The Green Hat
MICHAEL ARLEN

The Green Hat

by
Michael Arlen

NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
Copyright, 1924,
By George H. Doran Company

THE GREEN HAT
—B—
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
To
F. M. ATKINSON, Esquire

CONTENTS

THE GREEN HAT

Chapter One: THE GREEN HAT

I

IT has occurred to the writer to call this unimportant history The Green Hat because a green hat was the first thing about her that he saw: as also it was, in a way, the last thing about her that he saw. It was bright green, of a sort of felt, and bravely worn: being, no doubt, one of those that women who have many hats affect pour le sport.

I saw it for the first time (writes the Author) on the eve of my removal from one residence in London to another; although when I say residence I mean that I was, by the grace of God and at the impulse of my own temerity, removing to somewhat more habitable premises nearby from two rooms and a bathroom above a mean lane in a place called Shepherd’s Market. Not that our lane hadn’t attractions of its own to offer. Our lane was one in which many improbable things were wont to happen, but it somehow seemed inevitable that such things should happen there. But maybe I had better select a few of these things, that you may know the sort of lane ours was. I have seen men arrested there, and I have seen a heavy constable worsted in a fight with a little Jew pickpocket, who was for some time responsible for a rag-shop in our lane. I have seen two butlers fighting in our lane. I have seen a very old nobleman woo a flower-girl in our lane, but whether or not she ever favoured his suit our lane had no means of telling. One night I fell over the body of a woman lying in the blood of a broken head, and in our lane by night policemen solace themselves by smoking cigarettes into the crowns of their helmets, while cats, I must tell you, will never cease to sport together all about it.

But it was by day that our lane attained to any real interest for a student of such things, for then it was sacred to the activities of a hearty-looking man in a brown bowler-hat, who with one hand would write interminably in a small book, while with the other he dealt with passing men in slips of paper known to the law as “betting-slips.” As partner to the hearty-looking man—we are, I venture to say, already embarked on our tale, for these gentlemen will make a faint devil’s chorus for more spacious happenings—was a tall, wizened man who wore a check cap and had hair growing out of his ears. This man would stand at one end of the lane and now and then say, “Oi!” When he had said “Oi!” he would light a cigarette, while the hearty-looking man would run heavily round our end of the lane, for “Oi!” meant that the law was after him. When the law had gone he would come back wiping his mouth, and jokes were exchanged with the butcher and the fishmonger; but when the law really wanted him, say twice a year, a posse of policemen would simultaneously rush both ends of our lane, and the hearty-looking man was mulcted in a fine not exceeding so much and was back again the next morning within a yard of my door. Among his most persistent admirers was a little bent old man with blood-shot eyes and a twitching mouth, who was a window-cleaner without a Union, which meant that he would clean a window for threepence and want no tip. He liked me, and used to give me racing information, but I never won anything.

Now the first thing to do is to clear the ground as quickly as possible for the coming of the green hat, for Mr. H. G. Wells says that there is no money to be made out of any book that cannot bring a woman in within the first few thousand words. But in setting the scene in Shepherd’s Market we have evaded the necessity for any “writing-up” of atmosphere, for that place has an atmosphere quite impossible to convey in a book, unless, of course, you were to take the book to Shepherd’s Market and leave it in our lane for a few days in nice warm weather. Shepherd’s Market is, in fine, a collection of lively odours bounded on the north side by Curzon Street, on the south by Piccadilly, on the west by Hertford Street, and on the east by Half-Moon Street; and rejoices, therefore, in the polite direction of Mayfair, as you will see printed on the notepaper of any of its residents. A flower-shop which was opened in our lane lived for only six months, and that in spite of the gardenia gallantly affected by the old nobleman from Curzon Street every day. I, after having lived there for six years, was (by the grace of God) leaving on the morrow.

It is late, after midnight, when the tale begins.

I had been that evening to a party; for that is now the name that folks give to a dance,—I am not sure why. In America, I believe, one doesn’t even give a party, one just throws a party, but as to this party I am telling of, it had, with that infallible sense of direction peculiar to parties, whether given or thrown, taken a man by the nerves at the back of his head and had hurled him into a deep pit. And it was as one encompassed by that pit, deep as the playground of the seven devils, dark as the very dungeons of gaiety, that I found myself back in my flat above the mean lane. It would be the last night I would ever spend in that flat, and I was so glad. The bookshelves had already been taken away, and books littered the floor, books and pictures and what-nots crowded the gate-leg table, while the ottoman with its soiled Chinese yellow cover was a shambles of whatever you will find in a bachelor’s flat if you begin to clean out the drawers. The bedroom, however, was still ordered for human habitation.

Now I had no sooner cast my hat on the bed than the bell rang. It was one of those infernal things you pull at, so that they may go on clanging for ever, and as it clanged I wondered, I am afraid ungraciously, who it could be. Could it, I wondered, be any one for Gerald March, who lived in the flat above mine? But no one, I told myself, has called on Gerald March within the memory of man, for that man discourages callers, that man knows how to discourage callers.

I had no hope in pretending not to be at home, for my lights were plain to see from our lane. And in my mind’s eye I saw the hearty face of the acquaintance at the door, and with my mind’s ear I heard the hearty greeting that dropped from his parasitical and thirsty lips. He had seen my light, that man, as he went his way home from some party even more pestilential than the one which had sent me home stricken; and he would fain drink a glass with me, after the fashion of pests of the night, that are hearty with the weary and thirsty with the unwary.

I could, however, always order my privacy without seeming too unfriendly by looking down from my bedroom window, for whereas the windows of my sitting-room faced the public-bar of The Leather Butler and an angle of the offices of the Duke of Marlborough’s fine house, from my bedroom window I had a clear prospect of our lane. Of pests, however, there was neither sight nor sign; nor of cats, nor of men, nor of any low and usual thing; only, under the lamp at the Sheep Street end of our lane, a long, low, yellow car which shone like a battle-chariot. It was empty.

Now I am of those who are affected by motor-cars: their lines thrill me, the harmony of their colour touches me, a gallant device wins my earnest admiration so that, walking along Piccadilly, I will distress my mind by being a partisan of this one, a despiser of that one. Nor am I to be won by any cheap thing, no matter how brave-seeming it may be to the eye, how admirable in endurance; but I am to be won only by the simple lines, the severe and menacing aspect, of the aces among motor-cars; for economy hath charms, but not to the eye. This car charmed the eye. Like a huge yellow insect that had dropped to earth from a butterfly civilisation, this car, gallant and suave, rested in the lowly silence of the Shepherd’s Market night. Open as a yacht, it wore a great shining bonnet, and flying over the crest of this great bonnet, as though in proud flight over the heads of scores of phantom horses, was that silver stork by which the gentle may be pleased to know that they have just escaped death beneath the wheels of a Hispano-Suiza car, as supplied to His Most Catholic Majesty.

Downwards to my door I looked, and there was a green hat before my door. The light from the one lamp in Sheep Street fell about it, and that was how I saw that it was a green hat, of a sort of felt, and bravely worn: being, no doubt, one of those that women who have many hats affect pour le sport.

II

“Do you know if Mr. March is in?” asked the voice of the green hat. But I could not see her face for the shadow of the brim, for it was a piratical brim, such as might very possibly defy the burning suns of El Dorado.

I said I was not sure. I was very surprised—a caller for Gerald March! “If we look up,” I said, “we can see by his lights if he is in.” And I stepped out into the lane, and the green hat and I stared up at the topmost windows of the grubby little house.

“There’s no light there,” she said. “I suppose the light below is yours....”

“There is,” I said, “but it’s very faint. He’s in all right.”

Still she looked up, thoughtfully. She was tall, not very tall, but as tall as becomes a woman. Her hair, in the shadow of her hat, may have been any colour, but I dared swear that there was a tawny whisper to it. And it seemed to dance, from beneath her hat, a very formal dance on her cheeks. One had, with her, a sense of the conventions; and that she had just been playing six sets of tennis.

“If I look surprised,” I said, “that is because you are the first caller Gerald March has ever had.”

She seemed to smile, faintly, as one might in the way of politeness. Otherwise she did not seem to be given to smiling.

“He’s my brother,” she said, as though explaining herself, the hour, everything. “It’s very nice of you to have opened the door....”

I was listening, oh, intently! One had to, to make out what she was saying. Then the voice suddenly expired and one was left standing there, listening to nothing, unprepared to say anything. It was, you can see, rather silly; but one got used to it.

“Oh,” I said, “Gerald wouldn’t open a door! He never opens doors....”

She looked vaguely about our lane. I was proud of our lane at that moment, for it set off the colour of her hat so well. There was no doubt but that she was tired. Seven sets, possibly. Her eyes seemed at last to find the car of the flying silver stork.

“That car ... I suppose it will be all right there?”

She seemed to me to lack a proper pride in her car. I said I thought it would be quite all right there, as though a Hispano-Suiza was a usual sight near my door; and I suggested that maybe I had better see her upstairs to her brother’s flat, as it was the top flat and there were no lights on the stairs. But she appeared to be in no hurry. Thoughtful she was. She said dimly: “You are very kind....”

One somehow gathered from her voice that her face was very small.

“I’ve often wanted,” she murmured, looking about, “to live in this place. You know, vaguely....”

“Of course, vaguely,” I said.

She looked at me, seemed to see me for the first time, seemed faintly surprised to find herself talking to me. I was surprised, too. Maybe it was the way her hair danced formally on her cheeks that made it look such a small face, but it seemed to me no larger than a small size in ladies’ handkerchiefs. That was why I was surprised. She stood carelessly, like the women in Georges Barbier’s almanacks, Falbalas et Fanfreluches, who know how to stand carelessly. Her hands were thrust into the pockets of a light brown leather jacket—pour le sport—which shone quite definitely in the lamplight: it was wide open at the throat, and had a high collar of the fur of a few minks. I once had a friend who was a taxidermist, and that was how I knew that. One small red elephant marched across what I could see of her dress, which was dark and not pour le sport.

“Perhaps you are right,” she admitted doubtfully. Not that I had the faintest idea what she was talking about.

I went before her up the dark narrow stairs, sideways, lighting and dropping matches, after the custom of six years. There were three floors in the little house, but the first was untenanted except by mice. I wondered whether it would interest her if I told her I was leaving to-morrow, but I did not see why it should. She, after all, had probably just come back from foreign parts. About her, it was perfectly obvious, was the aura of many adventures. But I was looking on her in brotherly sort, interested in her because she was Gerald March’s sister. For that was a most deficient man in every other respect. Fancy, I thought. She said: “Oo, isn’t it dark!”

“Of course,” I said, striking yet another match against the wall, “I knew Gerald had a sister, but I had a vague idea, I don’t know why, that she was still at school....”

“I don’t suppose,” she said helpfully—stumbled slightly, I helped her—“that any one knows everything. Is that mice downstairs? Rats? Oo, really.... Gerald and I showed, once upon a time, a strong tendency to be twins, though there was a good hour between us, so I was told. I was at the tail end of the hour.” Slowly struggling up those dim, narrow, musty stairs, her green hat now and then flaming in the matchlight, she gave one worthless information in a slightly husky, impersonal voice. As we came up to my landing I asked her if she had seen Gerald lately.

“Not,” she said, whispered, “for years and years. Nearly ten, I think. Do you think that comes, perhaps, of having been almost twins once upon a time?”

I did not say anything for I was thinking hard. Now I was Gerald’s friend. This lady of the green hat was Gerald’s sister, nay, his twin sister. Fancy, I thought. Where, I asked myself, did one stand? It was a matter for thought, for deep thought, and so I treated it, as she did not appear to be in any great hurry.

Now while these things were passing, the lady and I were standing on my landing, which was four foot by three; she with one foot on the stair below, one leather shoulder against the wall. And one had again, with her, a sense of the conventions.

“You are thinking,” she accused me. “I wonder what about....”

The light that plunged through my half-open sitting-room door fought a great fight with the shadow of her green hat and lit her face mysteriously. She was fair. As they would say it in the England of long ago—she was fair. And she was grave, so grave. That is a sad lady, I thought. To be fair, to be sad ... why, was she intelligent, too? And white she was, very white, and her painted mouth was purple in the dim light, and her eyes, which seemed set very wide apart, were cool, impersonal, sensible, and they were blazing blue. Even in that light they were blazing blue, like two spoonfuls of the Mediterranean in the early morning of a brilliant day. The sirens had eyes like that, without a doubt, when they sang of better dreams. But no siren, she! That was a sad lady, most grave. And always her hair would be dancing a tawny, formal dance about the small white cheeks.

She smiled, when it occurred to her that she was looking at me.

“I know what you are thinking,” she said.

“I wonder!”

“Yes. You like Gerald, don’t you?” She thought about that. “Well, what you are thinking is, whether it is fair to him to take me up there in case he is drunk....”

“If only it was ‘in case,’” I said. “You see?”

She closed her eyes.

“Poor Gerald!” she whispered. “Isn’t it a shame!”

“I’m afraid,” I said, “there’s nothing to be done....”

“Oh, I know!” Oh, she seemed to know that from her heart. And I wondered why they had not seen each other for ten years. I couldn’t imagine her disliking Gerald—childish, furious Gerald! Probably, I thought, he was to blame, and I wondered if there was anything in Gerald’s life for which he was not to blame. Poor Gerald.

“You see,” the slightly husky voice was saying, “I just came to-night on an Impulse. I am scarcely ever in England....” The voice expired. We waited, and she acknowledged my patience with a jewel of a smile. “And I suddenly thought I would like to see Gerald to-night. Please,” she suddenly begged, so seriously, “won’t you let me? I’d like just to see him ... but if you think ...?”

“Oh,” I said, “come on.”

She laughed, a little nervously, abruptly. Gerald’s door was at the head of the next flight of stairs, and it was, as usual, wide open. She moved one step forward into the room, she stopped, her eyes on the ceiling, as fixed as lamps. Yes, those were very sensible eyes. She didn’t look at Gerald.

“What is it?” she asked dimly.

“Whisky,” I said. It was so obvious.

“But more than that! There’s certainly whisky, but....”

“Wet shoes....”

“But that’s too literary! Oh, of course! Old women in alms-houses....”

She was talking, it was so easy to see, against her eyes. Now she was here she didn’t want to see Gerald. She was trying to put off the moment when her eyes must rest on Gerald. Still just within the dingy room, she looked everywhere but at Gerald.

“Lot of books,” she said.

I made to go, but the slightest hint of a start detained me. She suggested her gestures. That was a very quiet lady. She didn’t, if you please, intrude her womanhood on the occasion. Women do that unconsciously. But she didn’t do it, unconsciously. She met a man on his own ground. That was a gallant lady.

“Oh!” she said. “Oh!”

“Might just as well come away,” I muttered. I was used to Gerald, but at the moment, at her sudden whisper, I would have liked to murder him. Here for sixteen months not a soul had come to see him—and now, before his sister, and his twin sister too, he was in this vile state. But she had insisted on seeing him. What could I do? I promised Gerald a pretty speech on the morrow. He would be more or less human to-morrow, for Gerald had those phenomenal recuperative powers that are peculiar to lean drunkards.

“The illness,” I told her, “goes in periods of three days. On the first day he is thoughtful, on the second he is thoughtless, and on the third speechless.”

I could not see her face, her back was to me. The leather jacket, the brave green hat, the thoughtful poise. But I heard her whisper the name of the inert thing sprawling half on a broken Windsor chair and half across the littered table, and it was as though there was a smile in the whisper, and I thought to myself that these twins must have been great playmates once upon a time. “Gerald!” she whispered. “Gerald! Gerald!”

“Oh, go to hell!” muttered Gerald, and, without looking up, without waking up, twitched his head feverishly to one side, upsetting a tea-cup half-full of whisky.

“He thinks it’s me,” I explained from the door, and suddenly I found her looking at me over her shoulder, so thoughtfully. I can see her now, the way she suddenly looked at me, half over her leather shoulder, thinking I knew not what, and her right hand spread out on her brother’s arm. There was a striking emerald on the third finger of her right hand, livid against the dark thing that was Gerald March.

“Only twenty-nine,” she told me gravely, “Gerald and me....”

“Oh,” I said. What could one say?

“Bad luck, I do think,” she murmured. I wondered, you know, whom she was talking to. Certainly not to me.

“He’s a very good fellow,” I said.

“Heredity, you see,” she suddenly explained. “Father almost died of it. Brandy, though. He liked brandy, Barty did. They said he would die if he had more than half-a-bottle a day, but he had a bottle to make sure, and then he died of pneumonia.”

Then, in her silence, she was so still that I grew very uncomfortable. What was she thinking about? She was staring down at the sprawling thing that was her twin brother, the emerald still livid against his arm.

“He wrote a very good book once,” I said, to say something.

“Yes. About Boy....”

“Boy?” Gerald, you see, was no talker. He just swore, but automatically; it meant nothing.

“Didn’t you know?” She looked at me again, but her eyes seemed to me masked. I was to know later why her eyes were masked just then. I said I knew nothing at all about Gerald.

She passed a finger over one of her eyebrows, and looked at it. “Dirty,” she said.

“Years ago,” she said, “before the war, Gerald had a very great friend. Gerald, you see, is a hero-worshipper. In spite of his air and everything, that is what Gerald is, a hero-worshipper. And no hero, no Gerald. And so, when his hero died, Gerald died too. Funny, life is, isn’t it? Then the war, and that, of course, buried him. And now....” Those absorbed, blazing blue eyes! The sea was in them, and the whisper of all open places: the magic of the sea was in her eyes, whipped with salt and winds.

“No friends?” she asked dimly. “No women? Nothing?”

And just at that moment I had, for the first time, that feeling of incapacity with her. I was to have it again, profoundly, but I remember vividly that it came for the first time just then, in poor, furious Gerald’s room. Dingy—that is what I felt before this quiet, thoughtful woman with the absorbed eyes. Dingy. I felt, I suppose, the immense dinginess of being a human being, for there is an immense, unalterable dinginess in being human, in the limitation of being human. But why I should feel that particularly with her I did not know then. She, too, was human, quiet, gentle, very unaware. But, later, I was to know why.

It was with an effort that I told her about Gerald. That feeling of self-dinginess came somehow to a point in just feeling common. For I was what Gerald was not, what she obviously was not. I could somehow “cope with” my time and generation, while they were of the breed destined to failure. I was of the race that is surviving the England of Horatio Bottomley, the England of lies, vulgarity, and unclean savagery; while they of the imperious nerves had failed, they had died that slow white death which is reserved for privilege in defeat.

Gerald, I told her, was a more solitary man than I had ever known or thought to know. I supposed he had a small income, for he seemed to manage to live. He was very shy, absurdly shy, tortured shy. She nodded gravely, and I went on to say that shyness was a cruel disease with Gerald: it was a shyness, to strangers, without charm, for he never could show his shyness, he must show everything but his shyness. And so it was that he couldn’t get on with people, and now he had ceased to try, he just had drinks. Every Sunday afternoon he went to tea with his aunt, Lady Eve Chalice, in Mount Street.

“It was Eve who really created my impulse,” she told me, then: “Oh, here!” and I found I had an empty cigarette-case in my hand and that she was offering me hers. It was an oblong white-jade case, and chained to it by a double chain of gold was a hectagonal black onyx box which may or may not have held powder. One corner of the hectagonal black onyx was initialed in minute diamond letters: I.S.

“Iris,” she said. “Iris Storm.” And she smiled, childishly, formally, saying: “You have been so nice, I had forgotten we didn’t know each other.” I told her my name, in that embarrassed way one always does tell any one one’s name, and we smoked a while in silence. She inhaled her smoke with a faint hiss, and her teeth were a regiment of even bits of rice-paper standing at attention, very smart and sharp. Teeth always give one ideas. These were imperious, dangerous teeth. On a middle one was wedged a small string of tobacco: it lay coiled there like a brown maggot, and when I told her about that she removed it with the nail of her small finger, and regarded it. She had a great talent for looking at nothing in particular, and that was the only likeness I could see between the twins: thoughtful they both were. Suddenly, from the tousled dark head on the table came a jumble of inarticulate words. She listened intently. Gerald shivered, but his face remained buried in his crossed arms.

“He’s dreaming,” I said. She looked at me, and I thought there were tears in her eyes. But as they never fell, I am not sure. Thoughtful she was, smoking....

“Why does God do these things?” she asked in a suddenly strong, clear voice, a most surprising voice; but I said nothing, knowing nothing of God.

“Let us go,” she said.

“Shall I tell him you came?”

She thought about that, looking at me. “Yes,” she said, “will you? Please. Just that I came. You see, Gerald doesn’t ... well,” she smiled somewhere in those eyes, “let us say he is against me....”

We were in the doorway of the soiled room of the drunkard. I was going to switch out the light. Often I would come upstairs and switch out Gerald’s light.

“Gerald,” she said suddenly, in that strong voice, and I thought of a prefect’s voice at school, down the corridor of a dormitory. “Good-bye to Gerald.”

“You see,” she said to me, “Gerald and I are the last Marches, and we ought to stand together. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes, you ought,” I said gravely. One hand, the hand of the great emerald, hung against her leather jacket. “Certainly you ought,” I said, and raised the hand to my lips. Her hand smelt dimly of petrol and cigarettes, and a scent whose name I shall now never know.

“These defiant courtesies,” she said thoughtfully. “They’re very nice, I always say....”

III

Slowly, she first, we went down the narrow stairs to my landing. In the sudden flare of my match there was revealed a threepenny-bit of flesh just above the heel of her left shoe, and I had occasion to rebuke myself on the depravity that is man. She said over her shoulder: “Hilary Townshend has told me about you....”

“But he has never told me about you!”

“Oh, he would if you provoked him!”

“And may I?”

But she did not seem to hear. Once Hilary had, I thought, said something about Gerald March having a sister, but I had not connected the vaguely heard name of Mrs. Storm with her. I don’t know why, but I had always imagined Gerald’s sister as a schoolgirl living somewhere in the country with a bankrupt old gentleman called Lord Portairley, Gerald’s uncle.

We were on my small landing now, in the light that plunged out of the half-open door of my sitting-room: she with a foot on the stairs leading downwards, away.

“Good-bye,” she said. “Really, I think you’ve been very kind....”

She seemed to me very nice and gentle; yes, nice; and then it seemed to me that across her gentleness flamed a bar of fire. She walked, oh, impersonally, in the fires of herself. I was on another planet. Hilary tells me now that he also had that feeling with her; but Hilary must have struggled against it, whereas I am incapable of struggling against any feeling.

“Good-bye,” I said.

I was looking not at her but through the half-open door into my room. There lay the disorder of my life, the jumble, the lack of purpose, the silence, and the defeat of my life. I wasn’t, it seems almost an intrusion to say, very happy in those days; but that is by the way in the history of Gerald March and Iris Storm.

Now here is the difficult part of this history. Of the many gaps it will contain, this seems to me the most grave, the least excusable. One should write, if not well, at least plausibly, about the things that happen. And yet I cannot be plausible about this, because I do not know how it happened. I mean, how she came into my room and sat down. I did not ask her. Did she want to? Mrs. Storm was a lady who gave you a sense of the conventions. Mrs. Storm was a ... and yet ... I do not know anything about her.

I am trying, you can see, to realise her, to add her together; and, of course, failing. She showed you first one side of her and then another, and each side seemed to have no relation with any other, each side might have belonged to a different woman; indeed, since then I have found that each side did belong to a different woman. I have met a hundred pieces of Iris, quite vividly met them, since last I saw her. And sometimes I have thought of her—foolishly, of course, but shall a man be wise about a woman?—as some one who had by a mistake of the higher authorities strayed into our world from a land unknown to us, a land where lived a race of men and women who, the perfection of our imperfections, were awaiting their inheritance of this world of ours when we, with that marvellous indirectness of purpose which is called being human, shall have finally annihilated each other in our endless squabbles about honour, morality, nationality.

We have all of us a crude desire to “place” our fellows in this or that category or class: we like to know more or less what they are, so that, maybe, we may know more or less what we shall be to them. But, even with the knowledge that she was Gerald’s sister, that she was twenty-nine years old, that she was the niece of Lord Portairley, you could not, anyhow I couldn’t, “place” Mrs. Storm. You had a conviction, a rather despairing one, that she didn’t fit in anywhere, to any class, nay, to any nationality. She wasn’t that ghastly thing called “Bohemian,” she wasn’t any of the ghastly things called “society,” “county,” upper, middle, and lower class. She was, you can see, some invention, ghastly or not, of her own. But she was so quiet about it, she didn’t intrude it on you, she was just herself, and that was a very quiet self. You felt she had outlawed herself from somewhere, but where was that somewhere? You felt she was tremendously indifferent as to whether she was outlawed or not. In her eyes you saw the landscape of England, spacious and brave; but you felt unreasonably certain that she was as devoid of patriotism as Mary Stuart. She gave you a sense of the conventions; but she gave you—unaware always, impersonal always, and those cool, sensible eyes!—a much deeper sense that she was somehow outside the comic, squalid, sometimes almost fine laws by which we judge as to what is and what is not conventional. That was why, I am trying to show, I felt so profoundly incapable with her. It was not as though one was non-existent; it was as though, with her, one existed only in the most limited sense. And, I suppose, she affected me particularly in that way simply because I am a man of my time. For that is a limitation a man can’t get beyond—to be of his time, completely. He may be successful, a man like that—indeed, should he not blow his brains out if he is not?—but he who is of his time may never rise above himself: he is the galley-slave working incessantly at the oars of his life, which reflects the lives of the multitude of his fellows. Yes, I am of my time. And so I had with this woman that profound sense of incapability, of defeat, which any limited man must feel with a woman whose limitations he cannot know. She was—in that phrase of Mr. Conrad’s which can mean so little or so much—she was of all time. She was, when the first woman crawled out of the mud of the primeval world. She would be, when the last woman walks towards the unmentionable end.

“Good-bye,” I said, and then, as I looked from the disordered room and my disenchanted life at her, the eyes in the shadow of the green hat were brilliant with laughter, so that I was stunned. “Why are you laughing?” I asked, or perhaps I did not ask that, perhaps she had not been laughing at all, for when I was recovered from my stupor her eyes were quite grave, and dark as in a crypt. I pushed open the door of my room.

“How I would like,” she said, that husky voice, “a glass of cold water!” That was what she said, and so I let her go in alone into the sitting-room, whilst I turned on the tap in the bathroom. Fiercely and long I let the water run, pleased with the way it was filling the little house with its clean roar, pleased with the clean scent of the rushing water, which is always like the scent of cool sunlight. Then she said: “You have had a quick bath,” and so we became friends.

She stood among the littered books on the floor, looking round at the disorder, like a tulip with a green head. She sipped the water, looking round wisely over the rim of the tumbler. I explained that I was leaving to-morrow, and therefore the disorder.

We talked.

In that disordered room, so littered with books that you might hardly take a step without stumbling over one, it was not difficult to talk. Indeed, it is never so easy to talk about books as when they are about the floor, so that you may turn them over with your foot, see what they are, pick them up and drop them anywhere with no precious nonsense as to where they should exactly go.

She waved her glass of water about, sipping it. A drop of water clung like a gem to the corner of her painted mouth. It was not fair.

Talking with her in that room was like talking with her as we walked on a windy heath: she threw out things, you caught all you could of them, you missed what you liked, and you threw something back. Now and then something would turn up in a voice which was suddenly strong and clear, and every time her voice was strong and clear you were so surprised that you did not hear so well as when she spoke inaudibly. She had none of the organised, agonised grimaces of the young lady of fashion. But one knew she was not a young lady of fashion, for she hadn’t a sulky mouth.

Hers was that random, uninformed, but severely discriminating taste which maddens you: you try unsuccessfully to think that there is nothing at the back of it, nothing but a misty criterion of enjoyment. She used some words as though she had never heard any one else using them. “Nice,” for instance, she used in a calmly immense sense. The word seemed turned topsy-turvy, and to turn everything else topsy-turvy. She used the word “common,” I think, to denote a thing attempted and achieved scratchily. Mr. Ernest Bramah was, for instance, not “common.” But Miss Clemence Dane in Legend was. “Oh, come!” I said, for to me Legend is an achievement in literature.

“All those women talking and dissecting and yearning together,” she said. “Their breath smells of ... oh, red hair!” She thought Miss Romer Wilson was among the greatest writers of the time: The Grand Tour particularly. She was loyal to girlish admirations for Mr. Locke, Mr. Temple Thurston, Oscar Wilde. D. H. Lawrence was “nice.” “Nice?” I said. “Well, wonderful,” she said, with wide eyes, so that I was made to seem slow and stupid. M. Paul Morand was “common,” a “stunt” writer.

“I detest the word ‘stunt,’” I said.

“That is why,” she said, “I used it about Monsieur Morand. He is an abbreviation, like nightie for nightshirt.” I did not agree with her. She did not like abbreviations, even lunch for luncheon. “What,” she asked, “is the hurry?” I could not tell her. She thought that perhaps English was not the language for abbreviations and diminutives. She deferred to my judgment about that, and I said what I said. One just didn’t discuss Barrie: there he was. “You can’t laugh me out of him,” she smiled, “by calling him whimsical.” She had once enjoyed a book by Mr. Compton Mackenzie, a garden catalogue called Guy and Pauline. There was Hergesheimer. She put up a gallant, insincere defence for the Imagistes, but it turned out that she had never read any, and wasn’t at all sure what they were. “They’re short for poetry,” I said coldly, “like nightie for nightingale.” But perhaps the book she most profoundly liked was The Passionate Friends, with perhaps the last part of Tono-Bungay. “And, of course,” she said, “The Good Soldier,” Mr. Ford Maddox Hueffer’s amazing romance. From a table she picked up Joyce’s Ulysses, looked at it vaguely, dropped it absently on the floor amongst the others. I held a watching financial brief for it. One was to find later that she was completely without a sense of property, either her own or other people’s.

“It’s a funny thing,” she mused....

“What’s a funny thing?”

“Satirists.... They are all very plain men. Grubby, too. Why?”

“Why?” I said. “But, really——”

She looked at me through the smoke of her cigarette. She was grave, intent. But one never knew what about....

“Genius,” I said, “has——”

“Of course, genius. But——”

“They are striving,” I said, “for——”

“Yes, I know. But why are they always so ugly? I mean, these people called ‘satirists.’ One sees them abroad, at the Rotonde, or in Rome, Florence....” I saw her among them, the small white face, the cool, sensible, huge eyes, very attentive, deferring. “They marry plain, too. Always. Invariably. Why? And man and wife hang on to each other like grim death, despising everything hard. And they come out in spots. Why? One just wonders.... It seems to need very ugly men with very unattractive wives to despise things, to show us our ugliness. Has ever any even fairly human-looking person ever been a ‘satirist’? But I suppose if they weren’t so plain they wouldn’t have so much time to be obscene on paper. Or am I talking nonsense?”

“It’s absurd,” I said, “to make it a question of looks——”

“But it makes me furious!” she said in that suddenly strong clear voice. “These despisers. These grubby clever men with their grubby genius. The heroes of the weekly reviews. Their impotent little obscenities. I’ve tried to find, in knowing them and reading them, a great, real contempt, something as fierce and clean as fire, a nightmare of contempt, so that from the pillars of burning smoke we can build beings of better shape than ourselves. I’ve read, watched, listened, wanting to know....”

I said things, too. But who am I? For instance, I said: “You don’t allow to all men one common failing, which shows particularly when the men are satirical writers: they must always write about women rather in the spirit of uncleanminded undergraduates. You should be more tolerant, Mrs. Storm....”

We talked of vulgarity. She had once read a book of mine, and I complained bitterly of my vulgarity, saying, you know, that one didn’t begin by being vulgar, “but one began,” I suggested, “by being just bumptious. The meeker you are, the more bumptious you probably are inside, but that does not harm. Not that I was ever really meek. And at the beginning there’s a tremendous humility in you to yourself. You can’t have any achievement without that humility, and yet you lose it later on because you find out all the wrong things about yourself. People are only too ready to show you the wrong things about yourself. They like doing it. They seem to think there is something wrong with conceit. It irritates fools, because they think it is unwarranted. How do they know if it is unwarranted, and what does it matter if it is or not? Or it irritates them because they too once had in themselves a humility to themselves, and then allowed it to be, according to that Bottomley-Kipling-John-Bull gospel, ‘knocked out of them.’ And so if a young man is not very strong he lets the mischievous fools take his conceit away from him, he turns his back on his real conceit, which is himself—he has it ‘knocked out of him,’ just as any taste for music was knocked out of him by his public-school—and goes out for one of the spurious conceits which are called ‘being as others are.’ Then he has put his feet on the endless and never-ending road of vulgarity, and there are very few turnings....”

She sat in the deep wicker armchair, which had come with me from Chelsea six years before but would travel nevermore. It creaked madly as she sat down, and she glanced at it in surprise. “Of course,” she said, “it’s contagious....”

