downstairs
and absolutely refused to let me. It is not my fault if she dies in the
hotel."

"Death so often chooses its moments without consideration," murmured
Ashenden.

"After all she is an old woman, she should have died years ago. What did
this Egyptian prince want to have a governess of that age for? He ought
to have sent her back to her own country. These Orientals, they are
always giving trouble."

"Where is the prince now?" asked Ashenden. "She has been in his service
for many years. Ought you not to wake him?"

"He is not in the hotel. He went out with his secretary. He may be
playing baccarat. I do not know. Anyhow I cannot send all over Geneva to
find him."

"And the princesses?"

"They have not come in. They seldom return to the hotel till dawn. They
are mad about dancing. I do not know where they are; in any case they
would not thank me for dragging them away from their diversions because
their governess has had a stroke. I know what they are. The night-porter
will tell them when they arrive and then they can please themselves. She
does not want them. When the night-porter fetched me and I went into her
room I asked where His Highness was and she cried with all her strength:
no, no."

"She could talk then?"

"Yes, after a fashion, but the thing that surprised me was that she
spoke in English. She always insisted on talking French. You know, she
hated the English."

"What did she want with me?"

"That I cannot tell you. She said she had something that she must say to
you at once. It is funny, she knew the number of your room. At first
when she asked for you I would not let them send. I cannot have my
clients disturbed in the middle of the night because a crazy old woman
asks for them. You have the right to your sleep, I imagine. But when the
doctor came he insisted. She gave us no peace and when I said she must
wait till morning she cried."

Ashenden looked at the assistant-manager. He seemed to find nothing at
all touching in the scene he related.

"The doctor asked who you were and when I told him he said that perhaps
she wished to see you because you were a compatriot."

"Perhaps," said Ashenden dryly.

"Well, I shall try to get a little sleep. I shall give the night-porter
orders to wake me when everything is over. Fortunately the nights are
long now and if everything goes well we may be able to get the body away
before it is light."

Ashenden went back into the room and immediately the dark eyes of the
dying woman fixed upon him. He felt that it was incumbent upon him to
say something, but as he spoke he reflected on the foolish way in which
one speaks to the sick.

"I'm afraid you're feeling very ill, Miss King."

It seemed to him that a flash of anger crossed her eyes and Ashenden
could not but imagine that she was exasperated by his futile words.

"You do not mind waiting?" asked the doctor.

"Of course not."

It appeared that the night-porter had been roused by the ringing of the
telephone from Miss King's room, but on listening could get no one to
speak. The bell continued to ring, so he went upstairs and knocked at
the door. He entered with his pass-key and found Miss King lying on the
floor. The telephone had fallen too. It looked as though, feeling ill,
she had taken off the receiver to call for help and then collapsed. The
night-porter hurried to fetch the assistant-manager and together they
had lifted her back into bed. Then the maid was wakened and the doctor
sent for. It gave Ashenden a queer feeling to listen to the doctor
giving him these facts in Miss King's hearing. He spoke as though she
could not understand his French. He spoke as though she were already
dead.

Then the doctor said:

"Well, there is really nothing more that I can do. It is useless for me
to stay. I can be rung up if there is any change."

Ashenden, knowing that Miss King might remain in that condition for
hours, shrugged his shoulders.

"Very well."

The doctor patted her raddled cheek as though she were a child.

"You must try to sleep. I will come back in the morning."

He packed up the despatch-case in which he had his medical appliances,
washed his hands and shuffled himself into a heavy coat. Ashenden
accompanied him to the door and as he shook hands the doctor gave his
prognosis in a pout of his bearded mouth. Ashenden, coming back, looked
at the maid. She sat on the edge of a chair, uneasily, as though in the
presence of death she feared to presume. Her broad, ugly face was
bloated with fatigue.

"There's no use in your staying up," Ashenden said to her. "Why don't
you go to bed?"

"_Monsieur_ wouldn't like to remain here alone. Somebody must stay with
him."

"But good heavens, why? You have your day's work to do to-morrow."

"In any case I have to get up at five."

"Then try to get a little sleep now. You can give me a look in when you
get up. _Allez._"

She rose heavily to her feet.

"As the gentleman wishes. But I will stay very willingly."

Ashenden smiled and shook his head.

"_Bonsoir, ma pauvre mademoiselle_," said the maid.

She went out and Ashenden was left alone. He sat by the bedside and
again his eyes met Miss King's. It was embarrassing to encounter that
unshrinking stare.

"Don't worry yourself, Miss King. You've had a slight stroke. I'm sure
your speech will come back to you in a minute."

He felt certain then that he saw in those dark eyes a desperate effort
to speak. He could not be mistaken. The mind was shaken by desire, but
the paralysed body was incapable of obedience. For her disappointment
expressed itself quite plainly, tears came to her eyes and ran down her
cheeks. Ashenden took out his handkerchief and dried them.

"Don't distress yourself, Miss King. Have a little patience and I'm sure
you'll be able to say anything you want."

He did not know if it was his fancy that he read in her eyes now the
despairing thought that she had not the time to wait. Perhaps it was
only that he ascribed to her the notions that came to himself. On the
dressing-table were the governess's poor little toilet things,
silver-backed embossed brushes and a silver mirror, in a corner stood a
shabby black trunk and on the top of the wardrobe a large hat-box in
shiny leather. It all looked poor and mean in that trim hotel room, with
its suite in highly varnished rose-wood. The glare was intolerable.

"Wouldn't you be more comfortable if I turned out some of the lights?"
asked Ashenden.

He put out all the lamps but the one by the bedside and then sat down
again. He had a longing to smoke. Once more his eyes were held by those
other eyes in which was all that remained alive of that old, old woman.
He felt certain that she had something that she wanted urgently to say
to him. But what was it? What was it? Perhaps she had asked him only
because, feeling death near, she had had a sudden yearning, she the
exile of so many years, to die with someone of her own people, so long
forgotten, by her side. That was what the doctor thought. But why should
she have sent for him? There were other English people in the hotel.
There was an old pair, a retired Indian Civilian and his wife, to whom
it seemed more natural that she should turn. No one could be more of a
stranger to her than Ashenden.

"Have you got something to say to me, Miss King?"

He tried to read an answer in her eyes. They continued to stare at him
meaningly, but what the meaning was he had no notion.

"Don't be afraid I shall go. I will stay as long as you want me."

Nothing, nothing. The black eyes, and as he looked at them they seemed
to glow mysteriously as though there were fire behind them, the eyes
continued to hold him with that insistent stare. Then Ashenden asked
himself if she had sent for him because she knew that he was a British
agent. Was it possible that at that last moment she had had some
unexpected revulsion of feeling from everything that had signified to
her for so many years? Perhaps at the moment of death a love for her
country, a love that had been dead for half a century, awakened again in
her--("I'm silly to fancy these idiotic things," thought Ashenden, "it's
cheap and tawdry fiction.")--and she had been seized with a desire to do
something for what was after all her own. No one was quite himself just
then and patriotism (in peace-time an attitude best left to politicians,
publicists and fools, but in the dark days of war an emotion that can
wring the heart-strings), patriotism made one do odd things. It was
curious that she had been unwilling to see the prince and his daughters.
Did she on a sudden hate them? Did she feel herself a traitor on their
account and now at the last hour wish to make amends. ("It's all very
improbable, she's just a silly old maid who ought to have died years
ago.") But you couldn't ignore the improbable. Ashenden, his
common-sense protesting, became strangely convinced that she had some
secret that she wished to impart to him. She had sent for him knowing
who he was because he could make use of it. She was dying and feared
nothing. But was it really important? Ashenden leaned forward trying
more eagerly to read what her eyes had to say. Perhaps it was only some
trivial thing that was important only in her addled old brain. Ashenden
was sick of the people who saw spies in every inoffensive passer-by and
plots in the most innocent combination of circumstances. It was a
hundred to one that if Miss King recovered her speech she would tell him
something that could be of no use to anybody.

But how much must that old woman know! With her sharp eyes and sharp
ears she must have had the chance to discover matters that were closely
hidden from persons that seemed less insignificant. Ashenden thought
again how he had the impression that something of real consequence was
being prepared round about him. It was curious that Holzminden should
have come to the hotel that day; and why had Prince Ali and the pasha,
those wild gamblers, wasted an evening in playing contract-bridge with
him? It might be that some new plan was in question, it might be that
the very greatest affairs were afoot, and perhaps what the old woman had
to say might make all the difference in the world. It might mean defeat
or victory. It might mean anything. And there she lay powerless to
speak. For a long time Ashenden stared at her in silence.

"Has it got anything to do with the war, Miss King?" he said on a
sudden, loudly.

Something passed through her eyes and a tremor shot across her little
old face. It was a distinct movement. Something strange and horrible was
happening and Ashenden held his breath. The tiny frail body was suddenly
convulsed and that old woman, as though by a final desperate effort of
will, raised herself up in the bed. Ashenden sprang forward to support
her.

"England," she said, just that one word, in a harsh cracked voice, and
fell back in his arms.

When he laid her down on the pillow, he saw that she was dead.




THE HAIRLESS MEXICAN


"Do you like macaroni?" said R.

"What do you mean by macaroni?" answered Ashenden. "It is like asking me
if I like poetry. I like Keats and Wordsworth and Verlaine and Goethe.
When you say macaroni, do you mean _spaghetti, tagliatelli, vermicelli,
fettucini, tufali, farfalli,_ or just macaroni?"

"Macaroni," replied R., a man of few words.

"I like all simple things, boiled eggs, oysters and caviare, _truite au
bleu_, grilled salmon, roast lamb (the saddle by preference), cold
grouse, treacle tart and rice pudding. But of all simple things the only
one I can eat day in and day out, not only without disgust but with the
eagerness of an appetite unimpaired by excess, is macaroni."

"I am glad of that because I want you to go down to Italy."

Ashenden had come from Geneva to meet R. at Lyons and having got there
before him had spent the afternoon wandering about the dull, busy and
prosaic streets of that thriving city. They were sitting now in a
restaurant on the _place_ to which Ashenden had taken R. on his arrival
because it was reputed to give you the best food in that part of France.
But since in so crowded a resort (for the Lyonese like a good dinner)
you never knew what inquisitive ears were pricked up to catch any useful
piece of information that might fall from your lips, they had contented
themselves with talking of indifferent things. They had reached the end
of an admirable repast.

"Have another glass of brandy?" said R.

"No, thank you," answered Ashenden, who was of an abstemious turn.

"One should do what one can to mitigate the rigours of war," remarked R.
as he took the bottle and poured out a glass for himself and another for
Ashenden.

Ashenden, thinking it would be affectation to protest, let the gesture
pass, but felt bound to remonstrate with his chief on the unseemly
manner in which he held the bottle.

"In my youth I was always taught that you should take a woman by the
waist and a bottle by the neck," he murmured.

"I am glad you told me. I shall continue to hold a bottle by the waist
and give women a wide berth."

Ashenden did not know what to reply to this and so remained silent. He
sipped his brandy and R. called for his bill. It was true that he was an
important person, with power to make or mar quite a large number of his
fellows, and his opinions were listened to by those who held in their
hands the fate of empires; but he could never face the business of
tipping a waiter without an embarrassment that was obvious in his
demeanour. He was tortured by the fear of making a fool of himself by
giving too much or of exciting the waiter's icy scorn by giving too
little. When the bill came he passed some hundred-franc notes over to
Ashenden and said:

"Pay him, will you? I can never understand French figures."

The groom brought them their hats and coats.

"Would you like to go back to the hotel?" asked Ashenden.

"We might as well."

It was early in the year, but the weather had suddenly turned warm, and
they walked with their coats over their arms. Ashenden knowing that R.
liked a sitting-room had engaged one for him and to this, when they
reached the hotel, they went. The hotel was old-fashioned and the
sitting-room was vast. It was furnished with a heavy mahogany suite
upholstered in green velvet and the chairs were set primly round a large
table. On the walls, covered with a dingy paper, were large steel
engravings of the battles of Napoleon, and from the ceiling hung an
enormous chandelier once used for gas, but now fitted with electric
bulbs. It flooded the cheerless room with a cold, hard light.

"This is very nice," said R., as they went in.

"Not exactly cosy," suggested Ashenden.

"No, but it looks as though it were the best room in the place. It all
looks very _good_ to me."

He drew one of the green velvet chairs away from the table and, sitting
down, lit a cigar. He loosened his belt and unbuttoned his tunic.

"I always thought I liked a cheroot better than anything," he said, "but
since the war I've taken quite a fancy to Havanas. Oh well, I suppose it
can't last for ever." The corners of his mouth flickered with the
beginning of a smile. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good."

Ashenden took two chairs, one to sit on and one for his feet, and when
R. saw him he said: "That's not a bad idea," and swinging another chair
out from the table with a sigh of relief put his boots on it.

"What room is that next door?" he asked.

"That's your bedroom."

"And on the other side?"

"A banqueting hall."

R. got up and strolled slowly about the room and when he passed the
windows, as though in idle curiosity, peeped through the heavy rep
curtains that covered them, and then returning to his chair once more
comfortably put his feet up.

"It's just as well not to take any more risk than one need," he said.

He looked at Ashenden reflectively. There was a slight smile on his thin
lips, but the pale eyes, too closely set together, remained cold and
steely. R.'s stare would have been embarrassing if Ashenden had not been
used to it. He knew that R. was considering how he would broach the
subject that he had in mind. The silence must have lasted for two or
three minutes.

"I'm expecting a fellow to come and see me to-night," he said at last.
"His train gets in about ten." He gave his wrist-watch a glance. "He's
known as the Hairless Mexican."

"Why?"

"Because he's hairless and because he's a Mexican."

"The explanation seems perfectly satisfactory," said Ashenden.

"He'll tell you all about himself. He talks nineteen to the dozen. He
was on his uppers when I came across him. It appears that he was mixed
up in some revolution in Mexico and had to get out with nothing but the
clothes he stood up in. They were rather the worse for wear when I found
him. If you want to please him you call him General. He claims to have
been a general in Huerta's army, at least I think it was Huerta; anyhow
he says that if things had gone right he would be Minister of War now
and no end of a big bug. I've found him very useful. Not a bad chap. The
only thing I really have against him is that he will use scent."

"And where do I come in?" asked Ashenden.

"He's going down to Italy. I've got rather a ticklish job for him to do
and I want you to stand by. I'm not keen on trusting him with a lot of
money. He's a gambler and he's a bit too fond of the girls. I suppose
you came from Geneva on your Ashenden passport?"

"Yes."

"I've got another for you, a diplomatic one, by the way, in the name of
Somerville with visas for France and Italy. I think you and he had
better travel together. He's an amusing cove when he gets going, and I
think you ought to know one another."

"What is the job?"

"I haven't yet quite made up my mind how much it's desirable for you to
know about it."

Ashenden did not reply. They eyed one another in a detached manner, as
though they were strangers who sat together in a railway carriage and
each wondered who and what the other was.

"In your place I'd leave the General to do most of the talking. I
wouldn't tell him more about yourself than you find absolutely
necessary. He won't ask you any questions, I can promise you that, I
think he's by way of being a gentleman after his own fashion."

"By the way, what is his real name?"

"I always call him Manuel, I don't know that he likes it very much, his
name is Manuel Carmona."

"I gather by what you have not said that he's an unmitigated scoundrel."

R. smiled with his pale-blue eyes.

"I don't know that I'd go quite so far as that. He hasn't had the
advantages of a public-school education. His ideas of playing the game
are not quite the same as yours or mine. I don't know that I'd leave a
gold cigarette-case about when he was in the neighbourhood, but if he
lost money to you at poker and had pinched your cigarette-case he would
immediately pawn it to pay you. If he had half a chance he'd seduce your
wife, but if you were up against it he'd share his last crust with you.
The tears will run down his face when he hears Gounod's 'Ave Maria' on
the gramophone, but if you insult his dignity he'll shoot you like a
dog. It appears that in Mexico it's an insult to get between a man and
his drink and he told me himself that once when a Dutchman who didn't
know passed between him and the bar he whipped out his revolver and shot
him dead."

"Did nothing happen to him?"

"No, it appears that he belongs to one of the best families. The matter
was hushed up and it was announced in the papers that the Dutchman had
committed suicide. He did practically. I don't believe the Hairless
Mexican has a great respect for human life."

Ashenden, who had been looking intently at R., started a little and he
watched more carefully than ever his chief's tired, lined and yellow
face. He knew that he did not make this remark for nothing.

"Of course a lot of nonsense is talked about the value of human life.
You might just as well say that the counters you use at poker have an
intrinsic value, their value is what you like to make it; for a general
giving battle, men are merely counters and he's a fool if he allows
himself for sentimental reasons to look upon them as human beings."

"But, you see, they're counters that feel and think and if they believe
they're being squandered they are quite capable of refusing to be used
any more."

"Anyhow, that's neither here nor there. We've had information that a man
called Constantine Andreadi is on his way from Constantinople with
certain documents that we want to get hold of. He's a Greek. He's an
agent of Enver Pasha and Enver has great confidence in him. He's given
him verbal messages that are too secret and too important to be put on
paper. He's sailing from the Pirus, on a boat called the _Ithaca_, and
will land at Brindisi on his way to Rome. He's to deliver his despatches
at the German Embassy and impart what he has to say personally to the
ambassador."

"I see."

At this time Italy was still neutral; the Central Powers were straining
every nerve to keep her so; the Allies were doing what they could to
induce her to declare war on their side.

"We don't want to get into any trouble with the Italian authorities, it
might be fatal, but we've got to prevent Andreadi from getting to Rome."

"At any cost?" asked Ashenden.

"Money's no object," answered R., his lips twisting into a sardonic
smile.

"What do you propose to do?"

"I don't think you need bother your head about that."

"I have a fertile imagination," said Ashenden.

"I want you to go down to Naples with the Hairless Mexican. He's very
keen on getting back to Cuba. It appears that his friends are organising
a show and he wants to be as near at hand as possible so that he can hop
over to Mexico when things are ripe. He needs cash. I've brought money
down with me, in American dollars, and I shall give it to you to-night.
You'd better carry it on your person."

"Is it much?"

"It's a good deal, but I thought it would be easier for you if it wasn't
bulky, so I've got it in thousand-dollar notes. You will give the
Hairless Mexican the notes in return for the documents that Andreadi is
bringing."

A question sprang to Ashenden's lips, but he did not ask it. He asked
another instead.

"Does this fellow understand what he has to do?"

"Perfectly."

There was a knock at the door. It opened and the Hairless Mexican stood
before them.

"I have arrived. Good-evening, Colonel. I am enchanted to see you."

R. got up.

"Had a nice journey, Manuel? This is Mr. Somerville, who's going to
Naples with you, General Carmona."

"Pleased to meet you, sir."

He shook Ashenden's hand with such force that he winced.

"Your hands are like iron, General," he murmured.

The Mexican gave them a glance.

"I had them manicured this morning. I do not think they were very well
done. I like my nails much more highly polished."

They were cut to a point, stained bright red, and to Ashenden's mind
shone like mirrors. Though it was not cold the General wore a fur coat
with an astrakhan collar and with his every movement a wave of perfume
was wafted to your nose.

"Take off your coat, General, and have a cigar," said R.

The Hairless Mexican was a tall man, and though thinnish gave you the
impression of being very powerful; he was smartly dressed in a blue
serge suit, with a silk handkerchief neatly tucked in the breast pocket
of his coat, and he wore a gold bracelet on his wrist. His features were
good, but a little larger than life-size, and his eyes were brown and
lustrous. He was quite hairless. His yellow skin had the smoothness of a
woman's and he had no eyebrows nor eyelashes; he wore a pale brown wig,
rather long, and the locks were arranged in artistic disorder. This and
the unwrinkled sallow face, combined with his dandified dress, gave him
an appearance that was at first glance a trifle horrifying. He was
repulsive and ridiculous, but you could not take your eyes from him.
There was a sinister fascination in his strangeness.

He sat down and hitched up his trousers so that they should not bag at
the knee.

"Well, Manuel, have you been breaking any hearts to-day?" said R. with
his sardonic joviality.

The General turned to Ashenden.

"Our good friend, the Colonel, envies me my successes with the fair sex.
I tell him he can have just as many as I if he will only listen to me.
Confidence, that is all you need. If you never fear a rebuff you will
never have one."

"Nonsense, Manuel, one has to have your way with the girls. There's
something about you that they can't resist."

The Hairless Mexican laughed with a self-satisfaction that he did not
try to disguise. He spoke English very well, with a Spanish accent, but
with an American intonation.

"But since you ask me, Colonel, I don't mind telling you that I got into
conversation on the train with a little woman who was coming to Lyons to
see her mother-in-law. She was not very young and she was thinner than I
like a woman to be, but she was possible, and she helped me to pass an
agreeable hour."

"Well, let's get to business," said R.

"I am at your service, Colonel." He gave Ashenden a glance. "Is Mr.
Somerville a military man?"

"No," said R., "he's an author."

"It takes all sorts to make a world, as you say. I am happy to make your
acquaintance, Mr. Somerville. I can tell you many stories that will
interest you; I am sure that we shall get on well together. You have a
sympathetic air. I am very sensitive to that. To tell you the truth I am
nothing but a bundle of nerves and if I am with a person who is
antipathetic to me I go all to pieces."

"I hope we shall have a pleasant journey," said Ashenden.

"When does our friend arrive at Brindisi?" asked the Mexican, turning to
R.

"He sails from the Pirus in the _Ithaca_ on the fourteenth. It's
probably some old tub, but you'd better get down to Brindisi in good
time."

"I agree with you."

R. got up and with his hands in his pockets sat on the edge of the
table. In his rather shabby uniform, his tunic unbuttoned, he looked a
slovenly creature beside the neat and well-dressed Mexican.

"Mr. Somerville knows practically nothing of the errand on which you are
going and I do not desire you to tell him anything. I think you had much
better keep your own counsel. He is instructed to give you the funds you
need for your work, but your actions are your own affair. If you need
his advice of course you can ask for it."

"I seldom ask other people's advice and never take it."

"And should you make a mess of things I trust you to keep Mr. Somerville
out of it. He must on no account be compromised."

"I am a man of honour, Colonel," answered the Hairless Mexican with
dignity, "and I would sooner let myself be cut in a thousand pieces than
betray my friends."

"That is what I have already told Mr. Somerville. On the other hand, if
everything pans out O.K. Mr. Somerville is instructed to give you the
sum we agreed on in return for the papers I spoke to you about. In what
manner you get them is no business of his."

"That goes without saying. There is only one thing I wish to make quite
plain; Mr. Somerville understands of course that I have not accepted the
mission with which you have entrusted me on account of the money?"

"Quite," replied R. gravely, looking him straight in the eyes.

"I am with the Allies body and soul, I cannot forgive the Germans for
outraging the neutrality of Belgium, and if I accept the money that you
have offered me it is because I am first and foremost a patriot. I can
trust Mr. Somerville implicitly, I suppose?"

R. nodded. The Mexican turned to Ashenden.

"An expedition is being arranged to free my unhappy country from the
tyrants that exploit and ruin it and every penny that I receive will go
on guns and cartridges. For myself I have no need of money; I am a
soldier and I can live on a crust and a few olives. There are only three
occupations that befit a gentleman, war, cards and women; it costs
nothing to sling a rifle over your shoulder and take to the
mountains--and that is real warfare, not this manoeuvring of battalions
and firing of great guns--women love me for myself, and I generally win
at cards."

Ashenden found the flamboyance of this strange creature, with his
scented handkerchief and his gold bracelet, very much to his taste. This
was far from being just the man in the street (whose tyranny we rail at
but in the end submit to) and to the amateur of the baroque in human
nature he was a rarity to be considered with delight. He was a purple
patch on two legs. Notwithstanding his wig and his hairless big face, he
had undoubtedly an air; he was absurd, but he did not give you the
impression that he was a man to be trifled with. His self-complacency
was magnificent.

"Where is your kit, Manuel?" asked R.

It was possible that a frown for an instant darkened the Mexican's brow
at the abrupt question that seemed a little contemptuously to brush to
one side his eloquent statement, but he gave no other sign of
displeasure. Ashenden suspected that he thought the Colonel a barbarian
insensitive to the finer emotions.

"I left it at the station."

"Mr. Somerville has a diplomatic passport so that he can get it through
with his own things at the frontier without examination if you like."

"I have very little, a few suits and some linen, but perhaps it would be
as well if Mr. Somerville would take charge of it. I bought half a dozen
suits of silk pyjamas before I left Paris."

"And what about you?" asked R., turning to Ashenden.

"I've only got one bag. It's in my room."

"You'd better have it taken to the station while there's someone about.
Your train goes at one ten."

"Oh?"

This was the first Ashenden had heard that they were to start that
night.

"I think you'd better get down to Naples as soon as possible."

"Very well."

R. got up.

"I'm going to bed. I don't know what you fellows want to do."

"I shall take a walk about Lyons," said the Hairless Mexican. "I am
interested in life. Lend me a hundred francs, Colonel, will you? I have
no change on me."

R. took out his pocket-book and gave the General the note he asked for.
Then to Ashenden:

"What are you going to do? Wait here?"

"No," said Ashenden, "I shall go to the station and read."

"You'd both of you better have a whisky and soda before you go, hadn't
you? What about it, Manuel?"

"It is very kind of you, but I never drink anything but champagne and
brandy."

"Mixed?" asked R. dryly.

"Not necessarily," returned the other with gravity.

R. ordered brandy and soda and when it came, whereas he and Ashenden
helped themselves to both, the Hairless Mexican poured himself out three
parts of a tumbler of neat brandy and swallowed it in two noisy gulps.
He rose to his feet and put on his coat with the astrakhan collar,
seized in one hand his bold black hat and, with the gesture of a
romantic actor giving up the girl he loves to one more worthy of her,
held out the other to R.

"Well, Colonel, I will bid you good-night and pleasant dreams. I do not
expect that we shall meet again so soon."

"Don't make a hash of things, Manuel, and if you do, keep your mouth
shut."

"They tell me that in one of your colleges where the sons of gentlemen
are trained to become naval officers it is written in letters of gold:
There is no such word as impossible in the British Navy. I do not know
the meaning of the word failure."

"It has a good many synonyms," retorted R.

"I will meet you at the station, Mr. Somerville," said the Hairless
Mexican, and with a flourish left them.

R. looked at Ashenden with that little smile of his that always made his
face look so dangerously shrewd.

"Well, what d'you think of him?"

"You've got me beat," said Ashenden. "Is he a mountebank? He seems as
vain as a peacock. And with that frightful appearance can he really be
the lady's man he pretends? What makes you think you can trust him?"

R. gave a low chuckle and he washed his thin, old hands with imaginary
soap.

"I thought you'd like him. He's quite a character, isn't he? I think we
can trust him." R.'s eyes suddenly grew opaque. "I don't believe it
would pay him to double-cross us." He paused for a moment. "Anyhow,
we've got to risk it. I'll give you the tickets and the money and then
you can take yourself off; I'm all in and I want to go to bed."

Ten minutes later Ashenden set out for the station with his bag on a
porter's shoulder.

Having nearly two hours to wait he made himself comfortable in the
waiting-room. The light was good and he read a novel. When the time drew
near for the arrival of the train from Paris that was to take them
direct to Rome and the Hairless Mexican did not appear, Ashenden,
beginning to grow a trifle anxious, went out on the platform to look for
him. Ashenden suffered from that distressing malady known as train
fever: an hour before his train was due he began to have apprehensions
lest he should miss it; he was impatient with the porters who would
never bring his luggage down from his room in time and he could not
understand why the hotel bus cut it so fine; a block in the street would
drive him to frenzy and the languid movements of the station porters
infuriate him. The whole world seemed in a horrid plot to delay him;
people got in his way as he passed through the barriers; others, a long
string of them, were at the ticket-office getting tickets for other
trains than his and they counted their change with exasperating care;
his luggage took an interminable time to register; and then if he was
travelling with friends they would go to buy newspapers, or would take a
walk along the platform, and he was certain they would be left behind,
they would stop to talk to a casual stranger or suddenly be seized with
a desire to telephone and disappear at a run. In fact the universe
conspired to make him miss every train he wanted to take and he was not
happy unless he was settled in his corner, his things on the rack above
him, with a good half-hour to spare. Sometimes by arriving at the
station too soon he had caught an earlier train than the one he had
meant to, but that was nerve-racking and caused him all the anguish of
very nearly missing it.

The Rome express was signalled and there was no sign of the Hairless
Mexican; it came in and he was not to be seen. Ashenden became more and
more harassed. He walked quickly up and down the platform, looked in all
the waiting-rooms, went to the consigne where the luggage was left; he
could not find him. There were no sleeping-cars, but a number of people
got out and he took two seats in a first-class carriage. He stood by the
door, looking up and down the platform and up at the clock; it was
useless to go if his travelling companion did not turn up, and Ashenden
made up his mind to take his things out of the carriage as the porter
cried _en voiture_; but, by George! he would give the brute hell when he
found him. There were three minutes more, then two minutes, then one; at
that late hour there were few persons about and all who were travelling
had taken their seats. Then he saw the Hairless Mexican, followed by two
porters with his luggage and accompanied by a man in a bowler-hat, walk
leisurely on to the platform. He caught sight of Ashenden and waved to
him.

"Ah, my dear fellow, there you are, I wondered what had become of you."

"Good God, man, hurry up or we shall miss the train."

"I never miss a train. Have you got good seats? The _chef de gare_ has
gone for the night; this is his assistant."

The man in the bowler-hat took it off when Ashenden nodded to him.

"But this is an ordinary carriage. I am afraid I could not travel in
that." He turned to the stationmaster's assistant with an affable smile.
"You must do better for me than that, _mon cher_."

"_Certainement, mon gnral_, I will put you into a _salon-lit_. Of
course."

The assistant stationmaster led them along the train and opened the door
of an empty compartment where there were two beds. The Mexican eyed it
with satisfaction and watched the porters arrange the luggage.

"That will do very well. I am much obliged to you." He held out his hand
to the man in the bowler-hat. "I shall not forget you and next time I
see the Minister I will tell him with what civility you have treated
me."

"You are too good, General. I shall be very grateful."

A whistle was blown and the train started.

"This is better than an ordinary first-class carriage, I think, Mr.
Somerville," said the Mexican. "A good traveller should learn how to
make the best of things."

But Ashenden was still extremely cross.

"I don't know why the devil you wanted to cut it so fine. We should have
looked a pair of damned fools if we'd missed the train."

"My dear fellow, there was never the smallest chance of that. When I
arrived I told the stationmaster that I was General Carmona,
Commander-in-Chief of the Mexican Army, and that I had to stop off in
Lyons for a few hours to hold a conference with the British
Field-Marshal. I asked him to hold the train for me if I was delayed and
suggested that my government might see its way to conferring an order on
him. I have been to Lyons before, I like the girls here; they have not
the _chic_ of the Parisians, but they have something, there is no
denying that they have something. Will you have a mouthful of brandy
before you go to sleep?"

"No, thank you," said Ashenden morosely.

"I always drink a glass before going to bed, it settles the nerves."

He looked in his suitcase and without difficulty found a bottle. He put
it to his lips and had a long drink, wiped his mouth with the back of
his hand and lit a cigarette. Then he took off his boots and lay down.
Ashenden dimmed the light.

"I have never yet made up my mind," said the Hairless Mexican
reflectively, "whether it is pleasanter to go to sleep with the kisses
of a beautiful woman on your mouth or with a cigarette between your
lips. Have you ever been to Mexico? I will tell you about Mexico
to-morrow. Good-night."

Soon Ashenden heard from his steady breathing that he was asleep and in
a little while himself dozed off. Presently he woke. The Mexican, deep
in slumber, lay motionless; he had taken off his fur coat and was using
it as a blanket; he still wore his wig. Suddenly there was a jolt and
the train with a noisy grinding of brakes stopped; in the twinkling of
an eye, before Ashenden could realize that anything had happened, the
Mexican was on his feet with his hand to his hip.

"What is it?" he cried.

"Nothing. Probably only a signal against us."

The Mexican sat down heavily on his bed. Ashenden turned on the light.

"You wake quickly for such a sound sleeper," he said.

"You have to in my profession."

Ashenden would have liked to ask him whether this was murder, conspiracy
or commanding armies, but was not sure that it would be discreet. The
General opened his bag and took out the bottle.

"Will you have a nip?" he asked. "There is nothing like it when you wake
suddenly in the night."

When Ashenden refused he put the bottle once more to his lips and poured
a considerable quantity of liquor down his throat. He sighed and lit a
cigarette. Although Ashenden had seen him now drink nearly a bottle of
brandy, and it was probable that he had had a good deal more when he was
going about the town, he was certainly quite sober. Neither in his
manner nor in his speech was there any indication that he had drunk
during the evening anything but lemonade.

The train started and Ashenden again fell asleep. When he awoke it was
morning and turning round lazily he saw that the Mexican was awake too.
He was smoking a cigarette. The floor by his side was strewn with
burnt-out butts and the air was thick and grey. He had begged Ashenden
not to insist on opening a window, for he said the night air was
dangerous.

"I did not get up, because I was afraid of waking you. Will you do your
toilet first or shall I?"

"I'm in no hurry," said Ashenden.

"I am an old campaigner, it will not take me long. Do you wash your
teeth every day?"

"Yes," said Ashenden.

"So do I. It is a habit I learned in New York. I always think that a
fine set of teeth are an adornment to a man."

There was a wash-basin in the compartment and the General scrubbed his
teeth, with gurglings and garglings, energetically. Then he got a bottle
of eau-de-Cologne from his bag, poured some of it on a towel and rubbed
it over his face and hands. He took a comb and carefully arranged his
wig; either it had not moved in the night or else he had set it straight
before Ashenden awoke. He got another bottle out of his bag, with a
spray attached to it, and squeezing a bulb covered his shirt and coat
with a fine cloud of scent, did the same to his handkerchief, and then
with a beaming face, like a man who has done his duty by the world and
is well pleased, turned to Ashenden and said:

"Now I am ready to brave the day. I will leave my things for you, you
need not be afraid of the eau-de-Cologne, it is the best you can get in
Paris."

"Thank you very much," said Ashenden. "All I want is soap and water."

"Water? I never use water except when I have a bath. Nothing can be
worse for the skin."

When they approached the frontier, Ashenden, remembering the General's
instructive gesture when he was suddenly awakened in the night, said to
him:

"If you've got a revolver on you I think you'd better give it to me.
With my diplomatic passport they're not likely to search me, but they
might take it into their heads to go through you and we don't want to
have any bothers."

"It is hardly a weapon, it is only a toy," returned the Mexican, taking
out of his hip-pocket a fully loaded revolver of formidable dimensions.
"I do not like parting with it even for an hour, it gives me the feeling
that I am not fully dressed. But you are quite right, we do not want to
take any risks; I will give you my knife as well, I would always rather
use a knife than a revolver; I think it is a more elegant weapon."

"I dare say it is only a matter of habit," answered Ashenden. "Perhaps
you are more at home with a knife."

"Anyone can pull a trigger, but it needs a man to use a knife."

To Ashenden it looked as though it were in a single movement that he
tore open his waistcoat and from his belt snatched and opened a long
knife of murderous aspect. He handed it to Ashenden with a pleased smile
on his large, ugly and naked face.

"There's a pretty piece of work for you, Mr. Somerville. I've never seen
a better bit of steel in my life, it takes an edge like a razor and it's
strong; you can cut a cigarette-paper with it and you can hew down an
oak. There is nothing to get out of order and when it is closed it might
be the knife a schoolboy uses to cut notches in his desk."

He shut it with a click and Ashenden put it along with the revolver in
his pocket.

"Have you anything else?"

"My hands," replied the Mexican with arrogance, "but those I dare say
the Custom officials will not make trouble about."

Ashenden remembered the iron grip he had given him when they shook hands
and slightly shuddered. They were large and long and smooth; there was
not a hair on them or on the wrists, and with the pointed, rosy,
manicured nails there was really something sinister about them.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Ashenden and General Carmona went through the formalities at the
frontier independently and when they returned to their carriage Ashenden
handed back to his companion the revolver and the knife. He sighed.

"Now I feel more comfortable. What do you say to a game of cards?"

"I should like it," said Ashenden.

The Hairless Mexican opened his bag again and from a corner extracted a
greasy pack of French cards. He asked Ashenden whether he played
_cart_ and when Ashenden told him that he did not suggested piquet.
This was a game that Ashenden was not unfamiliar with, so they settled
the stakes and began. Since both were in favour of quick action, they
played the game of four hands, doubling the first and last. Ashenden had
good enough cards, but the General seemed notwithstanding always to have
better. Ashenden kept his eyes open and he was not careless of the
possibility that his antagonist might correct the inequalities of
chance, but he saw nothing to suggest that everything was not above
board. He lost game after game. He was capoted and rubiconed. The score
against him mounted up and up till he had lost something like a thousand
francs, which at that time was a tidy sum. The General smoked
innumerable cigarettes. He made them himself with a twist of the finger,
a lick of his tongue and incredible celerity. At last he flung himself
against the back of his seat.

"By the way, my friend, does the British Government pay your card losses
when you are on a mission?" he asked.

"It certainly doesn't."

"Well, I think you have lost enough. If it went down on your expense
account I would have proposed playing till we reached Rome, but you are
sympathetic to me. If it is your own money I do not want to win any more
of it."

He picked up the cards and put them aside. Ashenden somewhat ruefully
took out a number of notes and handed them to the Mexican. He counted
them and with his usual neatness put them carefully folded into his
pocket-book. Then, leaning forward, he patted Ashenden almost
affectionately on the knee.

"I like you, you are modest and unassuming, you have not the arrogance
of your countrymen, and I am sure that you will take my advice in the
spirit in which it is meant. Do not play piquet with people you don't
know."

Ashenden was somewhat mortified and perhaps his face showed it, for the
Mexican seized his hand.

"My dear fellow, I have not hurt your feelings? I would not do that for
the world. You do not play piquet worse than most piquet players. It is
not that. If we were going to be together longer I would teach you how
to win at cards. One plays cards to win money and there is no sense in
losing."

"I thought it was only in love and war that all things were fair," said
Ashenden, with a chuckle.

"Ah, I am glad to see you smile. That is the way to take a loss. I see
that you have good humour and good sense. You will go far in life. When
I get back to Mexico and am in possession of my estates again you must
come and stay with me. I will treat you like a king. You shall ride my
best horses, we will go to bull-fights together, and if there are girls
you fancy you have only to say the word and you shall have them."

He began telling Ashenden of the vast territories, the _haciendas_ and
the mines in Mexico, of which he had been dispossessed. He told him of
the feudal state in which he lived. It did not matter whether what he
said was true or not, for those sonorous phrases of his were fruity with
the rich-distilled perfumes of romance. He described a spacious life
that seemed to belong to another age and his eloquent gestures brought
before the mind's eye tawny distances and vast green plantations, great
herds of cattle and in the moonlit night the song of the blind singers
that melted in the air and the twanging of guitars.

"Everything I lost, everything. In Paris I was driven to earn a pittance
by giving Spanish lessons or showing Americans--_Americanos del Norte_,
I mean--the night life of the city. I who have flung away a thousand
_duros_ on a dinner have been forced to beg my bread like a blind
Indian. I who have taken pleasure in clasping a diamond bracelet round
the wrist of a beautiful woman have been forced to accept a suit of
clothes from a hag old enough to be my mother. Patience. Man is born to
trouble as the sparks fly upward, but misfortune cannot last for ever.
The time is ripe and soon we shall strike our blow."

He took up the greasy pack of cards and set them out in a number of
little piles.

"Let us see what the cards say. They never lie. Ah, if I had only had
greater faith in them I should have avoided the only action of my life
that has weighed heavily on me. My conscience is at ease. I did what any
man would do under the circumstances, but I regret that necessity forced
upon me an action that I would willingly have avoided."

He looked through the cards, set some of them on one side on a system
Ashenden did not understand, shuffled the remainder and once more put
them in little piles.

"The cards warned me, I will never deny that, their warning was clear
and definite. Love and a dark woman, danger, betrayal and death. It was
as plain as the nose on your face. Any fool would have known what it
meant and I have been using the cards all my life. There is hardly an
action that I make without consulting them. There are no excuses. I was
besotted. Ah, you of the Northern races do not know what love means, you
do not know how it can prevent you from sleeping, how it can take your
appetite for food away so that you dwindle as if from a fever, you do
not understand what a frenzy it is so that you are like a madman and you
will stick at nothing to satisfy your desire. A man like me is capable
of every folly and every crime when he is in love, _si, Seor_, and of
heroism. He can scale mountains higher than Everest and swim seas
broader than the Atlantic. He is god, he is devil. Women have been my
ruin."

Once more the Hairless Mexican glanced at the cards, took some out of
the little piles and left others in. He shuffled them again.

"I have been loved by multitudes of women. I do not say it in vanity. I
offer no explanation. It is mere matter of fact. Go to Mexico City and
ask them what they know of Manuel Carmona and of his triumphs. Ask them
how many women have resisted Manuel Carmona."

Ashenden, frowning a little, watched him reflectively. He wondered
whether R., that shrewd fellow who chose his instruments with such a
sure instinct, had not this time made a mistake, and he was uneasy. Did
the Hairless Mexican really believe that he was irresistible or was he
merely a blatant liar? In the course of his manipulations he had thrown
out all the cards in the pack but four, and these now lay in front of
him face downwards and side by side. He touched them one by one but did
not turn them up.

"There is fate," he said, "and no power on earth can change it. I
hesitate. This is a moment that ever fills me with apprehension and I
have to steel myself to turn over the cards that may tell me that
disaster awaits me. I am a brave man, but sometimes I have reached this
stage and not had the courage to look at the four vital cards."

Indeed now he eyed the backs of them with an anxiety he did not try to
hide.

"What was I saying to you?"

"You were telling me that women found your fascinations irresistible,"
replied Ashenden dryly.

"Once all the same I found a woman who resisted me. I saw her first in a
house, a _casa de mujeres_ in Mexico City, she was going down the stairs
as I went up; she was not very beautiful, I had had a hundred more
beautiful, but she had something that took my fancy and I told the old
woman who kept the house to send her to me. You will know her when you
go to Mexico City; they call her La Marqueza. She said that the girl was
not an inmate, but came there only from time to time and had left. I
told her to have her there next evening and not to let her go till I
came. But I was delayed and when I arrived La Marqueza told me that the
girl had said she was not used to being kept waiting and had gone. I am
a good-natured fellow and I do not mind if women are capricious and
teasing, that is part of their charm, so with a laugh I sent her a note
of a hundred _duros_ and promised that on the following day I would be
punctual. But when I went, on the minute, La Marqueza handed me back my
hundred _duros_ and told me the girl did not fancy me. I laughed at her
impertinence. I took off the diamond ring I was wearing and told the old
woman to give her that and see whether it would induce her to change her
mind. In the morning La Marqueza brought me in return for my ring--a red
carnation. I did not know whether to be amused or angry. I am not used
to being thwarted in my passions, I never hesitate to spend money (what
is it for but to squander on pretty women?), and I told La Marqueza to
go to the girl and say that I would give her a thousand _duros_ to dine
with me that night. Presently she came back with the answer that the
girl would come on the condition that I allowed her to go home
immediately after dinner. I accepted with a shrug of the shoulders. I
did not think she was serious. I thought that she was saying that only
to make herself more desired. She came to dinner at my house. Did I say
she was not beautiful? She was the most beautiful, the most exquisite
creature I had ever met. I was intoxicated. She had charm and she had
wit. She had all the _gracia_ of the Andalusian. In one word she was
adorable. I asked her why she had treated me so casually and she laughed
in my face. I laid myself out to be agreeable. I exercised all my skill.
I surpassed myself. But when we finished dinner she rose from her seat
and bade me good-night. I asked her where she was going. She said I had
promised to let her go and she trusted me as a man of honour to keep my
word. I expostulated, I reasoned, I raved, I stormed. She held me to my
word. All I could induce her to do was to consent to dine with me the
following night on the same terms.

"You will think I was a fool, I was the happiest man alive; for seven
days I paid her a thousand silver _duros_ to dine with me. Every evening
I waited for her with my heart in my mouth, as nervous as a _novillero_
at his first bull-fight, and every evening she played with me, laughed
at me, coquetted with me and drove me frantic. I was madly in love with
her. I have never loved anyone so much before or since. I could think of
nothing else. I was distracted. I neglected everything. I am a patriot
and I love my country. A small band of us had got together and made up
our minds that we could no longer put up with the misrule from which we
were suffering. All the lucrative posts were given to other people, we
were being made to pay taxes as though we were tradesmen, and we were
exposed to abominable affronts. We had money and men. Our plans were
made and we were ready to strike. I had an infinity of things to do,
meetings to go to, ammunition to get, orders to give, I was so besotted
over this woman that I could attend to nothing.

"You would have thought that I should be angry with her for making such
a fool of me, me who had never known what it was not to gratify my
smallest whim; I did not believe that she refused me to inflame my
desires, I believed that she told the plain truth when she said that she
would not give herself to me until she loved me. She said it was for me
to make her love me. I thought her an angel. I was ready to wait. My
passion was so consuming that sooner or later, I felt, it must
communicate itself to her; it was like a fire on the prairie that
devours everything around it; and at last--at last she said she loved
me. My emotion was so terrific that I thought I should fall down and
die. Oh, what rapture! Oh, what madness! I would have given her
everything I possessed in the world, I would have torn down the stars
from heaven to deck her hair; I wanted to do something to prove to her
the extravagance of my love, I wanted to do the impossible, the
incredible, I wanted to give her myself, my soul, my honour, all, all I
had and all I was; and that night when she lay in my arms I told her of
our plot and who we were that were concerned in it. I felt her body
stiffen with attention, I was conscious of a flicker of her eyelids,
there was something, I hardly knew what, the hand that stroked my face
was dry and cold; a sudden suspicion seized me and all at once I
remembered what the cards had told me: love and a dark woman, danger,
betrayal and death. Three times they'd said it and I wouldn't heed. I
made no sign that I had noticed anything. She nestled up against my
heart and told me that she was frightened to hear such things and asked
me if So-and-so was concerned. I answered her. I wanted to make sure.
One after the other, with infinite cunning, between her kisses she
cajoled me into giving every detail of the plot, and now I was certain,
as certain as I am that you sit before me, that she was a spy. She was a
spy of the President's and she had been set to allure me with her
devilish charm and now she had wormed out of me all our secrets. The
lives of all of us were in her hands and I knew that if she left that
room in twenty-four hours we should be dead men. And I loved her, I
loved her; oh, words cannot tell you the agony of desire that burned my
heart; love like that is no pleasure; it is pain, pain, but the
exquisite pain that transcends all pleasure. It is that heavenly anguish
that the saints speak of when they are seized with a divine ecstasy. I
knew that she must not leave the room alive and I feared that if I
delayed my courage would fail me.

"'I think I shall sleep,' she said."

"'Sleep, my dove,' I answered."

"'_Alma de mi corazn_,' she called me. 'Soul of my heart.' They were
the last words she spoke. Those heavy lids of hers, dark like a grape
and faintly humid, those heavy lids of hers closed over her eyes and in
a little while I knew by the regular movement of her breast against mine
that she slept. You see, I loved her, I could not bear that she should
suffer; she was a spy, yes, but my heart bade me spare her the terror of
knowing what must happen. It is strange, I felt no anger because she had
betrayed me, I should have hated her because of her vileness; I could
not, I only felt that my soul was enveloped in night. Poor thing, poor
thing. I could have cried in pity for her. I drew my arm very gently
from around her, my left arm that was, my right was free, and raised
myself on my hand. But she was so beautiful, I turned my face away when
I drew the knife with all my strength across her lovely throat. Without
awaking she passed from sleep to death."

He stopped and stared frowning at the four cards that still lay, their
backs upward, waiting to be turned up.

"It was in the cards. Why did I not take their warning? I will not look
at them. Damn them. Take them away."

With a violent gesture he swept the whole pack on to the floor.

"Though I am a free-thinker I had masses said for her soul." He leaned
back and rolled himself a cigarette. He inhaled a long breathful of
smoke. He shrugged his shoulders. "The Colonel said you were a writer.
What do you write?"

"Stories," replied Ashenden.

"Detective stories?"

"No."

"Why not? They are the only ones I read. If I were a writer I should
write detective stories."

"They are very difficult. You need an incredible amount of invention. I
devised a murder story once, but the murder was so ingenious that I
could never find a way of bringing it home to the murderer, and, after
all, one of the conventions of the detective story is that the mystery
should in the end be solved and the criminal brought to justice."

"If your murder is as ingenious as you think the only means you have of
proving the murderer's guilt is by the discovery of his motives. When
once you have found a motive the chances are that you will hit upon
evidence that till then had escaped you. If there is no motive the most
damning evidence will be inconclusive. Imagine for instance that you
went up to a man in a lonely street on a moonless night and stabbed him
to the heart. Who would ever think of you? But if he was your wife's
lover, or your brother, or had cheated or insulted you, then a scrap of
paper, a bit of string or a chance remark would be enough to hang you.
What were your movements at the time he was killed? Are there not a
dozen people who saw you before and after? But if he was a total
stranger you would never for a moment be suspected. It was inevitable
that Jack the Ripper should escape unless he was caught in the act."

Ashenden had more than one reason to change the conversation. They were
parting at Rome and he thought it necessary to come to an understanding
with his companion about their respective movements. The Mexican was
going to Brindisi and Ashenden to Naples. He meant to lodge at the Hotel
de Belfast, which was a large second-rate hotel near the harbour
frequented by commercial travellers and the thriftier kind of tripper.
It would be as well to let the General have the number of his room so
that he could come up if necessary without enquiring of the porter, and
at the next stopping-place Ashenden got an envelope from the
station-buffet and made him address it in his own writing to himself at
the post-office in Brindisi. All Ashenden had to do then was to scribble
a number on a sheet of paper and post it.

The Hairless Mexican shrugged his shoulders.

"To my mind all these precautions are rather childish. There is
absolutely no risk. But whatever happens you may be quite sure that I
will not compromise you."

"This is not the sort of job which I'm very familiar with," said
Ashenden. "I'm content to follow the Colonel's instructions and know no
more about it than it's essential I should."

"Quite so. Should the exigencies of the situation force me to take a
drastic step and I get into trouble I shall of course be treated as a
political prisoner. Sooner or later Italy is bound to come into the war
on the side of the Allies and I shall be released. I have considered
everything. But I beg you very seriously to have no more anxiety about
the outcome of our mission than if you were going for a picnic on the
Thames."

But when at last they separated and Ashenden found himself alone in a
carriage on the way to Naples he heaved a great sigh of relief. He was
glad to be rid of that chattering, hideous and fantastic creature. He
was gone to meet Constantine Andreadi at Brindisi and if half of what he
had told Ashenden was true, Ashenden could not but congratulate himself
that he did not stand in the Greek spy's shoes. He wondered what sort of
a man he was. There was a grimness in the notion of his coming across
the blue Ionian, with his confidential papers and his dangerous secrets,
all unconscious of the noose into which he was putting his head. Well,
that was war, and only fools thought it could be waged with kid gloves
on.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Ashenden arrived in Naples and, having taken a room at the hotel, wrote
its number on a sheet of paper in block letters and posted it to the
Hairless Mexican. He went to the British Consulate, where R. had
arranged to send any instructions he might have for him, and found that
they knew about him and everything was in order. Then he put aside these
matters and made up his mind to amuse himself. Here in the South the
spring was well advanced and in the busy streets the sun was hot.
Ashenden knew Naples pretty well. The Piazza di San Ferdinando, with its
bustle, the Piazza del Plebiscito, with its handsome church, stirred in
his heart pleasant recollections. The Strada di Chiara was as noisy as
ever. He stood at corners and looked up the narrow alleys that climbed
the hill precipitously, those alleys of high houses with the washing set
out to dry on lines across the street like pennants flying to mark a
feast-day: and he sauntered along the shore, looking at the burnished
sea with Capri faintly outlined against the bay, till he came to
Posilippo, where there was an old, rambling and bedraggled _palazzo_ in
which in his youth he had spent many a romantic hour. He observed the
curious little pain with which the memories of the past wrung his
heart-strings. Then he took a fly drawn by a small and scraggy pony and
rattled back over the stones to the _Galleria_, where he sat in the cool
and drank an americano and looked at the people who loitered there,
talking, for ever talking with vivacious gestures, and, exercising his
fancy, sought from their appearance to divine their reality.

For three days Ashenden led the idle life that fitted so well the
fantastical, untidy and genial city. He did nothing from morning till
night but wander at random, looking, not with the eye of the tourist who
seeks for what ought to be seen, nor with the eye of the writer who
looks for his own (seeing in a sunset a melodious phrase or in a face
the inkling of a character), but with that of the tramp to whom whatever
happens is absolute. He went to the museum to look at the statue of
Agrippina the Younger, which he had particular reasons for remembering
with affection, and took the opportunity to see once more the Titian and
the Brueghel in the picture gallery. But he always came back to the
church of Santa Chiara. Its grace, its gaiety, the airy persiflage with
which it seemed to treat religion and at the back of this its sensual
emotion; its extravagance, its elegance of line; to Ashenden it seemed
to express, as it were in one absurd and grandiloquent metaphor, the
sunny, dusty, lovely city and its bustling inhabitants. It said that
life was charming and sad; it's a pity one hadn't any money, but money
wasn't everything, and anyway why bother when we are here to-day and
gone to-morrow, and it was all very exciting and amusing, and after all
we must make the best of things: _facciamo una piccola combinazione_.

But on the fourth morning, when Ashenden, having just stepped out of his
bath, was trying to dry himself on a towel that absorbed no moisture,
his door was quickly opened and a man slipped into his room.

"What d'you want?" cried Ashenden.

"It's all right. Don't you know me?"

"Good Lord, it's the Mexican. What have you done to yourself?"

He had changed his wig and wore now a black one, close-cropped, that
fitted on his head like a cap. It entirely altered the look of him and
though this was still odd enough, it was quite different from that which
he had borne before. He wore a shabby grey suit.

"I can only stop a minute. He's getting shaved."

Ashenden felt his cheeks suddenly redden.

"You found him then?"

"That wasn't difficult. He was the only Greek passenger on the ship. I
went on board when she got in and asked for a friend who had sailed from
the Pirus. I said I had come to meet a Mr. George Diogenidis. I
pretended to be much puzzled at his not coming, and I got into
conversation with Andreadi. He's travelling under a false name. He calls
himself Lombardos. I followed him when he landed and do you know the
first thing he did? He went into a barber's and had his beard shaved.
What do you think of that?"

"Nothing. Anyone might have his beard shaved."

"That is not what I think. He wanted to change his appearance. Oh, he's
cunning. I admire the Germans, they leave nothing to chance, he's got
his whole story pat, but I'll tell you that in a minute."

"By the way, you've changed your appearance too."

"Ah, yes, this is a wig I'm wearing; it makes a difference, doesn't it?"

"I should never have known you."

"One has to take precautions. We are bosom friends. We had to spend the
day in Brindisi and he cannot speak Italian. He was glad to have me help
him and we travelled up together. I have brought him to this hotel. He
says he is going to Rome to-morrow, but I shall not let him out of my
sight; I do not want him to give me the slip. He says that he wants to
see Naples and I have offered to show him everything there is to see."

"Why isn't he going to Rome to-day?"

"That is part of the story. He pretends he is a Greek business man who
has made money during the war. He says he was the owner of two coasting
steamers and has just sold them. Now he means to go to Paris and have
his fling. He says he has wanted to go to Paris all his life and at last
has the chance. He is close. I tried to get him to talk. I told him I
was a Spaniard and had been to Brindisi to arrange communications with
Turkey about war material. He listened to me and I saw he was
interested, but he told me nothing and of course I did not think it wise
to press him. He has the papers on his person."

"How do you know?"

"He is not anxious about his grip, but he feels every now and then round
his middle, they're either in a belt or in the lining of his vest."

"Why the devil did you bring him to this hotel?"

"I thought it would be more convenient. We may want to search his
luggage."

"Are you staying here too?"

"No, I am not such a fool as that. I told him I was going to Rome by the
night train and would not take a room. But I must go, I promised to meet
him outside the barber's in fifteen minutes."

"All right."

"Where shall I find you to-night if I want you?"

Ashenden for an instant eyed the Hairless Mexican, then with a slight
frown looked away.

"I shall spend the evening in my room."

"Very well. Will you just see that there's nobody in the passage?"

Ashenden opened the door and looked out. He saw no one. The hotel in
point of fact at that season was nearly empty. There were few foreigners
in Naples and trade was bad.

"It's all right," said Ashenden.

The Hairless Mexican walked boldly out. Ashenden closed the door behind
him. He shaved and slowly dressed. The sun was shining as brightly as
usual on the square and the people who passed, the shabby little
carriages with their scrawny horses, had the same air as before, but
they did not any longer fill Ashenden with gaiety. He was not
comfortable. He went out and called as was his habit at the Consulate to
ask if there was a telegram for him. Nothing. Then he went to Cook's and
looked out the trains to Rome: there was one soon after midnight and
another at five in the morning. He wished he could catch the first. He
did not know what were the Mexican's plans; if he really wanted to get
to Cuba he would do well to make his way to Spain, and, glancing at the
notices in the office, Ashenden saw that next day there was a ship
sailing from Naples to Barcelona.

Ashenden was bored with Naples. The glare in the streets tired his eyes,
the dust was intolerable, the noise was deafening. He went to the
_Galleria_ and had a drink. In the afternoon he went to a cinema. Then,
going back to his hotel, he told the clerk that since he was starting so
early in the morning he preferred to pay his bill at once, and he took
his luggage to the station, leaving in his room only a despatch-case in
which were the printed part of his code and a book or two. He dined.
Then returning to the hotel he sat down to wait for the Hairless
Mexican. He could not conceal from himself the fact that he was
exceedingly nervous. He began to read, but the book was tiresome, and he
tried another; his attention wandered and he glanced at his watch. It
was desperately early; he took up his book again, making up his mind
that he would not look at his watch till he had read thirty pages, but
though he ran his eyes conscientiously down one page after another he
could not tell more than vaguely what it was he read. He looked at the
time again. Good God, it was only half-past ten. He wondered where the
Hairless Mexican was, and what he was doing; he was afraid he would make
a mess of things. It was a horrible business. Then it struck him that he
had better shut the window and draw the curtains. He smoked innumerable
cigarettes. He looked at his watch and it was a quarter past eleven. A
thought struck him and his heart began to beat against his chest; out of
curiosity he counted his pulse and was surprised to find that it was
normal. Though it was a warm night and the room was stuffy his hands and
feet were icy. What a nuisance it was, he reflected irritably, to have
an imagination that conjured up pictures of things that you didn't in
the least want to see! From his standpoint as a writer he had often
considered murder and his mind went to that fearful description of one
in _Crime and Punishment_. He did not want to think of this topic, but
it forced itself upon him; his book dropped to his knees and staring at
the wall in front of him (it had a brown wall-paper with a pattern of
dingy roses) he asked himself how, if one had to, one would commit a
murder in Naples. Of course there was the Villa, the great leafy garden
facing the bay in which stood the aquarium; that was deserted at night
and very dark; things happened there that did not bear the light of day
and prudent persons after dusk avoided its sinister paths. Beyond
Posilippo the road was very solitary and there were byways that led up
the hill in which by night you would never meet a soul, but how would
you induce a man who had any nerves to go there? You might suggest a row
in the bay, but the boatman who hired the boat would see you; it was
doubtful indeed if he would let you go on the water alone; there were
disreputable hotels down by the harbour where no questions were asked of
persons who arrived late at night without luggage; but here again the
waiter who showed you your room had the chance of a good look at you and
you had on entering to sign an elaborate questionnaire.

Ashenden looked once more at the time. He was very tired. He sat now not
even trying to read, his mind a blank.

Then the door opened softly and he sprang to his feet. His flesh crept.
The Hairless Mexican stood before him.

"Did I startle you?" he asked smiling. "I thought you would prefer me
not to knock."

"Did anyone see you come in?"

"I was let in by the night-watchman; he was asleep when I rang and
didn't even look at me. I'm sorry I'm so late, but I had to change."

The Hairless Mexican wore now the clothes he had travelled down in and
his fair wig. It was extraordinary how different he looked. He was
bigger and more flamboyant; the very shape of his face was altered. His
eyes were shining and he seemed in excellent spirits. He gave Ashenden a
glance.

"How white you are, my friend! Surely you're not nervous?"

"Have you got the documents?"

"No. He hadn't got them on him. This is all he had."

He put down on the table a bulky pocket-book and a passport.

"I don't want them," said Ashenden quickly. "Take them."

With a shrug of the shoulders the Hairless Mexican put the things back
in his pocket.

"What was in his belt? You said he kept feeling round his middle."

"Only money. I've looked through the pocket-book. It contains nothing
but private letters and photographs of women. He must have locked the
documents in his grip before coming out with me this evening."

"Damn," said Ashenden.

"I've got the key of his room. We'd better go and look through his
luggage."

Ashenden felt a sensation of sickness in the pit of his stomach. He
hesitated. The Mexican smiled not unkindly.

"There's no risk, _amigo_," he said, as though he were reassuring a
small boy, "but if you don't feel happy, I'll go alone."

"No, I'll come with you," said Ashenden.

"There's no one awake in the hotel and Mr. Andreadi won't disturb us.
Take off your shoes if you like."

Ashenden did not answer. He frowned because he noticed that his hands
were slightly trembling. He unlaced his shoes and slipped them off. The
Mexican did the same.

"You'd better go first," he said. "Turn to the left and go straight
along the corridor. It's number thirty-eight."

Ashenden opened the door and stepped out. The passage was dimly lit. It
exasperated him to feel so nervous when he could not but be aware that
his companion was perfectly at ease. When they reached the door the
Hairless Mexican inserted the key, turned the lock and went in. He
switched on the light. Ashenden followed him and closed the door. He
noticed that the shutters were shut.

"Now we're all right. We can take our time."

He took a bunch of keys out of his pocket, tried one or two and at last
hit upon the right one. The suitcase was filled with clothes.

"Cheap clothes," said the Mexican contemptuously as he took them out.
"My own principle is that it's always cheaper in the end to buy the
best. After all one is a gentleman or one isn't a gentleman."

"Are you obliged to talk?" asked Ashenden.

"A spice of danger affects people in different ways. It only excites me,
but it puts you in a bad temper, _amigo_."

"You see, I'm scared and you're not," replied Ashenden with candour.

"It's merely a matter of nerves."

Meanwhile he felt the clothes, rapidly but with care, as he took them
out. There were no papers of any sort in the suitcase. Then he took out
his knife and slit the lining. It was a cheap piece and the lining was
gummed to the material of which the suitcase was made. There was no
possibility of anything being concealed in it.

"They're not here. They must be hidden in the room."

"Are you sure he didn't deposit them in some office? At one of the
consulates, for example?"

"He was never out of my sight for a moment except when he was getting
shaved."

The Hairless Mexican opened the drawers and the cupboard. There was no
carpet on the floor. He looked under the bed, in it, and under the
mattress. His dark eyes shot up and down the room, looking for a
hiding-place, and Ashenden felt that nothing escaped him.

"Perhaps he left them in charge of the clerk downstairs?"

"I should have known it. And he wouldn't dare. They're not here. I can't
understand it."

He looked about the room irresolutely. He frowned in the attempt to
guess at a solution of the mystery.

"Let's get out of here," said Ashenden.

"In a minute."

The Mexican went down on his knees, quickly and neatly folded the
clothes, and packed them up again. He locked the bag and stood up. Then,
putting out the light, he slowly opened the door and looked out. He
beckoned to Ashenden and slipped into the passage. When Ashenden had
followed him he stopped and locked the door, put the key in his pocket
and walked with Ashenden to his room. When they were inside it and the
bolt drawn Ashenden wiped his clammy hands and his forehead.

"Thank God, we're out of that!"

"There wasn't really the smallest danger. But what are we to do now? The
Colonel will be angry that the papers haven't been found."

"I'm taking the five o'clock train to Rome. I shall wire for
instructions there."

"Very well, I will come with you."

"I should have thought it would suit you better to get out of the
country more quickly. There's a boat to-morrow that goes to Barcelona.
Why don't you take that and if necessary I can come to see you there?"

The Hairless Mexican gave a little smile.

"I see that you are anxious to be rid of me. Well, I won't thwart a wish
that your inexperience in these matters excuses. I will go to Barcelona.
I have a visa for Spain."

Ashenden looked at his watch. It was a little after two. He had nearly
three hours to wait. His companion comfortably rolled himself a
cigarette.

"What do you say to a little supper?" he asked. "I'm as hungry as a
wolf."

The thought of food sickened Ashenden, but he was terribly thirsty. He
did not want to go out with the Hairless Mexican, but neither did he
want to stay in that hotel by himself.

"Where could one go at this hour?"

"Come along with me. I'll find you a place."

Ashenden put on his hat and took his despatch-case in his hand. They
went downstairs. In the hall the porter was sleeping soundly on a
mattress on the floor. As they passed the desk, walking softly in order
not to wake him, Ashenden noticed in the pigeon-hole belonging to his
room a letter. He took it out and saw that it was addressed to him. They
tiptoed out of the hotel and shut the door behind them. Then they walked
quickly away. Stopping after a hundred yards or so under a lamp-post
Ashenden took the letter out of his pocket and read it; it came from the
Consulate and said: _The enclosed telegram arrived to-night and in case
it is urgent I am sending it round to your hotel by messenger._ It had
apparently been left some time before midnight while Ashenden was
sitting in his room. He opened the telegram and saw that it was in code.

"Well, it'll have to wait," he said, putting it back in his pocket.

The Hairless Mexican walked as though he knew his way through the
deserted streets and Ashenden walked by his side. At last they came to a
tavern in a blind alley, noisome and evil, and this the Mexican entered.

"It's not the Ritz," he said, "but at this hour of the night it's only
in a place like this that we stand a chance of getting something to
eat."

Ashenden found himself in a long sordid room at one end of which a
wizened young man sat at a piano; there were tables standing out from
the wall on each side and against them benches. A number of persons, men
and women, were sitting about. They were drinking beer and wine. The
women were old, painted, and hideous; and their harsh gaiety was at once
noisy and lifeless. When Ashenden and the Hairless Mexican came in they
all stared and when they sat down at one of the tables Ashenden looked
away in order not to meet the leering eyes, just ready to break into a
smile, that sought his insinuatingly. The wizened pianist strummed a
tune and several couples got up and began to dance. Since there were not
enough men to go round some of the women danced together. The General
ordered two plates of spaghetti and a bottle of Capri wine. When the
wine was brought he drank a glassful greedily and then waiting for the
_pasta_ eyed the women who were sitting at the other tables.

"Do you dance?" he asked Ashenden. "I'm going to ask one of these girls
to have a turn with me."

He got up and Ashenden watched him go up to one who had at least
flashing eyes and white teeth to recommend her; she rose and he put his
arm round her. He danced well. Ashenden saw him begin talking; the woman
laughed and presently the look of indifference with which she had
accepted his offer changed to one of interest. Soon they were chatting
gaily. The dance came to an end and putting her back at her table he
returned to Ashenden and drank another glass of wine.

"What do you think of my girl?" he asked. "Not bad, is she? It does one
good to dance. Why don't you ask one of them? This is a nice place, is
it not? You can always trust me to find anything like this. I have an
instinct."

The pianist started again. The woman looked at the Hairless Mexican and
when with his thumb he pointed to the floor she jumped up with alacrity.
He buttoned up his coat, arched his back and standing up by the side of
the table waited for her to come to him. He swung her off, talking,
smiling, and already he was on familiar terms with everyone in the room.
In fluent Italian, with his Spanish accent, he exchanged badinage with
one and the other. They laughed at his sallies. Then the waiter brought
two heaped platefuls of macaroni and when the Mexican saw them he
stopped dancing without ceremony and, allowing his partner to get back
to her table as she chose, hurried to his meal.

"I'm ravenous," he said. "And yet I ate a good dinner. Where did you
dine? You're going to eat some macaroni, aren't you?"

"I have no appetite," said Ashenden.

But he began to eat and to his surprise found that he was hungry. The
Hairless Mexican ate with huge mouthfuls, enjoying himself vastly; his
eyes shone and he was loquacious. The woman he had danced with had in
that short time told him all about herself and he repeated now to
Ashenden what she had said. He stuffed huge pieces of bread into his
mouth. He ordered another bottle of wine.

"Wine?" he cried scornfully. "Wine is not a drink, only champagne; it
does not even quench your thirst. Well, _amigo_, are you feeling
better?"

"I'm bound to say I am," smiled Ashenden.

"Practice, that is all you want, practice."

He stretched out his hand to pat Ashenden on the arm.

"What's that?" cried Ashenden with a start. "What's that stain on your
cuff?"

The Hairless Mexican gave his sleeve a glance.

"That? Nothing. It's only blood. I had a little accident and cut
myself."

Ashenden was silent. His eyes sought the clock that hung over the door.

"Are you anxious about your train? Let me have one more dance and then
I'll accompany you to the station."

The Mexican got up and with his sublime self-assurance seized in his
arms the woman who sat nearest to him and danced away with her. Ashenden
watched him moodily. He was a monstrous, terrible figure with that blond
wig and his hairless face, but he moved with a matchless grace; his feet
were small and seemed to hold the ground like the pads of a cat or a
tiger; his rhythm was wonderful and you could not but see that the
bedizened creature he danced with was intoxicated by his gestures. There
was music in his toes and in the long arms that held her so firmly, and
there was music in those long legs that seemed to move strangely from
the hips. Sinister and grotesque though he was, there was in him now a
feline elegance, even something of beauty, and you felt a secret,
shameful fascination. To Ashenden he suggested one of those sculptures
of the pre-Aztec hewers of stone, in which there is barbarism and
vitality, something terrible and cruel, and yet withal a brooding and
significant loveliness. All the same he would gladly have left him to
finish the night by himself in that sordid dance-hall, but he knew that
he must have a business conversation with him. He did not look forward
to it without misgiving. He had been instructed to give Manuel Carmona
certain sums in return for certain documents. Well, the documents were
not forthcoming, and as for the rest--Ashenden knew nothing about that;
it was no business of his. The Hairless Mexican waved gaily as he passed
him.

"I will come the moment the music stops. Pay the bill and then I shall
be ready."

Ashenden wished he could have seen into his mind. He could not even make
a guess at its workings. Then the Mexican, with his scented handkerchief
wiping the sweat from his brow, came back.

"Have you had a good time, General?" Ashenden asked him.

"I always have a good time. Poor white trash, but what do I care? I like
to feel the body of a woman in my arms and see her eyes grow languid and
her lips part as her desire for me melts the marrow in her bones like
butter in the sun. Poor white trash, but women."

They sallied forth. The Mexican proposed that they should walk and in
that quarter, at that hour, there would have been little chance of
finding a cab; but the sky was starry. It was a summer night and the air
was still. The silence walked beside them like the ghost of a dead man.
When they neared the station the houses seemed on a sudden to take on a
greyer, more rigid line, and you felt that the dawn was at hand. A
little shiver trembled through the night. It was a moment of
apprehension and the soul for an instant was anxious; it was as though,
inherited down the years in their countless millions, it felt a witless
fear that perhaps another day would not break. But they entered the
station and the night once more enwrapped them. One or two porters
lolled about like stage-hands after the curtain has rung down and the
scene is struck. Two soldiers in dim uniforms stood motionless.

The waiting-room was empty, but Ashenden and the Hairless Mexican went
to sit in the most retired part of it.

"I still have an hour before my train goes. I'll just see what this
cable's about."

He took it out of his pocket and from the despatch-case got his code. He
was not then using a very elaborate one. It was in two parts, one
contained in a slim book and the other, given him on a sheet of paper
and destroyed by him before he left allied territory, committed to
memory. Ashenden put on his spectacles and set to work. The Hairless
Mexican sat in a corner of the seat, rolling himself cigarettes and
smoking; he sat there placidly, taking no notice of what Ashenden did,
and enjoyed his well-earned repose. Ashenden deciphered the groups of
numbers one by one and as he got it out jotted down each word on a piece
of paper. His method was to abstract his mind from the sense till he had
finished, since he had discovered that if you took notice of the words
as they came along you often jumped to a conclusion and sometimes were
led into error. So he translated quite mechanically, without paying
attention to the words as he wrote them one after the other. When at
last he had done he read the complete message. It ran as follows:

    _Constantine Andreadi has been detained by illness at Pirus. He
    will be unable to sail. Return Geneva and await instructions._

At first Ashenden could not understand. He read it again. He shook from
head to foot. Then, for once robbed of his self-possession, he blurted
out, in a hoarse, agitated and furious whisper:

"You bloody fool, you've killed the wrong man."




GIULIA LAZZARI


Ashenden was in the habit of asserting that he was never bored. It was
one of his notions that only such persons were as had no resources in
themselves and it was but the stupid that depended on the outside world
for their amusement. Ashenden had no illusions about himself and such
success in current letters as had come to him had left his head
unturned. He distinguished acutely between fame and the notoriety that
rewards the author of a successful novel or a popular play; and he was
indifferent to this except in so far as it was attended with tangible
benefits. He was perfectly ready to take advantage of his familiar name
to get a better stateroom in a ship than he had paid for, and if a
Customs-house officer passed his luggage unopened because he had read
his short stories Ashenden was pleased to admit that the pursuit of
literature had its compensations. He sighed when eager young students of
the drama sought to discuss its technique with him, and when gushing
ladies tremulously whispered in his ear their admiration of his books he
often wished he was dead. But he thought himself intelligent and so it
was absurd that he should be bored. It was a fact that he could talk
with interest to persons commonly thought so excruciatingly dull that
their fellows fled from them as though they owed them money. It may be
that here he was but indulging the professional instinct that was seldom
dormant in him; they, his raw material, did not bore him any more than
fossils bore the geologist. And now he had everything that a reasonable
man could want for his entertainment. He had pleasant rooms in a good
hotel and Geneva is one of the most agreeable cities in Europe to live
in. He hired a boat and rowed on the lake or hired a horse and trotted
sedately, for in that neat and orderly canton it is difficult to find a
stretch of turf where you can have a good gallop, along the macadamised
roads in the environs of the town. He wandered on foot about its old
streets, trying among those grey stone houses, so quiet and dignified,
to recapture the spirit of a past age. He read again with delight
Rousseau's _Confessions_, and for the second or third time tried in vain
to get on with _La Nouvelle Hlose_. He wrote. He knew few people, for
it was his business to keep in the background, but he had picked up a
chatting acquaintance with several persons living in his hotel and he
was not lonely. His life was sufficiently filled, it was varied, and
when he had nothing else to do he could enjoy his own reflections; it
was absurd to think that under these circumstances he could possibly be
bored, and yet, like a little lonely cloud in the sky, he did see in the
offing the possibility of boredom. There is a story that Louis XIV,
having summoned a courtier to attend him on a ceremonial occasion, found
himself ready to go as the courtier appeared; he turned to him and with
icy majesty said, _J'ai failli attendre_, of which the only translation
I can give, but a poor one, is, I have but just escaped waiting: so
Ashenden might have admitted that he now but just escaped being bored.

It might be, he mused, as he rode along the lake on a dappled horse with
a great rump and a short neck, like one of those prancing steeds that
you see in old pictures, but this horse never pranced and he needed a
firm jab with the spur to break even into a smart trot--it might be, he
mused, that the great chiefs of the secret service in their London
offices, their hands on the throttle of this great machine, led a life
full of excitement; they moved their pieces here and there, they saw the
pattern woven by the multitudinous threads (Ashenden was lavish with his
metaphors), they made a picture out of the various pieces of the jigsaw
puzzle; but it must be confessed that for the small fry like himself to
be a member of the secret service was not as adventurous an affair as
the public thought. Ashenden's official existence was as orderly and
monotonous as a city clerk's. He saw his spies at stated intervals and
paid them their wages; when he could get hold of a new one he engaged
him, gave him his instructions and sent him off to Germany; he waited
for the information that came through and despatched it; he went into
France once a week to confer with his colleague over the frontier and to
receive his orders from London; he visited the market-place on
market-day to get any message the old butter-woman had brought him from
the other side of the lake; he kept his eyes and ears open; and he wrote
long reports which he was convinced no one read, till having
inadvertently slipped a jest into one of them he received a sharp
reproof for his levity. The work he was doing was evidently necessary,
but it could not be called anything but monotonous. At one moment for
something better to do he had considered the possibility of a flirtation
with the Baroness von Higgins. He was confident now that she was an
agent in the service of the Austrian Government and he looked forward to
a certain entertainment in the duel he foresaw. It would be amusing to
set his wits against hers. He was quite aware that she would lay snares
for him and to avoid them would give him something to keep his mind from
rusting. He found her not unwilling to play the game. She wrote him
gushing little notes when he sent her flowers. She went for a row with
him on the lake and letting her long white hand drag through the water
talked of Love and hinted at a Broken Heart. They dined together and
went to see a performance, in French and in prose, of _Romeo and
Juliet_. Ashenden had not made up his mind how far he was prepared to go
when he received a sharp note from R. to ask him what he was playing at:
information "had come to hand" that he (Ashenden) was much in the
society of a woman calling herself the Baroness de Higgins, who was
known to be an agent of the Central Powers and it was most undesirable
that he should be on any terms with her but those of frigid courtesy.
Ashenden shrugged his shoulders. R. did not think him as clever as he
thought himself. But he was interested to discover, what he had not
known before, that there was someone in Geneva part of whose duties at
all events was to keep an eye on him. There was evidently someone who
had orders to see that he did not neglect his work or get into mischief.
Ashenden was not a little amused. What a shrewd, unscrupulous old thing
was R.! He took no risks; he trusted nobody; he made use of his
instruments, but, high or low, had no opinion of them. Ashenden looked
about to see whether he could spot the person who had told R. what he
was doing. He wondered if it was one of the waiters in the hotel. He
knew that R. had a great belief in waiters; they had the chance of
seeing so much and could so easily get into places where information was
lying about to be picked up. He even wondered whether R. had got his
news from the Baroness herself; it would not be so strange if after all
she was employed by the secret service of one of the Allied nations.
Ashenden continued to be polite to the Baroness, but ceased to be
attentive.

