* * * * *

His extreme desire that she should come to their entertainment, his various implications—that Mary should think there was something in it if she didn't come—then this new suggestion that he was not happy at home, and, on looking back, Percy's extraordinary behaviour, suddenly made her see things in a different light. She saw that Nigel probably now imagined himself in love with her, and that it was not entirely Percy's imagination; that it was even more necessary than she had thought to put an end to the friendship. It made her furious when she thought of it—the selfishness, the treachery—meanly to throw her over because Mary was rich, and afterwards to try and come back and spoil both their homes in amusing himself by a romance with her. Even if Bertha had not cared for her husband, Nigel would have been the very last man in the world she could have looked upon from that point of view. Amusing as he was, she never thought of him without a slightly contemptuous smile. And she loved Percy so very much; he was so entirely without self-interest: he might have a certain amount of harmless vanity, but he was purely unworldly, generous, broadminded and good, and his own advantage was the very last thing that ever entered his head.

Until the trouble about Nigel she had feared he was growing cold, but Percy's conduct on that subject had thoroughly satisfied her. He had been very jealous but kind to her: he trusted and believed in her when she was frank, and he certainly seemed more in love with her than ever. Percy was so reliable, so true and real. She took up the dignified, charmingly flattered photograph of him. ... What a noble forehead! What a beautiful figure he had! And though he seemed so calm and so cold, he was passionate and could be violent. His intellect was not above the average, but his power of emotion most certainly was. ... Dear Percy!

* * * * *

And now she had promised to go to Nigel's house, she would get Percy to agree that evening.

Bertha told him of Nigel's visit, and of the request.

He frowned.

"You've accepted, and that's enough. I suppose you had to say you were going. You can easily write Mrs. Hillier an excuse the next day. Dozens of people will do it."

"Percy, I want to go."

He looked up angrily and in surprise.

"You want to go? You certainly can't. I don't wish it. Why, remember what you promised. Is this infernal intimacy beginning again?"

"Percy, to-day is only the third time I've seen him since we talked about it! And I hadn't the faintest idea he was coming to-day. I was surprised and annoyed to see him. Since Madeline broke it off with Charlie, we've heard nothing about them. Don't you believe me?"

"Naturally, I do. But it's a very odd thing a man should call here, and beg you to promise to come to his wife's party! Isn't it?"

"Perhaps it is. We stopped seeing him so suddenly, you see."

"What's that got to do with it?" said Percy, with angry impatience. The typewritten letters were torturing him. He had long been ashamed of not having shown them to Bertha, and made a clean breast of it. It was another reason why he hated Nigel and wanted the whole subject absolutely put aside and forgotten.

"In my opinion it suggests a very curious relation his coming here to-day like this. Not on your side, dear," he continued gently, putting his hand on hers. "But, if you don't mind my saying so, you don't know very much of the world, dear little Bertha, and in your innocence you are liable to be imprudent."

This was Percy's mistaken view of Bertha, but she did not dislike it. She was so determined now to be completely open that she did not try to put him off, and said candidly:

"It may be perfectly true that he's rather more anxious for me to be at the party than he need be. But, after all, there's not much harm in that, Percy. All I want is to go in with you for twenty minutes or half-an-hour, and then go away quite quickly. After that, if you like, I'll give you my word of honour not to see him again."

"What's the object of it? No, I'm hanged if I go to that man's house."

"I promised as a special favour that I'd go."

"But what's the reason? Why is he so desperate you should be seen there?"

Percy frowned and thought a moment.

"Has his wife—do you think it's been noticed he doesn't come here so often?"

"It may have been. He didn't say so."

"Then it's damned impertinence of him to dare to come and ask you. Why should I take you there to make things comfortable with him and his wife?"

"Oh, Percy!"

"I don't want to have anything to do with them," Percy repeated, frowning angrily at her.

She paused and said sweetly:

"Don't look worried, darling. Won't you anyhow think it over for a day or two?"

Percy thought. He was a lawyer and it struck him that if the letters were to be really ignored it might be better for them to go in and be seen at the party, and if Bertha promised never to see him again, he knew she was telling the truth. But it was hard; it jarred on him.

