TITUS
“I tell you,” said Titus, “you should have married money.”
“If you like to put it that way,” said Mrs. Cheviot, “there’s nothing to stop you.”
“My dear,” said her husband, “it happens to be the truth. Three thousand a year’s no earthly use to you.”
“It would be if I had my share.”
Titus took out a note-book and put a glass in his eye.
“This is May,” he announced. “The twelfth of May. I don’t know exactly how much you consider your share, but since the beginning of the year you’ve had seven hundred and ninety for clothes alone.”
“You would write it down,” said Blanche contemptuously.
“If you mean that it’s like me,” said Cheviot, “that isn’t true. But we’ve had these discussions before, and the absence of any figures has materially helped your case. In the first place, I’ve always put it too low—to be on the safe side. In the second, you’ve always sworn that I put it too high.”
“I suppose you want me to be dressed.”
Titus took down his eyeglass and put his note-book away.
“You were clothed,” he said, “as a spinster. I remember it perfectly. But two hundred a year was all you had to do it on.”
“Are you suggesting——”
“I’m suggesting nothing,” said Cheviot. “I’m pointing out hard facts.”
“I suppose you consider you’re very generous.”
“Well, I don’t think I’m stingy. Seven hundred and ninety quid in less than——”
“It would interest me to know what you consider my share.”
“I don’t know,” said Titus. “I don’t pretend to know. The flat and the car cost about eighteen hundred. I spend about a hundred——”
“We could live much more cheaply,” said Blanche.
“I don’t quite see why we should.”
“Exactly. You choose the style in which we live. If we spent less money on that, we should have more money to spend on other things.”
“Such as clothes,” said Titus. “What a truly solemn thought. Never mind. You chose the flat when I was out of town. And the car.”
“Because I knew you wouldn’t be content with anything else.”
“In fact, you sank your wishes to do me pleasure?”
“I did—like a fool,” said Blanche.
“You covered it up very well,” said Cheviot. “When the flat in St. James’s fell through, you cried all night. And that was more expensive.”
“It’s no good talking,” said Blanche. “You don’t understand. In America——”
“I know,” said Titus. “I know. In America you’d have four-fifths of my income, and I should pay for your furs. All I can say is I’m damned glad I’m English.”
“In America men work.”
“Is that your trouble? Well, I’ve worked pretty hard in my time and I’m forty-two. Moreover, I’ve got a game leg. Never mind. What about the car?”
“Well, what about it?” said Blanche defiantly.
“This,” said her husband. “You say that you chose it because you knew that I should not be content with anything else. Do you remember the car I used to have?”
“Did you expect me to go about in that?”
Cheviot sighed.
“I expected nothing,” he said. “That is the art of life. Then you don’t feel such a mug when you find a wiggle-woggle in your grease.”
Mrs. Cheviot shuddered.
“Need you be disgusting?” she said.
“I need,” said Titus violently. “Dudgeon will out. For the last nine months I’ve fought like a super-fiend to keep our home together, and here you are doin’ your level best to break it up. I love you. I want you to blaze. I want you to put it across all other Eves. But you have—you do—you can’t help it. The clothes you wear don’t count. If you wore a set of loose covers, you’d get there just the same. But will you see it? No. Somehow you’ve made up your mind you’ve got to splurge.” He jumped to his feet and started to pace the room. “Well, if you must, you shall—on eight hundred a year. I can’t spring another cent. You talk about living cheaper—cutting out the flat and the car. But what’s the use of sables if you live an’ move in Clapham an’ have to come up by tram? Don’t think I care—I don’t. But how will it help you on? To get your effect you must soak in a bit all round. If you want the fun of the fair, you must split up your pence. If you blue them all on the swings, you can’t go on the roundabouts.”
“Who said ‘live in Clapham’?” said Blanche.
“I did,” said Titus. “I also said ‘come up by tram,’ an’ I meant what I said. Your words were ‘live much more cheaply.’ Did you mean what you said?”
“I didn’t say ‘pig it,’ ” said Mrs. Cheviot.
“They don’t pig it in Clapham,” said Titus. “They live much better than us. But they live much more cheaply too—for obvious reasons. They don’t feed five servants for one thing—they’ve too much sense.”
“We must keep our end up,” said Blanche. “The Willoughbys have started a second chauffeur. At least, they’re trying to find one.”
“They’d better have ours,” said Titus. “If we cut out the car——”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Blanche. “We must have a car and we must have a decent address. We must be served, and I must be well turned out. If——”
“Exactly,” said Titus. “Now let’s translate that saying. What you really mean is, ‘We must have a Rolls, and I won’t live West of Park Lane. We must have at least five servants, and I’ve got to dress accordin’ an’ a big bit over.’ Well, that’s all glorious, but the brutal answer’s this. Someone once said in his thirst that to get a quart into a pint pot was beyond the power of miserable man. Well, the converse is equally melancholy and equally true. The man who can get a quart out of a pint pot has never been foaled—or if he has, my dear, his name’s not Titus. And there we are. We’ve three thousand pounds a year—to spend. If you can divide it by ten an’ get six hundred for answer, I’ll climb up the nearest steeple an’ push myself off.” He flung himself into a chair and put his head in his hands. “I’m not certain that wouldn’t be the best move, any way. Then at least you wouldn’t——”
“Ti, Ti, how can you talk like that?” Blanche was down on her knees with her arms round her husband’s neck. “I’m a selfish sweep, Ti, and you’re an angel.”
“Rot!” said her husband, taking her in his arms.
“I am, I am. It’s the truth. You give, and I take—all the time. I take and take and take. What fun do you have? None. Every penny you can spare—more goes on my back. And then when we’re up against it I kick and scream. Ti, I’m ashamed of myself.”
“I can’t bear it,” said Titus brokenly. “Why shouldn’t you have a show?”
“I do—I have. You give me a wonderful show. Everything I’ve wanted I’ve always had. There isn’t a husband like you in all the world. You’ve given up thing after thing—you know you have. You never hunt now, you wear the same old suits, you’ve chucked the Bath and the Bachelors’——”
“Never went inside ’em,” muttered Titus. “What was the good of——”
“You gave them up to save money—for me to blow. And I—I let you do it. I traded upon your love. I let you go hungry whilst I was bolting your share. And then . . .” Blanche covered her face and burst into tears. “I’m a rotten thief,” she sobbed, “a rotten, selfish——”
“Blanche, my lady,” begged Titus, “don’t cry about me. It’s amused me to death to give you what little I could. It’s been my delight to see you enjoying life. And when you say I’ve let you drink my liquor it isn’t true. I’ve done myself proud all the time.”
