"But where does he come from ... where does he really live?" continued Charlie, who seemed to have a special, suspicious curiosity on the subject.

"Rapallo," said Bertha.

"Where's that?"

"The first turning to the left on the map as you go to Monte Carlo," said Nigel.

"But what did he say—was he very odd and peculiar?"

"Oh, he carried on like one o'clock about Futurism," said Bertha.

"I thought every moment would be my next," said Nigel.

"What nonsense you're both talking," said Bertha.

"Yes, and if Charlie thinks he's going to sit me out by asking questions, he's jolly well mistaken," Nigel said. "Look here, old chap, Bertha's going out. I know she wants to get into her glad raiment. I'll drop you."

"Right-o!" said Charlie, jumping up.

They took their leave. Bertha looked amused.



CHAPTER VII

RUSSIAN BALLET

Arrangements had been made that Mrs. Nigel Hillier was to have a little dinner at home for her mother (with whom Nigel was not supposed to be on terms); and she and her parent were to go to the St. James's Theatre, for which two stalls had been purchased. Nigel pretended he was dining with an old friend at the club.

Coming in brightly, but, as usual, losing half his personality in the hall, he found Mary at seven o'clock sitting in the little boudoir, in the usual arm-chair, looking our for him, not, apparently, thinking of dressing for dinner.

"Hallo, Mary!" he said. "Hadn't you better get ready for your mother?"

"No," she responded rather coldly and bitingly, "I've put mother off."

He glanced at her with self-control. She looked, he thought, far more bitter than usual.

"That's a pity, because you will be alone—dear. Besides, the stalls will be wasted."

"No, they won't," she said. "You'll stay at home with me, and take me to the St. James's. You can easily put off your man at the club." She looked him full in the eyes.

Colour rose to his face and then faded away.

"I'm sorry, my dear, but that's impossible."

"It isn't impossible—you mean you don't want to do it. ... Oh, do please—please, Nigel!" She came towards him and played with his tie—the trick of hers that he hated most.

She mistook his silence, which was hesitation as to what plan to adopt, for vacillation, and thought she was going to win. ...

"Oh, 'oo will, 'oo will!" she exclaimed, with a rather sickly imitation of a spoilt child, with her head on one side. It was a pose that did not suit her in any way.

He drew back; the shiny red hair gave him a feeling of positive nausea. She was attempting to defeat him—she was trying to be coquettish—poor thing! ... She suspected something; she hadn't put off her mother for nothing. ... He was going to the Russian Ballet with Bertha—how could he leave Bertha in the lurch? With Madeline and Rupert, too—what harm was there in it? (The fact that he heartily wished there was had really nothing to do with the point.)

Husbands and wives usually know when opposition is useless. Mary privately gave it up when she heard Nigel speak firmly and quickly—not angrily.

"I've made the arrangement now, and I can't back out."

"And what about me?" she said, in a shrill voice.

He went out of the room hastily, saying:

"I can't help it now; if you alter your arrangements at the last minute—stop at home and read a book, or take some friend to the St. James's."

He ran upstairs like a hunted hare; he was afraid of being late. He had got his table at the Carlton.

Left alone in the boudoir, a terrible expression came over Mary's face. She said to herself quite loudly:

"He is not going to the club; he'd give it up if he were. It's something about that woman. ..."

A wave of hysteria came over her, also a half-hearted hope of succeeding still by a new kind of scene. ...

There were two large china pots on the mantelpiece; she threw them, first one, then the other, at the half-open door, smashing them to atoms. Excited at her own violence, she ran upstairs screaming, regardless of appearance:

"You sha'n't go! You sha'n't go! I hate you. I'll kill myself. Oh—oh—oh! Nigel! Nigel!"

* * * * *

At eight to the minute Nigel in the Palm Court received Bertha Kellynch dressed in black, Madeline in white, and Rupert Denison with a little mauve orchid in his buttonhole.

The dinner, subtly ordered, was a complete success, and Madeline Irwin was in a dream of happiness, but Bertha was sorry to see that Nigel, who was usually remarkably moderate in the matter of champagne, and to-night drank even less than usual, had the whole evening a trembling hand. Even at the ballet, where he was more than usually ready to enjoy every shade of the enjoyable, he was not quite free from nervous agitation. He did not drive Rupert home, but let Rupert drop him in Grosvenor Street at twelve-thirty—for a slight supper was inevitable and Rupert had taken them to the Savoy.

* * * * *

Mrs. Hillier was in bed and asleep. The maid said she had been ill and excited. The maid, frightened, had sent for the doctor. His remedy had succeeded in calming her.

The next day Mary seemed subdued, and was amiable. Both ignored the quarrel. Nigel believed it would not occur again. He thought his firmness had won and that she was defeated. He did not understand her.



CHAPTER VIII

PERCY

"I've had such a lovely letter from Rupert, Bertha. I'm so excited, I can't read it almost!"

Bertha held out her hand. Madeline was looking agitated.

"He says," said Madeline, looking closely at the letter in her short-sighted way, "that he wishes he could burn me like spice on the altar of a life-long friendship! Fancy!"

"Rather indefinite, isn't it?"

"Oh, but listen!" And Madeline read aloud eagerly: "Yesterday evening was perfect: but to-day and for several days I shall be unable to see you. Why is a feast day always followed by a fast?"

"Is it Doncaster to-morrow?" asked Bertha.

"Don't be absurd, that's nothing to do with it. Listen to this. What a curiously interesting nature you have! Am I not right when I say that I fancy in time, as you develop and grow older, you may look at life eye to eye with me?"

"Madeline dear, please don't mistake that for a proposal. I assure you that it isn't one."

Madeline looked up sharply. "Who said it was? But, anyhow, it shows interest. He must be rather keen—I mean interested—in me. It's all very well to say it means nothing, but for a man nowadays to sit down and write a long letter all about nothing at all, it must have some significance. Look how easily he might have rung up! I know you're afraid of encouraging me too much, and it's very kind of you—but I must confess I do think that letters mean a great deal. Think of the trouble he's taken. And there's a great deal about himself in it, too."

"Of course, Madeline, I don't deny that it does show interest, and he probably must be a little in love with someone—perhaps with himself—to write a letter about nothing. As you say, it's unusual nowadays. But you mustn't forget that, though Rupert's young, he belongs to the '95 period. Things were very different then. People thought nothing of writing a long letter; and a telegram about nothing was considered quite advanced and American."

"Oh, bother!" said Madeline, "I hate being told about the period he belongs to. It makes it seem like ancient history. Listen to what he says about you—such lovely things! 'Mrs. Kellynch is a delightful contrast to you, and is all that is charming and brilliant, in a different way. Is she not one of those (alas, too few) who are always followed by the flutes of the pagan world?'"

"That's really very sweet of him. I say, I wonder what it means exactly?"

"I have no idea. But it just shows, doesn't it?"

With a satisfied smile, Madeline put the letter away. Bertha did not press to see it, but remarked: "I see he didn't sign himself very affectionately. Evidently there's nothing compromising in the letter."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because you put it away. Otherwise you would have shown it to me. Nobody cares to show an uncompromising love-letter—with a lukewarm signature."

"At any rate," said Madeline, gliding over the point and leaving the letter in its cover, "your taking us out last night was a very great help. I feel I've made progress; he thinks more of me."

"Yes, I thought it would be a good thing to do. Now you'd better not answer the letter, and please don't show any anxiety if you don't see him for a little while, either."

"I sha'n't be a bit anxious, Bertha, especially if it's only racing, or something of that sort. Or, in fact, anything, unless I get afraid he's seeing Miss Chivvey. Do you ever think that Rupert still takes an interest in Miss Chivvey?"

"A little, but I don't think it matters. I think she's needed as a contrast to you. She surprises and shocks him, and that amuses him, but she isn't his real taste. I don't think Miss Chivvey's dangerous, seriously. She uses cheap scent."

"Oh!" cried Madeline, delighted. "There's nothing so awful as cheap scent!"

"Except expensive scent, because it's stronger," said Bertha.

Madeline looked at her admiringly.

"How extraordinary you are, Bertha! It's wonderfully sweet of you to take such an interest in my wretched little romance. You might have so many of your own, if you cared to."

"Ah, but I don't care to. I'm rather exacting in a way, but I don't want variety. I've no desire for an audience. I don't want a little of everybody. All I want is the whole of one person."

"Is that all! Well, you've got it," replied Madeline.

"I hope so," she answered, rather seriously. "I'm not altogether satisfied. I can't settle down to the idea of a dull, humdrum sort of life—and of Percy's being fond of me casually."

"Oh, good gracious, I'm sure he isn't casual! What a strange idea of yours!"

"I hope I'm wrong. I believe I want something that's very nearly impossible. I've always had a sort of ideal or dream of making an ordinary average married life into a romance."

"Well, and can't it be?"

"I don't really see why it shouldn't. But there's no doubt there are immense difficulties in the way. It seems to be necessary, first of all, for there to be not only one exceptional temperament, but two. And that's a good deal to expect. Of course, the obvious danger is the probability of people getting tired of anything they've got. I'm afraid that's human nature. The toys the children see in the shop-window always seem much less wonderful when they're home in the nursery. As a brother of mine used to say a little vulgarly, 'You don't run after an omnibus when once you've caught it.'"

"Perhaps not."

"As soon as you belong to a person, obviously, Madeline, they don't value you quite in the same kind of way. The glamour seems to go."

"But you don't want necessarily always to be run after, surely? You want to be treasured and valued—all that sort of thing."

"Yes, I know! But my ideal would be that there should be just as much excitement and romance and fun after marriage as before—if it were possible."

"Oh, good heavens, Bertha! then, if one were to go by that horrible theory of your brother's, one ought never to marry the person one loves, if one wants to keep them."

"No, in theory, one ought not. But then, where are you if he goes and marries someone else? After all, you'd rather he got tired of you than of the other person! Wouldn't you prefer he should make your life miserable than any other woman's? Besides, one must take a risk. It's worth it."

"I should think it is, indeed!" cried Madeline. "Why, I would marry Rupert if I thought I should never see him again after a month or two—if I knew for a fact he would get tired of me!"

"Of course you would, and quite right too. But remember people are not all alike. There are any number of men who are absolutely incapable of being really in love with anyone who belongs to them. They simply can't help it. It's the instinct of the chase. And it's mere waste of time and energy to attempt to change them."

"Are you speaking of men or husbands?"

