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the man upstairs & other stories by p. g.wodehouse. chapter 1. the man upstairs there were three distinct stages in the evolutionof annette brougham's attitude towards the knocking in the room above. in the beginningit had been merely a vague discomfort. absorbed in the composition of her waltz, she had heardit almost subconsciously. the second stage set in when it became a physical pain likered-hot pincers wrenching her mind from her music. finally, with a thrill in indignation,she knew it for what it was—an insult. the unseen brute disliked her playing, and wasintimating his views with a boot-heel. defiantly, with her foot on the loud pedal,she struck—almost slapped—the keys once

more.'bang!' from the room above. 'bang! bang!' annette rose. her face was pink, her chintilted. her eyes sparkled with the light of battle. she left the room and started to mountthe stairs. no spectator, however just, could have helped feeling a pang of pity for thewretched man who stood unconscious of imminent doom, possibly even triumphant, behind thedoor at which she was on the point of tapping. 'come in!' cried the voice, rather a pleasantvoice; but what is a pleasant voice if the soul be vile?annette went in. the room was a typical chelsea studio, scantily furnished and lacking a carpet.in the centre was an easel, behind which were visible a pair of trousered legs. a cloudof grey smoke was curling up over the top

of the easel.'i beg your pardon,' began annette. 'i don't want any models at present,' saidthe brute. 'leave your card on the table.' 'i am not a model,' said annette, coldly.'i merely came—' at this the brute emerged from his fortificationsand, removing his pipe from his mouth, jerked his chair out into the open.'i beg your pardon,' he said. 'won't you sit down?'how reckless is nature in the distribution of her gifts! not only had this black-heartedknocker on floors a pleasant voice, but, in addition, a pleasing exterior. he was slightlydishevelled at the moment, and his hair stood up in a disordered mop; but in spite of thesedrawbacks, he was quite passably good-looking.

annette admitted this. though wrathful, shewas fair. 'i thought it was another model,' he explained.'they've been coming in at the rate of ten an hour ever since i settled here. i didn'tobject at first, but after about the eightieth child of sunny italy had shown up it beganto get on my nerves.' annette waited coldly till he had finished.'i am sorry,' she said, in a this-is-where-you-get-yours voice, 'if my playing disturbed you.'one would have thought nobody but an eskimo wearing his furs and winter under-clothingcould have withstood the iciness of her manner; but the brute did not freeze.'i am sorry,' repeated annette, well below zero, 'if my playing disturbed you. i livein the room below, and i heard you knocking.'

'no, no,' protested the young man, affably;'i like it. really i do.' 'then why knock on the floor?' said annette,turning to go. 'it is so bad for my ceiling,' she said over shoulder. 'i thought you wouldnot mind my mentioning it. good afternoon.' 'no; but one moment. don't go.'she stopped. he was surveying her with a friendly smile. she noticed most reluctantly that hehad a nice smile. his composure began to enrage her more and more. long ere this he shouldhave been writhing at her feet in the dust, crushed and abject.'you see,' he said, 'i'm awfully sorry, but it's like this. i love music, but what i meanis, you weren't playing a tune. it was just the same bit over and over again.''i was trying to get a phrase,' said annette,

with dignity, but less coldly. in spite ofherself she was beginning to thaw. there was something singularly attractive about thisshock-headed youth. 'a phrase?''of music. for my waltz. i am composing a waltz.'a look of such unqualified admiration overspread the young man's face that the last remnantsof the ice-pack melted. for the first time since they had met annette found herself positivelyliking this blackguardly floor-smiter. 'can you compose music?' he said, impressed.'i have written one or two songs.' 'it must be great to be able to do things—artisticthings, i mean, like composing.' 'well, you do, don't you? you paint.'the young man shook his head with a cheerful

grin.'i fancy,' he said, 'i should make a pretty good house-painter. i want scope. canvas seemsto cramp me.' it seemed to cause him no discomfort. he appearedrather amused than otherwise. 'let me look.'she crossed over to the easel. 'i shouldn't,' he warned her. 'you reallywant to? is this not mere recklessness? very well, then.'to the eye of an experienced critic the picture would certainly have seemed crude. it wasa study of a dark-eyed child holding a large black cat. statisticians estimate that thereis no moment during the day when one or more young artists somewhere on the face of theglobe are not painting pictures of children

holding cats.'i call it "child and cat",' said the young man. 'rather a neat title, don't you think?gives you the main idea of the thing right away. that,' he explained, pointing obliginglywith the stem of his pipe, 'is the cat.' annette belonged to that large section ofthe public which likes or dislikes a picture according to whether its subject happens toplease or displease them. probably there was not one of the million or so child-and-cateyesores at present in existence which she would not have liked. besides, he had beenvery nice about her music. 'i think it's splendid,' she announced.the young man's face displayed almost more surprise than joy.'do you really?' he said. 'then i can die

happy—that is, if you'll let me come downand listen to those songs of yours first.' 'you would only knock on the floor,' objectedannette. 'i'll never knock on another floor as longas i live,' said the ex-brute, reassuringly. 'i hate knocking on floors. i don't see whatpeople want to knock on floors for, anyway.' friendships ripen quickly in chelsea. withinthe space of an hour and a quarter annette had learned that the young man's name wasalan beverley (for which family heraldic affliction she pitied rather than despised him), thathe did not depend entirely on his work for a living, having a little money of his own,and that he considered this a fortunate thing. from the very beginning of their talk he pleasedher. she found him an absolutely new and original

variety of the unsuccessful painter. unlikereginald sellers, who had a studio in the same building, and sometimes dropped in todrink her coffee and pour out his troubles, he did not attribute his non-success to anymalice or stupidity on the part of the public. she was so used to hearing sellers lash thephilistine and hold forth on unappreciated merit that she could hardly believe the miraclewhen, in answer to a sympathetic bromide on the popular lack of taste in art, beverleyreplied that, as far as he was concerned, the public showed strong good sense. if hehad been striving with every nerve to win her esteem, he could not have done it moresurely than with that one remark. though she invariably listened with a sweet patiencewhich encouraged them to continue long after

the point at which she had begun in spiritto throw things at them, annette had no sympathy with men who whined. she herself was a fighter.she hated as much as anyone the sickening blows which fate hands out to the strugglingand ambitious; but she never made them the basis of a monologue act. often, after a drearytrip round the offices of the music-publishers, she would howl bitterly in secret, and evengnaw her pillow in the watches of the night; but in public her pride kept her unvaryinglybright and cheerful. today, for the first time, she revealed somethingof her woes. there was that about the mop-headed young man which invited confidences. she toldhim of the stony-heartedness of music-publishers, of the difficulty of getting songs printedunless you paid for them, of their wretched

sales.'but those songs you've been playing,' said beverley, 'they've been published?''yes, those three. but they are the only ones.' 'and didn't they sell?''hardly at all. you see, a song doesn't sell unless somebody well known sings it. and peoplepromise to sing them, and then don't keep their word. you can't depend on what theysay.' 'give me their names,' said beverley, 'andi'll go round tomorrow and shoot the whole lot. but can't you do anything?''only keep on keeping on.' 'i wish,' he said, 'that any time you're feelingblue about things you would come up and pour out the poison on me. it's no good bottlingit up. come up and tell me about it, and you'll

feel ever so much better. or let me come down.any time things aren't going right just knock on the ceiling.'she laughed. 'don't rub it in,' pleaded beverley. 'it isn'tfair. there's nobody so sensitive as a reformed floor-knocker. you will come up or let mecome down, won't you? whenever i have that sad, depressed feeling, i go out and killa policeman. but you wouldn't care for that. so the only thing for you to do is to knockon the ceiling. then i'll come charging down and see if there's anything i can do to help.''you'll be sorry you ever said this.' 'i won't,' he said stoutly.'if you really mean it, it would be a relief,' she admitted. 'sometimes i'd give all themoney i'm ever likely to make for someone

to shriek my grievances at. i always thinkit must have been so nice for the people in the old novels, when they used to say: "sitdown and i will tell you the story of my life." mustn't it have been heavenly?''well,' said beverley, rising, 'you know where i am if i'm wanted. right up there where theknocking came from.' 'knocking?' said annette. 'i remember no knocking.''would you mind shaking hands?' said beverley. a particularly maddening hour with one ofher pupils drove her up the very next day. her pupils were at once her salvation andher despair. they gave her the means of supporting life, but they made life hardly worth supporting.some of them were learning the piano. others thought they sang. all had solid ivory skulls.there was about a teaspoonful of grey matter

distributed among the entire squad, and thepupil annette had been teaching that afternoon had come in at the tail-end of the division.in the studio with beverley she found reginald sellers, standing in a critical attitude beforethe easel. she was not very fond of him. he was a long, offensive, patronizing person,with a moustache that looked like a smear of charcoal, and a habit of addressing heras 'ah, little one!' beverley looked up.'have you brought your hatchet, miss brougham? if you have, you're just in time to join inthe massacre of the innocents. sellers has been smiting my child and cat hip and thigh.look at his eye. there! did you see it flash then? he's on the warpath again.''my dear beverley,' said sellers, rather stiffly,

'i am merely endeavouring to give you my ideaof the picture's defects. i am sorry if my criticism has to be a little harsh.''go right on,' said beverley, cordially. 'don't mind me; it's all for my good.''well, in a word, then, it is lifeless. neither the child nor the cat lives.'he stepped back a pace and made a frame of his hands.'the cat now,' he said. 'it is—how shall i put it? it has no—no—er—''that kind of cat wouldn't,' said beverley. 'it isn't that breed.''i think it's a dear cat,' said annette. she felt her temper, always quick, getting thebetter of her. she knew just how incompetent sellers was, and it irritated her beyond enduranceto see beverley's good-humoured acceptance

of his patronage.'at any rate,' said beverley, with a grin, 'you both seem to recognize that it is a cat.you're solid on that point, and that's something, seeing i'm only a beginner.''i know, my dear fellow; i know,' said sellers, graciously. 'you mustn't let my criticismdiscourage you. don't think that your work lacks promise. far from it. i am sure thatin time you will do very well indeed. quite well.'a cold glitter might have been observed in annette's eyes.'mr sellers,' she said, smoothly, 'had to work very hard himself before he reached hispresent position. you know his work, of course?' for the first time beverley seemed somewhatconfused.

'i—er—why—' he began.'oh, but of course you do,' she went on, sweetly. 'it's in all the magazines.'beverley looked at the great man with admiration, and saw that he had flushed uncomfortably.he put this down to the modesty of genius. 'in the advertisement pages,' said annette.'mr sellers drew that picture of the waukeesy shoe and the restawhile settee and the tinof sardines in the little gem sardine advertisement. he is very good at still life.'there was a tense silence. beverley could almost hear the voice of the referee utteringthe count. 'miss brougham,' said sellers at last, spittingout the words, 'has confined herself to the purely commercial side of my work. there isanother.'

'why, of course there is. you sold a landscapefor five pounds only eight months ago, didn't you? and another three months before that.'it was enough. sellers bowed stiffly and stalked from the room.beverley picked up a duster and began slowly to sweep the floor with it.'what are you doing?' demanded annette, in a choking voice.'the fragments of the wretched man,' whispered beverley. 'they must be swept up and decentlyinterred. you certainly have got the punch, miss brougham.'he dropped the duster with a startled exclamation, for annette had suddenly burst into a floodof tears. with her face buried in her hands she sat in her chair and sobbed desperately.'good lord!' said beverley, blankly.

'i'm a cat! i'm a beast! i hate myself!''good lord!' said beverley, blankly. 'i'm a pig! i'm a fiend!''good lord!' said beverley, blankly. 'we're all struggling and trying to get onand having hard luck, and instead of doing what i can to help, i go and t-t-taunt himwith not being able to sell his pictures! i'm not fit to live! oh!''good lord!' said beverley, blankly. a series of gulping sobs followed, diminishingby degrees into silence. presently she looked up and smiled, a moist and pathetic smile.'i'm sorry,' she said, 'for being so stupid. but he was so horrid and patronizing to you,i couldn't help scratching. i believe i'm the worst cat in london.''no, this is,' said beverley, pointing to

the canvas. 'at least, according to the latesellers. but, i say, tell me, isn't the deceased a great artist, then? he came curveting inhere with his chest out and started to slate my masterpiece, so i naturally said, "what-ho!'tis a genius!" isn't he?' 'he can't sell his pictures anywhere. he liveson the little he can get from illustrating advertisements. and i t-taunt—''please!' said beverley, apprehensively. she recovered herself with a gulp.'i can't help it,' she said, miserably. 'i rubbed it in. oh, it was hateful of me! buti was all on edge from teaching one of my awful pupils, and when he started to patronizeyou—' she blinked.'poor devil!' said beverley. 'i never guessed.

good lord!'annette rose. 'i must go and tell him i'm sorry,' she said.'he'll snub me horribly, but i must.' she went out. beverley lit a pipe and stoodat the window looking thoughtfully down into the street. it is a good rule in life never to apologize.the right sort of people do not want apologies, and the wrong sort take a mean advantage ofthem. sellers belonged to the latter class. when annette, meek, penitent, with all herclaws sheathed, came to him and grovelled, he forgave her with a repulsive magnanimitywhich in a less subdued mood would have stung her to renewed pugnacity. as it was, she allowedherself to be forgiven, and retired with a

dismal conviction that from now on he wouldbe more insufferable than ever. her surmise proved absolutely correct. hisvisits to the newcomer's studio began again, and beverley's picture, now nearing completion,came in for criticism enough to have filled a volume. the good humour with which he receivedit amazed annette. she had no proprietary interest in the painting beyond what she acquiredfrom a growing regard for its parent (which disturbed her a good deal when she had timeto think of it); but there were moments when only the recollection of her remorse for herprevious outbreak kept her from rending the critic. beverley, however, appeared to haveno artistic sensitiveness whatsoever. when sellers savaged the cat in a manner whichshould have brought the s.p.c.a. down upon

him, beverley merely beamed. his long-sufferingnesswas beyond annette's comprehension. she began to admire him for it.to make his position as critic still more impregnable, sellers was now able to speakas one having authority. after years of floundering, his luck seemed at last to have turned. hispictures, which for months had lain at an agent's, careened like crippled battleships,had at length begun to find a market. within the past two weeks three landscapes and anallegorical painting had sold for good prices; and under the influence of success he expandedlike an opening floweret. when epstein, the agent, wrote to say that the allegory hadbeen purchased by a glasgow plutocrat of the name of bates for one hundred and sixty guineas,sellers' views on philistines and their crass

materialism and lack of taste underwent amarked modification. he spoke with some friendliness of the man bates.'to me,' said beverley, when informed of the event by annette, 'the matter has a deepersignificance. it proves that glasgow has at last produced a sober man. no drinker wouldhave dared face that allegory. the whole business is very gratifying.'beverley himself was progressing slowly in the field of art. he had finished the 'childand cat', and had taken it to epstein together with a letter of introduction from sellers.sellers' habitual attitude now was that of the kindly celebrity who has arrived and wishesto give the youngsters a chance. since its departure beverley had not donemuch in the way of actual execution. whenever

annette came to his studio he was either sittingin a chair with his feet on the window-sill, smoking, or in the same attitude listeningto sellers' views on art. sellers being on the upgrade, a man with many pounds to hiscredit in the bank, had more leisure now. he had given up his advertisement work, andwas planning a great canvas—another allegorical work. this left him free to devote a gooddeal of time to beverley, and he did so. beverley sat and smoked through his harangues. he mayhave been listening, or he may not. annette listened once or twice, and the experiencehad the effect of sending her to beverley, quivering with indignation.'why do you let him patronize you like that?' she demanded. 'if anybody came and talkedto me like that about my music, i'd—i'd—i

don't know what i'd do. yes, even if he werereally a great musician.' 'don't you consider sellers a great artist,then, even now?' 'he seems to be able to sell his pictures,so i suppose they must be good; but nothing could give him the right to patronize youas he does.' '"my learned friend's manner would be intolerablein an emperor to a black-beetle,"' quoted beverley. 'well, what are we going to do aboutit?' 'if only you could sell a picture, too!''ah! well, i've done my part of the contract. i've delivered the goods. there the thingis at epstein's. the public can't blame me if it doesn't sell. all they've got to dois to waltz in in their thousands and fight

for it. and, by the way, talking of waltzes—''oh, it's finished,' said annette, dispiritedly. 'published too, for that matter.''published! what's the matter, then? why this drooping sadness? why aren't you running aroundthe square, singing like a bird?' 'because,' said annette, 'unfortunately, ihad to pay the expenses of publication. it was only five pounds, but the sales haven'tcaught up with that yet. if they ever do, perhaps there'll be a new edition.''and will you have to pay for that?' 'no. the publishers would.''who are they?' 'grusczinsky and buchterkirch.''heavens, then what are you worrying about? the thing's a cert. a man with a name likegrusczinsky could sell a dozen editions by

himself. helped and inspired by buchterkirch,he will make the waltz the talk of the country. infants will croon it in their cots.''he didn't seem to think so when i saw him last.''of course not. he doesn't know his own power. grusczinsky's shrinking diffidence is a by-wordin musical circles. he is the genuine human violet. you must give him time.''i'll give him anything if he'll only sell an edition or two,' said annette.the outstanding thing was that he did. there seemed no particular reason why the sale ofthat waltz should not have been as small and as slow as that of any other waltz by an unknowncomposer. but almost without warning it expanded from a trickle into a flood. grusczinsky,beaming paternally whenever annette entered

the shop—which was often—announced twonew editions in a week. beverley, his artistic growth still under a watchful eye of sellers,said he had never had any doubts as to the success of the thing from the moment whena single phrase in it had so carried him away that he had been compelled to stamp his applauseenthusiastically on the floor. even sellers forgot his own triumphs long enough to allowhim to offer affable congratulations. and money came rolling in, smoothing the pathof life. those were great days. there was a hat ...life, in short, was very full and splendid. there was, indeed, but one thing which keptit from being perfect. the usual drawback to success is that it annoys one's friendsso; but in annette's case this drawback was

absent. sellers' demeanour towards her wasthat of an old-established inmate welcoming a novice into the hall of fame. her pupils—worthysouls, though bone-headed—fawned upon her. beverley seemed more pleased than anyone.yet it was beverley who prevented her paradise from being complete. successful herself, shewanted all her friends to be successful; but beverley, to her discomfort, remained a cheeryfailure, and worse, absolutely refused to snub sellers. it was not as if sellers' adviceand comments were disinterested. beverley was simply the instrument on which he playedhis songs of triumph. it distressed annette to such an extent that now, if she went upstairsand heard sellers' voice in the studio, she came down again without knocking.

one afternoon, sitting in her room, she heardthe telephone-bell ring. the telephone was on the stairs, just outsideher door. she went out and took up the receiver. 'halloa!' said a querulous voice. 'is mr beverleythere?' annette remembered having heard him go out.she could always tell his footstep. 'he is out,' she said. 'is there any message?''yes,' said the voice, emphatically. 'tell him that rupert morrison rang up to ask whathe was to do with all this great stack of music that's arrived. does he want it forwardedon to him, or what?' the voice was growing high and excited. evidently mr morrison wasin a state of nervous tension when a man does not care particularly who hears his troublesso long as he unburdens himself of them to

someone.'music?' said annette. 'music!' shrilled mr morrison. 'stacks andstacks and stacks of it. is he playing a practical joke on me, or what?' he demanded, hysterically.plainly he had now come to regard annette as a legitimate confidante. she was listening.that was the main point. he wanted someone—he did not care whom—who would listen. 'helends me his rooms,' wailed mr morrison, 'so that i can be perfectly quiet and undisturbedwhile i write my novel, and, first thing i know, this music starts to arrive. how cani be quiet and undisturbed when the floor's littered two yards high with great parcelsof music, and more coming every day?' annette clung weakly to the telephone box.her mind was in a whirl, but she was beginning

to see many things.'are you there?' called mr morrison. 'yes. what—what firm does the music comefrom?' 'what's that?''who are the publishers who send the music?' 'i can't remember. some long name. yes, i'vegot it. grusczinsky and someone.' 'i'll tell mr beverley,' said annette, quietly.a great weight seemed to have settled on her head.'halloa! halloa! are you there?' came mr morrison's voice.'yes?' 'and tell him there are some pictures, too.''pictures?' 'four great beastly pictures. the size ofelephants. i tell you, there isn't room to

move. and—'annette hung up the receiver. mr beverley, returned from his walk, was racingup the stairs three at a time in his energetic way, when, as he arrived at annette's door,it opened. 'have you a minute to spare?' said annette.'of course. what's the trouble? have they sold another edition of the waltz?''i have not heard, mr—bates.' for once she looked to see the cheerful composureof the man upstairs become ruffled; but he received the blow without agitation.'you know my name?' he said. 'i know a good deal more than your name. youare a glasgow millionaire.' 'it's true,' he admitted, 'but it's hereditary.my father was one before me.'

'and you use your money,' said annette, bitterly,'creating fools' paradises for your friends, which last, i suppose, until you grow tiredof the amusement and destroy them. doesn't it ever strike you, mr bates, that it's alittle cruel? do you think mr sellers will settle down again cheerfully to hack-workwhen you stop buying his pictures, and he finds out that—that—''i shan't stop,' said the young man. 'if a glasgow millionaire mayn't buy sellers' allegoricalpictures, whose allegorical pictures may he buy? sellers will never find out. he'll goon painting and i'll go on buying, and all will be joy and peace.''indeed! and what future have you arranged for me?''you?' he said, reflectively. 'i want to marry

you.'annette stiffened from head to foot. he met her blazing eyes with a look of quiet devotion.'marry me?' 'i know what you are thinking,' he said. 'yourmind is dwelling on the prospect of living in a house decorated throughout with sellers'allegorical pictures. but it won't be. we'll store them in the attic.'she began to speak, but he interrupted her. 'listen!' he said. 'sit down and i will tellyou the story of my life. we'll skip the first twenty-eight years and three months, merelymentioning that for the greater part of that time i was looking for somebody just likeyou. a month and nine days ago i found you. you were crossing the embankment. i was alsoon the embankment. in a taxi. i stopped the

taxi, got out, and observed you just steppinginto the charing cross underground. i sprang—' 'this does not interest me,' said annette.'the plot thickens,' he assured her. 'we left our hero springing, i think. just so. well,you took the west end train and got off at sloane square. so did i. you crossed sloanesquare, turned up king's road, and finally arrived here. i followed. i saw a notice up,"studio to let". i reflected that, having done a little painting in an amateur way,i could pose as an artist all right; so i took the studio. also the name of alan beverley.my own is bill bates. i had often wondered what it would feel like to be called by somename like alan beverley or cyril trevelyan. it was simply the spin of the coin which decidedme in favour of the former. once in, the problem

was how to get to know you. when i heard youplaying i knew it was all right. i had only to keep knocking on the floor long enough—''do—you—mean—to—tell—me'—annette's voice trembled 'do you mean to tell me thatyou knocked that time simply to make me come up?''that was it. rather a scheme, don't you think? and now, would you mind telling me how youfound out that i had been buying your waltz? those remarks of yours about fools' paradiseswere not inspired solely by the affairs of sellers. but it beats me how you did it. iswore rozinsky, or whatever his name is, to secrecy.''a mr morrison,' sad annette, indifferently, 'rang up on the telephone and asked me totell you that he was greatly worried by the

piles of music which were littering the roomsyou lent him.' the young man burst into a roar of laughter.'poor old morrison! i forgot all about him. i lent him my rooms at the albany. he's writinga novel, and he can't work if the slightest thing goes wrong. it just shows—''mr bates!' 'yes?''perhaps you didn't intend to hurt me. i dare say you meant only to be kind. but—but—oh,can't you see how you have humiliated me? you have treated me like a child, giving mea make-believe success just to—just to keep me quiet, i suppose. you—'he was fumbling in his pocket. 'may i read you a letter?' he said.'a letter?'

'quite a short one. it is from epstein, thepicture-dealer. this is what he says. "sir," meaning me, not "dear bill," mind you—just"sir." "i am glad to be able to inform you that i have this morning received an offerof ten guineas for your picture, 'child and cat'. kindly let me know if i am to disposeof it at this price."' 'well?' said annette, in a small voice.'i have just been to epstein's. it seems that the purchaser is a miss brown. she gave anaddress in bayswater. i called at the address. no miss brown lives there, but one of yourpupils does. i asked her if she was expecting a parcel for miss brown, and she said thatshe had had your letter and quite understood and would take it in when it arrived.'annette was hiding her face in her hands.

'go away!' she said, faintly.mr bates moved a step nearer. 'do you remember that story of the peopleon the island who eked out a precarious livelihood by taking in one another's washing?' he asked,casually. 'go away!' cried annette.'i've always thought,' he said, 'that it must have drawn them very close together—madethem feel rather attached to each other. don't you?''go away!' 'i don't want to go away. i want to stay andhear you say you'll marry me.' 'please go away! i want to think.'she heard him moving towards the door. he stopped, then went on again. the door closedquietly. presently from the room above came

the sound of footsteps—footsteps pacingmonotonously to and fro like those of an animal in a cage.annette sat listening. there was no break in the footsteps.suddenly she got up. in one corner of the room was a long pole used for raising andlowering the window-sash. she took it, and for a moment stood irresolute. then with aquick movement, she lifted it and stabbed three times at the ceiling.something to worry about a girl stood on the shingle that fringes millbournebay, gazing at the red roofs of the little village across the water. she was a prettygirl, small and trim. just now some secret

sorrow seemed to be troubling her, for onher forehead were wrinkles and in her eyes a look of wistfulness. she had, in fact, allthe distinguishing marks of one who is thinking of her sailor lover.but she was not. she had no sailor lover. what she was thinking of was that at aboutthis time they would be lighting up the shop-windows in london, and that of all the deadly, depressingspots she had ever visited this village of millbourne was the deadliest.the evening shadows deepened. the incoming tide glistened oilily as it rolled over themud flats. she rose and shivered. 'goo! what a hole!' she said, eyeing the unconsciousvillage morosely. 'what a hole!' this was sally preston's first evening inmillbourne. she had arrived by the afternoon

train from london—not of her own free will.left to herself, she would not have come within sixty miles of the place. london suppliedall that she demanded from life. she had been born in london; she had lived there ever since—shehoped to die there. she liked fogs, motor-buses, noise, policemen, paper-boys, shops, taxi-cabs,artificial light, stone pavements, houses in long, grey rows, mud, banana-skins, andmoving-picture exhibitions. especially moving-picture exhibitions. it was, indeed, her taste forthese that had caused her banishment to millbourne. the great public is not yet unanimous on thesubject of moving-picture exhibitions. sally, as i have said, approved of them. her father,on the other hand, did not. an austere ex-butler, who let lodgings in ebury street and preachedon sundays in hyde park, he looked askance

at the 'movies'. it was his boast that hehad never been inside a theatre in his life, and he classed cinema palaces with theatresas wiles of the devil. sally, suddenly unmasked as an habitual frequenter of these abandonedplaces, sprang with one bound into prominence as the bad girl of the family. instant removalfrom the range of temptation being the only possible plan, it seemed to mr preston thata trip to the country was indicated. he selected millbourne because he had beenbutler at the hall there, and because his sister jane, who had been a parlour-maid atthe rectory, was now married and living in the village.certainly he could not have chosen a more promising reformatory for sally. here, ifanywhere, might she forget the heady joys

of the cinema. tucked away in the corner ofits little bay, which an accommodating island converts into a still lagoon, millbourne liesdozing. in all sleepy hampshire there is no sleepier spot. it is a place of calm-eyedmen and drowsy dogs. things crumble away and are not replaced. tradesmen book orders, andthen lose interest and forget to deliver the goods. only centenarians die, and nobody worriesabout anything—or did not until sally came and gave them something to worry about. next door to sally's aunt jane, in a cosylittle cottage with a wonderful little garden, lived thomas kitchener, a large, grave, self-sufficingyoung man, who, by sheer application to work, had become already, though only twenty-five,second gardener at the hall. gardening absorbed

him. when he was not working at the hall hewas working at home. on the morning following sally's arrival, it being a thursday and hisday off, he was crouching in a constrained attitude in his garden, every fibre of hisbeing concentrated on the interment of a plump young bulb. consequently, when a chunk ofmud came sailing over the fence, he did not notice it.a second, however, compelled attention by bursting like a shell on the back of his neck.he looked up, startled. nobody was in sight. he was puzzled. it could hardly be rainingmud. yet the alternative theory, that someone in the next garden was throwing it, was hardlyless bizarre. the nature of his friendship with sally's aunt jane and old mr williams,her husband, was comfortable rather than rollicking.

it was inconceivable that they should be flingingclods at him. as he stood wondering whether he should goto the fence and look over, or simply accept the phenomenon as one of those things whichno fellow can understand, there popped up before him the head and shoulders of a girl.poised in her right hand was a third clod, which, seeing that there was now no need forits services, she allowed to fall to the ground. 'halloa!' she said. 'good morning.'she was a pretty girl, small and trim. tom was by way of being the strong, silent manwith a career to think of and no time for bothering about girls, but he saw that. therewas, moreover, a certain alertness in her expression rarely found in the feminine populationof millbourne, who were apt to be slightly

bovine.'what do you think you're messing about at?' she said, affably.tom was a slow-minded young man, who liked to have his thoughts well under control beforehe spoke. he was not one of your gay rattlers. besides, there was something about this girlwhich confused him to an extraordinary extent. he was conscious of new and strange emotions.he stood staring silently. 'what's your name, anyway?'he could answer that. he did so. 'oh! mine's sally preston. mrs williams ismy aunt. i've come from london.' tom had no remarks to make about london.'have you lived here all your life?' 'yes,' said tom.'my goodness! don't you ever feel fed up?

don't you want a change?'tom considered the point. 'no,' he said.'well, i do. i want one now.' 'it's a nice place,' hazarded tom.'it's nothing of the sort. it's the beastliest hole in existence. it's absolutely chronic.perhaps you wonder why i'm here. don't think i wanted to come here. not me! i was sent.it was like this.' she gave him a rapid summary of her troubles. 'there! don't you call ita bit thick?' she concluded. tom considered this point, too.'you must make the best of it,' he said, at length.'i won't! i'll make father take me back.' tom considered this point also. rarely, ifever, had he been given so many things to

think about in one morning.'how?' he inquired, at length. 'i don't know. i'll find some way. you seeif i don't. i'll get away from here jolly quick, i give you my word.'tom bent low over a rose-bush. his face was hidden, but the brown of his neck seemed totake on a richer hue, and his ears were undeniably crimson. his feet moved restlessly, and fromhis unseen mouth there proceeded the first gallant speech his lips had ever framed. merelyconsidered as a speech, it was, perhaps, nothing wonderful; but from tom it was a miracle ofchivalry and polish. what he said was: 'i hope not.'and instinct telling him that he had made his supreme effort, and that anything furthermust be bathos, he turned abruptly and stalked

into his cottage, where he drank tea and atebacon and thought chaotic thoughts. and when his appetite declined to carry him more thanhalf-way through the third rasher, he understood. he was in love.these strong, silent men who mean to be head-gardeners before they are thirty, and eliminate womanfrom their lives as a dangerous obstacle to the successful career, pay a heavy penaltywhen they do fall in love. the average irresponsible young man who has hung about north streeton saturday nights, walked through the meadows and round by the mill and back home past thecreek on sunday afternoons, taken his seat in the brake for the annual outing, shuffledhis way through the polka at the tradesmen's ball, and generally seized all legitimateopportunities for sporting with amaryllis

in the shade, has a hundred advantages whichyour successful careerer lacks. there was hardly a moment during the days which followedwhen tom did not regret his neglected education. for he was not sally's only victim in millbourne.that was the trouble. her beauty was not of that elusive type which steals imperceptiblyinto the vision of the rare connoisseur. it was sudden and compelling. it hit you. brightbrown eyes beneath a mass of fair hair, a determined little chin, a slim figure—theseare disturbing things; and the youths of peaceful millbourne sat up and took notice as one youth.throw your mind back to the last musical comedy you saw. recall the leading lady's song withchorus of young men, all proffering devotion simultaneously in a neat row. well, that washow the lads of the village comported themselves

towards sally.mr and mrs williams, till then a highly-esteemed but little-frequented couple, were astonishedat the sudden influx of visitors. the cottage became practically a salon. there was notan evening when the little sitting-room looking out on the garden was not packed. it is truethat the conversation lacked some of the sparkle generally found in the better class of salon.to be absolutely accurate, there was hardly any conversation. the youths of melbournewere sturdy and honest. they were the backbone of england. england, in her hour of need,could have called upon them with the comfortable certainty that, unless they happened to beotherwise engaged, they would leap to her aid.but they did not shine at small-talk. conversationally

they were a spent force after they had askedmr williams how his rheumatism was. thereafter they contented themselves with sitting massivelyabout in corners, glowering at each other. still, it was all very jolly and sociable,and helped to pass the long evenings. and, as mrs williams pointed out, in reply to somerather strong remarks from mr williams on the subject of packs of young fools who madeit impossible for a man to get a quiet smoke in his own home, it kept them out of the public-houses.tom kitchener, meanwhile, observed the invasion with growing dismay. shyness barred him fromthe evening gatherings, and what was going on in that house, with young bloods like tedpringle, albert parsons, arthur brown, and joe blossom (to name four of the most assiduous)exercising their fascinations at close range,

he did not like to think. again and againhe strove to brace himself up to join the feasts of reason and flows of soul which heknew were taking place nightly around the object of his devotions, but every time hefailed. habit is a terrible thing; it shackles the strongest, and tom had fallen into thehabit of inquiring after mr williams' rheumatism over the garden fence first thing in the morning.it was a civil, neighbourly thing to do, but it annihilated the only excuse he could thinkof for looking in at night. he could not help himself. it was like some frightful scourge—themorphine habit, or something of that sort. every morning he swore to himself that nothingwould induce him to mention the subject of rheumatism, but no sooner had the strickenold gentleman's head appeared above the fence

than out it came.'morning, mr williams.' 'morning, tom.'pause, indicative of a strong man struggling with himself; then:'how's the rheumatism, mr williams?' 'better, thank'ee, tom.'and there he was, with his guns spiked. however, he did not give up. he brought tohis wooing the same determination which had made him second gardener at the hall at twenty-five.he was a novice at the game, but instinct told him that a good line of action was toshower gifts. he did so. all he had to shower was vegetables, and he showered them in away that would have caused the goddess ceres to be talked about. his garden became a perfectcrater, erupting vegetables. why vegetables?