“You’ve given up cigars,” wailed Blanche. “And you swapped your one pearl pin for an arrow to go in my hat.”
“Have a heart, my beauty, have a heart. You’re the only thing I’ve got, and if it gives me pleasure to——”
“I asked for ‘my share,’ Ti. I actually asked for ‘my share.’ Why didn’t you get up and shake me when I asked for ‘my share’?”
“I damned near did,” said Titus. “But it seemed a pity to disturb you—you looked so sweet. Half on an’ half off the table, with your precious chin exalted and a couple of hands in your lap. I don’t wonder I’m mad about you.”
Blanche continued to weep violently, refusing to be comforted. Titus sat down beside her and did what he could. The terrier, greatly distressed, alternately nosed his patrons and lay on his back before them with his paws in the air. . . .
Presently the telephone-bell began to throb.
Titus left the room to reply to the call.
Once outside the door, he covered his eyes.
“It’s coming,” he said brokenly. “ ‘There isn’t a husband like you in all the world.’ That’s what she said. Oh, my blessed darling, our summer’s coming again.”
Titus had wooed a lady that loved him heart and soul and had married one that had come to love only herself. This was his own fault. Blanche Dudoy Guest was a darling, and he had spoiled her to death.
Their engagement had been childishly happy—a glorious summer of content. Then they were married less than a year ago, and instantly winter had set in.
Titus did what he could and, though he was no fool, made a pack of mistakes. This was easy. Blanche out of humour was the devil and all. The winter, which had never been kindly, began to grow harsh.
With it all, the man never lost heart.
He could not believe that his darling was gone for good, that the selfish woman of the world usurping her throne would not one day be dislodged. He told himself fiercely that one day summer would return—that peerless season when she had returned his love and had cared for the light in his eyes.
And now, for the first time since their marriage, Blanche had shown him affection though he brought her no gift. More. The darling had turned and rent the woman of the world.
It was the first swallow.
Summer was coming back.
When Titus re-entered the room, his wife, who was stroking the terrier, looked up with shining eyes.
“I’ve got it, old fellow,” she said. “I know what my trouble is. I’ve nothing to do.”
Titus Cheviot stared.
“This is reaction,” he said. “You stay where you are, sweetheart, and I’ll get you a drink.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Blanche. “I’m sane as sane. I’ve not been happy, you know—splashing about. That’s really why I splurged. I felt if I went all out perhaps I’d get there. I haven’t, of course. You never do. That way there’s nowhere to get. Then again—without an anchor I’m frightfully weak. I’m not a waster by nature, but put me among the wasters and I’ll waste away. I must have an anchor, Ti—an object in life. When you first knew me I had one. It was—to marry you. Then I lost that anchor . . . last June . . . in Eaton Square. . . . Since then . . . Ti, my dear, I’m going to open a shop.”
“Moses’ boots,” said Titus, sitting down on a chair. “What are you going to purvey?”
“Brains,” said Blanche. “My brains. And yours, if you will. It’ll cost us next to nothing except the rent. And we ought to make that on our heads. If we make no more, it doesn’t matter. I shall have something to do. But we must have a decent pitch.”
“Of course,” said Titus, “of course you’ve got me beat. I thought you sold brains by the pound.”
“Ideas, my darling, ideas. The Cheviots, Decorators. We’ve each got an excellent eye. You can do the halls and libraries, and I’ll do the drawing-rooms. We shall be frightfully chic and outrageously expensive. But we must have a decent pitch.”
Titus put a hand to his head.
“I don’t know about the chic,” he said dazedly, “but I shall be expensive all right. I’m sure of that. Almost costly. By the time they’ve paid me a tenner and then paid somebody else two tenners to rub it all out and do it again——”
“A tenner?” cried Blanche. “Why, you won’t look at a room under fifty guineas.”
“Oh, here’s wickedness! Here’s fraud and everything! Fifty guineas to me to look at a room? Why, it’s almost burglary.”
“Not at all,” said Blanche stoutly. “If they don’t like your taste, that’s their funeral. They shouldn’t have bought it. But they will. You’ve a splendid eye. Besides, they won’t know any better. And we must ask a wicked price, otherwise no one will buy. The world takes you at your own valuation—always. I forget who said that, but he knew. Besides, we must become the vogue: and you can’t do that unless you’re irrationally dear. Once you’re off it’s too easy. People will simply love to be able to say, ‘This is a Cheviot room,’ because it’ll be tantamount to saying, ‘I’m so rich that I blued a hundred on this room before ever the paper went up.’ ”
“It’s a hundred now,” said Titus. “I’m getting all hot in the palms. Never mind. Ramp or no, I’m beginnin’ to see your point. An’, to tell you the truth, I could do with a bit of work—nice, gentle exercise, you know, entailing extended week-ends and entirely suspended during the more important race-meetings.”
“That’s the idea,” said Blanche. “Now what about a pitch?”
Her husband looked down his nose.
“That telephone-call was from Forsyth. He wants to know if I’ll take five hundred a year for——”
Blanche leaped to her feet.
“Not 68, Old Bond Street?”
Titus nodded.
“Only the shop, you know. The rest of it’s let. Nearly half our income comes from that little old house.”
Blanche danced across the room and took his face in her hands.
“It’s kept us long enough.” She bent and kissed him. “Let’s keep it instead.”
Had the Cheviots opened a shop because they had to make money, they would almost certainly have failed. For one thing, that fair-weather friend, Confidence, would have let them down. As it was, entering the arena of Commerce to kill a time which was waxing obstreperous and being not at all desirous of too extensive a clientèle, they were immediately successful beyond all understanding. This, in a way, was no more than they deserved. To say that they did things in style conveys nothing at all. Within one week of the cold June morning when the curtain rose upon 68, Old Bond Street, the name of Cheviot had become a household word. It had become a synonym for ‘de luxe.’
The window was admirably dressed.
Standing upon the pavement, you seemed to be peering into a library. Eight feet from the front yawned a tremendous chimney-piece of chiselled stone, topped by a black oak screen and flanked by shelves laden with precious books. Upon the hearth well-wrought andirons bore a fair fire of logs which flamed and glowed engagingly. A broad, low club-kerb, covered in scarlet, compassed the fireplace, and upon a Kulah hearth-rug of unusual beauty a mighty leather chair, patently bursting with philanthropy—the very lap of Luxury—sprawled in the colours of a cardinal. By the head of the chair rose a slender pillar of bronze, bearing a lamp, and by its side, within reach of any that sat upon such a throne, a massive oaken table carried the decent furniture of drink. There were cigarettes there, too, and an ashtray, and, what was more important, an open book. Who passed might read.
