BY THE SAME AUTHOR

Published by

Ward, Lock and Co., Ltd.

MAIDEN STAKES

BERRY AND CO.

JONAH AND CO.

AND FIVE WERE FOOLISH

AS OTHER MEN ARE

ANTHONY LYVEDEN

VALERIE FRENCH

THE BROTHER OF DAPHNE

THE COURTS OF IDLENESS

THE STOLEN MARCH

Published by

Hodder and Stoughton.

BLOOD ROYAL

BLIND CORNER

PERISHABLE GOODS

ADÈLE AND CO.

FIRE BELOW

SAFE CUSTODY

STORM MUSIC

AND FIVE

WERE FOOLISH

BY

DORNFORD YATES

WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED

LONDON AND MELBOURNE

Printed in Great Britain by C. Tinling & Co., Ltd.,

Liverpool, London, and Prescot.

To

RICHARD,

whose worst fault is

that he is growing up.

CONTENTS

SARAH

SARAH

Sarah Vulliamy stared at her pink finger-tips.

“But,” she protested, “I wanted to marry George Fulke.”

“I can’t help that,” said Pardoner gloomily, filling her glass with champagne. “I didn’t make the rotten Will.”

“Well, you needn’t be so ungallant about it,” retorted Sarah. “And it’s no use giving me any more champagne, because I shan’t drink it. Filthy stuff.”

Her companion raised his eyes to heaven.

“ ‘Filthy stuff,’ ” he breathed. “And I brought you here, because this is the only place in London that’s got any left. ‘Filthy stuff.’ I daresay it doesn’t appeal to you, but why blaspheme? Never mind. When we’re married, I’ll——”

“I tell you,” said Sarah, “I want to marry George Fulke.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Pardoner. “George Fulke is a most desirable young man. I should think, as a husband, he’d feed right out of your hand. But there you are. You’ve refused him three times—on your own confession: and now it’s too late.”

“It’s not too late at all,” said Miss Vulliamy. “I’m lunching with him to-morrow, and, if I’m nice to him——”

“For heaven’s sake,” said Pardoner, “don’t go and play with fire. I know what these lawyers are. If you went and got engaged to somebody else, there’d be the devil to pay before we could straighten it out. Which reminds me—the sooner our engagement’s announced——”

“But I don’t want to marry you,” wailed Sarah.

Pardoner clasped his head in his hands.

“Look here,” he said. “I don’t know how many proposals you’ve had, but——”

“Thirty-nine,” said Sarah, “to date.”

“Well, do those thirty-nine include one from me?”

Sarah shook her fair head.

“I’ve often wondered why they didn’t,” she said.

Pardoner felt inclined to scream. Instead, he emptied his glass. Then he leaned forward.

“Shall I tell you?” he said.

“Oh, do.”

“Because I’m—I’m already in love with somebody else.”

“Oh, Virgil, how exciting. Who is it?”

Pardoner swallowed.

“It isn’t exciting at all,” he said aggrievedly. “It’s very tragic. Here have I been waiting and waiting for old James Tantamount to pass to a well-earned rest, and now he’s done it—and fairly cramped my style.”

“But who is it, Virgil?”

“You wouldn’t know her,” protested Pardoner.

“Tell me her name.”

“Townshend. June Townshend. One of the Lincolnshire lot.”

Sarah knitted her brows.

“June Townshend,” she said musingly. “I never heard of her. Does she——”

“I told you you hadn’t,” said Pardoner. “But that’s neither here nor there. There’s my skeleton or cross, or whatever you like to dress it in. You see, my lady, we’re both in the same sad boat. You want George, and I want June. And we can’t have ’em.”

Sarah stretched out her hand.

“Let me look at the Will,” she said.

Pardoner produced and handed her a paper.

. . . . subject to the aforesaid legacies give devise and bequeath all my real and personal property of every sort and description as follows to be divided equally between my nephew Virgil Pardoner of 79 St. James’s Street, S.W. and my ward Sarah Cust Vulliamy at present of Palfrey in the New Forest upon the absolute condition that my aforesaid nephew and ward are married the one to the other within three months of my death. But should my aforesaid nephew and ward or either of them fail to observe this condition or dispute this Will then I devise and bequeath the whole of my aforesaid property equally to the undermentioned Institutions. . . .

Sarah read the words thoughtfully.

“It doesn’t say how much, does it?”

“Wills don’t,” said Virgil. “That’s where the lawyers come in. Forsyth tells me that, when everything’s paid, the money alone will be over six hundred thousand.”

“It’s a shame,” cried Sarah. “A beastly shame. They say the Law’s just, but it isn’t. Men always get the best. Here I get three hundred thousand and lose my freedom. You get your share and me into the bargain. And what about poor George? I shan’t know how to tell him.”

As soon as Pardoner could speak—

“What about June?” he demanded. “She’ll—she’ll never forgive me.”

“Oh, blow June,” said Sarah. “Besides, it’s not settled yet, and I’m not at all sure I’m going to do it. Money isn’t everything.”

“That,” said Virgil, “depends upon the amount. Besides, I daresay after a bit we shall—we shall be—er—quite happy.”

“Ugh,” shuddered Sarah. “We shan’t. We shall be miserable. No,” she added suddenly. “It’s a great temptation, but we’d better not.”

She handed the paper back.

“ ‘Better not’?” cried Pardoner. “What d’you mean—‘better not’?”

“Better not marry,” said Sarah. “It’ld be selling ourselves.”

Virgil took a deep breath.

“My dear child, you don’t know what you’re saying. You can’t go and throw away three hundred thousand pounds. Besides, what about my share? If you chuck up yours, you chuck up mine too.”

“That,” said Sarah deliberately, “does not weigh with me. I came to dinner to-night to decide whether I could possibly do it. And now I know I can’t.”

“My dear Sarah,” said Pardoner, “be reasonable. By the mercy of heaven, neither of us is already married. To complete our good fortune, neither of us is even pledged to marry anybody else.”

“What about June?” said Sarah.

“She’s got nothing in writing,” said Virgil shortly. “Listen. If either of us had been engaged, it would have complicated everything, especially for me. The damages, for instance, would have been painfully easy to assess. So we’ve much to be thankful for. Of course, it would have been nicer if we’d been left the money unconditionally, but there you are. We might be worse off. Supposing I had false teeth or a long matted beard or something. . . . And I’ve always thought, Sarah, that you were very charming, and I shouldn’t be surprised if, after a year or two, you got quite crazy about me.”

Miss Vulliamy sighed.

“I feel very uneasy about June,” she declared. “George’ll find somebody else, I expect. Men are like that. But poor June Townshend . . . I should hate her to think that my . . . my husband——”

“June’s very intelligent,” said Virgil. “I’ll write and explain the position. Don’t worry about that. She’s most sympathetic. I’m sure she’ld be the first to——”

“Congratulate you?”

“Well, almost,” said Pardoner. “She’s an awful good sort, June.”

“What brutes men are,” said Sarah. “However, if you must have your wretched money, I suppose I shall have to give way. Incidentally, you might begin by choosing me a peach, will you?”

Virgil selected one carefully. Then he looked at Sarah.

“Tell me the worst,” he said. “Shall it be rough or smooth?”

“Smooth, of course. And don’t rush it. Peel it properly. Remember—you’re my slave now. Oh, and I’ld like some grenadine. I’m thirsty.”

Pardoner set down his knife.

“I beg,” he implored, “I beg that you will not disgrace me by supplanting this nectar by a tumbler of—of Schoolgirl’s Joy. I mean, I’ld rather order you a pint of draught stout. Stout may be coarse, but, at least, it’s got some body.”

“Grenadine,” said Sarah relentlessly. “All nice and red and sweet. I love it.”

Physically and mentally, the epicure writhed. . . . Then he gave the order.

Sarah smiled maddeningly.

“That was very sweet of you, Virgil—darling.”

“Not at all, my love”—shakily. “When we’re—er married—blast this peach!” he added savagely, plunging his hands in water. “I suppose you couldn’t do with a walnut?”

“Get down to it,” said Sarah shortly. “ ‘When we’re married,’ you were saying.”

“Was I? Oh, yes. Well, when——By the way, I’d better announce it, hadn’t I?”

“I suppose so,” said Sarah.

“Right,” said Virgil. “The usual thing, I take it. ‘A marriage has been arranged, and——’ ”

He stopped short and looked at her.

Sarah smiled back.

“It has, with a vengeance,” she flashed. “Hasn’t it?”

Virgil wiped his hands and lifted his glass.

“Your very good health, Sarah. I’m sorry you can’t marry George. But I’ll do my best.”

He drank luxuriously.

Sarah lifted her grenadine.

“And yours, Virgil. I know your feelings exactly. As for poor June, words fail me. But, since it can’t be helped, I’ll do what I can.”

“We shall get through—dear,” said Pardoner stoutly. “And—and you’ve got a very sweet way.”

“That,” said Sarah, “is thanks to the grenadine. And now get on with that peach. Where shall we live?” she added artlessly. “Lincolnshire?”

Pardoner choked. Then—

“I’m sure,” he said stiffly, “it would have been your guardian’s——”

“—and your uncle’s——”

“—wish that we should live at Palfrey.”

“Is there any reason why we should consider his wishes?”

“Hang it,” said Virgil. “The old fellow’s left us six hundred thousand.”

“And blighted our lives.”

“Oh, not ‘blighted,’ ” said Pardoner. “You can’t blight three hundred thousand quid. You can make it a bit sticky, but you can’t blight a sum like that. It’s—it’s invulnerable.”

“I was speaking of our lives,” said Miss Vulliamy. “Not our legacies.”

“Same thing,” said Pardoner comfortably, passing a somewhat rugged sculpture across the table. “Same thing. You see. The two are indistinguishable. Supposing another Will turned up, leaving the lot to me.” Sarah shuddered. “Exactly. Your life would become a blank—same as your bank balance.”

“Not for long,” said Miss Vulliamy.

“Why?”

“Because,” said Sarah, with a dazzling smile. “I should sue you for breach of promise.” Her companion paled. “The damages would be—er—painfully easy to assess, wouldn’t they?”

Pardoner frowned. Then his face cleared.

“The contingency,” he said, “is happily remote. If it ever happened, I should give you half, because you’ve the sporting instinct.”

“How much,” said Sarah dreamily, “shall you give June?”

The other started.

“June? Oh, June’s all right. She—she wouldn’t expect anything. I—I shouldn’t like to offer it. It’ld be—er—indelicate.”

Miss Vulliamy sighed.

“Well, well,” she said, “I expect you know best. Any way, we’ve had a nice straight talk, haven’t we? I mean, we haven’t minced matters. I’ve told you that, but for the money, I wouldn’t be seen dead with you; and you’ve been equally frank.”

Pardoner shifted upon his chair.

“I said,” he protested, “I said you’d a very sweet way. I remember it perfectly.”

“That,” said Miss Vulliamy, “was your only lapse.” She raised her straight eyebrows and a faint smile hung upon her red lips. “But for that, you have been disconcertingly honest.”

Pardoner lighted a cigarette.

“You’re a strange girl,” he said. “One minute you talk like an infant, and the next like a woman of forty. Which are you?”

“That,” said Sarah, “will be for my husband to discover.”

James Tantamount, Esquire, had died at San Francisco.

The direct cause of death was his consumption of iced melon. The physician, who travelled with him mainly to pull his stomach out of the disorders into which the bon vivant was constantly haling that valuable member, had besought him again and again to eschew the delicacy. On each occasion James Tantamount had asked him what he thought he was there for. “Any fool,” he insisted, “can prevent. I can prevent myself. But I’m not going to. I’m not going to earn your money. Your job’s to cure—when I’m sick. Stick to it.” It was indeed, I fancy, as much with the idea of giving his attendant work as with that of indulging his appetite that he had upon the tenth day of June devoured two more slices of melon than he was accustomed to consume. If I am right, his ghost must have been disappointed. The man himself did not have time. In a word, he had consumed the delicacy, and pausing only to make a long nose at his physician upon the other side of the table, had laid down his life and his spoon at the same moment.

His secretary had cabled to London for instructions.

Forsyth and Co., Solicitors, had referred to the Will and replied that their client was to be buried forthwith, adding that, by the terms of that remarkable document, if his doctor and secretary desired to receive the year’s salary apiece which it offered them, they must be prepared to produce credible testimony that they had followed the coffin attired as convicts and playing vigorously upon harps.

The heat prevailing at San Francisco had not only precluded any discussion of the provision, but had made the asportation of the harps a perfectly hellish business, and only the hilarious encouragement of an enormous crowd had enabled the two contingent legatees to stagger into possession.

There, then, you have the late James Tantamount—bluff, greedy, generous, but blessed or cursed with an incorrigible love of what are called ‘practical’ jokes. It was not his fault. He had been bred upon them. To the day of his death he could recall with tearful relish the memory of his father, amid roars of laughter, pursuing the vicar round the dining-room, while the doctor blew frantically upon a hunting horn and other guests arranged recumbent chairs as timber to be leaped. . . .

If such a passionate propensity had not asserted itself in death, it would have been surprising. To lovers of fun, riches and a Will offer the chance of a lifetime. The tragedy of it is, they are not alive to enjoy the jest. When James Tantamount, of Palfrey, left his vast fortune to his nephew and his ward upon the condition that they should marry, he knew he was being funny. He had no conception, however, that he was perpetrating the joke of his career.

The news of the old fellow’s death had sent hopes soaring. It was generally assumed that his nephew and ward would each receive half of his fortune. For a few days, therefore, the two enjoyed undreamed-of popularity, as a highly desirable couple, and frantic efforts were made by countless matrons to catch their respective eyes. All wrote: some called: others sent flowers. The hearts that ‘went out’ to them in their ‘irreparable loss’ argued an esteem for the late James Tantamount hitherto too deep to be expressed.