i think i hear some heckler cry. why not flowers—fresh,fair, fragrant flowers? you can do a lot with flowers. girls love them. there is poetryin them. and, what is more, there is a recognized language of flowers. shoot in a rose, or acalceolaria, or an herbaceous border, or something, i gather, and you have made a formal proposalof marriage without any of the trouble of rehearsing a long speech and practising appropriategestures in front of your bedroom looking-glass. why, then, did not thomas kitchener give sallypreston flowers? well, you see, unfortunately, it was now late autumn, and there were noflowers. nature had temporarily exhausted her floral blessings, and was jogging alongwith potatoes and artichokes and things. love is like that. it invariably comes just atthe wrong time. a few months before there

had been enough roses in tom kitchener's gardento win the hearts of a dozen girls. now there were only vegetables, 'twas ever thus.it was not to be expected that a devotion so practically displayed should escape comment.this was supplied by that shrewd observer, old mr williams. he spoke seriously to tomacross the fence on the subject of his passion. 'young tom,' he said, 'drop it.'tom muttered unintelligibly. mr williams adjusted the top-hat without which he never stirredabroad, even into his garden. he blinked benevolently at tom.'you're making up to that young gal of jane's,' he proceeded. 'you can't deceive me. all thesep'taties, and what not. i seen your game fast enough. just you drop it, young tom.''why?' muttered tom, rebelliously. a sudden

distaste for old mr williams blazed withinhim. 'why? 'cos you'll only burn your fingers ifyou don't, that's why. i been watching this young gal of jane's, and i seen what sortof a young gal she be. she's a flipperty piece, that's what she be. you marry that young gal,tom, and you'll never have no more quiet and happiness. she'd just take and turn the placeupsy-down on you. the man as marries that young gal has got to be master in his ownhome. he's got to show her what's what. now, you ain't got the devil in you to do that,tom. you're what i might call a sort of a sheep. i admires it in you, tom. i like tosee a young man steady and quiet, same as what you be. so that's how it is, you see.just you drop this foolishness, young tom,

and leave that young gal be, else you'll burnyour fingers, same as what i say.' and, giving his top-hat a rakish tilt, theold gentleman ambled indoors, satisfied that he had dropped a guarded hint in a pleasantand tactful manner. it is to be supposed that this interview stungtom to swift action. otherwise, one cannot explain why he should not have been just asreticent on the subject nearest his heart when bestowing on sally the twenty-seventhcabbage as he had been when administering the hundred and sixtieth potato. at any rate,the fact remains that, as that fateful vegetable changed hands across the fence, somethingresembling a proposal of marriage did actually proceed from him. as a sustained piece ofemotional prose it fell short of the highest

standard. most of it was lost at the backof his throat, and what did emerge was mainly inaudible. however, as she distinctly caughtthe word 'love' twice, and as tom was shuffling his feet and streaming with perspiration,and looking everywhere at once except at her, sally grasped the situation. whereupon, withoutany visible emotion, she accepted him. tom had to ask her to repeat her remark. hecould not believe his luck. it is singular how diffident a normally self-confident mancan become, once he is in love. when colonel milvery, of the hall, had informed him ofhis promotion to the post of second gardener, tom had demanded no encore. he knew his worth.he was perfectly aware that he was a good gardener, and official recognition of thefact left him gratified, but unperturbed.

but this affair of sally was quite anothermatter. it had revolutionized his standards of value—forced him to consider himselfas a man, entirely apart from his skill as a gardener. and until this moment he had hadgrave doubt as to whether, apart from his skill as a gardener, he amounted to much.he was overwhelmed. he kissed sally across the fence humbly. sally, for her part, seemedvery unconcerned about it all. a more critical man than thomas kitchener might have saidthat, to all appearances, the thing rather bored sally.'don't tell anybody just yet,' she stipulated. tom would have given much to be allowed toannounce his triumph defiantly to old mr williams, to say nothing of making a considerable noiseabout it in the village; but her wish was

law, and he reluctantly agreed. there are moments in a man's life when, howeverenthusiastic a gardener he may be, his soul soars above vegetables. tom's shot with ajerk into the animal kingdom. the first present he gave sally in his capacity of fiance wasa dog. it was a half-grown puppy with long legs anda long tail, belonging to no one species, but generously distributing itself among aboutsix. sally loved it, and took it with her wherever she went. and on one of these ramblesdown swooped constable cobb, the village policeman, pointing out that, contrary to regulations,the puppy had no collar. it is possible that a judicious meekness onsally's part might have averted disaster.

mr cobb was human, and sally was looking particularlyattractive that morning. meekness, however, did not come easily to sally. in a speechwhich began as argument and ended (mr cobb proving solid and unyielding) as pure cheek,she utterly routed the constable. but her victory was only a moral one, for as she turnedto go mr cobb, dull red and puffing slightly, was already entering particulars of the affairin his note-book, and sally knew that the last word was with him.on her way back she met tom kitchener. he was looking very tough and strong, and atthe sight of him a half-formed idea, which she had regretfully dismissed as impracticable,of assaulting constable cobb, returned to her in an amended form. tom did not know it,but the reason why she smiled so radiantly

upon him at that moment was that she had justelected him to the post of hired assassin. while she did not want constable cobb actuallyassassinated, she earnestly desired him to have his helmet smashed down over his eyes;and it seemed to her that tom was the man to do it.she poured out her grievance to him and suggested her scheme. she even elaborated it.'why shouldn't you wait for him one night and throw him into the creek? it isn't deep,and it's jolly muddy.' 'um!' said tom, doubtfully.'it would just teach him,' she pointed out. but the prospect of undertaking the highereducation of the police did not seem to appeal to tom. in his heart he rather sympathizedwith constable cobb. he saw the policeman's

point of view. it is all very well to talk,but when you are stationed in a sleepy village where no one ever murders, or robs, or commitsarson, or even gets drunk and disorderly in the street, a puppy without a collar is simplya godsend. a man must look out for himself. he tried to make this side of the questionclear to sally, but failed signally. she took a deplorable view of his attitude.'i might have known you'd have been afraid,' she said, with a contemptuous jerk of herchin. 'good morning.' tom flushed. he knew he had never been afraidof anything in his life, except her; but nevertheless the accusation stung. and as he was stillafraid of her he stammered as he began to deny the charge.'oh, leave off!' said sally, irritably. 'suck

a lozenge.''i'm not afraid,' said tom, condensing his remarks to their minimum as his only chanceof being intelligible. 'you are.''i'm not. it's just that i—' a nasty gleam came into sally's eyes. hermanner was haughty. 'it doesn't matter.' she paused. 'i've nodoubt ted pringle will do what i want.' for all her contempt, she could not keep atouch of uneasiness from her eyes as she prepared to make her next remark. there was a lookabout tom's set jaw which made her hesitate. but her temper had run away with her, andshe went on. 'i am sure he will,' she said. 'when we becameengaged he said that he would do anything

for me.'there are some speeches that are such conversational knockout blows that one can hardly believethat life will ever pick itself up and go on again after them. yet it does. the dramatistbrings down the curtain on such speeches. the novelist blocks his reader's path witha zareba of stars. but in life there are no curtains, no stars, nothing final and definite—onlyragged pauses and discomfort. there was such a pause now.'what do you mean?' said tom at last. 'you promised to marry me.''i know i did—and i promised to marry ted pringle!'that touch of panic which she could not wholly repress, the panic that comes to everyonewhen a situation has run away with them like

a strange, unmanageable machine, infused ashade too much of the defiant into sally's manner. she had wished to be cool, even casual,but she was beginning to be afraid. why, she could not have said. certainly she did notanticipate violence on tom's part. perhaps that was it. perhaps it was just because hewas so quiet that she was afraid. she had always looked on him contemptuously as anamiable, transparent lout, and now he was puzzling her. she got an impression of somethingformidable behind his stolidity, something that made her feel mean and insignificant.she fought against the feeling, but it gripped her; and, in spite of herself, she found hervoice growing shrill and out of control. 'i promised to marry ted pringle, and i promisedto marry joe blossom, and i promised to marry

albert parsons. and i was going to promiseto marry arthur brown and anybody else who asked me. so now you know! i told you i'dmake father take me back to london. well, when he hears that i've promised to marryfour different men, i bet he'll have me home by the first train.'she stopped. she had more to say, but she could not say it. she stood looking at him.and he looked at her. his face was grey and his mouth oddly twisted. silence seemed tofall on the whole universe. sally was really afraid now, and she knewit. she was feeling very small and defenceless in an extremely alarming world. she couldnot have said what it was that had happened to her. she only knew that life had becomeof a sudden very vivid, and that her ideas

as to what was amusing had undergone a strikingchange. a man's development is a slow and steady process of the years—a woman's athing of an instant. in the silence which followed her words sally had grown up.tom broke the silence. 'is that true?' he said.his voice made her start. he had spoken quietly, but there was a new note in it, strange toher. just as she could not have said what it was that had happened to her, so now shecould not have said what had happened to tom. he, too, had changed, but how she did notknow. yet the explanation was simple. he also had, in a sense, grown up. he was no longerafraid of her. he stood thinking. hours seemed to pass.'come along!' he said, at last, and he began

to move off down the road.sally followed. the possibility of refusing did not enter her mind.'where are you going?' she asked. it was unbearable, this silence.he did not answer. in this fashion, he leading, she following,they went down the road into a lane, and through a gate into a field. they passed into a secondfield, and as they did so sally's heart gave a leap. ted pringle was there.ted pringle was a big young man, bigger even than tom kitchener, and, like tom, he wasof silent habit. he eyed the little procession inquiringly, but spoke no word. there wasa pause. 'ted,' said tom, 'there's been a mistake.'he stepped quickly to sally's side, and the

next moment he had swung her off her feetand kissed her. to the type of mind that millbourne breeds,actions speak louder than words, and ted pringle, who had gaped, gaped no more. he sprang forward,and tom, pushing sally aside, turned to meet him.i cannot help feeling a little sorry for ted pringle. in the light of what happened, icould wish that it were possible to portray him as a hulking brute of evil appearanceand worse morals—the sort of person concerning whom one could reflect comfortably that hedeserved all he got. i should like to make him an unsympathetic character, over whosedownfall the reader would gloat. but honesty compels me to own that ted was a thoroughlydecent young man in every way. he was a good

citizen, a dutiful son, and would certainlyhave made an excellent husband. furthermore, in the dispute on hand he had right on hisside fully as much as tom. the whole affair was one of those elemental clashings of manand man where the historian cannot sympathize with either side at the expense of the other,but must confine himself to a mere statement of what occurred. and, briefly, what occurredwas that tom, bringing to the fray a pent-up fury which his adversary had had no time togenerate, fought ted to a complete standstill in the space of two minutes and a half.sally had watched the proceedings, sick and horrified. she had never seen men fight before,and the terror of it overwhelmed her. her vanity received no pleasant stimulation fromthe thought that it was for her sake that

this storm had been let loose. for the momenther vanity was dead, stunned by collision with the realities. she found herself watchingin a dream. she saw ted fall, rise, fall again, and lie where he had fallen; and then shewas aware that tom was speaking. 'come along!'she hung back. ted was lying very still. gruesome ideas presented themselves. she had just acceptedthem as truth when ted wriggled. he wriggled again. then he sat up suddenly, looked ather with unseeing eyes, and said something in a thick voice. she gave a little sob ofrelief. it was ghastly, but not so ghastly as what she had been imagining.somebody touched her arm. tom was by her side, grim and formidable. he was wiping blood fromhis face.

'come along!'she followed him without a word. and presently, behold, in another field, whistling meditativelyand regardless of impending ill, albert parsons. in everything that he did tom was a man ofmethod. he did not depart from his chosen formula.'albert,' he said, 'there's been a mistake.' and albert gaped, as ted had gaped.tom kissed sally with the gravity of one performing a ritual.the uglinesses of life, as we grow accustomed to them, lose their power to shock, and thereis no doubt that sally looked with a different eye upon this second struggle. she was consciousof a thrill of excitement, very different from the shrinking horror which had seizedher before. her stunned vanity began to tingle

into life again. the fight was raging furiouslyover the trampled turf, and quite suddenly, as she watched, she was aware that her heartwas with tom. it was no longer two strange brutes fightingin a field. it was her man battling for her sake.she desired overwhelmingly that he should win, that he should not be hurt, that he shouldsweep triumphantly over albert parsons as he had swept over ted pringle.unfortunately, it was evident, even to her, that he was being hurt, and that he was veryfar from sweeping triumphantly over albert parsons. he had not allowed himself time torecover from his first battle, and his blows were slow and weary. albert, moreover, wasmade of sterner stuff than ted. though now

a peaceful tender of cows, there had beena time in his hot youth when, travelling with a circus, he had fought, week in, week out,relays of just such rustic warriors as tom. he knew their methods—their headlong rushes,their swinging blows. they were the merest commonplaces of life to him. he slipped tom,he side-stepped tom, he jabbed tom; he did everything to tom that a trained boxer cando to a reckless novice, except knock the fight out of him, until presently, throughthe sheer labour of hitting, he, too, grew weary.now, in the days when albert parsons had fought whole families of toms in an evening, he hadfought in rounds, with the boss holding the watch, and half-minute rests, and water torefresh him, and all orderly and proper. today

there were no rounds, no rests, no water,and the peaceful tending of cows had caused flesh to grow where there had been only muscle.tom's headlong rushes became less easy to side-step, his swinging blows more difficultthan the scientific counter that shot out to check them. as he tired tom seemed to regainstrength. the tide of the battle began to ebb. he clinched, and tom threw him off. hefeinted, and while he was feinting tom was on him. it was the climax of the battle—thelast rally. down went albert, and stayed down. physically, he was not finished; but in hismind a question had framed itself—the question. 'was it worth it?'—and he was answering,'no.' there were other girls in the world. no girl was worth all this trouble.he did not rise.

'come along!' said tom.he spoke thickly. his breath was coming in gasps. he was a terrible spectacle, but sallywas past the weaker emotions. she was back in the stone age, and her only feeling wasone of passionate pride. she tried to speak. she struggled to put all she felt into words,but something kept her dumb, and she followed him in silence.in the lane outside his cottage, down by the creek, joe blossom was clipping a hedge. thesound of footsteps made him turn. he did not recognize tom till he spoke.'joe, there's been a mistake,' said tom. 'been a gunpowder explosion, more like,' saidjoe, a simple, practical man. 'what you been doin' to your face?''she's going to marry me, joe.'

joe eyed sally inquiringly.'eh? you promised to marry me.' 'she promised to marry all of us. you, me,ted pringle, and albert parsons.' 'promised—to—marry—all—of—us!''that's where the mistake was. she's only going to marry me. i—i've arranged it withted and albert, and now i've come to explain to you, joe.''you promised to marry—!' the colossal nature of sally's deceit wasplainly troubling joe blossom. he expelled his breath in a long note of amazement. thenhe summed up. 'why you're nothing more nor less than a joshua!'the years that had passed since joe had attended the village sunday-school had weakened hisonce easy familiarity with the characters

of the old testament. it is possible thathe had somebody else in his mind. tom stuck doggedly to his point.'you can't marry her, joe.' joe blossom raised his shears and clippeda protruding branch. the point under discussion seemed to have ceased to interest him.'who wants to?' he said. 'good riddance!' they went down the lane. silence still broodedover them. the words she wanted continued to evade her.they came to a grassy bank. tom sat down. he was feeling unutterably tired.'tom!' he looked up. his mind was working dizzily.'you're going to marry me,' he muttered. she sat down beside him.'i know,' she said. 'tom, dear, lay your head

on my lap and go to sleep.'if this story proves anything (beyond the advantage of being in good training when youfight), it proves that you cannot get away from the moving pictures even in a place likemillbourne; for as sally sat there, nursing tom, it suddenly struck her that this wasthe very situation with which that 'romance of the middle ages' film ended. you know theone i mean. sir percival ye something (which has slipped my memory for the moment) goesout after the holy grail; meets damsel in distress; overcomes her persecutors; rescuesher; gets wounded, and is nursed back to life in her arms. sally had seen it a dozen times.and every time she had reflected that the days of romance are dead, and that that sortof thing can't happen nowadays.

chapter 3. deep waters historians of the social life of the later roman empirespeak of a certain young man of ariminum, who would jump into rivers and swim in 'em.when his friends said, 'you fish!' he would answer, 'oh, pish! fish can't swim like me,they've no vim in 'em.' just such another was george barnert callender.on land, in his land clothes, george was a young man who excited little remark. he lookedvery much like other young men. he was much about the ordinary height. his carriage suggestedthe possession of an ordinary amount of physical strength. such was george—on shore. butremove his clothes, drape him in a bathing-suit,

and insert him in the water, and instantly,like the gentleman in the tempest, he 'suffered a sea-change into something rich and strange.'other men puffed, snorted, and splashed. george passed through the ocean with the silent dignityof a torpedo. other men swallowed water, here a mouthful, there a pint, anon, maybe, a quartor so, and returned to the shore like foundering derelicts. george's mouth had all the exclusivenessof a fashionable club. his breast-stroke was a thing to see and wonder at. when he didthe crawl, strong men gasped. when he swam on his back, you felt that that was the onlypossible method of progression. george came to marvis bay at about five o'clockone evening in july. marvis bay has a well-established reputation as a summer resort, and, whilenot perhaps in every respect the paradise

which the excitable writer of the local guide-bookasserts it to be, on the whole it earns its reputation. its sands are smooth and firm,sloping almost imperceptibly into the ocean. there is surf for those who like it, and smootherwater beyond for those whose ideals in bathing are not confined to jumping up and down ona given jelly-fish. at the northern end of the beach there is a long pier. it was tothis that george made his way on his arrival. it was pleasant on the pier. once you hadpassed the initial zareba of fruit stands, souvenir stands, ice-cream stands, and thelair of the enthusiast whose aim in life it was to sell you picture post-cards, and hadwon through to the long walk where the seats were, you were practically alone with nature.at this hour of the day the place was deserted;

george had it to himself. he strolled slowlyalong. the water glittered under the sun-rays, breaking into a flurry of white foam as itreached the beach. a cool breeze blew. the whole scenic arrangements were a great improvementon the stuffy city he had left. not that george had come to marvis bay with the single aimof finding an antidote to metropolitan stuffiness. there was a more important reason. in threedays marvis bay was to be the scene of the production of fate's footballs, a comedy infour acts by g. barnert callender. for george, though you would not have suspected it fromhis exterior, was one of those in whose cerebra the grey matter splashes restlessly about,producing strong curtains and crisp dialogue. the company was due at marvis bay on the followingevening for the last spasm of rehearsals.

george's mind, as he paced the pier, was dividedbetween the beauties of nature and the forthcoming crisis in his affairs in the ratio of one-eighthto the former and seven-eighths to the latter. at the moment when he had left london, thoroughlydisgusted with the entire theatrical world in general and the company which was rehearsingfate's footballs in particular, rehearsals had just reached that stage of brisk deliriumwhen the author toys with his bottle of poison and the stage-manager becomes icily polite.the footpills—as arthur mifflin, the leading juvenile in the great play, insisted uponcalling it, much to george's disapproval—was his first piece. never before had he beenin one of those kitchens where many cooks prepare, and sometimes spoil, the theatricalbroth. consequently the chaos seemed to him

unique. had he been a more experienced dramatist,he would have said to himself, 'twas ever thus.' as it was, what he said to himself—andothers—was more forcible. he was trying to dismiss the whole thing fromhis mind—a feat which had hitherto proved beyond his powers—when fate, in an unusuallykindly mood, enabled him to do so in a flash by presenting to his jaundiced gaze what,on consideration, he decided was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. 'when a man'safraid,' shrewdly sings the bard, 'a beautiful maid is a cheering sight to see'. in the presentinstance the sight acted on george like a tonic. he forgot that the lady to whom aninjudicious management had assigned the role of heroine in fate's footballs invariably—nodoubt from the best motives—omitted to give

the cynical roue his cue for the big speechin act iii. his mind no longer dwelt on the fact that arthur mifflin, an estimable personin private life, and one who had been a friend of his at cambridge, preferred to deliverthe impassioned lines of the great renunciation scene in a manner suggesting a small boy (anda sufferer from nasal catarrh at that) speaking a piece at a sunday-school treat. the recollectionof the hideous depression and gloom which the leading comedian had radiated in greatclouds fled from him like some grisly nightmare before the goddess of day. every cell in hisbrain was occupied, to the exclusion of all other thoughts, by the girl swimming in thewater below. she swam well. his practised eye saw that.her strong, easy strokes carried her swiftly

over the swell of the waves. he stared, transfixed.he was a well-brought-up young man, and he knew how ill-bred it was to stare; but thiswas a special occasion. ordinary rules of conventional etiquette could not apply toa case like this. he stared. more, he gaped. as the girl passed on into the shadow of thepier he leaned farther over the rail, and his neck extended in joints like a telescope.at this point the girl turned to swim on her back. her eyes met his. hers were deep andclear; his, bulging. for what seemed an eternity to george, she continued to look at him. then,turning over again, she shot past under the pier.george's neck was now at its full stretch. no power of will or muscle could add anotheryard to it. realizing this, he leaned farther

over the rail, and farther still. his hatslid from his hand. he grabbed at it, and, over-balancing, fell with a splash into thewater. now, in ordinary circumstances, to fall twelvefeet into the ocean with all his clothes on would have incommoded george little. he wouldhardly have noticed it. he would have swum to shore with merely a feeling of amused self-reproachakin to that of the man who absent-mindedly walks into a lamp-post in the street. when,therefore, he came to the surface he prepared without agitation to strike out in his usualbold fashion. at this moment, however, two hands, grasping him beneath the arms, liftedhis head still farther from the waves, and a voice in his ear said, 'keep still; don'tstruggle. there's no danger.'

george did not struggle. his brain, workingwith the cool rapidity of a buzz-saw in an ice-box, had planned a line of action. fewthings are more difficult in this world for a young man than the securing of an introductionto the right girl under just the right conditions. when he is looking his best he is presentedto her in the midst of a crowd, and is swept away after a rapid hand-shake. when thereis no crowd he has toothache, or the sun has just begun to make his nose peel. thousandsof young lives have been saddened in this manner.how different was george's case! by this simple accident, he reflected, as, helping the goodwork along with an occasional surreptitious leg-stroke, he was towed shorewards, therehad been formed an acquaintanceship, if nothing

more, which could not lightly be broken. agirl who has saved a man from drowning cannot pass him by next day with a formal bow. andwhat a girl, too! there had been a time, in extreme youth, when his feminine ideal wasthe sort of girl who has fuzzy, golden hair, and drops things. indeed in his first yearat the university he had said—and written—as much to one of the type, the episode concludingwith a strong little drama, in which a wrathful, cheque-signing father had starred, supportedby a subdued, misogynistic son. which things, aided by the march of time, had turned george'stastes towards the healthy, open-air girl, who did things instead of dropping them.the pleasantest functions must come to an end sooner or later; and in due season georgefelt his heels grate on the sand. his preserver

loosed her hold. they stood up and faced eachother. george began to express his gratitude as best he could—it was not easy to findneat, convincing sentences on the spur of the moment—but she cut him short.'of course, it was nothing. nothing at all,' she said, brushing the sea-water from hereyes. 'it was just lucky i happened to be there.''it was splendid,' said the infatuated dramatist. 'it was magnificent. it—'he saw that she was smiling. 'you're very wet,' she said.george glanced down at his soaked clothes. it had been a nice suit once.'hadn't you better hurry back and change into something dry?'looking round about him, george perceived

that sundry of the inquisitive were swoopingdown, with speculation in their eyes. it was time to depart.'have you far to go?' 'not far. i'm staying at the beach view hotel.''why, so am i. i hope we shall meet again.' 'we shall,' said george confidently.'how did you happen to fall in?' 'i was—er—i was looking at something inthe water.' 'i thought you were,' said the girl, quietly.george blushed. 'i know,' he said, 'it was abominably rudeof me to stare like that; but—' 'you should learn to swim,' interrupted thegirl. 'i can't understand why every boy in the country isn't made to learn to swim beforehe's ten years old. and it isn't a bit difficult,

really. i could teach you in a week.'the struggle between george and george's conscience was brief. the conscience, weak by natureand flabby from long want of exercise, had no sort of chance from the start.'i wish you would,' said george. and with those words he realized that he had definitelycommitted himself to his hypocritical role. till that moment explanation would have beendifficult, but possible. now it was impossible. 'i will,' said the girl. 'i'll start tomorrowif you like.' she waded into the water. 'we'll talk it over at the hotel,' she said,hastily. 'here comes a crowd of horrid people. i'm going to swim out again.'she hurried into deeper water, while george, turning, made his way through a growing throngof goggling spectators. of the fifteen who

got within speaking distance of him, six toldhim that he was wet. the other nine asked him if he had fallen. her name was vaughan, and she was visitingmarvis bay in company with an aunt. so much george ascertained from the management ofthe hotel. later, after dinner, meeting both ladies on the esplanade, he gleaned furtherinformation—to wit, that her first name was mary, that her aunt was glad to make hisacquaintance, liked marvis bay but preferred trouville, and thought it was getting a littlechilly and would go indoors. the elimination of the third factor had arestorative effect upon george's conversation, which had begun to languish. in feminine societyas a rule he was apt to be constrained, but

with mary vaughan it was different. withina couple of minutes he was pouring out his troubles. the cue-withholding leading lady,the stick-like mifflin, the funereal comedian—up they all came, and she, gently sympathetic,was endeavouring, not without success, to prove to him that things were not so bad asthey seemed. 'it's sure to be all right on the night,'she said. how rare is the combination of beauty andintelligence! george thought he had never heard such a clear-headed, well-expressedremark. 'i suppose it will,' he said, 'but they werevery bad when i left. mifflin, for instance. he seems to think nature intended him fora napoleon of advertising. he has a bee in

his bonnet about booming the piece. sits upat nights, when he ought to be sleeping or studying his part, thinking out new schemesfor advertising the show. and the comedian. his speciality is drawing me aside and askingme to write in new scenes for him. i couldn't stand it any longer. i just came away andleft them to fight it out among themselves.' 'i'm sure you have no need to worry. a playwith such a good story is certain to succeed.' george had previously obliged with a briefdescription of the plot of the footpills. 'did you like the story?' he said, tenderly.'i thought it was fine.' 'how sympathetic you are!' cooed george, glutinously,edging a little closer. 'do you know—' 'shall we be going back to the hotel?' saidthe girl.

those noisome creatures, the hired murderersof fate's footpills, descended upon marvis bay early next afternoon, and george, meetingthem at the station, in reluctant pursuance of a promise given to arthur mifflin, feltmoodily that, if only they could make their acting one-half as full of colour as theirclothes, the play would be one of the most pronounced successes of modern times. in theforefront gleamed, like the white plumes of navarre, the light flannel suit of arthurmifflin, the woodenest juvenile in captivity. his woodenness was, however, confined to stagerehearsals. it may be mentioned that, once the run of a piece had begun, he was sufficientlyvolatile, and in private life he was almost excessively so—a fact which had been notedat an early date by the keen-eyed authorities

of his university, the discovery leading tohis tearing himself away from alma mater by request with some suddenness. he was a long,slender youth, with green eyes, jet-black hair, and a passionate fondness for the soundof his own voice. 'well, here we are,' he said, kicking breezilyat george's leg with his cane. 'i saw you,' said george, coldly, side-stepping.'the whole team,' continued mr mifflin; 'all bright, bonny, and trained to the minute.''what happened after i left?' george asked. 'has anybody begun to act yet? or are theywaiting till the dress-rehearsal?' 'the rehearsals,' admitted mr mifflin, handsomely,'weren't perfect; but you wait. it'll be all right on the night.'george thought he had never heard such a futile,

vapid remark.'besides,' said mr mifflin, 'i have an idea which will make the show. lend me your ear—bothears. you shall have them back. tell me: what pulls people into a theatre? a good play?sometimes. but failing that, as in the present case, what? fine acting by the leading juvenile?we have that, but it is not enough. no, my boy; advertisement is the thing. look at allthese men on the beach. are they going to roll in of their own free wills to see a playlike the footpills? not on your life. about the time the curtain rises every man of themwill be sitting in his own private corner of the beach—''how many corners do you think the beach has?' 'gazing into a girl's eyes, singing, "shineon, thou harvest moon", and telling her how

his boss is practically dependent on his advice.you know.' 'i don't,' said george, coldly.'unless,' proceeded mr mifflin, 'we advertise. and by advertise, i mean advertise in theright way. we have a press-agent, but for all the good he does he might be back on theold farm, gathering in the hay. luckily for us, i am among those present. i have brains,i have resource. what's that?' 'i said nothing.''i thought you did. well, i have an idea which will drag these people like a magnet. i thoughtit out coming down in the train.' 'what is it?''i'll tell you later. there are a few details to be worked upon first. meanwhile, let ustrickle to the sea-front and take a sail in

one of those boats. i am at my best in a boat.i rather fancy nature intended me for a viking.' matters having been arranged with the financierto whom the boat belonged, they set forth. mr mifflin, having remarked, 'yo-ho!' in ameditative voice, seated himself at the helm, somewhat saddened by his failure to borrowa quid of tobacco from the ocean beauty's proprietor. for, as he justly observed, withoutproperties and make-up, where were you? george, being skilled in the ways of boats, was incharge of the sheet. the summer day had lost its oppressive heat. the sun no longer beatdown on the face of the waters. a fresh breeze had sprung up. george, manipulating the sheetautomatically, fell into a reverie. a moment comes in the life of every man when an inwardvoice whispers to him, 'this is the one!'

in george's case the voice had not whispered;it had shouted. from now onward there could be but one woman in the world for him. fromnow onwards—the ocean beauty gave a sudden plunge. george woke up.'what the deuce are you doing with that tiller?' he inquired.'my gentle somnambulist,' said mr mifflin, aggrieved, 'i was doing nothing with thistiller. we will now form a commission to inquire into what you were doing with that sheet.were you asleep?' 'my fault,' said george; 'i was thinking.''if you must break the habit of a lifetime,' said mr mifflin, complainingly, 'i wish youwould wait till we get ashore. you nearly upset us.''it shan't happen again. they are tricky,

these sailing boats—turn over in a second.whatever you do, don't get her broadside on. there's more breeze out here than i thoughtthere was.' mr mifflin uttered a startled exclamation.'what's the matter?' asked george. 'just like a flash,' said mr mifflin, complacently.'it's always the way with me. give me time, and the artistic idea is bound to come. justsome little thought, some little, apparently obvious, idea which stamps the man of genius.it beats me why i didn't think of it before. why, of course, a costume piece with a malestar is a hundred times more effective.' 'what are you talking about?''i see now,' continued mr mifflin, 'that there was a flaw in my original plan. my idea wasthis. we were talking in the train about the

bathing down here, and jane happened to sayshe could swim some, and it suddenly came to me.'jane was the leading woman, she who omitted to give cues.'i said to myself, "george is a sportsman. he will be delighted to do a little thinglike that".' 'like to do what?''why, rescue jane.' 'what!''she and you,' said mr mifflin, 'were to go in swimming together, while i waited on thesands, holding our bone-headed press-agent on a leash. about a hundred yards from theshore up go her arms. piercing scream. agitated crowds on the beach. what is the matter? whathas happened? a touch of cramp. will she be

drowned? no! g. barnert callender, authorof fate's footballs, which opens at the beach theatre on monday evening next, at eight-fifteensharp, will save her. see! he has her. he is bringing her in. she is safe. how pleasedher mother will be! and the public, what a bit of luck for them! they will be able tosee her act at eight-fifteen sharp on monday after all. back you come to the shore. cheeringcrowds. weeping women. strong situation. i unleash the press-agent, and off he shoots,in time to get the story into the evening paper. it was a great idea, but i see nowthere were one or two flaws in it.' 'you do, do you?' said george.'it occurs to me on reflection that after all you wouldn't have agreed to it. a something,i don't know what, which is lacking in your

nature, would have made you reject the scheme.''i'm glad that occurred to you.' 'and a far greater flaw was that it was tooaltruistic. it boomed you and it boomed jane, but i didn't get a thing out of it. my revisedscheme is a thousand times better in every way.''don't say you have another.' 'i have. and,' added mr mifflin, with modestpride, 'it is a winner. this time i unhesitatingly assert that i have the goods. in about oneminute from now you will hear me exclaim, in a clear musical voice, the single word,"jump!" that is your cue to leap over the side as quick as you can move, for at thatprecise moment this spanking craft is going to capsize.'george spun round in his seat. mr mifflin's

face was shining with kindly enthusiasm. theshore was at least two hundred yards away, and that morning he had had his first swimming-lesson.'a movement of the tiller will do it. these accidents are common objects of the seashore.i may mention that i can swim just enough to keep myself afloat; so it's up to you.i wouldn't do this for everyone, but, seeing that we were boys together—are you ready?''stop!' cried george. 'don't do it! listen!' 'are you ready?'the ocean beauty gave a plunge. 'you lunatic! listen to me. it—''jump!' said mr mifflin. george came to the surface some yards fromthe overturned boat, and, looking round for mr mifflin, discovered that great thinkertreading water a few feet away.