He turned his horse and trotted gently back to Geneva. An ostler from
the riding-stables was waiting at the hotel door and slipping out of the
saddle Ashenden went into the hotel. At the desk the porter handed him a
telegram. It was to the following effect:

    _Aunt Maggie not at all well. Staying at Htel Lotti, Paris. If
    possible please go and see her.  Raymond._

Raymond was one of R.'s facetious _noms de guerre_, and since Ashenden
was not so fortunate as to possess an Aunt Maggie he concluded that this
was an order to go to Paris. It had always seemed to Ashenden that R.
had spent much of his spare time in reading detective fiction and
especially when he was in a good humour he found a fantastic pleasure in
aping the style of the shilling shocker. If R. was in a good humour it
meant that he was about to bring off a coup, for when he had brought one
off he was filled with depression and then vented his spleen on his
subordinates.

Ashenden, leaving his telegram with deliberate carelessness on the desk,
asked at what time the express left for Paris. He glanced at the clock
to see whether he had time to get to the Consulate before it closed and
secure his visa. When he went upstairs to fetch his passport the porter,
just as the lift doors were closed, called him.

"_Monsieur_ has forgotten his telegram," he said.

"How stupid of me," said Ashenden.

Now Ashenden knew that if an Austrian baroness by any chance wondered
why he had so suddenly gone to Paris she would discover that it was
owing to the indisposition of a female relative. In those troublous
times of war it was just as well that everything should be clear and
above board. He was known at the French Consulate and so lost little
time there. He had told the porter to get him a ticket and on his return
to the hotel bathed and changed. He was not a little excited at the
prospect of this unexpected jaunt. He liked the journey. He slept well
in a sleeping-car and was not disturbed if a sudden jolt waked him; it
was pleasant to lie a while smoking a cigarette and to feel oneself in
one's little cabin so enchantingly alone; the rhythmical sound as the
wheels rattled over the points was an agreeable background to the
pattern of one's reflections, and to speed through the open country and
the night made one feel like a star speeding through space. And at the
end of the journey was the unknown.

When Ashenden arrived in Paris it was chilly and a light rain was
falling; he felt unshaved and he wanted a bath and clean linen; but he
was in excellent spirits. He telephoned from the station to R. and asked
how Aunt Maggie was.

"I'm glad to see that your affection for her was great enough to allow
you to waste no time in getting here," answered R., with the ghost of a
chuckle in his voice. "She's very low, but I'm sure it'll do her good to
see you."

Ashenden reflected that this was the mistake the amateur humorist, as
opposed to the professional, so often made; when he made a joke he
harped on it. The relations of the joker to his joke should be as quick
and desultory as those of a bee to its flower. He should make his joke
and pass on. There is of course no harm if, like the bee approaching the
flower, he buzzes a little; for it is just as well to announce to a
thick-headed world that a joke is intended. But Ashenden, unlike most
professional humorists, had a kindly tolerance for other people's humour
and now he answered R. on his own lines.

"When would she like to see me, do you think?" he asked. "Give her my
love, won't you?"

Now R. quite distinctly chuckled. Ashenden sighed.

"She'll want to titivate a little before you come, I expect. You know
what she is, she likes to make the best of herself. Shall we say
half-past ten, and then when you've had a talk to her we might go out
and lunch together somewhere."

"All right," said Ashenden. "I'll come to the Lotti at ten-thirty."

When Ashenden, clean and refreshed, reached the hotel an orderly whom he
recognised met him in the hall and took him up to R.'s apartment. He
opened the door and showed Ashenden in. R. was standing with his back to
a bright log fire dictating to his secretary.

"Sit down," said R. and went on with his dictation.

It was a nicely furnished sitting-room and a bunch of roses in a bowl
gave the impression of a woman's hand. On a large table was a litter of
papers. R. looked older than when last Ashenden had seen him. His thin
yellow face was more lined and his hair was greyer. The work was telling
on him. He did not spare himself. He was up at seven every morning and
he worked late into the night. His uniform was spick and span, but he
wore it shabbily.

"That'll do," he said. "Take all this stuff away and get on with the
typing. I'll sign before I go out to lunch." Then he turned to the
orderly. "I don't want to be disturbed."

The secretary, a second-lieutenant in the thirties, obviously a civilian
with a temporary commission, gathered up a mass of papers and left the
room. As the orderly was following, R. said:

"Wait outside. If I want you I'll call."

"Very good, sir."

When they were alone R. turned to Ashenden with what for him was
cordiality.

"Have a nice journey up?"

"Yes, sir."

"What do you think of this?" he asked, looking round the room. "Not bad,
is it? I never see why one shouldn't do what one can to mitigate the
hardships of war."

While he was idly chatting R. gazed at Ashenden with a singular fixity.
The stare of those pale eyes of his, too closely set together, gave you
the impression that he looked at your naked brain and had a very poor
opinion of what he saw there. R. in rare moments of expansion made no
secret of the fact that he looked upon his fellow-men as fools or
knaves. That was one of the obstacles he had to contend with in his
calling. On the whole he preferred them knaves; you knew then what you
were up against and could take steps accordingly. He was a professional
soldier and had spent his career in India and the Colonies. At the
outbreak of the war he was stationed in Jamaica and someone in the War
Office who had had dealings with him, remembering him, brought him over
and put him in the Intelligence Department. His astuteness was so great
that he very soon occupied an important post. He had an immense energy
and a gift for organisation, no scruples, but resource, courage and
determination. He had perhaps but one weakness. Throughout his life he
had never come in contact with persons, especially women, of any social
consequence; the only women he had ever known were the wives of his
brother officers, the wives of government officials and of business men;
and when, coming to London at the beginning of the war, his work brought
him into contact with brilliant, beautiful and distinguished women he
was unduly dazzled. They made him feel shy, but he cultivated their
society; he became quite a lady's man, and to Ashenden, who knew more
about him than R. suspected, that bowl of roses told a story.

Ashenden knew that R. had not sent for him to talk about the weather and
the crops, and wondered when he was coming to the point. He did not
wonder long.

"You've been doing pretty well in Geneva," he said.

"I'm glad you think that, sir," replied Ashenden.

Suddenly R. looked very cold and stern. He had done with idle talk.

"I've got a job for you," he said.

Ashenden made no reply, but he felt a happy little flutter somewhere
about the pit of his stomach.

"Have you ever heard of Chandra Lal?"

"No, sir."

A frown of impatience for an instant darkened the Colonel's brow. He
expected his subordinates to know everything he wished them to know.

"Where have you been living all these years?"

"At 36, Chesterfield Street, Mayfair," returned Ashenden.

The shadow of a smile crossed R.'s yellow face. The somewhat impertinent
reply was after his own sardonic heart. He went over to the big table
and opened a despatch-case that lay upon it. He took out a photograph
and handed it to Ashenden.

"That's him."

To Ashenden, unused to Oriental faces, it looked like any of a hundred
Indians that he had seen. It might have been the photograph of one or
other of the rajahs who come periodically to England and are portrayed
in the illustrated papers. It showed a fat-faced, swarthy man, with full
lips and a fleshy nose; his hair was black, thick and straight, and his
very large eyes even in the photograph were liquid and cow-like. He
looked ill-at-ease in European clothes.

"Here he is in native dress," said R., giving Ashenden another
photograph.

This was full-length, whereas the first had shown only the head and
shoulders, and it had evidently been taken some years earlier. He was
thinner and his great, serious eyes seemed to devour his face. It was
done by a native photographer in Calcutta and the surroundings were
navely grotesque. Chandra Lal stood against a background on which had
been painted a pensive palm tree and a view of the sea. One hand rested
on a heavily carved table on which was a rubber-plant in a flower-pot.
But in his turban and long, pale tunic he was not without dignity.

"What d'you think of him?" asked R.

"I should have said he was a man not without personality. There is a
certain force there."

"Here's his dossier. Read it, will you?"

R. gave Ashenden a couple of typewritten pages and Ashenden sat down. R.
put on his spectacles and began to read the letters that awaited his
signature. Ashenden skimmed the report and then read it a second time
more attentively. It appeared that Chandra Lal was a dangerous agitator.
He was a lawyer by profession, but had taken up politics and was
bitterly hostile to the British rule in India. He was a partisan of
armed force and had been on more than one occasion responsible for riots
in which life had been lost. He was once arrested, tried and sentenced
to two years' imprisonment; but he was at liberty at the beginning of
the war and seizing his opportunity began to foment active rebellion. He
was at the heart of plots to embarrass the British in India and so
prevent them from transferring troops to the seat of war and with the
help of immense sums given to him by German agents he was able to cause
a great deal of trouble. He was concerned in two or three bomb outrages
which, though beyond killing a few innocent bystanders they did little
harm, yet shook the nerves of the public and so damaged its morale. He
evaded all attempts to arrest him, his activity was formidable, he was
here and there; but the police could never lay hands on him, and they
only learned that he had been in some city when, having done his work,
he had left it. At last a high reward was offered for his arrest on a
charge of murder, but he escaped the country, got to America, from there
went to Sweden and eventually reached Berlin. Here he busied himself
with schemes to create disaffection among the native troops that had
been brought to Europe. All this was narrated dryly, without comment or
explanation, but from the very frigidity of the narrative you got a
sense of mystery and adventure, of hairbreadth escapes and dangers
dangerously encountered. The report ended as follows:

"C. has a wife in India and two children. He is not known to have
anything to do with women. He neither drinks nor smokes. He is said to
be honest. Considerable sums of money have passed through his hands and
there has never been any question as to his not having made a proper (!)
use of them. He has undoubted courage and is a hard worker. He is said
to pride himself on keeping his word."

Ashenden returned the document to R.

"Well?"

"A fanatic." Ashenden thought there was about the man something rather
romantic and attractive, but he knew that R. did not want any nonsense
of that sort from him. "He looks like a very dangerous fellow."

"He is the most dangerous conspirator in or out of India. He's done more
harm than all the rest of them put together. You know that there's a
gang of these Indians in Berlin; well, he's the brains of it. If he
could be got out of the way I could afford to ignore the others; he's
the only one who has any guts. I've been trying to catch him for a year,
I thought there wasn't a hope; but now at last I've got a chance and, by
God, I'm going to take it."

"And what'll you do then?"

R. chuckled grimly.

"Shoot him and shoot him damn quick."

Ashenden did not answer. R. walked once or twice across the small room
and then, again with his back to the fire, faced Ashenden. His thin
mouth was twisted by a sarcastic smile.

"Did you notice at the end of that report I gave you it said he wasn't
known to have anything to do with women? Well, that was true, but it
isn't any longer. The damned fool has fallen in love."

R. stepped over to his despatch-case and took out a bundle tied up with
pale-blue ribbon.

"Look, here are his love-letters. You're a novelist, it might amuse you
to read them. In fact you should read them, it will help you to deal
with the situation. Take them away with you."

R. flung the neat little bundle back into the despatch-case.

"One wonders how an able man like that can allow himself to get besotted
over a woman. It was the last thing I ever expected of him."

Ashenden's eyes travelled to the bowl of beautiful roses that stood on
the table, but he said nothing. R., who missed little, saw the glance
and his look suddenly darkened. Ashenden knew that he felt like asking
him what the devil he was staring at. At that moment R. had no friendly
feelings towards his subordinate, but he made no remark. He went back to
the subject in hand.

"Anyhow that's neither here nor there. Chandra has fallen madly in love
with a woman called Giulia Lazzari. He's crazy about her."

"Do you know how he picked her up?"

"Of course I do. She's a dancer, and she does Spanish dances, but she
happens to be an Italian. For stage purposes she calls herself La
Malaguea. You know the kind of thing. Popular Spanish music and a
mantilla, a fan and a high comb. She's been dancing all over Europe for
the last ten years."

"Is she any good?"

"No, rotten. She's been in the provinces in England and she's had a few
engagements in London. She never got more than ten pounds a week.
Chandra met her in Berlin in a Tingel-tangel, you know what that is, a
cheap sort of music-hall. I take it that on the Continent she looked
upon her dancing chiefly as a means to enhance her value as a
prostitute."

"How did she get to Berlin during the war?"

"She's been married to a Spaniard at one time; I think she still is
though they don't live together, and she travelled on a Spanish
passport. It appears Chandra made a dead set for her." R. took up the
Indian's photograph again and looked at it thoughtfully. "You wouldn't
have thought there was anything very attractive in that greasy little
nigger. God, how they run to fat! The fact remains that she fell very
nearly as much in love with him as he did with her. I've got her letters
too, only copies, of course, he's got the originals and I dare say he
keeps them tied up in pink ribbon. She's mad about him. I'm not a
literary man, but I think I know when a thing rings true; anyhow you'll
be reading them, and you can tell me what you think. And then people say
there's no such thing as love at first sight."

R. smiled with faint irony. He was certainly in a good humour this
morning.

"But how did you get hold of all these letters?"

"How did I get hold of them? How do you imagine? Owing to her Italian
nationality Giulia Lazzari was eventually expelled from Germany. She was
put over the Dutch frontier. Having an engagement to dance in England
she was granted a visa and"--R. looked up a date among the papers--"and
on the twenty-fourth of October last sailed from Rotterdam to Harwich.
Since then she has danced in London, Birmingham, Portsmouth and other
places. She was arrested a fortnight ago at Hull."

"What for?"

"Espionage. She was transferred to London and I went to see her myself
at Holloway."

Ashenden and R. looked at one another for a moment without speaking and
it may be that each was trying his hardest to read the other's thoughts.
Ashenden was wondering where the truth in all this lay and R. wondered
how much of it he could advantageously tell him.

"How did you get on to her?"

"I thought it odd that the Germans should allow her to dance quite
quietly in Berlin for weeks and then for no particular reason decide to
put her out of the country. It would be a good introduction for
espionage. And a dancer who was not too careful of her virtue might make
opportunities of learning things that it would be worth somebody's while
in Berlin to pay a good price for. I thought it might be as well to let
her come to England and see what she was up to. I kept track of her. I
discovered that she was sending letters to an address in Holland two or
three times a week and two or three times a week was receiving answers
from Holland. Hers were written in a queer mixture of French, German and
English; she speaks English a little and French quite well, but the
answers were written entirely in English; it was good English, but not
an Englishman's English, flowery and rather grandiloquent; I wondered
who was writing them. They seemed to be just ordinary love-letters, but
they were by way of being rather hot stuff. It was plain enough that
they were coming from Germany and the writer was neither English, French
nor German. Why did he write in English? The only foreigners who know
English better than any continental language are Orientals, and not
Turks or Egyptians either; they know French. A Jap would write English
and so would an Indian. I came to the conclusion that Giulia's lover was
one of that gang of Indians that were making trouble for us in Berlin. I
had no idea it was Chandra Lal till I found the photograph."

"How did you get that?"

"She carried it about with her. It was a pretty good bit of work, that.
She kept it locked up in her trunk, with a lot of theatrical
photographs, of comic singers and clowns and acrobats; it might easily
have passed for the picture of some music-hall artiste in his stage
dress. In fact, later, when she was arrested and asked who the
photograph represented she said she didn't know, it was an Indian
conjuror who had given it her and she had no idea what his name was.
Anyhow I put a very smart lad on the job and he thought it queer that it
should be the only photograph in the lot that came from Calcutta. He
noticed that there was a number on the back, and he took it, the number,
I mean; of course the photograph was replaced in the box."

"By the way, just as a matter of interest how did your very smart lad
get at the photograph at all?"

R.'s eyes twinkled.

"That's none of your business. But I don't mind telling you that he was
a good-looking boy. Anyhow it's of no consequence. When we got the
number of the photograph we cabled to Calcutta and in a little while I
received the grateful news that the object of Giulia's affections was no
less a person than the incorruptible Chandra Lal. Then I thought it my
duty to have Giulia watched a little more carefully. She seemed to have
a sneaking fondness for naval officers. I couldn't exactly blame her for
that; they are attractive, but it is unwise for ladies of easy virtue
and doubtful nationality to cultivate their society in war-time.
Presently I got a very pretty little body of evidence against her."

"How was she getting her stuff through?"

"She wasn't getting it through. She wasn't trying to. The Germans had
turned her out quite genuinely; she wasn't working for them, she was
working for Chandra. After her engagement was through in England she was
planning to go to Holland again and meet him. She wasn't very clever at
the work; she was nervous, but it looked easy; no one seemed to bother
about her, it grew rather exciting; she was getting all sorts of
interesting information without any risk. In one of her letters she
said: 'I have so much to tell you, _mon petit chou_ darling, and what
you will be _extrmement intress_ to know,' and she underlined the
French words."

R. paused and rubbed his hands together. His tired face bore a look of
devilish enjoyment of his own cunning.

"It was espionage made easy. Of course I didn't care a damn about her,
it was him I was after. Well, as soon as I'd got the goods on her I
arrested her. I had enough evidence to convict a regiment of spies."

R. put his hands in his pockets and his pale lips twisted to a smile
that was almost a grimace.

"Holloway's not a very cheerful place, you know."

"I imagine no prison is," remarked Ashenden.

"I left her to stew in her own juice for a week before I went to see
her. She was in a very pretty state of nerves by then. The wardress told
me she'd been in violent hysterics most of the time. I must say she
looked like the devil."

"Is she handsome?"

"You'll see for yourself. She's not my type. I dare say she's better
when she's made up and that kind of thing. I talked to her like a Dutch
uncle. I put the fear of God into her. I told her she'd get ten years. I
think I scared her, I know I tried to. Of course she denied everything,
but the proofs were there, I assured her she hadn't got a chance. I
spent three hours with her. She went all to pieces and at last she
confessed everything. Then I told her that I'd let her go scot-free if
she'd get Chandra to come to France. She absolutely refused, she said
she'd rather die; she was very hysterical and tiresome, but I let her
rave. I told her to think it over and said I'd see her in a day or two
and we'd have another talk about it. In point of fact I left her for a
week. She'd evidently had time to reflect, because when I came again she
asked me quite calmly what it was exactly that I proposed. She'd been in
a gaol a fortnight then and I expect she'd had about enough of it. I put
it to her as plainly as I could and she accepted."

"I don't think I quite understand," said Ashenden.

"Don't you? I should have thought it was clear to the meanest
intelligence. If she can get Chandra to cross the Swiss frontier and
come into France she's to go free, either to Spain or to South America,
with her passage paid."

"And how the devil is she to get Chandra to do that?"

"He's madly in love with her. He's longing to see her. His letters are
almost crazy. She's written to him to say that she can't get a visa to
Holland (I told you she was to join him there when her tour was over),
but she can get one for Switzerland. That's a neutral country and he's
safe there. He jumped at the chance. They've arranged to meet at
Lausanne."

"Yes."

"When he reaches Lausanne he'll get a letter from her to say that the
French authorities won't let her cross the frontier and that she's going
to Thonon, which is just on the other side of the lake from Lausanne, in
France, and she's going to ask him to come there."

"What makes you think he will?"

R. paused for an instant. He looked at Ashenden with a pleasant
expression.

"She must make him if she doesn't want to go to penal servitude for ten
years."

"I see."

"She's arriving from England this evening in custody and I should like
you to take her down to Thonon by the night train."

"Me?" said Ashenden.

"Yes, I thought it the sort of job you could manage very well.
Presumably you know more about human nature than most people. It'll be a
pleasant change for you to spend a week or two at Thonon. I believe it's
a pretty little place, fashionable too--in peace-time. You might take
the baths there."

"And what do you expect me to do when I get the lady down to Thonon?"

"I leave you a free hand. I've made a few notes that may be useful to
you. I'll read them to you, shall I?"

Ashenden listened attentively. R.'s plan was simple and explicit.
Ashenden could not but feel unwilling admiration for the brain that had
so neatly devised it.

Presently R. suggested that they should have luncheon and he asked
Ashenden to take him to some place where they could see smart people. It
amused Ashenden to see R., so sharp, sure of himself and alert in his
office, seized as he walked into the restaurant with shyness. He talked
a little too loud in order to show that he was at his ease and made
himself somewhat unnecessarily at home. You saw in his manner the shabby
and commonplace life he had led till the hazards of war raised him to a
position of consequence. He was glad to be in that fashionable
restaurant cheek by jowl with persons who bore great or distinguished
names, but he felt like a schoolboy in his first top-hat, and he quailed
before the steely eye of the _matre d'htel_. His quick glance darted
here and there and his sallow face beamed with a self-satisfaction of
which he was slightly ashamed. Ashenden drew his attention to an ugly
woman in black, with a lovely figure, wearing a long row of pearls.

"That is Madame de Brides. She is the mistress of the Grand Duke
Theodore. She's probably one of the most influential women in Europe,
she's certainly one of the cleverest."

R.'s clever eyes rested on her and he flushed a little.

"By George, this is life," he said.

Ashenden watched him curiously. Luxury is dangerous to people who have
never known it and to whom its temptations are held out too suddenly.
R., that shrewd, cynical man, was captivated by the vulgar glamour and
the shoddy brilliance of the scene before him. Just as the advantage of
culture is that it enables you to talk nonsense with distinction, so the
habit of luxury allows you to regard its frills and furbelows with a
proper contumely.

But when they had eaten their luncheon and were drinking their coffee
Ashenden, seeing that R. was mellowed by the good meal and his
surroundings, went back to the subject that was in his thoughts.

"That Indian fellow must be a rather remarkable chap," he said.

"He's got brains, of course."

"One can't help being impressed by a man who had the courage to take on
almost single-handed the whole British power in India."

"I wouldn't get sentimental about him if I were you. He's nothing but a
dangerous criminal."

"I don't suppose he'd use bombs if he could command a few batteries and
half a dozen battalions. He uses what weapons he can. You can hardly
blame him for that. After all, he's aiming at nothing for himself, is
he? He's aiming at freedom for his country. On the face of it it looks
as though he were justified in his actions."

But R. had no notion of what Ashenden was talking.

"That's very far-fetched and morbid," he said. "We can't go into all
that. Our job is to get him and when we've got him to shoot him."

"Of course. He's declared war and he must take his chance. I shall carry
out your instructions, that's what I'm here for, but I see no harm in
realising that there's something to be admired and respected in him."

R. was once more the cool and astute judge of his fellows.

"I've not yet made up my mind whether the best men for this kind of job
are those who do it with passion or those who keep their heads. Some of
them are filled with hatred for the people we're up against and when we
down them it gives them a sort of satisfaction like satisfying a
personal grudge. Of course they're very keen on their work. You're
different, aren't you? You look at it like a game of chess and you don't
seem to have any feeling one way or the other. I can't quite make it
out. Of course for some sort of jobs it's just what one wants."

Ashenden did not answer. He called for the bill and walked back with R.
to the hotel.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The train started at eight. When he had disposed of his bag Ashenden
walked along the platform. He found the carriage in which Giulia Lazzari
was, but she sat in a corner, looking away from the light, so that he
could not see her face. She was in charge of two detectives who had
taken her over from English police at Boulogne. One of them worked with
Ashenden on the French side of the Lake Geneva and as Ashenden came up
he nodded to him.

"I've asked the lady if she will dine in the restaurant-car, but she
prefers to have dinner in the carriage, so I've ordered a basket. Is
that quite correct?"

"Quite," said Ashenden.

"My companion and I will go into the diner in turn so that she will not
remain alone."

"That is very considerate of you. I will come along when we've started
and have a chat with her."

"She's not disposed to be very talkative," said the detective.

"One could hardly expect it," replied Ashenden.

He walked on to get his ticket for the second service and then returned
to his own carriage. Giulia Lazzari was just finishing her meal when he
went back to her. From a glance at the basket he judged that she had not
eaten with too poor an appetite. The detective who was guarding her
opened the door when Ashenden appeared and at Ashenden's suggestion left
them alone.

Giulia Lazzari gave him a sullen look.

"I hope you've had what you wanted for dinner," he said as he sat down
in front of her.

She bowed slightly, but did not speak. He took out his case.

"Will you have a cigarette?"

She gave him a glance, seemed to hesitate, and then, still without a
word, took one. He struck a match and, lighting it, looked at her. He
was surprised. For some reason he had expected her to be fair, perhaps
from some notion that an Oriental would be more likely to fall for a
blonde; but she was almost swarthy. Her hair was hidden by a
close-fitting hat, but her eyes were coal-black. She was far from young,
she might have been thirty-five, and her skin was lined and sallow. She
had at the moment no make-up on and she looked haggard. There was
nothing beautiful about her but her magnificent eyes. She was big, and
Ashenden thought she must be too big to dance gracefully; it might be
that in Spanish costume she was a bold and flaunting figure, but there
in the train, shabbily dressed, there was nothing to explain the
Indian's infatuation. She gave Ashenden a long, appraising stare. She
wondered evidently what sort of man he was. She blew a cloud of smoke
through her nostrils and gave it a glance, then looked back at Ashenden.
He could see that her sullenness was only a mask, she was nervous and
frightened. She spoke in French with an Italian accent.

"Who are you?"

"My name would mean nothing to you, _madame_. I am going to Thonon. I
have taken a room for you at the Hotel de la Place. It is the only one
open now. I think you will find it quite comfortable."

"Ah, it is you the Colonel spoke to me of. You are my gaoler."

"Only as a matter of form. I shall not intrude upon you."

"All the same you are my gaoler."

"I hope not for very long. I have in my pocket your passport with all
the formalities completed to permit you to go to Spain."

She threw herself back into the corner of the carriage. White with those
great black eyes, in the poor light, her face was suddenly a mask of
despair.

"It's infamous. Oh, I think I could die happy if I could only kill that
old Colonel. He has no heart. I'm so unhappy."

"I am afraid you have got yourself into a very unfortunate situation.
Did you not know that espionage was a dangerous game?"

"I never sold any of the secrets. I did no harm."

"Surely only because you had no opportunity. I understand that you
signed a full confession."

Ashenden spoke to her as amiably as he could, a little as though he were
talking to a sick person, and there was no harshness in his voice.

"Oh, yes, I made a fool of myself. I wrote the letter the Colonel said I
was to write. Why isn't that enough? What is to happen to me if he does
not answer? I cannot force him to come if he does not want to."

"He has answered," said Ashenden. "I have the answer with me."

She gave a gasp and her voice broke.

"Oh, show it to me, I beseech you to let me see it."

"I have no objection to doing that. But you must return it to me."

He took Chandra's letter from his pocket and gave it to her. She
snatched it from his hand. She devoured it with her eyes, there were
eight pages of it, and as she read the tears streamed down her cheeks.
Between her sobs she gave little exclamations of love, calling the
writer by pet-names French and Italian. This was the letter that Chandra
had written in reply to hers telling him, on R.'s instructions, that she
would meet him in Switzerland. He was mad with joy at the prospect. He
told her in passionate phrases how long the time had seemed to him since
they were parted, and how he had yearned for her, and now that he was to
see her again so soon he did not know how he was going to bear his
impatience. She finished it and let it drop to the floor.

"You can see he loves me, can't you? There's no doubt about that. I know
something about it, believe me."

"Do you really love him?" asked Ashenden.

"He's the only man who's ever been kind to me. It's not very gay, the
life one leads in these music-halls, all over Europe, never resting, and
men--they are not much, the men who haunt those places. At first I
thought he was just like the rest of them."

Ashenden picked up the letter and replaced it in his pocket-book.

"A telegram was sent in your name to the address in Holland to say that
you would be at the Hotel Gibbons at Lausanne on the 14th."

"That is to-morrow."

"Yes."

She threw up her head and her eyes flashed.

"Oh, it is an infamous thing that you are forcing me to do. It is
shameful."

"You are not obliged to do it," said Ashenden.

"And if I don't?"

"I'm afraid you must take the consequences."

"I can't go to prison," she cried out suddenly, "I can't, I can't; I
have such a short time before me; he said ten years. Is it possible I
could be sentenced to ten years?"

"If the Colonel told you so it is very possible."

"Oh, I know him. That cruel face. He would have no mercy. And what
should I be in ten years? Oh, no no."

At that moment the train stopped at a station and the detective waiting
in the corridor tapped on the window. Ashenden opened the door and the
man gave him a picture-postcard. It was a dull little view of
Pontarlier, the frontier station between France and Switzerland, and
showed a dusty _place_ with a statue in the middle and a few
plane-trees. Ashenden handed her a pencil.

"Will you write this postcard to your lover. It will be posted at
Pontarlier. Address it to the hotel at Lausanne."

She gave him a glance, but without answering took it and wrote as he
directed.

"Now on the other side write: 'Delayed at frontier but everything all
right. Wait at Lausanne.' Then add whatever you like, tendresses, if you
lie."

He took the postcard from her, read it to see that she had done as he
directed and then reached for his hat.

"Well, I shall leave you now, I hope you will have a sleep. I will fetch
you in the morning when we arrive at Thonon."

The second detective had now returned from his dinner and as Ashenden
came out of the carriage the two men went in. Giulia Lazzari huddled
back into her corner. Ashenden gave the postcard to an agent who was
waiting to take it to Pontarlier and then made his way along the crowded
train to his sleeping-car.

It was bright and sunny, though cold, next morning when they reached
their destination. Ashenden, having given his bags to a porter, walked
along the platform to where Giulia Lazzari and the two detectives were
standing. Ashenden nodded to them.

"Well, good-morning. You need not trouble to wait."

They touched their hats, gave a word of farewell to the woman, and
walked away.

"Where are they going?" she asked.

"Off. You will not be bothered with them any more."

"Am I in your custody then?"

"You're in nobody's custody. I'm going to permit myself to take you to
your hotel and then I shall leave you. You must try to get a good rest."

Ashenden's porter took her hand-luggage and she gave him the ticket for
her trunk. They walked out of the station. A cab was waiting for them
and Ashenden begged her to get in. It was a longish drive to the hotel
and now and then Ashenden felt that she gave him a sidelong glance. She
was perplexed. He sat without a word. When they reached the hotel the
proprietor--it was a small hotel, prettily situated at the corner of a
little promenade and it had a charming view--showed them the room that
had been prepared for Madame Lazzari. Ashenden turned to him.

"That'll do very nicely, I think. I shall come down in a minute."

The proprietor bowed and withdrew.

"I shall do my best to see that you are comfortable, madame," said
Ashenden. "You are here absolutely your own mistress and you may order
pretty well anything you like. To the proprietor you are just a guest of
the hotel like any other. You are absolutely free."

"Free to go out?" she asked quickly.

"Of course."

"With a policeman on either side of me, I suppose."

"Not at all. You are as free in the hotel as though you were in your own
house and you are free to go out and come in when you choose. I should
like an assurance from you that you will not write letters without my
knowledge or attempt to leave Thonon without my permission."

She gave Ashenden a long stare. She could not make it out at all. She
looked as though she thought it a dream.

"I am in a position that forces me to give you any assurance you ask. I
give you my word of honour that I will not write a letter without
showing it to you or attempt to leave this place."

"Thank you. Now I will leave you. I will do myself the pleasure of
coming to see you to-morrow morning."

Ashenden nodded and went out. He stopped for five minutes at the
police-station to see that everything was in order and then took the cab
up the hill to a little secluded house on the outskirts of the town at
which on his periodical visits to this place he stayed. It was pleasant
to have a bath and a shave and get into slippers. He felt lazy and spent
the rest of the morning reading a novel.

Soon after dark, for even at Thonon, though it was in France, it was
thought desirable to attract attention to Ashenden as little as
possible, an agent from the police-station came to see him. His name was
Felix. He was a little dark Frenchman with sharp eyes and an unshaven
chin, dressed in a shabby grey suit and rather down at heel, so that he
looked like a lawyer's clerk out of work. Ashenden offered him a glass
of wine and they sat down by the fire.

"Well, your lady lost no time," he said. "Within a quarter of an hour of
her arrival she was out of the hotel with a bundle of clothes and
trinkets that she sold in a shop near the market. When the afternoon
boat came in she went down to the quay and bought a ticket to Evian."

Evian, it should be explained, was the next place along the lake in
France and from there, crossing over, the boat went to Switzerland.

"Of course she hadn't a passport, so permission to embark was denied
her."

"How did she explain that she had no passport?"

"She said she'd forgotten it. She said she had an appointment to see
friends in Evian and tried to persuade the official in charge to let her
go. She attempted to slip a hundred francs into his hand."

"She must be a stupider woman than I thought," said Ashenden.

But when next day he went about eleven in the morning to see her he made
no reference to her attempt to escape. She had had time to arrange
herself, and now, her hair elaborately done, her lips and cheeks
painted, she looked less haggard than when he had first seen her.

"I've brought you some books," said Ashenden. "I'm afraid the time hangs
heavy on your hands."

"What does that matter to you?"

"I have no wish that you should suffer anything that can be avoided.
Anyhow, I will leave them and you can read them or not as you choose."

"If you only knew how I hated you."

"It would doubtless make me very uncomfortable. But I really don't know
why you should. I am only doing what I have been ordered to do."

"What do you want of me now? I do not suppose you have come only to ask
after my health."

Ashenden smiled.

"I want you to write a letter to your lover telling him that owing to
some irregularity in your passport the Swiss authorities would not let
you cross the frontier, so you have come here where it is very nice and
quiet, so quiet that one can hardly realise there is a war, and you
propose that Chandra should join you."

"Do you think he is a fool? He will refuse."

"Then you must do your best to persuade him."

She looked at Ashenden a long time before she answered. He suspected
that she was debating within herself whether by writing the letter and
so seeming docile she could not gain time.

"Well, dictate and I will write what you say."

"I should prefer you to put it in your own words."

"Give me half an hour and the letter shall be ready."

"I will wait here," said Ashenden.

"Why?"

"Because I prefer to."

Her eyes flashed angrily, but controlling herself she said nothing. On
the chest of drawers were writing materials. She sat down at the
dressing-table and began to write. When she handed Ashenden the letter
he saw that even through her rouge she was very pale. It was the letter
of a person not much used to expressing herself by means of pen and ink,
but it was well enough, and when towards the end, starting to say how
much she loved the man, she had been carried away and wrote with all her
heart, it had really a certain passion.

"Now add: The man who is bringing this is Swiss, you can trust him
absolutely. I didn't want the censor to see it."

She hesitated an instant, but then wrote as he directed.

"How do you spell, absolutely?"

"As you like. Now address an envelope and I will relieve you of my
unwelcome presence."

He gave the letter to the agent who was waiting to take it across the
lake. Ashenden brought her the reply the same evening. She snatched it
from his hands and for a moment pressed it to her heart. When she read
it she uttered a little cry of relief.

"He won't come."

The letter, in the Indian's flowery, stilted English, expressed his
bitter disappointment. He told her how intensely he had looked forward
to seeing her and implored her to do everything in the world to smooth
the difficulties that prevented her from crossing the frontier. He said
that it was impossible for him to come, impossible, there was a price on
his head, and it would be madness for him to think of risking it. He
attempted to be jocular, she did not want her little fat lover to be
shot, did she?

"He won't come," she repeated, "he won't come."

"You must write and tell him that there is no risk. You must say that if
there were you would not dream of asking him. You must say that if he
loves you he will not hesitate."

"I won't. I won't."

"Don't be a fool. You can't help yourself."

She burst into a sudden flood of tears. She flung herself on the floor
and seizing Ashenden's knees implored him to have mercy on her.

"I will do anything in the world for you if you will let me go."

"Don't be absurd," said Ashenden. "Do you think I want to become your
lover? Come, come, you must be serious. You know the alternative."

She raised herself to her feet and changing on a sudden to fury flung at
Ashenden one foul name after another.

"I like you much better like that," he said. "Now will you write or
shall I send for the police?"

"He will not come. It is useless."

"It is very much to your interest to make him come."

"What do you mean by that? Do you mean that if I do everything in my
power and fail, that..."

She looked at Ashenden with wild eyes.

"Yes, it means either you or him."

She staggered. She put her hand to her heart. Then without a word she
reached for pen and paper. But the letter was not to Ashenden's liking
and he made her write it again. When she had finished she flung herself
on the bed and burst once more into passionate weeping. Her grief was
real, but there was something theatrical in the expression of it that
prevented it from being peculiarly moving to Ashenden. He felt his
relation to her as impersonal as a doctor's in the presence of a pain
that he cannot alleviate. He saw now why R. had given him this peculiar
task; it needed a cool head and an emotion well under control.

He did not see her next day. The answer to the letter was not delivered
to him till after dinner, when it was brought to Ashenden's little house
by Felix.

"Well, what news have you?"

"Our friend is getting desperate," smiled the Frenchman. "This afternoon
she walked up to the station just as a train was about to start for
Lyons. She was looking up and down uncertainly so I went to her and
asked if there was anything I could do. I introduced myself as an agent
of the Suret. If looks could kill I should not be standing here now."

"Sit down, _mon ami_," said Ashenden.

"Merci. She walked away, she evidently thought it was no use to try to
get on the train, but I have something more interesting to tell you. She
has offered a boatman on the lake a thousand francs to take her across
to Lausanne."

"What did he say to her?"

"He said he couldn't risk it."

"Yes?"

The little agent gave his shoulders a slight shrug and smiled.

"She's asked him to meet her on the road that leads to Evian at ten
o'clock to-night so that they can talk of it again, and she's given him
to understand that she will not repulse too fiercely the advances of a
lover. I have told him to do what he likes so long as he comes and tells
me everything that is of importance."

"Are you sure you can trust him?" asked Ashenden.

"Oh, quite. He knows nothing, of course, but that she is under
surveillance. You need have no fear about him. He is a good boy. I have
known him all his life."

Ashenden read Chandra's letter. It was eager and passionate. It throbbed
strangely with the painful yearning of his heart. Love? Yes, if Ashenden
knew anything of it there was the real thing. He told her how he spent
the long hours walking by the lakeside and looking towards the coast of
France. How near they were and yet so desperately parted! He repeated
again and again that he could not come, and begged her not to ask him,
he would do everything in the world for her, but that he dared not do,
and yet if she insisted how could he resist her? He besought her to have
mercy on him. And then he broke into a long wail at the thought that he
must go away without seeing her, he asked her if there were not some
means by which she could slip over, he swore that if he could ever hold
her in his arms again he would never let her go. Even the forced and
elaborate language in which it was written could not dim the hot fire
that burned the pages; it was the letter of a madman.

"When will you hear the result of her interview with the boatman?" asked
Ashenden.

"I have arranged to meet him at the landing-stage between eleven and
twelve."

Ashenden looked at his watch.

"I will come with you."

They walked down the hill and reaching the quay for shelter from the
cold wind stood in the lea of the custom-house. At last they saw a man
approaching and Felix stepped out of the shadow that hid them.

"Antoine."

"_Monsieur Felix_? I have a letter for you; I promised to take it to
Lausanne by the first boat to-morrow."

Ashenden gave the man a brief glance, but did not ask what had passed
between him and Giulia Lazzari. He took the letter and by the light of
Felix's electric torch read it. It was in faulty German.

    "_On no account come.  Pay no attention to my letters.  Danger.
     I love you.  Sweetheart.  Don't come._"

He put it in his pocket, gave the boatman fifty francs, and went home to
bed. But the next day when he went to see Giulia Lazzari he found her
door locked. He knocked for some time, there was no answer. He called
her.

"Madame Lazzari, you must open the door. I want to speak to you."

"I am in bed. I am ill and can see no one."

"I am sorry, but you must open the door. If you are ill I will send for
a doctor."

"No, go away. I will see no one."

"If you do not open the door I shall send for a locksmith and have it
broken open."

There was a silence and then he heard the key turned in the lock. He
went in. She was in a dressing-gown and her hair was dishevelled. She
had evidently just got out of bed.

"I am at the end of my strength. I can do nothing more. You have only to
look at me to see that I am ill. I have been sick all night."

"I shall not keep you long. Would you like to see a doctor?"

"What good can a doctor do me?"

He took out of his pocket the letter she had given the boatman and
handed it to her.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked.

She gave a gasp at the sight of it and her sallow face went green.

"You gave me your word that you would neither attempt to escape nor
write a letter without my knowledge."

"Did you think I would keep my word?" she cried, her voice ringing with
scorn.

"No. To tell you the truth it was not entirely for your convenience that
you were placed in a comfortable hotel rather than in the local gaol,
but I think I should tell you that though you have your freedom to go in
and out as you like you have no more chance of getting away from Thonon
than if you were chained by the leg in a prison cell. It is silly to
waste your time writing letters that will never be delivered."

"_Cochon._"

She flung the opprobrious word at him with all the violence that was in
her.

"But you must sit down and write a letter that _will_ be delivered."

"Never. I will do nothing more. I will not write another word."

"You came here on the understanding that you would do certain things."

"I will not do them. It is finished."

"You had better reflect a little."

"Reflect! I have reflected. You can do what you like; I don't care."

"Very well, I will give you five minutes to change your mind."

Ashenden took out his watch and looked at it. He sat down on the edge of
the unmade bed.

"Oh, it has got on my nerves, this hotel. Why did you not put me in the
prison? Why, why? Everywhere I went I felt that spies were on my heels.
It is infamous what you are making me do. Infamous! What is my crime? I
ask you, what have I done? Am I not a woman? It is infamous what you are
asking me to do. Infamous."

She spoke in a high shrill voice. She went on and on. At last the five
minutes were up. Ashenden had not said a word. He rose.

"Yes, go, go," she shrieked at him.

She flung foul names at him.

"I shall come back," said Ashenden.

He took the key out of the door as he went out of the room and locked it
behind him. Going downstairs he hurriedly scribbled a note, called the
boots and dispatched him with it to the police-station. Then he went up
again. Giulia Lazzari had thrown herself on her bed and turned her face
to the wall. Her body was shaken with hysterical sobs. She gave no sign
that she heard him come in. Ashenden sat down on the chair in front of
the dressing-table and looked idly at the odds and ends that littered
it. The toilet things were cheap and tawdry and none too clean. There
were little shabby pots of rouge and cold-cream and little bottles of
black for the eyebrows and eyelashes. The hairpins were horrid and
greasy. The room was untidy and the air was heavy with the smell of
cheap scent. Ashenden thought of the hundreds of rooms she must have
occupied in third-rate hotels in the course of her wandering life from
provincial town to provincial town in one country after another. He
wondered what had been her origins. She was a coarse and vulgar woman,
but what had she been when young? She was not the type he would have
expected to adopt that career, for she seemed to have no advantages that
could help her, and he asked himself whether she came of a family of
entertainers (there are all over the world families in which for
generations the members have become dancers or acrobats or comic
singers) or whether she had fallen into the life accidentally through
some lover in the business who had for a time made her his partner. And
what men must she have known in all these years, the comrades of the
shows she was in, the agents and managers who looked upon it as a
perquisite of their position that they should enjoy her favours, the
merchants or well-to-do tradesmen, the young sparks of the various towns
she played in, who were attracted for the moment by the glamour of the
dancer or the blatant sensuality of the woman! To her they were the
paying customers and she accepted them indifferently as the recognised
and admitted supplement to her miserable salary, but to them perhaps she
was romance. In her bought arms they caught sight for a moment of the
brilliant world of the capitals, and ever so distantly and however
shoddily of the adventure and the glamour of a more spacious life.

There was a sudden knock at the door and Ashenden immediately cried out:

"_Entrez._"

Giulia Lazzari sprang up in bed to a sitting posture.

"Who is it?" she called.

She gave a gasp as she saw the two detectives who had brought her from
Boulogne and handed her over to Ashenden at Thonon.

"You! What do you want?" she shrieked.

"_Allons, levez vous_," said one of them, and his voice had a sharp
abruptness that suggested that he would put up with no nonsense.

"I'm afraid you must get up, Madame Lazzari," said Ashenden. "I am
delivering you once more to the care of these gentlemen."

"How can I get up! I'm ill, I tell you. I cannot stand. Do you want to
kill me?"

"If you won't dress yourself, we shall have to dress you, and I'm afraid
we shouldn't do it very cleverly. Come, come, it's no good making a
scene."

"Where are you going to take me?"

"They're going to take you back to England."

One of the detectives took hold of her arm.

"Don't touch me, don't come near me," she screamed furiously.

"Let her be," said Ashenden. "I'm sure she'll see the necessity of
making as little trouble as possible."

"I'll dress myself."

Ashenden watched her as she took off her dressing-gown and slipped a
dress over her head. She forced her feet into shoes obviously too small
for her. She arranged her hair. Every now and then she gave the
detectives a hurried, sullen glance. Ashenden wondered if she would have
the nerve to go through with it. R. would call him a damned fool, but he
almost wished she would. She went up to the dressing-table and Ashenden
stood up in order to let her sit down. She greased her face quickly and
then rubbed off the grease with a dirty towel, she powdered herself and
made up her eyes. But her hand shook. The three men watched her in
silence. She rubbed the rouge on her cheeks and painted her mouth. Then
she crammed a hat down on her head. Ashenden made a gesture to the first
detective and he took a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket and advanced
towards her.

At the sight of them she started back violently and flung her arms wide.

"_Non, non, non, Je ne veux pas._ No, not them. No. No."

"Come, _ma fille_, don't be silly," said the detective roughly.

As though for protection (very much to his surprise) she flung her arms
round Ashenden.

"Don't let them take me, have mercy on me, I can't, I can't."

Ashenden extricated himself as best he could.

"I can do nothing more for you."

The detective seized her wrists and was about to affix the handcuffs
when with a great cry she threw herself down on the floor.

"I will do what you wish. I will do everything."

On a sign from Ashenden the detectives left the room. He waited for a
little till she had regained a certain calm. She was lying on the floor,
sobbing passionately. He raised her to her feet and made her sit down.

"What do you want me to do?" she gasped.

"I want you to write another letter to Chandra."

"My head is in a whirl. I could not put two phrases together. You must
give me time."

But Ashenden felt that it was better to get her to write a letter while
she was under the effect of her terror. He did not want to give her time
to collect herself.

"I will dictate the letter to you. All you have to do is to write
exactly what I tell you."

She gave a deep sigh, but took the pen and the paper and sat down before
them at the dressing-table.

"If I do this and... and you succeed, how do I know that I shall be
allowed to go free?"

"The Colonel promised that you should. You must take my word for it that
I shall carry out his instructions."

"I _should_ look a fool if I betrayed my friend and then went to prison
for ten years."

"I'll tell you your best guarantee of our good faith. Except by reason
of Chandra you are not of the smallest importance to us. Why should we
put ourselves to the bother and expense of keeping you in prison when
you can do us no harm?"

She reflected for an instant. She was composed now. It was as though,
having exhausted her emotion, she had become on a sudden a sensible and
practical woman.

"Tell me what you want me to write."

Ashenden hesitated. He thought he could put the letter more or less in
the way she would naturally have put it, but he had to give it
consideration. It must be neither fluent nor literary. He knew that in
moments of emotion people are inclined to be melodramatic and stilted.
In a book or on the stage this always rings false and the author has to
make his people speak more simply and with less emphasis than in fact
they do. It was a serious moment, but Ashenden felt that there were in
it elements of the comic.

"I didn't know I loved a coward," he started. "If you loved me you
couldn't hesitate when I ask you to come.... Underline _couldn't_
twice." He went on. "When I promise you there is no danger. If you don't
love me, you are right not to come. Don't come. Go back to Berlin where
you are in safety. I am sick of it. I am alone here. I have made myself
ill by waiting for you and every day I have said he is coming. If you
loved me you would not hesitate so much. It is quite clear to me that
you do not love me. I am sick and tired of you. I have no money. This
hotel is impossible. There is nothing for me to stay for. I can get an
engagement in Paris. I have a friend there who has made me serious
propositions. I have wasted long enough over you and look what I have
got from it. It is finished. Good-bye. You will never find a woman who
will love you as I have loved you. I cannot afford to refuse the
proposition of my friend, so I have telegraphed to him and as soon as I
shall receive his answer I go to Paris. I do not blame you because you
do not love me, that is not your fault, but you must see that I should
be a stupid to go on wasting my life. One is not young for ever.
Good-bye. Giulia."

When Ashenden read over the letter he was not altogether satisfied. But
it was the best he could do. It had an air of verisimilitude which the
words lacked because, knowing little English, she had written
phonetically, the spelling was atrocious and the handwriting like a
child's; she had crossed out words and written them over again. Some of
the phrases he had put in French. Once or twice tears had fallen on the
pages and blurred the ink.

"I leave you now," said Ashenden. "It may be that when next you see me I
shall be able to tell you that you are free to go where you choose.
Where do you want to go?"

"Spain."

"Very well, I will have everything prepared."

She shrugged her shoulders. He left her.

There was nothing now for Ashenden to do but wait. He sent a messenger
to Lausanne in the afternoon, and next morning went down to the quay to
meet the boat. There was a waiting-room next to the ticket-office and
here he told the detectives to hold themselves in readiness. When a boat
arrived the passengers advanced along the pier in line and their
passports were examined before they were allowed to go ashore. If
Chandra came and showed his passport, and it was very likely that he was
travelling with a false one, issued probably by a neutral nation, he was
to be asked to wait and Ashenden was to identify him. Then he would be
arrested. It was with some excitement that Ashenden watched the boat
come in and the little group of people gathered at the gangway. He
scanned them closely but saw no one who looked in the least like an
Indian. Chandra had not come. Ashenden did not know what to do. He had
played his last card. There were not more than half a dozen passengers
for Thonon, and when they had been examined and gone their way he
strolled along the pier.

"Well, it's no go," he said to Felix, who had been examining the
passports. "The gentleman I expected hasn't turned up."

"I have a letter for you."

He handed Ashenden an envelope addressed to Madame Lazzari on which he
immediately recognized the spidery handwriting of Chandra Lal. At that
moment the steamer from Geneva which was going to Lausanne and the end
of the lake hove in sight. It arrived at Thonon every morning twenty
minutes after the steamer going in the opposite direction had left.
Ashenden had an inspiration.

"Where is the man who brought it?"

"He's in the ticket-office."

"Give him the letter and tell him to return to the person who gave it to
him. He is to say that he took it to the lady and she sent it back. If
the person asks him to take another letter he is to say that it is not
much good as she is packing her trunk and leaving Thonon."

He saw the letter handed over and the instructions given and then walked
back to his little house in the country.

The next boat on which Chandra could possibly come arrived about five
and having at that hour an important engagement with an agent working in
Germany he warned Felix that he might be a few minutes late. But if
Chandra came he could easily be detained; there was no great hurry since
the train in which he was to be taken to Paris did not start till
shortly after eight. When Ashenden had finished his business he strolled
leisurely down to the lake. It was light still and from the top of the
hill he saw the steamer pulling out. It was an anxious moment and
instinctively he quickened his steps. Suddenly he saw someone running
towards him and recognised the man who had taken the letter.

"Quick, quick," he cried. "He's there."

Ashenden's heart gave a great thud against his chest.

"At last."

He began to run too and as they ran the man, panting, told him how he
had taken back the unopened letter. When he put it in the Indian's hand
he turned frightfully pale ("I should never have thought an Indian could
turn that colour," he said), and turned it over and over in his hand as
though he could not understand what his own letter was doing there.
Tears sprang to his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. ("It was grotesque,
he's fat, you know.") He said something in a language the man did not
understand and then in French asked him when the boat went to Thonon.
When he got on board he looked about, but did not see him, then he
caught sight of him, huddled up in an ulster with his hat drawn down
over his eyes, standing alone in the bows. During the crossing he kept
his eyes fixed on Thonon.

"Where is he now?" asked Ashenden.

"I got off first and Monsieur Felix told me to come for you."

"I suppose they're holding him in the waiting-room."

Ashenden was out of breath when they reached the pier. He burst into the
waiting-room. A group of men, talking at the top of their voices and
gesticulating wildly, were clustered round a man lying on the ground.

"What's happened?" he cried.

"Look," said Monsieur Felix.

Chandra Lal lay there, his eyes wide open and a thin line of foam on his
lips, dead. His body was horribly contorted.

"He's killed himself. We've sent for the doctor. He was too quick for
us."

A sudden thrill of horror passed through Ashenden.

When the Indian landed Felix recognised from the description that he was
the man they wanted. There were only four passengers. He was the last.
Felix took an exaggerated time to examine the passports of the first
three, and then took the Indian's. It was a Spanish one and it was all
in order. Felix asked the regulation questions and noted them on the
official sheet. Then he looked at him pleasantly and said:

"Just come into the waiting-room for a moment. There are one or two
formalities to fulfil."

"Is my passport not in order?" the Indian asked.

"Perfectly."

Chandra hesitated, but then followed the official to the door of the
waiting-room. Felix opened it and stood aside.

"_Entrez._"

Chandra went in and the two detectives stood up. He must have suspected
at once that they were police-officers and realised that he had fallen
into a trap.

"Sit down," said Felix. "I have one or two questions to put to you."

"It is hot in here," he said, and in point of fact they had a little
stove there that kept the place like an oven. "I will take off my coat
if you permit."

"Certainly," said Felix graciously.

He took off his coat, apparently with some effort, and he turned to put
it on a chair, and then before they realised what had happened they were
startled to see him stagger and fall heavily to the ground. While taking
off his coat Chandra had managed to swallow the contents of a bottle
that was still clasped in his hand. Ashenden put his nose to it. There
was a very distinct odour of almonds.

For a little while they looked at the man who lay on the floor. Felix
was apologetic.

"Will they be very angry?" he asked nervously.

"I don't see that it was your fault," said Ashenden. "Anyhow, he can do
no more harm. For my part I am just as glad he killed himself. The
notion of his being executed did not make me very comfortable."

In a few minutes the doctor arrived and pronounced life extinct.

"Prussic acid," he said to Ashenden.

Ashenden nodded.

"I will go and see Madame Lazzari," he said. "If she wants to stay a day
or two longer I shall let her. But if she wants to go to-night of course
she can. Will you give the agents at the station instructions to let her
pass?"

"I shall be at the station myself," said Felix.

Ashenden once more climbed the hill. It was night now, a cold, bright
night with an unclouded sky and the sight of the new moon, a white
shining thread, made him turn three times the money in his pocket. When
he entered the hotel he was seized on a sudden with distaste for its
cold banality. It smelt of cabbage and boiled mutton. On the walls of
the hall were coloured posters of railway companies advertising
Grenoble, Carcassonne and the bathing places of Normandy. He went
upstairs and after a brief knock opened the door of Giulia Lazzari's
room. She was sitting in front of her dressing-table, looking at herself
in the glass, just idly, despairingly, apparently doing nothing, and it
was in this that she saw Ashenden as he came in. Her face changed
suddenly as she caught sight of his and she sprang up so vehemently that
the chair fell over.

"What is it? Why are you so white?" she cried.

She turned round and stared at him and her features were gradually
twisted to a look of horror.

"_Il est pris,_" she gasped.

"_Il est mort_," said Ashenden.

"Dead! He took the poison. He had the time for that. He's escaped you
after all."

"What do you mean? How did you know about the poison?"

"He always carried it with him. He said that the English should never
take him alive."

Ashenden reflected for an instant. She had kept that secret well. He
supposed the possibility of such a thing should have occurred to him.
How was he to anticipate these melodramatic devices?

"Well, now you are free. You can go wherever you like and no obstacle
shall be put in your way. Here are your ticket and your passport and
here is the money that was in your possession when you were arrested. Do
you wish to see Chandra?"

She started.

"No, no."

"There is no need. I thought you might care to."

She did not weep. Ashenden supposed that she had exhausted all her
emotion. She seemed apathetic.

"A telegram will be sent to-night to the Spanish frontier to instruct
the authorities to put no difficulties in your way. If you will take my
advice you will get out of France as soon as you can."

She said nothing, and since Ashenden had no more to say he made ready to
go.

"I am sorry that I have had to show myself so hard to you. I am glad to
think that now the worst of your troubles are over and I hope that time
will assuage the grief that I know you must feel for the death of your
friend."

Ashenden gave her a little bow and turned to the door. But she stopped
him.

"One little moment," she said. "There is one thing I should like to ask.
I think you have some heart."

"Whatever I can do for you, you may be sure I will."

"What are they going to do with his things?"

"I don't know. Why?"

Then she said something that confounded Ashenden. It was the last thing
he expected.

"He had a wrist-watch that I gave him last Christmas. It cost twelve
pounds. Can I have it back?"




THE TRAITOR


When Ashenden, given charge of a number of spies working from
Switzerland, was first sent there, R., wishing him to see the sort of
reports that he would be required to obtain, handed him the
communications, a sheaf of typewritten documents, of a man known in the
secret service as Gustav.

"He's the best fellow we've got," said R. "His information is always
very full and circumstantial. I want you to give his reports your very
best attention. Of course Gustav is a clever little chap, but there's no
reason why we shouldn't get just as good reports from the other agents.
It's merely a question of explaining exactly what we want."

Gustav, who lived at Basle, represented a Swiss firm with branches at
Frankfort, Mannheim and Cologne, and by virtue of his business was able
to go in and out of Germany without risk. He travelled up and down the
Rhine, and gathered material about the movement of troops, the
manufacture of munitions, the state of mind of the country (a point on
which R. laid stress) and other matters upon which the Allies desired
information. His frequent letters to his wife hid an ingenious code and
the moment she received them in Basle she sent them to Ashenden in
Geneva, who extracted from them the important facts and communicated
these in the proper quarter. Every two months Gustav came home and
prepared one of the reports that served as models to the other spies in
this particular section of the secret service.

His employers were pleased with Gustav and Gustav had reason to be
pleased with his employers. His services were so useful that he was not
only paid more highly than the others, but for particular scoops had
received from time to time a handsome bonus.

This went on for more than a year. Then something aroused R.'s quick
suspicions; he was a man of an amazing alertness, not so much of mind,
as of instinct, and he had suddenly a feeling that some hanky-panky was
going on. He said nothing definite to Ashenden (whatever R. surmised he
was disposed to keep to himself), but told him to go to Basle, Gustav
being then in Germany, and have a talk with Gustav's wife. He left it to
Ashenden to decide the tenor of the conversation.

Having arrived at Basle, and leaving his bag at the station, for he did
not yet know whether he would have to stay or not, he took a tram to the
corner of the street in which Gustav lived and, with a quick look to see
that he was not followed, walked along to the house he sought. It was a
block of flats that gave you the impression of decent poverty and
Ashenden conjectured that they were inhabited by clerks and small
tradespeople. Just inside the door was a cobbler's shop and Ashenden
stopped.

"Does Herr Grabow live here?" he asked in his none too fluent German.

"Yes, I saw him go up a few minutes ago. You'll find him in."

Ashenden was startled, for he had but the day before received through
Gustav's wife a letter addressed from Mannheim in which Gustav by means
of his code gave the numbers of certain regiments that had just crossed
the Rhine. Ashenden thought it unwise to ask the cobbler the question
that rose to his lips, so thanked him and went up to the third floor, on
which he knew already that Gustav lived. He rang the bell and heard it
tinkle within. In a moment the door was opened by a dapper little man
with a close-shaven round head and spectacles. He wore carpet slippers.

"Herr Grabow?" asked Ashenden.

"At your service," said Gustav.

"May I come in?"

Gustav was standing with his back to the light and Ashenden could not
see the look on his face. He felt a momentary hesitation and gave the
name under which he received Gustav's letters from Germany.

"Come in, come in. I am very glad to see you."

Gustav led the way into a stuffy little room, heavy with carved oak
furniture, and on the large table covered with a table-cloth of green
velveteen was a typewriter. Gustav was apparently engaged in composing
one of his invaluable reports. A woman was sitting at the open window
darning socks, but at a word from Gustav rose, gathered up her things
and left. Ashenden had disturbed a pretty picture of connubial bliss.

"Sit down, please. How very fortunate that I was in Basle! I have long
wanted to make your acquaintance. I have only just this minute returned
from Germany." He pointed to the sheets of paper by the typewriter. "I
think you will be pleased with the news I bring. I have some very
valuable information." He chuckled. "One is never sorry to earn a
bonus."

He was very cordial, but to Ashenden his cordiality rang false. Gustav
kept his eyes, smiling behind the glasses, fixed watchfully on Ashenden,
and it was possible that they held a trace of nervousness.

"You must have travelled quickly to get here only a few hours after your
letter, sent here and then sent on by your wife, reached me in Geneva."

"That is very probable. One of the things I had to tell you is that the
Germans suspect that information is getting through by means of
commercial letters and so they have decided to hold up all mail at the
frontier for eight-and-forty hours."

"I see," said Ashenden amiably. "And was it on that account that you
took the precaution of dating your letter forty-eight hours after you
sent it?"

"Did I do that? That was very stupid of me. I must have mistaken the day
of the month."

Ashenden looked at Gustav with a smile. That was very thin; Gustav, a
business man, knew too well how important in his particular job was the
exactness of a date. The circuitous routes by which it was necessary to
get information from Germany made it difficult to transmit news quickly
and it was essential to know precisely on what days certain events had
taken place.

"Let me look at your passport a minute," said Ashenden.

"What do you want with my passport?"

"I want to see when you went into Germany and when you came out."

"But you do not imagine that my comings and goings are marked on my
passport? I have methods of crossing the frontier."

Ashenden knew a good deal of this matter. He knew that both the Germans
and the Swiss guarded the frontier with severity.

"Oh? Why should you not cross in the ordinary way? You were engaged
because your connection with a Swiss firm supplying necessary goods to
Germany made it easy for you to travel backwards and forwards without
suspicion. I can understand that you might get past the German sentries
with the connivance of the Germans, but what about the Swiss?"

Gustav assumed a look of indignation.

"I do not understand you. Do you mean to suggest that I am in the
service of the Germans? I give you my word of honour... I will not
allow my integrity to be impugned."

"You would not be the only one to take money from both sides and provide
information of value to neither."

"Do you pretend that my information is of no value? Why then have you
given me more bonuses than any other agent has received? The Colonel has
repeatedly expressed the highest satisfaction with my services."

It was Ashenden's turn now to be cordial.

"Come, come, my dear fellow, do not try to ride the high horse. You do
not wish to show me your passport and I will not insist. You are not
under the impression that we leave the statements of our agents without
corroboration or that we are so foolish as not to keep track of their
movements? Even the best of jokes cannot bear an indefinite repetition.
I am in peace-time a humorist by profession and I tell you that from
bitter experience." Now Ashenden thought the moment had arrived to
attempt his bluff; he knew something of the excellent but difficult game
of poker. "We have information that you have not been to Germany now,
nor since you were engaged by us, but have sat here quietly in Basle,
and all your reports are merely due to your fertile imagination."

Gustav looked at Ashenden and saw a face expressive of nothing but
tolerance and good-humour. A smile slowly broke on his lips and he gave
his shoulders a little shrug.

"Did you think I was such a fool as to risk my life for fifty pounds a
month? I love my wife."

Ashenden laughed outright.

"I congratulate you. It is not everyone who can flatter himself that he
has made a fool of our secret service for a year."

"I had the chance of earning money without any difficulty. My firm
stopped sending me into Germany at the beginning of the war, but I
learned what I could from the other travellers. I kept my ears open in
restaurants and beer-cellars, and I read the German papers. I got a lot
of amusement out of sending you reports and letters."

"I don't wonder," said Ashenden.

"What are you going to do?"

"Nothing. What can we do? You are not under the impression that we shall
continue to pay you a salary?"

"No, I cannot expect that."

"By the way, if it is not indiscreet, may I ask if you have been playing
the same game with the Germans?"

"Oh, no," Gustav cried vehemently. "How can you think it? My sympathies
are absolutely pro-Ally. My heart is entirely with you."

"Well, why not?" asked Ashenden. "The Germans have all the money in the
world and there is no reason why you should not get some of it. We could
give you information from time to time that the Germans would be
prepared to pay for."

Gustav drummed his fingers on the table. He took up a sheet of the now
useless report.

"The Germans are dangerous people to meddle with."

"You are a very intelligent man. And after all, even if your salary is
stopped, you can always earn a bonus by bringing us news that can be
useful to us. But it will have to be substantiated; in future we pay
only by results."

"I will think of it."

For a moment or two Ashenden left Gustav to his reflections. He lit a
cigarette and watched the smoke he had inhaled fade into the air. He
thought too.

"Is there anything particular you want to know?" asked Gustav suddenly.

Ashenden smiled.

"It would be worth a couple of thousand Swiss francs to you if you could
tell me what the Germans are doing with a spy of theirs in Lucerne. He
is an Englishman and his name is Grantley Caypor."

"I have heard the name," said Gustav. He paused a moment. "How long are
you staying here?"

"As long as necessary. I will take a room at the hotel and let you know
the number. If you have anything to say to me you can be sure of finding
me in my room at nine every morning and at seven every night."

"I should not risk coming to the hotel. But I can write."

"Very well."

Ashenden rose to go and Gustav accompanied him to the door.

"We part without ill-feeling then?" he asked.

"Of course. Your reports will remain in our archives as models of what a
report should be."

Ashenden spent two or three days visiting Basle. It did not much amuse
him. He passed a good deal of time in the book-shops turning over the
pages of books that would have been worth reading if life were a
thousand years long. Once he saw Gustav in the street. On the fourth
morning a letter was brought up with his coffee. The envelope was that
of a commercial firm unknown to him and inside it was a typewritten
sheet. There was no address and no signature. Ashenden wondered if
Gustav was aware that a typewriter could betray its owner as certainly
as a handwriting. Having twice carefully read the letter, he held the
paper up to the light to see the watermark (he had no reason for doing
this except that the sleuths of detective novels always did it), then
struck a match and watched it burn. He scrunched up the charred
fragments in his hand.

He got up, for he had taken advantage of his situation to breakfast in
bed, packed his bag and took the next train to Berne. From there he was
able to send a code telegram to R. His instructions were given to him
verbally two days later, in the bedroom of his hotel at an hour when no
one was likely to be seen walking along a corridor, and within
twenty-four hours, though by a circuitous route, he arrived at Lucerne.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Having taken a room at the hotel at which he had been instructed to
stay, Ashenden went out; it was a lovely day, early in August, and the
sun shone in an unclouded sky. He had not been to Lucerne since he was a
boy and but vaguely remembered a covered bridge, a great stone lion and
a church in which he had sat, bored yet impressed, while they played an
organ; and, now wandering along a shady quay (and the lake looked just
as tawdry and unreal as it looked on the picture-postcards) he tried not
so much to find his way about a half-forgotten scene as to reform in his
mind some recollection of the shy and eager lad, so impatient for life
(which he saw not in the present of his adolescence but only in the
future of his manhood) who so long ago had wandered there. But it seemed
to him that the most vivid of his memories was not of himself, but of
the crowd; he seemed to remember sun and heat and people; the train was
crowded and so was the hotel, the lake steamers were packed and on the
quays and in the streets you threaded your way among the throng of
holiday-makers. They were fat and old and ugly and odd, and they stank.
Now, in war-time, Lucerne was as deserted as it must have been before
the world at large discovered that Switzerland was the playground of
Europe. Most of the hotels were closed, the streets were empty, the
rowing boats for hire rocked idly at the water's edge and there was none
to take them, and in the avenues by the lake the only persons to be seen
were serious Swiss taking their neutrality, like a dachshund, for a walk
with them. Ashenden felt exhilarated by the solitude and, sitting down
on a bench that faced the water, surrendered himself deliberately to the
sensation. It was true that the lake was absurd, the water was too blue,
the mountains too snowy, and its beauty, hitting you in the face,
exasperated rather than thrilled; but all the same there was something
pleasing in the prospect, an artless candour, like one of Mendelssohn's
_Songs Without Words_, that made Ashenden smile with complacency.
Lucerne reminded him of wax flowers under glass cases and cuckoo clocks
and fancy-work in Berlin wool. So long at all events as the fine weather
lasted he was prepared to enjoy himself. He did not see why he should
not at least try to combine pleasure to himself with profit to his
country. He was travelling with a brand-new passport in his pocket,
under a borrowed name, and this gave him an agreeable sense of owning a
new personality. He was often slightly tired of himself and it diverted
him for a while to be merely a creature of R.'s facile invention. The
experience he had just enjoyed appealed to his acute sense of the
absurd. R., it is true, had not seen the fun of it: what humour R.
possessed was of a sardonic turn and he had no facility for taking in
good part a joke at his own expense. To do that you must be able to look
at yourself from the outside and be at the same time spectator and actor
in the pleasant comedy of life. R. was a soldier and regarded
introspection as unhealthy, un-English and unpatriotic.

Ashenden got up and strolled slowly to his hotel. It was a small German
hotel, of the second class, spotlessly clean, and his bedroom had a nice
view; it was furnished with brightly varnished pitch-pine, and though on
a cold wet day it would have been wretched, in that warm and sunny
weather it was gay and pleasing. There were tables in the hall and he
sat down at one of these and ordered a bottle of beer. The landlady was
curious to know why in that dead season he had come to stay and he was
glad to satisfy her curiosity. He told her that he had recently
recovered from an attack of typhoid and had come to Lucerne to get back
his strength. He was employed in the Censorship Department and was
taking the opportunity to brush up his rusty German. He asked her if she
could recommend to him a German teacher. The landlady was a blond and
blowsy Swiss, good-humoured and talkative, so that Ashenden felt pretty
sure that she would repeat in the proper quarter the information he gave
her. It was his turn now to ask a few questions. She was voluble on the
subject of the war on account of which the hotel, in that month so full
that rooms had to be found for visitors in neighbouring houses, was
nearly empty. A few people came in from outside to eat their meals _en
pension_ but she had only two lots of resident guests. One was an old
Irish couple who lived in Vevey and passed their summers in Lucerne and
the other was an Englishman and his wife. She was a German and they were
obliged on that account to live in a neutral country. Ashenden took care
to show little curiosity about them--he recognised in the description
Grantley Caypor--but of her own accord she told him that they spent most
of the day walking about the mountains. Herr Caypor was a botanist and
much interested in the flora of the country. His lady was a very nice
woman and she felt her position keenly. Ah, well, the war could not last
for ever. The landlady bustled away and Ashenden went upstairs.

Dinner was at seven, and, wishing to be in the dining-room before anyone
else so that he could take stock of his fellow-guests as they entered,
he went down as soon as he heard the bell. It was a very plain, stiff,
whitewashed room, with chairs of the same shiny pitch-pine as in his
bedroom, and on the walls were oleographs of Swiss lakes. On each little
table was a bunch of flowers. It was all neat and clean and presaged a
bad dinner. Ashenden would have liked to make up for it by ordering a
bottle of the best Rhine wine to be found in the hotel, but did not
venture to draw attention to himself by extravagance (he saw on two or
three tables half-empty bottles of table hock, which made him surmise
that his fellow-guests drank thriftily), and so contented himself with
ordering a pint of lager. Presently one or two persons came in, single
men with some occupation in Lucerne and obviously Swiss, and sat down
each at his own little table and untied the napkins that at the end of
luncheon they had neatly tied up. They propped newspapers against their
waterjugs and read while they somewhat noisily ate their soup. Then
entered a very old tall bent man, with white hair and a drooping white
moustache, accompanied by a little old white-haired lady in black. These
were certainly the Irish colonel and his wife of whom the landlady had
spoken. They took their seats and the colonel poured out a thimbleful of
wine for his wife and a thimbleful for himself. They waited in silence
for their dinner to be served to them by the buxom, hearty maid.

At last the persons arrived for whom Ashenden had been waiting. He was
doing his best to read a German book and it was only by an exercise of
self-control that he allowed himself only for one instant to raise his
eyes as they came in. His glance showed him a man of about forty-five
with short dark hair, somewhat grizzled, of middle height, but
corpulent, with a broad red clean-shaven face. He wore a shirt open at
the neck, with a wide collar, and a grey suit. He walked ahead of his
wife, and of her Ashenden only caught the impression of a German woman
self-effaced and dusty. Grantley Caypor sat down and began in a loud
voice explaining to the waitress that they had taken an immense walk.
They had been up some mountain the name of which meant nothing to
Ashenden, but which excited in the maid expressions of astonishment and
enthusiasm. Then Caypor, still in fluent German but with a marked
English accent, said that they were so late they had not even gone up to
wash, but had just rinsed their hands outside. He had a resonant voice
and a jovial manner.

"Serve me quick, we're starving with hunger, and bring beer, bring three
bottles. _Lieber Gott_, what a thirst I have!"

He seemed to be a man of exuberant vitality. He brought into that dull,
overclean dining-room the breath of life and everyone in it appeared on
a sudden more alert. He began to talk to his wife, in English, and
everything he said could be heard by all; but presently she interrupted
him with a remark made in an undertone. Caypor stopped and Ashenden felt
that his eyes were turned in his direction. Mrs. Caypor had noticed the
arrival of a stranger and had drawn her husband's attention to it.
Ashenden turned the page of the book he was pretending to read, but he
felt that Caypor's gaze was fixed intently upon him. When he addressed
his wife again it was in so low a tone that Ashenden could not even tell
what language he used, but when the maid brought them their soup Caypor,
his voice still low, asked her a question. It was plain that he was
enquiring who Ashenden was. Ashenden could catch of the maid's reply but
the one word _lnder_.

One or two people finished their dinner and went out picking their
teeth. The old Irish colonel and his old wife rose from their table and
he stood aside to let her pass. They had eaten their meal without
exchanging a word. She walked slowly to the door; but the colonel
stopped to say a word to a Swiss who might have been a local attorney,
and when she reached it she stood there, bowed and with a sheep-like
look, patiently waiting for her husband to come and open it for her.
Ashenden realised that she had never opened a door for herself. She did
not know how to. In a minute the colonel with his old, old gait came to
the door and opened it; she passed out and he followed. The little
incident offered a key to their whole lives, and from it Ashenden began
to reconstruct their histories, circumstances and characters; but he
pulled himself up; he could not allow himself the luxury of creation. He
finished his dinner.

When he went into the hall he saw tied to the leg of a table a
bull-terrier and in passing mechanically put down his hand to fondle the
dog's drooping, soft ears. The landlady was standing at the foot of the
stairs.

"Whose is this lovely beast?" asked Ashenden.

"He belongs to Herr Caypor. Fritzi, he is called. Herr Caypor says he
has a longer pedigree than the King of England."

Fritzi rubbed himself against Ashenden's leg and with his nose sought
the palm of his hand. Ashenden went upstairs to fetch his hat, and when
he came down saw Caypor standing at the entrance of the hotel talking
with the landlady. From the sudden silence and their constrained manner
he guessed that Caypor had been making enquiries about him. When he
passed between them, into the street, out of the corner of his eye he
saw Caypor give a suspicious stare. That frank, jovial red face bore
then a look of shifty cunning.

Ashenden strolled along till he found a tavern where he could have his
coffee in the open and to compensate himself for the bottle of beer that
his sense of duty had urged him to drink at dinner ordered the best
brandy the house provided. He was pleased at last to have come face to
face with the man of whom he had heard so much and in a day or two hoped
to become acquainted with him. It is never very difficult to get to know
anyone who has a dog. But he was in no hurry; he would let things take
their course: with the object he had in view he could not afford to be
hasty.

Ashenden reviewed the circumstances. Grantley Caypor was an Englishman,
born according to his passport in Birmingham, and he was forty-two years
of age. His wife, to whom he had been married for eleven years, was of
German birth and parentage. That was public knowledge. Information about
his antecedents was contained in a private document. He had started
life, according to this, in a lawyer's office in Birmingham and then had
drifted into journalism. He had been connected with an English paper in
Cairo and with another in Shanghai. There he got into trouble for
attempting to get money on false pretences and was sentenced to a short
term of imprisonment. All trace of him was lost for two years after his
release, when he reappeared in a shipping-office in Marseilles. From
there, still in the shipping business, he went to Hamburg, where he
married, and to London. In London he set up for himself in the export
business, but after some time failed and was made a bankrupt. He
returned to journalism. At the outbreak of war he was once more in the
shipping business, and in August, 1914, was living quietly with his
German wife at Southampton. In the beginning of the following year he
told his employers that owing to the nationality of his wife his
position was intolerable; they had no fault to find with him and,
recognising that he was in an awkward fix, granted his request that he
should be transferred to Genoa. Here he remained till Italy entered the
war, but then gave notice and with his papers in perfect order crossed
the border and took up his residence in Switzerland.

All this indicated a man of doubtful honesty and unsettled disposition,
with no background and of no financial standing; but the facts were of
no importance to anyone till it was discovered that Caypor, certainly
from the beginning of the war and perhaps sooner, was in the service of
the German Intelligence Department. He had a salary of forty pounds a
month. But though dangerous and wily no steps would have been taken to
deal with him if he had contented himself with transmitting such news as
he was able to get in Switzerland. He could do no great harm there and
it might even be possible to make use of him to convey information that
it was desirable to let the enemy have. He had no notion that anything
was known of him. His letters, and he received a good many, were closely
censored; there were few codes that the people who dealt with such
matters could not in the end decipher and it might be that sooner or
later through him it would be possible to lay hands on the organisation
that still flourished in England. But then he did something that drew
R.'s attention to him. Had he known it none could have blamed him for
shaking in his shoes: R. was not a very nice man to get on the wrong
side of. Caypor scraped acquaintance in Zrich with a young Spaniard,
Gomez by name, who had lately entered the British secret service, by his
nationality inspired him with confidence, and managed to worm out of him
the fact that he was engaged in espionage. Probably the Spaniard, with a
very human desire to seem important, had done no more than talk
mysteriously; but on Caypor's information he was watched when he went to
Germany and one day caught just as he was posting a letter in a code
that was eventually deciphered. He was tried, convicted and shot. It was
bad enough to lose a useful and disinterested agent, but it entailed
besides the changing of a safe and simple code. R. was not pleased. But
R. was not the man to let any desire of revenge stand in the way of his
main object, and it occurred to him that if Caypor was merely betraying
his country for money it might be possible to get him to take more money
to betray his employers. The fact that he had succeeded in delivering
into their hands an agent of the Allies must seem to them an earnest of
his good faith. He might be very useful. But R. had no notion what kind
of man Caypor was, he had lived his shabby, furtive life obscurely, and
the only photograph that existed of him was one taken for a passport.
Ashenden's instructions were to get acquainted with Caypor and see
whether there was any chance that he would work honestly for the
British: if he thought there was, he was entitled to sound him and if
his suggestions were met with favour to make certain propositions. It
was a task that needed tact and a knowledge of men. If on the other hand
Ashenden came to the conclusion that Caypor could not be bought, he was
to watch and report his movements. The information he had obtained from
Gustav was vague, but important; there was only one point in it that was
interesting, and this was that the head of the German Intelligence
Department in Berne was growing restive at Caypor's lack of activity.
Caypor was asking for a higher salary and Major von P. had told him that
he must earn it. It might be that he was urging him to go to England. If
he could be induced to cross the frontier Ashenden's work was done.