There is a grief, wrote Mrs. Closeley Dore to Virgil, too deep to talk about . . . . As soon as you feel able, come and spend a few days at Datchet. You shall do as you please, and use the house as an hotel. Bring your man, of course. . . .

The Closeley Dores had four daughters.

My child, wrote Mrs. Sheraton Forbes to Sarah, I know so well that dreadful sense of loneliness, which gnaws the aching heart. Come back to Fairlands with us on Saturday. We will leave you entirely to yourself, but I should like to think that my dear old friend’s sweet ward had someone to turn to in this darkest hour. The world is so hard. . . .

Mrs. Sheraton Forbes had three sons.

It was a dreadful business. . . .

Then the announcement appeared, and the sympathy died down. It was generally, if grudgingly, admitted that Virgil and Sarah had done the right thing. Crestfallen mothers, consoled by the reflection that, even if they had lost the prize, nobody else had won it, agreed that it was what ‘that old Tantamount’ would have wished. Some said, sniffing, that his death had drawn the two together.

Finally, the contents of the Will had become public property.

The effect upon the matrons of Mayfair was electrical. With, I think, the slightest encouragement, the late millionaire would have been burned in effigy. As for the two legatees, the outburst of execration with which their determination was posthumously and somewhat illogically received, beggars description.

“My dear,” said Mrs. Closeley Dore to Mrs. Sheraton Forbes, “my dear, I can stand worldliness, but I detest indecency. Only a man with the mind of a Nero could have conceived such an infamous idea. But then he was always gross. My father, you know, would never have him inside the house.” She shuddered. “But, for an old relic of the Roaring Forties to make a degrading suggestion is one thing; for a decently brought up young man and woman to adopt it is quite another. Those two have no excuse. It is the apotheosis of immorality. I don’t pretend I’m not worldly—I am, and I know it. But deliberately to abet one another in debasing one of the Sacraments of the Church——”

In a voice shaken with emotion, Mrs. Sheraton Forbes replied with a misquotation from the Solemnization of Matrimony.

It was a dreadful business. . . .

In the Clubs the affair got the laugh of the season. Virgil Pardoner, who had always been liked, was openly chaffed out of his life and secretly voted ‘a devilish lucky chap.’ As for the deceased, he was declared a fellow of infinite jest, and his scheme for ‘keeping the goods in the family’ boisterously applauded. The sluice-gates of Reminiscence were pulled up, and memories of ‘Old Jimmy Tantamount’ were manufactured and retailed by the hour.

In my lady’s chamber Miss Vulliamy was frankly envied.

“I don’t mind admitting,” said Margaret Shorthorn, “that I could have done with Virgil. They talk about Sarah’s selling herself. Well, what if she is? We’re all trying to do it. The only difference is that in Sarah’s case the conditions of sale have been announced in the Press. Besides, Virgil’s no monster . . . I only wish to heaven I’d had such a chance.”

“I agree,” said Agatha Coldstream. “If I had to face love in a cottage, I’ld as soon face it with Virgil as with most men I know. But Virgil plus half a million. . . .” She raised her black eyes to heaven expressively. “Besides, I like Sarah. And I’ll tell you one thing—her pals won’t be the worse off for her good fortune. Those two’ll give their friends the time of their lives. You see if they don’t.”

So much for Society’s reception of the news.

The attitude of Lincoln’s Inn Fields was not advertised, but, since John Galbraith Forsyth was a sound judge of character, his opinion may be recorded.

“Tantamount had no right to make such a Will. I told him so at the time, and I’ve often regretted since that I didn’t refuse to draw it. He was playing with fire—hell fire. He might have messed up four lives. And, if he had, he’ld’ve paid for it. That sort of thing isn’t forgiven. . . . Now that I’ve seen the parties, my mind’s at rest. They’re out of the top drawer, both of ’em; and they’re splendidly matched. They don’t know it—yet, and they don’t like their hands being forced. For that’s what it is. One’s only human, you know, and in these lean years six hundred thousand’s a bait you can’t ignore. But they’ll come through all right. I’m not at all certain, myself, that we couldn’t have upset the Will. I’d always got the possibility up my sleeve. But now I shan’t use it.”

Upon the night of their betrothal, neither Miss Vulliamy nor Pardoner had been at their best. They were uncomfortable and suspicious. They felt their position. To my mind, it does them real credit that they were not exceedingly sour. The circumstances were affording a unique occasion for the expression of irony and distaste. Each was, indeed, a mill-stone about the other’s neck. Add to this that they had been brought up as brother and sister, and had never looked upon one another in any other light, when you will see how easily Bitterness might have taken her seat at the board. The two had seen each other in the making—without any frills. . . .

But Sarah and Virgil were two very charming people. After ten minutes with either of them you felt refreshed. I do not think I can pay them a higher compliment.

Somebody once said that Miss Vulliamy always looked as though she had just had a cold shower. It was a good description. Her big blue eyes were always alight with expectancy, her eager face glowing, her pretty red mouth upon the edge of laughter. Her little way, too, of raising a delicate chin stuck fast in your memory, while the length of her exquisite lashes was almost unfair. Her figure and the slimness of her legs belonged to idylls. Looking upon the lady, you thought first of the dawn and then of dew and cool meadows. Sarah would have made an arresting Naiad. Shepherds who repaired to her fountain would have been constantly crowded out.

Pardoner was tall, and conveyed the idea of laziness. It was his soft brown eyes that gave this impression. His thick dark hair and his high colour had earned him at Oxford the sobriquet of Rouge et Noir. An aquiline nose, and a firm, well-shaped mouth distinguished a handsome face. The way in which he wore his clothes brought his tailor much hardly merited custom. His most attractive voice delighted the ear. It was, in fact, hereby that his personality emerged. When he was silent, he passed in a well-mannered crowd; when he opened his mouth, other people stopped talking.

The two met in Bond Street a fortnight later.

“Good morning,” said Virgil. “I bet I’ve been cut by more people than you.”

“Four,” said Sarah, “since half-past ten.”

“Five and a half,” said her fiancé. “Mrs. Sheraton Forbes had a child with her under fourteen. This ostracism amuses me to death. Never mind. How’s Fulke?”

“Desperate,” said Miss Vulliamy. “I knew he would be. He bucked up a lot when I said he should be our first guest.”

“Did he, indeed?” said Virgil. “Truly a forgiving nature.”

“Yes, he is very sweet,” agreed Sarah. “Couldn’t he be your best man?”

Pardoner fingered his chin.

“I’m afraid he’s too young,” he said slowly. “I must have a compeer.”

“Very well, then,” said Sarah. “He can give me away.”

“That,” said Virgil, “will be a most becoming rôle.”

Miss Vulliamy frowned. Then—

“As we’re here,” she said, “what about an engagement ring?”

“Of course,” said Virgil. “Come on. We’ll get it at once.”

The two repaired to a jeweller’s and bought a beauty.

“And while we’re about it,” said Pardoner, “a wedding ring too.”

A wedding ring was selected.

“And we might as well get our presents,” said Sarah, staring at a tiara composed of diamonds and emeralds. “You know: ‘The bridegroom’s presents to the bride included. . .’ ”

“Right,” said Virgil. “Have what you like. I’m in a generous mood. Besides, my turn’s coming. In fact I’ll just have a look round.”

Before they left the shop, the bride had given the bridegroom a gold cigarette-box, four pearl pins, six pairs of sleeve links, and a green crocodile dressing-case, which, with its gold-mounted fittings, cost her eight hundred pounds.

On being acquainted with the lengths to which her generosity had gone—

“They will think I love you,” said Miss Vulliamy, as soon as she could speak.

“Remembering that tiara,” said Pardoner, “they’ll say I’m doting. I didn’t know they made such expensive things. But for my brain-wave about that dressing-case, I should have been left standing.”

In a shaking voice Sarah demanded luncheon.

“Not that I want to presume upon your hospitality, but we’ve many things to discuss,” she concluded coldly.

“On condition,” said Pardoner, “that you do not drink grenadine, I’ll do you a treat.”

“I don’t see why,” said Miss Vulliamy, “I should give up my staple drink.”

Virgil shuddered.

“I’ll try and explain some day. For one thing it’s bad for the heart.”

“It’s never affected mine,” said Sarah.

“No,” said Virgil, “I daresay it hasn’t. To be frank, I was thinking of my own. But never mind. Give it a miss till we’re married—a sort of interim injunction. We can argue it out later.”

“Very well,” said Sarah reluctantly.

That the table which was offered them at Claridge’s should lie directly between one presided over by Mrs. Closeley Dore and another at which Mrs. Sheraton Forbes was entertaining two stylish Americans was sheer good fortune. . . . . Virgil and Sarah had the time of their lives. Placidly to browse under their enemies’ noses was delightful enough. The reflection that the more they vented their good humour, the higher must rise the fever of indignation raging on either side, made the two positively festive. . . . When the two Americans asked their hostess the identity of ‘that most attractive couple,’ and seemed surprised to learn that they were not of the Blood Royal, Mrs. Sheraton Forbes’ cup began to overflow. . . .

At length—

“Ah,” said Pardoner, “the rot’s set in. The tumult and the shouting dies, The Closeleys and the Dores depart. I’ll bet old Chippendale doesn’t last two minutes alone.”

“Got it in one,” said Sarah. “She’s up. Her guests haven’t finished, but she hasn’t seen that. She’s ordering coffee in the lounge. I’m afraid she’s terribly upset.”

“Good,” said Virgil. “And we’ve shortened ‘Slam It’s’ life. When I called you ‘darling’ just now, I thought she was going to founder. Incidentally, I said it very well, didn’t I?”

“Like a professional,” said Miss Vulliamy. “You must have said it before.”

“Never, darling.”

“O-o-oh,” said Sarah. “Any way, you needn’t say it now. The audience has dispersed.”

“But it comes so natural.”

Sarah tilted her chin.

“We are not amused,” she said stiffly. “And now to business. We’d better be married about the end of the month. What about the twenty-fifth?”

Virgil consulted a note-book.

“Can’t be done,” he said. “I’m playing polo. I can manage the twenty-fourth.”

“Don’t be a fool,” said his fiancée. “What about the honeymoon?”

After a lot of argument, Pardoner agreed to waive the polo, on the understanding that the wedding-trip was restricted to fourteen days.

“Well, that’s that,” said Sarah. “Now then, where shall it be? I may say that I insist upon a church.”

A church was at last selected and Pardoner promised to make the necessary arrangements.

“The next thing,” said Miss Vulliamy, “is where to go. What about Dinard?”

“As you please,” said Virgil. “I suppose that’s where Fulke’s going,” he added carelessly.

Sarah shook her sweet head.

“Not till the first,” she replied. “Which brings us to June.”

“August,” corrected Virgil. “August. July—August—Sept——”

“June Townshend,” said Sarah shortly.

Pardoner started and dropped his cigarette.

“What about her?” he said uneasily. “She wouldn’t like Dinard. She’s a—a clergyman’s daughter.”

Sarah bowed before a little gust of laughter.

Then—

“Have you written to her?” she demanded.

“Er, no. Not yet. I mean, it’s a delicate matter.”

“Virgil,” said Miss Vulliamy. “Unless you write to her to-day, I won’t marry you.”

“But——”

“That’s flat,” said Sarah. “I mean what I say. After all this time, to let that poor girl see our engagement in the paper and nurse her sorrow without one word of explanation or regret. . . . I confess I’m disgusted. No honourable man——”

“I’m not an honourable man,” said Pardoner. “I’m a loathsome and venomous worm. Ask Mrs. Closeley Dore.”

“You will write to her now,” said Sarah. “You will send for a sheet of notepaper and write to her now—in the lounge. I’ll help you.”

By the time the document was settled, it was a quarter to four.

My Dear June,

Possibly by now you will have seen the announcement of my engagement in the papers. Had I been able, I should have wished to tell you of it myself, but a recent bereavement has not only kept me in London, but has affected my brain. The marriage I am contracting is one which you would have been the first to wish me to make. Indeed, I have often fancied that I could hear your soft voice urging me to go forward. My poor uncle is dead, dear, and I have reason to believe that it was his earnest desire that I should wed his ward. I feel, therefore, that the least I can do is to respect his wishes. Nothing, however, can take away the memory of the many happy, happy hours we have spent together, and I look forward confidently to bringing my wife to see you, as soon as we are settled. I am sure that you and she will get on together, and perhaps one day you will come and stay with us at Palfrey, which we shall make our home.

Your affectionate friend,

Virgil Pardoner.

“Now address it,” said Sarah, “and send for a stamp.”

Pardoner hesitated.

“I’ld, er, I’ld like to sleep on it,” he said. “I mean, it’s—it’s a ticklish business.”

Miss Vulliamy indicated an envelope with a firm pointed finger.

“Pretty hands you’ve got,” said Virgil musingly. “Pretty nails, too.”

“What are June’s like?”

“Oh, very good,” said Virgil. “Full of character, you know. But yours are bewitching. That left one——”

“Apostate,” said Sarah. “And now address this envelope.”

Virgil did so laboriously.

Miss June Townshend,

The Rectory,

Roughbridge,

Lincolnshire.

They posted the letter together, before they parted.

It was two days later that Mrs. Purdoe Blewitt was seriously annoyed.

“Such impudence,” she said, bristling. “As if she were the daughter of the house. . . .”

The Reverend Purdoe Blewitt, Rector of Loughbridge, laid down his pen.

“What is the matter, my dear?”

