“‘Won’t come’?” cried Ivan. “How could I?”

“Well, you did eventually, didn’t you?”

“I know, but——”

“If you’d liked,” said Belinda, “you could have come on the fifth.”

“I precious near did,” said Ivan. “When I got your card I nearly went
off the deep end.”

“But you should have, Ivan.” The man took his pipe from his mouth and
stared at the maid. “You should have written back, telling me to beat it
for The Hothouse and saying that, come snow, September the woolly fifth
would see you here.”

“Oh, you ungrateful girl! What if I had?”

“Then,” said Belinda, with a dazzling smile, “then I should have come on
the fourth.”

“_What?_” screamed Ivan, leaping up.

“Hush,” said Belinda, laying finger on lip. “You’ll—you’ll wake her.”

“D’you mean,” whispered Ivan hoarsely, “d’you mean you were waiting for
me?”

“Listen,” said Belinda. “Do you remember what Forsyth said that day
about the Will? He made us read between the lines, didn’t he? He showed
us _the implied condition_ upon which we were left this villa—that we
should enjoy it _together_. Well, that implied condition stuck in my
mind. . . . Presently I turned it round. If you remember, he said we
ought to reason upon the Will’s behalf. And I asked myself whether, if
Colonel Drawbridge had known that we were going to enjoy his home
_apart_, he would have left it us. . . . And I came to the conclusion
that he wouldn’t. . . . Well, that being so, there was only one thing to
be done. _Noblesse oblige_, you know. You can’t take advantage of the
dead.”

“Belinda!”

“Wait. That’s only my point of view. There’s no reason on earth why you
should adopt it. My conclusion may be all wrong. But if ever I come
again, I’ll get hold of Lady Cherubic and I hope you’ll come too. . . .
And when—when I marry, Ivan, I shall renounce.”

There was a long silence.

At length—

“I—I thought you were twisting my tail,” said Ivan Pomeroy.

“I know. I—I wasn’t. A girl never twists the tail of a man she
respects.”

Pomeroy stepped forward and picked up my lady’s hand.

“I don’t take your view,” he said steadily, “about the Will. The implied
condition was blunter and much more precise. You can’t make ‘enjoyment’
a condition—that’s merely a matter of hope. But you can make—wedlock.”
The hand began to tremble, and Belinda lifted its fellow and covered her
eyes. “Let’s do as you did, dear, and turn it round. If old Drawbridge
had known of our bust-up, d’you think he’d ’ve left us this place?”

The girl hesitated. Then—

“He—he might have, Ivan . . . just as—a matter of hope.”

Ivan fell on his knees and drew her hand from her face.

This was all rosy.

“Don’t let’s get out of our depth, dear. There’s something above
inducements and villas and old fellows’ whims. Something stronger. It
kept me out of this villa for ten long weeks.”

“And me,” whispered Belinda. Ivan put her hands to his lips and let his
head fall to her lap. “When you asked me to lunch and said what you
did—that day, it made me think . . . And then, suddenly, I was all
sorry I hadn’t gone. . . . And then—I thought of the Will. . . . I
thought, perhaps if we saw something of each other—not exactly off
parade, but at—at home, Ivan. . . .”

The man put his arms about her and kissed her mouth.

“I love you,” he said simply. “I love you far better than ever I did
before. When I came in that morning and found you here in the hall, I—I
felt I always wanted to find you there when I came in. You looked so
wonderful, Belinda.”

With her hands on his shoulders—

“You didn’t behave as though you did.”

“Respect had to be served.”

Belinda nodded gravely.

“That’s right. When you told me off at the last——”

“I beg your pardon, my darling. I didn’t know.”

“How could you, dear? Well, I felt an enormous respect.”

“I wonder you didn’t hate me.”

“I did—till luncheon next day. Like thunder. And then . . .” She
hesitated there and slid her arms round his neck. “You looked so nice,
my darling, across our own table.”

“My sweet, my sweet . . .”

Ivan rose to his feet and put a hand to his throat.

A moment’s fumbling, and in his hand lay a ring. This was fast to a cord
about his neck.

The girl gasped.

“Ivan! Since when?”

“Since the night we tore it,” he said.

He snapped the cord and took her left hand in his.

Then he slid the ring on to her finger and put her palm to his
lips. . . .

Her arms were close about him, and her cheek against his.

“Ivan, Ivan, my blessed! _Now I know._ . . . Till a moment ago I wasn’t
sure that it wasn’t the Will.”

The man picked her up in his arms.

“You faithless child,” he said. “It was always only a question of
finding a way. And then you found it.”

Belinda regarded him with shining eyes.

“That’s easy enough,” she said, “where there’s a Will.”

                                 HUBERT

                                 HUBERT

Julia Stane Willow passed into the cool library, took off her hat,
pitched this on to a table, and flung herself into a chair.

“If you want a drink,” she said shortly, “toll the bell.”

Her _fiancé_ limped to the fireplace, dabbed at a button, turned, sank
into the depths of a sofa and closed his eyes.

“What a truly leprous day,” he murmured. “Six fly-blown flats and four
houses in five and a half hours. An’ I wouldn’t be seen dead in one of
them.”

Julia shook back her curls.

“That one in Sloane Street wasn’t so bad,” she said.

“What, the one with the pitch-pine doors and a bathroom like a priest’s
hole?”

“They weren’t pitch-pine,” said Julia. “They were maple. Besides, we
could easily have them painted. And I don’t like too big a bathroom.”

“Neither do I,” said Hubert Challenger. “But I hate not being able to
get off the cork mat. Why, I’ve been in more roomy limousines.”

“I don’t know what you do in a bathroom,” said Julia, “but I usually
bathe. So long as there’s room for a tub . . .”

“Ah, that’s the trouble,” said Hubert. “You see, I dry myself too.
Sometimes I even go so far as to put on a good-looking vest before
bursting once more upon an expectant world.”

“Of course, if you want a bathroom like the Albert Hall. . . .”

“I don’t,” said Hubert. “That would be too big.” His _fiancée_ choked.
“But the Sloane Street appendix isn’t even life-size. Standing in the
middle of it, I could bolt the door, lean out of the window, switch on
the light, turn on the bath, wash my hands in the basin, and change the
bulb—all without moving my feet. Besides, I think two bathrooms ’d earn
their keep.”

Julia frowned.

“The first house we saw had three.”

“Yes, and seven floors,” said Hubert. “If it had had a two-way escalator
and a couple of non-stop lifts. . . .”

Here a servant entered.

“Gin and ginger-beer?” said his hostess.

“Please.”

“Right,” said Julia. “And, Perkins, I’ll have some tea.”

“Very good, miss.”

As the door closed—

“Of course,” said the lady, “you want to force my hand. You want that
flat in Hill Street, and that’s that.”

“Don’t you believe it,” said her squire. “I’m for peace in our time. If
you want The Eighty-nine Steps, you have ’em. If you want a midget
wash-house, say the blinkin’ word. After all, we can always cut the cork
mat down. I’m only out to——”

“You want that flat in Hill Street,” declared Julia. “And you’re out to
crab everything else. And I suppose by a process of exhaustion you’ll
get your way.”

Hubert Challenger sighed.

“‘Exhaustion’ is good,” he said wearily. “Never mind. Let me repeat, my
lady, that I do not care. I’ve criticized as a third party, purely to
facilitate your choice. As a future inhabitant of the kiosk, you can
count me out.”

“Don’t you take any interest in your own—your own——”

“Dunghill?” said Hubert cheerfully. His _fiancée_ stiffened. “To a
certain extent. But that extent has been reached.”

“Exactly,” observed Miss Willow. “It was reached in Hill Street.”

“I won’t say it wasn’t,” said Hubert. “First, because it was the
forty-second covert we had drawn, and, secondly, because the best is
good enough for me. When I’ve been offered a peach, you can bury the
cooking apples under the lilacs. But that’s neither here nor there. Bed
me down where you like, my dear, and I’ll be all grateful.”

“Let me congratulate you,” said Julia, “upon your sleight of tongue. Of
course, it’s been done before. ‘And whispering “I will ne’er
_dis_sent”—_dis_sented.’ Still, the way in which your preference for
Hill Street worms its way out of every protest you make is rather
precious. Never mind. I’ll try and ignore it.” Lazily she selected a
cigarette. “I think if we painted those pale doors black . . . and the
ceilings. . . .”

“And the walls,” said Hubert. “Don’t forget the walls.”

Miss Willow frowned.

Then—

“It would be very effective,” she continued, crossing her legs.

“One moment,” said her swain. “Are you being serious?”

“Why not?” said Miss Willow. “Black is most decorative.”

“It’s damned suggestive,” said Hubert. “Fancy shaving in a black
bathroom. You couldn’t help cutting yourself, could you?”

“I really don’t know,” said Julia. “But if you did—well, the sponge
would be within reach, wouldn’t it?” She paused to light her cigarette.
“I repeat that, properly done in black, that flat would be most
effective.”

“All right,” said Challenger. “I don’t care. Have it black outside, too,
if you like. That might tempt them to let us change the name—4,
Coroner’s Court, ’d sound very well. Telegraphic address, Morgue.”

Julia waved her cigarette.

“You see?” she said silkily. “Of course it may be coincidence, but I’ve
only to mention a flat which isn’t in Hill Street for you to perceive
insuperable objections to our tenancy.”

“My dear,” said Hubert, “you’re talking through your switch. If you had
suggested putting Hill Street in black, I should have been still more
emphatic. Then it would have been sacrilege as well.”

“As well as what?” said Miss Willow.

“Nihilism,” said Hubert, and closed his eyes.

There was an indignant silence.

The two were to be married within the month.

The news of their engagement had been received with general
satisfaction, for, while there were many young men in love with Julia
and many maidens who could have done with Hubert, both were so popular
that such as had lost the race felt that they had been beaten by a
better horse.

An only child, rich and of great beauty, Miss Willow might well have
been spoiled. Her character, however, was proof against such corruption.
She was spirited, liked her own way, but she was not headstrong. Upon
occasion she would take the bit in her teeth, but that was as much out
of play as anything else. There was no vice in her. Her charm was swift:
all she did she did eagerly: if she was careless, hers was a careless
age. Her admirable figure was always admirably dressed, her little feet
perfectly shod. Some men swore by her eyes, which were grey, others by
her exquisite mouth; but all were most proud of her acquaintance and
adored her company.

Hubert Challenger was a good-looking man. He had a fine record, a keen
sense of humour, and a way of getting where he wanted to go at once more
effectually and with less apparent effort than any man about town. His
engagement, therefore, to Julia was good for his soul. He was tall,
fair, keen-eyed, a beautiful horseman and a sound judge of men. Although
a man of means, he was never idle: his small estate in the country was
excellently administered: he was his own bailiff. He was generous, did
all he had to do handsomely, was naturally amiable, could be most
resolute—if occasion arose. His pleasant personality had much to answer
for. Whenever he made an acquaintance, Challenger made a friend.

“Good lord!” cried Julia suddenly, leaping to her feet. “We’ve never
been to see South Street.”

Her _fiancé_ started guiltily.

“Nor—nor we have,” he stammered.

With a withering glance, Julia sped to the mantelpiece and began in
feverish haste to powder her nose.

Hubert stared at his watch.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit late, dear?”

“Why?” demanded Julia over her shoulder. “We said ‘before six.’”

“Did—did we?”

“You know we did,” said Julia, seizing her hat.

Challenger smothered a groan.

“Let’s have tea first,” he suggested.

“Then it would be too late, wouldn’t it? Hubert, you make me tired.”

Challenger laughed wildly.

“Supposing,” he said shakily, “supposing I said I was whacked—whacked
to the blinkin’ wide, lame, over at the knees an’ ripe for palsy. Whose
fault would that be?”

“Come on,” said Julia shortly. “We can pick up a taxi on the way.”

“Just let me have the drink,” pleaded Challenger. “Not all of it.
Just——”

“When we get back,” said Julia, opening the door. “I’m going without my
tea.”

With a frightful look, Hubert rose from the sofa and followed his lady
out. . . .

Five minutes later the two were in South Street.

The flat, which had just been finished, took them by storm. It was
ideal. Apart from its excellent style, every convenience that the wit of
man can devise seemed to have been embodied in its construction. Its
walls were sound-proof: so were its ceilings and floors. Its rooms were
invisibly lit: it could be centrally heated at will: there were four
bathrooms: the servants’ quarters were paved with rubber throughout: the
telephone could be connected to a private exchange: there was even a
chute to a private posting box in the common hall. Light, airy,
perfectly arranged and admirably decorated, it had only come into the
market the day before, and that by accident.

The porter who showed them over was patently proud of his charge.

“She’ll go on Monday,” he said. “If you don’t take ’er, madam, there’s
plenty as will.”

It was long after six when at last the two emerged, swearing to be at
the agents’ on Monday at nine o’clock.

As they slid back to St. James’s—

“Aren’t you thankful I made you come?” piped Julia.

“You darling,” said Hubert and put her hand to his lips. . . .

An hour had gone by, and Challenger, refreshed and comforted, was on the
point of taking his leave when Julia knitted her brows.

“I suppose we’re wise,” she said.

Her _fiancé_ stared.

“What—what d’you mean—‘wise’?” he stammered.

“To take this South Street flat.”

Challenger recoiled. For a moment he appeared about to founder. Then he
strove to speak—ineffectually.

At length—

“You’re tired,” he said hoarsely. “That’s all. Tired and overwrought.”

“Rot,” said Julia. “It’s this flat or Hill Street, of course. The
question is which. Hill Street is very——”

“But it’s settled,” screamed Hubert. “It was settled two hours ago. The
moment we saw——”

“That,” said Julia, “is my trouble. Now that I’ve had time to think, I’m
not at all sure that Hill Street wouldn’t be best. For one thing——”

“Look here,” said Hubert uncertainly. “Yesterday we saw Hill Street. We
both found it a most elegant, agreeable apartment, more than suitable to
our requirements and cheap at the price. To-day we inspected ten of the
most bestial lodgments that ever cumbered the earth. When I ventured to
compare them with Hill Street I was reviled as a slow belly.”

“How dare you?” said Julia. “I never——”

“That,” said Hubert, “was what you inferred. To-night—thanks entirely
to your tireless enterprise, which I readily confess I did my best to
embarrass—we totter slap into H.M.’s Dolls’ House—life-size. . . .
Well, we both go wild about Harry. We rise up and call one another
blessed. For an hour we stagger deliriously about our future home,
repeatedly disclosing to each other its perfectly manifest excellence
and fatuously declaring our relish by word and deed. The idea of
comparing it with its predecessors never occurred to me. It wouldn’t
have occurred to anyone, because—it is incomparable.”

“So you think,” said Julia.

“So did you. Now—one brief hour after we’ve left it, you begin to
boggle at what you call the wisdom of pickin’ the godsend up.”