A CHEVIOT ROOM
THAT IS TO SAY,
A ROOM DECORATED ACCORDING TO
THE ADVICE OF
CHEVIOT’S
(FOUNDED 1930)
From time to time hangings on the left parted to admit the pink of footmen, who added fuel to the fire and swept and garnished the hearth before retiring. So soon as it was dusk the footman switched on the lamp, which was heavily shaded. Save for the flickering fire, this was the sole illuminant. Not until half-past eight were the window curtains drawn and ‘the Cheviot room’ veiled from curious gaze.
The door of the shop admitted to a stately entrance-hall, paved with black and white marble, panelled with old grey oak, invisibly lit. Four aged chancel stalls, each dight with a crimson cushion, faced a pair of huge oak doors hung in the opposite wall. On the left, a superb triptych of the Flemish School surmounted a carved oak chest; on the right, a tall case clock rose between two panels which suggested the brush of Dürer. Upon the ceiling was stencilled a golden cipher, whose interlaced initials seemed to be T.B.C. In the centre of the hall was a table, and by the table a bench, heavily carved and bearing a cushion covered with crimson brocade.
To such as entered the shop a footman immediately appeared and, conducting them to the table, respectfully drew their attention to an ivory horn-book inlaid with ebony lettering.
UPON REQUEST MR. OR MRS. CHEVIOT WILL VISIT YOUR HOUSE TO SURVEY THE ROOM YOU MAY WISH TO DECORATE.
THEIR OPINION WILL BE SENT TO YOU THE DAY AFTER THEIR VISIT HAS BEEN PAID.
NEITHER FOR THEIR VISIT NOR FOR THEIR OPINION WILL ANY CHARGE BE MADE.
UPON FURTHER REQUEST MR. OR MRS. CHEVIOT WILL REVISIT YOUR HOUSE WHEN THE WORK HAS BEEN COMPLETED AND, PROVIDED THE DECORATION IS TO THEIR SATISFACTION, WILL BE PREPARED TO AFFIX TO THE CEILING THE BADGE OR CIPHER WHICH ALONE WILL ENTITLE THE CHAMBER TO BE STYLED ‘A CHEVIOT ROOM.’
THEIR FEE FOR AFFIXING THE CIPHER IS FIFTY GUINEAS.
THE INSCRIPTION OF YOUR NAME AND ADDRESS IN THE VOLUME UPON THE TABLE WILL BE TAKEN AS A REQUEST TO VISIT YOUR HOUSE.
SHOULD A REQUEST TO REVISIT BE RECEIVED, YOUR ENTRY WILL BE WAFERED.
It will be seen that the Cheviots knew their world.
They were, in fact, purveying pomps and vanity, admirably camouflaged to resemble virtu and guaranteed to afford the purchaser a feeling of warmth upon every remembrance of their possession.
They were also effectually exploiting moral cowardice.
Few, having read the terms, felt able to surprise the footman, who plainly took it for granted that an entry would be made in the book and had been specially chosen for his wholly respectful yet stern and compelling personality: and none, having registered therein, had the courage to allow their name to stand unwafered and so proclaim their disregard of what could only be regarded as a debt of honour.
They had luck, of course.
That the first person to enter the shop should have been Mrs. Drinkabeer Stoat was sheer good fortune.
Extremely rich, a firm believer in display and the accumulation of worldly goods, the lady was secretly tormented by an anxiety lest such as beheld her possessions should form too low an estimate of their value as recorded by her pass-book: and since she delighted to maintain that the advertisement of payments made was the essence of vulgarity, much of her time was given to the contrivance of apparently innocent references to her latest extravagance from which should emerge such data as would enable and induce all within earshot to form an accurate opinion of what it had cost.
There being many of Mrs. Stoat’s school, it follows that that lady’s patronage was worth a leader in The Times.
Be sure she declared it from the housetops.
“A long-felt want,” she boomed. “The moment I entered the shop I felt at home. At first I couldn’t think why. Suddenly it occurred to me—style. The Cheviots can visualize style. My dear, I could have wept with relief. When I think of how I implored Bucher’s to do the drawing-room in dove grey . . . I almost went down on my knees, but they wouldn’t listen. Blanche Cheviot comes to survey it, and what’s the first thing she says? ‘Dove grey.’ I’ve just sent her opinion to Bucher’s and told them to carry it out.”
And so on.
It was, of course, but natural that Titus should lose his nerve.
When, upon being shown the first day’s entries, he perceived ‘requests to survey’ one library and two halls, he appeared for some moments to have lost the power of speech. Then he gave tongue. . . .
Mercifully the storm broke behind closed doors.
“I refuse,” he raged. “It’s criminally insane, and I won’t touch it. ‘Decorate a hall.’ I couldn’t decorate a bear-pit. An’ if I did, the bears wouldn’t work. They’d get egg-bound or something.”
“Now, don’t be silly,” purred Blanche. “It’s the easiest——”
“I’m not being silly,” raved Titus. “I’m simply announcing my limitations. I tell you, it’s out of the question. I cannot decorate.”
“Nobody’s asking you to decorate,” said Mrs. Cheviot. “All you’ve got to do is to look at a room.”
Titus inspired.
“Let’s be honest,” he said. “I don’t mean with the public. On the eve of assisting to launch one of the biggest outputs of treachery ever dreamt of, that would be hypocritical. But let us be frank with ourselves. I say I cannot decorate. By that I mean that I am totally incapable of conceiving any conjunction of garniture which would not irritate or frighten all who beheld its execution.”
“That,” said Blanche, “is because you’ve never tried. As a matter of fact, you’ve got an excellent eye.”
“No, you don’t,” said Titus. “My vanity’s in balk. I tell you——”
“My darling,” said Mrs. Cheviot, “if I wasn’t sure of you I’d be frightened to death. More. Unless I knew you were safe, I wouldn’t let you touch the business with the end of a broken reed. I’m out to get right away, Ti.” Her husband’s eyelids flickered, and a hand went up to his mouth. “I don’t want to persevere and do my best to please. There aren’t any stairs in my scheme—only an elevator that doesn’t know how to stop. Well, if I couldn’t trust my partner, d’you think I’d let him out?”
Titus Cheviot shifted in his chair.