'get to work, george,' he remarked.it is not easy to shake one's fist at a man when in deep water, but george managed it.'for twopence,' he cried, 'i'd leave you to look after yourself.''you can do better than that,' said mr mifflin. 'i'll give you threepence to tow me in. hurryup. it's cold.' in gloomy silence george gripped him by theelbows. mr mifflin looked over his shoulder. 'we shall have a good house,' he said. 'thestalls are full already, and the dress-circle's filling. work away, george, you're doing fine.this act is going to be a scream from start to finish.'with pleasant conversation he endeavoured to while away the monotony of the journey;but george made no reply. he was doing some

rapid thinking. with ordinary luck, he feltbitterly, all would have been well. he could have gone on splashing vigorously under histeacher's care for a week, gradually improving till he emerged into a reasonably proficientswimmer. but now! in an age of miracles he might have explained away his present performance;but how was he to—and then there came to him an idea—simple, as all great ideas are,but magnificent. he stopped and trod water.'tired?' said mr mifflin. 'well, take a rest,' he added, kindly, 'take a rest. no need tohurry.' 'look here,' said george, 'this piece is goingto be recast. we're going to exchange parts. you're rescuing me. see? never mind why. ihaven't time to explain it to you now. do

you understand?''no,' said mr mifflin. 'i'll get behind you and push you; but don'tforget, when we get to the shore, that you've done the rescuing.'mr mifflin pondered. 'is this wise?' he said. 'it is a strong part,the rescuer, but i'm not sure the other wouldn't suit my style better. the silent hand-grip,the catch in the voice. you want a practised actor for that. i don't think you'd be upto it, george.' 'never mind about me. that's how it's goingto be.' mr mifflin pondered once more.'no,' he said at length, 'it wouldn't do. you mean well, george, but it would kill theshow. we'll go on as before.'

'will we?' said george, unpleasantly. 'wouldyou like to know what i'm going to do to you, then? i'm going to hit you very hard underthe jaw, and i'm going to take hold of your neck and squeeze it till you lose consciousness,and then i'm going to drag you to the beach and tell people i had to hit you because youlost your head and struggled.' mr mifflin pondered for the third time.'you are?' he said. 'i am,' said george.'then,' said mr mifflin, cordially, 'say no more. i take your point. my objections areremoved. but,' he concluded, 'this is the last time i come bathing with you, george.'mr mifflin's artistic misgivings as to his colleague's ability to handle so subtle apart as that of rescuee were more than justified

on their arrival. a large and interested audiencehad collected by the time they reached the shore, an audience to which any artist shouldhave been glad to play; but george, forcing his way through, hurried to the hotel withoutattempting to satisfy them. not a single silent hand-shake did he bestow on his rescuer. therewas no catch in his voice as he made the one remark which he did make—to a man with whiskerswho asked him if the boat had upset. as an exhibition of rapid footwork his performancewas good. in other respects it was poor. he had just changed his wet clothes—it seemedto him that he had been doing nothing but change his wet clothes since he had come tomarvis bay—when mr mifflin entered in a bathrobe.'they lent me this downstairs,' he explained,

'while they dried my clothes. they would doanything for me. i'm the popular hero. my boy, you made the mistake of your life whenyou threw up the rescuer part. it has all the fat. i see that now. the rescuer playsthe other man off the stage every time. i've just been interviewed by the fellow on thelocal newspaper. he's correspondent to a couple of london papers. the country will ring withthis thing. i've told them all the parts i've ever played and my favourite breakfast food.there's a man coming up to take my photograph tomorrow. footpills stock has gone up witha run. wait till monday and see what sort of a house we shall draw. by the way, thereporter fellow said one funny thing. he asked if you weren't the same man who was rescuedyesterday by a girl. i said of course not—that

you had only come down yesterday. but he stuckto it that you were.' 'he was quite right.''what!' 'i was.'mr mifflin sat down on the bed. 'this fellow fell off the pier, and a girlbrought him in.' george nodded.'and that was you?' george nodded.mr mifflin's eyes opened wide. 'it's the heat,' he declared, finally. 'thatand the worry of rehearsals. i expect a doctor could give the technical name for it. it'sa what-do-you-call-it—an obsession. you often hear of cases. fellows who are absolutelysane really, but cracked on one particular

subject. some of them think they're teapotsand things. you've got a craving for being rescued from drowning. what happens, old man?do you suddenly get the delusion that you can't swim? no, it can't be that, becauseyou were doing all the swimming for the two of us just now. i don't know, though. maybeyou didn't realize that you were swimming?' george finished lacing his shoe and lookedup. 'listen,' he said; 'i'll talk slow, so thatyou can understand. suppose you fell off a pier, and a girl took a great deal of troubleto get you to the shore, would you say, "much obliged, but you needn't have been so officious.i can swim perfectly well?"' mr mifflin considered this point. intelligencebegan to dawn in his face. 'there is more

in this than meets the eye,' he said. 'tellme all.' 'this morning'—george's voice grew dreamy—'shegave me a swimming-lesson. she thought it was my first. don't cackle like that. there'snothing to laugh at.' mr mifflin contradicted this assertion.'there is you,' he said, simply. 'this should be a lesson to you, george. avoid deceit.in future be simple and straightforward. take me as your model. you have managed to scrapethrough this time. don't risk it again. you are young. there is still time to make a freshstart. it only needs will-power. meanwhile, lend me something to wear. they are goingto take a week drying my clothes.' there was a rehearsal at the beach theatrethat evening. george attended it in a spirit

of resignation and left it in one of elation.three days had passed since his last sight of the company at work, and in those threedays, apparently, the impossible had been achieved. there was a snap and go about thepiece now. the leading lady had at length mastered that cue, and gave it out with bell-likeclearness. arthur mifflin, as if refreshed and braced by his salt-water bath, was infusinga welcome vigour into his part. and even the comedian, george could not help admitting,showed signs of being on the eve of becoming funny. it was with a light heart and a lightstep that he made his way back to the hotel. in the veranda were a number of basket-chairs.only one was occupied. he recognized the occupant. 'i've just come back from a rehearsal,' hesaid, seating himself beside her.

'really?''the whole thing is different,' he went on, buoyantly. 'they know their lines. they actas if they meant it. arthur mifflin's fine. the comedian's improved till you wouldn'tknow him. i'm awfully pleased about it.' 'really?'george felt damped. 'i thought you might be pleased, too,' hesaid, lamely. 'of course i am glad that things are goingwell. your accident this afternoon was lucky, too, in a way, was it not? it will interestpeople in the play.' 'you heard about it?''i have been hearing about nothing else.' 'curious it happening so soon after—''and so soon before the production of your

play. most curious.'there was a silence. george began to feel uneasy. you could never tell with women, ofcourse. it might be nothing; but it looked uncommonly as if—he changed the subject. 'how is your aunt this evening, miss vaughan?''quite well, thank you. she went in. she found it a little chilly.'george heartily commended her good sense. a little chilly did not begin to express it.if the girl had been like this all the evening, he wondered her aunt had not caught pneumonia.he tried again. 'will you have time to give me another lessontomorrow?' he said. she turned on him.'mr callender, don't you think this farce

has gone on long enough?'once, in the dear, dead days beyond recall, when but a happy child, george had been smittenunexpectedly by a sportive playmate a bare half-inch below his third waistcoat-button.the resulting emotions were still green in his memory. as he had felt then, so did hefeel now. 'miss vaughan! i don't understand.''really?' 'what have i done?''you have forgotten how to swim.' a warm and prickly sensation began to manifestitself in the region of george's forehead. 'forgotten!''forgotten. and in a few months. i thought i had seen you before, and today i remembered.it was just about this time last year that

i saw you at hayling island swimming perfectlywonderfully, and today you are taking lessons. can you explain it?'a frog-like croak was the best george could do in that line.she went on. 'business is business, i suppose, and a playhas to be advertised somehow. but—' 'you don't think—' croaked george.'i should have thought it rather beneath the dignity of an author; but, of course, youknow your own business best. only i object to being a conspirator. i am sorry for yoursake that yesterday's episode attracted so little attention. today it was much more satisfactory,wasn't it? i am so glad.' there was a massive silence for about a hundredyears.

'i think i'll go for a short stroll,' saidgeorge. scarcely had he disappeared when the longform of mr mifflin emerged from the shadow beyond the veranda.'could you spare me a moment?' the girl looked up. the man was a stranger.she inclined her head coldly. 'my name is mifflin,' said the other, droppingcomfortably into the chair which had held the remains of george.the girl inclined her head again more coldly; but it took more than that to embarrass mrmifflin. dynamite might have done it, but not coldness.'the mifflin,' he explained, crossing his legs. 'i overheard your conversation justnow.'

'you were listening?' said the girl, scornfully.'for all i was worth,' said mr mifflin. 'these things are very much a matter of habit. foryears i have been playing in pieces where i have had to stand concealed up stage, drinkingin the private conversation of other people, and the thing has become a second nature tome. however, leaving that point for a moment, what i wish to say is that i heard you—unknowingly,of course—doing a good man a grave injustice.' 'mr callender could have defended himselfif he had wished.' 'i was not referring to george. the injusticewas to myself.' 'to you?''i was the sole author of this afternoon's little drama. i like george, but i cannotpermit him to pose in any way as my collaborator.

george has old-fashioned ideas. he does notkeep abreast of the times. he can write plays, but he needs a man with a big brain to boomthem for him. so, far from being entitled to any credit for this afternoon's work, hewas actually opposed to it.' 'then why did he pretend you had saved him?'she demanded. 'george's,' said mr mifflin, 'is essentiallya chivalrous nature. at any crisis demanding a display of the finer feelings he is therewith the goods before you can turn round. his friends frequently wrangle warmly as towhether he is most like bayard, lancelot, or happy hooligan. some say one, some theother. it seems that yesterday you saved him from a watery grave without giving him timeto explain that he could save himself. what

could he do? he said to himself, "she mustnever know!" and acted accordingly. but let us leave george, and return—''thank you, mr mifflin.' there was a break in her laugh. 'i don't think there is anynecessity. i think i understand now. it was very clever of you.''it was more than cleverness,' said mr mifflin, rising. 'it was genius.' a white form came to meet george as he re-enteredthe veranda. 'mr callender!'he stopped. 'i'm very sorry i said such horrid thingsto you just now. i have been talking to mr mifflin, and i want to say i think it wasever so nice and thoughtful of you. i understand

everything.'george did not, by a good deal; but he understood sufficient for his needs. he shot forwardas if some strong hand were behind him with a needle.'miss vaughan—mary—i—' 'i think i hear aunt calling,' said she. but a benevolent providence has ordained thataunts cannot call for ever; and it is on record that when george entered his box on the twohundredth night of that great london success, fate's footballs, he did not enter it alone.when doctors disagree it is possible that, at about the time atwhich this story opens, you may have gone

into the hotel belvoir for a hair-cut. manypeople did; for the young man behind the scissors, though of a singularly gloomy countenance,was undoubtedly an artist in his line. he clipped judiciously. he left no ridges. henever talked about the weather. and he allowed you to go away unburdened by any bottle ofhair-food. it is possible, too, that, being there, youdecided that you might as well go the whole hog and be manicured at the same time.it is not unlikely, moreover, that when you had got over the first shock of finding yourhands so unexpectedly large and red, you felt disposed to chat with the young lady who lookedafter that branch of the business. in your genial way you may have permitted a note ofgay (but gentlemanly) badinage to creep into

your end of the dialogue.in which case, if you had raised your eyes to the mirror, you would certainly have observeda marked increase of gloom in the demeanour of the young man attending to your apex. hetook no official notice of the matter. a quick frown. a tightening of the lips. nothing more.jealous as arthur welsh was of all who inflicted gay badinage, however gentlemanly, on maudpeters, he never forgot that he was an artist. never, even in his blackest moments, had heyielded to the temptation to dig the point of the scissors the merest fraction of aninch into a client's skull. but maud, who saw, would understand. and,if the customer was an observant man, he would notice that her replies at that juncture becamesomewhat absent, her smile a little mechanical.

jealousy, according to an eminent authority,is the 'hydra of calamities, the sevenfold death'. arthur welsh's was all that and abit over. it was a constant shadow on maud's happiness. no fair-minded girl objects toa certain tinge of jealousy. kept within proper bounds, it is a compliment; it makes for piquancy;it is the gin in the ginger-beer of devotion. but it should be a condiment, not a fluid.it was the unfairness of the thing which hurt maud. her conscience was clear. she knew girls—severalgirls—who gave the young men with whom they walked out ample excuse for being perfectothellos. if she had ever flirted on the open beach with the baritone of the troupe of pierrots,like jane oddy, she could have excused arthur's attitude. if, like pauline dicey, she hadroller-skated for a solid hour with a black-moustached

stranger while her fiance floundered in mug'salley she could have understood his frowning disapprovingly. but she was not like pauline.she scorned the coquetries of jane. arthur was the centre of her world, and he knew it.ever since the rainy evening when he had sheltered her under his umbrella to her tube station,he had known perfectly well how things were with her. and yet just because, in a strictlybusiness-like way, she was civil to her customers, he must scowl and bite his lip and behavegenerally as if it had been brought to his notice that he had been nurturing a serpentin his bosom. it was worse than wicked—it was unprofessional.she remonstrated with him. 'it isn't fair,' she said, one morning whenthe rush of customers had ceased and they

had the shop to themselves.matters had been worse than usual that morning. after days of rain and greyness the weatherhad turned over a new leaf. the sun glinted among the bottles of unfailing lotion in thewindow, and everything in the world seemed to have relaxed and become cheerful. unfortunately,everything had included the customers. during the last few days they had taken their seatsin moist gloom, and, brooding over the prospect of coming colds in the head, had had littlethat was pleasant to say to the divinity who was shaping their ends. but today it had beendifferent. warm and happy, they had bubbled over with gay small-talk.'it isn't fair,' she repeated. arthur, who was stropping a razor and whistlingtunelessly, raised his eyebrows. his manner

was frosty.'i fail to understand your meaning,' he said. 'you know what i mean. do you think i didn'tsee you frowning when i was doing that gentleman's nails?'the allusion was to the client who had just left—a jovial individual with a red face,who certainly had made maud giggle a good deal. and why not? if a gentleman tells reallyfunny stories, what harm is there in giggling? you had to be pleasant to people. if you snubbedcustomers, what happened? why, sooner or later, it got round to the boss, and then where wereyou? besides, it was not as if the red-faced customer had been rude. write down on paperwhat he had said to her, and nobody could object to it. write down on paper what shehad said to him, and you couldn't object to

that either. it was just arthur's silliness.she tossed her head. 'i am gratified,' said arthur, ponderously—inhappier moments maud had admired his gift of language; he read a great deal: encyclopediasand papers and things—'i am gratified to find that you had time to bestow a glanceon me. you appeared absorbed.' maud sniffed unhappily. she had meant to becold and dignified throughout the conversation, but the sense of her wrongs was beginningto be too much for her. a large tear splashed on to her tray of orange-sticks. she wipedit away with the chamois leather. 'it isn't fair,' she sobbed. 'it isn't. youknow i can't help it if gentlemen talk and joke with me. you know it's all in the day'swork. i'm expected to be civil to gentlemen

who come in to have their hands done. sillyi should look sitting as if i'd swallowed a poker. i do think you might understand,arthur, you being in the profession yourself.' he coughed.'it isn't so much that you talk to them as that you seem to like—'he stopped. maud's dignity had melted completely. her face was buried in her arms. she did notcare if a million customers came in, all at the same time.'maud!' she heard him moving towards her, but shedid not look up. the next moment his arms were round her, and he was babbling.and a customer, pushing open the door unnoticed two minutes later, retired hurriedly to getshaved elsewhere, doubting whether arthur's

mind was on his job.for a time this little thunderstorm undoubtedly cleared the air. for a day or two maud washappier than she ever remembered to have been. arthur's behaviour was unexceptionable. hebought her a wrist-watch— light brown leather, very smart. he gave her some chocolates toeat in the tube. he entertained her with amazing statistics, culled from the weekly paper whichhe bought on tuesdays. he was, in short, the perfect lover. on the second day the red-facedman came in again. arthur joined in the laughter at his stories. everything seemed ideal.it could not last. gradually things slipped back into the old routine. maud, looking upfrom her work, would see the frown and the bitten lip. she began again to feel uncomfortableand self-conscious as she worked. sometimes

their conversation on the way to the tubewas almost formal. it was useless to say anything. she had awholesome horror of being one of those women who nagged; and she felt that to complainagain would amount to nagging. she tried to put the thing out of her mind, but it insistedon staying there. in a way she understood his feelings. he loved her so much, she supposed,that he hated the idea of her exchanging a single word with another man. this, in theabstract, was gratifying; but in practice it distressed her. she wished she were somesort of foreigner, so that nobody could talk to her. but then they would look at her, andthat probably would produce much the same results. it was a hard world for a girl.and then the strange thing happened. arthur

reformed. one might almost say that he reformedwith a jerk. it was a parallel case to those sudden conversions at welsh revival meetings.on monday evening he had been at his worst. on the following morning he was a changedman. not even after the original thunderstorm had he been more docile. maud could not believethat first. the lip, once bitten, was stretched in a smile. she looked for the frown. it wasnot there. next day it was the same; and the day afterthat. when a week had gone by, and still the improvement was maintained, maud felt thatshe might now look upon it as permanent. a great load seemed to have been taken off hermind. she revised her views on the world. it was a very good world, quite one of thebest, with arthur beaming upon it like a sun.

a number of eminent poets and essayists, inthe course of the last few centuries, have recorded, in their several ways, their opinionthat one can have too much of a good thing. the truth applies even to such a good thingas absence of jealousy. little by little maud began to grow uneasy. it began to come hometo her that she preferred the old arthur, of the scowl and the gnawed lip. of him shehad at least been sure. whatever discomfort she may have suffered from his spirited imitationsof othello, at any rate they had proved that he loved her. she would have accepted gladlyan equal amount of discomfort now in exchange for the same certainty. she could not readthis new arthur. his thoughts were a closed book. superficially, he was all that she couldhave wished. he still continued to escort

her to the tube, to buy her occasional presents,to tap, when conversing, the pleasantly sentimental vein. but now these things were not enough.her heart was troubled. her thoughts frightened her. the little black imp at the back of hermind kept whispering and whispering, till at last she was forced to listen. 'he's tiredof you. he doesn't love you any more. he's tired of you.' it is not everybody who, in times of mentalstress, can find ready to hand among his or her personal acquaintances an expert counsellor,prepared at a moment's notice to listen with sympathy and advise with tact and skill. everyone'sworld is full of friends, relatives, and others, who will give advice on any subject that maybe presented to them; but there are crises

in life which cannot be left to the amateur.it is the aim of a certain widely read class of paper to fill this void.of this class fireside chat was one of the best-known representatives. in exchange forone penny its five hundred thousand readers received every week a serial story about lifein highest circles, a short story packed with heart-interest, articles on the removal ofstains and the best method of coping with the cold mutton, anecdotes of royalty, photographsof peeresses, hints on dress, chats about baby, brief but pointed dialogues betweenblogson and snogson, poems, great thoughts from the dead and brainy, half-hours in theeditor's cosy sanctum, a slab of brown paper, and—the journal's leading feature—adviceon matters of the heart. the weekly contribution

of the advice specialist of fireside chat,entitled 'in the consulting room, by dr cupid', was made up mainly of answers to correspondents.he affected the bedside manner of the kind, breezy old physician; and probably gave agood deal of comfort. at any rate, he always seemed to have plenty of cases on his hands.it was to this expert that maud took her trouble. she had been a regular reader of the paperfor several years; and had, indeed, consulted the great man once before, when he had repliedfavourably to her query as to whether it would be right for her to accept caramels from arthur,then almost a stranger. it was only natural that she should go to him now, in an evengreater dilemma. the letter was not easy to write, but she finished it at last; and, afteran anxious interval, judgement was delivered

as follows:'well, well, well! bless my soul, what is all this? m. p. writes me:'i am a young lady, and until recently was very, very happy, except that my fiance, thoughtruly loving me, was of a very jealous disposition, though i am sure i gave him no cause. he wouldscowl when i spoke to any other man, and this used to make me unhappy. but for some timenow he has quite changed, and does not seem to mind at all, and though at first this mademe feel happy, to think that he had got over his jealousy, i now feel unhappy because iam beginning to be afraid that he no longer cares for me. do you think this is so, andwhat ought i to do?' 'my dear young lady, i should like to be ableto reassure you; but it is kindest sometimes,

you know, to be candid, however it may hurt.it has been my experience that, when jealousy flies out of the window, indifference comesin at the door. in the old days a knight would joust for the love of a ladye, risking physicalinjury rather than permit others to rival him in her affections. i think, m. p., thatyou should endeavour to discover the true state of your fiance's feelings. i do not,of course, advocate anything in the shape of unwomanly behaviour, of which i am sure,my dear young lady, you are incapable; but i think that you should certainly try to piqueyour fiance, to test him. at your next ball, for instance, refuse him a certain numberof dances, on the plea that your programme is full. at garden-parties, at-homes, andso on, exhibit pleasure in the society and

conversation of other gentlemen, and markhis demeanour as you do so. these little tests should serve either to relieve your apprehensions,provided they are groundless, or to show you the truth. and, after all, if it is the truth,it must be faced, must it not, m. p.?' before the end of the day maud knew the wholepassage by heart. the more her mind dwelt on it, the more clearly did it seem to expresswhat she had felt but could not put into words. the point about jousting struck her as particularlywell taken. she had looked up 'joust' in the dictionary, and it seemed to her that in thesefew words was contained the kernel of her trouble. in the old days, if any man had attemptedto rival him in her affections (outside business hours), arthur would undoubtedly have jousted—andjousted with the vigour of one who means to

make his presence felt. now, in similar circumstances,he would probably step aside politely, as who should say, 'after you, my dear alphonse.'there was no time to lose. an hour after her first perusal of dr cupid's advice, maud hadbegun to act upon it. by the time the first lull in the morning's work had come, and therewas a chance for private conversation, she had invented an imaginary young man, a shadowylothario, who, being introduced into her home on the previous sunday by her brother horace,had carried on in a way you wouldn't believe, paying all manner of compliments.'he said i had such white hands,' said maud. arthur nodded, stropping a razor the while.he appeared to be bearing the revelations with complete fortitude. yet, only a few weeksbefore, a customer's comment on this same

whiteness had stirred him to his depths.'and this morning—what do you think? why, he meets me as bold as you please, and givesme a cake of toilet soap. like his impudence!' she paused, hopefully.'always useful, soap,' said arthur, politely sententious.'lovely it was,' went on maud, dully conscious of failure, but stippling in like an artistthe little touches which give atmosphere and verisimilitude to a story. 'all scented. horacewill tease me about it, i can tell you.' she paused. surely he must—why, a sea-anemonewould be torn with jealousy at such a tale. arthur did not even wince. he was charmingabout it. thought it very kind of the young fellow. didn't blame him for being struckby the whiteness of her hands. touched on

the history of soap, which he happened tohave been reading up in the encyclopedia at the free library. and behaved altogether insuch a thoroughly gentlemanly fashion that maud stayed awake half the night, crying. if maud had waited another twenty-four hoursthere would have been no need for her to have taxed her powers of invention, for on thefollowing day there entered the shop and her life a young man who was not imaginary—alothario of flesh and blood. he made his entry with that air of having bought most of theneighbouring property which belongs exclusively to minor actors, men of weight on the stockexchange, and american professional pugilists. mr 'skipper' shute belonged to the last-namedof the three classes. he had arrived in england

two months previously for the purpose of holdinga conference at eight-stone four with one joseph edwardes, to settle a question of superiorityat that weight which had been vexing the sporting public of two countries for over a year. havingsuccessfully out-argued mr edwardes, mainly by means of strenuous work in the clinches,he was now on the eve of starting on a lucrative music-hall tour with his celebrated inaudiblemonologue. as a result of these things he was feeling very, very pleased with the worldin general, and with mr skipper shute in particular. and when mr shute was pleased with himselfhis manner was apt to be of the breeziest. he breezed into the shop, took a seat, and,having cast an experienced eye at maud, and found her pleasing, extended both hands, andobserved, 'go the limit, kid.'

at any other time maud might have resentedbeing addressed as 'kid' by a customer, but now she welcomed it. with the exception ofa slight thickening of the lobe of one ear, mr shute bore no outward signs of his profession.and being, to use his own phrase, a 'swell dresser', he was really a most presentableyoung man. just, in fact, what maud needed. she saw in him her last hope. if any faintspark of his ancient fire still lingered in arthur, it was through mr shute that it mustbe fanned. she smiled upon mr shute. she worked on hisrobust fingers as if it were an artistic treat to be permitted to handle them. so carefullydid she toil that she was still busy when arthur, taking off his apron and putting onhis hat, went out for his twenty-minutes'

lunch, leaving them alone together.the door had scarcely shut when mr shute bent forward.'say!' he sank his voice to a winning whisper.'you look good to muh,' he said, gallantly. 'the idea!' said maud, tossing her head.'on the level,' mr shute assured her. maud laid down her orange-sticks.'don't be silly,' she said. 'there—i've finished.''i've not,' said mr shute. 'not by a mile. say!''well?' 'what do you do with your evenings?''i go home.' 'sure. but when you don't? it's a poor heartthat never rejoices. don't you ever whoop

it up?''whoop it up?' 'the mad whirl,' explained mr shute. 'ice-creamsoda and buck-wheat cakes, and a happy evening at lovely luna park.''i don't know where luna park is.' 'what did they teach you at school? it's outin that direction,' said mr shute, pointing over his shoulder. 'you go straight on aboutthree thousand miles till you hit little old new york; then you turn to the right. say,don't you ever get a little treat? why not come along to the white city some old evening?this evening?' 'mr welsh is taking me to the white city tonight.''and who is mr welsh?' 'the gentleman who has just gone out.''is that so? well, he doesn't look a live

one, but maybe it's just because he's hadbad news today. you never can tell.' he rose. 'farewell, evelina, fairest of your sex. weshall meet again; so keep a stout heart.' and, taking up his cane, straw hat, and yellowgloves, mr shute departed, leaving maud to her thoughts.she was disappointed. she had expected better results. mr shute had lowered with ease therecord for gay badinage, hitherto held by the red-faced customer; yet to all appearancesthere had been no change in arthur's manner. but perhaps he had scowled (or bitten hislip), and she had not noticed it. apparently he had struck mr shute, an unbiased spectator,as gloomy. perhaps at some moment when her eyes had been on her work—she hoped forthe best.

whatever his feelings may have been duringthe afternoon, arthur was undeniably cheerful that evening. he was in excellent spirits.his light-hearted abandon on the wiggle-woggle had been noted and commented upon by severallookers-on. confronted with the hairy ainus, he had touched a high level of facetiousness.and now, as he sat with her listening to the band, he was crooning joyously to himselfin accompaniment to the music, without, it would appear, a care in the world.maud was hurt and anxious. in a mere acquaintance this blithe attitude would have been welcome.it would have helped her to enjoy her evening. but from arthur at that particular momentshe looked for something else. why was he cheerful? only a few hours ago she had been—yes,flirting with another man before his very

eyes. what right had he to be cheerful? heought to be heated, full of passionate demands for an explanation—a flushed, throaty thingto be coaxed back into a good temper and then forgiven—all this at great length—forhaving been in a bad one. yes, she told herself, she had wanted certainty one way or the other,and here it was. now she knew. he no longer cared for her.she trembled. 'cold?' said arthur. 'let's walk. eveningsbeginning to draw in now. lum-da-diddley-ah. that's what i call a good tune. give me somethinglively and bright. dumty-umpty-iddley-ah. dum tum—''funny thing—' said maud, deliberately. 'what's a funny thing?''the gentleman in the brown suit whose hands

i did this afternoon—''he was,' agreed arthur, brightly. 'a very funny thing.'maud frowned. wit at the expense of hairy ainus was one thing—at her own another.'i was about to say,' she went on precisely, 'that it was a funny thing, a coincidence,seeing that i was already engaged, that the gentleman in the brown suit whose hands idid this afternoon should have asked me to come here, to the white city, with him tonight.'for a moment they walked on in silence. to maud it seemed a hopeful silence. surely itmust be the prelude to an outburst. 'oh!' he said, and stopped.maud's heart gave a leap. surely that was the old tone?a couple of paces, and he spoke again.

'i didn't hear him ask you.'his voice was disappointingly level. 'he asked me after you had gone out to lunch.''it's a nuisance,' said arthur, cheerily, 'when things clash like that. but perhapshe'll ask you again. nothing to prevent you coming here twice. well repays a second visit,i always say. i think—' 'you shouldn't,' said a voice behind him.'it hurts the head. well, kid, being shown a good time?'the possibility of meeting mr shute had not occurred to maud. she had assumed that, beingaware that she would be there with another, he would have stayed away. it may, however,be remarked that she did not know mr shute. he was not one of your sensitive plants. hesmiled pleasantly upon her, looking very dapper

in evening dress and a silk hat that, thougha size too small for him, shone like a mirror. maud hardly knew whether she was glad or sorryto see him. it did not seem to matter much now either way. nothing seemed to matter much,in fact. arthur's cheery acceptance of the news that she received invitations from othershad been like a blow, leaving her numb and listless.she made the introductions. the two men eyed each other.'pleased to meet you,' said mr shute. 'weather keeps up,' said arthur.and from that point onward mr shute took command. it is to be assumed that this was not thefirst time that mr shute had made one of a trio in these circumstances, for the swiftdexterity with which he lost arthur was certainly

not that of a novice. so smoothly was it donethat it was not until she emerged from the witching waves, guided by the pugilist's slimbut formidable right arm, that maud realized that arthur had gone.she gave a little cry of dismay. secretly she was beginning to be somewhat afraid ofmr shute. he was showing signs of being about to step out of the role she had assigned tohim and attempt something on a larger scale. his manner had that extra touch of warmthwhich makes all the difference. 'oh! he's gone!' she cried.'sure,' said mr shute. 'he's got a hurry-call from the uji village. the chief's cousin wantsa hair-cut.' 'we must find him. we must.''surest thing you know,' said mr shute. 'plenty

of time.''we must find him.' mr shute regarded her with some displeasure.'seems to be ace-high with you, that dub,' he said.'i don't understand you.' 'my observation was,' explained mr shute,coldly, 'that, judging from appearances, that dough-faced lemon was willie-boy, the firstand only love.' maud turned on him with flaming cheeks.'mr welsh is nothing to me! nothing! nothing!' she cried.she walked quickly on. 'then, if there's a vacancy, star-eyes,' saidthe pugilist at her side, holding on a hat which showed a tendency to wobble, 'countme in. directly i saw you—see here, what's

the idea of this road-work? we aren't racing—'maud slowed down. 'that's better. as i was saying, directlyi saw you, i said to myself, "that's the one you need. the original candy kid. the—"'his hat lurched drunkenly as he answered the girl's increase of speed. he cursed it ina brief aside. 'that's what i said. "the original candy kid."so—' he shot out a restraining hand. 'arthur!'cried maud. 'arthur!' 'it's not my name' breathed mr shute, tenderly.'call me clarence.' considered as an embrace, it was imperfect.at these moments a silk hat a size too small handicaps a man. the necessity of having tobe careful about the nap prevented mr shute

from doing himself complete justice. but hedid enough to induce arthur welsh, who, having sighted the missing ones from afar, had beenapproaching them at a walking pace, to substitute a run for the walk, and arrive just as maudwrenched herself free. mr shute took off his hat, smoothed it, replacedit with extreme care, and turned his attention to the new-comer.'arthur!' said maud. her heart gave a great leap. there was nomistaking the meaning in the eye that met hers. he cared! he cared!'arthur!' he took no notice. his face was pale and working.he strode up to mr shute. 'well?' he said between his teeth.an eight-stone-four champion of the world

has many unusual experiences in his life,but he rarely encounters men who say 'well?' to him between their teeth. mr shute eyedthis freak with profound wonder. 'i'll teach you to—to kiss young ladies!'mr shute removed his hat again and gave it another brush. this gave him the necessarytime for reflection. 'i don't need it,' he said. 'i've graduated.''put them up!' hissed arthur. almost a shocked look spread itself over thepugilist's face. so might raphael have looked if requested to draw a pavement-picture.'you aren't speaking to me?' he said, incredulously. 'put them up!'maud, trembling from head to foot, was conscious of one overwhelming emotion. she was terrified—yes.but stronger than the terror was the great

wave of elation which swept over her. allher doubts had vanished. at last, after weary weeks of uncertainty, arthur was about togive the supreme proof. he was going to joust for her.a couple of passers-by had paused, interested, to watch developments. you could never tell,of course. many an apparently promising row never got any farther than words. but, glancingat arthur's face, they certainly felt justified in pausing. mr shute spoke.'if it wasn't,' he said, carefully, 'that i don't want trouble with the society forthe prevention of cruelty to animals, i'd—' he broke off, for, to the accompaniment ofa shout of approval from the two spectators, arthur had swung his right fist, and it hadtaken him smartly on the side of the head.

compared with the blows mr shute was wontto receive in the exercise of his profession, arthur's was a gentle tap. but there was onecircumstance which gave it a deadliness all its own. achilles had his heel. mr shute'svulnerable point was at the other extremity. instead of countering, he uttered a cry ofagony, and clutched wildly with both hands at his hat.he was too late. it fell to the ground and bounded away, with its proprietor in passionatechase. arthur snorted and gently chafed his knuckles.there was a calm about mr shute's demeanour as, having given his treasure a final polishand laid it carefully down, he began to advance on his adversary, which was more than ominous.his lips were a thin line of steel. the muscles

stood out over his jaw-bones. crouching inhis professional manner, he moved forward softly, like a cat.and it was at this precise moment, just as the two spectators, reinforced now by elevenother men of sporting tastes, were congratulating themselves on their acumen in having stoppedto watch, that police-constable robert bryce, intruding fourteen stones of bone and musclebetween the combatants, addressed to mr shute these memorable words: ''ullo, 'ullo! 'ullo,'ullo, 'ul-lo!' mr shute appealed to his sense of justice.'the mutt knocked me hat off.' 'and i'd do it again,' said arthur, truculently.'not while i'm here you wouldn't, young fellow,' said mr bryce, with decision. 'i'm surprisedat you,' he went on, pained. 'and you look

a respectable young chap, too. you pop off.'a shrill voice from the crowd at this point offered the constable all cinematograph rightsif he would allow the contest to proceed. 'and you pop off, too, all of you,' continuedmr bryce. 'blest if i know what kids are coming to nowadays. and as for you,' he said, addressingmr shute, 'all you've got to do is to keep that face of yours closed. that's what you'vegot to do. i've got my eye on you, mind, and if i catch you a-follerin' of him'—he jerkedhis thumb over his shoulder at arthur's departing figure—'i'll pinch you. sure as you're alive.'he paused. 'i'd have done it already,' he added, pensively, 'if it wasn't me birthday.' arthur welsh turned sharply. for some timehe had been dimly aware that somebody was

calling his name.'oh, arthur!' she was breathing quickly. he could see thetears in her eyes. 'i've been running. you walked so fast.'he stared down at her gloomily. 'go away,' he said. 'i've done with you.'she clutched at his coat. 'arthur, listen—listen! it's all a mistake.i thought you—you didn't care for me any more, and i was miserable, and i wrote tothe paper and asked what should i do, and they said i ought to test you and try andmake you jealous, and that that would relieve my apprehensions. and i hated it, but i didit, and you didn't seem to care till now. and you know that there's nobody but you.''you—the paper? what?' he stammered.

