"That'll do," snapped Miss Wix. "'The old, old story'? My word, I'd 'old story' the sickly little imbecile if I had her here!" She sat bolt upright, her eyes darting daggers, and her pink-tipped nose disdainful. "Haven't you had enough of it yet? What do you think of me?"
"I think with respect of anyone who can earn a salary," said Kent. "I see there's one to Anxious Parent. May I glance at your advice to Anxious Parent? 'My dear friend, were you I never young yourself? And didn't you love your little Ermyntrude's papa? If so, you can certainly feel for two young things who rightly believe that love is more valuable than a good settlement. Let them wed as they wish, and be thankful that Ermyntrude is going to have a husband against whom you can urge no other objection than that he is unable to support her.'"
"I'm a sensible woman, Cynthia," said Miss Wix, quivering; "and for me to have to write that incomes don't matter, and sign myself 'Auntie Bluebell,' is heavy at your mother's door."
Her mortification was so evidently genuine that Kent gave her back her copy, with replies to A Lover of "Winsome Words" and Constant Daffodil unread, and as soon as was practicable he and Cynthia rose and made their adieux. The apartments in the cottage proved to be vacant, and as the references of the American family were satisfactory, and the inventory was taken without delay, there was nothing in the way of the migration being effected by the suggested date. Cynthia had proposed that her husband should try to obtain his old bedroom at Turquand's, where he could have the run of a sitting-room for nothing, and this idea was adopted with the approval of all concerned. Humphrey saw her off at Paddington, and, kissing her affectionately, told her to "Make haste and get strong." And the close of a week, which had opened without a hint of such developments, saw Cynthia living with her baby in Monmouth, and Kent reinstalled in his bachelor quarters in Soho.
[CHAPTER XXI]
It was very jolly to be back with Turquand. The first evening, while they smoked with the enjoyable consciousness of there being no last train to catch, was quick with the sentiment of their old association. And after a letter arrived from Cynthia, in which she clapped her hands with pleasure, the respite was complete. Kent had been impatient to hear how the place struck her, and she wrote that she had been agreeably astonished. The cottage was roomier than she had expected, and beautifully located. It was furnished very simply, of course; but there was a charm in its simplicity and freshness. The landlady was a rosy-cheeked young woman who had already "fallen in love with Baby," and overwhelmed her with attentions. "If you do not see what you want, please step inside and ask for it." Kent smiled at that; it was a quotation from one of the Streatham shop-windows. Also there was a quite respectable garden, which her bedroom overlooked. "There are fruit-trees in it—not my bedroom, the garden—and a little, not too spidery, bench, where I know I shall sit and read your answer when it comes." She wrote a very happy, spontaneous sort of letter, and Kent's spirits rose as he read it. There was the rustle of dimity and the odour of lavender in the pages, and momentarily he pictured her sitting on the bench under the fruit-trees, and thought that it would be delightful if he could run down one day and surprise her there.
It was very jolly to be back with Turquand, though the satisfaction was perhaps a shade calmer than, during the first year of his married life, he had fancied that it would be. It was convenient, moreover, to be in town, and a relief to feel that the unsettled accounts with the tradespeople round Leamington Road were, at any rate, not waxing mightier. Nevertheless, he missed Cynthia a good deal; not only in the daytime when he was alone, but even in minutes during the evening when he was in Turquand's company. It was curious how much he did miss her—and the baby: the baby, whose newest accomplishment was to stroke his father's cheek, and murmur "poor" until the attention was reciprocated, when he bounded violently and grew red in the face with ridiculous laughter. Soho, too, though it saved him train-fares, soon began to appear as distant from a salary as Streatham. Turquand remained powerless to put any work in his way, and, despite his economies and the cheapness of Monmouth, Kent found his expenses dismaying. He was encroaching on the money laid aside for the landlord and the rates, and, if nothing turned up, there would speedily be trouble again. The butcher who had supplied No. 64 had been to the agent for Mr. Kent's address, and he presented himself and his bill with no redundance of euphemism. When another advertisement had been inserted ineffectually, the respite was over and anxiety returned.
As yet Kent had not called on Mrs. Deane-Pitt, and on the afternoon following his interview with the butcher he paid his visit to the lady. He was very frank in his replies to her questions. He did not disguise that it was imperative for him to secure an appointment at once, and when she agreed with him that it was immensely difficult, instead of answering that it was likely some opening might be mentioned to her, his face fell. He felt that it behoved him to deprecate his confidences.
"You must forgive my boring you about my affairs," he said. "And what are you doing? Are you at work on another book now?"