His wife stabbed at the bell and flounced into a chair before replying.

“Jane, of course,” she snorted. “Fortunately, I met the postman, or I should never have known.” She tapped a letter with meaning. “She’s still doing it.”

The Rector knew better than to inquire the nature of the iniquity. Mrs. Blewitt believed in remembering her servants’ offences and expected this belief to be shared. He assumed an aggravated look.

“How very trying,” he said, playing for safety. “I should say to her that the next time she does it——”

“Does what?” said his wife.

The Rector started guiltily.

“I understood you to say, my dear,” he faltered, “that she was still doing it.”

“So she is,” said his wife.

The Reverend Purdoe Blewitt put a hand to his head.

“It’s not nice of her,” he said, blindly endeavouring to avoid collision. “Not at all nice. I mean——”

Here he observed that his wife was surveying him with a profound contempt, and quailed accordingly.

The appearance of a pert parlourmaid postponed his chastisement.

“Jane,” said Mrs. Blewitt, at once averting her face and stretching forth the letter as though it were some contagious body, “I suppose it is not the slightest good desiring you to remember that your address is not The Rectory, Loughbridge, but c/o The Rev. Purdoe Blewitt, The Rectory, Loughbridge. However, for what it is worth, I will again point out that, even if you were here as a guest—which you are not—it would be the essence of bad taste to omit the Rector’s name from the head of your notepaper.”

“An’ if,” sweetly rejoined Miss Townshend, taking the letter, “if your gues’s frien’s—not knowin’ you—didn’t take no notice of what was wrote at the ’ead of the notepaper, I s’pose your gues’s ’ld still get it in the neck.” Mrs. Purdoe Blewitt recoiled, and the Rector emitted a protesting noise. “You know, you’re too particular to live, you are; and p’raps you’ll take this as notice. Servants aren’t no good to you. What you want is ’alf a dozen Archangels—and then you’ld show ’em ’ow to wear their wings.”

Apparently unable to speak, Mrs. Blewitt, crimson with fury, clawed at the air, while the Rector, feeling that something must be done, rose to his feet and cleared his throat.

Ere words came, however, Miss Townshend was out of the room.

The look of her letter was promising.

This had been addressed to ‘Roughbridge,’ but, there being no such place, the Post Office had risen to the occasion and above the mistake.

Five days had gone by since Mrs. Purdoe Blewitt had been so annoyed, and Pardoner and Miss Vulliamy were dining together, ostensibly to discuss arrangements for their alliance, actually because they enjoyed each other’s company.

“I wonder she hasn’t replied,” said Sarah, obediently sipping her champagne.

Virgil shrugged his shoulders.

“I daresay she won’t,” he said. “She’s very considerate. I mean, it’s delicate ground, and it’ld be just like June if she sank her own feelings and, er, let bygones be bygones.”

His fiancée shook her head.

“If she doesn’t answer,” she said, “I shall be really worried. Silence can only mean one of two things: either that she doesn’t know how to behave——”

“Oh, she knows how to behave all right.”

“—or that she’s almost beside herself.”

“No, no,” said Virgil. “June’s not that kind of girl. I shan’t be at all surprised, if she doesn’t reply. In fact, I should be rather surprised, if she did. You know, I had a feeling, when I wrote that letter, that it would never be answered. You see, June——”

“But you used to kiss her, you know.”

Pardoner pulled his moustache.

“Once in a while,” he said. “But I never made a meal of it. It was more of a salute.”

Miss Vulliamy stared across the room.

“I think,” she said softly, “your love for her is very beautiful.”

“Was,” said Virgil uneasily. “I’ve—I’ve trodden it under.”

Sarah shuddered.

“Hush,” she said. “Hush. Don’t talk like that, Virgil. It’s—it’s blasphemy.”

As she spoke, a page came to the table.

“Mr. Pardoner, sir?”

“Yes,” said Virgil.

“Miss Townshend would like to speak to you, sir, on the telephone.”

Pardoner started. Then he turned to Sarah with a sheepish smile.

“Who’s come in on this little deal?” he demanded.

“Whatever d’you mean?” said Miss Vulliamy, striving to keep her voice steady.

“Nothing doing,” said Virgil, continuing to smile. “Admit it’s a plant.”

“By all that’s solemn,” said Sarah. “I swear I’ve nothing to do with it.”

“But you’ve——”

“I haven’t, Virgil. I swear I haven’t, I’ld—I’ld be ashamed,” she added tearfully.

Three times did her betrothed endeavour to speak.

At the fourth attempt—

“Must be some mistake,” he muttered, wiping his brow. Then he turned to the page. “All right. I’ll come.”

He bowed an apology to Sarah and followed his executioner out of the room. . . .

Of the two, Sarah was, if possible, the more dumbfounded.

Upon the very first evening she had made up her mind that Miss June Townshend was non-existent. She could have sworn that Pardoner had invented the lady, to be a foil to George Fulke. Gleefully, she had decided to turn the foil into a lash to be laid mischievously about her fiancé’s shoulders. The laborious drafting of the letter to June had afforded her the highest gratification, and her searching cross-examinations of Virgil upon his associations with the lady had never failed to bear her most refreshing fruit. Now, without a word of warning, the Palace of Fun had fallen, and out of the ruins were sticking some extremely ill-favoured truths. The very least of these was suggesting that the edifice had been erected upon a foundation of distasteful fact.

It was while she was staring at Virgil’s empty place, considering these things, that for the first time she realized something which was still more to the point. This was that with her future husband she was most heartily in love. . . .

Pardoner walked down the hall, thinking furiously. Arrived at the box, he took the spare receiver and told the page to speak for him.

“Say you can’t find me,” he said, “and ask her to leave a message.”

The boy did so.

A voice, which was anything but gentle, replied:

“All right, I’ll come round.”

Virgil blenched.

“Say I’m not living here, and you don’t know my address.”

“Then why you ask me to leave a message,” flashed Miss Townshend.

“Er—on the chance,” stammered the page.

“Well, ’ere it is—on the chance,” said Jane. “I’ll be round in ’alf an hour.”

The receiver was slammed into place.

Virgil and the page stared at one another in dismay.

Then the former said an extremely unpleasant word under his breath and erupted violently from the box. . .

Miss Vulliamy greeted him with a cold smile.

“Get on all right?” she said acidly.

“We must leave at once,” said Virgil. “Go on to the Berkeley, or my rooms, or somewhere. We can’t stay here. She says she’s coming at once—may be here any moment.”

“Then why go?” said Sarah.

“Well, we can’t be here when she comes. You don’t want a scene, do you? Screams and yells in the hall, and all that sort of thing?” He mopped the sweat from his face. “It’s all that blinking letter you made me write,” he added savagely. “I might have known——”

“But, of course, you must see her,” said Sarah, rising. “I’ll go, if you like: but you must stay. Poor, wretched girl, you can’t——”

“Stay?” cried Virgil. “You’re mad. I don’t want to be blackmailed.”

“But you said that June——”

“It—it isn’t June,” wailed Pardoner. “I mean, it can’t be. It—it isn’t her voice. It’s an impostor—that’s the word—impostor, Sarah. Someone or other’s got hold of that blasted letter, and now they’re trying it on.”

“But it must be June,” said Sarah. “The telephone’s very deceptive. Sometimes those very soft voices——”

“I tell you it’s not,” raged Virgil. “June doesn’t drop her ‘h’s’.”

With a bright red spot upon either cheek, Miss Vulliamy preceded him to the door.

While she was getting her cloak, Pardoner gave the porter instructions too definite to be mistaken. These he reinforced with two pounds.

Then a taxi was summoned, and a moment later the two were flying up Brook Street. . . .

Pardoner entered that cab with the determined intention of telling Miss Vulliamy the truth. He meant to humble himself. He intended to apologize for his reception of his amazing luck. He meant to ask her to do her best to love and to confess there and then that “if the Will went west to-morrow morning, I’ld beg and humbly pray you to become my wife.”

Fate ruled otherwise.

The tone in which his fiancée cut short his opening sentence with a request to be taken home, would have silenced anyone. After a second effort, which was met by the lady with a true flash of temper, Pardoner told the cabman to drive to Rutland Gate.

The journey was completed without a word.

Arrived at the house, Sarah was handed out with her head in the air. Virgil’s offer to ring or use her latchkey might not have been made. His presence was ignored utterly. My lady let herself in, and closed the door behind her exactly as if she were alone. The broad white step without, might have been empty. Then she went to her room and burst into tears.

Virgil repaired to a Club and ordered a brandy and soda. This he imbibed in the library, where no one may speak, cursing all women with a deep and bitter curse. . . .

After a perfectly poisonous hour and a half, he went to bed.

Upon the following morning he received two several communications.

The first was from the hall-porter at Claridge’s and made his hair rise.

The second was from Sarah and desired him to meet her at noon at Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

Pardoner agreed, but went early, proposing to have Forsyth to himself for a valuable quarter of an hour. Miss Vulliamy went early also, with the same idea. They met on the doorstep and, as Forsyth was engaged, spent an awkward ten minutes in the same waiting-room. . . .

At last they were shown into the presence.

The solicitor, who had been hoping to congratulate them as lovers, was much disappointed. Still, his hopes were not dashed, and, wisely making no attempt to thaw the atmosphere, begged to be told the nature of the trouble.

Virgil stammered the facts. He was careful to tell nothing but the truth. But for Sarah’s presence, he would have gone further, and told the whole truth . . . but for Sarah’s presence . . .

Forsyth heard him out gravely. Then he rang for a clerk.

“Get me on to Claridge’s,” he said.

In silence the three awaited the connection.

Presently a bell throbbed.

Forsyth picked up the receiver.

“Is that Claridge’s? Put me on to the hall-porter. . . . Hullo! . . . This is Forsyth and Co., solicitors. . . . Yes, Mr. Forsyth. . . . I understand a lady calling herself ‘Miss Townshend,’ has been asking for Mr. Pardoner. . . . Yes? . . . Sitting in the hall now, is she? Good. Tell her that he will be there to see her at three o’clock. . . . Right. . . . Good-bye.”

“But, look here,” said Virgil, “I’m not going to——”

“Yes, you are,” said Forsyth. “You’re going to be in the lounge. Two of my clerks are going to be there also. One of these is going to take your name in vain. He’s going to meet the lady and say he’s you. Of course, it may not come off, but it’s worth trying. If it does, we’ve got her cold. There’s the evidence of a spare clerk and the hall-porter, to say she took John Snooks for Virgil Pardoner. You must be there yourself, to have a look at her. If, having seen her, you’ve anything more to say, say it to the spare clerk. And to-night you must leave for Lincolnshire. The real Miss Townshend must know the facts of the case, and we obviously can’t trust the post. If all goes well, she won’t be needed, but if there’s any hitch, she’ll have to be produced.”

Pardoner broke into a sweat.

Then—

“Need she be mixed up in it? I mean . . .”

The solicitor shrugged his shoulders.

“If A say’s she’s B,” he said shortly, “when she isn’t, the obvious thing to do is to produce B, isn’t it?”

“I’d better come back here at four,” said Virgil, positively. “After I’ve seen the woman.”

Forsyth shook his head.

“I’m leaving for Paris,” he said, “at two o’clock. Can’t get out of it. Back in a week, I hope. But don’t worry. When’s the wedding?” he added pleasantly.

“Twenty-fou—fifth,” said Virgil, with a sickly smile. “Soon be here now.”

Sarah moistened her lips.

“I think,” she said slowly, “I think I ought to say that I’m rather unsettled.” Her fiancé paled, and Forsyth shot her a swift glance. “I don’t say here and now that I won’t go through with it, but——”

“But you must,” cried Virgil. “You must. Why, that tiara alone——”

“—unless and until this matter is cleared right up, I’m sorry, but . . .” She drew off her engagement ring and laid it upon the table. “I think perhaps, if Mr. Forsyth would put this in his safe . . .”

There was a dreadful silence.

At length—

“I’m sure,” said Forsyth, turning to look at Pardoner, “we both understand. It’s very natural. The wretched business places you both in a false position.” He picked up the ring and slid it into an envelope. “I may add that I look forward confidently to restoring this pretty thing to you, directly I’m back.” He rose and walked to the door. “And now, good-bye. Don’t worry, because I’m away. My managing clerk, Maple, will be at your service.”

As in a dream, Virgil followed Miss Vulliamy down the stairs and out into the broad square. There she gave him her hand and bade him farewell.

At half-past ten the next morning Pardoner received a letter of some importance.

Private.

Dear Mr. Pardoner,

From the clerk who attended you yesterday, I understand that you are not proposing at present to leave for Lincolnshire. I write to beg you to do this without delay.

What took place at Claridge’s yesterday afternoon makes it abundantly clear that the person, who called there to meet you, is no fool. Thanks, no doubt, to the periodicals in which your photograph has recently so often figured, she is well acquainted with your looks, and from the papers, which, I understand she produced, I see no reason to disbelieve that she is, in fact, Miss Jane Townshend, late of The Rectory, Loughbridge or Roughbridge, Lincolnshire. It is, of course, a most unfortunate coincidence that there should be two ladies bearing the very same name and address, but since such a coincidence exists, it is not at all easy successfully to contend that this woman’s possession of your letter is unlawful and was never intended.

In these circumstances, you will surely appreciate the extreme desirability of your seeing the other Miss Townshend without delay, explaining to her the position, and, if possible, inducing her to come to London at once. Indeed, in my opinion, her production alone can now snuff this matter out.

Yours faithfully,

F. S. Maple.

Virgil fell upon the telephone.

After a maddening delay—

“Is that Mr. Maple?” he said.

“Speaking,” said a brusque voice.