'yes, yes, yes. i wrote to fireside chat,and dr cupid said that when jealousy flew out of the window indifference came in atthe door, and that i must exhibit pleasure in the society of other gentlemen and markyour demeanour. so i—oh!' arthur, luckier than mr shute, was not hamperedby a too small silk hat. it was a few moments later, as they movedslowly towards the flip-flap—which had seemed to both of them a fitting climax for the evening'semotions—that arthur, fumbling in his waist-coat pocket, produced a small slip of paper.'what's that?' maud asked. 'read it,' said arthur. 'it's from home moments,in answer to a letter i sent them. and,' he added with heat, 'i'd like to have five minutesalone with the chap who wrote it.'

and under the electric light maud readanswers to correspondents by the heart specialistarthur w.—jealousy, arthur w., is not only the most wicked, but the most foolish of passions.shakespeare says: it is the green-eyed monster, which doth mockthe meat it feeds on. you admit that you have frequently causedgreat distress to the young lady of your affections by your exhibition of this weakness. exactly.there is nothing a girl dislikes or despises more than jealousy. be a man, arthur w. fightagainst it. you may find it hard at first, but persevere. keep a smiling face. if sheseems to enjoy talking to other men, show no resentment. be merry and bright. believeme, it is

the only way.by advice of counsel the traveller champed meditatively at hissteak. he paid no attention to the altercation which was in progress between the waiter andthe man at the other end of the dingy room. the sounds of strife ceased. the waiter cameover to the traveller's table and stood behind his chair. he was ruffled.'if he meant lamb,' he said, querulously, 'why didn't he say "lamb", so's a feller couldhear him? i thought he said "ham", so i brought ham. now lord percy gets all peevish.'he laughed bitterly. the traveller made no reply.'if people spoke distinct,' said the waiter, 'there wouldn't be half the trouble thereis in the world. not half the trouble there

wouldn't be. i shouldn't be here, for onething. in this restawrong, i mean.' a sigh escaped him.'i shouldn't,' he said, 'and that's the truth. i should be getting up when i pleased, eatingand drinking all i wanted, and carrying on same as in the good old days. you wouldn'tthink, to look at me, would you now, that i was once like the lily of the field?'the waiter was a tall, stringy man, who gave the impression of having no spine. in thathe drooped, he might have been said to resemble a flower, but in no other respect. he hadsandy hair, weak eyes set close together, and a day's growth of red stubble on his chin.one could not see him in the lily class. 'what i mean to say is, i didn't toil, neitherdid i spin. ah, them was happy days! lying

on me back, plenty of tobacco, something coolin a jug—' he sighed once more.'did you ever know a man of the name of moore? jerry moore?'the traveller applied himself to his steak in silence.'nice feller. simple sort of feller. big. quiet. bit deaf in one ear. straw-colouredhair. blue eyes. 'andsome, rather. had a 'ouse just outside of reigate. has it still. moneyof his own. left him by his pa. simple sort of feller. not much to say for himself. iused to know him well in them days. used to live with him. nice feller he was. big. bithard of hearing. got a sleepy kind of grin, like this—something.'the traveller sipped his beer in thoughtful

silence.'i reckon you never met him,' said the waiter. 'maybe you never knew gentleman bailey, either?we always called him that. he was one of these broken-down eton or 'arrer fellers, folkssaid. we struck up a partnership kind of casual, both being on the tramp together, and aftera while we 'appened to be round about reigate. and the first house we come to was this jerrymoore's. he come up just as we was sliding to the back door, and grins that sleepy grin.like this—something. "'ullo!" he says. gentleman kind of gives a whoop, and hollers, "if itain't my old pal, jerry moore! jack," he says to me, "this is my old pal, mr jerry moore,wot i met in 'appier days down at ramsgate one summer."'they shakes hands, and jerry moore says,

"is this a friend of yours, bailey?" lookingat me. gentleman introduces me. "we are partners," he says, "partners in misfortune. this ismy friend, mr roach." '"come along in," says jerry.'so we went in, and he makes us at home. he's a bachelor, and lives all by himself in thisdesirable 'ouse. 'well, i seen pretty quick that jerry thinksthe world of gentleman. all that evening he's acting as if he's as pleased as punch to havehim there. couldn't do enough for him. it was a bit of all right, i said to meself.it was, too. 'next day we gets up late and has a good breakfast,and sits on the lawn and smokes. the sun was shining, the little birds was singing, andthere wasn't a thing, east, west, north, or

south, that looked like work. if i had beenasked my address at that moment, on oath, i wouldn't have hesitated a second. i shouldhave answered, "no. 1, easy street." you see, jerry moore was one of these slow, simplefellers, and you could tell in a moment what a lot he thought of gentleman. gentleman,you see, had a way with him. not haughty, he wasn't. more affable, i should call it.he sort of made you feel that all men are born equal, but that it was awful good ofhim to be talking to you, and that he wouldn't do it for everybody. it went down proper withjerry moore. jerry would sit and listen to him giving his views on things by the hour.by the end of the first day i was having visions of sitting in that garden a white-baked oldman, and being laid out, when my time should

come, in jerry's front room.'he paused, his mind evidently in the past, among the cigars and big breakfasts. presentlyhe took up his tale. 'this here jerry moore was a simple sort offeller. deafies are like that. ever noticed? not that jerry was a real deafy. his hearingwas a bit off, but he could foller you if you spoke to him nice and clear. well, i wassaying, he was kind of simple. liked to put in his days pottering about the little gardenhe'd made for himself, looking after his flowers and his fowls, and sit of an evening listeningto gentleman 'olding forth on life. he was a philosopher, gentleman was. and jerry tookeverything he said as gospel. he didn't want no proofs. 'e and the king of denmark wouldhave been great pals. he just sat by with

his big blue eyes getting rounder every minuteand lapped it up. 'now you'd think a man like that could becounted on, wouldn't you? would he want anything more? not he, you'd say. you'd be wrong. believeme, there isn't a man on earth that's fixed and contented but what a woman can't knockhis old paradise into 'ash with one punch. 'it wasn't long before i begin to notice achange in jerry. he never had been what you'd call a champion catch-as-catch-can talker,but now he was silenter than ever. and he got a habit of switching gentleman off fromhis theories on life in general to woman in particular. this suited gentleman just right.what he didn't know about woman wasn't knowledge. 'gentleman was too busy talking to have timeto get suspicious, but i wasn't; and one day

i draws gentleman aside and puts it to himstraight. "gentleman," i says, "jerry moore is in love!"'well, this was a nasty knock, of course, for gentleman. he knew as well as i did whatit would mean if jerry was to lead home a blushing bride through that front door. itwould be outside into the cold, hard world for the bachelor friends. gentleman sees thatquick, and his jaw drops. i goes on. "all the time," i says, "that you're talking awayof an evening, jerry's seeing visions of a little woman sitting in your chair. and youcan bet we don't enter into them visions. he may dream of little feet pattering aboutthe house," i says, "but they aren't ours; and you can 'ave something on that both ways.look alive, gentleman," i says, "and think

out some plan, or we might as well be paddingthe hoof now." 'well, gentleman did what he could. in hisevening discourses he started to give it to woman all he knew. began to talk about delilahsand jezebels and fools-there-was and the rest of it, and what a mug a feller was to leta female into 'is cosy home, who'd only make him spend his days hooking her up, and hisnights wondering how to get back the blankets without waking her. my, he was crisp! enoughto have given romeo the jumps, you'd have thought. but, lor! it's no good talking tothem when they've got it bad. 'a few days later we caught him with the goods,talking in the road to a girl in a pink dress. 'i couldn't but admit that jerry had pickedone right from the top of the basket. this

wasn't one of them languishing sort wot sitsabout in cosy corners and reads story-books, and don't care what's happening in the homeso long as they find out what became of the hero in his duel with the grand duke. shewas a brown, slim, wiry-looking little thing. you know. held her chin up and looked youup and down with eyes the colour of scotch whisky, as much as to say, "well, what aboutit?" you could tell without looking at her, just by the feel of the atmosphere when shewas near, that she had as much snap and go in her as jerry moore hadn't, which was agood bit. i knew, just as sure as i was standing there on one leg, that this was the sort ofgirl who would have me and gentleman out of that house about three seconds after the clergymanhad tied the knot.

'jerry says, "these are my friends, miss tuxton—mrbailey and mr roach. they are staying with me for a visit. this is miss jane tuxton,"he says to us. "i was just going to see miss tuxton home," he says, sort of wistful. "excellent,"says gentleman. "we'll come too." and we all goes along. there wasn't much done in theway of conversation. jerry never was one for pushing out the words; nor was i, when inthe presence of the sect; and miss jane had her chin in the air, as if she thought meand gentleman was not needed in any way whatsoever. the only talk before we turned her in at thegarden gate was done by gentleman, who told a pretty long story about a friend of hisin upper sydenham who had been silly enough to marry, and had had trouble ever since.'that night, after we had went to bed, i said

to gentleman, "gentleman," i says, "what'sgoing to be done about this? we've got about as much chance, if jerry marries that girl,"i says, "as a couple of helpless chocolate creams at a school-girls' picnic." "if," saysgentleman. "he ain't married her yet. that is a girl of character, jack. trust me. didn'tshe strike you as a girl who would like a man with a bit of devil in him, a man withsome go in him, a you-be-darned kind of man? does jerry fill the bill? he's more like adoormat with 'welcome' written on it, than anything else."'well, we seen a good deal of miss jane in the next week or so. we keeps jerry under—what'sit the heroine says in the melodrama? "oh, cruel, cruel, s.p. something." espionage,that's it. we keeps jerry under espionage,

and whenever he goes trickling round afterthe girl, we goes trickling round after him. '"things is running our way," says gentlemanto me, after one of these meetings. "that girl is getting cross with jerry. she wantsreckless rudolf, not a man who stands and grins when other men butt in on him and hisgirl. mark my words, jack. she'll get tired of jerry, and go off and marry a soldier,and we'll live happy ever after." "think so?" i says. "sure of it," said gentleman.'it was the sunday after this that jerry moore announces to us, wriggling, that he had anengagement to take supper with jane and her folks. he'd have liked to have slipped awaysecret, but we was keeping him under espionage too crisp for that, so he has to tell us."excellent," said gentleman. "it will be a

great treat to jack and myself to meet thefamily. we will go along with you." so off we all goes, and pushes our boots in sociablefashion under the tuxton table. i looked at miss jane out of the corner of my eye; and,honest, that chin of hers was sticking out a foot, and jerry didn't dare look at her.love's young dream, i muses to myself, how swift it fades when a man has the nature anddisposition of a lop-eared rabbit! 'the tuxtons was four in number, not countingthe parrot, and all male. there was pa tuxton, an old feller with a beard and glasses; afat uncle; a big brother, who worked in a bank and was dressed like moses in all hisglory; and a little brother with a snub nose, that cheeky you'd have been surprised. andthe parrot in its cage and a fat yellow dog.

and they're all making themselves pleasantto jerry, the wealthy future son-in-law, something awful. it's "how are the fowls, mr moore?"and "a little bit of this pie, mr moore; jane made it," and jerry sitting there with a feeblegrin, saying "yes" and "no" and nothing much more, while miss jane's eyes are snappinglike fifth of november fireworks. i could feel jerry's chances going back a mile a minute.i felt as happy as a little child that evening. i sang going back home.'gentleman's pleased, too. "jack," he says to me when we're in bed, "this is too easy.in my most sanguinary dreams i hardly hoped for this. no girl of spirit's going to lovea man who behaves that way to her parents. the way to win the heart of a certain typeof girl," he says, beginning on his theories,

"the type to which jane tuxton belongs, isto be rude to her family. i've got jane tuxton sized up and labelled. her kind wants herfolks to dislike her young man. she wants to feel that she's the only one in the familythat's got the sense to see the hidden good in willie. she doesn't want to be one of acrowd hollering out what a nice young man he is. it takes some pluck in a man to standup to a girl's family, and that's what jane tuxton is looking for in jerry. take it fromone who has studied the sect," says gentleman, "from john o' groat's to land's end, and backagain." 'next day jerry moore's looking as if he'donly sixpence in the world and had swallowed it. "what's the matter, jerry?" says gentleman.jerry heaves a sigh. "bailey," he says, "and

you, mr roach, i expect you both seen howit is with me. i love miss jane tuxton, and you seen for yourselves what transpires. shedon't value me, not tuppence." "say not so," says gentleman, sympathetic. "you're doingfine. if you knew the sect as i do you wouldn't go by mere superficial silences and chin-tiltings.i can read a girl's heart, jerry," he says, patting him on the shoulder, "and i tell youyou're doing fine. all you want now is a little rapid work, and you win easy. to make thething a cert," he says, getting up, "all you have to do is to make a dead set at her folks."he winks at me. "don't just sit there like you did last night. show 'em you've got somethingin you. you know what folks are: they think themselves the most important things on themap. well, go to work. consult them all you

know. every opportunity you get. there's nothinglike consulting a girl's folks to put you in good with her." and he pats jerry on theshoulder again and goes indoors to find his pipe.'jerry turns to me. "do you think that's really so?" he says. i says, "i do." "he knows allabout girls, i reckon," says jerry. "you can go by him every time," i says. "well, well,"says jerry, sort of thoughtful.' the waiter paused. his eye was sad and dreamy.then he took up the burden of his tale. 'first thing that happens is that gentlemanhas a sore tooth on the next sunday, so don't feel like coming along with us. he sits athome, dosing it with whisky, and jerry and me goes off alone.'so jerry and me pikes off, and once more

we prepares to settle down around the board.i hadn't noticed jerry particular, but just now i catches sight of his face in the lightof the lamp. ever see one of those fighters when he's sitting in his corner before a fight,waiting for the gong to go? well, jerry looks like that; and it surprises me.'i told you about the fat yellow dog that permeated the tuxton's house, didn't i? thefamily thought a lot of that dog, though of all the ugly brutes i ever met he was theworst. sniffing round and growling all the time. well, this evening he comes up to jerryjust as he's going to sit down, and starts to growl. old pa tuxton looks over his glassesand licks his tongue. "rover! rover!" he says, kind of mild. "naughty rover; he don't likestrangers, i'm afraid." jerry looks at pa

tuxton, and he looks at the dog, and i'm justexpecting him to say "no" or "yes", same as the other night, when he lets out a nastylaugh—one of them bitter laughs. "ho!" he says. "ho! don't he? then perhaps he'd betterget further away from them." and he ups with his boot and—well, the dog hit the far wall.'jerry sits down and pulls up his chair. "i don't approve," he says, fierce, "of folkskeeping great, fat, ugly, bad-tempered yellow dogs that are a nuisance to all. i don't likeit." 'there was a silence you could have scoopedout with a spoon. have you ever had a rabbit turn round on you and growl? that's how weall felt when jerry outs with them crisp words. they took our breath away.'while we were getting it back again the parrot,

which was in its cage, let out a squawk. honest,i jumped a foot in my chair. 'jerry gets up very deliberate, and walksover to the parrot. "is this a menagerie?" he says. "can't a man have supper in peacewithout an image like you starting to holler? go to sleep."'we was all staring at him surprised, especially uncle dick tuxton, whose particular pet theparrot was. he'd brought him home all the way from some foreign parts.'"hello, billy!" says the bird, shrugging his shoulders and puffing himself up. "r-r-r-r!r-r-r-r! 'lo, billy! 'lo, 'lo, 'lo! r-r wah!" 'jerry gives its cage a bang.'"don't talk back at me," he says, "or i'll knock your head off. you think because you'vegot a green tail you're someone." and he stalks

back to his chair and sits glaring at uncledick. 'well, all this wasn't what you might callpromoting an easy flow of conversation. everyone's looking at jerry, 'specially me, wonderingwhat next, and trying to get their breath, and jerry's frowning at the cold beef, andthere's a sort of awkward pause. miss jane is the first to get busy. she bustles aboutand gets the food served out, and we begins to eat. but still there's not so much conversationthat you'd notice it. this goes on till we reaches the concluding stages, and then uncledick comes up to the scratch. '"how is the fowls, mr moore?" he says.'"gimme some more pie," says jerry. "what?" 'uncle dick repeats his remark.'"fowls?" says jerry. "what do you know about

fowls? your notion of a fowl is an ugly birdwith a green tail, a wellington nose, and—gimme a bit of cheese."'uncle dick's fond of the parrot, so he speaks up for him. "polly's always been reckoneda handsome bird," he says. '"he wants stuffing," says jerry.'and uncle dick drops out of the talk. 'up comes big brother, ralph his name was.he's the bank-clerk and a dude. he gives his cuffs a flick, and starts in to make thingsjolly all round by telling a story about a man he knows named wotherspoon. jerry fixeshim with his eye, and, half-way through, interrupts. '"that waistcoat of yours is fierce," he says.'"pardon?" says ralph. '"that waistcoat of yours," says jerry. "ithurts me eyes. it's like an electric sign."

'"why, jerry," i says, but he just scowlsat me and i stops. 'ralph is proud of his clothes, and he isn'tgoing to stand this. he glares at jerry and jerry glares at him.'"who do you think you are?" says ralph, breathing hard.'"button up your coat," says jerry. '"look 'ere!" says ralph.'"cover it up, i tell you," says jerry. "do you want to blind me?" pa tuxton interrupts.'"why, mr moore," he begins, sort of soothing; when the small brother, who's been staringat jerry, chips in. i told you he was cheeky. 'he says, "pa, what a funny nose mr moore'sgot!" 'and that did it. jerry rises, very slow,and leans across the table and clips the kid

brother one side of the ear-'ole. and thenthere's a general imbroglio, everyone standing up and the kid hollering and the dog barking.'"if you'd brought him up better," says jerry, severe, to pa tuxton, "this wouldn't everhave happened." pa tuxton gives a sort of howl.'"mr moore," he yells, "what is the meaning of this extraordinary behaviour? you comehere and strike me child—" 'jerry bangs on the table.'"yes," he says, "and i'd strike him again. listen to me," he says. "you think just becausei'm quiet i ain't got no spirit. you think all i can do is to sit and smile. you think—bah!you aren't on to the hidden depths in me character. i'm one of them still waters that runs deep.i'm—here, you get out of it! yes, all of

you! except jane. jane and me wants this roomto have a private talk in. i've got a lot of things to say to jane. are you going?"'i turns to the crowd. i was awful disturbed. "you mustn't take any notice," i says. "heain't well. he ain't himself." when just then the parrot cuts with another of them squawks.jerry jumps at it. '"you first," he says, and flings the cageout of the window. "now you," he says to the yellow dog, putting him out through the door.and then he folds his arms and scowls at us, and we all notice suddenly that he's verybig. we look at one another, and we begins to edge towards the door. all except jane,who's staring at jerry as if he's a ghost. '"mr moore," says pa tuxton, dignified, "we'llleave you. you're drunk."

'"i'm not drunk," says jerry. "i'm in love."'"jane," says pa tuxton, "come with me, and leave this ruffian to himself."'"jane," says jerry, "stop here, and come and lay your head on my shoulder."'"jane," says pa tuxton, "do you hear me?" '"jane," says jerry, "i'm waiting."'she looks from one to the other for a spell, and then she moves to where jerry's standing.'"i'll stop," she says, sort of quiet. 'and we drifts out.'the waiter snorted. 'i got back home quick as i could,' he said,'and relates the proceedings to gentleman. gentleman's rattled. "i don't believe it,"he says. "don't stand there and tell me jerry moore did them things. why, it ain't in theman. 'specially after what i said to him about

the way he ought to behave. how could he havedone so?" just then in comes jerry, beaming all over. "boys," he shouts, "congratulateme. it's all right. we've fixed it up. she says she hadn't known me properly before.she says she'd always reckoned me a sheep, while all the time i was one of them strong,silent men." he turns to gentleman—' the man at the other end of the room was callingfor his bill. 'all right, all right,' said the waiter. 'coming!he turns to gentleman,' he went on rapidly, 'and he says, "bailey, i owe it all to you,because if you hadn't told me to insult her folks—"'he leaned on the traveller's table and fixed him with an eye that pleaded for sympathy.''ow about that?' he said. 'isn't that crisp?

"insult her folks!" them was his very words."insult her folks."' the traveller looked at him inquiringly.'can you beat it?' said the waiter. 'i don't know what you are saying,' said thetraveller. 'if it is important, write it on a slip of paper. i am stone-deaf.'rough-hew them how we will paul boielle was a waiter. the word 'waiter'suggests a soft-voiced, deft-handed being, moving swiftly and without noise in an atmosphereof luxury and shaded lamps. at bredin's parisian cafe and restaurant in soho, where paul worked,there were none of these things; and paul himself, though he certainly moved swiftly,was by no means noiseless. his progress through

the room resembled in almost equal proportionsthe finish of a marathon race, the star-act of a professional juggler, and a monologueby an earl's court side-showman. constant acquaintance rendered regular habitues callousto the wonder, but to a stranger the sight of paul tearing over the difficult between-tablescourse, his hands loaded with two vast pyramids of dishes, shouting as he went the mysticword, 'comingsarecominginamomentsaresteaksareyessarecomingsare!' was impressive to a degree. for doing farless exacting feats on the stage music-hall performers were being paid fifty pounds aweek. paul got eighteen shillings. what a blessing is poverty, properly considered.if paul had received more than eighteen shillings a week he would not have lived in an attic.he would have luxuriated in a bed-sitting-room

on the second floor; and would consequentlyhave missed what was practically a genuine north light. the skylight which went withthe attic was so arranged that the room was a studio in miniature, and, as paul was engagedin his spare moments in painting a great picture, nothing could have been more fortunate; forpaul, like so many of our public men, lived two lives. off duty, the sprinting, barkingjuggler of bredin's parisian cafe became the quiet follower of art. ever since his childhoodhe had had a passion for drawing and painting. he regretted that fate had allowed him solittle time for such work; but after all, he reflected, all great artists had had theirstruggles—so why not he? moreover, they were now nearly at an end. an hour here, anhour there, and every thursday a whole afternoon,

and the great picture was within measurabledistance of completion. he had won through. without models, without leisure, hungry, tired,he had nevertheless triumphed. a few more touches, and the masterpiece would be readyfor purchase. and after that all would be plain sailing. paul could forecast the sceneso exactly. the picture would be at the dealer's, possibly—one must not be too sanguine—thrustaway in some odd corner. the wealthy connoisseur would come in. at first he would not see themasterpiece; other more prominently displayed works would catch his eye. he would turn fromthem in weary scorn, and then!... paul wondered how big the cheque would be.there were reasons why he wanted the money. looking at him as he cantered over the linoleumat bredin's, you would have said that his

mind was on his work. but it was not so. hetook and executed orders as automatically as the penny-in-the-slot musical-box in thecorner took pennies and produced tunes. his thoughts were of jeanne le brocq, his co-workerat bredin's, and a little cigar shop down brixton way which he knew was in the marketat a reasonable rate. to marry the former and own the latter was paul's idea of theearthly paradise, and it was the wealthy connoisseur, and he alone, who could open the gates.jeanne was a large, slow-moving norman girl, stolidly handsome. one could picture her ina de maupassant farmyard. in the clatter and bustle of bredin's parisian cafe she appearedout of place, like a cow in a boiler-factory. to paul, who worshipped her with all the fervourof a little man for a large woman, her deliberate

methods seemed all that was beautiful anddignified. to his mind she lent a tone to the vulgar whirlpool of gorging humanity,as if she had been some goddess mixing in a homeric battle. the whirlpool had otherviews—and expressed them. one coarse-fibred brute, indeed, once went so far as to addressto her the frightful words, ''urry up, there, tottie! look slippy.' it was wrong, of course,for paul to slip and spill an order of scrambled eggs down the brute's coat-sleeve, but whocan blame him? among those who did not see eye to eye withpaul in his views on deportment in waitresses was m. bredin himself, the owner of the parisiancafe; and it was this circumstance which first gave paul the opportunity of declaring thepassion which was gnawing him with the fierce

fury of a bredin customer gnawing a toughsteak against time during the rush hour. he had long worshipped her from afar, but nothingmore intimate than a 'good morning, miss jeanne', had escaped him, till one day during a slackspell he came upon her in the little passage leading to the kitchen, her face hidden inher apron, her back jerking with sobs. business is business. paul had a message todeliver to the cook respecting 'two fried, coffee, and one stale'. he delivered it andreturned. jeanne was still sobbing. 'ah, miss jeanne,' cried paul, stricken, 'whatis the matter? what is it? why do you weep?' 'the patron,' sobbed jeanne. 'he—''my angel,' said paul, 'he is a pig.' this was perfectly true. no conscientiousjudge of character could have denied that

paul had hit the bull's eye. bredin was apig. he looked like a pig; he ate like a pig; he grunted like a pig. he had the lavish embonpointof a pig. also a porcine soul. if you had tied a bit of blue ribbon round his neck youcould have won prizes with him at a show. paul's eyes flashed with fury. 'i will slaphim in the eye,' he roared. 'he called me a tortoise.''and kick him in the stomach,' added paul. jeanne's sobs were running on second speednow. the anguish was diminishing. paul took advantage of the improved conditions to slidean arm part of the way round her waist. in two minutes he had said as much as the ordinaryman could have worked off in ten. all good stuff, too. no padding.jeanne's face rose from her apron like a full

moon. she was too astounded to be angry.paul continued to babble. jeanne looked at him with growing wrath. that she, who receiveddaily the affectionate badinage of gentlemen in bowler hats and check suits, who had oncebeen invited to the white city by a solicitor's clerk, should be addressed in this way bya waiter! it was too much. she threw off his hand.'wretched little man!' she cried, stamping angrily.'my angel!' protested paul. jeanne uttered a scornful laugh.'you!' she said. there are few more withering remarks than'you!' spoken in a certain way. jeanne spoke it in just that way.paul wilted.

'on eighteen shillings a week,' went on jeanne,satirically, 'you would support a wife, yes? why—'paul recovered himself. he had an opening now, and proceeded to use it.'listen,' he said. 'at present, yes, it is true, i earn but eighteen shillings a week,but it will not always be so, no. i am not only a waiter. i am also an artist. i havepainted a great picture. for a whole year i have worked, and now it is ready. i willsell it, and then, my angel—?' jeanne's face had lost some of its scorn.she was listening with some respect. 'a picture?' she said, thoughtfully. 'there is money inpictures.' for the first time paul was glad that hisarm was no longer round her waist. to do justice

to the great work he needed both hands forpurposes of gesticulation. 'there is money in this picture,' he said.'oh, it is beautiful. i call it "the awakening". it is a woodland scene. i come back from mywork here, hot and tired, and a mere glance at that wood refreshes me. it is so cool,so green. the sun filters in golden splashes through the foliage. on a mossy bank, betweentwo trees, lies a beautiful girl asleep. above her, bending fondly over her, just about tokiss that flower-like face, is a young man in the dress of a shepherd. at the last momenthe has looked over his shoulder to make sure that there is nobody near to see. he is wearingan expression so happy, so proud, that one's heart goes out to him.''yes, there might be money in that,' cried

jeanne.'there is, there is!' cried paul. 'i shall sell it for many francs to a wealthy connoisseur.and then, my angel—' 'you are a good little man,' said the angel,patronizingly. 'perhaps. we will see.' paul caught her hand and kissed it. she smiledindulgently. 'yes,' she said. 'there might be money. these english pay much money forpictures.' it is pretty generally admitted that geoffreychaucer, the eminent poet of the fourteenth century, though obsessed with an almost rooseveltianpassion for the new spelling, was there with the goods when it came to profundity of thought.it was chaucer who wrote the lines: the lyfe so short, the craft so long to lerne,th' assay so hard, so sharpe the conquering.

which means, broadly, that it is difficultto paint a picture, but a great deal more difficult to sell it.across the centuries paul boielle shook hands with geoffrey chaucer. 'so sharpe the conquering'put his case in a nutshell. the full story of his wanderings with themasterpiece would read like an odyssey and be about as long. it shall be condensed.there was an artist who dined at intervals at bredin's parisian cafe, and, as the artistictemperament was too impatient to be suited by jeanne's leisurely methods, it had fallento paul to wait upon him. it was to this expert that paul, emboldened by the geniality ofthe artist's manner, went for information. how did monsieur sell his pictures? monsieursaid he didn't, except once in a blue moon.

but when he did? oh, he took the thing tothe dealers. paul thanked him. a friend of him, he explained, had painted a picture andwished to sell it. 'poor devil!' was the artist's comment.next day, it happening to be a thursday, paul started on his travels. he started buoyantly,but by evening he was as a punctured balloon. every dealer had the same remark to make—towit, no room. 'have you yet sold the picture?' inquiredjeanne, when they met. 'not yet,' said paul. 'but they are delicate matters, these negotiations.i use finesse. i proceed with caution.' he approached the artist again.'with the dealers,' he said, 'my friend has been a little unfortunate. they say they haveno room.'

'i know,' said the artist, nodding.'is there, perhaps, another way?' 'what sort of a picture is it?' inquired theartist. paul became enthusiastic.'ah! monsieur, it is beautiful. it is a woodland scene. a beautiful girl—''oh! then he had better try the magazines. they might use it for a cover.'paul thanked him effusively. on the following thursday he visited divers art editors. theart editors seemed to be in the same unhappy condition as the dealers. 'overstocked!' wastheir cry. 'the picture?' said jeanne, on the fridaymorning. 'is it sold?' 'not yet,' said paul, 'but—''always but!'

