“I never once saw my mother lean over the cot of her child; she rarely
entered the nursery, and we only came down at stated hours to be looked
at by visitors. These ordeals were painful. To appear motherly, my
mother occasionally laid her hand on my curly head. Ah! those fingers
scintillating with diamonds and precious stones; those hard bracelets
penetrating into my delicate skin! How I loathed that hand on my head—it
was such a hard hand.”

“Poor Lionel, but you do not say how your little sister died.”

“The least said about it the better. There are noble griefs, and there
are ugly sorrows: mine was of the latter order. When Cicely died, my
mother was at a State Ball. She knew the child was hopelessly ill before
she went, but a dress had arrived that morning from Paris, and a State
Ball is a duty; in fact, all social functions are duties which come
before mere human feelings. After so many years, I can still see that
gorgeous apparition as she came into the room to speak to the hospital
nurse. I did not understand the meaning of it all, but felt awed by the
soft murmurs of the nurse, the dim light, and the haughty manner of my
mother. Next day the nursery was closed; I was kept in the room of the
head nurse to play with my toys, and told severely not to make a noise.
I asked for Cicely. The under-housemaid, a good sort of a country girl,
took me by the hand and led me into the room where little Cicely was
laid out. One bunch of narcissus was lying on her feet; they were the
nurse’s last tribute to her little dead patient. And that was all. I
realised nothing, I was seven years old. The days that followed were
miserable; I missed my playmate and was daily brought down to my
mother’s boudoir, to be interviewed by simpering old dowagers who gave
me a cold kiss, and waggish young men who shook hands with me and called
me “old fellow,” as if I had already entered some crack regiment, or won
the Derby. My mother, in her diaphanous black chiffon, distributed cups
of tea right and left, while she related in short sentences the end of
little Cicely and the brilliancy of the State Ball.”

“When I think, Lionel, that you and I were on the eve of repeating that
same lamentable story—”

“Enough of this horrid past, my beautiful Una; let us forget that it
ever existed, and let us think of the present, of you, and of our
future.”

They had reached Hyde Park Corner. Gwendolen gave a circuitous glance on
the scene that surrounded them, and remarked that the Duke of
Wellington’s statue had disappeared.

“Where has the statue gone to, Lion?”

“Oh! Did you not know that it had been removed yesterday? You will never
any more see Nelson on his column, Gordon holding his Bible, Napier with
his gilded spurs, nor Canning, Disraeli, and so many others, on their
pedestals—they have all been taken to South Kensington, for the present.
The idea is to build a new hall outside London for all these relics of
the past, where they may be viewed by the very few who are anxious to
study the curios of an old worn-out civilisation. The Committee has come
to the conclusion that our newly-revealed sense of modesty must
inevitably be shocked by these indecorous memorials to our great men;
and it has decided that the education of the masses must at once begin
by the removal of objects more fit for a chamber of horrors than for the
contemplation of pure-minded citizens.”

“But what will they put on the pedestals and columns?”

“I heard the curator of Walsingham House say last evening that he meant
to suggest a new departure in monument erection. Instead of paying a
tribute to the man who, as a soldier, a poet, or a statesman, had but
done his duty during his short visit to this planet, he advised that
monuments should be raised to abstract principles, and enjoined the
Committee to start by replacing the equestrian Duke of Wellington with
the detruncated statue of Victory in the Elgin Marbles collection. Gwen,
we are at your door, and we must part. When shall I see you again,
dearest?”

“To-morrow in the Kensington Gardens, under the shady trees, we shall be
able to talk of all the problems we must solve together.”

“Good-night, my Una. How lovely you are, thus caressed by the soft rays
of the moon. Have I never gazed into a woman’s face before, that I seem
to see your eyes for the first time? I have now discovered the secret of
inward beauty, and wherever you are, however surrounded you may be, I
shall know you, for I have seen your soul. My whole life will be too
short in which to express my rapturous admiration. Forgive me for the
past years of blindness.”

“Lion, it is I who have to beg your forgiveness. I never knew you—I
never knew my own self. Was it our fault after all? It had never been
our lot to meet as two free citizens of the Universe; but, like two
miserable slaves of Society, we were trained to trick each other, and to
play a blasphemous parody of love, while malice all the time was master
of our fettered beings.”

The door of No. 110 opened and closed on the vision of purity. Lionel
walked up Park Lane and soon reached his home; he entered the library,
and once more looked up at his father’s portrait. Was it fancy? But he
thought he saw the face smile superciliously, and heard these cold words
fall from the thin lips: “My poor fellow, beware of sentimentality. As I
told you, I preferred being killed to being bored.”

                              CHAPTER VIII

A few days after, Dick Danford was at his master’s house; he walked
nimbly through the hall and reached the Roman bath Lionel had now
constructed for his use. He had started the fashion of receiving his
friends at the late hour of the afternoon, five o’clock, in what the
Romans called the Frigidarium. Those who wished to bathe could do so in
the marble swimming-bath cut out in the centre of the hall, others who
only came to converse sat in the recess carved into the surrounding
wall, or stood against the pilasters which divided the recesses. There,
for an hour or two, they discussed past doings, foreshadowed events; wit
was acclaimed, philosophy commended. As Dan entered he viewed a gay
scene: Lionel just stepping out of the bath, meeting his valet, Temple,
ready to friction his body with the strigil—a sort of flesh
brush—others, like George Murray the novelist, and Ronald Sinclair the
art critic, sitting in recesses; whilst many of the Upper Ten and the
artistic world splashed and dived in the piscina.

“Here comes Dan!” proclaimed Lionel. “What news since I last saw you? I
have missed you much these two days; but I daresay your business was
pressing.”

“Hail, Danford! the surest, safest, most comforting of all guides! While
we sip our tea tell us the town news.” This was Tom Hornsby, reclining
in one of the recesses. The splashing ceased, they one after another
grouped themselves—some in the niches, the rest lying down, whilst
Danford, standing against a pilaster, surveyed with intense satisfaction
this picture of _recherché_ cleanliness, and inhaled the fragrance of
exquisite perfumes.

“Plenty of news, gentlemen. First of all, the Bishop of Sunbury—”

“Oh! my old prelate of the Islington Tournament? Excuse me, Dan, for
interrupting you.”

“Yes, my lord, the very same—has decided to preach a sermon at St Paul’s
on the new Society he is organising.”

“What is that, Dick?”

“It is a profound secret, my lord,” answered Dick as he bowed
courteously.

“Well, mind you tell me when it comes off,” said Lionel.

“Still no news of the war, Danford?” broke in Lord Mowbray, the amateur
mimic.

“How can there be when we receive no letters. Perhaps the War Office has
important wires from the seat of war, although it has not communicated
them to the public. But it is strange how little the war has affected
Society; the heavy blows that have fallen on nearly everyone in your
circles have arrived very much softened by distance; and it seems really
as if the whole tragedy were being acted in some other planet. Besides
which, has not college and home life taught well-bred people to bear
with fortitude all mishaps and sorrow? Civilisation is a thick ice which
covers the current rushing beneath it; you must wait for a crack on the
surface, to be able to notice which way runs the stream.”

“I suppose you would consider the London storm a crack on the surface,
would you?” ironically inquired Sinclair, lighting a cigarette.

“By all means, Mr Sinclair, and those who have watched carefully through
the crevice must have seen that, for a long time, we have been going the
contrary way of the tide.”

“I do not know how it is to end—no regiments have been ordered out since
our catastrophe.” This was Lord Mowbray again, who was not fond of
ethics and preferred coming back to facts.

“The passing of regiments through the town would turn out a failure in
our present condition,” retorted Danford. “No windows would be thrown
open, no hearty cheers would rejoice the hearts of departing warriors;
that excitement is over for ever—it was even on the wane before we stood
as we are now. I often wonder why Society did not raise a regiment of
Duchesses and Peeresses? That would have fetched the masses, and perhaps
might have provoked a general surrendering of the enemy to an Amazon
battalion; for certainly the novelty of the enterprise, and the
incontestable beauty of the Peeresses’ physique, would do a great deal
towards enlivening the old rotten game of warfare. But they missed the
opportunity of putting new wine into old bottles, and now it is too
late. After all, patriotism is only a question of coloured bunting: tear
down the flags, and nationality will die a natural death.”

“What a _sans patrie_ you are, Mr Danford,” contemptuously said Lord
Mowbray, whose conception of Fatherland reduced itself to a season in
London, a summer in Switzerland, and a winter on the Riviera.

“Danford is an unconscious prophet,” remarked Lionel, “for it is clear
to whoever observes minutely the evolution of nationalities that we are
all unwittingly working at the creation of a vast humanity. The more man
will know of man—and it is impossible he should do otherwise, when you
consider the map of the world and view the huge cobweb of railways which
unite countries to one another—the more, I repeat, man will know of man,
the fainter will become frontiers which have for so long separated human
beings and turned them into enemies. The first time that men of
different nationalities met and shook hands in a universal Exhibition,
that day a muffled knell was heard in the far distance announcing the
slow agony of nationalities. But it is again a question of the thick ice
over the current. Progress in every branch is the name for which we
labour and suffer; but conquest is the real aim of all our strenuous
efforts. We have too long minimised the power of the current, and one
day, whether we like it or not, we shall have to go where it leads us.”

“You are quite didactic, my dear Lionel,” said Lord Mowbray, who since
the storm looked on his host with suspicion, and on all social guides in
general, and Danford in particular, with contempt. He had absolutely
declined to avail himself of the services of Music Hall artists, relying
on his own powers of observation to guide him through life. He had even
gone so far as to seek an engagement as a guide himself; but Society,
however it may pat on the back every amateur or exponent of mediocrity,
has the wisdom, in emergencies, to draw the line and to appeal to the
professionals who, they well know, do not fail in technique. Lord
Mowbray was therefore unemployed and generally uninformed. Left to his
own conceit and ignorance, he constantly made the most terrible mistakes
in drawing-rooms, and ignored the public guides stationed at different
corners of crowded thoroughfares, who had taken the place of
old-fashioned constables; to these guides Mowbray would never apply,
passing them with haughty disdain. Each day he committed every
conceivable _faux pas_; bowing to his friends’ butlers, passing by
ignominiously his smart friends; in fact; he was the laughing-stock of
Society, although he was blatantly happy and thoroughly unconscious of
his folly.

“What I really came for this afternoon, my lord,” suddenly broke in
Danford, “was to tell you of a very serious reform in our new mode of
life—or, at least, death. There are to be no more funerals!”

“What do you mean?”

“You are joking!”

“No more burials?”

“Are we to be thrown away like dogs and cats?”

“How are you going to hand us over to the other side?”

All these indignant questions fell like a volley on Danford the
imperturbable, who looked at his pupil.

“We again need your support, my lord. This is the point: without plumes,
palls, muffled drums, mutes, how are we to know a Peer’s obsequies from
a pauper’s? The chairman of our Committee put it to me in these words
yesterday: ‘My dear Dan, try and make Society leaders see that complete
privacy in that last and not least important function is of most vital
import, if they wish to keep up a certain prestige.’ I promised to
mention this to you, and I must add that I am struck myself with the
unfitness of a lord of the realm having no better funeral than a
vagabond; it seems to me irrelevant.”

“There is the rub of this new state of ours; it has awakened in us the
sense of the incongruous,” remarked George Murray. “We used not to be so
discriminate, and what struck me most, formerly, was the total lack of
humour in people who passed for witty.”

“I cannot tell you,” warmly proceeded Danford, “how shocked I have been
at fashionable funerals. There was a time when women did not consider it
delicate to attend such functions; it was left to the sterner sex to
accompany a beloved parent, whose female relations remained at home to
mourn over their loss. But women are not any more to be put aside so
easily; they have invaded the smoke-room, banged open the doors of City
offices; it is not likely they would remain long away from graveyard
excitement. The last I was at, a few weeks before the storm, was a
sight, and the pitch of levity to which it rose fairly sickened me. Had
I not pinched myself, and rubbed my eyes, I could have believed myself
at an At Home. The hostess, a widow, was going from one guest to
another, shaking hands with the one, thanking the other for coming; the
bereaved daughters skipped over tombs and newly-digged graves to have a
word with this one and that one. I instinctively looked round, thinking
I might see an improvised buffet in the shade of a mausoleum; I quite
expected to see plates of sandwiches handed round, and to hear the
jingling of spoons and cups and saucers. Upon my soul, I have no doubt
that had not the storm put a stop to Society’s doings, we should have
been treated this season to a churchyard tea and a funeral cake. The
idea seized hold of me then, and a fit of laughter choked me, when I
thought what a good termination to this gruesome farce it would be, were
the lamented defunct, on whom they had dropped a shovelful of cut
flowers, just to stand up and apostrophise them thus: ‘I say, do not
quite forget it is all owing to me that you are having all this fun!’
For I assure you they were entirely oblivious of the poor departed in
the excitement of small-talk. Of course all this is at an end
practically, and funerals have been quite neglected latterly, for this
very good reason that the mourners did not know each other; we are
therefore saved from the sad spectacle of levity and callousness which
were the distinct traits of our past Society.”

“Then what is to be done, Dan?” inquired Lionel.

“Well, there is nothing to be done except to be cremated
unostentatiously. ‘Let the dead bury their dead’; but Society decided
otherwise, for it was the living that despatched the dead, which was a
most unequal job.”