"Either, really. But don't let's forget that there are a great many others, on the other hand, who care for nothing and no one who isn't their own. Collectors, rather than hunters. Surely you've noticed that, Madeline? It's a passion for property. The kind of man who thinks his house, his pictures, his cook, even his mother, everything connected with him must be better than the possessions of anyone else. Well, this kind of man is quite capable of remaining very devoted to his own wife, and in love with her, if she's only decently nice to him; and even if she's not. I mean the sort of man one sometimes sees at a party, pointing out some utterly insignificant person there, and declaring that Gladys or Jane, or whoever it is, takes the shine out of everyone else, and that there's no one else in the room to touch her. His wife, of course. I don't mean out of devotion—that's another, finer temperament—but simply and solely because she belongs to him."

"Well, Bertha, I don't care what his reason is, I like that man!"

"Oh, rather! So do I. And very often he's not a bit appreciated; though he would be by us. Perhaps the most usual case of all is for the husband, if he's married for love, to remain in love for the first two or three years, and for the love then to turn gradually into a warm friendship, or even a deep affection, which may go on growing deeper—it's only the romance and the glamour and sparkle that seems to go—the excitement. And that's such a pity. I can't help thinking in many cases it really needn't be. More often than not, I believe, it's the woman's mistake. Just at first, she's liable to take too much advantage of the new sort of power she feels."

"Do you mean, Bertha, that the woman generally doesn't take enough trouble with the house to make it pleasant for him at home—and all that?"

"I didn't mean that, though it might be so. But sometimes it's just the other way. More often than not she takes a great deal too much trouble about the home, and bothers him about it. There's far too much domesticity. It's like playing at houses at first, but soon it grows tedious. At any rate the whole thing is worth studying very deeply. I can tell you I haven't given it up yet."

"You? Oh, Bertha, I can't think what fault you have to find. You, as you say, certainly are exacting."

"I blame myself, solely. I feel that, somehow or other, I've allowed things to get too prosaic. Percy takes everything for granted: everything goes on wheels. Of course, if I were satisfied to settle down at twenty-eight with complete contentment at the prospect of a humdrum existence, it would be all right; but I'm not. In another few years Percy will be getting on very well as a barrister, taking himself seriously, and regarding me just as part of the furniture at home. You know he always calls me a canary; that shows his point of view. Well, then, he might get a little interested in a wilder kind of bird, and I shouldn't like it!"

"What would your idea be, then? Would you flirt to make him jealous?"

"No, I certainly shouldn't. That's frightfully obvious and common. If I ever did flirt, it wouldn't be for such a silly reason as that. It would be for my own amusement and for nothing else, but I don't think I ever shall. I think it's a fatal mistake for a woman to lower herself in any way in the other person's eyes. Her lasting hold and best one, is that he must think her perfection; it's the safest link with a really nice man. Anyone can be worse than you are, but it's not easy when you take the line that none can be better! because no one else is going to try! But if, after all, he still gets tired of her, as they sometimes do, well—it's very hard—but I am afraid she must manage badly."

"I never should have dreamed you thought of all these things, Bertha. You seem so serene and happy."

"I am. It's the one subject I ever worry about. I'm always prepared for the worst."

"And I'm quite sure you've no cause to be. Why not wait till trouble comes?" suggested Madeline.

"Why, then it would be too late. No, I want to ward it off long before there's any danger."

"I think it's very unlike you—almost morbid—bothering about possibilities that will never happen."

"I daresay it is, in a way. But, you know, I fancy I've second sight sometimes. What I feel with us is that things are too smooth, too calm, a little dull. Something ought to happen."

"You're looking so pretty, too," said Madeline rather irrelevantly.

"I'm glad to hear it; but I only want one person to think so."

"But it's obvious that he does; he's very proud of you."

"I sometimes think he's too much accustomed to me. He takes me as a matter of course."

"If that is so, I daresay you'll be able to alter matters," said Madeline, getting up to go.

"Yes, I daresay I shall; it only needs a little readjusting," Bertha said.

They shook hands in cordial fashion. They did not belong to the gushing school, and, notwithstanding their really deep mutual affection, neither would ever have dreamed of kissing the other.

As soon as Madeline had gone Bertha went and looked steadily and seriously in the glass, for some considerable time. She thought on the whole that it was true that she was looking pretty: on this subject she was perfectly calm, cool and unbiassed, as if judging the appearance of a stranger. For, though she naturally liked to be admired, as all women do, she was entirely without that fluffy sort of vanity, that weak conceit, so indulgent to itself, that makes nearly all pretty women incapable of perceiving when they are beginning to go off, or unwilling to own it to themselves.

The one person for whose admiration and interest she cared for more and more, her Percy, she fancied was growing rather cooler. This crumpled rose-leaf distressed her extremely.

At this moment he arrived home. She heard his voice and his step, and waited for him to come up, with an increasing vividness of colour and expression, with a look of excited animation, that in so sophisticated a woman was certainly, after ten years, a remarkable tribute to a husband.

Percy, who was never very quick, was this evening much longer coming upstairs than usual. He was looking at the letters in the hall. With his long, legal-looking, handsome face, his even features, his fine figure and his expression of mild self-control, and the large, high brow, he had a certain look of importance. He appeared to have more personality then he really had. His manner was impressive, even when one knew—as Bertha certainly did—that he was the mildest, the most amiable and good-natured of serious barristers.

With one of those impulses that are almost impossible to account for, Percy took one of the letters up before the others. It was directed in type. He half opened it, then put it in his pocket. He felt anxious to read it; for some quite inexplicable reason he felt there was something about it momentous, and of interest. It was not a circular, or a bill. It made him feel uncomfortable. After waiting a moment he opened it and read part of it. Then he replaced it in his pocket, and ran up to his room, taking the other unopened letters with him.

"Percy!" called Bertha, as he passed the drawing-room.

"I shall be down in a few minutes," he called out.

He went upstairs and shut himself into his room.

She also felt unaccountably uncomfortable and anxious, as if something had happened, or was going to happen. Why was Percy so long?

When he came down at last she gave him his tea and a cigarette and noticed, or perhaps imagined, that he looked different from usual. He was pale. Yes, he was distinctly a little pale. Poor Percy!

* * * * *

Instead of telling him he was not looking very well, and asking him what was the matter, complaining that he had not taken any notice of her, or behaving otherwise idiotically, after the usual fashion of affectionate wives, she remained silent, and waited till he seemed more as usual.

Then he said: "Has anyone been here to-day?"

"No one but Madeline. She's only just gone."

"Oh yes—been out at all?"

"I went out this morning for a little while."

He seemed absent.

"You enjoyed yourself last night, didn't you?" he asked.

"Oh yes, it was rather fun. Yet, somehow, the Russian Ballet never leaves me in good spirits for the next day. It doesn't really leave a pleasant impression somehow—an agreeable flavour."

"Doesn't it—why?"

"One wants to see it, one is interested, from curiosity, and then, afterwards, there's a sort of Dead Sea-fruitish, sour-grapes, autumn-leaves, sort of feeling! It's too remote from real life and yet it hasn't an uplifting effect. At any rate it always depresses me."

He gave her a rather searching look, and then said:

"Did Hillier like it?"

"I think he enjoys everything. He's always so cheery."

"And to-night we're dining at home?"

"Oh yes, I hope so. We'll have a quiet evening."

After a moment Percy said, in a slightly constrained way:

"I think I shall have to go out for half-an-hour. I want to see a man at the club."

"Oh, must you? But it's raining so much. Why don't you ring him up and ask him to come here?"

She was anxious not to betray a womanish fear that he might be getting influenza, as she knew that nothing would annoy him so much as bothering about him.

"No; I must go out."

She dropped the subject. He took up a new book she had been reading and talked about it somewhat pompously and at great length. The whole time it struck her he was not like himself. Something was wrong. He was either worried, or going to be ill. He had either a temper or a temperature. But she did not refer to it. Dinner was sometimes a good cure for such indispositions.

He continued to make conversation in a slightly formal way until he went out. After he had gone she observed to herself that his manner had varied from polite absent-mindedness to slight irritability. He had gone out without telling her anything about his plans. He had not even kissed her.



CHAPTER IX

AN ANONYMOUS LETTER

Mrs. Hillier habitually had breakfast in her own room, for no particular reason, but because Nigel encouraged her in this luxurious manner of beginning the day. He said a woman ought not to have to come down until the day had been a little warmed, and got ready for her; that she should have time to choose her clothes to harmonise with her moods—time, after a look at the weather, and hearing the news of the day, to settle on what the moods should be. For a man, on the contrary, he thought it ridiculous and weakly idle—indolent in a way not suited to a man. A man, according to Nigel, ought no more to have his breakfast in bed than to come down with a bow of blue ribbon in his hair, or to go and lie down before dressing for a dinner-party.

However, one morning it darted suddenly into Mary's head that Nigel, on going downstairs to breakfast, while she did not, had nearly an hour to himself. What a horrible idea! What injustice to her! And it occurred to her that for years she had never seen Nigel open his letters. She had, indeed, not the slightest idea what his manner at breakfast was like. Was this fair? He always managed to get out of any invitation to the country which included them both.

As soon as she had thought of this, she rang for her maid, and dressed in the wildest hurry, as though she had to catch a train: leaving her tray on the little table untouched, the maid running after her to fasten hooks, and buttons, to stick in pins, and tie ribbons, as though they were playing a game.

Mary won. She was flying out of the room when the maid ran after her, saying:

"Madame, your tortoiseshell comb is falling out of your hair; won't you let me finish dressing it?"

"Don't worry, Searle. What does it matter?"

She flew downstairs.

Nigel looked up with that intense surprise that no one can succeed in disguising as the acutest pleasure.

"Well, by Jove," he said, in his quick way, which was so cool and casual that it almost had the effect of a drawl. He looked at her closely, and said reassuringly:

"After all, it may not be true; and if it is, it may be for the best."

"What may not be true, Nigel. What do you mean?"

"Why, this sudden bad news."

"What news? There is no news."

"Isn't there? By Jove, this is splendid! Just come down to have breakfast with me, then! Capital. What will you have, dear?"

He rang the bell.

"Are you sorry to see me?" she asked, darting looks at the envelopes by his plate, looks that were almost sharp enough to open them.

"Sorry to see you? Don't be absurd! Your comb's falling into the sugar basin, and I shouldn't think it would improve the taste of the coffee. Look out! Help! Saved! Mary dear, why don't you do your hair?"

"I was afraid you might go out before I came down."

"Why, I'm not going out for ages, yet."

He gave her his letters in their envelopes, with a half-smile.

"I don't want to see them," she said. "Why do you pass me the letters, as though you thought I came down for that?"

Nigel pretended not to hear. He opened the newspaper.

"I thought," she went on, "it seemed rather a shame that I should always have breakfast upstairs, and leave you alone, without anyone to keep you company."