"We'll leave the subject for a few days, Bertha," he said. "I'll think it over. But what I decide then must be final."

"Very well, Percy. ... I've got such a lovely new dress! Pale primrose colour."

"The dress I saw you trying on? The canary dress?"

"Yes."

"No. I'm hanged if you'll wear that there!" he exclaimed.

Bertha went into fits of laughter.

"Oh, Percy, how sweet of you to say that! You're becoming a regular jealous husband, do you know? Darling! How delightful!"



CHAPTER XX

RUPERT AGAIN

After the first reaction, Rupert felt, of course, to a certain extent, relieved and grateful to think that he was not engaged to Madeline. Undoubtedly, had he cared for her as she did for him, he would not have declined to marry her because of her accepting Charlie, more or less out of pique, or in despair. Yet, after having once really proposed he felt his emotions stirred, and almost as soon as he had sent her back (so to speak) to Charlie, he began to regret it—he began to be unhappy. Au fond he knew she would break it off with Charlie now, and would wait vaguely in hope for him. At first to recover from the intense annoyance of the whole thing, he thought he would, before Venice, go in a little for the gaieties of Paris. Rupert was still young enough to believe that the things presented to him as gaiety must necessarily be gay. A certain delicacy prevented his telling Madeline this now; though formerly when he had been to Paris, especially when he had had no intention of accepting any Parisian opportunities of amusement, he had often rubbed it in to her about the dazzling and dangerous charms of the gay city's dissipations, at which she was suitably impressed. But a nicer feeling made him now wish her to think of him as gliding down the lagoons of Venice, and dreaming of what might have been.

* * * * *

Madeline herself was really entirely without hope. She was certain she had lost all the prestige that she had had in his eyes; and she thought that she thoroughly deserved what had happened. She resolved to remain unmarried, and try to do good. Though she was hurt, and thought it showed how much less was Rupert's love than hers, still she respected him and admired him all the more for refusing to take her after accepting Charlie. She did not see that Rupert was a little too serious to be taken quite seriously.

* * * * *

Her mother added immensely to her depression. Mrs. Irwin was a woman who detested facts, so much so that she thought statistics positively indecent (though she would never have used the expression). When she was told there were more women than men in England, she would bite her lips and change the subject. She had had all the Victorian intense desire to see her daughter married young, and all the Victorian almost absurd delicacy in pretending she didn't. When, in one week, her only daughter—a girl who was not remarkably pretty, and had only a little money—should have proposals from no less than two attractive and eligible young men and should have muddled it up so badly that, though she had been prepared to accept both of them, she was now unable to marry either, her mother was, naturally, pained and disgusted.

Madeline, who was usually gentle and amiable to her, in this case spoke with a violence and determination that left no possible hope of her returning to Charlie Hillier. She left Mrs. Irwin nothing to do but to put on an air of refined resignation, of having neuralgia, which she now called neuritis, because Madeline had annoyed her so much, and of behaving, when Madeline sat with her, as much as possible like a person who was somewhere else.

Bertha was Madeline's only consolation and resource. Bertha took life with such delightful coolness.

"How would you advise me to behave to him, if it had come off—I mean if I had married Rupert?" Madeline asked Bertha.

She was fond of these problematical speculations.

"I should say be an angel, if he deserved it, or a devil if he appreciated it. Then—now and then—be non-existent, charming and indifferent, when you wanted to hedge—when there was no particular response. You'll go with me to the Hilliers' party, won't you, as Charlie will be away?"

"Of course I will—if you like. But will Percy go—and let you go?"

"He says he won't, but I think he will," she replied.



CHAPTER XXI

THE HILLIERS' ENTERTAINMENT

No more had been said between them about the Hilliers' party; and Percy began to hope that it would be dropped. But on the morning Bertha asked him if he would like to take her out to dinner first with Madeline; assuming that, as he had said no more about it, he intended to go.

With those letters upstairs in the box, how could he?