"How the devil do you expect _me_ to persuade him to put his head in a
noose?" asked Ashenden.

"It won't be a noose, it'll be a firing squad," said R.

"Caypor's clever."

"Well, be cleverer, damn your eyes."

Ashenden made up his mind that he would take no steps to make Caypor's
acquaintance, but allow the first advances to be made by him. If he was
being pressed for results it must surely occur to him that it would be
worth while to get into conversation with an Englishman who was employed
in the Censorship Department. Ashenden was prepared with a supply of
information that it could not in the least benefit the Central Powers to
possess. With a false name and a false passport he had little to fear
that Caypor would guess that he was a British agent.

Ashenden did not have to wait long. Next day he was sitting in the
doorway of the hotel, drinking a cup of coffee and already half asleep
after a substantial _mittagessen_, when the Caypors came out of the
dining-room. Mrs. Caypor went upstairs and Caypor released his dog. The
dog bounded along and in a friendly fashion leaped up against Ashenden.

"Come here, Fritzi," cried Caypor, and then to Ashenden: "I'm so sorry.
But he's quite gentle."

"Oh, that's all right. He won't hurt me."

Caypor stopped at the doorway.

"He's a bull-terrier. You don't often see them on the Continent." He
seemed while he spoke to be taking Ashenden's measure; he called to the
maid: "A coffee, please, _frulein_. You've just arrived, haven't you?"

"Yes, I came yesterday."

"Really? I didn't see you in the dining-room last night. Are you making
a stay?"

"I don't know. I've been ill and I've come here to recuperate."

The maid came with the coffee and seeing Caypor talking to Ashenden put
the tray on the table at which he was sitting. Caypor gave a laugh of
faint embarrassment.

"I don't want to force myself upon you. I don't know why the maid put my
coffee on your table."

"Please sit down," said Ashenden.

"It's very good of you. I've lived so long on the Continent that I'm
always forgetting that my countrymen are apt to look upon it as
confounded cheek if you talk to them. Are you English, by the way, or
American?"

"English," said Ashenden.

Ashenden was by nature a very shy person, and he had in vain tried to
cure himself of a failing that at his age was unseemly, but on occasion
he knew how to make effective use of it. He explained now in a
hesitating and awkward manner the facts that he had the day before told
the landlady and that he was convinced she had already passed on to
Caypor.

"You couldn't have come to a better place than Lucerne. It's an oasis of
peace in this war-weary world. When you're here you might almost forget
that there is such a thing as a war going on. That is why I've come
here. I'm a journalist by profession."

"I couldn't help wondering if you wrote," said Ashenden, with an eagerly
timid smile.

It was clear that he had not learnt that 'oasis of peace in a war-weary
world' at the shipping-office.

"You see, I married a German lady," said Caypor gravely.

"Oh, really?"

"I don't think anyone could be more patriotic than I am. I'm English
through and through and I don't mind telling you that in my opinion the
British Empire is the greatest instrument for good that the world has
ever seen, but having a German wife I naturally see a good deal of the
reverse of the medal. You don't have to tell me that the Germans have
faults, but frankly I'm not prepared to admit that they're devils
incarnate. At the beginning of the war my poor wife had a very rough
time in England and I for one couldn't have blamed her if she'd felt
rather bitter about it. Everyone thought she was a spy. It'll make you
laugh when you know her. She's the typical German _hausfrau_ who cares
for nothing but her house and her husband and our only child Fritzi."
Caypor fondled his dog and gave a little laugh. "Yes, Fritzi, you are
our child, aren't you? Naturally it made my position very awkward. I was
connected with some very important papers, and my editors weren't quite
comfortable about it. Well, to cut a long story short I thought the most
dignified course was to resign and come to a neutral country till the
storm blew over. My wife and I never discuss the war, though I'm bound
to tell you that it's more on my account than hers, she's much more
tolerant than I am and she's more willing to look upon this terrible
business from my point of view than I am from hers."

"That is strange," said Ashenden. "As a rule women are so much more
rabid than men."

"My wife is a very remarkable person. I should like to introduce you to
her. By the way, I don't know if you know my name. Grantley Caypor."

"My name is Somerville," said Ashenden.

He told him then of the work he had been doing in the Censorship
Department, and he fancied that into Caypor's eyes came a certain
intentness. Presently he told him that he was looking for someone to
give him conversation-lessons in German so that he might rub up his
rusty knowledge of the language; and as he spoke a notion flashed across
his mind: he gave Caypor a look and saw that the same notion had come to
him. It had occurred to them at the same instant that it would be a very
good plan for Ashenden's teacher to be Mrs. Caypor.

"I asked our landlady if she could find me someone and she said she
thought she could. I must ask her again. It ought not to be very hard to
find a man who is prepared to come and talk German to me for an hour a
day."

"I wouldn't take anyone on the landlady's recommendation," said Caypor.
"After all you want someone with a good North-German accent and she only
talks Swiss. I'll ask my wife if she knows anyone. My wife's a very
highly educated woman and you could trust her recommendation."

"That's very kind of you."

Ashenden observed Grantley Caypor at his ease. He noticed how the small,
grey-green eyes, which last night he had not been able to see,
contradicted the red good-humoured frankness of the face. They were
quick and shifty, but when the mind behind them was seized by an
unexpected notion they were suddenly still. It gave one a peculiar
feeling of the working of the brain. They were not eyes that inspired
confidence; Caypor did that with his jolly, good-natured smile, the
openness of his broad, weather-beaten face, his comfortable obesity and
the cheeriness of his loud, deep voice. He was doing his best now to be
agreeable. While Ashenden talked to him, a little shyly still but
gaining confidence from that breezy, cordial manner, capable of putting
anyone at his ease, it intrigued him to remember that the man was a
common spy. It gave a tang to his conversation to reflect that he had
been ready to sell his country for no more than forty pounds a month.
Ashenden had known Gomez, the young Spaniard whom Caypor had betrayed.
He was a high-spirited youth, with a love of adventure, and he had
undertaken his dangerous mission not for the money he earned by it, but
from a passion for romance. It amused him to outwit the clumsy German
and it appealed to his sense of the absurd to play a part in a shilling
shocker. It was not very nice to think of him now six feet underground
in a prison yard. He was young and he had a certain grace of gesture.
Ashenden wondered whether Caypor had felt a qualm when he delivered him
up to destruction.

"I suppose you know a little German?" asked Caypor, interested in the
stranger.

"Oh, yes, I was a student in Germany, and I used to talk it fluently,
but that is long ago and I have forgotten. I can still read it very
comfortably."

"Oh, yes, I noticed you were reading a German book last night."

Fool! It was only a little while since he had told Ashenden that he had
not seen him at dinner. He wondered whether Caypor had observed the
slip. How difficult it was never to make one! Ashenden must be on his
guard; the thing that made him most nervous was the thought that he
might not answer readily enough to his assumed name of Somerville. Of
course there was always the chance that Caypor had made the slip on
purpose to see by Ashenden's face whether he noticed anything. Caypor
got up.

"There is my wife. We go for a walk up one of the mountains every
afternoon. I can tell you some charming walks. The flowers even now are
lovely."

"I'm afraid I must wait till I'm a bit stronger," said Ashenden, with a
little sigh.

He had naturally a pale face and never looked as robust as he was. Mrs.
Caypor came downstairs and her husband joined her. They walked down the
road, Fritzi bounding round them, and Ashenden saw that Caypor
immediately began to speak with volubility. He was evidently telling his
wife the results of his interview with Ashenden. Ashenden looked at the
sun shining so gaily on the lake; the shadow of a breeze fluttered the
green leaves of the trees; everything invited to a stroll: he got up,
went to his room and throwing himself on his bed had a very pleasant
sleep.

He went into dinner that evening as the Caypors were finishing, for he
had wandered melancholically about Lucerne in the hope of finding a
cocktail that would enable him to face the potato salad that he foresaw,
and on their way out of the dining-room Caypor stopped and asked him if
he would drink coffee with them. When Ashenden joined them in the hall
Caypor got up and introduced him to his wife. She bowed stiffly and no
answering smile came to her face to respond to Ashenden's civil
greeting. It was not hard to see that her attitude was definitely
hostile. It put Ashenden at his ease. She was a plainish woman, nearing
forty, with a muddy skin and vague features; her drab hair was arranged
in a plait round her head like that of Napoleon's Queen of Prussia; and
she was squarely built, plump rather than fat, and solid. But she did
not look stupid; she looked, on the contrary, a woman of character and
Ashenden, who had lived enough in Germany to recognise the type, was
ready to believe that though capable of doing the housework, cooking the
dinner and climbing a mountain, she might be also prodigiously
well-informed. She wore a white blouse that showed a sunburned neck, a
black skirt and heavy walking boots. Caypor addressing her in English
told her in his jovial way, as though she did not know it already, what
Ashenden had told him about himself. She listened grimly.

"I think you told me you understood German," said Caypor, his big red
face wreathed in polite smiles but his little eyes darting about
restlessly.

"Yes, I was for some time a student in Heidelberg."

"Really?" said Mrs. Caypor in English, an expression of faint interest
for a moment chasing away the sullenness from her face. "I know
Heidelberg very well. I was at school there for one year."

Her English was correct, but throaty, and the mouthing emphasis she gave
her words was disagreeable. Ashenden was diffuse in praise of the old
university town and the beauty of the neighbourhood. She heard him, from
the standpoint of her Teutonic superiority, with toleration rather than
with enthusiasm.

"It is well known that the valley of the Neckar is one of the beauty
places of the whole world," she said.

"I have not told you, my dear," said Caypor then, "that Mr. Somerville
is looking for someone to give him conversation lessons while he is
here. I told him that perhaps you could suggest a teacher."

"No, I know no one whom I could conscientiously recommend," she
answered. "The Swiss accent is hateful beyond words. It could do Mr.
Somerville only harm to converse with a Swiss."

"If I were in your place, Mr. Somerville, I would try and persuade my
wife to give you lessons. She is, if I may say so, a very cultivated and
highly educated woman."

"_Ach_, Grantley, I have not the time. I have my own work to do."

Ashenden saw that he was being given his opportunity. The trap was
prepared and all he had to do was to fall in. He turned to Mrs. Caypor
with a manner that he tried to make shy, deprecating and modest.

"Of course it would be too wonderful if you would give me lessons. I
should look upon it as a real privilege. Naturally I wouldn't want to
interfere with your work. I am just here to get well, with nothing in
the world to do, and I would suit my time entirely to your convenience."

He felt a flash of satisfaction pass from one to the other and in Mrs.
Caypor's blue eyes he fancied that he saw a dark glow.

"Of course it would be a purely business arrangement," said Caypor.
"There's no reason that my good wife shouldn't earn a little pin-money.
Would you think ten francs an hour too much?"

"No," said Ashenden, "I should think myself lucky to get a first-rate
teacher for that."

"What do you say, my dear? Surely you can spare an hour, and you would
be doing this gentleman a kindness. He would learn that all Germans are
not the devilish fiends that they think them in England."

On Mrs. Caypor's brow was an uneasy frown and Ashenden could not but
think with apprehension of that hour's conversation a day that he was
going to exchange with her. Heaven only knew how he would have to rack
his brain for subjects of discourse with that heavy and morose woman.
Now she made a visible effort.

"I shall be very pleased to give Mr. Somerville conversation lessons."

"I congratulate you, Mr. Somerville," said Caypor noisily. "You're in
for a treat. When will you start, to-morrow at eleven?"

"That would suit me very well if it suits Mrs. Caypor."

"Yes, that is as good an hour as another," she answered.

Ashenden left them to discuss the happy outcome of their diplomacy. But
when, punctually at eleven next morning, he heard a knock at his door
(for it had been arranged that Mrs. Caypor should give him his lesson in
his room) it was not without trepidation that he opened it. It behoved
him to be frank, a trifle indiscreet, but obviously wary of a German
woman, sufficiently intelligent, and impulsive. Mrs. Caypor's face was
dark and sulky. She plainly hated having anything to do with him. But
they sat down and she began, somewhat peremptorily, to ask him questions
about his knowledge of German literature. She corrected his mistakes
with exactness and when he put before her some difficulty in German
construction explained it with clearness and precision. It was obvious
that though she hated giving him a lesson she meant to give it
conscientiously. She seemed to have not only an aptitude for teaching,
but a love of it, and as the hour went on she began to speak with
greater earnestness. It was already only by an effort that she
remembered that he was a brutal Englishman. Ashenden, noticing the
unconscious struggle within her, found himself not a little entertained;
and it was with truth that, when later in the day Caypor asked him how
the lesson had gone, he answered that it was highly satisfactory; Mrs.
Caypor was an excellent teacher and a most interesting person.

"I told you so. She's the most remarkable woman I know."

And Ashenden had a feeling that when in his hearty, laughing way Caypor
said this he was for the first time entirely sincere.

In a day or two Ashenden guessed that Mrs. Caypor was giving him lessons
only in order to enable Caypor to arrive at a closer intimacy with him,
for she confined herself strictly to matters of literature, music and
painting; and when Ashenden, by way of experiment, brought the
conversation round to the war, she cut him short.

"I think that is a topic that we had better avoid, Herr Somerville," she
said.

She continued to give her lessons with the greatest thoroughness, and he
had his money's worth, but every day she came with the same sullen face
and it was only in the interest of teaching that she lost for a moment
her instinctive dislike of him. Ashenden exercised in turn, but in vain,
all his wiles. He was ingratiating, ingenuous, humble, grateful,
flattering, simple and timid. She remained coldly hostile. She was a
fanatic. Her patriotism was aggressive, but disinterested, and obsessed
with the notion of the superiority of all things German she loathed
England with a virulent hatred because in that country she saw the chief
obstacle to their diffusion. Her ideal was a German world in which the
rest of the nations under a hegemony greater than that of Rome should
enjoy the benefits of German science and German art and German culture.
There was in the conception a magnificent impudence that appealed to
Ashenden's sense of humour. She was no fool. She had read much, in
several languages, and she could talk of the books she had read with
good sense. She had a knowledge of modern painting and modern music that
not a little impressed Ashenden. It was amusing once to hear her before
luncheon play one of those silvery little pieces of Debussy; she played
it disdainfully because it was French and so light, but with an angry
appreciation of its grace and gaiety. When Ashenden congratulated her
she shrugged her shoulders.

"The decadent music of a decadent nation," she said. Then with powerful
hands she struck the first resounding chords of a sonata by Beethoven;
but she stopped. "I cannot play, I am out of practice, and you English,
what do you know of music? You have not produced a composer since
Purcell!"

"What do you think of that statement?" Ashenden, smiling, asked Caypor,
who was standing near.

"I confess its truth. The little I know of music my wife taught me. I
wish you could hear her play when she is in practice." He put his fat
hand, with its square, stumpy fingers, on her shoulder. "She can wring
your heart-strings with pure beauty."

"_Dummer Kerl_," she said, in a soft voice, "Stupid fellow," and
Ashenden saw her mouth for a moment quiver, but she quickly recovered.
"You English, you cannot paint, you cannot model, you cannot write
music."

"Some of us can at times write pleasing verses," said Ashenden, with
good-humour, for it was not his business to be put out, and, he did not
know why, two lines occurring to him he said them:

       _"Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding,_
       _Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West."_

"Yes," said Mrs. Caypor, with a strange gesture, "you can write poetry.
I wonder why."

And to Ashenden's surprise she went on, in her guttural English, to
recite the next two lines of the poem he had quoted.

"Come, Grantley, _mittagessen_ is ready, let us go into the
dining-room."

They left Ashenden reflective.

Ashenden admired goodness, but was not outraged by wickedness. People
sometimes thought him heartless because he was more often interested in
others than attached to them, and even in the few to whom he was
attached his eyes saw with equal clearness the merits and the defects.
When he liked people it was not because he was blind to their faults, he
did not mind their faults but accepted them with a tolerant shrug of the
shoulders, or because he ascribed to them excellencies that they did not
possess; and since he judged his friends with candour they never
disappointed him and so he seldom lost one. He asked from none more than
he could give. He was able to pursue his study of the Caypors without
prejudice and without passion. Mrs. Caypor seemed to him more of a piece
and therefore the easier of the two to understand; she obviously
detested him; though it was necessary for her to be civil to him her
antipathy was strong enough to wring from her now and then an expression
of rudeness; and had she been safely able to do so she would have killed
him without a qualm. But in the pressure of Caypor's chubby hand on his
wife's shoulder and in the fugitive trembling of her lips Ashenden had
divined that this unprepossessing woman and that mean fat man were
joined together by a deep and sincere love. It was touching. Ashenden
assembled the observations that he had been making for the past few days
and little things that he had noticed but to which he had attached no
significance returned to him. It seemed to him that Mrs. Caypor loved
her husband because she was of a stronger character than he and because
she felt his dependence on her; she loved him for his admiration of her,
and you might guess that till she met him this dumpy, plain woman with
her dullness, good sense and want of humour could not have much enjoyed
the admiration of men; she enjoyed his heartiness and his noisy jokes,
and his high spirits stirred her sluggish blood; he was a great big
bouncing boy and he would never be anything else and she felt like a
mother towards him; she had made him what he was, and he was her man and
she was his woman, and she loved him, notwithstanding his weakness (for
with her clear head she must always have been conscious of that), she
loved him, _ach, was_, as Isolde loved Tristan. But then there was the
espionage. Even Ashenden with all his tolerance for human frailty could
not but feel that to betray your country for money is not a very pretty
proceeding. Of course she knew of it, indeed it was probably through her
that Caypor had first been approached; he would never have undertaken
such work if she had not urged him to it. She loved him and she was an
honest and an upright woman. By what devious means had she persuaded
herself to force her husband to adopt so base and dishonourable a
calling? Ashenden lost himself in a labyrinth of conjecture as he tried
to piece together the actions of her mind.

Grantley Caypor was another story. There was little to admire in him,
but at that moment Ashenden was not looking for an object of admiration;
but there was much that was singular and much that was unexpected in
that gross and vulgar fellow. Ashenden watched with entertainment the
suave manner in which the spy tried to inveigle him in his toils. It was
a couple of days after his first lesson that Caypor after dinner, his
wife having gone upstairs, threw himself heavily into a chair by
Ashenden's side. His faithful Fritzi came up to him and put his long
muzzle with its black nose on his knee.

"He has no brain," said Caypor, "but a heart of gold. Look at those
little pink eyes. Did you ever see anything so stupid? And what an ugly
face, but what incredible charm!"

"Have you had him long?" asked Ashenden.

"I got him in 1914 just before the outbreak of war. By the way, what do
you think of the news to-day? Of course my wife and I never discuss the
war. You can't think what a relief to me it is to find a
fellow-countryman to whom I can open my heart."

He handed Ashenden a cheap Swiss cigar and Ashenden, making a rueful
sacrifice to duty, accepted it.

"Of course, they haven't got a chance, the Germans," said Caypor, "not a
dog's chance. I knew they were beaten the moment we came in."

His manner was earnest, sincere and confidential. Ashenden made a
commonplace rejoinder.

"It's the greatest grief of my life that owing to my wife's nationality
I was unable to do any war work. I tried to enlist the day war broke
out, but they wouldn't have me on account of my age, but I don't mind
telling you, if the war goes on much longer, wife or no wife, I'm going
to do something. With my knowledge of languages I ought to be of some
service in the Censorship Department. That's where you were, wasn't it?"

That was the mark at which he had been aiming and in answer now to his
well-directed questions Ashenden gave him the information that he had
already prepared. Caypor drew his chair a little nearer and dropped his
voice.

"I'm sure you wouldn't tell me anything that anyone shouldn't know, but
after all these Swiss are absolutely pro-German and we don't want to
give anyone the chance of overhearing."

Then he went on another tack. He told Ashenden a number of things that
were of a certain secrecy.

"I wouldn't tell this to anybody else, you know, but I have one or two
friends who are in pretty influential positions, and they know they can
trust me."

Thus encouraged, Ashenden was a little more deliberately indiscreet and
when they parted both had reason to be satisfied. Ashenden guessed that
Caypor's typewriter would be kept busy next morning and that extremely
energetic Major in Berne would shortly receive a most interesting
report.

One evening, going upstairs after dinner, Ashenden passed an open
bathroom. He caught sight of the Caypors.

"Come in," cried Caypor in his cordial way. "We're washing our Fritzi."

The bull-terrier was constantly getting himself very dirty, and it was
Caypor's pride to see him clean and white. Ashenden went in. Mrs. Caypor
with her sleeves turned up and a large white apron was standing at one
end of the bath, while Caypor, in a pair of trousers and a singlet, his
fat, freckled arms bare, was soaping the wretched hound.

"We have to do it at night," he said, "because the Fitzgeralds use this
bath and they'd have a fit if they knew we washed the dog in it. We wait
till they go to bed. Come along, Fritzi, show the gentleman how
beautifully you behave when you have your face scrubbed."

The poor brute, woebegone but faintly wagging his tail to show that
however foul was this operation performed on him he bore no malice to
the god who did it, was standing in the middle of the bath in six inches
of water. He was soaped all over and Caypor, talking the while,
shampooed him with his great fat hands.

"Oh, what a beautiful dog he's going to be when he's as white as the
driven snow. His master will be as proud as Punch to walk out with him
and all the little lady-dogs will say: Good gracious, who's that
beautiful aristocratic-looking bull-terrier walking as though he owned
the whole of Switzerland? Now stand still while you have your ears
washed. You couldn't bear to go out into the street with dirty ears,
could you? like a nasty little Swiss schoolboy. _Noblesse oblige._ Now
the black nose. Oh, and all the soap is going into his little pink eyes
and they'll smart."

Mrs. Caypor listened to this nonsense with a good-humoured sluggish
smile on her broad, plain face, and presently gravely took a towel.

"Now he's going to have a ducking. Upsie-daisy."

Caypor seized the dog by the fore-legs and ducked him once and ducked
him twice. There was a struggle, a flurry and a splashing. Caypor lifted
him out of the bath.

"Now go to mother and she'll dry you."

Mrs. Caypor sat down and taking the dog between her strong legs rubbed
him till the sweat poured off her forehead. And Fritzi, a little shaken
and breathless, but happy it was all over, stood, with his sweet stupid
face, white and shining.

"Blood will tell," cried Caypor exultantly. "He knows the names of no
less than sixty-four of his ancestors, and they were all nobly born."

Ashenden was faintly troubled. He shivered a little as he walked
upstairs.

Then, one Sunday, Caypor told him that he and his wife were going on an
excursion and would eat their luncheon at some little mountain
restaurant; and he suggested that Ashenden, each paying his share,
should come with them. After three weeks at Lucerne Ashenden thought
that his strength would permit him to venture the exertion. They started
early, Mrs. Caypor business-like in her walking boots and Tyrolese hat
and alpenstock, and Caypor in stockings and plus-fours looking very
British. The situation amused Ashenden and he was prepared to enjoy his
day; but he meant to keep his eyes open; it was not inconceivable that
the Caypors had discovered what he was and it would not do to go too
near a precipice; Mrs. Caypor would not hesitate to give him a push and
Caypor for all his jolliness was an ugly customer. But on the face of it
there was nothing to mar Ashenden's pleasure in the golden morning. The
air was fragrant. Caypor was full of conversation. He told funny
stories. He was gay and jovial. The sweat rolled off his great red face
and he laughed at himself because he was so fat. To Ashenden's
astonishment he showed a peculiar knowledge of the mountain flowers.
Once he went out of the way to pick one he saw a little distance from
the path and brought it back to his wife. He looked at it tenderly.

"Isn't it lovely?" he cried, and his shifty grey-green eyes for a moment
were as candid as a child's. "It's like a poem by Walter Savage Landor."

"Botany is my husband's favourite science," said Mrs. Caypor. "I laugh
at him sometimes. He is devoted to flowers. Often when we have hardly
had enough money to pay the butcher he has spent everything in his
pocket to bring me a bunch of roses."

"_Qui fleurit sa maison fleurit son coeur_," said Grantley Caypor.

Ashenden had once or twice seen Caypor, coming in from a walk, offer
Mrs. Fitzgerald a nosegay of mountain flowers with an elephantine
courtesy that was not entirely displeasing; and what he had just learned
added a certain significance to the pretty little action. His passion
for flowers was genuine and when he gave them to the old Irish lady he
gave her something he valued. It showed a real kindness of heart.
Ashenden had always thought botany a tedious science, but Caypor,
talking exuberantly as they walked along, was able to impart to it life
and interest. He must have given it a good deal of study.

"I've never written a book," he said. "There are too many books already
and any desire to write I have is satisfied by the more immediately
profitable and quite ephemeral composition of an article for a daily
paper. But if I stay here much longer I have half a mind to write a book
about the wild flowers of Switzerland. Oh, I wish you'd been here a
little earlier. They were marvellous. But one wants to be a poet for
that, and I'm only a poor newspaper-man."

It was curious to observe how he was able to combine real emotion with
false fact.

When they reached the inn, with its view of the mountains and the lake,
it was good to see the sensual pleasure with which he poured down his
throat a bottle of ice-cold beer. You could not but feel sympathy for a
man who took so much delight in simple things. They lunched deliciously
off scrambled eggs and mountain trout. Even Mrs. Caypor was moved to an
unwonted gentleness by her surroundings; the inn was in an agreeably
rural spot, it looked like a picture of a Swiss chalet in a book of
early nineteenth-century travels; and she treated Ashenden with
something less than her usual hostility. When they arrived she had burst
into loud German exclamations on the beauty of the scene, and now,
softened perhaps too by food and drink, her eyes, dwelling on the
grandeur before her, filled with tears. She stretched out her hand.

"It is dreadful and I am ashamed, notwithstanding this horrible and
unjust war I can feel in my heart at the moment nothing but happiness
and gratitude."

Caypor took her hand and pressed it and, an unusual thing with him,
addressing her in German, called her little pet-names. It was absurd,
but touching. Ashenden, leaving them to their emotions, strolled through
the garden and sat down on a bench that had been prepared for the
comfort of the tourist. The view was of course spectacular, but it
captured you; it was like a piece of music that was obvious and
meretricious, but for the moment shattered your self-control.

And as Ashenden lingered idly in that spot he pondered over the mystery
of Grantley Caypor's treachery. If he liked strange people he had found
in him one who was strange beyond belief. It would be foolish to deny
that he had amiable traits. His joviality was not assumed, he was
without pretence a hearty fellow, and he had real good nature. He was
always ready to do a kindness. Ashenden had often watched him with the
old Irish colonel and his wife who were the only other residents of the
hotel; he would listen good-humouredly to the old man's tedious stories
of the Egyptian war, and he was charming with her. Now that Ashenden had
arrived at terms of some familiarity with Caypor he found that he
regarded him less with repulsion than with curiosity. He did not think
that he had become a spy merely for the money; he was a man of modest
tastes and what he had earned in a shipping-office must have sufficed to
so good a manager as Mrs. Caypor; and after war was declared there was
no lack of remunerative work for men over the military age. It might be
that he was one of those men who prefer devious ways to straight for
some intricate pleasure they get in fooling their fellows; and that he
had turned spy, not from hatred of the country that had imprisoned him,
not even from love of his wife, but from a desire to score off the
big-wigs who never even knew of his existence. It might be that it was
vanity that impelled him, a feeling that his talents had not received
the recognition they merited, or just a puckish, impish desire to do
mischief. He was a crook. It is true that only two cases of dishonesty
had been brought home to him, but if he had been caught twice it might
be surmised that he had often been dishonest without being caught. What
did Mrs. Caypor think of this? They were so united that she must be
aware of it. Did it make her ashamed, for her own uprightness surely
none could doubt, or did she accept it as an inevitable kink in the man
she loved? Did she do all she could to prevent it or did she close her
eyes to something she could not help?

How much easier life would be if people were all black or all white and
how much simpler it would be to act in regard to them! Was Caypor a good
man who loved evil or a bad man who loved good? And how could such
unreconcilable elements exist side by side and in harmony within the
same heart? For one thing was clear, Caypor was disturbed by no gnawing
of conscience; he did his mean and despicable work with gusto. He was a
traitor who enjoyed his treachery. Though Ashenden had been studying
human nature more or less consciously all his life, it seemed to him
that he knew as little about it now in middle age as he had done when he
was a child. Of course R. would have said to him: Why the devil do you
waste your time with such nonsense? The man's a dangerous spy and your
business is to lay him by the heels.

That was true enough. Ashenden had decided that it would be useless to
attempt to make any arrangement with Caypor. Though doubtless he would
have no feeling about betraying his employers he could certainly not be
trusted. His wife's influence was too strong. Besides, notwithstanding
what he had from time to time told Ashenden, he was in his heart
convinced that the Central Powers must win the war, and he meant to be
on the winning side. Well, then Caypor must be laid by the heels, but
how he was to effect that Ashenden had no notion. Suddenly he heard a
voice.

"There you are. We've been wondering where you had hidden yourself."

He looked round and saw the Caypors strolling towards him. They were
walking hand in hand.

"So this is what has kept you so quiet," said Caypor as his eyes fell on
the view. "What a spot!"

Mrs. Caypor clasped her hands.

"_Ach Gott, wie schn!_" she cried. "_Wie schn._ When I look at that
blue lake and those snowy mountains I feel inclined, like Goethe's
Faust, to cry to the passing moment: Tarry."

"This is better than being in England with the excursions and alarums of
war, isn't it?" said Caypor.

"Much," said Ashenden.

"By the way, did you have any difficulty in getting out?"

"No, not the smallest."

"I'm told they make rather a nuisance of themselves at the frontier
nowadays."

"I came through without the smallest difficulty. I don't fancy they
bother much about the English. I thought the examination of passports
was quite perfunctory."

A fleeting glance passed between Caypor and his wife. Ashenden wondered
what it meant. It would be strange if Caypor's thoughts were occupied
with the chances of a journey to England at the very moment when he was
himself reflecting on its possibility. In a little while Mrs. Caypor
suggested that they had better be starting back and they wandered
together in the shade of trees down the mountain paths.

Ashenden was watchful. He could do nothing (and his inactivity irked
him) but wait with his eyes open to seize the opportunity that might
present itself. A couple of days later an incident occurred that made
him certain something was in the wind. In the course of his morning
lesson Mrs. Caypor remarked:

"My husband has gone to Geneva to-day. He had some business to do
there."

"Oh," said Ashenden, "will he be gone long?"

"No, only two days."

It is not everyone who can tell a lie and Ashenden had the feeling, he
hardly knew why, that Mrs. Caypor was telling one then. Her manner
perhaps was not quite as indifferent as you would have expected when she
was mentioning a fact that could be of no interest to Ashenden. It
flashed across his mind that Caypor had been summoned to Berne to see
the redoubtable head of the German secret service. When he had the
chance he said casually to the waitress:

"A little less work for you to do, _frulein_. I hear that Herr Caypor
has gone to Berne."

"Yes. But he'll be back to-morrow."

That proved nothing, but it was something to go upon. Ashenden knew in
Lucerne a Swiss who was willing on emergency to do odd jobs and, looking
him up, asked him to take a letter to Berne. It might be possible to
pick up Caypor and trace his movements. Next day Caypor appeared once
more with his wife at the dinner-table, but merely nodded to Ashenden
and afterwards both went straight upstairs. They looked troubled.
Caypor, as a rule so animated, walked with bowed shoulders and looked
neither to the right nor to the left. Next morning Ashenden received a
reply to his letter: Caypor had seen Major von P. It was possible to
guess what the Major had said to him. Ashenden well knew how rough he
could be; he was a hard man and brutal, clever and unscrupulous, and he
was not accustomed to mince his words. They were tired of paying Caypor
a salary to sit still in Lucerne and do nothing; the time was come for
him to go to England. Guess-work? Of course it was guess-work, but in
that trade it mostly was; you had to deduce the animal from its
jaw-bone. Ashenden knew from Gustav that the Germans wanted to send
someone to England. He drew a long breath; if Caypor went he would have
to get busy.

When Mrs. Caypor came in to give him his lesson she was dull and
listless. She looked tired and her mouth was set obstinately. It
occurred to Ashenden that the Caypors had spent most of the night
talking. He wished he knew what they had said. Did she urge him to go or
did she try to dissuade him? Ashenden watched them again at luncheon.
Something was the matter, for they hardly spoke to one another and as a
rule they found plenty to talk about. They left the room early, but when
Ashenden went out he saw Caypor sitting in the hall by himself.

"Hulloa," he cried jovially, but surely the effort was patent, "how are
you getting on? I've been to Geneva."

"So I heard," said Ashenden.

"Come and have your coffee with me. My poor wife's got a headache. I
told her she'd better go and lie down." In his shifty green eyes was an
expression that Ashenden could not read. "The fact is, she's rather
worried, poor dear; I'm thinking of going to England."

Ashenden's heart gave a sudden leap against his ribs, but his face
remained impassive:

"Oh, are you going for long? We shall miss you."

"To tell you the truth, I'm fed up with doing nothing. The war looks as
though it were going on for years and I can't sit here indefinitely.
Besides, I can't afford it, I've got to earn my living. I may have a
German wife, but I am an Englishman, hang it all, and I want to do my
bit. I could never face my friends again if I just stayed here in ease
and comfort till the end of the war and never attempted to do a thing to
help the country. My wife takes her German point of view and I don't
mind telling you that she's a bit upset. You know what women are."

Now Ashenden knew what it was that he saw in Caypor's eyes. Fear. It
gave him a nasty turn. Caypor didn't want to go to England, he wanted to
stay safely in Switzerland; Ashenden knew now what the major had said to
him when he went to see him in Berne. He had got to go or lose his
salary. What was it that his wife had said when he told her what had
happened? He had wanted her to press him to stay, but, it was plain, she
hadn't done that; perhaps he had not dared tell her how frightened he
was; to her he had always been gay, bold, adventurous and
devil-may-care; and now, the prisoner of his own lies, he had not found
it in him to confess himself the mean and sneaking coward he was.

"Are you going to take your wife with you?" asked Ashenden.

"No, she'll stay here."

It had been arranged very neatly. Mrs. Caypor would receive his letters
and forward the information they contained to Berne.

"I've been out of England so long that I don't quite know how to set
about getting war-work. What would you do in my place?"

"I don't know; what sort of work are you thinking of?"

"Well, you know, I imagine I could do the same thing as you did. I
wonder if there's anyone in the Censorship Department that you could
give me a letter of introduction to."

It was only by a miracle that Ashenden saved himself from showing by a
smothered cry or by a broken gesture how startled he was; but not by
Caypor's request, by what had just dawned upon him. What an idiot he had
been! He had been disturbed by the thought that he was wasting his time
at Lucerne, he was doing nothing, and though in fact, as it turned out,
Caypor was going to England it was due to no cleverness of his. He could
take to himself no credit for the result. And now he saw that he had
been put in Lucerne, told how to describe himself and given the proper
information, so that what actually had occurred should occur. It would
be a wonderful thing for the German secret service to get an agent into
the Censorship Department; and by a happy accident there was Grantley
Caypor, the very man for the job, on friendly terms with someone who had
worked there. What a bit of luck! Major von P. was a man of culture and,
rubbing his hands, he must surely have murmured: _stultum facit fortuna
quem vult perdere_. It was a trap of that devilish R. and the grim major
at Berne had fallen into it. Ashenden had done his work just by sitting
still and doing nothing. He almost laughed as he thought what a fool R.
had made of him.

"I was on very good terms with the chief of my department, I could give
you a note to him if you liked."

"That would be just the thing."

"But of course I must give the facts. I must say I've met you here and
only known you a fortnight."

"Of course. But you'll say what else you can for me, won't you?"

"Oh, certainly."

"I don't know yet if I can get a visa. I'm told they're rather fussy."

"I don't see why. I shall be very sick if they refuse me one when I want
to go back."

"I'll go and see how my wife is getting on," said Caypor suddenly,
getting up. "When will you let me have that letter?"

"Whenever you like. Are you going at once?"

"As soon as possible."

Caypor left him. Ashenden waited in the hall for a quarter of an hour so
that there should appear in him no sign of hurry. Then he went upstairs
and prepared various communications. In one he informed R. that Caypor
was going to England; in another he made arrangements through Berne that
wherever Caypor applied for a visa it should be granted to him without
question; and these he despatched forthwith. When he went down to dinner
he handed Caypor a cordial letter of introduction.

Next day but one Caypor left Lucerne.

Ashenden waited. He continued to have his hour's lesson with Mrs. Caypor
and under her conscientious tuition began now to speak German with ease.
They talked of Goethe and Winckelmann, of art and life and travel.
Fritzi sat quietly by her chair.

"He misses his master," she said, pulling his ears. "He only really
cares for him, he suffers me only as belonging to him."

After his lesson Ashenden went every morning to Cook's to ask for his
letters. It was here that all communications were addressed to him. He
could not move till he received instructions, but R. could be trusted
not to leave him idle long; and meanwhile there was nothing for him to
do but have patience. Presently he received a letter from the consul in
Geneva to say that Caypor had there applied for his visa and had set out
for France. Having read this Ashenden went on for a little stroll by the
lake and on his way back happened to see Mrs. Caypor coming out of
Cook's office. He guessed that she was having her letters addressed
there too. He went up to her.

"Have you had news of Herr Caypor?" he asked her.

"No," she said. "I suppose I could hardly expect to yet."

He walked along by her side. She was disappointed, but not yet anxious;
she knew how irregular at that time was the post. But next day during
the lesson he could not but see that she was impatient to have done with
it. The post was delivered at noon and at five minutes to she looked at
her watch and him. Though Ashenden knew very well that no letter would
ever come for her he had not the heart to keep her on tenter-hooks.

"Don't you think that's enough for the day? I'm sure you want to go down
to Cook's," he said.

"Thank you. That is very amiable of you."

When a little later he went there himself he found her standing in the
middle of the office. Her face was distraught. She addressed him wildly.

"My husband promised to write from Paris. I am sure there is a letter
for me, but these stupid people say there's nothing. They're so
careless, it's a scandal."

Ashenden did not know what to say. While the clerk was looking through
the bundle to see if there was anything for him she came up to the desk
again.

"When does the next post come in from France?" she asked.

"Sometimes there are letters about five."

"I'll come then."

She turned and walked rapidly away. Fritzi followed her with his tail
between his legs. There was no doubt of it, already the fear had seized
her that something was wrong. Next morning she looked dreadful; she
could not have closed her eyes all night; and in the middle of the
lesson she started up from her chair.

"You must excuse me, Herr Somerville, I cannot give you a lesson to-day.
I am not feeling well."

Before Ashenden could say anything she had flung nervously from the
room, and in the evening he got a note from her to say that she
regretted that she must discontinue giving him conversation lessons. She
gave no reason. Then Ashenden saw no more of her; she ceased coming in
to meals; except to go morning and afternoon to Cook's she spent
apparently the whole day in her room. Ashenden thought of her sitting
there hour after hour with that hideous fear gnawing at her heart. Who
could help feeling sorry for her? The time hung heavy on his hands too.
He read a good deal and wrote a little, he hired a canoe and went for
long leisurely paddles on the lake; and at last one morning the clerk at
Cook's handed him a letter. It was from R. It had all the appearance of
a business communication, but between the lines he read a good deal.

    _Dear Sir_, it began, _The goods, with accompanying letter,
    despatched by you from Lucerne have been duly delivered. We are
    obliged to you for executing our instructions with such
    promptness._

It went on in this strain. R. was exultant. Ashenden guessed that Caypor
had been arrested and by now had paid the penalty of his crime. He
shuddered. He remembered a dreadful scene. Dawn. A cold, grey dawn, with
a drizzling rain falling. A man, blindfolded, standing against a wall,
an officer very pale giving an order, a volley, and then a young
soldier, one of the firing-party, turning round and holding on to his
gun for support, vomiting. The officer turning paler still, and he,
Ashenden, feeling dreadfully faint. How terrified Caypor must have been!
It was awful when the tears ran down their faces. Ashenden shook
himself. He went to the ticket-office and obedient to his orders bought
himself a ticket for Geneva.

As he was waiting for his change Mrs. Caypor came in. He was shocked at
the sight of her. She was blowsy and dishevelled and there were heavy
rings round her eyes. She was deathly pale. She staggered up to the desk
and asked for a letter. The clerk shook his head.

"I'm sorry, madam, there's nothing yet."

"But look, look. Are you sure? Please look again."

The misery in her voice was heartrending. The clerk with a shrug of the
shoulders took out the letters from a pigeon-hole and sorted them once
more.

"No, there's nothing, madam."

She gave a hoarse cry of despair and her face was distorted with
anguish.

"Oh, God, oh, God," she moaned.

She turned away, the tears streaming from her weary eyes, and for a
moment she stood there like a blind man groping and not knowing which
way to go. Then a fearful thing happened, Fritzi, the bull-terrier, sat
down on his haunches and threw back his head and gave a long, long
melancholy howl. Mrs. Caypor looked at him with terror; her eyes seemed
really to start from her head. The doubt, the gnawing doubt that had
tortured her during those dreadful days of suspense, was a doubt no
longer. She knew. She staggered blindly into the street.




HIS EXCELLENCY


When Ashenden was sent to X and looked about him he could not but see
that his situation was equivocal. X was the capital of an important
belligerent state; but a state divided against itself; there was a large
party antagonistic to the war and revolution was possible if not
imminent. Ashenden was instructed to see what under the circumstances
could best be done; he was to suggest a policy and, if it was approved
by the exalted personages who had sent him, to carry it out. A vast
amount of money was put at his disposal. The Ambassadors of Great
Britain and the United States had been directed to afford him such
facilities as were at their command, but Ashenden had been told
privately to keep himself to himself; he was not to make difficulties
for the official representatives of the two powers by divulging to them
facts that it might be inconvenient for them to know; and since it might
be necessary for him to give support under cover to a party that was at
daggers drawn with that in office and with which the relations of the
United States and Great Britain were extremely cordial it was just as
well that Ashenden should keep his own counsel. The exalted personages
did not wish the ambassadors to suffer the affront of discovering that
an obscure agent had been sent to work at cross-purposes with them. On
the other hand it was thought just as well to have a representative in
the opposite camp, who in the event of a sudden upheaval would be at
hand with adequate funds and in the confidence of the new leaders of the
country.

But ambassadors are sticklers for their dignity and they have a keen
nose to scent any encroachment on their authority. When Ashenden on his
arrival at X paid an official call on Sir Herbert Witherspoon, the
British Ambassador, he was received with a politeness to which no
exception could be taken, but with a frigidity that would have sent a
little shiver down the spine of a polar bear. Sir Herbert was a diplomat
_de carrire_ and he cultivated the manner of his profession to a degree
that filled the observer with admiration. He did not ask Ashenden
anything about his mission because he knew that Ashenden would reply
evasively, but he allowed him to see that it was a perfectly foolish
one. He talked with acidulous tolerance of the exalted personages who
had sent Ashenden to X. He told Ashenden that he had instructions to
meet any demands for help that he made and stated that if Ashenden at
any time desired to see him he had only to say so.

"I have received the somewhat singular request to dispatch telegrams for
you in a private code which I understand has been given to you and to
hand over to you telegrams in code as they arrive."

"I hope they will be few and far between, sir," answered Ashenden. "I
know nothing so tedious as coding and decoding."

Sir Herbert paused for an instant. Perhaps that was not quite the answer
he expected. He rose.

"If you will come into the Chancellery I will introduce you to the
Counsellor and to the Secretary to whom you can take your telegrams."

Ashenden followed him out of the room, and after handing him over to the
Counsellor the ambassador gave him a limp hand to shake.

"I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again one of these
days," he said, and with a curt nod left him.

Ashenden bore his reception with composure. It was his business to
remain in obscurity and he did not wish any official attentions to
attract notice to him. But when on the afternoon of the same day he made
his call at the American Embassy he discovered why Sir Herbert
Witherspoon had shown him so much coldness. The American ambassador was
Mr. Wilbur Schfer; he came from Kansas City and had been given his post
when few suspected that a war was on the point of breaking out, as a
reward for political services. He was a big stout man, no longer young,
for his hair was white, but well-preserved and exceedingly robust. He
had a square, red face, clean-shaven, with a little snub nose and a
determined chin. His face was very mobile and he twisted it continually
into odd and amusing grimaces. It looked as though it were made out of
the red india-rubber from which they make hot-water bottles. He greeted
Ashenden with cordiality. He was a hearty fellow.

"I suppose you've seen Sir Herbert. I reckon you've got his dander up.
What do they mean in Washington and London by telling us to dispatch
your code telegrams without knowing what they're all about? You know,
they've got no right to do that."

"Oh, Your Excellency, I think it was only done to save time and
trouble," said Ashenden.

"Well, what is this mission anyway?"

This of course was a question that Ashenden was not prepared to answer,
but not thinking it politic to say so, he determined to give a reply
from which the ambassador could learn little. He had already made up his
mind from the look of him that Mr. Schfer, though doubtless possessed
of the gifts that enable a man to swing a presidential election this way
or that, had not, at least nakedly for all men to see, the acuteness
that his position perhaps demanded. He gave you the impression of a
bluff, good-humoured creature who liked good cheer. Ashenden would have
been wary when playing poker with him, but where the matter in hand was
concerned felt himself fairly safe. He began to talk in a loose, vague
way of the world at large and before he had gone far managed to ask the
ambassador his opinion of the general situation. It was as the sound of
the trumpet to the war-horse: Mr. Schfer made him a speech that lasted
without a break for twenty-five minutes, and when at last he stopped in
exhaustion, Ashenden with warm thanks for his friendly reception was
able to take his leave.

Making up his mind to give both the ambassadors a wide berth, he set
about his work and presently devised a plan of campaign. But by chance
he was able to do Sir Herbert Witherspoon a good turn and so was thrown
again into contact with him. It has been suggested that Mr. Schfer was
more of a politician than a diplomat, and it was his position rather
than his personality that gave weight to his opinions. He looked upon
the eminence to which he had risen as an opportunity to enjoy the good
things of life and his enthusiasm led him to lengths that his
constitution could ill support. His ignorance of foreign affairs would
in any case have made his judgment of doubtful value, but his state at
meetings of the Allied ambassadors so often approached the comatose that
he seemed hardly capable of forming a judgment at all. He was known to
have succumbed to the fascination of a Swedish lady of undoubted beauty,
but of antecedents that from the point of view of a secret service agent
were suspect. Her relations with Germany were such as to make her
sympathy with the Allies dubious. Mr. Schfer saw her every day and was
certainly much under her influence. Now it was noticed that there was
from time to time a leakage of very secret information and the question
arose whether Mr. Schfer did not in these daily interviews
inadvertently say things that were promptly passed on to the
headquarters of the enemy. No one could have doubted Mr. Schfer's
honesty and patriotism, but it was permissible to be uncertain of his
discretion. It was an awkward matter to deal with, but the concern was
as great in Washington as in London and Paris, and Ashenden was
instructed to deal with it. He had of course not been sent to X without
help to do the work he was expected to do, and among his assistants was
an astute, powerful and determined man, a Galician Pole, named
Herbartus. After consultation with him it happened by one of those
fortunate coincidences that occasionally come about in the secret
service that a maid in the service of the Swedish lady fell ill and in
her place the countess (for such she was) was very luckily able to
engage an extremely respectable person from the neighbourhood of Cracow.
The fact that before the war she had been secretary to an eminent
scientist made her doubtless no less competent a housemaid.

The result of this was that Ashenden received every two or three days a
neat report upon the goings-on at this charming lady's apartment, and
though he learned nothing that could confirm the vague suspicions that
had arisen he learned something else of no little importance. From
conversations held at the cosy little _tte--tte_ dinners that the
countess gave the ambassador it appeared that His Excellency was
harbouring a bitter grievance against his English colleague. He
complained that the relations between himself and Sir Herbert were
deliberately maintained on a purely official level. In his blunt way he
said he was sick of the frills that damned Britisher put on. He was a
he-man and a hundred-per-cent American and he had no more use for
protocol and etiquette than for a snowball in hell. Why didn't they get
together, like a couple of regular fellows, and have a good old crack?
Blood was thicker than water, he'd say, and they'd do more towards
winning the war by sitting down in their shirt-sleeves and talking
things out over a bottle of rye than by all their diplomacy and white
spats. Now it was obviously very undesirable that there should not exist
between the two ambassadors a perfect cordiality, so Ashenden thought it
well to ask Sir Herbert whether he might see him.

He was ushered into Sir Herbert's library.

"Well, Mr. Ashenden, what can I do for you? I hope you're quite
satisfied with everything. I understand that you've been keeping the
telegraph lines busy."

Ashenden, as he sat down, gave the ambassador a glance. He was
beautifully dressed in a perfectly cut tail-coat that fitted his slim
figure like a glove, in his black silk tie was a handsome pearl, there
was a perfect line in his grey trousers, with their quiet and
distinguished stripe, and his neat, pointed shoes looked as though he
had never worn them before. You could hardly imagine him sitting in his
shirt-sleeves over a whisky high-ball. He was a tall, thin man, with
exactly the figure to show off modern clothes, and he sat in his chair,
rather upright, as though he were sitting for an official portrait. In
his cold and uninteresting way he was really a very handsome fellow. His
neat grey hair was parted on one side, his pale face was clean-shaven,
he had a delicate, straight nose and grey eyes under grey eyebrows, his
mouth in youth might have been sensual and well-shaped, but now it was
set to an expression of sarcastic determination and the lips were
pallid. It was the kind of face that suggested centuries of good
breeding, but you could not believe it capable of expressing emotion.
You would never expect to see it break into the hearty distortion of
laughter, but at the most be for a moment frigidly kindled by an ironic
smile.

Ashenden was uncommonly nervous.

"I'm afraid you'll think I'm meddling in what doesn't concern me, sir.
I'm quite prepared to be told to mind my own business."

"We'll see. Pray go on."

Ashenden told his story and the ambassador listened attentively. He did
not turn his cold, grey eyes from Ashenden's face, and Ashenden knew
that his embarrassment was obvious.

"How did you find out all this?"

"I have means of getting hold of little bits of information that are
sometimes useful," said Ashenden.

"I see."

Sir Herbert maintained his steady gaze, but Ashenden was surprised to
see on a sudden in the steely eyes a little smile. The bleak,
supercilious face became for an instant quite attractive.

"There is another little bit of information that perhaps you'd be good
enough to give me. What does one do to be a regular fellow?"

"I am afraid one can do nothing, Your Excellency," replied Ashenden
gravely. "I think it is a gift of God."

The light vanished from Sir Herbert's eyes, but his manner was slightly
more urbane than when Ashenden was brought into the room. He rose and
held out his hand.

"You did quite right to come and tell me this, Mr. Ashenden. I have been
very remiss. It is inexcusable on my part to offend that inoffensive old
gentleman. But I will do my best to repair my error. I will call at the
American Embassy this afternoon."

"But not in too great state, sir, if I may venture a suggestion."

The ambassador's eyes twinkled. Ashenden began to think him almost
human.

"I can do nothing but in state, Mr. Ashenden. That is one of the
misfortunes of my temperament." Then as Ashenden was leaving he added:
"Oh, by the way, I wonder if you'd care to come to dinner with me
to-morrow night. Black tie. At eight-fifteen."

He did not wait for Ashenden's assent, but took it for granted, and with
a nod of dismissal sat down once more at his great writing-table.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Ashenden looked forward with misgiving to the dinner to which Sir
Herbert Witherspoon had invited him. The black tie suggested a small
party, perhaps only Lady Anne, the ambassador's wife, whom Ashenden did
not know, or one or two young secretaries. It did not presage a
hilarious evening. It was possible that they might play bridge after
dinner, but Ashenden knew that professional diplomats do not play bridge
with skill: it may be supposed that they find it difficult to bend their
great minds to the triviality of a parlour game. On the other hand he
was interested to see a little more of the ambassador in circumstances
of less formality. For it was evident that Sir Herbert Witherspoon was
not an ordinary person. He was in appearance and manner a perfect
specimen of his class and it is always entertaining to come upon good
examples of a well-known type. He was exactly what you expected an
ambassador to be. If any of his characteristics had been ever so
slightly exaggerated he would have been a caricature. He escaped being
ridiculous only by a hair's breadth and you watched him with a kind of
breathlessness as you might watch a tight-rope dancer doing perilous
feats at a dizzy height. He was certainly a man of character. His rise
in the diplomatic service had been rapid and though doubtless it helped
him to be connected by marriage with powerful families his rise had been
due chiefly to his merit. He knew how to be determined when
determination was necessary and conciliatory when conciliation was
opportune. His manners were perfect; he could speak half a dozen
languages with ease and accuracy; he had a clear and logical brain. He
was never afraid to think out his thoughts to the end, but was wise
enough to suit his actions to the exigencies of the situation. He had
reached his post at X at the early age of fifty-three and had borne
himself in the exceedingly difficult conditions created by the war and
contending parties within the state with tact, confidence and once at
least with courage. For on one occasion, a riot having arisen, a band of
revolutionaries forced their way into the British Embassy and Sir
Herbert from the head of his stairs had harangued them and
notwithstanding revolvers flourished at him had persuaded them to go to
their homes. He would end his career in Paris. That was evident. He was
a man whom you could not but admire but whom it was not easy to like. He
was a diplomat of the school of those Victorian ambassadors to whom
could confidently be entrusted great affairs and whose self-reliance,
sometimes it must be admitted tinctured with arrogance, was justified by
its results.

When Ashenden drove up to the doors of the Embassy they were flung open
and he was received by a stout and dignified English butler and three
footmen. He was ushered up that magnificent flight of stairs on which
had taken place the dramatic incident just related and shown into an
immense room, dimly lit with shaded lamps, in which at the first glance
he caught sight of large pieces of stately furniture and over the
chimney-piece an immense portrait in coronation robes of King George IV.
But there was a bright fire blazing on the hearth and from a deep sofa
by the side of it his host, as his name was announced, slowly rose. Sir
Herbert looked very elegant as he came towards him. He wore his dinner
jacket, the most difficult costume for a man to look well in, with
notable distinction.

"My wife has gone to a concert, but she'll come in later. She wants to
make your acquaintance. I haven't asked anybody else. I thought I would
give myself the pleasure of enjoying your company _en tte--tte_."

Ashenden murmured a civil rejoinder, but his heart sank. He wondered how
he was going to pass at least a couple of hours alone with this man who
made him, he was bound to confess, feel extremely shy.

The door was opened again and the butler and a footman entered bearing
very heavy silver salvers.

"I always have a glass of sherry before my dinner," said the ambassador,
"but in case you have acquired the barbarous custom of drinking
cocktails I can offer you what I believe is called a dry Martini."

Shy though he might be, Ashenden was not going to give in to this sort
of thing with complete tameness.

"I move with the times," he replied. "To drink a glass of sherry when
you can get a dry Martini is like taking a stage-coach when you can
travel by the Orient Express."

A little desultory conversation after this fashion was interrupted by
the throwing open of two great doors and the announcement that His
Excellency's dinner was served. They went into the dining-room. This was
a vast apartment in which sixty people might have comfortably dined, but
there was now only a small round table in it so that Sir Herbert and
Ashenden sat intimately. There was an immense mahogany sideboard on
which were massive pieces of gold plate, and above it, facing Ashenden,
was a fine picture by Canaletto. Over the chimney-piece was a
three-quarter-length portrait of Queen Victoria as a girl with a little
gold crown on her small, prim head. Dinner was served by the corpulent
butler and the three very tall English footmen. Ashenden had the
impression that the ambassador enjoyed in his well-bred way the
sensation of ignoring the pomp in which he lived. They might have been
dining in one of the great country houses of England; it was a ceremony
they performed, sumptuous without ostentation, and it was saved from a
trifling absurdity only because it was in a tradition; but the
experience gained for Ashenden a kind of savour from the thought that
dwelt with him that on the other side of the wall was a restless,
turbulent population that might at any moment break into bloody
revolution, while not two hundred miles away men in the trenches were
sheltering in their dug-outs from the bitter cold and the pitiless
bombardment.

Ashenden need not have feared that the conversation would proceed with
difficulty and the notion he had had that Sir Herbert had asked him in
order to question him about his secret mission was quickly dispelled.
The ambassador behaved to him as though he were a travelling Englishman
who had presented a letter of introduction and to whom he desired to
show civility. You would hardly have thought that a war was raging, for
he made to it only such references as showed that he was not
deliberately avoiding a distressing subject. He spoke of art and
literature, proving himself to be a diligent reader of catholic taste,
and when Ashenden talked to him, from personal acquaintance, of the
writers whom Sir Herbert knew only through their works, he listened with
the friendly condescension which the great ones of the earth affect
towards the artist. (Sometimes, however, they paint a picture or write a
book, and then the artist gets a little of his own back.) He mentioned
in passing a character in one of Ashenden's novels, but did not make any
other reference to the fact that his guest was a writer. Ashenden
admired his urbanity. He disliked people to talk to him of his books, in
which indeed, once written, he took small interest, and it made him
self-conscious to be praised or blamed to his face. Sir Herbert
Witherspoon flattered his self-esteem by showing that he had read him,
but spared his delicacy by withholding his opinion of what he had read.
He spoke too of the various countries in which during his career he had
been stationed and of various persons, in London and elsewhere, that he
and Ashenden knew in common. He talked well, not without a pleasant
irony that might very well have passed for humour, and intelligently.
Ashenden did not find his dinner dull, but neither did he find it
exhilarating. He would have been more interested if the ambassador had
not so invariably said the right, wise and sensible thing upon every
topic that was introduced. Ashenden was finding it something of an
effort to keep up with this distinction of mind and he would have liked
the conversation to get into its shirt-sleeves, so to speak, and put its
feet on the table. But of this there was no chance and Ashenden once or
twice caught himself wondering how soon after dinner he could decently
take his leave. At eleven he had an appointment with Herbartus at the
Hotel de Paris.

The dinner came to an end and coffee was brought in. Sir Herbert knew
good food and good wine and Ashenden was obliged to admit that he had
fared excellently. Liqueurs were served with the coffee, and Ashenden
took a glass of brandy.

"I have some very old Benedictine," said the ambassador. "Won't you try
it?"

"To tell you the honest truth I think brandy is the only liqueur worth
drinking."

"I'm not sure that I don't agree with you. But in that case I must give
you something better than that."

He gave an order to the butler, who presently brought in a cobwebbed
bottle and two enormous glasses.

"I don't really want to boast," said the ambassador as he watched the
butler pour the golden liquid into Ashenden's glass, "but I venture to
think that if you like brandy you'll like this. I got it when I was
counsellor for a short time in Paris."

"I've had a good deal to do lately with one of your successors then."

"Byring?"

"Yes."

"What do you think of the brandy?"

"I think it's marvellous."

"And of Byring?"

The question came so oddly on the top of the other that it sounded
faintly comic.

"Oh, I think he's a damned fool."

Sir Herbert leaned back in his chair, holding the huge glass with both
hands in order to bring out the aroma, and looked slowly round the
stately and spacious room. The table had been cleared of superfluous
things. There was a bowl of roses between Ashenden and his host. The
servants switched off the electric light as they finally left the room
and it was lit now only by the candles that were on the table and by the
fire. Notwithstanding its size it had an air of sober comfort. The
ambassador's eyes rested on the really distinguished portrait of Queen
Victoria that hung over the chimney-piece.

"I wonder," he said at last.

"He'll have to leave the diplomatic service."

"I'm afraid so."

Ashenden gave him a quick glance of enquiry. He was the last man from
whom he would have expected sympathy for Byring.

"Yes, in the circumstances," he proceeded, "I suppose it's inevitable
that he should leave the service. I'm sorry. He's an able fellow and
he'll be missed. I think he had a career before him."

"Yes, that is what I've heard. I'm told that at the F.O. they thought
very highly of him."

"He has many of the gifts that are useful in this rather dreary trade,"
said the ambassador, with a slight smile, in his cold and judicial
manner. "He's handsome, he's a gentleman, he has nice manners, he speaks
excellent French and he has a good head on his shoulders. He'd have done
well."

"It seems a pity that he should waste such golden opportunities."

"I understand he's going into the wine business at the end of the war.
Oddly enough he's going to represent the very firm from whom I got this
brandy."

Sir Herbert raised the glass to his nose and inhaled the fragrance. Then
he looked at Ashenden. He had a way of looking at people, when he was
thinking of something else perhaps, that suggested that he thought them
somewhat peculiar but rather disgusting insects.

"Have you ever seen the woman?" he asked.

"I dined with her and Byring at Larue's."

"How very interesting. What is she like?"

"Charming."

Ashenden tried to describe her to his host, but meanwhile with another
part of his mind he recollected the impression she had made on him at
the restaurant when Byring had introduced him to her. He had been not a
little interested to meet a woman of whom for some years he had heard so
much. She called herself Rose Auburn, but what her real name was few
knew. She had gone to Paris originally as one of a troupe of dancers,
called the Glad Girls, who performed at the Moulin Rouge, but her
astonishing beauty had soon caused her to be noticed and a wealthy
French manufacturer fell in love with her. He gave her a house and
loaded her with jewels, but could not long meet the demands she made
upon him, and she passed in rapid succession from lover to lover. She
became in a short time the best known courtesan in France. Her
expenditure was prodigal and she ruined her admirers with cynical
unconcern. The richest men found themselves unable to cope with her
extravagance. Ashenden, before the war, had seen her once at Monte Carlo
lose a hundred and eighty thousand francs at a sitting and that then was
an important sum. She sat at the big table, surrounded by curious
onlookers, throwing down packets of thousand-franc notes with a
self-possession that would have been admirable if it had been her own
money that she was losing.

When Ashenden met her she had been leading this riotous life, dancing
and gambling all night, racing most afternoons a week, for twelve or
thirteen years and she was no longer very young; but there was hardly a
line on that lovely brow, scarcely a crowsfoot round those liquid eyes,
to betray the fact. The most astonishing thing about her was that
notwithstanding this feverish and unending round of senseless debauchery
she had preserved an air of virginity. Of course she cultivated the
type. She had an exquisitely graceful and slender figure, and her
innumerable frocks were always made with a perfect simplicity. Her brown
hair was very plainly done. With her oval face, charming little nose and
large blue eyes she had all the air of one or other of Anthony
Trollope's charming heroines. It was the keepsake style raised to such
rareness that it made you catch your breath. She had a lovely skin, very
white and red, and if she painted it was not from necessity but from
wantonness. She irradiated a sort of dewy innocence that was as
attractive as it was unexpected.

Ashenden had heard of course that Byring for a year or more had been her
lover. Her notoriety was such that a hard light of publicity was shed on
everyone with whom she had any affair, but in this instance the gossips
had more to say than usual because Byring had no money to speak of and
Rose Auburn had never been known to grant her favours for anything that
did not in some way represent hard cash. Was it possible that she loved
him? It seemed incredible and yet what other explanation was there?
Byring was a young man with whom any woman might have fallen in love. He
was somewhere in the thirties, very tall and good-looking with a
singular charm of manner and of an appearance so debonair that people
turned round in the street to look at him; but unlike most handsome men
he seemed entirely unaware of the impression he created. When it became
known that Byring was the _amant de coeur_ (a prettier phrase than our
English fancy man) of this famous harlot he became an object of
admiration to many women and of envy to many men; but when a rumour
spread abroad that he was going to marry her consternation seized his
friends and ribald laughter everyone else. It became known that Byring's
chief had asked him if it was true and he had admitted it. Pressure was
put upon him to relinquish a plan that could only end in disaster. It
was pointed out to him that the wife of a diplomat has social
obligations that Rose Auburn could not fulfil. Byring replied that he
was prepared to resign his post whenever by so doing he would not cause
inconvenience. He brushed aside every expostulation and every argument;
he was determined to marry.

When first Ashenden met Byring he did not very much take to him. He
found him slightly aloof. But as the hazards of his work brought him
from time to time into contact with him he discerned that the distant
manner was due merely to shyness and as he came to know him better he
was charmed by the uncommon sweetness of his disposition. Their
relations, however, remained purely official so that it was a trifle
unexpected when Byring one day asked him to dinner to meet Miss Auburn,
and he could not but wonder whether it was because already people were
beginning to turn the cold shoulder on him. When he went he discovered
that the invitation was due to the lady's curiosity. But the surprise he
got on learning that she had found time to read (with admiration, it
appeared) two or three of his novels was not the only surprise he got
that evening. Leading on the whole a quiet and studious life he had
never had occasion to penetrate into the world of the higher
prostitution and the great courtesans of the period were known to him
only by name. It was somewhat astonishing to Ashenden to discover that
Rose Auburn differed so little in air and manner from the smart women of
Mayfair with whom through his books he had become more or less
intimately acquainted. She was perhaps a little more anxious to please
(indeed one of her agreeable traits was the interest she took in
whomever she was talking to), but she was certainly no more made-up and
her conversation was as intelligent. It lacked only the coarseness that
society has lately affected. Perhaps she felt instinctively that those
lovely lips should never disfigure themselves with foul words; perhaps
only she was at heart still a trifle suburban. It was evident that she
and Byring were madly in love with one another. It was really moving to
see their mutual passion. When Ashenden took his leave of them, as he
shook hands with her (and she held his hand a moment and with her blue,
starry eyes looked into his) she said to him:

"You will come and see us when we're settled in London, won't you? You
know we're going to be married."

"I heartily congratulate you," said Ashenden.

"And him?" she smiled, and her smile was like an angel's; it had the
freshness of dawn and the tender rapture of a southern spring.

"Have you never looked at yourself in the glass?"

Sir Herbert Witherspoon watched him intently while Ashenden (he thought
not without a trace of humour) was describing the dinner-party. No
flicker of a smile brightened his cold eyes.

"Do you think it'll be a success?" he asked now.

"No."

"Why not?"

The question took Ashenden aback.

"A man not only marries his wife, he marries her friends. Do you realise
the sort of people Byring will have to mix with, painted women of
tarnished reputation and men who've gone down in the social scale,
parasites and adventurers? Of course they'll have money, her pearls must
be worth a hundred thousand pounds, and they'll be able to cut a dash in
the smart Bohemia of London. Do you know the gold fringe of society?
When a woman of bad character marries she earns the admiration of her
set, she has worked the trick, she's caught a man and become
respectable, but he, the man, only earns its ridicule. Even her own
friends, the old hags with their gigolos and the abject men who earn a
shabby living by introducing the unwary to tradesmen on a ten per cent
commission, even they despise him. He is the mug. Believe me, to conduct
yourself gracefully in such a position you need either great dignity of
character or an unparalleled effrontery. Besides, do you think there's a
chance of its lasting? Can a woman who's led that wild career settle
down to domestic life? In a little while she'll grow bored and restless.
And how long does love last? Don't you think Byring's reflections will
be bitter when, caring for her no longer, he compares what he is with
what he might have been?"

Witherspoon helped himself to another drop of his old brandy. Then he
looked up at Ashenden with a curious expression.

"I'm not sure if a man isn't wiser to do what he wants very much to do
and let the consequences take care of themselves."

"It must be very pleasant to be an ambassador," said Ashenden.

Sir Herbert smiled thinly.

"Byring rather reminds me of a fellow I knew when I was a very junior
clerk at the F.O. I won't tell you his name because he's by way of being
very well-known now and highly respected. He's made a great success of
his career. There is always something a little absurd in success."

Ashenden slightly raised his eyebrows at this statement, somewhat
unexpected in the mouth of Sir Herbert Witherspoon, but did not say
anything.

"He was one of my fellow-clerks. He was a brilliant creature, I don't
think anyone ever denied that, and everyone prophesied from the
beginning that he would go far. I venture to say that he had pretty well
all the qualifications necessary for a diplomatic career. He was of a
family of soldiers and sailors, nothing very grand, but eminently
respectable, and he knew how to behave in the great world without
bumptiousness or timidity. He was well-read. He took an interest in
painting. I dare say he made himself a trifle ridiculous; he wanted to
be in the movement, he was very anxious to be modern, and at a time when
little was known of Gauguin and Czanne he raved over their pictures.
There was perhaps a certain snobbishness in his attitude, a desire to
shock and astonish the conventional, but at heart his admiration of the
arts was genuine and sincere. He adored Paris and whenever he had the
chance ran over and put up at a little hotel in the Latin Quarter, where
he could rub shoulders with painters and writers. As is the habit with
gentry of that sort they patronised him a little because he was nothing
but a diplomat and laughed at him a little because he was evidently a
gentleman. But they liked him because he was always ready to listen to
their speeches, and when he praised their works they were even willing
to admit that, though a philistine, he had a certain instinct for the
Right Stuff."

Ashenden noted the sarcasm and smiled at the fling at his own
profession. He wondered what this long description was leading to. The
ambassador seemed to linger over it partly because he liked it, but also
because for some reason he hesitated to come to the point.

"But my friend was modest. He enjoyed himself enormously and he listened
open-mouthed when these young painters and unknown scribblers tore to
pieces established reputations and talked with enthusiasm of persons of
whom the sober but cultured secretaries in Downing Street had never even
heard. At the back of his mind he knew that they were rather a common,
second-rate lot, and when he went back to his work in London it was with
no regret, but with the feeling that he had been witnessing an odd and
diverting play; now the curtain had fallen he was quite ready to go
home. I haven't told you that he was ambitious. He knew that his friends
expected him to do considerable things and he had no notion of
disappointing them. He was perfectly conscious of his abilities. He
meant to succeed. Unfortunately he was not rich, he had only a few
hundreds a year, but his father and mother were dead and he had neither
brother nor sister. He was aware that this freedom from close ties was
an asset. His opportunity to make connections that would be of use to
him was unrestricted. Do you think he sounds a very disagreeable young
man?"

"No," said Ashenden in answer to the sudden question. "Most clever young
men are aware of their cleverness, and there is generally a certain
cynicism in their calculations with regard to the future. Surely young
men should be ambitious."

"Well, on one of these little trips to Paris my friend became acquainted
with a talented young Irish painter called O'Malley. He's an R.A. now
and paints highly paid portraits of Lord Chancellors and Cabinet
Ministers. I wonder if you remember one he did of my wife, which was
exhibited a couple of years ago."

"No, I don't. But I know his name."

"My wife was delighted with it. His art always seems to me very refined
and agreeable. He's able to put on canvas the distinction of his sitters
in a very remarkable way. When he paints a woman of breeding, you know
that it is a woman of breeding and not a trollop."

"It is a charming gift," said Ashenden. "Can he also paint a slut and
make her look like one?"

"He could. Now doubtless he would scarcely wish to. He was living then
in a small and dirty studio in the rue du Cherche Midi with a little
Frenchwoman of the character you describe and he painted several
portraits of her which were extremely like."

It seemed to Ashenden that Sir Herbert was going into somewhat excessive
detail, and he asked himself whether the friend of whom he was telling a
story that till now seemed to lead no-whither was in point of fact
himself. He began to give it more of his attention.

"My friend liked O'Malley. He was good company, the type of the
agreeable rattle, and he had a truly Irish gift of the gab. He talked
incessantly and in my friend's opinion brilliantly. He found it very
amusing to go and sit in the studio while O'Malley was painting and
listen to him chattering away about the technique of his art. O'Malley
was always saying that he would paint a portrait of him and his vanity
was tickled. O'Malley thought him far from plain and said it would do
him good to exhibit the portrait of someone who at least looked like a
gentleman."

"By the way, when was all this?" asked Ashenden.

"Oh, thirty years ago.... They used to talk of their future and when
O'Malley said the portrait he was going to paint of my friend would look
very well in the National Portrait Gallery, my friend had small doubt in
the back of his mind, whatever he modestly said, that it would
eventually find its way there. One evening when my friend--shall we call
him Brown?--was sitting in the studio and O'Malley, desperately taking
advantage of the last light of day, was trying to get finished for the
Salon that portrait of his mistress which is now in the Tate Gallery,
O'Malley asked him if he would like to come and dine with them. He was
expecting a friend of hers, she was called Yvonne by the way, and he
would be glad if Brown would make a fourth. This friend of Yvonne's was
an acrobat and O'Malley was anxious to get her to pose for him in the
nude. Yvonne said she had a marvellous figure. She had seen O'Malley's
work and was willing enough to sit and dinner was to be devoted to
settling the matter. She was not performing then, but was about to open
at the Gats Montparnasses and with her days free was not disinclined
to oblige a friend and earn a little money. The notion amused Brown, who
had never met an acrobat, and he accepted. Yvonne suggested that he
might find her to his taste and if he did she could promise him that he
would not find her very difficult to persuade. With his grand air and
English clothes she would take him for a _milord anglais_. My friend
laughed. He did not take the suggestion very seriously. '_On ne sait
jamais_,' he said. Yvonne looked at him with mischievous eyes. He sat
on. It was Easter time and cold, but the studio was comfortably warm,
and though it was small and everything was higgledy-piggledy and the
dust lay heavy on the rim of the window, it was most friendly and cosy.
Brown had a tiny flat in Waverton Street, in London, with very good
mezzotints on the walls and several pieces of early Chinese pottery here
and there, and he wondered to himself why his tasteful sitting-room had
none of the comforts of home nor the romance that he found in that
disorderly studio.

"Presently there was a ring at the door and Yvonne ushered in her
friend. Her name, it appeared, was Alix, and she shook hands with Brown,
uttering a stereotyped phrase, with the mincing politeness of a fat
woman in a _bureau de tabac_. She wore a long cloak in imitation mink
and an enormous scarlet hat. She looked incredibly vulgar. She was not
even pretty. She had a broad flat face, a wide mouth and an upturned
nose. She had a great deal of hair, golden, but obviously dyed, and
large china-blue eyes. She was heavily made-up."

Ashenden began to have no doubt that Witherspoon was narrating an
experience of his own, for otherwise he could never have remembered
after thirty years what hat the young woman wore and what coat, and he
was amused at the ambassador's simplicity in thinking that so thin a
subterfuge could disguise the truth. Ashenden could not but guess how
the story would end and it tickled him to think that this cold,
distinguished and exquisite person should ever have had anything like an
adventure.

"She began to talk away to Yvonne and my friend noticed that she had one
feature that oddly enough he found very attractive: she had a deep and
husky voice as though she were just recovering from a bad cold and, he
didn't know why, it seemed to him exceedingly pleasant to listen to. He
asked O'Malley if that was her natural voice and O'Malley said she had
had it as long as ever he had known her. He called it a whisky voice. He
told her what Brown said about it and she gave him a smile of her wide
mouth and said it wasn't due to drink, it was due to standing so much on
her head. That was one of the inconveniences of her profession. Then the
four of them went to a beastly little restaurant off the boulevard St.
Michel where for two francs fifty including wine my friend ate a dinner
that seemed to him more delicious than any he had ever eaten at the
Savoy or Claridge's. Alix was a very chatty young person and Brown
listened with amusement, with amazement even, while in her rich, throaty
voice she talked of the varied incidents of the day. She had a great
command of slang and though he could not understand half of it, he was
immensely tickled with its picturesque vulgarity. It was pungent of the
heated asphalt, the zinc bars of cheap taverns and racy of the crowded
squares in the poorer districts of Paris. There was an energy in those
apt and vivid metaphors that went like champagne to his anmic head. She
was a guttersnipe, yes, that's what she was, but she had a vitality that
warmed you like a blazing fire. He was conscious that Yvonne had told
her that he was an unattached Englishman, with plenty of money; he saw
the appraising glance she gave him and then, pretending that he had
noticed nothing, he caught the phrase, _il n'est pas mal_. It faintly
amused him: he had a notion himself that he was not so bad. There were
places, indeed, where they went further than that. She did not pay much
attention to him, in point of fact they were talking of things of which
he was ignorant and he could do little more than show an intelligent
interest, but now and again she gave him a long look, passing her tongue
quickly round her lips, that suggested to him that he only had to ask
for her to give. He shrugged a mental shoulder. She looked healthy and
young, she had an agreeable vivacity, but beyond her husky voice there
was nothing particularly attractive in her. But the notion of having a
little affair in Paris did not displease him, it was life, and the
thought that she was a music-hall artiste was mildly diverting: in
middle age it would doubtless amuse him to remember that he had enjoyed
the favours of an acrobat. Was it la Rochefoucauld or Oscar Wilde who
said that you should commit errors in youth in order to have something
to regret in old age? At the end of dinner (and they sat over their
coffee and brandy till late), they went out into the street and Yvonne
proposed that he should take Alix home. He said he would be delighted.
Alix said it was not far and they walked. She told him that she had a
little apartment, of course mostly she was on tour, but she liked to
have a place of her own, a woman, you know, had to be in her furniture,
without that she received no consideration; and presently they reached a
shabby house in a bedraggled street. She rang the bell for the
_concierge_ to open the door. She did not press him to enter. He did not
know if she looked upon it as a matter of course. He was seized with
timidity. He racked his brains, but could not think of a single thing to
say. Silence fell upon them. It was absurd. With a little click the door
opened; she looked at him expectantly; she was puzzled; a wave of
shyness swept over him. Then she held out her hand, thanked him for
bringing her to the door, and bade him good-night. His heart beat
nervously. If she had asked him to come in he would have gone. He wanted
some sign that she would like him to. He shook her hand, said
good-night, raised his hat and walked away. He felt a perfect fool. He
could not sleep; he tossed from side to side of his bed, thinking for
what a noodle she must take him, and he could hardly wait for the day
that would permit him to take steps to efface the contemptible
impression he must have made on her. His pride was lacerated. Wanting to
lose no time he went round to her house at eleven to ask her to lunch
with him, but she was out; he sent round some flowers and later in the
day called again. She had been in, but was gone out once more. He went
to see O'Malley on the chance of finding her, but she was not there, and
O'Malley facetiously asked him how he had fared. To save his face he
told him that he had come to the conclusion that she did not mean very
much to him and so like a perfect gentleman he had left her. But he had
an uneasy feeling that O'Malley saw through his story. He sent her a
_pneumatique_ asking her to dine with him next day. She did not answer.
He could not understand it, he asked the porter of his hotel a dozen
times if there was nothing for him, and at last, almost in desperation,
just before dinner went to her house. The _concierge_ told him she was
in and he went up. He was very nervous, inclined to be angry because she
had treated his invitation so cavalierly, but at the same time anxious
to appear at his ease. He climbed the four flights of stairs, dark and
smelly, and rang at the door to which he had been directed. There was a
pause, he heard sounds within and rang again. Presently she opened. He
had an absolute certitude that she did not in the least know who he was.
He was taken aback, it was a blow to his vanity; but he assumed a
cheerful smile.