“It’s all damned fine, old lady, but I’ve no ideas. If I’m paid to say a room’s bad, I’ll say it’s poisonous. But when they say, ‘Very well, my bright and bonny. Poisonous it is. Now show us a better ’ole’—I—I shall come all unstuck.”
“Not you,” said Blanche. “Besides, you mustn’t criticize. Don’t say anything is poisonous, for goodness’ sake. We don’t want to be hauled up for libel. The existing decoration you entirely ignore. You simply walk into a room. Don’t slide in. Stroll in and take a look round. If it isn’t panelled you’re off. Panelling always looks well. Then you——”
“Supposing it is panelled.”
“Then you decide it’s too dark. It probably is. So you make a note for the walls to be done in canary.”
“There you are,” said Titus. “It’s nothing to you. I should never have thought of canary in fifty years. Any fool can look at a room. The thing is to think of canary. I can think of a red or a green, but——”
“What’s the matter with red?” said Mrs. Cheviot. “A rich wine colour. Think of a library done in the colour of port. What goes with port?”
“Gout,” said Titus. “I mean, mahogany.”
“Good. Port-coloured walls—mahogany doors with massive silver handles—glass mantelpiece—biscuit-coloured ceiling and paint-work, and there you are. What could be better?”
“That’s an idea,” said Cheviot. “Reproductions of familiar circumstances. Golf, for instance. Nice, soft green walls—sand-yellow doors and windows—white ceiling checked—mantelpiece of burnished steel. What? Oh, an’ two or three texts.”
“Simply maddening,” cried Blanche, laughing. “And you say you’ve no ideas.” She raised her brown eyes to heaven. “And now that’s settled. By the way, never open your mouth while you’re in the place. Always wait till——”
“Don’t you worry,” said Titus. “I don’t want to be assaulted before my time. No viva voces for me. They can bite the opinion if they like, but——”
“They’re more likely to have it framed,” said Mrs. Cheviot.
The lady was perfectly right.
At the end of three weeks Blanche and Titus, who were booked up for six, put up their fees, charging seventy guineas a room, if the house was in town, and regretfully refusing to visit the country unless they were asked to survey at least three rooms.
Audacity, Carelessness up, always wins.
Business at 68, Old Bond Street, actually increased.
The stalls began to be constantly occupied by patrons who were waiting to occupy the bench. Among them was Mrs. Drinkabeer Stoat, who, somewhat disconcerted by the reflection that, if necessary, about five thousand people could prove that the cipher upon her drawing-room ceiling had cost but fifty guineas, hastened to request that her hall and dining-room might be surveyed forthwith.
Firms of decorators who had at first been plainly contemptuous changed their coats forthwith and began to remember ‘Cheviot’s’ in their prayers.
The weather becoming hot, the great fireplace was replaced by an oriel out of whose leaded casements was plainly visible a blue and sunlit sky. Its deep window-seat was laden with cushions of powder-blue. The mountainous chair and its henchmen had gone with the fireplace, to be replaced by a fair ‘gate’ table, which the footman laid for lunch and later for tea. From six o’clock the gleaming paraphernalia of cocktails burdened the board. With the approach of evening the window was not illuminated: only the sky beyond became suffused with the glory of some sinking sun. Even the open book, which declared its legend from the floor, was sacrificed to this effect, which attracted much well-deserved attention and was commended by several newspapers.
Early in September the Cheviots raised their fee to a hundred guineas and declined to go into the country to survey less than five rooms, three of which, said their gracious intimation, may be in one house and two in another not more than ten miles distant.
By the end of the month they were making four thousand a week.
The two worked hard, employing five secretaries.
One controlled their movements, arranging each day what visits should be paid on the next, and having two programmes ready each evening at six o’clock. The same man affixed the wafers and kept the accounts. Of the others two were always in attendance upon Mr. and Mrs. Cheviot, taking down their ‘opinions’ in shorthand and transcribing their notes the next day. In addition to their wages, which were high, two per cent. of the takings was handed to them and the footmen every week. Thus was efficiency encouraged, if not assured.
Each evening, but at no other time, the Cheviots repaired to Old Bond Street to confer, sign their ‘opinions,’ peruse the additions to the register, and deal with any business that awaited them.
It was at one such hour in mid-November, when the two were left alone behind the tall oak doors, that Blanche leaned back in her chair and looked at her watch.
“A quarter of nine,” she said, “on a Saturday night. Since ten this morning between us we’ve netted twelve hundred and sixty quid. I lunched off a glass of milk at a quarter to three, and I’ve had nothing since. And now I’m too tired to eat. What about you?”
“You may cut out the milk,” said Titus. “Never mind. The figures sustain me. This week’s been a record. Over six thousand——”
“It’s a dog’s life,” said Blanche. “Why don’t we stop?”
“Stop?”
“Stop. Chuck it. Finish. We’ve made enough.”
“My dear, you’re not serious?”
“I am indeed,” said Blanche, “and a bit over.”
“You can spend to-morrow in bed.”
“I could spend six weeks in bed. I tell you, I’m through. This—this high-brow robbery’s getting beyond a joke. I haven’t been out for months. I don’t even know the name of a musical play. I’ve forgotten how to dance. Why, I haven’t changed for dinner since——”
“Sunday last,” said Titus. “Never mind. What about it, my dear? One can’t have everything. I like changing myself, but if I can nobble a hundred by staying foul, I’ll make the sacrifice. Why, for half six thousand a week I’d sleep in my clothes. An’ we don’t have to.”
“But what’s the good of it all if we don’t enjoy it?”
“I hope to,” said Titus. “I hope to enjoy it very much.”
“When?” said his wife.
“When the boom’s over,” said Titus. “This sort of thing can’t last. Don’t you believe it. It’s just on the cards that it might hang on for a year, but——”
“A year?” screamed Blanche. “Well, if it does you needn’t count on me. I’ve lost five months of my life and I’m not going to lose seven more.”
“Lost?” cried Titus. “Oh, the girl’s mad. Twelve hundred a day, an’ she talks about ‘losing’ time.” He covered his eyes. “Give me strength,” he murmured. Then—“You only get one orange,” he said solemnly. “If you like to chuck it away before you’ve sucked it dry, you can do it all right. Nothing’s easier. But if you do you’ll repent it. For one thing, you’re flouting Fortune—throwing her goods in her face.”
“Rot,” said Blanche shortly. “We’ve made enough. We started in to give me something to do—not to make money. Well, I’ve had my whack. I’ve had enough to do to last me the rest of my life. Incidentally, I’ve been paid—very handsomely paid. Well, I’m extremely grateful. I’ve got my pretty cake and I’ve eaten it too. And now I’m for putting my feet up.”