“You are quite wrong,” I said. “The real sticky part seems to come from inside one. And there, you see, is where a writer has a sense of defeat—a writer, I mean, who must earn his living by writing, and so must always write. For it is more difficult for a second-rate writer not to be vulgar than for a camel to pass through a needle’s eye. It uncoils from somewhere inside you, like a nasty, sticky snake. So slick it is, too. So helpful, often. And when you see it for the first time you stare at it transfixed, and you say, ‘But I am not vulgar!’ But you get used to it later on. Very few people notice it. Most people like it. And, of course, it pays.”

“The golden snake,” she said. “It’s quite a good snake. It is silly to despise money.”

“Writers,” I said, and, I think, said rightly, “love money, they adore money! Successful writers, I mean. The ones who have become venerable, the ones who have made great names by writing about the irony of life and the incapabilities of wealth, the writers of the people for the people. They worship money, they hoard money. One and all despise rich people, and are perfectly beastly about the upper-classes. You should ask any publisher about the business capacity of any great author who writes about the Irony of Life. To really intelligent men of the middle-classes, living in sin does not seem nearly so wicked as living in luxurious sin. I only know one successful author who has the decency to get drunk with his easily-earned money. One should keep a sense of proportion about money, and you can only do that by throwing it away. The Jews, for instance——”

“Jews,” she said, “are charming. The rich ones, I mean, and preferably the fat shiny ones. They understand luxury and elegance, and elegance is an enchantment that the skin loves. But nowadays only Jews have an idea of enchantment, only Jews and Americans. Furs, jewels, spacious rooms, trellised terraces, all lovely baubles, silks of China, myrrh, frankincense, and motor-cars. The Jews are disenchanted, but at least they’re brave enough to insist on having all the enchantments of disenchantment. Luxury, ease, splendour, spaciousness. You’ll say they’re florid. Well, they may be, they are, but they’re also the last towers of chivalry. Mr. Chesterton goes running after them shouting about beer and the Pope, but if you’re going to leave chivalry to beer-drinkers and the Pope, God help enchantment. You’ll say that the Americans’ indulgent admiration for their wives almost borders on the gaga, but they fight for it very really, they don’t just talk and indulge. They fight with money, they have the courage of their cheques, they dare tremendous duels, they get up at unearthly hours in the morning to dash towards the rendezvous, and they draw a cheque just as gallantly as any rather caddish cavalier ever drew a sword....”

“Englishmen,” I said, “respect their women....”

“Maybe,” she said absently.

We were impersonal. Now and then the wicker armchair creaked beneath her, and she looked at it with faint surprise. Now and then a car screamed on Piccadilly, an electric-landau sounded its bells through Shepherd’s Market towards its garage by Camelot House. Now and then her slightly husky voice expired. Then we waited a while. She stared deeply into the eyes of a mask which a Russian artist had once given me in exchange for a poker debt. It lay sideways against a corner of the fender. I waited for her to say something about that, for it was the mask of a Florentine gentleman that was a lecher. I had grown used to it, as one can grow used to anything, but people would remark on it adversely. The lady of the green hat said nothing, and that was how I knew that for her everything was inevitable. That is an important thing to know about a woman, for you know then that you will never know where you are.

We became personal. She said: “Let us talk about our friends now.”

“To-night,” I said, “I have been to a party at the Hallidays’.”

“Ah, the pitiless vulgarians! Surely, between us, we can do better than that!”

“There’s Hilary....”

“The sweet! Can you not love Hilary? But to-night,” she said very seriously, “I have been dining with old Maurice Harpenden. How he would hate me to say old! I went out all the way to Sutton Marle to do that, because he expects it of me when I am in England. We are enemies, and we watch each other. He was very courtly. They are difficult to deal with, handsome old men who have known one since one was so high. You need to be a woman to know what I mean, but you must try to pretend for a minute. Thank you. Organically, of course, they are perfect. Good features and long legs and iron-grey hair. Character and clothes by Robert Hichens. They are very courtly, and then they touch one. Now, why do they do that? They pretend to do it in a friendly way, as any gentleman of the old school might to the daughter of another gentleman of the old school: but they make opportunities....” The husky voice committed suicide, was buried, and in the third second rose from the dead. “I do not understand men. I do not understand the ‘old school’ type of man, nor what ‘old school’ means, unless it means that you never did anything at school except win the Battle of Waterloo. Then as soon as you left school you were qualified by good-looks, a charm of manner, and a habit of becoming popular with elderly men which is peculiar to right-minded young Englishmen, to become Major-General Sir Maurice Harpenden, K.C.B., C.M.G., D.S.O., and to lead your troops in battle with that gallant inefficiency patented by English infantry-commanders who know a good horse when they see one. After which you can spend the rest of your life in bantering. You can see that I do not like Maurice. We dine, and we are enemies, and we watch each other.”

“The sire doesn’t seem very like the son. Napier is a saint....”

The chair creaked. She was looking at me from under her hat, gravely as a Red Indian. “There were two roads leading from a certain tree, and when we were eighteen life said to me, ‘You go this way,’ and life said to Napier, ‘You go that way.’ And so we did that, and so it has been....”

Now I was staring at her mouth, which was a silky red mouth engraved with I don’t know how many deep downward lines, and my heart beat twice so loudly that I wondered if she had heard it, for she whispered sharply: “Listen!” But it was only a clock striking somewhere in London, and its striking was quickly done.

“I must go,” she said, but not even the armchair creaked, and her green hat was still crushed against the back of the chair, and her eyes were still staring profoundly over my shoulder. There was only the window there. The curtains were not drawn, and I thought I would draw them, but it seemed a pity to move. Her eyes glowed like an animal’s. She was staring, absorbed, over my right shoulder, but there was only the window there. She was asleep. Then her eyes dilated into glowing points, and her lips said: “On a envie.”

Then she made a gesture of distaste.

She said: “There are desires....”

“Heavens, do you need to tell me that!”

“Oh, not those desires!” Expressionless, blazing eyes absorbed over my shoulder, she waved away “those desires.” I was snubbed.

“They call it,” she said, “the desire-for-I-know-not-what. They will find it one day when we are dead and all things that live now are dead. They will find it when everything is dead but the dreams we have no words for. It is not chocolate, it is not cigarettes, it is not cocaine, nor opium, nor sex. It is not eating, drinking, flying, fighting, loving. It is not love’s delight, it is not bearing children, though in that there are moments like jewels. There is one taste in us that is unsatisfied. I don’t know what that taste is, but I know it is there. Life’s best gift, hasn’t some one said, is the ability to dream of a better life....”

The green hat crushed recklessly against the back of the chair, she stared, still and absorbed, at the names that friends of long-ago had written on the ceiling with smoke of candle-flame. Her eyes glowed, glowed like an animal’s. The light of the reading-lamp on the littered table by my elbow kissed her lip, and the light kissed the faint, faint down on her lip into a few minutes of existence as a garden of gold dust. A sword lay in my mind, twisting and shining among the inner grotesqueries where we keep ourselves, in the real sense, to ourselves.

I forced my mind to a more legal aspect of her. There were two rings on her wedding finger. A narrow circle of platinum, a narrow circle of gold. I wondered if she had been married twice. I tried to imagine her husbands. They would be tall, handsome men, and she would be passionately in love with them. She would, like all women in love with tall, handsome men, be worshipful as a dog. Physically they would be very courteous to her, but no more than courteous, and mentally they would, if I may say so, treat her rough. They would go to sleep quickly, and she would lie awake far into the night, pressing her breasts, because they hurt her. She would think. She would not think. Then one day, when she was between thinking and not thinking, she would be unfaithful, and the tall, handsome man who was her husband would apologise to her for not having understood her better. But she would say, with cold eyes: “There is nothing to understand. On a envie.” Then he would say, “Oh!” and instruct her lawyers to divorce him.

“I was trying,” I said, “to imagine your husband....”

The chair creaked, and from the shadow of the hat one blue eye looked at me like a blue stone worn by fire. “Two,” she said. “They are dead.”

I wondered what she saw, looking over my shoulder. She kept strange, invisible company, this lady. She walked in measureless wastes, making flames rush up from stones, making molehills out of mountains. Then suddenly the headlines of a penny paper of two years ago unrolled before my mind, stood livid against my memory, slashed with the name of Storm. I had not a doubt but that he had been her second husband. “V.C. murdered. Sinn Feiners kill Captain Storm, V.C. Left on roadside with five bullet wounds....”

She said suddenly: “I am a house of men.”

“What!” I said. “You surprise me.”

“A house of men. Of their desires and defeats and deaths. Of their desires, yes, of their deaths, yes and yes. It is, you can see, a great responsibility for me, and I have lodged complaints about it, but it is no use. I am a house of men. Ah me, ah me! Oh, dear! My friend, there is a curse, a quite visible curse. On us, the Marches. You will see it in my eyes one day, and you will be sorry for me.”

“You mustn’t believe in curses,” I said. “Good God, curses!”

“The Marches,” she said, “are never let off anything. That is the curse.”

Her eyes were stronger than mine, even as wind is stronger than air, and always in them was the magic of wide open places. I looked down, and far below, like pearls in the dust, shone two ankles clasped in silk the colour of daylight. I thought of her fate and of her. I thought of corruption, of curses, of death, of life, of love, and of love’s delight. I took hold of the sword in my mind with both hands, but was not strong enough to lift it. I thought of the limbs of Aphrodite, of the sighs of Anaïtis, of the sharp cries of love’s delight. I thought how charming men would be if they could misbehave outwardly as prettily as they can in their minds. I said: “And so the house of March, fatal and damned, can never avoid its destiny....”

“Yes,” she said reasonably, “it can avoid it. By not being weak enough to desire so strongly.”

“Oh, I see,” I said.

“I’m glad you see,” she said gravely. They listen to voices whispering dreams. While they listen, they do queer weak things. Of the soil sordid—there is your March. But there is another March, who listens to voices whispering dreams. My father, Barty March, was, I think, one of the most loved men of his time. Like Napier is now, but of course Napier behaves. A policeman found Barty early one morning on the doorstep of a house we had then in Cambridge Square. He used to say he was never drunk until he closed his eyes, but this time he had closed his eyes into pneumonia. He only opened them once again, to look at Gerald and me, sixteen years old apiece. He smiled, you know, because Barty couldn’t help smiling. Besides, he was happy at last. “Avoid dreams,” he said. “Never stop to listen to the clouds passing overhead. You will be run over. Never sympathise with the moon when you can hear it, cold and lonely and blind, crooning to itself like a corpse singing a hymn. You will catch pneumonia. Never dream of a world in which men are men and women are women. You will go mad....”

Her right hand hung limp over the arm of the chair. It was just faintly dirty, and the nails shone like pink ivory. The emerald on the third finger held my eyes enchanted for a long while. She smiled at my look, and as she lay her eyes swept falcon-like down to the stone. It made me rise out of myself, that falcon-like sweep of her clear eyes, and I thought of the pitiless misbehaviour of life, that had not let her stay within the sensible stability of marriage.

“It’s a bit loose,” she was saying.

“I was wondering. It’s such a beauty! Aren’t you afraid of it falling?”

She shook her head, staring at me with a mischievous smile. Her childishness did not jar. She was always herself. “Oo, no! I have a knuckle. I crook it. And lo, it doesn’t fall....”

“But this sounds like a plot!”

“It is a law,” she said. “There are four laws, variously entitled a, b, c, d. The law (a) declares, against all formerly-held beliefs, that a flower is less beautiful because it is sure to die. That is a religious law, having to do with the unworth of perishable things, if you see what I mean. The law (b) has something to do with the fact that all men with long legs make poor lovers. That is a pagan law. You might write an essay on the long arm of coincidence and the short legs of co-respondents. It would be fun for you. The law (c) has something to do with exhorting a woman never to trust a man of honour, for he serves two mistresses. That is the law of good sense for amorous women, and will save them disappointment. The law (d) has to do with this ring, which is a bit loose, according to the directions of Jehovah.”

“You have mighty friends, Iris Storm!”

“Ah, I need them! Desire is a child with hungry eyes, and for him a dragon lies waiting. This ring is a charm against dragons.” The slightly husky voice dreamed. It was an hour for dreaming. She would mask unhappy things with passing talk. “I called him Jehovah because the same was a jealous God. And I would mock him with that, saying that it was I who should be jealous of him, for doesn’t a man of honour serve two mistresses, while it is well known of women of dishonour, I would mock him, that they never serve but one god at a time. But he never was a worldly man, and so eaten by doubt that you would have laughed if he hadn’t been such a pet....”

“And so he gave you the emerald to be as a witness against you, and to testify against your frailty?”

“Now take,” dreamed the husky voice, the great eyes fixed on the ceiling; and there was a smile in them, like a distant wave of music; “now take a night in Algeria. Take also a hill, and on the hill a garden....”

“The Hotel St. George, Mustapha Supérieur, Algiers——”

“Ah, don’t forget the American Bar!”

“And the Benares bowls——”

“And calorifères too hot or too cold——”

“And Arab carpets from Victoria Street——”

“And Americans with low heels——”

“And a passion for ‘mailing postals——’”

“Not to mention veal every day——”

“And a Soirée de Gala every Saturday——”

“And the best-dressed women——”

“Of Tunbridge Wells.”

“But take instead some red and purple flowers against a yellow wall, some oranges, a tangerine or two, three gazelles on a tennis-court, poppies tall as choir-boys, the cactus, the palm, and the pyramid cypress-tree. And watch, my friend, two shadows that walk in the wicked shadow of the pyramid cypress, that stands in the garden like a dark torch keeping watch over disillusion. It is night, or have I already told you that? Ah me, ah me, now will she who walks there ever forsake her love, will she ever be disloyal to her vows, that were made with so much pomp and circumstance in the Guards’ Chapel at Westminster before a congregation notable for the absence of all her husband’s relations? Why, her heart is confident, her heart is fragrant with the honey of that moon’s passage, and she knows what she knows. And yet, and here is a most pitiful thing, there must be something in her, some fatal abandon, that sets men doubting, for he who walked with her in the wicked shadow of the pyramid cypress wore the silence of the destroyer, so that her heart cried that he was misnamed, for the mortal disease of his heel was suspicion. Now I must tell you that it was Christmas Eve, and after a little desultory conversation he said: ‘Here is a present for you, sweet,’ and he gave me this emerald which you are kind enough to admire. ‘Alas,’ I said, ‘it is a little big for me! It may fall from my finger, don’t you see?’

“‘Yes, it may fall,’ said he. ‘But if you are careful, my sweet, if you curve your knuckle in time, it won’t dream of falling, not it!’ And then I cried miserably, knowing there was a catch in this somewhere, for at that time I was not yet broken in and was still fearful of suspicion. And I cried: ‘Hector Storm, what do you mean?’

“‘I mean, Iris, that you are as that ring——’

“‘Beautiful but loose, Hector? Ah, timeo Danaos!”

“‘Iris, will you never be serious! Yes, you are as that ring, which you must always wear on the third finger of your right hand. And as that ring may fall, Iris, so you may fall, for that is the sort of woman you are. But as that ring may be kept from falling, so may you keep yourself from falling. Oh, God,’ he said, ‘my life is darkness without you, I love you so, and it’s a perfect hell with you, I love you so!’ And he said much more that is unmentionable, and I learnt something, for it is only by listening to their husbands in moments of intimacy that well-brought-up women can become acquainted with certain good old English words. And though I pleaded bitterly that he was unfair to me, saying I was chained to him as my wrist might be chained to a star, which was no more than the truth, he insisted that I could be constant only to inconstancy, and so I was tired and went to bed. But look! Oh, look! Please look! Ah, the discourtesy of time! Really I must go now!”

I drew my eyes from her eyes to see that the dawn had slyly thrown a grey handkerchief over the window. It was but the shape of the dawn creeping out into the night, it was but a ghostly breath in the night, but it was the dawn. And I did not know what to say, for can a man deny the dawn, that speaks good sense in its vast elemental language?

The chair creaked and creaked. She was going now, there was no doubt about it. The texture of her face was grave, she was busy with the angle of her green hat. I examined the sword in my mind. The chair creaked and creaked, and then it was as though snapped by silence, and our startled eyes joined over the emerald that lay on the floor like the echo of the kiss, which was an unfair kiss. She shivered faintly, and drew herself taut, and was very proud. She was remote as the evening star, and very proud. Her eyes were dark as in a crypt, and her eyes looked lost, as though she had strayed into a maze. I lit a cigarette, and found my throat dry and parched.

She found difficulty in speaking. I was amazed.

“No,” she said. She shook her head. “Certainly not. My ring, please.”

Imperiously her finger pointed to the floor, but her eyes were as plaintive as a nun’s who has strayed into one of the corridors of hell. That I might walk with her there I again made myself a Judas to her hand, and she shivered with her whole body as in a torment, and she seemed to bite her lip from within.

“It means nothing,” she said coldly.

“I know,” I said.

She breathed deeply, with a hand pressed to one breast, as though it hurt her. I think it must have hurt her very much. I was sorry. She shook her head, as though she was in a cage, and then she was as still as a cut flower. The whole brim of the green hat was between me and her face, we were both terribly alone. Her right hand drooped naked over the arm of the chair, and I was bending down to pick up the emerald to replace it on the third finger when a cautious knocking came from below.

That was the second or third time of knocking, and each time it was less cautious, and I knew it to come from the policeman on the beat, who would be wishing to have the primrose car put in its proper place, which was not on the King’s highroad. I wondered if she had heard, but I could not see her face. I wondered if she heard me move. As I came to the door I switched out the light and the dawn pounced on her green hat, but she who wore it fought her battles carved in stone. She said something, I did not catch what, and I went downstairs and spoke with the policeman, who was an amiable middle-aged man of my acquaintance.

“My brother is with me,” I said, “but he will be gone soon.” Shepherd’s Market was creeping out into the dawn, draped and mysterious with the shadows of night. A window here and there was alight against the dark pile of Camelot House. The great car stood like a bruise against the passage of eternity, dawn fought for it, night draped it, and the silver stork flew unseen. The small noises of dawn stirred sharply in the night, and the lamps wore pale, tired faces. “Summer’s well on,” said the policeman.

I re-entered the sitting-room, saying impersonally: “I’m afraid you must go, as....” The room was empty. The figure that had been carved in stone was wrapped in air. The disorder of the room lay jeering at me on the dim carpet of the dawn. It was all like a purposeless limbo stretched between the night and the day, the room, my life, hers, everything, the strong, the silly and the brave. The hundreds of books lay in soiled confusion on the floor, the wisdom of the world that has gone to the making of the soiled nothings that we are.

I was seized by a catholic anger against the woman. Through all the disenchantments of youth, despite the contagious impurities of life, in defiance of the crimes against love that we call love, I had kept romance for my ghostly companion. Romance was more than a silly lithe goddess coming down from a marble column. Romance was more than the licence to be shameless with clouded eyes. Romance did not steal through the fleshy portals of the heart, did not shiver at a Judas kiss, did not coil white trembling limbs into the puerile lusts of the mind. Romance was all that and was as much greater than that as a religion is greater than a church. To romance, which was the ultimate vision of commonsense, sex, as sex, was the most colossal bore that had ever distracted man from his heritage. And she would palm a facet of this colossal bore off on me! She would have me barter my ghostly companion for the fall of an emerald, she would invade my thoughts, perhaps my life, in exchange for a puny pleasure that needs love to exalt it above the matchless silliness of what, with an excessive zeal for scientific classification, is known to our civilisation as the sexual act.

I picked up the emerald from the floor, and it smiled in the palm of my hand.

In the dusk of the bedroom, she lay coiled on the bed. The hush of her breathing was no more than the trembling servant of the silence. Then she coughed a small cigarette cough. It was the usual cough, and gave me back my confidence. “Iris Storm!” I said, but I wondered if I had spoken, the frail silence was so undisturbed. She was asleep.

Perhaps it was then that I realised that she was beautiful. She was asleep. Could any but the shape of beauty dare to wear that impertinence! She lay on her side, she lay anyhow. The green hat was gone.

“Iris!” I said. Her hair was thick and tawny, and it waved like music, and the night was tangled in the waves of her hair. It was like a boy’s hair, swept back from the forehead, which was a wide, clear forehead, clean and brave and sensible as a boy’s. Sensible, oh dear! The tawny cornstalks danced their formal dance on the one cheek that I could see, and the tip of a pierced ear played beneath them, like a mouse in the cornfield. Above her neck her hair died a very manly death, a more manly death than “bobbed” hair was ever known to die, and so it comes about that Iris Storm was the first Englishwoman I ever saw with “shingled” hair. This was in 1922.

I decided that I did not know what to do. I decided that that was just as well. “I will play,” I thought, “a waiting game,” and lit a cigarette. But in her tawny hair the night was tangled like a promise, and it smelled as grass might smell in a faëry land, and always about her there was that faint dry scent whose name I shall now never know. Her mouth drooped like a flower, and there was a little shiny bit in the valley between her cheek and her nose. To this I applied a little Quelques Fleurs talc powder on a handkerchief, that when she awoke she should not think so ill of herself as I did. Hers was a small, straight nose with an imperceptible curve, just as any straight line might have, and its tip quivered a little as she breathed. Her leather jacket pour le sport, that had a high collar trimmed with some minks, was flung open, and over the breast of her dark dress five small red elephants were marching towards an unknown destination. Towards her feet her hat lay with my hat.

Gently, gently, gently as the phantom of myself, for was I not being better than myself? I would replace the emerald on the third finger of her right hand. I would, when hair that was not my own was pressed against my ear, and fingers that were not my own took the cigarette from my mouth, and teeth that were not mine bit my lip, and when the red elephants marching towards an unknown destination stirred breasts full of shadows, and a voice as clear and strong as daylight said: “But enough of this hell!”

IV

Of all that had once decorated the walls of my sitting-room there was left by the removers only a looking-glass in an ancient gold frame, above the fireplace. My mother had once given me an oil-painting, saying, “This will do nicely for your flat,” but I in my pride had thought a looking-glass would offend the frame more judiciously.

She stood before that.

“What is the time?” she asked her reflection, and I told her that it was ten minutes to six.

“Have you a comb?” she asked of her reflection, and luckily I had a comb which was not my comb. She looked at it and saw that it was so.

“Thank you,” she said to her reflection.

The light of the tawny hair mocked the clouded daylight, and when, with the palm of her hand on her forehead, she swept the comb from front to back, it flamed tiger-tawny and ate into my spirit. Tiger, tiger, burning bright, in the forests of the night....

In the Upper Fifth at school there was a tall, cold-eyed blood called Dwight-Rankin—I think he died on Gallipoli—who used to sit at the desk just in front of mine. He was a man of the mode, wearing his fair hair plastered from front to back, and his neck was clean and unspotted as a girl’s, and I would spend minutes wondering whether, if one touched the gold down in which his hair ended high above his neck one would feel hair or only skin. The back of her head affected me like that; it was just like Dwight-Rankin’s, only dry, and tiger-tawny.

She tore the small comb through the dancing curls on each cheek, so that they trembled like voiceless bells. It is a commonplace about women, as assiduously remarked by brilliant feminine psychologists as women’s “caprice” and “intuition,” that every woman must now and then make a “grimace of distaste” into a looking-glass. But she did not do that, nor need to. She was untouched, unsoiled, impregnable to the grubby, truthful hand of lex femina. She was like a tower of beauty in the morning of the world. The outlaw was above the law of afterwards, impervious and imperious. She was beautiful, grave, proud. How beautiful she was now! It was a sort of blasphemy in her to be so beautiful now, to stand in such ordered loveliness, to be neither shameful like a maiden nor shameless like a mondaine, nor show any fussy after-trill of womanhood, any dingy ember of desire. It was a sort of blasphemy in her, as it would be in a peacock to sing gracefully.

The silence got on my nerves, and I said something, anything. She looked over her shoulder at me, vaguely. She was the male of the species that is more fearless than mankind. I wondered what she was going to say.

“My hat, please,” she said. I appeared to have been holding it in my hand. With her left hand she crushed it on her head and kept her hand on the crown, looking at herself intently in the looking-glass. I was startled at her eyes in the looking-glass. They were cold blue stones, expressionless, caddish as a beast’s.

Down, down, with two fingers of her left hand, she pulled the brim of the green hat over her left eyebrow. She said: “I think I must have left my powder in the other room. Do you mind?” I brought her the case of white jade and the box of black onyx. She powdered, without interest.

“Good-bye,” she said. Her hand was held out, her eyes were full on mine, naked, expressionless. I felt that they were the heads of the nails under which she had nailed herself. It would be a kindness to let her go quickly, a kindness which she would not have allowed me had I been a woman and she a man.

“Good-bye,” I said. And suddenly the hand that lay in mine pressed mine, and she gave a vague, brittle laugh.

“It seems a pity,” she said; and then the eyes in the shadow of the brim seemed to open wide, wide.

“You see?” she whispered. “You see?”

But I could see nothing but her silhouette against the future days. I said: “We have begun at the wrong end; but can’t we work back?”

“Oh, no!” she whispered. “It is not like that a bit. You don’t understand....”

Suddenly I said many things.

She seemed, her hand still in mine, to be absorbed in something just behind my right shoulder. There was such fear in her eyes that I cried sharply: “What is it?”

“The beast,” said the lips of the eyes of fear. “Just the beast....”

The word I said was drowned in the din of a lorry that smashed through Whitehorse Street to Piccadilly. She took her hand gently from mine. “There is a dream,” she said, “and there is a beast.”

She smiled.

“That’s all,” she said.

“I can understand regret,” I said, “but——”

“Ah, we can understand, you and I! We are as old as sand ... at this moment.”

“But, Iris Storm, regret seems like a scar on you!”

“Not regret,” she said, so calmly. “Shame.” And she took my hand again, closely. “You must forgive me. I couldn’t have said that to any other man. My shame mustn’t shame you, please! But you have a cold mind, you are disenchanted, you understand. And oh, if one could be assoiled in human understanding! You see, I am not what you think. I am not of the women of your life. I am not the proud adventuress who touches men for pleasure, the silly lady who misbehaves for fun. I am the meanest of all, she who destroys her body because she must, she who hates the thing she is, she who loathes the thing she does....” The breathless, pregnant voice seemed to fall to the floor, like a small bird with broken wings, and as it struggled upwards I said: “You are like a boy after his first love.”

“Oh, if it was boyishness!” And she took from the pocket of her leather jacket a tube of gold, and she broke it into two pieces, and she stared moon-struck at the carmine tongue of the lip-salve.

“To be born a chaste woman,” she said to the carmine tongue, “is good. I am in favour of chastity. I would die for purity, in theory.” She painted her mouth, staring moon-struck into the daylight. “Yes, I would die for purity. I wouldn’t mind dying anyhow, but it would be nice to die for purity....”

I said thus and thus.

“Yes,” she said, not having heard a word of mine, “it is not good to have a pagan body and a Chislehurst mind, as I have. It is hell for the body and terror for the mind. There are dreams, and there are beasts. The dreams walk glittering up and down the soiled loneliness of desire, the beasts prowl about the soiled loneliness of regret. Good-bye.”

“Then it must be ‘good-bye’?”

She looked at me with a strange, dark friendliness, and nodded.

“Because of shame,” she said. “But if I were different, I would like you for my friend——”

To my interruption, which she did not hear, she said: “I have only one lover. But I know that only because I always feel unfaithful to him. It would be good to be really bad, but I am not even that. I only misbehave. I will see you again, when I have found my only love. Or I will see you again when I am qualified to die for purity. I will let you know, so you can be there. God bless you, dear.”

And I said what I said, that He had, with Iris Storm.

She went very white. “That shall be written down,” she whispered, “as the prayer of the only man who ever shamed a woman of her shame.”

“My days of adventure, Iris Storm, are over. A few years ago it would have seemed nothing to me that you should disappear as you came, into the great hole of London. To experts in adventure that is, I think, the usual procedure. But now I would like a trace of you. You must not leave me, quite. If I may not see you again, mayn’t I perhaps talk to you? Or, what is the main thing, feel that I could if I dared?”

She said she was in London now only on business that would last a few weeks, and lived always abroad. “But this is the telephone-number,” she said, and I was looking round for paper and pencil when she said “Here!” and her leather arm darted to the floor and came up with a book, and on the fly-leaf of the book she scrawled the number with her lip-stick.

High above the sharp noises of the young day I heard the scream of an electric-horn.

Chapter Two: THE CAVALIER OF LOW CREATURES

I

AND that, I think, is all that there really is about me, as a person, in the tale. Of course, this first person singular will continue, and there’ll no doubt be any amount of “I this” and “I that,” but that is because of the nature of the work, and there’s never, the way I see it, much more than a pen behind it. Hilary, however, and Guy de Travest are not of my mind about this. We have recently been talking about these affairs, and a sad enough talk they made, and my two friends, my two seniors, were reluctantly compelled, they said, to disagree with me about my lack of responsibility in the events to be related hereinafter.

To me, the way I see it, it looks as though certain things were decreed to happen and that, therefore, they did happen: they had it in their blood, these people, that certain things should happen to them, and I could no more contrive these things than they could evade them. But Hilary and Guy, murmuring together in that astonishing unison which can only be found in two Englishmen who disagree upon everything in the world but on the fact that conduct is three parts of life, are of opinion that my substitution of the word “ptomaine” for “septic” really affected the course of events. Had I, they say in effect, spoken the truth like a brave little man, there would have been a divorce and every one would by now have been happy, as happiness goes. And then, too, they have something to say about those two red lights, those two rear-lamps of two cars sweeping into South Audley Street—had I told Iris, they say, about Gerald, those two red lights never would have been so close together. Oh, Guy, what a man is that! That latter-day thunder-god of dandies, that warrior of conduct, that man of cold eyes who never could give “gratuitous information” about any one! Oh, Hilary, that friend of childhood!

Hilary and Guy, friends of the late Barty March, had known Gerald and Iris since their earliest childhood. But Gerald had no sooner grown up than, at the impulse of his furious nature, he had turned away from his friends, his people: he had dropped out, had cut away; and no one, it’s not difficult to imagine, would want to intrude on that young man. But I was to find, after the coming of the lady of the green hat, that it wasn’t only at the impulse of his furious nature that Gerald had, well, withered fiercely into solitude. In very truth that Gerald had been a hero-worshipper; and in very truth he had become, as his sister had said, a nothing without his hero. Very few things had ever mattered to Gerald Haveleur March; but those few things, one was to learn, had mattered far too much.

His sister was, as it’s not impossible to have gathered, what is called declassée—even for a March or a Portairley. And that was why I had heard nothing about her from Guy or Hilary, for while Guy never gave gratuitous information about any one, Hilary was held in thrall by that upside-down but virulent form of snobbery which will make of a man of property an extreme Liberal and a thorough-going die-hard disapprover of any one who let his, Hilary’s, caste down. Hilary, a sincerely good man, was an enemy of caste, he was an enemy of his own caste in particular, he did not believe in it; and yet, in the depths of that being where lurks a dragon that can ultimately defeat even the sincerity of a man of principle, Hilary believed in nothing else but caste.

And Iris, of course, had betrayed her caste to perfection. No one, you might say, could have done that more thoroughly than Iris. She had been malinspired to excess, she had reached Excelsior in the abyss. But she was ever completely not on her guard about what people might say or did say, she had an amazing, an enviable, snapped Hilary, talent for just not noticing things.

She had been quite surprised, Hilary told me recently, when once he had taxed her with being a renegade from her class. Genuinely surprised she was, Hilary says. It simply hadn’t, she had told him, occurred to her in that light.

“Rushing about Europe like that,” Hilary had said, “you let England down. You’ve no idea, Iris, how these young foreign blighters hold Englishwomen cheap.” Iris had maintained she had a very good idea about that. (But you simply had to disagree with Hilary. He was like that. And he said “hm” all the time.) And you only had to travel on a liner to the East, she had said, to notice how British matrons reacted to foreign parts. As for Egypt! But she always did her best, she had said, to influence foreigners to a more lofty view of the gallantries of British matrons.

“People cut you,” Hilary had said, for that seemed to him an abominable thing, that she should have put herself into the position of being “cut”; and she had admitted having noticed glaciers, but she had maintained that it was a far, far better thing to be cut by a county eye than to be killed by the boredom of a county tongue. “I arose from the dead when I was twenty,” she had said. (Hilary, you understand, would provoke any one.) “Your class,” Hilary had snapped, and she had said she had never actually thought of herself as belonging to any class. Her class would be, she supposed, the landed gentry, same as Hilary’s. She was proud, she had said, to belong to the same class as Hilary, and was very sorry indeed if she had hit him in the eye with her heel. But she hoped, she had said, that with him she had always been a lady.

That had annoyed Hilary very much indeed. But everything about any woman he liked would annoy Hilary very much indeed. Mr. Townshend was one of those Englishmen with an unlimited capacity for disapproving of any woman, whom he liked, who enjoyed being with other men as much as with himself; and an unlimited capacity for finding other reasons than that for his disapproval.