"'I came to find out if you were going to dine with me to-night. I sent
you a _pneumatique_.'

"Then she recognised him. But she stood at the door and did not ask him
in.

"'Oh, no, I can't dine with you to-night. I have terrible megrim and I
am going to bed. I couldn't answer your _pneumatique_, I mislaid it, and
I'd forgotten your name. Thank you for the flowers. It was nice of you
to send them.'

"'Then won't you come and dine with me to-morrow night?'

"'_Justement_, I have an engagement to-morrow night. I'm sorry.'

"There was nothing more to say. He had not the nerve to ask her anything
else and so bade her good-night and went. He had the impression that she
was not vexed with him, but that she had entirely forgotten him. It was
humiliating. When he went back to London without having seen her again,
it was with a curious sense of dissatisfaction. He was not in the least
in love with her, he was annoyed with her, but he could not get her
quite out of his mind. He was honest enough to realise that he was
suffering from nothing more than wounded vanity.

"During that dinner at the little restaurant off the Boul' Mich' she had
mentioned that her troupe was going to London in the spring and in one
of his letters to O'Malley he slipped in casually a phrase to the effect
that if his young friend Alix happened to be coming to town he
(O'Malley) might let him know and he would look her up. He would like to
hear from her own ingenuous lips what she thought of the nude O'Malley
had painted of her. When the painter some time afterwards wrote and told
him that she was appearing a week later at the Metropolitan in the
Edgware Road, he felt a sudden rush of blood to his head. He went to see
her play. If he had not taken the precaution to go earlier in the day
and look at the programme he would have missed her, for her turn was the
first on the list. There were two men, a stout one and a thin one, with
large black moustaches, and Alix. They were dressed in ill-fitting pink
tights with green satin trunks. The men did various exercises on twin
trapezes while Alix tripped about the stage, giving them handkerchiefs
to wipe their hands on, and occasionally turned a somersault. When the
fat man raised the thin one on his shoulders she climbed up and stood on
the shoulders of the second, kissing her hand to the audience. They did
tricks with safety bicycles. There is often grace, and even beauty, in
the performance of clever acrobats, but this one was so crude, so vulgar
that my friend felt positively embarrassed. There is something shameful
in seeing grown men publicly make fools of themselves. Poor Alix, with a
fixed and artificial smile on her lips, in her pink tights and green
satin trunks, was so grotesque that he wondered how he could have let
himself feel a moment's annoyance because when he went to her apartment
she had not recognised him. It was with a shrug of the shoulders,
condescendingly, that he went round to the stage door afterwards and
gave the door-keeper a shilling to take her his card. In a few minutes
she came out. She seemed delighted to see him.

"'Oh, how good it is to see the face of someone you know in this sad
city,' she said. 'Ah, now you can give me that dinner you asked me to in
Paris. I'm dying of hunger. I never eat before the show. Imagine that
they should have given us such a bad place on the programme. It's an
insult. But we shall see the agent to-morrow. If they think they can put
upon us like that they are mistaken. _Ah, non, non et non!_ And what an
audience! No enthusiasm, no applause, nothing.'

"My friend was staggered. Was it possible that she took her performance
seriously? He almost burst out laughing. But she still spoke with that
throaty voice that had such a queer effect on his nerves. She was
dressed all in red and wore the same red hat in which he had first seen
her. She looked so flashy that he did not fancy the notion of asking her
to a place where he might be seen and so suggested Soho. There were
hansoms still in those days, and the hansom was more conducive to
love-making, I imagine, than is the taxi of the present time. My friend
put his arm round Alix's waist and kissed her. It left her calm, but on
the other hand did not wildly excite him. While they ate a late dinner
he made himself very gallant and she played up to him agreeably; but
when they got up to go and he proposed that she should come round to his
rooms in Waverton Street she told him that a friend had come over from
Paris with her and that she had to meet him at eleven: she had only been
able to dine with Brown because her companion had a business engagement.
Brown was exasperated, but did not want to show it, and when, as they
walked down Wardour Street (for she said she wanted to go to the Caf
Monico), pausing in front of a pawnbroker's to look at the jewellery in
the window, she went into ecstasies over a bracelet of sapphires and
diamonds that Brown thought incredibly vulgar, he asked her if she would
like it.

"'But it's marked fifteen pounds,' she said.

"He went in and bought it for her. She was delighted. She made him leave
her just before they came to Piccadilly Circus.

"'Now listen, _mon petit_,' she said, 'I cannot see you in London
because of my friend, he is jealous as a wolf, that is why I think it is
more prudent for you to go now, but I am playing at Boulogne next week,
why do you not come over? I shall be alone there. My friend has to go
back to Holland, where he lives.'

"'All right,' said Brown, 'I'll come.'

"When he went to Boulogne--he had two days' leave--it was with the one
idea of salving the wound to his pride. It was odd that he should care.
I daresay to you it seems inexplicable. He could not bear the notion
that Alix looked upon him as a fool and he felt that when once he had
removed that impression from her he would never bother about her again.
He thought of O'Malley too, and of Yvonne. She must have told them and
it galled him to think that people whom in his heart he despised should
laugh at him behind his back. Do you think he was very contemptible?"

"Good gracious, no," said Ashenden. "All sensible people know that
vanity is the most devastating, the most universal and the most
ineradicable of the passions that afflict the soul of man, and it is
only vanity that makes him deny its power. It is more consuming than
love. With advancing years, mercifully, you can snap your fingers at the
terror and the servitude of love, but age cannot free you from the
thraldom of vanity. Time can assuage the pangs of love, but only death
can still the anguish of wounded vanity. Love is simple and seeks no
subterfuge, but vanity cozens you with a hundred disguises. It is part
and parcel of every virtue: it is the mainspring of courage and the
strength of ambition; it gives constancy to the lover and endurance to
the stoic; it adds fuel to the fire of the artist's desire for fame and
is at once the support and the compensation of the honest man's
integrity; it leers even cynically in the humility of the saint. You
cannot escape it, and should you take pains to guard against it, it will
make use of those very pains to trip you up. You are defenceless against
its onslaught because you know not on what unprotected side it will
attack you. Sincerity cannot protect you from its snare nor humour from
its mockery."

Ashenden stopped, not because he had said all he had to say, but because
he was out of breath. He noticed also that the ambassador, desiring to
talk rather than to listen, heard him with a politeness that was
strained. But he had made this speech not so much for his host's
edification as for his own entertainment.

"It is vanity finally that makes man support his abominable lot."

For a minute Sir Herbert was silent. He looked straight in front of him
as though his thoughts lingered distressfully on some far horizon of
memory.

"When my friend came back from Boulogne he knew that he was madly in
love with Alix and he had arranged to meet her again in a fortnight's
time when she would be performing at Dunkirk. He thought of nothing else
in the interval and the night before he was to start, he only had
thirty-six hours this time, he could not sleep, so devouring was the
passion that consumed him. Then he went over for a night to Paris to see
her and once when she was disengaged for a week he persuaded her to come
to London. He knew that she did not love him. He was just a man among a
hundred others and she made no secret of the fact that he was not her
only lover. He suffered agonies of jealousy but knew that it would only
excite her ridicule or her anger if he showed it. She had not even a
fancy for him. She liked him because he was a gentleman and well
dressed. She was quite willing to be his mistress so long as the claims
he made on her were not irksome. But that was all. His means were not
large enough to enable him to make her any serious offers, but even if
they had been, liking her freedom, she would have refused."

"But what about the Dutchman?" asked Ashenden.

"The Dutchman? He was a pure invention. She made him up on the spur of
the moment because for one reason or another she did not just then want
to be bothered with Brown. What should one lie more or less matter to
her? Don't think he didn't struggle against his passion. He knew it was
madness; he knew that a permanent connection between them could only
lead to disaster for him. He had no illusions about her: she was common,
coarse and vulgar. She could talk of none of the things that interested
him, nor did she try, she took it for granted that he was concerned with
her affairs and told him interminable stories of her quarrels with
fellow-performers, her disputes with managers and her wrangles with
hotel-keepers. What she said bored him to death, but the sound of her
throaty voice made his heart beat so that sometimes he thought he would
suffocate."

Ashenden sat uneasily in his chair. It was a Sheraton chair very good to
look at, but hard and straight; and he wished that Sir Herbert had had
the notion of going back to the other room where there was a comfortable
sofa. It was quite plain now that the story he was telling was about
himself and Ashenden felt a certain indelicacy in the man's stripping
his soul before him so nakedly. He did not desire this confidence to be
forced upon him. Sir Herbert Witherspoon meant nothing to him. By the
light of the shaded candles Ashenden saw that he was deathly pale and
there was a wildness in his eyes that in that cold and composed man was
strangely disconcerting. He poured himself out a glass of water; his
throat was dry so that he could hardly speak. But he went on pitilessly.

"At last my friend managed to pull himself together. He was disgusted by
the sordidness of his intrigue; there was no beauty in it, nothing but
shame; and it was leading to nothing. His passion was as vulgar as the
woman for whom he felt it. Now it happened that Alix was going to spend
six months in the North of Africa with her troupe and for that time at
least it would be impossible for him to see her. He made up his mind
that he must seize the opportunity and make a definite break. He knew
bitterly that it would mean nothing to her. In three weeks she would
have forgotten him.

"And then there was something else. He had come to know very well some
people, a man and his wife, whose social and political connections were
extremely important. They had an only daughter and, I don't know why,
she fell in love with him. She was everything that Alix was not, pretty
in the real English way, with blue eyes and pink and white cheeks, tall
and fair; she might have stepped out of one of du Maurier's pictures in
_Punch_. She was clever and well-read, and since she had lived all her
life in political circles she could talk intelligently of the sort of
things that interested him. He had reason to believe that if he asked
her to marry him she would accept. I have told you that he was
ambitious. He knew that he had great abilities and he wanted the chance
to use them. She was related to some of the greatest families in England
and he would have been a fool not to realise that a marriage of this
kind must make his path infinitely easier. The opportunity was golden.
And what a relief to think that he could put behind him definitely that
ugly little episode, and what a happiness, instead of that wall of
cheerful indifference and matter-of-fact good nature against which in
his passion for Alix he had vainly battered his head, what a happiness
to feel that to someone else he really meant something! How could he
help being flattered and touched when he saw her face light up as he
came into the room? He wasn't in love with her, but he thought her
charming, and he wanted to forget Alix and the vulgar life into which
she had led him. At last he made up his mind. He asked her to marry him
and was accepted. Her family was delighted. The marriage was to take
place in the autumn, since her father had to go on some political errand
to South America and was taking his wife and daughter with him. They
were to be gone the whole summer. My friend Brown was transferring from
the F.O. to the diplomatic service and had been promised a post at
Lisbon. He was to go there immediately.

"He saw his fiance off. Then it happened that owing to some hitch the
man whom Brown was going to replace was kept at Lisbon three months
longer and so for that period my friend found himself at a loose end.
And just when he was making up his mind what to do with himself he
received a letter from Alix. She was coming back to France and had a
tour booked; she gave him a long list of the places she was going to,
and in her casual, friendly way said that they would have fun if he
could manage to run over for a day or two. An insane, a criminal notion
seized him. If she had shown any eagerness for him to come he might have
resisted, it was her airy, matter-of-fact indifference that took him. On
a sudden he longed for her. He did not care if she was gross and vulgar,
he had got her in his bones, and it was his last chance. In a little
while he was going to be married. It was now or never. He went down to
Marseilles and met her as she stepped off the boat that had brought her
from Tunis. His heart leaped at the pleasure she showed on seeing him.
He knew he loved her madly. He told her that he was going to be married
in three months and asked her to spend the last of his freedom with him.
She refused to abandon her tour. How could she leave her companions in
the lurch? He offered to compensate them, but she would not hear of it;
they could not find someone to take her place at a moment's notice, nor
could they afford to throw over a good engagement that might lead to
others in the future; they were honest people, and they kept their word,
they had their duty to their managers and their duty to their public. He
was exasperated; it seemed absurd that his whole happiness should be
sacrificed to that wretched tour. And at the end of the three months?
What was to happen to her then? Oh, no, he was asking something that
wasn't reasonable. He told her that he adored her. He did not know till
then how insanely he loved her. Well, then, she said, why did he not
come with her and make the tour with them? She would be glad of his
company; they could have a good time together and at the end of three
months he could go and marry his heiress and neither of them would be
any the worse. For a moment he hesitated, but now that he saw her again
he could not bear the thought of being parted from her so soon. He
accepted. And then she said:

"'But listen, my little one, you mustn't be silly, you know. The
managers won't be too pleased with me if I make a lot of chichi, I have
to think of my future, and they won't be so anxious to have me back if I
refuse to please old customers of the house. It won't be very often, but
it must be understood that you are not to make me scenes if now and then
I give myself to someone whose fancy I take. It will mean nothing, that
is business, you will be my _amant de coeur_.'

"He felt a strange, excruciating pain in his heart, and I think he went
so pale that she thought he was going to faint. She looked at him
curiously.

"'Those are the terms,' she said. 'You can either take them or leave
them.'

"He accepted."

Sir Herbert Witherspoon leaned forward in his chair and he was so white
that Ashenden thought too that he was going to faint. His skin was drawn
over his skull so that his face looked like a death's head, but the
veins on his forehead stood out like knotted cords. He had lost all
reticence. And Ashenden once more wished that he would stop, it made him
shy and nervous to see the man's naked soul: no one has the right to
show himself to another in that destitute state. He was inclined to cry:

"Stop, stop. You mustn't tell me any more. You'll be so ashamed."

But the man had lost all shame.

"For three months they travelled together from one dull provincial town
to another, sharing a filthy little bedroom in frowsy hotels; Alix would
not let him take her to good hotels, she said she had not the clothes
for them and she was more comfortable in the sort of hotel she was used
to; she did not want her companions in the business to say that she was
putting on side. He sat interminable hours in shabby cafs. He was
treated as a brother by members of the troupe, they called him by his
Christian name and chaffed him coarsely and slapped him on the back. He
ran errands for them when they were busy with their work. He saw the
good-humoured contempt in the eyes of managers and was obliged to put up
with the familiarity of stage-hands. They travelled third-class from
place to place and he helped to carry the luggage. He with whom reading
was a passion never opened a book because Alix was bored by reading and
thought that anyone who did was just giving himself airs. Every night he
went to the music-hall and watched her go through that grotesque and
ignoble performance. He had to fall in with her pathetic fancy that it
was artistic. He had to congratulate her when it had gone well and
condole with her when some feat of agility had gone amiss. When she had
finished he went to a caf and waited for her while she changed, and
sometimes she would come in rather hurriedly and say:

"'Don't wait for me to-night, _mon chou_, I'm busy.'

"And then he would undergo agonies of jealousy. He would suffer as he
never knew a man could suffer. She would come back to the hotel at three
or four in the morning. She wondered why he was not asleep. Sleep! How
could he sleep with that misery gnawing at his heart? He had promised he
would not interfere with her. He did not keep his promise. He made her
terrific scenes. Sometimes he beat her. Then she would lose her patience
and tell him she was sick of him, she would pack her things to go, and
then he would go grovelling to her, promising anything, any submission,
vowing to swallow any humiliation, if she would not leave him. It was
horrible and degrading. He was miserable. Miserable? No, he was happier
than he'd ever been in his life. It was the gutter that he wallowed in,
but he wallowed in it with delight. Oh, he was so bored with the life
he'd led hitherto, and this one seemed to him amazing and romantic. This
was reality. And that frowsy, ugly woman with the whisky voice, she had
such a splendid vitality, such a zest for life that she seemed to raise
his own to some more vivid level. It really did seem to him to burn with
a pure, gem-like flame. Do people still read Pater?"

"I don't know," said Ashenden. "I don't."

"There was only three months of it. Oh, how short the time seemed and
how quickly the weeks sped by! Sometimes he had wild dreams of
abandoning everything and throwing in his lot with the acrobats. They
had come to have quite a liking for him and they said he could easily
train himself to take a part in the turn. He knew they said it more in
jest than in earnest, but the notion vaguely tickled him. But these were
only dreams and he knew that nothing would come of them. He never really
chaffered with the thought that when the three months came to an end he
would not return to his own life with its obligations. With his mind,
that cold, logical mind of his, he knew it would be absurd to sacrifice
everything for a woman like Alix; he was ambitious, he wanted power; and
besides, he could not break the heart of that poor child who loved and
trusted him. She wrote to him once a week. She was longing to get back,
the time seemed endless to her and he, he had a secret wish that
something would happen to delay her arrival. If he could only have a
little more time! Perhaps if he had six months he would have got over
his infatuation. Already sometimes he hated Alix.

"The last day came. They seemed to have little to say to one another.
They were both sad; but he knew that Alix only regretted the breaking of
an agreeable habit, in twenty-four hours she would be as gay and full of
spirits with her stray companion as though he had never crossed her
path; he could only think that next day he was going to Paris to meet
his fiance and her family. They spent their last night in one another's
arms weeping. If she'd asked him then not to leave her it may be that he
would have stayed; but she didn't, it never occurred to her, she
accepted his going as a settled thing, and she wept not because she
loved him, she wept because he was unhappy.

"In the morning she was sleeping so soundly that he had not the heart to
wake her to say good-bye. He slipped out very quietly, with his bag in
his hand, and took the train to Paris."

Ashenden turned away his head, for he saw two tears form themselves in
Witherspoon's eyes and roll down his cheeks. He did not even try to hide
them. Ashenden lit another cigar.

"In Paris they cried out when they saw him. They said he looked like a
ghost. He told them he'd been ill and hadn't said anything about it in
order not to worry them. They were very kind. A month later he was
married. He did very well for himself. He was given opportunities to
distinguish himself and he distinguished himself. His rise was
spectacular. He had the well-ordered and distinguished establishment
that he had wanted. He had the power for which he had craved. He was
loaded with honours. Oh, he made a success of life and there were
hundreds who envied him. It was all ashes. He was bored, bored to
distraction, bored by that distinguished, beautiful lady he had married,
bored by the people his life forced him to live with; it was a comedy he
was playing and sometimes it seemed intolerable to live for ever and
ever behind a mask, sometimes he felt he couldn't bear it. But he bore
it. Sometimes he longed for Alix so fiercely that he felt it would be
better to shoot himself than to suffer such anguish. He never saw her
again. Never. He heard from O'Malley that she had married and left her
troupe. She must be a fat old woman now and it doesn't matter any more.
But he had wasted his life. And he never even made that poor creature
whom he married happy. How could he go on hiding from her year after
year that he had nothing to give her but pity? Once in his agony he told
her about Alix and she tortured him ever after with her jealousy. He
knew that he should never have married her; in six months she would have
got over her grief if he had told her he could not bear to, and in the
end would have happily married somebody else. So far as she was
concerned his sacrifice was vain. He was terribly conscious that he had
only one life and it seemed so sad to think that he had wasted it. He
could never surmount his immeasurable regret. He laughed when people
spoke of him as a strong man: he was as weak and unstable as water. And
that's why I tell you that Byring is right. Even though it only lasts
five years, even though he ruins his career, even though this marriage
of his ends in disaster, it will have been worth while. He will have
been satisfied. He will have fulfilled himself."

At that moment the door opened and a lady came in. The ambassador
glanced at her and for an instant a look of cold hatred crossed his
face, but it was only for an instant; then, rising from the table, he
composed his ravaged features to an expression of courteous suavity. He
gave the incomer a haggard smile.

"Here is my wife. This is Mr. Ashenden."

"I couldn't imagine where you were. Why didn't you go and sit in your
study? I'm sure Mr. Ashenden's been dreadfully uncomfortable."

She was a tall, thin woman of fifty, rather drawn and faded, but she
looked as though she had once been pretty. It was obvious that she was
very well-bred. She vaguely reminded you of an exotic plant, reared in a
hot-house, that had begun to lose its bloom. She was dressed in black.

"What was the concert like?" asked Sir Herbert.

"Oh, not bad at all. They gave a Brahms Concerto and the Fire-music from
the _Walkre_, and some Hungarian dances of Dvork. I thought them
rather showy." She turned to Ashenden. "I hope you haven't been bored
all alone with my husband. What have you been talking about? Art and
Literature?"

"No, its raw material," said Ashenden.

He took his leave.




MR. HARRINGTON'S WASHING


When Ashenden went on deck and saw before him a low-lying coast and a
white town he felt a pleasant flutter of excitement. It was early and
the sun had not long risen, but the sea was glassy and the sky was blue;
it was warm already and one knew that the day would be sweltering.
Vladivostok. It really gave one the sensation of being at the end of the
world. It was a long journey that Ashenden had made from New York to San
Francisco, across the Pacific in a Japanese boat to Yokohama, then from
Tsuruki in a Russian boat, he the only Englishman on board, up the Sea
of Japan. From Vladivostok he was to take the Trans-Siberian to
Petrograd. It was the most important mission that he had ever had and he
was pleased with the sense of responsibility that it gave him. He had no
one to give him orders, unlimited funds (he carried in a belt next to
his skin bills of exchange for a sum so enormous that he was staggered
when he thought of them), and though he had been set to do something
that was beyond human possibility he did not know this and was prepared
to set about his task with confidence. He believed in his own
astuteness. Though he had both esteem and admiration for the sensibility
of the human race, he had little respect for their intelligence: man has
always found it easier to sacrifice his life than to learn the
multiplication table.

Ashenden did not much look forward to ten days on a Russian train, and
in Yokohama he had heard rumours that in one or two places bridges had
been blown up and the line cut. He was told that the soldiers,
completely out of hand, would rob him of everything he possessed and
turn him out on the steppe to shift for himself. It was a cheerful
prospect. But the train was certainly starting and whatever happened
later (and Ashenden had always a feeling that things never turned out as
badly as you expected) he was determined to get a place on it. His
intention on landing was to go at once to the British Consulate and find
out what arrangements had been made for him; but as they neared the
shore and he was able to discern the untidy and bedraggled town he felt
not a little forlorn. He knew but a few words of Russian. The only man
on the ship who spoke English was the purser and though he promised
Ashenden to do anything he could to help him, Ashenden had the
impression that he must not too greatly count upon him. It was a relief
then, when they docked, to have a young man, small and with a mop of
untidy hair, obviously a Jew, come up to him and ask if his name was
Ashenden.

"Mine is Benedict. I'm the interpreter at the British Consulate. I've
been told to look after you. We've got you a place on the train
to-night."

Ashenden's spirits went up. They landed. The little Jew looked after his
luggage and had his passport examined and then, getting into a car that
waited for them, they drove off to the Consulate.

"I've had instructions to offer you every facility," said the Consul,
"and you've only got to tell me what you want. I've fixed you up all
right on the train, but God knows if you'll ever get to Petrograd. Oh,
by the way, I've got a travelling companion for you. He's a man called
Harrington, an American, and he's going to Petrograd for a firm in
Philadelphia. He's trying to fix up some deal with the Provisional
Government."

"What's he like?" asked Ashenden.

"Oh, he's all right. I wanted him to come with the American Consul to
luncheon, but they've gone for an excursion in the country. You must get
to the station a couple of hours before the train starts. There's always
an awful scrimmage and if you're not there in good time someone will
pinch your seat."

The train started at midnight and Ashenden dined with Benedict at the
station restaurant, which was, it appeared, the only place in that
slatternly town where you could get a decent meal. It was crowded. The
service was intolerably slow. Then they went on to the platform, where,
though they had still two hours to spare, there was already a seething
mob. Whole families, sitting on piles of luggage, seemed to be camped
there. People rushed to and fro, or stood in little groups violently
arguing. Women screamed. Others were silently weeping. Here two men were
engaged in a fierce quarrel. It was a scene of indescribable confusion.
The light in the station was wan and cold and the white faces of all
those people were like the white faces of the dead waiting, patient or
anxious, distraught or penitent, for the judgment of the last day. The
train was made up and most of the carriages were already filled to
overflowing. When at last Benedict found that in which Ashenden had his
place a man sprang out of it excitedly.

"Come in and sit down," he said. "I've had the greatest difficulty in
keeping your seat. A fellow wanted to come in here with a wife and two
children. My Consul has just gone off with him to see the
stationmaster."

"This is Mr. Harrington," said Benedict.

Ashenden stepped into the carriage. It had two berths in it. The porter
stowed his luggage away. He shook hands with his travelling companion.

Mr. John Quincy Harrington was a very thin man of somewhat less than
middle height, he had a yellow, bony face, with large, pale-blue eyes
and when he took off his hat to wipe his brow wet from the perturbation
he had endured he showed a large, bald skull; it was very bony and the
ridges and protuberances stood out disconcertingly. He wore a
bowler-hat, a black coat and waistcoat, and a pair of striped trousers;
a very high white collar and a neat, unobtrusive tie. Ashenden did not
know precisely how you should dress in order to take a ten days' journey
across Siberia, but he could not but think that Mr. Harrington's costume
was eccentric. He spoke with precision in a high-pitched voice and in an
accent that Ashenden recognised as that of New England.

In a minute the stationmaster came accompanied by a bearded Russian,
suffering evidently from profound emotion, and followed by a lady
holding two children by the hand. The Russian, tears running down his
face, was talking with quivering lips to the stationmaster, and his wife
between her sobs was apparently telling him the story of her life. When
they arrived at the carriage the altercation became more violent and
Benedict joined in with his fluent Russian. Mr. Harrington did not know
a word of the language, but being obviously of an excitable turn broke
in and explained in voluble English that these seats had been booked by
the Consuls of Great Britain and the United States respectively, and
though he didn't know about the King of England, he could tell them
straight and they could take it from him that the President of the
United States would never permit an American citizen to be done out of a
seat on the train that he had duly paid for. He would yield to force,
but to nothing else, and if they touched him he would register a
complaint with the Consul at once. He said all this and a great deal
more to the stationmaster, who of course had no notion what he was
talking about, but with much emphasis and a good deal of gesticulation
made him in reply a passionate speech. This roused Mr. Harrington to the
utmost pitch of indignation, for shaking his fist in the stationmaster's
face, his own pale with fury, he cried out:

"Tell him I don't understand a word he says and I don't want to
understand. If the Russians want us to look upon them as a civilised
people, why don't they talk a civilised language? Tell him that I am Mr.
John Quincy Harrington and I'm travelling on behalf of Messrs. Crewe and
Adams of Philadelphia with a special letter of introduction to Mr.
Kerensky and if I'm not left in peaceful possession of this carriage Mr.
Crewe will take the matter up with the Administration in Washington."

Mr. Harrington's manner was so truculent and his gestures so menacing
that the stationmaster, throwing up the sponge, turned on his heel
without another word and walked moodily away. He was followed by the
bearded Russian and his wife arguing heatedly with him and the two
apathetic children. Mr. Harrington jumped back into the carriage.

"I'm terribly sorry to have to refuse to give up my seat to a lady with
two children," he said. "No one knows better than I the respect due to a
woman and a mother, but I've got to get to Petrograd by this train if I
don't want to lose a very important order and I'm not going to spend ten
days in a corridor for all the mothers in Russia."

"I don't blame you," said Ashenden.

"I am a married man and I have two children myself. I know that
travelling with your family is a difficult matter, but there's nothing
that I know to prevent you from staying at home."

When you are shut up with a man for ten days in a railway carriage you
can hardly fail to learn most of what there is to know about him, and
for ten days (for eleven to be exact) Ashenden spent twenty-four hours a
day with Mr. Harrington. It is true that they went into the dining-room
three times a day for their meals, but they sat opposite to one another;
it is true that the train stopped for an hour morning and afternoon so
that they were able to have a tramp up and down the platform, but they
walked side by side. Ashenden made acquaintance with some of his
fellow-travellers and sometimes they came into the compartment to have a
chat, but if they only spoke French or German Mr. Harrington would watch
them with acidulous disapproval and if they spoke English he would never
let them get a word in. For Mr. Harrington was a talker. He talked as
though it were a natural function of the human being, automatically, as
men breathe or digest their food; he talked not because he had something
to say, but because he could not help himself, in a high-pitched, nasal
voice, without inflection, at one dead level of tone. He talked with
precision, using a copious vocabulary and forming his sentences with
deliberation; he never used a short word when a longer one would do; he
never paused. He went on and on. It was not a torrent, for there was
nothing impetuous about it, it was like a stream of lava pouring
irresistibly down the side of a volcano. It flowed with a quiet and
steady force that overwhelmed everything that was in its path.

Ashenden thought he had never known as much about anyone as he knew
about Mr. Harrington, and not only about him, with all his opinions,
habits and circumstances, but about his wife and his wife's family, his
children and their schoolfellows, his employers and the alliances they
had made for three or four generations with the best families of
Philadelphia. His own family had come from Devonshire early in the
eighteenth century and Mr. Harrington had been to the village where the
graves of his forebears were still to be seen in the churchyard. He was
proud of his English ancestry, but proud too of his American birth,
though to him America was a little strip of land along the Atlantic
coast and Americans were a small number of persons of English or Dutch
origin whose blood had never been sullied by foreign admixture. He
looked upon the Germans, Swedes, Irish and the inhabitants of Central
and Eastern Europe who for the last hundred years have descended upon
the United States as interlopers. He turned his attention away from them
as a maiden lady who lived in a secluded manor might avert her eyes from
the factory chimneys that had trespassed upon her retirement.

When Ashenden mentioned a man of vast wealth who owned some of the
finest pictures in America Mr. Harrington said:

"I've never met him. My great-aunt Maria Penn Warmington always said his
grandmother was a very good cook. My great-aunt Maria was terribly sorry
when she left her to get married. She said she never knew anyone who
could make an apple pancake as she could."

Mr. Harrington was devoted to his wife and he told Ashenden at
unbelievable length how cultivated and what a perfect mother she was.
She had delicate health and had undergone a great number of operations
all of which he described in detail. He had had two operations himself,
one on his tonsils and one to remove his appendix and he took Ashenden
day by day through his experiences. All his friends had had operations
and his knowledge of surgery was encyclopdic. He had two sons, both at
school, and he was seriously considering whether he would not be
well-advised to have them operated on. It was curious that one of them
should have enlarged tonsils, and he was not at all happy about the
appendix of the other. They were more devoted to one another than he had
ever seen two brothers be and a very good friend of his, the brightest
surgeon in Philadelphia, had offered to operate on them both together so
that they should not be separated. He showed Ashenden photographs of the
boys and their mother. This journey of his to Russia was the first time
in their lives that he had been separated from them and every morning he
wrote a long letter to his wife telling her everything that had happened
and a good deal of what he had said during the day. Ashenden watched him
cover sheet after sheet of paper with his neat, legible and precise
handwriting.

Mr. Harrington had read all the books on conversation and knew its
technique to the last detail. He had a little book in which he noted
down the stories he heard and he told Ashenden that when he was going
out to dinner he always looked up half a dozen so that he should not be
at a loss. They were marked with a G if they could be told in general
society and with an M (for men) if they were more fit for rough
masculine ears. He was a specialist in that peculiar form of anecdote
that consists in narrating a long serious incident, piling detail upon
detail, till a comic end is reached. He spared you nothing and Ashenden
foreseeing the point long before it arrived would clench his hands and
knit his brows in the strenuous effort not to betray his impatience and
at last force from his unwilling mouth a grim and hollow laugh. If
someone came into the compartment in the middle Mr. Harrington would
greet him with cordiality.

"Come right in and sit down. I was just telling my friend a story. You
must listen to it, it's one of the funniest things you ever heard."

Then he would begin again from the very beginning and repeat it word for
word, without altering a single apt epithet, till he reached the
humorous end. Ashenden suggested once that they should see whether they
could find two people on the train who played cards so that they might
while away the time with a game of bridge, but Mr. Harrington said he
never touched cards and when Ashenden in desperation began to play
patience he pulled a wry face.

"It beats me how an intelligent man can waste his time card-playing, and
of all the unintellectual pursuits I have ever seen it seems to me that
solitaire is the worst. It kills conversation. Man is a social animal
and he exercises the highest part of his nature when he takes part in
social intercourse."

"There is a certain elegance in wasting time," said Ashenden. "Any fool
can waste money, but when you waste time you waste what is priceless.
Besides," he added with bitterness, "you can still talk."

"How can I talk when your attention is taken up by whether you are going
to get a black seven to put on a red eight? Conversation calls forth the
highest powers of the intellect and if you have made a study of it you
have the right to expect that the person you're talking to will give you
the fullest attention he is capable of."

He did not say this acrimoniously, but with the good-humoured patience
of a man who has been much tried. He was just stating a plain fact and
Ashenden could take it or leave it. It was the claim of the artist to
have his work taken seriously.

Mr. Harrington was a diligent reader. He read pencil in hand,
underlining passages that attracted his attention and on the margin
making in his neat writing comments on what he read. This he was fond of
discussing and when Ashenden himself was reading and felt on a sudden
that Mr. Harrington, book in one hand and pencil in the other, was
looking at him with his large pale eyes he began to have violent
palpitations of the heart. He dared not look up, he dared not even turn
the page, for he knew that Mr. Harrington would regard this as ample
excuse to break into a discourse, but remained with his eyes fixed
desperately on a single word, like a chicken with its beak to a chalk
line, and only ventured to breathe when he realised that Mr. Harrington,
having given up the attempt, had resumed his reading. He was then
engaged on a History of the American Constitution in two volumes and for
recreation was perusing a stout volume that purported to contain all the
great speeches of the world. For Mr. Harrington was an after-dinner
speaker and had read all the best books on speaking in public. He knew
exactly how to get on good terms with his audience, just where to put in
the serious words that touched their hearts, how to catch their
attention by a few apt stories and finally with what degree of
eloquence, suiting the occasion, to deliver his peroration.

Mr. Harrington was very fond of reading aloud. Ashenden had had frequent
occasion to observe the distressing propensity of Americans for this
pastime. In hotel drawing-rooms at night after dinner he had often seen
the father of a family seated in a retired corner and surrounded by his
wife, his two sons and his daughter, reading to them. On ships crossing
the Atlantic he had sometimes watched with awe the tall, spare gentleman
of commanding aspect who sat in the centre of fifteen ladies no longer
in their first youth and in a resonant voice read to them the history of
Art. Walking up and down the promenade deck he had passed honeymooning
couples lying on deck-chairs and caught the unhurried tones of the bride
as she read to her young husband the pages of a popular novel. It had
always seemed to him a curious way of showing affection. He had had
friends who had offered to read to him and he had known women who had
said they loved being read to, but he had always politely refused the
invitation and firmly ignored the hint. He liked neither reading aloud
nor being read aloud to. In his heart he thought the national
predilection for this form of entertainment the only flaw in the
perfection of the American character. But the immortal gods love a good
laugh at the expense of human beings and now delivered him, bound and
helpless, to the knife of the high priest. Mr. Harrington flattered
himself that he was a very good reader and he explained to Ashenden the
theory and practice of the art. Ashenden learned that there were two
schools, the dramatic and the natural: in the first you imitated the
voices of those who spoke (if you were reading a novel), and when the
heroine wailed you wailed and when emotion choked her you choked too;
but in the other you read as impassively as though you were reading the
price-list of a mail-order house in Chicago. This was the school Mr.
Harrington belonged to. In the seventeen years of his married life he
had read aloud to his wife, and to his sons as soon as they were old
enough to appreciate them, the novels of Sir Walter Scott, Jane Austen,
Dickens, the Bront Sisters, Thackeray, George Eliot, Nathaniel
Hawthorne and W. D. Howells. Ashenden came to the conclusion that it was
second nature with Mr. Harrington to read aloud and to prevent him from
doing so made him as uneasy as cutting off his tobacco made the
confirmed smoker. He would take you unawares.

"Listen to this," he would say, "you must listen to this," as though he
were suddenly struck by the excellence of a maxim or the neatness of a
phrase. "Now just tell me if you don't think this is remarkably well
put. It's only three lines."

He read them and Ashenden was willing to give him a moment's attention,
but having finished them, without pausing for a moment to take breath,
he went on. He went right on. On and on. In his measured high-pitched
voice, without emphasis or expression, he read page after page. Ashenden
fidgeted, crossed and uncrossed his legs, lit cigarettes and smoked
them, sat first in one position, then in another. Mr. Harrington went on
and on. The train went leisurely through the interminable steppes of
Siberia. They passed villages and crossed rivers. Mr. Harrington went on
and on. When he finished a great speech by Edmund Burke he put down the
book in triumph.

"Now that in my opinion is one of the finest orations in the English
language. It is certainly a part of our common heritage that we can look
upon with genuine pride."

"Doesn't it seem to you a little ominous that the people to whom Edmund
Burke made that speech are all dead?" asked Ashenden gloomily.

Mr. Harrington was about to reply that this was hardly to be wondered at
since the speech was made in the eighteenth century, when it dawned upon
him that Ashenden (bearing up wonderfully under affliction as any
unprejudiced person could not fail to admit) was making a joke. He
slapped his knee and laughed heartily.

"Gee, that's a good one," he said. "I'll write that down in my little
book. I see exactly how I can bring it in one time when I have to speak
at our luncheon club."

Mr. Harrington was a highbrow; but that appellation, invented by the
vulgar as a term of abuse, he had accepted like the instrument of a
saint's martyrdom, the gridiron of Saint Laurence for instance or the
wheel of Saint Catherine, as an honorific title. He gloried in it.

"Emerson was a highbrow," he said. "Longfellow was a highbrow. Oliver
Wendell Holmes was a highbrow. James Russell Lowell was a highbrow."

Mr. Harrington's study of American literature had taken him no further
down the years than the period during which those eminent, but not
precisely thrilling, authors flourished.

Mr. Harrington was a bore. He exasperated Ashenden, and enraged him; he
got on his nerves, and drove him to frenzy. But Ashenden did not dislike
him. His self-satisfaction was enormous but so ingenuous that you could
not resent it; his conceit was so childlike that you could only smile at
it. He was so well-meaning, so thoughtful, so deferential, so polite
that though Ashenden would willingly have killed him he could not but
own that in that short while he had conceived for Mr. Harrington
something very like affection. His manners were perfect, formal, a
trifle elaborate perhaps (there is no harm in that, for good manners are
the product of an artificial state of society and so can bear a touch of
the powdered wig and the lace ruffle), but though natural to his good
breeding they gained a pleasant significance from his good heart. He was
ready to do anyone a kindness and seemed to find nothing too much
trouble if he could thereby oblige his fellow-man. He was eminently
_serviable_. And it may be that this is a word for which there is no
exact translation because the charming quality it denotes is not very
common among our practical people. When Ashenden was ill for a couple of
days Mr. Harrington nursed him with devotion. Ashenden was embarrassed
by the care he took of him and though racked with pain could not help
laughing at the fussy attention with which Mr. Harrington took his
temperature, from his neatly packed valise extracted a whole regiment of
tabloids and firmly doctored him; and he was touched by the trouble he
gave himself to get from the dining-car the things that he thought
Ashenden could eat. He did everything in the world for him but stop
talking.

It was only when he was dressing that Mr. Harrington was silent, for
then his maidenly mind was singly occupied with the problem of changing
his clothes before Ashenden without indelicacy. He was extremely modest.
He changed his linen every day, neatly taking it out of his suitcase and
neatly putting back what was soiled; but he performed miracles of
dexterity in order during the process not to show an inch of bare skin.
After a day or two Ashenden gave up the struggle to keep neat and clean
in that dirty train, with one lavatory for the whole carriage, and soon
was as grubby as the rest of the passengers; but Mr. Harrington refused
to yield to the difficulties. He performed his toilet with deliberation
notwithstanding the impatient persons who rattled the door-handle, and
returned from the lavatory every morning washed, shining and smelling of
soap. Once dressed, in his black coat, striped trousers and
well-polished shoes, he looked as spruce as though he had just stepped
out of his tidy little red-brick house in Philadelphia and was about to
board the street-car that would take him downtown to his office. At one
point of the journey it was announced that an attempt had been made to
blow up a bridge and that there were disturbances at the next station
over the river; it might be that the train would be stopped and the
passengers turned adrift or taken prisoner. Ashenden, thinking he might
be separated from his luggage, took the precaution to change into his
thickest clothes so that if he had to pass the winter in Siberia he need
suffer as little as necessary from the cold; but Mr. Harrington would
not listen to reason; he made no preparations for the possible
experience and Ashenden had the conviction that if he spent three months
in a Russian prison he would still preserve that smart and natty
appearance. A troop of Cossacks boarded the train and stood on the
platform of each carriage with their guns loaded, and the train rattled
gingerly over the damaged bridge; then they came to the station at which
they had been warned of danger, put on steam and dashed straight through
it. Mr. Harrington was mildly satirical when Ashenden changed back into
a light summer suit.

Mr. Harrington was a keen business man. It was obvious that it would
need someone very astute to overreach him and Ashenden was sure that his
employers had been well-advised to send him on this errand. He would
safeguard their interests with all his might and if he succeeded in
driving a bargain with the Russians it would be a hard one. His loyalty
to his firm demanded that. He spoke of the partners with affectionate
reverence. He loved them and was proud of them; but he did not envy them
because their wealth was great. He was quite content to work on a salary
and thought himself adequately paid; so long as he could educate his
boys and leave his widow enough to live on, what was money to him? He
thought it a trifle vulgar to be rich. He looked upon culture as more
important than money. He was careful of it and after every meal put down
in his note-book exactly what it had cost him. His firm might be certain
that he would not charge a penny more for his expenses than he had
spent. But having discovered that poor people came to the station at the
stopping places of the train to beg and seeing that the war had really
brought them to destitution he took care before each halt to supply
himself with ample small change and in a shame-faced way, mocking
himself for being taken in by such impostors, distributed everything in
his pocket.

"Of course I know they don't deserve it," he said, "and I don't do it
for them. I do it entirely for my own peace of mind. I should feel so
terribly badly if I thought some man really was hungry and I'd refused
to give him the price of a meal."

Mr. Harrington was absurd, but lovable. It was inconceivable that anyone
should be rude to him, it would have seemed as dreadful as hitting a
child; and Ashenden, chafing inwardly but with a pretence of amiability,
suffered meekly and with a truly Christian spirit the affliction of the
gentle, ruthless creature's society. It took eleven days at that time to
get from Vladivostok to Petrograd and Ashenden felt that he could not
have borne another day. If it had been twelve he would have killed Mr.
Harrington.

When at last (Ashenden tired and dirty, Mr. Harrington neat, sprightly
and sententious) they reached the outskirts of Petrograd and stood at
the window looking at the crowded houses of the city, Mr. Harrington
turned to Ashenden and said:

"Well, I never would have thought that eleven days in the train would
pass so quickly. We've had a wonderful time. I've enjoyed your company
and I know you've enjoyed mine. I'm not going to pretend I don't know
that I'm a pretty good conversationalist. But now we've come together
like this we must take care to stay together. We must see as much of one
another as we can while I'm in Petrograd."

"I shall have a great deal to do," said Ashenden. "I'm afraid my time
won't be altogether my own."

"I know," answered Mr. Harrington cordially. "I expect to be pretty busy
myself, but we can have breakfast together anyway and we'll meet in the
evening and compare notes. It would be too bad if we drifted apart now."

"Too bad," sighed Ashenden.

                 *        *        *        *        *

When Ashenden found himself alone in his bedroom for the first time, he
sat down and looked about him. It had seemed an age. He had not the
energy to start immediately to unpack. How many of these hotel bedrooms
had he known since the beginning of the war, grand or shabby, in one
place and one land after another! It seemed to him that he had been
living in his luggage for as long as he could remember. He was weary. He
asked himself how he was going to set about the work that he had been
sent to do. He felt lost in the immensity of Russia and very solitary.
He had protested when he was chosen for this mission, it looked too
large an order, but his protests were ignored. He was chosen not because
those in authority thought him particularly suited for the job, but
because there was no one to be found who was more suited. There was a
knock at the door and Ashenden, pleased to make use of the few words of
the language he knew, called out in Russian. The door was opened. He
sprang to his feet.

"Come in, come in," he cried. "I'm awfully glad to see you."

Three men entered. He knew them by sight, since they had travelled in
the same ship with him from San Francisco to Yokohama, but following
their instructions no communications had passed between them and
Ashenden. They were Czechs, exiled from their country for their
revolutionary activity and long settled in America, who had been sent
over to Russia to help Ashenden in his mission and put him in touch with
Professor Z., whose authority over the Czechs in Russia was absolute.
Their chief was a certain Dr. Egon Orth, a tall thin man, with a little
grey head; he was minister to some church in the Middle West and a
doctor of divinity; but had abandoned his cure to work for the
liberation of his country, and Ashenden had the impression that he was
an intelligent fellow who would not put too fine a point on matters of
conscience. A parson with a fixed idea has this advantage over common
men, that he can persuade himself of the Almighty's approval for almost
any goings-on. Dr. Orth had a merry twinkle in his eye and a dry humour.

Ashenden had had two secret interviews with him in Yokohama and had
learnt that Professor Z., though eager to free his country from the
Austrian rule and, since he knew that this could only come about by the
downfall of the Central Powers, with the Allies body and soul, yet had
scruples; he would not do things that outraged his conscience, all must
be straightforward and above board, and so some things that it was
necessary to do had to be done without his knowledge. His influence was
so great that his wishes could not be disregarded, but on occasion it
was felt better not to let him know too much of what was going on.

Dr. Orth had arrived in Petrograd a week before Ashenden and now put
before him what he had learned of the situation. It seemed to Ashenden
that it was critical and if anything was to be done it must be done
quickly. The army was dissatisfied and mutinous, the Government under
the weak Kerensky was tottering and held power only because no one else
had the courage to seize it, famine was staring the country in the face
and already the possibility had to be considered that the Germans would
march on Petrograd. The Ambassadors of Great Britain and the United
States had been apprised of Ashenden's coming, but his mission was
secret even from them, and there were particular reasons why he could
demand no assistance from them. He arranged with Dr. Orth to make an
appointment with Professor Z. so that he could learn his views and
explain to him that he had the financial means to support any scheme
that seemed likely to prevent the catastrophe that the Allied
governments foresaw of Russia's making a separate peace. But he had to
get in touch with influential persons in all classes. Mr. Harrington
with his business proposition and his letters to Ministers of State
would be thrown in contact with members of the Government and Mr.
Harrington wanted an interpreter. Dr. Orth spoke Russian almost as well
as his own language and it struck Ashenden that he would be admirably
suited to the post. He explained the circumstances to him and it was
arranged that while Ashenden and Mr. Harrington were at luncheon Dr.
Orth should come in, greeting Ashenden as though he had not seen him
before, and be introduced to Mr. Harrington; then Ashenden, guiding the
conversation, would suggest to Mr. Harrington that the heavens had sent
in Dr. Orth the ideal man for his purpose.

But there was another person on whom Ashenden had fixed as possibly
useful to him and now he said:

"Have you ever heard of a woman called Anastasia Alexandrovna Leonidov?
She's the daughter of Alexander Denisiev."

"I know all about him of course."

"I have reason to believe she's in Petrograd. Will you find out where
she lives and what she's doing?"

"Certainly."

Dr. Orth spoke in Czech to one of the two men who accompanied him. They
were sharp-looking fellows, both of them, one was tall and fair and the
other was short and dark, but they were younger than Dr. Orth and
Ashenden understood that they were there to do as he bade them. The man
nodded, got up, shook hands with Ashenden and went out.

"You shall have all the information possible this afternoon."

"Well, I think there's nothing more we can do for the present," said
Ashenden. "To tell you the truth I haven't had a bath for eleven days
and I badly want one."

Ashenden had never quite made up his mind whether the pleasure of
reflection was better pursued in a railway carriage or in a bath. So far
as the act of invention was concerned he was inclined to prefer a train
that went smoothly and not too fast, and many of his best ideas had come
to him when he was thus traversing the plains of France; but for the
delight of reminiscence or the entertainment of embroidery upon a theme
already in his head he had no doubt that nothing could compare with a
hot bath. He considered now, wallowing in soapy water like a
water-buffalo in a muddy pond, the grim pleasantry of his relations with
Anastasia Alexandrovna Leonidov.

In these stories no more than the barest suggestion has been made that
Ashenden was capable on occasions of the passion ironically called
tender. The specialists in this matter, those charming creatures who
make a business of what philosophers know is but a diversion, assert
that writers, painters and musicians, all in short who are connected
with the arts, in the relation of love cut no very conspicuous figure.
There is much cry but little wool. They rave or sigh, make phrases and
strike many a romantic attitude, but in the end, loving art or
themselves (which with them is one and the same thing) better than the
object of their emotion, offer a shadow when the said object, with the
practical common sense of the sex, demands a substance. It may be so and
this may be the reason (never before suggested) why women in their souls
look upon art with such a virulent hatred. Be this as it may Ashenden in
the last twenty years had felt his heart go pit-a-pat because of one
charming person after another. He had had a good deal of fun and had
paid for it with a great deal of misery, but even when suffering most
acutely from the pangs of unrequited love he had been able to say to
himself, albeit with a wry face, after all, it's grist to the mill.

Anastasia Alexandrovna Leonidov was the daughter of a revolutionary who
had escaped from Siberia after being sentenced to penal servitude for
life and had settled in England. He was an able man and had supported
himself for thirty years by the activity of a restless pen and had even
made himself a distinguished position in English letters. When Anastasia
Alexandrovna reached a suitable age she married Vladimir Semenovich
Leonidov, also an exile from his native country, and it was after she
had been married to him for some years that Ashenden made her
acquaintance. It was at the time when Europe discovered Russia. Everyone
was reading the Russian novelists, the Russian dancers captivated the
civilised world, and the Russian composers set shivering the sensibility
of persons who were beginning to want a change from Wagner. Russian art
seized upon Europe with the virulence of an epidemic of influenza. New
phrases became the fashion, new colours, new emotions, and the highbrows
described themselves without a moment's hesitation as members of the
intelligentsia. It was a difficult word to spell but an easy one to say.
Ashenden fell like the rest, changed the cushions of his sitting-room,
hung an eikon on the wall, read Chekoff and went to the ballet.

Anastasia Alexandrovna was by birth, circumstances and education very
much a member of the intelligentsia. She lived with her husband in a
tiny house near Regent's Park and here all the literary folk in London
might gaze with humble reverence at pale-faced bearded giants who leaned
against the wall like caryatids taking a day off; they were
revolutionaries to a man and it was a miracle that they were not in the
mines of Siberia. Women of letters tremulously put their lips to a glass
of vodka. If you were lucky and greatly favoured you might shake hands
there with Diaghileff, and now and again, like a peach-blossom wafted by
the breeze, Pavlova herself hovered in and out. At this time Ashenden's
success had not been so great as to affront the highbrows, he had very
distinctly been one of them in his youth, and though some already looked
askance, others (optimistic creatures with a faith in human nature)
still had hopes of him. Anastasia Alexandrovna told him to his face that
he was a member of the intelligentsia. Ashenden was quite ready to
believe it. He was in a state when he was ready to believe anything. He
was thrilled and excited. It seemed to him that at last he was about to
capture that illusive spirit of romance that he had so long been
chasing. Anastasia Alexandrovna had fine eyes and a good, though for
these days too voluptuous, figure, high cheek-bones and a snub nose
(this was very Tartar), a wide mouth full of large square teeth and a
pale skin. She dressed somewhat flamboyantly. In her dark melancholy
eyes Ashenden saw the boundless steppes of Russia, and the Kremlin with
its pealing bells, and the solemn ceremonies of Easter at St. Isaac's,
and forests of silver beeches and the Nevsky Prospekt; it was
astonishing how much he saw in her eyes. They were round and shining and
slightly protuberant like those of a Pekinese. They talked together of
Alyosha in the _Brothers Karamazov_, of Natasha in _War and Peace_, of
Anna Karenina and of _Fathers and Sons_.

Ashenden soon discovered that her husband was quite unworthy of her and
presently learned that she shared his opinion. Vladimir Semenovich was a
little man with a large, long head that looked as though it had been
pulled like a piece of liquorice, and he had a great shock of unruly
Russian hair. He was a gentle, unobtrusive creature and it was hard to
believe that the Czarist government had really feared his revolutionary
activities. He taught Russian and wrote for papers in Moscow. He was
amiable and obliging. He needed these qualities, for Anastasia
Alexandrovna was a woman of character: when she had a toothache Vladimir
Semenovich suffered the agonies of the damned and when her heart was
wrung by the suffering of her unhappy country Vladimir Semenovich might
well have wished he had never been born. Ashenden could not help
admitting that he was a poor thing, but he was so harmless that he
conceived quite a liking for him, and when in due course he had
disclosed his passion to Anastasia Alexandrovna and to his joy found it
was returned he was puzzled to know what to do about Vladimir
Semenovich. Neither Anastasia Alexandrovna nor he felt that they could
live another minute out of one another's pockets, and Ashenden feared
that, with her revolutionary views and all that, she would never consent
to marry him; but somewhat to his surprise, and very much to his relief,
she accepted the suggestion with alacrity.

"Would Vladimir Semenovich let himself be divorced, do you think?" he
asked, as he sat on the sofa, leaning against cushions the colour of
which reminded him of raw meat just gone bad, and held her hand.

"Vladimir adores me," she answered. "It'll break his heart."

"He's a nice fellow, I shouldn't like him to be very unhappy. I hope
he'll get over it."

"He'll never get over it. That is the Russian spirit. I know that when I
leave him he'll feel that he has lost everything that made life worth
living for him. I've never known anyone so wrapped up in a woman as he
is in me. But of course he wouldn't want to stand in the way of my
happiness. He's far too great for that. He'll see that when it's a
question of my own self-development I haven't the right to hesitate.
Vladimir will give me my freedom without question."

At that time the divorce law in England was even more complicated and
absurd than it is now and in case she was not acquainted with its
peculiarities Ashenden explained to Anastasia Alexandrovna the
difficulties of the case. She put her hand gently on his.

"Vladimir would never expose me to the vulgar notoriety of the divorce
court. When I tell him that I have decided to marry you he will commit
suicide."

"That would be terrible," said Ashenden.

He was startled, but thrilled. It was really very much like a Russian
novel and he saw the moving and terrible pages, pages and pages, in
which Dostoievsky would have described the situation. He knew the
lacerations his characters would have suffered, the broken bottles of
champagne, the visits to the gipsies, the vodka, the swoonings, the
catalepsy and the long, long speeches everyone would have made. It was
all very dreadful and wonderful and shattering.

"It would make us horribly unhappy," said Anastasia Alexandrovna, "but I
don't know what else he could do. I couldn't ask him to live without me.
He would be like a ship without a rudder or a car without a carburettor.
I know Vladimir so well. He will commit suicide."

"How?" asked Ashenden, who had the realist's passion for the exact
detail.

"He will blow his brains out."

Ashenden remembered _Rosmersholm_. In his day he had been an ardent
Ibsenite and had even flirted with the notion of learning Norwegian so
that he might, by reading the master in the original, get at the secret
essence of his thought. He had once seen Ibsen in the flesh drink a
glass of Munich beer.

"But do you think we could ever pass another easy hour if we had the
death of that man on our conscience?" he asked. "I have a feeling that
he would always be between us."

"I know we shall suffer, we shall suffer dreadfully," said Anastasia
Alexandrovna, "but how can we help it? Life is like that. We must think
of Vladimir. There is his happiness to be considered too. He will prefer
to commit suicide."

She turned her face away and Ashenden saw that the heavy tears were
coursing down her cheeks. He was much moved. For he had a soft heart and
it was dreadful to think of poor Vladimir lying there with a bullet in
his brain.

These Russians, what fun they have!

But when Anastasia Alexandrovna had mastered her emotion she turned to
him gravely. She looked at him with her humid, round and slightly
protuberant eyes.

"We must be quite sure that we're doing the right thing," she said. "I
should never forgive myself if I'd allowed Vladimir to commit suicide
and then found I'd made a mistake. I think we ought to make sure that we
really love one another."

"But don't you know?" exclaimed Ashenden in a low, tense voice. "I
know."

"Let's go over to Paris for a week and see how we get on. Then we shall
know."

Ashenden was a trifle conventional and the suggestion took him by
surprise. But only for a moment. Anastasia was wonderful. She was very
quick and she saw the hesitation that for an instant troubled him.

"Surely you have no bourgeois prejudices?" she said.

"Of course not," he assured her hurriedly, for he would much sooner have
been thought knavish than bourgeois, "I think it's a splendid idea."

"Why should a woman hazard her whole life on a throw? It's impossible to
know what a man is really like till you've lived with him. It's only
fair to give her the opportunity to change her mind before it's too
late."

"Quite so," said Ashenden.

Anastasia Alexandrovna was not a woman to let the grass grow under her
feet and so having made their arrangements forthwith on the following
Saturday they started for Paris.

"I shall not tell Vladimir that I am going with you," she said. "It
would only distress him."

"It would be a pity to do that," said Ashenden.

"And if at the end of the week I come to the conclusion that we've made
a mistake he need never know anything about it."

"Quite so," said Ashenden.

They met at Victoria Station.

"What class have you got?" she asked him.

"First."

"I'm glad of that. Father and Vladimir travel third on account of their
principles, but I always feel sick on a train and I like to be able to
lean my head on somebody's shoulder. It's easier in a first-class
carriage."

When the train started Anastasia Alexandrovna said she felt dizzy, so
she took off her hat and leaned her head on Ashenden's shoulder. He put
his arm round her waist.

"Keep quite still, won't you?" she said.

When they got on to the boat she went down to the ladies' cabin and at
Calais was able to eat a very hearty meal, but when they got into the
train she took off her hat again and rested her head on Ashenden's
shoulder. He thought he would like to read and took up a book.

"Do you mind not reading?" she said. "I have to be held and when you
turn the pages it makes me feel all funny."

Finally they reached Paris and went to a little hotel on the Left Bank
that Anastasia Alexandrovna knew of. She said it had atmosphere. She
could not bear those great big grand hotels on the other side; they were
hopelessly vulgar and bourgeois.

"I'll go anywhere you like," said Ashenden, "as long as there's a
bathroom."

She smiled and pinched his cheek.

"How adorably English you are. Can't you do without a bathroom for a
week? My dear, my dear, you have so much to learn."

They talked far into the night about Maxim Gorki and Karl Marx, human
destiny, love and the brotherhood of man; and drank innumerable cups of
Russian tea, so that in the morning Ashenden would willingly have
breakfasted in bed and got up for luncheon; but Anastasia Alexandrovna
was an early riser. When life was so short and there was so much to do
it was a sinful thing to have breakfast a minute after half-past eight.
They sat down in a dingy little dining-room the windows of which showed
no signs of having been opened for a month. It was full of atmosphere.
Ashenden asked Anastasia Alexandrovna what she would have for breakfast.

"Scrambled eggs," she said.

She ate heartily. Ashenden had already noticed that she had a healthy
appetite. He supposed it was a Russian trait: you could not picture Anna
Karenina making her midday meal off a bath-bun and a cup of coffee,
could you?

After breakfast they went to the Louvre and in the afternoon they went
to the Luxembourg. They dined early in order to go to the Comedie
Franaise; then they went to a Russian cabaret where they danced. When
next morning at eight-thirty they took their places in the dining-room
and Ashenden asked Anastasia Alexandrovna what she fancied, her reply
was:

"Scrambled eggs."

"But we had scrambled eggs yesterday," he expostulated.

"Let's have them again to-day," she smiled.

"All right."

They spent the day in the same manner except that they went to the
Carnavalet instead of the Louvre and the Muse Guimet instead of the
Luxembourg. But when the morning after in answer to Ashenden's enquiry
Anastasia Alexandrovna again asked for scrambled eggs, his heart sank.

"But we had scrambled eggs yesterday and the day before," he said.

"Don't you think that's a very good reason to have them again to-day?"

"No, I don't."

"Is it possible that your sense of humour is a little deficient this
morning?" she asked. "I eat scrambled eggs every day. It's the only way
I like them."

"Oh, very well. In that case of course we'll have scrambled eggs."

But the following morning he could not face them.

"Will you have scrambled eggs as usual?" he asked her.

"Of course," she smiled affectionately, showing him two rows of large
square teeth.

"All right, I'll order them for you; I shall have mine fried."

The smile vanished from her lips.

"Oh?" She paused a moment. "Don't you think that's rather inconsiderate?
Do you think it's fair to give the cook unnecessary work? You English,
you're all the same, you look upon servants as machines. Does it occur
to you that they have hearts like yours, the same feelings and the same
emotions? How can you be surprised that the proletariat are seething
with discontent when the bourgeoisie like you are so monstrously
selfish?"

"Do you really think that there'll be a revolution in England if I have
my eggs in Paris fried rather than scrambled?"

She tossed her pretty head in indignation.

"You don't understand. It's the principle of the thing. You think it's a
jest, of course I know you're being funny, I can laugh at a joke as well
as anyone, Chekoff was well-known in Russia as a humorist; but don't you
see what is involved? Your whole attitude is wrong. It's a lack of
feeling. You wouldn't talk like that if you had been through the events
of 1905 in Petersburg. When I think of the crowds in front of the Winter
Palace kneeling in the snow while the Cossacks charged them, women and
children! No, no, no."

Her eyes filled with tears and her face was all twisted with pain. She
took Ashenden's hand.

"I know you have a good heart. It was just thoughtless on your part and
we won't say anything more about it. You have imagination. You're very
sensitive. I know. You'll have your eggs done in the same way as mine,
won't you?"

"Of course," said Ashenden.

He ate scrambled eggs for breakfast every morning after that. The waiter
said: "_Monsieur aime les oeufs brouills._" At the end of the week they
returned to London. He held Anastasia Alexandrovna in his arms, her head
resting on his shoulder, from Paris to Calais and again from Dover to
London. He reflected that the journey from New York to San Francisco
took five days. When they arrived at Victoria and stood on the platform
waiting for a cab she looked at him with her round, shining and slightly
protuberant eyes.

"We've had a wonderful time, haven't we?" she said.

"Wonderful."

"I've quite made up my mind. The experiment has justified itself. I'm
willing to marry you whenever you like."

But Ashenden saw himself eating scrambled eggs every morning for the
rest of his life. When he had put her in a cab, he called another for
himself, went to the Cunard office and took a berth on the first ship
that was going to America. No immigrant, eager for freedom and a new
life, ever looked upon the statue of Liberty with more heartfelt
thankfulness than did Ashenden, when on that bright and sunny morning
his ship steamed into the harbour of New York.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Some years had passed since then and Ashenden had not seen Anastasia
Alexandrovna again. He knew that on the outbreak of the revolution in
March she and Vladimir Semenovich had gone to Russia. It might be that
they would be able to help him, in a way Vladimir Semenovich owed him
his life, and he made up his mind to write to Anastasia Alexandrovna to
ask if he might come to see her.

When Ashenden went down to lunch he felt somewhat rested. Mr. Harrington
was waiting for him and they sat down. They ate what was put before
them.

"Ask the waiter to bring us some bread," said Mr. Harrington.

"Bread?" replied Ashenden. "There's no bread."

"I can't eat without bread," said Mr. Harrington.

"I'm afraid you'll have to. There's no bread, no butter, no sugar, no
eggs, no potatoes. There's fish and meat and green vegetables, and
that's all."

Mr. Harrington's jaw dropped.

"But this is war," he said.

"It looks very much like it."

Mr. Harrington was for a moment speechless; then he said: "I'll tell you
what I'm going to do, I'm going to get through with my business as quick
as I can and then I'm going to get out of this country. I'm sure Mrs.
Harrington wouldn't like me to go without sugar or butter. I've got a
very delicate stomach. The firm would never have sent me here if they'd
thought I wasn't going to have the best of everything."

In a little while Dr. Egan Orth came in and gave Ashenden an envelope.
On it was written Anastasia Alexandrovna's address. He introduced him to
Mr. Harrington. It was soon clear that he was pleased with Dr. Egan Orth
and so without further to-do he suggested that here was the perfect
interpreter for him.

"He talks Russian like a Russian. But he's an American citizen so that
he won't do you down. I've known him a considerable time and I can
assure you that he's absolutely trustworthy."

Mr. Harrington was pleased with the notion and after luncheon Ashenden
left them to settle the matter by themselves. He wrote a note to
Anastasia Alexandrovna and presently received an answer to say that she
was going to a meeting, but would look in at his hotel about seven. He
awaited her with apprehension. Of course he knew now that he had not
loved her, but Tolstoi and Dostoievsky, Rimsky-Korsakoff, Stravinsky and
Bakst; but he was not quite sure if the point had occurred to her. When
between eight and half-past she arrived he suggested that she should
join Mr. Harrington and him at dinner. The presence of a third party, he
thought, would prevent any awkwardness their meeting might have; but he
need not have had any anxiety, for five minutes after they had sat down
to a plate of soup it was borne in upon him that the feelings of
Anastasia Alexandrovna towards him were as cool as were his towards her.
It gave him a momentary shock. It is very hard for a man, however
modest, to grasp the possibility that a woman who has once loved him may
love him no longer, and though of course he did not imagine that
Anastasia Alexandrovna had languished for five years with a hopeless
passion for him, he did think that by a heightening of colour, a flutter
of the eyelashes, or a quiver of the lips she would betray the fact that
she had still a soft place in her heart for him. Not at all. She talked
to him as though he were a friend she was very glad to see again after
an absence of a few days, but whose intimacy with her was purely social.
He asked after Vladimir Semenovich.

"He has been a disappointment to me," she said. "I never thought he was
a clever man, but I thought he was an honest one. He's going to have a
baby."

Mr. Harrington who was about to put a piece of fish into his mouth,
stopped, his fork in the air, and stared at Anastasia Alexandrovna with
astonishment. In extenuation it must be explained that he had never read
a Russian novel in his life. Ashenden, slightly perplexed too, gave her
a questioning look.

"I'm not the mother," she said with a laugh. "I am not interested in
that sort of thing. The mother is a friend of mine and a well-known
writer on Political Economy. I do not think her views are sound, but I
should be the last to deny that they deserve consideration. She has a
good brain, quite a good brain." She turned to Mr. Harrington. "Are you
interested in Political Economy?"

For once in his life Mr. Harrington was speechless. Anastasia
Alexandrovna gave them her views on the subject and they began to speak
on the situation in Russia. She seemed to be on intimate terms with the
leaders of the various political parties and Ashenden made up his mind
to sound her on the possibility of her working with him. His infatuation
had not blinded him to the fact that she was an extremely intelligent
woman. After dinner he told Mr. Harrington that he wished to talk
business with Anastasia Alexandrovna and took her to a retired corner of
the lounge. He told her all he thought necessary and found her
interested and anxious to help. She had a passion for intrigue and a
desire for power. When he hinted that he had command of large sums of
money she saw at once that through him she might acquire an influence in
the affairs of Russia. It tickled her vanity. She was immensely
patriotic, but like many patriots she had an impression that her own
aggrandisement tended to the good of her country. When they parted they
had come to a working agreement.

"That was a very remarkable woman," said Mr. Harrington next morning
when they met at breakfast.

"Don't fall in love with her," smiled Ashenden.

This, however, was not a matter on which Mr. Harrington was prepared to
jest.

"I have never looked at a woman since I married Mrs. Harrington," he
said. "That husband of hers must be a bad man."

"I could do with a plate of scrambled eggs," said Ashenden,
irrelevantly, for their breakfast consisted of a cup of tea without milk
and a little jam instead of sugar.

With Anastasia Alexandrovna to help him and Dr. Orth in the background,
Ashenden set to work. Things in Russia were going from bad to worse.
Kerensky, the head of the Provisional Government, was devoured by vanity
and dismissed any minister who gave evidence of a capacity that might
endanger his own position. He made speeches. He made endless speeches.
At one moment there was a possibility that the Germans would make a dash
for Petrograd. Kerensky made speeches. The food shortage grew more
serious, the winter was approaching and there was no fuel. Kerensky made
speeches. In the background the Bolsheviks were active, Lenin was hiding
in Petrograd, it was said that Kerensky knew where he was, but dared not
arrest him. He made speeches.

It amused Ashenden to see the unconcern with which Mr. Harrington
wandered through this turmoil. History was in the making and Mr.
Harrington minded his own business. It was uphill work. He was made to
pay bribes to secretaries and underlings under the pretence that the ear
of great men would be granted to him. He was kept waiting for hours in
antechambers and then sent away without ceremony. When at last he saw
the great men he found they had nothing to give him but idle words. They
made him promises and in a day or two he discovered that the promises
meant nothing. Ashenden advised him to throw in his hand and return to
America; but Mr. Harrington would not hear of it; his firm had sent him
to do a particular job, and by gum, he was going to do it or perish in
the attempt. Then Anastasia Alexandrovna took him in hand. A singular
friendship had arisen between the pair. Mr. Harrington thought her a
very remarkable and deeply wronged woman; he told her all about his wife
and his two sons, he told her all about the Constitution of the United
States; she on her side told him all about Vladimir Semenovich, and she
told him about Tolstoi, Turgenev and Dostoievsky. They had great times
together. He said he couldn't manage to call her Anastasia Alexandrovna,
it was too much of a mouthful; so he called her Delilah. And now she
placed her inexhaustible energy at his service and they went together to
the persons who might be useful to him. But things were coming to a
head. Riots broke out and the streets were growing dangerous. Now and
then armoured cars filled with discontented reservists careered wildly
along the Nevsky Prospekt and in order to show that they were not happy
took pot-shots at the passers-by. On one occasion when Mr. Harrington
and Anastasia Alexandrovna were in a tram together shots peppered the
windows and they had to lie down on the floor for safety. Mr. Harrington
was highly indignant.

"An old fat woman was lying right on top of me and when I wriggled to
get out Delilah caught me a clip on the side of the head and said: Stop
still, you fool. I don't like your Russian ways, Delilah."

"Anyhow you stopped still," she giggled.

"What you want in this country is a little less art and a little more
civilisation."

"You are bourgeoisie, Mr. Harrington, you are not a member of the
intelligentsia."

"You are the first person who's ever said that, Delilah. If I'm not a
member of the intelligentsia I don't know who is," retorted Mr.
Harrington with dignity.

Then one day when Ashenden was working in his room there was a knock at
the door and Anastasia Alexandrovna stalked in followed somewhat
sheepishly, by Mr. Harrington. Ashenden saw that she was excited.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Unless this man goes back to America he'll get killed. You really must
talk to him. If I hadn't been there something very unpleasant might have
happened to him."

"Not at all, Delilah," said Mr. Harrington, with asperity. "I'm
perfectly capable of taking care of myself and I wasn't in the smallest
danger."

"What is it all about?" asked Ashenden.

"I'd taken Mr. Harrington to the Lavra of Alexander Nevsky to see
Dostoievsky's grave," said Anastasia Alexandrovna, "and on our way back
we saw a soldier being rather rough with an old woman."

"Rather rough!" cried Mr. Harrington. "There was an old woman walking
along the pavement with a basket of provisions on her arm. Two soldiers
came up behind her and one of them snatched the basket from her and
walked off with it. She burst out screaming and crying, I don't know
what she was saying, but I can guess, and the other soldier took his gun
and with the butt-end of it hit her over the head. Isn't that right,
Delilah?"

"Yes," she answered, unable to help smiling. "And before I could prevent
it Mr. Harrington jumped out of the cab and ran up to the soldier who
had the basket, wrenched it from him and began to abuse the pair of them
like pickpockets. At first they were so taken aback they didn't know
what to do and then they got in a rage. I ran after Mr. Harrington and
explained to them that he was a foreigner and drunk."

"Drunk?" cried Mr. Harrington.

"Yes, drunk. Of course a crowd collected. It looked as though it wasn't
going to be very nice."

Mr. Harrington smiled with those large, pale-blue eyes of his.

"It sounded to me as though you were giving them a piece of your mind,
Delilah. It was as good as a play to watch you."

"Don't be stupid, Mr. Harrington," cried Anastasia, in a sudden fury,
stamping her foot. "Don't you know that those soldiers might very easily
have killed you and me too, and not one of the bystanders would have
raised a finger to help us?"

"Me? I'm an American citizen, Delilah. They wouldn't dare touch a hair
of my head."

"They'd have difficulty in finding one," said Anastasia Alexandrovna,
who when she was in a temper had no manners. "But if you think Russian
soldiers are going to hesitate to kill you because you're an American
citizen you'll get a big surprise one of these days."

"Well, what happened to the old woman?" asked Ashenden.

"The soldiers went off after a little and we went back to her."

"Still with the basket?"

"Yes. Mr. Harrington clung on to that like grim death. She was lying on
the ground with the blood pouring from her head. We got her into the cab
and when she could speak enough to tell us where she lived we drove her
home. She was bleeding dreadfully and we had some difficulty in
staunching the blood."

Anastasia Alexandrovna gave Mr. Harrington an odd look and to his
surprise Ashenden saw him turn scarlet.

"What's the matter now?"

"You see, we had nothing to bind her up with. Mr. Harrington's
handkerchief was soaked. There was only one thing about me that I could
get off quickly and so I took off my..."

But before she could finish Mr. Harrington interrupted her.

"You need not tell Mr. Ashenden what you took off. I'm a married man and
I know ladies wear them, but I see no need to refer to them in general
society."

Anastasia Alexandrovna giggled.

"Then you must kiss me, Mr. Harrington. If you don't I shall say."

Mr. Harrington hesitated a moment, considering evidently the pros and
cons of the matter, but he saw that Anastasia Alexandrovna was
determined.

"Go on then, you may kiss me, Delilah, though I'm bound to say I don't
see what pleasure it can be to you."

She put her arms round his neck and kissed him on both cheeks, then
without a word of warning burst into a flood of tears.

"You're a brave little man, Mr. Harrington. You're absurd but
magnificent," she sobbed.

Mr. Harrington was less surprised than Ashenden would have expected him
to be. He looked at Anastasia with a thin, quizzical smile and gently
patted her.

"Come, come, Delilah, pull yourself together. It gave you a nasty turn,
didn't it? You're quite upset. I shall have terrible rheumatism in my
shoulder if you go on weeping all over it."

The scene was ridiculous and touching. Ashenden laughed, but he had the
beginnings of a lump in his throat.

When Anastasia Alexandrovna had left them Mr. Harrington sat in a brown
study.

"They're very queer, these Russians. Do you know what Delilah did?" he
said, suddenly. "She stood up in the cab, in the middle of the street,
with people passing on both sides, and took her pants off. She tore them
in two and gave me one to hold while she made a bandage of the other. I
was never so embarrassed in my life."

"Tell me what gave you the idea of calling her Delilah?" smiled
Ashenden.

Mr. Harrington reddened a little.

"She's a very fascinating woman, Mr. Ashenden. She's been deeply wronged
by her husband and I naturally felt a great deal of sympathy for her.
These Russians are very emotional people and I did not want her to
mistake my sympathy for anything else. I told her I was very much
attached to Mrs. Harrington."

"You're not under the impression that Delilah was Potiphar's wife?"
asked Ashenden.

"I don't know what you mean by that, Mr. Ashenden," replied Mr.
Harrington. "Mrs. Harrington has always given me to understand that I'm
very fascinating to women, and I thought if I called our little friend
Delilah it would make my position quite clear."

"I don't think Russia's any place for you, Mr. Harrington," said
Ashenden smiling. "If I were you I'd get out of it as quick as I could."

"I can't go now. I've got them to agree to my terms at last and we're
going to sign next week. Then I shall pack my grip and go."

"I wonder if your signatures will be worth the paper they're written
on," said Ashenden.

He had at length devised a plan of campaign. It took him twenty-four
hours' hard work to code a telegram in which he put his scheme before
the persons who had sent him to Petrograd. It was accepted and he was
promised all the money he needed. Ashenden knew he could do nothing
unless the Provisional Government remained in power for another three
months; but winter was at hand and food was getting scarcer every day.
The army was mutinous. The people clamoured for peace. Every evening at
the Europe Ashenden drank a cup of chocolate with Professor Z. and
discussed with him how best to make use of his devoted Czechs. Anastasia
Alexandrovna had a flat in a retired spot and here he had meetings with
all manner of persons. Plans were drawn up. Measures were taken.
Ashenden argued, persuaded, promised. He had to overcome the vacillation
of one and wrestle with the fatalism of another. He had to judge who was
resolute and who was self-sufficient, who was honest and who was infirm
of purpose. He had to curb his impatience with the Russian verbosity; he
had to be good-tempered with people who were willing to talk of
everything but the matter in hand; he had to listen sympathetically to
ranting and rhodomontade. He had to beware of treachery. He had to
humour the vanity of fools and elude the greed of the ambitious. Time
was pressing. The rumours grew hot and many of the activities of the
Bolsheviks. Kerensky ran hither and thither like a frightened hen.

Then the blow fell. On the night of November 7th, 1917, the Bolsheviks
rose, Kerensky's ministers were arrested and the Winter Palace was
sacked by the mob; the reins of power were seized by Lenin and Trotsky.

Anastasia Alexandrovna came to Ashenden's room at the hotel early in the
morning. Ashenden was coding a telegram. He had been up all night, first
at the Smolny, and then at the Winter Palace. He was tired out. Her face
was white and her shining brown eyes were tragic.

"Have you heard?" she asked Ashenden.

He nodded.

"It's all over then. They say Kerensky has fled. They never even showed
fight." Rage seized her. "The buffoon!" she screamed.

At that moment there was a knock at the door and Anastasia Alexandrovna
looked at it with sudden apprehension.

"You know the Bolsheviks have got a list of people they've decided to
execute. My name is on it, and it may be that yours is too."

"If it's they and they want to come in they only have to turn the
handle," said Ashenden, smiling, but with ever so slightly odd a feeling
at the pit of his stomach. "Come in."

The door was opened and Mr. Harrington stepped into the room. He was as
dapper as ever, in his short black coat and striped trousers, his shoes
neatly polished and a derby on his bald head. He took it off when he saw
Anastasia Alexandrovna.

"Oh, fancy finding you here so early. I looked in on my way out, I
wanted to tell you my news. I tried to find you yesterday evening, but
couldn't. You didn't come in to dinner."