'my angel!''bah!' said jeanne, with a toss of her large but shapely head.by the end of the month paul was fighting in the last ditch, wandering disconsolatelyamong those who dwell in outer darkness and have grimy thumbs. seven of these in all hevisited on that black thursday, and each of the seven rubbed the surface of the paintingwith a grimy thumb, snorted, and dismissed him. sick and beaten, paul took the masterpieceback to his skylight room. all that night he lay awake, thinking. itwas a weary bundle of nerves that came to the parisian cafe next morning. he was latein arriving, which was good in that it delayed the inevitable question as to the fate ofthe picture, but bad in every other respect.

m. bredin, squatting behind the cash-desk,grunted fiercely at him; and, worse, jeanne, who, owing to his absence, had had to be busierthan suited her disposition, was distant and haughty. a murky gloom settled upon paul.now it so happened that m. bredin, when things went well with him, was wont to be filledwith a ponderous amiability. it was not often that this took a practical form, though itis on record that in an exuberant moment he once gave a small boy a halfpenny. more frequentlyit merely led him to soften the porcine austerity of his demeanour. today, business having beenuncommonly good, he felt pleased with the world. he had left his cash-desk and was assailinga bowl of soup at one of the side-tables. except for a belated luncher at the end ofthe room the place was empty. it was one of

the hours when there was a lull in the proceedingsat the parisian cafe. paul was leaning, wrapped in the gloom, against the wall. jeanne waswaiting on the proprietor. m. bredin finished his meal and rose. he feltcontent. all was well with the world. as he lumbered to his desk he passed jeanne. hestopped. he wheezed a compliment. then another. paul, from his place by the wall, watchedwith jealous fury. m. bredin chucked jeanne under the chin.as he did so, the belated luncher called 'waiter!' but paul was otherwise engaged. his entirenervous system seemed to have been stirred up with a pole. with a hoarse cry he dashedforward. he would destroy this pig who chucked his jeanne under the chin.the first intimation m. bredin had of the

declaration of war was the impact of a frenchroll on his ear. it was one of those nobbly, chunky rolls with sharp corners, almost asdeadly as a piece of shrapnel. m. bredin was incapable of jumping, but he uttered a howland his vast body quivered like a stricken jelly. a second roll, whizzing by, slappedagainst the wall. a moment later a cream-bun burst in sticky ruin on the proprietor's lefteye. the belated luncher had been anxious to payhis bill and go, but he came swiftly to the conclusion that this was worth stopping onfor. he leaned back in his chair and watched. m. bredin had entrenched himself behind thecash-desk, peering nervously at paul through the cream, and paul, pouring forth abuse inhis native tongue, was brandishing a chocolate

eclair. the situation looked good to the spectator.it was spoiled by jeanne, who seized paul by the arm and shook him, adding her own voiceto the babel. it was enough. the eclair fell to the floor. paul's voice died away. hisface took on again its crushed, hunted expression. the voice of m. bredin, freed from competition,rose shrill and wrathful. 'the marksman is getting sacked,' mused theonlooker, diagnosing the situation. he was right. the next moment paul, limp anddepressed, had retired to the kitchen passage, discharged. it was here, after a few minutes,that jeanne found him. 'fool! idiot! imbecile!' said jeanne.paul stared at her without speaking. 'to throw rolls at the patron. imbecile!''he—' began paul.

'bah! and what if he did? must you then attackhim like a mad dog? what is it to you?' paul was conscious of a dull longing for sympathy,a monstrous sense of oppression. everything was going wrong. surely jeanne must be touchedby his heroism? but no. she was scolding furiously. suppose andromeda had turned and scolded perseusafter he had slain the sea-monster! paul mopped his forehead with his napkin. the bottom haddropped out of his world. 'jeanne!''bah! do not talk to me, idiot of a little man. almost you lost me my place also. thepatron was in two minds. but i coaxed him. a fine thing that would have been, to losemy good place through your foolishness. to throw rolls. my goodness!'she swept back into the room again, leaving

paul still standing by the kitchen door. somethingseemed to have snapped inside him. how long he stood there he did not know, but presentlyfrom the dining-room came calls of 'waiter!' and automatically he fell once more into hiswork, as an actor takes up his part. a stranger would have noticed nothing remarkable in him.he bustled to and fro with undiminished energy. at the end of the day m. bredin paid him hiseighteen shillings with a grunt, and paul walked out of the restaurant a masterlessman. he went to his attic and sat down on the bed.propped up against the wall was the picture. he looked at it with unseeing eyes. he stareddully before him. then thoughts came to him with a rush, leapingand dancing in his mind like imps in hades.

he had a curious sense of detachment. he seemedto be watching himself from a great distance. this was the end. the little imps danced andleaped; and then one separated itself from the crowd, to grow bigger than, the rest,to pirouette more energetically. he rose. his mind was made up. he would kill himself.he went downstairs and out into the street. he thought hard as he walked. he would killhimself, but how? his preoccupation was so great that an automobile,rounding a corner, missed him by inches as he crossed the road. the chauffeur shoutedangrily at him as he leapt back. paul shook his fist at the retreating lights.'pig!' he shouted. 'assassin! scoundrel! villain! would you kill me? i will take your number,rascal. i will inform the police. villain!'

a policeman had strolled up and was eyeinghim curiously. paul turned to him, full of his wrongs.'officer,' he cried, 'i have a complaint. these pigs of chauffeurs! they are reckless.they drive so recklessly. hence the great number of accidents.''awful!' said the policeman. 'pass along, sonny.'paul walked on, fuming. it was abominable that these chauffeurs—and then an idea cameto him. he had found a way. it was quiet in the park. he had chosen thepark because it was dark and there would be none to see and interfere. he waited longin the shadow by the roadside. presently from the darkness there came the distant droneof powerful engines. lights appeared, like

the blazing eyes of a dragon swooping downto devour its prey. he ran out into the road with a shout.it was an error, that shout. he had intended it for an inarticulate farewell to his picture,to jeanne, to life. it was excusable to the driver of the motor that he misinterpretedit. it seemed to him a cry of warning. there was a great jarring of brakes, a scutteringof locked wheels on the dry road, and the car came to a standstill a full yard fromwhere he stood. 'what the deuce—' said a cool voice frombehind the lights. paul struck his chest and folded his arms.'i am here,' he cried. 'destroy me!' 'let george do it,' said the voice, in a markedamerican accent. 'i never murder on a friday;

it's unlucky. if it's not a rude question,which asylum are you from? halloa!' the exclamation was one of surprise, for paul'snerves had finally given way, and he was now in a heap on the road, sobbing.the man climbed down and came into the light. he was a tall young man with a pleasant, clean-cutface. he stopped and shook paul. 'quit that,' he said. 'maybe it's not true.and if it is, there's always hope. cut it out. what's the matter? all in?'paul sat up, gulping convulsively. he was thoroughly unstrung. the cold, desperate moodhad passed. in its place came the old feeling of desolation. he was a child, aching forsympathy. he wanted to tell his troubles. punctuating his narrative with many gesturesand an occasional gulp, he proceeded to do

so. the american listened attentively.'so you can't sell your picture, and you've lost your job, and your girl has shaken you?'he said. 'pretty bad, but still you've no call to go mingling with automobile wheels.you come along with me to my hotel, and tomorrow we'll see if we can't fix up something.' there was breakfast at the hotel next morning,a breakfast to put heart into a man. during the meal a messenger dispatched in a cab topaul's lodgings returned with the canvas. a deferential waiter informed the americanthat it had been taken with every possible care to his suite.'good,' said the young man. 'if you're through, we'll go and have a look at it.'they went upstairs. there was the picture

resting against a chair.'why, i call that fine,' said the young man. 'it's a cracker jack.'paul's heart gave a sudden leap. could it be that here was the wealthy connoisseur?he was wealthy, for he drove an automobile and lived in an expensive hotel. he was aconnoisseur, for he had said that the picture was a crackerjack.'monsieur is kind,' murmured paul. 'it's a bear-cat,' said the young man, admiringly.'monsieur is flattering,' said paul, dimly perceiving a compliment.'i've been looking for a picture like that,' said the young man, 'for months.'paul's eyes rolled heavenwards. 'if you'll make a few alterations, i'll buyit and ask for more.'

'alterations, monsieur?''one or two small ones.' he pointed to the stooping figure of the shepherd. 'now, yousee this prominent citizen. what's he doing!' 'he is stooping,' said paul, fervently, 'tobestow upon his loved one a kiss. and she, sleeping, all unconscious, dreaming of him—''never mind about her. fix your mind on him. willie is the "star" in this show. you havesummed him up accurately. he is stooping. stooping good. now, if that fellow was wearingbraces and stooped like that, you'd say he'd burst those braces, wouldn't you?'with a somewhat dazed air paul said that he thought he would. till now he had not lookedat the figure from just that view-point. 'you'd say he'd bust them?''assuredly, monsieur.'

'no!' said the young man, solemnly, tappinghim earnestly on the chest. 'that's where you're wrong. not if they were galloway'stried and proven. galloway's tried and proven will stand any old strain you care to puton them. see small bills. wear galloway's tried and proven, and fate cannot touch you.you can take it from me. i'm the company's general manager.''indeed, monsieur!' 'and i'll make a proposition to you. cut outthat mossy bank, and make the girl lying in a hammock. put willie in shirt-sleeves insteadof a bathrobe, and fix him up with a pair of the tried and proven, and i'll give youthree thousand dollars for that picture and a retaining fee of four thousand a year towork for us and nobody else for any number

of years you care to mention. you've got thegoods. you've got just the touch. that happy look on willie's face, for instance. you cansee in a minute why he's so happy. it's because he's wearing the tried and proven, and heknows that however far he stoops they won't break. is that a deal?'paul's reply left no room for doubt. seizing the young man firmly round the waist, he kissedhim with extreme fervour on both cheeks. 'here, break away!' cried the astonished generalmanager. 'that's no way to sign a business contract.' it was at about five minutes after one thatafternoon that constable thomas parsons, patrolling his beat, was aware of a man motioning tohim from the doorway of bredin's parisian

cafe and restaurant. the man looked like apig. he grunted like a pig. he had the lavish embonpoint of a pig. constable parsons suspectedthat he had a porcine soul. indeed, the thought flitted across constable parsons' mind that,if he were to tie a bit of blue ribbon round his neck, he could win prizes with him ata show. 'what's all this?' he inquired, halting.the stout man talked volubly in french. constable parsons shook his head.'talk sense,' he advised. 'in dere,' cried the stout man, pointing behindhim into the restaurant, 'a man, a—how you say?—yes, sacked. an employe whom i yesterdaysacked, today he returns. i say to him, "cochon, va!"''what's that?'

'i say, "peeg, go!" how you say? yes, "popoff!" i say, "peeg, pop off!" but he—no, no; he sits and will not go. come in, officer,and expel him.' with massive dignity the policeman enteredthe restaurant. at one of the tables sat paul, calm and distrait. from across the room jeannestared freezingly. 'what's all this?' inquired constable parsons.paul looked up. 'i too,' he admitted, 'i cannot understand.figure to yourself, monsieur. i enter this cafe to lunch, and this man here would expelme.' 'he is an employe whom i—i myself—havebut yesterday dismissed,' vociferated m. bredin. 'he has no money to lunch at my restaurant.'the policeman eyed paul sternly.

'eh?' he said. 'that so? you'd better comealong.' paul's eyebrows rose.before the round eyes of m. bredin he began to produce from his pockets and to lay uponthe table bank-notes and sovereigns. the cloth was covered with them.he picked up a half-sovereign. 'if monsieur,' he said to the policeman, 'wouldaccept this as a slight consolation for the inconvenience which this foolish person herehas caused him—' 'not half,' said mr parsons, affably. 'lookhere'—he turned to the gaping proprietor—'if you go on like this you'll be getting yourselfinto trouble. see? you take care another time.' paul called for the bill of fare.it was the inferior person who had succeeded

to his place as waiter who attended to hisneeds during the meal; but when he had lunched it was jeanne who brought his coffee.she bent over the table. 'you sold your picture, paul—yes?' she whispered.'for much money? how glad i am, dear paul. now we will—'paul met her glance coolly. 'will you be so kind,' he said, 'as to bringme also a cigarette, my good girl?' the man who disliked cats it was harold who first made us acquainted,when i was dining one night at the cafe britannique, in soho. it is a peculiarity of the cafe britanniquethat you will always find flies there, even in winter. snow was falling that night asi turned in at the door, but, glancing about

me, i noticed several of the old faces. myold acquaintance, percy the bluebottle, looking wonderfully fit despite his years, was doingdeep breathing exercises on a mutton cutlet, and was too busy to do more than pause fora moment to nod at me; but his cousin, harold, always active, sighted me and bustled up todo the honours. he had finished his game of touch-last withmy right ear, and was circling slowly in the air while he thought out other ways of entertainingme, when there was a rush of air, a swish of napkin, and no more harold.i turned to thank my preserver, whose table adjoined mine. he was a frenchman, a melancholy-lookingman. he had the appearance of one who has searched for the leak in life's gas-pipe witha lighted candle; of one whom the clenched

fist of fate has smitten beneath the temperamentalthird waistcoat-button. he waved my thanks aside. 'it was a bagatelle,'he said. we became friendly. he moved to my table, and we fraternized over our coffee.suddenly he became agitated. he kicked at something on the floor. his eyes gleamed angrily.'ps-s-st!' he hissed. 'va-t'en!' i looked round the corner of the table, andperceived the restaurant cat in dignified retreat.'you do not like cats?' i said. 'i 'ate all animals, monsieur. cats especially.'he frowned. he seemed to hesitate. 'i will tell you my story,' he said. 'youwill sympathize. you have a sympathetic face. it is the story of a man's tragedy. it isthe story of a blighted life. it is the story

of a woman who would not forgive. it is thestory—' 'i've got an appointment at eleven,' i said.he nodded absently, drew at his cigarette, and began: i have conceived my 'atred of animals, monsieur,many years ago in paris. animals are to me a symbol for the lost dreams of youth, forambitions foiled, for artistic impulses cruelly stifled. you are astonished. you ask why isay these things. i shall tell you. i am in paris, young, ardent, artistic. iwish to paint pictures. i 'ave the genius, the ent'usiasm. i wish to be disciple of thegreat bouguereau. but no. i am dependent for support upon an uncle. he is rich. he is proprietorof the great hotel jules priaulx. my name

is also priaulx. he is not sympathetic. isay, 'uncle, i 'ave the genius, the ent'usiasm. permit me to paint.' he shakes his head. hesay, 'i will give you position in my hotel, and you shall earn your living.' what choice?i weep, but i kill my dreams, and i become cashier at my uncle's hotel at a salary ofthirty-five francs a week. i, the artist, become a machine for the changing of moneyat dam bad salary. what would you? what choice? i am dependent. i go to the hotel, and therei learn to 'ate all animals. cats especially. i will tell you the reason. my uncle's hotelis fashionable hotel. rich americans, rich maharajahs, rich people of every nation cometo my uncle's hotel. they come, and with them they have brought their pets. monsieur, itwas the existence of a nightmare. wherever

i have looked there are animals. listen. thereis an indian prince. he has with him two dromedaries. there is also one other indian prince. withhim is a giraffe. the giraffe drink every day one dozen best champagne to keep his coatgood. i, the artist, have my bock, and my coat is not good. there is a guest with ayoung lion. there is a guest with an alligator. but especially there is a cat. he is fat.his name is alexander. he belongs to an american woman. she is fat. she exhibits him to me.he is wrapped in a silk and fur creation like an opera cloak. every day she exhibits him.it is 'alexander this' and 'alexander that', till i 'ate alexander very much. i 'ate allthe animals, but especially alexander. and so, monsieur, it goes on, day by day,in this hotel that is a zoological garden.

and every day i 'ate the animals the more.but especially alexander. we artists, monsieur, we are martyrs to ournerves. it became insupportable, this thing. each day it became more insupportable. atnight i dream of all the animals, one by one—the giraffe, the two dromedaries, the young lion,the alligator, and alexander. especially alexander. you have 'eard of men who cannot endure thesociety of a cat—how they cry out and jump in the air if a cat is among those present.hein? your lord roberts? precisely, monsieur. i have read so much. listen, then. i am becomeby degrees almost like 'im. i do not cry out and jump in the air when i see the cat alexander,but i grind my teeth and i 'ate 'im. yes, i am the sleeping volcano, and one morning,monsieur, i have suffered the eruption. it

is like this. i shall tell you.not only at that time am i the martyr to nerves, but also to toothache. that morning i 'ave'ad the toothache very bad. i 'ave been in pain the most terrible. i groan as i add upthe figures in my book. as i groan i 'ear a voice.'say good morning to m. priaulx, alexander.' conceive my emotions, monsieur, when thisfat, beastly cat is placed before me upon my desk!it put the cover upon it. no, that is not the phrase. the lid. it put the lid upon it.all my smothered 'atred of the animal burst forth. i could no longer conceal my 'atred.i rose. i was terrible. i seized 'im by the tail. i flung him—i did not know where.i did not care. not then. afterwards, yes,

but not then.your longfellow has a poem. 'i shot an arrow into the air. it fell to earth, i know notwhere.' and then he has found it. the arrow in the 'eart of a friend. am i right? alsowas that the tragedy with me. i flung the cat alexander. my uncle, on whom i am dependent,is passing at the moment. he has received the cat in the middle of his face.my companion, with the artist's instinct for the 'curtain', paused. he looked round thebrightly-lit restaurant. from every side arose the clatter of knife and fork, and the clear,sharp note of those who drank soup. in a distant corner a small waiter with a large voice wascalling the cook names through the speaking-tube. it was a cheerful scene, but it brought nocheer to my companion. he sighed heavily and

resumed: i 'urry over that painful scene. there isblooming row. my uncle is 'ot-tempered man. the cat is 'eavy cat. i 'ave thrown 'im veryhard, for my nerves and my toothache and my 'atred 'ave given me the giant's strength.alone is this enough to enrage my 'ot-tempered uncle. i am there in his hotel, you will understand,as cashier, not as cat-thrower. and now, besides all this, i have insulted valuable patron.she 'ave left the hotel that day. there are no doubts in my mind as to the outcome.with certainty i await my conge. and after painful scene i get it. i am to go. at once.he 'ave assured the angry american woman that i go at once.he has called me into his private office.

'jean,' he has said to me, at the end of otherthings, 'you are a fool, dolt, no-good imbecile. i give you good place in my hotel, and youspend your time flinging cats. i will 'ave no more of you. but even now i cannot forgetthat you are my dear brother's child. i will now give you one thousand francs and neversee you again.' i have thanked him, for to me it is wealth.not before have i ever had one thousand francs of my own.i go out of the hotel. i go to a cafe and order a bock. i smoke a cigarette. it is necessarythat i think out plans. shall i with my one thousand francs rent a studio in the quarterand commence my life as artist? no. i have still the genius, the ent'usiasm, but i havenot the training. to train myself to paint

pictures i must study long, and even one thousandfrancs will not last for ever. then what shall i do? i do not know. i order one other bock,and smoke more cigarettes, but still i do not know.and then i say to myself, 'i will go back to my uncle, and plead with him. i will seizefavourable opportunity. i will approach him after dinner when he is in good temper. butfor that i must be close at hand. i must be—what's your expression?—"johnny-on-the-spot".'my mind is made up. i have my plan. i have gone back to my uncle's hotel, andi have engaged not too expensive bedroom. my uncle does not know. he still is in hisprivate office. i secure my room. i dine cheaply that night, but i go to theatreand also to supper after the theatre, for

have i not my thousand francs? it is latewhen i reach my bedroom. i go to bed. i go to sleep.but i do not sleep long. i am awakened by a voice.it is a voice that says, 'move and i shoot! move and i shoot!' i lie still. i do not move.i am courageous, but i am unarmed. and the voice says again, 'move and i shoot!'is it robbers? is it some marauder who has made his way to my room to plunder me?i do not know. per'aps i think yes. 'who are you?' i have asked.there is no answer. i take my courage in my 'ands. i leap frommy bed. i dash for the door. no pistol has been fire. i have reached the passage, andhave shouted for assistance.

hotel officials run up. doors open. 'whatis it?' voices cry. 'there is in my room an armed robber,' i assurethem. and then i have found—no, i am mistaken.my door, you will understand, is open. and as i have said these words, a large greenparrot comes 'opping out. my assassin is nothing but a green parrot.'move and i shoot!' it has said to those gathered in the corridor. it then has bitten me inthe 'and and passed on. i am chagrined, monsieur. but only for a moment.then i forget my chagrin. for a voice from a door that 'as opened says with joy, 'itis my polly, which i 'ave this evening lost!' i turn. i gasp for admiration. it is a beautifullady in a pink dressing-gown which 'ave spoken

these words.she has looked at me. i 'ave looked at her. i forget everything but that she is adorable.i forget those who stand by. i forget that the parrot has bitten me in the 'and. i forgeteven that i am standing there in pyjamas, with on my feet nothing. i can only gaze ather and worship. i have found words.'mademoiselle,' i have said, 'i am rejoiced that i have been the means of restoring toyou your bird.' she has thanked me with her eyes, and thenwith words also. i am bewitched. she is divine. i care not that my feet are cold. i couldwish to stand there talking all night. she has given a cry of dismay.'your 'and! it is wounded!'

i look at my 'and. yes, it is bleeding, wherethe bird 'ave bitten it. 'tchut, mademoiselle,' i have said. 'it isa bagatelle.' but no. she is distressed. she is what yourpoet scott 'ave said, a ministering angel thou. she 'ave torn her 'andkerchief and isbinding up my wound. i am enchanted. such beauty! such kindness! 'ardly can i resistto fall on my knees before 'er and declare my passion.we are twin souls. she has thanked me again. she has scolded the parrot. she has smiledupon me as she retires to her room. it is enough. nothing is said, but i am a man ofsensibility and discernment, and i understand that she will not be offended if i seek torenew our friendship on a more suitable occasion.

the doors shut. the guests have returned tobed, the hotel servants to their duties. and i go back to my room. but not to sleep. itis very late, but i do not sleep. i lie awake and think of 'er.you will conceive, monsieur, with what mixed feelings i descend next morning. on the one'and, i must keep the sharp look-out for my uncle, for 'im i must avoid till he shallhave—what do you say in your idiom? yes, i have it—simmered down and tucked in hisshirt. on the other 'and, i must watch for my lady of the parrot. i count the minutestill we shall meet again. i avoid my uncle with success, and i see 'erabout the hour of dejeuner. she is talking to old gentleman. i have bowed. she have smiledand motioned me to approach.

'father,' she has said, 'this is the gentlemanwho caught polly.' we have shaken hands. he is indulgent papa.he has smiled and thanked me also. we have confided to each other our names. he is english.he owns much land in england. he has been staying in paris. he is rich. his name is'enderson. he addresses his daughter, and call her marion. in my 'eart i also call hermarion. you will perceive that i am, as you say, pretty far gone.the hour of dejeuner has arrived. i entreat them to be my guests. i can run to it, youunderstand, for there are still in my pockets plenty of my uncle's francs. they consent.i am in 'eaven. all is well. our friendship has progressedwith marvellous speed. the old gentleman and

i are swiftly the dear old pals. i 'ave confidedto 'im my dreams of artistic fame, and he has told me 'ow much he dislikes your lloydgeorge. he has mentioned that he and miss marion depart for london that day. i am desolate.my face tumbles. he has observed my despair. he has invited me to visit them in london.imagine my chagrin. to visit them in london is the one thing i desire to do. but how?i accept gratefully, but i ask myself how it is to be done? i am poor blighter withno profession and nine 'undred francs. he 'as taken it for granted that i am wealthy.what shall i do? i spend the afternoon trying to form a plan. and then i am resolved. iwill go to my uncle and say: 'uncle, i have the magnificent chance to marry the daughterof wealthy english landowner. already i 'ave

her gratitude. soon—for i am young, 'andsome,debonair—i shall 'ave her love. give me one more chance, uncle. be decent old buck,and put up the money for this affair.' these words i have resolved to say to my uncle.i go back to the hotel. i enter his private office. i reveal no secret when i say thathe is not cordial. 'ten thousand devils!' he has cried. 'whatdo you here?' i 'asten to tell him all, and plead with himto be decent old buck. he does not believe. who is he? he asks. this english landowner?how did i meet him? and where? i tell him. he is amazed.'you 'ad the infernal impudence to take room in my hotel?' he has cried.i am crafty. i am diplomat.

'where else, dear uncle?' i say. 'in all paristhere is no such 'ome from 'ome. the cuisine—marvellous! the beds—of rose-leaves! the attendance—superb!if only for one night, i have said to myself, i must stay in this of all hotels.'i 'ave—what do you say?—touched the spot. 'in what you say,' he has said, more calmly,'there is certainly something. it is a good hotel, this of mine!'the only hotel, i have assured him. the meurice? chut! i snap my fingers. the ritz? bah! onceagain i snap my fingers. 'in all paris there is no hotel like this.'he 'as simmered down. his shirt is tucked in. 'tell me again this plan of yours, jean.'when i leave 'im we have come to an understanding. it is agreed between us that i am to 'aveone last chance. he will not spoil this promising

ship for the 'a'porth of tar. he will giveme money for my purpose. but he has said, as we part, if i fail, his 'ands shall bewashed of me. he cannot now forget that i am his dear brother's child; but if i failto accomplish the conquest of the divine miss marion, he thinks he will be able to.it is well. a week later i follow the 'endersons to london.for the next few days, monsieur, i am in paradise. my 'ost has much nice 'ouse in eaton square.he is rich, popular. there is much society. and i—i have the succes fou. i am young,'andsome, debonair. i cannot speak the english very well—not so well as i now speak 'im—buti manage. i get along. i am intelligent, amiable. everyone loves me.no, not everyone. captain bassett, he does

not love me. and why? because he loves thecharming miss marion, and observes that already i am succeeding with her like a 'ouse on fire.he is ami de famille. he is captain in your garde ecossais, and my 'ost told me 'e hasdistinguished himself as soldier pretty much. it may be so. as soldier, per'aps. but atconversation he is not so good. he is quite nice fellow, you understand—'andsome, yes;distinguished, yes. but he does not sparkle. he has not my verve, my elan. i—how do yousay?—i make the rings round him. but, chut! at that moment i would have madethe rings round the 'ole british army. yes, and also the corps diplomatique. for i aminspired. love 'as inspired me. i am conqueror. but i will not weary you, monsieur, with thedetails of my wooing. you are sympathetic,

but i must not weary you. let us say thati 'ave in four days or five made progress the most remarkable, and proceed to the tragicend. almost could i tell it in four words. in themone would say that it is set forth. there was in london at that time popular a song,a comic, vulgar song of the 'alls, 'the cat came back'. you 'ave 'eard it? yes? i 'eardit myself, and without emotion. it had no sinister warning for me. it did not strikeme as omen. yet, in those four words, monsieur, is my tragedy.how? i shall tell you. every word is a sword twisted in my 'eart, but i shall tell you.one afternoon we are at tea. all is well. i am vivacious, gay; miss marion, charming,gracious. there is present also an aunt, mr

'enderson's sister; but 'er i do not muchnotice. it is to marion i speak—both with my lips and also with my eyes.as we sit, captain bassett is announced. he has entered. we have greeted each otherpolitely but coldly, for we are rivals. there is in his manner also a something which ido not much like—a species of suppressed triumph, of elation.i am uneasy—but only yet vaguely, you will understand. i have not the foreboding thathe is about to speak my death-sentence. he addresses miss marion. there is joy inhis voice. 'miss 'enderson,' he has said, 'i have for you the bally good news. you willremember, isn't it, the cat belonging to the american woman in the hotel at paris, of whichyou have spoken to me? last night at dinner

i have been seated beside her. at first iam not certain is it she. then i say that there cannot be two mrs balderstone rockmettlersin europe, so i mention to her the cat. and, to cut the long story short, i have venturedto purchase for you as a little present the cat alexander.'i have uttered a cry of horror, but it is not 'eard because of miss marion's cry ofjoy. 'oh, captain bassett,' she has said, 'howvery splendid of you! ever since i first saw him have i loved alexander. i cannot tellyou how grateful i am. but it amazes me that you should have been able to induce her topart with 'im. in paris she has refused all my offers.'he has paused, embarrassed.

'the fact is,' he has said, 'there is betweenher and alexander a certain coolness. he 'as deceived 'er, and she loves him no more. immediatelyupon arrival in london, he had the misfortune to 'ave six fine kittens. 'owever, out ofevil cometh good, and i have thus been able to secure 'im for you. 'e is downstairs ina basket!' miss marion 'as rung the bell and commandedfor him to be brought instantly. i will not describe the meeting, monsieur.you are sympathetic. you will understand my feelings. let us 'urry on.figure yourself, monsieur, to what extent i was now 'arassed. i am artist. i am a manof nerves. i cannot be gay, brilliant, debonair in the presence of a cat. yet always the catis there. it is terrible.

i feel that i am falling behind in the race.'er gratitude has made her the more gracious to captain bassett. she smiles upon him. and,like chanticleer at the sight of the sun, he flaps his wings and crows. he is no longerthe silent listener. it is i who have become the silent listener.i have said to myself that something must be done.chance has shown me the way. one afternoon i am by fortune alone in the 'all. in hiscage the parrot polly is 'opping. i address him through the bars.'move and i shoot i' he has cried. the tears have filled my eyes. 'ow it hasbrought the 'ole scene back to me! as i weep, i perceive the cat alexander approaching.i have formed a plan. i have opened the cage-door

and released the parrot. the cat, i think,will attack the parrot of which miss 'enderson is so fond. she will love him no more. hewill be expelled. he paused. i suppose my face must have lostsome of its alleged sympathy as he set forth this fiendish plot. even percy the bluebottleseemed shocked. he had settled on the sugar-bowl, but at these words he rose in a marked mannerand left the table. 'you do not approve?' he said.i shrugged my shoulders. 'it's no business of mine,' i said. 'but don'tyou think yourself it was playing it a bit low down? didn't the thought present itselfto you in a shadowy way that it was rather rough on the bird?''it did, monsieur. but what would you? it

is necessary to break eggs in order to makean omelette. all is fair, you say, in love and war, and this was both. moreover, youmust understand, i do not dictate his movements to the parrot. he is free agent. i do butopen the cage-door. should he 'op out and proceed to the floor where is the cat, thatis his affair. i shall continue, yes?' alors! i open the cage-door and disappeardiscreetly. it is not politic that i remain to witness what shall transpire. it is forme to establish an alibi. i go to the drawing-room, where i remain.at dinner that night mr 'enderson has laughed. 'in the 'all this afternoon,' he has said,'i have seen by chance the dickens of a funny occurrence. that parrot of yours, marion,had escaped once again from its cage and was

'aving an argument with that cat which captainbassett has given to you.' 'oh! i hope that alexander 'as not hurt poorpolly, of whom i am very fond,' she has said. 'the affair did not come to blows,' has saidmr 'enderson. 'you may trust that bird to take care of himself, my dear. when i cameupon the scene the cat was crouching in a corner, with his fur bristling and his backup, while polly, standing before 'im, was telling 'im not to move or he would shoot.nor did he move, till i 'ad seized the parrot and replaced him in the cage, when he shotupstairs like a streak of lightning. by sheer force of character that excellent bird 'adwon the bloodless victory. i drink to 'im!' you can conceive my emotion as i listen tothis tale. i am like the poet's mice and men

whose best-kid schemes have gone away. i ambaffled. i am discouraged. i do not know what i shall do. i must find another plan, buti do not know what. how shall i remove the cat? shall i kill 'im?no, for i might be suspect. shall i 'ire someone to steal 'im? no, formy accomplice might betray me. shall i myself steal 'im? ah! that is better.that is a very good plan. soon i have it perfected, this plan. listen,monsieur; it is as follows. it is simple, but it is good. i will await my opportunity.i will remove the cat secretly from the 'ouse. i will take him to an office of the districtmessenger boys. i will order a messenger to carry him at once to the cats' house, andto request m. le directeur immediately to

destroy him. it is a simple plan, but it isgood. i carry it through without a 'itch. it isnot so difficult to secure the cat. 'e is asleep in the drawing-room. there is nobodyat hand. i have in my bedroom a 'at-box which i have brought from paris. i have broughtit with me to the drawing-room. i have placed in it the cat. i have escaped from the 'ouse.the cat has uttered a cry, but none has 'eard. i have reached the office of the districtmessenger boys. i have 'anded over the cat in its box. the manager is courteous, sympathetic.a messenger has started in a cab for the cats' house. i have breathed a sigh of relief. iam saved. that is what i say to myself as i return.my troubles are over, and once more i can

be gay, debonair, vivacious with miss marion,for no longer will there be present the cat alexander to 'arass me.when i have returned there is commotion in the 'ouse. i pass on the stairs domesticscalling 'puss, puss!' the butler is chirruping loudly and poking beneath the furniture witha umbrella. all is confusion and agitation. in the drawing-room is miss marion. she isdistressed. 'nowhere,' she has said, 'can there be foundthe cat alexander of whom i am so fond. nowhere in the 'ouse is he, where can he be? he islost.' i am gentle, sympathetic. i endeavour to consoleher. i 'int to her that am i not sufficient substitute for a beastly cat? she is, however,inconsolable. i must be patient. i must wait

my time.captain bassett is announced. he is informed of what has 'appened. he is distressed. hehas the air as if he, too, would endeavour to be gentle, sympathetic. but i am johnny-on-the-spot.i stay till he 'as gone. next day again it is 'puss, puss!' again thebutler has explored under the furniture with the umbrella. again miss marion is distressed.again 'ave i endeavoured to console. this time i think i am not so unsuccessful.i am, you understand, young, 'andsome, sympathetic. in another two ticks i am about to seize 'er'and and declare my passion. but, before i can do so, captain bassett isannounced. i gaze at him as at unsuccessful rival. iam confident. i am conqueror. ah, i little

know! it is in the moments of our highest'ope, monsieur, that we are destroyed. captain bassett, he, too, 'as the air of theconqueror. he has begun to speak.'miss 'enderson,' he has said, 'i have once more the bally good news. i rather fancy thati 'ave tracked down the missing alexander, do you not know?'miss marion 'as cried out with joy. but i am calm, for is not alexander already yesterdaydestroyed? 'it is like this,' he has resumed. 'i havethought to myself where is lost cat most likely to be? and i have answered, "in the cats'house." i go this morning to the cats' house, and there i see a cat which is either lostalexander or his living image. exactly is

he the same to all appearances as the lostalexander. but there is, when i try to purchase 'im, some curious 'itch which they do notexplain. they must 'ave time, they say, to consider. they cannot at once decide.''why, what nonsense!' miss marion 'ave cried. 'if the cat is my cat, surely then must theyreturn 'im to me! come,' she has said, 'let us all three at once in a taxi-cab go to thecats' house. if the all three of us identify the lost alexander, then must they return'im.' monsieur, i am uneasy. i have foreboding.but i go. what choice? we go in a taxi-cab to the cats' house.the directeur is courteous and sympathetic. he has introduced us to the cat, and my 'eart'as turned to water, for it is alexander.

why has he not been destroyed?the directeur is speaking. i 'ear him in a dream.'if you identify 'im as your cat, miss,' he has said, 'the matter is ended. my 'esitationwhen you, sir, approached me this morning on the matter was due to the fact that a messengerwas sent with instructions that he be destroyed at once.''rather rough, wasn't it, that, on the messenger, yes,' captain bassett has said. he is facetious,you understand, for he is conqueror. i am silent. i am not facetious. for alreadyi feel—how do you say?—my fowl is cooked. 'not the messenger, sir,' the directeur hassaid. 'you 'ave misunderstood me. it was the cat which was to be destroyed as per instructionsof the anonymous sender.'