“I’m Virgil Pardoner.”

“Yes?”

“The name isn’t Jane. It’s June.”

“Ah. I thought Mr. Forsyth said ‘June,’ but I wanted to see what you said. That’s splendid. She’s altered your letter, of course—changed the ‘u’ into ‘a.’ That was easy. And now we have got her—tight. All you’ve got to do is to trot out Miss June Townshend and, if she has any letters of yours—she probably has—to see that she brings them with her. There’s a train at——”

“She hasn’t,” yelled Virgil. “She hasn’t. I know she hasn’t.”

“Oh, but she may. Lots of women promise to destroy——”

“She can’t. I never wrote any. There’s—there’s no such woman.”

“No such what?” cried Maple.

“Woman,” said Virgil, calmly. Now that the murder was out, he felt much better. “You know. Female of man. June Townshend is a creation of my lightning brain. I also invented Stoughbridge, or whatever the rotten place is, complete with Rectory. I pictured an old-world garden, with a hammock and croquet-nets. Oh, and a bamboo cake-stand. June was there, feeding the aspodestras with crumbs of rock-cake. The letter, I may say, was written to substantiate the fantasy. It was a beautiful piece of prose. . . .”

There was a long silence.

Presently—

“Are you serious?” said Maple. “I mean, d’you mean what you say?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, this is a facer,” said Maple. “Of course, I’ll do what I can, but you’ve disarmed me. If the thing’s to be kept quiet it looks as if that beautiful piece of prose——”

“Will prove extremely expensive?” said Virgil, cheerfully.

“Exactly.”

“An action for breach of promise couldn’t succeed?”

“Good heavens, no. But she’ll be a nuisance.”

“Let her,” said Virgil. “I won’t pay a blinkin’ cent.”

“But what will Miss Vulliamy say?”

“That,” said Virgil sweetly, “remains to be seen. I may tell you I wrote the letter under duress. She made me do it. Of course, if she likes to buy my literature back, she’s at liberty to do so. She’s plenty of money—or can have. Besides, it’ld be a pretty compliment. So please do nothing for me. And just acknowledge these instructions, will you? Before you lunch. I’ld like her to know the worst this afternoon.”

“Very good,” said Maple, laughing. “I’ll dictate a letter at once.”

Private.

Dear Mr. Pardoner,

I have carefully considered the conversation, which we had upon the telephone this morning, and I have come to the conclusion that, in the circumstances, your wisest course is, as you suggest, to take no further action.

Since the Miss June Townshend, to whom you addressed your letter, has never in fact existed outside your imagination, and there is, therefore, no one with whom we can confront the woman, into whose hands that letter has fallen, the only possible move we could make would be to offer to buy the document back.

As, however, your hands are perfectly clean, I agree that to make such a move would be beneath your dignity and that you can well afford to ignore such petty molestation as that to which this person may resort.

An action for breach of promise could not possibly succeed.

As I have already pointed out, her alteration of “June” to “Jane” has, in the absence of “the original,” no bearing upon the case.

Yours faithfully,

F. S. Maple.

This note and its predecessor reached Sarah Vulliamy while she was dressing to dine tête-à-tête with George Fulke.

Beyond that Sarah was unusually pensive, the dinner calls for no remark.

Exactly a month had slipped by.

There had been rain in the night, and Luchon was looking her best.

So was Mrs. Pardoner. She had just had a cold shower.

Seated upon the edge of the breakfast table, one bare leg dangling from the folds of an apricot kimono, her curls in a disorder more lovely than any array, she periodically frowned upon a letter, regarded her new wedding-ring, and gazed at the sunlight upon the mountain-side.

Presently she raised her voice.

“Virgil.”

A lapping noise in the bathroom was suspended.

“Yes, darling.”

“George Fulke says I’ve blighted his life.”

“So you have,” said Virgil.

“By not going to Dinard,” added Sarah.

“Serve him right,” said Virgil.

“He says he quite understood that ours was a marriage of convenience.”

“So it was,” said Virgil. “Great convenience.”

“But what shall I do?” said Sarah. “He says that his heart is ‘aching for a vivid, stimulating personality to fill the emptiness of life.’ ”

Her husband appeared, swathed in a bath dressing-gown.

“My dear,” he said, “it’s too easy. Take a fresh envelope and pass the letter on.”

“Who to?” said his wife.

Virgil fingered his chin.

“The trouble is,” he murmured, “I’m not quite sure of her address. I think it was Bloughbridge.”

MADELEINE

MADELEINE

It was upon the seventh day of September that Madeleine Peyre, of Ruffec, made a mistake. This was notable; first, because the lady was justly accounted wise, and, secondly, because, as errors go, the mistake was a bad one.

Madeleine was the Silvia of Ruffec. She went faithfully to Mass, and what she believed to be proper, that unobtrusively she endeavoured to do. She spoke ill of no one. Her exquisite pink-and-white complexion, her raven hair, her steady grey eyes, were three great several beauties. Add that her features were regular, her teeth most white, and her figure graceful, when you will understand that the swains of Ruffec commended her with cause. As I have said already, Madeleine’s judgment also was unusually sound. To ram home my comparison, it was, I think, the light in her wonderful eyes which you forgot last of her comeliness, while the flowers she was constantly receiving gave her actual distress. She never would wear them. No other girl in Ruffec received any flowers.

When, therefore, Madeleine Peyre, the Silvia of Ruffec, married the wrong man, the town pulled her down from her pedestal and let her lie.

It is the way of the world.

The announcement of the betrothal aroused consternation. People were amazed—staggered. You could have knocked them down. That Pierre Lacaze was a brute was common knowledge. They said his first wife had been bullied into her grave. . . . The astonishment was succeeded by sickness of heart. Discussion of the tragedy dissolved into sighs and tears. . . . Finally came Anger. Madeleine Peyre was denounced for an ungrateful fool. Where sighs had been heaved, fingers were wagged and snapped. Ruffec told Ruffec that Mademoiselle Peyre would soon find out her error, and that the discovery would serve her right. People began to gloat upon the disillusionment which was awaiting their darling. Upon the wedding day itself leers were exchanged. . . .

It is the way of the world.

Had her parents lived, the mistake would not have been made. But they had been killed together, five years before. Madeleine, aged sixteen, had seen no reason why the little creamery they had been keeping should close its aged hatch. As a result, this had remained open ever since. Out of the profits of the little enterprise its girlish governor and her two young brothers had been lodged and fed and clothed decently. Now the brothers were come to men’s estate, while the goodwill of the business was a legacy worth having. Moreover, Jean and Jacques Peyre were no fools. About their future Madeleine felt easy enough.

For the matter of that, up to the very last she had no qualms about her own. Quos Deus vult perdere prius dementat. Every one—her brothers included—disliked Lacaze. The man was so obviously a brute. Madeleine clung to him steadfastly. . . .

Then the day came, and the Silvia of Ruffec cast her pearls before swine.

Be sure Lacaze rent her.

Nearly ten months had trailed by, and Madeleine had aged ten years.

The two lived in Paris, where Lacaze plied his trade of steeple-jack and made good money. The work suited him. The hours were short, the pay high. Fearless as a lion, the danger delighted his heart. The respect his prowess inspired tickled his vanity.

So much for his public life.

Lacaze married Madeleine Peyre as other men buy a fine horse. The only difference was that he got her for nothing.

In the Silvia of Ruffec he had seen a fine stamp of animal, intelligent, well-made, good to look upon. He had judged her strong, courageous, and obedient. Her possession would be something to be proud of. Others would covet such a prize. . . .

The fellow was perfectly right.

Physically and mentally Madeleine was all that could be desired. When he took her out and about, everyone stared in admiration. When he showed her off to his friends they made no secret of their envy. His house was always in order, such as he had not dreamed of. There was, however, a fretful fly in the ointment. It was this. Madeleine’s manners were perfect, but they were the manners of Silvia, and not the manners of a show horse.

Within twenty-four hours of her wedding it was all over, and Madeleine had realized her plight. Of course the blow had been frightful . . . stunning . . . too terrible to describe. The first blinding flash of perception had exploded a second: the second, a third. . . . Her poor brain had staggered under this fearful appulse, her spirit fainted, her heart sunk to her shoes. Her love for Lacaze had shrivelled and died then and there. Not so her obedience. . . . So soon as she could think clearly, Madeleine resolved to do her best to dovetail her principles into her husband’s demands.

The result was unsatisfactory—to Madame Lacaze. You cannot make a fair wallet out of a silk purse and a sow’s ear. The ways of Lacaze were not Madeleine’s. The grace the heaven had lent her, meant nothing to him. More—the man had a will. The grace the heaven had lent her, he made her discard.

The result was unsatisfactory—to Monsieur Lacaze. Madeleine bowed to his will, but not to his liking. She discarded her precious loan, if and when she was urged—never unless she was urged. His will had to be expressed—always. That was where her manners, as a horse, were so imperfect. Her rider’s heels ached. . . .

Never once did Lacaze lose his temper. Better for his wife if he had. Instead, he smiled a quiet smile, set his strong teeth and—stuck to his spurs. After a month or two his heels developed new muscles and stopped aching. From then on, the blood upon his rowels was never dry.

Her spirit had to be broken. Well, that was easy enough. It had been done before. A pair of aching heels, however, had to be paid for. Lacaze determined to break his wife’s spirit by eighths of an inch.

Fortune favours the brute.

Nine months after their marriage, a pair of spurs of a sharpness he could never have compassed fell into his lap.

A letter arrived for Madeleine while she and Lacaze sat at meat. It came from her brother Jean.

Dearest Madeleine,

I write to say that René Dudoy has taken a job in Paris. It is a good thing for him, but he will be lonely. He has said absolutely that he will not go to see you. I expect you can guess why. But we have told him not to be silly, and that you will be a good friend, if you can be nothing else. We think you would have wished us to do this. It is true, is it not? If so, look him up. His address will be 66 rue Castetnau.

Jacques and I are well, but still miss our only sister very much. The shop flourishes. We took twenty-six francs more last week than the week before, though a storm on Wednesday robbed us of six good litres.

Your loving brother,

Jean.

Covertly Lacaze watched her read it and lay it down. Something—Heaven knows what—told him that here was matter she did not wish him to see. He went to work delicately.

“Ah!” he cried of a sudden. “The thing had escaped me. My dear, to-morrow put on your very best gown. We are going to the wedding of Robert and José Tuyte.”

Madeleine winced.

“Must we, Pierre? José Tuyte is awfully clever, I know. But she is an actress, and—and I do not go well with the stage. I am too slow for them.”

(If to appear nightly in the costume of a child of seven at The Dead Rat, there to accept cigarettes and encourage the purchase of champagne, is to be an actress, Madeleine was perfectly right. That she was too slow for such a ‘stage’ was unarguable.)

“My dear, what would you? Robert is a good friend, and I knew José before I knew you. They would be most hurt. Besides, marriage is like a wet sponge. It wipes clean the slate. You need not, you know, dance all the time.”

“Dance?”

“Have I forgotten again? We are to have supper that night at Le Parapluie. The big room has been engaged. I tell you, it will be festive. A little below us, perhaps, but we must descend, my dear. It behoves us to descend. Their feelings must not be hurt.”

Madeleine paled.

Once before she had subscribed to festivity under the shelter of Le Parapluie. The revels had haunted her ever since. . . .

She was about to protest—beg to be excused—when she remembered her letter. Mercifully, this seemed to have escaped notice—so far. It occurred to her that pleasant, bright conversation might save it inviolate. Desperately she strove to keep the ball rolling. . . .

Lacaze saw her anxiety, and let her strive.

When the meal was over, he pushed back his chair. For the next five minutes he debated audibly whether he should go forth to buy tobacco, or send the servant. Madeleine wanted him to go—terribly, but dared not put in her oar. She was, of course, quite satisfied that he had forgotten her letter. Her only fear was that he would catch sight of it again.

At last Lacaze decided to go himself. He rose, sought for his hat, chucked her under the chin and left the room.

Madeleine thrust the letter into her dress and thanked God.

Then the door opened and her husband put in his head.

“I quite forgot,” he said, smiling. “What does young Jean have to say?”

His wife took the letter from her bosom and gave it into his hand.

He read it deliberately. At length—

“Poor René,” he said gaily. “So I put a spoke in his wheel. Dear, dear. We must try to make up for it. I seem to remember him faintly—a calf with curly fair hair. ‘66 rue Castetnau.’ Good.” He handed the letter back. “We’ll call there next Sunday morning. The better the day, sweeting, the better the deed. ‘Lonely.’ Poor clod, what a shame! But for Lacaze, the steeple-jack, he might have been watching your pink little hands ladle cream into pots, while he counted the takings and gave out the change. Certainly we must make up for it—so far as we can. . . .”

He sighed and went out.

As he closed the door, his eyes lighted. He walked down the passage thoughtfully, licking his lips. . . .

Madeleine sat staring at the disordered cloth.

Long ago Misery had repaired to her eyes. Now Despair had come also. She was really frightened.

Lacaze was perfectly right. But for him, she would have married René. Ever since her disastrous wedding she had tried not to think about the past—the old days. As for what might have been, this she had shut most rigidly out of her thoughts. As if to mock her pains, here was Fate flaunting it under her very nose. . . .

Again, God knows she was patient—to a fault. But her husband’s derision of René had set her cheeks flaming. That it had made her heart warm towards her old swain, she did not realize. That it had been intended so to do, only another Lacaze could have guessed. The man was evil.

Finally, Madeleine knew in her heart that she had always loved René, and never Lacaze . . . that she had loved René very much . . . that at the present moment she loved him more than ever.

All things considered, then, that Silvia was thoroughly frightened is not surprising. There were breakers ahead.