"No, I was at a meeting," said Ashenden.

"You must both congratulate me, I got my signatures yesterday, and my
business is done."

Mr. Harrington beamed on them, the picture of self-satisfaction, and he
arched himself like a bantam-cock who has chased away all rivals.
Anastasia Alexandrovna burst into a sudden shriek of hysterical
laughter. He stared at her in perplexity.

"Why, Delilah, what is the matter?" he said.

Anastasia laughed till the tears ran from her eyes and then began to sob
in earnest. Ashenden explained.

"The Bolsheviks have overthrown the Government. Kerensky's ministers are
in prison. The Bolsheviks are out to kill. Delilah says her name is on
the list. Your minister signed your documents yesterday because he knew
it did not matter what he did then. Your contracts are worth nothing.
The Bolsheviks are going to make peace with Germany as soon as they
can."

Anastasia Alexandrovna had recovered her self-control as quickly as she
had lost it.

"You had better get out of Russia as soon as you can, Mr. Harrington.
It's no place for a foreigner now and it may be that in a few days you
won't be able to."

Mr. Harrington looked from one to the other.

"O my," he said. "O my!" It seemed inadequate. "Are you going to tell me
that that Russian minister was just making a fool of me?"

Ashenden shrugged his shoulders.

"How can one tell what he was thinking of? He may have a keen sense of
humour and perhaps he thought it funny to sign a fifty-million-dollar
contract yesterday when there was every chance of his being stood
against the wall and shot to-day. Anastasia Alexandrovna's right, Mr.
Harrington, you'd better take the first train that'll get you to
Sweden."

"And what about you?"

"There's nothing for me to do here any more. I'm cabling for
instructions and I shall go as soon as I get leave. The Bolsheviks have
got ahead of us and the people I was working with will have their work
cut out to save their lives."

"Boris Petrovich was shot this morning," said Anastasia Alexandrovna
with a frown.

They both looked at Mr. Harrington and he stared at the floor. His pride
in this achievement of his was shattered and he sagged like a pricked
balloon. But in a minute he looked up. He gave Anastasia Alexandrovna a
little smile and for the first time Ashenden noticed how attractive and
kindly his smile was. There was something peculiarly disarming about it.

"If the Bolsheviks are after you, Delilah, don't you think you'd better
come with me? I'll take care of you and if you like to come to America
I'm sure Mrs. Harrington would be glad to do anything she could for
you."

"I can see Mrs. Harrington's face if you arrived in Philadelphia with a
Russian refugee," laughed Anastasia Alexandrovna. "I'm afraid it would
need more explaining than you could ever manage. No, I shall stay here."

"But if you're in danger?"

"I'm a Russian. My place is here. I will not leave my country when most
my country needs me."

"That is bunk, Delilah," said Mr. Harrington very quietly.

Anastasia Alexandrovna had spoken with deep emotion, but now with a
little start she shot a sudden quizzical look at him.

"I know it is, Samson," she answered. "To tell you the truth I think
we're all going to have a hell of a time, God knows what's going to
happen, but I want to see; I wouldn't miss a minute of it for the
world."

Mr. Harrington shook his head.

"Curiosity is the bane of your sex, Delilah," he said.

"Go along and do your packing, Mr. Harrington," said Ashenden, smiling,
"and then we'll take you to the station. The train will be besieged."

"Very well, I'll go. And I shan't be sorry either. I haven't had a
decent meal since I came here and I've done a thing I never thought I
should have to do in my life, I've drunk my coffee without sugar and
when I've been lucky enough to get a little piece of black bread I've
had to eat it without butter. Mrs. Harrington will never believe me when
I tell her what I've gone through. What this country wants is
organisation."

When he left them Ashenden and Anastasia Alexandrovna talked over the
situation. Ashenden was depressed because all his careful schemes had
come to nothing, but Anastasia Alexandrovna was excited and she hazarded
every sort of guess about the outcome of this new revolution. She
pretended to be very serious, but in her heart she looked upon it all
very much as a thrilling play. She wanted more and more things to
happen. Then there was another knock at the door and before Ashenden
could answer Mr. Harrington burst in.

"Really the service at this hotel is a scandal," he cried heatedly,
"I've been ringing my bell for fifteen minutes and I can't get anyone to
pay the smallest attention to me."

"Service?" exclaimed Anastasia Alexandrovna. "There is not a servant
left in the hotel."

"But I want my laundry. They promised to let me have it back last
night."

"I'm afraid you haven't got much chance of getting it now," said
Ashenden.

"I'm not going to leave without my laundry. Four shirts, two union
suits, a pair of pyjamas, and four collars. I wash my handkerchiefs and
socks in my room. I want my laundry and I'm not going to leave this
hotel without it."

"Don't be a fool," cried Ashenden. "What you've got to do is to get out
of here while the going's good. If there are no servants to get it
you'll just have to leave your washing behind you."

"Pardon me, sir, I shall do nothing of the kind. I'll go and fetch it
myself. I've suffered enough at the hands of this country and I'm not
going to leave four perfectly good shirts to be worn by a lot of dirty
Bolsheviks. No, sir. I do not leave Russia till I have my laundry."

Anastasia Alexandrovna stared at the floor for a moment; then with a
little smile looked up. It seemed to Ashenden that there was something
in her that responded to Mr. Harrington's futile obstinacy. In her
Russian way she understood that Mr. Harrington could not leave Petrograd
without his washing. His insistence had given it the value of a symbol.

"I'll go downstairs and see if I can find anybody about who knows where
the laundry is, and if I can I'll go with you and you can bring your
washing away with you."

Mr. Harrington unbent. He answered with that sweet and disarming smile
of his.

"That's terribly kind of you, Delilah. I don't mind if it's ready or
not, I'll take it just as it is."

Anastasia Alexandrovna left them.

"Well, what do you think of Russia and the Russians now?" Mr. Harrington
asked Ashenden.

"I'm fed up with them. I'm fed up with Tolstoi, I'm fed up with Turgenev
and Dostoievski, I'm fed up with Chekoff. I'm fed up with the
Intelligentsia. I hanker after people who know their mind from one
minute to another, who mean what they say an hour after they've said it,
whose word you can rely on; I'm sick of fine phrases, and oratory and
attitudinising."

Ashenden, bitten by the prevailing ill, was about to make a speech when
he was interrupted by a rattle as of peas on a drum. In the city, so
strangely silent, it sounded abrupt and odd.

"What's that?" asked Mr. Harrington.

"Rifle-firing. On the other side of the river, I should think."

Mr. Harrington gave a funny little look. He laughed, but his face was a
trifle pale; he did not like it, and Ashenden did not blame him.

"I think it's high time I got out. I shouldn't so much mind for myself,
but I've got a wife and children to think of. I haven't had a letter
from Mrs. Harrington for so long I'm a bit worried." He paused an
instant. "I'd like you to know Mrs. Harrington, she's a very wonderful
woman. She's the best wife a man ever had. Until I came here I'd not
been separated from her for more than three days since we were married."

Anastasia Alexandrovna came back and told them that she had found the
address.

"It's about forty minutes' walk from here and if you'll come now I'll go
with you," she said.

"I'm ready."

"You'd better look out," said Ashenden. "I don't believe the streets are
very healthy to-day."

Anastasia Alexandrovna looked at Mr. Harrington.

"I must have my laundry, Delilah," he said. "I should never rest in
peace if I left it behind me and Mrs. Harrington would never let me hear
the last of it."

"Come on then."

They set out and Ashenden went on with the dreary business of
translating into a very complicated code the shattering news he had to
give. It was a long message, and then he had to ask for instructions
upon his own movements. It was a mechanical job and yet it was one in
which you could not allow your attention to wander. The mistake of a
single figure might make a whole sentence incomprehensible.

Suddenly his door was burst open and Anastasia Alexandrovna flung into
the room. She had lost her hat and was dishevelled. She was panting. Her
eyes were starting out of her head and she was obviously in a state of
great excitement.

"Where's Mr. Harrington?" she cried. "Isn't he here?"

"No."

"Is he in his bedroom?"

"I don't know. Why, what's the matter? We'll go and look if you like.
Why didn't you bring him along with you?"

They walked down the passage and knocked at Mr. Harrington's door; there
was no answer; they tried the handle; the door was locked.

"He's not there."

They went back to Ashenden's room. Anastasia Alexandrovna sank into a
chair.

"Give me a glass of water, will you? I'm out of breath. I've been
running."

She drank the water Ashenden poured out for her. She gave a sudden sob.

"I hope he's all right. I should never forgive myself if he was hurt. I
was hoping he would have got here before me. He got his washing all
right. We found the place. There was only an old woman there and they
didn't want to let us take it, but we insisted. Mr. Harrington was
furious because it hadn't been touched. It was exactly as he had sent
it. They'd promised it last night and it was still in the bundle that
Mr. Harrington had made himself. I said that was Russia and Mr.
Harrington said he preferred coloured people. I'd led him by side
streets because I thought it was better, and we started to come back
again. We passed at the top of a street and at the bottom of it I saw a
little crowd. There was a man addressing them.

"'Let's go and hear what's he's saying,' I said.

"I could see they were arguing. It looked exciting. I wanted to know
what was happening.

"'Come along, Delilah,' he said. 'Let us mind our own business.'

"'You go back to the hotel and do your packing. I'm going to see the
fun,' I said.

"I ran down the street and he followed me. There were about two or three
hundred people there and a student was addressing them. There were some
working-men and they were shouting at him. I love a row and I edged my
way into the crowd. Suddenly we heard the sound of shots and before you
could realise what was happening two armoured cars came dashing down the
street. There were soldiers in them and they were firing as they went. I
don't know why. For fun, I suppose, or because they were drunk. We all
scattered like a lot of rabbits. We just ran for our lives. I lost Mr.
Harrington. I can't make out why he isn't here. Do you think something
has happened to him?"

Ashenden was silent for a while.

"We'd better go out and look for him," he said. "I don't know why the
devil he couldn't leave his washing."

"I understand, I understand so well."

"That's a comfort," said Ashenden irritably. "Let's go."

He put on his hat and coat, and they walked downstairs. The hotel seemed
strangely empty. They went out into the street. There was hardly anyone
to be seen. They walked along. The trams were not running and the
silence in the great city was uncanny. The shops were closed. It was
quite startling when a motor-car dashed by at breakneck speed. The
people they passed looked frightened and downcast. When they had to go
through a main thoroughfare they hastened their steps. A lot of people
were there and they stood about irresolutely as though they did not know
what to do next. Reservists in their shabby grey were walking down the
middle of the roadway in little bunches. They did not speak. They looked
like sheep looking for their shepherd. Then they came to the street down
which Anastasia Alexandrovna had run, but they entered it from the
opposite end. A number of windows had been broken by the wild shooting.
It was quite empty. You could see where the people had scattered, for
strewn about were articles they had dropped in their haste, books, a
man's hat, a lady's bag and a basket. Anastasia Alexandrovna touched
Ashenden's arm to draw his attention: sitting on the pavement, her head
bent right down to her lap, was a woman and she was dead. A little way
on two men had fallen together. They were dead too. The wounded, one
supposed, had managed to drag themselves away or their friends had
carried them. Then they found Mr. Harrington. His derby had rolled in
the gutter. He lay on his face, in a pool of blood, his bald head, with
its prominent bones, very white; his neat black coat smeared and muddy.
But his hand was clenched tight on the parcel that contained four
shirts, two union suits, a pair of pyjamas and four collars. Mr.
Harrington had not let his washing go.




LORD MOUNTDRAGO


Dr. Audlin looked at the clock on his desk. It was twenty minutes to
six. He was surprised that his patient was late, for Lord Mountdrago
prided himself on his punctuality; he had a sententious way of
expressing himself which gave the air of an epigram to a commonplace
remark, and he was in the habit of saying that punctuality is a
compliment you pay to the intelligent and a rebuke you administer to the
stupid. Lord Mountdrago's appointment was for five-thirty.

There was in Dr. Audlin's appearance nothing to attract attention. He
was tall and spare, with narrow shoulders and something of a stoop; his
hair was grey and thin; his long, sallow face deeply lined. He was not
more than fifty, but he looked older. His eyes, pale-blue and rather
large, were weary. When you had been with him for a while you noticed
that they moved very little; they remained fixed on your face, but so
empty of expression were they that it was no discomfort. They seldom lit
up. They gave no clue to his thoughts nor changed with the words he
spoke. If you were of an observant turn it might have struck you that he
blinked much less often than most of us. His hands were on the large
side, with long, tapering fingers; they were soft, but firm, cool but
not clammy. You could never have said what Dr. Audlin wore unless you
had made a point of looking. His clothes were dark. His tie was black.
His dress made his sallow lined face paler, and his pale eyes more wan.
He gave you the impression of a very sick man.

Dr. Audlin was a psycho-analyst. He had adopted the profession by
accident and practised it with misgiving. When the war broke out he had
not been long qualified and was getting experience at various hospitals;
he offered his services to the authorities, and after a time was sent
out to France. It was then that he discovered his singular gift. He
could allay certain pains by the touch of his cool, firm hands, and by
talking to them often induce sleep in men who were suffering from
sleeplessness. He spoke slowly. His voice had no particular colour, and
its tone did not alter with the words he uttered, but it was musical,
soft and lulling. He told the men that they must rest, that they mustn't
worry, that they must sleep; and rest stole into their jaded bones,
tranquillity pushed their anxieties away, like a man finding a place for
himself on a crowded bench, and slumber fell on their tired eyelids like
the light rain of spring upon the fresh-turned earth. Dr. Audlin found
that by speaking to men with that low, monotonous voice of his, by
looking at them with his pale, quiet eyes, by stroking their weary
foreheads with his long firm hands, he could soothe their perturbations,
resolve the conflicts that distracted them and banish the phobias that
made their lives a torment. Sometimes he effected cures that seemed
miraculous. He restored speech to a man who, after being buried under
the earth by a bursting shell, had been struck dumb, and he gave back
the use of his limbs to another who had been paralysed after a crash in
a plane. He could not understand his powers; he was of a sceptical turn,
and though they say that in circumstances of this kind the first thing
is to believe in yourself, he never quite succeeded in doing that; and
it was only the outcome of his activities, patent to the most
incredulous observer, that obliged him to admit that he had some
faculty, coming from he knew not where, obscure and uncertain, that
enabled him to do things for which he could offer no explanation. When
the war was over he went to Vienna and studied there, and afterwards to
Zrich; and then settled down in London to practise the art he had so
strangely acquired. He had been practising now for fifteen years, and
had attained, in the speciality he followed, a distinguished reputation.
People told one another of the amazing things he had done, and though
his fees were high, he had as many patients as he had time to see. Dr.
Audlin knew that he had achieved some very extraordinary results; he had
saved men from suicide, others from the lunatic asylum, he had assuaged
griefs that embittered useful lives, he had turned unhappy marriages
into happy ones, he had eradicated abnormal instincts and thus delivered
not a few from a hateful bondage, he had given health to the sick in
spirit; he had done all this, and yet at the back of his mind remained
the suspicion that he was little more than a quack.

It went against his grain to exercise a power that he could not
understand, and it offended his honesty to trade on the faith of the
people he treated when he had no faith in himself. He was rich enough
now to live without working, and the work exhausted him; a dozen times
he had been on the point of giving up practice. He knew all that Freud
and Jung and the rest of them had written. He was not satisfied; he had
an intimate conviction that all their theory was hocus-pocus, and yet
there the results were, incomprehensible, but manifest. And what had he
not seen of human nature during the fifteen years that patients had been
coming to his dingy back-room in Wimpole Street? The revelations that
had been poured into his ears, sometimes only too willingly, sometimes
with shame, with reservations, with anger, had long ceased to surprise
him. Nothing could shock him any longer. He knew by now that men were
liars, he knew how extravagant was their vanity; he knew far worse than
that about them; but he knew that it was not for him to judge or to
condemn. But year by year as these terrible confidences were imparted to
him his face grew a little greyer, its lines a little more marked and
his pale eyes more weary. He seldom laughed, but now and again when for
relaxation he read a novel he smiled. Did their authors really think the
men and women they wrote of were like that? If they only knew how much
more complicated they were, how much more unexpected, what
irreconcilable elements co-existed within their souls and what dark and
sinister contentions afflicted them!

It was a quarter to six. Of all the strange cases he had been called
upon to deal with Dr. Audlin could remember none stranger than that of
Lord Mountdrago. For one thing the personality of his patient made it
singular. Lord Mountdrago was an able and a distinguished man. Appointed
Secretary for Foreign Affairs when still under forty, now after three
years in office he had seen his policy prevail. It was generally
acknowledged that he was the ablest politician in the Conservative Party
and only the fact that his father was a peer, on whose death he would no
longer be able to sit in the House of Commons, made it impossible for
him to aim at the premiership. But if in these democratic times it is
out of the question for a Prime Minister of England to be in the House
of Lords, there was nothing to prevent Lord Mountdrago from continuing
to be Secretary for Foreign Affairs in successive Conservative
administrations and so for long directing the foreign policy of his
country.

Lord Mountdrago had many good qualities. He had intelligence and
industry. He was widely travelled, and spoke several languages fluently.
From early youth he had specialised in foreign affairs, and had
conscientiously made himself acquainted with the political and economic
circumstances of other countries. He had courage, insight and
determination. He was a good speaker, both on the platform and in the
House, clear, precise and often witty. He was a brilliant debater and
his gift of repartee was celebrated. He had a fine presence: he was a
tall, handsome man, rather bald and somewhat too stout, but this gave
him solidity and an air of maturity that were of service to him. As a
young man he had been something of an athlete and had rowed in the
Oxford boat, and he was known to be one of the best shots in England. At
twenty-four he had married a girl of eighteen whose father was a duke
and her mother a great American heiress, so that she had both position
and wealth, and by her he had had two sons. For several years they had
lived privately apart, but in public united, so that appearances were
saved, and no other attachment on either side had given the gossips
occasion to whisper. Lord Mountdrago indeed was too ambitious, too
hard-working, and it must be added too patriotic, to be tempted by any
pleasures that might interfere with his career. He had, in short, a
great deal to make him a popular and successful figure. He had
unfortunately great defects.

He was a fearful snob. You would not have been surprised at this if his
father had been the first holder of the title. That the son of an
ennobled lawyer, a manufacturer or a distiller should attach an
inordinate importance to his rank is understandable. The earldom held by
Lord Mountdrago's father was created by Charles II, and the barony held
by the first Earl dated from the Wars of the Roses. For three hundred
years the successive holders of the title had allied themselves with the
noblest families of England. But Lord Mountdrago was as conscious of his
birth as a _nouveau riche_ is conscious of his money. He never missed an
opportunity of impressing it upon others. He had beautiful manners when
he chose to display them, but this he did only with people whom he
regarded as his equals. He was coldly insolent to those whom he looked
upon as his social inferiors. He was rude to his servants and insulting
to his secretaries. The subordinate officials in the government offices
to which he had been successively attached feared and hated him. His
arrogance was horrible. He knew that he was a great deal cleverer than
most of the persons he had to do with, and never hesitated to apprise
them of the fact. He had no patience with the infirmities of human
nature. He felt himself born to command and was irritated with people
who expected him to listen to their arguments or wished to hear the
reasons for his decisions. He was immeasurably selfish. He looked upon
any service that was rendered him as a right due to his rank and
intelligence and therefore deserving of no gratitude. It never entered
his head that he was called upon to do anything for others. He had many
enemies: he despised them. He knew no one who merited his assistance,
his sympathy or his compassion. He had no friends. He was distrusted by
his chiefs, because they doubted his loyalty; he was unpopular with his
party, because he was overbearing and discourteous; and yet his merit
was so great, his patriotism so evident, his intelligence so solid and
his management of affairs so brilliant that they had to put up with him.
And what made it possible to do this was that on occasion he could be
enchanting: when he was with persons whom he considered his equals, or
whom he wished to captivate, in the company of foreign dignitaries or
women of distinction, he could be gay, witty and debonair; his manners
then reminded you that in his veins ran the same blood as had run in the
veins of Lord Chesterfield; he could tell a story with point, he could
be natural, sensible and even profound. You were surprised at the extent
of his knowledge and the sensitiveness of his taste. You thought him the
best company in the world; you forgot that he had insulted you the day
before and was quite capable of cutting you dead the next.

Lord Mountdrago almost failed to become Dr. Audlin's patient. A
secretary rang up the doctor and told him that his lordship, wishing to
consult him, would be glad if he would come to his house at ten o'clock
on the following morning. Dr. Audlin answered that he was unable to go
to Lord Mountdrago's house, but would be pleased to give him an
appointment at his consulting-room at five o'clock on the next day but
one. The secretary took the message and presently rang back to say that
Lord Mountdrago insisted on seeing Dr. Audlin in his own house and the
doctor could fix his own fee. Dr. Audlin replied that he only saw
patients in his consulting-room and expressed his regret that unless
Lord Mountdrago was prepared to come to him he could not give him his
attention. In a quarter of an hour a brief message was delivered to him
that his lordship would come not next day but one, but next day, at
five.

When Lord Mountdrago was then shown in he did not come forward, but
stood at the door and insolently looked the doctor up and down. Dr.
Audlin perceived that he was in a rage; he gazed at him, silently, with
still eyes. He saw a big heavy man, with greying hair, receding on the
forehead so that it gave nobility to his brow, a puffy face with bold
regular features and an expression of haughtiness. He had somewhat the
look of one of the Bourbon sovereigns of the eighteenth century.

"It seems that it is as difficult to see you as a Prime Minister, Dr.
Audlin. I'm an extremely busy man."

"Won't you sit down?" said the doctor.

His face showed no sign that Lord Mountdrago's speech in any way
affected him. Dr. Audlin sat in his chair at the desk. Lord Mountdrago
still stood and his frown darkened.

"I think I should tell you that I am His Majesty's Secretary for Foreign
Affairs," he said acidly.

"Won't you sit down?" the doctor repeated.

Lord Mountdrago made a gesture, which might have suggested! that he was
about to turn on his heel and stalk out of the room; but if that was his
intention he apparently thought better of it. He seated himself. Dr.
Audlin opened a large book and took up his pen. He wrote without looking
at his patient.

"How old are you?"

"Forty-two."

"Are you married?"

"Yes."

"How long have you been married?"

"Eighteen years."

"Have you any children?"

"I have two sons."

Dr. Audlin noted down the facts as Lord Mountdrago abruptly answered his
questions. Then he leaned back in his chair and looked at him. He did
not speak; he just looked, gravely, with pale eyes that did not move.

"Why have you come to see me?" he asked at length.

"I've heard about you. Lady Canute is a patient of yours, I understand.
She tells me you've done her a certain amount of good."

Dr. Audlin did not reply. His eyes remained fixed on the other's face,
but they were so empty of expression that you might have thought he did
not even see him.

"I can't do miracles," he said at length. Not a smile, but the shadow of
a smile flickered in his eyes. "The Royal College of Physicians would
not approve of it if I did."

Lord Mountdrago gave a brief chuckle. It seemed to lessen his hostility.
He spoke more amiably.

"You have a very remarkable reputation. People seem to believe in you."

"Why have you come to me?" repeated Dr. Audlin.

Now it was Lord Mountdrago's turn to be silent. It looked as though he
found it hard to answer. Dr. Audlin waited. At last Lord Mountdrago
seemed to make an effort. He spoke.

"I'm in perfect health. Just as a matter of routine I had myself
examined by my own doctor the other day, Sir Augustus Fitzherbert, I
daresay you've heard of him, and he tells me I have the physique of a
man of thirty. I work hard, but I'm never tired, and I enjoy my work. I
smoke very little and I'm an extremely moderate drinker. I take a
sufficiency of exercise and I lead a regular life. I am a perfectly
sound, normal, healthy man. I quite expect you to think it very silly
and childish of me to consult you."

Dr. Audlin saw that he must help him.

"I don't know if I can do anything to help you. I'll try. You're
distressed?"

Lord Mountdrago frowned.

"The work that I'm engaged in is important. The decisions I am called
upon to make can easily affect the welfare of the country and even the
peace of the world. It is essential that my judgment should be balanced
and my brain clear. I look upon it as my duty to eliminate any cause of
worry that may interfere with my usefulness."

Dr. Audlin had never taken his eyes off him. He saw a great deal. He saw
behind his patient's pompous manner and arrogant pride an anxiety that
he could not dispel.

"I asked you to be good enough to come here because I know by experience
that it's easier for someone to speak openly in the dingy surroundings
of a doctor's consulting-room than in his accustomed environment."

"They're certainly dingy," said Lord Mountdrago acidly. He paused. It
was evident that this man who had so much self-assurance, so quick and
decided a mind that he was never at a loss, at this moment was
embarrassed. He smiled in order to show the doctor that he was at his
ease, but his eyes betrayed his disquiet. When he spoke again it was
with unnatural heartiness.

"The whole thing's so trivial that I can hardly bring myself to bother
you with it. I'm afraid you'll just tell me not to be a fool and waste
your valuable time."

"Even things that seem very trivial may have their importance. They can
be a symptom of a deep-seated derangement. And my time is entirely at
your disposal."

Dr. Audlin's voice was low and grave. The monotone in which he spoke was
strangely soothing. Lord Mountdrago at length made up his mind to be
frank.

"The fact is I've been having some very tiresome dreams lately. I know
it's silly to pay any attention to them, but--well, the honest truth is
that I'm afraid they've got on my nerves."

"Can you describe any of them to me?"

Lord Mountdrago smiled, but the smile that tried to be careless was only
rueful.

"They're so idiotic, I can hardly bring myself to narrate them."

"Never mind."

"Well, the first I had was about a month ago. I dreamt that I was at a
party at Connemara House. It was an official party. The King and Queen
were to be there and of course decorations were worn. I was wearing my
ribbon and my star. I went into a sort of cloakroom they have to take
off my coat. There was a little man there called Owen Griffiths, who's a
Welsh Member of Parliament, and to tell you the truth, I was surprised
to see him. He's very common, and I said to myself: 'Really, Lydia
Connemara is going too far, whom will she ask next?' I thought he looked
at me rather curiously, but I didn't take any notice of him; in fact I
cut the little bounder and walked upstairs. I suppose you've never been
there?"

"Never."

"No, it's not the sort of house you'd ever be likely to go to. It's a
rather vulgar house, but it's got a very fine marble staircase, and the
Connemaras were at the top receiving their guests. Lady Connemara gave
me a look of surprise when I shook hands with her, and began to giggle;
I didn't pay much attention, she's a very silly, ill-bred woman and her
manners are no better than those of her ancestors whom King Charles II
made a duchess. I must say the reception rooms at Connemara House are
stately. I walked through, nodding to a number of people and shaking
hands; then I saw the German Ambassador talking with one of the Austrian
Archdukes. I particularly wanted to have a word with him, so I went up
and held out my hand. The moment the Archduke saw me he burst into a
roar of laughter. I was deeply affronted. I looked him up and down
sternly, but he only laughed the more. I was about to speak to him
rather sharply, when there was a sudden hush and I realised that the
King and Queen had come. Turning my back on the Archduke, I stepped
forward, and then, quite suddenly, I noticed that I hadn't got any
trousers on. I was in short silk drawers, and I wore scarlet
sock-suspenders. No wonder Lady Connemara had giggled; no wonder the
Archduke had laughed! I can't tell you what that moment was. An agony of
shame. I awoke in a cold sweat. Oh, you don't know the relief I felt to
find it was only a dream."

"It's the kind of dream that's not so very uncommon," said Dr. Audlin.

"I dare say not. But an odd thing happened next day. I was in the lobby
of the House of Commons, when that fellow Griffiths walked slowly past
me. He deliberately looked down at my legs and then he looked me full in
the face and I was almost certain he winked. A ridiculous thought came
to me. He'd been there the night before and seen me make that ghastly
exhibition of myself and was enjoying the joke. But of course I knew
that was impossible because it was only a dream. I gave him an icy glare
and he walked on. But he was grinning his head off."

Lord Mountdrago took his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the
palms of his hands. He was making no attempt now to conceal his
perturbation. Dr. Audlin never took his eyes off him.

"Tell me another dream."

"It was the night after, and it was even more absurd than the first one.
I dreamt that I was in the House. There was a debate on foreign affairs
which not only the country, but the world, had been looking forward to
with the gravest concern. The government had decided on a change in
their policy which vitally affected the future of the Empire. The
occasion was historic. Of course the House was crowded. All the
ambassadors were there. The galleries were packed. It fell to me to make
the important speech of the evening. I had prepared it carefully. A man
like me has enemies, there are a lot of people who resent my having
achieved the position I have at an age when even the cleverest men are
content with situations of relative obscurity, and I was determined that
my speech should not only be worthy of the occasion, but should silence
my detractors. It excited me to think that the whole world was hanging
on my lips. I rose to my feet. If you've ever been in the House you'll
know how members chat to one another during a debate, rustle papers and
turn over reports. The silence was the silence of the grave when I began
to speak. Suddenly I caught sight of that odious little bounder on one
of the benches opposite, Griffiths the Welsh member; he put out his
tongue at me. I don't know if you've ever heard a vulgar music-hall song
called _A Bicycle Made for Two_. It was very popular a great many years
ago. To show Griffiths how completely I despised him I began to sing it.
I sang the first verse right through. There was a moment's surprise, and
when I finished they cried 'Hear, hear,' on the opposite benches. I put
up my hand to silence them and sang the second verse. The House listened
to me in stony silence and I felt the song wasn't going down very well.
I was vexed, for I have a good baritone voice, and I was determined that
they should do me justice. When I started the third verse the members
began to laugh; in an instant the laughter spread; the ambassadors, the
strangers in the Distinguished Strangers' Gallery, the ladies in the
Ladies' Gallery, the reporters, they shook, they bellowed, they held
their sides, they rolled in their seats; everyone was overcome with
laughter except the ministers on the Front Bench immediately behind me.
In that incredible, in that unprecedented uproar, they sat petrified. I
gave them a glance, and suddenly the enormity of what I had done fell
upon me. I had made myself the laughing-stock of the whole world. With
misery I realised that I should have to resign. I woke and knew it was
only a dream."

Lord Mountdrago's grand manner had deserted him as he narrated this, and
now having finished he was pale and trembling. But with an effort he
pulled himself together. He forced a laugh to his shaking lips.

"The whole thing was so fantastic that I couldn't help being amused. I
didn't give it another thought, and when I went into the House on the
following afternoon I was feeling in very good form. The debate was
dull, but I had to be there, and I read some documents that required my
attention. For some reason I chanced to look up and I saw that Griffiths
was speaking. He has an unpleasant Welsh accent and an unprepossessing
appearance. I couldn't imagine that he had anything to say that it was
worth my while to listen to, and I was about to return to my papers when
he quoted two lines from _A Bicycle Made for Two_. I couldn't help
glancing at him and I saw that his eyes were fixed on me with a grin of
bitter mockery. I faintly shrugged my shoulders. It was comic that a
scrubby little Welsh member should look at me like that. It was an odd
coincidence that he should quote two lines from that disastrous song
that I'd sung all through in my dream. I began to read my papers again,
but I don't mind telling you that I found it difficult to concentrate on
them. I was a little puzzled. Owen Griffiths had been in my first dream,
the one at Connemara House, and I'd received a very definite impression
afterwards that he knew the sorry figure I'd cut. Was it a mere
coincidence that he had just quoted those two lines? I asked myself if
it was possible that he was dreaming the same dreams as I was. But of
course the idea was preposterous and I determined not to give it a
second thought."

There was a silence. Dr. Audlin looked at Lord Mountdrago and Lord
Mountdrago looked at Dr. Audlin.

"Other people's dreams are very boring. My wife used to dream
occasionally and insist on telling me her dreams next day with
circumstantial detail. I found it maddening."

Dr. Audlin faintly smiled.

"You're not boring me."

"I'll tell you one more dream I had a few days later. I dreamt that I
went into a public-house at Limehouse. I've never been to Limehouse in
my life and I don't think I've ever been in a public-house since I was
at Oxford, and yet I saw the street and the place I went into as exactly
as if I were at home there. I went into a room, I don't know whether
they call it the saloon bar or the private bar; there was a fireplace
and a large leather arm-chair on one side of it, and on the other a
small sofa; a bar ran the whole length of the room and over it you could
see into the public bar. Near the door was a round marble-topped table
and two arm-chairs beside it. It was a Saturday night and the place was
packed. It was brightly lit, but the smoke was so thick that it made my
eyes smart. I was dressed like a rough, with a cap on my head and a
handkerchief round my neck. It seemed to me that most of the people
there were drunk. I thought it rather amusing. There was a gramophone
going, or the radio, I don't know which, and in front of the fireplace
two women were doing a grotesque dance. There was a little crowd round
them, laughing, cheering and singing. I went up to have a look and some
man said to me: ''Ave a drink, Bill?' There were glasses on the table
full of a dark liquid which I understand is called brown ale. He gave me
a glass and not wishing to be conspicuous I drank it. One of the women
who were dancing broke away from the other and took hold of the glass.
''Ere, what's the idea?' she said. 'That's my beer you're putting away.'
'Oh, I'm so sorry,' I said, 'this gentleman offered it me and I very
naturally thought it was his to offer.' 'All right, mate,' she said, 'I
don't mind. You come an' 'ave a dance with me.' Before I could protest
she'd caught hold of me and we were dancing together. And then I found
myself sitting in the arm-chair with the woman on my lap and we were
sharing a glass of beer. I should tell you that sex has never played any
great part in my life. I married young because in my position it was
desirable that I should marry, but also in order to settle once for all
the question of sex. I had the two sons I had made up my mind to have,
and then I put the whole matter on one side. I've always been too busy
to give much thought to that kind of thing, and living so much in the
public eye as I do it would have been madness to do anything that might
give rise to scandal. The greatest asset a politician can have is a
blameless record as far as women are concerned. I have no patience with
the men who smash up their careers for women. I only despise them. The
woman I had on my knees was drunk; she wasn't pretty and she wasn't
young: in fact, she was just a blowsy old prostitute. She filled me with
disgust, and yet when she put her mouth to mine and kissed me, though
her breath stank of beer and her teeth were decayed, though I loathed
myself, I wanted her--I wanted her with all my soul. Suddenly I heard a
voice. 'That's right, old boy, have a good time.' I looked up and there
was Owen Griffiths. I tried to spring out of the chair, but that
horrible woman wouldn't let me. 'Don't you pay no attention to 'im,' she
said,' 'e's only one of them nosy-parkers.' 'You go to it,' he said. 'I
know Moll. She'll give you your money's worth all right.' You know, I
wasn't so much annoyed at his seeing me in that absurd situation as
angry that he should address me as 'old boy'. I pushed the woman aside
and stood up and faced him. 'I don't know you and I don't want to know
you,' I said. 'I know you all right,' he said. And my advice to you,
Molly, is, see that you get your money, he'll bilk you if he can.' There
was a bottle of beer standing on the table close by. Without a word I
seized it by the neck and hit him over the head with it as hard as I
could. I made such a violent gesture that it woke me up."

"A dream of that sort is not incomprehensible," said Dr. Audlin. "It is
the revenge nature takes on persons of unimpeachable character."

"The story's idiotic. I haven't told it you for its own sake. I've told
it you for what happened next day. I wanted to look up something in a
hurry and I went into the library of the House. I got the book and began
reading. I hadn't noticed when I sat down that Griffiths was sitting in
a chair close by me. Another of the Labour Members came in and went up
to him. 'Hullo, Owen,' he said to him, 'you're looking pretty dicky
to-day.' 'I've got an awful headache,' he answered. 'I feel as if I'd
been cracked over the head with a bottle.'"

Now Lord Mountdrago's face was grey with anguish.

"I knew then that the idea I'd had and dismissed as preposterous was
true. I knew that Griffiths was dreaming my dreams and that he
remembered them as well as I did."

"It may also have been a coincidence."

"When he spoke he didn't speak to his friend, he deliberately spoke to
me. He looked at me with sullen resentment."

"Can you offer any suggestion why this same man should come into your
dreams?"

"None."

Dr. Audlin's eyes had not left his patient's face and he saw that he
lied. He had a pencil in his hand and he drew a straggling line or two
on his blotting-paper. It often took a long time to get people to tell
the truth, and yet they knew that unless they told it he could do
nothing for them.

"The dream you've just described to me took place just over three weeks
ago. Have you had any since?"

"Every night."

"And does this man Griffiths come into them all?"

"Yes."

The doctor drew more lines on his blotting-paper. He wanted the silence,
the drabness, the dull light of that little room to have its effect on
Lord Mountdrago's sensibility. Lord Mountdrago threw himself back in his
chair and turned his head away so that he should not see the other's
grave eyes.

"Dr. Audlin, you must do something for me. I'm at the end of my tether.
I shall go mad if this goes on. I'm afraid to go to sleep. Two or three
nights I haven't. I've sat up reading and when I felt drowsy put on my
coat and walked till I was exhausted. But I must have sleep. With all
the work I have to do I must be at concert pitch; I must be in complete
control of all my faculties. I need rest; sleep brings me none. I no
sooner fall asleep than my dreams begin, and he's always there, that
vulgar little cad, grinning at me, mocking me, despising me. It's a
monstrous persecution. I tell you, doctor, I'm not the man of my dreams;
it's not fair to judge me by them. Ask anyone you like. I'm an honest,
upright, decent man. No one can say anything against my moral character
either private or public. My whole ambition is to serve my country and
maintain its greatness. I have money, I have rank, I'm not exposed to
many of the temptations of lesser men, so that it's no credit to me to
be incorruptible; but this I can claim, that no honour, no personal
advantage, no thought of self would induce me to swerve by a hair's
breadth from my duty. I've sacrificed everything to become the man I am.
Greatness is my aim. Greatness is within my reach and I'm losing my
nerve. I'm not that mean, despicable, cowardly, lewd creature that
horrible little man sees. I've told you three of my dreams; they're
nothing; that man has seen me do things that are so beastly, so
horrible, so shameful, that even if my life depended on it I wouldn't
tell them. And he remembers them. I can hardly meet the derision and
disgust I see in his eyes and I even hesitate to speak because I know my
words can seem to him nothing but utter humbug. He's seen me do things
that no man with any self-respect would do, things for which men are
driven out of the society of their fellows and sentenced to long terms
of imprisonment; he's heard the foulness of my speech; he's seen me not
only ridiculous, but revolting. He despises me and he no longer pretends
to conceal it. I tell you that if you can't do something to help me I
shall either kill myself or kill him."

"I wouldn't kill him if I were you," said Dr. Audlin, coolly, in that
soothing voice of his. "In this country the consequences of killing a
fellow-creature are awkward."

"I shouldn't be hanged for it, if that's what you mean. Who would know
that I'd killed him? That dream of mine has shown me how. I told you,
the day after I'd hit him over the head with a beer-bottle he had such a
headache that he couldn't see straight. He said so himself. That shows
that he can feel with his waking body what happens to his body asleep.
It's not with a bottle I shall hit him next time. One night, when I'm
dreaming, I shall find myself with a knife in my hand or a revolver in
my pocket, I must because I want to so intensely, and then I shall seize
my opportunity. I'll stick him like a pig; I'll shoot him like a dog. In
the heart. And then I shall be free of this fiendish persecution."

Some people might have thought that Lord Mountdrago was mad; after all
the years during which Dr. Audlin had been treating the diseased souls
of men he knew how thin a line divides those whom we call sane from
those whom we call insane. He knew how often in men who to all
appearance were healthy and normal, who were seemingly devoid of
imagination, and who fulfilled the duties of common life with credit to
themselves and with benefit to their fellows, when you gained their
confidence, when you tore away the mask they wore to the world, you
found not only hideous abnormality, but kinks so strange, mental
extravagances so fantastic, that in that respect you could only call
them lunatic. If you put them in an asylum not all the asylums in the
world would be large enough. Anyhow, a man was not certifiable because
he had strange dreams and they had shattered his nerve. The case was
singular, but it was only an exaggeration of others that had come under
Dr. Audlin's observation; he was doubtful, however, whether the methods
of treatment that he had so often found efficacious would here avail.

"Have you consulted any other member of my profession?" he asked.

"Only Sir Augustus. I merely told him that I suffered from nightmares.
He said I was overworked and recommended me to go for a cruise. That's
absurd. I can't leave the Foreign Office just now when the international
situation needs constant attention. I'm indispensable, and I know it. On
my conduct at the present juncture my whole future depends. He gave me
sedatives. They had no effect. He gave me tonics. They were worse than
useless. He's an old fool."

"Can you give any reason why it should be this particular man who
persists in coming into your dreams?"

"You asked me that question before. I answered it."

That was true. But Dr. Audlin had not been satisfied with the answer.

"Just now you talked of persecution. Why should Owen Griffiths want to
persecute you?"

"I don't know."

Lord Mountdrago's eyes shifted a little. Dr. Audlin was sure that he was
not speaking the truth.

"Have you ever done him an injury?"

"Never."

Lord Mountdrago made no movement, but Dr. Audlin had a queer feeling
that he shrank into his skin. He saw before him a large, proud man who
gave the impression that the questions put to him were an insolence, and
yet for all that, behind that faade, was something shifting and
startled that made you think of a frightened animal in a trap. Dr.
Audlin leaned forward and by the power of his eyes forced Lord
Mountdrago to meet them.

"Are you quite sure?"

"Quite sure. You don't seem to understand that our ways lead along
different paths. I don't wish to harp on it, but I must remind you that
I am a Minister of the Crown and Griffiths is an obscure member of the
Labour Party. Naturally there's no social connection between us; he's a
man of very humble origin, he's not the sort of person I should be
likely to meet at any of the houses I go to; and politically our
respective stations are so far separated that we could not possibly have
anything in common."

"I can do nothing for you unless you tell me the complete truth."

Lord Mountdrago raised his eyebrows. His voice was rasping.

"I'm not accustomed to having my word doubted, Dr. Audlin. If you're
going to do that I think to take up any more of your time can only be a
waste of mine. If you will kindly let my secretary know what your fee is
he will see that a cheque is sent to you."

For all the expression that was to be seen on Dr. Audlin's face you
might have thought that he simply had not heard what Lord Mountdrago
said. He continued to look steadily into his eyes and his voice was
grave and low.

"Have you done anything to this man that he might look upon as an
injury?"

Lord Mountdrago hesitated. He looked away, and then, as though there
were in Dr. Audlin's eyes a compelling force that he could not resist,
looked back. He answered sulkily:

"Only if he was a dirty, second-rate little cad."

"But that is exactly what you've described him to be."

Lord Mountdrago sighed. He was beaten. Dr. Audlin knew that the sigh
meant he was going at last to say what he had till then held back. Now
he had no longer to insist. He dropped his eyes and began again drawing
vague geometrical figures on his blotting-paper. The silence lasted two
or three minutes.

"I'm anxious to tell you everything that can be of any use to you. If I
didn't mention this before, it's only because it was so unimportant that
I didn't see how it could possibly have anything to do with the case.
Griffiths won a seat at the last election and he began to make a
nuisance of himself almost at once. His father's a miner, and he worked
in a mine himself when he was a boy; he's been a schoolmaster in the
board schools and a journalist. He's that half-baked, conceited
intellectual, with inadequate knowledge, ill-considered ideas and
impracticable plans, that compulsory education has brought forth from
the working-classes. He's a scrawny, grey-faced man, who looks
half-starved, and he's always very slovenly in appearance; heaven knows
members nowadays don't bother much about their dress, but his clothes
are an outrage to the dignity of the House. They're ostentatiously
shabby, his collar's never clean and his tie's never tied properly; he
looks as if he hadn't had a bath for a month and his hands are filthy.
The Labour Party have two or three fellows on the Front Bench who've got
a certain ability, but the rest of them don't amount to much. In the
kingdom of the blind the one-eyed man is king: because Griffiths is glib
and has a lot of superficial information on a number of subjects, the
Whips on his side began to put him up to speak whenever there was a
chance. It appeared that he fancied himself on foreign affairs, and he
was continually asking me silly, tiresome questions. I don't mind
telling you that I made a point of snubbing him as soundly as I thought
he deserved. From the beginning I hated the way he talked, his whining
voice and his vulgar accent; he had nervous mannerisms that intensely
irritated me. He talked rather shyly, hesitatingly, as though it were
torture to him to speak and yet he was forced to by some inner passion,
and often he used to say some very disconcerting things. I'll admit that
now and again he had a sort of tub-thumping eloquence. It had a certain
influence over the ill-regulated minds of the members of his party. They
were impressed by his earnestness and they weren't, as I was, nauseated
by his sentimentality. A certain sentimentality is the common coin of
political debate. Nations are governed by self-interest, but they prefer
to believe that their aims are altruistic, and the politician is
justified if with fair words and fine phrases he can persuade the
electorate that the hard bargain he is driving for his country's
advantage tends to the good of humanity. The mistake people like
Griffiths make is to take these fair words and fine phrases at their
face value. He's a crank, and a noxious crank. He calls himself an
idealist. He has at his tongue's end all the tedious blather that the
intelligentsia have been boring us with for years. Non-resistance. The
brotherhood of man. You know the hopeless rubbish. The worst of it was
that it impressed not only his own party, it even shook some of the
sillier, more sloppy-minded members of ours. I heard rumours that
Griffiths was likely to get office when a Labour Government came in; I
even heard it suggested that he might get the Foreign Office. The notion
was grotesque but not impossible. One day I had occasion to wind up a
debate on foreign affairs which Griffiths had opened. He'd spoken for an
hour. I thought it a very good opportunity to cook his goose, and by
God, sir, I cooked it. I tore his speech to pieces. I pointed out the
faultiness of his reasoning and emphasised the deficiency of his
knowledge. In the House of Commons the most devastating weapon is
ridicule: I mocked him; I bantered him; I was in good form that day and
the House rocked with laughter. Their laughter excited me and I excelled
myself. The Opposition sat glum and silent, but even some of them
couldn't help laughing once or twice; it's not intolerable, you know, to
see a colleague, perhaps a rival, made a fool of. And if ever a man was
made a fool of I made a fool of Griffiths. He shrank down in a seat, I
saw his face go white, and presently he buried it in his hands. When I
sat down I'd killed him. I'd destroyed his prestige for ever; he had no
more chance of getting office when a Labour Government came in than the
policeman at the door. I heard afterwards that his father, the old
miner, and his mother had come up from Wales, with various supporters of
his in the constituency, to watch the triumph they expected him to have.
They had seen only his utter humiliation. He'd won the constituency by
the narrowest margin. An incident like that might very easily lose him
his seat. But that was no business of mine."

"Should I be putting it too strongly if I said you had ruined his
career?" asked Dr. Audlin.

"I don't suppose you would."

"That is a very serious injury you've done him."

"He brought it on himself."

"Have you never felt any qualms about it?"

"I think perhaps if I'd known that his father and mother were there I
might have let him down a little more gently."

There was nothing further for Dr. Audlin to say, and he set about
treating his patient in such a manner as he thought might avail. He
sought by suggestion to make him forget his dreams when he awoke; he
sought to make him sleep so deeply that he would not dream. He found
Lord Mountdrago's resistance impossible to break down. At the end of an
hour he dismissed him. Since then he had seen Lord Mountdrago half a
dozen times. He had done him no good. The frightful dreams continued
every night to harass the unfortunate man, and it was clear that his
general condition was growing rapidly worse. He was worn out. His
irritability was uncontrollable. Lord Mountdrago was angry because he
received no benefit from his treatment, and yet continued it, not only
because it seemed his only hope, but because it was a relief to him to
have someone with whom he could talk openly. Dr. Audlin came to the
conclusion at last that there was only one way in which Lord Mountdrago
could achieve deliverance, but he knew him well enough to be assured
that of his own free will he would never, never take it. If Lord
Mountdrago was to be saved from the breakdown that was threatening he
must be induced to take a step that must be abhorrent to his pride of
birth and his self-complacency. Dr. Audlin was convinced that to delay
was impossible. He was treating his patient by suggestion, and after
several visits found him more susceptible to it. At length he managed to
get him into a condition of somnolence. With his low, soft, monotonous
voice he soothed his tortured nerves. He repeated the same words over
and over again. Lord Mountdrago lay quite still, his eyes closed; his
breathing was regular, and his limbs were relaxed. Then Dr. Audlin in
the same quiet tone spoke the words he had prepared.

"You will go to Owen Griffiths and say that you are sorry that you
caused him that great injury. You will say that you will do whatever
lies in your power to undo the harm that you have done him."

The words acted on Lord Mountdrago like the blow of a whip across his
face. He shook himself out of his hypnotic state and sprang to his feet.
His eyes blazed with passion and he poured forth upon Dr. Audlin a
stream of angry vituperation such as even he had never heard. He swore
at him. He cursed him. He used language of such obscenity that Dr.
Audlin, who had heard every sort of foul word, sometimes from the lips
of chaste and distinguished women, was surprised that he knew it.

"Apologise to that filthy little Welshman? I'd rather kill myself."

"I believe it to be the only way in which you can regain your balance."

Dr. Audlin had not often seen a man presumably sane in such a condition
of uncontrollable fury. He grew red in the face and his eyes bulged out
of his head. He did really foam at the mouth. Dr. Audlin watched him
coolly, waiting for the storm to wear itself out, and presently he saw
that Lord Mountdrago, weakened by the strain to which he had been
subjected for so many, weeks, was exhausted.

"Sit down," he said then, sharply.

Lord Mountdrago crumpled up into a chair.

"Christ, I feel all in. I must rest a minute and then I'll go."

For five minutes perhaps they sat in complete silence. Lord Mountdrago
was a gross, blustering bully, but he was also a gentleman. When he
broke the silence he had recovered his self-control.

"I'm afraid I've been very rude to you. I'm ashamed of the things I've
said to you and I can only say you'd be justified if you refused to have
anything more to do with me. I hope you won't do that. I feel that my
visits to you do help me. I think you're my only chance."

"You mustn't give another thought to what you said. It was of no
consequence."

"But there's one thing you mustn't ask me to do, and that is to make
excuses to Griffiths."

"I've thought a great deal about your case. I don't pretend to
understand it, but I believe that your only chance of release is to do
what I proposed. I have a notion that we're none of us one self, but
many, and one of the selves in you has risen up against the injury you
did Griffiths and has taken on the form of Griffiths in your mind and is
punishing you for what you cruelly did. If I were a priest I should tell
you that it is your conscience that has adopted the shape and lineaments
of this man to scourge you to repentance and persuade you to
reparation."

"My conscience is clear. It's not my fault if I smashed the man's
career. I crushed him like a slug in my garden. I regret nothing."

It was on these words that Lord Mountdrago had left him. Reading through
his notes, while he waited, Dr. Audlin considered how best he could
bring his patient to the state of mind that, now that his usual methods
of treatment had failed, he thought alone could help him. He glanced at
his clock. It was six. It was strange that Lord Mountdrago did not come.
He knew he had intended to because a secretary had rung up that morning
to say that he would be with him at the usual hour. He must have been
detained by pressing work. This notion gave Dr. Audlin something else to
think of: Lord Mountdrago was quite unfit to work and in no condition to
deal with important matters of state. Dr. Audlin wondered whether it
behoved him to get in touch with someone in authority, the Prime
Minister or the Permanent Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs, and
impart to him his conviction that Lord Mountdrago's mind was so
unbalanced that it was dangerous to leave affairs of moment in his
hands. It was a ticklish thing to do. He might cause needless trouble
and get roundly snubbed for his pains. He shrugged his shoulders.

"After all," he reflected, "the politicians have made such a mess of the
world during the last five-and-twenty years, I don't suppose it makes
much odds if they're mad or sane."

He rang the bell.

"If Lord Mountdrago comes now will you tell him that I have another
appointment at six-fifteen and so I'm afraid I can't see him."

"Very good, sir."

"Has the evening paper come yet?"

"I'll go and see."

In a moment the servant brought it in. A huge headline ran across the
front page: Tragic Death of Foreign Minister.

"My God!" cried Dr. Audlin.

For once he was wrenched out of his wonted calm. He was shocked,
horribly shocked, and yet he was not altogether surprised. The
possibility that Lord Mountdrago might commit suicide had occurred to
him several times, for that it was suicide he could not doubt. The paper
said that Lord Mountdrago had been waiting in a Tube station, standing
on the edge of the platform, and as the train came in was seen to fall
on the rail. It was supposed that he had had a sudden attack of
faintness. The paper went on to say that Lord Mountdrago had been
suffering for some weeks from the effects of overwork, but had felt it
impossible to absent himself while the foreign situation demanded his
unremitting attention. Lord Mountdrago was another victim of the strain
that modern politics placed upon those who played the more important
parts in it. There was a neat little piece about the talents and
industry, the patriotism and vision, of the deceased statesman, followed
by various surmises upon the Prime Minister's choice of his successor.
Dr. Audlin read all this. He had not liked Lord Mountdrago. The chief
emotion that his death caused in him was dissatisfaction with himself
because he had been able to do nothing for him.

Perhaps he had done wrong in not getting into touch with Lord
Mountdrago's doctor. He was discouraged, as always when failure
frustrated his conscientious efforts, and repulsion seized him for the
theory and practice of this empiric doctrine by which he earned his
living. He was dealing with dark and mysterious forces that it was
perhaps beyond the powers of the human mind to understand. He was like a
man blindfold trying to feel his way to he knew not whither. Listlessly
he turned the pages of the paper. Suddenly he gave a great start, and an
exclamation once more was forced from his lips. His eyes had fallen on a
small paragraph near the bottom of a column. Sudden Death of an M.P., he
read. Mr. Owen Griffiths, member for so-and-so, had been taken ill in
Fleet Street that afternoon and when he was brought to Charing Cross
Hospital life was found to be extinct. It was supposed that death was
due to natural causes, but an inquest would be held. Dr. Audlin could
hardly believe his eyes. Was it possible that the night before Lord
Mountdrago had at last in his dream found himself possessed of the
weapon, knife or gun, that he had wanted, and had killed his tormentor,
and had that ghostly murder, in the same way as the blow with the bottle
had given him a racking headache on the following day, taken effect a
certain number of hours later on the waking man? Or was it, more
mysterious and more frightful, that when Lord Mountdrago sought relief
in death, the enemy he had so cruelly wronged, unappeased, escaping from
his own mortality, had pursued him to some other sphere there to torment
him still? It was strange. The sensible thing was to look upon it merely
as an odd coincidence. Dr. Audlin rang the bell.

"Tell Mrs. Milton that I'm sorry I can't see her this evening. I'm not
well."

It was true; he shivered as though of an ague. With some kind of
spiritual sense he seemed to envisage a bleak, a horrible void. The dark
night of the soul engulfed him, and he felt a strange, primeval terror
of he knew not what.




SANATORIUM


For the first six weeks that Ashenden was at the sanatorium he stayed in
bed. He saw nobody but the doctor who visited him morning and evening,
the nurses who looked after him and the maid who brought him his meals.
He had contracted tuberculosis of the lungs and since at the time there
were reasons that made it difficult for him to go to Switzerland the
specialist he saw in London had sent him up to a sanatorium in the north
of Scotland. At last the day came that he had been patiently looking
forward to when the doctor told him he could get up; and in the
afternoon his nurse, having helped him to dress, took him down to the
verandah, placed cushions behind him, wrapped him up in rugs and left
him to enjoy the sun that was streaming down from a cloudless sky. It
was mid-winter. The sanatorium stood on the top of a hill and from it
you had a spacious view of the snow-clad country. There were people
lying all along the verandah in deck-chairs, some chatting with their
neighbours and some reading. Every now and then one would have a fit of
coughing and you noticed that at the end of it he looked anxiously at
his handkerchief. Before the nurse left Ashenden she turned with a kind
of professional briskness to the man who was lying in the next chair.

"I want to introduce Mr. Ashenden to you," she said. And then to
Ashenden: "This is Mr. McLeod. He and Mr. Campbell have been here longer
than anyone else."

On the other side of Ashenden was lying a pretty girl, with red hair and
bright blue eyes; she had on no make-up, but her lips were very red and
the colour on her cheeks was high. It emphasised the astonishing
whiteness of her skin. It was lovely even when you realised that its
delicate texture was due to illness. She wore a fur coat and was wrapped
up in rugs, so that you could see nothing of her body, but her face was
extremely thin, so thin that it made her nose, which wasn't really
large, look a trifle prominent. She gave Ashenden a friendly look, but
did not speak, and Ashenden, feeling rather shy among all those strange
people, waited to be spoken to.

"First time they've let you get up, is it?" said McLeod.

"Yes."

"Where's your room?"

Ashenden told him.

"Small. I know every room in the place. I've been here for seventeen
years. I've got the best room here and so I damned well ought to have.
Campbell's been trying to get me out of it, he wants it himself, but I'm
not going to budge; I've got a right to it, I came here six months
before he did."

McLeod, lying there, gave you the impression that he was immensely tall;
his skin was stretched tight over his bones, his cheeks and temples
hollow, so that you could see the formation of his skull under it; and
in that emaciated face, with its great bony nose, the eyes were
preternaturally large.

"Seventeen years is a long time," said Ashenden, because he could think
of nothing else to say.

"Time passes very quickly. I like it here. At first, after a year or
two, I went away in the summer, but I don't any more. It's my home now.
I've got a brother and two sisters; but they're married and now they've
got families; they don't want me. When you've been here a few years and
you go back to ordinary life, you feel a bit out of it, you know. Your
pals have gone their own ways and you've got nothing in common with them
any more. It all seems an awful rush. Much ado about nothing, that's
what it is. It's noisy and stuffy. No, one's better off here. I shan't
stir again till they carry me out feet first in my coffin."

The specialist had told Ashenden that if he took care of himself for a
reasonable time he would get well, and he looked at McLeod with
curiosity.

"What do you do with yourself all day long?" he asked.

"Do? Having T.B. is a whole time job, my boy. There's my temperature to
take and then I weigh myself. I don't hurry over my dressing. I have
breakfast, I read the papers and go for a walk. Then I have my rest. I
lunch and play bridge. I have another rest and then I dine. I play a bit
more bridge and I go to bed. They've got quite a decent library here, we
get all the new books, but I don't really have much time for reading. I
talk to people. You meet all sorts here, you know. They come and they
go. Sometimes they go because they think they're cured, but a lot of
them come back, and sometimes they go because they die. I've seen a lot
of people out and before I go I expect to see a lot more."

The girl sitting on Ashenden's other side suddenly spoke.

"I should tell you that few persons can get a heartier laugh out of a
hearse than Mr. McLeod," she said.

McLeod chuckled.

"I don't know about that, but it wouldn't be human nature if I didn't
say to myself: Well, I'm just as glad it's him and not me they're taking
for a ride."

It occurred to him that Ashenden didn't know the pretty girl, so he
introduced him.

"By the way, I don't think you've met Mr. Ashenden--Miss Bishop. She's
English, but not a bad girl."

"How long have _you_ been here?" asked Ashenden.

"Only two years. This is my last winter. Dr. Lennox says I shall be all
right in a few months and there's no reason why I shouldn't go home."

"Silly, I call it," said McLeod. "Stay where you're well off, that's
what I say."

At that moment a man, leaning on a stick, came walking slowly along the
verandah.

"Oh, look, there's Major Templeton," said Miss Bishop, a smile lighting
up her blue eyes; and then, as he came up: "I'm glad to see you up
again."

"Oh, it was nothing. Only a bit of a cold. I'm quite all right now."

The words were hardly out of his mouth when he began to cough. He leaned
heavily on his stick. But when the attack was over he smiled gaily.

"Can't get rid of this damned cough," he said. "Smoking too much. Dr.
Lennox says I ought to give it up, but it's no good--I can't."

He was a tall fellow, good-looking in a slightly theatrical way, with a
dusky, sallow face, fine very dark eyes and a neat black moustache. He
was wearing a fur coat with an Astrakhan collar. His appearance was
smart and perhaps a trifle showy. Miss Bishop made Ashenden known to
him. Major Templeton said a few civil words in an easy, cordial way, and
then asked the girl to go for a stroll with him; he had been ordered to
walk to a certain place in the wood behind the sanatorium and back
again. McLeod watched them as they sauntered off.

"I wonder if there's anything between those two," he said. "They do say
Templeton was a devil with the girls before he got ill."

"He doesn't look up to much in that line just now," said Ashenden.

"You never can tell. I've seen a lot of rum things here in my day. I
could tell you no end of stories if I wanted to."

"You evidently do, so why don't you?"

McLeod grinned.

"Well, I'll tell you one. Three or four years ago there was a woman here
who was pretty hot stuff. Her husband used to come and see her every
other week-end, he was crazy about her, used to fly up from London; but
Dr. Lennox was pretty sure she was carrying on with somebody here, but
he couldn't find out who. So one night when we'd all gone to bed he had
a thin coat of paint put down just outside her room and next day he had
everyone's slippers examined. Neat, wasn't it? The fellow whose slippers
had paint on them got the push. Dr. Lennox has to be particular, you
know. He doesn't want the place to get a bad name."

"How long has Templeton been here?"

"Three or four months. He's been in bed most of the time. He's for it
all right. Ivy Bishop'll be a damned fool if she gets stuck on him.
She's got a good chance of getting well. I've seen so many of them, you
know, I can tell. When I look at a fellow I make up my mind at once
whether he'll get well or whether he won't, and if he won't I can make a
pretty shrewd guess how long he'll last. I'm very seldom mistaken. I
give Templeton about two years myself."

McLeod gave Ashenden a speculative look and Ashenden, knowing what he
was thinking, though he tried to be amused, could not help feeling
somewhat concerned. There was a twinkle in McLeod's eyes. He plainly
knew what was passing through Ashenden's mind.

"You'll get all right. I wouldn't have mentioned it if I hadn't been
pretty sure of that. I don't want Dr. Lennox to hoof me out for putting
the fear of God into his bloody patients."

Then Ashenden's nurse came to take him back to bed. Even though he had
only sat out for an hour, he was tired, and was glad to find himself
once more between the sheets. Dr. Lennox came in to see him in the
course of the evening. He looked at his temperature chart.

"That's not so bad," he said.

Dr. Lennox was small, brisk and genial. He was a good enough doctor, an
excellent business man, and an enthusiastic fisherman. When the fishing
season began he was inclined to leave the care of his patients to his
assistants; the patients grumbled a little, but were glad enough to eat
the young salmon he brought back to vary their meals. He was fond of
talking, and now, standing at the end of Ashenden's bed, he asked him,
in his broad Scots, whether he had got into conversation with any of the
patients that afternoon. Ashenden told him the nurse had introduced him
to McLeod. Dr. Lennox laughed.

"The oldest living inhabitant. He knows more about the sanatorium and
its inmates than I do. How he gets his information I haven't an idea,
but there's not a thing about the private lives of anyone under this
roof that he doesn't know. There's not an old maid in the place with a
keener nose for a bit of scandal. Did he tell you about Campbell?"

"He mentioned him."

"He hates Campbell, and Campbell hates him. Funny, when you come to
think of it, those two men, they've been here for seventeen years and
they've got about one sound lung between them. They loathe the sight of
one another. I've had to refuse to listen to the complaints about one
another that they come to me with. Campbell's room is just below
McLeod's and Campbell plays the fiddle. It drives McLeod wild. He says
he's been listening to the same tunes for fifteen years, but Campbell
says McLeod doesn't know one tune from another. McLeod wants me to stop
Campbell playing, but I can't do that, he's got a perfect right to play
so long as he doesn't play in the silence hours. I've offered to change
McLeod's room, but he won't do that. He says Campbell only plays to
drive him out of the room because it's the best in the house, and he's
damned if he's going to have it. It's queer, isn't it, that two
middle-aged men should think it worth while to make life hell for one
another. Neither can leave the other alone. They have their meals at the
same table, they play bridge together; and not a day passes without a
row. Sometimes I've threatened to turn them both out if they don't
behave like sensible fellows. That keeps them quiet for a bit. They
don't want to go. They've been here so long, they've got no one any more
who gives a damn for them, and they can't cope with the world outside.
Campbell went away for a couple of months' holiday some years ago. He
came back after a week; he said he couldn't stand the racket, and the
sight of so many people in the streets scared him."

It was a strange world into which Ashenden found himself thrown when,
his health gradually improving, he was able to mix with his fellow
patients. One morning Dr. Lennox told him he could thenceforward lunch
in the dining-room. This was a large, low room, with great window space;
the windows were always wide open and on fine days the sun streamed in.
There seemed to be a great many people and it took him some time to sort
them out. They were of all kinds, young, middle-aged and old. There were
some, like McLeod and Campbell, who had been at the sanatorium for years
and expected to die there. Others had only been there for a few months.
There was one middle-aged spinster called Miss Atkin who had been coming
every winter for a long time and in the summer went to stay with friends
and relations. She had nothing much the matter with her any more, and
might just as well have stayed away altogether, but she liked the life.
Her long residence had given her a sort of position, she was honorary
librarian and hand in glove with the matron. She was always ready to
gossip with you, but you were soon warned that everything you said was
passed on. It was useful to Dr. Lennox to know that his patients were
getting on well together and were happy, that they did nothing imprudent
and followed his instructions. Little escaped Miss Atkin's sharp eyes,
and from her it went to the matron and so to Dr. Lennox. Because she had
been coming for so many years, she sat at the same table as McLeod and
Campbell, together with an old general who had been put there on account
of his rank. The table was in no way different from any other, and it
was not more advantageously placed, but because the oldest residents sat
there it was looked upon as the most desirable place to sit, and several
elderly women were bitterly resentful because Miss Atkin, who went away
for four or five months every summer, should be given a place there
while they who spent the whole year in the sanatorium sat at other
tables. There was an old Indian Civilian who had been at the sanatorium
longer than anyone but McLeod and Campbell; he was a man who in his day
had ruled a province, and he was waiting irascibly for either McLeod or
Campbell to die so that he might take his place at the first table.
Ashenden made the acquaintance of Campbell. He was a long, big-boned
fellow with a bald head, so thin that you wondered how his limbs held
together; and when he sat crumpled in an arm-chair he gave you the
uncanny impression of a mannikin in a puppet-show. He was brusque,
touchy and bad-tempered. The first thing he asked Ashenden was:

"Are you fond of music?"

"Yes."

"No one here cares a damn for it. I play the violin. But if you like it,
come to my room one day and I'll play to you."

"Don't you go," said McLeod, who heard him. "It's torture."

"How can you be so rude?" cried Miss Atkin. "Mr. Campbell plays very
nicely."

"There's no one in this beastly place that knows one note from another,"
said Campbell.

With a derisive chuckle McLeod walked off. Miss Atkin tried to smooth
things down.

"You mustn't mind what McLeod said."

"Oh, I don't. I'll get back on him all right."

He played the same tune over and over again all that afternoon. McLeod
banged on the floor, but Campbell went on. He sent a message by a maid
to say that he had a headache and would Mr. Campbell mind not playing;
Campbell replied that he had a perfect right to play and if Mr. McLeod
didn't like it he could lump it. When next they met high words passed.

Ashenden was put at a table with the pretty Miss Bishop, with Templeton,
and with a London man, an accountant, called Henry Chester. He was a
stocky, broad-shouldered, wiry little fellow, and the last person you
would ever have thought would be attacked by T.B. It had come upon him
as a sudden and unexpected blow. He was a perfectly ordinary man,
somewhere between thirty and forty, married, with two children. He lived
in a decent suburb. He went up to the City every morning and read the
morning paper; he came down from the City every evening and read the
evening paper. He had no interests except his business and his family.
He liked his work; he made enough money to live in comfort, he put by a
reasonable sum every year, he played golf on Saturday afternoon and on
Sunday, he went every August for a three weeks' holiday to the same
place on the east coast; his children would grow up and marry, then he
would turn his business over to his son and retire with his wife to a
little house in the country where he could potter about till death
claimed him at a ripe old age. He asked nothing more from life than
that, and it was a life that thousands upon thousands of his fellow-men
lived with satisfaction. He was the average citizen. Then this thing
happened. He had caught cold playing golf, it had gone to his chest, and
he had had a cough that he couldn't shake off. He had always been strong
and healthy, and had no opinion of doctors; but at last at his wife's
persuasion he had consented to see one. It was a shock to him, a fearful
shock, to learn that there was tubercle in both his lungs and that his
only chance of life was to go immediately to a sanatorium. The
specialist he saw then told him that he might be able to go back to work
in a couple of years, but two years had passed and Dr. Lennox advised
him not to think of it for at least a year more. He showed him the
bacilli in his sputum, and in an X-ray photograph the actively-diseased
patches in his lungs. He lost heart. It seemed to him a cruel and unjust
trick that fate had played upon him. He could have understood it if he
had led a wild life, if he had drunk too much, played around with women
or kept late hours. He would have deserved it then. But he had done none
of these things. It was monstrously unfair. Having no resources in
himself, no interest in books, he had nothing to do but think of his
health. It became an obsession. He watched his symptoms anxiously. They
had to deprive him of a thermometer because he took his temperature a
dozen times a day. He got it into his head that the doctors were taking
his case too indifferently, and in order to force their attention used
every method he could devise to make the thermometer register a
temperature that would alarm; and when his tricks were foiled he grew
sulky and querulous. But he was by nature a jovial, friendly creature,
and when he forgot himself he talked and laughed gaily; then on a sudden
he remembered that he was a sick man and you would see in his eyes the
fear of death.

At the end of every month his wife came up to spend a day or two in a
lodging-house near-by. Dr. Lennox did not much like the visits that
relatives paid the patients, it excited and unsettled them. It was
moving to see the eagerness with which Henry Chester looked forward to
his wife's arrival; but it was strange to notice that once she had come
he seemed less pleased than one would have expected. Mrs. Chester was a
pleasant, cheerful little woman, not pretty, but neat, as commonplace as
her husband, and you only had to look at her to know that she was a good
wife and mother, a careful housekeeper, a nice, quiet body who did her
duty and interfered with nobody. She had been quite happy in the dull,
domestic life they had led for so many years, her only dissipation a
visit to the pictures, her great thrill the sales in the big London
shops; and it had never occurred to her that it was monotonous. It
completely satisfied her. Ashenden liked her. He listened with interest
while she prattled about her children and her house in the suburbs, her
neighbours and her trivial occupations. On one occasion he met her in
the road. Chester for some reason connected with his treatment had
stayed in and she was alone. Ashenden suggested that they should walk
together. They talked for a little of indifferent things. Then she
suddenly asked him how he thought her husband was.

"I think he seems to be getting on all right."

"I'm so terribly worried."

"You must remember it's a slow, long business. One has to have
patience."

They walked on a little and then he saw she was crying.

"You mustn't be unhappy about him," said Ashenden gently.

"Oh, you don't know what I have to put up with when I come here. I know
I ought not to speak about it, but I must. I can trust you, can't I?"

"Of course."

"I love him. I'm devoted to him. I'd do anything in the world I could
for him. We've never quarrelled, we've never even differed about a
single thing. He's beginning to hate me and it breaks my heart."

"Oh, I can't believe that. Why, when you're not here he talks of you all
the time. He couldn't talk more nicely. He's devoted to you."

"Yes, that's when I'm not here. It's when I'm here, when he sees me well
and strong, that it comes over him. You see, he resents it so terribly
that he's ill and I'm well. He's afraid he's going to die and he hates
me because I'm going to live. I have to be on my guard all the time;
almost everything I say, if I speak of the children, if I speak of the
future, exasperates him, and he says bitter, wounding things. When I
speak of something I've had to do to the house or a servant I've had to
change it irritates him beyond endurance. He complains that I treat him
as if he didn't count any more. We used to be so united, and now I feel
there's a great wall of antagonism between us. I know I shouldn't blame
him, I know it's only his illness, he's a dear good man really, and
kindness itself, normally he's the easiest man in the world to get on
with; and now I simply dread coming here and I go with relief. He'd be
terribly sorry if I had T.B. but I know that in his heart of hearts it
would be a relief. He could forgive me, he could forgive fate, if he
thought I was going to die too. Sometimes he tortures me by talking
about what I shall do when he's dead, and when I get hysterical and cry
out to him to stop, he says I needn't grudge him a little pleasure when
he'll be dead so soon and I can go on living for years and years and
have a good time. Oh, it's so frightful to think that this love we've
had for one another all these years should die in this sordid, miserable
way."

Mrs. Chester sat down on a stone by the roadside and gave way to
passionate weeping. Ashenden looked at her with pity, but could find
nothing to say that might comfort her. What she had told him did not
come quite as a surprise.

"Give me a cigarette," she said at last. "I mustn't let my eyes get all
red and swollen, or Henry'll know I've been crying and he'll think I've
had bad news about him. Is death so horrible? Do we all fear death like
that?"

"I don't know," said Ashenden.

"When my mother was dying she didn't seem to mind a bit. She knew it was
coming and she even made little jokes about it. But she was an old
woman."

Mrs. Chester pulled herself together and they set off again. They walked
for a while in silence.

"You won't think any the worse of Henry for what I've told you?" she
said at last.

"Of course not."

"He's been a good husband and a good father. I've never known a better
man in my life. Until this illness I don't think an unkind or ungenerous
thought ever passed through his head."

The conversation left Ashenden pensive. People often said he had a low
opinion of human nature. It was because he did not always judge his
fellows by the usual standards. He accepted, with a smile, a tear or a
shrug of the shoulders, much that filled others with dismay. It was true
that you would never have expected that good-natured, commonplace little
chap to harbour such bitter and unworthy thoughts; but who has ever been
able to tell to what depths man may fall or to what heights rise? The
fault lay in the poverty of his ideals. Henry Chester was born and bred
to lead an average life, exposed to the normal vicissitudes of
existence, and when an unforeseeable accident befell him he had no means
of coping with it. He was like a brick made to take its place with a
million others in a huge factory, but by chance with a flaw in it so
that it is inadequate to its purpose. And the brick too, if it had a
mind, might cry: What have I done that I cannot fulfil my modest end,
but must be taken away from all these other bricks that support me and
thrown on the dust-heap? It was no fault of Henry Chester's that he was
incapable of the conceptions that might have enabled him to bear his
calamity with resignation. It is not everyone who can find solace in art
or thought. It is the tragedy of our day that these humble souls have
lost their faith in God, in whom lay hope, and their belief in a
resurrection that might bring them the happiness that has been denied
them on earth; and have found nothing to put in their place.

There are people who say that suffering ennobles. It is not true. As a
general rule it makes man petty, querulous and selfish; but here in this
sanatorium there was not much suffering. In certain stages of
tuberculosis the slight fever that accompanies it excites rather than
depresses, so that the patient feels alert and, upborne by hope, faces
the future blithely; but for all that the idea of death haunts the
subconscious. It is a sardonic theme song that runs through a sprightly
operetta. Now and again the gay, melodious arias, the dance measures,
deviate strangely into tragic strains that throb menacingly down the
nerves; the petty interests of every day, the small jealousies and
trivial concerns are as nothing; pity and terror make the heart on a
sudden stand still and the awfulness of death broods as the silence that
precedes a tropical storm broods over the tropical jungle. After
Ashenden had been for some time at the sanatorium there came a boy of
twenty. He was in the navy, a sub-lieutenant in a submarine, and he had
what they used to call in novels galloping consumption. He was a tall,
good-looking youth, with curly brown hair, blue eyes and a very sweet
smile. Ashenden saw him two or three times lying on the terrace in the
sun and passed the time of day with him. He was a cheerful lad. He
talked of musical shows and film stars; and he read the paper for the
football results and the boxing news. Then he was put to bed and
Ashenden saw him no more. His relations were sent for and in two months
he was dead. He died uncomplaining. He understood what was happening to
him as little as an animal. For a day or two there was the same malaise
in the sanatorium as there is in a prison when a man has been hanged;
and then, as though by universal consent, in obedience to an instinct of
self-preservation, the boy was put out of mind: life, with its three
meals a day, its golf on the miniature course, its regulated exercise,
its prescribed rests, its quarrels and jealousies, its scandal-mongering
and petty vexations, went on as before. Campbell, to the exasperation of
McLeod, continued to play the prize-song and "Annie Laurie" on his
fiddle. McLeod continued to boast of his bridge and gossip about other
people's health and morals. Miss Atkin continued to backbite. Henry
Chester continued to complain that the doctors gave him insufficient
attention and railed against fate because, after the model life he had
led, it had played him such a dirty trick. Ashenden continued to read,
and with amused tolerance to watch the vagaries of his fellow-creatures.

He became intimate with Major Templeton. Templeton was perhaps a little
more than forty years of age. He had been in the Grenadier Guards, but
had resigned his commission after the war. A man of ample means, he had
since then devoted himself entirely to pleasure. He raced in the racing
season, shot in the shooting season and hunted in the hunting season.
When this was over he went to Monte Carlo. He told Ashenden of the large
sums he had made and lost at baccarat. He was very fond of women and if
his stories could be believed they were very fond of him. He loved good
food and good drink. He knew by their first names the head waiters of
every restaurant in London where you ate well. He belonged to half a
dozen clubs. He had led for years a useless, selfish, worthless life,
the sort of life which maybe it will be impossible for anyone to live in
the future, but he had lived it without misgiving and had enjoyed it.
Ashenden asked him once what he would do if he had his time over again
and he answered that he would do exactly what he had done. He was an
amusing talker, gay and pleasantly ironic, and he dealt with the surface
of things, which was all he knew, with a light, easy and assured touch.
He always had a pleasant word for the dowdy spinsters in the sanatorium
and a joking one for the peppery old gentlemen, for he combined good
manners with a natural kindliness. He knew his way about the superficial
world of the people who have more money than they know what to do with
as well as he knew his way about Mayfair. He was the kind of man who
would always have been willing to take a bet, to help a friend and to
give a tenner to a rogue. If he had never done much good in the world he
had never done much harm. He amounted to nothing. But he was a more
agreeable companion than many of more sterling character and of more
admirable qualities. He was very ill now. He was dying and he knew it.
He took it with the same easy, laughing nonchalance as he had taken all
the rest. He'd had a thundering good time, he regretted nothing, it was
rotten tough luck getting T.B. but to hell with it, no one can live for
ever, and when you came to think of it, he might have been killed in the
war or broken his bloody neck in a point-to-point. His principle all
through life had been, when you've made a bad bet, pay up and forget
about it. He'd had a good run for his money and he was ready to call it
a day. It had been a damned good party while it lasted, but every
party's got to come to an end, and next day it doesn't matter much if
you went home with the milk or if you left while the fun was in full
swing.