He flung up his hands with a despairing gesture and subsided heavily
upon the club-kerb.

“I’m afraid the gent’s fickle,” said Julia, “as well as selfish.”
Challenger set his teeth. “On Friday Hill Street has it. On Saturday
South Street’s the peach. I wonder what’ll win it on Monday.”

“Monday?” cried Hubert. “You don’t mean to suggest——”

“Why not?” said Julia.

Her _fiancé_ drew in his breath.

“If you seek sorrow on Monday, you seek it alone.”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Julia.

“I’m not being absurd,” raved Hubert. “The whole thing’s monstrous. One
of us is insane.”

“I agree,” said Miss Willow. “But for me, you’d ’ve taken Hill Street.
Now I’ve shown you something better you’re all over that. On Monday——”

“You admit it’s better?”

“Not at all. We’ve got to make up our minds between the three. If we had
those doors gilded—— Where are you going?”

“I’m going to some place where I can burst,” said Hubert wildly. “I
don’t want to do it here. I’ve no quarrel with your parents.”

“Have you a quarrel with me?”

“I soon shall have,” said Challenger, wiping his brow. “It’s
eighty-eight in the shade, I’ve walked about sixteen miles over bare
boards, and now I’m expected to sit still and watch you tear everything
up out of sheer, wanton, blasphemous caprice. It’s enough to induce a
blood-clot.”

“Of course,” said Julia, “you’re making me simply hate South Street.
That’s my nature, you know. I’m really too easy-going. Treat me nicely,
and I’ll eat right out of your hand from morning to night. But if you
try and ram something down my throat, it just revolts me.”

“First the truth,” said her squire, “and then the fiction. If you were
easy-going, we shouldn’t have visited over half a hundred private
residences in six days. Unless I was easy-going and a full-marks fool, I
shouldn’t have gone with you. As for——”

“When I said ‘easy-going,’” said Julia, “I did not mean ‘indolent’ or
‘labour-shy.’”

“And when I called you ‘capricious,’” retorted Challenger, “I meant
‘capricious’ with a well-known adverb in front.” Two red spots appeared
in Miss Willow’s cheeks. Hubert proceeded vigorously, “For Heaven’s
sake, Julia, pull up your socks. By noon on Monday I’ll bet that flat
has gone. The next fool that sees it won’t wait. And while we’re
sweating up strange staircases, wondering whether we should be wise to
have the Sloane Street doors nickel-plated or the bathrooms at Hill
Street filled in, the last word in habitations will be signed over. Then
I suppose I shall get it for being dilatory.”

Julia rose to her feet.

“Wrong again,” she said. “You won’t even get it for being
abusive—because you won’t be engaged.” The man’s lips tightened. “This
little episode, Hubert, has opened my eyes. And I fear that life with
you in South Street or anywhere else would be just a shade too exacting
for this little girl.”

There was a moment’s silence.

Then—

“As you please,” said Hubert carelessly.

The girl hesitated.

“I—I’m afraid I can’t give you back your ring, because I’ve lost it.”

“What?”

“Lost it,” said Julia coolly. “You know. Like ‘mislaid’—only worse. I
know I had it this morning when we started out: but it was a bit big, if
you remember, and it must have slipped off.”

Challenger swallowed violently.

“When did you miss it?” he demanded.

“About two minutes ago—when you first went off the deep end. I started
to take it off then, only it wasn’t there. I’ve been wondering what to
do ever since. You see, it’s never happened to me before, and for the
moment I was rather nonplussed. Then it occurred to me that, after all,
a ring’s only a symbol, and its giving or restoration purely a matter of
form—so why worry? As soon as I find it, I’ll send it you.”

“I see,” said Hubert drily. “Well, I’m afraid I don’t quite agree. For
one thing, this happened to be rather a good, er, symbol. For another, I
might very well need it to offer to somebody else. For another, you’re
only human.”

“What do you mean?”

Challenger rose.

“I mean that if the search for a symbol which is no longer symbolic, the
discovery of which will only benefit a man you dislike, is to be
seriously prosecuted, some incentive is necessary. Pending, therefore,
its return, I shall not regard our engagement, however inconvenient, as
broken off.”

Miss Willow yawned.

“I’m not concerned with how you regard it,” she said.

“I’m sure of that,” said Hubert suavely. “But I think other people’s
views might interest you. Should anybody seem to think that we are no
longer engaged, I shall explain the position.”

Speechless with indignation, Julia regarded him.

At length—

“I should bring an action,” she flamed, “for Breach of Promise.”

Mournfully Hubert shook his head.

“I’ve nothing in writing,” he said. “Besides, it’s the symbol I want. So
the correct action would be one for Detinue. I wonder which one you
dropped it in,” he added musingly. “I seem to remember some felt being
down somewhere, and it may have been there. That would account for our
not hearing it fall.” He knitted his brows. “Now, where was that
blinkin’ felt? Oh, I know. It was at The Eighty-nine Steps.”

“Must you rush off?” said Julia shakily.

“Must, I’m afraid,” said Hubert, opening the door. “Sleep well,
sweetheart. I’ll ring up one day next week—just to say I’m alive.”

A moment later he let himself out of the house.

Twenty-four hours had gone by.

“George,” said Miss Willow, “do you love me?”

Setting his elbows upon the severing march of table-cloth, George Fulke
crowded into his eyes as much devotion as they would hold.

“You are my star,” he said fervently.

“Good,” said Julia. “Well, now let’s come down to earth. I wired for you
because I’m in need of a—a——”

“Knight?” suggested George Fulke.

“Yes, but dismounted,” said Miss Willow. “Don’t be soppy. This table
isn’t round. . . . And now listen. Entirely between you and me, I want
to break off my engagement.”

“Julia darling!”

“That’s better,” said Miss Willow. “Now listen again. I tell you I want
to break it, and so I do. But I can’t do it.”

“Why on earth not?” cried Fulke.

“Because I’ve lost my ring. It was a perfectly beautiful ring—an
enormous solitaire emerald. Heaven knows what it was worth. And of
course I can’t possibly fire Hubert without handing it back.”

George found his moustache and pulled it respectfully.

“But supposing,” he said, “supposing you can’t find it.”

“I _must_ find it,” said Julia. “At least, you must.” She produced a
sheaf of papers. “There are some ‘orders to view.’ The ring’s in one of
those flats—or houses: I don’t know which. I may have dropped it in a
taxi, but I don’t think so. All you’ve got to do is to go and ask to see
over these places as if you wanted to take them. Then, while you’re
being shown round, you can look for the ring.”

Fulke received the papers with a bewildered air.

“I see,” he said slowly, counting. “Ten. You’ve no idea which, of
course.”

“Not the remotest,” said Julia, sipping her coffee. “But you might find
it in the first.”

“I might, of course,” said Fulke thoughtfully. “Have you been to
Scotland Yard?”

“Not yet,” said Julia.

“Well, I’ll go there first,” said George. “Just in case——”

“No, I’ll go to Scotland Yard. You must start on the flats. There isn’t
a moment to lose. Supposing a caretaker found it.”

“They’d probably take it to the police.”

“They’d probably freeze on to it,” said Julia. “I know I should. It’s a
most beautiful ring.”

Fulke drank some champagne.

“I think,” he said uneasily, “I think when I ask to see over, I’d better
say why I’ve come.”

“Why?”

“Well, they’ll think I’m mad or something—staring all over the floors.”

“Not if you do it properly. You see, my dear, you mustn’t give it away.
If you do, they won’t half show you round, and the moment you’re gone
they’ll go through the place with a tooth-comb.”

“All right,” said Fulke gloomily. “I don’t care. Only, if I do find it
there’ll be a hell of a row. They’re bound to see me pick it up, and if
it looks as valuable as you say it is——”

“Then you can explain,” said Julia, lighting a cigarette. “Once it’s
found, you can tell them that that’s what you came for. The great thing
is to find it.”

“Yes, I know that,” said Fulke. “It’s the goin’ I’m thinkin’ about. If I
don’t find it, they’ll think I’m mad: if I do find it, they’ll think I’m
a thief: and if I try to explain, they’ll probably knock me down. . . .
However, if it’s going to bring you freedom . . .”

“That’s a dear,” said Julia.

There was a moment’s silence.

Then—

“Look here,” said George suddenly. “Why did you send for me?”

Miss Willow, who had been about to drink, set down her cup.

“Because I knew you would help.”

“Why?”

“Because you love me,” said Julia boldly.

Fulke emptied his glass.

“If I find it,” he said, “will you marry me?”

Miss Willow started. This was not according to plan. For a moment she
thought very fast. Then—

“You’re too young, dear,” she said gently. “You shall take me about, I
promise—until I’m engaged again. And I’ll be awfully nice. But I
couldn’t marry you, George.”

“Then where,” said George slowly, “where do I come in?”

There was a pregnant silence.

At length—

“I thought,” said Julia coldly, “that I was your star.”

“You told me to come down to earth,” said Fulke doggedly.

“You called yourself my knight.”

“You told me to dismount,” was the disconcerting reply.

“You said you loved me,” said Julia.

“So I do. But I’ve had some. When you got engaged to Hubert, it broke me
up. And now I’m wise, Julia. I’m not going through it again.”

“D’you mean you won’t help me?” cried Julia.

“I’ll go to Scotland Yard.”

There was another silence.

“But, George darling,” purred Julia, “you don’t understand. Marriage is
merely a form—a worldly ceremony. Sooner or later every girl has to
take her place. It’s a cruel law, but then Convention is cruel—where
girls are concerned. And so I’ve got to conform. But that doesn’t mean
that I want to. My heart will always be in your care.”

“Nothing doing,” said Fulke shortly. “You mightn’t think it, but I’ve
already got Sarah Pardoner’s and Nell Herrick’s. I reminded Sarah of
that about six weeks ago, but all she said was that she was glad it had
a good home: and when I told Nell she only shrieked with laughter and
said that if it wasn’t claimed soon I’d better sell it to defray
expenses.”

“Of course, you’ve changed,” said Julia shakily. “You’ve become
commercial. I used to think you were the one man I knew who wasn’t out
for himself.”

“Nor I was—once. But it’s worn off. You’ve no idea of the dirty work
I’ve done—all women’s, of course. And often enough before I was through
they’ve forgotten they asked me to do it. As for being grateful . . .”
He let the sentence go and struck a match with great violence. “Look at
Madrigal Chichele,” he added.

“What about Madrigal?”

“She told me she was tied up for money and wanted to raffle her Rolls,
and would I sell the tickets, as it was awkward for her? Well, I went to
no end of trouble. Got the car photographed and went all over the place
selling tickets at a quid a time. I touched people all over the
Continent—complete strangers. Once a week I wrote to Madrigal to say
how I was getting on. One day I ran into her in Bond Street. ‘Oh,’ says
she, ‘I’ve been meaning to write to you, George. I’ve sold the car.’”

“What did you say?” said Julia, struggling with laughter.

“I don’t know what I said,” said George wearily. “I know I damned near
died there and then. I tried to explain it was fraud: but she said that
was all rot, and that it often happened, and that all I had to do was to
give the money back.”

“How—how many tickets had you sold?” said Julia tearfully.

“Over six hundred,” said Fulke. “Half of them haven’t seen their
money—never will see it. I don’t know where they are. I tell you,
complete strangers came in on the deal. I’m afraid to go abroad. . . .
Well, that sort of thing’s learned me. I like to know where I am and
where I come in.”

“But I can’t say I’ll marry you, George. I’m engaged to Hubert.”

Fulke handed the papers back.

“Sorry,” he said, “but this is no ordinary job. If you wanted me to take
you to Goodwood or Lords or The Zoo or something like that, I should be
tickled to death. But I’m not giving any more pints of my blood away.”

“George,” pleaded Julia, “you’re not going to let me down.”

“I shouldn’t think of such a thing,” said Fulke. “But I’m not going to
help you out of one preserve into another. It’s not good enough. You
seem to forget I love you.”

“But if the ring isn’t found I shall have to marry him. D’you want me to
do that?”

George shrugged his shoulders.

“Hubert’s all right,” he said. “I’d just as soon it was him as somebody
else. I rather like Hubert.”

Miss Willow sat back in her chair and regarded her hands. These were
small and beautifully shaped. She remembered that Hubert had once said
that he would rather kiss her fingers than any other woman’s lips.
Suddenly it occurred to her that she rather liked Hubert too. . . .

Of course, his behaviour had been monstrous. It had been very hot,
certainly. Abnormally hot. But that was no excuse. Still. . . . He had
had no right to do it—not a shadow of right, but he had spoken the
truth. She _had_ been outrageously capricious—for the love of the
thing. She had meant to pull his leg, and had twisted his tail. She had
deliberately devilled him just to see how far she could go: and, before
she knew where she was, she had gone too far. . . . Of course, that was
no excuse. Still . . .

Suddenly she remembered that Hubert had a game leg.

All those miles with a knee that wasn’t sound, that, when it was tired,
hurt. . . . And he had never pleaded it . . . never so much as
referred. . . .

And George Fulke was demanding to occupy Hubert’s stall. . . . George
Fulke . . .

Julia sat up in her chair and picked up the reins.

“What are your terms?” she said.

“Marriage,” said George laconically. “Our engagement to be announced
within one month of yours and Hubert’s being called off. Then I’ll
spread myself, Julia. Hang it, I shall have something to sweat for.”

“Of course you’re spoiled,” said Miss Willow. “Utterly spoiled.”

“In other words, I’m not such a mug as I was. Well, you can thank Sarah
and Co. for that.”

“D’you still pretend you love me?”

“I’m mad about you,” said George. “It’s just because I’m so mad that I
can’t and won’t go and hand you to somebody else. Why, I’d—I’d never
get over it.”

“But if this is how we get engaged, what will our marriage be like?”

“Julia,” said Fulke earnestly, “I’ll do you a blinkin’ treat. I really
will. You know me pretty well, and you know it isn’t my nature to want
to see your money before I deliver the goods. I’m only doing it now in
self-defence. If you’d been stung like me, you’d be doing it too. Once
I’ve got you I’ll never bargain again.”

“Would you be kind to me, George?”

In a trembling voice George protested that he would be insanely kind.

“Very well,” said Julia, returning the ‘orders to view.’ “I accept your
terms. Find the ring, and a month after my engagement to Hubert’s been
officially cancelled——”

“Oh, you darling!” said Fulke rapturously.

“Hush,” said Julia. “You’re not there yet, you know. Listen. There’s a
house with no end of stairs in Prince’s Gardens. I think I should try
that first. But between the others there’s really nothing to choose.”

“Good,” said Fulke enthusiastically.

That Julia was as wise as she was pretty is a true saying. But, what is
more to the point, she was wiser than Fulke.