Lacaze knew that he could trust his wife. He knew that she was loyal, incorruptible, holy. Trading upon this holiness, he fairly thrust the lovers into each other’s arms. Before his dominant will the two poor wretches were helpless. . . .

The climax came one beautiful July evening.

Dudoy had been bidden to call for Madeleine and take her to the Café de la Forêt Noire. There the two were to wait till the steeple-jack joined them.

“You know my corner,” he had said. “Take it and sip your syrup until I arrive. I shall not be long, but Notre Dame is ailing. She has a crack, poor lady, in one of her horns. To be frank, it is an awkward business. I hope I shan’t slip. If I did—well, you two would take care of each other, would you not?” He pinched his wife’s ear. “Still, we will hope and pray my poor life may be spared.”

At a quarter to seven, therefore, honest curly-haired René strode down the Rue de Tocqueville, to fold sweet sorrow in his arms. Madame Lacaze was ready, and the two left at once.

On their way through the bustling streets they spoke very little. Matter-of-fact conversation was difficult enough to come by. They kept what reserve they had for the table without the window at the Café de la Forêt Noire.

This appeared soon enough.

René saw Madeleine settled, and called for drink. Then they began to talk—artificially. Madeleine laboured hard and met with success. After a little, Dudoy began to dance to her piping. . . .

Then a laughing-eyed rogue of a child came and snapped the poor pipe in two.

What happened exactly was this. The tot had escaped from its parents three tables away. Liking the look of the lovers, it came to them straight, showed them its sixpenny watch, made them both free of its lips and, finally, desired them to draw a castle forthwith. Lack of a pencil and paper made it impossible to comply. Madeleine pointed this out gently enough. Pharaoh-like, the child waved aside the objection, demanding a castle tearfully. The two sought to distract him for all they were worth. . . . Here the parents suspended a bubbling colloquy to look for their offspring. Madeleine and René were rescued in the nick of time. . . .

The radiant father and mother were full of apologies.

“I pray you, forgive us. We were talking, and for a moment, we forgot. It is at this age that they must be watched all the time. When you have a fine fat boy, you will understand.”

Hats were raised, smiles and bows were exchanged, and the incident closed.

Madeleine and René Dudoy sat ready to burst into tears.

At length—

“Mon Dieu!” said René hoarsely. “Mon Dieu, it is not to be borne! I am a man, am I not? With blood in my veins? I am not a stock or a stone. I have a heart, Madeleine, a broken heart—that cries and cries and cries. All the time we are making our small talk my heart is crying. All the time——”

“René, René,” wailed Madeleine, “why do you come? Why did you come to-day? Why yesterday? Why the day before that?”

“He makes me!” cried René. “You know it. I have no choice. Besides, the hours he offers me are of pure gold. I cannot throw them away. That evening I did not come, I nearly died. I sat and drank absinthe and wept till they asked me to go. The proprietor was very kind. He understood perfectly. But it was bad for the house.”

“It was very bad for you,” said Madeleine gravely. “But listen, René. You are wrong. The hours my husband offers you are not of gold at all. They are of cold, sharp steel, that——”

“Gold or steel,” breathed René, “I do not care. They are spent in your company. There is a fence between us, I know—a hell of a fence—but we can peer through the bars. It is permitted to touch you . . . watch your mouth move . . . hear the music of your voice—and, when you are gone to embrace a memory.”

“Hush, René, hush! Mon Dieu, will you have me faint?”

“Madeleine, Madeleine, why did you marry Pierre? A-a-ah, I do not blame you! Do not think that. It was your own affair. Only . . . we could have been happy, I think, and . . . and I can draw quite good castles, such as that little one desired. . . .” His voice broke, and a bright tear rolled down Madeleine’s cheek. She swept it away swiftly. Dudoy pulled himself together. “Bah! The milk is spilled. I watched you spill it at Ruffec that autumn day. Now, alas, you go thirsty! I feared you would. And I am thirsty too, sweet; for I would have drunk of that milk. Consider, then. Since we both thirst, it is better to share our misfortune. Besides, if the past is dead, there is always the future. The good God, perhaps, will give us another pitcher.” He paused and looked down at his feet. “A steeple-jack’s work,” he muttered, “is very dangerous.” Madeleine shivered. “One day, perhaps—perhaps this very evening—he will not come back.”

The girl shook her head.

“Yes, he will,” she said dully. “Pierre will never slip.” She started violently. “Mon Dieu, what have I said? Ah, René, believe me, I have been dreaming. The heat, perhaps. . . .” She laughed hysterically. “ ‘The past is dead,’ you were saying. ‘The past is dead.’ ”

The man had no ears to hear. His eyes were burning with hope.

“I love you,” he said uncertainly. “I love your beautiful hands. I love your soft dark hair. I cannot play with it now, because of the bars. But one day the bars will be broken, and then I shall come and fill these arms with its glory. Be sure, my heart, I shall wait and wait always . . . until the bars fall. Ah, see how the good God has given light to our darkness. He has shown us the way to go. Now, when we are together, we shall never be sad. We will remember always that we are waiting . . . just waiting . . . until the bars fall. . . .”

Head up, rigid, white-faced, Madeleine sat staring and seeing nothing. Her ears, however, were hearing perfectly. After a moment she braced herself, drawing a deep breath. Holy, fair and wise, her resolve was taken.

“I do not see,” she said slowly, “that we have anything to share—you and I. A year ago, perhaps, there might have been something. But, as you said just now, the past is dead. And since we have nothing to share, René, it would be so much better if . . . if . . .”

She hesitated and passed a hand across her eyes.

René Dudoy stared.

“But what are you saying?” he cried. “You go back to where we began. We have thrashed all this out. You said our hours were not golden. I have shown you——”

“You have shown me that it is better, René, that we two should not meet any more.”

“Not alone, perhaps. I think you are right, sweetheart. I will arrange that somehow. Now that we have our understanding——”

“I wish,” said Madeleine steadily, “that you would leave Paris.”

The other recoiled.

“What!” he screamed. “What! Leave Paris? Mon Dieu! This is more than I can stand.” He leaned back in his chair and wiped the sweat from his face. “I think you are ill,” he said. “To hear you, anyone would think that you did not care,” he added desperately.

“I do not care,” said Madeleine.

The young man started as though she had stabbed him with a knife. Then he went very white.

“I do not care,” she repeated. “I do not want to hurt you, but you have made a mistake. Jean wrote to me, you know, and said you were very sad. He said you would not come to see me because—because you could not forget. I showed the letter to Pierre, and we agreed that we must be kind to you. We thought, perhaps, when you saw how—how happy we were, you would join in our happiness, and so become cured. Instead, you have grown worse. More—you have involved me terribly. I have tried to be kind, and you have mistaken my kindness for something else. It is really very difficult, René, but, you see, we are not at all in the same boat. I ought, of course, I see now, to have told you at once. But I didn’t, I didn’t want to hurt you, and—it was doing no harm. It is an awkward thing, you know, to tell any man—let alone an old friend. But now it is getting beyond . . . beyond a joke. . . .”

René winced at the word piteously. With white lips and a bleeding heart, Madeleine struggled on.

“You see, I have not told Pierre. . . . And I do not want Pierre, my husband, to make the same mistake. I do not think that he would, but you never know. And if he did, it would be very awkward for me. I do not know how I should show him that he was wrong. . . .

“And so, you see, my friend, that when I said that the hours we spend together are of sharp steel, I was perfectly right. They pierce your heart, I fear, and they—they—embarrass me. . . . Don’t look like that, René! I tell you, I hoped——”

“Hope?” cried René, with a wild laugh. “Hope? I do not know what you mean. What is hope?”

Here Lacaze appeared, smiling and nodding good will.

“Did you think I was dead?” he crowed. “I think that you must have. As a matter of fact, I’ve never been off the ground. Notre Dame was not ready for me. Instead, to tell you the truth, I have been talking business.” He jerked his head at the window directly behind them. “Sitting in there. I became so absorbed that I forgot our engagement. Then I heard your voices, you know, and that reminded me.” He took his seat between them and looked benignantly round. “And now about supper. . . . I think a nice little ragoût, with potatoes en robe de chambre.”

The party was not a success.

René Dudoy pleaded night-work and left at once.

As for Madeleine, she fainted before the ragoût was served.

All things considered, I am inclined to think that when Madame Lacaze deceived the man she loved, because he was not her husband, she made another mistake. But then I am of the earth, earthy. What cannot possibly be denied is that it was a most splendid action. ‘So shines a good deed in a naughty world.’ Probably the trouble was that she did not trust herself. René’s desire to make the word ‘wait’ their watchword was dangerous, because it was sweet. It would have been the thin edge of the wedge. Madeleine was determined to play the game. It was not Lacaze she stood by, but the office he filled. It was not Dudoy she sent packing, but the devil himself. That her lover did not stand in her husband’s shoes was her misfortune. As such, however, it did not affect the case. She was a good girl.

Ten days after that dreadful evening at the Café de la Forêt Noire, the War came with a crash.

The electrical atmosphere of the next three months saved Madeleine’s life. No spirit, however sick, could have failed to respond to such exciting treatment.

Lacaze, the steeple-jack, the lion, welcomed the War with flashing eyes. From the moment the storm broke, his one idea was to kill. When the time came, he fought with twice the ardour with which he had reduced high places. He soon became sergeant; he was worth ten ordinary men. In all his pride, however, he never forgot how once his heels had ached. Besides, his wife’s dismissal of Dudoy had made him frown. . . .

Before he left for the battle he had arranged everything.

In reply to the questions which every soldier is asked, he stated that he was unmarried, and gave the name of Madame José Beer (née Tuyte) as that of his next-of-kin.

Then he visited the trull and told her her new estate.

José was flattered, but curious. Lacaze enlightened her.

“Now, if I should be killed, the news will come to you.”

“I shall mourn,” said José.

“As you please,” said Lacaze. “But burn the paper at once and keep your mouth shut. Tell no one. You know, I fear, that Madeleine is very stuck up.” He sighed. “It is no good mincing matters. Her pride has caused me much grief. You and I are not good enough. She would, I think, like to be free. If she were free. . . .” He broke off and shrugged his shoulders. “There is a young officer somewhere. They correspond. . . .”

“The jade!” raged José. “The jade! The graceless minx! Trust me.” Her voice vibrated. “She shall never be free. Never!” Here she became maudlin. “But, Pierre dear, I shall not receive the news. It is not to be thought of . . .”

“Perhaps not,” said Pierre shortly, taking his leave. “But remember my words. I trust you to see justice done.”

“Never fear,” cried José, her pig eyes gleaming. . . .

Finally, the steeple-jack spoke with his wife.

He chose their last night together.

It was a stifling evening: such air as found its way into their apartment seemed to be stale: odours of neighbouring kitchens rose up stagnant. Out of the roar of the traffic continual cries of newsvendors stood as syrens out of a gale.

Madeleine sat by a window, sewing hard. Lacaze lounged upon a settee, smoking calmly and oiling a pair of boots.

My lady finished her stitching and cut the thread. Then she held up her work and turned it about. After a moment she rose and crossed to her husband.

“Is that what you want, Pierre? It does not look very well, but I think it will wear. If it is right, I will do the other shoulder.”

Lacaze examined the shirt.

This was a cotton affair of green and grey stripes. Over one shoulder strips of fine linen had been laid, by way of a pad. These had been quilted beautifully.

“But this is charming,” he said, putting his head on one side. “Ah, me, what it is to be loved! If René could only see this he would jump into the Seine. You know I shall be chaffed—devilishly. No one will ever believe that this was the work of a wife. Never mind. I am content. Now I shall be cool these hot days, yet my shoulders will not be sore.” He peered at the linen. “Where did you find this stuff?”

“I cut up a chemise.”

“Sweeter and sweeter,” he crowed. “The soldier goes off to the war with his girl on his shoulder. My dear, you are getting quite gay. How did you think of such a charming conceit?”

“I did not,” said Madeleine coldly. “I had nothing else.”

“Use nothing else,” said Lacaze. “But always have a new shirt—I have six—with just the same delicate straps awaiting the day I return. For I shall return, sweeting. Never fear that I shan’t.” His voice rang out boldly. “Never fear, madame. Nothing will happen to me. I shall always come back.” He caught her arm in his hand and smiled up into her eyes. “Do you hear, my beautiful wife? Do you realize that? Poor Pierre will always return. Jean may lie out in the mud. What can be collected of Jacques may be dumped in a grave. René may writhe out his life with a bullet inside. But poor old Pierre, your husband, will always return.” He let go her arm and sank back in his seat. “Now, is that not good news? That widowhood is not for you? Believe me, my dear, you are a lucky woman. . . . Of course I may not always come back to you. We poor soldiers are so easily led. . . . . But I shall not be killed. You see. And in the end you will triumph, and I—shall—come—back. . . .”

So soon as Madame Lacaze could find her voice, she asked her smiling husband what money she was to have to maintain herself and the apartment.

His reply was definite.

“The apartment is given up and the furniture sold. I have done that to-day. You will lodge with the Marats and go out to work. I have been wondering what you could do, my sweet, but you have shown me. If you sew hard, you will make quite a lot of money.”

Madeleine walked to the window and picked up the remains of her chemise. The garment tugged at her thoughts. She let them go. . . .