“I wonder what will be the ultimate result of all these reforms?” lazily
said George Murray. “If you reform burials, you must also some day
reform marriage; you will find a great deal of incongruity and of levity
in that ceremony also; then will follow the reform of the relations
between the sexes, between employers and employees, and goodness only
knows what next. You will have your work cut out for you, my poor
Danford; and dear Lionel’s mission will not be a sinecure if he has to
patronise every scheme your Committee brings forward.”

“You have my entire assent to every reform you may suggest to me, Dan,”
concluded Lionel, smiling at his guide, who remarked that he had never
yet seen that smile on his pupil’s lips nor ever remarked that look in
his eyes; he was sure something new had happened to illumine the face of
the Mayfair cynic.

“I am afraid you will come in for a good share in this evolution,
Murray,” and Lionel turned his face towards the novelist. “Fiction as
you conceive it is a thing of the past. Clothes and environment have
clung like a Nessus robe round your feminine heroines and masculine
personages, and given them a rag-shop philosophy. Tear the bandages that
swathed your fictional humanity, and send into the open air your
_dramatis personæ_, to compete, fight and win in the race of life. You
have believed yourself long enough the apostle of subtle psychology and
of morbid physiology; for once be the humble disciple of Dame Nature,
for she is now turning her bull’s-eye lantern right into your face and
making you squint.”

“My lord is right,” crowed the mischievous buffoon. “I feel sure your
publisher will not bring out your next book; sorry for you, old fellow,
but you see there is no money in it any more. I saw Christopher a few
days ago, and he led me to understand that the kind of fiction you
excelled in will not appeal any longer to the general public. One of the
two; either the feminine reader is one who harbours a sickly regret for
her past toggery, or she is a modern woman won over to the cause of true
modesty. In the first case she will throw your book away, for it will
make her feel discontented with her present state; and in the latter
instance she will shut your pages while blushes will cover her lovely
cheeks at the mere thought of anything so indecent as—clothes. But, of
course, I forget that the books published now will necessarily be very
limited, as parchment is the only available material on which written
thought can be printed.”

“And an excellent thing it is. We have written too much—written
ourselves dry; and now has come a breathing-time in which we shall be
able to incubate.” This was Tom Hornsby, who indeed had written himself
to desiccation in the _Weekly Mirror_. “We have game laws, and we know
precious well how to enforce them. Why should we compel our sapless
brains to generate when we know so well their incapacity even to
conceive? Brains are no more inexhaustible than is the cow’s milk;
still, we do not give to the children of our minds the proper breeding
period, and we hail the events of our abortions as if it were the advent
of some divine prophecy.”

“That is about what old Christopher led me to understand,” said Danford.
“But, however well these abortions may have paid formerly, he knows now
that they will not satisfy an Edenic public any longer. Publishers are
first-rate at feeling the public’s pulse.”

“I wonder they were not chosen as social guides instead of Music Hall
artists,” retorted Mowbray, who never failed to have a hit at his
rivals.

“We thought of them, Lord Mowbray, but, after careful consideration, we
judged that publishers having been trained to convert human brains into
ingots of gold, they would hardly be suitable for our social work, which
consists more especially, at present, in developing the extrinsic
knowledge of individuals.”

“It is a pity that nothing has been done towards organising a body of
Parliamentary guides.” Lord Mowbray was again at his pet grievance; he
had never forgiven the Speaker for refusing to accept his services in
the House, and he was convinced that the country’s ruin and
Parliamentary decadence would be the results of their refusal.

“Oh! that has been the worst nut to crack; but we had to give it up,”
and Danford sat down in one of the marble niches ensconced in the wall.
“The House of Commons has its susceptibilities, its vanities, and, above
all, its traditions; and it would not hear any of our suggestions. Just
imagine for one minute, Ministers of State, Party leaders, being
escorted by guides! The idea appeared preposterous to the Honourable
Members, who thought they knew their own business better than any one
else.”

“Certainly, at first, it seems natural to know one’s own party,”
murmured Lionel as in a dream; “but in the long run it becomes more
difficult than one imagines.”

“It must evidently be the case,” said Tom Hornsby in a bitter voice,
“for you see what a hash they made with the Housing question. The House
carried unanimously the Bill which, for a long time, had been obstructed
at its second reading.”

“Very remarkable indeed,” sententiously said Danford. “I was there that
day, and enjoyed the fun gloriously. I watched the House eagerly. The
social and political labels were off, so they all listened unprejudiced
to the orator’s convincing arguments. His reasons were not so much
convincing from his own powers of persuasion, but because the listeners
were off their guard and therefore accessible to rational impressions;
and here we are the richer for one good law, and one that we never could
have hoped for had Society continued to know one another by their
exterior labels.”

“This will inevitably lead to the dissolution of the Upper House,” said
Lionel.

“It remains with you to give the hint of abdication, my lord.” The
little buffoon stood up and faced his pupil, while Temple, the empty cup
in his hand, stood between the two, alternately looking at the one and
the other. The group of men surrounding them were silent; and the sun,
having slowly disappeared behind the trees of Hyde Park, had left the
Frigidarium in a mysterious twilight most appropriate to the ominous
words of Danford. “They will all follow your lordship. The reform must
come from within. The dark days are over when you said to the rushing
wave of the people: ‘Thou shalt go no further.’ They leapt over the
rocks then, and, to prove their power, cut your heads off; which on the
whole was a poor argument of persuasion, even if it was one of force. No
lasting reform can be obtained but from within; and the Upper House has
it in its power to avert the catastrophe of its downfall by taking
voluntarily a leading part in all the reforms of our Society.”

“You mean by taking a backseat,” sniggered Lord Mowbray. The spell was
broken, and the twilight scene of prophecy was transformed into one of
malicious discord. “I cannot see what you want with the co-operation of
publishers, Mr Danford; you are Diogenes and Lycurgus both rolled into
one, and methinks you need no one to assist you in fixing our
destinies.”

“I only give gentle hints concerning your future relations towards each
other, Lord Mowbray; publishers will step in later, to inform you as to
your intrinsic value.” Danford bowed to Lord Mowbray and, turning to
Lionel, said, “Where do you intend going this evening, my lord?”

“After a light collation I am taking Hornsby to the Empire to see
Holophernes; it was one of the great attractions before the storm.”

“Yes, and likely to be the last of that kind; but I shall leave your
lordship to judge for yourself.”

“Ta-ta, Danford—shall see you to-morrow early about the Dining-Halls
scheme.”

                               CHAPTER IX

Nettie Collins, Gwendolen’s social guide, declared she had nothing more
to teach her pupil now she had made such progress in the art of
observation, recognised her lover, and just lately known her father
again. This last event had been curious. One day, Gwen was walking
through the rooms of the National Gallery, enjoying the beauty of art
that had been hidden from her for so many years; as she stood in front
of Pinturicchio’s “Story of Griselda,” wondering at the past generations
who not only allowed, but insisted on women turning themselves into
beasts of burden, she noticed a middle-aged man of commanding stature,
close to her, gazing at the same picture. She looked up and her eyes met
his; her present surroundings vanished, and she lived in an evoked
dream, which brought back past scenes and long-buried joys. As she
stared at him, she little by little reconstructed the scenes of her
childhood, and as in a trance her lovely lips faintly murmured the word
“Father.”

“What a magician is love,” thought Gwendolen, when she retired that
night to her bedroom, after long hours of conversation with her father.
What could Nettie teach her now? Still she kept the sprightly little
guide by her, to help her in working out the problems of social reforms.
The two reformers put their clever heads together, and assisted by Eva
Carey—Gwendolen’s bosom friend—they organised several guilds for the
purpose of bringing together the East-End factory girls and the West-End
fair damsels. They came to the conclusion that the West-Enders had been
often enough in the dark continent of Stepney, Hackney, and Bow, to
amuse, sing or recite, read and teach the poor isolated classes, who,
after all, knew no more of their instructors and entertainers than if
they had come down from the planet Mars. The three friends thought this
time they would have the East-End on a visit to the West-End, and on
their own ground would make them acquainted with that world which they
had only read about in penny shockers. Since the disappearance of
clothes, misery had lost a good deal of its sting, and envy and rancour
were things of the past civilisation. Hitherto the craving for money had
robbed our world of the one virtue which opens every heart to sympathy:
Pity. How could a factory girl, who struggled on five shillings a week,
ever imagine that the owner of a West-End mansion needed sympathy? Money
was the great soother, and in the eyes of those who did not eat enough,
it granted one the privileges of eating more than your fill, of lying in
bed when having a headache, of taking a holiday when run down in health;
it even went so far, in their ignorant minds, as to pad the aching
throbs of a broken heart. The East-Ender knew no limit to what money
could do, because he had none himself and was convinced that to possess
in abundance the things which he sorely lacked must doubtless be the
cause of all happiness. He was so grossly one-sided and ignorant that he
was inclined to believe that even the laws of nature could be altered by
the power of riches; but however foolish he may have been, he was not
alone in judging in this dogmatic manner. The West-Ender was equally
uninformed as to what lay beneath the sordid rags of the classes of
which he knew nothing; he endowed the poorer classes with a callousness
of feeling which at first sight seemed in keeping with their reeky
clothes and shabby environments, and denied them any particle of that
romance which he believed could only be the privilege of the
well-dressed. And thus the two antipodes of London lived in a baneful
ignorance of one another. But now that the vanishing of toggery had laid
bare the two hearts of our social world, Gwen was determined to put the
picture of humanity in proper perspective, and to soften the crudity of
light and darkness that had been so offensive to both parties. Over and
over again Gwen gathered her friends and her friends’ friends in the
various parks of London. They played and laughed under the trees, they
listened to Nettie’s amusing recitals of her adventurous life, which
were varied—for she made her _début_ at Hackney’s Music Hall, and ended
her career at the Alhambra! She greatly diverted her audience, for her
ideas of the world at large were always flavoured with a grain of
good-humoured satire and gentle humour. She was fresh and impulsive,
human and perceptive, and possessed the invaluable gift of developing in
the East-Ender girls the precious sense of humour and discrimination
which lightens every burden, and seems to filter through opaque dulness
like a ray of sunlight.

How much more pleasant were those pastoral entertainments than the
old-fashioned At Home, or even than the attractive garden parties!
Tournaments were organised to promote the love of beauty, and to develop
the imaginative power that lies more or less dormant in everyone, but
more particularly so amongst the London poorer classes. The first one
was a floral tournament. Every girl of the East-End and the West-End was
to appear in the prettiest, and most original floral accoutrement; they
were granted full permission to use their imagination to conceive
wonderful designs and combination of colours; Gwen hoped in this way to
instil in the Anglo-Saxon race an æsthetic knowledge of decoration which
was sorely lacking. Another time she aimed at a more ambitious
entertainment, and started a series of historical tournaments. A group
of girls were selected amongst the West and East-End maidens, and to
each of them an historical character was given to impersonate.
Historians were invited to lecture on historical subjects so as to
acquaint the girls with the character they wished to personify. This new
mode of inoculating the taste for history was as instructive as it was
dramatic; besides, it developed memory, for there was no doubt that the
East-Ender’s ignorance, as related to past and present history, was not
more appalling than that of the Mayfair belle. Nettie decided that the
first three tournaments ought to be consecrated to personages of our own
times, or at least the Victorian age; for uncultured minds could not be
supposed to interest themselves in historical characters so far removed
from the present period as Charles II., Henry VIII., or Alfred. It was
gradually that the dramatic study of history was to take them backwards,
instead of making them leap into a far-distant abyss, expecting the
bewildered brain to grope its way back to our throbbing present.

Lionel frequently came to surprise Gwendolen in Kensington Gardens,
where she rehearsed with the girls. He came in through the gates facing
the Memorial Monument. By the way, the statue had been, with due
respect, removed to a private niche in the In Memoriam Museum of
discarded monuments, where only members of the Royal Family were
admitted to see it, on applying first to the Lord Chamberlain. Already
the younger members of the family showed a distinct repulsion to seeing
their ancestor robed in such abnormal garments, and one of the royal
infants had been seized with a fit in the arms of his nurse at the sight
of it.

Lionel, one lovely day in June, walked down the Long Avenue of
Kensington Palace Gardens; at a distance he could perceive the groups of
lissome nymphs surrounding Gwen, some scattered under the trees, others
lying on the grass; and his Greek appreciation of art made him hail this
pastoral scene as a great success. Those who had visited the Wallace
Collection would no doubt compare the picture to a Boucher; but Lionel,
who had more discrimination, thought it put him in mind of a Corot.
Perhaps he was right.

“Here you are, Lionel,” and Gwen walked up to him as he came near. “We
are having a final rehearsal of our passion tournament. I have already
told you of it. Bella will represent Love; Violet has chosen Anger;
Flora begs to be Dignity, and so on. They are quite excited about it,
the more so as no reading up can help them in this; they will have to
work out their own ideas about the passions they wish to personify. You
see, Lionel, we have had enough of external excitement, we must now look
inwardly for all our pleasures. It is a step higher than historical
impersonation, though we intend to make the two studies work
together.—Nettie, I shall leave you in charge of them, for you are sure
to give them useful hints about their parts and to develop a little more
subtlety into their monodrama.—Come, Lion, my Lion, let us stroll under
the trees; I have so much to say to you.” And she looked into his eyes,
and caressingly held his hand close to her cheek, as they walked away.
His heart was full, and he thought deeply and analysed minutely his
emotions, trying to define the newly-acquired standard of morals that
was slowly transforming their old rotten Society into a rational
sociality. One feature of the old world had certainly disappeared since
the storm—lascivious curiosity. How could morbid erotism find any place
in our reformed republic? Eve-like nakedness robbed a woman of all
impure suggestiveness. It was the half-clad, half-disrobed, that had
made man run amok in the race for brutal enjoyment; for the goods laid
out in the shop windows are not by far so alluring as what peeps behind
the counter.