"Awfully kind of you, but, really, I don't mind a bit."

He gave a quick look round the room. He had again that curious, bitter sensation of being trapped. Was he now not even going to have this pleasant morning hour to himself?

Probably there was not a prettier room in London than this one. It had the pale pink and green, blue and mauve colouring of spring flowers; the curved shapes of the dainty artificial creatures who lived for fine and trivial pleasure only; the best Louis Quinze decoration. And to-day it was a lovely day; and the warm west wind blew in the breath of the pink and blue hyacinths in the window-boxes. There was that pleasant gay buzzing sound of London in June outside in Grosvenor Street: the growing hum of the season, that made one feel right in it, even if one wasn't. Everything was peacefully happy, harsh and hard things seemed unreal; the world seemed made for birds and butterflies, light sentiment, colour, perfume and gay music. In this London life seemed like a Watteau picture.

Nigel saw that he had never yet realised why he was so fond of this room, where he always had breakfast. It was because there he was free, and alone.

* * * * *

Now he was determined that there should be no quarrelling to-day. It is only fair to Nigel to say that he was always quite determined to keep away the quarrels; and fought against them. Placed as they were, with such infinitely more possibilities of happiness than nine menages out of ten—though leaving out unfortunately one, and that the most important part—love—it was terrible that they should quarrel. He was so easy-going, so ready to ignore her faults, to make the best of things as they were. And she liked to quarrel, merely because it made her, for the time, of importance to him. In fact, being madly in love with him, and both wildly and stupidly jealous, to get up a quarrel was almost the only satisfaction she ever had, the only effect she ever produced now.

Since the other evening, when she had behaved with entire want of self-control, or, perhaps, rather with a kind of instinctive premeditated hysteria, she appeared to recognise that manner had not been a real success. She had tried, at all costs, to prevent him going to the theatre, and had failed.

The next day they ignored the trouble; and for some time afterwards she seemed pleasanter, while he was kind and attentive, believing she had really forgotten her grievance.

On the contrary, it was more firmly fixed in her mind than before. She was absolutely determined that, on no excuse whatever, should he continue to see Bertha Kellynch.

She had found out that the host of the evening at the ballet had been Rupert Denison, and that Madeline Irwin, Bertha and Nigel were the guests. For more than a week Mary had entirely given up the quarrelsome and nagging mood, so that Nigel believed she no longer had this absurd fancy about Bertha. As a matter of fact, for the first time, she had really been dissembling, had spent a good deal of time and money in finding out how both Bertha and Nigel spent their time. What little she had found out had given her an entirely false impression, and that had resulted in a very desperate determination. She meant to carry it out this morning. But she wanted to talk a little more to Nigel first.

"Nigel dear, you know what you said the other evening about giving parties?"

"Yes."

"I've been thinking, perhaps, dear, you're right. I find I've dropped nearly all your old friends. I think we'd better give one big party—a reception, I think. Our drawing-room has never been seen yet."

Nigel looked up, really pleased to see her taking a more normal sort of interest in her existence.

"By Jove! I am glad. That's capital! Yes, of course. To start with we'll give an At Home, as they call 'em."

"Do you think there ought to be any sort of entertainment, Nigel?"

"Well, just as you like. You said you didn't want music. ... How would it be to have a band to play the whole evening?"

"Yes, that would do very well. Oh, and, Nigel! I find I've been so careless and forgotten all the addresses and lost the cards of people that we used to know. I shall want someone to help me."

"Yes, I suppose Mademoiselle won't do."

"Oh no, she's no use. I shall engage a typewriter to go through the list with me and send out cards."

"Right-o! good idea."

He was quite surprised and satisfied, and thought to himself how wise it was of him the other day to ignore the absurd fit of excitement when she had smashed the vases. Certainly she had been better ever since.

"You'd like me to help you with the list, wouldn't you, dear?" he said presently.

She gave him a sharp look.

"I suppose we'd better ask everybody we know to this sort of thing," she said.

"Your mother and I are not on the best of terms, I'm afraid. But you must be sure to ask her, and we'll make it up."

Nigel thought to himself that really would be only fair, considering that he had practically and ingeniously invented the quarrel on purpose; in order that he could have an excuse to go out when Mary's mother came to see her. But, really, Nigel liked her personally and knew that she liked him, and that she was not without sympathy for anyone who had to live with her daughter.

"I suppose you'll want me to ask the Kellynches?" asked Mary, in a rather low voice.

"It would look natural if you did. But, really, I have seen so little of them for the last few years that you can please yourself about it."

"You've accepted several invitations from them," said Mary, in rather a cutting tone. "Perhaps it would be as well to return them."

"I don't think I've ever dined there," said Nigel casually.

"Didn't you meet them that night at the Russian Ballet? Don't deny it! I know you all went to supper at the Savoy."

"Who's denying it! You know that Denison asked me to supper at the Savoy, and that Madeline Irwin was there, and Mrs. Kellynch."

"Quite a nice little partie carree," said Mary, unable to keep up her plan of self-control, and speaking in a trembling voice.

"Now, Mary, don't be absurd! You know it's hardly usual for a bachelor like Rupert to ask three women or three men to supper!"

"I suppose he drove Miss Irwin home?" said Mary, commanding herself as well as she could.

"No, he didn't. Why should he? Mrs. Kellynch who is Madeline's intimate friend, naturally drove Miss Irwin home in her car. And Rupert, who lives near here, dropped me. It was some little time ago, by the way, but I remember it quite well. Nice feller Rupert—we ought to ask him, too."

"All right, dear."

They parted amiably.

* * * * *

An hour later Mary was going through her lists of cards and addresses with the typewriter when she suddenly said:

"Oh, Miss Wilson, I'm writing a sort of story. And it's to be told in a series of letters."

"Oh yes."

"Will you please take this down. This is the address: Percy Kellynch, Esq., 100 Sloane Street. It begins like this: 'Dear Mr. Kellynch——'" ...



CHAPTER X

MASTER CLIFFORD KELLYNCH

Lady Kellynch was in the room she usually chose for sitting in for any length of time, when her son, Clifford (twelve years old), was at home for the holidays.

A widow, handsome and excessively dignified, as I have mentioned, with her prim notions, she was essentially like the old-fashioned idea of an old maid. As her fine house was very perfectly and meticulously furnished, she treated the presence of Clifford as an outrage in any room but this particularly practical and saddle-bag old apartment, where there was still a corner with a little low chair in it, and boxes full of toys and other things, which were not only far outgrown by Clifford, but which were absolutely never seen nowadays at all, and would be considered far behindhand as amusements for a child of four.

This extra, additional child, born eighteen years after his brother, and just before the death of his father, was still looked upon by Lady Kellynch as a curious mixture of an unexpected blessing, an unnecessary nuisance, and a pleasant surprise. She was always delighted to see him when he first came home from school, but he was very soon allowed to go and stay with Bertha and Percy. Bertha adored him and delighted in him in reality; Lady Kellynch worshipped him in theory, but though she hardly knew it herself, his presence absolutely interfered with all her plans about nothing, spoilt her little arrangements for order, and jarred on the clockwork regularity of her life, especially in her moments of sentiment.

He was a very good-looking boy, with smooth black hair and regular features like his brother, Percy. Perhaps because he was, according to his mother's view, very much advanced for his age, he regarded her rather as a backward child, to whom it would be highly desirable, but unfortunately practically impossible, to explain life as it is now lived.

Lady Kellynch was doing a peculiar little piece of bead embroidery. She did it every day for ten minutes after lunch with a look at Clifford every now and then, occasionally counting her beads, as if she was not altogether quite sure whether or not he ate them when she wasn't looking. This was the moment that she always chose to have conversation with him, so as to learn to know his character. A couple of suitable books, "The Jungle Book," and "Eric, or Little by Little," were placed on a low table by Clifford's side; but, as a matter of fact, he was reading The English Review.

"Clifford darling!"

He put the magazine down, shoving a newspaper over it.

"Well, mother?"

"Tell me something about your life at school, darling."

He glanced at the ceiling, then looked down for inspiration.

"How do you mean?"

"Well, haven't you any nice little friends at school, Clifford—any favourites?"

He smiled.

"Oh, good Lord, mother, of course I haven't! People don't have little friends. I don't know what you mean."

She looked rather pained.

"No friends! Oh, dear, dear, dear! But are there no nice boys that you like?"

"No. Most of them are awful rotters."

She put down her beads.

"Clifford! I'm shocked to hear this. Rotters! I suppose that's one of your school expressions—you mean no nice boys? Poor little fellow! I shall make a note of that."

He looked up, rather frightened.

"What on earth for?"

"Why, I shall certainly speak to your master about it. Oh! to think that you haven't got a single friend in the school! All bad boys! There must be something wrong somewhere!"

"Oh, mummy, for goodness sake don't speak to anybody about it. If you say a word, I tell you, I sha'n't go back to school. I never heard of such a thing! I didn't say they were all bad boys—rot! No. Some of them aren't so bad."

"Well, tell me about one—if it's only one, Clifford."

He thought a moment.

"I'm afraid you'll go writing to the master, as you call it, and get me expelled for telling tales, or something."

"Oh, my darling, of course I won't! Poor boy! tell me about this one."

"There's one chap who's fairly decent, a chap called Pickering."

"To think," she murmured to herself, stroking her transformation, and shaking her head, "to think there should be only one boy fairly decent in all that enormous school!"

"Oh, well! he's simply frightfully decent, as a matter of fact. Pickering fairly takes it. He's top-hole. There's nothing he can't do."

"What does he do, darling?"

"Oh, I can't exactly explain. He's a bit of all right. It's frightfully smart to be seen with him."

Lady Kellynch looked surprised at this remark.

"Clifford—really! I'd no idea you had these social views. Of course you're quite right, dear. I've always been in favour of your being friends with little gentlemen. But I shouldn't like you to be at all—what is called a snob. So long as he is a little gentleman, of course, that's everything."

Clifford laughed.

"I never said Pickering was a gentleman! big or little! You don't understand, mother. I mean it's smart to be seen with him because—oh! I can't explain. He's all right."

His mother thought for a little while, then, having heard that it is right to encourage school friendships at home, so as to know under what influence your boy got, she said:

"Would you like, dear, to have this young Master Pickering to tea here one day?"

He looked up, and round the room.

"Oh no, mother; I shouldn't care for him to come here."

"Why not, dear?"

"Oh, I can't explain exactly; it isn't the sort of place for him."

Lady Kellynch was positively frightened to ask why, for fear her boy should show contempt for his own home, so she didn't go into the matter, but remarked:

"I should think a beautiful house in Onslow Square, with a garden like this, was just the thing for a boy to like."