In an instant she was at Ruffec, stepping the cool, quiet streets. There was old Monsieur Laffargue, the doctor, getting down from his gig. Now he was smiling broadly and rallying her about her cheeks. ‘You must do something,’ he said. She could hear his jolly old voice. ‘Something. I don’t know what. No one will ever believe there’s no paint there.’ She passed on smiling. . . . A voice called from a window. Madame Durand, of course, the postman’s wife. ‘Madeleine, Madeleine, my sister has had a son. A great fat rogue, they say, four kilos at birth. Is it not wonderful?’ Madeleine rejoiced with her, and went her way. Then Père Fréchou stopped her, to give her five great peaches—two for each of her eyes and one for her pretty red lips . . . She came to the Rue de l’Image, all decked with the evening sun. The awnings of the little shops made it absurdly narrow, like a toy street. And there, striding into the sunlight, came René Dudoy. His healthy young face lighted up. ‘I was on my way, Madeleine, to tell you how lucky I am. The patron has been given the order for three mantelpieces in stone at the Château St. Pol, and I am to do the work and to put them in.’ ‘Oh, René, I am so glad—so awfully glad. Go on and tell Jean and Jacques. Or stay—go home and get Marie and bring her to supper with us. See what Père Fréchou has given me. Did ever you see such beauties? We’ll eat them to-night in your honour. There’s plenty of cream.’ René’s face was a picture. Madeleine passed on thoughtfully. . . . At the draper’s she laid out her money—some thirty-two francs—not without much hesitation and plucking at stuffs. Madame Bidart was kindness itself, and made her a price. Indeed, the old lady refused to sell her the linen she chose. It was not good enough, she declared. Now this was superb—fit for a king’s daughter. ‘But I am not a king’s daughter,’ protested Madeleine, laughing. ‘You are an angel from heaven,’ said Madame Bidart. ‘I tell you——’

“How long will you be?” said Lacaze yawning luxuriously. “I mean, it is getting late, and I must be up at five.”

“A quarter of an hour,” said his wife, and bent to her work.

The night was stifling.

Madeleine’s younger brother was killed that fateful August. Ere September was old, Jean had been taken prisoner. Of René, no news reached her.

For the matter of that, she heard naught of Lacaze, either. He had not told her his regiment. He never wrote. The man might have been dead . . . might have. . . .

He came to see her at last, one dark December morning. . . .

When he went back, he took a shirt with him.

Twice more he came to see her, and each time took back a shirt. He swore by these garments—called them his mascots, his charms—declared he could never be killed while she sat on his shoulders. . . .

The idea stuck.

Madeleine began to believe her linen was preserving his life.

She tried to be grateful.

Two shirts remained to be strapped. Setting to work one Sunday, she found her chemise was gone. She had used all its stuff. Her impulse, of course, was to purchase a piece of fresh linen. Without a thought she would have done so, but for his idle words. As it was. . . .

The temptation was frightful.

Why should she cut up her own clothes? Besides, faith put in mascots was vain—heathenish. What could they profit a man? Supposing they could. . . . Supposing there was some curious guardian virtue in linen she wore. . . . Well, what—if—there—was?

She thrust the shirt away and went for a walk.

The next morning she bought some new linen. . . .

She came back from Mass a week later and cut up another chemise.

The third winter of the War stole upon a frantic world, stumbling and striking. Lacaze did not come. He had not returned since April—April of 1916. Madeleine began to wonder . . . wonder why he did not appear.

When the New Year was in, she went to the War Office.

She did not get far.

“You are his wife?” said the clerk.

“Yes.”

“What is his regiment?”

“I do not know. He has never told me.”

“Show me a letter of his.”

“I have none. He never writes.”

“Nor you to him?”

“Never. He was sergeant, I think.”

Two shoulders were shrugged.

“So are many. You are sure you are married?”

“Of course.”

“Well, then, Madame, he is safe. No news is good news. You would have heard, certainly. There is no doubt about it. Calm yourself, Madame. He will come back.”

But Lacaze did not come.

Again, in June, she went to the War Office.

She saw the same clerk. He asked the same questions, shrugged the same shoulders, gave her the same reply. . . .

That Autumn her orders fell off. People, I suppose, were beginning to sew for themselves. Madeleine could hardly find work for two days a week. The Marats—the people she lodged with—saw what was coming, and, meeting her trouble half-way, diverted it from their path. In a word, they gave her notice. This, thanks to their foresight, they were able to do without any compunction at all. It would not have been nice to turn out a soldier’s wife—possibly ‘relict’—because she could not pay her way. As it was, they could look the world in the face. They did so defiantly. They also cancelled, with sighs, their subscription to an orphanage on the ground that they had lost a valuable paying guest. . . . .

Madeleine entered the service of an English officer’s wife.

Early in 1918 she received a letter from Jean.

Dearest Madeleine,

I have come back alive out of death. I have been a prisoner, you know, for nearly four years. Now I have been exchanged—because I am useless to France. I am rather run down, you see, and my right arm is gone. But take heart, dearest. I can do nothing just yet, and the Army has sent me home, but old Monsieur Laffargue says I shall be as strong as ever in ten or twelve months. I am with the Dudoys. René has been back some time. Do you know he is blind? . .

Blind. . . .

Those gentle grey eyes sightless. . . . Those strong brown fingers picking and feeling their way. . . .

Madeleine was at the War Office within the half-hour.

The clerk she had seen was gone, and another attended to her case. This was a kindly fellow, who had dried many eyes.

He heard her out gravely. Then—

“Madame, be happy. Absolutely your husband is safe. Take it from me. He has not even a scratch. Always the wife hears at once. That he has not been to see you is easily explained. Ten to one he is in the East—Salonica, making fat Bulgars perspire. He wrote and told you, of course, but the letter was sunk. These Germans! Madame, believe and be happy. Your husband is safe. I tell you he will come back.”

Madeleine stole out of the building as she would have stolen out of a dock. She had committed a crime, and had been given judgment.

She would have given anything to go to Ruffec . . . anything—except the one thing she had. This was her self-respect. If she went to Ruffec, if once she saw those strong brown fingers groping their pitiful way, the flesh might spoil the spirit of its only hoard. And that meant poverty she could not face. She was a good girl.

Eighteen months had gone by, when Lady Joan Satinwood told her French maid that it was her determined intention to winter in France.

“We shall go down by car, Madeleine—the Major and I, and you and the chauffeur. It’ll be great fun, and I expect you’ll be thrilled to see your country again.”

“Yes, madame.”

“I suppose you’ve—you’ve no news?”

“Of my husband? No, madame.”

“I’m sorry. But don’t despair. Remember my cousin, Sir George. And he was reported ‘killed.’ Two and a half years afterwards, Madeleine, he came walking in. . . .”

“Yes, madame.”

When Madeleine learned in mid-Channel, some three weeks later, that they were to go by Poitiers she felt very faint. . . .

Poitiers lies north of Ruffec, just forty-one miles.

“Et de Poitiers? . . . . After we ’ave lef’ Poitiers? . . .”

“Angoulême,” said the chauffeur, thumbing his itinerary. “That’s right. Vivonne, Chaunay, Ruffec, Angoulême. Sleep Angoulême. Nex’ day—Barbézieux, Bordeaux. Sleep Bor—— ’Elp!”

He dropped his paper and caught his companion as she swayed. Then he carried her into the saloon and sought for a stewardess. . . .

Later that day he recounted his experience to a friend.

“I arst ’er if she was a good sailor, too,” he concluded aggrievedly.

Four days later, as they were entering Poitiers, a brake-rod snapped. No resultant damage was done, but the car was stopped at a garage that Terry—the chauffeur—might see if an adjustment could be made. By good fortune, it could.

The car was backed over a pit, and Terry got out of his coat and into his overalls. He was a good chauffeur. Where his car was concerned, he fancied his own fingers more than a hireling’s.

The Major got out and went strolling. Lady Joan stayed in the car. Madeleine stood in the garage, translating for Terry.

Half an hour’s work, and the connection was made.

Terry heaved himself out of the pit and called for waste.

The mechanics stared.

“Cotton waste,” said the chauffeur. “Comprenny? Pour wiper the hands.”

Madeleine smiled and asked for a rag.

A mechanic went shuffling. A moment later he returned with a rectangular cardboard box.

“Voilà,” he said.

“Wot’s this?” said Terry, staring. “Dog biscuits?”

The mechanic pointed to the label.

Essuyages Aseptisés

“We use nothing else,” he explained. “They are all manner of rags, quite clean and sterilized. This boxful will last a long time.”

The chauffeur asked the price, ripped open the box, and pulled out the first piece of stuff. Madeleine took the box from him and stowed it away in the car.

When she returned, Terry had wiped his hands and was looking curiously at his duster.

“ ’Ere’s a present from Flanders all right,” he said slowly. “See? That’s where some pore bloke stopped one.”

Madeleine peered at the stuff.

This was the left breast of what had been a man’s shirt. Immediately over the heart there was a rough hole. The cotton thereabouts was all stained to a dull brown, so that the green and grey stripes were indistinguishable. The shoulder was gone, but hanging from the top of the fragment was a strip of quilted linen.

Let me quote from Lady Joan’s letter, dated some five days later and written from St. Jean-de-Luz.

. . . I saw the shirt myself. It was a terrible document. Poor girl! The shock was frightful. As luck would have it, the very next town on our route—a place called Ruffec—was her old home. Her brother was there. We found him and handed her over. Whether she’ll ever come back to me, I haven’t the faintest idea. . . .

Again let me quote from a letter her ladyship wrote when two months had gone by.

P.S.—You remember Madeleine? I’ve just had a note from her saying she’s married again! No wonder France is recovering more quickly than England. Most English girls would still be upon slops. However, that’s her affair. But isn’t it just my luck? She was a perfect maid.

Which was a true saying.

Two years later Lacaze alighted at Ruffec from the Paris train.

The man was changed terribly. Five years in the German mines had left their mark. He had been broken down.

His hair was grisled, his broad, square shoulders were bowed, his carriage mean. None would have known the shrunken shambling figure for that of the mighty steeple-jack. His countenance, however, was unmistakable. This was ravaged, too, but the old faint smile still hung about those merciless lips, and the old insolent scorn still smouldered in the big black eyes.

Lacaze pulled his hat over his face and stood waiting till such travellers as had also alighted should have left the platform.

A horn brayed, and the train began to move.

“Good-bye!” cried a voice. “Good-bye! If you see René Dudoy, ask him if he remembers Fernand Didier, and say I was sorry I had no time to visit him. Good-bye!”

The train gathered speed and rumbled out of the station.

Lacaze moved towards the gates thoughtfully.

Half an hour later he darkened the creamery’s hatch.

René looked up from his work. He was making a basket.

“Enter, monsieur,” he said. “And sit down, please. My wife will be back in a moment, and then she will serve you.”

Slowly Lacaze came in, looking down on the ground.

“You are married, then?” he said quietly.

The other stared.

“Yes,” he said, “monsieur. Why not?”

“No reason at all,” said Lacaze, smiling. “And how is your wife?”

René returned to his work.

“She is very well, thank you.”

“I am glad of that,” said Lacaze. “Very glad.”

René Dudoy looked up.

“Monsieur’s interest is unusually kind. Would it be indiscreet to ask why?”

Lacaze gave a short laugh.

“I know her,” he said. “She was a friend of mine. But I thought that she married Lacaze—Lacaze, the steeple-jack.”

“She did,” said Dudoy. “But he was killed in the War. And, after, she married me. But, monsieur, tell me your name. If you are a friend of hers, you must have been mine also.”

“I was,” said Lacaze softly, his chin on his chest. “I knew you well.” The other set down his basket and rose to his feet. “We were both at her wedding. You sent her roses, I think. And I sent her—violets.”

“Not violets,” said René. “You must have sent something else. You forget. Lacaze sent her violets.”

In a flash Lacaze had stepped forward and pulled off his hat.

“Your servant,” he breathed, smiling.

Dudoy wrinkled his brow.

“I cannot think who you are,” he said. “Do tell me your name.” The other’s smile faded into a stare. “There are times, you know, when one misses one’s sight terribly.” Lacaze started. “When Madeleine’s here, I can see. We share her beautiful eyes.” He threw back his curly head. “Then, if you offered me sight, I would not take it. My blindness is a bond between us which those who have eyes of their own can never know. But—when she leaves me, then sometimes the old darkness returns—that awful darkness which, when she came to me, Madeleine did away . . . And now, I pray you, monsieur, tell me your name.”

Lacaze turned his head and stared into the sunlit street.

Then—

“I am Fernand Didier,” he said. “And—and I must go, or I shall miss my train.”

He pulled his hat over his eyes and blundered out of the shop.

René cried to him to stay.

“Fernand! Fernand!”

Lacaze took no notice.

Ten minutes later he was clear of the town.

KATHARINE

KATHARINE

Dreamily, Mrs. Festival regarded the ceiling.

“I frequently wonder,” she said, “what possessed me to marry you.”

“My beauty of soul,” said her husband pleasantly. “You were all dazzled.”

“I think,” continued his wife, “it was out of pity. You know. When you see people laughing at someone, and the someone joins in, never dreaming that they’re the object of the mirth, one feels sorry for them.”

Captain Giles Festival swallowed before replying.

Then—

“I know,” he said. “Like when we were dining with the Mascots, and you kept talking about soap.”

Katharine Festival flushed.

The reminiscence was not one which she cherished.

Lady Mascot’s father and soft soap had been mutually constructive.

At length—

“I might have known,” she observed, “that you wouldn’t appreciate it. Gratitude is not among your attributes.”

“If you mean,” said Giles, “that I don’t feel impelled to fall down and worship you for taking my name—in vain, you’re perfectly right. I gave you a blinkin’ good chance, and you blinkin’ well took it.”

Katharine drew in her breath.

“Do you imagine,” she demanded, “that the chance you were kind enough to give me was the only chance I had?”