“Gwen, how lovely you are! Your face is a crystal reflecting every
beautiful emotion in your heart. Even Raphael would have despaired of
fixing your expression.”

“You will make me vain, Lionel. There are many things that I cannot yet
grasp, although we have so many hours on hand since the loss of our
furbelows. You do not realise what difference it makes in a woman’s
life.—But I shall be happy when my small mission has succeeded and when
I have imparted to women the love of study.”

“A man’s days were pretty much employed in the same senseless pursuits.
Some feel it intensely—Lord Mowbray, for instance, who does not know
what to do with his costly jewels, now he cannot stick them all over his
Oriental costumes and appear as a twentieth-century Aroun-al-Raschid.”

“Ah! he will develop with the rest, and easily find out the unmarketable
value of his luxury; or if he does not evolve, he will be swept away by
the great wave of reform which waits for no man. But I am more concerned
about Ronald Sinclair;—of course, you guess the reason.”

“Does Eva still care for him?”

“Eva is not a girl likely to change. She loved him formerly for his wit,
his irony, and I am sorry to say, for his disdainful manner towards her.
But her love has now acquired a new stimulus—pity, which she feels for
all his deficiencies. She may in time bring him round to see life from a
wider and more humane point of view, but for the present he laughs at
our meetings, and vows the mixing of classes cannot succeed. He pretends
that nothing but the pursuits of fastidious æstheticism can save this
state of ours from vulgarity. Somehow, I feel that he is not right,
though I cannot tell in what his teaching is lacking.”

“We shall do a great deal for them when we are married,” softly said
Lionel.

“Ah! my dearest Lion, this is one of the serious questions that has
troubled me. Nettie cannot, or will not help me in this matter; she says
I have to find that out alone, and that later on she will work out the
details for me. The first stumbling-block is—the wedding. What kind of a
wedding could it be?”

“Well, I suppose—the church, the ceremony, and all the rest that
precedes and follows such functions. It is not that I care for the whole
show, dearest; I personally think it a terrible ordeal to have to
exhibit oneself on such an occasion.”

“Think of it, Lionel; it means walking to the altar just as we are—no
wedding dress, no bridesmaids; the congregation likewise, and the priest
no better attired than the verger or bridegroom. Where would be the
show? Where the customary apotheosis of smartness? Even the thunderous
organ striking up Mendelssohn’s march would be an inadequate
accompaniment to a procession of Adamites.”

“To tell you the truth, Gwen, I had never thought of it. The important
thing was our love; the ceremony appeared to me as a thing not worth
giving a thought; but now, it does seem to me an utter impossibility to
go through such an incongruous function; and for the first time I see
how indecent public functions are.—There have been no weddings since the
storm, now I think of it.”

“No; Nettie told me that Society had put off all the forthcoming
weddings until this freak of nature had passed—how silly of Society! _I
do not wish to wait, for the very good reason_ that I believe this state
of affairs will continue.”

“And I hope it may last for ever, for I owe to it your love, Gwen. Let
us dispense with the public function.”

“Then no wedding?”

“No, at least, no bridesmaids, no wedding cake, no invitations above
all.”

“No.” Gwen absently gazed in front of her, murmuring softly, “My uncle,
the Bishop of Warren, would officiate at our small chapel at Harewood,
and father would give me away. It would be very strange. No stole, no
Bishop’s sleeves, none of the canonical vestments that form part of the
religious rites. All this had not struck me, so engrossed was I with our
own appearance; but when once you knock down part of the ceremony, the
other must inevitably disappear in the downfall; and in the total
destruction of outward signs, it seems as if the principle of religion
had also received a fatal blow.”

“Then no wedding march, no benediction?”

“No, Lionel. Do not the triumphant chords vibrate more sonorously in our
two exultant hearts, than in any organ?” and she lifted her beautiful
eyes high above the tops of the trees. Lionel bent his head, and touched
her softly-luxuriant hair with his lips.

Nettie, who at a distance caught sight of his movement, could not help
smiling and thinking that the British race was becoming less
self-conscious.

“Gwen,” murmured her lover, “listen to the two linnets on that branch.
Have they invited their friends and relations to come and witness their
betrothal? Happiness is timorous, and shuns the world. Those who truly
love, fly from the crowd, to murmur their loving vows uninterrupted by
comments and gossip.”

“My Lion, you have put into words what my heart has felt for days.
Surely marriage is an action which only concerns those who are
interested. Besides, the social laws of morality which governed our old
world cannot any longer apply to our own. Let us return to Nettie; she
is sure to furnish us with useful suggestions for carrying out our
plan.” They turned back, and very soon were met by Nettie and Eva; the
former, with her sprightly physiognomy, brought their wandering minds
back to practical life and to bare facts.

“Have you discovered some new laws of life since you left us?”

Gwen proceeded to relate to her friends what they had arrived at
concerning weddings in general; and she asked Nettie to find some means
of realising their project.

“I should suggest a drive in your chariot to some isolated spot in the
country. Stay in some labourer’s cottage, and on the day which would
have been the one appointed by you in our past Society for the wedding,
I should advise you to spend it in the fields and to have a mutual
confession;—what I would call a complete reckoning of your two inner
lives; for that ought really to be the true meaning of marriage, which
was so rarely understood in our past Society.”

“This sounds very like Ibsen, dear Nettie,” remarked Eva.

“But what do you suggest after that?” asked Gwen.

“Stay away as long as you can; then return to your occupations here, for
you know we cannot spare you for a very long time; there are so many
things we want to launch before the season is over. Of course, no
announcement of your marriage is required, you will tell your friends
when you come back, and as to the rest of the world, it is immaterial
whether they know it or not.”

“It certainly seems simple enough, and in that way we escape all foolish
questions.”

“My dear Lord Somerville, I think that you will find that no one will
take the slightest notice of your escapade. In London, what is past is
seldom interesting,” added the little buffoon, who had for some time put
this axiom to the test when she was on the Music Halls.

“I believe you are right,” answered Lionel, “and the saddest tragedy of
last week has no chance against the daily scandals.”

“Society lives greatly on its own imagination”—the sententious humourist
was taking a flight into speculative land. “Society is the biggest
romancer you ever came across; it hates truth and _bona-fide_ dramas;
despises the scandals that have not been spun at their own fireside; and
follows to the letter the well-known maxim, that truth makes the worst
fiction.”

“Do you not think, Nettie, now marriage has become a grave reality, that
the least said about it at large, the better?”

“By all means; and the less seen of it the better still. Do not forget
that this evening we go to the Circus to witness the first
representation given by the Society of new stagers. You have no idea, my
lord, what a bevy of young actors are coming to the fore to outshine the
old ones.”

“We were in sore need of real dramatic artists, owing to the utter
inability of impersonating characters without wardrobe paraphernalia.
Perhaps we shall be able in time to form a school of dramatic
psychologists. But here comes Danford; he will tell us what is going
on.”

                               CHAPTER X

“We were talking about the new study of dramatic art, Danford. I hear
your Society is making great progress.”

“Progress, my lord! It has already reached a very high standard of
efficiency. We shall, in a few days, give a representation of King John,
which, I believe, will interest you. The Regalia of Sovereignty will of
course be absent; but how much more significant of true majesty will the
personage be, when, by his gestures and facial expression, he will
embody that ephemeral power—divine right.”

“And what are the conclusions you arrive at,” eagerly inquired the Earl,
“on the subject of monarchical government?”

“My lord, this is another of those problems you have to solve for
yourself.”

“We have already solved one this morning.” Lionel took Gwen’s hand and
lifted it gently to his lips.

“Very glad to hear it, my dear Lord Somerville; you will save us a deal
of trouble by being so quick at guessing life’s riddles. Time is
precious, and already a few weeks have gone by since the storm; if you
do not solve the social problem as soon as ever you can, I am afraid it
will go badly for all of us. We are only your stage managers on these
large boards; I am sorry to say, though, that the social actors do not
always seem to know their parts; they come in when not wanted and leave
the stage when most needed. Of course it is our business to look after
your entrances and exits; but the inner meaning of your
characterisations remains with you to decipher.”

“I think, Danford, you have already, with your short cuts of humour and
satire, led me through a dark labyrinth compared to which Dante’s
Inferno was but child’s play. You have often been my faithful Virgil,
and drawn my attention to the tragedy of our past world of
artificiality.”

“Indeed, my lord, tragedy of the most painful kind; for Society drew out
each day a new code of morals to suit a fresh want, and a catechism was
issued to befit a gospel of histology. It was not actually read out in
church, like the Athanasian Creed, but it was religiously obeyed in and
out of God’s house.”

“What would Society have said had a woman been to the Army and Navy
Stores at 10 a.m. in the same _décolleté_ gown which she wore at last
night’s ball?” This was Gwen, who mischievously looked at Lionel.

“My dear Gwen, think for one minute of the soldier enwrapping himself in
the judge’s gown; the apronless and capless housemaid appearing in the
hall with a tiara on her head (even were it paid out of her earnings);
or the butler pompously opening the door in a Field-Marshal’s uniform?”

“Bedlam or Portland Bay would have been their next abode,” replied
Danford; “you are evoking in your mind’s eye a social upheaval, and in
one instant hurling to the ground a whole structure which took centuries
to erect. The dignity of magistracy, the punctilio of military honour,
the ancestral breeding of nobility, would all be hopelessly annihilated
were you to transpose from one body on to another the outward signs of
each. Not only had Dame Fashion preached a new gospel, but new passions
were thereof discovered to make Society’s blood rush more violently, and
different forms of sorrows henceforth filled the hearts of women.”

“Oh! how true you are, Mr Danford,” suddenly broke in Nettie; “how often
have I seen women of fashion sad unto death at the contemplation of
their wardrobes.”

“And the pity of it all was that women truly writhed under the sting of
these petty grievances,” added Eva.

“You are slowly finding out for yourself, Miss Carey,” remarked Danford,
“that an eleventh commandment had been written out by Society: ‘Thou
shall not be—shabby.’”

“What a host of innocent women have been sent to perdition in trying to
obey this law to the letter,” retorted Lionel.

“Ah! Fashion, what crimes were committed in thy name!” comically added
Nettie.

“There is no doubt also,” said Lionel, “that the demoralisation of our
past Society was greatly caused by that misinterpreted activity which in
a great sense led to artificiality and deception. No proper time was
allowed for development; we had clothed art, clothed charity, clothed
education; and in every branch of industry and artistic pursuit the
fruit had to be picked ere it was ripe. The weighty question of
pauperism was settled over the tea-cups when a bazaar organised by
fashionable women had realised fifty pounds; the last word of realistic
art had been said when a well-known sculptor had put the final touch to
his statue of a ballet dancer, by sticking on the skirt a flounce of
real gold lace. As to education, it was to be imbibed, as air is pumped
into a rubber tyre, strongly and promptly, so as to lose no time, for
the next race was at hand and we had to start, even if we punctured on
the road.”

“No one knows this better than I do,” said Gwen. “We were never taught
the true value of anything or of anyone; we believed to have fathomed
all things when we had seen the small sides of them, and human beings
were only what they appeared to us relatively. I must say that the most
difficult people to deal with at present are some of the mothers in
Society. It is not that they mind, materially, this state of nature; I
suppose they are making up their minds to it, and Lady Pendelton still
repeats that a lady can always behave like one wherever she is placed
and whatever happens.”

“Yes,” added Eva, “but my mother is convinced that it is the diffusion
of classes that will bring our world to a tragic end.”

Eva suddenly stopped talking, and blushes covered her soft white cheek.
She turned to Gwen.

“Darling, is that Ronald Sinclair standing near the Rotunda?”

“Yes, dearie, it is he; and George Murray is coming up to him with Lelia
Dale. They have seen us.”

Sinclair, accompanied by his two friends, walked towards our group and
was the first to speak.

“Have you heard, Lionel, that the manager of the Olympus is forced to
close the doors of his theatre?”

“I expected that would soon happen,” murmured Danford.

“It was inevitable,” answered Lionel; “when music of that kind lies
shivering without its usual toggeries, it must perish; for when
crotchets and semi-quavers do not any longer help to pin a scarf or lift
up suggestively the corner of a laced petticoat, comic opera has lost
its meaning.”

“My dear Lord Somerville, you do not seem to grasp the real state of
things. The Atrium will follow suit, and before you are a week older the
great priest of upholsterers will have to retire,” vexatiously retorted
Sinclair.

“Yes, and very probably he will be joined in exile by Turn Bull, who has
no further need to study Abyssinian _bassi-relievi_. As you see, I quite
grasp our present state of affairs,” smilingly answered Lionel.

“I think I agree with you, Lord Somerville,” languidly remarked Lelia
Dale, who had for years been the jewel of dramatic art. “Turn Bull had
developed to the highest degree the psychology of clothes.”

“I should call it the physiology of palliaments,” interrupted Murray,
the apostle of subtle environment.

“Yes, George,” resumed the flower of the profession, “he has often made
me blush with the pruriency with which he endowed his vestments; and my
maidenly modesty was less offended by a kiss from his lips than by the
erotic influence of his draperies in certain parts of his _répertoire_.”