“That’s very specious,” said Titus, “but the answer is this. The ‘incident,’ as you style it, has swallowed the main idea. To be truthful, it swallowed it before we opened the shambles—or, if not before, as soon as the sheep rolled up. When you’re out for a walk and you strike a trail of nuggets, you’re apt to forget that you’re only out for exercise. And quite right too. Why? Because you usually have to dig for nuggets, and then like as not you’re wrong.”
He paused there to steal a glance at his wife.
Blanche was holding off her hand and regarding one of her rings with her head on one side. This was a trick she practised when she was ill at ease.
‘Before we opened the shambles.’
As though by accident, Titus had hit the nail square on the head. Yet it was not by accident, as both of them knew.
There are occupations other than commerce.
But Blanche had chosen commerce, because commerce not only can occupy, but may quite possibly enrich.
The woman of the world believed in apparel—its purchase, setting and display, and cared for little else.
More money meant more clothes.
But the purchase alone of apparel was nothing worth. Clothes were meant to be worn. An occupation which promoted the acquisition of clothes but precluded their display was inconvenient. . . .
So the two sat still in their counting-house—the one regarding the other, and the other regarding her ring.
There was no sign of summer.
There had been one swallow, of course, six months ago . . . one swallow. . . .
Blanche lay back in her chair and achieved and then stifled a yawn.
“I seem to remember,” she said, “that the first day we struck the nuggets, you weren’t particularly anxious to pick any up.”
“I confess it,” said Titus. “It seemed such nerve, somehow. But now I’ve got my hand in, it’s as easy as wink. I’ve done some lovely chambers,” he added musingly. “I shouldn’t wonder if they became historical.”
Blanche would not have been human if she had not succumbed to such gratuitous good-humour.
She clapped her hands to her face and began to shake with laughter.
“Titus,” she said, bubbling, “when you get all wistful and dreamy about the heritage we’re creating for posterity, I could weep for pure joy. It’s like a lion getting all worked up about the view from his lair. Of course, you’re nothing but a great big child who’s been given a nice new game. But I do wish you’d tire of it, dear. Don’t you think you’ve made enough history?”
“Not yet,” said Titus slowly. “But I’ve got a fruity idea. You go away for a bit. Take a fortnight off, while I carry on the good work. Go to Paris with Madge an’ take an easy.”
“And leave you here?”
“Why not? I’ve got my box of bricks. But I can’t have you ill, my lady. Therefore be wise. Take a fortnight out of the shambles, and you’ll come back thirsting for blood.”
“Don’t you believe it,” said Blanche.
“Well, by then the boom may have cracked. Or I may have had enough. One never can tell. But I beg that you’ll do as I say. I’ve only one wife.”
After a little Mrs. Cheviot allowed herself to be persuaded, and, promising to clean up and follow within half an hour, Titus put her into a taxi and sent her home.
Returning to the office, he resumed his seat at the table and opened a drawer of which only he and the principal secretary possessed duplicate keys.
Here lay two files, respectively labelled “Answered” and “Unanswered.”
Cheviot took out the latter.
Somewhat to his relief, it contained but one letter.
The day before it had contained three.
Titus proceeded to read it with a faint frown.
Malison Hall,
Kent.
November 14th.
The Manager of Cheviot’s,
68, Old Bond Street, W.
Sir,
Upon returning from abroad yesterday after an absence of some months I was dumbfounded to find that the character of the great hall of this residence had been deliberately and ruthlessly destroyed.
I am informed that it was upon your advice that this destruction was carried out. I am informed that you recommended that the superb panelling should be torn down, the Grinling Gibbons mantelpiece replaced by a steel platform, which is, of course, already covered with rust, and the heavily timbered ceiling overlaid with plaster and then so treated as to resemble inferior linoleum. I am further informed that when this and other devilry had been executed, you had the audacity to express yourself satisfied with the result, the impudence to stencil the ceiling with the badge of your firm and the face to accept a cheque for three hundred guineas by way of payment for the abominable outrage which you have committed upon this and two other chambers, the present condition of which I prefer not to describe.
This morning I consulted my solicitors only to learn that, since you were requested to advise and then unaccountably requested to approve your vile handiwork by Mrs. Blatchbourne, your villainous conduct is within the Law, but I find some slight measure of relief in warning you that I shall do my utmost by word and deed to expose what is nothing less than a gang of dangerous charlatans who are inducing a lot of idiots to pay unheard-of prices to have their apartments desecrated and their sense of decency demoralized.
I am, Sir,
Yours, etc.
James Torridge Blatchbourne.
Titus laid down the letter and looked down his nose.
“Gathering clouds,” he said thoughtfully. “An’ this is as hot a one as we’ve ever had. If Blanche but knew . . .” He drew out a little note-book and blinked over a page. “Seventy thousand to date,” he continued musingly. “I’d like to get to a hundred before the crash, but ninety would do. . . .”
Presently he closed the note-book and took up a pen.
After a little reflection he wrote his reply.
68, Old Bond Street.
November 15th.
Sir,
I have the honour to acknowledge your letter of yesterday’s date and to express regret that you do not share my views of quality or style.
I am, Sir,
Your obedient servant,
Titus Cheviot.
J.T. Blatchbourne, Esq.
As he blotted the words—
“I’ll bet he doesn’t hand that about,” he muttered.
Then he copied his letter on to the back of Mr. Blatchbourne’s and restored the latter to its drawer.
When he had prepared an envelope and covered his reply he lighted a cigarette and left the shop.
Mrs. Cheviot had had a most gorgeous time.
Never had idleness seemed so full of spice.
Her fortnight in Paris had grown into three fat weeks of merry-making. Parties, dances and plays had all contributed to the delicious orgy, but by far the handsomest contribution had been made by fashion parades. Indeed, with Madge Willoughby to pace her upon the track of models, Blanche had broken all her records of extravagance. When she rolled out of the gay capital in her luxurious car bound for Boulogne she had expended upon clothes alone very nearly six thousand pounds.
The prospect of returning to work was none too engaging. But while she loathed the thought of working ten hours a day, the reflection that Mrs. Willoughby had been left standing went far to cure her melancholy. Indeed, by the time she had crossed the Channel and was sliding through Kent she had come to the conclusion that Titus was right and that ‘not to see the boom out would be the act of a fool.’
Then a lorry came out of a by-road at thirty-five and knocked her limousine into a quickset hedge. . . .
By the time assistance arrived Blanche, who had recovered her wits, was able not only to direct her extrication, but to resist all endeavours to convey her to hospital.