He shook his head with a humorous expression of contempt.

"Pickering wouldn't go into a Square garden, mother!"

She waited a moment, wondering what shaped garden was suited to him, what form of pleasaunce was worthy of the presence of this exceptional boy, and then said, trying to ascertain the point of view:

"Would you take him to see Percy?"

He brightened up directly.

"Percy! Oh yes, rather. I'd like him to see Bertha. I shall ask her to let me take him one day."

Lady Kellynch felt vaguely pained, and envious and jealous, but on reflection realised to herself that probably the wonderful Pickering would be a very great nuisance, and make a noise, and create general untidiness and confusion, in which Bertha was quite capable of taking part; so she said:

"Do so, if you like, dear. You're going to see Bertha soon, aren't you?"

"Yes. I'm going to see her to-day." He quickly put The English Review under the cushion, sitting on it as he saw his mother look up from her work.

"Bertha's all right; she's pretty too."

"She's very good and kind to you, I must say," said Lady Kellynch. "As they have asked you so often, I think I should like you to pay her a nice little attention to-day, dear. Take her a pretty basket of flowers."

Clifford's handsome dark face became overclouded with boredom.

"Oh, good Lord, mother! can't you telephone to a florist and have it sent to her, if she's got to have vegetables?"

"But surely, dear, it would be nicer for you to take it."

"Oh, mother, it would be awful rot, carting about floral tribs in a taxi all over London."

"Floral tribs? What are floral tribs? Oh, tributes! I see! In a taxi! No. I never dreamt of your doing such a thing. Ridiculous extravagance! Go from Kensington to Sloane Street in a taxi!"

"How did you suppose I'd take it, then?"

"I supposed you'd walk," said Lady Kellynch, in a frightened voice.

"Walk! Great Scott! Walk with a basket of flowers! What next! I didn't know you were bringing me up as a messenger-boy. No, mother, I'm too old to be a boy scout, or anything of that sort. What have you got Warden for? Why don't you send the footman? But far the most sensible way is to ring up the place itself, and give the order."

"No, dear," said Lady Kellynch, rather crushed. She had pictured his entrance with some beautiful flowers to please his sister-in-law. "Never mind; it doesn't matter."

"Mind you," said the spoilt boy, standing up, and looking at himself in the glass. "Mind you I should be awfully glad to give Bertha anything she likes. I don't mind. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll call in at that place in Bond Street, and get her some chocolates."

"Charbonnel and Walker's, I suppose you mean," said his mother.

He smiled.

"They'll do. Pickering says his brother, who's an artist, is going to do a historical picture for next year's Academy on the subject of 'The First Meeting between Charbonnel and Walker.'"

She looked bewildered.

"Just as you like, my dear. Take her some bonbons if you prefer it. Wait! One moment, Clifford. Bertha hates sweets. She never touches them."

"It doesn't matter," he answered. "I do."



CHAPTER XI

A DISCOVERY

"Come in, old boy!"

Bertha was lying on the sofa reading a large book. She didn't put down either her little feet or the book when her young brother-in-law came in.

He also had a book in his pocket, which he took out. Then he produced a box in silver paper.

"For you," he remarked, and then immediately cut the blue ribbon with a penknife and proceeded to begin the demolition of the chocolates.

"A present for me?" said Bertha.

"Yes," he said, taking a second one rather quickly and glancing at the second row.

"I'm so glad you've got me the kind you like. I hope you've got those with the burnt almonds that you're so particularly fond of?"

"Oh yes, rather!"

"Thanks. That was nice and thoughtful of you; I know they're your favourite sort."

"Yes, they are."

"And what I always think is so nice about you, Clifford," Bertha went on, "is that you're so truly thoughtful. I mean, you never forget your own tastes. You really take trouble to get yourself any little thing you like. You put yourself out."

"Oh—I——"

"Oh no, I'm not flattering you; I really mean it. You're such a nice thoughtful boy. I've seen you take a lot of trouble, rather than deprive yourself of anything you cared for."

"Oh, Bertha!"

"Are you going to stay long to-day?"

"Yes, I am," said Clifford, taking up the book he had brought with him. "As long as I can."

"Oh."

"How long can I?"

"Till dinner, or till anyone turns up that I want to talk to."

"Right-o! But you can send me into another room. I needn't go home, need I?"

She laughed.

"Oh, you silly boy! Of course not."

"I say, have you seen my report?" he asked gravely.

"Some of it. Your mother read out little bits."

"Which little bits?" he asked rather anxiously.

"Oh, the worst of course!" said Bertha. "The purple patches! You're a credit to the family, I don't think!"

"She asked me who was my nicest little friend at school," said Clifford.

"And what did you say?"

"I told her about Pickering. I say, Bertha, ... can I bring Pickering here?"

"Of course you can."

"May I give him a regular sort of invitation from you, then?"

"Yes, rather. Tell him that I and Percy ask him to come and live here from to-morrow morning for the rest of his natural life. Or, if that doesn't seem cordial enough, we'll adopt him as our only son."

"Oh no! I think that's too much."

"Is it? Well, make it from to-morrow afternoon. Or perhaps we'd better not be effusive; it wouldn't look well. So, instead of that, I'll invite him to go to the Zoological Gardens on Sunday fortnight for an hour, and you and he can have buns and tea at your own expense there. That's not too hospitable and gushing, is it?"

He laughed.

"You do look smart, Bertha!" he remarked. "Your shoes are always so frightfully right. I say, can't you tell mother to wear the same sort of shoes? And tell her to look narrower, and not have such high collars."

"My dear boy, your mother dresses beautifully," said Bertha. "What do you want her to look like?"

"I should like her to look like some of those little cards on cigarette boxes, or like a picture post-card, if you want to know," he admitted candidly.

"That's absurd, Cliff."

"But, Bertha, some of the fellows' mothers do."

"Remember your mother is Percy's mother, too."

"Pickering's mother doesn't look much older than you," he replied.

"Oh—what a horrid woman!"

He smiled. "Why do you call her a horrid woman? For not looking older than you?"

"Oh! tell her to mind her own business, and not go interfering with me. I shall look whatever age I choose without consulting her!" Bertha pretended to pout and be offended, and went on reading for a little while.

He took another chocolate and turned a page.

She did not ask to see the book.

"That's what I call so jolly about you," presently said Clifford. "When I come to see you, you don't keep asking me questions, or giving me things, or advice, or anything. You do what you like, and I do what I like—I mean to say, we both do just what we like."

"Yes; that's the way to be pleasant companions," said Bertha. "I go your way, and you go mine."

"How's Percy?" the boy asked presently.

"Percy's the same as usual. Only I fancy he seems a little depressed."

Presently Clifford looked up and said:

"Anyway, you'll think it over, Bertha; and see what you decide to do about asking Pickering?"

"Rather!" said Bertha, turning a page absently. "He's rather a wonderful chap, then?"

"Isn't he!"

"What sort?"

"What sort?" cried Clifford, dropping his book. "Why, Bertha, I was with him, actually with him, when he went into the country post office and asked the woman if she would let him have small change for ten shillings, and he found he hadn't the half-sovereign then, but would pay her when he didn't see her again! And then he said if she wouldn't do that, he'd like to buy some stamps, and asked if she'd show him some to choose from. And then he said—I saw him do it—'I'll take those two in the middle—I like the colour.' When she said they were fivepence he said that was too expensive, and he couldn't run to it. And then he wanted to buy some sweets—they sell everything at those country shops—and she wrapped some up for him, and then he said he hadn't got a penny, and would she put it down to Lord Arthur's account—that's an uncle of his who didn't know anything about it, and hadn't got any account. And when she refused, fancy, Bertha! he asked if she'd take stamps, as she seemed fond of them, and when she said she would, he stamped twice on the floor and ran out of the shop, and I ran after him. She was angry!"

"He seems a useful boy."

"Rather! His people are frightfully rich, you know," went on Clifford. "When they tease him about it at school, he says he's never allowed to use the same motor twice, and that they're made of solid gold! He chaffs everybody."

Clifford murmured on rather disjointedly, and Bertha read without listening much, occasionally making some remark, when the telephone rang.

Bertha had an extension on the little table next to her sofa.

"Shall I go?" asked Clifford.

"No. Just to the other end of the room."

He obeyed, and fell into the depths of a fat arm-chair.

"That you, Nigel? How is it all going on? Madeline hasn't heard from him lately—not for ages."

"Quite so," answered Nigel's voice. "I've found out something I want you to know. It isn't really serious—at least I'm pretty sure I can put it right, but I'd like to see you about it; it wouldn't take you a moment."

"But is it a thing that may make any difference?" she asked rather anxiously.

"No. Not if it's taken in time," he answered.

"Oh, can't you 'phone about it, Nigel?"

"Not very well, my dear. It really wouldn't take you a minute to hear about it viva voce."

"But you can't keep on calling every day!" cried Bertha, exasperated.

"Quite so. Couldn't you go in for a few minutes to-morrow morning at the Grosvenor Gallery in Bond Street? Say at about eleven or twelve? I won't keep you five minutes, I promise, and you can tell me if you approve of my plan."

"Very well, I'll do that. Quarter-past eleven," added Bertha.

"Only one thing, Bertha, don't tell anyone—not a soul."

"Why not?"

"I'll explain when I see you. But you mustn't mention it. It's nothing—two seconds."

"Oh, all right! But why so many mysteries? You might just as well tell me now on the telephone."

"I'm afraid I can't; I have to show you a letter."

"I suppose Rupert has been seeing Moona Chivvey again? Is that it?"

"Well, yes. But that's not all. Not a word to Madeline! Isn't it curious, Bertha, troubles about women are always the same. Either they want you to marry them, or they won't marry you!"

"Oh, really? Good-bye."

"How brilliant you're looking, Bertha! You've got your hair done in that mysterious new way again."

"How on earth can you know through the telephone?"

"Why, easily. By your voice. You talk in a different way—to suit it."

"Do I? How funny! Good-bye."

Ten minutes later Percy came in.

He seemed pleased to see his young brother.

"What's that book you've brought, Cliff?"

"It's 'The New Arabian Nights.'"

Percy laughed.

"Oh yes, I know—the copy I gave Bertha. Have you decided to let her have it back on mature consideration?"

"Oh, I say, Percy! Come off the roof, there's a good chap," said the boy, blushing a little.

"I think I shall have to take a holiday from chambers to-morrow," Percy said. "Shall we take him out to lunch, Bertha?"

"By all means; or, at any rate, you take him, Percy."

"Are you engaged in the morning?" he asked her very quickly.