George made an admirable swain. As a husband, he would have been a
complete failure. This was generally recognized. Mrs. Pardoner had seen
it, and so had Mrs. Herrick. Miss Willow was no whit less shrewd.
Besides . . .

When, therefore, she accepted his terms, she knew what he did not
suspect—that of his innocence he had left her a loophole of dimensions
so ample that it was resembling a grand entrance.

In a word, while she very much wanted her ring—it being a beautiful
gaud and of great value—she had not the slightest intention of becoming
disengaged.

That Fulke’s cake, then, was dough is perfectly plain.

Secured by this comfortable reflection, Miss Willow was in very good
cue. The bargain struck, George had recaptured his former excellence and
had made very seasonable love. She held great expectation of his finding
the ring, and was more than thankful to be spared the grisly ordeal of
revisiting her haunts of Saturday upon such a delicate quest. As for
Hubert, her peace must be made with honour: but that, she decided,
should not be difficult. Indeed, by the time she had parted with George
and was once more at home she had become quite hopeful that Hubert would
make the first move.

The sight of a note addressed in his well-known hand set the seal upon
her content.

She opened it with a faint smile.

    _MY DEAR JULIA,_

    _I’m afraid I didn’t play the game yesterday evening._

    _What does the rotten ring matter? It’s served its turn. If it
    doesn’t turn up, let it lie. If it does, keep it ‘with my love.’
    Any old way I’ve written to_ The Times, _telling them to insert
    the usual notice. You know. ‘The marriage arranged, etc., will
    not take place.’_

                                                       _Yours,_
                                                          _HUBERT._

After one frightful moment, Julia fell upon the telephone.

Two minutes later she was curtly informed that Captain Challenger was
out of town.

“It’s no good you seein’ over,” said the porter at Sloane Street. “The
flat’s took.”

“I see,” said George thoughtfully. “I see. It—it wasn’t took—taken on
Saturday.”

“Oo said it was?” said the porter, who was of the new school.

George felt for a note.

“Look here,” he said. “I want to see over this flat. I don’t care
whether it’s taken or whether it isn’t. I think it’ll just suit
me—provided the floors are good.”

“They aren’t,” said the porter. “They’re rotten.”

George swallowed.

“Well, you let me see for myself. If you’re busy, you needn’t come. You
won’t lose by it, you know,” and with that he fingered a note.

The porter leaned against the wall.

“Now, wot are you gettin’ at?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” said George indignantly. “I just want to see that flat. From
what—what I’ve heard, it’ll suit me down to the ground.”

“But I tell you it’s took.”

“That doesn’t matter,” said George. “If it suits me I’ll square the
other fellow somehow.”

The porter looked George up and down.

As if without thinking, George reinforced the note.

“Yes, that’s all right,” said the porter. “I see the two ’alf-quids. But
I’m goin’ to get into trouble over this show. Once a flat’s took, it’s
took. I ain’t got no business to let you inside.”

“No one need know,” said George thoughtlessly.

“Yes, they need,” said the porter. “Wot if you wants to ’ave it? The
firs’ thing the agent’ll say is, ‘’Ow did you get inside?’”

George began to hate the porter very much.

“That’s easy enough,” he said. “I shall say I saw it on Saturday
afternoon.”

There was a silence.

“Let’s ’ave a look at that ‘order,’” said the porter suddenly.

For the ninth time that day an ‘order to view’ passed.

“Are you Keptin Chellenger?”

“That’s right,” said George boldly.

The porter folded the ‘order’ and put it away.

“Right-oh,” he said shortly.

They passed to the second floor. . . .

“This is the ’all,” said the porter supererogatively.

“I see,” said George, raking the floor with his eyes. “It’s—it’s not
very light, is it?”

“Depen’s wot you want to see,” was the dark reply.

George began to wish that he had given Sloane Street a miss.

That the porter’s suspicions were aroused was manifest. He stuck to
Fulke as a policeman sticks to his prey. Thus embarrassed, the latter’s
endeavours to behave like a prospective tenant lost much of the life
which they had begun to acquire, while any proper prosecution of his
search was out of the question. The tour of the gaunt rooms became a
hideous business—costly, futile, critical. What he should do in the
actual event of discovery, Fulke tried not to consider. He supposed
vaguely that there would be a free fight. All the time an inexplicable
feeling that he was what children call ‘warm’ pricked the unhappy youth
into the cannon’s mouth. . . .

Presently they came to the bathroom.

This was laid with cork carpet of dark green hue. Falling upon it, a
ring would hardly be heard: lying upon it, an emerald might well escape
detection.

Fulke’s eyes almost left his head.

The chamber was small enough, but one’s view of the floor was
obstructed. The basin got in the way: the bath could have hidden about
five hundred rings.

Frantically George sought an excuse for dalliance.

“I—I like this room,” he said, looking up and around as though he were
in a cathedral.

“No accountin’ for tastes,” said the porter, folding his arms.

Fulke frowned.

Then he tapped the linoleum with his foot.

“Does this go with the flat?” he said.

“Wot?” said the porter, staring.

“This linoleum.”

The porter eyed Fulke with a supreme contempt.

“Oh, less of it,” he said. “Ten feet o’ secon’-’and lino in a
six-’undred-quid flat. An’ you ask if it goes. Why, it ain’t worth——”

“I happen to know something about linoleum,” lied Fulke furiously. “Why,
if I told the Stores to put a new piece down, they’d charge me about ten
pounds.”

“Would they, though?” said the porter. “They must ’ave got your number.”

There was an unpleasant silence.

At length—

“I—I take it the bath works all right,” said George desperately.

“It don’t leak,” said the porter, “if that’s wot you mean.”

Once more George looked round, racking his brain and trying to remember
that one day the porter would die.

Then he turned to the basin and pushed back his cuffs.

“I think I’ll wash my hands,” he announced. “Can you get me a towel?”

“An’ then you’re wrong,” said the porter. “There ain’t no water.”

George could have broken his neck.

Instead, he turned to the window, trying to keep his head and wondering
vaguely what constituted ‘justifiable homicide.’

Suddenly the idea flashed, and he swung on his heel.

“Who’s that?” he said sharply, and listened.

The porter started.

“Ooze wot?” he said.

“Somebody closed the front door.”

The porter slipped out of the room and tiptoed towards the hall.

Instantly George fell upon his face. . . .

He had one arm beneath the bath when the porter reappeared.

“Thort as much,” said the latter, “you young cunnin’ brute. An’ now I
’ave got yer—cold. You’re for it, my son. I wouldn’ give much fer your
chances. ’Tempt ter commit a felony—that’s wot it is. Stolen ‘order to
view’—passin’ yerself orf as Keptin Chellenger—temptin’ ter bribe
. . . _an’ all fer a little green stone as don’ belong to yer_.”

George extricated his arm and rose to his feet.

“Don’t be a fool,” he said shortly. “When was it found?”

The porter entered the bathroom and approached to Fulke’s a perfectly
furious countenance.

“‘Fool’?” he breathed. “‘Fool’ did joo say?”

George recoiled, and the face proportionately advanced. Its eyes were
blazing: its chin protruded out of all reason.

“You ’as the blarsted nerve to call me a fool. You ’as——”

There was not much room to duck, but Fulke did it.

As the fist sang over his shoulder, he landed a vicious punch.

The porter staggered backwards. Then the porcelain rim caught him under
the hocks, and it was all over.

As he fell into the bath, George slid out of the room and, finding a key
in the door, turned it gratefully.

A moment later he was streaking up Sloane Street. . . .

It was, perhaps, ten minutes later that Julia, frantic, ran Hubert
Challenger to earth.

“Hubert, where have you been?”

“Hurlingham,” said Hubert calmly. “How lovely you look.”

“Not all day?”

“Very nearly. I came up to town this morning, did one or two jobs of
work and——”

“At your rooms they said you were in Bucks: at Bucks they said you were
in town: I wired to each of your clubs and half the restaurants in
London: I——”

“You also warned the barber,” said Hubert. “Only a genius would have
thought of that. I’ve come straight along.”

“Can you stop that notice going in?”

“With the acme of ease,” said Hubert. “I haven’t posted the letter.”

“But you said——”

“I said I’d written, dear. I didn’t say I’d posted it.”

Torn between relief and indignation, Julia felt rather faint.

“Hubert,” she said weakly, sinking on to the arm of a chair, “I may tell
you you’ve shortened my life. Last night I dined with George Fulke.”

“Naturally,” said Hubert, sitting down. “They all do. As a second
string, George’s position is unique. And I’m glad you did. I rather like
George.”

“Well, I don’t,” said Julia. “He’s—he’s utterly spoiled.”

“In other words,” said Hubert, “he’s getting wise. Don’t say he’s done
it on you.”

“He behaved abominably. I told him to find the ring. D’you know he
actually tried to bargain with me?”

“Quite right too,” said Hubert. “Why shouldn’t he have a look in? What
was his price?”

“Only me,” said Julia. “If he found the ring I was to marry him.”

Challenger nodded approval.

“It is clear,” he said, “that George is finding himself. What did you
say?”

“I said that if he found the ring he could announce our engagement one
month after yours and mine had been cancelled.”

Challenger opened his eyes.

“You must like George very much.”

“I wouldn’t be seen dead with him.”

“Then where,” said Hubert, “is the snag?”

Julia hesitated.

“I—I said ‘officially cancelled.’ You know. Put in _The Times_. But I
never meant it to be done. I—I thought we could just tell people.”

“Oh, what a dirty one,” said Hubert.

“It wasn’t at all,” said Julia indignantly. “Besides, he asked for it.
He tried to do me down. . . . And then—then I got your letter.”

“Ah,” said Hubert. “That shortened George’s price.”

“It was two to one on him,” cried Julia. “You’d disappeared: he’d only
to find the ring—and that he did, my dear, quite early this morning.”
She held up a delicate finger, at once adorning and adorned by a
magnificent gem. “A messenger-boy——”

Challenger looked down his nose.

“As a matter of fact, he was scratched at half-past nine. I found the
symbol, my lady, and sent it along.”

Julia started to her feet.

“_You_—found—it?”

“I,” said Hubert, “with my little eye. I found the ring. I happened upon
it, as they say, in the course of a job of work.”

“Where?”

Challenger rose to his feet.

“Julia,” he said, “after the barber had cleansed me I was going to call
upon you. I was going to beg your pardon and ask you very humbly to have
another dart. I don’t want to stimy George, but I’ve taken Sloane Street
on a seven years’ lease, and——”

“Hubert, you haven’t!”

“Why not, dear? I took it first thing this morning, and, being so close,
I just felt round for the ring. There it was—in the midst of the
bathroom. I gave the porter a fiver just for luck, and——”

“But, Hubert, I’ve taken South Street.”

“_Julia!_”

Miss Willow nodded. Then she put out her hands, and Challenger caught
them in his.

“You were perfectly right,” she said. “You always are. South Street is
incomparable. And I thought, perhaps, if you didn’t think me too
capricious to live with . . . in South Street . . .”

“My blessed darling,” said Hubert, with his cheek against hers. “My
beautiful——”

Here the telephone stammered an interruption.

Challenger kissed his lady. Then he lifted his head.

“George,” he said, “for a monkey.”

Miss Willow picked up the receiver.

“Is that you, Julia?” cried Fulke.

“Oh, George,” said Miss Willow, “I am so glad you rang up. I want you to
do something for me.”

There was a choking noise.

At length—

“Not—not really?” said Fulke hysterically. “What about the ring?”

“Oh, I’ve got the ring all right. This is instead. Among those ‘orders’
I gave you was one for a flat in Sloane Street. We took it this morning,
but now we’ve seen one we like better. Will you go and tell the porter
to go on showing the flat? Just mention Hubert’s name, and—— Hullo,
hullo! Are you there? Are you there?”

But George had rung off.

And now Julia Challenger has superseded Madrigal Chichele.

                                 TITUS

                                 TITUS

“I tell you,” said Titus, “you should have married money.”

“If you like to put it that way,” said Mrs. Cheviot, “there’s nothing to
stop you.”

“My dear,” said her husband, “it happens to be the truth. Three thousand
a year’s no earthly use to you.”

“It would be if I had my share.”

Titus took out a note-book and put a glass in his eye.

“This is May,” he announced. “The twelfth of May. I don’t know exactly
how much you consider your share, but since the beginning of the year
you’ve had seven hundred and ninety for clothes alone.”

“You would write it down,” said Blanche contemptuously.

“If you mean that it’s like me,” said Cheviot, “that isn’t true. But
we’ve had these discussions before, and the absence of any figures has
materially helped your case. In the first place, I’ve always put it too
low—to be on the safe side. In the second, you’ve always sworn that I
put it too high.”

“I suppose you want me to be dressed.”

Titus took down his eyeglass and put his note-book away.

“You were clothed,” he said, “as a spinster. I remember it perfectly.
But two hundred a year was all you had to do it on.”

“Are you suggesting——”

“I’m suggesting nothing,” said Cheviot. “I’m pointing out hard facts.”

“I suppose you consider you’re very generous.”

“Well, I don’t think I’m stingy. Seven hundred and ninety quid in less
than——”

“It would interest me to know what you consider my share.”

“I don’t know,” said Titus. “I don’t pretend to know. The flat and the
car cost about eighteen hundred. I spend about a hundred——”

“We could live much more cheaply,” said Blanche.

“I don’t quite see why we should.”

“Exactly. You choose the style in which we live. If we spent less money
on that, we should have more money to spend on other things.”

“Such as clothes,” said Titus. “What a truly solemn thought. Never mind.
You chose the flat when I was out of town. And the car.”

“Because I knew you wouldn’t be content with anything else.”

“In fact, you sank your wishes to do me pleasure?”

“I did—like a fool,” said Blanche.

“You covered it up very well,” said Cheviot. “When the flat in St.
James’s fell through, you cried all night. And that was more expensive.”

“It’s no good talking,” said Blanche. “You don’t understand. In
America——”

“I know,” said Titus. “I know. In America you’d have four-fifths of my
income, and I should pay for your furs. All I can say is I’m damned glad
I’m English.”

“In America men work.”

“Is that your trouble? Well, I’ve worked pretty hard in my time and I’m
forty-two. Moreover, I’ve got a game leg. Never mind. What about the
car?”

“Well, what about it?” said Blanche defiantly.

“This,” said her husband. “You say that you chose it because you knew
that I should not be content with anything else. Do you remember the car
I used to have?”

“Did you expect me to go about in that?”

Cheviot sighed.

“I expected nothing,” he said. “That is the art of life. Then you don’t
feel such a mug when you find a wiggle-woggle in your grease.”

Mrs. Cheviot shuddered.

“Need you be disgusting?” she said.