“I should like to sit down somewhere,” she said faintly. “Perhaps there’s a house somewhere near where they’d give me some tea or something, and let me sit down. I’m not a bit hurt. What about the chauffeur?”
The chauffeur, who should have been killed, was safe and sound and more than occupied. It is good to think that he was kneeling upon the stomach of the driver of the motor-lorry, at once reciting the latter’s lineage and failings and compressing his windpipe until the delinquent’s eyeballs started from his head.
Twenty-five yards away an imposing gateway argued the presence of a mansion, so two very civil strangers offered Mrs. Cheviot their arms and assisted her up the drive.
Then a bell was rung, and when a servant arrived shelter was asked.
The man went running for his master, and two minutes later Blanche was seated in a deep chair before a fire, sipping a brandy-and-soda and absently listening to her host’s explosive indignation while her two assistants were relating the manner of her mishap.
The spirit worked wonders.
By the time the strangers had departed and her host was excusing his wife, who was indisposed, Mrs. Cheviot felt able and wishful to proceed on her way.
“If you would be so kind as to telephone for a car. The nearest garage, you know. I’d ring up my husband, but it’s no good frightening him for nothing, and he would be certain to think, whatever I said, that I was more or less hurt.”
“You’re sure you mean this?” said her host, a giant of about fifty with a handsome but choleric manner and the physique of a smith. “Because, if you feel the least shaky—and I’m very sure I should—I’ll be happy to put you up and your husband too.”
“You’re most awfully good,” said Blanche, “but——”
“Nonsense, my dear lady, nonsense. When a crime is committed at my very door, the least I can do is to offer the victim such shelter as she cares to accept. I say ‘a crime.’ If I had my way, madam, that swine should be drawn and quartered. But for the mercy of God you would be in the mortuary instead of in that chair conversing with me. Why? Because a blackguard in charge of a waggon deliberately chooses to convert it into an engine of destruction so that he can be done with the labour for which he is paid twenty minutes before his just time.” He broke off to stamp violently about the floor. Presently he swallowed his wrath and came to rest. “A car, you say. Very well. I think you’re very well plucked, but I’ll do as you say. And while it’s coming the servants will bring you some tea.”
He strode to a door and passed out.
It was when Mrs. Cheviot had made the most of a mirror and had lighted a cigarette that she noticed the room.
This appeared to be a hall of fine proportions.
The walls had been painted black and then varnished. They gave the impression of having been japanned. Above them was a frieze, six feet in depth, of the colour of chocolate and as glossy as the black walls. The ceiling was more remarkable, presenting a pale brown surface covered with what appeared to be a rash and somewhat resembling linoleum which has been lightly waxed. The doors had been painted bright pink picked out with white, and the chimney-piece, which was of steel and must have weighed about three tons, was suggesting that a power-house had been spoiled of some doubtless locally useful but ungainly member of its plant.
As first one and then another of these peculiarities attracted her attention, Mrs. Cheviot began to wonder whether, after all, she had been killed and this was the antechamber of another world. The furniture, however, seemed normal, and the sudden appearance of a butler with tea-things was less supernatural than anything she could imagine. When the man addressed her there was no longer room for doubt.
“Excuse me, madam, but I won’t put the table by you, for as soon as the fire’s burned up, madam, I’m afraid you’ll ’ave to move. You see, that steel, madam, gets practically red-’ot.”
“I thought I smelt something funny,” said Blanche, rising. “Of course——”
“That’s right, madam. It’s the metal ’eatin’. An’ if I may advise you, madam, don’t you forget an’ lay your ’and on it. I did it once without thinkin’, stoopin’ to put on some coal.” He raised his eyes to heaven. “You don’ do it twice. . . . An’ rust.”
“It must be terrible to keep.”
“Madam,” said the butler, “it’s crool. You can’t touch it with oil, or the moment you light the fire the ’ole ’ouse reeks like a dozen engine-rooms. It ’as to be burnished with chains to do any good. We jus’ manage to keep the front, but the top’s a mask of rust an’ so are the sides.”
As if the remembrance of this condition was more grievous than he could bear, the fellow turned away and fell to arranging the tea.
Blanche took another seat and, furtively regarding the apartment, began to wonder what effect, if suffered daily, such a scheme of decoration would have upon her mind. She also wondered if her host had ever heard of 68, Old Bond Street. Black and pink and chocolate were pretty thick, but there was something about the ceiling, something which was not only repugnant, but——
Mrs. Cheviot stiffened with a shock.
Her heart gave one bound and then stopped.
Her gaze riveted upon the ceiling, her fingers clamped upon the arm of her chair, she sat rigid and breathless as statuary itself, while her brain plunged and flounced and refused to obey her will.
Then the spasm passed, and she faced the hideous truth.
The cipher on the ceiling was no illusion.
The hall was fully entitled to be styled ‘A Cheviot Room.’
Appalling reflections came surging into her brain.
Titus. This was his work. And he had been paid money for conceiving—this. There were possibly two other chambers under this very roof which he had—decorated. More. All over England there were rooms with chocolate friezes and bright pink doors, bearing the Cheviot cipher, the hall-mark of style—the badge of infamy. As like as not he had done five or six to-day—at one hundred guineas apiece. . . . And there he was walking about, all cheerful and unsuspecting, while battle, murder and sudden death at the hands of infuriated clients must be crouching to spring upon his shoulders. Any moment the storm must break. Why hadn’t there been protests—riots? Why hadn’t Old Bond Street——
Here her host reappeared to say that a car would be ready in half an hour.
Blanche tried to thank him and to keep her eyes on the floor. . . .
Twenty-five ghastly minutes went halting by.
Mrs. Cheviot swallowed some tea, toyed with a scone, the very sight of which choked her, and by superhuman efforts succeeded in keeping the slippery ball of conversation upon the field of sport. Out of doors, out of mind. . . .
It was natural that hunting should figure, if late, upon her list.
“My husband used to hunt with the Quorn, and I’ve done a bit with the Heythrop, but not just lately. It’s so frightfully expensive now. There’s nothing quite like it, of course.”
“My dear lady,” said Mr. Blatchbourne, “a good day with the hounds is more physically and mentally exhilarating than any exercise I know. It brings out the best in every man. All his senses are regaled with the finest and purest fare. The movement of the horse beneath him, the music of the pack, the smell of the countryside——”
“And the colour,” cried Blanche excitedly. “You’re perfectly right. No one can witness a meet without feeling the better for the sight. Why will men wear pink in the evening? The only place for pink is out in the open air on the top of a ripping horse. Then it’s just——”
“I agree,” said her host grimly. “Then it’s superb. How does it look there?”