"I simply can't," he answered. "I don't wish to go to that man's house."

"Then must I take Madeline alone?" said Bertha. "In all these years, Percy, I don't think I've ever been to a party without you."

"And I don't see why you should begin now," he answered.

"But, Percy, I want to go. Only for a few minutes."

"I'd much rather you didn't."

Bertha thought this tyrannical. She had promised Nigel, because he had implied to her that it would get him out of the domestic difficulty.

"Oh, do, Percy dear. It's treating me as if you didn't trust me. After all ... if you like I'll swear to arrange never to see Nigel again."

"I wish you would."

"It's only because I think it would look marked."

Percy thought there was something in that, and he didn't dislike the idea of proving to the person, whoever it was, that had written the letters, how little effect they had had. Yet, they had left a tinge of jealousy that would easily be roused again, especially at her insistence. He noticed that she didn't make the fact that she was chaperoning Madeline an excuse, as most women would have done. She was frank about it. Still, he tried once more.

"I don't want you to go."

"But I want to."

She was not particularly fond of opposition, and began to look annoyed. She thought Percy was beginning to sit on her a little too much.

"Well," he said, "I shall not dine out with you and Madeline first: I don't care to. But I'll hire an electric motor for you at eleven, and it shall fetch you at twelve-thirty. If Madeline doesn't want to come then, she can easily go back alone. It isn't far for her."

"Oh, she won't want to stop any longer than that."

"Oh, very well, we'll leave it like that. I shall dine at the club."

"It's unkind of you. I believe you don't want to see me start."

"You're quite right. I hate the idea of your appearing there in your lovely new dress. I suppose you want to wear it?"

"Oh, I don't care in the least," she answered, "if you'd rather not."

"Oh, hang it! Wear what you like," he answered rather crossly.

* * * * *

She did not see him again before she started, and, naturally, being a woman, she put on the new dress.

It was pale yellow, and she knew Percy would have liked it and would have called her a canary.

She went out, not in the best of tempers, and Madeline also, though looking very charming, did not look forward to the entertainment, and was thinking, with rather an aching heart, of Rupert in the lagoons of Venice.

The Hilliers' house was arranged with the utmost gorgeousness. Nigel felt a little return of his pride in it to-night. It was covered all over with rambler roses, and looked magnificent. There was such a crowd that Nigel hoped to get a little talk alone with Bertha, but feared she would not come. He was agreeably surprised to see her arrive alone with Madeline.

It so happened that Mary was not in the room when they were announced, and very soon Nigel managed to take her down, first into the refreshment-room, and then into the boudoir, which had been arranged with draperies and shaded lights.

"I just want to have a few words with you," he said, and got her into a little corner.

There was a heavy scent of roses; the music sounded faintly.

"Bertha!" he said. "It was too sweet of you to come. I shall never forget it. You don't know how miserable I am."

"Oh, rubbish!" she answered. "You've no earthly reason to be. I wish you wouldn't talk nonsense."

"I've never seen you look so lovely."

"I shall go away if you talk like that. Can't you see I don't like it?"

"I wonder Percy allowed you to come alone, looking like that."

"I came because I promised," she said. "You made me think, in some mysterious way, it would be a good thing for you. But after what you said about Mary, I want this to be distinctly understood: you are not to come and see me any more. Nothing in the world I should loathe so much as to be the cause of any trouble."

"Oh, my dear, but that you never could," he answered quickly.

"I hope not, and I'm not going to risk it. You chose your life, Nigel, and you have every reason to be happy."

"Have I? You don't know."

"Think of your children. I haven't got that pleasure, and yet I'm happy."

"Are you madly in love with Percy?" he asked, with a smile.

"Yes, I am," she answered.

At this moment a small crowd of people came in at the door. Mary, who was with them, looked hurriedly round the room, and seeing Bertha and Nigel in the corner, called him, taking no notice of her.