“I need,” said Titus violently. “Dudgeon will out. For the last nine
months I’ve fought like a super-fiend to keep our home together, and
here you are doin’ your level best to break it up. I love you. I want
you to blaze. I want you to put it across all other Eves. But you
_have_—you _do_—you can’t help it. The clothes you wear don’t count.
If you wore a set of loose covers, you’d get there just the same. But
will you see it? No. Somehow you’ve made up your mind you’ve got to
splurge.” He jumped to his feet and started to pace the room. “Well, if
you must, you shall—on eight hundred a year. I can’t spring another
cent. You talk about living cheaper—cutting out the flat and the car.
But what’s the use of sables if you live an’ move in Clapham an’ have to
come up by tram? Don’t think I care—I don’t. But how will it help you
on? To get your effect you must soak in a bit all round. If you want the
fun of the fair, you must split up your pence. If you blue them all on
the swings, you can’t go on the roundabouts.”

“Who said ‘live in Clapham’?” said Blanche.

“I did,” said Titus. “I also said ‘come up by tram,’ an’ I meant what I
said. Your words were ‘live much more cheaply.’ Did you mean what you
said?”

“I didn’t say ‘pig it,’” said Mrs. Cheviot.

“They don’t pig it in Clapham,” said Titus. “They live much better than
us. But they live much more cheaply too—for obvious reasons. They don’t
feed five servants for one thing—they’ve too much sense.”

“We must keep our end up,” said Blanche. “The Willoughbys have started a
second chauffeur. At least, they’re trying to find one.”

“They’d better have ours,” said Titus. “If we cut out the car——”

“Don’t be a fool,” said Blanche. “We must have a car and we must have a
decent address. We must be served, and I must be well turned out.
If——”

“Exactly,” said Titus. “Now let’s translate that saying. What you really
mean is, ‘We must have a Rolls, and I won’t live West of Park Lane. We
must have at least five servants, and I’ve got to dress accordin’ an’ a
big bit over.’ Well, that’s all glorious, but the brutal answer’s this.
Someone once said in his thirst that to get a quart into a pint pot was
beyond the power of miserable man. Well, the converse is equally
melancholy and equally true. The man who can get a quart _out of_ a pint
pot has never been foaled—or if he has, my dear, his name’s not Titus.
And there we are. We’ve three thousand pounds a year—to spend. If you
can divide it by ten an’ get six hundred for answer, I’ll climb up the
nearest steeple an’ push myself off.” He flung himself into a chair and
put his head in his hands. “I’m not certain that wouldn’t be the best
move, any way. Then at least you wouldn’t——”

“Ti, Ti, how can you talk like that?” Blanche was down on her knees with
her arms round her husband’s neck. “I’m a selfish sweep, Ti, and you’re
an angel.”

“Rot!” said her husband, taking her in his arms.

“I am, I am. It’s the truth. You give, and I take—all the time. I take
and take and take. What fun do you have? None. Every penny you can
spare—more goes on my back. And then when we’re up against it I kick
and scream. Ti, I’m ashamed of myself.”

“I can’t bear it,” said Titus brokenly. “Why shouldn’t you have a show?”

“I do—I have. You give me a wonderful show. Everything I’ve wanted I’ve
always had. There isn’t a husband like you in all the world. You’ve
given up thing after thing—you know you have. You never hunt now, you
wear the same old suits, you’ve chucked the Bath and the Bachelors’——”

“Never went inside ’em,” muttered Titus. “What was the good of——”

“You gave them up to save money—for me to blow. And I—I let you do it.
I traded upon your love. I let you go hungry whilst I was bolting your
share. And then . . .” Blanche covered her face and burst into tears.
“I’m a rotten thief,” she sobbed, “a rotten, selfish——”

“Blanche, my lady,” begged Titus, “don’t cry about me. It’s amused me to
death to give you what little I could. It’s been my delight to see you
enjoying life. And when you say I’ve let you drink my liquor it isn’t
true. I’ve done myself proud all the time.”

“You’ve given up cigars,” wailed Blanche. “And you swapped your one
pearl pin for an arrow to go in my hat.”

“Have a heart, my beauty, have a heart. You’re the only thing I’ve got,
and if it gives me pleasure to——”

“I asked for ‘my share,’ Ti. I actually asked for ‘my share.’ Why didn’t
you get up and shake me when I asked for ‘my share’?”

“I damned near did,” said Titus. “But it seemed a pity to disturb
you—you looked so sweet. Half on an’ half off the table, with your
precious chin exalted and a couple of hands in your lap. I don’t wonder
I’m mad about you.”

Blanche continued to weep violently, refusing to be comforted. Titus sat
down beside her and did what he could. The terrier, greatly distressed,
alternately nosed his patrons and lay on his back before them with his
paws in the air. . . .

Presently the telephone-bell began to throb.

Titus left the room to reply to the call.

Once outside the door, he covered his eyes.

“It’s coming,” he said brokenly. “‘There isn’t a husband like you in all
the world.’ That’s what she said. Oh, my blessed darling, our summer’s
coming again.”

Titus had wooed a lady that loved him heart and soul and had married one
that had come to love only herself. This was his own fault. Blanche
Dudoy Guest was a darling, and he had spoiled her to death.

Their engagement had been childishly happy—a glorious summer of
content. Then they were married less than a year ago, and instantly
winter had set in.

Titus did what he could and, though he was no fool, made a pack of
mistakes. This was easy. Blanche out of humour was the devil and all.
The winter, which had never been kindly, began to grow harsh.

With it all, the man never lost heart.

He could not believe that his darling was gone for good, that the
selfish woman of the world usurping her throne would not one day be
dislodged. He told himself fiercely that one day summer would
return—that peerless season when she had returned his love and had
cared for the light in his eyes.

And now, for the first time since their marriage, Blanche had shown him
affection though he brought her no gift. More. The darling had turned
and rent the woman of the world.

It was the first swallow.

Summer was coming back.

When Titus re-entered the room, his wife, who was stroking the terrier,
looked up with shining eyes.

“I’ve got it, old fellow,” she said. “I know what my trouble is. I’ve
nothing to do.”

Titus Cheviot stared.

“This is reaction,” he said. “You stay where you are, sweetheart, and
I’ll get you a drink.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Blanche. “I’m sane as sane. I’ve not been happy,
you know—splashing about. That’s really why I splurged. I felt if I
went all out perhaps I’d get there. I haven’t, of course. You never do.
That way there’s nowhere to get. Then again—without an anchor I’m
frightfully weak. I’m not a waster by nature, but put me among the
wasters and I’ll waste away. I must have an anchor, Ti—an object in
life. When you first knew me I had one. It was—to marry you. Then I
lost that anchor . . . last June . . . in Eaton Square. . . . Since then
. . . Ti, my dear, I’m going to open a shop.”

“Moses’ boots,” said Titus, sitting down on a chair. “What are you going
to purvey?”

“Brains,” said Blanche. “My brains. And yours, if you will. It’ll cost
us next to nothing except the rent. And we ought to make that on our
heads. If we make no more, it doesn’t matter. I shall have something to
do. But we must have a decent pitch.”

“Of course,” said Titus, “of course you’ve got me beat. I thought you
sold brains by the pound.”

“Ideas, my darling, ideas. _The Cheviots, Decorators._ We’ve each got an
excellent eye. You can do the halls and libraries, and I’ll do the
drawing-rooms. We shall be frightfully _chic_ and outrageously
expensive. But we must have a decent pitch.”

Titus put a hand to his head.

“I don’t know about the _chic_,” he said dazedly, “but I shall be
expensive all right. I’m sure of that. Almost costly. By the time
they’ve paid me a tenner and then paid somebody else two tenners to rub
it all out and do it again——”

“A tenner?” cried Blanche. “Why, you won’t look at a room under fifty
guineas.”

“Oh, here’s wickedness! Here’s fraud and everything! Fifty guineas to
_me_ to look at a room? Why, it’s almost burglary.”

“Not at all,” said Blanche stoutly. “If they don’t like your taste,
that’s their funeral. They shouldn’t have bought it. But they will.
You’ve a splendid eye. Besides, they won’t know any better. And we must
ask a wicked price, otherwise no one will buy. The world takes you at
your own valuation—always. I forget who said that, but he knew.
Besides, we must become the vogue: and you can’t do that unless you’re
irrationally dear. Once you’re off it’s too easy. People will simply
love to be able to say, ‘This is a Cheviot room,’ because it’ll be
tantamount to saying, ‘I’m so rich that I blued a hundred on this room
before ever the paper went up.’”

“It’s a hundred now,” said Titus. “I’m getting all hot in the palms.
Never mind. Ramp or no, I’m beginnin’ to see your point. An’, to tell
you the truth, I could do with a bit of work—nice, gentle exercise, you
know, entailing extended week-ends and entirely suspended during the
more important race-meetings.”

“That’s the idea,” said Blanche. “Now what about a pitch?”

Her husband looked down his nose.

“That telephone-call was from Forsyth. He wants to know if I’ll take
five hundred a year for——”

Blanche leaped to her feet.

“Not 68, Old Bond Street?”

Titus nodded.

“Only the shop, you know. The rest of it’s let. Nearly half our income
comes from that little old house.”

Blanche danced across the room and took his face in her hands.

“It’s kept us long enough.” She bent and kissed him. “Let’s keep it
instead.”

Had the Cheviots opened a shop because they _had_ to make money, they
would almost certainly have failed. For one thing, that fair-weather
friend, Confidence, would have let them down. As it was, entering the
arena of Commerce to kill a time which was waxing obstreperous and being
not at all desirous of too extensive a _clientèle_, they were
immediately successful beyond all understanding. This, in a way, was no
more than they deserved. To say that they did things in style conveys
nothing at all. Within one week of the cold June morning when the
curtain rose upon 68, Old Bond Street, the name of Cheviot had become a
household word. It had become a synonym for ‘_de luxe_.’

The window was admirably dressed.

Standing upon the pavement, you seemed to be peering into a library.
Eight feet from the front yawned a tremendous chimney-piece of chiselled
stone, topped by a black oak screen and flanked by shelves laden with
precious books. Upon the hearth well-wrought andirons bore a fair fire
of logs which flamed and glowed engagingly. A broad, low club-kerb,
covered in scarlet, compassed the fireplace, and upon a Kulah hearth-rug
of unusual beauty a mighty leather chair, patently bursting with
philanthropy—the very lap of Luxury—sprawled in the colours of a
cardinal. By the head of the chair rose a slender pillar of bronze,
bearing a lamp, and by its side, within reach of any that sat upon such
a throne, a massive oaken table carried the decent furniture of drink.
There were cigarettes there, too, and an ashtray, and, what was more
important, an open book. Who passed might read.

                             A CHEVIOT ROOM

                            THAT IS TO SAY,
                     A ROOM DECORATED ACCORDING TO
                             THE ADVICE OF

                               CHEVIOT’S
                             (FOUNDED 1930)

From time to time hangings on the left parted to admit the pink of
footmen, who added fuel to the fire and swept and garnished the hearth
before retiring. So soon as it was dusk the footman switched on the
lamp, which was heavily shaded. Save for the flickering fire, this was
the sole illuminant. Not until half-past eight were the window curtains
drawn and ‘the Cheviot room’ veiled from curious gaze.

The door of the shop admitted to a stately entrance-hall, paved with
black and white marble, panelled with old grey oak, invisibly lit. Four
aged chancel stalls, each dight with a crimson cushion, faced a pair of
huge oak doors hung in the opposite wall. On the left, a superb triptych
of the Flemish School surmounted a carved oak chest; on the right, a
tall case clock rose between two panels which suggested the brush of
Dürer. Upon the ceiling was stencilled a golden cipher, whose interlaced
initials seemed to be T.B.C. In the centre of the hall was a table, and
by the table a bench, heavily carved and bearing a cushion covered with
crimson brocade.

To such as entered the shop a footman immediately appeared and,
conducting them to the table, respectfully drew their attention to an
ivory horn-book inlaid with ebony lettering.

    UPON REQUEST MR. OR MRS. CHEVIOT WILL VISIT YOUR HOUSE TO SURVEY
    THE ROOM YOU MAY WISH TO DECORATE.

    THEIR OPINION WILL BE SENT TO YOU THE DAY AFTER THEIR VISIT HAS
    BEEN PAID.

    NEITHER FOR THEIR VISIT NOR FOR THEIR OPINION WILL ANY CHARGE BE
    MADE.

    UPON FURTHER REQUEST MR. OR MRS. CHEVIOT WILL REVISIT YOUR HOUSE
    WHEN THE WORK HAS BEEN COMPLETED AND, PROVIDED THE DECORATION IS
    TO THEIR SATISFACTION, WILL BE PREPARED TO AFFIX TO THE CEILING
    THE BADGE OR CIPHER WHICH ALONE WILL ENTITLE THE CHAMBER TO BE
    STYLED ‘A CHEVIOT ROOM.’

    THEIR FEE FOR AFFIXING THE CIPHER IS FIFTY GUINEAS.

    THE INSCRIPTION OF YOUR NAME AND ADDRESS IN THE VOLUME UPON THE
    TABLE WILL BE TAKEN AS A REQUEST TO VISIT YOUR HOUSE.

    SHOULD A REQUEST TO REVISIT BE RECEIVED, YOUR ENTRY WILL BE
    WAFERED.

It will be seen that the Cheviots knew their world.

They were, in fact, purveying pomps and vanity, admirably camouflaged to
resemble virtu and guaranteed to afford the purchaser a feeling of
warmth upon every remembrance of their possession.

They were also effectually exploiting moral cowardice.

Few, having read the terms, felt able to surprise the footman, who
plainly took it for granted that an entry would be made in the book and
had been specially chosen for his wholly respectful yet stern and
compelling personality: and none, having registered therein, had the
courage to allow their name to stand unwafered and so proclaim their
disregard of what could only be regarded as a debt of honour.

They had luck, of course.

That the first person to enter the shop should have been Mrs. Drinkabeer
Stoat was sheer good fortune.

Extremely rich, a firm believer in display and the accumulation of
worldly goods, the lady was secretly tormented by an anxiety lest such
as beheld her possessions should form too low an estimate of their value
as recorded by her pass-book: and since she delighted to maintain that
the advertisement of payments made was the essence of vulgarity, much of
her time was given to the contrivance of apparently innocent references
to her latest extravagance from which should emerge such data as would
enable and induce all within earshot to form an accurate opinion of what
it had cost.

There being many of Mrs. Stoat’s school, it follows that that lady’s
patronage was worth a leader in _The Times_.

Be sure she declared it from the housetops.

“A long-felt want,” she boomed. “The moment I entered the shop I felt at
home. At first I couldn’t think why. Suddenly it occurred to
me—_style_. The Cheviots can visualize style. My dear, I could have
wept with relief. When I think of how I implored Bucher’s to do the
drawing-room in dove grey . . . I almost went down on my knees, but they
wouldn’t listen. Blanche Cheviot comes to survey it, and what’s the
first thing she says? ‘Dove grey.’ I’ve just sent her opinion to
Bucher’s and told them to carry it out.”