Of all those people in the sanatorium he was probably from the moral
standpoint the least worthy, but he was the only one who genuinely
accepted the inevitable with unconcern. He snapped his fingers in the
face of death, and you could choose whether to call his levity
unbecoming or his insouciance gallant.

The last thing that ever occurred to him when he came to the sanatorium
was that he might fall more deeply in love there than he had ever done
before. His amours had been numerous, but they had been light; he had
been content with the politely mercenary love of chorus girls and with
ephemeral unions with women of easy virtue whom he met at house parties.
He had always taken care to avoid any attachment that might endanger his
freedom. His only aim in life had been to get as much fun out of it as
possible, and where sex was concerned he found every advantage and no
inconvenience in ceaseless variety. But he liked women. Even when they
were quite old he could not talk to them without a caress in his eyes
and a tenderness in his voice. He was prepared to do anything to please
them. They were conscious of his interest in them and were agreeably
flattered, and they felt, quite mistakenly, that they could trust him
never to let them down. He once said a thing that Ashenden thought
showed insight:

"You know, any man can get any woman he wants if he tries hard enough,
there's nothing in that, but once he's got her, only a man who thinks
the world of women can get rid of her without humiliating her."

It was simply from habit that he began to make love to Ivy Bishop. She
was the prettiest and the youngest girl in the sanatorium. She was in
point of fact not so young as Ashenden had first thought her, she was
twenty-nine, but for the last eight years she had been wandering from
one sanatorium to another, in Switzerland, England and Scotland, and the
sheltered invalid life had preserved her youthful appearance so that you
might easily have taken her for twenty. All she knew of the world she
had learnt in these establishments, so that she combined rather
curiously extreme innocence with extreme sophistication. She had seen a
number of love affairs run their course. A good many men, of various
nationalities, had made love to her; she accepted their attentions with
self-possession and humour, but she had at her disposal plenty of
firmness when they showed an inclination to go too far. She had a force
of character unexpected in anyone who looked so flower-like and when it
came to a show-down knew how to express her meaning in plain, cool and
decisive words. She was quite ready to have a flirtation with George
Templeton. It was a game she understood, and though always charming to
him, it was with a bantering lightness that showed quite clearly that
she had summed him up and had no mind to take the affair more seriously
than he did. Like Ashenden, Templeton went to bed every evening at six
and dined in his room, so that he saw Ivy only by day. They went for
little walks together, but otherwise were seldom alone. At lunch the
conversation between the four of them, Ivy, Templeton, Henry Chester and
Ashenden, was general, but it was obvious that it was for neither of the
two men that Templeton took so much trouble to be entertaining. It
seemed to Ashenden that he was ceasing to flirt with Ivy to pass the
time, and that his feeling for her was growing deeper and more sincere;
but he could not tell whether she was conscious of it nor whether it
meant anything to her. Whenever Templeton hazarded a remark that was
more intimate than the occasion warranted she countered it with an
ironic one that made them all laugh. But Templeton's laugh was rueful.
He was no longer content to have her take him as a play-boy. The more
Ashenden knew Ivy Bishop the more he liked her. There was something
pathetic in her sick beauty, with that lovely transparent skin, the thin
face in which the eyes were so large and so wonderfully blue; and there
was something pathetic in her plight, for like so many others in the
sanatorium she seemed to be alone in the world. Her mother led a busy
social life, her sisters were married; they took but a perfunctory
interest in the young woman from whom they had been separated now for
eight years. They corresponded, they came to see her occasionally, but
there was no longer very much between them. She accepted the situation
without bitterness. She was friendly with everyone and prepared always
to listen with sympathy to the complaints and the distress of all and
sundry. She went out of her way to be nice to Henry Chester and did what
she could to cheer him.

"Well, Mr. Chester," she said to him one day at lunch, "it's the end of
the month, your wife will be coming to-morrow. That's something to look
forward to."

"No, she's not coming this month," he said quietly, looking down at his
plate.

"Oh, I am sorry. Why not? The children are all right, aren't they?"

"Dr. Lennox thinks it's better for me that she shouldn't come."

There was a silence. Ivy looked at him with troubled eyes.

"That's tough luck, old man," said Templeton in his hearty way. "Why
didn't you tell Lennox to go to hell?"

"He must know best," said Chester.

Ivy gave him another look and began to talk of something else.

Looking back, Ashenden realised that she had at once suspected the
truth. For next day he happened to walk with Chester.

"I'm awfully sorry your wife isn't coming," he said. "You'll miss her
visit dreadfully."

"Dreadfully."

He gave Ashenden a sidelong glance. Ashenden felt that he had something
he wanted to say, but could not bring himself to say it. He gave his
shoulders an angry shrug.

"It's my fault if she's not coming. I asked Lennox to write and tell her
not to. I couldn't stick it any more. I spend the whole month looking
forward to her coming and then when she's here I hate her. You see, I
resent so awfully having this filthy disease. She's strong and well and
full of beans. It maddens me when I see the pain in her eyes. What does
it matter to her really? Who cares if you're ill? They pretend to care,
but they're jolly glad it's you and not them. I'm a swine, aren't I?"

Ashenden remembered how Mrs. Chester had sat on a stone by the side of
the road and wept.

"Aren't you afraid you'll make her very unhappy, not letting her come?"

"She must put up with that. I've got enough with my own unhappiness
without bothering with hers."

Ashenden did not know what to say and they walked on in silence.
Suddenly Chester broke out irritably.

"It's all very well for you to be disinterested and unselfish, you're
going to live. I'm going to die, and God damn it, I don't want to die.
Why should I? It's not fair."

Time passed. In a place like the sanatorium where there was little to
occupy the mind it was inevitable that soon everyone should know that
George Templeton was in love with Ivy Bishop. But it was not so easy to
tell what her feelings were. It was plain that she liked his company,
but she did not seek it, and indeed it looked as though she took pains
not to be alone with him. One or two of the middle-aged ladies tried to
trap her into some compromising admission, but ingenuous as she was, she
was easily a match for them. She ignored their hints and met their
straight questions with incredulous laughter. She succeeded in
exasperating them.

"She can't be so stupid as not to see that he's mad about her."

"She has no right to play with him like that."

"I believe she's just as much in love with him as he is with her."

"Dr. Lennox ought to tell her mother."

No one was more incensed than McLeod.

"Too ridiculous. After all, nothing can come of it. He's riddled with
T.B. and she's not much better."

Campbell on the other hand was sardonic and gross.

"I'm all for their having a good time while they can. I bet there's a
bit of hanky-panky going on if one only knew, and I don't blame 'em."

"You cad," said McLeod.

"Oh, come off it. Templeton isn't the sort of chap to play bumble-puppy
bridge with a girl like that unless he's getting something out of it,
and she knows a thing or two, I bet."

Ashenden, who saw most of them, knew them better than any of the others.
Templeton at last had taken him into his confidence. He was rather
amused at himself.

"Rum thing at my time of life, falling in love with a decent girl. Last
thing I'd ever expected of myself. And it's no good denying it, I'm in
it up to the neck; if I were a well man I'd ask her to marry me
to-morrow. I never knew a girl could be as nice as that. I've always
thought girls, decent girls, I mean, damned bores. But she isn't a bore,
she's as clever as she can stick. And pretty too. My God, what a skin!
And that hair: but it isn't any of that that's bowled me over like a row
of ninepins. D'you know what's got me? Damned ridiculous when you come
to think of it. An old rip like me. Virtue. Makes me laugh like a hyena.
Last thing I've ever wanted in a woman, but there it is, no getting away
from it, she's good, and it makes me feel like a worm. Surprises you, I
suppose?"

"Not a bit," said Ashenden. "You're not the first rake who's fallen to
innocence. It's merely the sentimentality of middle age."

"Dirty dog," laughed Templeton.

"What does she say to it?"

"Good God, you don't suppose I've told her. I've never said a word to
her that I wouldn't have said before anyone else. I may be dead in six
months, and besides, what have I got to offer a girl like that?"

Ashenden by now was pretty sure that she was just as much in love with
Templeton as he was with her. He had seen the flush that coloured her
cheeks when Templeton came into the dining-room and he had noticed the
soft glance she gave him now and then when he was not looking at her.
There was a peculiar sweetness in her smile when she listened to him
telling some of his old experiences. Ashenden had the impression that
she basked comfortably in his love as the patients on the terrace,
facing the snow, basked in the hot sunshine; but it might very well be
that she was content to leave it at that, and it was certainly no
business of his to tell Templeton what perhaps she had no wish that he
should know.

Then an incident occurred to disturb the monotony of life. Though McLeod
and Campbell were always at odds they played bridge together because,
till Templeton came, they were the best players in the sanatorium. They
bickered incessantly, their post-mortems were endless, but after so many
years each knew the other's game perfectly and they took a keen delight
in scoring off one another. As a rule Templeton refused to play with
them; though a fine player he preferred to play with Ivy Bishop, and
McLeod and Campbell were agreed on this, that she ruined the game. She
was the kind of player who, having made a mistake that lost the rubber,
would laugh and say: Well, it only made the difference of a trick. But
one afternoon, since Ivy was staying in her room with a headache,
Templeton consented to play with Campbell and McLeod. Ashenden was the
fourth. Though it was the end of March there had been heavy snow for
several days, and they played, in a verandah open on three sides to the
wintry air, in fur coats and caps, with mittens on their hands. The
stakes were too small for a gambler like Templeton to take the game
seriously and his bidding was overbold, but he played so much better
than the other three that he generally managed to make his contract or
at least to come near it. But there was much doubling and redoubling.
The cards ran high, so that an inordinate number of small slams were
bid; it was a tempestuous game, and McLeod and Campbell lashed one
another with their tongues. Half-past five arrived and the last rubber
was started, for at six the bell rang to send everyone to rest. It was a
hard-fought rubber, with sets on both sides, for McLeod and Campbell
were opponents and each was determined that the other should not win. At
ten minutes to six it was game all and the last hand was dealt.
Templeton was McLeod's partner and Ashenden Campbell's. The bidding
started with two clubs from McLeod; Ashenden said nothing; Templeton
showed that he had substantial help, and finally McLeod called a grand
slam. Campbell doubled and McLeod redoubled. Hearing this, the players
at other tables who had broken off gathered round and the hands were
played in deadly silence to a little crowd of onlookers. McLeod's face
was white with excitement and there were beads of sweat on his brow. His
hands trembled. Campbell was very grim. McLeod had to take two finesses
and they both came off. He finished with a squeeze and got the last of
the thirteen tricks. There was a burst of applause from the onlookers.
McLeod, arrogant in victory, sprang to his feet. He shook his clenched
fist at Campbell.

"Play that off on your blasted fiddle," he shouted. "Grand slam doubled
and redoubled. I've wanted to get it all my life and now I've got it. By
God. By God."

He gasped. He staggered forward and fell across the table. A stream of
blood poured from his mouth. The doctor was sent for. Attendants came.
He was dead.

He was buried two days later, early in the morning so that the patients
should not be disturbed by the sight of a funeral. A relation in black
came from Glasgow to attend it. No one had liked him. No one regretted
him. At the end of a week so far as one could tell, he was forgotten.
The Indian Civilian took his place at the principal table and Campbell
moved into the room he had so long wanted.

"Now we shall have peace," said Dr. Lennox to Ashenden. "When you think
that I've had to put up with the quarrels and complaints of those two
men for years and years... Believe me, one has to have patience to
run a sanatorium. And to think that after all the trouble he's given me
he had to end up like that and scare all those people out of their
wits."

"It was a bit of a shock, you know," said Ashenden.

"He was a worthless fellow and yet some of the women have been quite
upset about it. Poor little Miss Bishop cried her eyes out."

"I suspect that she was the only one who cried for him and not for
herself."

But presently it appeared that there was one person who had not
forgotten him. Campbell went about like a lost dog. He wouldn't play
bridge. He wouldn't talk. There was no doubt about it, he was moping for
McLeod. For several days he remained in his room, having his meals
brought to him, and then went to Dr. Lennox and said he didn't like it
as well as his old one and wanted to be moved back. Dr. Lennox lost his
temper, which he rarely did, and told him he had been pestering him to
give him that room for years and now he could stay there or get out of
the sanatorium. He returned to it and sat gloomily brooding.

"Why don't you play your violin?" the matron asked him at length. "I
haven't heard you play for a fortnight."

"I haven't."

"Why not?"

"It's no fun any more. I used to get a kick out of playing because I
knew it maddened McLeod. But now nobody cares if I play or not. I shall
never play again."

Nor did he for all the rest of the time that Ashenden was at the
sanatorium. It was strange, now that McLeod was dead life had lost its
savour for him. With no one to quarrel with, no one to infuriate, he had
lost his incentive and it was plain that it would not be long before he
followed his enemy to the grave.

But on Templeton McLeod's death had another effect, and one which was
soon to have unexpected consequences. He talked to Ashenden about it in
his cool, detached way.

"Grand, passing out like that in his moment of triumph. I can't make out
why everyone got in such a state about it. He'd been here for years,
hadn't he?"

"Eighteen, I believe."

"I wonder if it's worth it. I wonder if it's not better to have one's
fling and take the consequences."

"I suppose it depends on how much you value life."

"But is this life?"

Ashenden had no answer. In a few months he could count on being well,
but you only had to look at Templeton to know that he was not going to
recover. The death-look was on his face.

"D'you know what I've done?" asked Templeton. "I've asked Ivy to marry
me."

Ashenden was startled.

"What did she say?"

"Bless her little heart, she said it was the most ridiculous idea she'd
ever heard in her life and I was crazy to think of such a thing."

"You must admit she was right."

"Quite. But she's going to marry me."

"It's madness."

"I dare say it is; but anyhow, we're going to see Lennox and ask him
what he thinks about it."

The winter had broken at last; there was still snow on the hills, but in
the valleys it was melted and on the lower slopes the birch-trees were
in bud all ready to burst into delicate leaf. The enchantment of spring
was in the air. The sun was hot. Everyone felt alert and some felt
happy. The old stagers who came only for the winter were making their
plans to go south. Templeton and Ivy went to see Dr. Lennox together.
They told him what they had in mind. He examined them; they were X-rayed
and various tests were taken. Dr. Lennox fixed a day when he would tell
them the results and in the light of this discuss their proposal.
Ashenden saw them just before they went to keep the appointment. They
were anxious, but did their best to make a joke of it. Dr. Lennox showed
them the results of his examinations and explained to them in plain
language what their condition was.

"All that's very fine and large," said Templeton then, "but what we want
to know is whether we can get married."

"It would be highly imprudent."

"We know that, but does it matter?"

"And criminal if you had a child."

"We weren't thinking of having one," said Ivy.

"Well, then I'll tell you in very few words how the matter stands. Then
you must decide for yourselves."

Templeton gave Ivy a little smile and took her hand. The doctor went on.

"I don't think Miss Bishop will ever be strong enough to lead a normal
life, but if she continues to live as she has been doing for the last
eight years..."

"In sanatoriums?"

"Yes. There's no reason why she shouldn't live very comfortably, if not
to a ripe old age, as long as any sensible person wants to live. The
disease is quiescent. If she marries, if she attempts to live an
ordinary life, the foci of infection may very well light up again, and
what the results of that may be no one can foretell. So far as you are
concerned, Templeton, I can put it even more shortly. You've seen the
X-ray photos yourself. Your lungs are riddled with tubercle. If you
marry you'll be dead in six months."

"And if I don't how long can I live?"

The doctor hesitated.

"Don't be afraid. You can tell me the truth."

"Two or three years."

"Thank you, that's all we wanted to know."

They went as they had come, hand in hand; Ivy was crying softly. No one
knew what they said to one another; but when they came into luncheon
they were radiant. They told Ashenden and Chester that they were going
to be married as soon as they could get a licence. Then Ivy turned to
Chester.

"I should so much like your wife to come up for my wedding. D'you think
she would?"

"You're not going to be married here?"

"Yes. Our respective relations will only disapprove, so we're not going
to tell them until it's all over. We shall ask Dr. Lennox to give me
away."

She looked mildly at Chester, waiting for him to speak, for he had not
answered her. The other two men watched him. His voice shook a little
when he spoke.

"It's very kind of you to want her. I'll write and ask her."

When the news spread among the patients, though everyone congratulated
them, most of them privately told one another that it was very
injudicious; but when they learnt, as sooner or later everything that
happened in the sanatorium was learnt, that Dr. Lennox had told
Templeton that if he married he would be dead in six months, they were
awed to silence. Even the dullest were moved at the thought of these two
persons who loved one another so much that they were prepared to
sacrifice their lives. A spirit of kindliness and good will descended on
the sanatorium: people who hadn't been speaking spoke to one another
again; others forgot for a brief space their own anxieties. Everyone
seemed to share in the happiness of the happy pair. And it was not only
the spring that filled those sick hearts with new hope, the great love
that had taken possession of the man and the girl seemed to spread its
effulgence on all that came near them. Ivy was quietly blissful; the
excitement became her and she looked younger and prettier. Templeton
seemed to walk on air. He laughed and joked as if he hadn't a care in
the world. You would have said that he looked forward to long years of
uninterrupted felicity. But one day he confided in Ashenden.

"This isn't a bad place, you know," he said. "Ivy's promised me that
when I hand in my checks she'll come back here. She knows the people and
she won't be so lonely."

"Doctors are often mistaken," said Ashenden. "If you live reasonably I
don't see why you shouldn't go on for a long time yet."

"I'm only asking for three months. If I can only have that it'll be
worth it."

Mrs. Chester came up two days before the wedding. She had not seen her
husband for several months and they were shy with one another. It was
easy to guess that when they were alone they felt awkward and
constrained. Yet Chester did his best to shake off the depression that
was now habitual and at all events at meal-times showed himself the
jolly, hearty little fellow that he must have been before he fell ill.
On the eve of the wedding day they all dined together, Templeton and
Ashenden both sitting up for dinner; they drank champagne and stayed up
till ten joking, laughing and enjoying themselves. The wedding took
place next morning in the kirk. Ashenden was best man. Everyone in the
sanatorium who could stand on his feet attended it. The newly married
couple were setting out by car immediately after lunch. Patients,
doctors and nurses assembled to see them off. Someone had tied an old
shoe on the back of the car, and as Templeton and his wife came out of
the door of the sanatorium rice was flung over them. A cheer was raised
as they drove away, as they drove away to love and death. The crowd
separated slowly. Chester and his wife went silently side by side. After
they had gone a little way he shyly took her hand. Her heart seemed to
miss a beat. With a sidelong glance she saw that his eyes were wet with
tears.

"Forgive me, dear," he said. "I've been very unkind to you."

"I knew you didn't mean it," she faltered.

"Yes, I did. I wanted you to suffer because I was suffering. But not any
more. All this about Templeton and Ivy Bishop--I don't know how to put
it, it's made me see everything differently. I don't mind dying any
more. I don't think death's very important, not so important as love.
And I want you to live and be happy. I don't grudge you anything any
more and I don't resent anything. I'm glad now it's me that must die and
not you. I wish for you everything that's good in the world. I love
you."




THE SOCIAL SENSE


I do not like long-standing engagements. How can you tell whether on a
certain day three or four weeks ahead you will wish to dine with a
certain person? The chances are that in the interval something will turn
up that you would much sooner do and so long a notice presages a large
and formal party. But what help is there? The date has been fixed thus
far away so that the guests bidden may be certainly disengaged and it
needs a very adequate excuse to prevent your refusal from seeming
churlish. You accept, and for a month the engagement hangs over you with
gloomy menace. It interferes with your cherished plans. It disorganises
your life. There is really only one way to cope with the situation and
that is to put yourself off at the last moment. But it is one that I
have never had the courage or the want of scruple to adopt.

It was with a faint sense of resentment then that one June evening
towards half-past eight I left my lodging in Half Moon Street to walk
round the corner to dine with the Macdonalds. I liked them. Many years
ago I made up my mind not to eat the food of persons I disliked or
despised, and though I have on this account enjoyed the hospitality of
far fewer people than I otherwise should have done I still think the
rule a good one. The Macdonalds were nice, but their parties were a
toss-up. They suffered from the delusion that if they asked six persons
to dine with them who had nothing in the world to say to one another the
party would be a failure, but if they multiplied it by three and asked
eighteen it must be a success. I arrived a little late, which is almost
inevitable when you live so near the house you are going to that it is
not worth while to take a taxi, and the room into which I was shown was
filled with people. I knew few of them and my heart sank as I saw myself
laboriously making conversation through a long dinner with two total
strangers. It was a relief to me when I saw Thomas and Mary Warton come
in and an unexpected pleasure when I found on going in to dinner that I
had been placed next to Mary.

Thomas Warton was a portrait-painter who at one time had had
considerable success, but he had never fulfilled the promise of his
youth and had long ceased to be taken seriously by the critics. He made
an adequate income, but at the Private View of the Royal Academy no one
gave more than a passing glance at the dull but conscientious portraits
of fox-hunting squires and prosperous merchants which with unfailing
regularity he sent to the annual exhibition. One would have liked to
admire his work because he was an amiable and kindly man. If you
happened to be a writer he was so genuinely enthusiastic over anything
you had done, so charmed with any success you might have had, that you
wished your conscience would allow you to speak with decent warmth of
his own productions. It was impossible and you were driven to the last
refuge of the portrait painter's friend.

"It looks as if it were a marvellous likeness," you said.

Mary Warton had been in her day a well-known concert singer and she had
still the remains of a lovely voice. She must in her youth have been
very handsome. Now, at fifty-three, she had a haggard look. Her features
were rather mannish and her skin was weather-beaten; but her short grey
hair was thick and curly and her fine eyes were bright with
intelligence. She dressed picturesquely rather than fashionably and she
had a weakness for strings of beads and fantastic ear-rings. She had a
blunt manner, a quick sense of human folly and a sharp tongue, so that
many people did not like her. But no one could deny that she was clever.
She was not only an accomplished musician, but she was a great reader
and she was passionately interested in painting. She had a very rare
feeling for art. She liked the modern, not from pose but from natural
inclination, and she had bought for next to nothing the pictures of
unknown painters who later became famous. You heard at her house the
most recent and difficult music and no poet or novelist in Europe could
offer the world something new and strange without her being ready to
fight on his behalf the good fight against the philistines. You might
say she was a highbrow; she was; but her taste was almost faultless, her
judgment sound and her enthusiasm honest.

No one admired her more than Thomas Warton. He had fallen in love with
her when she was still a singer and had pestered her to marry him. She
had refused him half a dozen times and I had a notion that she had
married him in the end with hesitation. She thought that he would become
a great painter and when he turned out to be no more than a decent
craftsman, without originality or imagination, she felt that she had
been cheated. She was mortified by the contempt with which the
connoisseurs regarded him. Thomas Warton loved his wife. He had the
greatest respect for her judgment and would sooner have had a word of
praise from her than columns of eulogy in all the papers in London. She
was too honest to say what she did not think. It wounded him bitterly
that she held his work in such poor esteem, and though he pretended to
make a joke of it you could see that at heart he resented her outspoken
comments. Sometimes his long, horse-like face grew red with the anger he
tried to control and his eyes dark with hatred. It was notorious among
their friends that the couple did not get on. They had the distressing
habit of fripping in public. Warton never spoke to others of Mary but
with admiration, but she was less discreet and her confidants knew how
exasperating she found him. She admitted his goodness, his generosity,
his unselfishness; she admitted them ungrudgingly; but his defects were
of the sort that make a man hard to live with, for he was narrow,
argumentative and conceited. He was not an artist and Mary Warton cared
more for art than for anything in the world. It was a matter on which
she could not compromise. It blinded her to the fact that the faults in
Warton that maddened her were due in large part to his hurt feelings.
She wounded him continually and he was dogmatic and intolerant in
self-protection. There cannot be anything much worse than to be despised
by the one person whose approval is all in all to you; and though Thomas
Warton was intolerable it was impossible not to feel sorry for him. But
if I have given the impression that Mary was a discontented, rather
tiresome, pretentious woman I have been unjust to her. She was a loyal
friend and a delightful companion. You could talk to her of any subject
under the sun. Her conversation was humorous and witty. Her vitality was
immense.

She was sitting now on the left hand of her host and the talk around her
was general. I was occupied with my next-door neighbour, but I guessed
by the laughter with which Mary's sallies were greeted that she was at
her brilliant best. When she was in the vein no one could approach her.

"You're in great form to-night," I remarked, when at last she turned to
me.

"Does it surprise you?"

"No, it's what I expect of you. No wonder people tumble over one another
to get you to their houses. You have the inestimable gift of making a
party go."

"I do my little best to earn my dinner."

"By the way, how's Manson? Someone told me the other day that he was
going into a nursing-home for an operation. I hope it's nothing
serious."

Mary paused for a moment before answering, but she still smiled
brightly.

"Haven't you seen the paper to-night?"

"No, I've been playing golf. I only got home in time to jump into a bath
and change."

"He died at two o'clock this afternoon." I was about to make an
exclamation of horrified surprise, but she stopped me. "Take care. Tom
is watching me like a lynx. They're all watching me. They all know I
adored him, but they none of them know for certain if he was my lover,
even Tom doesn't know; they want to see how I'm taking it. Try to look
as if you were talking of the Russian Ballet."

At that moment someone addressed her from the other side of the table,
and throwing back her head a little with a gesture that was habitual
with her, a smile on her large mouth, she flung at the speaker so quick
and apt an answer that everyone round her burst out laughing. The talk
once more became general and I was left to my consternation.

I knew, everyone knew, that for five and twenty years there had existed
between Gerrard Manson and Mary Warton a passionate attachment. It had
lasted so long that even the more strait-laced of their friends, if ever
they had been shocked by it, had long since learnt to accept it with
tolerance. They were middle-aged people, Manson was sixty and Mary not
much younger, and it was absurd that at their age they should not do
what they liked. You met them sometimes sitting in a retired corner of
an obscure restaurant or walking together in the Zoo and you wondered
why they still took care to conceal an affair that was nobody's business
but their own. But of course there was Thomas. He was insanely jealous
of Mary. He made many violent scenes and indeed, at the end of one
tempestuous period, not so very long ago, he forced her to promise never
to see Manson again. Of course she broke the promise, and though she
knew that Thomas suspected this, she took precautions to prevent him
from discovering it for a fact.

It was hard on Thomas. I think he and Mary would have jogged on well
enough together and she would have resigned herself to the fact that he
was a second-rate painter if her intercourse with Manson had not
embittered her judgment. The contrast between her husband's mediocrity
and her lover's brilliance was too galling.

"With Tom I feel as if I were stifling in a closed room full of dusty
knick-knacks," she told me. "With Gerrard I breathe the pure air of the
mountain tops."

"Is it possible for a woman to fall in love with a man's mind?" I asked
in a pure spirit of enquiry.

"What else is there in Gerrard?"

That, I admit, was a poser. For my part I thought, nothing; but the sex
is extraordinary and I was quite ready to believe that Mary saw in
Gerrard Manson a charm and a physical attractiveness to which most
people were blind. He was a shrivelled little man, with a pale
intellectual face, faded blue eyes behind his spectacles, and a high
dome of shiny bald head. He had none of the appearance of a romantic
lover. On the other hand he was certainly a very subtle critic and a
felicitous essayist. I resented somewhat his contemptuous attitude
towards English writers unless they were safely dead and buried; but
this was only to his credit with the intelligentsia, who are ever ready
to believe that there can be no good in what is produced in their own
country, and with them his influence was great. On one occasion I told
him that one had only to put a commonplace in French for him to mistake
it for an epigram and he had thought well enough of the joke to use it
as his own in one of his essays. He reserved such praise as he was
willing to accord his contemporaries to those who wrote in a foreign
tongue. The exasperating thing was that no one could deny that he was
himself a brilliant writer. His style was exquisite. His knowledge was
vast. He could be profound without pomposity, amusing without frivolity,
and polished without affectation. His slightest article was readable.
His essays were little masterpieces. For my part I did not find him a
very agreeable companion. Perhaps I did not get the best out of him.
Though I knew him a great many years I never heard him say an amusing
thing. He was not talkative and when he made a remark it was oracular.
The prospect of spending an evening alone with him would have filled me
with dismay. It never ceased to puzzle me that this dull and mannered
little man should be able to write with so much grace, wit and gaiety.

It puzzled me even more that a gallant and vivacious creature like Mary
Warton should have cherished for him so consuming a passion. These
things are inexplicable and there was evidently something in that odd,
crabbed, irascible creature that appealed to women. His wife adored him.
She was a fat, frowsy boring person. She had led Gerrard a dog's life,
but had always refused to give him his freedom. She swore to kill
herself if he left her and since she was unbalanced and hysterical he
was never quite certain that she would not carry out her threat. One
day, when I was having tea with Mary, I saw that she was distraught and
nervous and when I asked her what was the matter she burst into tears.
She had been lunching with Manson and had found him shattered after a
terrific scene with his wife.

"We can't go on like this," Mary cried. "It's ruining his life. It's
ruining all our lives."

"Why don't you take the plunge?"

"What do you mean?"

"You've been lovers so long, you know the best and the worst of one
another by now; you're getting old and you can't count on many more
years of life; it seems a pity to waste a love that has endured so long.
What good are you doing to Mrs. Manson or to Tom? Are they happy because
you two are making yourselves miserable?"

"No."

"Then why don't you chuck everything and just go off together and let
come what may?"

Mary shook her head.

"We've talked that over endlessly. We've talked it over for a quarter of
a century. It's impossible. For years Gerrard couldn't on account of his
daughters. Mrs. Manson may have been a very fond mother, but she was a
very bad one, and there was no one to see the girls were properly
brought up but Gerrard. And now that they're married off he's set in his
habits. What should we do? Go to France or Italy? I couldn't tear
Gerrard away from his surroundings. He'd be wretched. He's too old to
make a fresh start. And besides, though Thomas nags me and makes scenes
and we frip and get on one another's nerves, he loves me. When it came
to the point I simply shouldn't have the heart to leave him. He'd be
lost without me."

"It's a situation without an issue. I'm dreadfully sorry for you."

On a sudden Mary's haggard, weather-beaten face was lit by a smile that
broke on her large red mouth; and upon my word at that moment she was
beautiful.

"You need not be. I was rather low a little while ago, but now I've had
a good cry I feel better. Notwithstanding all the pain, all the
unhappiness this affair has caused me, I wouldn't have missed it for all
the world. For those few moments of ecstasy my love has brought me I
would be willing to live all my life over again. And I think he'd tell
you the same thing. Oh, it's been so infinitely worth while."

I could not help but be moved.

"There's no doubt about it," I said. "That's love all right."

"Yes, it's love, and we've just got to go through with it. There's no
way out."

And now with this tragic suddenness the way out had come. I turned a
little to look at Mary and she, feeling my eyes upon her, turned too.
There was a smile on her lips.

"Why did you come here to-night? It must be awful for you."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"What could I do? I read the news in the evening paper while I was
dressing. He'd asked me not to ring up the nursing-home on account of
his wife. It's death to me. Death. I had to come. We'd been engaged for
a month. What excuse could I give Tom? I'm not supposed to have seen
Gerrard for two years. Do you know that for twenty years we've written
to one another every day?" Her lower lip trembled a little, but she bit
it and for a moment her face was twisted to a strange grimace; then with
a smile she pulled herself together. "He was everything I had in the
world, but I couldn't let the party down, could I? He always said I had
a social sense."

"Happily we shall break up early and you can go home."

"I don't want to go home. I don't want to be alone. I daren't cry
because my eyes will get red and swollen, and we've got a lot of people
lunching with us to-morrow. Will you come, by the way? I want an extra
man. I must be in good form; Tom expects to get a commission for a
portrait out of it."

"By George, you've got courage."

"D'you think so? I'm heartbroken, you know. I suppose that's what makes
it easier for me. Gerrard would have liked me to put a good face on it.
He would have appreciated the irony of the situation. It's the sort of
thing he always thought the French novelists described so well."




THE VERGER


There had been a christening that afternoon at St. Peter's, Neville
Square, and Albert Edward Foreman still wore his verger's gown. He kept
his new one, its folds as full and stiff as though it were made not of
alpaca but of perennial bronze, for funerals and weddings (St. Peter's,
Neville Square, was a church much favoured by the fashionable for these
ceremonies) and now he wore only his second-best. He wore it with
complacence, for it was the dignified symbol of his office, and without
it (when he took it off to go home) he had the disconcerting sensation
of being somewhat insufficiently clad. He took pains with it; he pressed
it and ironed it himself. During the sixteen years he had been verger of
this church he had had a succession of such gowns, but he had never been
able to throw them away when they were worn out and the complete series,
neatly wrapped up in brown paper, lay in the bottom drawers of the
wardrobe in his bedroom.

The verger busied himself quietly, replacing the painted wooden cover on
the marble font, taking away a chair that had been brought for an infirm
old lady, and waited for the vicar to have finished in the vestry so
that he could tidy up in there and go home. Presently he saw him walk
across the chancel, genuflect in front of the high altar and come down
the aisle; but he still wore his cassock.

"What's he 'anging about for?" the verger said to himself. "Don't 'e
know I want my tea?"

The vicar had been but recently appointed, a red-faced energetic man in
the early forties, and Albert Edward still regretted his predecessor, a
clergyman of the old school who preached leisurely sermons in a silvery
voice and dined out a great deal with his more aristocratic
parishioners. He liked things in church to be just so, but he never
fussed; he was not like this new man who wanted to have his finger in
every pie. But Albert Edward was tolerant. St. Peter's was in a very
good neighbourhood and the parishioners were a very nice class of
people. The new vicar had come from the East End and he couldn't be
expected to fall in all at once with the discreet ways of his
fashionable congregation.

"All this 'ustle," said Albert Edward. "But give 'im time, he'll learn."

When the vicar had walked down the aisle so far that he could address
the verger without raising his voice more than was becoming in a place
of worship he stopped.

"Foreman, will you come into the vestry for a minute. I have something
to say to you."

"Very good, sir."

The vicar waited for him to come up and they walked up the church
together.

"A very nice christening, I thought, sir. Funny 'ow the baby stopped
cryin' the moment you took him."

"I've noticed they very often do," said the vicar, with a little smile.
"After all I've had a good deal of practice with them."

It was a source of subdued pride to him that he could nearly always
quiet a whimpering infant by the manner in which he held it and he was
not unconscious of the amused admiration with which mothers and nurses
watched him settle the baby in the crook of his surpliced arm. The
verger knew that it pleased him to be complimented on his talent.

The vicar preceded Albert Edward into the vestry. Albert Edward was a
trifle surprised to find the two churchwardens there. He had not seen
them come in. They gave him pleasant nods.

"Good-afternoon, my lord. Good-afternoon, sir," he said to one after the
other.

They were elderly men, both of them, and they had been churchwardens
almost as long as Albert Edward had been verger. They were sitting now
at a handsome refectory table that the old vicar had brought many years
before from Italy and the vicar sat down in the vacant chair between
them. Albert Edward faced them, the table between him and them, and
wondered with slight uneasiness what was the matter. He remembered still
the occasion on which the organist had got into trouble and the bother
they had all had to hush things up. In a church like St. Peter's,
Neville Square, they couldn't afford a scandal. On the vicar's red face
was a look of resolute benignity, but the others bore an expression that
was slightly troubled.

"He's been naggin' them, he 'as," said the verger to himself. "He's
jockeyed them into doin' something, but they don't 'alf like it. That's
what it is, you mark my words."

But his thoughts did not appear on Albert Edward's clean-cut and
distinguished features. He stood in a respectful but not obsequious
attitude. He had been in service before he was appointed to his
ecclesiastical office, but only in very good houses, and his deportment
was irreproachable. Starting as a page-boy in the household of a
merchant-prince, he had risen by due degrees from the position of fourth
to first footman, for a year he had been single-handed butler to a
widowed peeress and, till the vacancy occurred at St. Peter's, butler
with two men under him in the house of a retired ambassador. He was
tall, spare, grave and dignified. He looked, if not like a duke, at
least like an actor of the old school who specialised in dukes' parts.
He had tact, firmness and self-assurance. His character was
unimpeachable.

The vicar began briskly.

"Foreman, we've got something rather unpleasant to say to you. You've
been here a great many years and I think his lordship and the general
agree with me that you've fulfilled the duties of your office to the
satisfaction of everybody concerned."

The two churchwardens nodded.

"But a most extraordinary circumstance came to my knowledge the other
day and I felt it my duty to impart it to the churchwardens. I
discovered to my astonishment that you could neither read nor write."

The verger's face betrayed no sign of embarrassment.

"The last vicar knew that, sir," he replied. "He said it didn't make no
difference. He always said there was a great deal too much education in
the world for 'is taste."

"It's the most amazing thing I ever heard," cried the general. "Do you
mean to say that you've been verger of this church for sixteen years and
never learned to read or write?"

"I went into service when I was twelve, sir. The cook in the first place
tried to teach me once, but I didn't seem to 'ave the knack for it, and
then what with one thing and another I never seemed to 'ave the time.
I've never really found the want of it. I think a lot of these young
fellows waste a rare lot of time readin' when they might be doin'
something useful."

"But don't you want to know the news?" said the other churchwarden.
"Don't you ever want to write a letter?"

"No, me lord, I seem to manage very well without. And of late years now
they've all these pictures in the papers I get to know what's goin' on
pretty well. Me wife's quite a scholar and if I want to write a letter
she writes it for me. It's not as if I was a bettin' man."

The two churchwardens gave the vicar a troubled glance and then looked
down at the table.

"Well, Foreman, I've talked the matter over with these gentlemen and
they quite agree with me that the situation is impossible. At a church
like St. Peter's, Neville Square, we cannot have a verger who can
neither read nor write."

Albert Edward's thin, sallow face reddened and he moved uneasily on his
feet, but he made no reply.

"Understand me, Foreman, I have no complaint to make against you. You do
your work quite satisfactorily; I have the highest opinion both of your
character and of your capacity; but we haven't the right to take the
risk of some accident that might happen owing to your lamentable
ignorance. It's a matter of prudence as well as of principle."

"But couldn't you learn, Foreman?" asked the general.

"No, sir, I'm afraid I couldn't, not now. You see, I'm not as young as I
was and if I couldn't seem able to get the letters in me 'ead when I was
a nipper I don't think there's much chance of it now."

"We don't want to be harsh with you, Foreman," said the vicar. "But the
churchwardens and I have quite made up our minds. We'll give you three
months and if at the end of that time you cannot read and write I'm
afraid you'll have to go."

Albert Edward had never liked the new vicar. He'd said from the
beginning that they'd made a mistake when they gave him St. Peter's. He
wasn't the type of man they wanted with a classy congregation like that.
And now he straightened himself a little. He knew his value and he
wasn't going to allow himself to be put upon.

"I'm very sorry, sir, I'm afraid it's no good. I'm too old a dog to
learn new tricks. I've lived a good many years without knowin' 'ow to
read and write, and without wishin' to praise myself, self-praise is no
recommendation, I don't mind sayin' I've done my duty in that state of
life in which it 'as pleased a merciful providence to place me, and if I
_could_ learn now I don't know as I'd want to."

"In that case, Foreman, I'm afraid you must go."

"Yes, sir, I quite understand. I shall be 'appy to 'and in my
resignation as soon as you've found somebody to take my place."

But when Albert Edward with his usual politeness had closed the church
door behind the vicar and the two churchwardens he could not sustain the
air of unruffled dignity with which he had borne the blow inflicted upon
him and his lips quivered. He walked slowly back to the vestry and hung
up on its proper peg his verger's gown. He sighed as he thought of all
the grand funerals and smart weddings it had seen. He tidied everything
up, put on his coat, and hat in hand walked down the aisle. He locked
the church door behind him. He strolled across the square, but deep in
his sad thoughts he did not take the street that led him home, where a
nice strong cup of tea awaited him; he took the wrong turning. He walked
slowly along. His heart was heavy. He did not know what he should do
with himself. He did not fancy the notion of going back to domestic
service; after being his own master for so many years, for the vicar and
churchwardens could say what they liked, it was he that had run St.
Peter's, Neville Square, he could scarcely demean himself by accepting a
situation. He had saved a tidy sum, but not enough to live on without
doing something, and life seemed to cost more every year. He had never
thought to be troubled with such questions. The vergers of St. Peter's,
like the popes of Rome, were there for life. He had often thought of the
pleasant reference the vicar would make in his sermon at evensong the
first Sunday after his death to the long and faithful service, and the
exemplary character of their late verger, Albert Edward Foreman. He
sighed deeply. Albert Edward was a non-smoker and a total abstainer, but
with a certain latitude; that is to say he liked a glass of beer with
his dinner and when he was tired he enjoyed a cigarette. It occurred to
him now that one would comfort him and since he did not carry them he
looked about him for a shop where he could buy a packet of Gold Flakes.
He did not at once see one and walked on a little. It was a long street,
with all sorts of shops in it, but there was not a single one where you
could buy cigarettes.

"That's strange," said Albert Edward.

To make sure he walked right up the street again. No, there was no doubt
about it. He stopped and looked reflectively up and down.

"I can't be the only man as walks along this street and wants a fag," he
said. "I shouldn't wonder but what a fellow might do very well with a
little shop here. Tobacco and sweets, you know."

He gave a sudden start.

"That's an idea," he said. "Strange 'ow things come to you when you
least expect it."

He turned, walked home, and had his tea.

"You're very silent this afternoon, Albert," his wife remarked.

"I'm thinkin'," he said.

He considered the matter from every point of view and next day he went
along the street and by good luck found a little shop to let that looked
as though it would exactly suit him. Twenty-four hours later he had
taken it and when a month after that he left St. Peter's, Neville
Square, for ever, Albert Edward Foreman set up in business as a
tobacconist and newsagent. His wife said it was a dreadful come-down
after being verger of St. Peter's, but he answered that you had to move
with the times, the church wasn't what it was, and 'enceforward he was
going to render unto Csar what was Csar's. Albert Edward did very
well. He did so well that in a year or so it struck him that he might
take a second shop and put a manager in. He looked for another long
street that hadn't got a tobacconist in it and when he found it, and a
shop to let, took it and stocked it. This was a success too. Then it
occurred to him that if he could run two he could run half a dozen, so
he began walking about London, and whenever he found a long street that
had no tobacconist and a shop to let he took it. In the course of ten
years he had acquired no less than ten shops and he was making money
hand over fist. He went round to all of them himself every Monday,
collected the week's takings and took them to the bank.

One morning when he was there paying in a bundle of notes and a heavy
bag of silver the cashier told him that the manager would like to see
him. He was shown into an office and the manager shook hands with him.

"Mr. Foreman, I wanted to have a talk to you about the money you've got
on deposit with us. D'you know exactly how much it is?"

"Not within a pound or two, sir; but I've got a pretty rough idea."

"Apart from what you paid in this morning it's a little over thirty
thousand pounds. That's a very large sum to have on deposit and I should
have thought you'd do better to invest it."

"I wouldn't want to take no risk, sir. I know it's safe in the bank."

"You needn't have the least anxiety. We'll make you out a list of
absolutely gilt-edged securities. They'll bring you in a better rate of
interest than we can possibly afford to give you."

A troubled look settled on Mr. Foreman's distinguished face. "I've never
'ad anything to do with stocks and shares and I'd 'ave to leave it all
in your 'ands," he said.

The manager smiled. "We'll do everything. All you'll have to do next
time you come in is just to sign the transfers."

"I could do that all right," said Albert uncertainly. "But 'ow should I
know what I was signin'?"

"I suppose you can read," said the manager a trifle sharply.

Mr. Foreman gave him a disarming smile.

"Well, sir, that's just it. I can't. I know it sounds funny-like, but
there it is, I can't read or write, only me name, an' I only learnt to
do that when I went into business."

The manager was so surprised that he jumped up from his chair.

"That's the most extraordinary thing I ever heard."

"You see, it's like this, sir, I never 'ad the opportunity until it was
too late and then some'ow I wouldn't. I got obstinate-like."

The manager stared at him as though he were a prehistoric monster.

"And do you mean to say that you've built up this important business and
amassed a fortune of thirty thousand pounds without being able to read
or write? Good God, man, what would you be now if you had been able to?"

"I can tell you that, sir," said Mr. Foreman, a little smile on his
still aristocratic features. "I'd be verger of St. Peter's, Neville
Square."




IN A STRANGE LAND


I am of a roving disposition; but I travel not to see imposing
monuments, which indeed somewhat bore me, nor beautiful scenery, of
which I soon tire; I travel to see men. I avoid the great. I would not
cross the road to meet a president or a king; I am content to know the
writer in the pages of his book and the painter in his picture; but I
have journeyed a hundred leagues to see a missionary of whom I had heard
a strange story and I have spent a fortnight in a vile hotel in order to
improve my acquaintance with a billiard-marker. I should be inclined to
say that I am not surprised to meet any sort of person were it not that
there is one sort that I am constantly running against and that never
fails to give me a little shock of amused astonishment. This is the
elderly Englishwoman, generally of adequate means, who is to be found
living alone, up and down the world, in unexpected places. You do not
wonder when you hear of her living in a villa on a hill outside a small
Italian town, the only Englishwoman in the neighbourhood, and you are
almost prepared for it when a lonely hacienda is pointed out to you in
Andalusia and you are told that there has dwelt for many years an
English lady. But it is more surprising when you hear that the only
white person in a Chinese city is an Englishwoman, not a missionary, who
lives there none knows why; and there is another who inhabits an island
in the South Seas and a third who has a bungalow on the outskirts of a
large village in the centre of Java. They live solitary lives, these
women, without friends, and they do not welcome the stranger. Though
they may not have seen one of their own race for months they will pass
you on the road as though they did not see you, and if, presuming on
your nationality, you should call, as likely as not they will decline to
see you; but if they do, they will give you a cup of tea from a silver
teapot and on a plate of Old Worcester you will find Scotch scones. They
will talk to you politely, as though they were entertaining you in a
Kentish vicarage, but when you take your leave will show no particular
desire to continue the acquaintance. One wonders in vain what strange
instinct it is that has driven them to separate themselves from their
kith and kin and thus to live apart from all their natural interests in
an alien land. Is it romance they have sought or freedom?

But of all these Englishwomen whom I have met or perhaps only heard of
(for as I have said they are difficult of access) the one who remains
most vividly in my memory is an elderly person who lived in Asia Minor.
I had arrived after a tedious journey at a little town from which I
proposed to make the ascent of a celebrated mountain and I was taken to
a rambling hotel that stood at its foot. I arrived late at night and
signed my name in the book. I went up to my room. It was cold and I
shivered as I undressed, but in a moment there was a knock at the door
and the dragoman came in.

"Signora Niccolini's compliments," he said.

To my astonishment he handed me a hot-water bottle. I took it with
grateful hands.

"Who is Signora Niccolini?" I asked.

"She is the proprietor of this hotel," he answered.

I sent her my thanks and he withdrew. The last thing I expected in a
scrubby hotel in Asia Minor kept by an old Italian woman was a beautiful
hot-water bottle. There is nothing I like more (if we were not all sick
to death of the war I would tell you the story of how six men risked
their lives to fetch a hot-water bottle from a chteau in Flanders that
was being bombarded); and next morning, so that I might thank her in
person, I asked if I might see the Signora Niccolini. While I waited for
her I racked my brains to think what hot-water bottle could possibly be
in Italian. In a moment she came in. She was a little stout woman, not
without dignity, and she wore a black apron trimmed with lace and a
small black lace cap. She stood with her hands crossed. I was astonished
at her appearance for she looked exactly like a housekeeper in a great
English house.

"Did you wish to speak to me, sir?"

She was an Englishwoman and in those few words I surely recognised the
trace of a cockney accent.

"I wanted to thank you for the hot-water bottle," I replied in some
confusion.

"I saw by the visitors' book that you were English, sir, and I always
send up a 'ot-water bottle to English gentlemen."

"Believe me, it was very welcome."

"I was for many years in the service of the late Lord Ormskirk, sir. He
always used to travel with a 'ot-water bottle. Is there anything else,
sir?"

"Not at the moment, thank you."

She gave me a polite little nod and withdrew. I wondered how on earth it
came about that a funny old Englishwoman like that should be the
landlady of a hotel in Asia Minor. It was not easy to make her
acquaintance, for she knew her place, as she would herself have put it,
and she kept me at a distance. It was not for nothing that she had been
in service in a noble English family. But I was persistent and I induced
her at last to ask me to have a cup of tea in her own little parlour. I
learnt that she had been lady's-maid to a certain Lady Ormskirk, and
Signor Niccolini (for she never alluded to her deceased husband in any
other way) had been his lordship's chef. Signor Niccolini was a very
handsome man and for some years there had been an "understanding"
between them. When they had both saved a certain amount of money they
were married, retired from service, and looked about for a hotel. They
had bought this one on an advertisement because Signor Niccolini thought
he would like to see something of the world. That was nearly thirty
years ago and Signor Niccolini had been dead for fifteen. His widow had
not once been back to England. I asked her if she was never homesick.

"I don't say as I wouldn't like to go back on a visit, though I expect
I'd find many changes. But my family didn't like the idea of me marrying
a foreigner and I 'aven't spoken to them since. Of course there are many
things here that are not the same as what they 'ave at 'ome, but it's
surprising what you get used to. I see a lot of life. I don't know as I
should care to live the 'umdrum life they do in a place like London."

I smiled. For what she said was strangely incongruous with her manner.
She was a pattern of decorum. It was extraordinary that she could have
lived for thirty years in this wild and almost barbaric country without
its having touched her. Though I knew no Turkish and she spoke it with
ease I was convinced that she spoke it most incorrectly and with a
cockney accent. I suppose she had remained the precise, prim English
lady's-maid, knowing her place, through all these vicissitudes because
she had no faculty of surprise. She took everything that came as a
matter of course. She looked upon everyone who wasn't English as a
foreigner and therefore as someone, almost imbecile, for whom allowances
must be made. She ruled her staff despotically--for did she not know how
an upper servant in a great house should exercise his authority over the
under servants?--and everything about the hotel was clean and neat.

"I do my best," she said, when I congratulated her on this, standing, as
always when she spoke to me, with her hands respectfully crossed. "Of
course one can't expect foreigners to 'ave the same ideas what we 'ave,
but as his lordship used to say to me, what we've got to do, Parker, he
said to me, what we've got to do in this life is to make the best of our
raw material."

But she kept her greatest surprise for the eve of my departure.

"I'm glad you're not going before you've seen my two sons, sir."

"I didn't know you had any."

"They've been away on business, but they've just come back. You'll be
surprised when you've seen them. I've trained them with me own 'ands so
to speak, and when I'm gone they'll carry on the 'otel between them."

In a moment two tall, swarthy, strapping young fellows entered the hall.
Her eyes lit up with pleasure. They went up to her and took her in their
arms and gave her resounding kisses.

"They don't speak English, sir, but they understand a little, and of
course they speak Turkish like natives, and Greek and Italian."

I shook hands with the pair and then Signora Niccolini said something to
them and they went away.

"They're handsome fellows, Signora," I said. "You must be very proud of
them."

"I am, sir, and they're good boys, both of them. They've never give me a
moment's trouble from the day they was born and they're the very image
of Signor Niccolini."

"I must say no one would think they had an English mother."

"I'm not exactly their mother, sir. I've just sent them along to say 'ow
do you do to 'er."

I dare say I looked a little confused.

"They're the sons that Signor Niccolini 'ad by a Greek girl that used to
work in the 'otel, and 'aving no children of me own I adopted them."

I sought for some remark to make.

"I 'ope you don't think that there's any blame attaches to Signor
Niccolini," she said, drawing herself up a little. "I shouldn't like you
to think that, sir." She folded her hands again and with a mixture of
pride, primness and satisfaction added the final word: "Signor Niccolini
was a very full-blooded man."




THE TAIPAN


No one knew better than he that he was an important person. He was
number one in not the least important branch of the most important
English firm in China. He had worked his way up through solid ability
and he looked back with a faint smile at the callow clerk who had come
out to China thirty years before. When he remembered the modest home he
had come from, a little red house in a long row of little red houses, in
Barnes, a suburb which, aiming desperately at the genteel, achieves only
a sordid melancholy, and compared it with the magnificent stone mansion,
with its wide verandahs and spacious rooms, which was at once the office
of the company and his own residence, he chuckled with satisfaction. He
had come a long way since then. He thought of the high tea to which he
sat down when he came home from school (he was at St. Paul's), with his
father and mother and his two sisters, a slice of cold meat, a great
deal of bread and butter and plenty of milk in his tea, everybody
helping himself, and then he thought of the state in which now he ate
his evening meal. He always dressed and whether he was alone or not he
expected the three boys to wait at table. His number one boy knew
exactly what he liked and he never had to bother himself with the
details of housekeeping; but he always had a set dinner with soup and
fish, entre, roast, sweet and savoury, so that if he wanted to ask
anyone in at the last moment he could. He liked his food and he did not
see why when he was alone he should have less good a dinner than when he
had a guest.

He had indeed gone far. That was why he did not care to go home now, he
had not been to England for ten years, and he took his leave in Japan or
Vancouver, where he was sure of meeting old friends from the China
coast. He knew no one at home. His sisters had married in their own
station, their husbands were clerks and their sons were clerks; there
was nothing between him and them; they bored him. He satisfied the
claims of relationship by sending them every Christmas a piece of fine
silk, some elaborate embroidery, or a case of tea. He was not a mean man
and as long as his mother lived he had made her an allowance. But when
the time came for him to retire he had no intention of going back to
England, he had seen too many men do that and he knew how often it was a
failure; he meant to take a house near the race-course in Shanghai: what
with bridge and his ponies and golf he expected to get through the rest
of his life very comfortably. But he had a good many years before he
need think of retiring. In another five or six Higgins would be going
home and then he would take charge of the head office in Shanghai.
Meanwhile he was very happy where he was, he could save money, which you
couldn't do in Shanghai, and have a good time into the bargain. This
place had another advantage over Shanghai: he was the most prominent man
in the community and what he said went. Even the consul took care to
keep on the right side of him. Once a consul and he had been at
loggerheads and it was not he who had gone to the wall. The taipan
thrust out his jaw pugnaciously as he thought of the incident.

But he smiled, for he felt in an excellent humour. He was walking back
to his office from a capital luncheon at the Hong-Kong and Shanghai
Bank. They did you very well there. The food was first-rate and there
was plenty of liquor. He had started with a couple of cocktails, then he
had some excellent sauterne and he had finished up with two glasses of
port and some fine old brandy. He felt good. And when he left he did a
thing that was rare with him; he walked. His bearers with his chair kept
a few paces behind him in case he felt inclined to slip into it, but he
enjoyed stretching his legs. He did not get enough exercise these days.
Now that he was too heavy to ride it was difficult to get exercise. But
if he was too heavy to ride he could still keep ponies, and as he
strolled along in the balmy air he thought of the spring meeting. He had
a couple of griffins that he had hopes of and one of the lads in his
office had turned out a fine jockey (he must see they didn't sneak him
away, old Higgins in Shanghai would give a pot of money to get him over
there) and he ought to pull off two or three races. He flattered himself
that he had the finest stable in the city. He pouted his broad chest
like a pigeon. It was a beautiful day, and it was good to be alive.

He paused as he came to the cemetery. It stood there, neat and orderly,
as an evident sign of the community's opulence. He never passed the
cemetery without a little glow of pride. He was pleased to be an
Englishman. For the cemetery stood in a place, valueless when it was
chosen, which with the increase of the city's affluence was now worth a
great deal of money. It had been suggested that the graves should be
moved to another spot and the land sold for building, but the feeling of
the community was against it. It gave the taipan a sense of satisfaction
to think that their dead rested on the most valuable site on the island.
It showed that there were things they cared for more than money. Money
be blowed! When it came to "the things that mattered" (this was a
favourite phrase with the taipan), well, one remembered that money
wasn't everything.

And now he thought he would take a stroll through. He looked at the
graves. They were neatly kept and the pathways were free from weeds.
There was a look of prosperity. And as he sauntered along he read the
names on the tombstones. Here were three side by side; the captain, the
first mate, and the second mate of the barque _Mary Baxter_, who had all
perished together in the typhoon of 1908. He remembered it well. There
was a little group of two missionaries, their wives and children, who
had been massacred during the Boxer troubles. Shocking thing that had
been! Not that he took much stock in missionaries; but, hang it all, one
couldn't have these damned Chinese massacring them. Then he came to a
cross with a name on it he knew. Good chap, Edward Mulock, but he
couldn't stand his liquor, drank himself to death, poor devil, at
twenty-five; the taipan had known a lot of them do that; there were
several more neat crosses with a man's name on them and the age,
twenty-five, twenty-six, or twenty-seven; it was always the same story:
they had come out to China; they had never seen so much money before,
they were good fellows and they wanted to drink with the rest: they
couldn't stand it, and there they were in the cemetery. You had to have
a strong head and a fine constitution to drink drink for drink on the
China coast. Of course it was very sad, but the taipan could hardly help
a smile when he thought how many of those young fellows he had drunk
underground. And there was a death that had been useful, a fellow in his
own firm, senior to him and a clever chap too: if that fellow had lived
he might not have been taipan now. Truly the ways of fate were
inscrutable. Ah, and here was little Mrs. Turner, Violet Turner, she had
been a pretty little thing, he had had quite an affair with her; he had
been devilish cut up when she died. He looked at her age on the
tombstone. She'd be no chicken if she were alive now. And as he thought
of all those dead people a sense of satisfaction spread through him. He
had beaten them all. They were dead and he was alive, and by George he'd
scored them off. His eyes collected in one picture all those crowded
graves and he smiled scornfully. He very nearly rubbed his hands.

"No one ever thought I was a fool," he muttered.

He had a feeling of good-natured contempt for the gibbering dead. Then,
as he strolled along, he came suddenly upon two coolies digging a grave.
He was astonished, for he had not heard that anyone in the community was
dead.

"Who the devil's that for?" he said aloud.

The coolies did not even look at him, they went on with their work,
standing in the grave, deep down, and they shovelled up heavy clods of
earth. Though he had been so long in China he knew no Chinese, in his
day it was not thought necessary to learn the damned language, and he
asked the coolies in English whose grave they were digging. They did not
understand. They answered him in Chinese and he cursed them for ignorant
fools. He knew that Mrs. Broome's child was ailing and it might have
died, but he would certainly have heard of it, and besides, that wasn't
a child's grave, it was a man's and a big man's too. It was uncanny. He
wished he hadn't gone into that cemetery; he hurried out and stepped
into his chair. His good-humour had all gone and there was an uneasy
frown on his face. The moment he got back to his office he called to his
number two:

"I say, Peters, who's dead, d'you know?"

But Peters knew nothing. The taipan was puzzled. He called one of the
native clerks and sent him to the cemetery to ask the coolies. He began
to sign his letters. The clerk came back and said the coolies had gone
and there was no one to ask. The taipan began to feel vaguely annoyed:
he did not like things to happen of which he knew nothing. His own boy
would know, his boy always knew everything, and he sent for him; but the
boy had heard of no death in the community.

"I knew no one was dead," said the taipan irritably. "But what's the
grave for?"

He told the boy to go to the overseer of the cemetery and find out what
the devil he had dug a grave for when no one was dead.

"Let me have a whisky and soda before you go," he added, as the boy was
leaving the room.

He did not know why the sight of the grave had made him uncomfortable.
But he tried to put it out of his mind. He felt better when he had drunk
the whisky, and he finished his work. He went upstairs and turned over
the pages of _Punch_. In a few minutes he would go to the club and play
a rubber or two of bridge before dinner. But it would ease his mind to
hear what his boy had to say and he waited for his return. In a little
while the boy came back and he brought the overseer with him.

"What are you having a grave dug for?" he asked the overseer
point-blank. "Nobody's dead."

"I no dig glave," said the man.

"What the devil do you mean by that? There were two coolies digging a
grave this afternoon."

The two Chinese looked at one another. Then the boy said they had been
to the cemetery together. There was no new grave there.

The taipan only just stopped himself from speaking.

"But damn it all, I saw it myself," were the words on the tip of his
tongue.

But he did not say them. He grew very red as he choked them down. The
two Chinese looked at him with their steady eyes. For a moment his
breath failed him.

"All right. Get out," he gasped.

But as soon as they were gone he shouted for the boy again, and when he
came, maddeningly impassive, he told him to bring some whisky. He rubbed
his sweating face with a handkerchief. His hand trembled when he lifted
the glass to his lips. They could say what they liked, but he had seen
the grave. Why, he could hear still the dull thud as the coolies threw
the spadefuls of earth on the ground above them. What did it mean? He
could feel his heart beating. He felt strangely ill at ease. But he
pulled himself together. It was all nonsense. If there was no grave
there it must have been an hallucination. The best thing he could do was
to go to the club, and if he ran across the doctor he would ask him to
give him a look over.

Everyone in the club looked just the same as ever. He did not know why
he should have expected them to look different. It was a comfort. These
men, living for many years with one another lives that were methodically
regulated, had acquired a number of little idiosyncrasies--one of them
hummed incessantly while he played bridge, another insisted on drinking
beer through a straw--and these tricks which had so often irritated the
taipan now gave him a sense of security. He needed it, for he could not
get out of his head that strange sight he had seen; he played bridge
very badly; his partner was censorious, and the taipan lost his temper.
He thought the men were looking at him oddly. He wondered what they saw
in him that was unaccustomed.

Suddenly he felt he could not bear to stay in the club any longer. As he
went out he saw the doctor reading _The Times_ in the reading-room, but
he could not bring himself to speak to him. He wanted to see for himself
whether that grave was really there and stepping into his chair he told
his bearers to take him to the cemetery. You couldn't have an
hallucination twice, could you? And besides, he would take the overseer
in with him and if the grave was not there he wouldn't see it, and if it
was he'd give the overseer the soundest thrashing he'd ever had. But the
overseer was nowhere to be found. He had gone out and taken the keys
with him. When the taipan found he could not get into the cemetery he
felt suddenly exhausted. He got back into his chair and told his bearers
to take him home. He would lie down for half an hour before dinner. He
was tired out. That was it. He had heard that people had hallucinations
when they were tired. When his boy came in to put out his clothes for
dinner it was only by an effort of will that he got up. He had a strong
inclination not to dress that evening, but he resisted it: he made it a
rule to dress, he had dressed every evening for twenty years and it
would never do to break his rule. But he ordered a bottle of champagne
with his dinner and that made him feel more comfortable. Afterwards he
told the boy to bring him the best brandy. When he had drunk a couple of
glasses of this he felt himself again. Hallucinations be damned! He went
to the billiard-room and practised a few difficult shots. There could
not be much the matter with him when his eye was so sure. When he went
to bed he sank immediately into a sound sleep.

But suddenly he awoke. He had dreamed of that open grave and the coolies
digging leisurely. He was sure he had seen them. It was absurd to say it
was an hallucination when he had seen them with his own eyes. Then he
heard the rattle of the night-watchman going his rounds. It broke upon
the stillness of the night so harshly that it made him jump out of his
skin. And then terror seized him. He felt a horror of the winding
multitudinous streets of the Chinese city, and there was something
ghastly and terrible in the convoluted roofs of the temples with their
devils grimacing and tortured. He loathed the smells that assaulted his
nostrils. And the people. Those myriads of blue-clad coolies, and the
beggars in their filthy rags, and the merchants and the magistrates,
sleek, smiling, and inscrutable, in their long black gowns. They seemed
to press upon him with menace. He hated the country. China. Why had he
ever come? He was panic-stricken now. He must get out. He would not stay
another year, another month. What did he care about Shanghai?

"Oh, my God," he cried, "if I were only safely back in England."

He wanted to go home. If he had to die he wanted to die in England. He
could not bear to be buried among all these yellow men, with their
slanting eyes and their grinning faces. He wanted to be buried at home,
not in that grave he had seen that day. He could never rest there.
Never. What did it matter what people thought? Let them think what they
liked. The only thing that mattered was to get away while he had the
chance.

He got out of bed and wrote to the head of the firm and said he had
discovered he was dangerously ill. He must be replaced. He could not
stay longer than was absolutely necessary. He must go home at once.

They found the letter in the morning clenched in the taipan's hand. He
had slipped down between the desk and the chair. He was stone dead.




THE CONSUL


Mr. Pete was in a state of the liveliest exasperation. He had been in
the consular service for more than twenty years and he had had to deal
with all manner of vexatious people, officials who would not listen to
reason, merchants who took the British Government for a debt-collecting
agency, missionaries who resented as gross injustice any attempt at fair
play; but he never recollected a case which had left him more completely
at a loss. He was a mild-mannered man, but for no reason he flew into a
passion with his writer and he very nearly sacked the Eurasian clerk
because he had wrongly spelt two words in a letter placed before him for
his official signature. He was a conscientious man and he could not
persuade himself to leave his office before the clock struck four, but
the moment it did he jumped up and called for his hat and stick. Because
his boy did not bring them at once he abused him roundly. They say that
the consuls all grow a little odd; and the merchants who can live for
thirty-five years in China without learning enough of the language to
ask their way in the street say that it is because they have to study
Chinese; and there was no doubt that Mr. Pete was decidedly odd. He was
a bachelor and on that account had been sent to a series of posts which
by reason of their isolation were thought unsuited to married men. He
had lived so much alone that his natural tendency to eccentricity had
developed to an extravagant degree, and he had habits which surprised
the stranger. He was very absent-minded. He paid no attention to his
house, which was always in great disorder, nor to his food; his boys
gave him to eat what they liked and for everything he had made him pay
through the nose. He was untiring in his efforts to suppress the opium
traffic, but he was the only person in the city who did not know that
his servants kept opium in the consulate itself, and a busy traffic in
the drug was openly conducted at the back door of the compound. He was
an ardent collector and the house provided for him by the government was
filled with the various things which he had collected one after the
other, pewter, brass, carved wood; these were his more legitimate
enterprises; but he also collected stamps, birds' eggs, hotel labels,
and postmarks: he boasted that he had a collection of postmarks which
was unequalled in the Empire. During his long sojourning in lonely
places he had read a great deal, and though he was no sinologue he had a
greater knowledge of China, its history, literature, and people, than
most of his colleagues; but from his wide reading he had acquired not
toleration but vanity. He was a man of a singular appearance. His body
was small and frail and when he walked he gave you the idea of a dead
leaf dancing before the wind; and then there was something
extraordinarily odd in the small Tyrolese hat, with a cock's feather in
it, very old and shabby, which he wore perched rakishly on the side of
his large head. He was exceedingly bald. You saw that his eyes, blue and
pale, were weak behind the spectacles, and a drooping, ragged, dingy
moustache did not hide the peevishness of his mouth. And now, turning
out of the street in which was the consulate, he made his way on to the
city wall, for there only in the multitudinous city was it possible to
walk with comfort.

He was a man who took his work hardly, worrying himself to death over
every trifle, but as a rule a walk on the wall soothed and rested him.
The city stood in the midst of a great plain and often at sundown from
the wall you could see in the distance the snow-capped mountains, the
mountains of Tibet; but now he walked quickly, looking neither to the
right nor to the left, and his fat spaniel frisked about him unobserved.
He talked to himself rapidly in a low monotone. The cause of his
irritation was a visit that he had that day received from a lady who
called herself Mrs. Y and whom he with a consular passion for precision
insisted on calling Miss Lambert. This in itself sufficed to deprive
their intercourse of amenity. She was an Englishwoman married to a
Chinese. She had arrived two years before with her husband from England,
where he had been studying at the University of London; he had made her
believe that he was a great personage in his own country and she had
imagined herself to be coming to a gorgeous palace and a position of
consequence. It was a bitter surprise when she found herself brought to
a shabby Chinese house crowded with people: there was not even a foreign
bed in it, nor a knife and fork: everything seemed to her very dirty and
smelly. It was a shock to find that she had to live with her husband's
father and mother and he told her that she must do exactly what his
mother bade her; but in her complete ignorance of Chinese it was not
till she had been two or three days in the house that she realised that
she was not her husband's only wife. He had been married as a boy before
he left his native city to acquire the knowledge of the barbarians. When
she bitterly upbraided him for deceiving her he shrugged his shoulders.
There was nothing to prevent a Chinese from having two wives if he
wanted them and, he added with some disregard to truth, no Chinese woman
looked upon it as a hardship. It was upon making this discovery that she
paid her first visit to the consul. He had already heard of her
arrival--in China everyone knows everything about everyone--and he
received her without surprise. Nor had he much sympathy to show her.
That a foreign woman should marry a Chinese at all filled him with
indignation, but that she should do so without making proper inquiries
vexed him like a personal affront. She was not at all the sort of woman
whose appearance led you to imagine that she would be guilty of such a
folly. She was a solid, thick-set, young person, short, plain, and
matter-of-fact. She was cheaply dressed in a tailor-made suit and she
wore a tam-o'-shanter. She had bad teeth and a muddy skin. Her hands
were large and red and ill-cared for. You could tell that she was not
unused to hard work. She spoke English with a cockney whine.

"How did you meet Mr. Y?" asked the consul frigidly.

"Well, you see, it's like this," she answered. "Dad was in a very good
position, and when he died mother said: 'Well, it seems a sinful waste
to keep all these rooms empty, I'll put a card in the window.'"

The consul interrupted her.

"He had lodgings with you?"

"Well, they weren't exactly lodgings," she said.

"Shall we say apartments then?" replied the consul, with his thin,
slightly vain smile.

That was generally the explanation of these marriages. Then because he
thought her a very foolish vulgar woman he explained bluntly that
according to English law she was not married to Y and that the best
thing she could do was to go back to England at once. She began to cry
and his heart softened a little to her. He promised to put her in charge
of some missionary ladies who would look after her on the long journey,
and indeed, if she liked, he would see if meanwhile she could not live
in one of the missions. But while he talked Miss Lambert dried her
tears.

"What's the good of going back to England?" she said at last. "I 'aven't
got nowhere to go to."

"You can go to your mother."

"She was all against my marrying Mr. Y. I should never hear the last of
it if I was to go back now."

The consul began to argue with her, but the more he argued the more
determined she became, and at last he lost his temper.

"If you like to stay here with a man who isn't your husband it's your
own look-out, but I wash my hands of all responsibility."

Her retort had often rankled.

"Then you've got no cause to worry," she said, and the look on her face
returned to him whenever he thought of her.

That was two years ago and he had seen her once or twice since then. It
appeared that she got on very badly both with her mother-in-law and with
her husband's other wife, and she had come to the consul with
preposterous questions about her rights according to Chinese law. He
repeated his offer to get her away, but she remained steadfast in her
refusal to go, and their interview always ended in the consul's flying
into a passion. He was almost inclined to pity the rascally Y who had
to keep the peace between three warring women. According to his English
wife's account he was not unkind to her. He tried to act fairly by both
his wives. Miss Lambert did not improve. The consul knew that ordinarily
she wore Chinese clothes, but when she came to see him she put on
European dress. She was become extremely blowsy. Her health suffered
from the Chinese food she ate and she was beginning to look wretchedly
ill. But really he was shocked when she had been shown into his office
that day. She wore no hat and her hair was dishevelled. She was in a
highly hysterical state.

"They're trying to poison me," she screamed and she put before him a
bowl of some foul-smelling food. "It's poisoned," she said. "I've been
ill for the last ten days, it's only by a miracle I've escaped."

She gave him a long story, circumstantial and probable enough to
convince him: after all, nothing was more likely than that the Chinese
women should use familiar methods to get rid of an intruder who was
hateful to them.

"Do they know you've come here?"

"Of course they do; I told them I was going to show them up."

Now at last was the moment for decisive action. The consul looked at her
in his most official manner.

"Well, you must never go back there. I refuse to put up with your
nonsense any longer. I insist on your leaving this man who isn't your
husband."

But he found himself helpless against the woman's insane obstinacy. He
repeated all the arguments he had used so often, but she would not
listen, and as usual he lost his temper. It was then, in answer to his
final, desperate question, that she had made the remark which had
entirely robbed him of his calm.

"But what on earth makes you stay with the man?" he cried.

She hesitated for a moment and a curious look came into her eyes.

"There's something in the way his hair grows on his forehead that I
can't help liking," she answered.

The consul had never heard anything so outrageous. It really was the
last straw. And now while he strode along, trying to walk off his anger,
though he was not a man who often used bad language he really could not
restrain himself, and he said fiercely:

"Women are simply bloody."




A FRIEND IN NEED


For thirty years now I have been studying my fellow-men. I do not know
very much about them. I should certainly hesitate to engage a servant on
his face, and yet I suppose it is on the face that for the most part we
judge the persons we meet. We draw our conclusions from the shape of the
jaw, the look in the eyes, the contour of the mouth. I wonder if we are
more often right than wrong. Why novels and plays are so often untrue to
life is because their authors, perhaps of necessity, make their
characters all of a piece. They cannot afford to make them
self-contradictory, for then they become incomprehensible, and yet
self-contradictory is what most of us are. We are a haphazard bundle of
inconsistent qualities. In books on logic they will tell you that it is
absurd to say that yellow is tubular or gratitude heavier than air; but
in that mixture of incongruities that makes up the self yellow may very
well be a horse and cart and gratitude the middle of next week. I shrug
my shoulders when people tell me that their first impressions of a
person are always right. I think they must have small insight or great
vanity. For my own part I find that the longer I know people the more
they puzzle me: my oldest friends are just those of whom I can say that
I don't know the first thing about them.

These reflections have occurred to me because I read in this morning's
paper that Edward Hyde Burton had died at Kobe. He was a merchant and he
had been in business in Japan for many years. I knew him very little,
but he interested me because once he gave me a great surprise. Unless I
had heard the story from his own lips I should never have believed that
he was capable of such an action. It was more startling because both in
appearance and manner he suggested a very definite type. Here if ever
was a man all of a piece. He was a tiny little fellow, not much more
than five feet four in height, and very slender, with white hair, a red
face much wrinkled, and blue eyes. I suppose he was about sixty when I
knew him. He was always neatly and quietly dressed in accordance with
his age and station.

Though his offices were in Kobe Burton often came down to Yokohama. I
happened on one occasion to be spending a few days there, waiting for a
ship, and I was introduced to him at the British Club. We played bridge
together. He played a good game and a generous one. He did not talk very
much, either then or later when we were having drinks, but what he said
was sensible. He had a quiet, dry humour. He seemed to be popular at the
club and afterwards, when he had gone, they described him as one of the
best. It happened that we were both staying at the Grand Hotel and next
day he asked me to dine with him. I met his wife, fat, elderly and
smiling, and his two daughters. It was evidently a united and
affectionate family. I think the chief thing that struck me about Burton
was his kindliness. There was something very pleasing in his mild blue
eyes. His voice was gentle; you could not imagine that he could possibly
raise it in anger; his smile was benign. Here was a man who attracted
you because you felt in him a real love for his fellows. He had charm.
But there was nothing mawkish in him: he liked his game of cards and his
cocktail, he could tell with point a good and spicy story, and in his
youth he had been something of an athlete. He was a rich man and he had
made every penny himself. I suppose one thing that made you like him was
that he was so small and frail; he aroused your instincts of protection.
You felt that he could not bear to hurt a fly.

One afternoon I was sitting in the lounge of the Grand Hotel. This was
before the earthquake and they had leather arm-chairs there. From the
windows you had a spacious view of the harbour with its crowded traffic.
There were great liners on their way to Vancouver and San Francisco or
to Europe by way of Shanghai, Hong-Kong and Singapore; there were tramps
of all nations, battered and sea-worn, junks with their high sterns and
great coloured sails, and innumerable sampans. It was a busy,
exhilarating scene, and yet, I know not why, restful to the spirit. Here
was romance and it seemed that you had but to stretch out your hand to
touch it.

Burton came into the lounge presently and caught sight of me. He seated
himself in the chair next to mine.

"What do you say to a little drink?"

He clapped his hands for a boy and ordered two gin fizzes. As the boy
brought them a man passed along the street outside and seeing me waved
his hand.

"Do you know Turner?" said Burton as I nodded a greeting.

"I've met him at the club. I'm told he's a remittance man."

"Yes, I believe he is. We have a good many here."

"He plays bridge well."

"They generally do. There was a fellow here last year, oddly enough a
namesake of mine, who was the best bridge player I ever met. I suppose
you never came across him in London. Lenny Button he called himself. I
believe he'd belonged to some very good clubs."

"No, I don't believe I remember the name."

"He was quite a remarkable player. He seemed to have an instinct about
the cards. It was uncanny. I used to play with him a lot. He was in Kobe
for some time."

Burton sipped his gin fizz.

"It's rather a funny story," he said. "He wasn't a bad chap. I liked
him. He was always well-dressed and smart-looking. He was handsome in a
way with curly hair and pink-and-white cheeks. Women thought a lot of
him. There was no harm in him, you know, he was only wild. Of course he
drank too much. Those sort of fellows always do. A bit of money used to
come in for him once a quarter and he made a bit more by card-playing.
He won a good deal of mine, I know that."

Button gave a kindly chuckle. I knew from my own experience that he
could lose money at bridge with a good grace. He stroked his shaven chin
with his thin hand; the veins stood out on it and it was almost
transparent.

"I suppose that is why he came to me when he went broke, that and the
fact that he was a namesake of mine. He came to see me in my office one
day and asked me for a job. I was rather surprised. He told me that
there was no more money coming from home and he wanted to work. I asked
him how old he was.

"'Thirty-five,' he said.

"'And what have you been doing hitherto?' I asked him.

"'Well, nothing very much,' he said.

"I couldn't help laughing.

"'I'm afraid I can't do anything for you just yet,' I said. 'Come back
and see me in another thirty-five years, and I'll see what I can do.'

"He didn't move. He went rather pale. He hesitated for a moment and then
he told me that he had had bad luck at cards for some time. He hadn't
been willing to stick to bridge, he'd been playing poker, and he'd got
trimmed. He hadn't a penny. He'd pawned everything he had. He couldn't
pay his hotel bill and they wouldn't give him any more credit. He was
down and out. If he couldn't get something to do he'd have to commit
suicide.