Bertha half rose, intending to go and shake hands with her, and Nigel quickly went to meet her, but Bertha paused, thinking Mary looked strange. She was very pale, and the white dress she wore made her look paler against her dull red hair. She wore a tiara, which seemed a little crooked, and her hair was disarranged. She was pale and trembling, but spoke in a loud voice that Bertha could hear. Within two yards of her, she said to Nigel, gesticulating with a feather fan:

"If you don't make that woman go away at once, I shall make a public scene!"

Bertha started up and looked at her in astonishment.

Mary, glaring at her, and still talking loudly, allowed Nigel to lead her out of the room.

He then came back.

"I think my wife's gone mad! Forgive her. She's ill, or something."

"I'm going now at once," said Bertha calmly. "Have a cab called for me, and let Madeline know that the motor will be here for her at half-past twelve. Leave me now—I don't want anything."

"For God's sake forgive me. She's off her head," said Nigel incoherently.

At her wish he ran upstairs.

Bertha got her cloak, and telling a friend she met that she was going on to a dance, she got into a taxi and went home.



CHAPTER XXII

BERTHA AT HOME

Bertha drove back, furiously angry, principally with Nigel, whom she also pitied a little. It could be no joke to live with a woman like his wife. But he should not have deceived Bertha; he should have let her know; he should not have induced her to come against Percy's wish, at the risk of being insulted.

She was not anxious about Madeline, knowing that that sensible young lady would go to her own home when the carriage came, and that she could explain matters to her the next morning. Madeline was not une faiseuse d'embarras.

* * * * *

Bertha had brought her key as Percy had promised to wait up for her; the servants were to be allowed to go to bed. It was not long after twelve; she saw a light in the library and went in, fully intending to tell Percy everything.

She found him sitting by the fire, with a book. He had fallen asleep. She watched him for some moments, and she thought he looked pale and a little worried. ... How wilful, how foolish it had been of her to go to the party without him! What did it matter? How trivial to insist on her own way! How ungrateful! For lately Percy had been devoted. And how lucky she was that he should care for her so much, after all these years.

As Bertha watched, she felt that strange suffering which is always the other side of intense love—the reverse of the medal of the ecstasy of passion—and she thought she would tell him nothing about it. Why should he be hurt, annoyed, and humiliated? It would spoil all the pleasure of her coming back so early—the unexpected delightful time they might have. ... In this Bertha committed an error of judgment, for she forgot that he would probably hear of the scene some time or other, and would attach more importance to it than if she told him now.

"Percy," she whispered.

He woke up.

"You already! Why, it's only twelve o'clock! Oh, dear, how good of you to come so early."

"I didn't enjoy myself a bit," she murmured. "I'll never go out without you again. Do forgive me for going!"

"How is it you didn't enjoy it?"

"Because you hadn't seen me in my new dress. Do I look like a canary?"

"No," he said. "Let me look at you. No, you're not a canary—you're a Bird of Paradise."



CHAPTER XXIII

NIGEL'S LETTER

Next morning, as Bertha expected, Madeline came round to see her early. She brought with her a note. She said that Nigel had implored her to give it to her friend from him. He had put Madeline in the carriage, and had seemed greatly distressed. He told the girl that his wife had been ill lately and was not quite herself, and he feared she had offended Bertha.

"She certainly behaved like a lunatic," Bertha said, as she took the letter.

"Did you tell Percy?"

"As a matter of fact, no."

"Didn't he wonder at your coming home so early?"

"I'm afraid I pretended I rushed back to please him. Was it wrong of me? I'm afraid it was."

"I believe in frankness with people you can trust. And remember, quite a little while ago, Bertha, you were worried and depressed because you thought Percy was becoming a little casual and like an ordinary husband, and now, you naughty child, that he's been so empresse and affectionate, and jealous and attentive and everything that you like—now you first insist on going to a party when he doesn't wish it, and then you come home and tell him stories about it."

"I'm afraid I was wrong; but it was to spare him annoyance. Besides, I daresay I was weak. It was so delightful giving him a pleasant surprise."

She read the letter.