"I ought to look in at my dressmaker's for a minute," she said, feeling angry with Nigel that he had made her promise to conceal even a few minutes of her day.

No more was said on the subject.

Presently, Percy went upstairs to his room and turned the key. He then took out of a drawer and placed in front of him, in their order, three rather curious-looking letters, written in typewriting on ordinary plain white notepaper. The first two, both of which began "Dear Mr. Kellynch," were four pages long, and gave some information in somewhat mysterious terms. The third one had no beginning, and merely mentioned an hour and a place where, he was told, he would find his wife on the following morning, if he wished to do so, in the company of an individual with the initials N. H. The letter further advised him to go there and find her and take steps to put a stop to the proceedings which had been watched for some time by somebody who signed the letter "your true and reliable friend."

* * * * *

The right thing to do, according to all unwritten laws of the conduct of a gentleman, would be to destroy such communications and at once forget them. To show them to her, Percy felt, would be degrading to himself and to such a woman as his wife, whom he now realised he placed on a pedestal. The idea of seeing the pedestal rock seemed to take the earth from under his feet. But not only that, he now felt that, though he hadn't known it, he loved her, not with a mild, half-patronising affection, but with the maddening jealousy of a lover in the most passionate stage of love. A man placed in his position nearly always thinks that it is the idea of being deceived that hurts the most. Particularly when the object of suspicion is his wife. Now he knew it was not that; he could forgive the deception; but he couldn't bear to think that any other man could think of her from that point of view at all. And if he found that the mere facts stated in the three letters were true, even if the inferences suggested were utterly false, he had made up his mind what to do. He would go and see Nigel on the subject, forbid him the house, saying that too frequent visits had caused talk, and never mention the subject to Bertha. That was his present plan. Perhaps it would not be possible to carry it out, but that was his idea.

* * * * *

The fact that Bertha had been vague about her morning engagement—for it was really unlike her not to seem pleased at the idea of spending the whole day with him and the little brother—so agonised Percy that he pretended to have a headache and saw practically nothing of Bertha till the next day. He said then that he would go to chambers, meet Clifford at Prince's and come home after lunch and take Bertha out somewhere. This was to leave her perfectly free, so that she need not alter any arrangements. He wished to see what she would do.

It was a glorious morning, and Percy felt rather mean and miserable and unlike the day as he left the house.

Bertha was already dressed, looking deliciously fresh and pink, and sparkling and fair as the sunshine. A second of acute physical jealousy made him remark rather bitterly before he left that her hat was a little bit striking, wasn't it? Upon which she at once, in her good-tempered, amiable way (only too delighted that he should have noticed anything in her toilette even to object to it), plucked the white feather out of the black hat and put a little coat on over her dress, so as to look less noticeable.

At a quarter past eleven Percy paid his shilling at the gallery, walked in, looking slowly at the drawings on the walls in the narrow passage that led to the rooms.

The moment he reached the first door on the left-hand side, which was open, he saw through it, exactly opposite to him, seated on a sofa, Bertha, looking up and chattering to Nigel Hillier, who was looking down in a protecting manner, and listening with great interest to her conversation.

Neither of them saw him.

The pain of finding one part of the letter true was so startling and terrible that he dared not look another moment; a second more, and he might have made a scandal, perhaps for ever after to be regretted, and possibly entirely groundless.

He walked straight out of the gallery again, and drove to Sloane Street in a taxi. During the drive he felt extraordinary sensations. He remembered an occasion when he had been to a dentist as a little boy, and the strange new suffering it had caused him. Then he thought that when he got home, he would feel better. Instead of that the sight of the familiar house was unbearable agony; he could not endure to go into it; he drove back again to the club of which both he and Nigel were members, and where Nigel was generally to be found before lunch. There he tried to wait and master himself a little; it was peculiar torture to have left them there now. He felt he would like to go back to the gallery and at least spoil their morning. But that, his sound sense told him, would be a mistake. He would wait there till Nigel came in.



CHAPTER XII

A LOVE SCENE

Percy waited on and on, minute after minute, half-hour after half-hour, reading the morning papers, staring with apparent deep interest at the pictures in the weekly journals—rather depressing foreshortened snapshots of society at racecourses. These people, caught unawares, seemed to be all feet and parasols, or smiles and muffs. Then, feeling rather exhausted, he ordered a drink, and forgot it, and smoked a cigarette. When he saw anyone he knew, he put on an absent-minded air, and avoided the friend's eye. He looked at his watch as if in sudden anxiety, and found that it was half-past one. This was the time he was to meet his little brother at Prince's. He made inquiries and found that Nigel was expected to lunch at the club. It was horrible! He could not leave the boy at the restaurant waiting for him, and he was not up to the mark either, at the moment, for seeing Nigel Hillier; he felt as if the top of his head had been smashed in. Yet his common-sense and reasoning power gradually prevailed over his emotion. And as he sat there, Percy changed his mind.

* * * * *

At first he had thought it would be cowardly to her to attack his wife on the subject; it was the man with whom he should quarrel. And now it seemed to him different. His point of view altered. It seemed only fair now to give Bertha herself a chance of explaining matters. Thinking of her fresh, frank expression that morning, and looking back, he began to have, by some sort of second sight, a vision of his own stupid injustice. No! he must have been wrong! Nigel may have been a scoundrel, or—anything—but it couldn't be Bertha's fault. She may have been imprudent, out of pure innocence; that was all.

He got up, and now he decided to take his brother out to lunch, and then go back and talk to Bertha.

* * * * *

During the noisy, crowded lunch at Prince's, which entertained the boy so much that there was no necessity for the elder brother to talk, Percy came to a firm decision.

He would never tell Bertha anything at all about the anonymous letters.

He would tell her that he had seen her this morning at the gallery—as if by accident; but he would frankly admit a jealousy, even a suspicion of Nigel.

He would ask Bertha in so many words not to see Nigel again.

If she would agree to this, and if she were as affectionate as formerly, what did the rest matter? The letters must have been slanders; who could have written them? But, after all, what did it matter? If Bertha consented to do as he asked, they were untrue, and that was everything. He and Bertha would drop Hillier, and he would put the whole horrible business behind him; he would wipe it out, and forget it. The mere thought of such joy made him tremble ... it seemed too glorious to be real, and as they approached the house again he began to believe in it.

Clifford had thoroughly enjoyed himself. He felt quite grown-up as he parted with Percy at Sloane Street, and drove home, singing to himself the refrain of Pickering's favourite song: "How much wood would a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck would chuck wood?"

* * * * *

"Percy, what is the matter?" Bertha asked anxiously, as she looked at him.

He had gone through a great deal that morning and looked rather worn out. ... He spoke in a lower voice than usual.

"Look here, Bertha," he said, "I have something to tell you."

She waited, then, at a pause, said, rather pathetically:

"Oh, Percy, do tell me what it is? I've felt so worried about you lately. You seem to be changed. ... I have felt very pained and hurt. Tell me what it is."

Percy looked at her. She was looking sweet, anxious and sincere. She leant forward, holding out her little hand. ... If this was not genuine, then nothing on earth ever could be!

"Tell me, Percy," she repeated, looking up at him, as he stood by the fire, with that little movement of her fair head that he used to say was like a canary.

Percy looked down at her; all his imposingness, all his air of importance, and his occasional tinge of pompousness, had entirely vanished. He was simple, angry and unhappy.

"I found I hadn't got to go to chambers early this morning after all, so I walked down Bond Street. I went into the Grosvenor Gallery. I saw you there. ... It seemed very strange you hadn't told me. Why didn't you? Why didn't you? Bertha, don't tell me anything that isn't true!"

Her eyes sparkled. She stood up beaming radiant joy. She went to him impulsively; everything was all right; he was jealous!

"Oh, Percy! I can explain it all."

Hastily, eagerly, impulsively, with the most obvious honesty and frankness, she told him of how Nigel had promised to help her with Madeline, of how he had planned with her to make Madeline happy; she told him of the variable and unaccountable conduct of Rupert Denison to Madeline, of his marked attention at one moment, his coldness at another. Foolishly, she had been led to believe that Nigel could make things all right. Now this morning Nigel had asked her to meet him to tell her that Rupert had been seen choosing hats for another girl. Bertha was in doubt whether she ought to tell Madeline, and make her try and cure her devotion. And Bertha had thought it all the kinder of Nigel because his brother, Charlie, was very much in love with her.

Percy stopped her in the middle of the story. He could take no sort of interest in it at present. He was much too happy and relieved; he was in the seventh heaven.

"Yes ... yes ... all right, dear. Only you oughtn't to have made an appointment with him. Only promise that never again—— You see, things can be misconstrued. And, anyhow, I don't like to see you with Nigel Hillier. Frankly, I can't stand it. You'll make this sacrifice for me—if it is one, Bertha?"

He had quite decided to conceal all about the letters.

"Indeed, indeed I will; and I know I was wrong," she said. "I mean it's no good trying to help people too much. They must play their own game. You understand, don't you? Nigel was only to show me a letter he had written inviting the other girl to lunch—to take her away from Rupert. But it's all nonsense, and I'll have nothing more to do with it."

"Then that's all right," said Percy, sitting down, with a great sigh of relief.

"You didn't really think for a moment, seriously, that I ever—that I didn't—oh, you never stopped knowing how much I love you?" she asked, with tears in her eyes.

Percy said that he had not exactly thought that. Also, he was not jealous—that was not the word—he merely wished her to promise never to see or speak to Nigel again as long as they lived, and never to recognise him if she met him: that was all. He was perfectly reasonable.

"It's perhaps a little bit difficult in some ways, dearest. But I promise you faithfully to do my very, very best. And this I absolutely swear—I will never see him without your approving and knowing all about it. But as I shouldn't exactly like him to think you thought anything—I mean—I think you must leave it a little to me—to my tact, to get rid of him; and trust me. And I want you to know that I shouldn't care if I never saw him again. I don't even like him. And I really don't think he cares for me; I'm quite certain it's your fancy."

"Can you give me your word of honour that he never——"

"Never, by word or look," answered Bertha.

"That's all right," said Percy.

* * * * *

Bertha sat on the arm of his chair and leant her head against his shoulder.

At that moment he thought he had never known what happiness was before.

Then she said:

"It's all right now, then, Percy? That was all, and the cloud's gone?"

"Quite, absolutely," he answered, mentally tearing the letters into little bits.

Then she said:

"Percy, of course you never really thought ... you never could think that I meant to deceive you in any way. ... But supposing Nigel had had any treacherous ideas—let us say, supposing that Nigel, though he's married, and all that—suppose you found out that he had liked me, and wanted to spoil our happiness? ... I mean, suppose you found out that he had been making love to me? ... What would you have done?"