Blanche started violently. Then as a matter of form she suffered her gaze to follow the damning finger.
“I—I—frankly, I don’t quite like it,” she stammered. “You know. It seems out of place.”
“It is,” said Mr. Blatchbourne. “Those doors are of oak.” Mrs. Cheviot shuddered. “Even if they were of deal, I should not have chosen pink. Look at the walls,” he continued. Blanche obeyed tremulously. “Above all, observe the ceiling. And then that chimney-piece. I was away at the time, but I’m told they rigged up a derrick to get that in place.”
“You—you were away?”
“Unhappily—yes. Otherwise my wife would not have been bamboozled and betrayed, madam, into seeking and then taking the advice of as arrant a gang of scoundrels as ever bluffed a fool out of his money.”
White to the lips—
“How—how terrible,” quavered Mrs. Cheviot.
“One hundred guineas,” roared Mr. Blatchbourne, slamming the arm of his chair with a hand like a maul. “And another two hundred for another couple of rooms which I’m afraid to enter.” Blanche made ready to die. “Once this was a gentleman’s apartment: now it is ‘A Cheviot Room.’ There’s the cipher, madam, they had the effrontery to affix. That set the seal of their approval upon this—this barbarous pleasantry.” He rose to his feet and flung clenched fists to heaven. “Oh, if I’d only been here when the blackguard came down for his cheque.”
He laughed like a madman and, crossing to the hearth, stared violently upon the fire.
So he stood for a moment. Then, as though to brace himself, he laid hands upon the mantelpiece.
The screech of agony which instantly succeeded this action would have done any torturer credit.
For one long hideous moment Mrs. Cheviot, whose knees were knocking, supposed that insanity had supervened. Then a frightful apostrophe brought the butler’s warning to her mind.
“Goats and monkeys!” screamed Blatchbourne, uplifting his palms. “I’ve done it again.”
That the household had recognized the burden of the plaint was manifest.
Three servants arrived at a run, bearing oil and linen with which they proceeded to minister to their injured lord.
The latter, half-mad with pain, submitted blasphemously to their attention, alternately reviling his wife and cursing the house of Cheviot, root and trunk and bough, till Blanche could have fallen in her tracks.
“Grievous bodily harm,” he mouthed. “That’s what it is. They’ve deposited dangerous goods. They’ve done it maliciously. They intended me to be burned. They hoped I should be burned—burned to hell. It’s a diabolical plot. They’re poisoners. First they poison the mind and then the body. They’re proffering robbery and murder, and fools all over England are buying their treacherous wares. Three hundred guineas I’ve paid to have my mind diseased and my body burned to hell.”
Here a bell stammered.
That no one heard it but Blanche is not surprising.
Without a moment’s hesitation she slipped unobserved from the hall into a vestibule, and a moment later she was on the steps.
As the chauffeur opened the door of a landaulet—
“Take me to London,” she gasped, “and put me down at the Ritz.”
In another minute she was flying up the broad highway.
An hour had gone by, and Titus was sitting at his table with a frown on his face.
The man looked tired, as well he might. In the last ten days he had ciphered one hundred and eighty rooms. During this period he had surveyed none at all. The sowing season was past: it was time to garner the harvest—high time. The boom was cracking.
Requests to visit were falling rapidly: so were requests to revisit: in the latter’s stead indignant letters of complaint were arriving by every post. That the latter included one from Mrs. Drinkabeer Stoat suggested that the end was at hand. Some of Titus’s calls were beginning to be returned by furious clients, who, refusing to believe that the Cheviots were not at home, simmered in the stalls for hours at a time.
Titus glanced at his watch.
“She won’t come now,” he murmured. “I suppose she’s wired to the flat that she’s stayin’ on. Waitin’ on Worth or something for a monkey.” He regarded his finger-nails. “Damn it, I wish she’d come back,” he added suddenly. “If I have to send, it’ll give the game away, an’ it’s—it’s close on closing-time. Very close. An’ there ain’t no blinkin’ market for a business wot’s closed its doors. If she isn’t back to-morrow—— Thunder of heaven, here she is.”
It was true.
As he rose from his seat, the shop-door was slammed to, and an instant later Mrs. Cheviot was in his arms.
“Titus, my darling, we must go—leave England at once.”
Cheviot’s brain reeled.
“Leave England?” he gasped. “Why?”
“Listen. D’you want to be murdered?”
“Not particularly,” said Titus. “But——”
“Then we must go,” said Blanche. “Why you’re still alive I can’t imagine. Have there been any riots yet?”
“Not that I know of,” said Titus. “I haven’t had much time for the papers lately. In the last ten days——”
“Well, there will be soon,” said Blanche. “To-morrow probably. Come on.”
“What on earth d’you mean?” said Titus dazedly. “What riots?”
“Listen,” cried Blanche, catching him by his lapels “This evening—no matter why—I, er, called on a Mr. Blatchbourne. He’s got a house in Kent. Well——”
“Blatchbourne,” said Titus. “Blatchbourne. Now, where have I seen that name?”
Suddenly the truth dawned upon him—and with it came daylight in one blinding flash.
Blanche was about to play straight into his hands.
He had meant to show her the letters of violent complaint. He had meant them to frighten her out of her very life. And then, when she had decided that they must fly, he had meant to announce his intention of carrying on. Finally, he had meant to give way—upon certain terms.
With a truly lightning brain he picked up his cue.
“Oh, I know,” he said. “I know. I did three rooms for them.”
“At three hundred guineas,” said Blanche. “My dear, you did. I had tea in your hall this afternoon.”
“What a funny thing,” said Titus. “Did you say who you were?”
“No,” said Blanche faintly. “I didn’t. Like you, I value my life. Apparently you got busy while Blatchbourne himself was away, and his wife put through the deal. When he came back, it was all over. Of course he’s mad as a hornet, and I don’t blame him. Titus, that hall would make a saint see red.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” said Cheviot. “I remember it perfectly. That’s one of my favourite designs. The ‘Boot and Saddle’ I call it. Did you notice the pigskin ceiling?”
“I did,” said Blanche wildly. “And the steel mantelpiece. Mr. Blatchbourne forgot and leaned on it just before I left. Of course he was terribly burned, and he says you did it on purpose, and he’s going to have your blood. I tell you——”
“He can’t,” said Titus calmly. “If he likes to take my advice, that’s his look-out. Probably his burning was a judgment for abusing me. Besides, when all’s said and done, whether the room looks well is purely——”
“I’m not going to argue,” cried Blanche. “But we must close down at once. That’s certain. If, as you say, you’ve done other rooms like that——”
“I should think about fifty,” said Titus. “I tell you——”
Blanche felt rather faint.