"Forgive me for asking your friend to give you this note—I only did it because I feared in writing to you to refer to what happened. Is it asking too much, Bertha, to beg you not to resent it? Not to hate me for to-night? Think of my shame and misery about it—to think I had pressed and begged you to come to be insulted in my house. You see now what I have tried to conceal. I am utterly miserable. My wife is terrible and impossible. Seeing you occasionally had been my one joy—my only consolation. And only to-night—before—you had been telling me not to come and see you any more. Now I feel our friendship is all over. I could not expect you to see me again. You are such an angel, that you will, if I ask you, I believe, try to wipe out from your memory this horrible evening! I would rather have died than it should have happened. Of course, you see now that by instinct Mary guessed right—I mean in knowing my feeling for you—though heaven knows I haven't deserved this. She's screaming for me, and I must stop. All I ask is, don't hate me! I'm so miserable when I think that you, beautiful angel as you are, might have belonged to me. I doubt if I shall be able to live this life much longer.

"In humblest apology, and with that deep feeling that writing can never express, your idolising

"NIGEL.

"P.S.—I ought not to have written that. But I fear so much that I may not see you again, and that this may be my last letter, and I feel I would like you to know honestly all I feel for you. But words may not bear such burdens. Send me one word, only one word of pardon."

Bertha was obviously shocked and surprised at this letter. She folded it up, looking grave. Then she said to Madeline:

"What a very extraordinary thing it has been that both Mary and Percy have been suspicious and jealous of Nigel and myself, while there's been absolutely nothing in it!"

"But they both felt by instinct, perhaps, that that was no fault of his," returned Madeline.

"I have no sympathy with him," said Bertha, who seemed for her quite hard. "If he does like me, all the more he ought to have kept away. Besides, it's only because he wants to be amused! What right has he to make his wife unhappy, when he deliberately chose her, and to be willing—if he is willing—to smash up my happiness with Percy?"

"Of course that's horrid of him," said Madeline; "but somehow I do think his wife is rather awful; I think she might do anything. But won't you answer his letter?"

"Yes; I think I'd better write him a line," said Bertha.

She sat down and wrote:

"DEAR MR. HILLIER,—Pray don't think again of the unpleasant little incident.

"I have already forgotten it.

"I think that if you will make your children the interest of your life—though it's very impertinent of me to say so—happiness must come of it.

"Good-bye. Yours very sincerely,

"BERTHA KELLYNCH"

"I've written," said Bertha, "what I wouldn't mind either Percy or Mary seeing."

"I'm sure you have, dear. But Percy would rather you didn't write at all."

"Perhaps. But I think it's right. Besides, otherwise, he might write again, or even call."

"Yes, that's true."



CHAPTER XXIV

LADY KELLYNCH AT HOME

Although Lady Kellynch was a widow, and had had two sons (at the unusual interval of eighteen years), there was something curiously old-maidish about her—I should say that she had a set of qualities that were formerly known by that expression, as there are no such things nowadays as old maids and maiden aunts as contrasted to British matrons. There are merely married or unmarried women. And Lady Kellynch belonged to a long-forgotten type; she was no suffragette; politics did not touch her, and at fifty-four she did not regard herself as the modern middle-aged woman does. It never occurred to her for a moment, for example, to have lessons in the Tango or to learn ski-ing or any other winter sports, in a white jersey and cap. She was not seen clinging to the arm of a professor of roller-skating, nor did she go to fancy-dress balls as Folly or Romeo, as a Pierrette or Joan of Arc, as many of her contemporaries loved to do. She dressed magnificently and in the fashion of the day, and yet she always remained and looked extremely old-fashioned; and though she would wear her hats as they were made nowadays, her hair then had a look that did not go with it; no hairdresser or milliner could ever induce her to do it in a style later than 1887. The larger number of women have had some period of their lives when the fashion has happened to suit them, or when, for some reason or another, they have had a special success, and most of these cling fondly to that epoch. Lady Kellynch never got away from 1887 and the time of Queen Victoria's first Jubilee. All the fads of the hour seemed to have passed over her since then, from bicycling to flying, from classical dancing or ragtime to enthusiasm about votes for women; the various movements had passed over her without leaving any hurt or effect. Lady Kellynch had had a success in 1887; she cherished tenderly a photograph of herself in an enormous bustle, with an impossibly small waist, a thick high fringe over her eyes, and a tight dog-collar. The bald bare look about the ears, and the extraordinary figure resembling a switchback made her look very much older then than she did now. But more than one smart young soldier (now, probably, steady retired generals, who passed their time saying that the country was going to the dogs), an attache long since married and sunk into domestic life, and one or two other men had greatly admired her; she had had her little dignified flirtations, much as she adored the late Sir Percy Kellynch; her portrait had been painted by Herkomer, and the Prince of Wales (as he then was) had looked at her through his opera glass during the performance of Gounod's Romeo and Juliet. These were things not to be forgotten. When her husband died, Percy married and Clifford went to school, and Lady Kellynch was left alone in her big house in South Kensington, she became again what I call old-maidish. She had a hundred little rules and fussy little arrangements, of which the slightest disorganisation drove her to distraction. She had long consultations every day with the cook at nine o'clock as to what was to be done with what was left. She liked to be domestic, and would stand over the man who was cleaning the windows and tell him how to do it. Certain things she liked to do herself.