“If,” said her husband, “I imagined anything, I should imagine you considered it the best. If one can only have one strawberry, one doesn’t deliberately take a bad one, does one? Not even out of pity?”

“No,” said Katharine sweetly. “Only by mistake.”

There was a pregnant silence.

Then—

“Sold,” murmured Giles, “the very deuce of a pup—by Mistake, out of Pity. No flowers, by request.”

“Let me at once admit,” said Katharine coldly, “that I did not select you for your good taste.”

“ ‘Select’?” cried her husband. “ ‘Select’?” He laughed wildly. Then he covered his eyes. “Oh, give me strength.”

“I suppose you consider that you selected me.”

“I did. In a weak moment——”

“Are you,” said Katharine shakily, “are you going to say you were blind?”

“I am not,” said Giles. “I was not blind. I was—well—er—just nicely.”

“Well, I wasn’t,” said his wife hotly. “I was blind. I thought I was accepting a gentleman. I find I accepted a——”

“I know,” said Giles mercilessly. “I know, teacher. A foul and loathsome worm.”

“No,” said his wife calmly. “Just an ordinary cad.”

Captain Festival rubbed his nose thoughtfully. Then he extended his arms and, after yawning luxuriously, interlaced his fingers and placed his hands behind his head.

“My dear,” he observed, “be reasonable.” Katharine closed her eyes with an expression of unutterable contempt. “All this, just because I ventured to suggest that, if Beatrice had time to do it, she might take charge of my linen.”

“Have you ever heard of meiosis?” said Mrs. Festival. “It means the opposite of exaggeration.”

“I repeat,” said Giles, “that that was the humble suggestion at which you took offence. I mayn’t have put it in those words, but——”

“You didn’t,” said Katharine. “You put it much more vividly. You said that the condition of your wardrobe was enough to make a beachcomber burst into tears——”

“So it is.”

“—and that, if I hadn’t got the moral courage to order ‘a lazy sweep of a lady’s maid to pull up her rotten socks,’ I could ‘blinkin’ well finance her’ myself. You added that you’d given up a valet, so that I could have more money ‘to blow upon my back,’ and that my interpretation of my marriage vows was funny without being vulgar.”

Her husband swallowed.

“I was referring,” he said doggedly, “to your promise to cherish me.”

“You promised the same.”

“Yes, but I keep it, Kate. I do cherish you. I’m always cherishing you. Only yesterday afternoon—seventeen blinkin’ quid for a hat worth eighteen pence . . . and not a murmur.”

Katharine inspired audibly, raising her eyes to heaven.

“When,” she rejoined, “when you start recounting your virtues, I want to break something. Doesn’t it ever occur to you that that’s my job?”

“Frequently,” said Giles. “But you never do it.”

“You never give me a chance.”

With a supreme effort her husband controlled his voice.

“Look here,” he said fiercely. “Do you think it was—er—decent of me to give you that hat, or not?”

“Oh, you can have the beastly hat,” said Katharine.

“Wouldn’t suit me,” said Giles mournfully. “Do you think——”

“I’ll never wear it,” declared his wife. “Never. I—I hate it.”

“Well, let’s take it back. They might allow us eighteen——”

“And why should I be overcome with gratitude just because——”

“The golden rule of blessed argument,” said Captain Festival uncertainly, “is to keep to the blessed point. Let’s try, will you? . . . No answer. I referred to my short-sighted generosity solely to refute your suggestion that I was failing to cherish you. You deliberately pervert the reference into an attempt to magnify myself. What could be better?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” said Katharine. “You could get up half an hour earlier and put your rotten things in order yourself.”

“On the lucus a non lucendo principle? If you want your cake, pay someone else to eat it, and then give it away? Thanks very much. Unhappily, my education was neglected. I cannot sew. Secondly, if it’s either of our jobs, it’s yours. Thirdly, why should I? If this house was more like a home and less like an Employment Exchange, these questions wouldn’t arise. Fourthly, I’m fed up.”

“How funny,” said Katharine silkily. “So’m I. Yet you slept well. I heard you.”

In majestic silence her husband rose from his bed and entered an orange-coloured dressing-gown.

“Have my bed put in the next room, will you?” he said coldly. “If you don’t like to trouble the servants, tell me and I’ll get the commissionaire from the Club.”

Here he trod upon a collar-stud, screamed, swore, limped to a window and then launched the offender into Berkeley Square.

“That’ll learn it,” observed Mrs. Festival.

Giles regarded her with speechless indignation.

Then he swept into the bathroom stormily.

After, perhaps, five minutes he reappeared.

“I say,” he said quietly, “it isn’t much good going on like this, is it?”

Katharine shrugged her white shoulders.

“Is it?” repeated her husband.

His wife averted her head.

“The blessed answer,” she said, “is in the blessed negative.”

Giles set his teeth.

“Good. Well, let’s separate. I take it you’ve tried. I know I have. I suppose we oughtn’t to have married.”

“As—as you please,” said Katharine slowly.

“We’d better go down and see Forsyth—to-day, if we can.” He hesitated. Then, “There’s no reason why there should be any unpleasantness about it.”

“None whatever.”

“Only, don’t let’s be lured into backing out of it. It’s perfectly manifest, to my mind, that it’s the only thing to do. Already we’ve come to the brink of it half a dozen times, and then Sentiment’s always chipped in and pulled us back.” Katharine nodded. “Well, that’s silly. We needn’t scrap, but don’t let’s be pulled back again. It’s—it’s not good enough. Let’s go through with it, this time, and—and see what happens.”

“Right,” said Katharine brightly.

Giles turned away slowly.

In the doorway he hesitated.

Then he spoke, looking down.

“You—you see what I mean?” he faltered. “I’ld like us to—to part friends.”

Katharine nodded.

When he was out of sight, she buried her face in her pillow and lay like the dead.

If the votes of Mayfair had been taken to elect the most popular married couple living, moving and having its being in Society, there is little doubt that Captain and Mrs. Giles Festival would have headed the poll.

The lady was twenty-five and of great beauty. She was very fair, and the light in her grave, blue eyes was a lovely thing. Her face might have been her fortune—easily. So might her figure. This was the dressmakers’ joy. If Katharine liked fine feathers, she knew how to put them on. Dancing, bathing, riding—always she filled the eye. But if she was refreshing to look at, her fellowship lifted up the heart. I can think of no company which she did not adorn. Someone once called her ‘Champagne’: certainly she went to the head. That she had so few enemies is the best evidence of her remarkable charm. Women liked her—as often as not against their will. Her nature would, I think, have disarmed a Sycorax. Caliban would certainly have eaten out of her hand.

Giles was thirty, and looked a young twenty-six. Tall, fair, handsome, lazy-eyed, he did everything well. The way in which he made war brought him a V.C. The way in which he made love won him his wife. At the Marlborough he was universally liked. In certain cabmen’s shelters he was adored. He had, I suppose, the secret of adaptability. His laugh was infectious; his turn-out, above reproach. His manners would have made any man.

Both had a keen sense of humour, and neither was ever dull. They went everywhere, and everywhere their coming was awaited and their going deplored. They had been individually invaluable: as a combination they were unique. What made them so excellent was their mutual devotion. Of this they offered no evidence, but it was obvious as the day. Had Society paraded in the Park, by common consent Giles and Katharine would have been led at the head of the column, like regimental goats. For the second year in succession they were the Season’s pets.

But now an east wind had arisen out of a clear sky. Though no one else knew it, it had cursed the twain steadily for more than three months. The two peace-loving hearts found themselves constantly at war. Worse. The very qualities which should have pacified seemed monstrously to provoke. The position had become unbearable.

An hour had gone by.

As Katharine entered the dining-room, her husband looked up from his eggs.

“Forsyth,” he said, “will see us at twelve o’clock. Meanwhile”—he tapped a volume—“this little Know All says that we ought to have trustees.”

“What of?” said his wife.

“Heaven knows,” said Giles. “As far as I can gather, they’ld be a sort of bufferee. Supposing you wanted to come and scratch me—well, you’ld have to scratch the trustee first. And if I found you were pledging my credit——”

“But I shall,” said Katharine. “Why shouldn’t I? I’m your wife.”

“Only for necessaries, dear heart. No more eighteen-penny hats.”

“Is that the law?” said Mrs. Festival blankly.

“Approximately. But don’t worry. You’ll have plenty to pay for them with. I can’t endow you with all my worldly goods, but you shall have a fair two-thirds.”

“Half,” said Katharine, crossing to the sideboard. “Fair do’s, old fellow. And you must have half mine.”

Captain Festival frowned.

“My dear,” he said shortly, “don’t dither. I buy a dress-suit a year and don’t pay for it. If I did, it’ld be about a pony.” He paused significantly. “If an eighteen-penny hat and a half costs the same as a gent’s dress-suit, how many evening frocks go to the Season?”

Abstractedly Katharine helped herself to kedjeree.

As she returned to the table—

“I don’t care,” she said slowly; “I won’t take more than my share. What shall we do about the house?”

“Well, if you don’t mind,” said Giles, “you’d better stay on. It’ll save a lot of trouble. If you don’t—I can’t very well live here, and the house’ld be going spare. That means we’ld have to let, which’ld send us both mad. The rooms’ld have to be done up, we should be done down, our effects would be done in and our finer feelings would be outraged. The idea of some sticky stranger wallowing in our private bathroom sends the blood to my head.”

Mrs. Festival shuddered.

Then—

“But what will you do, Gill? Of course, I should pay you a rent. The house and furniture’s yours, and——”

“I shall live at the Club. As to rent—considering that you’ll be better than any caretaker, I shall be up on the deal.”

Katharine digested this.

“I could only consent,” she said, “on the understanding that, if ever you changed your mind, you let me know. And, of course, you’ld keep a key and use it whenever you liked.”

“My darling,” said Giles, rising, “I look forward to dining at this table at least once a week. Of course, I shan’t come unasked. That would be molestation. Your trustee would be most rude. But if I behave myself. . . . Possibly, some afternoon when you were out, you might arrange for me to have a bath here. On my birthday, for instance. It’ld tickle me to death.”

Katharine flung him a bewitching smile.

“If,” she said, “you don’t tell anyone, you shall use my sponge.”

“Kate,” said her husband, “I perceive that we are off. This separation stunt is going to work wonders.”

He was perfectly right.

Galbraith Forsyth, solicitor, was an honest man. Also he knew his world and could tell the sheep from the goats. He could be stern, and he could be most gentle. To those whom he trusted, who trusted him, he gave a service which money cannot buy. His judgment alone was invaluable. The sheep liked him, immensely. The goats hated him. But both respected him with a whole heart. If he had any pet lambs, the Festivals were among them.

He received the two pleasedly, bade them sit down, and drew the lady’s attention to a bunch of daffodils.

“Posies are seldom seen in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. But when I knew you were coming, I felt that something must be done. I didn’t want you to feel lonely.”

“Now, isn’t that charming?” said Giles. “If I could say things like that, we shouldn’t be here to-day.”

Forsyth looked at him sharply.

“You see, Mr. Forsyth,” said Katharine, “we’ve made a hopeless mistake. We thought we’ld be happy, though married: and we were wrong. We can’t hit it off. We’ve tried like blazes, but it’s not the slightest good. In fact, the only thing we’ve agreed about for something like three months is that the sooner we part, the better for Giles and me.”

“D’you mean this?” said Forsyth. “Or are you—er—pulling my leg?”

“We mean it all right,” said Giles. “It sounds like a comic dream, but it’s the grisly truth. For no apparent reason, Katharine annoys me. For no apparent reason, I get her goat. If we started to discuss those flowerlets, in five minutes we should be slinging books at each other. She’s witty, you know, and I’m a bit of a wag. We’ve always fenced, for fun—always. But now we can’t stop, and—the buttons are off the foils.”

“He’s perfectly right,” said Katharine. “I’m ashamed to say it, but we lead a cat and dog life. And now we’re both agreed that it isn’t good enough. Don’t suggest change, because we’ve tried that. He went away for a week. The night he came back I threw a glass at him.”

“An empty one,” said Giles. “Missed me by yards. But it’s the—the principle.”

“Exactly,” said Katharine. “Besides, the glass was a good one, and now it leaks.”

Forsyth, who felt the sting beneath the banter, was genuinely dismayed.

He smiled politely.

“It seems a pity,” he said. “When I say that, I’m putting it very low. A pity. You mustn’t be impatient, because, though I’m the keeper of your legal conscience, at heart I’m an ordinary man—with eyes in his head. I think you’re playing with fire. Life’s very uncertain, you know. If anything happened after you’d gone apart—the other would grieve, I’m afraid . . . have something to remember they’ld give a lot to forget . . . grudge the bit of their life they’d deliberately sworn away. . . . One never thinks of Remorse, until it touches you on the shoulder. I don’t suppose I should, only I’ve seen it . . . at work.”

There was a long silence.

Then—

“Thank you,” said Giles quietly. “Now, whatever else we regret, we shall never regret having come to see you this morning.” He paused. “Setting aside Sentiment, the answer is this. We should like to be able to forget the last three months. As we can’t, we think it better to prevent their becoming six.”

Forsyth inclined his head.

“Very good. Am I to draw up a deed? A deed of separation?”

“Please.”

“What about trustees?”

“Are they a necessary evil? We don’t mind you. In fact, you come under godsends. But the idea of inducting others into our private confessional is peculiarly repugnant.”

“It’s worse than that,” said Katharine. “We three are familiar. If I think Mr. Forsyth a brute, I can ring up and tell him so. I couldn’t do that to a trustee. In fact, the whole arrangement would become stiff, reinforced—like putting bones in a belt.”