“Do not forget, though,” suddenly broke in Sinclair, “that we had
arrived at the highest manifestation of local colour; and that the
true-to-life surroundings with which we framed our plays had reached the
desideratum of the most fastidious art critic. Surely plays represented
at the Théâtre Français nowadays, or as they used to be at our Atrium
and Arcadia, were truer to life than when Phèdre wore a Louis XIV. Court
dress, or Othello a frill?”

“I do not agree with you, Ronald,” replied Lionel, “and I maintain that
the evolution of an unsuspicious Othello into a mad bull of jealousy
works itself out regardless of frippery. When psychology was the only
object of the playwright, and the everlasting study of the actor,
dramatic art was at its highest water-mark; but when adaptable
environment and the accuracy of costume were made the aim of arduous
researches, art fell from its Olympian cloud down to the back-room of an
old curiosity shop. Archæology had dethroned psychology; even physiology
was reduced to a dissecting-room. Do you believe that the green-eyed
passion of an Othello, or the morbid hysteria of a King Lear, would be
more enforced by the one wearing the true Venetian uniform, and the
other appearing in the barbarian clothing of an early Briton? We must
first of all find out whether the passions of the one and the delirium
of the other are eternally true to human nature. If they are, what need
have you to cut a particular garment for them? Any will do; none will be
quite sufficient. You need not clothe Œdipus to understand his
evolution; the tragedy he embodies will forever be human, and as long as
there exists a suffering humanity, there will be an inadequate struggle
between the inner will-power and what is erroneously called—Destiny.”

They had come to the Rotunda, and Lionel, with a gracious wave of his
hand, led his friends into the hall, in which marble tables were placed
near a circular carved stone bench for visitors to recline.

“I am sure you will all take some iced champagne or Vouvray out of these
tempting amphoras,” said he. They all reclined, and the cooling
atmosphere fanned them agreeably.

“Is that Montague Vane I see at a distance, tripping daintily over the
railings?”

Danford went to the door. “Yes, and he is followed by half-a-dozen of
his adherents.”

“Ah! he is continually inviting me to join his Peripatetic Society; but
I have no wish to do so,” and Lionel looked tenderly at Gwen, as he
poured out a glass of champagne and offered it to her. “I cannot see at
what they arrive in their wanderings through the thoroughfares of life.”

“Nor I, my lord,” broke in Danford, who left the door and came back
towards the group. “Jack Daw—Mr Vane’s social guide—told me lately that
he and his pupil did not always pull together. The Society _dilettante_
is trying to stem the great wave of reform, and, like a child, brings
his small toys to impede the violence of the tide; which makes Jack
laugh uncontrollably. The latter does his best to give his pupil smart
hints; but Mr Vane takes them badly, and when Jack thrusts his light on
the great sights of nature, the little ex-smart man puts his tiny white
hands over his eyes, and sighing heavily tells him: ‘My dear Jack, you
are all in the wrong. Nature has long been exploded. She lost herself
for a considerable time under the trees of Paradise, then she was
suddenly conquered by a greater master than herself—Art, and ever since
has never lifted her head again.’ He answers—art, to every longing, to
every passion; it is his panacea against all anguish, the goal to every
ambition.”

“By-the-bye, Dick,” interrupted Lionel, “I was at the meeting this
morning with my architect.”

“To be sure, the meeting of the United Drapers of London,” remarked
Sinclair; “it must have been a diverting assembly! Lord Petersham
telephoned to ask me if I could attend—ha! ha! ha! to see Watson and
Company _en masse_ would be too much for me. One at a time of these
prosperous shopkeepers—and that in the open air—is all I can stand!”

“I wish that you had turned up, Ronald,” mischievously said Lionel. “You
would have lost that preconceived idea of yours that a profession must
imprint an indelible sign on a man’s physique—pure delusion, my good
man! Well, I obtained my points with the Board of Drapers: first, I
attacked Watson, who I was afraid would be recalcitrant; but I was
astonished to find him most willing to carry out our scheme.”

“I believe you will discover hidden treasures of philanthropy in the
hearts of all those who formerly rebelled at the mere name of charity,”
satirically remarked Danford.

“You are always a prophet, my faithful guide; for Whiteley, Swan &
Edgar, Marshall & Snelgrove—in fact, all the big shops of past
elegance—are offering to open their doors in a week, and to transform
their rooms into commodious dining-halls for the masses; and last,
though not least of all, the Army and Navy Stores have actually
condescended to turn all their devastated rooms into—_Symposia_. Yes,
that is the name, for they wish to have a different appellation to other
shops; of course we could not insult such a select board of shareholders
by insisting on their using the same word as other tradespeople; so
_Symposia_ it will be; although by any other name the food would be as
delectable.” And Lionel turned to Gwen, “I look to you as a partner to
help me in this enterprise.”

“Thank you, Lionel, for the suggestion. I shall confer with Nettie on
the details; but I think I see the thing rightly: a sort of visiting
association, each day, one hour or two will be employed in the serving
of meals in the halls; some will help at luncheon, others at tea, and
another group at supper. I should suggest that the men undertook the
potation department, and that a committee of helpers should be organised
in every district of the Metropolis.” Gwen turned to Eva, sitting close
to her, “And you, dear, will be my faithful colleague?”

Eva pressed her friend’s hand, but spoke no word, as Sinclair reclining
near her sneeringly remarked, “I cannot see you portioning out plates of
boiled beef and apple pudding to a crowd of unclean mendicants.”

“Are you sure they will be unclean? And if by mendicants you mean those
having no clothes nor any money, they will be no worse than we are; for
we have no cheque-book, nor any pockets to put our money in,” softly
whispered Eva, whose heart was beating violently at the reproof of the
man she loved but whom she pitied for his sad limitations.

“My dear man,” joined in Lionel, “this idea of the dining-halls is but
the preface to a greater reform! It will for the moment meet the need of
all the working classes whom the storm has put on the streets; but in
the near future it will be our new mode of partaking of our meals in
public.” Lionel smiled as he noticed the effect his strange words had on
Murray and Sinclair.

“Will you allow a few of your privileged friends to have their meals
privately in their own homes?” slowly uttered Sinclair, who looked as if
the greatest danger was at hand.

“By all means, my dear fellow. We force no one; coercion is not the
password of our future Society, but personal initiative; and after a
little time has gone by, you will be the first to join these _Symposia_.
It will only be another form of club life without which you could not
have imagined your London; with this difference that your field of
sympathy will be enlarged in our new form of assemblies, and instead of
meeting daily a limited number of members, about whom you knew all that
was to be known, you will join a body of men and women about whom you
have hitherto known nothing. I grant you that many of them would not
have been admitted in the bosom of your literary and artistic clubs, nor
would they have been allowed to associate with the members of smart
clubs; but now it will not much avail any man that he was a member of
the Vagabond, or of Boodles!”

“Anyhow, I think we prefer meeting no one to associating with a mass of
illiterate and ill-bred folks,” said Murray.

“You will not always say so, George,” replied Lionel. “The disappearance
of cheque-books and of pockets has done more towards the fusion of
classes than you believe; and it is mere common-sense that is prompting
Society to take a rational view of the whole thing. Parliament is
dissolved since yesterday, as you know; there was nothing else to be
done, I suppose. The hour of self-government has struck when we least
expected it, and it must find us mature for the work to be done.” Then
turning to Gwen, “Do you think that your girl friends will help in this
new scheme of dining-halls? I feared they would toss their dainty heads
and pout their rosy lips at the suggestion.”

“My dear Lionel, what they objected to was not so much the hunger that
wasted away half the world, for they could not see its ravages and had
not any personal experience to bear on the subject; but they were
shocked at the grimy shabbiness of the destitutes, for that they could
notice, and their individual knowledge of luxury intensified their
hatred of poverty.”

“You are a true observer, Miss Towerbridge, and a humourist which spoils
nothing,” remarked Danford. Gwen blushed vividly at the little man’s
praise; she was proud at having won the appreciation of such a master in
psychology.

“I shall expect you all to turn away in disgust from your uncouth
companions,” and Sinclair rose. “I am going to join Vane; for the
present his views suit my state of mind, and we shall see who will win
in the long run—you, with your rude Dame Nature; or we, with our
discriminating power of æsthetics. Good-bye, poor Miss Carey”—and he
bent towards her—“you are not cut out for a distributing kitchen
employer; and nature is a hideous transgressor whom you ought to kick
out of your doors. What will Lady Carey say to all this?” and the
fastidious critic was off, followed by Murray.

The group broke up; Lionel putting his hand on Danford’s shoulder walked
out of the Rotunda, leaving Gwen and Eva conversing in one part of the
cool hall, while Lelia Dale and Nettie reclined in another part. Lelia
Dale leaned her head on her hand. She did not know whom to serve. She
had always been partial to Sinclair, whose criticisms on her talent were
most flattering, and the eclecticism of Vane was an element which she
appreciated highly; but, on the other hand, nature had its attractions,
also Lord Somerville was a great power in the social organism, and the
love of notoriety was so ingrafted in her professional soul that she was
unwilling to see the rising of a Society of new stagers out of which she
would be excluded. She meditated whether it would not be wise to put on
one side her pride, and to beg humbly of Eleanora Duse to initiate her
in the secrets of physiognomy; for, upon the whole, Lelia was artistic
enough to know in her inner heart that she was deficient in facial
expression, and totally ignorant of the laws of motion.

                               CHAPTER XI

Lionel often sat in his library pondering over all kinds of abstruse
questions. He did not know his old London again, and smiled at the
revolution in social life. Nowadays, one house was as good as another.
Mrs So-and-So’s luncheon parties, Lady X.’s dinners and bridge
_réunions_ were no longer sought for, since frocks and frills had
vanished and packs of cards crumbled to dust. Dancing also was
impossible under the present _régime_, for the _laisser-aller_ of a
ball-room seemed intolerable in the new Paradise regained. In fact, no
respectable mother would consent to take her daughter to any of these
brawls. Lionel recalled the first—and the last—ball of this season. It
was at Lady Wimberley’s. When the ball opened, the hurry and scurry of
London apes was such, that he had turned to his faithful guide and told
him,—

“Nothing on earth would induce me to dance this evening—or ever. Not
even with Gwen.”

“Especially not with Miss Towerbridge,” had replied the funny little
buffoon. “Happiness has no need to bump, elbow or kick, to manifest its
gladness.” They had both left the house, and given the hint to London
Society.

And thus the fashion for balls, late dinners, evening receptions died
out, as smart women lost the taste for such vulgar dissipations. Lionel
laughed outright at Lady Carey’s remark that the end of the world was
nigh, for Society was perishing from dulness. Still, all the fussiness
of the little woman could not alter the bare fact that it was quite
unnecessary to turn night into day, since the days were quite long
enough to contain the occupations of the present Society. Complexion and
figure greatly benefited from this normal mode of life; and the absence
of corset and waistcoat urged the English man and woman to watch over
their diet, if they did not intend to turn their bodies into living
advertisements of their passions and depravities.

Had anyone told Lionel a year ago what London would be like at the
present moment, he would no doubt have burst into Homeric laughter; but
now that the thing was done, it all seemed so simple and so rational,
that he hardly realised it. It amused him very much to see daily, at the
Pall Mall Committee of Public Kitchens, Lord Petersham conversing with a
well-known butcher of Belgravia. But Petersham, whatever he may have
thought, dissembled artfully, and argued with himself that they were
both, he and the butcher, sitting on the Board to judge of the quality
of the meat—and who would be more likely to judge impartially of the
catering than a butcher, especially when he consumed the victuals each
day.

He recalled how hard it had been to persuade Sinclair the fastidious, to
breakfast with him at the dining-hall of the ex-Swan & Edgar. Although
the critic partook of the delicious meal, he would not be won over to
the cause; but he admitted that the butter and the eggs were extra
fresh; that the meat was irreproachable, the fish first-rate; he even
went so far as to recognise that all things were transacted on a
_bona-fide_ method. But when Lionel told him that the whole secret lay
in the fact that the interest of all was the interest of each, then
Sinclair laughed and said—“tommy rot.” There was nothing more to say to
a man who pooh-poohed the greatest and noblest of reforms.

“But why on earth, if your are so anxious to reform the depravity of our
Society, why have you begun by administering to their appetites? It
seems to me that you might have found some nobler mission for the
regeneration of Britishers.”

“My dear fellow,” had calmly replied Lionel, “to stem a chaotic
revolution, after the total collapse of all manufacturers, we had first
of all to think of feeding our hungry populations. Before you lift up
the soul of man, you must feed his body. But at the same time that we
are satisfying the physical need of men and women, we are unconsciously
weaving into a close tissue the contradictory codes of morals of buyers
and sellers. Every producer is a member of our dining-halls, and
benefits directly by the genuineness of the goods he delivers to the
Committee. Is it not a colossal triumph?”

Danford, who was close by when Lionel had spoken to Sinclair, had
added,—

“These are the bloodless victories that will enrich our civilisations
with greater happiness than ever the conquests of Cæsar, Napoleon and
Wellington endowed their epochs with glory.”

“First of all, we aim at feeding all classes, on the principle that
there should not be one food for the rich and another for the poor; but
our ultimate plan is to give self-government to every branch of
business, so as to ensure honest dealing, prompt measures, and
efficiency.”