And so on.

It was, of course, but natural that Titus should lose his nerve.

When, upon being shown the first day’s entries, he perceived ‘requests
to survey’ one library and two halls, he appeared for some moments to
have lost the power of speech. Then he gave tongue. . . .

Mercifully the storm broke behind closed doors.

“I refuse,” he raged. “It’s criminally insane, and I won’t touch it.
‘Decorate a hall.’ I couldn’t decorate a bear-pit. An’ if I did, the
bears wouldn’t work. They’d get egg-bound or something.”

“Now, don’t be silly,” purred Blanche. “It’s the easiest——”

“I’m not being silly,” raved Titus. “I’m simply announcing my
limitations. I tell you, it’s out of the question. _I cannot decorate._”

“Nobody’s asking you to decorate,” said Mrs. Cheviot. “All you’ve got to
do is to look at a room.”

Titus inspired.

“Let’s be honest,” he said. “I don’t mean with the public. On the eve of
assisting to launch one of the biggest outputs of treachery ever dreamt
of, that would be hypocritical. But let us be frank with ourselves. I
say I cannot decorate. By that I mean that I am totally incapable of
conceiving any conjunction of garniture which would not irritate or
frighten all who beheld its execution.”

“That,” said Blanche, “is because you’ve never tried. As a matter of
fact, you’ve got an excellent eye.”

“No, you don’t,” said Titus. “My vanity’s in balk. I tell you——”

“My darling,” said Mrs. Cheviot, “if I wasn’t sure of you I’d be
frightened to death. More. Unless I knew you were safe, I wouldn’t let
you touch the business with the end of a broken reed. I’m out to get
right away, Ti.” Her husband’s eyelids flickered, and a hand went up to
his mouth. “I don’t want to persevere and do my best to please. There
aren’t any stairs in my scheme—only an elevator that doesn’t know how
to stop. Well, if I couldn’t trust my partner, d’you think I’d let him
out?”

Titus Cheviot shifted in his chair.

“It’s all damned fine, old lady, but I’ve no ideas. If I’m paid to say a
room’s bad, I’ll say it’s poisonous. But when they say, ‘Very well, my
bright and bonny. Poisonous it is. Now show us a better ’ole’—I—I
shall come all unstuck.”

“Not you,” said Blanche. “Besides, you mustn’t criticize. Don’t say
anything is poisonous, for goodness’ sake. We don’t want to be hauled up
for libel. The existing decoration you entirely ignore. You simply walk
into a room. Don’t slide in. Stroll in and take a look round. If it
isn’t panelled you’re off. Panelling always looks well. Then you——”

“Supposing it is panelled.”

“Then you decide it’s too dark. It probably is. So you make a note for
the walls to be done in canary.”

“There you are,” said Titus. “It’s nothing to you. I should never have
thought of canary in fifty years. Any fool can look at a room. The thing
is to think of canary. I can think of a red or a green, but——”

“What’s the matter with red?” said Mrs. Cheviot. “A rich wine colour.
Think of a library done in the colour of port. What goes with port?”

“Gout,” said Titus. “I mean, mahogany.”

“Good. Port-coloured walls—mahogany doors with massive silver
handles—glass mantelpiece—biscuit-coloured ceiling and paint-work, and
there you are. What could be better?”

“That’s an idea,” said Cheviot. “Reproductions of familiar
circumstances. Golf, for instance. Nice, soft green walls—sand-yellow
doors and windows—white ceiling checked—mantelpiece of burnished
steel. What? Oh, an’ two or three texts.”

“Simply maddening,” cried Blanche, laughing. “And you say you’ve no
ideas.” She raised her brown eyes to heaven. “And now that’s settled. By
the way, never open your mouth while you’re in the place. Always wait
till——”

“Don’t you worry,” said Titus. “I don’t want to be assaulted before my
time. No _viva voces_ for me. They can bite the opinion if they like,
but——”

“They’re more likely to have it framed,” said Mrs. Cheviot.

The lady was perfectly right.

At the end of three weeks Blanche and Titus, who were booked up for six,
put up their fees, charging seventy guineas a room, if the house was in
town, and regretfully refusing to visit the country unless they were
asked to survey at least three rooms.

Audacity, Carelessness up, always wins.

Business at 68, Old Bond Street, actually increased.

The stalls began to be constantly occupied by patrons who were waiting
to occupy the bench. Among them was Mrs. Drinkabeer Stoat, who, somewhat
disconcerted by the reflection that, if necessary, about five thousand
people could prove that the cipher upon her drawing-room ceiling had
cost but fifty guineas, hastened to request that her hall and
dining-room might be surveyed forthwith.

Firms of decorators who had at first been plainly contemptuous changed
their coats forthwith and began to remember ‘Cheviot’s’ in their
prayers.

The weather becoming hot, the great fireplace was replaced by an oriel
out of whose leaded casements was plainly visible a blue and sunlit sky.
Its deep window-seat was laden with cushions of powder-blue. The
mountainous chair and its henchmen had gone with the fireplace, to be
replaced by a fair ‘gate’ table, which the footman laid for lunch and
later for tea. From six o’clock the gleaming paraphernalia of cocktails
burdened the board. With the approach of evening the window was not
illuminated: only the sky beyond became suffused with the glory of some
sinking sun. Even the open book, which declared its legend from the
floor, was sacrificed to this effect, which attracted much well-deserved
attention and was commended by several newspapers.

Early in September the Cheviots raised their fee to a hundred guineas
and declined to go into the country to survey less than five rooms,
_three of which_, said their gracious intimation, _may be in one house
and two in another not more than ten miles distant_.

By the end of the month they were making four thousand a week.

The two worked hard, employing five secretaries.

One controlled their movements, arranging each day what visits should be
paid on the next, and having two programmes ready each evening at six
o’clock. The same man affixed the wafers and kept the accounts. Of the
others two were always in attendance upon Mr. and Mrs. Cheviot, taking
down their ‘opinions’ in shorthand and transcribing their notes the next
day. In addition to their wages, which were high, two per cent. of the
takings was handed to them and the footmen every week. Thus was
efficiency encouraged, if not assured.

Each evening, but at no other time, the Cheviots repaired to Old Bond
Street to confer, sign their ‘opinions,’ peruse the additions to the
register, and deal with any business that awaited them.

It was at one such hour in mid-November, when the two were left alone
behind the tall oak doors, that Blanche leaned back in her chair and
looked at her watch.

“A quarter of nine,” she said, “on a Saturday night. Since ten this
morning between us we’ve netted twelve hundred and sixty quid. I lunched
off a glass of milk at a quarter to three, and I’ve had nothing since.
And now I’m too tired to eat. What about you?”

“You may cut out the milk,” said Titus. “Never mind. The figures sustain
me. This week’s been a record. Over six thousand——”

“It’s a dog’s life,” said Blanche. “Why don’t we stop?”

“Stop?”

“Stop. Chuck it. Finish. We’ve made enough.”

“My dear, you’re not serious?”

“I am indeed,” said Blanche, “and a bit over.”

“You can spend to-morrow in bed.”

“I could spend six weeks in bed. I tell you, I’m through. This—this
high-brow robbery’s getting beyond a joke. I haven’t been out for
months. I don’t even know the name of a musical play. I’ve forgotten how
to dance. Why, I haven’t changed for dinner since——”

“Sunday last,” said Titus. “Never mind. What about it, my dear? One
can’t have everything. I like changing myself, but if I can nobble a
hundred by staying foul, I’ll make the sacrifice. Why, for half six
thousand a week I’d sleep in my clothes. An’ we don’t have to.”

“But what’s the good of it all if we don’t enjoy it?”

“I hope to,” said Titus. “I hope to enjoy it very much.”

“When?” said his wife.

“When the boom’s over,” said Titus. “This sort of thing can’t last.
Don’t you believe it. It’s just on the cards that it might hang on for a
year, but——”

“A year?” screamed Blanche. “Well, if it does you needn’t count on me.
I’ve lost five months of my life and I’m not going to lose seven more.”

“Lost?” cried Titus. “Oh, the girl’s mad. Twelve hundred a day, an’ she
talks about ‘losing’ time.” He covered his eyes. “Give me strength,” he
murmured. Then—“You only get one orange,” he said solemnly. “If you
like to chuck it away before you’ve sucked it dry, you can do it all
right. Nothing’s easier. But if you do you’ll repent it. For one thing,
you’re flouting Fortune—throwing her goods in her face.”

“Rot,” said Blanche shortly. “We’ve made enough. We started in to give
me something to do—not to make money. Well, I’ve had my whack. I’ve had
enough to do to last me the rest of my life. Incidentally, I’ve been
paid—very handsomely paid. Well, I’m extremely grateful. I’ve got my
pretty cake and I’ve eaten it too. And now I’m for putting my feet up.”

“That’s very specious,” said Titus, “but the answer is this. The
‘incident,’ as you style it, has swallowed the main idea. To be
truthful, it swallowed it before we opened the shambles—or, if not
before, as soon as the sheep rolled up. When you’re out for a walk and
you strike a trail of nuggets, you’re apt to forget that you’re only out
for exercise. And quite right too. Why? Because you usually have to dig
for nuggets, and then like as not you’re wrong.”

He paused there to steal a glance at his wife.

Blanche was holding off her hand and regarding one of her rings with her
head on one side. This was a trick she practised when she was ill at
ease.

‘Before we opened the shambles.’

As though by accident, Titus had hit the nail square on the head. Yet it
was not by accident, as both of them knew.

There are occupations other than commerce.

But Blanche had chosen commerce, because commerce not only can occupy,
but may quite possibly enrich.

The woman of the world believed in apparel—its purchase, setting and
display, and cared for little else.

More money meant more clothes.

But the purchase alone of apparel was nothing worth. Clothes were meant
to be worn. An occupation which promoted the acquisition of clothes but
precluded their display was inconvenient. . . .

So the two sat still in their counting-house—the one regarding the
other, and the other regarding her ring.

There was no sign of summer.

There had been one swallow, of course, six months ago . . . _one_
swallow. . . .

Blanche lay back in her chair and achieved and then stifled a yawn.

“I seem to remember,” she said, “that the first day we struck the
nuggets, you weren’t particularly anxious to pick any up.”

“I confess it,” said Titus. “It seemed such nerve, somehow. But now I’ve
got my hand in, it’s as easy as wink. I’ve done some lovely chambers,”
he added musingly. “I shouldn’t wonder if they became historical.”

Blanche would not have been human if she had not succumbed to such
gratuitous good-humour.

She clapped her hands to her face and began to shake with laughter.

“Titus,” she said, bubbling, “when you get all wistful and dreamy about
the heritage we’re creating for posterity, I could weep for pure joy.
It’s like a lion getting all worked up about the view from his lair. Of
course, you’re nothing but a great big child who’s been given a nice new
game. But I do wish you’d tire of it, dear. Don’t you think you’ve made
enough history?”

“Not yet,” said Titus slowly. “But I’ve got a fruity idea. You go away
for a bit. Take a fortnight off, while I carry on the good work. Go to
Paris with Madge an’ take an easy.”

“And leave you here?”

“Why not? I’ve got my box of bricks. But I can’t have you ill, my lady.
Therefore be wise. Take a fortnight out of the shambles, and you’ll come
back thirsting for blood.”

“Don’t you believe it,” said Blanche.

“Well, by then the boom may have cracked. Or I may have had enough. One
never can tell. But I beg that you’ll do as I say. I’ve only one wife.”

After a little Mrs. Cheviot allowed herself to be persuaded, and,
promising to clean up and follow within half an hour, Titus put her into
a taxi and sent her home.

Returning to the office, he resumed his seat at the table and opened a
drawer of which only he and the principal secretary possessed duplicate
keys.

Here lay two files, respectively labelled “ANSWERED” and “UNANSWERED.”

Cheviot took out the latter.

Somewhat to his relief, it contained but one letter.

The day before it had contained three.

Titus proceeded to read it with a faint frown.

                                                  _Malison Hall,_
                                                         _Kent._
                                                   _November 14th._
    _The Manager of Cheviot’s,_
     _68, Old Bond Street, W._
     _SIR,_

    _Upon returning from abroad yesterday after an absence of some
    months I was dumbfounded to find that the character of the great
    hall of this residence had been deliberately and ruthlessly
    destroyed._

    _I am informed that it was upon your advice that this
    destruction was carried out. I am informed that you recommended
    that the superb panelling should be torn down, the Grinling
    Gibbons mantelpiece replaced by a steel platform, which is, of
    course, already covered with rust, and the heavily timbered
    ceiling overlaid with plaster and then so treated as to resemble
    inferior linoleum. I am further informed that when this and
    other devilry had been executed, you had the audacity to express
    yourself satisfied with the result, the impudence to stencil the
    ceiling with the badge of your firm and the face to accept a
    cheque for three hundred guineas by way of payment for the
    abominable outrage which you have committed upon this and two
    other chambers, the present condition of which I prefer not to
    describe._

    _This morning I consulted my solicitors only to learn that,
    since you were requested to advise and then unaccountably
    requested to approve your vile handiwork by Mrs. Blatchbourne,
    your villainous conduct is within the Law, but I find some
    slight measure of relief in warning you that I shall do my
    utmost by word and deed to expose what is nothing less than a
    gang of dangerous charlatans who are inducing a lot of idiots to
    pay unheard-of prices to have their apartments desecrated and
    their sense of decency demoralized._

                                                   _I am, Sir,_
                                                    _Yours, etc._
                                     _JAMES TORRIDGE BLATCHBOURNE._

Titus laid down the letter and looked down his nose.

“Gathering clouds,” he said thoughtfully. “An’ this is as hot a one as
we’ve ever had. If Blanche but knew . . .” He drew out a little
note-book and blinked over a page. “Seventy thousand to date,” he
continued musingly. “I’d like to get to a hundred before the crash, but
ninety would do. . . .”

Presently he closed the note-book and took up a pen.

After a little reflection he wrote his reply.

                                           _68, Old Bond Street._
                                                   _November 15th._
    _SIR,_

    _I have the honour to acknowledge your letter of yesterday’s
    date and to express regret that you do not share my views of
    quality or style._

                                                   _I am, Sir,_
                                         _Your obedient servant,_
                                                   _TITUS CHEVIOT._
                                          _J.T. Blatchbourne, Esq._

As he blotted the words—

“I’ll bet he doesn’t hand that about,” he muttered.

Then he copied his letter on to the back of Mr. Blatchbourne’s and
restored the latter to its drawer.

When he had prepared an envelope and covered his reply he lighted a
cigarette and left the shop.

Mrs. Cheviot had had a most gorgeous time.