“You couldn’t, for instance,” said her husband, “employ that simile. For your information, Forsyth, that’s not a proverb. Below the surface female woman wears a sort of comic cummerbund, four sizes too small. The idea is to displace the vitals. If she wants to shorten her life, she lines it with strips of whalebone, running the wrong way. Thus with the minimum of motion she gets the maximum of pain.”

“That,” said Forsyth uncertainly, “is not admittedly the function of trustees. Still, there are times when they are inconvenient. They certainly tend to cramp the style. Nevertheless . . . I’ll tell you what,” he added suddenly. “If you like, I’ll be your trustee.”

The two raised their eyes to heaven ecstatically.

“A little more,” said Katharine, “and you shall use our bathroom.”

“That,” explained Giles, “is a kind of Garter—the highest honour it’s in our power to bestow.”

Forsyth picked up a pen.

“Tell me,” he said, “what sort of an arrangement you want.”

“Well, we’re going shares,” said Giles. “Once a month, I’ll send her two-thirds of all the dividends and rents I’ve had.”

“Of course it’s grotesque,” said Katharine, “but I’ll do the same.”

“Yes? What about the house?”

“She’s going to caretake for me, and keep the servants on. I shall pay half her expenses.”

“Oh, rot!” said Mrs. Festival.

“My dear,” said Giles, “the bed of my mind is made up. Don’t rumple it.”

“I think that’s fair,” said Forsyth, wondering what the Law Society would say. “Next?”

“He’ll take the Rolls,” said Katharine, “and I’ll have the coupé.”

Giles hesitated.

“I had thought——” he began.

“Don’t be Quixotic,” said his wife. “You worship that car. Last time I drove her, you said——”

“Not before the child,” said Giles. “I withdraw. Besides, I never meant it. I was all worked up, I was. You worked me.”

“That all?” said Forsyth hastily.

“Well, I shall take my sponge,” said Giles. “She’s very kindly promised to let me use hers, if—er . . .”

By a superhuman effort Forsyth maintained his gravity.

“That sort of thing’s understood,” he said shortly. “I’ll put in the usual covenants not to molest, pledge credit—er—er—etc., and myself as trustee. I suppose you want it at once?”

“As soon as you can,” said Giles. “If we could have it to-night, we could go over it together, sign it, and I could push off to-morrow morning.”

“I’ll try. When you’ve signed it, return it to me. I’ll send you copies to keep in a day or two’s time. By the way, what’s your address?” Captain Festival mentioned a club. “Right.” The lawyer rose to his feet and preceded the two to the door. “I’m sorry, you know, but I’m glad you came to me. Come again whenever you please. I’ll show no fear nor favour—I promise you that. Let three be company, even if two’s none.”

They shook hands silently.

By one consent, Captain and Mrs. Festival drove straight to Bond Street and selected a gold cigarette-case. This was presently engraved and then delivered to an address in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

The inscription was simple.

G

.

G.K.F

.

F

The news of the separation spread slowly.

This was because it was wholly disbelieved. Everyone immediately assumed that Giles and Katharine Festival were being humorous.

The former was lectured upon ‘cruelty’ at the Club.

The latter was mocked over the telephone.

“Is that you, Katharine? . . . I say, how many ‘l’s’ are there in ‘alimony’? . . . What? . . . Oh, but how sweet! . . . Never mind. Put a fiver on Decree Nisi for luck. . . .”

It was intolerable.

On the third day Katharine left Town—destination unknown.

On the fourth day Giles fled to Evian, leaving a note for his wife, to be delivered after he had gone.

On the fifth day they met on the shore of the lake of Geneva.

“Hullo, Gill,” said Katharine. “How on earth did you know?”

“Know?” faltered Giles. “Go—go away. This is molestation.”

“It looks rather like it,” said Mrs. Festival. “Still, if you’ve got some possible cigarettes, I’ll let that go. Oh, and you might take that, will you?” She gave him a letter bearing his name and address. “It’ll save my posting it.”

It seemed ridiculous not to dine together. . . .

On the eighth day the papers announced:—

Captain and Mrs. Giles Festival have arrived at Evian-les-Bains.

This was misleading.

By the time the paragraph appeared, Giles was in Scotland. . . .

For the time, however, the suggestio falsi effectually throttled any inkling of the truth.

Indeed, it was not until the end of May that people began to appreciate that what they had regarded as a fiction was a stubborn fait accompli.

That such an estrangement should create a profound sensation was natural enough. People could hardly believe their eyes or ears. Friends and acquaintances stared at the astounding truth, like stuck pigs. The projected divorce of an archbishop would not have occasioned one quarter of such amazement.

Again, it was natural enough that, having recovered her breath, Mayfair should prepare to let out a perfect squeal of dismay. Her sparrow was dead. The bear was robbed of its whelps.

The bellow, however, died on Society’s lips.

Having rammed home the punch, Giles and Katharine proceeded to apply the healing balm.

In the first place, the linen they were washing in public was spotlessly clean. Secondly, the two laundered comfortably, without the slightest embarrassment. Thirdly, their cheerful disregard of the traditions of Separation turned the tragedy into opéra bouffe.

The general feeling of disappointment was still-born, to be immediately succeeded by a sense of bewildered relief.

Captain and Mrs. Festival became more popular than ever.

Isolated efforts to brand them died an inglorious death.

Mrs. Soulsden Clutch, who faithfully attended Divine Service at St. Paul’s, Knightsbridge, and had nagged and bullied her husband into another world, announced that words failed her, and then spoke long and authoritatively upon the advertisement of indecency and of contempt for marriage vows.

Mrs. Busby Shawl, surnamed ‘The Comforter,’ went further and cut the two in the Park, afterwards broadcasting her achievement with the innocent air of one who, blinded with integrity, has shamed the Devil and is now uncertain whether it was a Christian thing to do.

But the findings of such censors of morality were coldly received: and, after exchanging malice for the inside of a week, the latter reviled one another and elbowed and fought their way into what they had lately described as ‘the House of Rimmon.’

The fun became fast and furious.

Joint invitations which had been jointly declined were re-issued severally and severally accepted. Invitations which had not been sent were hastily extended. The dates of parties, dances, week-ends became actually contingent upon the Festivals’ ability to attend.

The pets had become lion-cubs.

Katharine gave a dance.

Giles was invited, and gave a dinner beforehand, taking his guests on. He danced twice with his hostess, enjoyed champagne he had chosen, sat out in his own library.

Giles gave a luncheon, inviting eleven guests. Of these his wife made one, and, taking her proper precedence, sat on her husband’s left. Afterwards, the Rolls being there, he dropped her at Sloane Street and was deliciously thanked.

That night they met at a ball in Belgrave Square, and the next week-end in Hampshire, as two of the Pleydells’ guests.

On five days out of seven they junketed side by side.

On Derby Day they went to the Daneboroughs’ dance—a brilliant affair, which blazed till nearly five on the following day. Its remembrance was slightly marred by Mrs. Festival’s omission to take her latchkey and subsequent inability to ‘make her servants hear.’ Necessity knows no law. Giles, who had left early, was roused from a refreshing slumber by the night-porter of his Club and apprised of the facts. . . . There was only one thing to be done. He did it gallantly, with a suit over his pyjamas and pumps on his naked feet. The aggravated assault which he presently committed upon his own front door was audibly condemned by several infuriated residents in Berkeley Square. His butler, who had just got to sleep again, also condemned it with great savagery, but, after hoping against hope that the reinforcement his mistress had unearthed would also lose heart, himself at last succumbed to Captain Festival’s importunity. . . . His work over, the latter returned to his Club, wondering whether he could with decency suggest that a duplicate latchkey should be kept at the nearest police station. He need not have troubled his head. The following day, a gong the size of a soup-plate was installed beneath the butler’s bedstead. Upon observing its dimensions, the butler was greatly moved, but, while declaring in the servants’ hall that Katharine was no lady, he was forced to admit to himself that his mistress was no fool.

Out of the flood of their engagements, the two were careful to save one evening a week, upon which they dined together at their own house. Afterwards they sat in the library until eleven o’clock. Then Giles would get up, and Katharine come to the door to see him out. Arrived at the threshold, her husband would kiss her fingers.

“Good night, sweetheart. Sleep well.”

And the lady would answer gravely—

“Till next week, Gill. Good-bye.”

One Thursday, half-way through June, such a meeting took place.

When coffee had been served, and the two were left to themselves,

“My dear,” observed Giles, “let me thank you for a most toothsome repast.”

“It isn’t my fault,” said his wife. “ ‘Better is a dinner of herbs where love is.’ ”

“Oh, ‘Cries of “Shame,” ’” said Giles. “ ‘Cries of “Shame” and “Withdraw.” ’ ‘Dinner of herbs’! Why, each of those tournedos was a stalled ox in itself. And no hatred, neither. That sole, too!” He sighed memorially, raising thankful eyes. “You know, we’ve beaten the sword into a fish-slice and the proverb into a cocked hat. Seriously, Kate, we’ve shown considerable skill.”

“In reverting to the rank of private?”

Giles nodded.

“After being temporarily attached.”

His wife regarded the tip of her cigarette.

“Ducks take to water,” she said.

“And men take to drink,” said Giles, “if they happen to be born thirsty. The point is——”

“Have another glass of port,” said Katharine.

“No, thanks,” said Giles. “Not that it isn’t excellent. It’s—it’s not of this world. Uncle Fulke left it me. But let that pass. The point is, you and I are naturally gregarious. Our instinct is to flock. I like someone to talk to while I’m getting up. You like someone to obstruct while dressing for dinner. Don’t think I’m being rude. The way in which you used to call me to give you your towel, is among my most treasured memories. Now, the curse of solitude has fallen upon our toilets.” He spread out eloquent hands. “Yet, our personalities survive. The first two or three days, while shaving, the bath seemed a bit empty, but——”

“They do more than survive,” said Katharine, tilting an exquisite chin. “To judge from the quantity and quality of our invitations, we cut more ice than before. In fact, Fate’s been properly stung. By rights, we ought to be outcastes. As it is . . .”

She let the sentence go and inhaled luxuriously.

“Exactly,” said Giles. “It’s because we sink our feelings. Instead of bleating——”

“Are you sure we’re gregarious?” said Katharine.

“Of course we are,” said Giles. “We bleated because we were alone. We heard each other bleating, and—and forgathered. We were lonely, and hated the state. We were and are gregarious. I repeat that the way in which we have harked back to celibacy does us infinite credit.”

“Honour to whom honour is due,” said Mrs. Festival. “I’m not gregarious. I thought I was. I thought I would like a confidant—someone to cry my thoughts to without having to think what I said, someone who’ld give me my towel and—and generally understand.”

“In fact, a blinkin’ soul-mate?”

“And towel-horse combined. Exactly. Well, I was wrong.”

“But you bleated,” protested Giles. “I heard you. You advertised for a soul-mate, and I applied for the place. A waster by nature, I presently let you down, but that’s irrelevant.”

“It’s also untrue,” said his wife. “And you know it. You never let anyone down. Never mind. Gill, I’m afraid I married in much the same frame of mind as I try a new scent.” The other started. “I’ve always used Baladeuse, and always shall. But now and again I go mad and waste your substance on a bottle of something else. Then, when I’ve used it twice, I give it to Beatrice.”

Considerably taken by surprise, her husband regarded his ash-tray with an offensive stare. Presently he sighed.

“At least,” he murmured, “I escaped that odious depository. . . .” Katharine began to shake with laughter. “I see. Not to put too fine an edge upon it, you married out of pure curiosity. In a mad moment you ventured out of spinsterhood just to see what coverture was like. And I was under the impression that—— Never mind. It’s a pretty simile. Perfume. I suppose I was a sixpenny flask of ’Ard an’ Bright. . . . Oh, très intéressant.” Releasing the ash-tray, he shifted his gaze to the ceiling and, drawing at his cigarette, meditatively expelled the smoke. “Supposing,” he added slowly, “supposing—to preserve the parable—you had another—er—lapsus cordis . . . got momentarily sick of Baladeuse and, forgetful of jolly old ’Ard an’ Bright, felt impelled to try What are the Wild Oats Saying, or some other frankincense?”

Katharine shot her husband a lightning glance.

Then she raised her sweet eyebrows.

“And you?” she said. “Supposing you hear someone bleating . . . and . . . and the flocking instinct once more asserts itself?”

Deliberately, Giles extinguished his cigarette.

“I shall put up a fight,” he said coolly, “the deuce of a fight. I shall stick in my elegant toes and put up a fight.”

Katharine leaned forward.

“And I,” she said slowly, with a dazzling smile, “shall do precisely the same.”

For a moment the two looked into each other’s eyes.

Then—

“I—I hope you’ll win,” said Giles uneasily. “I mean—I should like to think that ’Ard an’ Bright was the only serious rival Baladeuse ever had. Besides . . . I’m sure I shall win,” he added confidently. “You can bet your little boots about that. You know. The patent-leather ones I used to pull off after breakfast.”

Katharine rose to her feet.

“I’m going,” she said, “to the library. Remember me to the port and then follow me in.” Her husband stepped to the door and held it open. As she was passing, she stopped and laid a hand upon his arm. “Promise me one thing, Gill.”

“Of course,” said Giles gallantly.

“Listen. If ever you hear someone bleat, don’t come and dine here with me until—until the fight’s over.”

Her husband drew himself up.

“My darling,” he said, “I give you my precious word.” He hesitated. “And—and you’ld put me off, wouldn’t you, if—if anything looked like displacing Baladeuse?”

Katharine nodded.

Five crowded weeks had slipped by.

The Courts were over: Ascot had come and gone: another shining Henley had floated into the past.

People were beginning to collect their wraps. The carnival was nearly done.