"I should have killed him," replied Percy. Could a man have said anything that would please a woman as much as this primitive assertion?

Bertha threw her arms round his neck. She was perfectly happy. He was in love with her.



CHAPTER XIII

RECONCILIATION

Bertha decided it was better to curtail Nigel's visits and make them fewer gradually; she had quite convinced Percy of her sincerity, and he also had come to the conclusion that it would be foolish and infra dig to let the jealousy be suspected. He trusted her again now; and they were both deeply and intensely happy. Being ashamed of the letters, Percy said nothing about them; in a day or two he had come to the conclusion that he would leave it entirely to Bertha's tact.

"All I ask is," he said, "that you will see him as little and as seldom as you can, without making too much fuss about it, or letting him know what I thought."

"And I promise to do that," she said. "I long never to see him again. It's only on account of Madeline I wanted to have one more little talk with him—about her and Rupert. After that I'll manage without him, I assure you. I swear not to give him anything more to do for me. But what I can't understand, dear, is what put the idea into your head."

"Never mind. You were seeing him too often. And, remember, I know that he was in love with you once and wanted to marry you."

"But, dear boy, that was ten years ago, and he married somebody else."

"Which he may regret by now. Well, I trust all to your tact, Bertha."

"He's coming to-day," Bertha said. "And then I'm going to make him understand I no longer want his help."

"Right."

Percy went out, looking very happy. He did not forget to kiss her now, and he himself had sent the large basket of flowers that Nigel nearly fell over when he came in the afternoon.

"A new admirer?" asked Nigel.

"No, an old one. So you say that you met Rupert buying a hat for Miss Chivvey, and saw them the next day walking together, and she was wearing it."

"Yes. And, as I told you, I thought this rather serious, so I wrote and invited the young lady to lunch with me."

"Did she accept?"

"That is what I've come to tell you about to-day. She was engaged, but asked me to invite her another time."

"Exactly. Now, Nigel, I want to tell you something. I think I've been doing wrong intriguing for Madeline, and it hasn't been fair to her really. I've decided to tell her what you told me about Rupert, and then leave things to take their course. And I oughtn't to countenance asking the other girl to lunch. It was horrid of me—I'm ashamed of myself, both on account of her and of Mary. Don't do it; I'd rather not."

Nigel looked up at her sharply.

"Do these sudden and violent scruples mean simply that you don't want me any more?"

"A little," she replied.

"I've noticed you've seemed very cold and unkind to me the last week or so," he said. "You seem to be trying to change our relations."

"I don't see why we should have any relations," answered Bertha. "After all, I know instinctively that Mary doesn't like me."

"What in heaven's name does that matter?" he asked.

"A good deal to me."

There was a moment's silence.

Nigel looked surprised and more hurt than she would have expected. Then he said:

"All right, Bertha. I hope I can take a hint. I won't bother you any more. I won't try to help you in anything till you ask me."

She was silent.

Then he went on:

"Might I venture to ask whether you suspect I've been making the most of our plans for Madeline to see as much of you as I could?"

"Oh, I didn't say that."

"If you had, perhaps you would have been right," he said, but seeing her annoyed expression he changed his tone, and said:

"No, my dear, truly I only wanted to do a good turn for you and your friend. It's off now, that's all. I sha'n't interfere again."

He stood up.

She hesitated for one moment.

"Do you think Rupert has not been sincere with Madeline?"

"I can't say. I wouldn't go so far as that. I think he varies—likes the contrast between the two. But if he decides to marry, I don't think he'd propose to Miss Chivvey. Well, good-bye. I won't call again till you ask me."

Her look of obvious relief as she smilingly held out her hand piqued him into saying:

"I see you want your time to yourself more. Before I go, will you answer me one little question?"

"Of course I will."

He still held her hand. She took it away.

"What is the question?"

"Who sent you those flowers, Bertha?"

"Have you any right to ask?"

"I think so—as an old friend. They're compromisingly large, and there's a strange mixture of orchids and forget-me-nots, roses and gardenias that I don't quite like. It looks like somebody almost wildly lavish—not anxious to show off his taste, but sincerely throwing his whole soul into the basket."

She laughed, pleased.

"Who sent you the flowers, Bertha?"

He was standing up by the door.

"Percy," she answered.

"Oh!"



CHAPTER XIV

"TANGO"

Madeline had taken the gossip about Rupert and Miss Chivvey very bravely, but very seriously. It pained her terribly, but she was grateful to Bertha for telling her.

A fortnight passed, during which she heard nothing from Rupert, and then one morning, the day after a dance, she called to see Bertha.

Percy had had no more anonymous letters, and Nigel had remained away. He was deeply grateful, for he supposed Bertha had managed with perfect tact to stop the talk without giving herself away, or making him ridiculous.

Bertha had never looked happier in her life. She was sitting smiling to herself, apparently in a dream, when her friend came in.

"Bertha," she said, "I have some news. I danced the tango with Nigel's brother Charlie last night, and at the end—he really does dance divinely—what do you think happened? I had gone there perfectly miserable, for I had seen and heard nothing of Mr. Denison except that one letter after the Ballet—and then Charlie proposed to me, and I accepted him, like in a book!"

Bertha took her hand.

"My dear Madeline, how delightful! This is what I've always wanted. It's so utterly satisfactory in every way."

"I know, and he is a darling boy. I was very frank with him, Bertha. I didn't say I was in love with him, and he said he would teach me to be."

"It's frightfully satisfactory," continued Bertha. "Tell me Madeline, what made you change like this?"

"Well, dear, I've been getting so unhappy: I feel Rupert has been simply playing with me. I heard the other day that they were dining out alone together—I mean Rupert and that girl. I don't blame him, Bertha. It was I, in a sense, who threw myself at his head. I admired and liked him and gradually let myself go and get silly about him. But this last week I've been pulling myself together and seeing how hopeless it was, and just as I'd begun to conquer my feeling—to fight it down—then this nice dear boy, so frank and straightforward and sincere, came along, and—oh! I thought I should like it. To stop at home with mother after my sort of disappointment seemed too flat and miserable: I couldn't bear it. Now I shall have an object in life. But, Bertha," continued Madeline, putting her head on her shoulder, "I've been absolutely frank, you know."

"I guessed you would be; it was like you. But I hope you didn't say too much to Charlie. It would be a pity to cloud his pleasure and spoil the sparkle of the fun. By the time you're choosing carpets together and receiving your third cruet-stand you will have forgotten such a person as Rupert Denison exists—except as a man who played a sort of character-part in the curtain-raiser of your existence."

"Well, I hope so. But I did tell Charlie I was not in love with him, and he said he would try to make me."

"I only hope that you're not doing it so that your mother should ask Rupert to the wedding? Not that I myself sha'n't enjoy that."

"Honestly, Bertha, I don't think so. More than anything it's because I want an object in life."

"Here's a letter from Nigel," said Bertha. "I expect he'll be making this an excuse to drop in again."

"Yes; but you mustn't tease Percy, because everything happened just as you wanted it to," said Madeline. "I really was surprised at how suddenly and determinedly Charlie began again. He had seemed almost to give me up. He dances the tango so beautifully; I think it all came through that. We got on so splendidly at tango teas. At any rate, but for that I shouldn't have seen him so often."

"It's a tango marriage," said Bertha.

* * * * *

Bertha strongly suspected a little manoeuvring of Nigel's in the course of the last fortnight, but did not realise how much there had been of it. The day Bertha had practically said he was not to interfere any longer, Nigel thoroughly realised that Percy must be jealous. He was wildly annoyed at this, since it would be a great obstacle, besides proving Percy was in love, but he saw the urgency of falling in at once with her wish; not opposing it, being absolutely obedient to it. This was not the moment to push himself forward—to show his feelings. Tact and diplomacy must be used. Of course, he had not the faintest notion about Mary and her letters, but merely thought that a sudden relapse of conjugal affection on Percy's side—confound him!—and an attack of unwonted jealousy had made Percy say something to Bertha to cause her coldness.

He remained away, but he thought of more than one plan to regain the old intimacy.

Quite unscrupulously he played several little tricks, at least he made several remarks about one to the other, to make the apparently hesitating Rupert more interested in Miss Chivvey and less so in Madeline, while he urged his brother Charlie on, and insisted on his continuing his court. The result was quicker than he had expected, and after a very little diplomacy Charlie had found Madeline willing to accept him. As Madeline was to Bertha just like a sister, it was natural that they should meet again now, and in this letter Nigel asked permission to call and have a chat.

Bertha agreed, for although she was slightly on her guard against the possibility of his wishing to flirt, she had not the faintest idea, as I have said, of Nigel's determined resolve.

Nigel had been fairly unhappy of late. Caring very little for any of his other friends, and having this idee fixe about Bertha—which became much stronger at the opposition and the idea of Percy's jealousy—he moped a good deal and had spent more time than usual with Mary. Nigel was one of those very rare men, who are becoming rarer and rarer, who, having passed the age of thirty-five, still regard love as the principal object of life. That Nigel did so was what made him so immensely popular with women as a rule. Women feel instinctively when this is so, and the man who makes sport, ambition or art his first interest, and women, and romance in general, a mere secondary pleasure, is never regarded with nearly the same favour as the man who values women chiefly, even though that very man is naturally far less reliable in his affection and almost invariably deceives them. To be placed in the background of life is what the average woman dislikes the most; she would rather be of the first importance as a woman even if she knows she has many rivals.

Bertha was exceptional, in that she did not care for the Don Juan type of man, but was rather inclined to despise him. She would far rather have ambition, business, art, duty, any other object in life as her rival, than another woman.

* * * * *

Percy received no more of the singular typewritten letters. He kept those that he had locked up in a box. Mary had grown a little frightened at the apparent success of those she sent. She never heard anything about them, but she knew that Nigel had not been seeing Bertha since the note about the picture gallery. She began to be happier again. Nigel was a great deal more at home, though not more affectionate. And Mary was one of those women, by no means infrequent, who are fairly satisfied if they can, by hook or by crook, by any trick or any tyranny, keep the man they care for somehow under the same roof with them—if only his body is in the house, even if they know it is against his will, and that his soul is far away. She would far rather that his desire was elsewhere, if only he were positively present—the one dread, really, being that he should be enjoying himself with anyone else. Mary preferred a thousand times a silent, sulky evening with Nigel going up to his room about the same time that she went to hers, than, as he used to be when they were first married, gay, affectionate and caressing to her, and then going out. She would gladly make him a kind of prisoner, even at the cost of making him almost dislike her, rather than give him his freedom—even to please him—a freedom which included the possibility of his seeing Bertha again.