As for Gerald, Hilary had last known him as a “dark diabolical schoolboy” with a disturbing capacity for threatening silences and an immense—“a corroding, almost,” Hilary said—admiration for Iris. But not long after Barty March’s death—every one had loved that drunkard!—he had quite lost sight of Gerald. Guy de Travest had been Gerald’s colonel in the Grenadiers for some time during the war, but he never spoke but once of Gerald as a soldier—“young hell-fire idiot”—and never went near him while he lived above me in Shepherd’s Market. “Reminds me,” Guy said, “too much of Barty left standing too long with the cork out.” And that was more or less what Hilary said, too. One must say this for the warriors of caste and conduct: they seldom try to improve any man.

This chapter has been called The Cavalier of Low Creatures because it is about Gerald, and therefore it is a short chapter, for what on earth is there to say about Gerald? It isn’t at all a good description of him, but it is intended, if you please, more as a flourish, a naïve gesture. For you simply can’t let Gerald stand without a flourish, without a something, anything. Besides, I liked him, and would like to do him a bit of good. He was, sans gesture, a zero with a scowl and a hat—and a hat. Certainly, he once wrote a novel, but who does not once write a novel? I liked Gerald, but I would not give him a line if he wasn’t essential; and that is just what he is, essential, for these things simply couldn’t have happened without Gerald. He hated his sister, he had not seen her for ten years, yet it turned out that he was the most important factor in her life. And, decidedly, her love for him was one of the most important factors in her life. I wonder if he knows. But he too, even he, grew up in the end. I can hear him now, through the twilight of East Chapel Street, his shoulder against the saloon-door of the inn. “Give her my love,” he said. But you will hear him.

II

Sometimes I would see Gerald in the Café Royal. I would be dining, with Hilary maybe, and in the distance, cut as with a sharp knife in the tapestry of smoke and grubby faces, would be Gerald, darkly alone, a glass of whisky on the marble-top before him. One wouldn’t attempt to join him, for it made Gerald shy, desperate, if any one sat with him while drinking. He hated being “messed about,” did Gerald; and if you joined him he would presently mutter something about an appointment (Gerald with an appointment!), leave his drink unfinished and go and order one somewhere else; and as I understood he hadn’t much money I did not like to drive him to that. Maybe, though, he was less shy with me than with any one. “I like you,” he once said—oh, darkly!

One never knew, as he sat there or as he strode about the streets, careless as a fakir impelled always towards a terrible and nameless penance, what he could be thinking of. Maybe he was thinking of nothing. Once I saw him come out of a Cinema Theatre with a look on his face as though he had been tortured. He always looked, you know, like something. You noticed him.

He had a grey suit. It was thin as paper, but still defiantly retained a little of that casual elegance which not even Gerald could wholly divorce from the combination of a good tailor and a lean Englishman. He never had but one other suit that I ever saw, a brown affair, but he bartered that with a boot-mender in Shepherd’s Market in exchange for mending his shoes. And he had a hat. That was a hat. And never was Gerald seen wearing an overcoat, no matter whether it blew, rained, snowed or froze. See him any winter evening striding down Half-Moon Street in the biting rain, his thin grey suit blackening with it, the jacket held by one button with deep creases into his waist, the shapes of his knuckles stuck through his trouser pockets, that hat—there, but for the grace of God, went the most lovable man I ever met.

“Gerald—I say, Gerald! Why don’t you wear a coat on a day like this? Gerald, aren’t you an ass!”

“Coat?” Thoughtful he was always, and his dark, sunk eyes would pierce the pavement or the sky with unutterable contempt. “Coat!” And he would repeat the word softly until, you understand, he had grasped the enormous idea, when he would say softly, savagely: “What the hell d’you mean, ‘coat’?” and away he would go, towards that terrible and nameless penance of his.

Well, the flourish goes, the gesture is gone, to the limbo that yawns for all such vanities in the very second of their birth. The Cavalier of Low Creatures was never, to be sure, hailed as more than a zero. But, even as the ground is not the limit of a man’s fall, as you may see in the picture with the trail of flame, so zero is not the limit of a man’s nothingness; for what is that which is nothing but so completely nothing that it may not have even the mark of nothing? It is, to be sure, zero without the formative circle round it.

That solitary drunkard, that soiled ascetic! Those nightmare women, soft as the grass of Parnassus, marvellously acquiescent, possible. Aphrodite, Ariadne, Anaïtis, white as marble, silent as marble, silent and acquiescent, possible, as only goddesses could be, the goddesses of soiled dreams, as no woman born of woman could ever be....

And yet one might have been wrong in imagining the malcontents of the solitary drunkard’s mind. God only knows, of course, with what nightmare fancies the man plagued himself. Boys have them, and grow out of them; men, at least, do not admit even to themselves that they have not grown out of them, men do not admit even to themselves that while they indulge in continence they may suddenly find themselves stumbling in the burning darkness among the vile rubbish-heaps of desire.

That women walked in all the delicious beauty of the unattainable through Gerald’s tortured mind, I know now. But I did not know it then, for never was a man so secret with another man as Gerald, never was a man so little given to discussing with another those inevitable matters of desire and concupiscence which only by being discussed can be seen in a proper and proportionate light. They should be aired, those secret silly things, that they may be seen for what they are. In the old days there was a god in a garden, and people would do their best to make pretty fancies out of their lusts, naming them to gods, satyrs, fawns, nymphs, sirens, sylphs; they, at least, got rid of them somehow. But now that we see them plainly for what they are, the nasty little enemies of our assault on nobility, a conspiracy founded by Saint Paul has smashed the god in the garden and hidden the pieces under the bed.

Gerald, who never spoke but he swore, was the cleanest-mouthed man I ever met with; while from his book one had gathered that there was one main idea in Gerald’s mind; this was purity. It was to do with that one brilliant-childish romance of his that, about seven years before the coming of the green hat, I had first met Gerald. Then, for more than five years, I had not seen nor heard of him, had forgotten him, when one day a lean, dangerous hawk of a young man coming out of the Hammam Baths in Jermyn Street suddenly stopped me. I knew later that he must have been in an agony of shyness, but at the time he merely looked intensely furious. I, not recognising him, thought he was going to hit me, and gaped at him.

Bitterly and darkly he told me that some one had told him there was a flat to be let above me in Shepherd’s Market. “I’m staying here at the moment,” he muttered, looking indignantly at the Hammam Baths. Several minutes passed before I could place him, for he had been in uniform that first time, in that transfiguring long-waisted grey coat of the Brigade of Guards.

Gerald appeared suddenly, in the winter of 1915, at the office of Horton’s New Voice. Now that Horton has left England on his adventure in un-individualism one does not hear much of The New Voice, but at that time and for long before The New Voice was, of course, a power, and Horton was a Power. Quite apart from Horton’s personal quality, you knew he was a Power because several of the greatest of the intelligent writers of our time kept on bitterly pointing out to their million readers what a futile man Horton was. Quite a number of the men whose names you can “conjure with” now—it would be fun to meet that man who is always in the street conjuring with names!—had begun by writing for Horton’s paper; but they had always gotten on his nerves by the time they had become the greatest of the intelligent writers of our time, and, since Horton was an honest man, he told them so, and he told them why, and he told them off, and they were furious. But the most inspired among the greatest of the intelligent writers of our time revenged themselves by republishing their New Voice stuff in book-form and omitting to mention The New Voice as the first medium of publication. That was discourteous of them.

We were correcting proofs when Gerald appeared. It was a Monday afternoon, and on Monday afternoons any of Horton’s writers who wished could turn up and correct either his own or some one else’s proofs and then go and have tea at the A.B.C. And Talk.

“Hello!” said Horton. “Hello!”

“Defence of the Realm,” murmured Home.

We were not prepared for Gerald. We had, of course, seen soldiers before; indeed, there was one in the room at the moment, the philosopher Home, who was to be killed a year or so later. But Gerald was a Figure, he was martial. The herald of the dominion of hell upon earth, that was Gerald. Take one small, frowsty room, the staff (Miss Veale) addressing wrappers at a desk by the window, Horton blue-pencilling at the other desk by the door, four of us sitting cramped round correcting proofs on bound annuals of The New Voice on our knees, smoking, muttering—enter six-foot-two of the Brigade of Guards with a face as dark as night and the nose of a hawk and the eyes of one who has seen Christ crucified in vain. The panoply of war sat superbly on Gerald. He looked a soldier in the real rather than in the technical sense of the word: he looked, you know, as though he had accepted death and was just living anyhow in the meanwhile. Ah, see him then! Not even Gerald’s malevolent slackness in attire could make that long-waisted grey coat with the red-silk lining sit on him but imperially. Not Gerald’s the common-or-garden chubby face of a Guard’s subaltern. Gerald was no chap. He glowered at us.

“Eh,” he stammered. “I say ... I’ve been told you people....”

“He’s heard about us,” said Home sympathetically. “Sit down, boy. On the floor, I’m afraid.”

Gerald began a fierce scowl at him—then grinned. Dear Gerald!

“Well?” smiled Horton. Always courteous was Horton, in manner.

“Heard,” muttered Gerald, “that you didn’t care what you published....”

“Oh!” said Horton. “Well, we don’t care how good it is, if that’s what you mean.”

You couldn’t guess that Gerald was so shy that he could scarcely speak. You thought he stammered just because he stammered, not because he was so shy that he could scarcely get a word out. A man had no right to look like Gerald, an ensign of the fallen Prince of Light, and be shy; but that was always Gerald’s trouble, he never was given the credit for being shy, he put himself between you and any sympathy with him, he made it clear that he didn’t want your infernal sympathy. Just then, for instance, he looked as though he had strayed into The New Voice to send us all to blazes on general principles. And Horton looked as though he was quite prepared to go. Horton preferred bad-tempered men.

“There’s this,” Gerald muttered, and lugged out an enormous typescript from the deep pocket of his grey coat. “Novel,” he scowled at Horton. “Thought perhaps....” and he planted the thing with a thump on Horton’s desk. Horton grinned. Horton had had much too much to do with professional novelists to think that a novel by a subaltern of Grenadiers was necessarily unreadable. “Bit long, isn’t it?” he smiled.

“Long?” Gerald stammered. “Of course it’s long! Been writing it for four whole months.”

“Ought to be good,” said Home gravely.

“It’s awful,” grinned Gerald, “but, you see....”

“Quite,” said Horton busily. “Now, I’ll....”

“Hello!” said Horton, for Gerald was not. Horton threw the typescript to me to read. Of course, it was mad. The New Voice published most of it, and then Heinemann’s published it in the autumn of 1916 and ran it into three editions while people were still disentangling their eyes from the paper wrapper, which showed a woman with purple eyes crucifying a pleasant young man.

The Savage Device is open before me as I write, and its opening lines are: “The history of Felix Burton is the history of an ideal and a vision. They had nothing to do with one another except that the pursuit of the vision hardened him and blooded him for the attainment of the ideal. The ideal was aristocratic, in the sense that it was a striving after nobility in life: the vision was a contradiction, as scientific as it was mystic. The ideal was, of course, defeated: the vision, of course, defeated him. The ideal was purity: the vision had something to do with pain....”

The “vision,” so far as one could see, had everything to do with pain; in fact it was pain, and the vision might or might not come afterwards. (And I detest that word “mystic.”) The book was exciting and interesting because of a strange mixture of high romance, desperate villainy and an abysmal bitterness. The war came in, naturally. Gerald’s hero had minority ideas about the war—letting the landed gentry down again! As for the pain ... Young Burton’s idea of it had not to do with pain as a fact, but as the most sublime among drugs. You know? “In fact,” Gerald wrote, “it is the only drug that cannot debase a man. It can kill him, but there are worse ways of dying than being killed.” It was full of quotations like that, but Gerald threw them at you with a dash sadly lacking in the originals. Young Burton was, of course, going to die in the war.

Young Burton, it appeared, had studied the major and minor tortures of crime and martyrdom. There was a long description of tortures, if you liked that kind of thing. I have seen Gerald’s books on them, with illustrations ... very interesting. Then young Burton had come across the old, old idea that after a certain limit of pain there is a definite state of bliss and definite and glorious visions of a real reality which men by ordinary are too sodden or too timorous to see. But poor old Gerald, try as he would, couldn’t make The Savage Device a novel of ideas: it remained a novel of adventure, with an inhuman interest. Young Burton went everywhere in the world, having adventures, getting magnificently hurt—South Sea stuff—studying the effect of pain on men’s minds. A Chinese bandit helped him to quite a number of visions.

Then he plucked Ava Foe from a “dive” in San Francisco, she became Mrs. Burton, and then he had every opportunity for judging the visionary qualities of mental pain. That part was fiendishly well written, the hell that Ava Burton gave him. But young Burton’s ideal of purity was, naturally enough, schoolboy stuff: fine in parts, but stuff. The only part of it that was good was that it was, somehow, purity. On the sexual side young Burton deserved almost all he got from his, one thought, unnecessarily callous young wife. In Ava Foe, I couldn’t help thinking after the coming of the green hat, Gerald had let himself go about Iris. I realised then how he must first have worshipped and then hated his twin sister. What on earth, one wondered, could she have done to him to make him hate her like that? Ava wasn’t in the least like her, of course, but Ava might quite well have been like any sister to any brother who hated her. But this fierce, devilish, mediæval passion—why? Yet I should have guessed something of the reason after Iris had told me that young Burton was “Boy,” Gerald’s hero of before the war. But it never occurred to me to connect Iris’s casually dropped “Boy” with the legendary Boy Fenwick of Careless-Days-Before-the-War fame. He will have his place, that dead Boy Fenwick. A deep place.

“Felix Burton’s” idea of what a man should be to live nobly—he was full of those large strivings of Young Men which were in vogue in the Careless-Days-Before-the-War—seemed to take the form of wanting to found a new race of something like potent eunuchs. Young Burton was, of course, without the lusts of the body. Ava Foe wasn’t. Nor did young Burton want any of your waste of time in graceful love-making; he wanted a sort of ruthless companionship, with occasional patches of mating; he did not want to procreate gracefully, but with a sort of furious absent-mindedness. Imagine Ava—Iris! Imagine Gerald himself drawing the woman of his nightmares, that soft possible woman of lonely dreams, detesting her for destroying him ... and for destroying Boy! One wondered, in reading, if Gerald had ever known a woman. The dark knight of purity ... the fallen knight of purity, but how fallen!

III

I did not see Gerald whilst I was shaking the dust of Shepherd’s Market for ever off my feet, for he was still asleep. I left Shepherd’s Market. The hearty-looking man and the thin wizened man who said “Oi!” and the little bent old man with the blood-shot eyes gave me farewell.

That afternoon I snatched a few moments from the arranging of the new place, which was only round the corner, to go round and tell Gerald that his sister had been to see him on an Impulse. I had grown to feel responsible for Gerald: his solitude was somehow like a scar across one’s own life, a rebuke.

I came upon him in our lane. I have forgotten to say that Gerald, after a particularly hard spell of dipsomania, would go riding on a hack from the Mews nearby. He had a pair of fine polo breeches with which to do that, and with the fine polo breeches (Moss Bros.) went Barty March’s riding-whip and the jacket of the old grey suit and that hat. A highwayman on an off day, that is what he looked like in the mean lane, passing the time of day with the little bent old man with the blood-shot eyes.

“You’ve been drinking,” said Gerald severely to me.

“Billy Goat’s won the two-thirty,” wheezed the little bent old man. His hat was the captain of Gerald’s hat.

One didn’t, perhaps, look one’s best in the middle of a removal. But Gerald, confound the man, looked positively healthy, taut, tempered, weathered. Ach, le sale type anglais! I told him that his sister had called. “On an Impulse,” I said.

Gerald stared at me, his cigarette half-way to his mouth. “Oh!” he said. “Oh!...”

“Here’s her telephone number,” I said. He didn’t take the slip of paper I held out.

“’Ere,” said the little bent old man, “I’ll give it ’im when he’s better.” Gerald lowered his cigarette, scowling at me pathetically. No one else would have known it was “pathetically.”

“Iris called hell!” he accused me. “How you lie! What?”

“Honest to God, Gerald!”

He flipped away his cigarette and dug his free hand into his pocket as though it was a weapon. Those deep eyes scowled at me, but I wondered what they saw.

“That beast,” he whispered, “oh, that beast....”

I left him.

And I did not see him again until the twelfth evening later. I wish I had. I ought to have been to see him, for I was in the habit of seeing Gerald, and during those twelve days he might, I think he would, have told me about the silly, shoddy thing that had happened, and I could have helped to make him see it as only a silly, shoddy thing. What made me feel responsible for Gerald was that his livid, unreasonable, childish contempt for all accepted things was not contempt at all, but fear, just plain fear. He was, I mean, so afraid of life that he simply couldn’t exist but by pretending to despise it. Piercing that tortured vanity, I felt that life was a huge hungry beast ready to maul Gerald if he so much as tried to placate it—by using, say, a little pumice-stone on his fingers. And one could never, after having seen through his furious blague, be rid of an acute sense of the shamefaced childishness in the man, a childishness beaten down, gone crooked, which could only do him a hurt if it was not watched. And one didn’t, quite definitely didn’t, want Gerald to be hurt more than he already hurt himself by just breathing.

But, whether it was because that involuntary whisper of his about his sister had sickened me even more than I had thought at the moment, or whether it was merely because I was too busy with arranging myself into the new place, I simply did not seem to have the time to look him up during those twelve days. I wish I had.

Nor, during those twelve days, would it have come very amiss to talk a little about Mrs. Storm. One would have liked to know just a little of the history of that shameless, shameful lady. After all, one didn’t every day meet a woman with a pagan body and a Chislehurst mind. But naturally neither Guy nor Hilary was available during those twelve days, for that is a way friends have; Guy because he was down at Mace with the May-fly, and Hilary just because he was tiresome. Hilary, Guy wrote from Mace, was helping a Liberal to fight a musty bye-election in some Staffordshire place. “As if,” Guy wrote, “a Liberal ever won, as if a Liberal could ever win without a pretty long start! and a handicapper can never get a grip on anything in a Liberal to give him a start on—sticky little fellows they are, always sliding away somewhere. And as if it mattered whether a Liberal did or didn’t win. He’ll only get squashed with his own petard.” And, however it was, Hilary’s Liberal didn’t win, so maybe Guy was right. “In ten years’ time,” says Guy, “Hilary will be the only Liberal left in Parliament, looking happier and younger and more sickening than ever.”

It was on the fifth morning after the coming and going of the green hat that I was on an instant afflicted with an impulse, and did on the same instant act upon it.

“Hello!” I said.

“Hello!” they said. They were a she.

“Could I speak to Mrs. Storm, please?”

“Who is that speaking, please?”

I quibbled quite in vain.

“I will put the name down in her little book,” said the she kindly.

“Thank you,” I tried not to say bitterly. To ring some one up on impulse and then have your impulse perpetuated in a Little Book!

“Mrs. Storm is not in town,” said the she.

“Oh, I see,” I said. It is a detestable habit some people have of saying “in town” or “out of town.” What town? There can’t, honestly, be any real harm in saying London....

“Is there any message? I always take her messages.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Thank you very much. Good-b——”

“This is Mrs. Oden speaking.”

“Oh,” I said. “Mrs. Oden?”

“Yes?” said Mrs. Oden.

“Well, thank you very much,” I said. “Good-b——”

“She never is, you know,” complained Mrs. Oden. Now that was a loquacious lady. I do not wish to be belittling any one else, but I am sure that she talked more in the next few minutes than any other person of the same chest-expansion in England. She seemed to have been suffering from silence all that morning until my ring. I learnt later that Mrs. Oden had once been Iris’s governess, that there was always a floor reserved for Iris in her house in Montpellier Square, which house Mr. and Mrs. Oden owed entirely to Iris’s generosity.

“She went off to Paris the other day,” complained Mrs. Oden, “at a moment’s notice. Here to-day and gone to-morrow. It is too bad of her, when we never see anything of her. She is too vague, I always tell her. I suppose she had made some arrangement with you, Mr. er, has forgotten to put you off, and now you are disappointed?”

“Oh,” I said. “Yes, certainly.”

“Well, I expect her back any day, but how long she will stay this time I have not the faintest idea. Really it is too bad, she gets vaguer every year. And here has her aunt Lady Eve Chalice been wanting her address in Paris, and I have not the faintest idea of anything! What did you say the name was? Oh, yes, of course, I have it down. She will see it as soon as she returns, I promise you. Yes, yes. Good-bye, good-bye.”

It was five days later that there came to my hand a large box labelled from Edouard Apel et Cie., rue de la Paix, Paris and stamped “By Air.” Within the large box were several smaller flat boxes, and within these were reams upon reams of finest white notepaper, but good, manly stuff, stamped with my new address; and if that notepaper had its way I never would have another address, for there was enough in those small flat boxes to last a reasonably reticent man for all time. No note came with them. I searched. Then, across the top sheet of the third box that I opened, I found scrawled in pencil in an absurd, schoolgirl hand: “That one day you may write to me to say that you have forgiven me for the only dignity I have left: the dignity of the....”

I could not make out that last word for several days. It was scrawled right across the foot of the sheet, a long squiggle with one eye looking out from the middle of it which might have been an a. At last I thought it was “unaware.”

Much later Iris told me that it was “unaware.” She said: “I picked out the phrase from a book I was reading, and sent it to you like a flower.”

Chapter Three: FOR PURITY!

I

THE cavalier of low creatures dies hard; surviving even our gesture, he loiters dangerously in the tail of our eye, he awaits, with piratical calm, the final stroke; and only will he fade and be forever gone, despised, and distraught, before the face of him who bore the magic device For Purity, whose ghost was to be raised by Mr. Townshend over dinner on the twelfth night after the coming of the green hat. For, his wretched Liberal being at last retrieved from somewhere beneath the foot of the poll, that gentleman was again among us, saying “hm.”

We have so far seen but the shadow of Mr. Townshend; now, at last, this shadow must emerge into the tale of the weak Marches as the person of Mr. Townshend of Magralt. He emerges, as becomes a man of property who believes in progress as though it were a pain, in a dinner-jacket, le smoking, a Tuxedo; of which the bow-tie is gathered together with that dexterous carelessness which is the affectation of elderly Englishmen who cannot put up with any affectations whatever. Now there is no known explanation for this phenomenon of the sickly bow-tie among Englishmen of over forty years of age. That they are all blackguards, Mr. Shaw has assured us. But haven’t they, God bless one’s soul, eyes! It is not, of course, of the least importance whether a bow-tie falls straight or crooked, particularly on a grown-up man. It is not, after all, of the least importance whether one is clothed or naked. But one may, in passing, be permitted to wonder on the curious dispositions of the blind goddess Chance, whereby not once in a long lifetime, not even by one little bit of a fluke, will one of these elderly gentlemen ever tie a bow to fall even approximately right. They must, therefore, do it on purpose. But for what purpose? Let them, I say unto them, tie their bows carefully while the bow-tying is good, for voices from the Clyde are rising loud and everywhere those snobs are dominant who affect that the shirt of democracy should be a dishclout.

However, Mr. Townshend’s shadow does not even yet grow in substance without some difficulty. Between him and us, towards the dinner-hour, intrudes, knife-like, that deuce of cavaliers, he of the hat that Frederick the Great would have envied, for that wrecker of homes liked his hats soft and malleable, he liked to twist and torture them as though they were no more than men. In fine, Gerald made me late for dinner.

The clock of the Queen Street Post Office stood at three minutes before eight o’clock as I passed on my way to Hilary’s house in Chesterfield Street. The roar of the marching hosts of Piccadilly was as though muted by the still evening air. The small straight streets of Mayfair lay as though musing between the setting of the sun and the rising of the theatre-curtain. Neat errand-boys, released for the day, kicked their heels about on the curbs. The drivers of the sauntering taxi-cabs looked inquiringly, impersonally, into the faces of hurrying pedestrians. Limousines lounged softly by. Past me strode intently a tall raven-haired woman in a bright green wrap with a high sable collar, and moving frantically below were bright green shoes and bright green stockings that appalled the suave dignity of the evening light. These are not the only green properties we shall see in this tale, for women of the mode wore very much of green in the year 1922; although, of course, some women were not necessarily of the mode even when they wore green. Some women should not wear green. To such, their husbands should say: “My dear, I can’t help saying it again, but really I’ve never seen you look as well as when you’re in black.”

It was from the Curzon Street corner, just by Jolley’s the chemist, that I saw Gerald. He was across the road, against the entrance of the little tunnel that leads into Shepherd’s Market, buying an evening-paper off a friend of ours, Mr. Auk, who used to have his stand just there.

I crossed towards Gerald. I would be a few minutes late for dinner, that was certain, but if ever I was punctual at Hilary’s he never was dressed: a sense of conduct being the property of imperious men, who must disregard the servile virtue of punctuality.

I could not see Gerald’s face as he stood on the curb glancing at his paper, the brim of that hat was so low over his right eye. Mr. Auk winked at me as I came up. “Oiled, that’s wot!” whispered Mr. Auk. Then a friend of his came by and he and Mr. Auk retreated into the tunnel, where I vaguely thought that Mr. Auk seemed to be telling his friend something funny about Gerald. I never have passed the time of day with Mr. Auk since I found what it was that he thought so funny about Gerald that evening.

When I greeted Gerald he instantly looked up from the paper to me. I remember now that he seemed to watch my face for something, an expression, which he half-expected to see. But one notices those things only later on.

“I say, seen the evening-paper?”

“No. Why?”

The dark eyes haunted with abstraction, the thin hawk’s nose, the fine, twisted, defiant mouth....

“Why? How the hell do I know why!”

He crumpled his paper, thrust it under his arm and dug the released hand into his pocket. Thus was Gerald Haveleur March armed cap-a-pie against life. He had something on his mind, one could see that. But it would take hours to make Gerald confide anything.

“I say, have a drink?”

Now I wonder how many thousands of men are at this very moment putting that question to thousands of men; yet that, if nothing else, would have made that night significant in my life, for never before had the solitary asked me or, I think, any one to have a drink with him. Nor would he, as a rule, have a drink if you suggested it. And once, at a party I gave, he had some gingerbeer. But, even so, I had to say I couldn’t, pleading that I would be too late for dinner. “With Hilary,” I said, and he scowled absently in a way he had, and lounged up the road with me. Thoughtful he was always.

That was a curious, capacious evening. The Marches were gathered together that evening, they who were never let off anything. As Gerald lounged beside me the great primrose car with the menacing shining bonnet passed us as silently as though Curzon Street was a carpet. It was empty but for a boyish chauffeur. Gerald, I suppose, did not know it, and I did not remark on it. I wondered if Iris had surprised Mrs. Oden by returning suddenly. Poor Mr. Oden....

“What have you been doing with yourself lately, Gerald?”

“Doing?” His eyes pierced the pavement the other side of my shoulder, for tall was Gerald.

He grinned....

“You’d never guess,” he grinned.

I did not like this grinning. It was unusual in Gerald. It was like a crooked mask on the fine dark face. There was by ordinary no grinning froth about Gerald ... and, somehow, it crossed my mind that maybe Gerald was hard-up. I asked him, oh, tentatively, if anything was “up.”

“Up? The hell’s up. O Jesu!” And he grinned....

“Yes, but besides that—anything?” Not, you know, that I thought for one moment that anything really was “up.” It was merely that I misliked that grinning.

I can see him this moment so clearly, the way he suddenly threw back his head and stared from under the brim of that hat as though into the heart of the heavens: the dark, defiant, hungry silhouette searching the heart of the above.

We were at the corner of East Chapel Street, where the great American pile of Sunderland House debases itself before the puny roofs of Mayfair: it loitered clumsily against the soft evening light, reluctant to yield to the grey embrace of London....

“God!” sighed Gerald. Like a child, like a child ... and like a fiend he suddenly laughed up at the veiled heavens. “Imagine, you fool, just imagine the bloody degradation of being alive!”

But I will leave out Gerald’s “bloody’s.” One is tired of saying, hearing, reading that silly word. It is only chickenfood, after all, and does very well on the lips of the young ladies of the day, but there is no reason why grown-up people should use it.

“I like you,” he said, as only that devilish child could say it. “You sit on your imagination as though it was an egg, and a nice little chicken comes out. God, I wouldn’t be you! Look at all the pretty eggs you’ll hatch and not one have a chance to grow up into a splendid, lovely old hen that’ll peck at the dung you call life. Why don’t you write about fallen archangels? They’re the only things worth writing about, fallen archangels. Phut to you, that’s what I say....”

I managed then, for the first time in our friendship, to suggest that if perhaps he was hard-up, well, phut to him....

“Look here, that’s not fair,” stammered Gerald. Shy himself, he made one want to sink into the ground with shyness. “I mean, that’s putting friendship to music, isn’t it? What?”

“Oh, nonsense, Gerald! There’s nothing so silly and mean as this reticence about money....”

“God, but you’ve given me an idea. I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you, as you’re late for dinner. I’ll damn well lend you a fiver.”

“But, Gerald——”

“You talk too much,” Gerald stammered. “I’d like to do you a bit of good. And I’ve still got to thank you for chloroforming me and lugging me off to that Home for Drunks, thanks very much. Now, am I going to lend you a fiver or am I going to make such a rough-house just here that all the police in London will come and arrest you for soliciting? I’ll scream if you don’t touch me!”

I was in a hurry. I had to take that fiver. I have that fiver still.

“I’ll keep it for you,” I said. “Damn you.”

“Yes, you keep it for me,” said Gerald thoughtfully. “Nice, fivers are ...” and then, savagely muttering “Oh, hell!” he strode abruptly away down the slope of East Chapel Street, which leads into Shepherd’s Market. Drunk or sober, you simply couldn’t tell. You never knew that man was drunk until he was speechless. I was hurrying away when his voice held me—and a very boyish voice Gerald had, like a prefect’s at school.

“I say, seen that sister of mine again?... You haven’t?” He seemed to reflect profoundly. “I say, if ever you do, give her my love. What? I say, don’t forget....”

“I won’t forget,” I called back. “Good-night, Gerald.” But he had turned away, and the last I saw of him he was putting his shoulder against the saloon-door of The Leather Butler. I plunged across the road to Chesterfield Street, glad of the message I would certainly give to Gerald’s sister. Maybe to-night, somehow. A furious conference of livid pink and purple monsters hung over Seamore Place, where the sun was sinking into Kensington Gardens.

II

“There was a cocktail for you,” said Hilary gloomily, “but I drank it, in case it grew warm.” I thanked him politely for the idea. “It wasn’t an idea, really,” said Hilary gloomily. “It was an impulse.”

It is not, therefore, impossible to understand how it came about that there were not a few people, youngish people, who considered Mr. Townshend to be a tiresome man. They said: “He is very nice, but frankly, isn’t he rather tiresome?” I supposed he was rather tiresome.

Hilary was a man of various ages; when nothing was going well with him, he would look no more than forty; when everything was going well with him, he would look about forty-five; when he was crossing a road, that is to say when he was thinking, he looked about fifty. This last was, I believe, his age.

Hilary was a man who had convinced himself and every one else that he had neither use nor time for the flibberty-gibberties of life. He collected postage-stamps and had sat as Liberal Member for an Essex constituency for fifteen years. To be a Liberal was against every one of his prejudices, but to be a Conservative was against all his convictions. He thought of democracy as a drain-pipe through which the world must crawl for its health. He did not think the health of the world would ever be good. When travelling he looked porters sternly in the face and over-tipped them. His eyes were grey and gentle, and they were suspicious of being amused. I think that Hilary treasured a belief that his eyes were cold and ironic, as also that his face was of a stern cast. His face was long, and the features somehow muddled. It was a kind face.

Hilary is the last in direct line of the Townshends, who have held Magralt, a Tudor manor on the Essex coast, since a Townshend deserted to Henry Tudor on Bosworth Field. The Townshends of Magralt have always been soldiers, “and that,” Guy, first and last, a soldier, will say, “is the only reason one can see why Hilary is a politician by profession and the foremost stamp-collector in Chesterfield Street by the sweat of his brow.” But one has to report that Hilary was once, before witnesses, perfectly beastly to an American gentleman who said that Blucher had arrived in time for the Battle of Waterloo.

But it was on the question of marriage that the two friends would indulge the sharpest difference of opinion; or rather, Hilary’s wasn’t an opinion, it was a lurking Silence.

“Suppose you die,” said Guy de Travest. “You might. You are ten years older than me in years alone. You may receive your call to higher things at any moment. Look how I beat you at squash the other day! Let us suppose, then, that you are as good as dead. Unmarried, childless. You have done nothing. You are nothing. You leave nothing. Except, of course, what was left to you——”

“Less,” said Hilary.

“Your memory, then, goes down as that of a sickening philatelist. Whereas, had any one of your ancestors had a chance of a bit of war like ours, he would have died a Major-General!”

“A Field-Marshal, Guy. You forget that the Townshends have the reputation of having lost more of their soldiers’ lives than any other service-family in England.” And so it would go on for ever, Guy contending that as Hilary was nothing in himself it was disloyal of him not to wed and bring forth direct heirs, while Hilary’s attitude would be one of benevolently beckoning to the sombre heights of Cumberland, where sat the house of Curle-Townshend, heirs-apparent to Magralt and all its fiefs.