'who could have played such a wicked trick?'miss marion has asked, indignant. the directeur has stooped, and from behinda table he has brought a 'at-box. 'in this,' he has said, 'the above animalwas conveyed. but with it was no accompanying letter. the sender was anonymous.''per'aps,' captain bassett has said—and still more in a dream i 'ear him—'per'apson the 'at-box there is some bally name or other, do you not know—what?'i clutch at the table. the room is spinning round and round. i have no stomach—onlyemptiness. 'why, bless me,' the directeur has said, 'you'requite right, sir. so there is. funny of me not to have before observed it. there is aname, and also an address. it is the name

of jean priaulx, and the address is the hoteljules priaulx, paris.' my companion stopped abruptly. he passed ahandkerchief over his forehead. with a quick movement he reached for his glass of liqueurbrandy and drained it at a gulp. 'monsieur,' he said, 'you will not wish meto describe the scene? there is no need for me—hein?—to be zolaesque. you can imagine?''she chucked you?' in moments of emotion it is the simplest language that comes to thelips. he nodded.'and married captain bassett?' he nodded again.'and your uncle?' i said. 'how did he take it?'he sighed.

'there was once more,' he said, 'bloomingrow, monsieur.' 'he washed his hands of you?''not altogether. he was angry, but he gave me one more chance. i am still 'is dear brother'schild, and he cannot forget it. an acquaintance of his, a man of letters, a m. paul sartines,was in need of a secretary. the post was not well paid, but it was permanent. my uncleinsist that i take it. what choice? i took it. it is the post which i still 'old.'he ordered another liqueur brandy and gulped it down.'the name is familiar to you, monsieur? you 'ave 'eard of m. sartines?''i don't think i have. who is he?' 'he is a man of letters, a savant. for fiveyears he has been occupied upon a great work.

it is with that that i assist him by collectingfacts for 'is use. i 'ave spent this afternoon in the british museum collecting facts. tomorrowi go again. and the next day. and again after that. the book will occupy yet another tenyears before it is completed. it is his great work.''it sounds as if it was,' i said. 'what's it about?'he signalled to the waiter. 'garcon, one other liqueur brandy. the book,monsieur, is a 'istory of the cat in ancient egypt.' ruth in exile the clock struck five—briskly, as if timewere money. ruth warden got up from her desk

and, having put on her hat, emerged into theouter office where m. gandinot received visitors. m. gandinot, the ugliest man in roville-sur-mer,presided over the local mont-de-piete, and ruth served him, from ten to five, as a sortof secretary-clerk. her duties, if monotonous, were simple. they consisted of sitting, detachedand invisible, behind a ground-glass screen, and entering details of loans in a fat book.she was kept busy as a rule, for roville possesses two casinos, each offering the attractionof petits chevaux, and just round the corner is monte carlo. very brisk was the businessdone by m. gandinot, the pawnbroker, and very frequent were the pitying shakes of the headand clicks of the tongue of m. gandinot, the man; for in his unofficial capacity ruth'semployer had a gentle soul, and winced at

the evidences of tragedy which presented themselvesbefore his official eyes. he blinked up at ruth as she appeared, andruth, as she looked at him, was conscious, as usual, of a lightening of the depressionwhich, nowadays, seemed to have settled permanently upon her. the peculiar quality of m. gandinot'sextraordinary countenance was that it induced mirth—not mocking laughter, but a kind ofsmiling happiness. it possessed that indefinable quality which characterizes the billiken,due, perhaps, to the unquenchable optimism which shone through the irregular features;for m. gandinot, despite his calling, believed in his fellow-man.'you are going, mademoiselle?' as ruth was wearing her hat and making forthe door, and as she always left at this hour,

a purist might have considered the questionsuperfluous; but m. gandinot was a man who seized every opportunity of practising hisenglish. 'you will not wait for the good papa who callsso regularly for you?' 'i think i won't today, m. gandinot. i wantto get out into the air. i have rather a headache. will you tell my father i have gone to thepromenade?' m. gandinot sighed as the door closed behindher. ruth's depression had not escaped his notice. he was sorry for her. and not withoutcause, for fate had not dealt too kindly with ruth.it would have amazed mr eugene warden, that genial old gentleman, if, on one of thoseoccasions of manly emotion when he was in

the habit of observing that he had been nobody'senemy but his own, somebody had hinted that he had spoiled his daughter's life. such athought had never entered his head. he was one of those delightful, irresponsible, erraticpersons whose heads thoughts of this kind do not enter, and who are about as deadlyto those whose lives are bound up with theirs as a upas tree.in the memory of his oldest acquaintance, ruth's father had never done anything butdrift amiably through life. there had been a time when he had done his drifting in london,feeding cheerfully from the hand of a long-suffering brother-in-law. but though blood, as he waswont to remark while negotiating his periodical loans, is thicker than water, a brother-in-law'saffection has its limits. a day came when

mr warden observed with pain that his relativeresponded less nimbly to the touch. and a little while later the other delivered hisultimatum. mr warden was to leave england, and to stay away from england, to behave asif england no longer existed on the map, and a small but sufficient allowance would bemade to him. if he declined to do this, not another penny of the speaker's money wouldhe receive. he could choose. he chose. he left england, ruth with him.they settled in roville, that haven of the exile who lives upon remittances.ruth's connexion with the mont-de-piete had come about almost automatically. very soonafter their arrival it became evident that, to a man of mr warden's nature, resident astone's-throw distant from two casinos, the

small allowance was not likely to go veryfar. even if ruth had not wished to work, circumstances could have compelled her. asit was, she longed for something to occupy her, and, the vacancy at the mont-de-pieteoccurring, she had snatched at it. there was a certain fitness in her working there. businesstransactions with that useful institution had always been conducted by her, it beingmr warden's theory that woman can extract in these crises just that extra franc or twowhich is denied to the mere male. through constantly going round, running across, steppingover, and popping down to the mont-de-piete she had established almost a legal claim onany post that might be vacant there. and under m. gandinot's banner she had servedever since.

five minutes' walk took her to the promenadedes anglais, that apparently endless thoroughfare which is roville's pride. the evening wasfine and warm. the sun shone gaily on the white-walled houses, the bright gardens, andthe two gleaming casinos. but ruth walked listlessly, blind to the glitter of it all.visitors who go to roville for a few weeks in the winter are apt to speak of the place,on their return, in a manner that conveys the impression that it is a paradise on earth,with gambling facilities thrown in. but, then, they are visitors. their sojourn comes toan end. ruth's did not. a voice spoke her name. she turned, and sawher father, dapper as ever, standing beside her.'what an evening, my dear!' said mr warden.

'what an evening! smell the sea!'mr warden appeared to be in high spirits. he hummed a tune and twirled his cane. hechirruped frequently to bill, the companion of his walks abroad, a wiry fox-terrier ofa demeanour, like his master's, both jaunty and slightly disreputable. an air of gaietypervaded his bearing. 'i called in at the mont-de-piete but youhad gone. gandinot told me you had come here. what an ugly fellow that gandinot is! buta good sort. i like him. i had a chat with him.'the high spirits were explained. ruth knew her father. she guessed, correctly, that m.gandinot, kindest of pawnbrokers, had obliged, in his unofficial capacity, with a triflingloan.

'gandinot ought to go on the stage,' wenton mr warden, pursuing his theme. 'with that face he would make his fortune. you can'thelp laughing when you see it. one of these days—'he broke off. stirring things had begun to occur in the neighbourhood of his ankles,where bill, the fox-terrier, had encountered an acquaintance, and, to the accompanimentof a loud, gargling noise, was endeavouring to bite his head off. the acquaintance, agentleman of uncertain breed, equally willing, was chewing bill's paw with the gusto of agourmet. an irish terrier, with no personal bias towards either side, was dancing roundand attacking each in turn as he came uppermost. and two poodles leaped madly in and out ofthe melee, barking encouragement.

it takes a better man than mr warden to breakup a gathering of this kind. the old gentleman was bewildered. he added his voice to thebabel, and twice smote bill grievously with his cane with blows intended for the acquaintance,but beyond that he effected nothing. it seemed probable that the engagement would last tillthe combatants had consumed each other, after the fashion of the kilkenny cats, when theresuddenly appeared from nowhere a young man in grey.the world is divided into those who can stop dog-fights and those who cannot. the youngman in grey belonged to the former class. within a minute from his entrance on the scenethe poodles and the irish terrier had vanished; the dog of doubtful breed was moving off upthe hill, yelping, with the dispatch of one

who remembers an important appointment, andbill, miraculously calmed, was seated in the centre of the promenade, licking honourablewounds. mr warden was disposed to effervesce withgratitude. the scene had shaken him, and there had been moments when he had given his anklesup for lost. 'don't mention it,' said the young man. 'ienjoy arbitrating in these little disputes. dogs seem to like me and trust my judgement.i consider myself as a sort of honorary dog.' 'well, i am bound to say, mr—?''vince—george vince.' 'my name is warden. my daughter.'ruth inclined her head, and was conscious of a pair of very penetrating brown eyes lookingeagerly into hers in a manner which she thoroughly

resented. she was not used to the other sexmeeting her gaze and holding it as if confident of a friendly welcome. she made up her mindin that instant that this was a young man who required suppression.'i've seen you several times out here since i arrived, miss warden,' said mr vince. 'fourin all,' he added, precisely. 'really?' said ruth.she looked away. her attitude seemed to suggest that she had finished with him, and wouldbe obliged if somebody would come and sweep him up.as they approached the casino restlessness crept into mr warden's manner. at the doorhe stopped and looked at ruth. 'i think, my dear—' he said.'going to have a dash at the petits chevaux?'

inquired mr vince. 'i was there just now.i have an infallible system.' mr warden started like a war-horse at thesound of the trumpet. 'only it's infallible the wrong way,' wenton the young man. 'well, i wish you luck. i'll see miss warden home.''please don't trouble,' said ruth, in the haughty manner which had frequently witheredunfortunate fellow-exiles in their tracks. it had no such effect on mr vince.'i shall like it,' he said. ruth set her teeth. she would see whetherhe would like it. they left mr warden, who shot in at the casinodoor like a homing rabbit, and walked on in silence, which lasted till ruth, suddenlybecoming aware that her companion's eyes were

fixed on her face, turned her head, to meeta gaze of complete, not to say loving, admiration. she flushed. she was accustomed to being lookedat admiringly, but about this particular look there was a subtle quality that distinguishedit from the ordinary—something proprietorial. mr vince appeared to be a young man who wastedno time on conventional conversation-openings. 'do you believe in affinities, miss warden?'he said, 'no,' said ruth.'you will before we've done,' said mr vince, confidently. 'why did you try to snub me justnow?' 'did i?''you mustn't again. it hurts me. i'm a sensitive man. diffident. shy. miss warden, will youmarry me?'

ruth had determined that nothing should shakeher from her icy detachment, but this did. she stopped with a gasp, and stared at him.mr vince reassured her. 'i don't expect you to say "yes". that wasjust a beginning—the shot fired across the bows by way of warning. in you, miss warden,i have found my affinity. have you ever considered this matter of affinities? affinities arethe—the—wait a moment.' he paused, reflecting.'i—' began ruth. ''sh!' said the young man, holding up hishand. ruth's eyes flashed. she was not used to having''sh!' said to her by young men, and she resented it.'i've got it,' he declared, with relief. 'i

knew i should, but these good things taketime. affinities are the zero on the roulette-board of life. just as we select a number on whichto stake our money, so do we select a type of girl whom we think we should like to marry.and just as zero pops up instead of the number, so does our affinity come along and upsetall our pre-conceived notions of the type of girl we should like to marry.''i—' began ruth again. 'the analogy is in the rough at present. ihaven't had time to condense and polish it. but you see the idea. take my case, for instance.when i saw you a couple of days ago i knew in an instant that you were my affinity. butfor years i had been looking for a woman almost your exact opposite. you are dark. three daysago i couldn't have imagined myself marrying

anyone who was not fair. your eyes are grey.three days ago my preference for blue eyes was a by-word. you have a shocking temper.three days ago—' 'mr vince!''there!' said that philosopher, complacently. 'you stamped. the gentle, blue-eyed blondewhom i was looking for three days ago would have drooped timidly. three days ago my passionfor timid droopers amounted to an obsession.' ruth did not reply. it was useless to bandywords with one who gave such clear evidence of being something out of the common run ofword-bandiers. no verbal attack could crush this extraordinary young man. she walked on,all silence and stony profile, uncomfortably conscious that her companion was in no wayabashed by the former and was regarding the

latter with that frank admiration which hadmade itself so obnoxious to her before, until they reached their destination. mr vince,meanwhile, chatted cheerfully, and pointed out objects of interest by the wayside.at the door ruth permitted herself a word of farewell.'good-bye,' she said. 'till tomorrow evening,' said mr vince. 'ishall be coming to dinner.' mr warden ambled home, very happy and contented,two hours later, with half a franc in his pocket, this comparative wealth being dueto the fact that the minimum stake permitted by the roville casino is just double thatsum. he was sorry not to have won, but his mind was too full of rosy dreams to permitof remorse. it was the estimable old gentleman's

dearest wish that his daughter should marrysome rich, open-handed man who would keep him in affluence for the remainder of hisdays, and to that end he was in the habit of introducing to her notice any such thatcame his way. there was no question of coercing ruth. he was too tender-hearted for that.besides he couldn't. ruth was not the sort of girl who is readily coerced. he contentedhimself with giving her the opportunity to inspect his exhibits. roville is a sociableplace, and it was not unusual for him to make friends at the casino and to bring them home,when made, for a cigar. up to the present, he was bound to admit, his efforts had notbeen particularly successful. ruth, he reflected sadly, was a curious girl. she did not showher best side to these visitors. there was

no encouragement in her manner. she was aptto frighten the unfortunate exhibits. but of this young man vince he had brighter hopes.he was rich. that was proved by the very handsome way in which he had behaved in the matterof a small loan when, looking in at the casino after parting from ruth, he had found mr wardenin sore straits for want of a little capital to back a brand-new system which he had conceivedthrough closely observing the run of the play. he was also obviously attracted by ruth. and,as he was remarkably presentable—indeed, quite an unusually good-looking young man—thereseemed no reason why ruth should not be equally attracted by him. the world looked good tomr warden as he fell asleep that night. ruth did not fall asleep so easily. the episodehad disturbed her. a new element had entered

her life, and one that gave promise of producingstrange by-products. when, on the following evening, ruth returnedfrom the stroll on the promenade which she always took after leaving the mont-de-piete,with a feeling of irritation towards things in general, this feeling was not diminishedby the sight of mr vince, very much at his ease, standing against the mantelpiece ofthe tiny parlour. 'how do you do?' he said. 'by an extraordinarycoincidence i happened to be hanging about outside this house just now, when your fathercame along and invited me in to dinner. have you ever thought much about coincidences,miss warden? to my mind, they may be described as the zero on the roulette-board of life.'he regarded her fondly.

'for a shy man, conscious that the girl heloves is inspecting him closely and making up her mind about him,' he proceeded, 'theseunexpected meetings are very trying ordeals. you must not form your judgement of me toohastily. you see me now, nervous, embarrassed, tongue-tied. but i am not always like this.beneath this crust of diffidence there is sterling stuff, miss warden. people who knowme have spoken of me as a little ray of sun—but here is your father.'mr warden was more than usually disappointed with ruth during dinner. it was the same oldstory. so far from making herself pleasant to this attractive stranger, she seemed positivelyto dislike him. she was barely civil to him. with a sigh mr warden told himself that hedid not understand ruth, and the rosy dreams

he had formed began to fade.ruth's ideas on the subject of mr vince as the days went by were chaotic. though shetold herself that she thoroughly objected to him, he had nevertheless begun to havean undeniable attraction for her. in what this attraction consisted she could not say.when she tried to analyse it, she came to the conclusion that it was due to the factthat he was the only element in her life that made for excitement. since his advent thedays had certainly passed more swiftly for her. the dead level of monotony had been broken.there was a certain fascination in exerting herself to suppress him, which increased dailyas each attempt failed. mr vince put this feeling into words for her.he had a maddening habit of discussing the

progress of his courtship in the manner ofan impartial lecturer. 'i am making headway,' he observed. 'the factthat we cannot meet without your endeavouring to plant a temperamental left jab on my spiritualsolar plexus encourages me to think that you are beginning at last to understand that weare affinities. to persons of spirit like ourselves the only happy marriage is thatwhich is based on a firm foundation of almost incessant quarrelling. the most beautifulline in english poetry, to my mind, is, "we fell out, my wife and i." you would be wretchedwith a husband who didn't like you to quarrel with him. the position of affairs now is thati have become necessary to you. if i went out of your life now i should leave an achingvoid. you would still have that beautiful

punch of yours, and there would be nobodyto exercise it on. you would pine away. from now on matters should, i think, move rapidly.during the course of the next week i shall endeavour to propitiate you with gifts. hereis the first of them.' he took a piece of paper from his pocket andhanded it her. it was a pencil-sketch, rough and unfinished, but wonderfully clever. evenruth could appreciate that—and she was a prejudiced observer, for the sketch was acaricature of herself. it represented her, drawn up to her full height, with enormous,scornful eyes and curling lips, and the artist had managed to combine an excellent likenesswhile accentuating everything that was marked in what she knew had come to be her normalexpression of scorn and discontent.

'i didn't know you were an artist, mr vince,'she said, handing it back. 'a poor amateur. nothing more. you may keepit.' 'i have not the slightest wish to keep it.''you haven't?' 'it is not in the least clever, and it isvery impertinent of you to show it to me. the drawing is not funny. it is simply rude.''a little more,' said mr vince, 'and i shall begin to think you don't like it. are youfond of chocolates?' ruth did not answer.'i am sending you some tomorrow.' 'i shall return them.''then i shall send some more, and some fruit. gifts!' soliloquized mr vince. 'gifts! thatis the secret. keep sending gifts. if men

would only stick to gifts and quarrelling,there would be fewer bachelors.' on the morrow, as promised, the chocolatesarrived, many pounds of them in a lordly box. the bludgeoning of fate had not wholly scotchedin ruth a human weakness for sweets, and it was with a distinct effort that she wrappedthe box up again and returned it to the sender. she went off to her work at the mont-de-pietewith a glow of satisfaction which comes to those who exhibit an iron will in trying circumstances.and at the mont-de-piete there occurred a surprising incident.surprising incidents, as mr vince would have said, are the zero on the roulette-board oflife. they pop up disturbingly when least expected, confusing the mind and alteringpre-conceived opinions. and this was a very

surprising incident indeed.ruth, as has been stated, sat during her hours of work behind a ground-glass screen, unseenand unseeing. to her the patrons of the establishment were mere disembodied voices—wheedling voices,pathetic voices, voices that protested, voices that hectored, voices that whined, moaned,broke, appealed to the saints, and in various other ways endeavoured to instil into m. gandinotmore spacious and princely views on the subject of advancing money on property pledged. shewas sitting behind her screen this morning, scribbling idly on the blotting-pad, for therehad been a lull in the business, when the door opened, and the polite, 'bonjour, monsieur,'of m. gandinot announced the arrival of another unfortunate.and then, shaking her like an electric shock,

came a voice that she knew—the pleasantvoice of mr vince. the dialogues that took place on the otherside of the screen were often protracted and always sordid, but none had seemed to ruthso interminable, so hideously sordid, as this one.round and round its miserable centre—a silver cigarette-case—the dreary argument circled.the young man pleaded; m. gandinot, adamant in his official role, was immovable.ruth could bear it no longer. she pressed her hands over her burning ears, and the voicesceased to trouble her. and with the silence came thought, and a blazeof understanding that flashed upon her and made all things clear. she understood nowwhy she had closed her ears.

poverty is an acid which reacts differentlyon differing natures. it had reduced mr eugene warden's self-respect to a minimum. ruth'sit had reared up to an abnormal growth. her pride had become a weed that ran riot in hersoul, darkening it and choking finer emotions. perhaps it was her father's naive stratagemsfor the enmeshing of a wealthy husband that had produced in her at last a morbid antipathyto the idea of playing beggar-maid to any man's king cophetua. the state of mind isintelligible. the cophetua legend never has been told from the beggar-maid's point ofview, and there must have been moments when, if a woman of spirit, she resented that monarch'ssomewhat condescending attitude, and felt that, secure in his wealth and magnificence,he had taken her grateful acquiescence very

much for granted.this, she saw now, was what had prejudiced her against george vince. she had assumedthat he was rich. he had conveyed the impression of being rich. and she had been on the defensiveagainst him accordingly. now, for the first time, she seemed to know him. a barrier hadbeen broken down. the royal robes had proved tinsel, and no longer disguised the man sheloved. a touch on her arm aroused her. m. gandinotwas standing by her side. terms, apparently had been agreed upon and the interview concluded,for in his hand was a silver cigarette-case. 'dreaming, mademoiselle? i could not makeyou hear. the more i call to you, the more you did not answer. it is necessary to enterthis loan.'

he recited the details and ruth entered themin her ledger. this done, m. gandinot, doffing his official self, sighed.'it is a place of much sorrow, mademoiselle, this office. how he would not take no foran answer, that young man, recently departed. a fellow-countryman of yours, mademoiselle.you would say, "what does this young man, so well-dressed, in a mont-de-piete?" buti know better, i, gandinot. you have an expression, you english—i heard it in paris in a cafe,and inquired its meaning—when you say of a man that he swanks. how many young men havei seen here, admirably dressed—rich, you would say. no, no. the mont-de-piete permitsno secrets. to swank, mademoiselle, what is it? to deceive the world, yes. but not themont-de-piete. yesterday also, when you had

departed, was he here, that young man. yethere he is once more today. he spends his money quickly, alas! that poor young swanker.'when ruth returned home that evening she found her father in the sitting-room, smoking acigarette. he greeted her with effusion, but with some uneasiness—for the old gentlemanhad nerved himself to a delicate task. he had made up his mind tonight to speak seriouslyto ruth on the subject of her unsatisfactory behaviour to mr vince. the more he saw ofthat young man the more positive was he that this was the human gold-mine for which hehad been searching all these weary years. accordingly, he threw away his cigarette,kissed ruth on the forehead, and began to speak.it had long been mr warden's opinion that,

if his daughter had a fault, it was a tendencytowards a quite unnecessary and highly inconvenient frankness. she had not that tact which hewould have liked a daughter of his to possess. she would not evade, ignore, agree not tosee. she was at times painfully blunt. this happened now. he was warming to his subjectwhen she interrupted him with a question. 'what makes you think mr vince is rich, father?'she asked. mr warden was embarrassed. the subject ofmr vince's opulence had not entered into his discourse. he had carefully avoided it. thefact that he was thinking of it and that ruth knew that he was thinking of it, and thathe knew that ruth knew, had nothing to do with the case. the question was not in order,and it embarrassed him.

'i—why—i don't—i never said he was rich,my dear. i have no doubt that he has ample—' 'he is quite poor.'mr warden's jaw fell slightly. 'poor? but, my dear, that's absurd!' he cried.'why, only this evening—' he broke off abruptly, but it was too late.'father, you've been borrowing money from him!'mr warden drew in his breath, preparatory to an indignant denial, but he altered hismind and remained silent. as a borrower of money he had every quality but one. he hadcome to look on her perspicacity in this matter as a sort of second sight. it had frequentlygone far to spoiling for him the triumph of success.'and he has to pawn things to live!' her voice

trembled. 'he was at the mont-de-piete today.and yesterday too. i heard him. he was arguing with m. gandinot—haggling—'her voice broke. she was sobbing helplessly. the memory of it was too raw and vivid.mr warden stood motionless. many emotions raced through his mind, but chief among themthe thought that this revelation had come at a very fortunate time. an exceedingly luckyescape, he felt. he was aware, also, of a certain measure of indignation against thisdeceitful young man who had fraudulently imitated a gold-mine with what might have been disastrousresults. the door opened and jeanne, the maid-of-all-work,announced mr vince. he entered the room briskly.'good evening!' he said. 'i have brought you

some more chocolates, miss warden, and somefruit. great scott! what's the matter?' he stopped, but only for an instant. the nexthe had darted across the room, and, before the horrified eyes of mr warden, was holdingruth in his arms. she clung to him. bill, the fox-terrier, over whom mr vincehad happened to stumble, was the first to speak. almost simultaneously mr warden joinedin, and there was a striking similarity between the two voices, for mr warden, searching forwords, emitted as a preliminary to them a sort of passionate yelp.mr vince removed the hand that was patting ruth's shoulder and waved it reassuringlyat him. 'it's all right,' he said.'all right! all right!'

'affinities,' explained mr vince over hisshoulder. 'two hearts that beat as one. we're going to be married. what's the matter, dear?don't you worry; you're all right.' 'i refuse!' shouted mr warden. 'i absolutelyrefuse.' mr vince lowered ruth gently into a chairand, holding her hand, inspected the fermenting old gentleman gravely.'you refuse?' he said. 'why, i thought you liked me.'mr warden's frenzy had cooled. it had been something foreign to his nature. he regrettedit. these things had to be managed with restraint. 'my personal likes and dislikes,' he said,'have nothing to do with the matter, mr vince. they are beside the point. i have my daughterto consider. i cannot allow her to marry a

man without a penny.''quite right,' said mr vince, approvingly. 'don't have anything to do with the fellow.if he tries to butt in, send for the police.' mr warden hesitated. he had always been alittle ashamed of ruth's occupation. but necessity compelled.'mr vince, my daughter is employed at the mont-de-piete, and was a witness to all thattook place this afternoon.' mr vince was genuinely agitated. he lookedat ruth, his face full of concern. 'you don't mean to say you have been slavingaway in that stuffy—great scott! i'll have you out of that quick. you mustn't go thereagain.' he stooped and kissed her.'perhaps you had better let me explain,' he

said. 'explanations, i always think, are thezero on the roulette-board of life. they're always somewhere about, waiting to pop up.have you ever heard of vince's stores, mr warden? perhaps they are since your time.well, my father is the proprietor. one of our specialities is children's toys, but wehaven't picked a real winner for years, and my father when i last saw him seemed so distressedabout it that i said i'd see if i couldn't whack out an idea for something. somethingon the lines of the billiken, only better, was what he felt he needed. i'm not used tobrain work, and after a spell of it i felt i wanted a rest. i came here to recuperate,and the very first morning i got an inspiration. you may have noticed that the manager of themont-de-piete here isn't strong on conventional

good looks. i saw him at the casino, and thething flashed on me. he thinks his name's gandinot, but it isn't. it's uncle zip, thehump-curer, the man who makes you smile.' he pressed ruth's hand affectionately.'i lost track of him, and it was only the day before yesterday that i discovered whohe was and where he was to be found. well, you can't go up to a man and ask him to poseas a model for uncle zip, the hump-curer. the only way to get sittings was to approachhim in the way of business. so i collected what property i had and waded in. that's thewhole story. do i pass?' mr warden's frosty demeanour had graduallythawed during this recital, and now the sun of his smile shone out warmly. he grippedmr vince's hand with every evidence of esteem,

and after that he did what was certainly thebest thing, by passing gently from the room. on his face, as he went, was a look such asmoses might have worn on the summit of pisgah. it was some twenty minutes later that ruthmade a remark. 'i want you to promise me something,' shesaid. 'promise that you won't go on with that uncle zip drawing. i know it means ever somuch money, but it might hurt poor m. gandinot's feelings, and he has been very kind to me.''that settles it,' said mr vince. 'it's hard on the children of great britain, but sayno more. no uncle zip for them.' ruth looked at him, almost with awe.'you really won't go on with it? in spite of all the money you would make? are you alwaysgoing to do just what i ask you, no matter

what it costs you?'he nodded sadly. 'you have sketched out in a few words thewhole policy of my married life. i feel an awful fraud. and i had encouraged you to lookforward to years of incessant quarrelling. do you think you can manage without it? i'mafraid it's going to be shockingly dull for you,' said mr vince, regretfully.archibald's benefit archibald mealing was one of those golfersin whom desire outruns performance. nobody could have been more willing than archibald.he tried, and tried hard. every morning before he took his bath he would stand in front ofhis mirror and practise swings. every night before he went to bed he would read the goldenwords of some master on the subject of putting,

driving, or approaching. yet on the linksmost of his time was spent in retrieving lost balls or replacing america. whether it wasthat archibald pressed too much or pressed too little, whether it was that his club deviatedfrom the dotted line which joined the two points a and b in the illustrated plate ofthe man making the brassy shot in the hints on golf book, or whether it was that he waspursued by some malignant fate, i do not know. archibald rather favoured the last theory.the important point is that, in his thirty-first year, after six seasons of untiring effort,archibald went in for a championship, and won it.archibald, mark you, whose golf was a kind of blend of hockey, swedish drill, and buck-and-wingdancing.

i know the ordeal i must face when i makesuch a statement. i see clearly before me the solid phalanx of men from missouri, someurging me to tell it to the king of denmark, others insisting that i produce my eskimos.nevertheless, i do not shrink. i state once more that in his thirty-first year archibaldmealing went in for a golf championship, and won it. archibald belonged to a select little golfclub, the members of which lived and worked in new york, but played in jersey. men ofsubstance, financially as well as physically, they had combined their superfluous cash andwith it purchased a strip of land close to the sea. this land had been drained—to thehuge discomfort of a colony of mosquitoes

which had come to look on the place as theirprivate property—and converted into links, which had become a sort of refuge for incompetentgolfers. the members of the cape pleasant club were easygoing refugees from other andmore exacting clubs, men who pottered rather than raced round the links; men, in short,who had grown tired of having to stop their game and stand aside in order to allow perspiringexperts to whiz past them. the cape pleasant golfers did not make themselves slaves tothe game. their language, when they foozled, was gently regretful rather than sulphurous.the moment in the day's play which they enjoyed most was when they were saying: 'well, here'sluck!' in the club-house. it will, therefore, be readily understoodthat archibald's inability to do a hole in

single figures did not handicap him at capepleasant as it might have done at st. andrews. his kindly clubmates took him to their bosomsto a man, and looked on him as a brother. archibald's was one of those admirable natureswhich prompt their possessor frequently to remark: 'these are on me!' and his fellowgolfers were not slow to appreciate the fact. they all loved archibald.archibald was on the floor of his bedroom one afternoon, picking up the fragments ofhis mirror—a friend had advised him to practise the walter j. travis lofting shot—when thetelephone bell rang. he took up the receiver, and was hailed by the comfortable voice ofmccay, the club secretary. 'is that mealing?' asked mccay. 'say, archie,i'm putting your name down for our championship

competition. that's right, isn't it?''sure,' said archibald. 'when does it start?' 'next saturday.''that's me.' 'good for you. oh, archie.''hello?' 'a man i met today told me you were engaged.is that a fact?' 'sure,' murmured archibald, blushfully.the wire hummed with mccay's congratulations. 'thanks,' said archibald. 'thanks, old man.what? oh, yes. milsom's her name. by the way, her family have taken a cottage at cape pleasantfor the summer. some distance from the links. yes, very convenient, isn't it? good-bye.'he hung up the receiver and resumed his task of gathering up the fragments. now mccay happenedto be of a romantic and sentimental nature.

he was by profession a chartered accountant,and inclined to be stout; and all rather stout chartered accountants are sentimental. mccaywas the sort of man who keeps old ball programmes and bundles of letters tied round with lilacribbon. at country houses, where they lingered in the porch after dinner to watch the moonlightflooding the quiet garden, it was mccay and his colleague who lingered longest. mccayknew ella wheeler wilcox by heart, and could take browning without anaesthetics. it isnot to be wondered at, therefore, that archibald's remark about his fiancee coming to live atcape pleasant should give him food for thought. it appealed to him.he reflected on it a good deal during the day, and, running across sigsbee, a fellowcape pleasanter, after dinner that night at

the sybarites' club, he spoke of the matterto him. it so happened that both had dined excellently, and were looking on the worldwith a sort of cosy benevolence. they were in the mood when men pat small boys on thehead and ask them if they mean to be president when they grow up.'i called up archie mealing today,' said mccay. 'did you know he was engaged?''i did hear something about it. girl of the name of wilson, or—''milsom. she's going to spend the summer at cape pleasant, archie tells me.''then she'll have a chance of seeing him play in the championship competition.'mccay sucked his cigar in silence for a while, watching with dreamy eyes the blue smoke asit curled ceiling-ward. when he spoke his

voice was singularly soft.'do you know, sigsbee,' he said, sipping his maraschino with a gentle melancholy—'doyou know, there is something wonderfully pathetic to me in this business. i see the whole thingso clearly. there was a kind of quiver in the poor old chap's voice when he said: "sheis coming to cape pleasant," which told me more than any words could have done. it isa tragedy in its way, sigsbee. we may smile at it, think it trivial; but it is none theless a tragedy. that warm-hearted, enthusiastic girl, all eagerness to see the man she lovesdo well—archie, poor old archie, all on fire to prove to her that her trust in himis not misplaced, and the end—disillusionment—disappointment—unhappiness.' 'he ought to keep his eye on the ball,' saidthe more practical sigsbee.