Never had idleness seemed so full of spice.

Her fortnight in Paris had grown into three fat weeks of merry-making.
Parties, dances and plays had all contributed to the delicious orgy, but
by far the handsomest contribution had been made by fashion parades.
Indeed, with Madge Willoughby to pace her upon the track of models,
Blanche had broken all her records of extravagance. When she rolled out
of the gay capital in her luxurious car bound for Boulogne she had
expended upon clothes alone very nearly six thousand pounds.

The prospect of returning to work was none too engaging. But while she
loathed the thought of working ten hours a day, the reflection that Mrs.
Willoughby had been left standing went far to cure her melancholy.
Indeed, by the time she had crossed the Channel and was sliding through
Kent she had come to the conclusion that Titus was right and that ‘not
to see the boom out would be the act of a fool.’

Then a lorry came out of a by-road at thirty-five and knocked her
limousine into a quickset hedge. . . .

By the time assistance arrived Blanche, who had recovered her wits, was
able not only to direct her extrication, but to resist all endeavours to
convey her to hospital.

“I should like to sit down somewhere,” she said faintly. “Perhaps
there’s a house somewhere near where they’d give me some tea or
something, and let me sit down. I’m not a bit hurt. What about the
chauffeur?”

The chauffeur, who should have been killed, was safe and sound and more
than occupied. It is good to think that he was kneeling upon the stomach
of the driver of the motor-lorry, at once reciting the latter’s lineage
and failings and compressing his windpipe until the delinquent’s
eyeballs started from his head.

Twenty-five yards away an imposing gateway argued the presence of a
mansion, so two very civil strangers offered Mrs. Cheviot their arms and
assisted her up the drive.

Then a bell was rung, and when a servant arrived shelter was asked.

The man went running for his master, and two minutes later Blanche was
seated in a deep chair before a fire, sipping a brandy-and-soda and
absently listening to her host’s explosive indignation while her two
assistants were relating the manner of her mishap.

The spirit worked wonders.

By the time the strangers had departed and her host was excusing his
wife, who was indisposed, Mrs. Cheviot felt able and wishful to proceed
on her way.

“If you would be so kind as to telephone for a car. The nearest garage,
you know. I’d ring up my husband, but it’s no good frightening him for
nothing, and he would be certain to think, whatever I said, that I was
more or less hurt.”

“You’re sure you mean this?” said her host, a giant of about fifty with
a handsome but choleric manner and the physique of a smith. “Because, if
you feel the least shaky—and I’m very sure I should—I’ll be happy to
put you up and your husband too.”

“You’re most awfully good,” said Blanche, “but——”

“Nonsense, my dear lady, nonsense. When a crime is committed at my very
door, the least I can do is to offer the victim such shelter as she
cares to accept. I say ‘a crime.’ If I had my way, madam, that swine
should be drawn and quartered. But for the mercy of God you would be in
the mortuary instead of in that chair conversing with me. Why? Because a
blackguard in charge of a waggon deliberately chooses to convert it into
an engine of destruction so that he can be done with the labour for
which he is paid twenty minutes before his just time.” He broke off to
stamp violently about the floor. Presently he swallowed his wrath and
came to rest. “A car, you say. Very well. I think you’re very well
plucked, but I’ll do as you say. And while it’s coming the servants will
bring you some tea.”

He strode to a door and passed out.

It was when Mrs. Cheviot had made the most of a mirror and had lighted a
cigarette that she noticed the room.

This appeared to be a hall of fine proportions.

The walls had been painted black and then varnished. They gave the
impression of having been japanned. Above them was a frieze, six feet in
depth, of the colour of chocolate and as glossy as the black walls. The
ceiling was more remarkable, presenting a pale brown surface covered
with what appeared to be a rash and somewhat resembling linoleum which
has been lightly waxed. The doors had been painted bright pink picked
out with white, and the chimney-piece, which was of steel and must have
weighed about three tons, was suggesting that a power-house had been
spoiled of some doubtless locally useful but ungainly member of its
plant.

As first one and then another of these peculiarities attracted her
attention, Mrs. Cheviot began to wonder whether, after all, she had been
killed and this was the antechamber of another world. The furniture,
however, seemed normal, and the sudden appearance of a butler with
tea-things was less supernatural than anything she could imagine. When
the man addressed her there was no longer room for doubt.

“Excuse me, madam, but I won’t put the table by you, for as soon as the
fire’s burned up, madam, I’m afraid you’ll ’ave to move. You see, that
steel, madam, gets practically red-’ot.”

“I thought I smelt something funny,” said Blanche, rising. “Of
course——”

“That’s right, madam. It’s the metal ’eatin’. An’ if I may advise you,
madam, don’t you forget an’ lay your ’and on it. I did it once without
thinkin’, stoopin’ to put on some coal.” He raised his eyes to heaven.
“You don’ do it twice. . . . An’ rust.”

“It must be terrible to keep.”

“Madam,” said the butler, “it’s crool. You can’t touch it with oil, or
the moment you light the fire the ’ole ’ouse reeks like a dozen
engine-rooms. It ’as to be burnished with chains to do any good. We jus’
manage to keep the front, but the top’s a mask of rust an’ so are the
sides.”

As if the remembrance of this condition was more grievous than he could
bear, the fellow turned away and fell to arranging the tea.

Blanche took another seat and, furtively regarding the apartment, began
to wonder what effect, if suffered daily, such a scheme of decoration
would have upon her mind. She also wondered if her host had ever heard
of 68, Old Bond Street. Black and pink and chocolate were pretty thick,
but there was something about the ceiling, something which was not only
repugnant, but——

Mrs. Cheviot stiffened with a shock.

Her heart gave one bound and then stopped.

Her gaze riveted upon the ceiling, her fingers clamped upon the arm of
her chair, she sat rigid and breathless as statuary itself, while her
brain plunged and flounced and refused to obey her will.

Then the spasm passed, and she faced the hideous truth.

The cipher on the ceiling was no illusion.

The hall was fully entitled to be styled ‘A Cheviot Room.’

Appalling reflections came surging into her brain.

Titus. This was his work. And he had been paid money for
conceiving—_this_. There were possibly two other chambers under this
very roof which he had—decorated. More. All over England there were
rooms with chocolate friezes and bright pink doors, bearing the Cheviot
cipher, the hall-mark of style—_the badge of infamy_. As like as not he
had done five or six to-day—_at one hundred guineas apiece_. . . . And
there he was walking about, all cheerful and unsuspecting, while battle,
murder and sudden death at the hands of infuriated clients must be
crouching to spring upon his shoulders. Any moment the storm must break.
Why hadn’t there been protests—riots? Why hadn’t Old Bond Street——

Here her host reappeared to say that a car would be ready in half an
hour.

Blanche tried to thank him and to keep her eyes on the floor. . . .

Twenty-five ghastly minutes went halting by.

Mrs. Cheviot swallowed some tea, toyed with a scone, the very sight of
which choked her, and by superhuman efforts succeeded in keeping the
slippery ball of conversation upon the field of sport. Out of doors, out
of mind. . . .

It was natural that hunting should figure, if late, upon her list.

“My husband used to hunt with the Quorn, and I’ve done a bit with the
Heythrop, but not just lately. It’s so frightfully expensive now.
There’s nothing quite like it, of course.”

“My dear lady,” said Mr. Blatchbourne, “a good day with the hounds is
more physically and mentally exhilarating than any exercise I know. It
brings out the best in every man. All his senses are regaled with the
finest and purest fare. The movement of the horse beneath him, the music
of the pack, the smell of the countryside——”

“And the colour,” cried Blanche excitedly. “You’re perfectly right. No
one can witness a meet without feeling the better for the sight. Why
will men wear pink in the evening? The only place for pink is out in the
open air on the top of a ripping horse. Then it’s just——”

“I agree,” said her host grimly. “Then it’s superb. How does it look
there?”

Blanche started violently. Then as a matter of form she suffered her
gaze to follow the damning finger.

“I—I—frankly, I don’t quite like it,” she stammered. “You know. It
seems out of place.”

“It is,” said Mr. Blatchbourne. “Those doors are of oak.” Mrs. Cheviot
shuddered. “Even if they were of deal, I should not have chosen pink.
Look at the walls,” he continued. Blanche obeyed tremulously. “Above
all, observe the ceiling. And then that chimney-piece. I was away at the
time, but I’m told they rigged up a derrick to get that in place.”

“You—you were away?”

“Unhappily—yes. Otherwise my wife would not have been bamboozled and
betrayed, madam, into seeking and then taking the advice of as arrant a
gang of scoundrels as ever bluffed a fool out of his money.”

White to the lips—

“How—how terrible,” quavered Mrs. Cheviot.

“One hundred guineas,” roared Mr. Blatchbourne, slamming the arm of his
chair with a hand like a maul. “And another two hundred for another
couple of rooms which I’m afraid to enter.” Blanche made ready to die.
“Once this was a gentleman’s apartment: now it is ‘A Cheviot Room.’
There’s the cipher, madam, they had the effrontery to affix. That set
the seal of their approval upon this—this barbarous pleasantry.” He
rose to his feet and flung clenched fists to heaven. “Oh, if I’d only
been here when the blackguard came down for his cheque.”

He laughed like a madman and, crossing to the hearth, stared violently
upon the fire.

So he stood for a moment. Then, as though to brace himself, he laid
hands upon the mantelpiece.

The screech of agony which instantly succeeded this action would have
done any torturer credit.

For one long hideous moment Mrs. Cheviot, whose knees were knocking,
supposed that insanity had supervened. Then a frightful apostrophe
brought the butler’s warning to her mind.

“Goats and monkeys!” screamed Blatchbourne, uplifting his palms. “_I’ve
done it again._”

That the household had recognized the burden of the plaint was manifest.

Three servants arrived at a run, bearing oil and linen with which they
proceeded to minister to their injured lord.

The latter, half-mad with pain, submitted blasphemously to their
attention, alternately reviling his wife and cursing the house of
Cheviot, root and trunk and bough, till Blanche could have fallen in her
tracks.

“Grievous bodily harm,” he mouthed. “That’s what it is. They’ve
deposited dangerous goods. They’ve done it maliciously. They intended me
to be burned. They hoped I should be burned—burned to hell. It’s a
diabolical plot. They’re poisoners. First they poison the mind and then
the body. They’re proffering robbery and murder, and fools all over
England are buying their treacherous wares. Three hundred guineas I’ve
paid to have my mind diseased and my body burned to hell.”

Here a bell stammered.

That no one heard it but Blanche is not surprising.

Without a moment’s hesitation she slipped unobserved from the hall into
a vestibule, and a moment later she was on the steps.

As the chauffeur opened the door of a landaulet—

“Take me to London,” she gasped, “and put me down at the Ritz.”

In another minute she was flying up the broad highway.

An hour had gone by, and Titus was sitting at his table with a frown on
his face.

The man looked tired, as well he might. In the last ten days he had
ciphered one hundred and eighty rooms. During this period he had
surveyed none at all. The sowing season was past: it was time to garner
the harvest—high time. The boom was cracking.

Requests to visit were falling rapidly: so were requests to revisit: in
the latter’s stead indignant letters of complaint were arriving by every
post. That the latter included one from Mrs. Drinkabeer Stoat suggested
that the end was at hand. Some of Titus’s calls were beginning to be
returned by furious clients, who, refusing to believe that the Cheviots
were not at home, simmered in the stalls for hours at a time.

Titus glanced at his watch.

“She won’t come now,” he murmured. “I suppose she’s wired to the flat
that she’s stayin’ on. Waitin’ on Worth or something for a monkey.” He
regarded his finger-nails. “Damn it, I wish she’d come back,” he added
suddenly. “If I have to send, it’ll give the game away, an’ it’s—it’s
close on closing-time. Very close. An’ there ain’t no blinkin’ market
for a business wot’s closed its doors. If she isn’t back to-morrow——
Thunder of heaven, here she is.”

It was true.

As he rose from his seat, the shop-door was slammed to, and an instant
later Mrs. Cheviot was in his arms.

“Titus, my darling, we must go—leave England at once.”

Cheviot’s brain reeled.

“Leave England?” he gasped. “Why?”

“Listen. D’you want to be murdered?”

“Not particularly,” said Titus. “But——”

“Then we must go,” said Blanche. “Why you’re still alive I can’t
imagine. Have there been any riots yet?”

“Not that I know of,” said Titus. “I haven’t had much time for the
papers lately. In the last ten days——”

“Well, there will be soon,” said Blanche. “To-morrow probably. Come on.”

“What on earth d’you mean?” said Titus dazedly. “What riots?”

“Listen,” cried Blanche, catching him by his lapels “This evening—no
matter why—I, er, called on a Mr. Blatchbourne. He’s got a house in
Kent. Well——”

“Blatchbourne,” said Titus. “Blatchbourne. Now, where have I seen that
name?”

Suddenly the truth dawned upon him—and with it came daylight in one
blinding flash.

_Blanche was about to play straight into his hands._

He had meant to show her the letters of violent complaint. He had meant
them to frighten her out of her very life. And then, when she had
decided that they must fly, he had meant to announce his intention of
carrying on. Finally, he had meant to give way—_upon certain terms_.

With a truly lightning brain he picked up his cue.

“Oh, I know,” he said. “I know. I did three rooms for them.”

“At three hundred guineas,” said Blanche. “My dear, you did. I had tea
in your hall this afternoon.”

“What a funny thing,” said Titus. “Did you say who you were?”

“No,” said Blanche faintly. “I didn’t. Like you, I value my life.
Apparently you got busy while Blatchbourne himself was away, and his
wife put through the deal. When he came back, it was all over. Of course
he’s mad as a hornet, and I don’t blame him. Titus, that hall would make
a saint see red.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” said Cheviot. “I remember it perfectly. That’s one
of my favourite designs. The ‘Boot and Saddle’ I call it. Did you notice
the pigskin ceiling?”

“I did,” said Blanche wildly. “And the steel mantelpiece. Mr.
Blatchbourne forgot and leaned on it just before I left. Of course he
was terribly burned, and he says you did it on purpose, and he’s going
to have your blood. I tell you——”

“He can’t,” said Titus calmly. “If he likes to take my advice, that’s
his look-out. Probably his burning was a judgment for abusing me.
Besides, when all’s said and done, whether the room looks well is
purely——”

“I’m not going to argue,” cried Blanche. “But we must close down at
once. That’s certain. If, as you say, you’ve done other rooms like
that——”

“I should think about fifty,” said Titus. “I tell you——”

Blanche felt rather faint.

“I say,” she said shakily, “that we must close down. It’s only a
question of hours—it must be—before a mob arrives. And then we shall
be torn in pieces.”

“My dear,” said Titus, “come home and sleep it off. Of course you can’t
please everyone, and of course we’ve had complaints. Every firm has.”