"I looked at him for a bit. I could see now that he was all to pieces.
He'd been drinking more than usual and he looked fifty. The girls
wouldn't have thought so much of him if they'd seen him then.

"'Well, isn't there anything you can do except play cards?' I asked him.

"'I can swim,' he said.

"'Swim!'

"I could hardly believe my ears; it seemed such an insane answer to
give.

"'I swam for my university.'

"I got some glimmering of what he was driving at. I've known too many
men who were little tin gods at their university to be impressed by it.

"'I was a pretty good swimmer myself when I was a young man,' I said.

"Suddenly I had an idea."

Pausing in his story, Burton turned to me.

"Do you know Kobe?" he asked.

"No," I said, "I passed through it once, but I only spent a night
there."

"Then you don't know the Shioya Club. When I was a young man I swam from
there round the beacon and landed at the creek of Tarumi. It's over
three miles and it's rather difficult on account of the currents round
the beacon. Well, I told my young namesake about it and I said to him
that if he'd do it I'd give him a job.

"I could see he was rather taken aback.

"'You say you're a swimmer,' I said.

"'I'm not in very good condition,' he answered.

"I didn't say anything. I shrugged my shoulders. He looked at me for a
moment and then he nodded.

"'All right,' he said. 'When do you want me to do it?'

"I looked at my watch. It was just after ten.

"'The swim shouldn't take you much over an hour and a quarter. I'll
drive round to the creek at half-past twelve and meet you. I'll take you
back to the club to dress and then we'll have lunch together.'

"'Done,' he said.

"We shook hands. I wished him good luck and he left me. I had a lot of
work to do that morning and I only just managed to get to the creek at
Tarumi at half-past twelve. But I needn't have hurried; he never turned
up."

"Did he funk it at the last moment?" I asked.

"No, he didn't funk it. He started all right. But of course he'd ruined
his constitution by drink and dissipation. The currents round the beacon
were more than he could manage. We didn't get the body for about three
days."

I didn't say anything for a moment or two. I was a trifle shocked. Then
I asked Burton a question.

"When you made him that offer of a job, did you know he'd be drowned?"

He gave a little mild chuckle and he looked at me with those kind and
candid blue eyes of his. He rubbed his chin with his hand.

"Well, I hadn't got a vacancy in my office at the moment."




THE ROUND DOZEN


I like Elsom. It is a seaside resort in the South of England, not very
far from Brighton, and it has something of the late Georgian charm of
that agreeable town. But it is neither bustling nor garish. Ten years
ago, when I used to go there not infrequently, you might still see here
and there an old house, solid and pretentious in no unpleasing fashion
(like a decayed gentlewoman of good family whose discreet pride in her
ancestry amuses rather than offends you), which was built in the reign
of the First Gentleman in Europe and where a courtier of fallen fortunes
may well have passed his declining years. The main street had a
lackadaisical air and the doctor's motor seemed a trifle out of place.
The housewives did their housekeeping in a leisurely manner. They
gossiped with the butcher as they watched him cut from his great joint
of South Down a piece of the best end of the neck, and they asked
amiably after the grocer's wife as he put half a pound of tea and a
packet of salt into their string bag. I do not know whether Elsom was
ever fashionable: it certainly was not so then; but it was respectable
and cheap. Elderly ladies, maiden and widowed, lived there, Indian
Civilians and retired soldiers: they looked forward with little shudders
of dismay to August and September which would bring holiday-makers; but
did not disdain to let them their houses and on the proceeds spend a few
worldly weeks in a Swiss pension. I never knew Elsom at that hectic time
when the lodging-houses were full and young men in blazers sauntered
along the front, when Pierrots performed on the beach and in the
billiard-room at the Dolphin you heard the click of balls till eleven at
night. I only knew it in winter. Then in every house on the sea-front,
stucco houses with bow-windows built a hundred years ago, there was a
sign to inform you that apartments were to let; and the guests of the
Dolphin were waited on by a single waiter and the boots. At ten o'clock
the porter came into the smoking-room and looked at you in so marked a
manner that you got up and went to bed. Then Elsom was a restful place
and the Dolphin a very comfortable inn. It was pleasing to think that
the Prince Regent drove over with Mrs. Fitzherbert more than once to
drink a dish of tea in its coffee-room. In the hall was a framed letter
from Mr. Thackeray ordering a sitting-room and two bedrooms overlooking
the sea and giving instructions that a fly should be sent to the station
to meet him.

One November, two or three years after the war, having had a bad attack
of influenza, I went down to Elsom to regain my strength. I arrived in
the afternoon and when I had unpacked my things went for a stroll on the
front. The sky was overcast and the calm sea grey and cold. A few
seagulls flew close to the shore. Sailing-boats, their masts taken down
for the winter, were drawn up high on the shingly beach and the
bathing-huts stood side by side in a long, grey and tattered row. No one
was sitting on the benches that the town council had put here and there,
but a few people were trudging up and down for exercise. I passed an old
colonel with a red nose who stamped along in plus-fours followed by a
terrier, two elderly women in short skirts and stout shoes and a plain
girl in a tam-o'-shanter. I had never seen the front so deserted. The
lodging-houses looked like bedraggled old maids waiting for lovers who
would never return, and even the friendly Dolphin seemed wan and
desolate. My heart sank. Life on a sudden seemed very drab. I returned
to the hotel, drew the curtains of my sitting-room, poked the fire and
with a book sought to dispel my melancholy. But I was glad enough when
it was time to dress for dinner. I went into the coffee-room and found
the guests of the hotel already seated. I gave them a casual glance.
There was one lady of middle age by herself and there were two elderly
gentlemen, golfers probably, with red faces and baldish heads, who ate
their food in moody silence. The only other persons in the room were a
group of three who sat in the bow-window, and they immediately attracted
my surprised attention. The party consisted of an old gentleman and two
ladies, one of whom was old and probably his wife, while the other was
younger and possibly his daughter. It was the old lady who first excited
my interest. She wore a voluminous dress of black silk and a black lace
cap; on her wrists were heavy gold bangles and round her neck a
substantial gold chain from which hung a large gold locket; at her neck
was a large gold brooch. I did not know that anyone still wore jewellery
of that sort. Often, passing second-hand jewellers and pawnbrokers, I
had lingered for a moment to look at these strangely old-fashioned
articles, so solid, costly and hideous, and thought, with a smile in
which there was a tinge of sadness, of the women long since dead who had
worn them. They suggested the period when the bustle and the flounce
were taking the place of the crinoline and the pork-pie hat was ousting
the poke-bonnet. The British people liked things solid and good in those
days. They went to church on Sunday morning and after church walked in
the Park. They gave dinner-parties of twelve courses where the master of
the house carved the beef and the chickens, and after dinner the ladies
who could play favoured the company with Mendelssohn's _Songs Without
Words_ and the gentleman with the fine baritone voice sang an old
English ballad.

The younger woman had her back turned to me and at first I could see
only that she had a slim and youthful figure. She had a great deal of
brown hair which seemed to be elaborately arranged. She wore a grey
dress. The three of them were chatting in low tones and presently she
turned her head so that I saw her profile. It was astonishingly
beautiful. The nose was straight and delicate, the line of the cheek
exquisitely modelled; I saw then that she wore her hair after the manner
of Queen Alexandra. The dinner proceeded to its close and the party got
up. The old lady sailed out of the room, looking neither to the right
nor to the left, and the young one followed her. Then I saw with a shock
that she was old. Her frock was simple enough, the skirt was longer than
was at that time worn, and there was something slightly old-fashioned in
the cut, I dare say the waist was more clearly indicated than was then
usual, but it was a girl's frock. She was tall, like a heroine of
Tennyson's, slight, with long legs and a graceful carriage. I had seen
the nose before, it was the nose of a Greek goddess, her mouth was
beautiful, and her eyes were large and blue. Her skin was of course a
little tight on the bones and there were wrinkles on her forehead and
about her eyes, but in youth it must have been lovely. She reminded you
of those Roman ladies with features of an exquisite regularity whom
Alma-Tadema used to paint, but who, notwithstanding their antique dress,
were so stubbornly English. It was a type of cold perfection that one
had not seen for five-and-twenty years. Now it is as dead as the
epigram. I was like an archologist who finds some long-buried statue
and I was thrilled in so unexpected a manner to hit upon this survival
of a past era. For no day is so dead as the day before yesterday.

The gentleman rose to his feet when the two ladies left, and then
resumed his chair. A waiter brought him a glass of heavy port. He smelt
it, sipped it, and rolled it round his tongue. I observed him. He was a
little man, much shorter than his imposing wife, well-covered without
being stout, with a fine head of curling grey hair. His face was much
wrinkled and it bore a faintly humorous expression. His lips were tight
and his chin was square. He was, according to our present notions,
somewhat extravagantly dressed. He wore a black velvet jacket, a frilled
shirt with a low collar and a large black tie, and very wide evening
trousers. It gave you vaguely the effect of costume. Having drunk his
port with deliberation, he got up and sauntered out of the room.

When I passed through the hall, curious to know who these singular
people were, I glanced at the visitors' book. I saw written in an
angular feminine hand, the writing that was taught to young ladies in
modish schools forty years or so ago, the names: Mr. and Mrs. Edwin St.
Clair and Miss Porchester. Their address was given as 68, Leinster
Square, Bayswater, London. These must be the names and this the address
of the persons who had so much interested me. I asked the manageress who
Mr. St. Clair was and she told me that she believed he was something in
the City. I went into the billiard-room and knocked the balls about for
a little while and then on my way upstairs passed through the lounge.
The two red-faced gentlemen were reading the evening paper and the
elderly lady was dozing over a novel. The party of three sat in a
corner. Mrs. St. Clair was knitting, Miss Porchester was busy with
embroidery, and Mr. St. Clair was reading aloud in a discreet but
resonant tone. As I passed I discovered that he was reading _Bleak
House_.

I read and wrote most of the next day, but in the afternoon I went for a
walk and on my way home I sat down for a little on one of those
convenient benches on the sea-front. It was not quite so cold as the day
before and the air was pleasant. For want of anything better to do I
watched a figure advancing towards me from a distance. It was a man and
as he came nearer I saw that it was rather a shabby little man. He wore
a thin black greatcoat and a somewhat battered bowler. He walked with
his hands in his pockets and looked cold. He gave me a glance as he
passed by, went on a few steps, hesitated, stopped and turned back. When
he came up once more to the bench on which I sat he took a hand out of
his pocket and touched his hat. I noticed that he wore shabby black
gloves, and surmised that he was a widower in straitened circumstances.
Or he might have been a mute recovering, like myself, from influenza.

"Excuse me, sir," he said, "but could you oblige me with a match?"

"Certainly."

He sat down beside me and while I put my hand in my pocket for matches
he hunted in his for cigarettes. He took out a small packet of Gold
Flake and his face fell.

"Dear, dear, how very annoying! I haven't got a cigarette left."

"Let me offer you one," I replied, smiling.

I took out my case and he helped himself.

"Gold?" he asked, giving the case a tap as I closed it. "Gold? That's a
thing I never could keep. I've had three. All stolen."

His eyes rested in a melancholy way on his boots, which were sadly in
need of repair. He was a wizened little man with a long thin nose and
pale-blue eyes. His skin was sallow and he was much lined. I could not
tell what his age was; he might have been five-and-thirty or he might
have been sixty. There was nothing remarkable about him except his
insignificance. But though evidently poor he was neat and clean. He was
respectable and he clung to respectability. No, I did not think he was a
mute, I thought he was a solicitor's clerk who had lately buried his
wife and been sent to Elsom by an indulgent employer to get over the
first shock of his grief.

"Are you making a long stay, sir?" he asked me.

"Ten days or a fortnight."

"Is this your first visit to Elsom, sir?"

"I have been here before."

"I know it well, sir. I flatter myself there are very few seaside
resorts that I have not been to at one time or another. Elsom is hard to
beat, sir. You get a very nice class of people here. There's nothing
noisy or vulgar about Elsom, if you understand what I mean. Elsom has
very pleasant recollections for me, sir. I knew Elsom well in bygone
days. I was married in St. Martin's Church, sir."

"Really," I said feebly.

"It was a very happy marriage, sir."

"I'm very glad to hear it," I returned.

"Nine months, that one lasted," he said reflectively.

Surely the remark was a trifle singular. I had not looked forward with
any enthusiasm to the probability which I so clearly foresaw that he
would favour me with an account of his matrimonial experiences, but now
I waited if not with eagerness at least with curiosity for a further
observation. He made none. He sighed a little. At last I broke the
silence.

"There don't seem to be very many people about," I remarked.

"I like it so. I'm not one for crowds. As I was saying just now, I
reckon I've spent a good many years at one seaside resort after the
other, but I never came in the season. It's the winter I like."

"Don't you find it a little melancholy?"

He turned towards me and placed his black-gloved hand for an instant on
my arm.

"It is melancholy. And because it's melancholy a little ray of sunshine
is very welcome."

The remark seemed to me perfectly idiotic and I did not answer. He
withdrew his hand from my arm and got up.

"Well, I mustn't keep you, sir. Pleased to have made your acquaintance."

He took off his dingy hat very politely and strolled away. It was
beginning now to grow chilly and I thought I would return to the
Dolphin. As I reached its broad steps a landau drove up, drawn by two
scraggy horses, and from it stepped Mr. St. Clair. He wore a hat that
looked like the unhappy result of a union between a bowler and a
top-hat. He gave his hand to his wife and then to his niece. The porter
carried in after them rugs and cushions. As Mr. St. Clair paid the
driver I heard him tell him to come at the usual time next day and I
understood that the St. Clairs took a drive every afternoon in a landau.
It would not have surprised me to learn that none of them had ever been
in a motor-car.

The manageress told me that they kept very much to themselves and sought
no acquaintance among the other persons staying at the hotel. I rode my
imagination on a loose rein. I watched them eat three meals a day. I
watched Mr. and Mrs. St. Clair sit at the top of the hotel steps in the
morning. He read _The Times_ and she knitted. I suppose Mrs. St. Clair
had never read a paper in her life, for they never took anything but
_The Times_ and Mr. St. Clair of course took it with him every day to
the City. At about twelve Miss Porchester joined them.

"Have you enjoyed your walk, Eleanor?" asked Mrs. St. Clair.

"It was very nice, Aunt Gertrude," answered Miss Porchester.

And I understood that just as Mrs. St. Clair took "her drive" every
afternoon Miss Porchester took "her walk" every morning.

"When you have come to the end of your row, my dear," said Mr. St.
Clair, with a glance at his wife's knitting, "we might go for a
constitutional before luncheon."

"That will be very nice," answered Mrs. St. Clair. She folded up her
work and gave it to Miss Porchester. "If you're going upstairs, Eleanor,
will you take my work?"

"Certainly, Aunt Gertrude."

"I dare say you're a little tired after your walk, my dear."

"I shall have a little rest before luncheon."

Miss Porchester went into the hotel and Mr. and Mrs. St. Clair walked
slowly along the sea-front, side by side, to a certain point, and then
walked slowly back.

When I met one of them on the stairs I bowed and received an unsmiling,
polite bow in return, and in the morning I ventured upon a good-day, but
there the matter ended. It looked as though I should never have a chance
to speak to any of them. But presently I thought that Mr. St. Clair gave
me now and then a glance, and thinking he had heard my name I imagined,
perhaps vainly, that he looked at me with curiosity. And a day or two
after that I was sitting in my room when the porter came in with a
message.

"Mr. St. Clair presents his compliments and could you oblige him with
the loan of _Whitaker's Almanack_."

I was astonished.

"Why on earth should he think that I have a _Whitaker's Almanack_?"

"Well, sir, the manageress told him you wrote."

I could not see the connection.

"Tell Mr. St. Clair that I'm very sorry that I haven't got a _Whitaker's
Almanack_, but if I had I would very gladly lend it to him."

Here was my opportunity. I was by now filled with eagerness to know
these fantastic persons more closely. Now and then in the heart of Asia
I have come upon a lonely tribe living in a little village among an
alien population. No one knows how they came there or why they settled
in that spot. They live their own lives, speak their own language, and
have no communication with their neighbours. No one knows whether they
are the descendants of a band that was left behind when their nation
swept in a vast horde across the continent or whether they are the dying
remnant of some great people that in that country once held empire. They
are a mystery. They have no future and no history. This odd little
family seemed to me to have something of the same character. They were
of an era that is dead and gone. They reminded me of persons in one of
those leisurely, old-fashioned novels that one's father read. They
belonged to the 'eighties and they had not moved since then. How
extraordinary it was that they could have lived through the last forty
years as though the world stood still! They took me back to my childhood
and I recollected people who are long since dead. I wonder if it is only
distance that gives me the impression that they were more peculiar than
anyone is now. When a person was described then as "quite a character",
by heaven, it meant something.

So that evening after dinner I went into the lounge and boldly addressed
Mr. St. Clair.

"I'm so sorry I haven't got a _Whitaker's Almanack_," I said, "but if I
have any other book that can be of service to you I shall be delighted
to lend it to you."

Mr. St. Clair was obviously startled. The two ladies kept their eyes on
their work. There was an embarrassed hush.

"It does not matter at all, but I was given to understand by the
manageress that you were a novelist."

I racked my brain. There was evidently some connection between my
profession and _Whitaker's Almanack_ that escaped me.

"In days gone by Mr. Trollope used often to dine with us in Leinster
Square and I remember him saying that the two most useful books to a
novelist were the Bible and _Whitaker's Almanack_."

"I see that Thackeray once stayed in this hotel," I remarked, anxious
not to let the conversation drop.

"I never very much cared for Mr. Thackeray, though he dined more than
once with my wife's father, the late Mr. Sargeant Saunders. He was too
cynical for me. My niece has not read _Vanity Fair_ to this day."

Miss Porchester blushed slightly at this reference to herself. A waiter
brought in the coffee and Mrs. St. Clair turned to her husband.

"Perhaps, my dear, this gentleman would do us the pleasure to have his
coffee with us."

Although not directly addressed I answered promptly:

"Thank you very much."

I sat down.

"Mr. Trollope was always my favourite novelist," said Mr. St. Clair. "He
was so essentially a gentleman. I admire Charles Dickens. But Charles
Dickens could never draw a gentleman. I am given to understand that
young people nowadays find Mr. Trollope a little slow. My niece, Miss
Porchester, prefers the novels of Mr. William Black."

"I'm afraid I've never read any," I said.

"Ah, I see that you are like me; you are not up to date. My niece once
persuaded me to read a novel by a Miss Rhoda Broughton, but I could not
manage more than a hundred pages of it."

"I did not say I liked it, Uncle Edwin," said Miss Porchester, defending
herself, with another blush, "I told you it was rather fast, but
everybody was talking about it."

"I'm quite sure it is not the sort of book your Aunt Gertrude would have
wished you to read, Eleanor."

"I remember Miss Broughton telling me once that when she was young
people said her books were fast and when she was old they said they were
slow, and it was very hard since she had written exactly the same sort
of book for forty years."

"Oh, did you know Miss Broughton?" asked Miss Porchester, addressing me
for the first time. "How very interesting! And did you know Ouida?"

"My dear Eleanor, what will you say next! I'm quite sure you've never
read anything by Ouida."

"Indeed, I have, Uncle Edwin. I've read _Under Two Flags_ and I liked it
very much."

"You amaze and shock me. I don't know what girls are coming to
nowadays."

"You always said that when I was thirty you gave me complete liberty to
read anything I liked."

"There is a difference, my dear Eleanor, between liberty and licence,"
said Mr. St. Clair, smiling a little in order not to make his reproof
offensive, but with a certain gravity.

I do not know if in recounting this conversation I have managed to
convey the impression it gave me of a charming and old-fashioned air. I
could have listened all night to them discussing the depravity of an age
that was young in the eighteen-eighties. I would have given a good deal
for a glimpse of their large and roomy house in Leinster Square. I
should have recognised the suite covered in red brocade that stood
stiffly about the drawing-room, each piece in its appointed place; and
the cabinets filled with Dresden china would have brought me back my
childhood. In the dining-room, where they habitually sat, for the
drawing-room was used only for parties, was a Turkey carpet and a vast
mahogany sideboard "groaning" with silver. On the walls were the
pictures that had excited the admiration of Mrs. Humphrey Ward and her
uncle Matthew in the Academy of eighteen-eighty.

Next morning, strolling through a pretty lane at the back of Elsom, I
met Miss Porchester, who was taking "her walk". I should have liked to
go a little way with her, but felt certain that it would embarrass this
maiden of fifty to saunter alone with a man even of my respectable
years. She bowed as I passed her and blushed. Oddly enough, a few yards
behind her I came upon the funny shabby little man in black gloves with
whom I had spoken for a few minutes on the front. He touched his old
bowler hat.

"Excuse me, sir, but could you oblige me with a match?" he said.

"Certainly," I retorted, "but I'm afraid I have no cigarettes on me."

"Allow me to offer you one of mine," he said, taking out the paper case.
It was empty. "Dear, dear, I haven't got one either. What a curious
coincidence!"

He went on and I had a notion that he a little hastened his steps. I was
beginning to have my doubts about him. I hoped he was not going to
bother Miss Porchester. For a moment I thought of walking back, but I
did not. He was a civil little man and I did not believe he would make a
nuisance of himself to a single lady.

I saw him again that very afternoon. I was sitting on the front. He
walked towards me with little, halting steps. There was something of a
wind and he looked like a dried leaf being driven before it. This time
he did not hesitate, but sat down beside me.

"We meet again, sir. The world is a small place. If it will not
inconvenience you perhaps you will allow me to rest a few minutes. I am
a wee bit tired."

"This is a public bench, and you have just as much right to sit on it as
I."

I did not wait for him to ask me for a match, but at once offered him a
cigarette.

"How very kind of you, sir! I have to limit myself to so many cigarettes
a day, but I enjoy those I smoke. As one grows older the pleasures of
life diminish, but my experience is that one enjoys more those that
remain."

"That is a very consoling thought."

"Excuse me, sir, but am I right in thinking that you are the well-known
author?"

"I am an author," I replied. "But what made you think it?"

"I have seen your portrait in the illustrated papers. I suppose you
don't recognise me?"

I looked at him again, a weedy little man in neat but shabby black
clothes, with a long nose and watery blue eyes.

"I'm afraid I don't."

"I dare say I've changed," he sighed. "There was a time when my
photograph was in every paper in the United Kingdom. Of course, those
press photographs never do you justice. I give you my word, sir, that if
I hadn't seen my name underneath I should never have guessed that some
of them were meant for me."

He was silent for a while. The tide was out and beyond the shingle of
the beach was a strip of yellow mud. The breakwaters were half buried in
it like the backbones of prehistoric beasts.

"It must be a wonderfully interesting thing to be an author, sir. I've
often thought I had quite a turn for writing myself. At one time and
another I've done a rare lot of reading. I haven't kept up with it much
lately. For one thing my eyes are not so good as they used to be. I
believe I could write a book if I tried."

"They say anybody can write one," I answered.

"Not a novel, you know. I'm not much of a one for novels; I prefer
histories and that-like. But memoirs. If anybody was to make it worth my
while I wouldn't mind writing my memoirs."

"It's very fashionable just now."

"There are not many people who've had the experiences I've had in one
way and another. I did write to one of the Sunday papers about it some
little while back, but they never answered my letter."

He gave me a long, appraising look. He had too respectable an air to be
about to ask me for half a crown.

"Of course you don't know who I am, sir, do you?"

"I honestly don't."

He seemed to ponder for a moment, then he smoothed down his black gloves
on his fingers, looked for a moment at a hole in one of them, and then
turned to me not without self-consciousness.

"I am the celebrated Mortimer Ellis," he said.

"Oh?"

I did not know what other ejaculation to make, for to the best of my
belief I had never heard the name before. I saw a look of disappointment
come over his face, and I was a trifle embarrassed.

"Mortimer Ellis," he repeated. "You're not going to tell me you don't
know."

"I'm afraid I must. I'm very often out of England."

I wondered to what he owed his celebrity. I passed over in my mind
various possibilities. He could never have been an athlete, which alone
in England gives a man real fame, but he might have been a faith-healer
or a champion billiard-player. There is of course no one so obscure as a
Cabinet Minister out of office and he might have been the President of
the Board of Trade in a defunct administration. But he had none of the
look of a politician.

"That's fame for you," he said bitterly. "Why, for weeks I was the most
talked-about man in England. Look at me. You must have seen my
photograph in the papers. Mortimer Ellis."

"I'm sorry," I said, shaking my head.

He paused a moment to give his disclosure effectiveness.

"I am the well-known bigamist."

Now what are you to reply when a person who is practically a stranger to
you informs you that he is a well-known bigamist? I will confess that I
have sometimes had the vanity to think that I am not as a rule at a loss
for a retort, but here I found myself speechless.

"I've had eleven wives, sir," he went on.

"Most people find one about as much as they can manage."

"Ah, that's want of practice. When you've had eleven there's very little
you don't know about women."

"But why did you stop at eleven?"

"There now, I knew you'd say that. The moment I set eyes on you I said
to myself, he's got a clever face. You know, sir, that's the thing that
always grizzles me. Eleven does seem a funny number, doesn't it? There's
something unfinished about it. Now three anyone might have, and seven's
all right, they say nine's lucky, and there's nothing wrong with ten.
But eleven! That's the one thing I regret. I shouldn't have minded
anything if I could have brought it up to the Round Dozen."

He unbuttoned his coat and from an inside pocket produced a bulging and
very greasy pocket-book. From this he took a large bundle of newspaper
cuttings; they were worn and creased and dirty. But he spread out two or
three.

"Now just you look at those photographs. I ask you, are they like me?
It's an outrage. Why, you'd think I was a criminal to look at them."

The cuttings were of imposing length. In the opinion of sub-editors
Mortimer Ellis had obviously been a news item of value. One was headed,
A Much Married Man; another, Heartless Ruffian Brought to Book; a third,
Contemptible Scoundrel Meets his Waterloo.

"Not what you would call a good press," I murmured.

"I never pay any attention to what the newspapers say," he answered,
with a shrug of his thin shoulders. "I've known too many journalists
myself for that. No, it's the judge I blame. He treated me shocking and
it did him no good, mind you; he died within the year."

I ran my eyes down the report I held.

"I see he gave you five years."

"Disgraceful, I call it, and see what it says." He pointed to a place
with his forefinger. "'Three of his victims pleaded for mercy to be
shown to him.' That shows what they thought of me. And after that he
gave me five years. And just look what he called me, a heartless
scoundrel--me, the best-hearted man that ever lived--a pest of society
and a danger to the public. Said he wished he had the power to give me
the cat. I don't so much mind his giving me five years, though you'll
never get me to say it wasn't excessive, but I ask you, had he the right
to talk to me like that? No, he hadn't, and I'll never forgive him, not
if I live to be a hundred."

The bigamist's cheeks flushed and his watery eyes were filled for a
moment with fire. It was a sore subject with him.

"May I read them?" I asked him.

"That's what I gave them you for. I want you to read them, sir. And if
you can read them without saying that I'm a much wronged man, well,
you're not the man I took you for."

As I glanced through one cutting after another I saw why Mortimer Ellis
had so wide an acquaintance with the seaside resorts of England. They
were his hunting-ground. His method was to go to some place when the
season was over and take apartments in one of the empty lodging-houses.
Apparently it did not take him long to make acquaintance with some woman
or other, widow or spinster, and I noticed that their ages at the time
were between thirty-five and fifty. They stated in the witness-box that
they had met him first on the sea-front. He generally proposed marriage
to them within a fortnight of this and they were married shortly after.
He induced them in one way or another to entrust him with their savings
and in a few months, on the pretext that he had to go to London on
business, he left them never to return. Only one had ever seen him again
till, obliged to give evidence, they saw him in the dock. They were
women of a certain respectability; one was the daughter of a doctor and
another of a clergyman; there was a lodging-house keeper, there was the
widow of a commercial traveller, and there was a retired dressmaker. For
the most part, their fortunes ranged from five hundred to a thousand
pounds, but whatever the sum the misguided women were stripped of every
penny. Some of them told really pitiful stories of the destitution to
which they had been reduced. But they all acknowledged that he had been
a good husband to them. Not only had three actually pleaded for mercy to
be shown him, but one said in the witness-box that, if he was willing to
come, she was ready to take him back. He noticed that I was reading
this.

"And she'd have worked for me," he said, "there's no doubt about that.
But I said, better let bygones be bygones. No one likes a cut off the
best end of the neck better than I do, but I'm not much of a one for
cold roast mutton, I will confess."

It was only by an accident that Mortimer Ellis did not marry his twelfth
wife and so achieve the Round Dozen which I understand appealed to his
love of symmetry. For he was engaged to be married to a Miss
Hubbard--"two thousand pounds she had, if she had a penny, in war-loan,"
he confided to me--and the banns had been read, when one of his former
wives saw him, made enquiries, and communicated with the police. He was
arrested on the very day before his twelfth wedding.

"She was a bad one, she was," he told me. "She deceived me something
cruel."

"How did she do that?"

"Well, I met her at Eastbourne, one December it was, on the pier, and
she told me in course of conversation that she'd been in the millinery
business and had retired. She said she'd made a tidy bit of money. She
wouldn't say exactly how much it was, but she gave me to understand it
was something like fifteen hundred pounds. And when I married her, would
you believe it, she hadn't got three hundred. And that's the one who
gave me away. And mind you, I'd never blamed her. Many a man would have
cut up rough when he found out he'd been made a fool of. I never showed
her that I was disappointed even, I just went away without a word."

"But not without the three hundred pounds, I take it."

"Oh come, sir, you must be reasonable," he returned in an injured tone.
"You can't expect three hundred pounds to last for ever and I'd been
married to her four months before she confessed the truth."

"Forgive my asking," I said, "and pray don't think my question suggests
a disparaging view of your personal attractions, but--why did they marry
you?"

"Because I asked them," he answered, evidently very much surprised at my
enquiry.

"But did you never have any refusals?"

"Very seldom. Not more than four or five in the whole course of my
career. Of course I didn't propose till I was pretty sure of my ground
and I don't say I didn't draw a blank sometimes. You can't expect to
click every time, if you know what I mean, and I've often wasted several
weeks making up to a woman before I saw there was nothing doing."

I surrendered myself for a time to my reflections. But I noticed
presently that a broad smile spread over the mobile features of my
friend.

"I understand what you mean," he said. "It's my appearance that puzzles
you. You don't know what it is they see in me. That's what comes of
reading novels and going to the pictures. You think what women want is
the cowboy type, or the romance of old Spain touch, flashing eyes, an
olive skin, and a beautiful dancer. You make me laugh."

"I'm glad," I said.

"Are you a married man, sir?"

"I am. But I only have one wife."

"You can't judge by that. You can't generalise from a single instance,
if you know what I mean. Now, I ask you, what would you know about dogs
if you'd never had anything but one bull-terrier?"

The question was rhetorical and I felt sure did not require an answer.
He paused for an effective moment and went on.

"You're wrong, sir. You're quite wrong. They may take a fancy to a
good-looking young fellow, but they don't want to marry him. They don't
really care about looks."

"Douglas Jerrold, who was as ugly as he was witty, used to say that if
he was given ten minutes' start with a woman he could cut out the
handsomest man in the room."

"They don't want wit. They don't want a man to be funny; they think he's
not serious. They don't want a man who's too handsome; they think he's
not serious either. That's what they want, they want a man who's
serious. Safety first. And then--attention. I may not be handsome and I
may not be amusing, but believe me, I've got what every woman wants.
Poise. And the proof is, I've made every one of my wives happy."

"It certainly is much to your credit that three of them pleaded for
mercy to be shown to you and that one was willing to take you back."

"You don't know what an anxiety that was to me all the time I was in
prison. I thought she'd be waiting for me at the gate when I was
released and I said to the Governor: For God's sake, sir, smuggle me out
so as no one can see me."

He smoothed his gloves again over his hands and his eye once more fell
upon the hole to the first finger.

"That's what comes of living in lodgings, sir. How's a man to keep
himself neat and tidy without a woman to look after him? I've been
married too often to be able to get along without a wife. There are men
who don't like being married. I can't understand them. The fact is, you
can't do a thing really well unless you've got your heart in it, and I
like being a married man. It's no difficulty to me to do the little
things that women like and that some men can't be bothered with. As I
was saying just now, it's attention a woman wants. I never went out of
the house without giving my wife a kiss and I never came in without
giving her another. And it was very seldom I came in without bringing
her some chocolates or a few flowers. I never grudged the expense."

"After all, it was her money you were spending," I interposed.

"And what if it was? It's not the money that you've paid for a present
that signifies, it's the spirit you give it in. That's what counts with
women. No, I'm not one to boast, but I will say this of myself, I am a
good husband."

I looked desultorily at the reports of the trial which I still held.

"I'll tell you what surprises me," I said. "All these women were very
respectable, of a certain age, quiet, decent persons. And yet they
married you without any enquiry after the shortest possible
acquaintance."

He put his hand impressively on my arm.

"Ah, that's what you don't understand, sir. Women have got a craving to
be married. It doesn't matter how young they are or how old they are, if
they're short or tall, dark or fair, they've all got one thing in
common: they want to be married. And mind you, I married them in church.
No woman feels really safe unless she's married in church. You say I'm
no beauty, well, I never thought I was, but if I had one leg and a hump
on my back I could find any number of women who'd jump at the chance of
marrying me. It's a mania with them. It's a disease. Why, there's hardly
one of them who wouldn't have accepted me the second time I saw her only
I like to make sure of my ground before I commit myself. When it all
came out there was a rare to-do because I'd married eleven times. Eleven
times? Why, it's nothing, it's not even a Round Dozen. I could have
married thirty times if I'd wanted to. I give you my word, sir, when I
consider my opportunities, I'm astounded at my moderation."

"You told me you were very fond of reading history."

"Yes, Warren Hastings said that, didn't he? It struck me at the time I
read it. It seemed to fit me like a glove."

"And you never found these constant courtships a trifle monotonous?"

"Well, sir, I think I've got a logical mind, and it always gave me a
rare lot of pleasure to see how the same effects followed on the same
causes, if you know what I mean. Now, for instance, with a woman who'd
never been married before I always passed myself off as a widower. It
worked like a charm. You see, a spinster likes a man who knows a thing
or two. But with a widow I always said I was a bachelor: a widow's
afraid a man who's been married before knows too much."

I gave him back his cuttings; he folded them up neatly and replaced them
in his greasy pocket-book.

"You know, sir, I always think I've been misjudged. Just see what they
say about me: a pest of society, unscrupulous villain, contemptible
scoundrel. Now just look at me. I ask you, do I look that sort of man?
You know me, you're a judge of character, I've told you all about
myself; do you think me a bad man?"

"My acquaintance with you is very slight," I answered with what I
thought considerable tact.

"I wonder if the judge, I wonder if the jury, I wonder if the public
ever thought about my side of the question. The public booed me when I
was taken into the court and the police had to protect me from their
violence. Did any of them think what I'd done for these women?"

"You took their money."

"Of course I took their money. I had to live the same as anybody has to
live. But what did I give them in exchange for their money?"

This was another rhetorical question and though he looked at me as
though he expected an answer I held my tongue. Indeed I did not know the
answer. His voice was raised and he spoke with emphasis. I could see
that he was serious.

"I'll tell you what I gave them in exchange for their money. Romance.
Look at this place." He made a wide, circular gesture that embraced the
sea and the horizon. "There are a hundred places in England like this.
Look at that sea and that sky; look at these lodging-houses; look at
that pier and the front. Doesn't it make your heart sink? It's dead as
mutton. It's all very well for you who come down here for a week or two
because you're run down. But think of all those women who live here from
one year's end to another. They haven't a chance. They hardly know
anyone. They've just got enough money to live on and that's all. I
wonder if you know how terrible their lives are. Their lives are just
like the front, a long, straight, cemented walk that goes on and on from
one seaside resort to another. Even in the season there's nothing for
them. They're out of it. They might as well be dead. And then I come
along. Mind you, I never made advances to a woman who wouldn't have
gladly acknowledged to thirty-five. And I give them love. Why, many of
them had never known what it was to have a man do them up behind. Many
of them had never known what it was to sit on a bench in the dark with a
man's arm round their waist. I bring them change and excitement. I give
them a new pride in themselves. They were on the shelf and I come along
quite quietly and I deliberately take them down. A little ray of
sunshine in those drab lives, that's what I was. No wonder they jumped
at me, no wonder they wanted me to go back to them. The only one who
gave me away was the milliner; she said she was a widow, my private
opinion is that she'd never been married at all. You say I did the dirty
on them; why, I brought happiness and glamour into eleven lives that
never thought they had even a dog's chance of it again. You say I'm a
villain and a scoundrel, you're wrong. I'm a philanthropist. Five years,
they gave me; they should have given me the medal of the Royal Humane
Society."

He took out his empty packet of Gold Flake and looked at it with a
melancholy shake of the head. When I handed him my cigarette-case he
helped himself without a word. I watched the spectacle of a good man
struggling with his emotion.

"And what did I get out of it, I ask you?" he continued presently.
"Board and lodging and enough to buy cigarettes. But I never was able to
save, and the proof is that now, when I'm not so young as I was, I
haven't got half a crown in my pocket." He gave me a sidelong glance.
"It's a great come-down for me to find myself in this position. I've
always paid my way and I've never asked a friend for a loan in all my
life. I was wondering, sir, if you could oblige me with a trifle. It's
humiliating to me to have to suggest it, but the fact is, if you could
oblige me with a pound it would mean a great deal to me."

Well, I had certainly had a pound's worth of entertainment out of the
bigamist and I dived for my pocket-book.

"I shall be very glad," I said.

He looked at the notes I took out.

"I suppose you couldn't make it two, sir?"

"I think I could."

I handed him a couple of pound notes and he gave a little sigh as he
took them.

"You don't know what it means to a man who's used to the comforts of
home life not to know where to turn for a night's lodging."

"But there is one thing I should like you to tell me," I said. "I
shouldn't like you to think me cynical, but I had a notion that women on
the whole take the maxim, 'It is more blessed to give than to receive,'
as applicable exclusively to our sex. How did you persuade these
respectable, and no doubt thrifty, women to entrust you so confidently
with all their savings?"

An amused smile spread over his undistinguished features.

"Well, sir, you know what Shakespeare said about ambition o'erleaping
itself. That's the explanation. Tell a woman you'll double her capital
in six months if she'll give it you to handle and she won't be able to
give you the money quick enough. Greed, that's what it is. Just greed."

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was a sharp sensation, stimulating to the appetite (like hot sauce
with ice-cream), to go from this diverting ruffian to the
respectability, all lavender bags and crinolines, of the St. Clairs and
Miss Porchester. I spent every evening with them now. No sooner had the
ladies left him than Mr. St. Clair sent his compliments to my table and
asked me to drink a glass of port with him. When we had finished it we
went into the lounge and drank coffee. Mr. St. Clair enjoyed his glass
of old brandy. The hour I thus spent with them was so exquisitely boring
that it had for me a singular fascination. They were told by the
manageress that I had written plays.

"We used often to go to the theatre when Sir Henry Irving was at the
Lyceum," said Mr. St. Clair. "I once had the pleasure of meeting him. I
was taken to supper at the Garrick Club by Sir Everard Millais and I was
introduced to Mr. Irving, as he then was."

"Tell him what he said to you, Edwin," said Mrs. St. Clair.

Mr. St. Clair struck a dramatic attitude and gave not at all a bad
imitation of Henry Irving.

"'You have the actor's face, Mr. St. Clair,' he said to me. 'If you ever
think of going on the stage, come to me and I will give you a part.'"
Mr. St. Clair resumed his natural manner. "It was enough to turn a young
man's head."

"But it didn't turn yours," I said.

"I will not deny that if I had been otherwise situated I might have
allowed myself to be tempted. But I had my family to think of. It would
have broken my father's heart if I had not gone into the business."

"What is that?" I asked.

"I am a tea merchant, sir. My firm is the oldest in the City of London.
I have spent forty years of my life in combating to the best of my
ability the desire of my fellow-countrymen to drink Ceylon tea instead
of the China tea which was universally drunk in my youth."

I thought it charmingly characteristic of him to spend a lifetime in
persuading the public to buy something they didn't want rather than
something they did.

"But in his younger days my husband did a lot of amateur acting and he
was thought very clever," said Mrs. St. Clair.

"Shakespeare, you know, and sometimes _The School for Scandal_. I would
never consent to act trash. But that is a thing of the past. I had a
gift, perhaps it was a pity to waste it, but it's too late now. When we
have a dinner-party I sometimes let the ladies persuade me to recite the
great soliloquies of Hamlet. But that is all I do."

Oh! Oh! Oh! I thought with shuddering fascination of those
dinner-parties and wondered whether I should ever be asked to one of
them. Mrs. St. Clair gave me a little smile, half shocked, half prim.

"My husband was very Bohemian as a young man," she said.

"I sowed my wild oats. I knew quite a lot of painters and writers,
Wilkie Collins, for instance, and even men who wrote for the papers.
Watts painted a portrait of my wife, and I bought a picture of Millais.
I knew a number of the pre-Raphaelites."

"Have you a Rossetti?" I asked.

"No. I admired Rossetti's talent, but I could not approve of his private
life. I would never buy a picture by an artist whom I should not care to
ask to dinner at my house."

My brain was reeling when Miss Porchester, looking at her watch, said:
"Are you not going to read to us to-night, Uncle Edwin?"

I withdrew.

It was while I was drinking a glass of port with Mr. St. Clair one
evening that he told me the sad story of Miss Porchester. She was
engaged to be married to a nephew of Mrs. St. Clair, a barrister, when
it was discovered that he had had an intrigue with the daughter of his
laundress.

"It was a terrible thing," said Mr. St. Clair. "A terrible thing. But of
course my niece took the only possible course. She returned him his
ring, his letters and his photograph, and said that she could never
marry him. She implored him to marry the young person he had wronged and
said she would be a sister to her. It broke her heart. She has never
cared for anyone since."

"And did he marry the young person?"

Mr. St. Clair shook his head and sighed.

"No, we were greatly mistaken in him. It has been a sore grief to my
dear wife to think that a nephew of hers should behave in such a
dishonourable manner. Some time later we heard that he was engaged to a
young lady in a very good position with ten thousand pounds of her own.
I considered it my duty to write to her father and put the facts before
him. He answered my letter in a most insolent fashion. He said he would
much rather his son-in-law had a mistress before marriage than after."

"What happened then?"

"They were married and now my wife's nephew is one of His Majesty's
Judges of the High Court, and his wife is My Lady. But we've never
consented to receive them. When my wife's nephew was knighted Eleanor
suggested that we should ask them to dinner, but my wife said that he
should never darken our doors and I upheld her."

"And the laundress's daughter?"

"She married in her own class of life and has a public-house at
Canterbury. My niece, who has a little money of her own, did everything
for her and is godmother to her eldest child."

Poor Miss Porchester. She had sacrificed herself on the altar of
Victorian morality and I am afraid the consciousness that she had
behaved beautifully was the only benefit she had got from it.

"Miss Porchester is a woman of striking appearance," I said. "When she
was younger she must have been perfectly lovely. I wonder she never
married somebody else."

"Miss Porchester was considered a great beauty. Alma-Tadema admired her
so much that he asked her to sit as a model for one of his pictures, but
of course we couldn't very well allow that." Mr. St. Clair's tone
conveyed that the suggestion had deeply outraged his sense of decency.
"No, Miss Porchester never cared for anyone but her cousin. She never
speaks of him and it is now thirty years since they parted, but I am
convinced that she loves him still. She is a true woman, my dear sir,
one life, one love, and though perhaps I regret that she has been
deprived of the joys of marriage and motherhood I am bound to admire her
fidelity."

                 *        *        *        *        *

But the heart of woman is incalculable and rash is the man who thinks
she will remain in one stay. Rash, Uncle Edwin. You have known Eleanor
for many years, for when, her mother having fallen into a decline and
died, you brought the orphan to your comfortable and even luxurious
house in Leinster Square, she was but a child; but what, when it comes
down to brass tacks, Uncle Edwin, do you really know of Eleanor?

It was but two days after Mr. St. Clair had confided to me the touching
story which explained why Miss Porchester had remained a spinster that,
coming back to the hotel in the afternoon after a round of golf, the
manageress came up to me in an agitated manner.

"Mr. St. Clair's compliments and will you go up to number twenty-seven
the moment you come in."

"Certainly. But why?"

"Oh, there's a rare upset. They'll tell you."

I knocked at the door. I heard a "Come in, come in," which reminded me
that Mr. St. Clair had played Shakespearean parts in probably the most
refined amateur dramatic company in London. I entered and found Mrs. St.
Clair lying on the sofa with a handkerchief soaked in eau-de-Cologne on
her brow and a bottle of smelling-salts in her hand. Mr. St. Clair was
standing in front of the fire in such a manner as to prevent anyone else
in the room from obtaining any benefit from it.

"I must apologise for asking you to come up in this unceremonious
fashion, but we are in great distress, and we thought you might be able
to throw some light on what has happened."

His perturbation was obvious.

"What _has_ happened?"

"Our niece, Miss Porchester, has eloped. This morning she sent in a
message to my wife that she had one of her sick headaches. When she has
one of her sick headaches she likes to be left absolutely alone and it
wasn't till this afternoon that my wife went to see if there was
anything she could do for her. The room was empty. Her trunk was packed.
Her dressing-case with silver fittings was gone. And on the pillow was a
letter telling us of her rash act."

"I'm very sorry," I said. "I don't know exactly what I can do."

"We were under the impression that you were the only gentleman at Elsom
with whom she had any acquaintance."

His meaning flashed across me.

"I haven't eloped with her," I said. "I happen to be a married man."

"I see you haven't eloped with her. At the first moment we thought
perhaps... but if it isn't you, who is it?"

"I'm sure I don't know."

"Show him the letter, Edwin," said Mrs. St. Clair from the sofa.

"Don't move, Gertrude. It will bring on your lumbago."

Miss Porchester had "her" sick headaches and Mrs. St. Clair had; "her"
lumbago. What had Mr. St. Clair? I was willing to bet a fiver that Mr.
St. Clair had "his" gout. He gave me the letter and I read it with an
air of decent commiseration.

    _Dearest Uncle Edwin and Aunt Gertrude_,

    _When you receive this I shall be far away. I am going to be
    married this morning to a gentleman who is very dear to me. I
    know I am doing wrong in running away like this, but I was
    afraid you would endeavour to set obstacles in the way of my
    marriage and since nothing would induce me to change my mind I
    thought it would save us all much unhappiness if I did it
    without telling you anything about it. My fianc is a very
    retiring man, owing to his long residence in tropical countries
    not in the best of health, and he thought it much better that we
    should be married quite privately. When you know how radiantly
    happy I am I hope you will forgive me. Please send my box to the
    luggage office at Victoria Station._

                                            _Your loving niece_,
                                                        _Eleanor_.

"I will never forgive her," said Mr. St. Clair as I returned him the
letter. "She shall never darken my doors again. Gertrude, I forbid, you
ever to mention Eleanor's name in my hearing."

Mrs. St. Clair began to sob quietly.

"Aren't you rather hard?" I said. "Is there any reason why Miss
Porchester shouldn't marry?"

"At her age," he answered angrily. "It's ridiculous. We shall be the
laughing-stock of everyone in Leinster Square. Do you know how old she
is? She's fifty-one."

"Fifty-four," said Mrs. St. Clair through her sobs.

"She's been the apple of my eye. She's been like a daughter to us. She's
been an old maid for years. I think it's positively improper for her to
think of marriage."

"She was always a girl to us, Edwin," pleaded Mrs. St. Clair.

"And who is this man she's married? It's the deception that rankles. She
must have been carrying on with him under our very noses. She does not
even tell us his name. I fear the very worst."

Suddenly I had an inspiration. That morning after breakfast I had gone
out to buy myself some cigarettes and at the tobacconist's I ran across
Mortimer Ellis. I had not seen him for some days.

"You're looking very spruce," I said.

His boots had been repaired and were neatly blacked, his hat was
brushed, he was wearing a clean collar and new gloves. I thought he had
laid out my two pounds to advantage.

"I have to go to London this morning on business," he said.

I nodded and left the shop.

I remembered that a fortnight before, walking in the country, I had met
Miss Porchester and, a few yards behind, Mortimer Ellis. Was it possible
that they had been walking together and he had fallen back as they
caught sight of me? By heaven, I saw it all.

"I think you said that Miss Porchester had money of her own," I said.

"A trifle. She has three thousand pounds."

Now I was certain. I looked at them blankly. Suddenly Mrs. St. Clair,
with a cry, sprang to her feet.

"Edwin, Edwin, supposing he doesn't marry her?"

Mr. St. Clair at this put his hand to his head and in a state of
collapse sank into a chair.

"The disgrace would kill me," he groaned.

"Don't be alarmed," I said. "He'll marry her all right. He always does.
He'll marry her in church."

They paid no attention to what I said. I suppose they thought I'd
suddenly taken leave of my senses. I was quite sure now. Mortimer Ellis
had achieved his ambition after all. Miss Porchester completed the Round
Dozen.




THE HUMAN ELEMENT


I seem never to find myself in Rome but at the dead season. I pass
through in August or September on my way somewhere or other and spend a
couple of days revisiting places or pictures that are endeared to me by
old associations. It is very hot then and the inhabitants of the city
spend their day interminably strolling up and down the Corso. The Caff
Nazionale is crowded with people sitting at little tables for long hours
with an empty cup of coffee in front of them and a glass of water. In
the Sistine Chapel you see blond and sunburned Germans, in
knickerbockers and shirts open at the neck, who have walked down the
dusty roads of Italy with knapsacks on their shoulders; and in St.
Peter's little groups of the pious, tired but eager, who have come on
pilgrimage (at an inclusive rate) from some distant country. They are
under the charge of a priest and they speak strange tongues. The Hotel
Plaza then is cool and restful. The public rooms are dark, silent and
spacious. In the lounge at tea-time the only persons are a young, smart
officer and a woman with fine eyes, drinking iced lemonade, and they
talk intimately, in low tones, with the unwearying fluency of their
race. You go up to your room and read and write letters and come down
again two hours later and they are still talking. Before dinner a few
people saunter into the bar, but for the rest of the day it is empty and
the barman has time to tell you of his mother in Switzerland and his
experiences in New York. You discuss life and love and the high cost of
liquor.

And on this occasion too I found that I had the hotel almost to myself.
When the reception clerk took me to my room he told me that they were
pretty full, but when, having bathed and changed, I came down again to
the hall, the liftman, an old acquaintance, informed me that there were
not more than a dozen people staying there. I was tired after a long and
hot journey down Italy and had made up my mind to dine quietly in the
hotel and go to bed early. It was late when I went into the dining-room,
vast and brightly lit, but not more than three or four tables were
occupied. I looked round me with satisfaction. It is very agreeable to
find yourself alone in a great city which is yet not quite strange to
you and in a large empty hotel. It gives you a delectable sense of
freedom. I felt the wings of my spirit give a little flutter of delight.
I had paused for ten minutes in the bar and had a dry Martini. I ordered
myself a bottle of good red wine. My limbs were weary, but my soul
responded wonderfully to food and drink and I began to feel a singular
lightness of heart. I ate my soup and my fish and pleasant thoughts
filled my mind. Scraps of dialogue occurred to me and my fancy played
happily with the persons of a novel I was then at work on. I rolled a
phrase on my tongue and it tasted better than the wine. I began to think
of the difficulty of describing the looks of people in such a way as to
make the reader see them as you see them. To me it has always been one
of the most difficult things in fiction. What does the reader really get
when you describe a face feature by feature? I should think nothing. And
yet the plan some writers adopt of taking a salient characteristic, a
crooked smile or shifty eyes, and emphasising that, though effective,
avoids rather than solves the problem. I looked about me and wondered
how I would describe the people at the tables round me. There was one
man by himself just opposite and for practice I asked myself in what way
I should treat him. He was a tall, spare fellow, and what I believe is
generally called loose-limbed. He wore a dinner jacket and a boiled
shirt. He had a rather long face and pale eyes; his hair was fairish and
wavy, but it was growing thin, and the baldness of his temples gave him
a certain nobility of brow. His features were undistinguished. His mouth
and nose were like everybody else's; he was clean-shaven; his skin was
naturally pale, but at the moment sunburned. His appearance suggested an
intellectual but slightly commonplace distinction. He looked as though
he might have been a lawyer or a don who played a pretty game of golf. I
felt that he had good taste and was well-read and would be a very
agreeable guest at a luncheon-party in Chelsea. But how the devil one
was to describe him so as in a few lines to give a vivid, interesting
and accurate picture I could not imagine. Perhaps it would be better to
let all the rest go and dwell only on that rather fatigued distinction
which on the whole was the most definite impression he gave. I looked at
him reflectively. Suddenly he leaned forwards and gave me a stiff but
courtly little bow. I have a ridiculous habit of flushing when I am
taken aback and now I felt my cheeks redden. I was startled. I had been
staring at him for several minutes as though he were a dummy. He must
have thought me extremely rude. I nodded with a good deal of
embarrassment and looked away. Fortunately at that moment the waiter was
handing me a dish. To the best of my belief I had never seen the fellow
before. I asked myself whether his bow was due to my insistent stare,
which made him think that he had met me somewhere, or whether I had
really run across him and completely forgotten. I have a bad memory for
faces and I had in this case the excuse that he looked exactly like a
great many other people. You saw a dozen of him at every golf course
round London on a fine Sunday.

He finished his dinner before me. He got up, but on his way out stopped
at my table. He stretched out his hand.

"How d'you do?" he said. "I didn't recognise you when you first came in.
I wasn't meaning to cut you."

He spoke in a pleasant voice with the tones cultivated at Oxford and
copied by many who have never been there. It was evident that he knew me
and evident too that he had no notion that I did not also know him. I
had risen and since he was a good deal taller than I he looked down on
me. He held himself with a sort of languor. He stooped a little, which
added to the impression he gave me of having about him an air that was
vaguely apologetic. His manner was a trifle condescending and at the
same time a trifle shy.

"Won't you come and have your coffee with me?" he said. "I'm quite
alone."

"Yes, I shall be glad to."

He left me and I still had no notion who he was or where I had met him.
I had noticed one curious thing about him. Not once during the few
sentences we exchanged, when we shook hands, or when with a nod he left
me, did even the suspicion of a smile cross his face. Seeing him more
closely I observed that he was in his way good-looking; his features
were regular, his grey eyes were handsome, he had a slim figure; but it
was a way that I found uninteresting. A silly woman would say he looked
romantic. He reminded you of one of the knights of Burne-Jones though he
was on a larger scale and there was no suggestion that he suffered from
the chronic colitis that afflicted those unfortunate creatures. He was
the sort of man whom you expected to look wonderful in fancy dress till
you saw him in it and then you found that he looked absurd.

Presently I finished my dinner and went into the lounge. He was sitting
in a large arm-chair and when he saw me he called a waiter. I sat down.
The waiter came up and he ordered coffee and liqueurs. He spoke Italian
very well. I was wondering by what means I could find out who he was
without offending him. People are always a little disconcerted when you
do not recognise them, they are so important to themselves, it is a
shock to discover of what small importance they are to others. The
excellence of his Italian recalled him to me. I remembered who he was
and remembered at the same time that I did not like him. His name was
Humphrey Carruthers. He was in the Foreign Office and he had a position
of some importance. He was in charge of I know not what department. He
had been attached to various embassies and I supposed that a sojourn in
Rome accounted for his idiomatic Italian. It was stupid of me not to
have seen at once that he was connected with the diplomatic service. He
had all the marks of the profession. He had the supercilious courtesy
that is so well calculated to put up the backs of the general public and
the aloofness due to the consciousness the diplomat has that he is not
as other men are, joined with the shyness occasioned by his uneasy
feeling that other men do not quite realise it. I had known Carruthers
for a good many years, but had met him infrequently, at luncheon-parties
where I said no more than how do you do to him and at the opera where he
gave me a cool nod. He was generally thought intelligent; he was
certainly cultured. He could talk of all the right things. It was
inexcusable of me not to have remembered him, for he had lately acquired
a very considerable reputation as a writer of short stories. They had
appeared first in one or other of those magazines that are founded now
and then by well-disposed persons to give the intelligent reader
something worthy of his attention and that die when their proprietors
have lost as much money as they want to; and in their discreet and
handsomely printed pages had excited as much attention as an exiguous
circulation permitted. Then they were published in book form. They
created a sensation. I have seldom read such unanimous praise in the
weekly papers. Most of them gave the book a column and the Literary
Supplement of _The Times_ reviewed it not among the common ruck of
novels but in a place by itself cheek by jowl with the memoirs of a
distinguished statesman. The critics welcomed Humphrey Carruthers as a
new star in the firmament. They praised his distinction, his subtlety,
his delicate irony and his insight. They praised his style, his sense of
beauty and his atmosphere. Here at last was a writer who had raised the
short story from the depths into which in English-speaking countries it
had fallen and here was work to which an Englishman could point with
pride; it bore comparison with the best compositions in this manner of
Finland, Russia and Czecho-Slovakia.

Three years later Humphrey Carruthers brought out his second book and
the critics commented on the interval with satisfaction. Here was no
hack prostituting his talent for money! The praise it received was
perhaps a little cooler than that which welcomed his first volume, the
critics had had time to collect themselves, but it was enthusiastic
enough to have delighted any common writer who earns his living by his
pen and there was no doubt that his position in the world of letters was
secure and honourable. The story that attracted most commendation was
called _The Shaving Mop_ and all the best critics pointed out with what
beauty the author in three or four pages had laid bare the tragic soul
of a barber's assistant.

But his best known story, which was also his longest, was called _Week
End_. It gave its title to his first book. It narrated the adventures of
a number of people who left Paddington Station on Saturday afternoon to
stay with friends at Taplow and on Monday morning returned to London. It
was so delicate that it was a little difficult to know exactly what
happened. A young man, parliamentary secretary to a Cabinet Minister,
very nearly proposed to a baronet's daughter, but didn't. Two or three
others went on the river in a punt. They all talked a great deal in an
allusive way, but none of them ever finished a sentence and what they
meant was very subtly indicated by dots and dashes. There were a good
many descriptions of flowers in the garden and a sensitive picture of
the Thames under the rain. It was all seen through the eyes of the
German governess and everyone agreed that Carruthers had conveyed her
outlook on the situation with quite delicious humour.

I read both Humphrey Carruthers' books. I think it part of the writer's
business to make himself aware of what is being written by his
contemporaries. I am very willing to learn and I thought I might
discover in them something that would be useful to me. I was
disappointed. I like a story to have a beginning, a middle, and an end.
I have a weakness for a point. I think atmosphere is all very well, but
atmosphere without anything else is like a frame without a picture; it
has not much significance. But it may be that I could not see the merit
of Humphrey Carruthers on account of defects in myself, and if I have
described his two most successful stories without enthusiasm the cause
perhaps lies in my own wounded vanity. For I was perfectly conscious
that Humphrey Carruthers looked upon me as a writer of no account. I am
convinced that he had never read a word I had written. The popularity I
enjoyed was sufficient to persuade him that there was no occasion for
him to give me any of his attention. For a moment, such was the stir he
created, it looked as though he might himself be faced with that
ignominy, but it soon appeared that his exquisite work was above the
heads of the public. One can never tell how large the intelligentsia is,
but one can tell fairly well how many of its members are prepared to pay
money to patronise the arts they cherish. The plays that are of too fine
a quality to attract the patrons of the commercial theatre can count on
an audience of ten thousand, and the books that demand from their
readers more comprehension than can be expected from the common herd
sell twelve hundred copies. For the intelligentsia, notwithstanding
their sensitiveness to beauty, prefer to go to the theatre on the nod
and to get a book from the library.

I am sure this did not distress Carruthers. He was an artist. He was
also a clerk in the Foreign Office. His reputation as a writer was
distinguished; he was not interested in the vulgar, and to sell well
would possibly have damaged his career. I could not surmise what had
induced him to invite me to have coffee with him. It is true he was
alone, but I should have supposed he found his thoughts excellent
company, and I could not believe he imagined that I had anything to say
that would interest him. Nevertheless I could not but see that he was
doing his dreary best to be affable. He reminded me of where we had last
met and we talked for a moment of common friends in London. He asked me
how I came to be in Rome at this season and I told him. He volunteered
the information that he had arrived that morning from Brindisi. Our
conversation did not go easily and I made up my mind that as soon as I
civilly could I would get up and leave him. But presently I had an odd
sensation, I hardly know what caused it, that he was conscious of this
and was desperately anxious not to give me the opportunity. I was
surprised. I gathered my wits about me. I noticed that whenever I paused
he broke in with a new topic. He was trying to find something to
interest me so that I should stay. He was straining every nerve to be
agreeable. Surely he could not be lonely; with his diplomatic
connections he must know plenty of people with whom he could have spent
the evening. I wondered indeed that he was not dining at the Embassy;
even though it was summer there must be someone there he knew. I noticed
also that he never smiled. He talked with a sort of harsh eagerness as
though he were afraid of a moment's silence and the sound of his voice
shut out of his mind something that tortured him. It was very strange.
Though I did not like him, though he meant nothing to me and to be with
him irked me somewhat, I was against my will a trifle interested. I gave
him a searching glance. I wondered if it was my fancy that I saw in
those pale eyes of his the cowed look of a hunted dog and
notwithstanding his neat features and his expression so civilly
controlled, in his aspect something that suggested the grimace of a soul
in pain. I could not understand. A dozen absurd notions flashed through
my mind. I was not particularly sympathetic: like an old war-horse
scenting the fray I roused myself. I had been feeling very tired, but
now I grew alert. My sensibilities put out tentacles. I was suddenly
alive to every expression of his face and every gesture. I put aside the
thought that had come to me that he had written a play and wanted my
advice. These exquisite persons succumb strangely to the glamour of the
footlights and they are not averse from getting a few tips from the
craftsman whose competence they superciliously despise. No, it was not
that. A single man in Rome, of sthetic leanings, is liable to get into
trouble, and I asked myself whether Carruthers had got into some
difficulty to extricate himself from which the Embassy was the last
place he could go to. The idealist, I have noticed, is apt at times to
be imprudent in the affairs of the flesh. He sometimes finds love in
places which the police inconveniently visit. I tittered in my heart.
Even the gods laugh when a prig is caught in an equivocal situation.

Suddenly Carruthers said something that staggered me.

"I'm so desperately unhappy," he muttered.

He said it without warning. He obviously meant it. There was in his tone
a sort of gasp. It might very well have been a sob. I cannot describe
what a shock it was to me to hear him say those words. I felt as you do
when you turn a corner of the street and on a sudden a great blast of
wind meets you, takes your breath away, and nearly blows you off your
feet. It was so unexpected. After all I hardly knew the fellow. We were
not friends. I did not like him; he did not like me. I had never looked
on him as quite human. It was amazing that a man so self-controlled, so
urbane, accustomed to the usages of polite society, should break in upon
a stranger with such a confession. I am naturally reticent. I should be
ashamed, whatever I was suffering, to disclose my pain to another. I
shivered. His weakness outraged me. For a moment I was filled with a
passion of anger. How dared he thrust the anguish of his soul on me? I
very nearly cried:

"What the hell do I care?"

But I didn't. He was sitting huddled up in the big arm-chair. The solemn
nobility of his features, which reminded one of the marble statue of a
Victorian statesman, had strangely crumpled and his face sagged. He
looked almost as though he were going to cry. I hesitated. I faltered. I
had flushed when he spoke and now I felt my face go white. He was a
pitiable object.

"I'm awfully sorry," I said.

"Do you mind if I tell you about it?"

"No."

It was not the moment for many words. I suppose Carruthers was in the
early forties. He was a well-made man, athletic in his way, and with a
confident bearing. Now he looked twenty years older and strangely
shrivelled. He reminded me of the dead soldiers I had seen during the
war and how oddly small death had made them. I was embarrassed and
looked away, but I felt his eyes claiming mine and I looked back.

"Do you know Betty Welldon-Burns?" he asked me.

"I used to meet her sometimes in London years ago. I've not seen her
lately."

"She lives in Rhodes now, you know. I've just come from there. I've been
staying with her."

"Oh?"

He hesitated.

"I'm afraid you'll think it awfully strange of me to talk to you like
this. I'm at the end of my tether. If I don't talk to somebody I shall
go off my head."

He had ordered double brandies with the coffee and now calling the
waiter he ordered himself another. We were alone in the lounge. There
was a little shaded lamp on the table between us. Because it was a
public room he spoke in a low voice. The place gave one oddly enough a
sense of intimacy. I cannot repeat all that Carruthers said to me in the
words he said it; it would be impossible for me to remember them; it is
more convenient for me to put it in my own fashion. Sometimes he could
not bring himself to say a thing right out and I had to guess at what he
meant. Sometimes he had not understood, and it seemed to me that in
certain ways I saw the truth more clearly than he. Betty Welldon-Burns
had a very keen sense of humour and he had none. I perceived a good deal
that had escaped him.

I had met her a good many times, but I knew her chiefly from hearsay. In
her day she had made a great stir in the little world of London and I
had heard of her often before I met her. This was at a dance in Portland
Place soon after the war. She was then already at the height of her
celebrity. You could not open an illustrated paper without seeing in it
a portrait of her, and her mad pranks were a staple of conversation. She
was twenty-four. Her mother was dead, her father, the Duke of St. Erth,
old and none too rich, spent most of the year in his Cornish castle and
she lived in London with a widowed aunt. At the outbreak of the war she
went to France. She was just eighteen. She was a nurse in a hospital at
the Base and then drove a car. She acted in a theatrical tour designed
to amuse the troops; she posed in tableaux at home for charitable
purposes, held auctions for this object and that and sold flags in
Piccadilly. Every one of her activities was widely advertised and in
every new rle she was profusely photographed. I suppose that she
managed to have a very good time. But now that the war was over she was
having her fling with a vengeance. Just then everybody a little lost his
head. The young, relieved of the burden that for five years had
oppressed them, indulged in one wild escapade after another. Betty took
part in them all. Sometimes, for one reason or another, an account of
them found its way into the newspapers and her name was always in the
headline. At that time night clubs were in the first flush of their
success and she was to be seen at them every night. She lived a life of
hectic gaiety. It can only be described in a hackneyed phrase, because
it was a hackneyed thing. The British public in its odd way took her to
its heart and Lady Betty was a sufficient description of her throughout
the British islands. Women mobbed her when she went to a wedding and the
gallery applauded her at first nights as though she were a popular
actress. Girls copied the way she did her hair and manufacturers of soap
and face cream paid her money to use her photograph to advertise their
wares.

Of course dull, stodgy people, the people who remembered and regretted
the old order, disapproved of her. They sneered at her constant
appearance in the limelight. They said she had an insane passion for
self-advertisement. They said she was fast. They said she drank too
much. They said she smoked too much. I will admit that nothing I had
heard of her had predisposed me to think very well of her. I held cheap
the women who seemed to look upon the war as an occasion to enjoy
themselves and be talked about. I am bored by the papers in which you
see photographs of persons in society walking in Cannes or playing golf
at St. Andrew's. I have always found the Bright Young People extremely
tedious. The gay life seems dull and stupid to the onlooker, but the
moralist is unwise to judge it harshly. It is as absurd to be angry with
the young things who lead it as with a litter of puppies scampering
aimlessly around, rolling one another over and chasing their tails. It
is well to bear it with fortitude if they cause havoc in the flower beds
or break a piece of china. Some of them will be drowned because their
points are not up to the mark and the rest will grow up into
well-behaved dogs. Their unruliness is due only to the vitality of
youth.

And it was vitality that was Betty's most shining characteristic. The
urge of life flowed through her with a radiance that dazzled you. I do
not think I shall ever forget the impression she made on me at the party
at which I first saw her. She was like a mnad. She danced with an
abandon that made you laugh, so obvious was her intense enjoyment of the
music and the movement of her young limbs. Her hair was brown, slightly
disordered by the vigour of her gestures, but her eyes were deep blue,
and her skin was milk and roses. She was a great beauty, but she had
none of the coldness of great beauty. She laughed constantly and when
she was not laughing she smiled and her eyes danced with the joy of
living. She was like a milkmaid on the farmstead of the gods. She had
the strength and health of the people; and yet the independence of her
bearing, a sort of noble frankness of carriage, suggested the great
lady. I do not quite know how to put the feeling she gave me, that
though so simple and unaffected she was not unconscious of her station.
I fancied that if occasion arose she could get on her dignity and be
very grand indeed. She was charming to everybody because, probably
without being quite aware of it, in the depths of her heart she felt
that the rest of the world was perfectly insignificant. I understood why
the factory girls in the East End adored her and why half a million
people who had never seen her except in a photograph looked upon her
with the intimacy of personal friendship. I was introduced to her and
she spent a few minutes talking to me. It was extraordinarily flattering
to see the interest she showed in you; you knew she could not really be
so pleased to meet you as she seemed or so delighted with what you said,
but it was very attractive. She had the gift of being able to jump over
the first difficult phases of acquaintance and you had not known her for
five minutes before you felt you had known her all her life. She was
snatched away from me by someone who wanted to dance with her and she
surrendered herself to her partner's arms with just the same eager
happiness as she had shown when she sank into a chair by my side. I was
surprised when I met her at luncheon a fortnight later to find that she
remembered exactly what we had talked about during those noisy ten
minutes at the dance. A young woman with all the social graces.

I mentioned the incident to Carruthers.

"She was no fool," he said. "Very few people knew how intelligent she
was. She wrote some very good poetry. Because she was so gay, because
she was so reckless and never cared a damn for anybody, people thought
she was scatter-brained. Far from it. She was as clever as a monkey. You
would never have thought she'd had the time to read all the things she
had. I don't suppose anyone knew that side of her as well as I did. We
used to take walks together, in the country at week-ends, and in London
we'd drive out to Richmond Park and walk there, and talk. She loved
flowers and trees and grass. She was interested in everything. She had a
lot of information and a lot of sense. There was nothing she couldn't
talk about. Sometimes when we'd been for a walk in the afternoon and we
met at a night club and she'd had a couple of glasses of champagne, that
was enough to make her completely buffy, you know, and she was the life
and soul of the party, I couldn't help thinking how amazed the rest of
them would be if they knew how seriously we'd been talking only a few
hours before. It was an extraordinary contrast. There seemed to be two
entirely different women in her."

Carruthers said all this without a smile. He spoke with the melancholy
he might have used if he had been speaking of some person snatched from
the pleasant company of the living by untimely death. He gave a deep
sigh.

"I was madly in love with her. I proposed to her half a dozen times. Of
course I knew I hadn't a chance, I was only a very junior clerk at the
P.O., but I couldn't help myself. She refused me, but she was always
frightfully nice about it. It never made any difference to our
friendship. You see, she really liked me. I gave her something that
other people didn't. I always thought that she was really fonder of me
than of anybody. I was crazy about her."

"I don't suppose you were the only one," I said, having to say
something.

"Far from it. She used to get dozens of love-letters from men she'd
never seen or heard of, farmers in Africa, miners, and policemen in
Canada. All sorts of people proposed to her. She could have married
anyone she liked."

"Even royalty, one heard."

"Yes, she said she couldn't stand the life. And then she married Jimmie
Welldon-Burns."

"People were rather surprised, weren't they?"

"Did you ever know him?"

"No, I don't think so. I may have met him, but he left no impression on
me."

"He wouldn't. He was the most insignificant fellow that ever breathed.
His father was a big manufacturer up in the North. He'd made a lot of
money during the war and bought a baronetcy. I believe he hadn't an
aitch to his name. Jimmy was at Eton with me, they'd tried hard to make
a gentleman of him, and in London after the war he was about a good
deal. He was always willing to throw a party. No one ever paid any
attention to him. He just paid the bill. He was the most crashing bore.
You know, rather prim, terribly polite; he made you rather uncomfortable
because he was so anxious not to do the wrong thing. He always wore his
clothes as though he'd just put them on for the first time and they were
a little too tight for him."

When Carruthers innocently opened his _Times_ one morning and casting
his eyes down the fashionable intelligence of the day saw that a
marriage had been arranged between Elizabeth, only daughter of the Duke
of St. Erth, and James, eldest son of Sir John Welldon-Burns, Bart., he
was dumbfounded. He rang Betty up and asked if it was true.

"Of course," she said.

He was so shocked that for the moment he found nothing to say. She went
on speaking.

"He's bringing his family to luncheon to-day to meet father. I dare say
it'll be a bit grim. You might stand me a cocktail at Claridge's to
fortify me, will you?"

"At what time?" he asked.

"One."

"All right. I'll meet you there."

He was waiting for her when she came in. She walked with a sort of
spring as though her eager feet itched to break into a dance. She was
smiling. Her eyes shone with the joy that suffused her because she was
alive and the world was such a pleasant place to live in. People
recognising her whispered to one another as she came in. Carruthers
really felt that she brought sunshine and the scent of flowers into the
sober but rather overwhelming splendour of Claridge's lounge. He did not
wait to say how do you do to her.

"Betty, you can't do it," he said. "It's simply out of the question."

"Why?"

"He's awful."

"I don't think he is. I think he's rather nice."

A waiter came up and took their order. Betty looked at Carruthers with
those beautiful blue eyes of hers that managed to be at the same time so
gay and so tender.

"He's such a frightful bounder, Betty."

"Oh, don't be so silly, Humphrey. He's just as good as anybody else. I
think you're rather a snob."

"He's so dull."

"No, he's rather quiet. I don't know that I want a husband who's too
brilliant. I think he'll make a very good background. He's quite
good-looking and he has nice manners."

"My God, Betty."

"Oh, don't be idiotic, Humphrey."

"Are you going to pretend you're in love with him?"

"I think it would be tactful, don't you?"

"Why are you going to marry him?"

She looked at him coolly.

"He's got pots of money. I'm nearly twenty-six."

There was nothing much more to be said. He drove her back to her aunt's
house. She had a very grand marriage, with dense crowds lining the
approach to St. Margaret's, Westminster, presents from practically all
the royal family, and the honeymoon was passed on the yacht her
father-in-law had lent them. Carruthers applied for a post abroad and
was sent to Rome (I was right in guessing that he had thus acquired his
admirable Italian) and later to Stockholm. Here he was counsellor and
here he wrote the first of his stories.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Perhaps Betty's marriage had disappointed the British public who
expected much greater things of her, perhaps only that as a young
married woman she no longer appealed to the popular sense of romance;
the fact was plain that she soon lost her place in the public eye. You
ceased to hear very much about her. Not long after the marriage it was
rumoured that she was going to have a baby and a little later that she
had had a miscarriage. She did not drop out of society, I suppose she
continued to see her friends, but her activities were no longer
spectacular. She was certainly but seldom seen any more in those raffish
assemblies where the members of a tarnished aristocracy hob-nob with the
hangers-on of the arts and flatter themselves that they are being at
once smart and cultured. People said she was settling down. They
wondered how she was getting on with her husband and no sooner did they
do this than they concluded that she was not getting on very well.
Presently gossip said that Jimmie was drinking too much and then, a year
or two later, one heard that he had contracted tuberculosis. The
Welldon-Burns' spent a couple of winters in Switzerland. Then the news
spread that they had separated and Betty had gone to live in Rhodes. An
odd place to choose.

"It must be deadly," her friends said.

A few of them went to stay with her now and then and came back with
reports of the beauty of the island and the leisurely charm of the life.
But of course it was very lonely. It seemed strange that Betty, with her
brilliance and her energy, should be content to settle there. She had
bought a house. She knew no one but a few Italian officials, there was
indeed no one to know; but she seemed perfectly happy. Her visitors
could not make it out. But the life of London is busy and memories are
short. People ceased to concern themselves with her. She was forgotten.
Then, a few weeks before I met Humphrey Carruthers in Rome, _The Times_
announced the death of Sir James Welldon-Burns, second baronet. His
younger brother succeeded him in the title. Betty had never had a child.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Carruthers continued to see her after the marriage. Whenever he came to
London they lunched together. She had the ability to take up a
friendship after a long separation as though no passage of time had
intervened, so that there was never any strangeness in their meetings.
Sometimes she asked him when he was going to marry.

"You're getting on, you know, Humphrey. If you don't marry soon you'll
get rather old-maidish."

"D'you recommend marriage?"

It was not a very kindly thing to say, because like everyone else he had
heard that she was not getting on too well with her husband, but her
remark piqued him.

"On the whole. I think probably an unsatisfactory marriage is better
than no marriage at all."

"You know quite well that nothing would induce me to marry and you know
why."

"Oh, my dear, you're not going to pretend that you're still in love with
me?"

"I am."

"You are a damned fool."

"I don't care."

She smiled at him. Her eyes always had that look, partly bantering,
partly tender, that gave him such a happy pain in his heart. Funny, he
could almost localise it.

"You're rather sweet, Humphrey. You know I'm devoted to you, but I
wouldn't marry you even if I were free."

When she left her husband and went to live in Rhodes Carruthers ceased
to see her. She never came to England. They maintained an active
correspondence.

"Her letters were wonderful," he said. "You seemed to hear her talking.
They were just like her. Clever and witty, inconsequent and yet so
shrewd."

He suggested coming to Rhodes for a few days, but she thought he had
better not. He understood why. Everyone knew he had been madly in love
with her. Everyone knew he was still. He did not know in what
circumstances exactly the Welldon-Burns' had separated. It might be that
there had been a good deal of bad feeling. Betty might think that his
presence on the island would compromise her.

"She wrote a charming letter to me when my first book came out. You know
I dedicated it to her. She was surprised that I had done anything so
good. Everyone was very nice about it, and she was delighted with that.
I think her pleasure was the chief thing that pleased me. After all I'm
not a professional writer, you know: I don't attach much importance to
literary success."