“Yes, my lord,” sententiously remarked Dan, “you have to bring strong
proofs to bear on the apathetic minds of Britishers. You must show
them endless examples of your reformatory work before they will follow
you one step. John Bull has not a speculative brain, and will not
listen to any of your dreams; but, on the other hand, there is no
limit to what he can do when once he is convinced of your power of
common-sense.” And Lionel had made up his mind to take his countrymen
as they were. He had consulted his club friends about transforming
clubs into places of general meetings, where anyone, from a Peer of
the realm down to a coal-heaver, would each week meet to suggest any
new plans or denounce any abuse. Our reformer made them see that in
the present condition of Society, clubs had lost the principal charm
of their organisation—exclusiveness. In fact, their _raison d’être_
had disappeared. The collapse of centralised government, the vanishing
of daily newspapers had deprived these smart haunts of all political
and social interest; and the members saw no objection to lending their
rooms for the use of public meetings. On the contrary, they rather
enjoyed the change, for they longed for agitation, and thought that
any kind of life was preferable than social decomposition.

At the first meeting, the telephone question was on the _tapis_, at the
second meeting the whole thing was settled, and a service of telephones
was organised in every house. What were dailies, posters, letters,
telegrams compared to the very voice which you knew, and which told you
the very latest news?

“Ah! my lord,” had again exclaimed Dan, “distance will some day have no
signification whatever, between Continents, when telephone brings the
Yankee twang close to the Cockney burr.” Lionel and Dan had looked at
each other, and for one instant a mist had dimmed the brilliancy of
their eyesight. These two had the public’s welfare truly at heart.

“One thing is certain, Dan, that our dream will be realised sooner than
we believe. Man will be able to see his fellow-creature, hear his voice
who knows? perhaps he will touch his hand from one hemisphere to
another; but never will man be able to demonstrate scientifically or
ethically the governing right of one class over another, or of one man
over millions.”

“Your lordship is running too fast. You will bewilder the British public
without persuading it to follow you. Show your fellow-citizens a
materially reformed London before you can interest them in a regenerated
universe. You have already developed their altruism in teaching them to
be their own policemen; you have very nigh persuaded them that honesty
is the best policy in replacing self-interest by fair dealing: you may,
with your system of telephone, bring them to see that veracity is the
only means of communication, now that sensational journalism has
disappeared from our civilisation.”

One morning, as Lionel was sitting in his library, he looked up at his
father’s portrait, and wondered whether the latter would have approved
of all that was going on in London. Perhaps, had he lived to see this
social metamorphosis father and son would have understood each other at
last. It filled Lionel’s heart with pity to think of the tragic life of
past London. Next day he sent his father’s portrait to the In Memoriam
Museum with a few others, amongst which was his mother’s portrait in
Court dress. He could hardly view this likeness of a past glory without
shuddering, while an aching pain gnawed at his heart as he recalled the
whole bearing of the model who had sat for the picture. In a few days
nearly all the Upper Ten had despatched their family pictures. The In
Memoriam Museum was over-crowded with ancestral effigies; so much so
that Lionel determined to speak to his architect for the purpose of
building, in the suburbs, another Museum. This raised an uproar amongst
the fastidious critics of the Vane and Sinclair type.

“Where is art going?”

“What, that glorious Gainsborough picture of your celebrated
grandmother! Is that to be relegated to a country gallery?” said Vane to
the Duchess of Southdown.

“And that suggestive Lely of your great-great-grand-aunt! Is that to
come down from your wall?” apostrophised Sinclair.

“Fie, for shame! Where is your family pride?” indignantly echoed Lord
Mowbray, who had sold his last ancestral likeness the year before to a
picture-dealer.

No doubt there was a small minority of malcontents that failed to see
any good in the efforts of the majority who worked at public reforms. To
men like Montagu Vane, Sinclair, Murray; to women like the Honourable
Mrs Archibald, Lady Carey, this present condition of social pandemonium
was the beginning of the end. A Society in which a lady could be
mistaken for a night rover, and _vice versa_, and in which an omnibus
driver was taken for a member of the peerage, was not tolerable, and it
would inevitably lead to a general rising of the lower classes against
their betters. They argued that point hotly, and there was no persuading
them, or even discussing with them this point, that perhaps there would
be no mistaking a lady for a trull in our reformed world, for this very
reason, that there would be no longer any need for marketable flesh when
all social injustice and inadequacies had been removed. They declared,
it was quite impossible: human nature was human nature all over the
world, and as long as man existed there was to be a hunt for illicit
enjoyment. They even affirmed that the present state of nature would
surely end in licentious chaos, as there was nothing to repress personal
lust now, and that very soon London would surpass Sodom and Gomorrah in
vice and crime. There was nothing to say to that, and Danford advised
Lionel to let them talk all the nonsense they liked. Facts again were to
be brought to bear on the social question, as nothing else could alter
the opinions of the malcontents. Another point which Montagu Vane was
very fond of arguing was the question of cleanliness. According to him,
the great unwashed would more than ever exhibit their filth, to which
the little humourist of past Music Halls replied in his practical
philosophy, that dirt would disappear with the downfall of outward
finery. He analysed thus: vanity was inherent with the human race,
therefore, when the flesh was the only garment man could boast of, he
would keep that spotlessly clean. Vane pooh-poohed all these views;
besides, he did not like philosophy, and he only tolerated buffoons on
the platform. It is true that Vane was an object lesson in daintiness,
and had carried this external virtue to the highest point; in fact, as
Danford said: “No one feels properly scrubbed and groomed when Mr Vane
emerges from his Roman bath exhaling a perfume of roses and myrrh.”

Montagu Vane was of a small stature, but admirably proportioned; his
hair, now grey, was very fine, and curled closely to his scalp; his walk
had a spring which added suppleness to his limbs. He was a boudoir
Apollo who had grown weary of Olympic games, and of gods and goddesses,
and who had one day daintily tripped down from his pedestal to join the
crowd of modern pigmies. When the storm broke over London, Vane was
close on tearing his curly hair, as he realised that something had to be
done to save his position. For was he not arbiter in all matters of art?
Still, he was not the sort of man to be baffled by a few buckets of
water, and he set to work redecorating his house. Suddenly he bethought
himself of a struggling Italian, who, the previous year, had come to see
whether London Society would take up the art of fresco, of which the
secrets had been handed down to him by ancestors skilled in that
primitive art. Montagu always made a point of helping young artists up
the social ladder; he gave them a lift up the first step, advised them
for the second rung, and invariably said by-by to them until they met at
the top, which they rarely ever did. From that day Paolo Cinecchi worked
at Vane’s walls, and the fantastic arabesques and subjects he designed
on black-painted backgrounds turned out to be a suitable set-off for
groups of Apollos and Venuses. The Upper Ten at once took to this mode
of decoration, and Cinecchi’s name was in every mouth. Montagu was past
master in worldly _savoir-faire_, and as an Amphytrion surpassed every
London hostess by his ability in gathering round his table the idlers
and toilers of smart Society and Bohemianism. He was no philosopher, and
lived artificially, harbouring a profound horror of intensity; it made
him blink. Greek in his tastes, he was thoroughly British in his selfish
isolation. He saw many, mixed in the social and artistic world, but he
merely skimmed people. He was busy with trifles, and utterly devoid of
any sense of humour. His success in Society had principally lain in his
many-sided mediocrity; for mediocrity is always pleasing, but when it is
varied, it is delightful. His views on politics, his impressions on
social problems reminded one of an article out of the _Court Circular
Journal_; whilst his experiences of life had been taught him in the
shaded corners of a Duchess’s drawing-room, or in the smoking-room of a
smart Continental hotel.

After all, Society was responsible for the creation of this hybrid—the
_dilettante_. The Upper Ten in its hours of _ennui_ had conceived this
strange cross-breed; but in its mischievousness it had taken good care
to endow their offspring with the same impotency that characterises the
product of horse and donkey! Society loved these unfruitful children, it
fondled them, shielded their deficiency from the world’s sneers, and
although it had doomed them to eternal barrenness, still it guarded the
approach to these home-made fetishes, and surrounded them with barriers
with this inscription affixed: “Hands off.” But in the present
emergency, Society showed itself ingrate towards these little mannikins
who had amused it, and it turned away from them, to seek the help of the
Music Hall artists, into whose arms the smart men and women of London
Society threw themselves.

Thus the majority unconsciously worked at the regeneration of London;
although they would have sneered had anyone told them that they were all
endeavouring to realise the Socialist’s dream—self-government.

The proroguing of Parliament—for an indefinite period—had removed one
stumbling-block on the road to that goal. Honourable members, Peers of
the Realm, had migrated to their country seats, or retired to private
life in town, awaiting patiently for better times; for they firmly
believed that the country could not prosper without them, and they
absolutely denied that the British lion could ever rest quiet with the
reins of Government loose on his mane.

Was the Earl of Somerville conscious of his evolution? He was certainly
developing into a seer, although he was in no danger of being carried
away by speculative theories, as long as Danford stood at his elbow,
raising his sarcastic voice whenever my lord was tempted to fly off at a
tangent. When the latter suggested that they should consult the
venerable scientists of Albemarle Street, Danford stopped him very
sharply. “My lord, do not look to the Royal Institute for any
explanation of this phenomenon. They have not yet grasped the cause of
the storm, and remain quite obdurate in their opinions. They cannot
understand what has suddenly occasioned the collapse of every loom in
England; and I know for a fact, that they are actually meditating to
lead back the men and women of the twentieth century to the primitive
usage of the spindle!”

“Ah! my dear buffoon, let us leave the sages of Albemarle Street to
their Oriental beatitude; they may be useful later on when we have
solved the problem.”

“Yes, my dear Lord Somerville, for the present look inwardly to find the
solution of some of life’s mysteries. Do the work that lies close to
you, as the parish curates say, and do it promptly. We are in the same
plight as Robinson Crusoe on his island. Keen observation, patience and
indomitable will-power saved the two exiles from sure death; and the
dogmatising of sedentary dry-as-dusts would have been of no avail to
them, as it is of no earthly use to us in this terrible crisis.”

                              CHAPTER XII

“I am very thirsty, Eva.” Lady Carey had just come in from her drive,
after having much enjoyed, as well as admired, the new system of
be-your-own-policeman. She was not lacking in the power of observation,
and could very well appreciate the rational side of London’s new mode of
life; although she would sooner have perished than owned to anyone her
thoughts on the subject.

“Let me pour you a cup of tea, mother,” replied Eva, as she went to the
tea table. “I forgot to tell you that Gwen had returned to town. I saw
her this morning at the dining-halls and she struck me as being more
beautiful than ever.”

“Gwen used to be a very smart girl,” sneeringly remarked Lady Carey, as
she took the cup handed to her.

“I mean that her expression is more ethereal than ever, mother. She
gives one the impression that a radiant vision has been revealed to
her.”

“My dear girl—she looked—on Lionel! and he is no mean creature.” Lady
Carey gave vent to her suppressed mirth. “When did they return from
their—what d’ye call it—moral spring cleaning?”

“Mother, how can you be so irreverent? Do you not think it very sensible
of them to run away from the crowd, and hide their bliss in the
wilderness?”

“No, I call it decidedly vulgar.”

“But when you married, did you not send all your social duties to
Jericho? You must have longed for solitude with the man you loved.”

“Not at all, my dear; there was plenty of time for all that when we went
to Italy after the wedding. Besides, we did not mention these things in
my time; one did what everyone else did, it was neither painful nor
exhilarating, it was the custom, and one thought no more of it. But
there is something clownish in running away anyhow, and Heaven knows
where, as these two have done.”

“Gwen says they were supremely happy staying with two cottagers.”

“Labourers! The girl must be demented. I could pass over their evading
the religious ceremony; I am not bigoted, and pride myself on being
large-minded; but when the flower of our aristocracy behave like
shoe-blacks, I do think it is time to cry out. I cannot forgive them
their want of good taste, and am inclined to believe they do it for
effect.”

“Oh, dear! no, mother. They believe intensely in the reform of Society.”

“Such strong opinions are unseemly; and it is hardly the thing to take
such a serious step in life, without advising your friends and
acquaintances.”

“I do not see what Society has to do with private life,” answered Eva,
who was standing at the foot of her mother’s couch.

“My dear child, it is downright anarchism! Where is the moral restraint
that keeps us all in order! We may frown at dull, old Mrs Grundy; but no
well-organised Society can very well do without her, after all.”

“Oh! Mrs Grundy died from the shock of seeing herself in nature’s garb.
She was only a soured old schoolmistress, who each morning glanced at
the columns of her _Court Journal_ with suspicious eyes. She ran down
the names of births, marriages and deaths, chuckling inwardly at the
comforting feeling that all her social infants were well under her
thumb, and that none had escaped her lynx eye.”

“I hear a ring at the bell,” suddenly interrupted Lady Carey.

“Do you expect anyone, mother dear?”

“Not anyone, dear child. But it is Thursday, and that used to be my day
at home.” The dainty woman sighed heavily.

“I think I hear Lionel’s voice in the hall.” Eva turned towards the door
as it was opened to let in Lady Somerville and her husband.

“I am glad to see you, Gwen”—Lady Carey rose to kiss the Countess.
“Well, Lionel,” as she resumed her seat on the couch, “I am ashamed of
you. What on earth possessed you to carry her off in that wild fashion?
You know, my dear boy, a good many centuries have passed since Adam and
Eve, and I have no doubt that the Almighty Himself would consider their
conduct improper.”

“You are the same as ever, Lady Carey, as lighthearted as of yore.”