“When? You never told me.”

Cheviot shrugged his shoulders.

“It wasn’t worth while.” He pointed to a file on the table. “There are
some of them. But business keeps up.”

Blanche fell upon the file with shaking fingers.

As she peered at their contents, sentence after sentence flamed.

_A barefaced attempt . . . I defy you to take action . . . the most
horrifying result . . . brazen impudence . . . I shall do my utmost to
expose . . . actuated by malice . . . an offence against decency . . .
full particulars to the Commissioner of Police . . . inwardly ravening
wolves. . . ._

Blanche let the file go and put her hands to her head.

“And yet he’s gone on!” she wailed.

“Of course he’s gone on,” said Titus. “The vast majority are as pleased
as Punch. I tell you, business is wonderful. Last week——”

“You must stop at once,” screamed Blanche. “I won’t have another——”

“My dear,” said Titus, “come home. I’ve a full day to-morrow, and I want
you——”

“You haven’t. You shan’t have. You—Titus, for Heaven’s sake——”

“The orange,” said Titus firmly, “is not yet sucked. I’m not going to
turn down ten thousand quid a week because two or three gents prefer
their taste to mine. My conscience is perfectly clear and my hands are
clean. There isn’t a letter there that isn’t libellous. If I liked to
take ’em to Court, I could get a verdict on every one of them. What
authority have I professed? None. It’s all very well to get excited
because they don’t like my advice. I never asked them to take it. I
never said it was worth having. But as long as they like to seek it——”

Blanche was down on her knees.

“Ti, I implore you to give it up. By all that’s holy, I beg you——”

“Why?”

“Because if you don’t I shall go mad. Because someone else will go mad
and try to kill you. Each time you go out to cipher you take your life
in your hand. If Blatchbourne had been at home when you went to approve
that hall, he’d ’ve broken your back. You’ve not the faintest idea——”

“Ten thousand a week,” said Titus, “is better than any ideas.”

“We’ve made enough,” wailed Blanche. “More than enough. How much have we
made?”

“Ninety-six thousand—to date.”

“For Heaven’s sake,” screamed Blanche, “how much do you want?”

“The orange,” said Titus ruthlessly, “is not yet sucked.”

Blanche clung to his knees.

“Ti, Ti, if you love me—if you care in the least whether I live or
die—if there’s ever to be any tiny atom of happiness between us again,
you’ll turn this down.”

Cheviot appeared to hesitate.

Then he picked up his wife and put her upon the table.

“How much did you spend in Paris?”

Mrs. Cheviot started.

“I—I’m not quite sure,” she said. “I—I think I went rather a bust.”

“Quite right too,” said Titus. “I hoped you would. As a matter of fact,
you got away with over five thousand pounds.”

“Titus!”

Cheviot nodded.

“And more also. I put that amount to your credit, and I got a letter
this morning saying your account was overdrawn. Don’t think I’m kicking.
I’m not. You’ve earned every quid, sweetheart, and I’m only too glad.
But that’s a pace, my lady, that only a Crœsus can stand. And so I’ll do
a deal with you. We agreed to invest what we made. Ninety-one thousand
sounds a good deal of pelf, but when everything’s paid it means, say
three thousand a year. Very good.” He drew some paper towards her and
set a pen in her hand. “You write as I dictate. And then, if you feel
inclined, you can sign what you’ve written. If you don’t feel
inclined—well, then you can tear it up. But if you sign—I’ll put up
the shutters to-morrow at nine o’clock.”

Mrs. Cheviot slewed herself round and slid on to a chair.

“I’m at your mercy,” she said.

Titus proceeded to dictate, pacing the room.

    _In consideration of my husband’s desisting from visiting or
    revisiting strange houses, surveying rooms, stencilling ceilings
    or accepting money therefor—a practice which I admit he has
    found extremely lucrative—I hereby undertake never to demand or
    expend by way of dress-allowance a sum in excess of three
    thousand pounds a year._

“That’s all,” said Titus.

Without a word, Mrs. Cheviot affixed her signature.

Then she took a fresh sheet.

“I’ll make a copy,” she said.

“Very well,” said Titus, lighting a cigarette. . . .

When Blanche had finished writing she rose and crossed to a glass.

“Take your choice,” she said over her shoulder. “They are—facsimiles.”

Titus shot her a glance and stepped to the table.

The ‘copy’ seemed longer than the ‘original’—much longer.

    _There was once a dear called Titus. He was most awfully
    handsome and generous, and when he married he spoiled his wife
    to death. She was as greedy and selfish as he was sweet, and
    though he gave her everything he’d got, that wasn’t enough. So
    then, though he was all tired, he took off his shabby coat and
    began to work. He worked and worked and always swore he liked
    it, but he loathed it really. And they both knew why he was
    doing it, but he pretended it amused him, and she pretended to
    believe him for very shame. And then one day she really did want
    him to stop. And when he saw that she meant it, he gave her all
    the gold he had made. “If that’s enough,” he said gently, “why,
    then I’ll stop. But if it isn’t, dear, I must try to go on.” And
    when he said that, all of a sudden HER DESIRE FOR RICHES DIED.
    . . . And she didn’t know whether to laugh or whether to cry
    because at last she saw that, money or no, nothing could ever
    alter the fact that she was the richest woman in all the
    world—because she was_

                                                     _TITUS’ WIFE_.

Titus folded the ‘copy’ and slid it into his case.

Then he struck a match and burned the ‘original’ up.

Blanche never turned.

As he put an arm about her—

“Which did you burn?” she said.

Titus laid his head against hers.

“I kept my love-letter,” he said.

His darling flung her arms round his neck.

Summer was in.

‘Cheviot’s’ was closed the next day.

A week later a letter bearing the post-mark of Rapallo was delivered at
Malison Hall.

Its contents consisted of a document and three hundred and fifteen
pounds in Bank of England notes.

The document appeared to be a bill which the notes were paying.

                  _PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL._

             _Mrs. Titus Cheviot._

                       _Dr. to J.T. Blatchbourne, Esq._

          _December 6th._ _ One brandy and soda_    105   0   0
                          _One telephone call_      105   0   0
                          _One tea_                 105   0   0
                                                        ———————
                                                    315   0   0
                                                        =======

                               PEREGRINE

                               PEREGRINE

“I sometimes think,” said Mrs. Carey Below, “that you are losing your
mind.”

Peregrine Carey Below put a hand to his head.

“I’m not so sure I’m not,” he said wearily.

“Is that meant to be rude?”

Peregrine raised his eyes to meet the glint of steel in those of his
wife. For a moment he seemed upon the edge of protest: then the cold,
level gaze bore down his spirit. Peregrine felt as though he were seated
in cold water. He shifted uneasily.

“No, no,” he said. “Of course it isn’t. I—I only——”

“Because if it is,” said Mrs. Below silkily, “if it is, we shall have to
have an understanding.” She bridled menacingly. “I was not bred to
rudeness. Selfishness I can put up with—fortunately for me: I can
suffer a fool—I’ve done it day and night for seven years: but rudeness
is an assault, and that I will not endure.”

“I assure you, Marion——”

“D’you mind holding your tongue?” The words bit at the air, and
Peregrine winced. “As I say, I was not bred to rudeness. My father was
old-fashioned enough to treat my mother with courtesy, if not respect.
I’m not such a fool as to expect those emotions from you because my
father was a gentleman, but if you could manage to suppress your coarser
instincts at least in my presence, I should be grateful. Personally, I
see nothing heinous in my wish to attend a dance. Life’s flat enough,
Heaven knows. Besides, it’s been done before. That is what dances are
for—Peregrine. I confess I did not expect my suggestion to be cordially
received. That would have been unreasonably optimistic. It hasn’t taken
me seven years to discover that social intercourse doesn’t appeal to
you. But it never occurred to me that my mere expression of a very
natural desire would be the signal for an outburst of abuse. But there
again—I never expect contumely. I’ve had it and stood it for seven
years, and I suppose most women would have become case-hardened. But I’m
different. I cannot realize that the old order is changed, that you
cannot spell the word ‘chivalry,’ that to you women are chattels whose
only office is to reflect the glorious will of man. What if our passages
are booked? I suppose they can be cancelled.”

“Certainly, dear,” said Peregrine. “I’ll—I’ll do it this morning.”

“No, you won’t,” said his wife. “You’ll do it this afternoon. This
morning we’re playing golf. Which reminds me—have you ordered a car?”

“I will if you like,” said Peregrine, rising. “I shouldn’t think it was
necess——”

“Why argue?” said Mrs. Below grimly. “Why not be big-minded enough to
admit your mistake? If there is one thing I despise more than another,
it is a man or woman who deliberately sticks to their point when they
know that they’re wrong. And why should I run the risk of having to walk
because you won’t take the trouble to order a car? Of course it’s the
old thing—lack of consideration. First, every possible obstacle is put
in the way of my going to a dance just because you don’t want the bother
of writing a note. Then my convenience is to be jeopardized. . . .” She
raised her eyes to heaven and let the sentence go. “You ought to have
known my father,” she continued piously. “With him my mother came first
_always_. It never occurred to him to argue. She only had to . . .” She
stopped there to peer violently at the floor. “What have you got on your
feet?”

“My—buckskin shoes, dear,” said Peregrine.

“Rubber-soled?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Below inspired vehemently, cast a reproachful glance skywards, as
though to suggest that, while allowing and prepared to suffer the
inscrutable authority of God, she expected it to be counted to her for
righteousness, and set her teeth.

“Go and change,” she said shortly, using the tone of one who, tried
beyond endurance, forgets that he is addressing a fellow-man. “I never
thought I should have to dress you, but it seems I was wrong. We’re
going to play golf, my darling—not tennis. Golf.”

“I—I know,” faltered Peregrine, “but——”

“That’s right,” said his wife. “Argue the point. Give me the lie. Where
are you going?”

“To change,” said her husband thickly.

“What about the car?”

In a silence too charged for words, Peregrine turned.

“You see?” continued his wife. “Your own convenience first, and mine
second. The car’s for me, the shoes are for you. Instinctively you put
the shoes first. . . .” She shrugged her shoulders, and a bleak look
settled on her face. “Of course I blame myself. I’ve spoiled you. You’re
naturally selfish, and because I loved you and wanted you to be happy I
spoiled you to death. And now I’m paying for it.” For a moment she
appeared to contemplate her state. Then she flung up her head. “And you
stand by, looking like a plaster saint!” Her eyes raked him vertically.
“My word, that injured air! Always the little innocent—the poor little
village idiot that’s always being accused of something he’s never done.
I suppose you hope one day to get away with it. Melt my heart, or
something. Well, the sooner you realize that martyrdom makes me tired,
the better for you. If you don’t agree, why not say so and put your
point like a man? But you could never do that. The trouble with you is
that you weren’t at a Public School. There you’d have learned manners
and—well, they’ve got a very short way with plaster saints.”

After a moment—

“I’ll go and order a car,” said her husband quietly, and left the room.

The disorder was a very ordinary one, but it was a bad case.

In the first place, it is due to Peregrine to say that he was not fair
game.

When Mrs. Below observed that her husband ought to have gone to a public
school she hit the nail on the head. That would have altered everything.
But Peregrine was an only and delicate child. When he was twelve he had
spent six years on his back. Not until he was twenty had he been ‘passed
sound.’ His most impressionable years had been spent in a shelter such
as only a widow’s devotion to a son who is not expected to live can ever
erect. He certainly went to Oxford, but use held. His vacations were
happier than the terms he kept, and after two years he returned to his
mother’s side. Then the War came. . . . One morning his Commission
arrived. His mother shared his joy, but died in her sleep that night.
Three years later the sparrow fell on the ground.

Peregrine Carey Below had fallen in love with his wife, and she had
exploited his fall to the top of her bent. I say ‘fallen.’ To be more
accurate, he had ventured to look in the pool, and his future wife had
promptly kicked him in.

Swiftly, though imperceptibly, the garlands which he had twined
rapturously about his limbs had turned to fetters which he could not
unloose. The garlands had been supplied by Mrs. Below.

The man was in thrall to a personality—a vigorous magnetism, which
sucked the marrow from his bones and, waxing fat on it, grew more
exacting and savage every day. Physical bonds there were none. The two
were childless: in her own right Marion Carey Below had not a penny
piece. Yet so well had she wrought that full two-thirds of his income
went into her privy purse, while of that which was left, her husband
accounted to her for every farthing. For seven years she had bluffed
him—with an empty hand: and he paid and paid and paid. . . . The bluff
slid into torment—for the love of the thing: the torment, into the
order of the day. Mrs. Carey Below had reduced nagging to a fine art.
Her vocabulary was rich, her tongue fluent, her brain quick. Perversion,
avoidance, falsehood were so many irons in the fire. It was a bad case.

The lady was thirty-eight, handsome and as hard as nails. Always
ruthless, she had appropriated Peregrine out of hand. The fact that he
was betrothed to another girl did not concern her. I doubt if his
marriage would have stood in her way. The best was good enough for her,
no matter to whom it belonged. The idea of troubling to hold him never
entered her head: the very sublimity of her self-confidence grappled him
to her soul. There was no love in her—nor ever had been. Women disliked
her with cause, but to men she appealed. The appeal was deliberate. To
her, male admiration was the breath of life. ‘A born _vivandière_,’ says
someone. Not at all. She would have loathed the job. The salt would have
lost his savour. Male admiration must be won at another’s expense. To
diminish all other women was her heart’s desire. Money,
convenience—everything was offered upon this altar. Peregrine’s money,
Peregrine’s convenience. Marriage had brought him indeed more kicks than
halfpence.

The man was thirty-six, quiet, tall, good-looking. You would not have
written him down as overborne. His brown eyes were mild, certainly, but
his mouth was firm and his carriage dignified. He was easy-going and
regarded the Line of Least Resistance as the Rock of Ages. Such
confidence had proved fatal. Long ago the Rock had become a straw, but
he clung to it desperately. That the torrent was but breast-high he did
not appear to perceive. Possibly he was fascinated. There was,
certainly, much of the python about his lady. The probability is that he
was afraid—had not the moral courage to throw off the yoke. One might
have thought that the instinct of self-preservation would have hounded
him out of his hell. But the instinct was always stillborn. Her
careless, rampant personality scorched it in embryo. It was a bad case.

Peregrine descended listlessly to the cool hall.

The Carey Belows had only arrived at Biarritz the night before, and had
been due to leave in ten days’ time: but, as we have seen, the date of
the Domino Ball had altered everything. For the second time in three
weeks their passages to New York were to be cancelled, and fresh
arrangements made. Hotels, Banks, Solicitors would have to be told.
Policies of Assurance would have to be reindorsed. . . . Peregrine had
learned to leave nothing to chance. It was not good enough.

The porter was previsionally urbane.

“A gar for thee gough? Certainly, sir. Do you wand it at once?”