Any one, as Hilary was once goaded into muttering, would have thought that Guy’s own marriage was the happiest in the world; at worst, any one might have thought that it was a happy marriage, as marriages go. Guy, it was said, adored his wife. Guy, it was said, never spoke to his wife except in public and as he passed through her room in the morning towards his bath, when he said “Good-morning.” It was Lady de Travest who volunteered this information. “I do not see,” said Lady de Travest in her slow soft voice, “why one should for ever conceal the fact that one’s husband is cruel to one. It is nothing for one to be ashamed of, is it?” Moira de Travest was a quiet woman, with slow graces of movement, statuesque, exceedingly handsome in what you might call a public way, with a dark, restrained smile in the blue eyes under the hair that shone like black silver. Suddenly she would give a very loud laugh, and then her eyes would shine boyishly for a second. She had many intimate friends among women, and at times she was rather brilliant in a man-like way. Foreign Ambassadors liked to be with her. Mr. de Laszlo, M.V.O., painted her. Women novelists had tea with her. Twice a year she would say that a day must come when she must take a lover, but she gave one a profound sense that there was nothing in the world she could endure less. But, whatever it was that had gone wrong between those two ten years before, they had a son, a boy of sixteen, at Eton, and Guy de Travest would remain by his marriage without question of separation or divorce. That was cruel of him, Moira’s friends said, but Guy was a very catholic gentleman, and he loved his son beyond all things. In the earlier pages of country house albums one might come on photographs of Guy and Moira arm-in-arm, yellow Viking and black silver. They did not seem to have aged at all since then, but maybe Lady de Travest was a little more statuesque and her eyes would shine more and more boyishly.

Hilary and Guy were friends. Inseparable, they were inimical. They agreed on nothing, nor had they one taste in common. But maybe it is in a similar tempering of a sense of conduct that Englishmen, regardless of all overt differences, will find their deepest friendships. Conduct was for Guy and Hilary one of three facts, the other two being birth and death. And it is they and their opposites who must finally make the storms of life. Warriors of conduct and enemies of conduct—there is the issue that has still to find its final battlefield. Hilary’s Liberalism, in that issue, would come crashing about his heart; of his head he would take no account, for it is not by the head that one decides in ultimate moments. Guy, tall as a tree, Guy the latter-day “thunder-god of dandies,” would make a flaming figure, standing against the afterglow of the fires of an old religion called aristocracy. But Guy was far from being of those Tories, of whom Mr. Galsworthy has written with such cruel sympathy in Fraternity and The Patrician, who are obsessed by an illusion of their own exclusive right to national captaincy. Guy did not think that the hope for England or the world lay in himself or his caste. He was not a clever man; but his contempt for politics was born of a conviction that there was no hope of curing the diseases of life and society by anything that any body of men could do. Men individually must clean themselves within, questing for and grasping what cleanness there was in them. There was a frozen storm in Guy’s eyes, and they were very clean. But, of course, he was not very clever.

Those two men are for me symbols of an England that I love. I am not sure that I can explain what that England is. I am not sure that I would like to explain it even to myself, as, maybe for the same reason, I would not like to read Jane Austen with a mental measure. I am not sure that there ever was such an England. The soil, to be sure, is there, the clouds across the sun, the teasing humours of the island seasons: the halls, the parklands, the spacious rooms, they are there. But the figures that sweep across them—are these that we see, all? Are there no others, lost somewhere, calmly ready to show themselves—are these that we see, all? These healthy, high-busted women with muscles like those of minotaurs, these girls who are either stunned with health or pale with the common vapours of common dancing-halls, these stout, graceless ones here, those too slender, bloodless ones there, these things that have no voice between a shout and a whisper, these things that have yielded to democracy nothing but their dignity—are these that we see, all? These rather caddish young men who have no vision between a pimply purity and vice, who are without the grace with which to adorn ignorance or the learning with which to make vulgarity tolerable, these peasant-minded noblewomen, these matrons who appear to have gained in youth what they have lost in dignity, these toiling dancers, these elderly gentlemen with their ungallant vices—are these that we see, all? Or was there never such an England? Were the parklands and the spacious rooms never peopled but by nincompoops let loose by wealth among the graces of learning and fashion? Was there never such an England as I myself once saw in the magic of a spring morning in London? It was no more than the passing picture of Guy de Travest walking by the sulky side of Piccadilly, as he must always do to pass between his house in Belgrave Square to his club in Saint James’s Street, to which a few gentlemen will still absently resort. I saw Guy walking against the broken sunlight of the Green Park, and then I did not see Guy. It was as though from one step to another he had walked into a dimension wherein the desires of his heart melted his person into the England of his heart, and he was rendered invisible in the ambience of the Green Park and against the ancient landscape of Saint James’s.

III

Hilary says that I was very quiet over dinner that night. He remarked it, he says, because it was so unusual. Hilary has an illusion common to Englishmen, that if a man can utter three consecutive sentences without breaking them up with “eh,” “ah,” “hm,” “mm,” and any other noises that may occur to him as fit and proper, he must be held to be talking too much.

How on earth, I was wondering, could I cast the name of Mrs. Storm before my host with even a tolerable hope of his more than grunting at it? For, of course, one never discussed women with Hilary. I believe he had been a member of several clubs once upon a time, but in these degenerate days he had finally withdrawn into the impenetrable fortress of the Marlborough; Guy and he agreeing that, since it was once said of a King of Spain that he had died of etiquette, they envied rather than cared to overlook their young friends in the exercise of the long lives assured to them.

“He will, if you provoke him,” Iris had said, absently enough. And, indeed, never but once had I ever heard Hilary expand at the mention of a woman’s name, and that was when I had provoked him by defending her, the lady in question being one for whom he had a great regard but who had, as they say very aptly in the popular phrase, “gone completely off the rails.” As regards Iris, in that case, it should be child’s work.

Hilary says now that he was able, so soon as I mentioned her name, to account for my subdued air. Such, Hilary says, was the aftermath of Iris’s effect on men. But all he said at the time was, snappy like, that he hadn’t even known she was in London and would I have port or brandy or both, because I was detaining them at my side of the table? I said I was sorry and how amiable Mrs. Storm had been about him. “And fancy,” I said, “her being Gerald’s twin sister!”

“Why ‘fancy’?”

Hilary was annoyed. Now why was Hilary annoyed? Why do men get annoyed?

“She is beautiful,” I said, “she is good, she is——”

“It seems to me,” snapped Hilary, “that they make a perfectly harmonious pair of twins. Hm.” And he lit a cigar and reflected profoundly on the flame of the match. Perhaps I had better leave out his “hm’s.”

“There’s only one March,” he said, pushing a cup of coffee towards me as though he hated the sight of it, “who has ever been any good, and that’s the aunt, Eve Chalice, a dear old lady. Heavens above, the March blood! But they will be near their last gasp now, with young Gerald as the heir....”

It just showed, you know, how much one ever knew about that young man. I had no idea he was heir to anything, let alone the bankrupt earldom. “Ever since last July,” said Hilary, “when his uncle, Barty’s elder brother by a year, and his cousin thought they would do some fifth-rate mountaineering in Switzerland without a guide, and tried by mistake to climb the Jungfrau.” Hilary, I remember thinking, seemed very bitter about that mountaineering. You know, that bitterness of a calm, normal, reasonable air, with a slight flavour of old-world banter? He seemed to want to give the impression that he rather gloated than otherwise over the decline and fall of the house of Portairley. Gerald, as the nineteenth earl, Hilary seemed to want to say, served the house of Portairley right. If Hilary could only have seen his own kind grey eyes!

But that something, apart from the mere existence of the Marches, had annoyed him, was obvious; and presently I realised that the something was the fact that Iris had not let him know she was in London, but that he had heard of it from me, from any one, in fact, but herself. I ought instantly to have guessed that was the matter, Hilary being one of those detached men who have no use for the flibberty-gibberties of life.

Gerald, one thought, would make about as pretty an Earl of Portairley and Axe as even the Marches could boast. “But at least,” I suggested, “he will have a little more money than he has now?”

“About,” said Hilary, “minus five hundred a year. They can’t even bribe any one to take Portairley, and so the old gentleman has to live in a couple of rooms and pay the taxes on the property from what his creditors allow him. That old curse working, one would think....”

There isn’t really a great variety among these family curses. There appear to be no more than two schools of thought among the cursers, one which consigns the cursed to instant death, and the other to prolonged disgrace ending in damnation. The Portairley’s curse was of the second variety, and poor Gerald appeared to be in at the death for the damnation.

“Vaguely,” I said, “I gather that Gerald and his sister had some quarrel in the distant past. But I happened to see Gerald as I came on here, and he seemed ready for a reconciliation. In that case, as Mrs. Storm seems to be wealthy....”

Certainly Hilary could surprise one. He exploded, in that quiet parliamentary way which is one of the loftiest dignities of a constitutional country: “And thank the Lord she is! Imagine the shoddy life of an Iris—with neither money nor morals!”

Evidently, then, Hilary had a great regard for the lady of the green hat. You must remember that until this evening not so much as her name had passed between us.... “He will, if you provoke him,” Iris had said. Well, hadn’t I!

Hector Storm V.C. had, it seemed, left her every penny. Storm, steel, Sheffield. “Fine boy, Storm,” said Hilary, pulling at a stiff grey thing which I forgot to mention he wore on his upper lip without, however, succeeding in looking anything but clean-shaven. “Boy Fenwick left her all he had too, but she wouldn’t, naturally, touch a penny of it. You would think the world was upside down when you came to inquire into the moral sense of an Iris! Strict as steel here, unbending as iron there—and then! She gave all Boy Fenwick’s fortune over to old Aunt Fenwick, since when the old hag has called Iris every name out of the Apocrypha for her pains.”

“But, Hilary!” I said. Hilary says now that I was white in the face. “But did you say Boy Fenwick? Boy ... Fenwick?”

“Her first husband,” said Hilary; and he pushed his port-glass an inch or two up the polished surface of the table and stared at it. “You couldn’t,” he said, “do better than young Fenwick.... But before your time, I suppose....”

“I never dreamt,” I think I said, “that Mrs. Storm had been the Mrs. Fenwick....”

“Mrs. Storm,” smiled Hilary queerly to his port-glass, “has been everything.”

But Boy Fenwick! And the shameless, shameful lady of the green hat as the tragic Mrs. Fenwick! So there was “Felix Burton” and his ideal of purity! And there, plain as hate could make her, there was “Ava Foe,” and somewhere there was the reason for Gerald’s mediæval hatred for his sister! Somewhere there, but exactly where? For no one knew less of Boy Fenwick’s death than I did, that being a legend of “a little before my time....”

“I knew Iris,” Hilary was saying thoughtfully, playing with the stem of his glass, “when she was so high. They had a house in Cambridge Square then, and she used to go to that school in South Audley Street where they all go to. I’d see her walking along with her governess, a long little thing, all brown stockings and blue eyes. Hm. She was adorable.”

There was a pause ... and suddenly he turned his face to me, that long, thin, grey-looking face with the kind, muddled features. And it was as though it had, suddenly, profoundly lost all its inner calm. Hilary’s outward calm, in spite of his detached air—“Mr. Townshend, the imperturbable champion of procedure”—was always rather like a Gruyère cheese, a sort of smooth surface with gaps. But this was different, this was as though a tap had been wrenched loose inside him, letting run a savage, hurt bewilderment which didn’t quite reach his skin. “And now,” he said softly, yet looking at me as though accusing me of something. “And now! The last I heard of Iris was that she was seen night after night in a Russian cabaret in Vienna with an Italian Jew who is said to have made a fortune by exporting medicated champagne to America. There’s the long little thing, all brown stockings and blue eyes....”

“But,” I began, and decided that it was better not. But it was absurd, that “night after night.” That wasn’t, I knew, Iris Storm. Not “night after night.” She might very possibly have sat one night in a Russian cabaret in Vienna with an Italian Jew who exported medicated champagne to America, but certainly not “night after night.” Unless, that is, she had changed a great deal since then. After all, one couldn’t be more unattractive than an Italian Jew who exported medicated champagne to America. No, really, that was too much.

“Your generation,” said Hilary thoughtfully, “is a mess. Have some brandy?”

“It’s absurd,” I said, “to talk ‘generations.’ Slack novelists do it to get easy effects. All generations are a mess. Thank you.”

“Your generation,” said Hilary thoughtfully, “has more opportunities for being a mess than ours had. That’s what I meant. And your children will have more opportunities than you have. There is a certain amount of horse-sense in the reluctance of many young fellows nowadays to having wives of their own. They’re afraid of getting it in the neck from the results. For whereas you have motors and telephones and wireless with which to lose your sense of the stabilities, as you are losing them, they will have cheap aeroplanes as well. When you people nowadays begin to break loose there’s no limit to your looseness. There was in my father’s time. They couldn’t get about so quickly. They couldn’t grub about in so many cesspools at one time, rushing in a night between London and any vile paradise of the vulgarities like Deauville or the present Riviera. Even if they broke loose a little—the women, I mean—they generally had to make some compromise with the decencies simply because they had to live in the place, they couldn’t make an appointment with a trunk-call to Paris and go and have a few days’ ‘fun’ there. But now if a woman has kicked through every restraint of caste and chastity there’s the whole world open for her to play the mischief in, there’s every invention in the world to help her indulge her intolerable little lusts....”

I mastered an irrational impulse to try to defend Iris against the friend of her childhood. I would have liked to say that the little lusts were intolerable most of all to Iris. Hilary would almost have sympathised with that in Iris, for it would seem that the only vice a man of principle can understand is the vice of not enjoying what he has forfeited his principles to do. Hilary couldn’t, obviously, forgive Iris for not having grown common and meretricious and, in the slim beastly sense, coarse, as the other “rotten ladies” did. He couldn’t, obviously, forgive her for the continued graciousness of her outward seeming, and of her inner seeming too, if one didn’t know those things about her. He couldn’t, obviously, forgive her for being so indifferent to every distinction of class that she was equally indifferent, with the whole calm of her mind, to being “declassed.” And he couldn’t, obviously, forgive himself for still, God knew how, seeing in her the same qualities that he had seen in the long little thing, all brown stockings and blue eyes. If only Hilary had been a sentimentalist, and could have closed his eyes against what he did not wish to see and could have opened his eyes to see all that he did wish to see! But Hilary was a realist with a backward-seeing eye. The Iris of long ago should have been dead, choked to death by this grown-up Iris—but, and there lay the perversity of this grown-up Iris who had kicked through every restraint of caste and chastity, it wasn’t dead at all, she was still essentially the same Iris who had walked with her governess up South Audley Street. But, the devil, all these men! Yet there she was ... profoundly undifferent, profoundly as though untouched by any more soiling breath than that of the lightest passage of the years. It was, you might hear Hilary thinking, confoundedly unfair to all decent womanhood, Iris’s immunity in the abyss. He should not like her—no, there should not be left anything about her for a decent man to like. The friend of Iris’s childhood couldn’t help a savage anger with her for retaining the interest of a clean, and otherwise balanced, mind. The friend of childhood liked the woman so deeply that, being a man of principle, he could see only her worst side. And then the man of principle would fall into the toils of the friend of childhood, and whilst the two antagonists were wrestling together they could see only the side of the woman that it made them the most wretched to see. The very fact that Hilary was deeply attached to Iris made him see only her worst side. Many good men call that “liking” a woman. Many good women call that “idealism” in men.

IV

It is curious how many irrelevant details will crowd back into the mind when one is trying to reconstruct only the main passage of an evening, which was throughout, now one looks back on it, as though directed to its inevitable end. I remember how, through one of the long silences common to our odd, antagonistic intimacy, I sat staring into my brandy-glass—those Gargantuan ones, Hilary had—and wondering at Hilary’s, well, unsentimental sentimentality; and then I wondered what sort of a fight the man of principle would put up against the friend of childhood should Iris ever show the faintest inclination to take as her third husband Mr. Townshend of Magralt. The man of principle would lose ... happily lose or unhappily, you could not tell, for no man can tell what odd happinesses, more secretly kept than crimes, another man will snatch from intimacy with a woman whom he would detest if he did not desire.

But through the silences of that evening there walked mainly the figure of the legend of Boy Fenwick, a boyish figure midst a babble of confused rumours and knowing silences. Yet I was so concerned not to appear, to that watchful and dangerous friend of childhood, too interested in Mrs. Storm, that the name of Boy Fenwick hung on my lips before I was out with it. Oh, that name of Boy Fenwick! One knew it so well and so dimly, it would so often be just dropped into a conversation by some friend of his or some friend of a friend, just the name with a passing regret, to the perpetuation of his charm and his time....

Many will, no doubt, remember the details of what must have been one among the minor sensations of that time better than I can pretend to. It happened during the summer of 1913, when I, having just left school, was enjoying a first taste of freedom up and down Switzerland, and was far from the long arm of even the Continental Daily Mail. Boy Fenwick was found, on that dawn of his wedding-night, lying in the courtyard of the Hôtel Vendôme in Deauville, dead of a broken collar-bone. He had fallen, it appeared, from his bedroom window on the third floor. His beautiful young wife (I collect the bits of rumour that came to me later) had been asleep, had suddenly awoken to a sharp feeling of solitude, had happened to look out at the dawn....

Tests were made, and it was found that a man could, given certain conditions, have fallen out of that window. The hotel management suggested that a man could, given certain conditions, fall out of almost any window. Among the certain conditions suggested, tactfully, was champagne. That was, I believe, adopted, tactfully. Much, of course, must have been said and printed about the beautiful girl, Mrs. Fenwick; and there was provided a little comic relief to the affair in the scarcely suppressed indignation of the illustrated papers, for the beautiful Mrs. Fenwick had in some way prevailed on Sebastian Roeskin, the photographer in Dover, not to issue any of her photographs, and had shown a remarkable ingenuity in evading the street-camera. And, the tragedy happening at Deauville during the Grande Semaine—Deauville at that time was still in the first flush of its victory over Trouville—it was hushed up as quickly as possible.

Boy Fenwick had only that year come down from Oxford, and his memory was treasured by his many friends both there and in London. Indeed, to one who heard of him only when he had become legend, and when the first edition of a slim book of poetry by him, published posthumously with a charming introduction by P. L., had attained to a price only surpassed later by Rupert Brooke’s memory, he appears to have been the most beloved of the beloved young men of that time. To youth of this decade, grown now a little impatient of the careless wise-seeming pastime of indulging “sound” scepticisms or catholic idealisms, those youths of the days before the war must seem to have been the most gifted of God’s creatures who ever walked this earth, always excluding the glory that was Greece. Several, to be sure, survive until this day, but nothing could be more unjust than to approach a man’s youth in the light of the shadow that he casts in his early thirties. Yet they would verily seem, those few dead young men, to have a certain god-like quality of immortality denied to the multitude that died with them and for whom cenotaphs and obelisks and memorials must do duty for memory: that they should retain the regret of their many friends is not remarkable, but it is odd, and pleasant, how they will ever and again loiter, gay and handsome and “sound,” in the imagination of those who never knew them. Boy Fenwick’s name, now, would ever and again pass like a phantom of beauty and laughter across some conversation: so real, so dim. He had been notable, it seemed—and this is the only clear thing I had ever heard about him—for a certain catholic idealism that was almost an obsession with him. So, I was to think this night, thrusting from me the legend of Boy Fenwick, so it would seem. An idealist! Yes, Boy Fenwick was an idealist. But would I had the debonair truculence of that puissant nobleman, the Earl of Birkenhead, who has dared to say, in an age given over to the new-rich snobbery of exalting plain, normal men: “I do not like meek men.” I, had I that presence, would say: “I do not like idealists.”

Yet it was not to be over this dinner with Hilary that I was to be given the full sum of the idealism of that handsome young god who, beloved of many, was the hero of one March and the fate of another. That was to come much later, on a night that was the sister of this night.

Mrs. Storm could have been no more than nineteen or twenty at the time of that tragedy at Deauville. And I suppose I must have remarked, probably apropos of nothing but Hilary’s passing me the matches, how very terrible it must have been for a young girl, for Hilary passed, through one of those pregnant pauses which seem always to preface the cruelties of kind people, his Gargantuan brandy-glass round about his nose. “And,” he said thoughtfully, “rather more terrible for him, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” I said in all innocence, “that he was tipsy or something, to fall out like that....”

Hilary looked at me through his glass, for the rim reached his eyebrows as he sipped, in that way which is supposed, I believe, to make noisy Labour interruptors feel such fools as even a clown must despise.

“But, Hilary,” I couldn’t help crying out, “you’re not implying that he threw himself out!”

Hilary, because I had given way to a moment’s emphasis, gained instantly in leisured calm. “Hm,” he said. Gently he put down his huge glass. “Hm,” he said. He considered the stump of his cigar and decided that it was not worth while relighting it. “Hm,” he said, and took another from the box, pinching it. I passed him the matches. “Hm,” he said. But not I to be provoked! I did to him what Mr. Beerbohm once so notably did to the late Mr. James Pethick in the Casino at Dieppe: I plied the spur of silence.

“Boy Fenwick,” said Hilary, lighting his cigar, “was a young man of quality. I don’t mean the word in the flashy sense in which you use it in your stories. But of quality—in mind and spirit. And yet,” in a volume of white smoke he smothered the failing light of the match, “he chucked himself out of that window.”

And, you know, just at that moment I saw him doing that, and Iris lying in bed....

Hilary was angry. The very thought of that buried tragedy seemed to wrench that inside tap a little looser, but still the savage, hurt bewilderment would not quite reach his skin.

“Of course,” I said, “they just said it was an accident, then....”

“Naturally,” murmured Hilary.

Naturally, Mrs. Boy Fenwick had not hurt her husband’s name by saying publicly that he had died of his own will. “And then,” said Hilary, “you come to the upside-down morality of an Iris March, the part of her that’s steel and iron and gold. She ruined herself, telling the truth.”

“But,” I said humbly, “if you had preferred not to think of her as ruined, need you have believed that it was the truth?”

“Iris,” said Hilary, “never lies. It bores her. One quite naturally gets into the habit of taking everything she says literally; for it always will be literally true, particularly if it’s against herself. She hasn’t, you see, a trace of the self-preservative instinct. Hm. Pity.”

Iris Fenwick couldn’t, it seemed, endure for one moment the idea that his friends should think that Boy had fallen out in a moment of tipsy dizziness—Boy being well known to be a very light drinker, and Iris abominating drink, “the very idea of drink,” Hilary said, “as only the daughter of a drunkard and the sister of a drunkard can. If you ever get to know her at all well,” he suddenly smiled, “you may be a little put out, in the natural satisfaction of your thirst, by seeing Iris look just a little, well, sulky. Unreasonable, yes. But they get unreasonable about drink, daughters or sisters or wives of drunkards.”

Mrs. Boy Fenwick had seemed to feel most deeply her responsibility to Boy’s memory and to his friends’ love for him. She simply had, it seemed, to safeguard the love they had for him, by making it clear that he had died as he had lived. In disenchantment of an ideal—that, if Boy was to commit suicide at all, could be his only possible justification. His suicide, as apart from his death, naturally scarred his friends, but not so deeply when they knew that it was done in the despair of the disenchantment of an ideal. Boy’s friends would understand that completely, Iris must have felt, for were they not Boy’s friends? He was sensitive even to madness—they could, indeed they’d have to, think that. But that he was given something to rouse his sensitiveness and to overturn his balance—she had, Iris seemed to have felt, to tell his friends that, so that, in giving Iris all the blame that was her due, they should retain their memory of a Boy strong to the end in idealism. And they seemed, I gathered from Hilary, to have done that without stint. Hilary, too—for wasn’t he a realist, that man? One could see them all at it, Boy’s friends to Boy’s widow—the dead adored youth in their minds, the still, pale, beautiful girl between them. She had to tell Gerald. You can imagine that....

She had, Hilary said, a quite unearthly beauty just at that time, and was so still, so terribly unyoung somewhere inside her. “It was my fault,” she had said. She had been looking when he had thrown himself out of the window. He had just lit a cigarette, she said.

“That a girl of that age,” said Hilary, “that a girl whose moral character, you can’t help seeing, was ... well, what it was, should be so impelled to tell the truth at her own expense, at the expense of her own ruin, at the expense of a queer brother’s hatred, for that must have hurt her most of all, by a sense of honour that would make even the rigidity of a Guy look small, well——”

“But isn’t that where, Hilary, there comes in that ‘caste’ which you complain of her having always ignored?”

But Hilary wasn’t going back on any of his words. A “hm,” and he was off, saying that it made him think there was something in the stale paradox that you never know the best about a woman until you know the worst. “But, God in Heaven, what a worst!”

She had wanted, Hilary tried to explain—pathetically, you can see, trying to make clear to himself the noble as well as the shady side of Iris—to keep permanent, even to reinforce, the love for Boy of Boy’s friends by the idea that he had died untamed of his ideal. You could see her, Hilary said, meeting Gerald half-way on that. “Boy died,” she had said, “for purity.”

“Hilary! She said that!”

And that, you know, was all that she had said! Boy Fenwick had died “for purity.” That was all.

“It seems,” I couldn’t help thinking aloud, “very sweeping....”

It was, Hilary said grimly—and very pointed, in a girl not twenty!

“But!” I murmured.

Boy’s friends, Hilary said, could naturally put only one construction on it. Naturally, Hilary said. “For purity!” And Iris’s friends could put no other. What, after all, didn’t “for purity” mean? It could mean, to all the decent people of the world, but one thing....

Hilary looked at me in inquiry. I had made a noise. But I was so surprised. “You don’t mean,” I tried not to gasp, “that you condemn her on that for Boy Fenwick’s death!”

“One doesn’t,” snapped Hilary, “‘condemn’ an Iris March, an Iris Fenwick, an Iris Storm. They stand condemned in themselves. They are outside the law by which we——”

“Hilary, as the Girondins were put by the Jacobins!”

“We’re not perfect,” said Hilary quietly, “but we’re not that. What Iris was at nineteen or so—or before, evidently—she has been ever since.”

“What, as brave!”

“As loose. She made a gesture after Boy’s death, a fine gesture—and then she set about proving how she had that in her to disenchant a Boy to his death. She had ... ‘affairs.’ Not, you know, one long affair ... but ‘affairs.’ Oh, quite openly. You’ve no doubt heard about some of them. And when four years later young Storm married her, against his people’s wishes, she was no more than—well, what do you call those people? Demi-mondaines? And since Storm’s death....”

“But!” I said, and also I said what it was in my mind to say, for are we sticks, are we stones, or are we human? It was Boy Fenwick I was thinking of, not of Iris’s life later, although it seemed to me that Boy Fenwick had had a good deal to do with that, too. I had begun by provoking Hilary. He had, with that appalling talent of his for appearing reasonable, provoked me. He could arouse all that was worst in a man, could Hilary. He had aroused all that was worst in me against that young purity hero. It seemed to me that it was, to say the least, rather hasty of a young man to die “for purity” in connection with a girl of twenty. “Hilary, in two thousand years we have discovered only one caddish way of getting to Heaven, and Boy Fenwick, like many ‘idealists,’ has taken it.”

“You probably don’t realise,” said Hilary, oh nreasonably, “the depths of sudden despair—in decent people.”

“But I thought we were discussing human beings!” And, as regards human beings, one couldn’t help thinking that a girl who had confessed that her lover had died “for purity” was purer than the lover who had not been able to live for it. Boy Fenwick’s death had an air of getting away with rather a good thing. He had destroyed the girl by exalting himself—for purity! How did boys come to have the infernal conceit of setting themselves up as connoisseurs of purity? And he had taken care to leave his corpse in such a position as best to foul the fountains of his young widow’s womanhood. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle ought to speak to him about it.

“Words!” said Hilary. “Words, words!”

“Well, we can’t all,” I pleaded, “talk by throwing ourselves out of windows. And I was brought up to believe that it was caddish to sneak on a woman, whether for purity or for humbug.”

“It was Iris,” said Hilary, “who sneaked on herself.”

“Only because, Hilary, she didn’t want the young man to waste such a fine suicide. She didn’t want to do him out of the glory of dying for true-blue manhood. At the age of twenty a girl is justified in having a belief in true-blue manhood. But Mrs. Storm seems to have grown up since then.”

Hilary indulged me. I was young. “Of course,” he said, “the boy wasn’t quite sane. Hm. But he loved Iris—you know, extravagantly—as Hector Storm did later. Iris isn’t, it seems, one of those women you love a little. And Boy loved purity. And because, of course, the two simply didn’t go together—the shock, man, of realising that, to a boy in love!—he went on his own way. And I don’t think,” said Hilary, as though he was trying hard to be fair to one, “that we should sneer at the things men die for—even that young madmen die for.”

In England, I reflected sulkily, you may not apply the faintest touch of reason to any of the accepted laws of life and death without being accused of sneering. The accusation is invaluable in puissance. It has made England what she is. It at once stops all argument, all nonsense, all sense, all thinking. So powerful is the effect that the one accused, thinking that perhaps he was sneering, at once checks his mind from further thought on that line. The word creates a vacuum. No one likes to be thought he is sneering—when he was merely, for a change, thinking. It is like being told you have no “sense of humour.” It damns you completely, because it makes you damn yourself. And one of the reasons why there can never be a Marxist revolution in England is that the rebels will be told that they are sneering at the King. They will be abashed.

“Seldom,” said Hilary thoughtfully, “have I known a man pull his weight less than you are doing this evening. Hm. I should try some brandy.”

Chapter Four: APHRODITE

I

ONE chapter can’t reasonably be expected to bear the weight of that night. We have so far built but the groundwork of that night, and on that we have now to shape a peculiar edifice, according to the flimsy but saturnine manner of the third decade of the twentieth century; to which majority the twentieth century has attained, as more austere histories will tell you, only after the most unparalleled pains, retchings, belchings and bellowings; but we, taking a more private course, will be more circumspect in our derangements.

We have, so far that night, seen Gerald Haveleur March, by the way. We have seen his evening paper; but we have not read it. (Nor had Hilary read his Evening Standard. He always “glanced at it,” he excused himself later on, as he was going to bed. As I did, if ever.) We have, also by the way, noted the presence in London of the car of the flying stork. We have dined, and had some brandy. We have talked of purity, and discovered an amiable dissonance in our views thereon. We would then, at about eleven o’clock, have by ordinary gone towards bed, for after dining with Hilary one somehow always went straightway to bed. That was why, Guy said cruelly, one dined with Hilary. The “hm’s” seemed to soothe the way thither. But that evening, however it came about, I did not feel that I would like to go straightway to bed. One has, I suppose, moods.

But I can’t account plausibly for the fact that Hilary came with me to the Loyalty. Hilary did not go to night-clubs. His moods took a more exclusive course. He ignored night-clubs, and thought he was ignoring the whole of folly. Not so superior, I! Wherefore it passed that I discovered my mood to Hilary as we stood in the hall of his house, for Hilary was accompanying me to the door. Ross, red and silent and amiable, stood somewhere about with my hat. Where we stood, just without the door, the unusually warm June night smiled kindly on us. There is not much sky in London, but that little smiled on us with a faint load of stars, and somewhere behind the roofs there might be hanging a moon. There might? But there was such a pretty tilted silver boat among the chimneys of Curzon House! From the small table in the hall Hilary had absently taken up the evening-paper, which was folded in that way which tells you in the Stop-Press News that Surrey has scored 263 for eight wickets. He held it in his hand with that air of one who has nothing left to do but read an evening-paper. Grey and thoughtful and kind, he stood there in the doorway of his tall sombre house, looking up at the faint stars on the ceiling of Chesterfield Street: his was just that contained air of loneliness that unmarried schoolmasters wear during their holidays. “Hm,” he said. “Nice night....”

“Hilary, why don’t you come with me? It won’t probably be amusing, but we can always come away....”

“Dancing,” he frowned. Hilary likes dancing, really. Only, not being exactly supreme among dancers, he never can understand how good dancers may like dancing so much that they will dance whenever they can. If Hilary had been a writer he would have put very witty and biting bits about dancing into his books. All writers have clumsy feet.

I made to assure him that he would find himself in the most polite company, for the Loyalty Club was notable as a relaxation for Government, diplomacy, and princes of the blood. He “hm’d” viciously at that, but set out with me down Curzon Street and through the noisome shadows of Shepherd’s Market. Gerald’s light was on. But now that I was not there to turn it out, when would Gerald’s light not be on?

Through the deep cavernous artery of Whitehorse Street we emerged on to Piccadilly, quiet as before the storm that would at any moment break on it from the theatres. Buses, their lights within revealing the seats, fled madly as though from a doomed city. Loitering taxicabs, attracted like moths to a flame by walking silkhats, came near the curb, hung in doubt, loitered on.