“You surely did not expect me to change my views, did you, dear Lionel?
You are too funny for words! But I suppose that is your privilege. You
always do whatever you like and are accepted wholesale by the rest of
the world. Luckily nothing can alter the fact that you are a gentleman.”

“Oh! for goodness’ sake strike out that word from your vocabulary!”
hotly exclaimed Lionel. “It means absolutely nothing but impunity to do
every disgraceful action under the sun.”

“I beg your pardon, my dear Lionel, the word means everything. A bad
action committed by a gentleman is very different from one committed by
a plebeian; the first knows what he is about, and whatever he does, he
never forgets that he is born a gentleman.”

“The more shame to him for not behaving like one,” muttered Lionel.

“Oh! dear boy, you are too radical, indeed. Well, tell me, had you many
sins to confess? Had Gwen a heap of peccadilloes on her conscience?”

Lionel smiled, but remained silent.

“Oh! oh! are they so appalling that my matronly ear cannot hear them?
Fie on you both!” and Lady Carey looked very arch.

“These are mysteries that we have tried to solve alone.”

“Where has your sense of humour gone to, my poor fellow? But, never
mind, forgive my importunate questions; you don’t know how ghastly dull
life has become. Everything is so uniform, the days so long, the
amusements so scarce; and what dreadful plays your new stage Society is
producing! Oh! my dear boy, it is too awful. Still, one must go to them,
or else we should all be left out in the cold, and Society would crumble
away.”

“And you really believe that Society does exist?” sententiously
questioned Danford, as he entered the room and bowed to the hostess.
“There is nothing so pernicious as delusions, Lady Carey; Society is a
huge spectrum reflecting all sorts of coloured shapes, which appear to
each one perfect in _contour_. No one ever thinks of striking the lens,
because they each of them have seen their own likeness reflected in it,
and believe in its reality. But the reality is only the semblance of
reality; strike the lens, and the likeness will suddenly appear out of
proportion; and when broken to atoms, the whole phantasmagoria will
vanish, leaving the real substance untouched. You have lived under the
delusion that the social phantom was substantial; you must admit now
that it was a deity created by man.”

“It would not exist any longer were we to give up playing our part in
the tournament; but there is still life in the old British lion, Mr
Danford. Do take a cup of tea.”

“A Society in which members do not know each other, even by sight, has
not many chances of leading the game.”

“Don’t you find, Mr Danford, that we are making progress in what you
call the science of observation?” inquired Lady Carey.

“It is difficult to tell, Lady Carey. I do not find that we always deal
with conscientious pupils. Observation can be developed in time; but it
is the lack of memory that is so disastrous. Mrs Webster, for instance,
cannot remember more than half-a-dozen faces.”

“Dear me, my dear guide, I do not wish to remember more than that number
at present.”

“Ah! but Mrs Webster is not exclusive, and she had to give up having a
reception the other day, because her guide had sprained his ankle. Mind
you, Mrs Webster is sincere, she wishes to improve in the art; but other
pupils are more puzzling, as, for instance, the vain people, who make
hopeless blunders, and insist on telling you they know quite well who’s
who, but they are having you on; this makes our work most trying.”

No sooner had Danford spoken these words, than the door was thrown open,
and Montagu Vane and Sinclair entered. Lady Carey smiled on them and
offered her right hand to be kissed.

“How delightful it is to know that there are a few—alas! a very
few—_salons_ where one can go and have a chat.”

The little Apollo tripped across the room to greet Gwen and Lionel.

“My dear Mr Vane, I am afraid I am the only one here who can sympathise
with you.”

“If we do not strongly oppose this vulgarising view of life, art will
totally disappear from our social circles,” remarked Sinclair, as he sat
down on a small settee beside Eva.

“Yes,” echoed Vane, “I am doing my level best to devise some means of
checking this downfall of art. I suggested to Lord Mowbray this morning
that we should invent a sort of artificial vestment. This is my plan.
Each one would carry round his neck, wrist or waist, a small electric
battery, which would throw a lovely colour all over one’s body, which
would at least adorn, if it could not conceal it.”

“What a strange thing that we should, in a London drawing-room, openly
discuss this question of nudity, when a few weeks ago no respectable
person would have admitted the existence of shirt or trousers,”
laughingly remarked Lady Carey.

“Ah! that was the British cant!” retorted Lionel. “Let us hail the storm
which knocked that false modesty out of us all.”

“My dear Lady Carey,” resumed Vane, “it is not a question of decency at
present, but a matter of artistic feeling. I should propose organising
the thing in this way: Dukes would have a red colour thrown over their
lordly forms; Earls and Barons a blue shade; Baronets, yellow; commoners
would have no colour, but the members of the Royal Family would have red
and yellow stripes. Ladies would naturally have their shades too,
according to their rank: Duchesses, pink; Countesses, pale green; and so
on. This is a rough sketch of course.”

“I quite see what you mean, Mr Vane,” remarked Danford; a sort of mirage
peerage.

Montagu Vane glanced up at the remark, and curtly replied, “It would at
all events acquaint the public with the social standing of the person
whom he elbowed in the street, and differentiate a peer of the realm
from a—social guide.”

“Or a—_dilettante_,” mischievously added Danford.

“I should have thought that what was more important than finding out in
what way one man was differentiated from another, was to discover the
points in which they were alike,” said Lionel. “You are catching at a
straw, my dear Montagu; your system is shallow, and you will never
persuade the Upper Ten of its practicableness. For my part, I plainly
refuse to envelop my carcass with a Loie Fuller’s sidelight.”

“Your decision is law amongst your peers, my lord,” and Danford bowed.

“We had better start a Society for the obtaining of accurately reported
news. Newspapers have disappeared, and with them the necessity has died
out for falsifying the truth,” said Lionel.

“I do protest,” interrupted Sinclair, “against plain facts being handed
to me by unimaginative people who pass on an ungarnished piece of news
without as much as adding one poor little adjective. It is too brutally
literal.”

“It all comes, as I was saying,” apologetically remarked Vane, “from a
complete lack of artistic feeling.”

“There you are right,” hurriedly said Lionel; “for Parliament is broken
up from the lack of dramatic power in its members, and militarism will
inevitably die out with the disappearance of military distinctions.”

“And dramatic art is buried since the study of local colour and
environment has been abandoned,” sharply added Vane.

“Yes,” sadly echoed Lady Carey, “imagination has been insulted by some
terrible creature called Nature.”

“Dear Lady Carey,” suavely murmured the little _dilettante_, “we can
thank God that we have still a few _salons_—though, alas! a very
few—where we can bask in the sunshine of gossip.” Then turning to
Lionel, “But do not let me deter you from your plan; and pray telephone
to me whenever you want my house for your new Society. I consider it a
duty to keep _en evidence_; if we cannot prevent your reforms, we can at
least patronise them, for when Society ceases to lead, it will
disappear.”

“You are speaking words of the greatest wisdom, Mr Vane,” said Danford,
“words which make me think deeply. You could indeed do a great deal for
the sake of Society, by urging upon members of the Royal Family that it
is in their power to prevent the annihilation of their house.”

“In what way can I do this?” Vane turned towards the little artist; in
an instant he seemed to have forgotten his grievance against the tribe
of buffoons.

“Well, Mr Vane, the illness of Mrs Webster’s guide made me ponder these
grave questions, and I discussed the point with the Committee of Social
Guides. We all know what a gift Royal Princes possess for remembering
faces; therefore we have come to the conclusion that such a talent
should not be wasted. Someone must discreetly approach our Royal
Highnesses, and beg of them to allow their names to be added to the list
of social guides. You will no doubt agree with me that this is the only
way in which our Royal Family can be made useful, for since the storm,
nothing has been heard of them, and no one seems to know what they are
up to.”

“The suggestion is not a bad one, Mr Danford,” slowly answered Vane. “We
all know how eager our Princes are to meet every wish of their
subjects.”

“Yes, this is indeed true,” added Lady Carey, “and Society might then
recover some of its prestige.”

“I do not know whether these illustrious guides will have any sidelights
to throw on life’s problems, or any philosophical _aperçu_ on human
beings; but those who will employ them will be sure, at any rate, of an
infallible guide to the finding of a person’s identity, and of an
accurate knowledge of the Peerage which would put a Debrett to shame.
Although I myself believe that since the disappearance of garments, the
public has become eager to know that which lies concealed within the
inner heart of men and women.”

“This idea of Royal Guides is sure to take like wild-fire amongst the
American millionaires,” broke in Lionel.

“_There_ you are right,” briskly retorted Vane, “but that reminds me
that we have not seen anything of the fashionable Yankees.”

“I can tell you about them, Mr Vane,” mysteriously answered the little
buffoon. “They are meditating; and although you do not notice their
presence, still they are at large; but the _mot d’ordre_ has been given
to all the guides never to disclose the identity of the United States’
citizens until they give us leave.”

“How lonely it must be for them to remain in that isolation,” remarked
Lady Carey.

“Not a bit of it,” replied Lionel; “they are quite able to entertain
each other. It is we who are the losers, not they, for the invasion of
American heiresses upon our Piccadilly shores has vivified our rotten
old Society. Lord Petersham used to remark that our girls looked like
drowned mermaids at the end of the season, whilst an American maiden was
as fresh at Goodwood as she had been at the Private View.”

“Quite true,” said Sinclair, “the American girl is cute, not _blasé_.”

“Yes,” broke in Lady Carey, “she came over here to have a good time and
carried that creed up to the last.”

“They invariably aim straight and high,” continued Lionel, “and the
Americans will be the first to attach Royal Guides to their households.”

“I wonder which of our Royal Princes Mrs Pottinger will choose?” said
Lady Carey, bursting out laughing. “I cannot help roaring when I think
of the vulgar woman entertaining us all in her palace. There she was on
deck, full sail and long-winded; for hours she would hold forth on
English politics, Christian science, European hotels, with that
rhythmical monotony so peculiar to her race.”

“That is just why they will carry the day, if you do not look out,”
wistfully remarked Danford; “their memory is always ready to help their
fluency.”

“The conversation of an American,” said Sinclair, “resembles a sermon
without a text, an address minus the vote of thanks.”

“You know what she called London Society?” inquired Lord Somerville.
“She named it her buck-jumper; but she was bent on mastering it,
although it kicked and reared as she forced her gilded spurs into its
flanks. At times the incongruity of the buck-jumper fairly puzzled her.
One thing she could not swallow, that was Society’s meanness. You know
what she said to the Duke of Salttown? ‘That England was the country for
cheap kindness and expensive frauds.’”

“Ha! ha! ha!” they all laughed.

“Wonderful race!” exclaimed Sinclair, “whether it is the President of
the United States, a cowboy, or a fashionable woman, they are all gifted
with that intuition which divines ‘friend’ or ‘foe’ in each face they
meet; just as the red Indian measures distance with his far-seeing eye,
and discovers a white spot on the horizon which is likely to develop
into a blizzard. In everything they undertake, they first see the aim,
go for it, win it, and sit down afterwards without a flush or a puff.”

“Perhaps America is destined to shape our future civilisation,” said
Lady Carey; “I am sure I do not care who is to be our saviour, as long
as we are saved from this anarchy.”

“My dear Lady Carey,” replied Lord Somerville, as he walked to the
chimney and leaned his elbow on the marble mantelpiece, “we shall have
to coin another word for the future Society that is staring us in the
face, for the old word civilisation has a nasty flavour about it. At
times we have worn war-paint and feathers; at others, charms round our
necks, crosses on our hearts, decorations on our breasts; but the
cruelty of the savage was no more execrable than the dogmatic ferocity
of Torquemada, nor in any way more inhuman than the ruthlessness of
George I. Nor was Queen Eleanor’s kerchief more indicative of mediæval
depravity than Queen Elizabeth’s frill an emblem of Renaissance levity.
Each of these historical eras was but a different stage of barbarism. We
had more ornaments than Hottentots, and less principles than monkeys. As
long as we have two different creeds, half-a-dozen codes of honour, and
hundreds of punctilios, we shall never be civilised. Instead of adding
more labels to human beings, we must, first of all, find out what a
human being is. We are taught virtue in the nursery, but we are
compelled to commit crimes when out of it. The morning prayer says one
thing, and life as we make it teaches another. Step by step we are
trained to family deceit, political Pharisaism, commercial fraud,
diplomatic mendacity, art quackery; and all that in the name of a
Redeemer who lashed the vendors out of the temple, and died for the love
of truth and peace.”

“Someone said that it needed three generations to make a gentleman,”
murmured Vane in his silvery voice.

“No doubt the dogmatist who said that must have thought of Poole and La
Ferriere as the modern Debretts; for our present aristocracy is nothing
more than a nobility of vestments. Generation after generation has
handed down to us the art of carrying the soldier’s sword, the judge’s
robes, the Court train, or of bearing a proud head under the Prince of
Wales’s nodding plumes. It is the atavism of garment which has made us
what we are. But in the race of life; in the fight for the post of
honour; in the hour of darkness and sorrow, when failure brings down the
curtain on our lives, clothes will be of no help. The noble sweep of a
satin train, the long-inherited art of bowing oneself out of a room,
will be of little service in the final bowing out into eternity. Your
grandmother’s corselet or your great-grandfather’s rapier and jerkin
will lie idly on the ground, for we are not allowed any luggage on the
other side. The real fact is that the whole social structure was a big
farce.”