“No, but I want one ready.”

“Verry good, sir. There are always some taxis here. When you gome
down——”

“Order it now,” said Below. “And let it wait.”

“As you please, sir.”

He touched a bell-push, and a gong stammered outside.

Peregrine stepped to the lift.

As he did so the gates were opened, and two people emerged—a gentle,
white-haired woman and a tall, steady-eyed girl of thirty-four.

Idly Peregrine registered them as an English lady of title with an
American niece.

Herein he was perfectly right.

That, as she passed him, the girl turned very pale he did not remark.

He had no idea who she was.

After all, he had not seen her for more than seven years.

That Joan Purchase Atlee, young, rich, attractive, would never marry
seemed to be past all question. Her aunt, however, refused to abandon
hope. Joan was so obviously cut for wedlock and motherhood. To suckle
the memory of a broken dream was out of all reason. ‘Men were deceivers
ever.’ Besides . . . But Joan was resolute. She had loved Peregrine with
a whole heart, and no other man had ever touched her at all. More.
Peregrine had loved her. He had not left her: he had been stolen away.
She had never seen Mrs. Below, but she was certain of that. Her man was
faithful. If he had been bewitched, so much the worse for them both. Her
man was faithful, and she would be faithful to him.

Joan bore Peregrine no grudge. It was not a case of forgiveness: Joan
had nothing to forgive. Peregrine and she had been undone—by a third
party. The wretched, stumbling note that had broken her heart was in his
handwriting, but it was not his note. Their common enemy had written
it—the future Mrs. Below. Joan hated Mrs. Below with a bitter, undying
hate.

She hoped—prayed that Peregrine was happy: that he never could be so
happy as he would have been with her she had no manner of doubt. He was
her man.

It follows that when after seven years Joan Purchase Atlee encountered
Peregrine _and found his eyes lacklustre_ she was profoundly moved.

Her letter to her twin-sister in distant Philadelphia shall speak for
itself.

    . . . . _I’ve seen him, Betty—at last. He’s here, in this
    hotel—Peregrine Carey Below, my man. Two hours ago I stepped
    out of the elevator almost into his arms. I nearly fainted. The
    hall seemed to heel over and I had to walk uphill. Betty_,
    he—didn’t—know—me. . . . _That hurt rather, at first. You
    know. Nasty jar to one’s pride. The answer is that I’ve changed
    even more than I knew. After all, seven years isn’t a
    week-end. . . . But that’s by the way. The sting soon died in a
    sense of immeasurable relief. Truly Providence is wise.
    Supposing he had known me. What a hellish position it would have
    been! Melodrama with an edge. . . . Never mind, Peregrine didn’t
    know me, and that’s that. But, Betty, he’s miserable—so very
    wretched. The moment I saw him I knew. He’s going grey at the
    temples, but that’s nothing—he’s rising thirty-seven. But his
    eyes, Betty, his eyes. I could have wept to see them. Dull and
    strained they were—dull and strained and listless . . . his
    blessed, gentle eyes. . . . Don’t think I’m such a fool as to
    think it’s because of me. If it were, he’d have known me. No.
    It’s his wife, Betty—Mrs. Carey Below. She’s making my man
    wretched. Seven years ago she smashed my life, and now she’s
    smashing his. . . . I don’t know how long it’s been going on. I
    don’t know anything—yet. But I saw them go out this morning,
    and I had a good look at her. Man-mad, Betty. Tough as you make
    ’em, with a mouth like a steel trap. Rather like Nesta Dudoy,
    but better-looking. No use for women at all. Very well dressed,
    and her clothes well put on. Hair too good to be true and a nice
    skin._ And Peregrine fears her, _Betty. There wasn’t a taxi or
    something, and he was all hot and bothered and ready to cry. ‘I
    ordered it,’ he kept saying, ‘nearly an hour ago.’ She just
    purred back at him, with veiled eyes. . . . It was really
    painful. Peregrine rattled because she must wait thirty seconds
    whilst they sent for a cab! One’s seen it before, of course: but
    not in a man like him. He’s so quiet and reserved and strong
    naturally that only a proper shock should be able to shake him
    up—visibly, at any rate. And here he was—frightened, for all
    the world to see. . . I say ‘all the world.’ Perhaps I’m wrong.
    I saw it as clear as daylight, but then I know my man. It was so
    grievous, Betty. The impulse to go and touch him and talk about
    something else was almost irresistible. Anything on
    earth_—anything _to drive that hunted look out of his
    eyes. . . . But I had to sit impotently by, pretending to read.
    I feel I must do something, but what can I do? I wish to God you
    were here. I can’t trust myself to write more than I have about
    his wife. You’ll find her and her future in the New Testament.
    ‘Where their worm dieth not. . . .’_

The hotel was crowded, but Joan and her uncle and aunt kept to
themselves. The Carey Belows, however, were soon in the thick of things.
Within three days the lady had established a Court of which the most
favoured members were married men. Peregrine danced with their wives,
waited outside the hairdresser’s, reserved tables and cabs, and was
reviled night and morning for his pains. Joan was spared the spectacle
of the daily drubbings, because those rites were always performed in
secret, but she had pieced together the rubric of Peregrine’s life, and
to fill such gaps as there were was only too simple. The man’s demeanour
alone . . . Peregrine hangdog! Joan’s blood boiled. Besides, she had a
maid, and so had Mrs. Below. As luck would have it, both hailed from
Camden Town. The rest was easy. The rubric was hideously verified,
monstrously annotated. Joan began to see red.

“What have you done about your dress?”

“D’you mean for to-night?” said Peregrine.

Mrs. Carey Below sat back in her chair.

“What d’you think I mean?” she said.

“My dress for the dance, of course. It was very stupid of me.”

“No, not stupid,” said Mrs. Below. “Ill-mannered. Rather than take the
trouble to use your brain, you’ll let me spoon-feed it. Never mind. What
have you done?”

“I haven’t done anything,” said Peregrine, “so far. But——”

“Why not?”

“Well, it’s not till to-night, dear. I suppose Pickford can knock me out
something this afternoon.”

“Does it occur to you that I may need Pickford’s services—this
afternoon?”

Peregrine waved a desperate hand.

“If you want them you’ll have them, of course. I only meant——”

“You’re very kind,” said his wife, with a metallic laugh. “D’you really
mean that I can make use of my own maid?” She tapped the floor with her
foot. “Of course, this is too handsome. Never mind. Supposing I am so
reckless as to accept your offer—what are you going to do about your
dress?”

“I won’t go,” said Peregrine. “I don’t want to go. Masked balls aren’t
much in my line, and——”

“I never knew any entertainment that was,” said Mrs. Below sweetly. “Not
to put too fine a point upon it, you’re about the most effective wet
blanket I’ve ever seen.”

“I realize that,” said Peregrine bitterly. “That’s largely why I don’t
want to go.”

“I see,” said Mrs. Below. “And what if I need you? Supposing I’m taken
ill, or something like that.” She silenced his protest with a shrug.
“You see? Your convenience again, as opposed to mine. Instinctively,
yours comes first. Never mind. For God’s sake don’t let’s discuss it.
For the third and last time—what are you going to do about your dress?”

“I’ll buy one,” said Peregrine wildly.

Instantly the merciless point rose to his throat.

“Where?”

“Oh, I’ll find some place.”

“Rot!” The word left her mouth like the crack of a whip. Mrs. Carey
Below was getting angry. “This isn’t Paris. You can’t buy dominoes like
jujubes. They don’t sell them by the pound.”

“I know,” said Peregrine quietly. “I’m very sorry, dear. If you could
spare me Pickford for half an hour . . .”

“I must. You’ve forced my hand. _My_ dress must go by the board, while
yours is made.” She raised her voice. “Pickford!”

The bedroom door opened, and the maid came in.

“Did you call, madam?”

“Mr. Below has nothing to wear to-night. He will get the material, and
you must make him a dress. How many yards do you want?”

Pickford considered.

Then—

“Six, madam, single width, or three double.”

Her mistress addressed Peregrine.

“D’you hear?” she demanded.

“Yes, but I don’t understand. What is a single width?”

“They’ll know in the shop.”

“All right,” said Peregrine. “What’s the stuff called?”

Humanity was insisting that Pickford should intervene.

“I can easily go, madam. Now that I’ve done your dress——”

“That will do,” said her mistress, bristling.

Pickford withdrew.

As the door closed—

“She’s gone,” said Mrs. Below. “You can take off that martyred air. Of
course it’s a wonderful card to have up one’s sleeve—if one wants to
get off with servants. They love it.”

Her husband ignored the insult.

“What stuff shall I get?” he said.

“Any damned stuff,” said his wife. “D’you want me to dry-nurse you? I
shouldn’t say you want it for a domino, or they’ll think you’re out of
your mind. Say you want it for a shroud—they’ll believe that. . . .
Just as a matter of interest, can you look cheerful? Or have you lost
the knack?”

“I’ve lost the knack,” said Peregrine. “Our marriage has been a failure,
and——”

“Whose fault is that?”

Peregrine shrugged his shoulders and rose to his feet.

“Mine, I suppose,” he said, with a ghost of a laugh.

“Oh, you darling,” said his wife.

Peregrine shuddered.

“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that, Marion.”

His wife stared.

“You wish I wouldn’t—what do you mean?” Peregrine stood silent. “You’d
better pull yourself together, hadn’t you?”

Peregrine sought the door.

“I’ll go and get the stuff,” he said shakily.

“Stop!” Mrs. Below’s voice was vibrating with passion. “I’m not going to
try to teach you manners, because it’s waste of time: but you said just
now that entertainments weren’t in your line. Well, kindly remember that
lectures aren’t in mine—even when delivered by imitation wash-outs. I
can stand an undertaker—in his place: I can even bear Little Lord
Fauntleroy: but a cross between the two _on his hind legs_ is just a
shade too thick even for me.”

For a moment her husband hesitated, pale-faced.

Then he opened the door and passed out.

That Miss Atlee’s maid should sit and talk with Pickford while the
latter was doing her work was natural enough, and when she produced some
silk to make a frill for the hood of Peregrine’s gown Mrs. Below’s maid
was delighted with the attention.

“It’ll give the ole long-cloth a flip,” explained Miss Mason. “Won’ look
so much like a shraoud. There’s enough fer a pair o’ cuffs too, while
we’re abaout it.”

Two hours later she reported to Joan that Peregrine might be known by
his frill and his cuffs.

“You can’t mistake them, miss. It isn’t likely as there’ll be another
gentleman there with silk on a long-cloth gaown, but if there was,
you’ll be sure to know the silk. It’s a bit that was left over from
linin’ your ermine coat.”

“Right,” said Joan. “Thank you. What time do we unmask?”

“Not before midnight, miss.”

“I imagine dancing will start about half-past ten.”

Mason was, as they say, very quick in the uptake.

“Mrs. Below’s maid is ordered for ten o’clock: but that means nothin’,
miss. Still, you never know. If you come upstairs at ten, that’ll give
me time to dress you, an’ then I can slip off to their floor an’ watch
them daown. Then you’ll know where you are, miss.”

“All right, Mason. Thank you.”

So it fell out that evening that the Carey Belows descended the great
staircase with Joan Purchase Atlee a dozen steps behind. . . .

They reached the painted ball-room in the same order.

To identify Mrs. Below required but a nodding acquaintance with that
lady’s way of life. Her domino eclipsed all others as the moon the
stars. It was of cloth of silver, freckled with pips of gold. She was
out for blood to-night. To be outstanding in disguise, to beggar all
concealment, to blaze—a glowing houri in a shoal of ghosts. . . . Such
was her dream. Be sure it was realized. Her progress was one long
triumph. As she entered the ball-room her courtiers swarmed about her,
pleading the favour of a dance.

Peregrine slid to one side and got his back to the wall. . . .

The spectacle was fantastic, suggesting the practice of mysteries which
might be evil. It was the hour of counterfeit. Hooded and cloaked and
masked, Secrecy whirled and flitted, finger to lip. Whispers and stifled
laughter, red mouths and shining feet, white wrists upon hidden
shoulders were mocking Truth. Broad shafts of coloured light, the only
luminants, ranged to and fro over the company. Robed as familiars of the
Inquisition, a cunning orchestra lent scene and music alike a devilish
air.

“Well, Perry, won’t you ask me to dance?”

The man started violently.

“Who are you?” he breathed, taking cool fingers in his and sliding an
arm about a yielding waist.

As they slid into the fox-trot—

“I oughtn’t to tell you really, but as we’re such old friends . . . I’m
Joan Atlee—_that was_.”

Peregrine’s heart gave one tremendous bound.

For a moment he said nothing, dancing mechanically and trying to find
his voice.

Then—

“How on earth you knew me I can’t conceive, but it was . . . very
handsome of you . . . to come up and speak—Joan.”

“Steady,” said Joan, wondering if he would notice the way her heart was
pounding against her ribs. “There’s something you ought to know. We were
engaged once, and you—you broke it off.” She felt his frame quiver. “If
you’d waited another day, you’d never have written at all.”

“Why?”

“Because I’d written to you, Perry, turning you down. My letter wasn’t
posted, so I took it and tore it up. I’m not very proud of myself, but I
feel better now.”

The lie sailed straight to its mark.

“I’m—I’m so awfully glad you did, Joan.” Peregrine’s voice was
trembling. “At least—you know what I mean?”

“I know, my dear, I know. You needn’t explain to me.” For an instant the
hand on his shoulder rested less lightly. “The sea doesn’t run so high
when you’re not alone in the boat.”

The pregnant saying sank into Peregrine’s brain like molten lead. Its
poignant pertinence, the old, dead fellowship it brought to life, the
hint it held of an acquaintance with grief, lightened his darkness with
three dazzling beams.

“Oh, Joan, I’m so—so thankful we’ve met,” he stammered lamely enough.

Joan thrilled to her core.

“You’re not half as thankful as I am, Perry,” she said. “We may have
tired of each other—or thought we did—but at least we understood.”

“By Jove, yes,” said the man violently.

They danced the length of the chamber in eloquent silence.

Then—

“You know I’m married, Perry?” said Joan in a low voice.

“Only from what you said a moment ago.”

“Well, I am. We won’t mention his name—for reasons which will appear:
but I’m going to tell you about him because I _must_.” Her tone sank to
a whisper tense and vibrant. “I’ve bottled it up, Perry”—the man
started, and the clasp of the cool fingers became a grip—“till I’m
nearly out of my mind. Think what it means to have no confidant—not a
single soul to talk to who can ever begin to understand. . . . I drove
over here from San Sebastian, praying for death by the way . . . _I came
to find a confidant_—some stranger that I could talk to, under the
mask, and then—then I saw you.”

Peregrine felt rather dazed.

“Let’s get outside,” he said uncertainly.