I wondered whether she would be at the Loyalty. She might. I wondered whether she could have accepted the sacrifice of herself “for purity” without question, without bitterness. She would—that “Chislehurst mind!” Oh, yes, she would have agreed with that idealist’s harshest judgment—indeed, she had agreed with it so completely that she had plucked two words from her heart and given them to the world to whip her with. Boy Fenwick, you could see, had impressed himself like an anchorite’s scourge on the souls of the twins. What was it she had said? “It would be nice to die for purity.” Heavens, but wasn’t she sickened of purity! That pitiful, pitiless moment in the bedroom of the Hôtel Vendôme! The messy kindergarten that men make of love, and call it “romance,” “idealism”! Perhaps Judas was the first idealist—that desperate, exalted betrayal of the body to the soul. They are so certain about their souls, your carnal idealists! Soul, soul, soul! May their punishment be to meet their souls face to face in the afterworld! One could see that boy, a slim pyjama’d figure by the window, a silhouette of cold fire with the ruin of all mankind in his clean eyes, staring through the meretricious dawn of Deauville towards the goal to which he was exalted beyond reason by his disenchantment. He had loved Iris madly.... But they do not love, those men! They torture, and are tortured. They take love as they might take a flower out of a garden, and they torture it because it does not thrive so well in the water of their tears as in the water of God’s good sense. They do not love, those men, they stand in wonder before the power to love that is in them. And theirs the pleasure of a spurious conceit; theirs the pain of a spurious disenchantment. If that boy had loved, he would have turned towards the bed on which she lay, beaten, silenced, a child groping for sense, for pity, for any reasonable thing, and he would have tried to understand, and maybe he would have found the grace to understand, that in her, despite and because of the hungers of the body, there was that frightful humility to an unknown purpose which makes the limitless beauty of some women. But the boy had lit a cigarette....

“Don’t we cross?” muttered Hilary, and we crossed towards Jermyn Street, for the Loyalty Club lies in Pall Mall, to the end that, in immediate contact with the Royal Automobile Club, it may at least boast, as might occur to a student of Ruskin, a degree of eminence in the abyss.

One is, one can’t help being, impelled by a sense of decorum to disavow at once any connection which may be fancied by worldly readers between the Loyalty Club and the Embassy Club. Such connection could not, of course, be fancied if the Loyalty were so well known as the Embassy; but the Loyalty is, or was—yes, was—the daughter of the Embassy, and although it is not yet so well known to the people of the town, who shall say that a daughter is not more of the mode than her mother? Even, life being what it is, in spite of the mother.

The Loyalty sprang from the Embassy, and it sprang in a polite direction, from Bond Street down the hill of Saint James’s to Pall Mall, where it might lie over against Carlton House Terrace. It sprang because certain persons of ton had found that the Mother Society, while never ordered but with the most polite amenities, was growing perhaps just a little crowded with what-nots; had, by banding themselves in a body financial and social, founded the Loyalty; and were there assured of more freedom for the exercise of a reasonable exclusiveness since, the floor-space of the Loyalty being large enough to accommodate only one hundred and fifty dancers, the membership was strictly limited to one thousand and five hundred. Below were a swimming-bath and squash-courts, besides the more orthodox facilities; and while the whole place was appointed with the severest economy, if not with downright meanness, it is well known that those who spend more than a certain amount of money for supper, and see other people spending as much, will need no other assurance of being in surroundings of the first quality. That is a well-known French invention, of which England has only recently acquired the recipe.

The Loyalty Club can, however, claim no historical notice but in the person of the Chevalier Giulio di Risotto, its directeur du restaurant. We need not interrupt ourselves here to envy the salary at which the Chevalier was with difficulty persuaded to leave his retreat at Rapallo; but that he was worth it nobody can gainsay, for wheresoever Risotto went he took with him his invention. His invention he called l’aristocracie internationale; his name, you understand, for his people; they loved it.

A study of the lives of philosophers and statesmen will inform and ennoble the mind; but a sideways glance at such a phenomenon as the twentieth-century Risotto cannot help but make it supple. One of the menials of all time, he is one of the successes of ours; and a portent of the doom of aristocracy in England. Born of Machiavelli by Demoiselle Demi-monde, crafty, thin, pale, dry-shiny as shagreen, he had walked to fortune about every great restaurant in Europe, adding always, but with discrimination, to his order of l’aristocracie internationale; and to bankruptcy twice, of truly patrician magnificence, about the baccara tables of his less inspired but more cautious colleague, M. Cornuché of Cannes and Deauville. The “creation” of the Loyalty Club must serve his biographers as the pinnacle of Risotto’s career. L’aristocracie internationale was ultimately served at last. Not an American was left on Fifth Avenue, nor an Argentine in the Americas; while Australian fruit-farms deplored the absence of their masters, and Canada adored the ton of her peerless millionaires.

We had no sooner entered among the company than Hilary was for going at once: but Risotto having rewarded us with a sofa-table—for he and Hilary had, as the saying is, been boys together when Hilary had been attached to the Embassy in Paris and Risotto was ennobling patrons of the Ritz to l’aristocracie internationale—he and I prevailed on Hilary to stay by ordering for him an angel-on-horseback, to which he was notably partial; while I, Risotto said, would have a haddock with a nice egg on it.

Hilary, like all middle-aged men who detest night-clubs, at once left me to dance with the first acquaintance he saw. This was Mrs. Ammon. Whereas I, in not dancing, was following an example set by many present. We, we watched our elders dance with each other’s mothers, and for them the band on the balcony played with a sensibility approaching grief. There was no tune. But it is absurd, this querulous demand of young people for “tunes”! Our fathers and our mothers have done with “tunes.” Let there, our uncles say, be a rhythm. Let there, say our aunts, be syncopation. There was a rhythm. There was syncopation. Grave, profound, unforgettable, there was a rhythm. It had a beat like the throbbing of an agonised heart lost in an artery of the Underground. Dolorous it was, yet phantasm of gaiety lay twined in it. They call this rhythm the Blues. It reminded you of past and passing things. It reminded you of the days when, people over forty had still enough restraint not to crowd out every ballroom and night-club with their dancing in open formation, playfully aiming at each other’s tonsils with their feet. It reminded you of the scent tangled in the hair of she with whom you had last danced to that rhythm. You saw the soft line of her face by your shoulder, the tender pocket behind her ear, the absorbed excursion of her breath through her nostrils, the dark eyebrow over which you would lightly pass the third finger of your left hand but that it would soil the tip of it. You mourned the presence of the dead. You mourned the memory of the living. They call this rhythm the Blues. It reminded you of regret. It reminded you of a small white face suddenly thrown back against your arm with a smile that disturbed the dance. It reminded you of the desire that pleasantly turns to dust when you are desired. It reminded you of things you had never done with women you had never met. You danced again at the Ambassadeurs at Cannes, with the masts of yachts drawn ebony-black between the tall windows and the pale blue night over the sea. The Lido lay like a temptation before your mind, and the songs of the gondoliers raved into the measure of whispering feet. The Spanish King brushed by you at San Sebastian, eating salted almonds, again you hesitated in the dance at Biarritz to listen to the roar of the Atlantic, and across a perfumed street in Seville you again saw the shiver of a mantilla through the cracked window of a cabaret. You danced again beneath the vermilion moon of Algeria, between the American Bar and the pyramid-cypress tree. You danced again in the Bois in Paris, the trees like monstrous black pagodas against the night, the stars brilliant as sequins on an archangel’s floating cloak, the magically white faces of women, the lights in the night making love to the black shadows in their hair, their lips red as lobsters, their arm-pits clean as ivory, the men talking with facile gestures, the whole tapestry of the Château de Madrid like a painted fan against a summer night. They call this rhythm the Blues, which is short for a low state of vitality brought about by the action of life on the liver. O Baby, it’s divine!

That is what they say, our elders.

Astorias, chef d’orchestre, stood at rest by the edge of the balcony, his violin under his arm, his bow gently tapping the edge of a bowl of nameless ferns that hid his feet. His negligence is informed with depression, his poise leans on melancholy. The Blues, that man knows. He seems to wonder why he is there, why any one is there, why every one is there. No one can tell him, so he goes on doing nothing, lonely as a star in hell. He does not toil, nor spin, nor play his violin. From the crowded floor a woman, her face powdered brown, her mouth scarlet as the inside of a pomegranate in a tale by Oscar Wilde, beseeches him with an arm black-gloved to the shoulder to continue to play. He yields.

Nearby was a corner-table of eight young people. Maybe they would dance later on. Suddenly one of the girls would give a loud laugh, and then there would be silence. Of the four young men one looked as Richard of Gloucester might possibly have looked, a little bent, a little sinister, and pale, as though he had been reading a treatise on diseases far into the night before. They were four married couples, and they had all been boys and girls together, and they had a son and daughter apiece, and they all went to the same dentist. The women had white oval faces, small breasts, blue eyes, thin arms, no expression, no blood: literally, of course, not genealogically. One of them stared with wide blue eyes right into people’s faces, and blinked vaguely. She was lovely. These eight young people were very happy. They ignored everything but themselves, in whom they were not very interested. Presently a prince of the blood joined them, there was a little stir for a minute or two, a little laughter, and then he rose to dance with the girl of the blind blue eyes. As she danced she stared thoughtfully at the glass dome of the ceiling. She looked bored with boredom.

There were many green dresses: jade-green, October green, rusty green, soft green, sea-green, dying green, any shade of green that would suit the expiring voices of formal women in a garden by Watteau. There were thirty-nine green dresses. There was a Jewess of the wrong sort in the wrong sort of green. She looked like a fat asparagus whose head had been dipped in dressing and then put in a warm place to dry. She dried in patches. A caravan of pearls crawled upwards from her bosom to her throat, and she said to Mr. Trehawke Tush, the novelist: “The only decent cocktails you can get in Paris are at the Ritz Bar, but the people are so odd. My Archie wants to stand for Parliament. What do you think?” Mr. Trehawke Tush, portraits of whose pre-war face must be familiar to every one, was the most successful of the younger novelists, and had earned from Miss Rebecca West the praise that he was “the leader of the spats school of thought.” Mr. Trehawke Tush will go down to history as the originator of Pique as a profitable literary idea. He had hit on the discovery that English library subscribers will whole-heartedly bear with any racy and illegal relation between the sexes if the same is caused by Pique. He had observed that the whole purpose of a “best-seller” is to justify a reasonable amount of adultery in the eyes of suburban matrons. He had observed that in no current English novel was there ever a mention of any woman having a lover because she wanted a lover: she always took a lover because something had upset her, as in real life she might take an aspirin. Mr. Trehawke Tush had then created Pique, and was spoken of as a “brilliant feminine psychologist.” Since the rise of Mr. Trehawke Tush no reviewer will take any count of a writer as a “brilliant feminine psychologist” unless he can explain the regrettable adultery of his leading female character by the word Pique. This will also persuade Punch reviewers to consider the tale wholesome. Mr. Trehawke Tush was up to all those dodges. He said: “I have just finished a serial for The Daily Sale. I want to show up this kind of thing, the waste, the Indecency of it. All these girls. I thought the editor might take objection to certain passages, as there is some strong bedroom stuff in it, but he only asked me to change one thing. I had put ‘he kissed her where he would,’ and so I changed it to ‘as he would.’”

In a corner far across the crowded room sat Venice Pollen, most sedately between her father and her mother. We waved, and decided that it was too crowded to dance; but we did not know, Venice and I, that we were met that night in darkness.

Observe Venice. We will always be found on Venice’s side, and why? because she is a darling. Mark her now, and how the smoke about her clears, how clean she is, and so excited! For Venice! You know she is excited because she is so still, there between her hard father and her monstrous fat mother. Mark her there, a green flower with a mad golden head. And her eyes are blue, mad blue, and she is the queen of ten thousand freckles, of which she is very contemptuous, saying: “Who wants freckles?” And she had a noble forehead which would crinkle when she did not catch what you said, and that was often enough, for she was always talking herself. “Darling, darling, darling!” That is what she would say. And on her lion’s-cub head was a tumult of short dusty-gold hair, which was by nature rebellious, so that she must ever and again be giving her head a fierce backward shake, as though that was going to do any good. Mark her there, so sedate between her hard father and her monstrous fat mother. Not sedate really, Venice! Yet she must be sedate now, for Venice, who by ordinary knew not fear, was as though fascinated by fear of her father, who was none other than Nathaniel Pollen, once of Manchester, but now of Hampshire and Berkeley Square, for was he not as rich as Crœsus would have been had Crœsus owned the half of the newspapers of England?

So there sat Venice, most excited-still, undoubtedly waiting for Napier. They were lovers, Napier and Venice, and in three days they would be married. Dark, shy, handsome Napier! Favourite of the gods, you might well call him, yet his was that rare, surprising quality which will keep a man poised in continual sunshine, which will never let him droop and laze in the certainty that his sins of omission and casualness will be forgiven him. He was, to talk for a change of the things that matter, in the Foreign Office, and worked conscientiously hard at a career which would—“undoubtedly,” they said, “undoubtedly”—in the course of time place Napier among the most honoured of the nation’s servants; although he would—“undoubtedly,” one can’t help feeling, “undoubtedly”—reach in the course of time the very same pinnacle if he did no work at all, for England and America are the only two countries left in the world wherein men’s charm and good looks are really appreciated by men in the political, high financial, diplomatic, and educational spheres.

Our table faced the swing-doors across the room, and through the crowd of dancers one could see who passed in and out. There was a press of young men standing vaguely by the door, perhaps doubtful whether they should stay or go to return another day. A very haughty and flushed-looking lady, expensively dressed in a dernier cri, which she wore like armour, tramped past them, looked suspiciously into their bland faces, and out. She suspected they might be thinking she was going to more than powder her nose. They were, she was, who cared?

A voice rose above the saxophone at the table to the left of mine. It came from a heavy, drooping man with the eyes of a schoolboy, the smile of a genius, the gestures of a conqueror, and the face of a bully. He said: “There are two things in England that not even God could afford to be truthful about: Himself and the Navy.” With the man of destiny was the most beautiful woman in Ireland (Ulster) and a dark woman with a high bust and flashing eye, who spoke Cockney with an American accent. Her father was a lord. She said: “I am growing to detest London. There is nowhere to go and nothing to do when you get there.” The most beautiful woman in Ireland (Ulster) had hair as black as a raven’s wing and two aquamarines for eyes, while the symmetry of her features appalled the epithet. She said: “I took my little Juno out to tea with Fay Avalon to-day and she was so naughty on the handsome parquet floor, the mother’s darling!”

Then things happened. Gerald happened. Gerald and Aphrodite.... Venice, Iris, Guy de Travest, Hugo Cypress, Napier, Colonel Duck, Gerald ... if only one had a cinema for a moment! And there was also my Lady Pynte, with whom I should have been dancing. Where Mrs. Ammon went there also went Cornelia Pynte, and where Lady Pynte went there also went Angela Ammon. They were fine hearty women. And since Hilary was dancing with Mrs. Ammon I ought instantly to have begged the honour of taking the floor with Lady Pynte. There she sat, across the room, alone, a fine hearty woman. But, then, one goes to a night-club to think, to be alone, to be comfortable, to eat a haddock. Lady Pynte thought dancing Good Exercise, and she was taller than me, too. A fine woman. Once, as Hilary toiled by with Mrs. Ammon, he whispered fiercely over her shoulder: “Why don’t you dance with the old trout?” But I drowned discourtesy to Lady Pynte in wine, for it was a “late night” at the Loyalty, which meant that you could drink wine until they took it from you. Lady Pynte was renowned as one of the five best women riders to hounds in the country. It was said that the foxes in the Whaddon Chase country ceased laughing when any one said “Pynte!” near them. But Lady Pynte also had her politics, and she headed Movements; while Angela Ammon was more of a literary turn. Lady Pynte liked young men to Do; Mrs. Ammon to Dare. Lady Pynte liked young men to be Healthy and Normal; Mrs. Ammon preferred them to be Original. Lady Pynte liked Boys to be Boys; Mrs. Ammon didn’t mind if they were girls so long as they were Original. Lady Pynte insisted on Working for the Welfare of the People at Large and Not Just Our Own Little Class, she played bridge with a bantering tongue and a Borgia heart, she maintained that the best place at which to buy shoes was Fortnum & Mason’s, and if she saw you innocently taking the air of a sunny morning she would say: “You look not at all well, my good young man. Why don’t you take some Clean, Healthy exercise? You ought to be Riding.” That was why one maintained a defensive alliance with one’s haddock rather than do the manly thing and dance with Lady Pynte. She would say one ought to be riding, and for four years I had hidden from Lady Pynte the fact that I did not know how to ride. I simply did not dare to confess to Lady Pynte that I could not ride. I had already tried to pave the way to that dénouement by confessing that I came from the lower classes, but she did not appear to think that any class could be so Low as that. She would show one round her stables, and one felt an awful fool standing there in the cold being expected to be intelligent about the various horses, whereas one could only mutter, “Ah, good horse!” or “Oh, there’s a fine horse!” until one day I remembered what Peter Page, the critic, had once told me, that whenever he was shown a horse by a horse-lover he would instantly say “What withers!” and thus create a sound and manly impression as a horse-fancier. But when I came out impressively with “What withers!” I thought that Lady Pynte looked at me suspiciously, and Hilary, who was also fancying horses with us, told me later that it wasn’t done to look a lady straight in the eye and say “What withers!” Horses make life complicated, that is what it is.

Hugo Cypress, dancing by with his wife Shirley, called out: “Ho, there! Seen the evening-paper? Friend of yours....”

“What?” I said. “Hugo....” But what on earth was this about the evening-paper? I was agitated—suddenly, I was very agitated indeed. There is something quite beastly about evening-papers, beastly and naked....

Astorias stayed his men, and Hilary came back to the table. Gloomily he looked at the angel that was frozen to its horse. And he looked worried.

“Hilary, what’s this I heard Hugo murmuring about the evening-paper?”

“Gerald,” said Hilary. “Hm....”

“But what, Hilary? Not serious, surely?”

“Oh, not serious,” Hilary grunted. “Not serious. Hm. Just a nasty silly mess, I think. Didn’t catch what. Hm....”

I realised then that I had known all the time. That curious, hopeless grinning.... But, good Lord, what sort of a mess? Hilary didn’t know. “Something in the evening-paper,” he said. Hilary looked hurt, worried, and I had that jumpy feeling that I must do something at once. But what sort of a mess? A drunkard’s row? What? Hilary didn’t know, and I was just about to ask the waiter if he could find me an evening-paper when two figures by the door held my eye. And a third just behind them.

“Kids!” murmured Hilary, with a sort of grudging smile. And they looked just that, for all their beauty—“kids.” One saw them playing together under a tree. A long while ago, they had played together under a tree. The favourite of the gods and the shameless, shameful lady....

“Hm,” grumbled Hilary. “Imitation....”

But I knew, for I once had a friend who was a taxidermist. There were 396 white ermines round Iris. White and tawny and white. She was like a light, and you hadn’t realised what an infernal dungeon the place was until the door had suddenly opened and she had come in, wrapped in cloth of soft snow. Boy’s head, curly head, white and tiger-tawny. She was like a light, a sad, white light. I can’t describe her but like that. Napier had been standing by the door, waiting for the dance to cease, so that he might join Venice. Then Iris had come in, grave, very unself-conscious. She didn’t see Napier. He didn’t see Iris. Her companion was Colonel Duck, M.F.H.

“God, that man!” sighed Hilary. Oh, Iris was hopeless! Why, of all men, Colonel Duck?

Napier made to walk away. Iris and Colonel Duck made to follow Risotto. Maybe one of the 396 white ermines just brushed Napier’s sleeve. Maybe this, maybe that. “Kids!” said Hilary. Napier had started round, looked blank: tall, slender, dark-haired, dark eyes always fevered with a fear of you could never tell what—they almost blinked now, you thought, at the light that Iris was, and she with her pools of eyes simply blazing with surprise and an unsure smile parting the painted mouth. “Napier!” “Iris!” As though, you know, some one with a soft “There!” had turned a tap somewhere. They smiled completely. Well, they would, the old friends. Naturally. She wouldn’t, I was sure, be calling him “Naps,” and she detesting abbreviations and the like.

The wrong sort of Jewess gave a short, audible outline of Iris to Mr. Trehawke Tush. Hilary stared at her venomously. Then he stared across the room at Colonel Duck venomously. Colonel Duck stood behind Iris’s white shoulder, a red dragon of a man, smiling relentlessly with his well-known geniality. Napier did not appear to see Colonel Duck, M.F.H. Napier and Iris were talking very quickly, laughing, maybe rather shyly. Then Astorias, refreshed, hurled his men against the conversation; bravely it held on for a second or two, then lay shuddering and shattered, and gone was Napier, gone Iris towards a table with Colonel Duck, whose red, relentless geniality showed no hint of the certain fact that the next time he was at that talkative club of his he would say that Napier Harpenden had been another of Iris Storm’s “affairs” and might quite well be again, Iris Storm being what she was. Notably good at all games and sports was Colonel Duck, M.F.H., and therefore tolerated with respect by decent men.

“I wonder if she knows anything about Gerald,” I was saying, when from her table across the room she seemed to be beckoning. To Hilary, not to me. She looked very serious. The emerald shone on the third finger of her right hand. She did not appear to see me. I felt bitter.

“Hm,” growled Hilary. He wanted to be persuaded to go. He wanted to go reluctantly. “Hate that Duck man so,” he said pathetically.

“Go on, Hilary. She might know something. I’ll get a paper.”

“Why, there’s Guy!” said Hilary. “Must have just come up from Mace. There, by the door....”

The carpet of colours, on which the men were sprinkled like the black smuts on a town garden, swayed between us and the doorway, but no crowd might hide that man, for he was tall as a tree and his crisp yellow hair glared like a menace above the intervening heads and his frozen blue eyes petrified smoke, noise, and distance. Hilary was standing, about to go towards Iris. He looked rather sheepish at being found by Guy at the Loyalty. Most unsmiling was Guy that night.

“Ross must have told him we were here,” I said. “He’ll have come about Gerald....”

“This foul place!” Hilary snapped. “You go downstairs with Guy, and I’ll get Iris to rid herself of her fancy friend and bring her down....”

II

And that was how, soon after midnight that night, I found myself for the first time in the car of the flying stork. For the first time.... Iris had dropped her boyish-looking chauffeur in the course of the evening, because, she said, she only liked driving at night, when the air blew clean and chill. She drove with assurance, that is to say, she drove as though her mind was not in the same world as the steering-wheel. The great bonnet swept round by the squat Palace and up the slope of Saint James’s Street, which only by night may remember a little of the elegance it has long since forfeited by day.

“But that’s not the point,” I remember saying. “He won’t care a button what any one else is thinking about it. He’ll just go mad at the humiliation in himself, he’ll worry it, making a mountain of sordidness....” I had told her that Gerald had sent her his love, and her eyes had lit up at that, and she had laughed, shyly. “That’s better,” she had said, and now she said: “Yes, that’s the point. He’s proud, proud as Lucifer ... and such a baby! Oh, Gerald, you sensitive beast! I’m going abroad to-morrow, and he must either come with me or he must join me quickly, quickly. You’ll persuade him, too, won’t you?” I did not say that, if I knew Gerald, he would probably be in a state far beyond persuasion. But, I thought, there was no harm in trying to see him.

At first, when Guy had told me downstairs at the Loyalty, I had just laughed. It seemed so absurd, fantastic. Gerald had been arrested in Hyde Park for “annoying women!” It was, you can see, unbelievable. How could Gerald “annoy” a woman, Gerald who was so shy that he could never even speak to one? “But there it is,” said Guy.

Perhaps it is because that was the last time I was ever at the Loyalty, but I remember the most irrelevant details and the vivid way each one of them seemed to impress some part of my mind. Guy and I stood in the deserted Bar. Through the open door at the far end came the clean, somehow biting tang of a marble swimming-bath: a faint splash now and then, a rustle of water: a boyish American voice calling sharp and loud: “Dive, you Julie, dive and get it over! You’ve got no hips, kid, and you can’t drown without hips. I want to go eat some food.” Then, I remember, Billy Swift walked intently past us, towards the Cloak-room. He comes to mind vividly because that was the last time I saw Billy Swift alive. His thin, lined, scarlet face glowed with the health-giving breezes that penetrate into corners of clubs and restaurants where men sit drinking brandy; his blue eyes always peered eagerly and kindly at you, as though he had something of the first importance to say. He said, very hoarsely: “There’s a boy up there dancing with two wooden legs. Good boy, I call him. Good night.” And in a minute or two he repassed us, walking intently, his crimson grey-haired head, immaculate in every detail, sticking like an old fighting-bird’s out of the wide astrakhan collar of the coat that he always wore against the midnight chill. Two months later he was found on the cliffs near Dover with that head beaten in, and some one was hanged. Billy Swift wouldn’t have had him hanged. “My fault,” he would have said hoarsely. “My fault, chaps.”

“But there it is,” Guy said thoughtfully. “Sickening, isn’t it? Might appeal, of course....”

“He’ll not appeal,” I said. Imagine Gerald “appealing” against a five-pound fine for “indecently annoying” a woman in Hyde Park!

Guy always spoke low, he murmured in a chill voice, but you could always hear every word he said. Not that you didn’t, after a while, know all his words by heart, for Guy’s was one of those vocabularies that a classical education is supposed to have expanded. As he spoke he would always be looking at some point just above the crown of your head.

“Sorry about that boy,” he was saying thoughtfully. “He’s had no luck. And this Hyde Park business might happen to any one nowadays....” He looked down at me suddenly from that height of his, and I was, as always, surprised by the profound childishness which would suddenly sweep the ice out of the blue of those eyes.

“Beasts,” he went on, almost pathetically. “But aren’t they—those Park police? Arresting nice old clergymen, Privy Councillors, any one, just because a poor old boy who’s been brought up too well feels like having a word or two with a sickening woman. I mean, you need torpedo-netting around you to get round the Park in safety nowadays. Well, don’t you? And now they plant poor young Gerald. I’m sure, aren’t you, that these police put the women there on purpose as—what d’you call them?”

“Agents provocateurs?”

“Well, have it your own way. But I’ve been watching the police round about here lately, and of course they’re mostly very good fellows, the best, but the police round the Park are quite a different lot. I’d like to kick them for the way they look those poor devils of women up and down as though they were dirt. I never thought much of the type of sneak who went for the Military Police during the war, and these fellows seem rather like that. Anything for an arrest and promotion.” He smiled faintly. Guy’s eyes seemed always to get most frosty when he smiled. “I once promoted some of them the wrong way for being inhuman. Inhuman, that’s what these blighters get if you don’t keep an eye on them. And these Park fellows seem somehow to have got spoilt since the war. I mean, it just looks like that to an outsider. Good Lord, you’ve got to have laws and to keep laws, but you needn’t set a lot of dirty sneaks at the Bolshevik game of ruining gentlemen just for being silly old asses.”

I stared at the one black pearl that from time immemorial had stained Guy’s shirt-front, which somehow seemed to fit him as no one else’s ever could. Guy was easy to listen to, because you always knew what he would say and how he would say it. (He had an enormous reverence for any man of the smallest talent, any man “who did things with his brain.”)

“I saw him for a minute this evening,” I said. “He seemed rather queer, but he said nothing about it....”

“But imagine the young devil! This business happened one night last week, and he doesn’t then come to see you about it—or even Hilary or me, because, of course, I’d have done all I could for him, for old Barty’s sake as well as because he behaved himself in the war. I mean, this will almost kill old Eve Chalice when she sees it in the morning papers. It’s her I’m sorry for, for she’s always been fighting this sticky patch in the March brood—first her eldest brother, old Portairley, then her younger brother, Barty, then her niece Iris, and now young Gerald comes along to make the poor old dear cry her eyes out again. God, the vileness of it! Picking up odd women in parks. I haven’t got a paper with me, but you ought to see the vile way they put down every beastly detail, and you can see as clear as anything that it was more bad luck and childishness on Gerald’s part than anything else. But, good Lord, what’s the matter with the man! I mean, one simply doesn’t go into the Park for women! The accuser, or whatever you call them, was a woman called Spirit, and in evidence two plainclothes men and a constable. I’m going to have an eye kept on Mrs. Spirit, just to see all’s fair and square. I mean, it’s beginning to look as though the law was the ass that St. George forgot to kill while he was showing off with that sickening dragon. This Mrs. Spirit said—wish I had a paper—that she was sitting on a bench waiting for her brother, when Gerald sat down beside her and made ‘indecent’ proposals. Whereupon she was so shocked—and she a grown-up married woman, too—that she jumped up like a scalded cat and let out some sickening howls, and up come the police. Now you can’t help thinking they were waiting behind a tree with old Spirit as a bait, can you? and caught young Gerald instead of a Dean.... They’d get more promotion, I shouldn’t wonder, for a Dean....”

And as Guy spoke I saw Gerald glancing at the evening-paper on the curb of Curzon Street, and I saw him suddenly throw back his head and laugh at the heavens....

Gerald, Gerald! The despiser of the world caught by the meanest trap of the world’s unrest. The worshipper of the hero who had died “for purity” figuring in the filthy columns of the cheap Sunday Press as another peer’s nephew gone wrong. Gerald, starved of life, Gerald who knew no woman, Gerald who wrote the tale of a man who had lived “for purity” ... and he had sat down beside a woman called Spirit on a bench in Hyde Park. Those nightmare women who rave in the minds of lonely men, soft women marvellously acquiescent, possible, the woman Aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty, silent as marble, but acquiescent ... and Aphrodite had dwindled into Mrs. Spirit, who was sitting waiting for her brother in Hyde Park, and the law lurking nearby to give the Sunday papers “copy.” And I saw Mr. Auk in an angle of the little tunnel, telling a friend of his something funny about Gerald....

“It makes one just sick, Guy. Sick....”

“Now look here,” Guy murmured, tapping my shoulder with one finger. “Don’t you waste any time being sick just now, but go round and see the young devil——”

“I’m going straight away.”

“Bright boy. And just ... Oh, tell him it’s all right and not to be an ass all his life. Tell him we’re all on his side, and if there’s going to be any being sick that we’re all going to be sick together and in one corporate body, or words to that effect. Poor young devil. And I know he’ll be feeling this, because I had a sort of eye on him in France, and he seemed as sensitive as a violin string——”

“And drink’s made him worse now. He’s almost certain to be nearly speechless to-night. But I’ll see.”

“Lord, O Lord, what a mess Barty left behind him! But you see what I mean? All you’ve got to tell young Gerald is not to make a mountain of this in his mind, as it’s the sort of thing that might happen to any one who is ass enough to go into the Park at night without an escort, and you never know but they mightn’t one night arrest the Bishop of London himself for saying ‘How do’ to his aunt....”

Now I have read in books about people “sailing” into places, and I suppose Iris came into the deserted Bar like that. Hilary must have been just behind her, for I heard his voice, but I only saw Iris, and I remember how she seemed to hold the white ermine round her with one clenched hand, and how the great emerald shone like a green fly on the soft, soft white. And the tawny curls danced their formal dance on her cheeks as she came towards us, swiftly, oh swiftly, saying, in that suddenly strong, clear voice: “Oh, Guy ... and friend of Gerald! Will you help me, dear friend? I want to go round to see Gerald, and Hilary says you still have the key of the house. I went hours ago, but I could get no answer at the door. I wonder, would you come with me?”

“Iris,” said Guy sternly, and I remember the way she threw back her head to look at him, and I thought again of the queer, unconscious way she had of always meeting men on their own ground. “Why don’t you ever look up your old friends when you’re in London, Iris? Or aren’t we your old friends? Or is that fine representative English gentleman, Colonel Duck, your old friend? Answer me yes or no.”

“Oh, Guy!” she said softly, sadly. “I wouldn’t have you be a humbug. I wouldn’t have you and Hilary be humbugs—you two, out of all the world.”

“But, honest, Iris, I’d like to see you. Ask Hilary. ‘Where’s that girl got to?’ I asks, and he says ‘hm,’ says he, if you see what I mean.”

“Whereas I, Guy, have learnt not to regret old friends. I’ve become an old woman on my travels, and one of the first things an old woman must learn is that the best way to keep old friends is not to see them, for then you can at least keep the illusion that they are friends ... which is, perhaps, a little different from being ‘old friends’....”

“Iris, don’t be so bitter!” snapped Hilary. That, I thought, came rather well from Hilary. Just at that moment a woman screamed from the swimming-bath, there was a resounding splash. Guy was saying: “You’d better take Gerald away for a while, Iris.”

“If he’ll only come,” she said, “that’s what I want to do....”

I remember thinking just then that I mustn’t forget to thank her for that beautiful notepaper, and also to ask her what was that last word in her note.

“I’ve got an idea,” Hilary was saying, in the specially detached voice he keeps for ideas, “that now we are in this foul night-club we might as well do a bit of good. There’s old Pollen upstairs, and we might ... hm, well, perhaps not.”

“Perhaps not what, Hilary?”

“Hm. I was thinking of Eve seeing the thing in to-morrow morning’s papers. She only reads one wretched picture-paper, and that’s Pollen’s, so I thought, hm, that if we asked him not to....”