Although she was unjust and mistaken in her facts, it was, of course, a correct instinct that made her aware that Bertha was the great attraction—the one real object of passion in Nigel's life. But she was incapable of believing that Bertha did not care for him, that if she had she would never have flirted with the husband of another woman. Merely because Bertha was pretty and admired, Mary, with her strange narrow-minded bitterness, took it for granted that it was impossible that she could be also a delicately scrupulous, generous, and high-minded creature. But just as passion will make one singularly quick-sighted, it can also make one dense and stupid. Considering that Mary was madly in love with her own husband, it was absurd she should suppose it impossible that Bertha should take the slightest interest in hers. Of course Mary had heard that they were very devoted—if she had not, what would have been the use of writing the letters?—but she chose to believe that it was only on the husband's side, and that Bertha must of necessity be, of course, sly and deceitful. She hated Bertha violently, and yet she was by nature the kindest of women; only this one mania of hers completely altered her, and made her bitter, wild, hard and unscrupulous, stupid and clever, cowardly and reckless. A woman's jealousy of another woman is always sufficiently dreadful, but when the object of jealousy is hers by legal right, when the sense of personal property is added to it, then it is one of the most terrible and unreasonable things in nature.



CHAPTER XV

CLIFFORD'S HISTORICAL PLAY

Bertha was sitting with her little brother-in-law. She was to give him half-an-hour, after which she expected a visit from Nigel.

"What on earth is it, old boy?"

She saw he had some rather untidy papers in his hand and was looking extremely self-conscious, so she spoke kindly and encouragingly.

"Well, I daresay you noticed, Bertha, in my report, that history was very good."

"I think I did," she said gravely. "If I recollect right the report said: 'History nearly up to the level of the form.'"

"Oh, I say, was that all? Gracious! Well, anyhow, I've read a lot of history, and I'm fearfully keen about it. And, I say, my idea was, you see, I thought I'd write a historical play."

"Oh! what a splendid idea!" cried Bertha, jumping up, looking very pleased, but serious. "Have you got it there, Cliff?"

"Yes. Well, as a matter of fact, I have got a bit of it here."

"Are you going to let me read it?"

"Well, I don't think you can," he answered rather naively. "It's not quite clean enough; but I'll read a bit of it to you, if you don't mind. Er—you see—it's about Mary."

"Which Mary?"

"Oh, Bertha! what a question! As if I'd write about William and Mary, or—er—er—I beg your pardon—I mean the other Mary. No, Mary, Queen of Scots, is the only one who's any good for a play."

"Well, go on, Clifford."

"Well, it's a little about"—he spoke in a low, gruff voice—"at least partly about hawking. You know, the thing historical people used to do—on their wrists."

"Oh yes, I know, I know! I beg your pardon, Clifford."

"With birds, you know," he went on. "Oh, and I wanted to ask you, what time of the year do people hawk?"

"What time of the year? Oh, well, I should think almost any time, pretty well, whenever they liked, or whenever it was the fashion."

"I see." He made a note. "Well, I hope you won't be fearfully bored, Bertha."

"I say, Cliff, don't apologise so much. Get on with it."

"Well, you see, it's a scene at a country inn to begin with."

"Ah, I see. Yes, it would be," she murmured.

"At a country inn, and this is how it begins. It's at a country inn, you see. 'Scene: a country inn. The mistress of the inn, a buxom-looking woman of middle age, is being busy about the inn. It is a country inn. She is making up the fire, polishing tankards, etc., drawing ale, etc. On extreme L. of stage is seated, near a tankard, a youth of some nineteen summers, who is sitting facing the audience, chin dropped, and apparently wrapped in thought.'"

"Excuse me a moment, old chap, but that sounds as if his chin was wrapped in thought."

"So it does; I'll change that. Thanks awfully for telling me, Bertha."

"Not at all, dear."

"But it is frightfully decent of you."

"All right. Get on."

"'At the back of the stage R. are seated two men; one of some eight and twenty summers the other of some six and twenty years old. They are seated in the corners of the stage and in apparently earnest conversation.' (Now the dialogue begins, Bertha, listen):

"'YOUTH: Are you there, mistress? Is my ale nigh on ready? Zounds, I'm mighty thirsty, I am.'

"'MISTRESS: Ay, ay, great Scot! here's your ale. You can't expect to be served before the quality.'"

"What did Pickering think of this?" interrupted Bertha.

"Pickering! Oh! I wouldn't show it to a chap like that. At any rate, not unless you think it's all right, Bertha."

"Why, my dear boy, you'd better tell me the plot, I think, before you read me any more."

"Mr. Nigel Hillier," announced the servant.

Nigel sprang brightly in (just a little agitated though he managed to hide it), Bertha took her toes off the sofa, Clifford took up his play and shoved it into his pocket with a slight scowl.



CHAPTER XVI

A SECOND PROPOSAL

The day after Madeline's engagement two letters were handed to her. One in Charlie's handwriting, short and affectionate; full of the exuberance of the newly affianced, touchingly happy. The other one she opened, feeling somewhat moved, as she recognised the handwriting of Rupert Denison. To her utter astonishment she found it was four sheets of his exquisite little handwriting, and it began thus:

"MY DEAR, MY VERY DEAR MADELINE,—The last note I had from you—now nearly a month ago—came to me like a gift of silver roses. I did not answer it, but during the dark days in which I have not seen you, I have been learning to know myself. You wondered, perhaps, how I was occupied, why you did not hear from me again—at least I hope you did. ("I didn't, for I knew only too well," Madeline murmured to herself.) Now I have learnt to understand myself. Sometimes almost inhumanly poetic you have seemed to me, and others; when I remembered your simple refined beauty you suggested the homelike atmosphere that is my dream."

She started and went on reading.

"Madeline, do you understand, all this time, though perhaps I hardly knew it myself, I loved you. I love you and shall never change. It is my instinct to adore the admirable, and I know now that you are the most adorable of creatures. No words can describe your wonderfulness, so I send you my heart instead.

"I think, dear, our life together will be a very beautiful one. It will be a great joy to me to lead you into beautiful paths. How glad I shall be to see the bright look of your eyes, when you greet me after this letter! What a perfect companion you will be! Write at once. I have much more to say when we meet. When shall this be? Your ever devoted and idolising

"RUPERT.

"P.S.—I propose not to make our engagement public quite yet, but to keep our happiness to ourselves for a few weeks, and be married towards the end of the summer. What do you say, my precious Madeline?"

Madeline was at once delighted and horrified. How characteristic the letter was! Why had she not waited? There was no doubt about it, she had made a mistake. Rupert was the man she loved—notwithstanding his taking everything so for granted. Charlie must be sacrificed. But she must tell Rupert what had happened, of course.

After sending a telegram to Rupert asking him to meet her at a picture gallery, for she could not bear asking him to call until everything was settled up, the bewildered girl rushed off to see Bertha.

* * * * *

Bertha took in the situation at once. Madeline had only accepted Charlie in despair, thinking and believing that Rupert cared for another girl. It was madness, equally unfair to herself and to Charlie, to go on with the marriage now. Bertha quite agreed, though she grieved for the boy, and regretted how things had turned. ... But, after all, Madeline cared for Rupert and she could not be expected to throw away her happiness now it was offered to her.

Bertha advised complete frankness all round. The only thing at which she hesitated a little was Madeline's intention of telling of her engagement to Rupert. She feared a little the effect on the complicated subtlety of that conscientious young man. ... However, it was to be.

Fortunately no one as yet knew of the engagement except the very nearest relatives. Madeline's mother would only regret bitterly that Madeline could not accept them both, it being very rare nowadays for two agreeable and eligible young men to propose to one girl in two days.

Nigel was furious and had no patience with these choppings and changings, as he called them.

Charlie took it bravely and wrote Madeline a very generous and noble letter, which touched her, but it did not alter her intention. She had just received it when she went to meet Rupert.

* * * * *

The day which had dragged on with extraordinary excitement and with what seemed curious length had just declined in that hour between six and seven when the vitality seems to become somewhat lowered; when it is neither day nor evening, the stimulation of tea is over and one has not begun to dress for dinner.

At this strange moment Madeline burst in again on Bertha and said:

"Bertha, isn't it terrible! I've told him everything and he refuses me. He's sent me back. He says if I'm engaged to Charlie it's my duty to marry him. He's fearfully hurt with me and shocked at my conduct to Charlie. Oh, it's too dreadful; I'm heartbroken!"

"Oh, what an irritating creature!" cried Bertha. "It's just the sort of thing he would do. I'd better see him at once, Madeline."

"You can't; he's going to Venice to-night," said Madeline, and burst into tears.



CHAPTER XVII

MORE ABOUT RUPERT

Rupert had gone through a great many changes during the last few weeks. He had begun to grow rather captivated by Miss Chivvey and in his efforts to polish, refine and educate her had become rather carried away himself. But towards the end she began to show signs of rebellion; she was bored, though impressed. He took her to a serious play and explained it all the time, during which she openly yawned. Finally, when she insisted on his seeing a statuette made of her by her artistic friend, an ignorant, pretentious little creature, known as Mimsie, they positively had a quarrel.

"Well, I don't care what you say; I think it's very pretty," when Rupert pointed out faults that a child could easily have seen.

"So it may be, my dear child—not that I think it is. But it's absolutely without merit; it's very very bad. It could hardly be worse. If she went all over London I doubt if she could find a more ridiculous thing calling itself a work of art. Can't you see it's like those little figures they used to have on old-fashioned Twelfth Cakes, made of sugar."

"No, I can't. Shut up! I mayn't know quite so much as you, but ever since I was a child everybody's always said I was very artistic."

They were sitting in her mother's drawing-room in Camden Hill. Rupert glanced round it: it was a deplorable example of misdirected aims and mistaken ambitions; a few yards of beaded curtains which separated it from another room gratified Moona with the satisfactory sensation that her surroundings were Oriental. As a matter of fact, the decoration was so commonplace and vulgar that to attempt to describe it would be painful to the writer whilst having no sort of effect on the reader, since it was almost indescribable. From the decorative point of view, the room was the most unmeaning of failures, the most complete of disasters.

Rupert had hoped, nevertheless, to cultivate her taste, and educate her generally. He was most anxious of all to explain to her that, so far from being artistic, she was the most pretentious of little Philistines. Why, indeed, should she be anything else? It was the most irritating absurdity that she should think she was, or wish to be.

Rupert was growing weary of this, and beginning to think his object was hopeless.

A certain amount of excitement that she had created in him by her brusque rudeness, her high spirits, even the jarring of her loud laugh, was beginning to lose its effect; or rather the effect was changed. Instead of attracting, it irritated him.