Fool, I thought, and liar. Did he think I had not noticed the
self-satisfaction that consumed him on account of the favourable
reception of his books? I did not blame him for feeling that, nothing
could be more pardonable, but why be at such pains to deny it. But it
was doubtless true that it was mostly for Betty's sake that he relished
the notoriety they had brought him. He had a positive achievement to
offer her. He could lay at her feet now not only his love, but a
distinguished reputation. Betty was not very young any more, she was
thirty-six; her marriage, her sojourn abroad, had changed things; she
was no longer surrounded by suitors; she had lost the halo with which
the public admiration had surrounded her. The distance between them was
no longer insuperable. He alone had remained faithful through the years.
It was absurd that she should continue to bury her beauty, her wit, her
social grace in an island in a corner of the Mediterranean. He knew she
was fond of him. She could hardly fail to be touched by his long
devotion. And the life he had to offer her now was one that he knew
would appeal to her. He made up his mind to ask her once more to marry
him. He was able to get away towards the end of July. He wrote and said
that he was going to spend his leave in the Greek islands and if she
would be glad to see him he would stop off at Rhodes for a day or two,
where he had heard the Italians had opened a very good hotel. He put his
suggestion in this casual way out of delicacy. His training at the
Foreign Office had taught him to eschew abruptness. He never willingly
put himself in a position from which he could not if necessary withdraw
with tact. Betty sent him a telegram in reply. She said it was too
marvellous that he was coming to Rhodes and of course he must come and
stay with her, for at least a fortnight, and he was to wire what boat he
was coming by.

                 *        *        *        *        *

He was in a state of wild excitement when at last the ship he had taken
at Brindisi steamed, soon after sunrise, into the neat and pretty
harbour of Rhodes. He had hardly slept a wink all night and getting up
early had watched the island loom grandly out of the dawn and the sun
rise over the summer sea. Boats came out as the ship dropped her anchor.
The gangway was lowered. Humphrey, leaning over the rail, watched the
doctor and the port officials and the hotel couriers swarm up it. He was
the only Englishman on board. His nationality was obvious. A man came on
deck and immediately walked up to him.

"Are you Mr. Carruthers?"

"Yes."

He was about to smile and put out his hand, but he perceived in the
twinkling of an eye that the person who addressed him, an Englishman
like himself, was not a gentleman. Instinctively his manner, remaining
exceedingly polite, became a trifle stiff. Of course Carruthers did not
tell me this, but I see the scene so clearly that I have no hesitation
in describing it.

"Her ladyship hopes you don't mind her not coming to meet you, but the
boat got in so early and it's more than an hour's drive to where we
live."

"Oh, of course. Her ladyship well?"

"Yes, thank you. Got your luggage ready?"

"Yes."

"If you'll show me where it is I'll tell one of these fellows to put it
in a boat. You won't have any difficulty at the Customs. I've fixed that
up all right, and then we'll get off. Have you had breakfast?"

"Yes, thank you."

The man was not quite sure of his aitches. Carruthers wondered who he
was. You could not say he was uncivil, but he was certainly a little
offhand. Carruthers knew that Betty had rather a large estate; perhaps
he was her agent. He seemed very competent. He gave the porters
instructions in fluent Greek and when they got in the boat and the
boatmen asked for more money than he gave them, he said something that
made them laugh and they shrugged their shoulders satisfied. The luggage
was passed through the Customs without examination, Humphrey's guide
shaking hands with the officials, and they went into a sunny place where
a large yellow car was standing.

"Are you going to drive me?" asked Carruthers.

"I'm her ladyship's chauffeur."

"Oh, I see. I didn't know."

He was not dressed like a chauffeur. He wore white duck trousers and
espadrilles on his bare feet, a white tennis shirt, with no tie and open
at the neck, and a straw hat. Carruthers frowned. Betty oughtn't to let
her chauffeur drive the car like that. It was true that he had had to
get up before daybreak and it looked like being a hot drive up to the
villa. Perhaps under ordinary conditions he wore uniform. Though not so
tall as Carruthers, who was six feet one in his socks, he was not short;
but he was broad-shouldered and squarely built, so that he looked
stocky. He was not fat, but plump rather; he looked as though he had a
hearty appetite and ate well. Young still, thirty perhaps or thirty-one,
he had already a massive look and one day would be very beefy. Now he
was a hefty fellow. He had a broad face deeply sunburned, a short
thickish nose and a somewhat sullen look. He wore a short fair
moustache. Oddly enough Carruthers had a vague feeling that he had seen
him before.

"Have you been with her ladyship long?" he asked.

"Well, I have, in a manner of speaking."

Carruthers became a trifle stiffer. He did not quite like the manner in
which the chauffeur spoke. He wondered why he did not say "sir" to him.
He was afraid Betty had let him get a little above himself. It was like
her to be a bit careless about such things. But it was a mistake. He'd
give her a hint when he got a chance. Their eyes met for an instant and
he could have sworn that there was a twinkle of amusement in the
chauffeur's. Carruthers could not imagine why. He was not aware that
there was anything amusing in him.

"That, I suppose, is the old city of the Knights," he said distantly,
pointing to the battlemented walls.

"Yes. Her ladyship'll take you over. We get a rare lot of tourists here
in the season."

Carruthers wished to be affable. He thought it would be nicer of him to
offer to sit by the chauffeur rather than behind by himself and was just
going to suggest it when the matter was taken out of his hands. The
chauffeur told the porters to put Carruthers' bags at the back, and
settling himself at the wheel said:

"Now if you'll hop in we'll get along."

Carruthers sat down beside him and they set off along a white road that
ran by the sea. In a few minutes they were in the open country. They
drove in silence. Carruthers was a little on his dignity. He felt that
the chauffeur was inclined to be familiar and he did not wish to give
him occasion to be so. He flattered himself that he had a manner with
him that puts his inferiors in their place. He thought with sardonic
grimness that it would not be long before the chauffeur would be calling
him "sir". But the morning was lovely; the white road ran between olive
groves and the farm-houses they passed now and then, with their white
walls and flat roofs, had an Oriental look that took the fancy. And
Betty was waiting for him. The love in his heart disposed him to
kindliness towards all men and lighting himself a cigarette he thought
it would be a generous act to offer the chauffeur one too. After all,
Rhodes was very far away from England and the age was democratic. The
chauffeur accepted the gift and stopped the car to light up.

"Have you got the baccy?" he asked suddenly.

"Have I got what?"

The chauffeur's face fell.

"Her ladyship wired to you to bring two pounds of Player's Navy Cut.
That's why I fixed it up with the Customs people not to open your
luggage."

"I never got the wire."

"Damn!"

"What on earth does her ladyship want with two pounds of Player's Navy
Cut?"

He spoke with hauteur. He did not like the chauffeur's exclamation. The
fellow gave him a sidelong glance in which Carruthers read a certain
insolence.

"We can't get it here," he said briefly.

He threw away with what looked very like exasperation the Egyptian
cigarette Carruthers had given him and started off again. He looked
sulky. He said nothing more. Carruthers felt that his efforts at
sociability had been a mistake. For the rest of the journey he ignored
the chauffeur. He adopted the frigid manner that he had used so
successfully as secretary at the Embassy when a member of the British
public came to him for assistance. For some time they had been running
up hill and now they came to a long low wall and then to an open gate.
The chauffeur turned in.

"Have we arrived?" cried Carruthers.

"Sixty-five kilometres in fifty-seven minutes," said the chauffeur, a
smile suddenly showing his fine white teeth. "Not so bad considering the
road."

He sounded his klaxon shrilly. Carruthers was breathless with
excitement. They drove up a narrow road through an olive grove, and came
to a low, white, rambling house. Betty was standing at the door. He
jumped out of the car and kissed her on both cheeks. For a moment he
could not speak. But subconsciously he noticed that at the door stood an
elderly butler in white ducks and a couple of footmen in the fustanellas
of their country. They were smart and picturesque. Whatever Betty
permitted her chauffeur it was evident that the house was run in the
civilised style suited to her station. She led him through the hall, a
large apartment with whitewashed walls in which he was vaguely conscious
of handsome furniture, into the drawing-room. This also was large and
low, with the same whitewashed walls, and he had immediately an
impression of comfort and luxury.

"The first thing you must do is to come and look at my view," she said.

"The first thing I must do is to look at you."

She was dressed in white. Her arms, her face, her neck, were deeply
burned by the sun; her eyes were bluer than he had ever seen them and
the whiteness of her teeth was startling. She looked extremely well. She
was very trim and neat. Her hair was waved, her nails were manicured; he
had had a moment's anxiety that in the easy life she led on this
romantic isle she had let herself go.

"Upon my word you look eighteen, Betty. How do you manage it?"

"Happiness," she smiled.

It gave him a momentary pang to hear her say this. He did not want her
to be too happy. He wanted to give her happiness. But now she insisted
on taking him out on the terrace. The drawing-room had five long windows
that led out to it and from the terrace the olive-clad hill tumbled
steeply to the sea. There was a tiny bay below in which a white boat,
mirrored on the calm water, lay at anchor. On a further hill, round the
corner, you saw the white houses of a Greek village and beyond it a huge
grey crag surmounted by the battlements of a medieval castle.

"It was one of the strongholds of the Knights," she said. "I'll take you
up there this evening."

The scene was quite lovely. It took your breath away. It was peaceful
and yet it had a strange air of life. It moved you not to contemplation,
but stirred you to activity.

"You've got the tobacco all right, I suppose."

He started.

"I'm afraid I haven't. I never got your wire."

"But I wired to the Embassy and I wired to the Excelsior."

"I stayed at the Plaza."

"What a bore! Albert'll be furious."

"Who is Albert?"

"He drove you out. Player's is the only tobacco he likes and he can't
get it here."

"Oh, the chauffeur." He pointed to the boat that lay gleaming beneath
them. "Is that the yacht I've heard about?"

"Yes."

It was a large caque that Betty had bought, fitted with a motor
auxiliary and smartened up. In it she wandered about the Greek islands.
She had been as far north as Athens and as far south as Alexandria.

"We'll take you for a trip if you can spare the time," she said. "You
ought to see Cos while you're here."

"Who runs it for you?"

"Of course I have a crew, but Albert chiefly. He's very clever with
motors and all that."

He did not know why it gave him a vague discomfort to hear her speak of
the chauffeur again. Carruthers wondered if she did not leave too much
in his hands. It was a mistake to give a servant too much leeway.

"You know, I couldn't help thinking I'd seen Albert before somewhere.
But I can't place him."

She smiled brightly, her eyes shining, with that sudden gaiety of hers
that gave her face its delightful frankness.

"You ought to remember him. He was the second footman at Aunt Louise's.
He must have opened the door to you hundreds of times."

Aunt Louise was the aunt with whom Betty had lived before her marriage.

"Oh, is that who he is? I suppose I must have seen him there without
noticing him. How does he happen to be here?'

"He comes from our place at home. When I married he wanted to come with
me, so I took him. He was Jimmie's valet for some time and then I sent
him to some motor works, he was mad about cars, and eventually I took
him on as my chauffeur. I don't know what I should do without him now."

"Don't you think it's rather a mistake to get too dependent on a
servant?"

"I don't know. It never occurred to me."

Betty showed him the rooms that had been got ready for him, and when he
had changed they strolled down to the beach. A dinghy was waiting for
them and they rowed out to the caque and bathed from there. The water
was warm and they sunned themselves on the deck. The caque was roomy,
comfortable and luxurious. Betty showed him over and they came upon
Albert tinkering with the engines. He was in filthy overalls, his hands
were black and his face was smeared with grease.

"What's the matter, Albert?" said Betty.

He raised himself and faced her respectfully.

"Nothing, m'lady. I was just 'aving a look round."

"There are only two things Albert loves in the world. One is the car and
the other's the yacht. Isn't that true, Albert?"

She gave him a gay smile and Albert's rather stolid face lit up. He
showed his beautiful white teeth.

"That's true, m'lady."

"He sleeps on board, you know. We rigged up a very nice cabin for him
aft."

                 *        *        *        *        *

Carruthers fell into the life very easily. Betty had bought the estate
from a Turkish pasha exiled to Rhodes by Abdul Hamid and she had added a
wing to the picturesque house. She had made a wild garden of the olive
grove that surrounded it. It was planted with rosemary and lavender and
asphodel, broom that she had had sent from England and the roses for
which the island was famous. In the spring, she told him, the ground was
carpeted with anemones. But when she showed him her property, telling
him her plans and what alterations she had in mind, Carruthers could not
help feeling a little uneasy.

"You talk as though you were going to live here all your life," he said.

"Perhaps I am," she smiled.

"What nonsense! At your age."

"I'm getting on for forty, old boy," she answered lightly.

He discovered with satisfaction that Betty had an excellent cook and it
gratified his sense of propriety to dine with her in the splendid
dining-room, with its Italian furniture, and be waited on by the
dignified Greek butler and the two handsome footmen in their flamboyant
uniforms. The house was furnished with taste; the rooms contained
nothing that was not essential, but every piece was good. Betty lived in
considerable state. When, the day after his arrival, the Governor with
several members of his staff came over to dinner she displayed all the
resources of the household. The Governor entering the house passed
between a double row of flunkeys magnificent in their starched
petticoats, embroidered jackets and velvet caps. It was almost a
bodyguard. Carruthers liked the grand style. The dinner-party was very
gay. Betty's Italian was fluent and Carruthers spoke it perfectly. The
young officers in the Governor's suite were uncommonly smart in their
uniforms. They were very attentive to Betty and she treated them with
easy cordiality. She chaffed them. After dinner the gramophone was
turned on and they danced with her one after the other.

When they were gone Carruthers asked her:

"Aren't they all madly in love with you?"

"I don't know about that. They hint occasionally at alliances permanent
or otherwise, but they take it very good-naturedly when I decline with
thanks."

They were not serious. The young ones were callow and the not so young
were fat and bald. Whatever they might feel about her Carruthers could
not for a moment believe that Betty would make a fool of herself with a
middle-class Italian. But a day or two later a curious thing happened.
He was in his rooms dressing for dinner; he heard a man's voice outside
in the passage, he could not hear what was said or what language was
spoken, and then ringing out suddenly Betty's laughter. It was a
charming laugh, rippling and gay, like a young girl's, and it had a
joyous abandon that was infectious. But whom could she be laughing with?
It was not the way you would laugh with a servant. It had a curious
intimacy. It may seem strange that Carruthers read all this into a peal
of laughter, but it must be remembered that Carruthers was very subtle.
His stories were remarkable for such touches.

When they met presently on the terrace and he was shaking a cocktail he
sought to gratify his curiosity.

"What were you laughing your head off over just now? Has anyone been
here?"

"No."

She looked at him with genuine surprise.

"I thought one of your Italian officers had come to pass the time of
day."

"No."

Of course the passage of years had had its effect on Betty. She was
beautiful, but her beauty was mature. She had always had assurance, but
now she had repose; her serenity was a feature, like her blue eyes and
her candid brow, that was part of her beauty. She seemed to be at peace
with all the world; it rested you to be with her as it rested you to lie
among the olives within sight of the wine-coloured sea. Though she was
as gay and witty as ever, the seriousness which once he had been alone
to know was now patent. No one could accuse her any longer of being
scatter-brained; it was impossible not to perceive the fineness of her
character. It had even nobility. That was not a trait it was usual to
find in the modern woman and Carruthers said to himself that she was a
throw-back; she reminded him of the great ladies of the eighteenth
century. She had always had a feeling for literature, the poems she
wrote as a girl were graceful and melodious, and he was more interested
than surprised when she told him that she had undertaken a solid
historical work. She was getting materials together for an account of
the Knights of St. John in Rhodes. It was a story of romantic incidents.
She took Carruthers to the city and showed him the noble battlements and
together they wandered through austere and stately buildings. They
strolled up the silent Street of the Knights with the lovely stone
faades and the great coats of arms that recalled a dead chivalry. She
had a surprise for him here. She had bought one of the old houses and
with affectionate care had restored it to its old state. When you
entered the little courtyard, with its carved stone stairway, you were
taken back into the middle ages. It had a tiny walled garden in which a
fig-tree grew and roses. It was small and secret and silent. The old
knights had been in contact with the East long enough to have acquired
Oriental ideas of privacy.

"When I'm tired of the villa I come here for two or three days and
picnic. It's a relief sometimes not to be surrounded by people."

"But you're not alone here?"

"Practically."

There was a little parlour austerely furnished.

"What is this?" said Carruthers pointing with a smile to a copy of _The
Sporting Times_ that lay on a table.

"Oh, that's Albert's. I suppose he left it here when he came to meet
you. He has _The Sporting Times_ and the _News of the World_ sent him
every week. That is how he keeps abreast of the great world."

She smiled tolerantly. Next to the parlour was a bedroom with nothing
much in it but a large bed.

"The house belonged to an Englishman. That's partly why I bought it. He
was a Sir Giles Quern, and one of my ancestors married a Mary Quern who
was a cousin of his. They were Cornish people."

Finding that she could not get on with her history without such a
knowledge of Latin as would enable her to read the medieval documents
with ease, Betty had set about learning the classical language. She
troubled to acquire only the elements of grammar and then started, with
a translation by her side, to read the authors that interested her. It
is a very good method of learning a language and I have often wondered
that it is not used in schools. It saves all the endless turning over of
dictionaries and the fumbling search for meaning. After nine months
Betty could read Latin as fluently as most of us can read French. It
seemed a trifle ridiculous to Carruthers that this lovely, brilliant
creature should take her work so seriously and yet he was moved; he
would have liked to snatch her in his arms and kiss her, not at that
moment as a woman, but as a precocious child whose cleverness suddenly
enchants you. But later he reflected upon what she had told him. He was
of course a very clever man, otherwise he could not have attained the
position he held in the Foreign Office, and it would be silly to claim
that those two books of his could have made so much stir without some
merit; if I have made him look a bit of a fool it is only because I did
not happen to like him, and if I have derided his stories it is merely
because stories of that sort seem to me rather silly. He had tact and
insight. He had a conviction that there was but one way to win her. She
was in a groove and happy in it, her plans were definite; but her life
at Rhodes was so well-ordered, so complete and satisfying, that for that
very reason its hold over her could be combated. His chance was to
arouse in her the restlessness that lies deep in the heart of the
English. So he talked to Betty of England and London, their common
friends and the painters, writers and musicians with whom his literary
success had brought him acquaintance. He talked of the Bohemian parties
in Chelsea, and of the opera, of trips to Paris _en bande_ for a
fancy-dress ball or to Berlin to see the new plays. He recalled to her
imagination a life rich and easy, varied, cultured, intelligent and
highly civilised. He tried to make her feel that she was stagnating in a
backwater. The world was hurrying on, from one new and interesting phase
to another, and she was standing still. They were living in a thrilling
age and she was missing it. Of course he did not tell her this; he left
her to infer it. He was amusing and spirited, he had an excellent memory
for a good story, he was whimsical and gay. I know I have not made
Humphrey Carruthers witty any more than I have shown Lady Betty
brilliant. The reader must take my word for it that they were.
Carruthers was generally reckoned an entertaining companion, and that is
half the battle; people were willing to find him amusing and they vowed
the things he said were marvellous. Of course his wit was social. It
needed a particular company, who understood his allusions and shared his
exclusive sense of humour. There are a score of journalists in Fleet
Street who could knock spots off the most famous of the society wits; it
is their business to be witty and brilliance is in their day's work.
There are few of the society beauties whose photographs appear in the
papers who could get a job at three pounds a week in the chorus of a
song-and-dance show. Amateurs must be judged with tolerance. Carruthers
knew that Betty enjoyed his society. They laughed a great deal together.
The days passed in a flash.

"I shall miss you terribly when you go," she said in her frank way.
"It's been a treat having you here. You are a sweet, Humphrey."

"Have you only just discovered it?"

He patted himself on the back. His tactics had been right. It was
interesting to see how well his simple plan had worked. Like a charm.
The vulgar might laugh at the Foreign Office, but there was no doubt it
taught you how to deal with difficult people. Now he had but to choose
his opportunity. He felt that Betty had never been more attached to him.
He would wait till the end of his visit. Betty was emotional. She would
be sorry that he was going. Rhodes would seem very dull without him.
Whom would she have to talk to when he was gone? After dinner they
usually sat on the terrace looking at the starry sea; the air was warm
and balmy and vaguely scented: it was then he would ask her to marry
him, on the eve of his departure. He felt it in his bones that she would
accept him.

One morning when he had been in Rhodes a little over a week, he happened
to be coming upstairs as Betty was walking along the passage.

"You've never shown me your room, Betty," he said.

"Haven't I? Come in and have a look now. It's rather nice."

She turned back and he followed her in. It was over the drawing-room and
nearly as large. It was furnished in the Italian style, and as is the
present way more like a sitting-room than a bedroom. There were fine
Paninis on the walls and one or two handsome cabinets. The bed was
Venetian and beautifully painted.

"That's a couch of rather imposing dimensions for a widow lady," he said
facetiously.

"It is enormous, isn't it? But it was so lovely, I had to buy it. It
cost a fortune."

His eye took in the bed-table by the side. There were two or three books
on it, a box of cigarettes, and on an ash-tray a briar pipe. Funny! What
on earth had Betty got a pipe by her bed for?

"Do look at this _cassone_. Isn't the painting marvellous? I almost
cried when I found it."

"I suppose that cost a fortune too."

"I daren't tell you what I paid."

When they were leaving the room he cast another glance at the bed-table.
The pipe had vanished.

It was odd that Betty should have a pipe in her bedroom, she certainly
didn't smoke one herself, and if she had would have made no secret of
it, but of course there were a dozen reasonable explanations. It might
be a present she was making to somebody, one of the Italians or even
Albert, he had not been able to see if it was new or old, or it might be
a pattern that she was going to ask him to take home to have others of
the same sort sent out to her. After the moment's perplexity, not
altogether unmingled with amusement, he put the matter out of his mind.
They were going for a picnic that day, taking their luncheon with them,
and Betty was driving him herself. They had arranged to go for a cruise
of a couple of days before he left so that he should see Patmos and Cos,
and Albert was busy with the engines of the caque. They had a wonderful
day. They visited a ruined castle and climbed a mountain on which grew
asphodel, hyacinth and narcissus, and returned dead beat. They separated
not long after dinner and Carruthers went to bed. He read for a little
and then turned out his light. But he could not sleep. It was hot under
his mosquito-net. He turned and tossed. Presently he thought he would go
down to the little beach at the foot of the hill and bathe. It was not
more than three minutes' walk. He put on his espadrilles and took a
towel. The moon was full and he saw it shining on the sea through the
olive-trees. But he was not alone to have thought that this radiant
night would be lovely to bathe in, for just before he came out on to the
beach sounds reached his ears. He muttered a little damn of vexation,
some of Betty's servants were bathing, and he could not very well
disturb them. The olive-trees came almost to the water's edge and
undecided he stood in their shelter. He heard a voice that gave him a
sudden start.

"Where's my towel?"

English. A woman waded out of the water and stood for a moment at its
edge. From the darkness a man came forward with nothing but a towel
round his loins. The woman was Betty. She was stark naked. The man
wrapped a bath-robe round her and began drying her vigorously. She
leaned on him while she put on first one shoe and then the other and to
support her he placed his arm round her shoulders. The man was Albert.

Carruthers turned and fled up the hill. He stumbled blindly. Once he
nearly fell. He was gasping like a wounded beast. When he got into his
room he flung himself on the bed and clenched his fists and the dry,
painful sobs that tore his chest broke into tears. He evidently had a
violent attack of hysterics. It was all clear to him, clear with the
ghastly vividness with which on a stormy night a flash of lightning can
disclose a ravaged landscape, clear, horribly clear. The way the man had
dried her and the way she leaned against him pointed not to passion, but
to a long-continued intimacy, and the pipe by the bedside, the pipe had
a hideously conjugal air. It suggested the pipe a man might smoke while
he was reading in bed before going to sleep. _The Sporting Times!_ That
was why she had that little house in the Street of the Knights, so that
they could spend two or three days together in domestic familiarity.
They were like an old married couple. Humphrey asked himself how long
the hateful thing had lasted and suddenly he knew the answer; for years.
Ten, twelve, fourteen; it had started when the young footman first came
to London, he was a boy then and it was obvious enough that it was not
he who had made the advances; all through those years when she was the
idol of the British public, when everyone adored her and she could have
married anyone she liked, she was living with the second footman at her
aunt's house. She took him with her when she married. Why had she made
that surprising marriage? And the still-born child that came before its
time. Of course that was why she had married Jimmie Welldon-Burns,
because she was going to have a child by Albert. Oh, shameless,
shameless! And then, when Jimmie's health broke down she had made him
take Albert as his valet. And what had Jimmie known and what had he
suspected? He drank, that was what had started his tuberculosis; but why
had he started drinking? Perhaps it was to still a suspicion that was so
ugly that he could not face it. And it was to live with Albert that she
had left Jimmie and it was to live with Albert that she had settled in
Rhodes. Albert, his hands with their broken nails stained by his work on
the motors, coarse of aspect and stocky, rather like a butcher with his
high colour and clumsy strength, Albert not even very young any more and
running to fat, uneducated and vulgar, with his common way of speaking.
Albert, Albert, how could she?

Carruthers got up and drank some water. He threw himself into a chair.
He could not bear his bed. He smoked cigarette after cigarette. He was a
wreck in the morning. He had not slept at all. They brought him in his
breakfast; he drank the coffee but could eat nothing. Presently there
was a brisk knock on his door.

"Coming down to bathe, Humphrey?"

That cheerful voice sent the blood singing through his head. He braced
himself and opened the door.

"I don't think I will to-day. I don't feel very well."

She gave him a look.

"Oh, my dear, you look all in. What's the matter with you?"

"I don't know. I think I must have got a touch of the sun."

His voice was dead and his eyes were tragic. She looked at him more
closely. She did not say anything for a moment. He thought she went
pale. He knew. Then a faintly mocking smile crossed her eyes; she
thought the situation comic.

"Poor old boy, go and lie down, I'll send you in some aspirin. Perhaps
you'll feel better at luncheon."

He lay in his darkened room. He would have given anything to get away
then so that he need not set eyes on her again, but there was no means
of that, the ship that was to take him back to Brindisi did not touch at
Rhodes till the end of the week. He was a prisoner. And the next day
they were to go to the islands. There was no escape from her there; in
the caque they would be in one another's pockets all day long. He
couldn't face that. He was so ashamed. But she wasn't ashamed. At that
moment when it had been plain to her that nothing was hidden from him
any longer she had smiled. She was capable of telling him all about it.
He could not bear that. That was too much. After all she couldn't be
certain that he knew, at best she could only suspect; if he behaved as
if nothing had happened, if at luncheon and during the days that
remained he was as gay and jolly as usual she would think she had been
mistaken. It was enough to know what he knew, he would not suffer the
crowning humiliation of hearing from her own lips the disgraceful story.
But at luncheon the first thing she said was:

"Isn't it a bore. Albert says something's gone wrong with the motor, we
shan't be able to go on our trip after all. I daren't trust to sail at
this time of the year. We might be becalmed for a week."

She spoke lightly and he answered in the same casual fashion.

"Oh, I'm sorry, but still I don't really care. It's so lovely here, I
really didn't much want to go."

He told her that the aspirin had done him good and he felt much better;
to the Greek butler and the two footmen in fustanellas it must have
seemed that they talked as vivaciously as usual. That night the British
consul came to dinner and the night after some Italian officers.
Carruthers counted the days, he counted the hours. Oh, if the moment
would only come when he could step on the ship and be free from the
horror that every moment of the day obsessed him! He was growing so
tired. But Betty's manner was so self-possessed that sometimes he asked
himself if she really knew that he was aware of her secret. Was it the
truth that she had told about the caque and not, as had at once struck
him, an excuse; and was it an accident that a succession of visitors
prevented them from ever being alone together? The worst of having so
much tact was that you never quite knew whether other people were acting
naturally or being tactful too. When he looked at her, so easy and calm,
so obviously happy, he could not believe the odious truth. And yet he
had seen with his own eyes. And the future. What would her future be? It
was horrible to think of. Sooner or later the truth must become
notorious. And to think of Betty a mock and an outcast, in the power of
a coarse and common man, growing older, losing her beauty; and the man
was five years younger than she. One day he would take a mistress, one
of her own maids, perhaps, with whom he would feel at home as he had
never felt with the great lady, and what could she do then? What
humiliation then must she be prepared to put up with! He might be cruel
to her. He might beat her. Betty. Betty.

Carruthers wrung his hands. And on a sudden an idea came to him that
filled him with a painful exaltation; he put it away from him, but it
returned; it would not let him be. He must save her, he had loved her
too much and too long to let her sink, sink as she was sinking; a
passion of self-sacrifice welled up in him. Notwithstanding everything,
though his love now was dead and he felt for her an almost physical
repulsion, he would marry her. He laughed mirthlessly. What would his
life be? He couldn't help that. He didn't matter. It was the only thing
to do. He felt wonderfully uplifted, and yet very humble, for he was
awed at the thought of the heights which the divine spirit of man could
reach.

His ship was to sail on Saturday and on Thursday when the guests who had
been dining left them, he said:

"I hope we're going to be alone to-morrow."

"As a matter of fact I've asked some Egyptians who spend the summer
here. She's a sister of the ex-Khedive and very intelligent. I'm sure
you'll like her."

"Well, it's my last evening. Couldn't we spend it alone?"

She gave him a glance. There was a faint amusement in her eyes, but his
were grave.

"If you like. I can put them off."

"Then do."

                 *        *        *        *        *

He was to start early in the morning and his luggage was packed. Betty
had told him not to dress, but he had answered that he preferred to. For
the last time they sat down to dinner facing one another. The
dining-room, with its shaded lights, was bare and formal, but the summer
night flooding in through the great open windows gave it a sober
richness. It had the effect of the private refectory in a convent to
which a royal lady had retired in order to devote the remainder of her
life to a piety not too austere. They had their coffee on the terrace.
Carruthers drank a couple of liqueurs. He was feeling very nervous.

"Betty, my dear, I've got something I want to say to you," he began.

"Have you? I wouldn't say it if I were you."

She answered gently. She remained perfectly calm, watching him shrewdly,
but with the glimmer of a smile in her blue eyes.

"I must."

She shrugged her shoulders and was silent. He was conscious that his
voice trembled a little and he was angry with himself.

"You know I've been madly in love with you for many years. I don't know
how many times I've asked you to marry me. But, after all, things change
and people change too, don't they? We're neither of us so young as we
were. Won't you marry me now, Betty?"

She gave him the smile that had always been such an attractive thing in
her; it was so kindly, so frank, and still, still so wonderfully
innocent.

"You're very sweet, Humphrey. It's awfully nice of you to ask me again.
I can't tell you how touched I am. But you know, I'm a creature of
habit, I've got in the habit of saying no to you now, and I can't change
it."

"Why not?"

There was something aggressive in his tone, something almost ominous,
that made her give him a quick look. Her face blanched with sudden
anger, but she immediately controlled herself.

"Because I don't want to," she smiled.

"Are you going to marry anyone else?"

"I? No. Of course not."

For a moment she seemed to draw herself up as though a wave of ancestral
pride swept through her and then she began to laugh. But whether she
laughed at the thought that had passed through her mind or because
something in Humphrey's proposal had amused her none but she could have
told.

"Betty. I implore you to marry me."

"Never."

"You can't go on living this life."

He put into his voice all the anguish of his heart and his face was
drawn and tortured. She smiled affectionately.

"Why not? Don't be such a donkey. You know I adore you, Humphrey, but
you are rather an old woman."

"Betty. Betty."

Did she not see that it was for her sake that he wanted it? It was not
love that made him speak, but human pity and shame. She got up.

"Don't be tiresome, Humphrey. You'd better go to bed, you know you have
to be up with the lark. I shan't see you in the morning. Good-bye and
God bless you. It's been wonderful having you here."

She kissed him on both cheeks.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Next morning, early, for he had to be on board at eight, when Carruthers
stepped out of the front door he found Albert waiting for him in the
car. He wore a singlet, duck trousers and a beret basque. Carruthers'
luggage was in the back. He turned to the butler.

"Put my bags beside the chauffeur," he said. "I'll sit behind."

Albert made no remark. Carruthers got in and they drove off. When they
arrived at the harbour, porters ran up. Albert got out of the car.
Carruthers looked down at him from his greater height.

"You need not see me on board. I can manage perfectly well by myself.
Here's a tip for you."

He gave him a five-pound note. Albert flushed. He was taken aback, he
would have liked to refuse it, but did not know how to, and the
servility of years asserted itself. Perhaps he did not know what he
said.

"Thank you, sir."

Carruthers gave him a curt nod and walked away. He had forced Betty's
lover to call him "sir". It was as though he had struck her a blow
across that smiling mouth of hers and flung in her face an opprobrious
word. It filled him with a bitter satisfaction.

                 *        *        *        *        *

He shrugged his shoulders and I could see that even this small triumph
now seemed vain. For a little while we were silent. There was nothing
for me to say. Then he began again.

"I dare say you think it's very strange that I should tell you all this.
I don't care. You know, I feel as if nothing mattered any more. I feel
as if decency no longer existed in the world. Heaven knows, I'm not
jealous. You can't be jealous unless you love and my love is dead. It
was killed in a flash. After all those years. I can't think of her now
without horror. What destroys me, what makes me so frightfully unhappy
is to think of her unspeakable degradation."

So it has been said that it was not jealousy that caused Othello to kill
Desdemona, but an agony that the creature that he believed angelic
should be proved impure and worthless. What broke his noble heart was
that virtue should so fall.

"I thought there was no one like her. I admired her so much. I admired
her courage and her frankness, her intelligence and her love of beauty.
She's just a sham and she's never been anything else."

"I wonder if that's true. Do you think any of us are all of a piece? Do
you know what strikes me? I should have said that Albert was only the
instrument, her toll to the solid earth, so to speak, that left her soul
at liberty to range the empyrean. Perhaps the mere fact that he was so
far below her gave her a sense of freedom in her relations with him that
she would have lacked with a man of her own class. The spirit is very
strange, it never soars so high as when the body has wallowed for a
period in the gutter."

"Oh, don't talk such rot," he answered angrily.

"I don't think it is rot. I don't put it very well, but the idea's
sound."

"Much good it does me. I'm broken and done for. I'm finished."

"Oh, nonsense. Why don't you write a story about it?"

"I?"

"You know, that's the great pull a writer has over other people. When
something has made him terribly unhappy, and he's tortured and
miserable, he can put it all into a story and it's astonishing what a
comfort and relief it is."

"It would be monstrous. Betty was everything in the world to me. I
couldn't do anything so caddish."

He paused for a little and I saw him reflect. I saw that notwithstanding
the horror that my suggestion caused him he did for one minute look at
the situation from the standpoint of the writer. He shook his head.

"Not for her sake, for mine. After all I have some self-respect.
Besides, there's no story there."




JANE


I remember very well the occasion on which I first saw Jane Fowler. It
is indeed only because the details of the glimpse I had of her then are
so clear that I trust my recollection at all, for, looking back, I must
confess that I find it hard to believe that it has not played me a
fantastic trick. I had lately returned to London from China and was
drinking a dish of tea with Mrs. Tower. Mrs. Tower had been seized with
the prevailing passion for decoration; and with the ruthlessness of her
sex had sacrificed chairs in which she had comfortably sat for years,
tables, cabinets, ornaments on which her eyes had dwelt in peace since
she was married, pictures that had been familiar to her for a
generation; and delivered herself into the hands of an expert. Nothing
remained in her drawing-room with which she had any association, or to
which any sentiment was attached; and she had invited me that day to see
the fashionable glory in which she now lived. Everything that could be
pickled was pickled and what couldn't be pickled was painted. Nothing
matched, but everything harmonised.

"Do you remember that ridiculous drawing-room suite that I used to
have?" asked Mrs. Tower.

The curtains were sumptuous yet severe; the sofa was covered with
Italian brocade; the chair on which I sat was in petit point. The room
was beautiful, opulent without garishness and original without
affectation; yet to me it lacked something; and while I praised with my
lips I asked myself why I so much preferred the rather shabby chintz of
the despised suite, the Victorian water-colours that I had known so
long, and the ridiculous Dresden china that had adorned the
chimney-piece. I wondered what it was that I missed in all these rooms
that the decorators were turning out with a profitable industry. Was it
heart? But Mrs. Tower looked about her happily.

"Don't you like my alabaster lamps?" she said. "They give such a soft
light."

"Personally I have a weakness for a light that you can see by," I
smiled.

"It's so difficult to combine that with a light that you can't be too
much seen by," laughed Mrs. Tower.

I had no notion what her age was. When I was quite a young man she was a
married woman a good deal older than I, but now she treated me as her
contemporary. She constantly said that she made no secret of her age,
which was forty, and then added with a smile that all women took five
years off. She never sought to conceal the fact that she dyed her hair
(it was a very pretty brown with reddish tints), and she said she did
this because hair was hideous while it was going grey; as soon as hers
was white she would cease to dye it.

"Then they'll say what a young face I have."

Meanwhile it was painted, though with discretion, and her eyes owed not
a little of their vivacity to art. She was a handsome woman, exquisitely
gowned, and in the sombre glow of the alabaster lamps did not look a day
more than the forty she gave herself.

"It is only at my dressing-table that I can suffer the naked brightness
of a thirty-two-candle electric bulb," she added with smiling cynicism.
"There I need it to tell me first the hideous truth and then to enable
me to take the necessary steps to correct it."

We gossiped pleasantly about our common friends and Mrs. Tower brought
me up to date in the scandal of the day. After roughing it here and
there it was very agreeable to sit in a comfortable chair, the fire
burning brightly on the hearth, charming tea-things set out on a
charming table, and talk with this amusing, attractive woman. She
treated me as a prodigal returned from his husks and was disposed to
make much of me. She prided herself on her dinner-parties; she took no
less trouble to have her guests suitably assorted than to give them
excellent food; and there were few persons who did not look upon it as a
treat to be bidden to one of them. Now she fixed a date and asked me
whom I would like to meet.

"There's only one thing I must tell you. If Jane Fowler is still here I
shall have to put it off."

"Who is Jane Fowler?" I asked.

Mrs. Tower gave a rueful smile.

"Jane Fowler is my cross."

"Oh!"

"Do you remember a photograph that I used to have on the piano before I
had my room done, of a woman in a tight dress with tight sleeves and a
gold locket, with her hair drawn back from a broad forehead and her ears
showing and spectacles on a rather blunt nose? Well, that was Jane
Fowler."

"You had so many photographs about the room in your unregenerate days,"
I said, vaguely.

"It makes me shudder to think of them. I've made them into a huge
brown-paper parcel and hidden them in an attic."

"Well, who is Jane Fowler?" I asked again, smiling.

"She's my sister-in-law. She was my husband's sister and she married a
manufacturer in the North. She's been a widow for many years, and she's
very well-to-do."

"And why is she your cross?"

"She's worthy, she's dowdy, she's provincial. She looks twenty years
older than I do and she's quite capable of telling anyone she meets that
we were at school together. She has an overwhelming sense of family
affection and because I am her only living connection she's devoted to
me. When she comes to London it never occurs to her that she should stay
anywhere but here--she thinks it would hurt my feelings--and she'll pay
me visits of three or four weeks. We sit here and she knits and reads.
And sometimes she insists on taking me to dine at Claridge's and she
looks like a funny old charwoman and everyone I particularly don't want
to be seen by is sitting at the next table. When we are driving home she
says she loves giving me a little treat. With her own hands she makes me
tea-cosies that I am forced to use when she is here and doilies and
centrepieces for the dining-room table."

Mrs. Tower paused to take breath.

"I should have thought a woman of your tact would find a way to deal
with a situation like that."

"Ah, but don't you see, I haven't a chance. She's so immeasurably kind.
She has a heart of gold. She bores me to death, but I wouldn't for
anything let her suspect it."

"And when does she arrive?"

"To-morrow."

But the answer was hardly out of Mrs. Tower's mouth when the bell rang.
There were sounds in the hall of a slight commotion and in a minute or
two the butler ushered in an elderly lady.

"Mrs. Fowler," he announced.

"Jane," cried Mrs. Tower, springing to her feet. "I wasn't expecting you
to-day."

"So your butler has just told me. I certainly said to-day in my letter."

Mrs. Tower recovered her wits.

"Well, it doesn't matter. I'm very glad to see you whenever you come.
Fortunately I'm doing nothing this evening."

"You mustn't let me give you any trouble. If I can have a boiled egg for
my dinner that's all I shall want."

A faint grimace for a moment distorted Mrs. Tower's handsome features. A
boiled egg!

"Oh, I think we can do a little better than that."

I chuckled inwardly when I recollected that the two ladies were
contemporaries. Mrs. Fowler looked a good fifty-five. She was a rather
big woman; she wore a black straw hat with a wide brim and from it a
black lace veil hung over her shoulders, a cloak that oddly combined
severity with fussiness, a long black dress, voluminous as though she
wore several petticoats under it, and stout boots. She was evidently
short-sighted, for she looked at you through large gold-rimmed
spectacles.

"Won't you have a cup of tea?" asked Mrs. Tower.

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble. I'll take off my mantle."

She began by stripping her hands of the black gloves she wore, and then
took off her cloak. Round her neck was a solid gold chain from which
hung a large gold locket in which I felt certain was a photograph of her
deceased husband. Then she took off her hat and placed it neatly with
her gloves and cloak on the sofa corner. Mrs. Tower pursed her lips.
Certainly those garments did not go very well with the austere but
sumptuous beauty of Mrs. Tower's redecorated drawing-room. I wondered
where on earth Mrs. Fowler had found the extraordinary clothes she wore.
They were not old and the materials were expensive. It was astounding to
think that dressmakers still made things that had not been worn for a
quarter of a century. Mrs. Fowler's grey hair was very plainly done,
showing all her forehead and her ears, with a parting in the middle. It
had evidently never known the tongs of Monsieur Marcel. Now her eyes
fell on the tea-table with its teapot of Georgian silver and its cups in
old Worcester.

"What have you done with the tea-cosy I gave you last time I came up,
Marion?" she asked. "Don't you use it?"

"Yes, I used it every day, Jane," answered Mrs. Tower glibly.
"Unfortunately we had an accident with it a little while ago. It got
burnt."

"But the last one I gave you got burnt."

"I'm afraid you'll think us very careless."

"It doesn't really matter," smiled Mrs. Fowler. "I shall enjoy making
you another. I'll go to Liberty's to-morrow and buy some silks."

Mrs. Tower kept her face bravely.

"I don't deserve it, you know. Doesn't your vicar's wife need one?"

"Oh, I've just made her one," said Mrs. Fowler brightly.

I noticed that when she smiled she showed white, small and regular
teeth. They were a real beauty. Her smile was certainly very sweet.

But I felt it high time for me to leave the two ladies to themselves, so
I took my leave.

Early next morning Mrs. Tower rang me up and I heard at once from her
voice that she was in high spirits.

"I've got the most wonderful news for you," she said. "Jane is going to
be married."

"Nonsense."

"Her fianc is coming to dine here to-night to be introduced to me and I
want you to come too."

"Oh, but I shall be in the way."

"No, you won't. Jane suggested herself that I should ask you. Do come."

She was bubbling over with laughter.

"Who is he?"

"I don't know. She tells me he's an architect. Can you imagine the sort
of man Jane would marry?"

I had nothing to do and I could trust Mrs. Tower to give me a good
dinner.

When I arrived Mrs. Tower, very splendid in a tea-gown a little too
young for her, was alone.

"Jane is putting the finishing touches to her appearance. I'm longing
for you to see her. She's all in a flutter. She says he adores her. His
name is Gilbert and when she speaks of him her voice gets all funny and
tremulous. It makes me want to laugh."

"I wonder what he's like."

"Oh, I'm sure I know. Very big and massive, with a bald head and an
immense gold chain across an immense tummy. A large, fat, clean-shaven,
red face and a booming voice."

Mrs. Fowler came in. She wore a very stiff black silk dress with a wide
skirt and a train. At the neck it was cut into a timid V and the sleeves
came down to the elbows. She wore a necklace of diamonds set in silver.
She carried in her hands a long pair of black gloves and a fan of black
ostrich feathers. She managed (as so few people do) to look exactly what
she was. You could never have thought her anything in the world but the
respectable relict of a North-country manufacturer of ample means.

"You've really got quite a pretty neck, Jane," said Mrs. Tower with a
kindly smile.

It was indeed astonishingly young when you compared it with her
weather-beaten face. It was smooth and unlined and the skin was white.
And I noticed then that her head was very well placed on her shoulders.

"Has Marion told you my news?" she said, turning to me with that really
charming smile of hers as if we were already old friends.

"I must congratulate you," I said.

"Wait to do that till you've seen my young man."

"I think it's too sweet to hear you talk of your young man," smiled Mrs.
Tower.

Mrs. Fowler's eyes certainly twinkled behind her preposterous
spectacles.

"Don't expect anyone too old. You wouldn't like me to marry a decrepit
old gentleman with one foot in the grave, would you?"

This was the only warning she gave us. Indeed there was no time for any
further discussion, for the butler flung open the door and in a loud
voice announced:

"Mr. Gilbert Napier."

There entered a youth in a very well-cut dinner jacket. He was slight,
not very tall, with fair hair in which there was a hint of a natural
wave, clean-shaven and blue-eyed. He was not particularly good-looking,
but he had a pleasant, amiable face. In ten years he would probably be
wizened and sallow; but now, in extreme youth, he was fresh and clean
and blooming. For he was certainly not more than twenty-four. My first
thought was that this was the son of Jane Fowler's fianc (I had not
known he was a widower) come to say that his father was prevented from
dining by a sudden attack of gout. But his eyes fell immediately on Mrs.
Fowler, his face lit up, and he went towards her with both, hands
outstretched. Mrs. Fowler gave him hers, a demure smile on her lips, and
turned to her sister-in-law.

"This is my young man, Marion," she said.

He held out his hand.

"I hope you'll like me, Mrs. Tower," he said. "Jane tells me you're the
only relation she has in the world."

Mrs. Tower's face was wonderful to behold. I saw then to admiration how
bravely good breeding and social usage could combat the instincts of the
natural woman. For the astonishment and then the dismay that for an
instant she could not conceal were quickly driven away, and her face
assumed an expression of affable welcome. But she was evidently at a
loss for words. It was not unnatural if Gilbert felt a certain
embarrassment and I was too busy preventing myself from laughing to
think of anything to say. Mrs. Fowler alone kept perfectly calm.

"I know you'll like him, Marion. There's no one enjoys good food more
than he does." She turned to the young man. "Marion's dinners are
famous."

"I know," he beamed.

Mrs. Tower made some quick rejoinder and we went downstairs. I shall not
soon forget the exquisite comedy of that meal. Mrs. Tower could not make
up her mind whether the pair of them were playing a practical joke on
her or whether Jane by wilfully concealing her fianc's age had hoped to
make her look foolish. But then Jane never jested and she was incapable
of doing a malicious thing. Mrs. Tower was amazed, exasperated and
perplexed. But she had recovered her self-control, and for nothing would
she have forgotten that she was a perfect hostess whose duty it was to
make her party go. She talked vivaciously; but I wondered if Gilbert
Napier saw how hard and vindictive was the expression of her eyes behind
the mask of friendliness that she turned to him. She was measuring him.
She was seeking to delve into the secret of his soul. I could see that
she was in a passion, for under her rouge her cheeks glowed with an
angry red.

"You've got a very high colour, Marion," said Jane, looking at her
amiably through her great round spectacles.

"I dressed in a hurry. I dare say I put on too much rouge."

"Oh, is it rouge? I thought it was natural. Otherwise I shouldn't have
mentioned it." She gave Gilbert a shy little smile. "You know, Marion
and I were at school together. You would never think it to look at us
now, would you? But of course I've lived a very quiet life."

I do not know what she meant by these remarks; it was almost incredible
that she made them in complete simplicity; but anyhow they goaded Mrs.
Tower to such a fury that she flung her own vanity to the winds. She
smiled brightly.

"We shall neither of us see fifty again, Jane," she said.

If the observation was meant to discomfit the widow it failed.

"Gilbert says I mustn't acknowledge to more than forty-nine for his
sake," she answered blandly.

Mrs. Tower's hands trembled slightly, but she found a retort.

"There is of course a certain disparity of age between you," she smiled.

"Twenty-seven years," said Jane. "Do you think it's too much? Gilbert
says I'm very young for my age. I told you I shouldn't like to marry a
man with one foot in the grave."

I was really obliged to laugh and Gilbert laughed too. His laughter was
frank and boyish. It looked as though he were amused at everything Jane
said. But Mrs. Tower was almost at the end of her tether and I was
afraid that unless relief came she would for once forget that she was a
woman of the world. I came to the rescue as best I could.

"I suppose you're very busy buying your trousseau," I said.

"No. I wanted to get my things from the dressmaker in Liverpool I've
been to ever since I was first married. But Gilbert won't let me. He's
very masterful, and of course he has wonderful taste."

She looked at him with a little affectionate smile, demurely, as though
she were a girl of seventeen.

Mrs. Tower went quite pale under her make-up.

"We're going to Italy for our honeymoon. Gilbert has never had a chance
of studying Renaissance architecture and of course it's important for an
architect to see things for himself. And we shall stop in Paris on the
way and get my clothes there."

"Do you expect to be away long?"

"Gilbert has arranged with his office to stay away for six months. It
will be such a treat for him, won't it? You see, he's never had more
than a fortnight's holiday before."

"Why not?" asked Mrs. Tower in a tone that no effort of will could
prevent from being icy.

"He's never been able to afford it, poor dear."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Tower, and into the exclamation put volumes.

Coffee was served and the ladies went upstairs. Gilbert and I began to
talk in the desultory way in which men talk who have nothing whatever to
say to one another; but in two minutes a note was brought in to me by
the butler. It was from Mrs. Tower and ran as follows:

    _"Come upstairs quickly and then go as soon as you can. Take him
    with you. Unless I have it out with Jane at once I shall have a
    fit."_

I told a facile lie.

"Mrs. Tower has a headache and wants to go to bed. I think if you don't
mind we'd better clear out."

"Certainly," he answered.

We went upstairs and five minutes later were on the doorstep. I called a
taxi and offered the young man a lift.

"No, thanks," he answered. "I'll just walk to the corner and jump on a
bus."

                 *        *        *        *        *

Mrs. Tower sprang to the fray as soon as she heard the front door close
behind us.

"Are you crazy, Jane?" she cried.

"Not more than most people who don't habitually live in a lunatic
asylum, I trust," Jane answered blandly.

"May I ask why you're going to marry this young man?" asked Mrs. Tower
with formidable politeness.

"Partly because he won't take no for an answer. He's asked me five
times. I grew positively tired of refusing him."

"And why do you think he's so anxious to marry you?"

"I amuse him."

Mrs. Tower gave an exclamation of annoyance.

"He's an unscrupulous rascal. I very nearly told him so to his face."

"You would have been wrong, and it wouldn't have been very polite."

"He's penniless and you're rich. You can't be such a besotted fool as
not to see that he's marrying you for your money."

Jane remained perfectly composed. She observed her sister-in-law's
agitation with detachment.

"I don't think he is, you know," she replied. "I think he's very fond of
me."

"You're an old woman, Jane."

"I'm the same age as you are, Marion," she smiled.

"I've never let myself go. I'm very young for my age. No one would think
I was more than forty. But even I wouldn't dream of marrying a boy
twenty years younger than myself."

"Twenty-seven," corrected Jane.

"Do you mean to tell me that you can bring yourself to believe that it's
possible for a young man to care for a woman old enough to be his
mother?"

"I've lived very much in the country for many years. I dare say there's
a great deal about human nature that I don't know. They tell me there's
a man called Freud, an Austrian, I believe..."

But Mrs. Tower interrupted her without any politeness at all.

"Don't be ridiculous, Jane. It's so undignified. It's so ungraceful. I
always thought you were a sensible woman. Really you're the last person
I should ever have thought likely to fall in love with a boy."

"But I'm not in love with him. I've told him that. Of course I like him
very much or I wouldn't think of marrying him. I thought it only fair to
tell him quite plainly what my feelings were towards him."

Mrs. Tower gasped. The blood rushed to her head and her breathing
oppressed her. She had no fan, but she seized the evening paper and
vigorously fanned herself with it.

"If you're not in love with him why do you want to marry him?"

"I've been a widow a very long time and I've led a very quiet life. I
thought I'd like a change."

"If you want to marry just to be married why don't you marry a man of
your own age?"

"No man of my own age has asked me five times. In fact no man of my own
age has asked me at all."

Jane chuckled as she answered. It drove Mrs. Tower to the final pitch of
frenzy.

"Don't laugh, Jane. I won't have it. I don't think you can be right in
your mind. It's dreadful."

It was altogether too much for her and she burst into tears. She knew
that at her age it was fatal to cry, her eyes would be swollen for
twenty-four hours and she would look a sight. But there was no help for
it. She wept. Jane remained perfectly calm. She looked at Marion through
her large spectacles and reflectively smoothed the lap of her black silk
dress.

"You're going to be so dreadfully unhappy," Mrs. Tower sobbed, dabbing
her eyes cautiously in the hope that the black on her lashes would not
smudge.

"I don't think so, you know," Jane answered in those equable, mild tones
of hers, as if there were a little smile behind the words. "We've talked
it over very thoroughly. I always think I'm a very easy person to live
with. I think I shall make Gilbert very happy and comfortable. He's
never had anyone to look after him properly. We're only marrying after
mature consideration. And we've decided that if either of us wants his
liberty the other will place no obstacles in the way of his getting it."

Mrs. Tower had by now recovered herself sufficiently to make a cutting
remark.

"How much has he persuaded you to settle on him?"

"I wanted to settle a thousand a year on him, but he wouldn't hear of
it. He was quite upset when I made the suggestion. He says he can earn
quite enough for his own needs."

"He's more cunning than I thought," said Mrs. Tower acidly.

Jane paused a little and looked at her sister-in-law with kindly but
resolute eyes.

"You see, my dear, it's different for you," she said. "You've never been
so very much a widow, have you?"

Mrs. Tower looked at her. She blushed a little. She even felt slightly
uncomfortable. But of course Jane was much too simple to intend an
innuendo. Mrs. Tower gathered herself together with dignity.

"I'm so upset that I really must go to bed," she said. "We'll resume the
conversation to-morrow morning."

"I'm afraid that won't be very convenient, dear. Gilbert and I are going
to get the licence to-morrow morning."

Mrs. Tower threw up her hands in a gesture of dismay, but she found
nothing more to say.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The marriage took place at a registrar's office. Mrs. Tower and I were
the witnesses. Gilbert in a smart blue suit looked absurdly young and he
was obviously nervous. It is a trying moment for any man. But Jane kept
her admirable composure. She might have been in the habit of marrying as
frequently as a woman of fashion. Only a slight colour on her cheeks
suggested that beneath her calm was some faint excitement. It is a
thrilling moment for any woman. She wore a very full dress of silvery
grey velvet in the cut of which I recognised the hand of the dressmaker
in Liverpool (evidently a widow of unimpeachable character) who had made
her gowns for so many years; but she had so far succumbed to the
frivolity of the occasion as to wear a large picture hat covered with
blue ostrich feathers. Her gold-rimmed spectacles made it
extraordinarily grotesque. When the ceremony was over the registrar
(somewhat taken aback, I thought, by the difference of age between the
pair he was marrying) shook hands with her, tendering his strictly
official congratulations; and the bridegroom, blushing slightly, kissed
her. Mrs. Tower, resigned but implacable, kissed her; and then the bride
looked at me expectantly. It was evidently fitting that I should kiss
her too. I did. I confess that I felt a little shy as we walked out of
the registrar's office past loungers who waited cynically to see the
bridal pairs, and it was with relief that I stepped into Mrs. Tower's
car. We drove to Victoria Station, for the happy couple were to go over
to Paris by the two o'clock train, and Jane had insisted that the
wedding-breakfast should be eaten at the station restaurant. She said it
always made her nervous not to be on the platform in good time. Mrs.
Tower, present only from a strong sense of family duty, was able to do
little to make the party go off well; she ate nothing (for which I could
not blame her, since the food was execrable, and anyway I hate champagne
at luncheon) and talked in a strained voice. But Jane went through the
menu conscientiously.

"I always think one should make a hearty meal before starting out on a
journey," she said.

We saw them off, and I drove Mrs. Tower back to her house.

"How long do you give it?" she said. "Six months?"

"Let's hope for the best," I smiled.

"Don't be so absurd. There can be no 'best'. You don't think he's
marrying her for anything but her money, do you? Of course it can't
last. My only hope is that she won't have to go through as much
suffering as she deserves."

I laughed. The charitable words were spoken in such a tone as to leave
me in small doubt of Mrs. Tower's meaning.

"Well, if it doesn't last you'll have the consolation of saying: 'I told
you so'," I said.

"I promise you I'll never do that."

"Then you'll have the satisfaction of congratulating yourself on your
self-control in not saying: 'I told you so'."

"She's old and dowdy and dull."

"Are you sure she's dull?" I said. "It's true she doesn't say very much,
but when she says anything it's very much to the point."

"I've never heard her make a joke in my life."

                 *        *        *        *        *

I was once more in the Far East when Gilbert and Jane returned from
their honeymoon and this time I remained away for nearly two years. Mrs.
Tower was a bad correspondent and though I sent her an occasional
picture-postcard I received no news from her. But I met her within a
week of my return to London; I was dining out and found that I was
seated next to her. It was an immense party, I think we were
four-and-twenty, like the blackbirds in the pie, and, arriving somewhat
late, I was too confused by the crowd in which I found myself to notice
who was there. But when we sat down, looking round the long table I saw
that a good many of my fellow-guests were well known to the public from
their photographs in the illustrated papers. Our hostess had a weakness
for the persons technically known as celebrities and this was an
unusually brilliant gathering. When Mrs. Tower and I had exchanged the
conventional remarks that two people make when they have not seen one
another for a couple of years I asked about Jane.

"She's very well," said Mrs. Tower with a certain dryness.

"How has the marriage turned out?"

Mrs. Tower paused a little and took a salted almond from the dish in
front of her.

"It appears to be quite a success."

"You were wrong then?"

"I said it wouldn't last and I still say it won't last. It's contrary to
human nature."

"Is she happy?"

"They're both happy."

"I suppose you don't see very much of them."

"At first I saw quite a lot of them. But now..." Mrs. Tower pursed
her lips a little. "Jane is becoming very grand."

"What _do_ you mean?" I laughed.

"I think I should tell you that she's here to-night."

"Here?"

I was startled. I looked round the table again. Our hostess was a
delightful and an entertaining woman, but I could not imagine that she
would be likely to invite to a dinner such as this the elderly and dowdy
wife of an obscure architect. Mrs. Tower saw my perplexity and was
shrewd enough to see what was in my mind. She smiled thinly.

"Look on the left of our host."

I looked. Oddly enough the woman who sat there had by her fantastic
appearance attracted my attention the moment I was ushered into the
crowded drawing-room. I thought I noticed a gleam of recognition in her
eye, but to the best of my belief I had never seen her before. She was
not a young woman, for her hair was iron-grey; it was cut very short and
clustered thickly round her well-shaped head in tight curls. She made no
attempt at youth, for she was conspicuous in that gathering by using
neither lipstick, rouge nor powder. Her face, not a particularly
handsome one, was red and weather-beaten; but because it owed nothing to
artifice had a naturalness that was very pleasing. It contrasted oddly
with the whiteness of her shoulders. They were really magnificent. A
woman of thirty might have been proud of them. But her dress was
extraordinary. I had not often seen anything more audacious. It was cut
very low, with short skirts, which were then the fashion, in black and
yellow; it had almost the effect of fancy-dress and yet so became her
that though on anyone else it would have been outrageous, on her it had
the inevitable simplicity of nature. And to complete the impression of
an eccentricity in which there was no pose and of an extravagance in
which there was no ostentation she wore, attached by a broad black
ribbon, a single eyeglass.

"You're not going to tell me _that_ is your sister-in-law," I gasped.

"That is Jane Napier," said Mrs. Tower icily.

At that moment she was speaking. Her host was turned towards her with an
anticipatory smile. A baldish white-haired man, with a sharp,
intelligent face, who sat on her left, was leaning forward eagerly, and
the couple who sat opposite, ceasing to talk with one another, listened
intently. She said her say and they all, with a sudden movement, threw
themselves back in their chairs and burst into vociferous laughter. From
the other side of the table a man addressed Mrs. Tower: I recognised a
famous statesman.

"Your sister-in-law has made another joke, Mrs. Tower," he said.

Mrs. Tower smiled.

"She's priceless, isn't she?"

"Let me have a long drink of champagne and then for heaven's sake tell
me all about it," I said.

Well, this is how I gathered it had all happened. At the beginning of
their honeymoon Gilbert took Jane to various dressmakers in Paris and he
made no objection to her choosing a number of "gowns" after her own
heart; but he persuaded her to have a "frock" or two made according to
his own design. It appeared that he had a knack for that kind of work.
He engaged a smart French maid. Jane had never had such a thing before.
She did her own mending and when she wanted "doing up" was in the habit
of ringing for the housemaid. The dresses Gilbert had devised were very
different from anything she had worn before; but he had been careful not
to go too far too quickly, and because it pleased him she persuaded
herself, though not without misgivings, to wear them in preference to
those she had chosen herself. Of course she could not wear them with the
voluminous petticoats she had been in the habit of using, and these,
though it cost her an anxious moment, she discarded.

"Now if you please," said Mrs. Tower, with something very like a sniff
of disapproval, "she wears nothing but thin silk tights. It's a wonder
to me she doesn't catch her death of cold at her age."

Gilbert and the French maid taught her how to wear her clothes, and,
unexpectedly enough, she was very quick at learning. The French maid was
in raptures over Madame's arms and shoulders. It was a scandal not to
show anything so fine.

"Wait a little, Alphonsine," said Gilbert. "The next lot of clothes I
design for Madame we'll make the most of her."

The spectacles of course were dreadful. No one could look really well in
gold-rimmed spectacles. Gilbert tried some with tortoise-shell rims. He
shook his head.

"They'd look all right on a girl," he said. "You're too old to wear
spectacles, Jane." Suddenly he had an inspiration. "By George, I've got
it. You must wear an eyeglass."

"Oh, Gilbert, I couldn't."

She looked at him and his excitement, the excitement of the artist, made
her smile. He was so sweet to her she wanted to do what she could to
please him.

"I'll try," she said.

When they went to an optician and, suited with the right size, she
placed an eyeglass jauntily in her eye Gilbert clapped his hands. There
and then, before the astonished shopman, he kissed her on both cheeks.

"You look wonderful," he cried.

So they went down to Italy and spent happy months studying Renaissance
and Baroque architecture. Jane not only grew accustomed to her changed
appearance, but found she liked it. At first she was a little shy when
she went into the dining-room of an hotel and people turned round to
stare at her, no one had ever raised an eyelid to look at her before,
but presently she found that the sensation was not disagreeable. Ladies
came up to her and asked her where she got her dress.

"Do you like it?" she answered demurely. "My husband designed it for
me."

"I should like to copy it if you don't mind."

Jane had certainly for many years lived a very quiet life, but she was
by no means lacking in the normal instincts of her sex. She had her
answer ready.

"I'm so sorry, but my husband's very particular and he won't hear of
anyone copying my frocks. He wants me to be unique."

She had an idea that people would laugh when she said this, but they
didn't; they merely answered:

"Oh, of course I quite understand. You _are_ unique."

But she saw them making mental notes of what she wore, and for some
reason this quite "put her about". For once in her life that she wasn't
wearing what everybody else did, she reflected, she didn't see why
everybody else should want to wear what she did.

"Gilbert," she said, quite sharply for her, "next time you're designing
dresses for me I wish you'd design things that people _can't_ copy."

"The only way to do that is to design things that only you can wear."

"Can't you do that?"

"Yes, if you'll do something for me."

"What is it?"

"Cut off your hair."

I think this was the first time that Jane jibbed. Her hair was long and
thick and as a girl she had been quite vain of it; to cut it off was a
very drastic proceeding. This really was burning her boats behind her.
In her case it was not the first step that cost so much, it was the
last; but she took it ("I know Marion will think me a perfect fool, and
I shall _never_ be able to go to Liverpool again," she said), and when
they passed through Paris on their way home Gilbert led her (she felt
quite sick, her heart was beating so fast) to the best hairdresser in
the world. She came out of his shop with a jaunty, saucy, impudent head
of crisp grey curls. Pygmalion had finished his fantastic masterpiece:
Galatea was come to life.

"Yes," I said, "but that isn't enough to explain why Jane is here
to-night amid this crowd of duchesses, Cabinet Ministers and such-like;
nor why she is sitting on one side of her host with an Admiral of the
Fleet on the other."

"Jane is a humorist," said Mrs. Tower. "Didn't you see them all laughing
at what she said?"

There was no doubt now of the bitterness in Mrs. Tower's heart.

"When Jane wrote and told me they were back from their honeymoon I
thought I must ask them both to dinner. I didn't much like the idea, but
I felt it had to be done. I knew the party would be deadly and I wasn't
going to sacrifice any of the people who really mattered. On the other
hand I didn't want Jane to think I hadn't any nice friends. You know I
never have more than eight, but on this occasion I thought it would make
things go better if I had twelve. I'd been too busy to see Jane until
the evening of the party. She kept us all waiting a little--that was
Gilbert's cleverness--and at last she sailed in. You could have knocked
me down with a feather. She made the rest of the women look dowdy and
provincial. She made me feel like a painted old trollop."

Mrs. Tower drank a little champagne.

"I wish I could describe the frock to you. It would have been quite
impossible on anyone else; on her it was perfect. And the eyeglass! I'd
known her for thirty-five years and I'd never seen her without
spectacles."

"But you knew she had a good figure."

"How should I? I'd never seen her except in the clothes you first saw
her in. Did _you_ think she had a good figure? She seemed not to be
unconscious of the sensation she made but to take it as a matter of
course. I thought of my dinner and I heaved a sigh of relief. Even if
she was a little heavy in hand, with that appearance it didn't so very
much matter. She was sitting at the other end of the table and I heard a
good deal of laughter, I was glad to think that the other people were
playing up well; but after dinner I was a good deal taken aback when no
less than three men came up to me and told me that my sister-in-law was
priceless, and did I think she would allow them to call on her? I didn't
quite know whether I was standing on my head or my heels. Twenty-four
hours later our hostess of to-night rang me up and said she had heard my
sister-in-law was in London and she was priceless and would I ask her to
luncheon to meet her? She has an infallible instinct, that woman: in a
month everyone was talking about Jane. I am here to-night, not because
I've known our hostess for twenty years and have asked her to dinner a
hundred times, but because I'm Jane's sister-in-law."

Poor Mrs. Tower. The position was galling, and though I could not help
being amused, for the tables were turned on her with a vengeance, I felt
that she deserved my sympathy.

"People never can resist those who make them laugh," I said, trying to
console her.

"She never makes _me_ laugh."

Once more from the top of the table I heard a guffaw and guessed that
Jane had said another amusing thing.

"Do you mean to say that you are the only person who doesn't think her
funny?" I asked, smiling.

"Had it struck _you_ that she was a humorist?"

"I'm bound to say it hadn't."

"She says just the same things as she's said for the last thirty-five
years. I laugh when I see everyone else does because I don't want to
seem a perfect fool, but I am not amused."

"Like Queen Victoria," I said.

It was a foolish jest and Mrs. Tower was quite right sharply to tell me
so. I tried another tack.

"Is Gilbert here?" I asked, looking down the table.

"Gilbert was asked because she won't go out without him, but to-night
he's at a dinner of the Architects' Institute or whatever it's called."

"I'm dying to renew my acquaintance with her."

"Go and talk to her after dinner. She'll ask you to her Tuesdays."

"Her Tuesdays?"

"She's at home every Tuesday evening. You'll meet there everyone you
ever heard of. They're the best parties in London. She's done in one
year what I've failed to do in twenty."

"But what you tell me is really miraculous. How has it been done?"

Mrs. Tower shrugged her handsome but adipose shoulders.

"I shall be glad if you'll tell me," she replied.

After dinner I tried to make my way to the sofa on which Jane was
sitting, but I was intercepted and it was not till a little later that
my hostess came up to me and said:

"I must introduce you to the star of my party. Do you know Jane Napier?
She's priceless. She's much more amusing than your comedies."

I was taken up to the sofa. The admiral who had been sitting beside her
at dinner was with her still. He showed no sign of moving and Jane,
shaking hands with me, introduced me to him.

"Do you know Sir Reginald Frobisher?"

We began to chat. It was the same Jane as I had known before, perfectly
simple, homely and unaffected, but her fantastic appearance certainly
gave a peculiar savour to what she said. Suddenly I found myself shaking
with laughter. She had made a remark, sensible and to the point, but not
in the least witty, which her manner of saying and the bland look she
gave me through her eyeglass made perfectly irresistible. I felt
light-hearted and buoyant. When I left her she said to me:

"If you've got nothing better to do, come and see us on Tuesday evening.
Gilbert will be so glad to see you."

"When he's been a month in London he'll know that he can have nothing
better to do," said the admiral.

So, on Tuesday but rather late, I went to Jane's. I confess I was a
little surprised at the company. It was quite a remarkable collection of
writers, painters and politicians, actors, great ladies and great
beauties: Mrs. Tower was right, it was a grand party; I had seen nothing
like it in London since Stafford House was sold. No particular
entertainment was provided. The refreshments were adequate without being
luxurious. Jane in her quiet way seemed to be enjoying herself; I could
not see that she took a great deal of trouble with her guests, but they
seemed to like being there and the gay, pleasant party did not break up
till two in the morning. After that I saw much of her. I not only went
often to her house, but seldom went out to luncheon or to dinner without
meeting her. I am an amateur of humour and I sought to discover in what
lay her peculiar gift. It was impossible to repeat anything she said,
for the fun, like certain wines, would not travel. She had no gift for
epigram. She never made a brilliant repartee. There was no malice in her
remarks nor sting in her rejoinders. There are those who think that
impropriety, rather than brevity, is the soul of wit; but she never said
a thing that could have brought a blush to a Victorian cheek. I think
her humour was unconscious and I am sure it was unpremeditated. It flew
like a butterfly from flower to flower, obedient only to its own caprice
and pursuivant of neither method nor intention. It depended on the way
she spoke and on the way she looked. Its subtlety gained by the
flaunting and extravagant appearance that Gilbert had achieved for her;
but her appearance was only an element in it. Now of course she was the
fashion and people laughed if she but opened her mouth. They no longer
wondered that Gilbert had married a wife so much older than himself.
They saw that Jane was a woman with whom age did not count. They thought
him a devilish lucky young fellow. The admiral quoted Shakespeare to me:
"Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety." Gilbert
was delighted with her success. As I came to know him better I grew to
like him. It was quite evident that he was neither a rascal nor a
fortune-hunter. He was not only immensely proud of Jane but genuinely
devoted to her. His kindness to her was touching. He was a very
unselfish and sweet-tempered young man.

"Well, what do you think of Jane now?" he said to me once, with boyish
triumph.

"I don't know which of you is more wonderful," I said. "You or she."

"Oh, I'm nothing."

"Nonsense. You don't think I'm such a fool as not to see that it's you,
and you only, who've made Jane what she is."

"My only merit is that I saw what was there when it wasn't obvious to
the naked eye," he answered.

"I can understand your seeing that she had in her the possibility of
that remarkable appearance, but how in the world have you made her into
a humorist?"

"But I always thought the things she said a perfect scream. She was
always a humorist."

"You're the only person who ever thought so."

Mrs. Tower, not without magnanimity, acknowledged that she had been
mistaken in Gilbert. She grew quite attached to him. But notwithstanding
appearances she never faltered in her opinion that the marriage could
not last. I was obliged to laugh at her.

"Why, I've never seen such a devoted couple," I said.

"Gilbert is twenty-seven now. It's just the time for a pretty girl to
come along. Did you notice the other evening at Jane's that pretty
little niece of Sir Reginald's? I thought Jane was looking at them both
with a good deal of attention, and I wondered to myself."

"I don't believe Jane fears the rivalry of any girl under the sun."

"Wait and see," said Mrs. Tower.

"You gave it six months."

"Well, now I give it three years."

                 *        *        *        *        *

When anyone is very positive in an opinion it is only human nature to
wish him proved wrong. Mrs. Tower was really too cocksure. But such a
satisfaction was not mine, for the end that she had always and
confidently predicted to the ill-assorted match did in point of fact
come. Still, the fates seldom give us what we want in the way we want
it, and though Mrs. Tower could flatter herself that she had been right,
I think after all she would sooner have been wrong. For things did not
happen at all in the way she expected.

One day I received an urgent message from her and fortunately went to
see her at once. When I was shown into the room Mrs. Tower rose from her
chair and came towards me with the stealthy swiftness of a leopard
stalking his prey. I saw that she was excited.

"Jane and Gilbert have separated," she said.

"Not really? Well, you were right after all."

Mrs. Tower looked at me with an expression I could not understand.

"Poor Jane," I muttered.

"Poor Jane!" she repeated, but in tones of such derision that I was
dumbfounded.

She found some difficulty in telling me exactly what had occurred.

Gilbert had left her a moment before she leaped to the telephone to
summon me. When he entered the room, pale and distraught, she saw at
once that something terrible had happened. She knew what he was going to
say before he said it.

"Marion, Jane has left me."

She gave him a little smile and took his hand.

"I knew you'd behave like a gentleman. It would have been dreadful for
her for people to think that _you_ had left her."

"I've come to you because I knew I could count on your sympathy."

"Oh, I don't blame you, Gilbert," said Mrs. Tower, very kindly. "It was
bound to happen."

He sighed.

"I suppose so. I couldn't hope to keep her always. She was too wonderful
and I'm a perfectly commonplace fellow."

Mrs. Tower patted his hand. He was really behaving beautifully.

"And what is going to happen now?"

"Well, she's going to divorce me."

"Jane always said she'd put no obstacle in your way if ever you wanted
to marry a girl."

"You don't think it's likely I should ever be willing to marry anyone
else after being Jane's husband," he answered.

Mrs. Tower was puzzled.

"Of course you mean that _you've_ left Jane."

"I? That's the last thing I should ever do."

"Then why is she divorcing you?"

"She's going to marry Sir Reginald Frobisher as soon as the decree is
made absolute."

Mrs. Tower positively screamed. Then she felt so faint that she had to
get her smelling salts.

"After all you've done for her?"

"I've done nothing for her."

"Do you mean to say you're going to allow yourself to be made use of
like that?"

"We arranged before we married that if either of us wanted his liberty
the other should put no hindrance in the way."

"But that was done on your account. Because you were twenty-seven years
younger than she was."

"Well, it's come in very useful for her," he answered bitterly.

Mrs. Tower expostulated, argued and reasoned; but Gilbert insisted that
no rules applied to Jane, and he must do exactly what she wanted. He
left Mrs. Tower prostrate. It relieved her a good deal to give me a full
account of this interview. It pleased her to see that I was as surprised
as herself and if I was not so indignant with Jane as she was she
ascribed that to the criminal lack of morality incident to my sex. She
was still in a state of extreme agitation when the door was opened and
the butler showed in--Jane herself. She was dressed in black and white
as no doubt befitted her slightly ambiguous position, but in a dress so
original and fantastic, in a hat so striking, that I positively gasped
at the sight of her. But she was as ever bland and collected. She came
forward to kiss Mrs. Tower, but Mrs. Tower withdrew herself with icy
dignity.

"Gilbert has been here," she said.

"Yes, I know," smiled Jane. "I told him to come and see you. I'm going
to Paris to-night and I want you to be very kind to him while I am away.
I'm afraid just at first he'll be rather lonely and I shall feel more
comfortable if I can count on your keeping an eye on him."

Mrs. Tower clasped her hands.

"Gilbert has just told me something that I can hardly bring myself to
believe. He tells me that you're going to divorce him to marry Reginald
Frobisher."

"Don't you remember, before I married Gilbert you advised me to marry a
man of my own age? The admiral is fifty-three."

"But, Jane, you owe everything to Gilbert," said Mrs. Tower indignantly.
"You wouldn't exist without him. Without him to design your clothes,
you'll be nothing."

"Oh, he's promised to go on designing my clothes," Jane answered
blandly.

"No woman could want a better husband. He's always been kindness itself
to you."

"Oh, I know he's been sweet."

"How _can_ you be so heartless?"

"But I was never in love with Gilbert," said Jane. "I always told him
that. I'm beginning to feel the need of the companionship of a man of my
own age. I think I've probably been married to Gilbert long enough. The
young have no conversation." She paused a little and gave us both a
charming smile. "Of course I shan't lose sight of Gilbert. I've arranged
that with Reginald. The admiral has a niece that would just suit him. As
soon as we're married we'll ask them to stay with us at Malta--you know
that the admiral is to have the Mediterranean Command--and I shouldn't
be at all surprised if they fell in love with one another."

Mrs. Tower gave a little sniff.

"And have you arranged with the admiral that if you want your liberty
neither should put any hindrance in the way of the other?"

"I suggested it," Jane answered with composure. "But the admiral says he
knows a good thing when he sees it and he won't want to marry anyone
else, and if anyone wants to marry me--he has eight twelve-inch guns on
his flagship and he'll discuss the matter at short range." She gave us a
look through her eyeglass which even the fear of Mrs. Tower's wrath
could not prevent me from laughing at. "I think the admiral's a very
passionate man."

Mrs. Tower indeed gave me an angry frown.

"I never thought you funny, Jane," she said. "I never understood why
people laughed at the things you said."

"I never thought I was funny myself, Marion," smiled Jane, showing her
bright, regular teeth. "I am glad to leave London before too many people
come round to our opinion."

"I wish you'd tell me the secret of your astonishing success," I said.

She turned to me with that bland, homely look I knew so well.

"You know, when I married Gilbert and settled in London and people began
to laugh at what I said no one was more surprised than I was. I'd said
the same things for thirty years and no one ever saw anything to laugh
at. I thought it must be my clothes or my bobbed hair or my eyeglass.
Then I discovered it was because I spoke the truth. It was so unusual
that people thought it humorous. One of these days someone else will
discover the secret and when people habitually tell the truth of course
there'll be nothing funny in it."

"And why am I the only person not to think it funny?" asked Mrs. Tower.

Jane hesitated a little as though she were honestly searching for a
satisfactory explanation.

"Perhaps you don't know the truth when you see it, Marion dear," she
answered in her mild good-natured way.

It certainly gave her the last word. I felt that Jane would always have
the last word. She _was_ priceless.






[End of The Complete Short Stories of W. Somerset Maugham, Vol. II]