“Eve, the poor darling!” Iris whispered. We seemed to be in a desert, three shadows of men, three shadows of voices, and Iris, very white and alight. That is how I always remember her, alight.

“No good, Hilary,” Guy was murmuring. “He won’t, because it’s what those fellows call News. And if you try you will only upset young Venice and make her perhaps feel she’s in the other camp, rather the wrong camp for her, she might think, and just as she’s marrying Naps. She’s a good girl, loyal as anything to her father—and he’s a good fellow enough, but he’s got a queer complaint called Consistency. It’s something you make money out of, I think. I know him very well, as I’ve blackballed him from three clubs. My God, ever seen the man’s jaw?”

“She’s lovely, I thought,” Iris said.

“Good girl, Venice....”

“Hell ...” said Iris suddenly, breathlessly.

“What?” Hilary jumped.

“Only ... hell is raving with millionaires with jaws like Mr. Pollen’s. I’ve dreamt, I know. People who snap ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ very brusquely and then stick to it, no matter what it is. This century likes them like that. Come along, my friend, come along!”

And in a trice Iris and I were walking up the long passage which connects the Loyalty Club to the pavement of Pall Mall. On one side it is hung (but this is two years ago) with glass cases laden with fine cut jades and ambers, while small blue and green figures of animal men, human animals, and bestial gods will delight the eyes of Egyptologists: on the other the faces of beautiful women and children will testify to the photographic art of Sebastian Roeskin of Dover Street. Iris walked swiftly, heroically, her eyes intent before her, impersonal, utterly unself-conscious. The glaring lights in the passage lit her swiftly-moving green-and-silver shoes, or were they sandals with high heels? and so intent were the flippant silver-flashing ankles, briskly striding on, as though chiming the never-to-be-known marching song of a lady who must always meet men on their own ground.

She said: “You’ll be wondering how I came to dine with a man like Victor Duck. Well, I’ve been wondering myself. Poor Victor Duck. He has taken to caddishness like a drug, and he goes on increasing the doses. It’s almost fascinating to watch, just to see what inevitable things he will say next. And he said and did them all, every one, even to ‘Dear little girl’ and to ordering a private room. But I said I never dined in private rooms on Fridays.”

There was a group of tall young men at the entrance, maybe waiting for their women from the Cloak-Room, maybe waiting for sirens to come to them from the night, maybe waiting for taxicabs, maybe only waiting for the next minute, as young men will. Admirably formal they looked, admirably toned to the dress-coats of Davies, the trousers of Anderson and Sheppard, the hats of Lock, the waistcoats of Hawes and Curtis, the ties of Budd. Handkerchiefs by Edouard and Butler. The glory to God. They looked furtively at Iris in the way that decent men will at a woman who is said to have had lovers, like cows at a bull. One of them said gloomily: “Might go to the Albert Hall Ball.”

Pall Mall seemed wrought of stately marble palaces, and Iris said that the reason why so many English people seemed to prefer Paris to London was that English people saw Paris mostly at night, while if they could see enough of London by night they would never leave it. “And the people!” she said. “All these years I’ve spent abroad, and never met any people so good, so decent, as the English. Couldn’t you sometimes kill people for the quality of their admiration? Oh, I’ve committed so many murders in foreign streets....”

“But, if you like England ... why are you going away? You’re free....”

“Ah,” she mocked, and, as we walked, a hand darted out from her white cloak and touched my sleeve, and startled me very much. “Wait till you’re so free that you just daren’t do what you like. Wait till you’re so free that you can be here one minute and there another. Wait till you’re so free that you can see the four walls of your freedom and the iron-barred door that will let you out into the open air of slavery, if only there was some one to open it. Ah, yes, freedom....”

Then up the street of ghostly dandies we flew behind the silver stork, and the wind rushed down from Hampstead Heath and the wind ran out of Jermyn Street and jumped like a drunken man on the tawny cornstalks that were her hair, and waved them about and danced with them. But not she to notice, she who seemed to have a great talent for just not noticing things! She was silent, serious, intent. The light of an arc-lamp kissed the long slender legs into silver.

Once she turned to me, smiled, and looked away again. I wondered if she meant me to see that our friendship was in that smile. I hated her, I think, because she made me feel so incapable, unwise. As the stork, with scarcely a rustle of its wings, flew towards the Christian Science Chapel at the head of Half-Moon Street, she said: “I’m tired. All day seeing lawyers and trustees, and then taking sweet old Eve all round and round Selfridge’s because she had never been there before and some one had told her she could find everything she wanted there. And she was quite upset at being unfaithful to Harrod’s.... And Gerald! Oh, but why couldn’t they let Gerald alone! Just because, I suppose, the Marches are never let off anything....”

“Here we are,” I said, and she pulled up beneath the lamp by The Leather Butler in East Chapel Street. From the footboard a lane of low houses and shops stretched in a vague, squalid line towards the open Market Place at one end and the darkness of the mews at the other; somehow like an etching in a clouded light by an uncertain hand. Bits of newspapers and torn placards, the nameless odours of yesterday’s economies. The wind that came from Hampstead Heath could find no way into Shepherd’s Market, and it lay still as a tramp sleeping. Cats watched us intently from the middle distance, and a striped cat leapt with a scream from the shadow of the door of my old house. Gerald’s light was on. “What’s that mean?” Iris whispered. She seemed to be frightened, and she said sharply: “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I was just thinking,” I told her, “that if one could judge by appearances, which of course one must never do, in that white cloak in this mean lane you look as nearly an angel as this world could ever see.”

“Don’t let’s mock the angels. What does it mean, Gerald’s light being on?”

“Only what it has always meant, that I must turn it out.”

“Ah, you’ve been very good to Gerald....”

And I am glad that, just then, I said that I was very fond of Gerald.

Then we were on the narrow landing of my old flat, in the darkness. The musty stillness of that little old house brought six years of nights into my mind, and I wondered how people ever regretted their first youth, those intolerable uncertainties and enthusiasms that stare at you from the dead past like condemned gargoyles. The incapability of youth goes on long enough, Heaven knows, if not so long as the savagery of childishness. In the darkness I could feel the soft ermine of her cloak against me, and that faint dry scent whose name I shall now never know. She was very, very still, and I could not even hear her breathing.

“It is very kind of you to come with me,” she said suddenly, seriously. We were very still on that landing, and I drew back my arm where it touched her cloak. It was very soft, that cloak. “I have thought of you, and decided that if you ever thought of me you had a right to think with dislike....” She was talking smoothly, calmly, when suddenly her voice completely broke, into little bits. “Oh!” she whispered. I was silent. She said quickly: “To me there’s something terribly indecent about humanity, all humanity. It’s as though, in the whole lovely universe, humanity was cooped in this musty little house, talking vaguely of dislike, eternally talking of like and dislike, love and unlove, of doings and undoings, purposeless yet striving and savage. The other night I was motoring alone from Paris to Calais, and it seemed to me that no law was strong enough, no crime was big enough, not even disloyalty, to stop us, when we had the chance of rising above the beastly limitation of living as we were born to live. Because we humans are not born to live, we are born to die....”

“Something has happened to you to-night,” I said. She was a faint white shape in the darkness, and it seemed to me that that was as much of her as I should ever see; and I was right.

“No, nothing at all. Just a dream. But, oh, failing the dream, how I would like a child!”

“A dream-child!”

“Ah, I’ve had those, a many! No, a real one. To be playmates with....”

I said: “I will go up first to-night and see how Gerald is. Will you wait here?”

“I’m tired and frightened,” she said faintly. “Don’t be long.”

I don’t think I stayed up there more than a few seconds. I don’t know. I switched out the light, and as I went down the dark narrow stairs I did not strike a match.

“Well?” she whispered from the darkness.

I don’t know what I said. I suppose I must have said that he was in the same state as when she had seen him before. Then I pretended I had no matches left, and said I had better go down first while she held on to my shoulder. “Then if you fall, I’ll fall,” she complained, but I said I would not fall.

Stair by stair we slowly descended in the darkness. I wanted particularly to see Guy. There were certain things to be done, I supposed. My mind was vacant as a plate on which was drawn a confused picture that would, on looking closely, mean something horrible. There had been a stain on the wall, a great jagged dripping stain, and bits of hair sticking to it.

“Oh, God, this drink!” she said frantically; then almost sobbed: “What’s that!” But it was only the telephone-bell from the hall downstairs, queerly strident and unrestrained in that still, musty little house. Brrr! Brrr! Brrr!... “I never knew a telephone could be so shrill! Will it be some one for Gerald?”

“It will ring for ever if I don’t answer it,” I said, opening the door into the lane. “I’ll follow you to the car.” I hoped it was Guy ringing up on the chance of catching us.

“Well?” his cold murmur came through the night. He said he would meet me at my door in ten minutes’ time. “What are you doing about Iris?” he asked me and I think I said: “Nothing. What can I do?”

Iris was waiting by her car under the lamp. The car was like a great yellow beast with shining scales, and Iris, tall and gentle and white, the lovely princess of the tale who has enslaved the beast. Far above them towered the pile of Sunderland House, enchanted almost into dignity by the darkness. She looked at me gravely as I came, she seemed to crouch like a tired fairy into her white cloak.

“You look very white,” she said.

“Now, Lady Pynte!” I made to mock her, and I suppose we laughed. Then she was at the wheel, sunk into the low seat, staring up at the darkness of the faint London stars. “I’m tired,” she said again, and again I thought, what could I do? Then she did something to the dash-board with her left hand, and the engine hummed. I was on the curb, above her. Nearby a policeman was flashing his lamp on a door. I supposed one told the police....

“Will you see Gerald in the morning?” the slightly husky voice just reached me. “And tell him to follow me to Paris? I shall be at number — Avenue du Bois for a week or so, and then ... Good-bye,” she said sharply, as though impatient with herself. “Good-bye, dear. You’ve been very kind—to the twin Marches. Good-bye ... perhaps for a long time. You have your work in England, and I’m the slave of freedom. Good-bye, my friend.”

I could not tell her just then. She lay aslant in the driving seat, and her tawny curls flamed in the light, and she looked sad and tired. I could not tell her, and as she took her hand from mine the great car leapt down the fat little slope of East Chapel Street to the end, turned in a blaze of light and colour, rushed up the parallel little street to Curzon Street.

I was at the corner where I had last seen Gerald putting his shoulder against the saloon-door of The Leather Butler; and as Iris’s car turned into Curzon Street a two-seater passed me swiftly, going the same way. I thought I heard a cry of “Iris!” above the rustle of the two engines, and I thought I heard Iris’s surprised voice, and the rear-lights of the two cars seemed to draw together, but I was not sure.

I crossed towards Queen Street, sure only that I wished to see Guy. From Jolley’s corner I saw, far up, two red rear-lights twisting into South Audley Street, and then, from afar, came the scream of a Klaxon, the growl of a horn. I wondered who was in the two-seater, but at that moment the tall figure of Guy came towards me from my door, where a taxi had just dropped him. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Poor young devil. Only hope the other side won’t disappoint him as much.”

“I couldn’t tell her,” I said.

Guy smoked thoughtfully, looking over my head. “I’ll tell her,” he said, “in the morning. Had an idea he might blow his brains out.”

Chapter Five: THE DARK LETTER

I

ON a bitter afternoon in the last week of January of the year 1923 the writer found himself in the Place Vendôme in Paris.

Now here, in the Place Vendôme, is material ready to the hand of the as yet undiscovered chronicler of lofty frivolities: such, unfortunately, as am not. But I can, at least, count up to fifty. There were forty-eight motor-cars in the Place Vendôme, and one coach-and-six.

The Place Vendôme is a paradox in grey stone. Spacious, noble, monumental, it is cast, even at the stranger’s first glance, in an everlasting mould. The Place Vendôme is, without a doubt, one among the few things about which we may say with certainty: “That will last.” And yet, monumental and everlasting though it is, what do we find in the Place Vendôme? Do we find therein the practice of the seven arts, the learning of the nine humanities, the study of any one among the august array of sciences, nay, the application of any one among the Ten Commandments? We do not. We find forty-eight motor-cars and one coach-and-six. We find that it is given over only to the frivolities of the trivial of two worlds and to every sort of “high-minded depravity” that may occur to the enfeebled wits of the exquisite. We find, in other words, that the Place Vendôme is the centre of that floating population of a few thousand dressing-tables, sables and Cachets Faivre of which, under the lofty title of l’aristocratie internationale, the Chevalier Gilulio di Risotto is the ultimate servitor. The Place Vendôme is, therefore, no place for a plain man, nor by any means a safe station for the man in the street: there are motor-cars kept in readiness to run them over.

Across the Place, from the rue de la Paix to the rue de Castiglione, dash for ever the nimble green Citroën taxicabs; whilst from the rue de Castiglione to the rue de la Paix will march the Renaults de luxe with scarlet wheels, passing in a fancy of cool brown eyes and the poudre à la maréchale of Bourbon days. Here and there among them, maybe, will flash the racing Bugattis of the dark young men a giggolo, a rastaqouère, a “racingman.” They will come to no good.

And always the great column on which Napoleon stands rises to the clouds, but no one cares about that. All they care about are the forty-eight automobiles and one coach-and-six which stretch, in ordered array of two lines, from the foot of his column to the entrance of the Ritz. The shops are loaded with diamonds as large as carnations and with carnations as expensive as diamonds. The shop-keepers are very polite, and courteously do not mind how many you buy. Americans buy. Englishmen watch the Americans buying. Grand Dukes wait for the Englishmen to dare them to have a cocktail. A few Frenchmen are stationed at those strategic points where they can best be rude to the English and Americans. Then the English and Americans tip them. The women do not wear stays, and insist on their men shaving twice a day.

“Well, at last!” sighed my sister, as her car, colourless with dust, was added to the forty-eight. I had been in Europe for four months, had lately joined some friends at Cannes, had chanced on my sister there, and had motored back with her to Paris. We were foul with dust, numbed with cold, aching with tiredness, and this was because we had “done” the six hundred odd miles from Cannes in two days and a few hours. The devil was in it if there was any reason why we should not have taken three days, or four, or five. But, then, why do people say “’phone” for “telephone”? Thus, they get an illusion of speed.

We went into the hotel. The long, narrow, crimson lounge was crowded with tea-drinkers. “But what a crowd of women!” said my sister. But there were quite a few people in men’s clothes. Au Réception.

“I-want-a-room-and-bathroom-please,” my sister said.

“Madame?” The dark-suited gentlemen of the Réception looked up from their desks at my sister, saw that her clothes were not bad and that she was in a hurry, and looked away again.

My sister repeated herself, in that dead and faintly aggressive tone in which women ask for what is very probably going to be denied them. “I wired,” she added. Liar.

I went towards the concierge’s box. He was a nice man, and had a white imperial.

“Is Mrs. Storm staying in the hotel?”

“Sir?”

“Could you tell me if Mrs. Storm is——”

“No, sir, no, sir. Not at present, sir.”

“I thought that, as her car was outside.... A yellow Hispano.”

“That is so, sir. Parfaitement. L’Hispano jaune.”

“But Mrs. Storm, you say, is not in the hotel?”

“No, sir. Not at present, sir.”

“Then, perhaps you may know, she has sold or lent her car to some one?”

“That is so, sir. Madame a prêté l’Hispano. Merci, monsieur.”

“You couldn’t possibly give me any idea of Mrs. Storm’s present address?”

“Pardon, monsieur.... Timbre, monseigneur? De quinze centimes, un. Merci, monseigneur. L’automobile à huit heures moins quart? Parfaitement, monseigneur.... I have no instructions, sir. That was the gentleman to whom madame has lent her motor. Le due de Valaucourt.”

“Thank you. But Mrs. Storm, you say, is in Paris?”

“Sir? Je suis sans instructions, monsieur. Madame?”

“What is it, what is it?” asked my sister.

“Nothing,” I said. “Got a room? Good. I am going to the Westminster, and I’ll come at half-past eight, shall I, and take you out to dinner?”

“Yes, but not here. It’s crowded with minor royalties that you can’t stand with your back to any one except the orchestra. Larue?”

She had no sooner turned towards the lift than my name was cried in an agony of exultation. My sister says that my face as I started round was a face of fear.

“Only the other day,” cried Mr. Cherry-Marvel, exercising, with incredible perfection of gesture, his eyes, shoulders, hands, wrist, beautiful teeth, tie-pin and handkerchief, “we were talking about you....” But it was ever one of Mr. Cherry-Marvel’s many social charms that, the instant he saw you after an absence, he would make it his business to give you the impression that people had been interested in nothing else but you during your absence. Not, of course, that he stopped there; he had other things to say, too. “Of course what I really must tell you first of all, is that Henri Daverelle, whom, of course, you know as well as I do, was saying to me only the other day, à propos of something which I am positive that you, with your sort of mind, will appreciate at its full value....”

Cherry-Marvel was an artist enslaved by his art: he could not see you but he and you must instantly fall under its dominion; for it was an art too perfectly modulated to admit of hurry, it was an art too sensitive to admit of interruption. Indeed, a wicked little gleam would flash across his wicked old eyes if you so much as made to interrupt him. Pitiless to himself, he was only the less pitiless to you in so far as you were not himself; and, should you be a boor and leave him suddenly, you might hear the dry, clear voice dying in the distance, but dying hard, rising and falling to the fullest and most pregnant sense of each period; for his, you understand, was an art not of selection but of detail, and must always and be continually expending itself....

“Ava Mainwaring, whom, of course, you know as well as I do, was saying to me only the other day, à propos of something which I am positive that you, with your sort of mind....”

Essentially an aristocrat, in person dainty, neat, fastidious, Cherry-Marvel’s art was essentially democratic, for it abhorred all limitations and exacted from him its complete display on every occasion, whether lofty, literary, or plebeian, which came before his relentlessly alert eyes; and you can hear, through the last sixty years of English social history, the rise and fall of Cherry-Marvel’s voice, each word dropping on a stunned silence like a long-polished jewel. Eager, exquisite, always prepared, always with a handkerchief fluttering between his breast-pocket and the corner of his eye, you must imagine him against the tapestry of wasted time, a figure of ancient, æsthetic dandysme, on immaculate lawns, in drawing-rooms, up and down terraces of palazzos, in clubs and cabarets. You might enter a spacious drawing-room in Rome, a museum in Naples, a friend’s villa in Capri, you might stray from your boat in a South Sea lagoon into the smoking-room of the hotel, you might steal a moment from your companions to see the moonlight on the Pyramid.... Oh, you might be anywhere, and suddenly you would hear that voice, rising and falling, relentless, ageless, enchanting even lions to silence, with here and there a sudden, profound drawl on one word, any word, “de-ar,” and you would, fascinated, be compelled to face him—there, with full pale lips drawn wide apart, wicked blue eyes absorbed with cunning ecstasy in your stunned attention, the while, infinite as fate, he joined together the perfected pieces of his art with the word “whereupon,” which lounged from his tongue in a crescendo to a cry of sadic exaltation. And while you laughed at some elaborately phrased conceit, wondering how he had remembered the order of the words so well, he would watch the effect of his art with kind, cunning eyes, one wrist suspended in the air, his handkerchief fluttering towards the corner of his eye, in consummate politeness to show how he, too, by your laughter, was appreciating the full flavour of his art ... “whereupon Elsa, who, by the way, had really a very amusing experience in Venice last Autumn, and one which I am positive that you, with your sort of mind....”

Now, if any one could tell me where Iris was to be found, Cherry-Marvel was that man. Cherry-Marvel knew, of course, everybody, and he knew everything about everybody ... “of course it’s absurd to suppose that Alice, with her intelligence, which I am positive makes its full appeal to you—it is absurd to suppose that Alice could for one moment have thought that her husband, whom of course you know as well as I do, would divorce her for going to Brighton with Cubby Tyrell, because, as I was pointing out to her sister only the other day, for one thing no decent man, and I am sure you will agree with me about this, would care to let it be known that his wife had ever gone to Brighton, and for another, and this, of course, is a Biblical detail which I am sure that you will grasp at once, Cubby Tyrell, who is a very intimate friend of mine, has been allowed, in spite of having been married twice, to remain a member of the Celibates Club....”

At this time I hadn’t the remotest idea as to where Iris was or how she did. I had not seen her since the night of her brother’s death; and had been permitted to gather from Hilary that he knew as little as I did of her whereabouts. Secret she had always been in her absences, Hilary said, or, rather careless, but now she seemed positively in hiding.

She had, a few weeks after that terrible night, written me one long letter: from some place near Rome, from a draughty house, so she wrote, on a hill of strangled olives. There was no address on the notepaper, and this, she wrote, was because she did not want me or any one to write to her. “Please,” she added to that.

Her letter was presumably in answer to two of mine addressed to the care of Mrs. Oden of Montpellier Square, but she was at the pains to excuse it on the ground that she and I were tied together—“no, tied apart!”—by a bond, the existence of which I would never, never know. Well! It was, you can see, a feverish, mysterious letter; and made how much more mysterious by that almost illegible, pencilled scrawl! There were whole sentences on the first few pages which I could not make out at all, which I made almost blind guesses at, while at some I could not even contrive so much.

“It is your fault, my friend. You paved the road up which I raced in chase of the Blue Bird. Yours was the appointed dark finger in the darkness. May God forgive you, for I can’t. I will try, but I think I can’t. There is a waterfall of fire....”

Sheets upon sheets of it, that letter is before me now, and still I am unable to decipher whole sentences from that maze of pencil-marks on the thin Italian paper. There was one that stared at me, shocked me, in the middle of the second page—“I may hate you”—but I could not, do what I would, make out the words above or below.

“...I am lonely beyond bearing, and afraid. I am so afraid. I wonder, will you understand? But if I bore you take courage, for I will not bore you again. You are my friend, and this is my good-bye. Forgive me, dear, the arrogance of calling you my friend. But I am so afraid. Et, satyr bien-aimé, j’ai raison....”

I could, you can understand, make neither head nor tail of it. She might hate—me! She might, heaven knew, be indifferent to me, but why, how, hate? And satyr bien-aimé was all very well, but it meant nothing.

On the later pages she seemed to have controlled her hand a little, but her mind, if one might judge, remained ... well, was that, perhaps, the effect on a mind of a draughty house on a hill of strangled olives? “I am lonely, but I have always been lonely since I was eighteen. Yes, I can trace my loneliness since then. It is a long time.”

This letter, you must remember, came only a month after Gerald’s death. She wrote of that night, and here her haunted pencil was at its most firm, if that is saying anything. “There I stood in the old, old darkness—how old darkness is, have you ever felt?—while you were upstairs in Gerald’s room. And I listened, but I could not hear you moving, so I imagined you to be staring at Gerald from the door, as you and I did that night a million years ago, when, do you remember, you suddenly, strangely from your heart, made that defiant courtesy to my hand? And, do you know, I almost cried because of your kindness to that poor, helpless sweet. Oh, Hilary has told me about you, and you luring Gerald off to a Home, but all in vain, my poor Gerald. And then I heard you switch out the light, and down you came, slowly, slowly, more silent than the darkness, and when you spoke your voice was as old as the darkness. But you are very young really, else you couldn’t be so defiantly, so imperiously, kind. And I remember wondering why you said you had no matches left, for before you went upstairs I had seen a box half-full in your hand, but I said to myself: ‘He has forgotten, and he is wretched at his friend’s weakness.’ Ah, you should have told me about Gerald there and then, indeed you should! But you did not, for my unworthy comfort’s sake. Dear, you have a fine touch for the affections—but cruel, that is what you were, cruel. You laid your foot down on the soil of kindness, but where your foot fell there leapt up a dandelion ... and in the heart of the dandelion a tiny little rose; but what, my friend, is one little rose surrounded to suffocation by a huge dandelion?”

Well! Puzzle this way, puzzle that way, I couldn’t make a glimmer of sense out of that passage. I was pleased, of course, that she seemed to like me, but as to the rest....

Guy, as he had told me he would, had been to see her early in the morning. He had—another friend of childhood—overruled Mrs. Oden, saying it would be better not to wake Iris and bring her downstairs at that hour, for could there be a better place than bed in which to receive bad news? Mrs. Oden knew him of old, he was Apollo Belvedere to Mrs. Oden. She had been desperately upset about his news, coming as it did on top of what she had read about Gerald in that morning’s paper. Poor Mrs. Oden.

Iris was asleep—“Oh, as no man can ever know sleep!”—when she awoke dimly to a tall shape at the foot of the bed. (“As no man can ever know sleep!” That, too, puzzled one, as well it might.) Dark it was, the curtains drawn, “and I remember them flapping peevishly because the door behind the tall shape was ajar. And I, scarcely awake, could think but of one thing, my awakening mind was hugging, in pain and joy, but one thing ... and I called the shape at the foot of the bed by a certain name, a name which was not his name. He made no sign that he had heard the name which was not his name, and I am sure he instantly made himself forget it. For, as you know, Guy would defend a secret not only against the angels of God, but also against himself. ‘Guy!’ I cried at last, and he seemed to smile faintly, like the handsome absent-minded god he is. ‘Yes, Guy,’ he said. ‘Sickening, isn’t it?’ Those high good looks of Guy’s, that small poised head—frozen, tireless Guy! But that morning he was very gentle with me....”

He had spoken for me, too, saying that I hadn’t told her of Gerald’s death at the time because she had looked so tired and sad. “Poor Iris,” Guy had said, “the men who don’t know you very well care very much for your comfort, but the three young men who have known you best of all have not cared enough.” Guy had said that, and she lying in bed, stunned, staring, while he sat holding her hand, as he might be an elder brother and she a hurt baby.

“He knew, you see, that I loved Gerald, that Gerald was a part of me, although Gerald had spent ten years in pretending that he hated me. Do you think, my friend, that I would have let myself be crucified on Boy’s death only for the sake of Boy’s cruel relations and friends? Two people Gerald worshipped in the world, but always he would have sacrificed Iris to Boy, that was always the way of Gerald’s heart. Above all things in this world I love the love that people have for each other, the real, immense, unquestioning, devouring, worshipful love that now and then I have seen in a girl for a boy, that now and then I have seen in a boy for a boy, that playmate love. It isn’t of this world, that playmate love, it’s of a larger world than ours, a better world, a world of dreams which aren’t illusions but the very pillars of a better life. But in our world all dreams are illusions, and that is why the angels have crows-feet round their eyes, because they are peering to see why all dreams in our world should be illusions.

“But you can’t, you see, get rid of the funny love between twins like Gerald and me just by the word ‘hate.’ Even Boy couldn’t really upset that. There was something peculiarly us about Gerald and me, something of blood and bone peculiarly us which nothing but death could destroy. And so Mrs. Spirit was sent into Hyde Park that the thing that was us might be for ever destroyed.”

She had suddenly asked Guy, half-sitting on the bed beside her, what it was in the world he loved most, and he had said he was sorry to admit that he loved his son more than all the world. “I could have killed him for jealousy, just then I could, he who had everything to have also that. You don’t know the body-ache for a child, the ache that destroys a body ... the lament for a child of love, a child of lovers....

“He would be two and a half years old now, my son. Hector, you see, didn’t know anything about his son, because he left me in a temper before even I was certain. And naturally when I was certain I wasn’t going to be outdone in silliness by my own husband, and besides, I thought it would be mean to force him to come back if he didn’t really want to come back, and so I didn’t let him know. For men, I would have you know, might make an awful row and stamp away in a tearing jealous fit, and when they are away they might be as pleased as anything to have got away. You can never tell about men, especially when they are convinced that they are being genuine. But, of course, I knew he would rush back quickly enough when the baby came. Oh, I would see to that! And, my dear, the fun I would have all by myself, for Hector and I had always longed for a son, the fun I had thinking of the look on his face when one day he would get my wire in Ireland: ‘Arrival of Hector-not-so-proud. You come too.’ Can you imagine what he’d look like then, and he stern and handsome and all covered with V.C.’s and oddments, wasting his time chasing disgusting Sinn Feiners who wouldn’t know a country of their own if they saw it. I had that wire all nicely written out months beforehand, and I went and hid my ugliness in my old nurse’s home near Peterboro’ and stuck the wire with a pin over my bed, being superstitious, you see, and wanting a winner for once in a way. Well, and then—Oh, and then they killed Hector just in time, and when Hector-not-so-proud came along he thought, the poor sweet, that the proper way for a gentleman to arrive in the world was toes first to slow music, and so away he had to go again....

“I have done with England, and England has done with me. But I don’t think I shall be able to go and have tea with the Empress of China yet awhile, for just now I love England as I never before have loved it. The captains and the kings of England—clean eyes, long shadows, low voices ... why, I must hover, held in running as in a nightmare. And from the distance, from these lands of loud shrill voices, I will hear the low, low voices that I had long since thought I had given up regretting. Indeed, I was quite sure I had given up regretting them. But I am regretting them now, like a baby. Good-bye, dear, and God bless you. And when you think of me think instead of your words, ‘He has, with you,’ and you will have the sum of my pride in being liked by you.”

Often, during these past eight or nine months, that scrawled writing would pass my mind, but as I could hit on no clue to her fantasies, and as I might never see her again, I had put Iris carefully away into that part of our minds wherein we keep fancies, images, regrets, the things that we will do one day, the things that we would like to do one day, the things that we will never do again ... when, but a moment ago, the great yellow car had leapt from the Place Vendôme into the first place in my mind, and I would like, I thought, to learn from my friend, Cherry-Marvel, anything that might be learnt about Iris. But as I listened to him, the way he had said this and had done that and had heard the other, I wondered how I would ever get the chance to suggest so much as her name to him. “...à propos of something which I am positive that you, with your sort of mind....”

We stood, for we had not yet had time to sit down, in the little reading-room of the Ritz that leads from the entrance-doors, while stern-faced Americans turned over the pages of The New York Herald on the long marble-topped table in the centre, and a woman or two sat here and there absorbed in waiting, and the dowager Lady Tekkleham’s voice nearby was grimly suggesting to the Baron de Belus that he could not do better than let her drive him in her coach-and-six to dinner at her villa at Saint Germain-en-Laye.

Weighed down I was by the chill of my journey and my heavy coat, and weighed down, too, by the gloom of the early winter evening that was falling about us, so that my eyes, borne down by Cherry-Marvels amenities, could scarcely make out the chairs and flowers and vases in the long courtyard through the windows; and suddenly I fell to wondering how it had come about that Iris, who loved her proud swift car, had lent it to a friend, but the instant I mentioned her name Cherry-Marvel’s little eyes gleamed with fury at the interruption. I was abashed, yet I would try again, but ... “whereupon Auguste de Maupin, whom, of course, you know as well as I do....”

But at last I achieved the impossible, in inserting a wedge into the fabulous monologue, and then I murmured: “Ill? But are you sure, Cherry? Mrs. Storm is ill?”

But illness appalled Cherry-Marvel, from illness he could not help but turn away the neat, lined mask of his face, from illness his Florentine dandysme trembled away in the only unaristocratic emotion I have ever observed in Cherry-Marvel, the emotion of fear. “Quiet we call Silence, the merest word of all!” For, appalled by illness though he might be, his art could always rise to a general view.... He had heard in a roundabout way that Iris had had a “sort of minor operation——”

“But,” I said—

“Whereupon,” said Cherry-Marvel, his little eyes gleaming for a second with fury, “what I said was, ‘Operations, where are thy stings?’ for, as of course you know as well as I do, women are scarcely women without them, and I have not the faintest doubt that in Lesbos they suffered, if I may put it like this, from the impolite insistence of their womanhood even more than if there had been any men there, for as I was saying to Marc only the other day, à propos of the particular shade in which she had dyed her hair, men may come and men may go, but the moon, my dear boy, is always there. Now here, for instance, is Iris, quite one of the loveliest women I have ever seen, and one who, I am convinced, must be very fond of you with your sort of mind, here she has, I hear on the very best authority, fallen a victim to one of those mental derangements which seem, if I may put it like this, to be an irresistible incitement to polite surgery in quite another and more individual part of the person. But what I have always said about Iris is this, that I admire her so, and I am so positive that you also must, with your sort of mind, because she is one of the very few Englishwomen I have ever met who can, as I am sure you will agree with me, live abroad without becoming more and more English....”

II

Paris rises in a cloud of chill darkness, the rain falls like whips of ice, the street-lamps loiter on vague, bitter errands, confused strings of light, a stealthy, idiot wind glories in being corrupted by corners. The platforms of the omnibuses are packed tight with small men whose overcoats are too short for them, the brims of their felt-hats too narrow, their trousers turned up too high, their eyes too dark, their faces too pale. The jargon of the traffic on the rue de Rivoli, as it squabbles for every step between the deserted pavement beneath the railings of the Tuileries and the reeking pavement under the long archway lit by impudent shop-lights falling on imitation jewellery, is multiplied an hundred-fold by the shrewish air into a noise that hurts like warm water on a chill hand.

The taxi, a clever little Citroën taxi, darted hither and thither among the squabbling hosts, and nimbly we capered across the dark face of the Louvre, nimbly over the Pont Royal and the river paved with broken darkness, and so down the slope into the rout of the Boulevard Raspail.