'quite possibly,' continued mccay, 'he hastold her that he will win this championship.' 'if archie's mutt enough to have told herthat,' said sigsbee decidedly, 'he deserves all he gets. waiter, two scotch highballs.'mccay was in no mood to subscribe to this stony-hearted view.'i tell you,' he said, 'i'm sorry for archie! i'm sorry for the poor old chap. and i'm morethan sorry for the girl.' 'well, i don't see what we can do,' said sigsbee.'we can hardly be expected to foozle on purpose, just to let archie show off before his girl.'mccay paused in the act of lighting his cigar, as one smitten with a great thought.'why not?' he said. 'why not, sigsbee? sigsbee, you've hit it.''eh?'

'you have! i tell you, sigsbee, you've solvedthe whole thing. archie's such a bully good fellow, why not give him a benefit? why notlet him win this championship? you aren't going to tell me that you care whether youwin a tin medal or not?' sigsbee's benevolence was expanding underthe influence of the scotch highball and his cigar. little acts of kindness on archie'spart, here a cigar, there a lunch, at another time seats for the theatre, began to riseto the surface of his memory like rainbow-coloured bubbles. he wavered.'yes, but what about the rest of the men?' he said. 'there will be a dozen or more infor the medal.' 'we can square them,' said mccay confidently.'we will broach the matter to them at a series

of dinners at which we will be joint hosts.they are white men who will be charmed to do a little thing like that for a sport likearchie.' 'how about gossett?' said sigsbee.mccay's face clouded. gossett was an unpopular subject with members of the cape pleasantgolf club. he was the serpent in their eden. nobody seemed quite to know how he had gotin, but there, unfortunately, he was. gossett had introduced into cape pleasant golf a cheerlessatmosphere of the rigour of the game. it was to enable them to avoid just such golfersas gossett that the cape pleasanters had founded their club. genial courtesy rather than strictattention to the rules had been the leading characteristics of their play till his arrival.up to that time it had been looked on as rather

bad form to exact a penalty. a cheery give-and-takesystem had prevailed. then gossett had come, full of strange rules, and created about thesame stir in the community which a hawk would create in a gathering of middle-aged doves.'you can't square gossett,' said sigsbee. mccay looked unhappy.'i forgot him,' he said. 'of course, nothing will stop him trying to win. i wish we couldthink of something. i would almost as soon see him lose as archie win. but, after all,he does have off days sometimes.' 'you need to have a very off day to be asbad as archie.' they sat and smoked in silence.'i've got it,' said sigsbee suddenly. 'gossett is a fine golfer, but nervous. if we upsethis nerves enough, he will go right off his

stroke. couldn't we think of some way?'mccay reached out for his glass. 'yours is a noble nature, sigsbee,' he said.'oh, no,' said the paragon modestly. 'have another cigar?' in order that the reader may get the mentalhalf-nelson on the plot of this narrative which is so essential if a short story isto charm, elevate, and instruct, it is necessary now, for the nonce (but only for the nonce),to inspect archibald's past life. archibald, as he had stated to mccay, wasengaged to a miss milsom—miss margaret milsom. how few men, dear reader, are engaged to girlswith svelte figures, brown hair, and large blue eyes, now sparkling and vivacious, nowdreamy and soulful, but always large and blue!

how few, i say. you are, dear reader, andso am i, but who else? archibald was one of the few who happened to be.he was happy. it is true that margaret's mother was not, as it were, wrapped up in him. sheexhibited none of that effervescent joy at his appearance which we like to see in ourmothers-in-law elect. on the contrary, she generally cried bitterly whenever she sawhim, and at the end of ten minutes was apt to retire sobbing to her room, where she remainedin a state of semi-coma till an advanced hour. she was by way of being a confirmed invalid,and something about archibald seemed to get right in among her nerve centres, reducingthem for the time being to a complicated hash. she did not like archibald. she said she likedbig, manly men. behind his back she not infrequently

referred to him as a 'gaby'; sometimes evenas that 'guffin'. she did not do this to margaret, for margaret,besides being blue-eyed, was also a shade quick-tempered. whenever she discussed archibald,it was with her son stuyvesant. stuyvesant milsom, who thought archibald a bit of anass, was always ready to sit and listen to his mother on the subject, it being, however,an understood thing that at the conclusion of the seance she yielded one or two saffron-colouredbills towards his racing debts. for stuyvesant, having developed a habit of backing horseswhich either did not start at all or else sat down and thought in the middle of therace, could always do with ten dollars or so. his prices for these interviews workedout, as a rule, at about three cents a word.

in these circumstances it was perhaps naturalthat archibald and margaret should prefer to meet, when they did meet, at some otherspot than the milsom home. it suited them both better that they should arrange a secrettryst on these occasions. archibald preferred it because being in the same room as mrs milsomalways made him feel like a murderer with particularly large feet; and margaret preferredit because, as she told archibald, these secret meetings lent a touch of poetry to what mightotherwise have been a commonplace engagement. archibald thought this charming; but at thesame time he could not conceal from himself the fact that margaret's passion for the poeticcut, so to speak, both ways. he admired and loved the loftiness of her soul, but, on theother hand, it was a tough job having to live

up to it. for archibald was a very ordinaryyoung man. they had tried to inoculate him with a love of poetry at school, but it hadnot taken. until he was thirty he had been satisfied to class all poetry (except thatof mr george cohan) under the general heading of punk. then he met margaret, and the troublebegan. on the day he first met her, at a picnic, she had looked so soulful, so aloof from thisworld, that he had felt instinctively that here was a girl who expected more from a manthan a mere statement that the weather was great. it so chanced that he knew just onequotation from the classics, to wit, tennyson's critique of the island-valley of avilion.he knew this because he had had the passage to write out one hundred and fifty times atschool, on the occasion of his being caught

smoking by one of the faculty who happenedto be a passionate admirer of the 'idylls of the king'.a remark of margaret's that it was a splendid day for a picnic and that the country lookednice gave him his opportunity. 'it reminds me,' he said, 'it reminds me stronglyof the island-valley of avilion, where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, nor ever windblows loudly; but it lies deep-meadow'd, happy, fair, with orchard lawns....'he broke off here to squash a hornet; but margaret had heard enough. 'are you fond ofthe poets, mr mealing?' she said, with a far-off look.'me?' said archibald fervently. 'me? why, i eat 'em alive!'

and that was how all the trouble had started.it had meant unremitting toil for archibald. he felt that he had set himself a standardfrom which he must not fall. he bought every new volume of poetry which was praised inthe press, and learned the reviews by heart. every evening he read painfully a portionof the classics. he plodded through the poetry sections of bartlett's familiar quotations.margaret's devotion to the various bards was so enthusiastic, and her reading so wide,that there were times when archibald wondered if he could endure the strain. but he perseveredheroically, and so far had not been found wanting. but the strain was fearful. the early stages of the cape pleasant golftournament need no detailed description. the

rules of match play governed the contests,and archibald disposed of his first three opponents before the twelfth hole. he hadbeen diffident when he teed off with mccay in the first round, but, finding that he defeatedthe secretary with ease, he met one butler in the second round with more confidence.butler, too, he routed; with the result that, by the time he faced sigsbee in round three,he was practically the conquering hero. fortune seemed to be beaming upon him with almostinsipid sweetness. when he was trapped in the bunker at the seventh hole, sigsbee becametrapped as well. when he sliced at the sixth tee, sigsbee pulled. and archibald, strikinga brilliant vein, did the next three holes in eleven, nine, and twelve; and, rompinghome, qualified for the final.

gossett, that serpent, meanwhile, had beateneach of his three opponents without much difficulty. the final was fixed for the following thursdaymorning. gossett, who was a broker, had made some frivolous objection about the difficultyof absenting himself from wall street, but had been overruled. when sigsbee pointed outthat he could easily defeat archibald and get to the city by lunch-time if he wished,and that in any case his partner would be looking after things, he allowed himself tobe persuaded, though reluctantly. it was a well-known fact that gossett was in the midstof some rather sizeable deals at that time. thursday morning suited archibald admirably.it had occurred to him that he could bring off a double event. margaret had arrived atcape pleasant on the previous evening, and

he had arranged by telephone to meet her atthe end of the board-walk, which was about a mile from the links, at one o'clock, supplyher with lunch, and spend the afternoon with her on the water. if he started his matchwith gossett at eleven-thirty, he would have plenty of time to have his game and be atthe end of the board-walk at the appointed hour. he had no delusions about the respectivemerits of gossett and himself as golfers. he knew that gossett would win the necessaryten holes off the reel. it was saddening, but it was a scientific fact. there was noavoiding it. one simply had to face it. having laid these plans, he caught the trainon the thursday morning with the consoling feeling that, however sadly the morning mightbegin, it was bound to end well.

the day was fine, the sun warm, but temperedwith a light breeze. one or two of the club had come to watch the match, among them sigsbee.sigsbee drew gossett aside. 'you must let me caddie for you, old man,'he said. 'i know your temperament so exactly. i know how little it takes to put you offyour stroke. in an ordinary game you might take one of these boys, i know, but on animportant occasion like this you must not risk it. a grubby boy, probably with a squint,would almost certainly get on your nerves. he might even make comments on the game, orwhistle. but i understand you. you must let me carry your clubs.''it's very good of you,' said gossett. 'not at all,' said sigsbee.

archibald was now preparing to drive off fromthe first tee. he did this with great care. everyone who has seen archibald mealing playgolf knows that his teeing off is one of the most impressive sights ever witnessed on thelinks. he tilted his cap over his eyes, waggled his club a little, shifted his feet, waggledhis club some more, gazed keenly towards the horizon for a moment, waggled his club again,and finally, with the air of a strong man lifting a bar of iron, raised it slowly abovehis head. then, bringing it down with a sweep, he drove the ball with a lofty slice somefifty yards. it was rarely that he failed either to slice or pull his ball. his progressfrom hole to hole was generally a majestic zigzag.gossett's drive took him well on the way to

the green. he holed out in five. archibald,mournful but not surprised, made his way to the second tee.the second hole was shorter. gossett won it in three. the third he took in six, the fourthin four. archibald began to feel that he might just as well not be there. he was practicallya spectator. at this point he reached in his pocket forhis tobacco-pouch, to console himself with smoke. to his dismay he found it was not there.he had had it in the train, but now it had vanished. this added to his gloom, for thepouch had been given to him by margaret, and he had always thought it one more proof ofthe way her nature towered over the natures of other girls that she had not woven a monogramon it in forget-me-nots. this record pouch

was missing, and archibald mourned for theloss. his sorrows were not alleviated by the factthat gossett won the fifth and sixth holes. it was now a quarter past twelve, and archibaldreflected with moody satisfaction that the massacre must soon be over, and that he wouldthen be able to forget it in the society of margaret.as gossett was about to drive off from the seventh tee, a telegraph boy approached thelittle group. 'mr gossett,' he said.gossett lowered his driver, and wheeled round, but sigsbee had snatched the envelope fromthe boy's hand. 'it's all right, old man,' he said. 'go rightahead. i'll keep it safe for you.'

'give it to me,' said gossett anxiously. 'itmay be from the office. something may have happened to the market. i may be needed.''no, no,' said sigsbee, soothingly. 'don't you worry about it. better not open it. itmight have something in it that would put you off your stroke. wait till the end ofthe game.' 'give it to me. i want to see it.'sigsbee was firm. 'no,' he said. 'i'm here to see you win thischampionship and i won't have you taking any risks. besides, even if it was important,a few minutes won't make any difference.' 'well, at any rate, open it and read it.''it is probably in cipher,' said sigsbee. 'i wouldn't understand it. play on, old man.you've only a few more holes to win.'

gossett turned and addressed his ball again.then he swung. the club tipped the ball, and it rolled sluggishly for a couple of feet.archibald approached the tee. now there were moments when archibald could drive quite decently.he always applied a considerable amount of muscular force to his efforts. it was in thatdirection, as a rule, he erred. on this occasion, whether inspired by his rival's failure ormerely favoured by chance, he connected with his ball at precisely the right moment. itflew from the tee, straight, hard, and low, struck the ground near the green, boundedon and finally rocked to within a foot of the hole. no such long ball had been drivenon the cape pleasant links since their foundation. that it should have taken him three strokesto hole out from this promising position was

unfortunate, but not fatal, for gossett, whoseemed suddenly to have fallen off his game, only reached the green in seven. a momentlater a murmur of approval signified the fact that archibald had won his first hole.'mr gossett,' said a voice. those murmuring approval observed that thetelegraph boy was once more in their midst. this time he bore two missives. sigsbee dexterouslyimpounded both. 'no,' he said with decision. 'i absolutelyrefuse to let you look at them till the game is over. i know your temperament.'gossett gesticulated. 'but they must be important. they must comefrom my office. where else would i get a stream of telegrams? something has gone wrong. iam urgently needed.'

sigsbee nodded gravely.'that is what i fear,' he said. 'that is why i cannot risk having you upset. time enough,gossett, for bad news after the game. play on, man, and dismiss it from your mind. besides,you couldn't get back to new york just yet, in any case. there are no trains. dismissthe whole thing from your mind and just play your usual, and you're sure to win.'archibald had driven off during this conversation, but without his previous success. this timehe had pulled his ball into some long grass. gossett's drive was, however, worse; and thesubsequent movement of the pair to the hole resembled more than anything else the manoeuvresof two men rolling peanuts with toothpicks as the result of an election bet. archibaldfinally took the hole in twelve after gossett

had played his fourteenth.when archibald won the next in eleven and the tenth in nine, hope began to flicker feeblyin his bosom. but when he won two more holes, bringing the score to like-as-we-lie, it flamedup within him like a beacon. the ordinary golfer, whose scores per holeseldom exceed those of colonel bogey, does not understand the whirl of mixed sensationswhich the really incompetent performer experiences on the rare occasions when he does strikea winning vein. as stroke follows stroke, and he continues to hold his opponent, a wildexhilaration surges through him, followed by a sort of awe, as if he were doing somethingwrong, even irreligious. then all these yeasty emotions subside and are blended into oneglorious sensation of grandeur and majesty,

as of a giant among pygmies.by the time that archibald, putting with the care of one brushing flies off a sleepingvenus, had holed out and won the thirteenth, he was in the full grip of this feeling. andas he walked to the fifteenth tee, after winning the fourteenth, he felt that this was life,that till now he had been a mere mollusc. just at that moment he happened to look athis watch, and the sight was like a douche of cold water. the hands stood at five minutesto one. let us pause and ponder on this point fora while. let us not dismiss it as if it were some mere trivial, everyday difficulty. you,dear reader, play an accurate, scientific game and beat your opponent with ease everytime you go the links, and so do i; but archibald

was not like us. this was the first occasionon which he had ever felt that he was playing well enough to give him a chance of defeatinga really good man. true, he had beaten mccay, sigsbee, and butler in the earlier rounds;but they were ignoble rivals compared with gossett. to defeat gossett, however, meantthe championship. on the other hand, he was passionately devoted to margaret milsom, whomhe was due to meet at the end of the board-walk at one sharp. it was now five minutes to one,and the end of the board-walk still a mile away.the mental struggle was brief but keen. a sharp pang, and his mind was made up. costwhat it might, he must stay on the links. if margaret broke off the engagement—well,it might be that time would heal the wound,

and that after many years he would find someother girl for whom he might come to care in a wrecked, broken sort of way. but a chancelike this could never come again. what is love compared with holing out before youropponent? the excitement now had become so intense thata small boy, following with the crowd, swallowed his chewing-gum; for a slight improvementhad become noticeable in gossett's play, and a slight improvement in the play of almostanyone meant that it became vastly superior to archibald's. at the next hole the improvementwas not marked enough to have its full effect, and archibald contrived to halve. this madehim two up and three to play. what the average golfer would consider a commanding lead. butarchibald was no average golfer. a commanding

lead for him would have been two up and oneto play. to give the public of his best, your golfershould have his mind cool and intent upon the game. inasmuch as gossett was worryingabout the telegrams, while archibald, strive as he might to dismiss it, was haunted bya vision of margaret standing alone and deserted on the board-walk, play became, as it were,ragged. fine putting enabled gossett to do the sixteenth hole in twelve, and when, winningthe seventeenth in nine, he brought his score level with archibald's the match seemed over.but just then— 'mr gossett!' said a familiar voice.once more was the much-enduring telegraph boy among those present.'t'ree dis time!' he observed.

gossett sprang, but again the watchful sigsbeewas too swift. 'be brave, gossett—be brave,' he said. 'thisis a crisis in the game. keep your nerve. play just as if nothing existed outside thelinks. to look at these telegrams now would be fatal.'eye-witnesses of that great encounter will tell the story of the last hole to their dyingday. it was one of those titanic struggles which time cannot efface from the memory.archibald was fortunate in getting a good start. he only missed twice before he struckhis ball on the tee. gossett had four strokes ere he achieved the feat. nor did archibald'sluck desert him in the journey to the green. he was out of the bunker in eleven.gossett emerged only after sixteen. finally,

when archibald's twenty-first stroke sentthe ball trickling into the hole, gossett had played his thirtieth.the ball had hardly rested on the bottom of the hole before gossett had begun to tearthe telegrams from their envelopes. as he read, his eyes bulged in their sockets.'not bad news, i hope,' said a sympathetic bystander.sigsbee took the sheaf of telegrams. the first ran: 'good luck. hope you win. mccay.'the second also ran: 'good luck. hope you win. mccay.' so, singularly enough, did thethird, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh. 'great scott!' said sigsbee. 'he seems tohave been pretty anxious not to run any risk of missing you, gossett.'as he spoke, archibald, close beside him,

was looking at his watch. the hands stoodat a quarter to two. margaret and her mother were seated in theparlour when archibald arrived. mrs milsom, who had elicited the fact that archibald hadnot kept his appointment, had been saying 'i told you so' for some time, and this hadnot improved margaret's temper. when, therefore, archibald, damp and dishevelled, was shownin, the chill in the air nearly gave him frost-bite. mrs milsom did her celebrated imitation ofthe gorgon, while margaret, lightly humming an air, picked up a weekly paper and becameabsorbed in it. 'margaret, let me explain,' panted archibald.mrs milsom was understood to remark that she dared say. margaret's attention was rivetedby a fashion plate.

'driving in a taximeter to the ferry thismorning,' resumed archibald, 'i had an accident.' this was the result of some rather feverishbrain-work on the way from the links to the cottage.the periodical flopped to the floor. 'oh, archie, are you hurt?''a few scratches, nothing more; but it made me miss my train.''what train did you catch?' asked mrs milsom sepulchrally.'the one o'clock. i came straight on here from the station.''why,' said margaret, 'stuyvesant was coming home on the one o'clock train. did you seehim?' archibald's jaw dropped slightly.'er—no,' he said.

'how curious,' said margaret.'very curious,' said archibald. 'most curious,' said mrs milsom.they were still reflecting on the singularity of this fact when the door opened, and theson of the house entered in person. 'thought i should find you here, mealing,'he said. 'they gave me this at the station to give to you; you dropped it this morningwhen you got out of the train.' he handed archibald the missing pouch.'thanks,' said the latter huskily. 'when you say this morning, of course you mean thisafternoon, but thanks all the same—thanks—thanks.' 'no, archibald mealing, he does not mean thisafternoon,' said mrs milsom. 'stuyvesant, speak! from what train did that guf—didmr mealing alight when he dropped the tobacco-pouch?'

'the ten o'clock, the fellow told me. saidhe would have given it back to him then only he sprinted off in the deuce of a hurry.'six eyes focused themselves upon archibald. 'margaret,' he said, 'i will not try to deceiveyou—' 'you may try,' observed mrs milsom, 'but youwill not succeed.' 'well, archibald?'archibald fingered his collar. 'there was no taximeter accident.''ah!' said mrs milsom. 'the fact is, i have been playing in a golftournament.' margaret uttered an exclamation of surprise.'playing golf!' archibald bowed his head with manly resignation.'why didn't you tell me? why didn't you arrange

for us to meet on the links? i should haveloved it.' archibald was amazed.'you take an interest in golf, margaret? you! i thought you scorned it, considered it anunintellectual game. i thought you considered all games unintellectual.''why, i play golf myself. not very well.' 'margaret! why didn't you tell me?''i thought you might not like it. you were so spiritual, so poetic. i feared you woulddespise me.' archibald took a step forward. his voice wastense and trembling. 'margaret,' he said, 'this is no time formisunderstandings. we must be open with one another. our happiness is at stake. tell mehonestly, do you like poetry really?'

margaret hesitated, then answered bravely:'no, archibald,' she said, 'it is as you suspect. i am not worthy of you. i do not like poetry.ah, you shudder! you turn away! your face grows hard and scornful!''i don't!' yelled archibald. 'it doesn't! it doesn't do anything of the sort! you'vemade me another man!' she stared, wild-eyed, astonished.'what! do you mean that you, too—' 'i should just say i do. i tell you i hatethe beastly stuff. i only pretended to like it because i thought you did. the hours i'vespent learning it up! i wonder i've not got brain fever.''archie! used you to read it up, too? oh, if i'd only known!''and you forgive me—this morning, i mean?'

'of course. you couldn't leave a golf tournament.by the way, how did you get on?' archibald coughed.'rather well,' he said modestly. 'pretty decently. in fact, not badly. as a matter of fact, iwon the championship.' 'the championship!' whispered margaret. 'ofamerica?' 'well, not absolutely of america,' said archibald.'but all the same, a championship.' 'my hero.''you won't be wanting me for a while, i guess?' said stuyvesant nonchalantly. 'think i'llsmoke a cigarette on the porch.' and sobs from the stairs told that mrs milsomwas already on her way to her room. the man, the maid, and the miasma

although this story is concerned principallywith the man and the maid, the miasma pervades it to such an extent that i feel justifiedin putting his name on the bills. webster's dictionary gives the meaning of the word 'miasma'as 'an infection floating in the air; a deadly exhalation'; and, in the opinion of mr robertferguson, his late employer, that description, though perhaps a little too flattering, onthe whole summed up master roland bean pretty satisfactorily. until the previous day hehad served mr ferguson in the capacity of office-boy; but there was that about masterbean which made it practically impossible for anyone to employ him for long. a syndicateof galahad, parsifal, and marcus aurelius might have done it, but to an ordinary erringman, conscious of things done which should

not have been done, and other things equallynumerous left undone, he was too oppressive. one conscience is enough for any man. theemployer of master bean had to cringe before two. nobody can last long against an office-boywhose eyes shine with quiet, respectful reproof through gold-rimmed spectacles, whose manneris that of a middle-aged saint, and who obviously knows all the plod and punctuality books byheart and orders his life by their precepts. master bean was a walking edition of stepping-stonesto success, millionaires who have never smoked, and young man, get up early. galahad, parsifal,and marcus aurelius, as i say, might have remained tranquil in his presence, but robertferguson found the contract too large. after one month he had braced himself up and sackedthe punctual plodder.

yet now he was sitting in his office, longafter the last clerk had left, long after the hour at which he himself was wont to leave,his mind full of his late employee. was this remorse? was he longing for the touchof the vanished hand, the gleam of the departed spectacles? he was not. his mind was fullof master bean because master bean was waiting for him in the outer office; and he lingeredon at his desk, after the day's work was done, for the same reason. word had been broughtto him earlier in the evening, that master roland bean would like to see him. the answerto that was easy: 'tell him i'm busy.' master bean's admirably dignified reply was thathe understood how great was the pressure of mr ferguson's work, and that he would waittill he was at liberty. liberty! talk of the

liberty of the treed possum, but do not usethe word in connexion with a man bottled up in an office, with roland bean guarding theonly exit. mr ferguson kicked the waste-paper basketsavagely. the unfairness of the thing hurt him. a sacked office-boy ought to stay sacked.he had no business to come popping up again like banquo's ghost. it was not playing thegame. the reader may wonder what was the trouble—whymr ferguson could not stalk out and brusquely dispose of his foe; but then the reader hasnot employed master bean for a month. mr ferguson had, and his nerve had broken.a slight cough penetrated the door between the two offices. mr ferguson rose and grabbedhis hat. perhaps a sudden rush—he shot out

with the tense concentration of one movingtowards the refreshment-room at a station where the train stops three minutes.'good evening, sir!' was the watcher's view-hallo. 'ah, bean,' said mr ferguson, flitting rapidly,'you still here? i thought you had gone. i'm afraid i cannot stop now. some other time—'he was almost through. 'i fear, sir, that you will be unable to getout,' said master bean, sympathetically. 'the building is locked up.'men who have been hit by bullets say the first sensation is merely a sort of dull shock.so it was with mr ferguson. he stopped in his tracks and stared.'the porter closes the door at seven o'clock punctually, sir. it is now nearly twenty minutesafter the hour.'

mr ferguson's brain was still in the numbedstage. 'closes the door?' he said.'yes, sir.' 'then how are we to get out?''i fear we cannot get out, sir.' mr ferguson digested this.'i am no longer in your employment, sir,' said master bean, respectfully, 'but i hopethat in the circumstances you will permit me to remain here during the night.''during the night!' 'it would enable me to sleep more comfortablythan on the stairs.' 'but we can't stop here all night,' said mrferguson, feebly. he had anticipated an unpleasant five minutesin master bean's company. imagination boggled

at the thought of an unpleasant thirteen hours.he collapsed into a chair. 'i called,' said master bean, shelving thetrivial subject of the prospective vigil, 'in the hope that i might persuade you, sir,to reconsider your decision in regard to my dismissal. i can assure you, sir, that i amextremely anxious to give satisfaction. if you would take me back and inform me how ihave fallen short, i would endeavour to improve, i—''we can't stop here all night,' interrupted mr ferguson, bounding from his chair and beginningto pace the floor. 'without presumption, sir, i feel that ifyou were to give me another chance i should work to your satisfaction. i should endeavour—'mr ferguson stared at him in dumb horror.

he had a momentary vision of a sleepless nightspent in listening to a nicely-polished speech for the defence. he was seized with a maddesire for flight. he could not leave the building, but he must get away somewhere andthink. he dashed from the room and raced up the darkstairs. and as he arrived at the next floor his eye was caught by a thin pencil of lightwhich proceeded from a door on the left. no shipwrecked mariner on a desert islandcould have welcomed the appearance of a sail with greater enthusiasm. he bounded at thedoor. he knew to whom the room belonged. it was the office of one blaythwayt; and blaythwaytwas not only an acquaintance, but a sportsman. quite possibly there might be a pack of cardson blaythwayt's person to help pass the long

hours. and if not, at least he would be companyand his office a refuge. he flung open the door without going through the formality ofknocking. etiquette is not for the marooned. 'i say, blaythwayt—' he began, and stoppedabruptly. the only occupant of the room was a girl.'i beg your pardon,' he said, 'i thought—' he stopped again. his eyes, dazzled with thelight, had not seen clearly. they did so now. 'you!' he cried.the girl looked at him, first with surprise, then with a cool hostility. there was a longpause. eighteen months had passed since they had parted, and conversation does not floweasily after eighteen months of silence, especially if the nature of the parting has been bitterand stormy.

he was the first to speak.'what are you doing here?' he said. 'i thought my doings had ceased to interestyou,' she said. 'i am mr blaythwayt's secretary, i have been here a fortnight. i have wonderedif we should meet. i used to see you sometimes in the street.''i never saw you.' 'no?' she said indifferently.he ran his hand through his hair in a dazed way.'do you know we are locked in?' he said. he had expected wild surprise and dismay.she merely clicked her tongue in an annoyed manner.'again!' she said. 'what a nuisance! i was locked in only a week ago.'he looked at her with unwilling respect, the

respect of the novice for the veteran. shewas nothing to him now, of course. she had passed out of his life. but he could not helpremembering that long ago—eighteen months ago—what he had admired most in her hadbeen this same spirit, this game refusal to be disturbed by fate's blows. it braced himup. he sat down and looked curiously at her.'so you left the stage?' he said. 'i thought we agreed when we parted not tospeak to one another,' said she, coldly. 'did we? i thought it was only to meet asstrangers.' 'it's the same thing.''is it? i often talk to strangers.' 'what a bore they must think you!' she said,hiding one-eighth of a yawn with the tips

of two fingers. 'i suppose,' she went on,with faint interest, 'you talk to them in trains when they are trying to read theirpaper?' 'i don't force my conversation on anyone.''don't you?' she said, raising her eyebrows in sweet surprise. 'only your company—isthat it?' 'are you alluding to the present occasion?''well, you have an office of your own in this building, i believe.''i have.' 'then why—''i am at perfect liberty,' he said, with dignity, 'to sit in my friend blaythwayt's office ifi choose. i wish to see mr blaythwayt.' 'on business?'he proved that she had established no corner

in raised eyebrows.'i fear,' he said, 'that i cannot discuss my affairs with mr blaythwayt's employees.i must see him personally.' 'mr blaythwayt is not here.''i will wait.' 'he will not be here for thirteen hours.'i'll wait.' 'very well,' she burst out; 'you have broughtit on yourself. you've only yourself to blame. if you had been good and had gone back toyour office, i would have brought you down some cake and cocoa.''cake and cocoa!' said he, superciliously. 'yes, cake and cocoa,' she snapped. 'it'sall very well for you to turn up your nose at them now, but wait. you've thirteen hoursof this in front of you. i know what it is.

last time i had to spend the night here icouldn't get to sleep for hours, and when i did i dreamed that i was chasing chocolateeclairs round and round trafalgar square. and i never caught them either. long beforethe night was finished i would have given anything for even a dry biscuit. i made upmy mind i'd always keep something here in case i ever got locked in again—yes, smile.you'd better while you can.' he was smiling, but wanly. nobody but a professionalfasting man could have looked unmoved into the inferno she had pictured. then he rallied.'cake!' he said, scornfully. she nodded grimly.'cocoa!' again that nod, ineffably sinister.'i'm afraid i don't care for either,' he said.

'if you will excuse me,' she said, indifferently,'i have a little work that i must finish.' she turned to her desk, leaving him to histhoughts. they were not exhilarating. he had maintained a brave front, but inwardly hequailed. reared in the country, he had developed at an early age a fine, healthy appetite.once, soon after his arrival in london, he had allowed a dangerous fanatic to persuadehim that the secret of health was to go without breakfast.his lunch that day had cost him eight shillings, and only decent shame had kept the figureas low as that. he knew perfectly well that long ere the dawn of day his whole soul wouldbe crying out for cake, squealing frantically for cocoa. would it not be better to—no,a thousand times no! death, but not surrender.

his self-respect was at stake. looking back,he saw that his entire relations with this girl had been a series of battles of will.so far, though he had certainly not won, he had not been defeated. he must not be defeatednow. he crossed his legs and sang a gay air underhis breath. 'if you wouldn't mind,' said the girl, lookingup. 'i beg your pardon?''your groaning interrupts my work.' 'i was not groaning. i was singing.''oh, i'm sorry!' 'not at all.'eight bars rest. mr ferguson, deprived of the solace of song,filled in the time by gazing at the toiler's

back-hair. it set in motion a train of thought—anexpress train bound for the land of yesterday. it recalled days in the woods, evenings onthe lawn. it recalled sunshine—storm. plenty of storm. minor tempests that burst from aclear sky, apparently without cause, and the great final tornado. there had been causeenough for that. why was it, mused mr ferguson, that every girl in every country town in everycounty of england who had ever recited 'curfew shall not ring tonight' well enough to escapelynching at the hands of a rustic audience was seized with the desire to come to londonand go on the stage? he sighed.'please don't snort,' said a cold voice, from behind the back-hair.there was a train-wreck in the land of yesterday.

mr ferguson, the only survivor, limped backinto the present. the present had little charm, but at leastit was better than the cakeless future. he fixed his thoughts on it. he wondered howmaster bean was passing the time. probably doing deep-breathing exercises, or readinga pocket aristotle. the girl pushed back her chair and rose.she went to a small cupboard in the corner of the room, and from it produced in instalmentsall that goes to make cake and cocoa. she did not speak. presently, filling space, theresprang into being an odour; and as it reached him mr ferguson stiffened in his chair, bracinghimself as for a fight to the death. it was more than an odour. it was the soul of thecocoa singing to him. his fingers gripped

the arms of the chair. this was the test.the girl separated a section of cake from the parent body. she caught his eye.'you had better go,' she said. 'if you go now it's just possible that i may—but iforgot, you don't like cocoa.' 'no,' said he, resolutely, 'i don't.'she seemed now in the mood for conversation. 'i wonder why you came up here at all,' shesaid. 'there's no reason why you shouldn't know.i came up here because my late office-boy is downstairs.''why should that send you up?' 'you've never met him or you wouldn't ask.have you ever had to face someone who is simply incarnate saintliness and disapproval, who—''are you forgetting that i was engaged to

you for several weeks?'he was too startled to be hurt. the idea of himself as a roland bean was too new to beassimilated immediately. it called for meditation. 'was i like that?' he said at last, almosthumbly. 'you know you were. oh, i'm not thinking onlyabout your views on the stage! it was everything. whatever i did you were there to disapprovelike a—like a—like an aunt,' she concluded triumphantly. 'you were too good for anything.if only you would, just once, have done something wrong. i think i'd have—but you couldn't.you're simply perfect.' a man will remain cool and composed undermany charges. hint that his tastes are criminal, and he will shrug his shoulders. but accusehim of goodness, and you rouse the lion.

mr ferguson's brow darkened.'as a matter of fact,' he said, haughtily, 'i was to have had supper with a chorus-girlthis very night.' 'how very appalling!' said she, languidly.she sipped her cocoa. 'i suppose you consider that very terrible?'she said. 'for a beginner.'she crumbled her cake. suddenly she looked up.'who is she?' she demanded, fiercely. 'i beg your pardon?' he said, coming out ofa pleasant reverie. 'who is this girl?''she—er—her name—her name is marie—marie templeton.'she seemed to think for a moment.