“A farce more likely to turn into a tragedy,” saucily retorted Vane.
“See how matters are going on in South Africa; or at least see what is
_not_ going on; for by this time we must be the laughing-stock of a
handful of farmers. War is bound to cease, and we shall have to retreat
ignominiously, as we cannot send any more men out there, owing to the
confusion at the War Office. It appears they cannot distinguish our
valiant officers from the men.”

“Ah! This is the first blow struck at the principle of warfare,” replied
Lionel. “When you think of it in cold blood, it is quite impossible to
admit of war. Try and boycott your neighbour, persuade him into giving
up his will to yours; order his meals, eat three parts of them yourself,
invade his house, break his furniture; and if he in any way objects,
then use the convincing arguments of artillery and bayonets. After that,
you will see how it works.”

“Yes, the history of nations is nothing else but a series of thefts,
murders and duplicity; and were any of our personal friends to commit a
quarter of what sovereigns and governments commit in one day’s work, we
should promptly strike their names off our visiting list,” said
Gwendolen. Perhaps this remark struck home, for no one replied. Vane got
up briskly on to his feet, and bowed daintily over Lady Carey’s hand.

“Ta-ta, Mr Danford,” he nodded to the little mimic, and left the room.

“I shall walk a little way with you, Lionel,” said Sinclair, who had got
up to say good-bye to his hostess.

“Come along with us,” replied Lionel. “Good-bye, dear Lady Carey. I am
going to ring up old Victor de Laumel by telephone, and ask him what
they think of us in ‘_la ville lumière_.’”

“My dear boy,” said Lady Carey, “you may be sure of this, that the smart
Parisians would have found a way out of this difficulty before now. But
at any rate, they never would have taken it _au serieux_, as you are
doing; for they are too punctilious on the question of good taste, and
more than anything fear ridicule!”

                              CHAPTER XIII

A few days after this animated discussion at Lady Carey’s, there were to
be seen dashing along Pall Mall numerous chariots which halted at the
ex-Walton Club, where also fair ladies were alighting from their wheeled
couches (these had been designed by Sinclair at Lionel’s suggestion).
There were also public conveyances of a practical and artistic shape,
made to accommodate several passengers in a comfortable posture. The
fastidious designer could not conceal his satisfaction at the
disappearance of advertisements, which formerly had distracted his
æsthetic mind, and roused his indignation at the public’s gullibility.
The Walton was filling fast. Everyone interested in the future of art
was there, as Lord Somerville had promised to give an address on the
Royal Academy; and the telephones had been kept going by friends and
acquaintances of his, inviting their friends to attend the meeting.

Who was that throwing the reins to his groom and jumping out of his
chariot? A familiar face. Of course, it was H.R.H. the Duke of Schaum,
so well known to every shoe-black. He had been the very first Royal
Prince to apply to the Committee of Social Guides and was now the mentor
of Mrs Webster. It was only natural that the eldest of the Princes
should make the first move, for rulers still they were, if only in name
and amongst themselves. The other members of the august family had
rushed zealously into the arena, and they were all enjoying the work.
Here was Montagu Vane walking up the steps and entering through the
swing doors at the same time as H.R.H. the Duke of Schaum who
occasionally, when Mrs Webster gave him time to breathe, instructed the
_dilettante_ in the art of knowing who was who. Vane had not yet adopted
a chariot; when he was not going far from home he walked, on other
occasions he would ask his friend Mowbray to give him a lift; for Lord
Mowbray had greatly improved in the handling of the ribbons. He had
lately attached to his service a young member of the Royal Family, for
he could endure no one lower than a scion of royalty as his constant
companion through life! Lord Petersham, his hand on old Watson’s
shoulder, was slowly mounting the steps. Watson had lost his insular
swagger, while his lordly companion was daily forgetting his love of
party politics as he learnt more of humanity. Since they were no more
beholden to each other for liberal cheques, and introductions into
Society, the two men understood each other better. On their heels rushed
Tom Hornsby; he was here, there and everywhere, witty Tom; raillery was
still his weapon, but he appeared very old-fashioned to his
contemporaries, whilst his satirical outbursts seemed now more
antiquated than the _Tatler_ or _Spectator_ of Georgian civilisation.
There, with his nonchalant demeanour, came along George Murray, who had,
a few days previously, begged his publishers to destroy his last MS., as
he wished to observe the turn of events before bringing out his next
novel.

The hall was full, but not over-crowded. The Parliamentarians and many
of the members in the Upper House still kept away in the country, where,
unconsciously, they did some good work in the resuscitation of rural
life. It was remarkable what the so-called leading classes could do now
that the greatest incentive to snobbery had been torn from their backs.
But Danford had always prophesied as much to his pupil.

Groups were forming in the spacious hall; in one corner were Mrs
Archibald, Lady Carey and Montagu Vane; whilst in one of the large bow
windows overlooking the garden was Hornsby, feverishly expounding some
State paradox to Lord Mowbray and a few more ex-club men. Men came in,
bowed to each other—even when they did not recognise each other—for
politeness and courtesy had been found to be the best policy; women lay
down on large couches carved in the walls, talking gaily to one another,
without any superciliousness. Simplicity and graciousness was the order
of the day. Many said that they could not do otherwise than be natural:
“It is by force that we are simple, not by taste.” But never mind what
caused this transformation, the point at least was gained: very often
the scoffer who hurls a stone at a new edifice, in course of time sees
his very weapon help to build that which he intended to destroy. That is
the irony of Fate.

“You will never convince me that this kind of democracy can last,” said
Mrs Archibald to Danford, as the latter accompanied Lionel. “I think it
is most _infra dig._ of our Royal Family to forget who they are and to
lose the little bit of prestige which they possessed. The lowest urchin
in the street looked up to our Royalty. Do you believe anything good can
come of their vulgarising themselves as they do?”

“It was quite natural that the lower classes should have looked up to
their rulers,” replied Dan, “for they had, for centuries, told them to
do so. As you know, madam, the power of gross credulity is great in the
British nation, therefore they will only believe you to be their equals
when you repeatedly tell it to them.”

“I always thought, Mr Danford”—Vane’s voice was pitched unusually
high—“that you were cut out for a missionary, and possessed the
necessary gifts to set right all social wrongs.”

“My dear Mr Vane,” replied the buffoon, “there often is a gospel wrapped
up in a howling joke. My long experience at the Tivoli and other Music
Halls taught me my Catechism more exhaustively than my early attendance
at Sunday Schools.”

“Somerville is mounting the platform,” remarked George Murray to a group
of Royal Academicians Silence soon reigned, enabling the clear, ringing
voice of the lecturer to be heard.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I have a new plan to submit to you.” (“Hear!
hear!”) “A plan which suggested itself to me after my first visit, this
season, to the Royal Academy. I was struck by the attitude of the
public, and noticed group after group passing scornfully in front of
portraits, historical subjects, and war pictures. In fact, very few were
the pictures that attracted any attention at all. Then I observed that
landscapes aroused a good deal of attention on the part of the
dissatisfied crowds, and that pictures representing the human form in
its Edenic attire were the object of their closest observation. I was
filled with wonderment at the evolution of a public who the preceding
year had rushed to gaze at pictures by Sargent, Orchardson, Collier,
Alma Tadema, and the rest. As I strolled through the rooms I saw many a
woman blushing as she came in front of a portrait of an over-dressed
woman; men with downcast eyes hurried away from the pictures of our
so-called great men in their military uniforms or in any other garments.
My first determination on leaving the place was to have my portrait
removed; and, strange to say, the committee did not in any way oppose my
wish, as many had thought fit, like me, to have their likenesses taken
away. This is a great sign of the present evolution towards true art. I
do not for one moment expect our artists—who have already made their
names—to approve at once of my reform; but in time they may come to see
their past errors, as already one step towards the reform of art has
been taken by closing the doors of the Royal Academy.” (Here there were
murmurs amongst the minority of malcontents.) “Yes, I heard this very
morning that this would be the last day of the exhibition; the President
having resolved to take this ominous resolution to punish the public,
and teach them a lesson. We must, all of us, bear this well in mind:
that art cannot any longer, in our new mode of life, be the means of
obtaining wealth or position, and that nature is the sole guide and
model which is to lead the artist to artistic eminence. As to painting
garments from memory, the mere notion of such a sartorial nightmare
ought to make the true artist shudder with horror. I therefore propose
that a committee should be organised, similar to the one appointed for
the reform of public monuments, to judge of the pictures which, in
future, shall be sent to the Academy. The name of the artist would only
be submitted to the committee after the picture had been accepted or
rejected. The name of the person who had sat for the portrait would
equally remain unknown, until the majority of the members on the
committee should have recognised whom it was. The subject of an
historical picture would likewise remain unrevealed, until the majority
of members had been able to guess the subject when they looked at the
picture—I see a few R.A.’s at the end of the hall, laughing and
whispering. I quite understand their mirth, for they are looking forward
to mystifying the committee, whose members are often sadly lacking in
historical knowledge. I can only advise those gentlemen at the end of
the hall to develop a keener sense of discrimination in the choice of
their subjects, before they attempt to represent on wood, or copper—for
there is no canvas—an historical incident, without the aid of local
colour or garments. Our stage was reformed the day that Nature held up
her mirror and showed man as God had made him; fiction said her last
word when the high pressure of our abnormal civilisation suddenly
collapsed, and allowed man and woman to look into each other’s eyes, and
for the first time realise the abnormal condition of their former lives.
The same evolution awaits plastic art and the painter’s avocation, for
if a committee cannot tell, by looking at a picture, what the subject
is, they will have to retire so as to learn how to observe and how to
remember. Likewise, if an artist is unable to paint his subject without
the trapping of garment, the sooner such an exponent of art takes to
some other means of expressing his thoughts, the better. The aim of art,
in our present civilisation, is to be useful, either in the material or
the abstract world; and to be useful one must be clear and true—I hear
someone saying that I am limiting art most shamefully; I think it is Mr
Vane. No, I beg his pardon, truth and lucidity do not limit art. Had Mr
Vane said that my new plan would limit the number of artists he would no
doubt have been nearer the truth. We need only a very few artists, just
as we need very few writers, and you will soon see that vanishing of
clothes and upholstery will reduce their number. Now, I want to propose
that a branch should be added to this committee, whose work should be to
judge the past works hanging in our numerous galleries, more especially
those of our English artists who have won fame. Let us take as one
example out of thousands, ‘The Huguenots’ by Millais. Have a perfect
copy drawn of it, without the clothes which cover the figures, and let
this picture be shown to a committee of historians unacquainted with the
picture, and ask them to tell you what is ailing these three souls at
war with each other. I defy the committee to tell you. The incidental
feud which tortures these three souls is merely anecdotal, and not an
eternally human conflict. How few of our standard works would be
comprehended without the external label which makes the subject
intelligible. But those few, who would escape the public’s condemnation,
would be sufficient to stimulate our young artists who are penetrated
with a true and disinterested love of art. As to the rest who cannot
learn the lesson taught them by nature, let them put their cerebral
energy to other uses, either industrial or scientific. We are going fast
towards the time, when, as Prudhon said, ‘The artist must at last be
convinced of this, that there is no difference between an artistic
creation and an industrial invention.’

“Instead of limiting art by subjecting its productions to truth and
lucidity, I believe that we shall give a more powerful impetus to
artistic expression. Our new mode of life will inevitably create in us
new sentiments, and more simple morals, even new sensations, which will
inevitably develop in us new modes of expressions; so that a greater
display of facial expressions will forcibly be followed by a richer
scale of artistic execution. Besides which, we cannot take all the
credit to ourselves in this reform of art; the public has given us a
lesson by scorning the false manifestations of art, which inadequately
represent his present condition. We cannot stop the reform, for the
current is too strong and we must go with it.” (Cheers and applause.) “I
believe Mr Sinclair has a few words to say to you, for which he has this
morning begged me to ask your indulgence, though I feel sure he does not
in any way need it.”

Lionel left the platform, shook hands with several men who had gathered
round him, and joined the group which included Lady Carey and Mrs
Archibald.

Sinclair took the position vacated by Lionel, and leaning indolently
against the table spoke as in a reverie:—

“I have come to tell you, ladies and gentlemen, of the death of the art
critic.” Every head turned towards him; one could have heard a pin drop.
Sinclair seemed to wake suddenly from his meditation at the sound of his
own voice, and began earnestly to address his audience. “I hope you will
take it well from me, for you know how wedded I was to my profession.
But if I have come here this day to tell you of the total decomposition
of the critic, it is only after having maturely reflected over, and
analysed my past career. The eclipse of journalism, the judicious
weeding of publishers’ lists, have worked a transformation in our
conception of art, be it plastic, dramatic or lyric, and we are now
asking ourselves what caused the feverish infatuation for one particular
author, painter or musician? But we find it next to impossible to
answer. Real talent certainly was not sufficient to force the market,
nor did the eulogies of critics help to boom a work which was
distasteful to the public. On the other hand, no anathema showered at
the head of a despised author ever stopped the sale of his inferior
work.” (Laughter—many heads looked round the hall to see if the
much-abused author was there.) “The critic did not guide the artist, nor
did he teach the public what it had to admire or condemn. The public was
a hydra with many heads and many judgments; from the _Letters of
Elizabeth_ to Herbert Spencer’s _Ethics_, it devoured all, for its
appetite was varied though at times unhealthy. I am sorry to say that
the only achievement of the critic was to make the public believe he was
leading it. It was indeed very clever of him to convince the hydra of
his own importance, and as long as it lasted it was well and good; but
the reign of the critic was ephemeral, for at every corner the public is
having its revenge now. The masses disdainfully pass in front of
pictures we extolled, hiss the plays we boomed, and roar at the music we
admired. We coaxed the public, and conciliated the fashionable centres
of Society so as to solidify our position and fill our purses; we
blinded the many-headed hydra, stuffed cottonwool in its ears, and
anæsthetised its power of appreciation into believing that we were
indispensable to the development of art. The irony of it is, that it is
that very public which is giving us a colossal lesson. Changed
surroundings have altered the standard of art; and the hydra is giving
us tit for tat. We have nothing else to do but to retire cheerfully. My
dear friends, I come to you to cry, _Peccavi_, and to beg for your
forgiveness for past errors of judgment. We have no need to dog the
artist’s footsteps when there exists no longer any stimulus to inferior
work, and when the reign of saleable art is over. The era of the
artist-his-own-critic is at hand. Let the artist fight his battle with
the hydra; best of all, leave the artist to fight his own battle with
his own conscience, for the latter will prompt him to do only that which
is necessary for the happiness of himself and others.”