Maybe it is true that there are times when we can detest Paris more deeply than any other city. Other cities stare back calmly at our sudden hatreds, other cities grow more impersonal as we execrate them, while as for Paris, she is always personal, but when we are nervous and detest her for being Paris she becomes even more herself, she insists on being herself with a nerveracking insistence, like a silly woman who, seeing she is getting on her man’s nerves, gives a loud, nervous laugh and simpers: “I can’t help it, it’s my nature to be like this....”

Now why were the people yelling here, what was the matter? Millions of them there were, joined in some strife between the Bon Marché, the Hôtel Lutetia and the entrance of the Nord-Sud railway, while omnibuses and trams made strategic movements against each other, while facteurs in dirty blue, fabulously moustachioed, pushed carts about in all directions, irritating any one they could, and a motionless gendarme or two played with his bâton, heedless, unheeded. The eager face of a young artist I knew, shadowed by a great black hat, artistic, anarchistic, strode out of the white mass of the Hôtel Lutetia and turned greedily towards Montparnasse. At last my clever little Citroën and I plunged into quieter wastes, lit here and there by the bastard glitter of a Cinema Theatre falling on posters livid with three colours, red, blue, and yellow.

That strange unstormy exquisite, Cherry-Marvel! That most æsthetic creator of a monster more terrible than Frankenstein’s, for it devoured the spirit of all who passed beside it! Why I should be worried about Iris I could not tell, indeed I was too tired to inquire, but worried I was despite Cherry-Marvel’s so well-informed badinage about the white woman’s burden, and the more worried too, as the taxi plunged into nameless darknesses beyond the Bal Bullier, towards the address of the nursing-home which Cherry-Marvel, that confidant at third-hand, had of course known.

Montparnasse lay somewhere behind, or to the east, or to the west. We were in unknown Paris, silent, ill-lit, fantastic Paris: silent but for a rending crash here, a jarring cry there. Cold as the devil it was now, as though because the prickly warmth of many lamps and shops was withdrawn. Carefully we traversed a broad avenue as yet scarcely paved, beneath the skeleton shapes of great tenement-houses. Ah, Paris, that we should have come to this, you and I! Paris, that we should have come together down to this! In how many moods you and I have passed the time of day and night together, we have sat in strange places and dared the most devilish shadows, we have wandered from the Rotonde to the crowning grubbiness of the Butte, we have raced in the Bois and up the Mont Valérien, we have laughed at painted boys and been reviled by painted women, we have danced, loved, gambled, drunk, and together we have been bored by the unmentionable and terrified by that which makes the eyes bright and the face white as a soiled handkerchief, while Mio Mi Marianne danced a minuet du cœur with a crimson garter and the moon fell across the French-windows of Berneval’s house to be lost in the soft shadows of giant poppies. Paris, that we should now have come down to this, lost together in these nameless darknesses beyond even the low darkness of the Bal Bullier, that glory of another time than ours....

And now we tore up a dark, endless boulevard, even as a shifty maggot in a pit of darkness. But surely this was the murderer’s Paris, here lived the fathers and grandfathers of Apaches, here were born the daughters of the drinkers of blood and the sons of the mothers of crime. It stretched never-ending between lamps fixed at astronomical distances, and on each side tall naked trees thrashed the shadows of very high black walls. They hid from the world, the people of this boulevard of the high walls, and who shall say that they had no reason to hide? And then, do you know, a lion leapt out of the night, a huge lion that was black as sin and crouched for prey in the centre way between five lanes of darkness made even darker by confused strings of light. And as we breathed a prayer in thanks for our deliverance from the lion of darkness trams crawled near us and stayed a while, and tram, at the impulse of a vice peculiarly continental, was joined to tram and crawled away; while we, having regained our breath, came beneath the shadow of a terrible wall. It was the wall of a castle, a fortress, a something satanically majestic. This, I thought, is another of Carlyle’s mistakes, this is no less than the Bastille skulking in these parts until such time as the Camelots du Roy shall have left the kindergarten and can crown the duc d’Orleans King of France. Far above our laboured passage glowed a long, long row of small windows faintly lit, and it seemed to me that they were striped with bars of iron. And there was a great gate of iron, and a black soldier with a beastly bayonet to his rifle, and an old woman with a great brown parcel under her arm, waiting. The clever little Citroën stopped. It is tired, I thought, and will go on later....

“Eh, numéro quarante-neuf, Boulevard Pierre Abel?” the taxi-driver threw at me reproachfully, and I got out, and I stared up at the great fortress which towered above me like a beast with a row of unclean eyes about his forehead, and the rain whipped my face.

“C’est un prison?”

“Mais oui, monsieur. Le Paradis.”

The pavement was broad, of mud and asphalt. The prison towered on our right, filling the sky with darkness—but for those distant, terrible windows. The rain whipped down, stinging like little animals. Nearby one forlorn lamp lit the putrefying colours of the advertisements circling a lavabo. What, I wondered and wondered, could Iris be doing here? Facing me across the broad pavement of mud and asphalt was a great gate which had once been brown, lit by a lamp on which had once been inscribed the number of the Nursing Home. Iris was here. Were we, then, always to meet in darkness, Iris and I? She was here, and perhaps, I thought, on the other side of her is a Morgue or an Asylum.

A yard or so from the great door there was let into the high wall a small door inscribed Concierge. I was startled at the clatter made by the bell. A nun stood in the dim doorway.

Chapter Six: THE RED LIGHTS

I

THE shape of her coif against the dim light was like some legendary thing’s head, and she was eating. I heard her. That she was old and very stout was all I could see. I could smell just a little, too. Poor Iris.

I asked if I might have news of Mrs. Storm.

“Ah, la dame anglaise!” She ate, but not finally. “Madame est assez bien, je crois. Mais pardon, monsieur. Je n’ai pas d’instructions à vous donner——”

“But!” I pleaded. “But——”

“Je regrette, monsieur. C’est pas ma faute, vous savez. Pardon.”

She was closing the door! Terse as you like. I was helpless. “Madame est assez bien, je crois!” Dear Heaven, but didn’t one know those assez biens! Isn’t there a company in Heaven wholly recruited from those who have been assez bien, and daily augmented by those who are assez bien!

I lifted up my voice.

“Pardon, monsieur.”

I lifted up my voice in vain. So I was active. She stared at me, panting. I withdrew my first impression as to her being a nun. She was no nun. She had a crucifix and a coif, but she was no nun. She was a woman scorned. She said many things and used many words which I did not understand. But I didn’t care. I somehow thought, you know, of Iris dying.

“I am here,” I said in effect, “and here I stay until I can speak to a doctor or a matron. I am sorry, but you have made me anxious as to the lady’s health.”

“Mais je vous l’ai déjà dit, jeune homme! Madame est assez bien!”

The ordinary dingy concierge’s lodge: a black stove, a table covered with frayed red cloth, a chair, a stool, an indescribable odour, a plate of food on the table—bœuf bouilli, which is French for the salvaging of grey matter from liquid dungeons of onions, carrots and potatoes. I sat on the stool. It was unbelievable that her coif had ever been white. Somehow my eyes were transfixed by the small wooden crucifix which, like a dinghy on a choppy sea, rolled on her bosom as she ate. I wondered how long I would have to wait. I wondered if I could smoke. I wondered if this was one of those convent-nursing-homes. I wondered if one called a nun madame or mademoiselle. They were maidens presumably, so I supposed mademoiselle.

“On peut fumer, mademoiselle?”

I was wrong. She looked at me with contempt. “C’est défendu, monsieur.”

“Merci, madame.”

I wondered if she really could be a nun. I wondered if one could tip a nun. Out of sheer hatred one acquires a passion for tipping in France and Italy. Detestable it was on this detestable day to sit like this, being hated. I made a muttering noise and gave her a ten-franc note, and it was in a more amiable spirit that she went on with her salvaging. At last there were only two bits of carrot and an awful looking onion left to engage her attention, and I felt that one might perhaps converse.

I was right about her being no nun. She was a lay-sister, she said. And this place, she told me, was a convent-nursing-home. “Nous avons ici,” she was pleased to add, “la clientèle européenne la plus chic.”

Perhaps that was the worst stroke of that day, so far. Iris among a clientèle européenne la plus chic.... One saw the cosmopolitan divorcées, their secret illnesses and guileful pains, their nasty little coquetries and the way they would blackmail their lovers with their sufferings, and one felt the sticky night-club breath of all the silly, common harlotries of England, France, America. My poor ten-franc note must have seemed pathetic to this old lay-sister, who probably thought nothing of receiving a mille from an anxious Dago.

I had until then been trying not to wonder about Iris in the vile shadow of a prison. Suddenly I was furiously hot. What on earth was I doing here! Intruding where I was not wanted! I was about to go, to run, when the lay-sister was as though distracted from the last piece of carrot by the opening of a door in the back room. Frantically she hurried towards it. It would look too silly of me to run now. I could but ask, anyhow.

The lay-sister’s voice, voluble, vindictive, explanatory. Much good my ten francs had done! Then steps came towards me, into the lodge. “Eh,” I said. How afraid one always is of the callous French doctors with their cynical eyes and purple beards....

A man, bald, sharp-featured as a bird, in a rough brown great-coat, a tired-looking, an anxious-looking, middle-aged—Englishman!

“Masters! Conrad Masters!”

“Well,” muttered that anxious-looking man. He looked just the same when he was playing bridge. He was always playing bridge, that man. And he said he hated playing bridge. That kind of man. “Well? How are you?”

“Glad,” I said, “glad it’s no worse. Glad it’s only you. I was afraid of a purple beard.”

“And how did you get here?” A man given to muttering, that. One could hear what he said or not just as one pleased. One couldn’t, you understand, be afraid of Conrad Masters.

“Masters, the fight I’ve had with this Cerberus to see you!”

“Rules ... must have rules, you know....” A decidedly undecided man. Soft-speaking but not plausible, a combination peculiarly English. A man of nerves. Shifty without suavity ... and then, suddenly, apt to bite your head off like a very captain of men: “And how did you know Mrs. Storm was ill? Here?”

“Oh,” I said. “Well....” And I thought of many things. Of Conrad Masters, of “Should a doctor tell?” of Cherry-Marvel, that confidant at third-hand, of Mrs. Conrad Masters. A dashing lady, that.

“Who but Cherry-Marvel told me!” said I.

“God in Heaven, that man!”

But Iris swept out of my mind her doctor’s problematical indiscretions to his dashing wife....

“Ill,” he muttered. “Decidedly ill.... mm....”

“I heard,” I said desperately, “that she’d had a sort of operation—”

“There’s been no operation!” snapped that captain of men. “Simply maddens a man, the way these things get about....”

“Well, I’m only repeating what I heard, Masters. And you can’t hope for secrecy once our friend gets hold of anything—”

“Who said anything about secrecy?” A dangerous, feline muttering. “I don’t want secrecy....”

Silence. Anxieties walked across it arm-in-arm with that lank man’s doubtful heat.

“I say, Masters, is she—is she very ill? But, of course, if I’m intruding....”

Those worried eyes were fixed on the feet stuck far out from the chair on which he lay as though exhausted. The lay-sister appeared to be pottering about in the next room. “Thinking of Donna Guelãra, are you? Haven’t much faith in me and Martel-Bonnard, have you?” Faintly amused those worried eyes looked to be. That was that man’s way. You would think he was being shifty with you when he might be just laughing at you.

Some would speak well, very well, of Dr. Masters; whilst others almost libellously, saying that, working as he did with Eugene Martel-Bonnard, the surgeon, he couldn’t be over-scrupulous in advising profitable but unnecessary operations. Martel-Bonnard’s wife wore a famous pearl rope, of which it was said that each pearl had been bought at the price of a woman’s life. But a brilliant surgeon’s life. Martel-Bonnard would say, is full of drawbacks. He charged accordingly. I think that he and Mrs. Masters must have bullied Masters every now and then—not that he wouldn’t have looked worried in the Elysian Fields. Between them, those three had once made poor Anna Estella Guelãra very sorry she had ever left Chile. She was quite well, Martel-Bonnard said she was very ill, he almost killed her, then he saved her, and how he hurt her! “Naturally,” smiled Martel-Bonnard. “Such things hurt. But, my friend, she was—pouf!—but for me.” How one would have liked to operate on that sleek little man, unsuccessfully! He despised you if you differed from him, operated on you if you were fool enough, and robbed you according to a special system he had of discounting the exchange. One hundred thousand francs, poor Anna Estella’s life had cost her that time. And pain, such as falls only to the lot of women!

“But. Masters, it’s surely not as bad a case as that!”

“Mm ... not as bad? Well ... different shall we say?”

“But that was an internal operation! You just said—”

“Quite. That’s why it’s different....”

Talking with Conrad Masters was like playing a game in which he who made out the most of the other’s words scored the most points.... But Iris alone here, in this obscure place as full of crucifixes as a cemetery!

“I’m sorry,” I said, rising from the stool. “I’m intruding....”

“You’re all right,” he mumbled. “So you heard about it from that femme fatale, did you? Damn that man! Bla, bla, bla!”

Those worried but faintly amused eyes were on me. “Been hearing quite a lot about you lately. Nurses would have your dossier complete by now if they could understand English. You seem to have put your foot in it somewhere. Rather sorry for you if....”

This bantering ... medical bantering! Only doctors dare do it. “Well, how are we to-day?” But by paying close attention to the game I had scored one point. She was delirious. So far, delirious. Then ... “if!”

“Masters,” I said, “are you telling me that she is dying?”

“Mm ...” he muttered impatiently, and as he jumped up from his chair the rough brown great-coat seemed to fill the dingy lodge. It smelt of England, that coat. And, protruding from it, that sharp, naked, weary face with the worried eyes....

“Look here, Masters—”

“Here you are,” he muttered. I could not understand why he muttered. “Here you are” until I found a cigarette in one hand and one of those wretched spirit-lighters in the other. A man without conviction even in his ability to strike a match....

“Known her for years,” he muttered towards his feet. “At Deauville that year ... terrible for her. Poor child....”

“Masters, you said Donna Guelãra might die. You know you did. But she didn’t, did she?”

He looked at me sharply. “If only she’d help herself, lift a finger to help herself! That’s what beats a man. Doesn’t lift one finger, she doesn’t.”

“Oh!” I said, trying to look reasonable. But I couldn’t, for the life of me, accommodate myself to the idea of Iris dying. “I suppose this is the crisis, is it, Masters?”

The rough great-coat gave one vindictive flounce, filled the room. “Crisis! The way you people talk of crisis this and crisis that! Hear a word once and stick to it through life! ‘When does the crisis pass?’ There is no ‘crisis’ in most of these infernal things. Malaria, pneumonia, a few others—yes, crisis, know where you are. But in these things the patient just continues ill, two, three, four weeks, might live, might not. Lysis, not crisis. Crisis!”

“Sorry. Lysis....”

“Oh, here!” He suddenly began fumbling in an ancient pocket-book, from which he extracted a small folded piece of paper. “Might interest you,” he muttered.

Scrawled in pencil across the slip of paper were what looked like two names. That indecipherable scrawl! At last I made out the two names: Hilary’s and mine.

“She said, should either of these two happen somehow to hear I am ill and call, just be nice to them, please. Her very words....”

“Oh!” I said. And I went on staring at the slip of paper. It was a rather grubby slip of paper. And those two scrawled names were like a faint cry of loneliness.

“Known her for years,” Masters was muttering. “Nice! First tells me not to tell any one, then to be ‘nice’ to you two....”

I gave him back the slip of paper. I don’t know why, and now I wish I hadn’t. I would like to have it now, beside that fiver. “Nice, fivers are....” Thoughtful Iris! She knew her friends, she did. Lying lonely here ... and having an afterthought about Hilary—and me! “If they should somehow happen to hear and call.” Poor Guy hadn’t a mention. She wasn’t for putting any strain on Guy’s lawfulness. But why lawfulness? I looked at Conrad Masters.

“Septic poisoning,” said Masters. “That’s the trouble.”

That meant very little to me, for never was a man so ill-informed about such things. “But,” I said doubtfully to those gentle-worried eyes, and he murmured:

“Sure you’re not thinking of ptomaine poisoning? Not that that isn’t quite enough to be going on with....”

“Pain,” I said. “Good Lord, pain....” All I could think of was pain, pain, pain. One can almost feel the stabs of some one’s pain. Worst of all, one can mentally hear the faint screams of a voice just recognisable. Conrad Masters, the sight of him, reminded me vividly of Anna Estella’s pain. Once, from a waiting-room, I had heard her screaming. “Pain?” I said.

“Oh, no ... no.” He weighed the matter. “Nothing to speak of. Just keep still, that’s the main thing. Very still, for weeks and weeks. Long business, you know. But what worries a man is that she doesn’t try to help herself at all. Letting herself go ... can’t tell whether consciously or not, but somewhere inside her just not caring. I’ve been sharp with her.... Nice business for me, isn’t it? Good Lord, nice! If only she’d take a pull, pull herself together ... some one just give her mind a jab somehow. No good talking, of course. If she won’t, she won’t. Lies there, you know, just not caring....” He was drawing on a fur-lined glove, and it was to that he spoke; almost, one thought, shyly. A curious, complex gentleman. “She’s said once or twice she’d like to see you and ... well, learn you a thing or two. Some stuff about roses and dandelions. You seem to have made a gaffe somewhere, and it’s quite on her mind to tell you about it. Hope I’m not giving anything away ... but might do her good just to see you, feel you’re round about. You can’t tell. We’ll see how she is to-morrow. Extraordinary, I’ve found it, the way a woman will wake up for a second from days of delirium for no other purpose than to feel lonely.... Not awake now, though. Ill, this evening. Can’t really, you see, be iller if she tried. It will be good news, really good news, if she is alive in the morning. That’s as much as I can say. Sorry.... Well, I must snatch some dinner....”

We were outside. The rain had ceased, it was much warmer. The Masters’s Renault, sleek and shining black but for the scarlet wheels, dwarfed my taxi.

Septic poisoning. I began to remember a little about that. I remembered two words which seemed very like “septic poisoning” in reports of trials of wretched women who had “operated.” Surely, Masters couldn’t ... she had, after all, trusted me—“be nice to him”—and I must at once think the worst thing. Oh, God, how foul a thing a man’s mind is, how foul! But, Iris, dear Iris, why is one able to think of these awful things in connection with you!

“There’s always hope, you know,” Masters was muttering. “Pity you kept your taxi. I could have dropped you. And Donna Guelãra didn’t die, did she?”

But how Anna Estella had desired to live! “Die, me!” she had later screamed with laughter.

Iris had trusted me. “Be nice to him”—her very words. And I had thought that ...

“Masters, you won’t mind my coming round again? Perhaps to-night?”

“Sleep here, if you like,” he smiled. “I’ll be coming myself for a second, about midnight. Wife’s got a party. Like to come? Rather good bridge. Well, please yourself....”

II

I agreed with my sister that it was abominably rude of her younger brother to be nearly an hour late to take her out to dinner, especially as she had been ready for at least twenty minutes. She was furious. I said: “There is a new dance place open. I heard about it from a friend of mine, Mr. Cherry-Marvel. You will meet him, he is charming. This new place is called La Plume de Ma Tante. It has only been open three nights, so it will be very modish for another two. There is a nightingale there.”

“One cannot dance to a nightingale.”

“But why are you so exclusive?”

“It is cruel and beastly to keep a nightingale caged.”

“Dear, it takes a woman who once had a passion for aigrettes and who loves eating lobsters to be so sensitive. But there is probably baser music to supplement this nightingale. There are, in fact, five lovely niggers. The place is called La Plume de Ma Tante so that English people may know exactly where they stand.”

“You are so funny to-night, but would you mind not polishing your shoes on my dress? This is a very terrible taxi, and I think men are monstrous. If you were taking any woman but your sister out to dinner you would have chosen the taxi with discretion.”

“Rudolf and Raymonde are the dancers. I do not want to go to The Pen of My Aunt, but for your sake I would go anywhere. After dinner.”

She was pleased, loving to dance. We walked up the pavement of the rue Royale to the quiet doors of Larue. She said: “I love Rudolf and Raymonde. I saw them dancing at Monte Carlo, and they say American women give him platinum watches from Cartier and that he was a footman in San Francisco, or was that Rudolf Valentino?”

I said: “I say, do you know anything about septic poisoning?”

“Really, how callous you are! Do I know anything about it! But I had it!”

“No!” One’s sister!

“But of course I had it! It is amazing when one’s own brother is quite unaware that one has been through endless pain and torture.”

“Not pain and torture,” I said. “A little bird told me.”

“But I am not responsible for your feathered friends! I was as good as dead, that’s all I know.”

“But, my dear, that was when you were having a baby! I was in Vienna.”

“So you said. But, of course, it came on after I had a baby. One does not get septic poisoning for nothing. I nearly died, I can tell you.”

“Vestiaire, monsieur?”

“...Oh, I see. A baby. After that....”

“I have never been so hungry in my life,” my sister said, “and you talk to me of septic poisoning. I suppose you think you will destroy my appetite and therefore the bill will be less. I will begin with caviare.”

“Septic poisoning,” I said, “did not kill you, that is the point. You cannot imagine how glad I am. Let us eat caviare.”

III

La Plume de Ma Tante. Bright green walls splashed with vermilion. A platform at one end, whereon five blackamoors perspired. At the other, a naked woman. She was without hips, according to the fashion for women. Her arms were twined above her head, and raised on the tip of her fingers was a bowl of green malachite from which pink water splashed into a white alabaster basin at her feet. Many English people were present. They would be going to the Riviera, then they would be coming back from the Riviera. Colonel Duck was there, with the quality. Colonel Duck was, no doubt, just returned from some notably swift exploits on the Cresta Run. But he never was so talkative about his outdoor activities. Cherry-Marvel was there, with a great big woman and a nice-looking boy with the hands of a housemaid who was a famous boxer. There was the usual group of Argentines, very well dressed indeed. They talked about le polo. All over the room elderly women were dancing with young men of both sexes. Mio Mi Marianne was there, sitting alone, but I might not speak with her because I was with my sister. A demi-mondaine will feel insulted if you speak with her when you are with your sister. Two years before Mio Mi Marianne had one night tied a silk handkerchief round her wrist, and it became the fashion for women to tie silk handkerchiefs round their wrists. Then Mio Mi Marianne tied a silk handkerchief round her throat, and that became the fashion. She thought of these things while smoking opium. She sat alone, staring into a glass of Vichy Water. A young American polo-player called Blister went up to her table, and maybe he asked her to dance, but she just looked at him and he went away again. Her eyes were intent on an opium-dream, and she was very happy in the arms of the infinite. Mio Mi Marianne will be found one day lying on the Aubusson carpet of her drawing-room. There will be a hole in the carpet where her cigarette has died out.

A blackamoor beat a warning roll on his drum, the dancers left the floor, the lights dwindled and awoke again in swaying shadows of blue and carmine. A heavily built young man with the face of a murderer danced a tango with a lovely young girl with short golden curls. Then he threw her on the floor, and picked her up again. Rudolf and Raymonde. He did it beautifully. An American woman called the Duchess of Malvern threw Rudolph a pink carnation. The Baron de Belus said harshly: “That is a white carnation really, but it is blushing at the fuss that women make of Dagoes.” In a cage clamped to the bright green wall near us was a dumb nightingale. It kept pecking at the floor of its cage, looking at nothing and nobody. I left my sister in Cherry-Marvel’s care. I said to her that he could dance, and next day she was furious.

IV

The burning eyes of the Renault made the grim Boulevard Pierre Abel almost hospitable. That was a conscientious man, Conrad Masters. How glad I was of him at that moment! What had he said about Iris? something about his having known her for years, something about “that year at Deauville ... terrible for her.” That would mean, then, that Masters had been there during the Boy Fenwick tragedy. Iris, poor Iris! Such punishments ... for what crimes? What crimes deserved such punishments? Iris, poor Iris! But she wouldn’t mind dying, not she. That was the trouble, Masters had said. But no doubt she knew best....

The Paradis prison was a pit of blackness in the night. The dim lights behind the iron-barred windows were out, and it was impossible not to wonder if they slept up there in their iron cages, the wicked, the foolish, the betrayed. Perhaps the nightingale in its cage did not care. Perhaps those up there did not care, and slept like angels. But the wrongly accused would not sleep, that was certain. Does innocence wrongly-accused profit any one except a very wise man or a very good man, except a man who cares nothing for the opinion of this world or one who cares only for the love of the next? I said to the taxi-driver: “Hell can know no torment like the agony of an innocent in a cage,” and when he had carefully examined his tip he agreed with me.

Gently as I could, I rang the bell, praying that the old woman would not be angry with me.

“Aha!” she chuckled. “Aha! Monsieur-toujours-de-l’audace! Mais entrez, monsieur, entrez! The doctor is just this moment arrived. Truly he is a good man, this Dr. Mastaire—but our French doctors, you should see! They come for a moment, they go, and she lives or she dies, what do they care as long as they are paid? But this English doctor, he does not know how to make money easily. Madame his wife was this moment telephoning that he should go home quickly, for they are awaiting him for le bridge. Ah, cet bridge, bridge, bridge!”

“But you see how anxious I am! Have you heard anything since I last saw you?”

“To have heard nothing, young man, is to have heard good news. But sit down, the doctor himself will tell you in one moment—” That demoniac bell! It clanged through the place. Perhaps of all the nations in the world the French alone are capable of fixing the loudest possible bell to a nursing-home. The fat old woman grinned vindictively at me. We had been enemies, now we were allies against the intruder. “Bah!” she said, and opened the door. From where I stood I could not see who was without, but I could hear a voice: low, hesitating, in very correct French, in Foreign Office French....

“Napier!” ...

We stared at each other in the most profound surprise and confusion. Napier, favourite of the gods, shy, sensitive, fine ... just here, just now, facing me in the obscure silence of the Paris night!

“This is funny,” Napier made to smile. “What?”

Napier Harpenden and I had known each other well, as “well” goes, for years, but never before had we been alone together. But once, some years ago, I had seen him in a curious moment. Late one night I was walking down a villainous alley near the East India Docks when through a lighted window I was astonished to see Napier’s white, thin, fine face and those dark fevered eyes. He was talking earnestly to an old man and a very pretty young girl who was crying, and I felt ashamed to have seen him, for that is how Napier affected one, you were hurt at the idea of hurting him. I had wondered often what he could have been doing there, what secret good work he was at. He was a strange, secret, saintly youth, a favourite of the gods who never once relied on the favouritism of gods or men....

He still stood outside, a serious slack shape in a tweed overcoat. He masked, behind that faint, deprecating smile of his, more than the mere confusion of surprise. He would very much rather it had not been me he had met just there. Napier and I were friends only because all our friends were mutual. We hadn’t ever found, tried to find, any common ground for friendship. Sincerely, I was very sorry to be there. Napier had that effect on one.

“Venice is waiting in the taxi,” he said. Whenever Napier and I met he would instantly speak of Venice. This was to show me that he knew Venice and I were great friends and that, if he and I weren’t great friends, that must somehow be his fault. How could you help liking a man like that? The courtesy of that favourite of the gods went so much deeper than any one else’s: let it one day go a little deeper, and you felt that it might have gone a little too deep, down, down to self-destruction.

I said I had arrived in Paris only that afternoon, and had heard, by chance, that Mrs. Storm was ill. My presence there seemed, you can see, to require a more definite explanation than any he might think fit to give me. One felt, with Napier, uncomfortably familiar to be asking after Iris in this obscure place at this late hour. He and Iris had been “kids.” Then I thought, comically, of the two scrawled names on the grubby slip of paper. Well, I seemed to have rights too. More rights than Napier, really. Conrad Masters had no instructions to be nice to Napier. Poor Napier....

“But,” he said, slowly, slowly, “surely she’s better by now? I only just called on the off-chance ... really wanted air after the train journey more than anything else. Surely ... what?”

I stared at him. What to say? You see, the sudden, white way he was staring at me made me feel terribly canny of anything I might say. Besides, one treated Napier differently.

“Better?” I repeated. “Well....”

“But, look here,” he said, protested.... It was dark, there between the dim lodge and the night. Why on earth didn’t the man come in? “Venice and I are going south to-morrow, and I just thought I’d inquire—but, look here, I never dreamt that she....”

I at last grasped the fact that he had known she was ill. He was the only one among us who had known she was ill. One kid had known that the other kid was ill ... and had waited until, on his way south, he could conveniently come round and inquire. Well!

“You had better come in, hadn’t you?” I said. I simply couldn’t say slap-out that Iris was ill nearly to death. You couldn’t say things like that to those dark, troubled eyes. You protected Napier from your own impulses, always. A favourite not of the gods alone....

But he still stood there in the darkness, staring at me very strangely and scowling in that funny, attractive way he had. Whenever I think of Napier I can see that Napier scowl and I can hear that involuntary “what?” he would tack on to questions.

“Look here, something’s the matter.” His voice trembled absurdly.... “Something serious. What?”

“She’s very ill,” I think I said.

“Very!” he snapped. “What? You mean ... really ill? What?”

“I think so,” I said. “Yes.”

I looked into the room, avoiding those eyes. The lay sister, a pair of horn spectacles on her nose, and without a sign of interest in us, was mending the heel of a black woollen stocking, one end of which lay coiled in a black tin box. I couldn’t somehow look at Napier just then. That, you see, was the first hint I had of the thing, and though it was no more than a hint, it tore at one. The look in Napier’s eyes, I mean. The man’s heart was in his eyes....

“Look here,” he said sharply, “I don’t understand this. What? I mean, I’d no idea it was....”

“I don’t know anything,” I said, “except just that she’s ill.” We stared at each other.

“As ill,” I said, “as can be.”

“Oh,” he said. His eyes on me, not seeing me, he pushed past me through the doorway. And when I saw his face again, I was appalled. It was lost, abandoned, terribly unaware of everything but fear, it was enchanted by fear. He simply didn’t care but about one thing....

“Haven’t seen her,” he said, and scowled at me. Not that he had, at that moment, the faintest idea who I was.

“Here, a cigarette,” I said.

He stared at it in his fingers. He crushed it....

“Haven’t seen her for nearly a year,” he said in a rush, and stopped abruptly, seemed to realise me, scowled. “I say, what is it? Pneumonia or something? What?”

I fumbled. I wasn’t, I said, certain. Had only seen the doctor for a moment. Something inside, I thought, had gone wrong....

I was immensely lost in all this. He had known she was ill—but not seriously ill, nor of what! I grabbed at one certain point of behaviour for myself. One had to. I was, anyhow, going to make no mischief. Like Guy, I would give no “gratuitous information” of any sort. For better or for worse, I wouldn’t. News of septic poisoning was obviously not for Napier, not for any one—except for the two names on the grubby slip of paper. This septic poisoning seemed to mean only one of two things, a child or not a child. That was most utterly Iris’s business. Iris the desirous—for a child. “To be playmates with.” And I wondered, just then, if it had been another Hector-not-so-proud. “Like to have a winner once....” I kept on hearing that slightly husky voice saying little things.

“What I mean to say is,” Napier said, with sudden astounding calm, “that this is perfectly idiotic. What? You see, I hadn’t the faintest idea....”

But when, deceived by the calm of his voice, I looked at him, I found it better to look away again at the frowsty old lay-sister sewing away at her stocking. It was mean to look at him, he was too naked. I realised how masked we always are, how this is a world of masked men, how we are masked all day long, even on the most trivial occasions. Then I felt his hands suddenly tight around my arm. And tighter. Now what?

“I’m awfully sorry,” I said idiotically.

“Look here—I say, for God’s sake! You see, I don’t understand. What? She wrote to me weeks ago that she was going to be just slightly ill, and now....”

The fingers dropped from my arm. “Hell!” he muttered. “Oh, hell! What?” He hadn’t the faintest idea of what he was saying. I wished to God he had, I didn’t want to listen to him, I hated listening to him, it was like spying on the man. Spying on Tristram wandering in the forest raving with love for Yseult. But what could I do? How leave him like this? How let him return to Venice like this? Good Lord, and Venice waiting in the taxi! If she saw him like this.... Good Lord, was the man mad to have brought Venice with him! Here, to see Iris! The misty impulses of a man of honour ... do nothing behind his wife’s back. After, you know, having done everything. But ... Good Lord, if Venice grew tired of waiting in the taxi and came and found Napier like this, like a demented knight in a story! Venice of the lion’s cub head, the mischievous, loyal eyes, dear Venice! adoring and adorable Venice! Napier’s wife....

And, at that moment, I saw Venice again at the Loyalty, that night ten months ago, happily waiting for Napier, whose wife she would be in three days. “Darling, darling, darling!” That night of Gerald’s death! And then for the first time I remembered the cry of “Iris!” in the night, and the two red rear-lights swerving into South Audley Street, and I understood how it was that Iris in her letter had called me her “destroyer” ... her “destroyer” with love, for no lover could have passed her way that night had I told her about Gerald. And Napier had passed her way, Napier whom she had seen that night for the first time in many years, Napier her ancient friend. “There were two roads leading from a certain tree....” And the two roads had come together in the darkness of that night, in the darkness of cruelly blind chance, and now they had come together again in the darkness of this night, while Venice waited outside....