“I say,” she said shakily, “that we must close down. It’s only a question of hours—it must be—before a mob arrives. And then we shall be torn in pieces.”
“My dear,” said Titus, “come home and sleep it off. Of course you can’t please everyone, and of course we’ve had complaints. Every firm has.”
“When? You never told me.”
Cheviot shrugged his shoulders.
“It wasn’t worth while.” He pointed to a file on the table. “There are some of them. But business keeps up.”
Blanche fell upon the file with shaking fingers.
As she peered at their contents, sentence after sentence flamed.
A barefaced attempt . . . I defy you to take action . . . the most horrifying result . . . brazen impudence . . . I shall do my utmost to expose . . . actuated by malice . . . an offence against decency . . . full particulars to the Commissioner of Police . . . inwardly ravening wolves. . . .
Blanche let the file go and put her hands to her head.
“And yet he’s gone on!” she wailed.
“Of course he’s gone on,” said Titus. “The vast majority are as pleased as Punch. I tell you, business is wonderful. Last week——”
“You must stop at once,” screamed Blanche. “I won’t have another——”
“My dear,” said Titus, “come home. I’ve a full day to-morrow, and I want you——”
“You haven’t. You shan’t have. You—Titus, for Heaven’s sake——”
“The orange,” said Titus firmly, “is not yet sucked. I’m not going to turn down ten thousand quid a week because two or three gents prefer their taste to mine. My conscience is perfectly clear and my hands are clean. There isn’t a letter there that isn’t libellous. If I liked to take ’em to Court, I could get a verdict on every one of them. What authority have I professed? None. It’s all very well to get excited because they don’t like my advice. I never asked them to take it. I never said it was worth having. But as long as they like to seek it——”
Blanche was down on her knees.
“Ti, I implore you to give it up. By all that’s holy, I beg you——”
“Why?”
“Because if you don’t I shall go mad. Because someone else will go mad and try to kill you. Each time you go out to cipher you take your life in your hand. If Blatchbourne had been at home when you went to approve that hall, he’d ’ve broken your back. You’ve not the faintest idea——”
“Ten thousand a week,” said Titus, “is better than any ideas.”
“We’ve made enough,” wailed Blanche. “More than enough. How much have we made?”
“Ninety-six thousand—to date.”
“For Heaven’s sake,” screamed Blanche, “how much do you want?”
“The orange,” said Titus ruthlessly, “is not yet sucked.”
Blanche clung to his knees.
“Ti, Ti, if you love me—if you care in the least whether I live or die—if there’s ever to be any tiny atom of happiness between us again, you’ll turn this down.”
Cheviot appeared to hesitate.
Then he picked up his wife and put her upon the table.
“How much did you spend in Paris?”
Mrs. Cheviot started.
“I—I’m not quite sure,” she said. “I—I think I went rather a bust.”
“Quite right too,” said Titus. “I hoped you would. As a matter of fact, you got away with over five thousand pounds.”
“Titus!”
Cheviot nodded.
“And more also. I put that amount to your credit, and I got a letter this morning saying your account was overdrawn. Don’t think I’m kicking. I’m not. You’ve earned every quid, sweetheart, and I’m only too glad. But that’s a pace, my lady, that only a Crœsus can stand. And so I’ll do a deal with you. We agreed to invest what we made. Ninety-one thousand sounds a good deal of pelf, but when everything’s paid it means, say three thousand a year. Very good.” He drew some paper towards her and set a pen in her hand. “You write as I dictate. And then, if you feel inclined, you can sign what you’ve written. If you don’t feel inclined—well, then you can tear it up. But if you sign—I’ll put up the shutters to-morrow at nine o’clock.”
Mrs. Cheviot slewed herself round and slid on to a chair.
“I’m at your mercy,” she said.
Titus proceeded to dictate, pacing the room.
In consideration of my husband’s desisting from visiting or revisiting strange houses, surveying rooms, stencilling ceilings or accepting money therefor—a practice which I admit he has found extremely lucrative—I hereby undertake never to demand or expend by way of dress-allowance a sum in excess of three thousand pounds a year.
“That’s all,” said Titus.
Without a word, Mrs. Cheviot affixed her signature.
Then she took a fresh sheet.
“I’ll make a copy,” she said.
“Very well,” said Titus, lighting a cigarette. . . .
When Blanche had finished writing she rose and crossed to a glass.
“Take your choice,” she said over her shoulder. “They are—facsimiles.”
Titus shot her a glance and stepped to the table.
The ‘copy’ seemed longer than the ‘original’—much longer.
There was once a dear called Titus. He was most awfully handsome and generous, and when he married he spoiled his wife to death. She was as greedy and selfish as he was sweet, and though he gave her everything he’d got, that wasn’t enough. So then, though he was all tired, he took off his shabby coat and began to work. He worked and worked and always swore he liked it, but he loathed it really. And they both knew why he was doing it, but he pretended it amused him, and she pretended to believe him for very shame. And then one day she really did want him to stop. And when he saw that she meant it, he gave her all the gold he had made. “If that’s enough,” he said gently, “why, then I’ll stop. But if it isn’t, dear, I must try to go on.” And when he said that, all of a sudden HER DESIRE FOR RICHES DIED. . . . And she didn’t know whether to laugh or whether to cry because at last she saw that, money or no, nothing could ever alter the fact that she was the richest woman in all the world—because she was
TITUS’ WIFE.
Titus folded the ‘copy’ and slid it into his case.
Then he struck a match and burned the ‘original’ up.
Blanche never turned.
As he put an arm about her—
“Which did you burn?” she said.
Titus laid his head against hers.
“I kept my love-letter,” he said.
His darling flung her arms round his neck.
Summer was in.
‘Cheviot’s’ was closed the next day.
A week later a letter bearing the post-mark of Rapallo was delivered at Malison Hall.
Its contents consisted of a document and three hundred and fifteen pounds in Bank of England notes.
The document appeared to be a bill which the notes were paying.
PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL.
Mrs. Titus Cheviot.
Dr. to J.T. Blatchbourne, Esq.
| December 6th. | One brandy and soda | 105 0 0 |
| One telephone call | 105 0 0 | |
| One tea | 105 0 0 | |
| ——————— | ||
| 315 0 0 | ||
| ======= |