“What about Sargent?” broke in the clarion voice of Hornsby, who was
standing at the end of the hall, close to the President of the Academy.

“Ah! _mea culpa_,” solemnly uttered Sinclair, “when you come to Sargent,
you touch the depth of artificiality—if such a thing can be said. But
our past Society was the age of tragic frivolity, and Sargent was the
Homer of that modish _Odyssey_. He illustrated the law of natural
selection by making garments the main feature in his portraits. Under
his brush the inner souls of his models withered away, while artificial
surroundings and vestments emphasised in his pictures a condition of
spurious passions and morbid excitability. Run through, mentally, the
gallery of Sargent’s portraits, and you will see their anatomy wither
under the robe of Nessus. He endowed flounces, feathers and ribands with
Medusa-like ferocity; and the Laocoon is not more fatally begirded, nor
are his limbs more piteously crushed by snakes, than are these frail
women’s hearts muffled and hidden by clouds of lace and chiffon. Do you
remember that youth whom he immortalised a few years ago? That heir to
great properties on whose fatuous brow was stamped the mark of the
symbol of militarism? That diagonal mark of white skin on a sunburnt
forehead is a painted satire. Kipling gave us a high-flavoured
_philippic_ on Tommy Atkins; to Sargent was entrusted the mission of
immortalising the Tommy of the upper classes. Like a faithful
chronicler, Sargent intended to hand down to posterity the biography of
Society as he saw it—that is to say—the living product of artificial
environment. Hogarth was a dramatic historian of the unbridled passions
of a brutal Society. Disrobe the figures of the _Mariage à la Mode_, or
of the _Rake’s Progress_, and I believe the committee, which my friend
Lord Somerville wishes to appoint to judge our past works of art, will
easily be able to guess at a glance what tragedy is breaking the hearts
of these ungentle personages. Sargent is the satirist of a clothed
Society. His models would exist no longer were you to divest them of
their meretricious furbelows; for their garments are the parts which
help to form the aggregate of their psychology, and without their frills
and trimmings, they would merely be marionettes stuffed with sawdust and
held together with screws.” (Murmurs from several groups. The President
of the Academy leaves the hall.) “The end of Society was nigh, when it
could only boast of a School of Athens in which a Socrates was a tailor,
Aspasia a Court dressmaker, and Diogenes an upholsterer. Plato and
Aristotle’s philosophy did not more potently influence the world of
thought of their epoch, than did the unappealable decretals of a Paquin,
and the arbitrary ukase of a Poole.” The small minority of malcontents
were endeavouring to stop the lecturer, whose clear voice managed to
drown the hisses and the groans. He silenced them all. “We must have the
courage to face this, for since the late cataclysm, we have been
suddenly placed on a platform from which we are able to clearly view our
past civilisation; and we can see that formerly we had no sense of
objectivity, and that what we erroneously termed the modern world was
but the heaping together of complexities and incongruities. Do you
remember that perfect short story by Balzac, _The Unknown Masterpiece_?
It is the story of an artist who jealously hides the picture he is
painting from any intruding eye. He alone enters his sanctum, and there
for hours he works at this great work. One day, some profane creature
enters the studio, irreverently lifts the curtain which covers the
canvas, and sees—nothing. Blurrs, daubs, uncertain design, in fact,
confusion is all he can detect. This is what we have been doing for
centuries; we daubed and smudged our social work for want of a proper
perspective; we created a huge monstrosity just as this artist produced
an incomprehensible picture, because he, and we, could not judge our
production from the standpoint of another. I have digressed from my
subject, and wandered far away from what was the purpose of this
address. Let me conclude by telling you that the miserable efforts of
the critic are futile in the new era of—art for art’s sake.”

Sinclair, on his way across the hall, was dazed by the thunderous
applause which greeted him on his passage. The group of A.R.A.’s had
left the hall, no doubt to ponder these weighty questions in solitude,
and with the exception of Vane, Mowbray, Mrs Archibald and their small
group, the whole audience was acquiescent.

“I never would have believed it of you, old man,” sneered Vane. “What is
to become of us, when men like you, who kept the public taste in check,
give up the game?”

“My dear Montagu, that is just what we did not do. We played
hide-and-seek with the many-headed hydra, and it has collared us now,
and our game is up. On the day when you see the triviality of our past,
as I do, you will act as I act, and you will say what I have said.”

“My dear fellow”—Vane shook his head wisely—“_that_ is quite impossible
unless I become a Goth. I am one of those who never alter; but, the day
you recognise your folly, you will find me the same as ever, ready to
welcome you as our critic in all matters of art.” And he passed on.

“Ever the same, incorrigible; I dare not think what his end will be.”
And Sinclair turned his steps towards the window where Eva and Gwen were
sitting.

“I always told you, darling Eva, that Sinclair would be brought
unconsciously to understand the right purport of life on the day when he
realised the true meaning of art.” Gwen pressed Eva’s hand. “Sinclair
the fastidious, the cynic, is no more, and the man whom you honoured
with your love and trust is coming to claim you.” Eva laid her head on
her friend’s shoulder, as she watched Sinclair, who was coming towards
them.

“Mr Danford,” said Lady Carey, who was reclining in another window, “you
have just arrived in time. Do tell us who that is going on to the
platform? I am so short-sighted.”

The little satirist briskly turned on his heels and looked at the
thick-set, purple-faced man who was besieging the platform.

“Why, that is ex-General Wellingford!”

“What, the man who bungled so disastrously the early part of our African
campaign?” inquired Lady Carey.

“The very same, madam,” answered Danford.

“I am off,” suddenly exclaimed Lionel. “The old fellow does not interest
me in the least. Besides, there is nothing more to be said about the
African campaign since our troops have had to return from South Africa,
leaving the country and the people to themselves. _Au revoir_, Lady
Carey. Are you staying, Mowbray?”

“I think it is our duty as loyal subjects to listen to what the head of
our army has to say,” stiffly replied Lord Mowbray.

“Come along then, Dan.” The two men left the window, and passed through
the crowd who were loudly discussing the subject of art reform. As they
came to the next bow window, Lionel saw Gwen and Eva engrossed in a
lively conversation with Sinclair. Lionel stopped, and laying his hand
on Danford’s arm said, “I shall not disturb them. When a man has found
one of the rings that form the chain of life, he must be left to rivet
it without any interference.”

They passed into the vestibule.

“What is to be done with the War Office?” the rough voice of the
ex-general suddenly hushed the buzzing _causerie_; and these portentous
words reached the ears of Lionel and Danford as they swung the doors
open, and passed out.

“Ha! ha! ha!” Danford held his sides, convulsed with laughter. “Even the
ex-hero of civilised warfare is puzzled at what is to be done with his
obsolete bag of tricks!”

“Poor Mowbray will lose another illusion,” remarked Lionel, and the two
men walked up toward St James’s Park.

                              CHAPTER XIV

“I shall do your hair for you, mother dear,” said Eva one morning. They
were both in Lady Carey’s dressing-room, as it was the time when the
maid was rung for to attend to her mistress’s coiffure.

“A very good idea, Eva. I must say I never feel quite at my ease with
Elise, and I ring for her as seldom as I can now. It does seem so funny
to give orders to a person who stands just as naked as you are.”

“Oh! I am so glad! I have been longing to arrange your lovely hair in my
own way,” and Eva clapped her hands with joy.

“You are very brusque, Eva—here are the hairpins, and the brush is in
that drawer.”

Eva held the mass of auburn hair in her fingers, and softly brushed it
off the delicate temples of her mother.

“I am afraid, dear child, you have lost a great deal of your ladylike
grace since you have been a regular attendant at these public
tournaments. You associate with such a queer lot there; I am sure it
must be fatal to good manners.”

In a few seconds Eva had wound the rich coils of hair into a Grecian
knot on the shapely head of her mother.

“You look a perfect dear, mother; so like the Medici Venus—you don’t
know how perfectly lovely you are.” The girl kissed Lady Carey and sat
at her feet.

“My poor child, I do not know what is to become of us all.”

“You need not be anxious, mother”—Eva leaned her graceful head on her
mother’s lap. “It is useless to try to stem the tide; nothing that you
can ever do will prevent what has to be.”

“What do you aim at, child?” asked Lady Carey, as she tidied her combs
and brushes.

“Nothing, mother—but—I often crave for freedom.”

“Is there anything you want to say, Eva?” Lady Carey laid her hand on
the girl’s hair. “I have heard and seen such strange things lately, that
I might just as well know all.”

“Oh! darling mother, I could not bear to do anything which you would
consider underhand; although my actions would only be the reflection of
my own convictions.”

Lady Carey took her daughter’s face in her two hands and stared hard at
her. “Are you thinking of doing the same mad thing as Gwen? If so, say
it at once; I had rather be prepared for the worst.”

No answer came. Eva dropped her eyelids and spoke no word. At last she
softly murmured, “I love Sinclair.”

“Oh! for the matter of that, many have done the same,” derisively
remarked her mother, as she gently pushed away the face she held.

“Yes,” breathlessly answered the girl, “but he loves me.”

“Hum! He has told that to many. All this is nonsense, you must put all
this out of your silly head. Sinclair is not a marrying man; besides, he
is not the husband _I_ would wish you to have.”

Eva stood up and looked straight at her mother. “He is the husband _I_
have chosen.”

“My poor girl, Sinclair is not the man to stick to one woman. He is
hypercritical and cynical, I should even say—cruel, where a woman’s love
is concerned.”

“But, mother, he has repudiated his past errors—you heard what he said a
week ago?”

“Pooh! that was only hysteria, it will pass! It is better to speak to
you plainly, Eva; he was Lady Vera’s lover for two years. I know all
about it, as I was her confidante through it all. He nearly drove her
out of her senses with his capricious moods; her husband, as you know,
divorced her; and ever afterwards Sinclair invented new modes of torture
for the woman who, I believe, sincerely loved him. She gave him up at
last and threw herself at the head of that silly Bob Leyland, who is
good to her in his own way.”

“As to Sinclair’s relations with Lady Vera, that is no news to me, my
dear mother. How can a girl remain ignorant of these scandals after one
London season? If the friends or enemies of the man or the woman do not
tell her all about it, it is very easy for her to find it out for
herself. Women like Lady Vera are living advertisements, and they would
no more wish to hide their intrigues than Epps and Cadbury would wish to
stop the advertising of their cocoas. It is all part of the social
business; and the pit and gallery would be swindled out of their sport
were Society’s sewers to be thoroughly cleansed.”

“But it will always be the case as long as there exists an Upper Ten;
and, after all, when we think of it, it was much worse in Charles II.’s
time and under the Georges,” replied Lady Carey.

“I have no doubt it was so,” said Eva. “They were coarse, but we are
suggestive; they were brutal in the pursuit of indecorous pleasures, we
are complex in our vulgar dissipations. We combine the corruption of a
Louis XV. with the casuist of a Loyola. The Georges were everything that
is bad, I grant you, but they were not effeminate; they lived up to
their standard of military chivalry, which we do not, although we
pretend to believe in a military code of honour.”

“What on earth will you put in its place, child?”

“Honesty.”

“How suburban, Eva. I expect my grocer or my housekeeper to possess that
_bourgeois_ quality; but a gentleman must have a higher ideal of
chivalry.”

“There is nothing more exalted than perfect honesty, dear mother; and
the proof is that your grocer and your housekeeper cannot afford to live
up to its standard, for it does not pay.”

“You are quite terrible, Eva, with your subversive theories! I cannot
imagine where you picked up these queer ideas. I have always been most
particular to surround you with what we were used to call well-bred
people.”

“Yes, the Lady Veras and company,” retorted Eva.

Lady Carey ignored the remark and continued, “I always feared Gwen would
have a fatal influence over you. But what could I do? It is so difficult
to weed out one’s friends when one belongs to a certain set.”

“My dear mother, Gwen was saved in time, for she would have turned into
a Lady Vera had not Society’s foundations suddenly collapsed. She had
been taught all the tricks of a perfect woman of the world, and would
have even outdistanced Lady Vera, for she possessed more brains and more
animal spirits. So, you see, there is still hope for a Sinclair to
develop into a paragon of virtue, to suit even your fastidious ideal of
a son-in-law.”

“My dear Eva, pray do not accuse me of such a Philistine notion as to
require in my son-in-law any of the qualities absolutely needed in a
bank accountant or in a land agent. Heaven forbid! I am larger minded
than that, and I know that a man must live. You see, Sinclair is all
right, and we all run after him and make love to him, and look forward