I couldn’t, you can see, not do anything just then. I couldn’t let this love-lost man be found by Venice in her husband’s shoes. Napier and Venice, the happy lovers.... I was on Venice’s side. For Venice! Always, I was for Venice. One likes so few people, but one likes those few very, very much. This love-lost man must be woken up, must behave. Of course he must behave! Venice, for Venice! How dared he have done this to Venice? Marrying her on the third day from that night....

I asked him where he was staying, and when he said “the Meurice,” I told him that if he would go now I could ring him up when I had seen the doctor. “It’s no good waiting here,” I said. “I know the doctor.”

He stared at me with the immense, the devastating, dignity of the utterly careless. I bitterly wanted to wake him up, to make him see the thing he had done, the beastly thing. For Venice! “It’s no good,” I said cruelly, “keeping Venice waiting for ever....”

He scowled at me, or at something just behind my shoulder. “I’m going to see Iris,” he said.

It was quite definite, he was going to see Iris. It would probably, I supposed, do Iris all the good in the world to see Napier on this critical night. Napier and Iris. It might make her care whether she lived or died ... but why shouldn’t she die? Venice would condemn her to die. Iris was the foe. Why shouldn’t she die? You can’t do things like that, and not die. Stealing like a little thief into the garden of Venice, and stealing away like a little thief ... to bear Napier’s child, unknown to Napier....

“Hell!” he muttered. I stared at him, at those burning, broken eyes.

“Hell!” he said. “Oh, God, what hell! What? If you only knew....”

“I don’t want to know,” I snapped. Well, did one want to know? But he didn’t hear, didn’t care, didn’t see. Being with him, you can see, was exactly like eavesdropping. Why, if Venice came in and saw this love-lost man ... her Napier, her darling, like this, with burning broken eyes. But there are some things that can’t happen! You couldn’t take Napier from Venice. And how quickly, how poignantly, Venice, if she saw him like this, would know the difference between his easy, smiling love for her and this ... damnable madness.

But in the dark taxi she wouldn’t see his face, and I was just about to try again to get him away when he said fiercely: “It’s not as though I don’t know anything about it. Or do you think Iris is a liar? What?”

“Napier, you really must pull yourself together—”

“No, but any one would think I was a most fearful cad. What?”

And he scowled, in that Napier way of his that made one want to forgive him everything. “I mean, not coming before, seeing she’s so ill ... waiting all this time, and coming just now. Why, she wrote to me four weeks ago, saying she was going to be just slightly ill and have a rest for a week or two, so of course—Oh, look here, here’s the letter, you’ll see for yourself—”

“But I don’t want to see for myself. Steady, man! I quite understand. Of course you couldn’t know....”

“No, but look here, you’ll see....”

Feverishly he began fumbling in his inside-pockets, pulling out papers, a pocket-book, passports....

Venice could be very still. I imagined her in the doorway, looking at Napier in this state. She would be very still, and in her stillness she would be destroyed. Venice was jealous, so jealous and possessive. “Got to be with Napier,” she had pleaded to me once. “You don’t know what he’s thinking about half the time, and he doesn’t know what he’s doing the other half.”

Some of the papers dropped to the floor, and I picked them up and thrust them into his gaping pocket. The old nun smiled at me over her spectacles, and then looked at Napier and tapped her forehead. But you could see she liked the looks of Napier. “Quelle belle silhouette!” she grinned. I don’t believe that Napier to this day knows there was any one but our two selves in that lodge.

He waved a white thing covered with scrawled pencil-marks, and beside it I somehow saw that letter from a draughty house on a hill of strangled olives. But between the two came the vision of Venice destroyed.

“I don’t want to read it, Napier. I quite understand. What on earth does it matter whether you knew or not, so long as you know now?”

“Thinks a lot of you,” he said darkly. “Told me, last time I saw her....”

He passed a hand over his mouth. I said: “But....”

“Beastly,” he said, looking at me with enormous, dark surprise. “That’s what I feel. Beastly. As though my skin was a dirty shirt. Ever get that? I mean, here she’s dying, and I ... God, how one gets to know oneself! What? But I’d like you to see. I mean, since it’s you. She thinks a lot of you, I know she does. Thinks you’re nice. Funny how she says that, ‘nice.’ What? But what’s she want to lie for? Iris never lies. Never. That’s what beats me. I mean, why, to me? What? Go on, you’ll see....”

Crumpled the letter was, but he had, in a sort of way, smoothed it out. I stared at it. I had to, for he was watching me with those ruined, pleading eyes. The greyhound unleashed....

“She’s dying.” I heard his voice from miles away. “You can’t tell me! She’s dying....”

“She won’t die,” I said firmly, glad to look up from the letter. And, you know, I was quite certain at that moment that she wouldn’t die. The beloved of the favourite of the gods wouldn’t die. The favourites of the gods are not let off so easily. Oh, she wouldn’t die! It would be too easy to die. “The Marches are never let off anything....”

I stared at the crumpled-looking thing in my hand. I didn’t read it. The poor devil was only showing me the thing because, at that lost moment, he was starving for understanding, for any one’s understanding, after these ten months of silence, of Venice-Napier-Iris silence....

I couldn’t, merely from the wretched fact of staring at the thing blankly, avoid the first few lines of that schoolgirl scrawl. “Napier, I have to go to a nursing-home for a few weeks’ rest. Napier, dear Napier! I’ve tried not to write, you know I have, just as we promised, but as we are never to meet again I’d like you to pray——”

That is all I read, and there I stood, staring at that crumpled letter like an idiot. “As we are never to meet again....”

Figures moved, I could see them, hear them, their cries, laughter, silences. Their silences. Napier, Venice, Iris. They had come together, blindly, desperately. By chance—but it is written in vinegar that there is no such thing as chance. And I, why, I had been appointed, a silly finger of fate, to make “chance” more sure! They had come together, those three, propelled to each other from darkness for darkness’s sake. The weak to the weak, the strong in chains. Always that is the way of things, and for no reason at all except life’s most damnable unfairness, which is for ever saying: the weak shall be made weaker, the strong shall be destroyed. Venice was strong, strong as gold, in loyalty and love. Incorruptible, golden Venice! Salute to Venice! So, said the Prince of Darkness, she must be destroyed, and to destroy her in the most efficient and painful way Napier must see Iris, unseen since girlhood, a grown-up Napier must see a grown-up Iris, a youth curiously sensible to the pitiful must suddenly see an Iris wrapped in tragedy and scandal, a helpless, hopeless, unhappy woman—the favourite of the gods and the poor shameless, shameful lady! And it was arranged, the destruction of Venice, to begin with a sudden, surprised cry of “Iris!” in the night, and then, behold! two cars would sweep through the silent streets into the heart of the dark forest of London, even to Napier’s small toy house in Brompton Square. Oh, how clearly one could see them, hear them, those friends of long ago. Clear to see they were, fumbling with their lives in the darkness of all life, most emphatically not talking of love, most emphatically being old friends. Clear to see, those two, Napier and Iris, the ancient friends. Maybe, to make chance more sure and flesh more weak, which is a jesting habit of the fallen archangel’s, they had been in love long ago and had been unhappy and had parted. The queer death of Boy Fenwick would have come between a boy and girl love, and across the wide gulf that separates a young man of consequence from a lady of pleasure they would not have seen each other for a long time. “There were two roads leading from a certain tree.” And one might hear Napier that night, not this love-lost thing, but the favourite of the gods, happy on the wings of an ancient friendship, pulling at Iris’s arm to persuade her out of her car: “Iris, come in for a moment. Oh, come along, Iris! I know how fond you are of a nice glass of cold water, and I have some of the most superior cold water in London. What? And we’ll never have another chance to talk again....” And Iris, Iris of the lament for a child! Iris had lit a flame and was like to be burnt to death in the cold fires of that flame. Iris had lit a flame, and the flames that Iris lit seemed quenchable only by death. Boy and Iris. Hector and Iris. Napier and Iris. But Napier could not die, favoured of the gods. Iris could not die, “for the Marches are never let off anything,” and so it would be the younger brother of Hector-not-so-proud who must die, who must have died, thoughtfully trying to tempt his mother into the carelessness of death.

The lay-sister had gone into the other room, which must have been a sort of kitchen, and Napier had taken her chair. He sat there, shadowed with whiteness, scowling into the black tin box.

“I see,” I said. “Of course....” I made him take the letter back, and suddenly he looked up at me intently. He’d find out something, he would.

“She is dying, isn’t she? You’re certain yourself, aren’t you? What?”

“The doctor should be in in a moment, and you can ask him. No, I don’t think she’s dying. My sister had the same sort of thing, and she’s dancing at the moment—”

“Same sort of—what thing, then? What?”

A gaffe, a faux pas, a bloomer! He scowled up at me, blackly intent....

“Ptomaine poisoning,” I said.

“Oh, God!” he said. “Oh, God! What? Poison....”

He stared at the letter which I had put into his hand. He turned it about, and seemed to think profoundly. “You see,” he muttered, “it’s all wrong, this. All wrong. What?”

I wasn’t cast for a moralist. What I said, very uncomfortably, was: “Well....”

“All this messing about,” Napier scowled at the letter. Then he looked at me, darkly, helplessly.

“Get let in for things,” he said.

“Difficult,” I said. “I know....”

“God, isn’t it! Difficult.... What? I mean, when you want to be ... well, when you want to live clean. We promised, oh God, yes! not to write, never to meet.... Must live clean, you see. What? There isn’t, when you come to think of it, any other way to live....”

“Guy says that....”

“Guy? Yes, but ... need guts like Guy’s, don’t you? What? Look here,” he suddenly waved the letter at me, “will you go out and keep Venice company for a moment? I mean, see what she’s doing? And I’ll see the doctor fellow and make him let me see Iris for a moment. Promise wiped out by approach of death.... What? I mean, lonely for her here.... Told me, last time I saw her that she was lonely. Hurts, loneliness. What? And then I find her in this hole....”

He thrust the letter into his gaping coat-pocket. I could see it there, that pencilled scrawl. Letters, letters, letters like radium-bombs, left lying about for years, then bursting. What fools men were, keeping letters ... travelling about with them, sticking them into their coat-pockets. Suppose Venice saw that letter ... just a few lines of it. Whether Iris lived or died ... suppose Venice saw just a few lines of that letter. For Venice....

“Napier,” I said.

He stared at me, extraordinarily handsome at that moment, and I remember thinking just then of what is always said, that women are not very attracted by good-looking men. But what is always said must be wrong.

“I say,” he said, “got a cigarette? What?”

“Napier,” I said, “give me that letter....”

“Or,” I said, “have two matches to your cigarette....”

A tiny smile fluttered round the thin quivering lips. “There’s no end to it,” he whispered, “is there? Once you begin. The nasty precautions....”

He struck a match, and the flame lit the ruin in his dark, fevered eyes. “You can’t,” he said, “have anything cleaner than love. You can’t. This love, anyway. Clean ... clean as the Virgin Mary. And then ... you’re dogged by dirt. You think fine things, fine sacrifices ... and you’re dirty as all Sodom and Gomorrah. All this nastiness round a thing, all this messing about....”

It was as the letter burnt in his hand and fluttered, just like a hurt crow, to the floor, while he watched it with intent seriousness, that I heard a step by the door in the other room. To see Conrad Masters alone, I hurried towards it. There he was, tired, worried-looking, his sharp features sticking like a great bird’s out of that rough brown coat.

“Bad,” he muttered. “Can’t do more. She’s conscious, too. And doesn’t give a damn. Not a damn. I told her you were here, and she said ‘Nice’ to that, but didn’t seem to think you were worth living for. Need a miracle now.... ‘Nice!’”

“But, good God,” I said, “we’ve got a miracle here! He’s a bit mad, but miracle is his second name....”

“And what’s his first?” Masters snapped.

“Harpenden....”

“First name, Christian name,” said Masters wearily. “Napier, by any chance?”

“You’re right,” said Masters. A decidedly undecided man? Why, he radiated resolution: and a lean sort of mirth. “Never know your luck,” he said. “Not in this world....” I just managed to catch him by the coat as he plunged towards the other room, in which one could make out the tail of Napier’s coat. “Masters,” I whispered, “I went and told him it was ptomaine poisoning....”

“Good,” said Masters. Those gentle worried eyes with the faintly amused look. “That’s all right,” he smiled. “Young ass.”

There sat Napier, a lost man....

“Come along,” Masters jabbed at him. “Come along, man! Waive introduction. Life and death....”

Napier jumped up. Masters looked almost fresh and boyish beside him. A captain of men, that was Conrad Masters.

“I say,” Napier said....

“Look here,” said Masters, “I’m taking you in to cheer her up. Might make all the difference. Just might....”

Napier tried to smile. Oh, he tried.

“But, doctor,” he said. “Is she ... going?”

“She wants to go, that’s the trouble. Any one would think,” snapped that captain of men, “that I was committing a felony in trying to keep her alive. By the way she looks at me. You’ve got to cheer her up, Mr. eh....”

“Captain Harpenden,” I said.

“You’ve got to make her care whether she lives or dies. That’s your business, Captain Harpenden. I’ll give you five minutes to do it in....” Napier looked from him to me. He scowled immensely.

“I’ll go out to Venice,” I said, but I don’t suppose that Napier, passing me, heard a word. Conrad Masters stayed a second. Gone was the captain of men. He looked terribly worried....

“I say, want to play bridge?”

“Bridge!” I said. “Bridge? Bridge!”

He looked terribly worried....

“Well, my wife wants—Oh, wait till I’m back! I’ll drop you anyway.” And he was off, his brown coat flouncing peevishly. Through the open door I could see Napier, his coat open, everything about him open, standing in what looked like a wide courtyard....

“Mais quelle belle silhouette!” chattered the old nun. “Le vrai type brun anglais. Mais c’est naturel qu’il soit fou avec ces yeux là....”

Napier and Conrad Masters walked across the courtyard towards a tall red-looking building. Its door was pointed like a church door, and windows here and there were alight. Through one of them a nun was looking at me. On the sill outside the largest window of all, which was not alight, stood a pineapple and some grapes on a plate.

V

After that chill, stuffy lodge the night was like a kiss. The dark shapes of Masters’s Renault and Napier’s taxi faced each other, their dimmed lamps lighting only the darkness. The chauffeur of the Renault looked to be asleep at the wheel. I hoped Venice was asleep, too. The driver of the taxi was nowhere to be seen, and stealthily I was approaching the dark shape of the taxi, mentally communicating to Venice that it would be only decent of her to be asleep, when the taxi-driver emerged from the malodorous shape of the lavabo. “Elle dorme, je crois,” the fool shouted at the top of his voice, and I bolted into the capacious Renault.

“Sorry to wake you,” came the mutter of Conrad Masters from the open door. “Where are you staying?”

Through the front window I saw the door of the taxi close. Napier would tell Venice he had seen me, and she would be surprised I had not spoken with her. “You were asleep,” Napier would say, but she would still be surprised....

“Look here,” Masters said persuasively, one foot on the footboard, “why not come to my place for a while? Come along, it won’t kill you. A night-hawk like you. My wife has a party of some sort. Dancing, bridge, Parisian-Americans....”

Dancing, bridge, Parisian-Americans! The end of a perfect day....

“It’s another form of septic poisoning,” I pleaded. “Take me to the Westminster, Masters, and let me sleep. And you’d better get a room there as well and spend the night in peace....”

The taxi in front of us bumped and rattled away. Masters muttered wearily: “Well, I will probably have to take a hand if you don’t. Most of ’em dance, but I left three bridge maniacs stranded to come on here. They stay up to all hours, the blighters....”

Smoothly the Renault picked its way among the pits and chasms of the fearful boulevards of outer Paris. “Their last chance of ever being mended,” Masters muttered, “went when the Germans lost the war....”

“All right,” I said sulkily, “I’ll come. Bridge, dancing, Parisian-Americans.... What a monstrous life you lead, Masters. But what about that miracle?”

“Can’t tell,” he muttered. “Can’t tell. Seemed bucked up a bit, of course. Took notice, recognised him, and that’s something. But you can’t tell....”

“She’ll live,” I said.

“I’m glad you’re so certain,” snapped the captain of men. “I’m so little certain that I put that young man on his honour to look round again to-morrow afternoon.”

“On his honour!” I said. “On his honour?”

“What’s the matter with his honour? Looks all right to me....”

“But he’s going South in the morning!”

“He mustn’t go!” snapped Masters. “That’ll be your job. We must give her one more chance ... one more piqure. It’s essential that he shouldn’t go to-morrow. You must prevent him.”

“I’ll try,” I said “But....”

“But surely he won’t want to go!”

“Oh, he won’t want to go....”

Masters stared at me thoughtfully. “Um,” he said. “Um.”

“Of course,” I said, “you never know....”

“Well,” said Masters, “now she’s seen him once she’ll expect to see him again. It’s only natural.”

“Of course,” I said. “Naturally....”

Smoothly ran the Renault with the scarlet wheels. The black lion found in us no little Citroën, cowered before us, slunk back into the jungle of nameless boulevards. Montparnasse showed lights to hold us, faces in cafés, singing groups of young men, little flashing women with lots of hair like dyed haloes. Artists. Swiftly we fled through the darkness, the stillness, the deep shadows of the phantom fortress of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, away we went from the ancien régime, the haute noblesse, across the river to the nouveau régime, the noblesse, down the stately slope of the Avenue Hoche into the sweet valley of the Parc Monceau, where lived the dashing Mrs. Conrad Masters, with bridge, dancing, Parisian-Americans....

“You can’t,” that man muttered, “expect her to be reasonable....”

“No,” I said, “I suppose not....”

“Nice!” snapped Masters “Good God, ‘nice’!”

Chapter Seven: FOR VENICE!

I

FAT white clouds hurried over the pale blue roof of the rue de la Paix. Spring, the first day before the first day of spring, the day that is not spring but is a voice of spring crying in the wilderness of the chilly heavens: “Here is spring, and lo! these are the clouds of winter fleeing before her, white as polar bears, and as stupid. Enjoy, enjoy le printemps!” Anxious the fat white clouds seemed, most anxious, hurrying from the vanities of the rue de la Paix towards the Cathedral of Our Lady, that they might pray, the poor clouds who know not that the pagan gods are dead, the poor clouds, who love the winter, against the return of Persephone from the arms of Plutus. The stormy brittle sunlight, eager to play with the pearls and diamonds of Van Cleef, Lacloche and Cartier, aye, and of Tecla also, chided away the fat white clouds, and now the sun would play with one window of the rue de la Paix, now with another, mortifying one, teasing another, but all in a very handsome way.

Early the next morning it was when I found myself looking upon these mighty diversions, but I had so much rather been asleep. My bedroom looked down on these things, but unfortunately not from a great height, for they are not tall, the hotels of Paris; and men are sent round the streets of Paris first thing in the morning, to the end that people may not fail to be aware of the beauty of shuttered shops, some of these men being directed to push along enormous tin barrels with which to make a carmagnole of dust, whilst others are placed on ancient taxi-cabs with especially adjusted gears and magnified horn-power. There is no peace in the world, that is what it is. There is no peace in Paris.

I lay in bed, staring through the lace curtains. What had happened, what were the alarums and excursions of that grey day yesterday, which had leapt at me from the darkness as I made to return to England after four months of pleasant wandering? Iris was ill unto death, Napier was enchanted....

Men, some in shirt-sleeves, were taking down the heavy, grey, burglar-proof shutters of the shops opposite. Set in the small windows above the shops, the modistes’ assistants seemed to be talking and talking. Some had hats in their nimble hands, some other things. It is pleasant, maybe it is the only pleasant pastime that does not ever pall, to see and not be seen. And now the shop windows began one and all to glitter in the stormy brittle sunlight which transmuted the pearls and diamonds on yellow velvet into celestial jewels fit to adorn the crown of the word printemps, than which there is not a more beautiful word in all the languages of the world. In the great window of Edouard Apel et Cie., whence in the long ago had come to this person such polite but manly notepaper, stood richly white and coloured papers, boxes of lacquer, ebony, and cedarwood, flaming quills and great cut-glass bottles for ink, and many another devise to make one realise how pleasant writing must be for those who do not have to write. Before a shop not far from Tecla’s which displayed the most charming baubles of all and completely deceived the sun, two short dark Semitic men and a lanky Semitic youth were having some difficulty with their shutters. The shutters did not look new, far from new, but maybe, I thought, a new burglar-proof arrangement has been wrought on them, and that would be causing the difficulty. The traffic had as yet but caressed the rue de la Paix, and through the open window one might hear the rising anger of the two short Semitic men with the lanky Semitic youth, an anger which seemed to call for and to attain a cuneiform language. Then a fourth man, also in shirt-sleeves, came out of the shop, a patriarchal mountain of a man with a great black beard and a mighty nose, who might that very moment have come from a breakfast of dates in a tent over against Ur of the Chaldees, and instantly I knew him for what he was, a millionaire. Many were the race-horses he owned, and often you would see him at Longchamps, talking to a beautiful woman in a deep voice about himself, for that was a vain and terrible man, and the worst of it was that he was always right about everything, whether it was a horse, a jewel, a woman, an antique, or the fall of a card. With one look of his eye he scattered the two short Semites and the lanky Semitic youth, who were his two brothers and his son, who were also millionaires, and in a trice he had those shutters off that window, and lo! there, royally alone against terraces of dingy green velvet, sat a brown Buddha with what looked like the largest emerald in the world in the middle of his forehead, but maybe it was only the second largest. The last time I had been in Paris there had been a golden chair in that window, golden arms and legs and back and sit-piece and all, and so it was no wonder that that man owned race-horses and said “Banquo!” to half-a-million francs while yawning, and rightly, for he always won, as I know to my cost. And one night he had come into the rooms at Cannes with a great ruby on his finger. Only he would, of course, but apart from the ethics of the thing it was an amazing ruby, crimson as blood and clear as a glass of Burgundy. “But what a stone!” cried Billee Ponthéveque, a cocotte who sat at the table losing all the money that she earned by breaking every Commandment but one, for she adored her father and mother and never failed to put aside for them as much as she gave in tips to the croupiers; but she never saw her parents, she would say, because of a funny idea they had that it was bad for her health to take cocaine on an empty stomach. “Yes, it is flawless,” said the deep voice of that terrible man, shouting “Banquo!” as an after-thought to some poor devil who thought he was going to get away unchallenged with fifty thousand francs. “You can have it, child. Here you are.” But Billee Ponthéveque had always a sense of the proprieties, and so, as the saying is among the vulgar, she damned his blasted cheek for offering her so valuable a present in public, but he said that made no matter, for it was just because the ruby was flawless that it was quite valueless. “If only it had the smallest flaw,” he boomed, “it would be beyond price, for any one can counterfeit a flawless ruby so that no expert can tell it from the original....”

“De la par de Madame Arpenden,” said a voice, and after the passage of curses and catcalls which are peculiar to the telephones of Paris, I heard Venice’s voice.

“Venice! Venice!”

“That will do,” she said. “Oh, that will do from you, thanks very much. Naps told me he saw you last night in that odd place, but did I see you?”

“You were asleep, Venice! But I am so glad to hear your voice after all these months, you wouldn’t believe how glad. Venice, how are you?”

“I can’t tell you now, I have to buy things. Listen, child, will you give me lunch to-day? Naps is busy for lunch. Listen, you must give me lunch to-day. I hate Paris.”

“But Napier told me you were going South to-day!”

“Oh, Naps is mad!” A boyish voice, a very boyish voice Venice had, even on a telephone in Paris. “Not dangerously mad, but just mad. I never knew such a silly, one can’t ever arrange anything beforehand with him. We are going by the evening train now, though we had everything booked for the one this morning. Listen, are you going to give me lunch? Oh that’s a dear. About one, here at the Meurice....”

“Venice!” I called, but she was gone, and I could see her striding intently through the sombre halls of the Meurice, lovely Venice, like sunlight, just like English sunlight. And keeping my mind to sunlight, and avoiding all thoughts of death and dark enchantment, I said to myself that I would stay in Paris now that I was in Paris, rather than return to London, for over London lay a memorable fog, so said the Continental Daily Mail, as also it said Hats Off To France, the guileless thing....

“De la par du Docteur Mastaire,” said the telephone this time, and there was that captain of men muttering, as he had promised he would in return for my playing bridge till all hours for his sake, that there was little change in Iris, but what little was for the better rather than for the worse. “But don’t go thinking,” said he sharply enough, “that she’s nearly out of the wood yet, because she isn’t. And, by the way, she seems to want to see you, but remember that you’ll do her the worst turn you can if you let that boy leave Paris to-day.”

“Yes, but,” I said, but I spoke only to the roar of the Parisian scene, and I thought: “Oh, well! He isn’t going till the evening anyhow.” And, still keeping my mind from dwelling on death and dark enchantments, I renewed my decision to stay in Paris a while, no matter how bitterly my sister might inveigh against me for letting her return to England unaccompanied. By now the rue de la Paix was languishing brilliantly in the stormy sunlight, and from my bath I could glimpse the cars lounging up and down and women walking swiftly by, intent on errands of the greatest importance and looking as attractive as only women can look when they are not thinking of men, while Englishmen and Americans walked seriously toward the chairs on the boulevards that they had read about in Nash’s Magazine. Then my sister’s car passed by towards the Place de l’Opera, and she sitting forward with an air of moment, the ferrule of her parasol poised above the shoulder of the chauffeur, poor Mr. Hebblethwaite, who hated the French so! “I will tell her,” I said, “that I am regrettably detained in Paris owing to the call of my art, my Work, for I have just thought of a tale about a man who would not dance with his wife, and would you have me, I will put to her frankly, write a tale like that in a London fog?”

And it was while debating with myself over this silly fancy about a man who would not dance with his wife, for some good reason that I would no doubt hit upon in due course, and while congratulating myself that I had throughout the morning successfully avoided thinking of any of my friends’ troubles, that I passed through the soft-carpeted and sombre halls of the Meurice, towards Venice, towards Venice, where she sat in a deep chair behind a paper, while in deep chairs all around sat people drinking cocktails and talking in low voices. All people talk in low voices when in the Meurice, and that, I dare venture to say, is one of the amenities peculiar to the Meurice among the hotels of all the world; but that is as it may be.

II

Venice was in high looks that day, Venice was all of a glitter, and that was because, she said at first, of this and that. But we had no sooner passed through the glass doors into the restaurant than she said, she almost cried, that something marvellous had happened just a moment before. “What do you think?” she dared me to guess, and when I said that I thought I would have some oysters she said she was too excited to eat anything, but might she have some ham and a glass of lager beer?

Venice hadn’t met my sister but once or twice, but they had met again that morning in some shop or other, “and I was complaining bitterly,” said Venice, “about Napier, how he made a perfect jumble of everything by never knowing his own mind for two minutes running, and how we couldn’t now find any sleepers in to-night’s train—when she offered to lend us her car to take us to Monte Carlo! She couldn’t bear the sight of it, she said, for another week at least, and that gives us plenty of time to get there and send it back, doesn’t it? Now fancy your having a sister like that!”

“And how is Napier?” I asked. “I only saw him for a moment....”

“I can tell you,” said Venice in a sudden sombre moment, “that I’m not a bit sorry to be leaving Paris as quick as quick. Naps has been working awfully hard lately, and here we come away for a holiday and the first thing he does is to go off the deep end about this old friend of his being ill.”

“Well, she is rather ill,” I said.

“Yes, I’m awfully sorry, really I am. I’ve never met her, but I saw her once, one night at the Loyalty just before my——”

“Yes, I remember, Venice.”

“And I thought she was the most lovely woman I’d ever seen, and rather sad-looking, which made her lovelier than ever. She’d be sad, I suppose, because of her two husbands and the things people say about her; for they do say some things, don’t they?”

“They! They, Venice, will say anything....”

“Yes, of course, but you know what I mean. And Naps, you see, can’t bear any one to be ill and miserable, and I’m sure he’s got an idea that Mrs. Storm is lonely up there, but really, I think, he might consider himself a little, don’t you? And so I ordered the car at three o’clock this afternoon, and off we’ll go. He’ll be surprised when he gets here....”

“Yes,” I said, “I suppose he will.”

“Well,” said Venice, sticking out that Pollen jaw, “there’s no use in hanging about Paris, is there? And so I sent him a message to the Embassy, where he’s been all morning, to come as soon as he could and not worry about getting ‘sleepers.’ And as I’ve already had his things packed we can start off as soon as he’s here, which will be while we’re at coffee, I shouldn’t wonder.” That Pollen jaw! What, I wondered, was Venice thinking of when she stuck out that Pollen jaw like that? Maybe she had been disturbed by Napier’s white-thunder looks when they got back to the hotel last night and was wanting to get him to herself and normal as quickly as she could—and Provence, Oh, Provence! It is not every day that a girl can motor through Provence with her lover. Venice’s love was like a solid marble monument, and I said to myself that one should respect illness but also one should respect love, and so I held my peace.

Napier had not come by the time we had finished luncheon, and as we took two deep chairs in the corner of the lounge, where we would have coffee, Venice asked me if I knew anything about the psychology of men as regards children. When I had picked myself up I said that I would reserve my defence, laughing heartily the while, but now there was a cloud of thought over Venice’s mad-blue eyes, and she was ever so serious, a flat cigarette tortured between her full, pale, dry lips. Venice, you know, said she hated the taste of lip-salve; but, with no idea at all of ever doubting Venice’s word, one had noticed that it was only since her marriage that she had grown to hate it so consistently, and so it might be that Napier had made a face after kissing her one day, for it is the affectation of Englishmen to be tiresome about cosmetics, and if they are not tiresome about cosmetics they cannot be the right sort.

“Sugar?” I asked, and she nodded intently, her mad-blue eyes absorbed on a point of the thick carpet.

“How,” I said, “you will love Provence!”

“Listen,” she said sharply. Wise those eyes were now, and steady as stars in a cavern, looking into me as though judging me, balancing life.

“Well?” I said, to get it over. But what could she know?

She made herself look unimportant. “Oh, it’s only,” she said, “that I can’t have a baby.” And she looked at me with a frantic smile, and because every second of her twenty-one years seemed to me to be in that frantic smile I did not know what on earth to say, saying: “You have probably been to some silly doctor——”

“I haven’t!” she whispered, so fiercely that an old gentleman nearby almost spilled his coffee.

“Hush, Venice!”

“But I haven’t been to any doctor——”

“Well, then,” said I wisely, “in that case, of course, I don’t see——”

“Oh, you don’t!” she whispered with her fine, savage impatience. “I tell you, my child, that I can’t—I just feel that I can’t, in my bones I feel it, that I’ll never, never, never!” And she put a cloud of smoke between us to make her smile look plausible, but through the smoke her eyes looked as though they were holding back a pain.

“Venice, darling,” I pleaded, “I’m not old enough to deal with an emergency like this. What you need is a man of Hilary’s years to turn you over and smack you and tell you that as long as you’re such a child you don’t deserve to have one——”

“I’m so miserable,” she said.

“But it’s absurd, Venice! I mean, it’s just nerves, you can’t possibly know——”

“Do you actually think,” she grabbed a cigarette fiercely from my case, “that I’ve got to go to some dud doctor and have him poking about all over me before I know what’s me! Of course I can know, and I do know, and it’s a shame, and I daren’t tell Napier....”

“You better hadn’t, on such insufficient evidence. I know what I’d do.”

“Darling, darling, darling! Tell me, do men love children? Really, really, I mean? Would Napier hate it if he knew that I was as barren as that old fig-tree——”

“Venice, how dare you let your nerves get the better of you like this! I’ve only got to be away from England for four months, and I find you in this silly state!”

“Oh, but answer my questions! Why is every one so awful these days! You see, I never know what’s going on in Napier’s mind, never! Do you think I would if he loved me?”

“‘If?’” I said. “‘If,’ Venice?” Was I now to defend Napier’s love for Venice? And then I found that she was looking at me with wide-open, motherly, amused eyes.

“You don’t actually think,” she almost laughed, “that I ever thought that Napier loved me?”

“Well, I have thought so,” I bravely admitted. “Certainly I have. It is quite usual.”

“But isn’t my gentleman friend stupid!” she suddenly giggled. “Of course, I know he loves me—as much as he can ever love any one. But that’s all, don’t you see....”

She stared at the wounded end of her poor cigarette, and lit another from my case, as that was handy. The number of cigarettes that girl smoked, and how she tortured them!

“You see,” she said, knitting together her golden eyebrows so that I should see, “Napier can’t love like other people—me, for instance, and perhaps you, though I’d have my doubts about you. I suppose people are born like that, and you’ve got to take it or leave it. Napier loves just as much as he can—which means that he’s willing, oh anxious, to do anything in the world for you—but you’re never quite sure what he’s thinking about while he’s doing it. See what I mean?”

“I try hard, Venice.”