About another small subject they had a quarrel—she was beginning to order him about, to regard him as her young man, her property—and was getting accustomed to what had surprised her at first—that he didn't make love to her. She had ordered him to take her somewhere and he had refused on the ground that he wanted to stop at home and think!

She let herself go, and when Moona Chivvey lost her temper it was not easily forgotten. She insulted him, called him a blighter, a silly ass, a mass of affectation.

He accepted it with gallant irony, bowing with a chivalrous humility that drove her nearly mad, but he never spoke to her again.

* * * * *

Perhaps nothing less than this violent scene would have shaken Rupert into examining his own feelings, and with a tremendous rebound he saw that he was in love with Madeline, and decided to marry her at once. How delighted the dear child would be!

He had seen very little of her lately, and he appreciated her all the more.

In her was genuine desire for culture; longing to learn; real refinement and intelligence, charm and grace, if not exactly beauty. Ah, those sweet, sincere brown eyes! Rupert would live to see her all she should be, and there was not the slightest doubt about her happiness with him. It never occurred to him for a single moment that anyone else could have been trying to take his place. Far less still that she should have thought of listening to any other man on earth but himself. When she came and told him all that had happened, the shock was great. He had never cared for her so much. But he declined to allow her to break her engagement; she could not play fast and loose with this unfortunate young man, Charlie Hillier, and although she declared, with tears, that she should break it off in any case, and never see him again, Rupert kept to his resolution, and started for Paris that night.

In answer to one more passionate and pathetic letter from her, he consented to write to her as a friend in a fortnight, but he said she must have known her own mind when she accepted Charlie.

Rupert clearly felt that he had been very badly treated; he said he never would have thought it of her; it was practically treachery.

* * * * *

When he went away he felt very tired, and had had enough, for the present, at any rate, of all girls and their instruction. Girls were fools.

He looked forward to the soothing consolations of the gaieties of Paris. He was not the first to believe that he could leave all his troubles and tribulations this side of the Channel.



CHAPTER XVIII

"A SPECIAL FAVOUR"

"I admire Madeline's conduct very much. I think it was splendid how she stood up to all the reproaches, and even ridicule; she told me that she had once, and only once, in her life been untrue to herself (she meant in accepting Charlie), and since then she has spoken the absolute truth to everybody about it all. She has been very plucky, and very straightforward, and only good can come of it. Honesty and pluck, especially for a girl—it's made so difficult for girls—they're the finest things in the world, I think."

Bertha was speaking to Nigel.

He had remained away for what seemed to him an extraordinarily long time. He was afraid that she was slipping out of his life, without even noticing it. Stopping away until she missed him was a complete failure, since she didn't miss him. And the day was approaching for the party Mary had consented to give. He knew that Bertha had accepted but was afraid she didn't mean to come. That would be too sickening! To have all that worry with Mary, all that silly trouble and fuss for a foolish entertainment that he detested, all for nothing at all! And Mary was secretly enjoying the fact that she felt absolutely certain Percy would never let her come to Nigel's house. She did not suppose Percy had guessed the writer of the letters; but he must have thought his wife was talked about, and some effect certainly they had had; for in the last few weeks, she happened to know for a fact, Nigel had neither called on or met Mrs. Kellynch. This afternoon she knew nothing of, for her suspicions were beginning to fade, and she was not, at present, having him followed. Nigel had taken his chance and dropped in to tea and found luck was on his side—Bertha had just come in from a drive with Madeline.

"It's all very well," he answered, "to say you admire her conduct, her bravery, and all that! Whom had she to fight against? Only her mother, whom she isn't a bit afraid of, and Charlie, who, poor chap, is more afraid of her. The engagement wasn't even public before she broke it off."

"Yes; but, Nigel, it was very frank of her to tell everything so openly to Charlie. And now, poor girl, she's very unhappy, but very courageous—she's absolutely resolved never to marry. She says she's lost her Rupert by her own faults, and it serves her right."

"And suppose Rupert goes teaching English to an Italian girl at Venice, or gives her history lessons, or anything? Now he's once thought of marrying, he may marry his third pupil. Wouldn't Charlie have a chance then?"

"Never, unfortunately," Bertha replied.

"Do you think she'd wait on the chance that Rupert might have a divorce?"

"Nigel, how horrid you are to sneer like that. You never appreciated Madeline!"

"I think I did, my dear, considering I was especially keen on her marrying my brother, even when I knew she liked somebody else."

"Oh, that was only for him."

"Or, perhaps, do you think a little for me? I might have felt if my brother married your greatest friend that we were sort of relations," he said, with a laugh.

Bertha glanced at the clock.

"You can't send me away just this minute," he said. "You like honesty and frankness, and I've honestly come to ask you—are you coming to my party?"

Bertha paused a moment.

"Why?" she said. "Do you very particularly want me to?"

"Very. And I'll tell you the reason. It's to please Mary."

"Why should Mary care?"

"Bertha, I give you my word that she'll be terribly disappointed and offended if you don't. And"—he waited a moment—"I hardly know how to explain—it'll do me harm if you don't come—you and Percy. I can't exactly explain. Do me this good turn, Bertha. A special favour, won't you?"

He was artfully trying to suggest what he supposed to be the exact contrary to the fact. He knew Mary would be wild with joy if Bertha did not come, though he had no idea how extremely astonished and furious she would be if she should arrive, considering she had accepted. Of course in reality Mary thought nothing of the acceptance. She was both certain and determined that her "door would not be darkened" by Bertha's presence.

Bertha had not intended to go since she saw Percy's pleasure and relief at the cessation of the intimacy. But now? After all, Percy couldn't mind going in with her for a few minutes if she begged him.

"If you tell me it'll do you a good turn, Nigel—but I don't understand!"

"Do you wish me to explain?"

"No, I don't. I'll take your word. But all the more I don't want you to be always calling. I'm afraid Mary doesn't like me."

"It isn't that exactly."

Bertha thought of her own happiness with Percy. Her warm, kind heart made her say gently:

"Nigel, I hope you're nice and considerate to Mary? You make her happy?"

"Doesn't this look like it?" he answered. "She'll be in a state if you don't turn up." He sighed. "I've never said a word about it, but she's rather trying and tiresome if you want to know."

"Then I'm very, very sorry for her," said Bertha, "and you can't do enough for her. ... Why, with those lovely children I'm sure she'd be ideally happy if——"

"Oh, you think, of course, it's my fault. It never occurs to you whether I'm happy!"

A look from her which she tried to repress reminded him of his deliberate choice. He thought the time had come to make her a little sorry for him, knowing her extreme tenderness of heart. He spoke in a lower voice, and looked away.

"If I'm sometimes a bit miserable, it serves me right."

"Be good to her," said Bertha.

"I'll do anything on earth you'll tell me."

"What are the children's names?"

"Nigel and Marjorie."

"Darling pets, I suppose?"

"Isn't it extraordinary, Bertha," he said. "I've no right to say it to you, but that's my great trouble."

"What?"

"She doesn't care much about them."

"I don't believe it," said Bertha, shaking her head. "It's you who are mistaken."

"Am I?"

"Nigel, remember, I know you pretty well."

"And you think I'm trying to make you sorry for me?"

"I won't say that. But you ought to be happy, and so ought your wife."

He spoke in a different tone, with his usual cheery smile.

"Well, if you will grace our entertainment, I promise we will be happy. Do come, Bertha!" He was taking all this trouble simply so as not to have a boring evening at his own home!

"Very well, Nigel," she answered, with a kind, frank smile. "I'll come. Lately Percy's had so much work that in the evenings he hasn't been very keen on going out to parties."

"And you don't go without him?" he asked with curiosity.

"No. Aren't I unfashionable?"

"You're delightful."

"Good-bye," she said, holding out her hand.

He took it, and held it, saying:

"And now I sha'n't see you again until a few minutes at the party, and heaven knows when after that."

"I'll bring Madeline. Shall I?"

"Oh yes, do. It'll be some party, as the Americans say, and Charlie won't be there."

"Good-bye again."

"What are you going to wear?" he asked, in his old, brotherly voice, lingering by the door.

"Salmon-coloured chiffon with a mayonnaise sash," she answered, fairly pushing him out of the room. "Do go."



CHAPTER XIX

A DEVOTED WIFE

To anyone who knew Percy Kellynch and his wife, it would have been a matter of some surprise to observe the extreme enthusiasm and devotion that she showed for him. He was an excellent fellow, and had many good qualities, but he was not mentally by any means anything at all extraordinary; she was a very much more highly organised being in every possible way than he was. Percy was exceedingly kind and straight, yet there were, doubtless, many thousands of men exactly like him in England. In his rather simple and commonplace point of view he was, perhaps more like an ordinary English soldier than a barrister. He did not worship false gods, but, not being a soldier, and having perhaps learnt more of life in some respects than they generally do, he was inclined to be rather surprised at his own cleverness. In a quiet way he had a high opinion of himself. He had been disposed to be a superior young man at twenty, and now, at thirty, he was not without a tinge of self-satisfaction, even pompousness. That his quickly discerning, subtle little wife should like and appreciate his good qualities; that she should, being of an affectionate nature, value him, was not surprising; but that, with her sense of humour and remarkable quickness, even depth of intellect, she should absolutely worship and adore him—for it amounted to that—was rather a matter of astonishment. But it must be remembered that her first love, Nigel Hillier, when she was eighteen, was, obviously, just exactly what one would have expected to dazzle her—quick, lively, fascinating and witty—this early romance had been a terrible disappointment. Bertha had bravely been prepared to wait for years, or to marry him on the moment; she had not the faintest idea that the money difficulties would be used to put an end to it on his side. When he had broken it off, saying that he feared her father was right, and that it was for her sake, she was terribly pained, seeing at once that his love was not of the same quality as hers. But when, in less than a week after that, he told her of his other engagement, it very nearly broke her heart, as the phrase goes. Yet she cured herself; and considering how young she was, she had an astonishing power of self-control; she was almost cured of her love, if not her grief, in a fortnight! She accepted Percy at the time without romance, though with a great liking, and looking up to him with a certain trust, but very soon the good qualities, in which he differed so remarkably from Nigel, and even the points in which he was deficient and in which Nigel excelled, made her care for him more. As the years went on, Bertha, who could do nothing by halves, began to adore Percy more and more. She thought absolutely nothing of Nigel at all, so very little that she had let him dangle about without a thought of the past, being under the impression that he was contented in his married life. When he began again to find excuses to see her, and to start a sort of friendship, she did not discourage it, for the very reason that she wanted him to see that chapter in her life was absolutely closed and forgotten.