'that dear old lady?' she said.' i know herquite well.' 'what!''"mother" we used to call her. have you met her son?''her son?' 'a rather nice-looking man. he plays heavyparts on tour. he's married and has two of the sweetest children. their grandmother isdevoted to them. hasn't she ever mentioned them to you?'she poured herself out another cup of cocoa. conversation again languished.'i suppose you're very fond of her?' she said at length.'i'm devoted to her.' he paused. 'dear little thing!' he added.she rose and moved to the door. there was

a nasty gleam in her eyes.'you aren't going?' he said. 'i shall be back in a moment. i'm just goingto bring your poor little office-boy up here. he must be missing you.'he sprang up, but she had gone. leaning over the banisters, he heard a door open below,then a short conversation, and finally footsteps climbing the stairs.it was pitch dark on the landing. he stepped aside, and they passed without seeing him.master bean was discoursing easily on cocoa, the processes whereby it was manufactured,and the remarkable distances which natives of mexico had covered with it as their onlyfood. the door opened, flooding the landing with light, and mr ferguson, stepping fromambush, began to descend the stairs.

the girl came to the banisters.'mr ferguson!' he stopped.'did you want me?' he asked. 'are you going back to your office?''i am. i hope you will enjoy bean's society. he has a fund of useful information on allsubjects.' he went on. after a while she returned tothe room and closed the door. mr ferguson went into his office and sat down. there was once a person of the name of simeonstylites, who took up a position on top of a pillar and stayed there, having no otherengagements, for thirty years. mr ferguson, who had read tennyson's poem on the subject,had until tonight looked upon this as a pretty

good thing. reading the lines:...thrice ten years, thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs,in hunger and in thirsts, fevers and colds, in coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes,and cramps,... patient on this tall pillar i have borne.rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and snow,he had gathered roughly, as it were, that simeon had not been comfortable. he had pitiedhim. but now, sitting in his office-chair, he began to wonder what the man had made sucha fuss about. he suspected him of having had a touch of the white feather in him. it wasnot as if he had not had food. he talked about 'hungers and thirsts', but he must have hadsomething to eat, or he could not have stayed

the course. very likely, if the truth wereknown, there was somebody below who passed him up regular supplies of cake and cocoa.he began to look on simeon as an overrated amateur.sleep refused to come to him. it got as far as his feet, but no farther. he rose and stampedto restore the circulation. it was at this point that he definitely condemnedsimeon stylites as a sybaritic fraud. if this were one of those realistic zolaesquestories i would describe the crick in the back that—but let us hurry on.it was about six hours later—he had no watch, but the numbers of aches, stitches, not tomention cramps, that he had experienced could not possibly have been condensed into a shorterperiod—that his manly spirit snapped. let

us not judge him too harshly. the girl upstairshad broken his heart, ruined his life, and practically compared him to roland bean, andhis pride should have built up an impassable wall between them, but—she had cake andcocoa. in similar circumstances king arthur would have grovelled before guinevere.he rushed to the door and tore it open. there was a startled exclamation from the darknessoutside. 'i hope i didn't disturb you,' said a meekvoice. mr ferguson did not answer. his twitchingnostrils were drinking in a familiar aroma. 'were you asleep? may i come in? i've broughtyou some cake and cocoa.' he took the rich gifts from her in silence.there are moments in a man's life too sacred

for words. the wonder of the thing had struckhim dumb. an instant before and he had had but a desperate hope of winning these pricelessthings from her at the cost of all his dignity and self-respect. he had been prepared tosecure them through a shower of biting taunts, a blizzard of razor-like 'i told you so's'.yet here he was, draining the cup, and still able to hold his head up, look the world inthe face, and call himself a man. his keen eye detected a crumb on his coat-sleeve.this retrieved and consumed, he turned to her, seeking explanation.she was changed. the battle-gleam had faded from her eyes. she seemed scared and subdued.her manner was of one craving comfort and protection. 'that awful boy!' she breathed.'bean?' said mr ferguson, picking a crumb

off the carpet.'he's frightful.' 'i thought you might get a little tired ofhim! what has he been doing?' 'talking. i feel battered. he's like one ofthose awful encyclopedias that give you a sort of dull leaden feeling in your head directlyyou open them. do you know how many tons of water go over niagara falls every year?''no.' 'he does.''i told you he had a fund of useful information. the purpose and tenacity books insist on it.that's how you catch your employer's eye. one morning the boss suddenly wants to knowhow many horsehair sofas there are in brixton, the number of pins that would reach from londonbridge to waterloo. you tell him, and he takes

you into partnership. later you become a millionaire.but i haven't thanked you for the cocoa. it was fine.'he waited for the retort, but it did not come. a pleased wonderment filled him. could thesethings really be thus? 'and it isn't only what he says,' she wenton. 'i know what you mean about him now. it's his accusing manner.''i've tried to analyse that manner. i believe it's the spectacles.''it's frightful when he looks at you; you think of all the wrong things you have everdone or ever wanted to do.' 'does he have that effect on you?' he said,excitedly. 'why, that exactly describes what i feel.'the affinities looked at one another.

she was the first to speak.'we always did think alike on most things, didn't we?' she said.'of course we did.' he shifted his chair forward.'it was all my fault,' he said. 'i mean, what happened.''it wasn't. it—' 'yes, it was. i want to tell you something.i don't know if it will make any difference now, but i should like you to know it. it'sthis. i've altered a good deal since i came to london. for the better, i think. i'm apretty poor sort of specimen still, but at least i don't imagine i can measure life witha foot-rule. i don't judge the world any longer by the standards of a country town. londonhas knocked some of the corners off me. i

don't think you would find me the bean typeany longer. i don't disapprove of other people much now. not as a habit. i find i have enoughto do keeping myself up to the mark.' 'i want to tell you something, too,' she said.'i expect it's too late, but never mind. i want you to hear it. i've altered, too, sincei came to london. i used to think the universe had been invented just to look on and waveits hat while i did great things. london has put a large piece of cold ice against my head,and the swelling has gone down. i'm not the girl with ambitions any longer. i just wantto keep employed, and not have too bad a time when the day's work is over.'he came across to where she sat. 'we said we would meet as strangers, and wedo. we never have known each other. don't

you think we had better get acquainted?' hesaid. there was a respectful tap at the door.'come in?' snapped mr ferguson. 'well?' behind the gold-rimmed spectacles of master beanthere shone a softer look than usual, a look rather complacent than disapproving.'i must apologize, sir, for intruding upon you. i am no longer in your employment, buti do hope that in the circumstances you will forgive my entering your private office. thinkingover our situation just now an idea came to me by means of which i fancy we might be enabledto leave the building.' 'what!''it occurred to me, sir, that by telephoning to the nearest police-station—''good heavens!' cried mr ferguson.

two minutes later he replaced the receiver.'it's all right,' he said. 'i've made them understand the trouble. they're bringing aladder. i wonder what the time is? it must be about four in the morning.'master bean produced a waterbury watch. 'the time, sir, is almost exactly half pastten.' 'half past ten! we must have been here longerthan three hours. your watch is wrong.' 'no, sir, i am very careful to keep it exactlyright. i do not wish to run any risk of being unpunctual.''half past ten!' cried mr ferguson. 'why, we're in heaps of time to look in at the savoyfor supper. this is great. i'll phone them to keep a table.''supper! i thought—'

she stopped.'what's that? thought what?' 'hadn't you an engagement for supper?'he stared at her. 'whatever gave you that idea? of course not.''i thought you said you were taking miss templeton—' 'miss temp—oh!' his face cleared. 'oh, thereisn't such a person. i invented her. i had to when you accused me of being like our friendthe miasma. legitimate self-defence.' 'i do not wish to interrupt you, sir, whenyou are busy,' said master bean, 'but—' 'come and see me tomorrow morning,' said mrferguson. 'bob,' said the girl, as the first threateningmutters from the orchestra heralded an imminent storm of melody, 'when that boy comes tomorrow,what are going to do?'

'call up the police.''no, but you must do something. we shouldn't have been here if it hadn't been for him.''that's true!' he pondered. 'i've got it; i'll get him a job with raikes and courtenay.''why raikes and courtenay?' 'because i have a pull with them. but principally,'said mr ferguson, with a devilish grin, 'because they live in edinburgh, which, as you aredoubtless aware, is a long, long way from london.'he bent across the table. 'isn't this like old times?' he said. 'doyou remember the first time i ever ki—' just then the orchestra broke out.the good angel any man under thirty years of age who tellsyou he is not afraid of an english butler

lies. he may not show his fear. outwardlyhe may be brave—aggressive even, perhaps to the extent of calling the great man 'here!'or 'hi!' but, in his heart, when he meets that, cold, blue, introspective eye, he quakes.the effect that keggs, the butler at the keiths', had on martin rossiter was to make him feelas if he had been caught laughing in a cathedral. he fought against the feeling. he asked himselfwho keggs was, anyway; and replied defiantly that keggs was a menial—and an overfed menial.but all the while he knew that logic was useless. when the keiths had invited him to their countryhome he had been delighted. they were among his oldest friends. he liked mr keith. heliked mrs keith. he loved elsa keith, and had done so from boyhood.but things had gone wrong. as he leaned out

of his bedroom window at the end of the firstweek, preparatory to dressing for dinner, he was more than half inclined to make someexcuse and get right out of the place next day. the bland dignity of keggs had takenall the heart out of him. nor was it keggs alone who had driven histhoughts towards flight. keggs was merely a passive evil, like toothache or a rainyday. what had begun actively to make the place impossible was a perfectly pestilential youngman of the name of barstowe. the house-party at the keiths had originallybeen, from martin's view-point, almost ideal. the rest of the men were of the speechless,moustache-tugging breed. they had come to shoot, and they shot. when they were not shootingthey congregated in the billiard-room and

devoted their powerful intellects exclusivelyto snooker-pool, leaving martin free to talk undisturbed to elsa. he had been doing thisfor five days with great contentment when aubrey barstowe arrived. mrs keith had developedof late leanings towards culture. in her town house a charge of small-shot, fired in anydirection on a thursday afternoon, could not have failed to bring down a poet, a novelist,or a painter. aubrey barstowe, author of the soul's eclipse and other poems, was a constantmember of the crowd. a youth of insinuating manners, he had appealed to mrs keith fromthe start; and unfortunately the virus had extended to elsa. many a pleasant, sunshinythursday afternoon had been poisoned for martin by the sight of aubrey and elsa together ona distant settee, matching temperaments. the

rest is too painful. it was a rout. the poetdid not shoot, so that when martin returned of an evening his rival was about five hoursof soul-to-soul talk up and only two to play. and those two, the after-dinner hours, whichhad once been the hours for which martin had lived, were pure torture.so engrossed was he with his thoughts that the first intimation he had that he was notalone in the room was a genteel cough. behind him, holding a small can, was keggs.'your 'ot water, sir,' said the butler, austerely but not unkindly.keggs was a man—one must use that word, though it seems grossly inadequate—of mediumheight, pigeon-toed at the base, bulgy half-way up, and bald at the apex. his manner was restrainedand dignified, his voice soft and grave.

but it was his eye that quelled martin. thatcold, blue, dukes-have-treated-me-as-an-elder-brother eye.he fixed it upon him now, as he added, placing the can on the floor. 'it is frederick's duty,but tonight i hundertook it.' martin had no answer. he was dazed. keggshad spoken with the proud humility of an emperor compelled by misfortune to shine shoes.'might i have a word with you, sir?' 'ye-e-ss, yes,' stammered martin. 'won't youtake a—i mean, yes, certainly.' 'it is perhaps a liberty,' began keggs. hepaused, and raked martin with the eye that had rested on dining dukes.'not at all,' said martin, hurriedly. 'i should like,' went on keggs, bowing, 'tospeak to you on a somewhat intimate subject—miss

elsa.'martin's eyes and mouth opened slowly. 'you are going the wrong way to work, if youwill allow me to say so, sir.' martin's jaw dropped another inch.'wha-a—' 'women, sir,' proceeded keggs, 'young ladies—arepeculiar. i have had, if i may say so, certain hopportunities of observing their ways. misselsa reminds me in some respects of lady angelica fendall, whom i had the honour of knowingwhen i was butler to her father, lord stockleigh. her ladyship was hinclined to be romantic.she was fond of poetry, like miss elsa. she would sit by the hour, sir, listening to youngmr knox reading tennyson, which was no part of his duties, he being employed by his lordshipto teach lord bertie latin and greek and what

not. you may have noticed, sir, that youngladies is often took by tennyson, hespecially in the summertime. mr barstowe was readingtennyson to miss elsa in the 'all when i passed through just now. the princess, if i am notmistaken.' 'i don't know what the thing was,' groanedmartin. 'she seemed to be enjoying it.' 'lady angelica was greatly addicted to theprincess. young mr knox was reading portions of that poem to her when his lordship comeupon them. most rashly his lordship made a public hexpose and packed mr knox off nextday. it was not my place to volunteer advice, but i could have told him what would happen.two days later her ladyship slips away to london early in the morning, and they're marriedat a registry-office. that is why i say that

you are going the wrong way to work with misselsa, sir. with certain types of 'igh spirited young lady hopposition is useless. now, whenmr barstowe was reading to miss elsa on the occasion to which i 'ave alluded, you weresitting by, trying to engage her attention. it's not the way, sir. you should leave themalone together. let her see so much of him, and nobody else but him, that she will growtired of him. fondness for poetry, sir, is very much like the whisky 'abit. you can'tcure a man what has got that by hopposition. now, if you will permit me to offer a wordof advice, sir, i say, let miss elsa 'ave all the poetry she wants.'martin was conscious of one coherent feeling at the conclusion of this address, and thatwas one of amazed gratitude. a lesser man

who had entered his room and begun to discusshis private affairs would have had reason to retire with some speed; but that keggsshould descend from his pedestal and interest himself in such lowly matters was a differentthing altogether. 'i'm very much obliged—' he was stammering,when the butler raised a deprecatory hand. 'my interest in the matter,' he said, smoothly,'is not entirely haltruistic. for some years back, in fact, since miss elsa came out, wehave had a matrimonial sweepstake in the servants' hall at each house-party. the names of thegentlemen in the party are placed in a hat and drawn in due course. should miss elsabecome engaged to any member of the party, the pool goes to the drawer of his name. shouldno engagement occur, the money remains in

my charge until the following year, when itis added to the new pool. hitherto i have 'ad the misfortune to draw nothing but marriedgentlemen, but on this occasion i have secured you, sir. and i may tell you, sir,' he added,with stately courtesy, 'that, in the opinion of the servants' hall, your chances are 'ighlyfancied,—very 'ighly. the pool has now reached considerable proportions, and, 'aving hadcertain losses on the turf very recent, i am extremely anxious to win it. so i thought,if i might take the liberty, sir, i would place my knowledge of the sex at your disposal.you will find it sound in every respect. that is all. thank you, sir.'martin's feelings had undergone a complete revulsion. in the last few minutes the butlerhad shed his wings and grown horns, cloven

feet, and a forked tail. his rage deprivedhim of words. he could only gurgle. 'don't thank me, sir,' said the butler, indulgently.'i ask no thanks. we are working together for a common hobject, and any little 'elpi can provide is given freely.' 'you old scoundrel!' shouted martin, his wrathprevailing even against that blue eye. 'you have the insolence to come to me and—'he stopped. the thought of these hounds, these demons, coolly gossiping and speculating belowstairs about elsa, making her the subject of little sporting flutters to relieve themonotony of country life, choked him. 'i shall tell mr keith,' he said.the butler shook his bald head gravely. 'i shouldn't, sir. it is a 'ighly fantasticstory, and i don't think he would believe

it.''then i'll—oh, get out!' keggs bowed deferentially.'if you wish it, sir,' he said, 'i will withdraw. if i may make the suggestion, sir, i thinkyou should commence to dress. dinner will be served in a few minutes. thank you, sir.'he passed softly out of the room. it was more as a demonstration of defianceagainst keggs than because he really hoped that anything would come of it that martinapproached elsa next morning after breakfast. elsa was strolling on the terrace in frontof the house with the bard, but martin broke in on the conference with the dogged determinationof a steam-drill. 'coming out with the guns today, elsa?' hesaid.

she raised her eyes. there was an absent lookin them. 'the guns?' she said. 'oh, no; i hate watchingmen shoot.' 'you used to like it.''i used to like dolls,' she said, impatiently. mr barstowe gave tongue. he was a slim, tall,sickeningly beautiful young man, with large, dark eyes, full of expression.'we develop,' he said. 'the years go by, and we develop. our souls expand—timidly atfirst, like little, half-fledged birds stealing out from the—''i don't know that i'm so set on shooting today, myself,' said martin. 'will you comeround the links?' 'i am going out in the motor with mr barstowe,'said elsa.

'the motor!' cried mr barstowe. 'ah, rossiter,that is the very poetry of motion. i never ride in a motor-car without those words ofshakespeare's ringing in my mind: "i'll put a girdle round about the earth in forty minutes."''i shouldn't give way to that sort of thing if i were you,' said martin. 'the police arepretty down on road-hogging in these parts.' 'mr barstowe was speaking figuratively,' saidelsa, with disdain. 'was he?' grunted martin, whose sorrows weretending to make him every day more like a sulky schoolboy. 'i'm afraid i haven't gota poetic soul.' 'i'm afraid you haven't,' said elsa.there was a brief silence. a bird made itself heard in a neighbouring tree.'"the moan of doves in immemorial elms,"'

quoted mr barstowe, softly.'only it happens to be a crow in a beech,' said martin, as the bird flew out.elsa's chin tilted itself in scorn. martin turned on his heel and walked away.'it's the wrong way, sir; it's the wrong way,' said a voice. 'i was hobserving you from awindow, sir. it's lady angelica over again. hopposition is useless, believe me, sir.'martin faced round, flushed and wrathful. the butler went on unmoved: 'miss elsa isgoing for a ride in the car today, sir.' 'i know that.''uncommonly tricky things, these motor-cars. i was saying so to roberts, the chauffeur,just as soon as i 'eard miss elsa was going out with mr barstowe. i said, "roberts, thesecars is tricky; break down when you're twenty

miles from hanywhere as soon as look at you.roberts," i said, slipping him a sovereign, "'ow awful it would be if the car should breakdown twenty miles from hanywhere today!"' martin stared.'you bribed roberts to—' 'sir! i gave roberts the sovereign becausei am sorry for him. he is a poor man, and has a wife and family to support.''very well,' said martin, sternly; 'i shall go and warn miss keith.''warn her, sir!' 'i shall tell her that you have bribed robertsto make the car break down so that—' keggs shook his head.'i fear she would hardly credit the statement, sir. she might even think that you was tryingto keep her from going for your own pussonal

ends.''i believe you are the devil,' said martin. 'i 'ope you will come to look on me, sir,'said keggs, unctuously, 'as your good hangel.' martin shot abominably that day, and, cominghome in the evening gloomy and savage, went straight to his room, and did not reappeartill dinner-time. elsa had been taken in by one of the moustache-tuggers. martin foundhimself seated on her other side. it was so pleasant to be near her, and to feel thatthe bard was away at the other end of the table, that for the moment his spirits revived.'well, how did you like the ride?' he asked, with a smile. 'did you put that girdle roundthe world?' she looked at him—once. the next momenthe had an uninterrupted view of her shoulder,

and heard the sound of her voice as she prattledgaily to the man on her other side. his heart gave a sudden bound. he understoodnow. the demon butler had had his wicked way. good heavens! she had thought he was tauntingher! he must explain at once. he— 'hock or sherry, sir?'he looked up into kegg's expressionless eyes. the butler was wearing his on-duty mask. therewas no sign of triumph in his face. 'oh, sherry. i mean hock. no, sherry. neither.'this was awful. he must put this right. 'elsa,' he said.she was engrossed in her conversation with her neighbour.from down the table in a sudden lull in the talk came the voice of mr barstowe. he seemedto be in the middle of a narrative.

'fortunately,' he was saying, 'i had withme a volume of shelley, and one of my own little efforts. i had read miss keith thewhole of the latter and much of the former before the chauffeur announced that it wasonce more possible—' 'elsa,' said the wretched man, 'i had no idea—youdon't think—' she turned to him.'i beg your pardon?' she said, very sweetly. 'i swear i didn't know—i mean, i'd forgotten—imean—' she wrinkled her forehead.'i'm really afraid i don't understand.' 'i mean, about the car breaking down.''the car? oh, yes. yes, it broke down. we were delayed quite a little while. mr barstoweread me some of his poems. it was perfectly

lovely. i was quite sorry when roberts toldus we could go on again. but do you really mean to tell me, mr lambert, that you—'and once more the world became all shoulder. when the men trailed into the presence ofthe ladies for that brief seance on which etiquette insisted before permitting the stampedeto the billiard-room, elsa was not to be seen. 'elsa?' said mrs keith in answer to martin'squestion. 'she has gone to bed. the poor child has a headache. i am afraid she had a tiringday.' there was an early start for the guns nextmorning, and as elsa did not appear at breakfast martin had to leave without seeing her. hisshooting was even worse than it had been on the previous day.it was not until late in the evening that

the party returned to the house. martin, onthe way to his room, met mrs keith on the stairs. she appeared somewhat agitated.'oh, martin,' she said. 'i'm so glad you're back. have you seen anything of elsa?''elsa?' 'wasn't she with the guns?''with the guns' said martin, puzzled. 'no.' 'i have seen nothing of her all day. i'm gettingworried. i can't think what can have happened to her. are you sure she wasn't with the guns?''absolutely certain. didn't she come in to lunch?''no. tom,' she said, as mr keith came up, 'i'm so worried about elsa. i haven't seenher all day. i thought she must be out with the guns.'mr keith was a man who had built up a large

fortune mainly by consistently refusing toallow anything to agitate him. he carried this policy into private life.'wasn't she in at lunch?' he asked, placidly. 'i tell you i haven't seen her all day. shebreakfasted in her room—' 'late?''yes. she was tired, poor girl.' 'if she breakfasted late,' said mr keith,'she wouldn't need any lunch. she's gone for a stroll somewhere.''would you put back dinner, do you think?' inquired mrs keith, anxiously.'i am not good at riddles,' said mr keith, comfortably, 'but i can answer that one. iwould not put back dinner. i would not put back dinner for the king.'elsa did not come back for dinner. nor was

hers the only vacant place. mr barstowe hadalso vanished. even mr keith's calm was momentarily ruffled by this discovery. the poet was nota favourite of his—it was only reluctantly that he had consented to his being invitedat all; and the presumption being that when two members of a house-party disappear simultaneouslythey are likely to be spending the time in each other's society, he was annoyed. elsawas not the girl to make a fool of herself, of course, but—he was unwontedly silentat dinner. mrs keith's anxiety displayed itself differently.she was frankly worried, and mentioned it. by the time the fish had been reached conversationat the table had fixed itself definitely on the one topic.'it isn't the car this time, at any rate,'

said mr keith. 'it hasn't been out today.''i can't understand it,' said mrs keith for the twentieth time. and that was the farthestpoint reached in the investigation of the mystery.by the time dinner was over a spirit of unrest was abroad. the company sat about in uneasygroups. snooker-pool was, if not forgotten, at any rate shelved. somebody suggested search-parties,and one or two of the moustache-tuggers wandered rather aimlessly out into the darkness.martin was standing in the porch with mr keith when keggs approached. as his eyes lit onhim, martin was conscious of a sudden solidifying of the vague suspicion which had been formingin his mind. and yet that suspicion seemed so wild. how could keggs, with the worst intentions,have had anything to do with this? he could

not forcibly have abducted the missing pairand kept them under lock and key. he could not have stunned them and left them in a ditch.nevertheless, looking at him standing there in his attitude of deferential dignity, withthe light from the open door shining on his bald head, martin felt perfectly certain thathe had in some mysterious fashion engineered the whole thing.'might i have a word, sir, if you are at leisure?' 'well, keggs?''miss elsa, sir.' 'yes?'kegg's voice took on a sympathetic softness. 'it was not my place, sir, to make any remarkwhile in the dining-room, but i could not 'elp but hoverhear the conversation. i gatheredfrom remarks that was passed that you was

somewhat hat a loss to account for miss elsa'snon-appearance, sir.' mr keith laughed shortly.'you gathered that, eh?' keggs bowed.'i think, sir, that possibly i may be hable to throw light on the matter.''what!' cried mr keith. 'great scott, man! then why didn't you say so at the time? whereis she?' 'it was not my place, sir, to henter intothe conversation of the dinner-table,' said the butler, with a touch of reproof. 'if imight speak now, sir?' mr keith clutched at his forehead.'heavens above! do you want a signed permit to tell me where my daughter is? get on, man,get on!'

'i think it 'ighly possible, sir, that misselsa and mr barstowe may be on the hisland in the lake, sir.' about half a mile fromthe house was a picturesque strip of water, some fifteen hundred yards in width and alittle less in length, in the centre of which stood a small and densely wooded island. itwas a favourite haunt of visitors at the house when there was nothing else to engage theirattention, but during the past week, with shooting to fill up the days, it had beenneglected. 'on the island?' said mr keith. 'what putthat idea into your head?' 'i 'appened to be rowing on the lake thismorning, sir. i frequently row of a morning, sir, when there are no duties to detain mein the 'ouse. i find the hexercise hadmirable

for the 'ealth. i walk briskly to the boat-'ouse,and—' 'yes, yes. i don't want a schedule of yourdaily exercises. cut out the athletic reminiscences and come to the point.''as i was rowing on the lake this morning, sir, i 'appened to see a boat 'itched up toa tree on the hisland. i think that possibly miss elsa and mr barstowe might 'ave takena row out there. mr barstowe would wish to see the hisland, sir, bein' romantic.''but you say you saw the boat there this morning?' 'yes, sir.''well, it doesn't take all day to explore a small island. what's kept them all thiswhile?' 'it is possible, sir, that the rope mightnot have 'eld. mr barstowe, if i might say

so, sir, is one of those himpetuous literarypussons, and possibly he homitted to see that the knot was hadequately tied. or'—his eye,grave and inscrutable, rested for a moment on martin's—'some party might 'ave comealong and huntied it a-puppus.' 'untied it on purpose?' said mr keith. 'whaton earth for?' keggs shook his head deprecatingly, as onewho, realizing his limitations, declines to attempt to probe the hidden sources of humanactions. 'i thought it right, sir, to let you know,'he said. 'right? i should say so. if elsa has beenkept starving all day on that island by that long-haired—here, come along, martin.'he dashed off excitedly into the night. martin

remained for a moment gazing fixedly at thebutler. 'i 'ope, sir,' said keggs, cordially, 'thatmy hinformation will prove of genuine hassistance.' 'do you know what i should like to do to you?'said martin slowly. 'i think i 'ear mr keith calling you, sir.''i should like to take you by the scruff of your neck and—''there, sir! didn't you 'ear 'im then? quite distinct it was.'martin gave up the struggle with a sense of blank futility. what could you do with a manlike this? it was like quarrelling with westminster abbey.'i should 'urry, sir,' suggested keggs, respectfully. 'i think mr keith must have met with somehaccident.'

his surmise proved correct. when martin cameup he found his host seated on the ground in evident pain.'twisted my ankle in a hole,' he explained, briefly. 'give me an arm back to the house,there's a good fellow, and then run on down to the lake and see if what keggs said istrue.' martin did as he was requested—so far, thatis to say, as the first half of the commission was concerned. as regarded the second, hetook it upon himself to make certain changes. having seen mr keith to his room, he put thefitting-out of the relief ship into the good hands of a group of his fellow guests whomhe discovered in the porch. elsa's feelings towards her rescuer might be one of unmixedgratitude; but it might, on the other hand,

be one of resentment. he did not wish herto connect him in her mind with the episode in any way whatsoever. martin had once releaseda dog from a trap, and the dog had bitten him. he had been on an errand of mercy, butthe dog had connected him with his sufferings and acted accordingly. it occurred to martinthat elsa's frame of mind would be uncommonly like that dog's.the rescue-party set off. martin lit a cigarette, and waited in the porch.it seemed a very long time before anything happened, but at last, as he was lightinghis fifth cigarette, there came from the darkness the sound of voices. they drew nearer. someoneshouted: 'it's all right. we've found them.'martin threw away his cigarette and went indoors.

elsa keith sat up as her mother came intothe room. two nights and a day had passed since she had taken to her bed.'how are you feeling today, dear?' 'has he gone, mother?''who?' 'mr barstowe?''yes, dear. he left this morning. he said he had business with his publisher in london.''then i can get up,' said elsa, thankfully. 'i think you're a little hard on poor mr barstowe,elsa. it was just an accident, you know. it was not his fault that the boat slipped away.''it was, it was, it was!' cried elsa, thumping the pillow malignantly. 'i believe he didit on purpose, so that he could read me his horrid poetry without my having a chance toescape. i believe that's the only way he can

get people to listen to it.''but you used to like it, darling. you said he had such a musical voice.''musical voice!' the pillow became a shapeless heap. 'mother, it was like a nightmare! ifi had seen him again i should have had hysterics. it was awful! if he had been even the leastbit upset himself i think i could have borne up. but he enjoyed it! he revelled in it!he said it was like omar khayyam in the wilderness and shelley's epipsychidion, whatever thatis; and he prattled on and on and read and read till my head began to split. mother'—hervoice sank to a whisper—'i hit him!' 'elsa!''i did!' she went on, defiantly. 'i hit him as hard as i could, and he—he'—she brokeoff into a little gurgle of laughter—'he

tripped over a bush and fell right down; andi wasn't a bit ashamed. i didn't think it unladylike or anything. i was just as proudas i could be. and it stopped him talking.' 'but, elsa, dear! why?''the sun had just gone down; and it was a lovely sunset, and the sky looked like a great,beautiful slice of underdone beef; and i said so to him, and he said, sniffily, that hewas afraid he didn't see the resemblance. and i asked him if he wasn't starving. andhe said no, because as a rule all that he needed was a little ripe fruit. and that waswhen i hit him.' 'elsa!''oh, i know it was awfully wrong, but i just had to. and now i'll get up. it looks lovelyout.'

martin had not gone out with the guns thatday. mrs keith had assured him that there was nothing wrong with elsa, that she wasonly tired, but he was anxious, and had remained at home, where bulletins could reach him.as he was returning from a stroll in the grounds he heard his name called, and saw elsa lyingin the hammock under the trees near the terrace. 'why, martin, why aren't you out with theguns?' she said. 'i wanted to be on the spot so that i couldhear how you were.' 'how nice of you! why don't you sit down?''may i?' elsa fluttered the pages of her magazine.'you know, you're a very restful person, martin. you're so big and outdoory. how would youlike to read to me for a while? i feel so

lazy.'martin took the magazine. 'what shall i read? here's a poem by—'elsa shuddered. 'oh, please, no,' she cried. 'i couldn't bearit. i'll tell you what i should love—the advertisements. there's one about sardines.i started it, and it seemed splendid. it's at the back somewhere.''is this it—langley and fielding's sardines?' 'that's it.'martin began to read. '"langley and fielding's sardines. when youwant the daintiest, most delicious sardines, go to your grocer and say, 'langley and fielding's,please!' you will then be sure of having the finest norwegian smoked sardines, packed inthe purest olive oil."'

elsa was sitting with her eyes closed anda soft smile of pleasure curving her mouth. 'go on,' she said, dreamily.'"nothing nicer."' resumed martin, with an added touch of eloquence as the theme beganto develop, '"for breakfast, lunch, or supper. probably your grocer stocks them. ask him.if he does not, write to us. price fivepence per tin. the best sardines and the best oil!"''isn't it lovely?' she murmured. her hand, as it swung, touched his. he heldit. she opened her eyes. 'don't stop reading,' she said. 'i never heardanything so soothing.' 'elsa!'he bent towards her. she smiled at him. her eyes were dancing.'elsa, i—'

'mr keith,' said a quiet voice, 'desired meto say—' martin started away. he glared up furiously.gazing down upon them stood keggs. the butler's face was shining with a gentle benevolence.'mr keith desired me to say that he would be glad if miss elsa would come and sit withhim for a while.' 'i'll come at once,' said elsa, stepping fromthe hammock. the butler bowed respectfully and turned away.they stood watching him as he moved across the terrace.'what a saintly old man keggs looks,' said elsa. 'don't you think so? he looks as ifhe had never even thought of doing anything he shouldn't. i wonder if he ever has?''i wonder!' said martin.

'he looks like a stout angel. what were yousaying, martin, when he came up?'

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