In the drawing-room was a chandelier of the seventies, beautiful in its way, though out of date, and she used to take the lustres down and polish them with her own fingers, taking a great pride in doing this herself. She cared really for no one in the world but her two sons, but she was extremely fond, in her own way, of society and of receiving. She did not keep open house, and hers was not by any means casual hospitality. She hated anyone to call upon her unexpected and uninvited, except on the first and third Thursday of every month. She was very much surprised that in the rush of the present day people had a way of forgetting these days and calling on others. The first Thursday was peculiarly ill-treated and ignored, and preparations on that day were often wasted, while on the second Thursday she would come home and find a quantity of cards, belonging to more or less smart, if dull, people who had left them, with a sigh of relief at their mistake.

Lady Kellynch was good-natured in a cold kind of way, and even lavish; yet she had her queer, petty economies, and was always talking about a mysterious feat that she spoke of as keeping the books down, and was also fond of discovering tiny little dressmakers who used to be with some celebrated one and had now set up for themselves.

Lady Kellynch was very kind to these little dressmakers—she spoke of them as if they were minute to the point of being midgets or dwarfs—she was really rather the curse of their lives, and after a while they would have been glad to dispense with her custom. She wanted them to do impossibilities, such as making her look exactly as she did at Queen Victoria's first Jubilee (the time when she was so much admired and had such a success), and yet making her look up-to-date now, without any of the horrid fast modern style.

When Clifford was at home things were considerably turned upside down, and when the time of his holidays drew to an end she was conscious of being relieved.

It was the first Thursday, and Lady Kellynch was at home. A day or two before Clifford had spent a day with Pickering and his mother. She had told him he might ask the boy to tea.

"Mother," said Clifford, who had received a note, "Pickering can't come to-day."

"Oh, indeed—what a pity."

She was really rather glad. Boys at an At Home were a bore and ate all the cake.

"Er—no—he can't come. But, I say, you won't mind, will you?—his mother's coming."

"His mother!" exclaimed Lady Kellynch, rather surprised.

"Er—yes—I asked her. I thought, perhaps, you wouldn't mind. She wants to know you."

"Really? It's very kind of her, I'm sure."

"You see, in a way, though she's awfully rich—I suppose she's a bit of a—you know what I mean—a sort of a nouveau riche. She wants to visit a few decent people, especially not too young."

"Oh, indeed!"

"She says it'll sort of pose her, and help her to get into society."

"What curious things to say to a boy."

"Oh, she's awfully jolly, mother. She says everything that comes into her head. She's ripping—I do like her."

"Who was she?" asked his mother, with a rather chilling accent.

"I'm sure I don't know who she was," said the boy. "I can tell you who she is: she's the prettiest woman I've ever seen."

"Good gracious me!"

"We had awful larks," went on Clifford. "She played with us and Pickering's kiddy sister. We danced the Tango and had charades. You can't think what fun it was. And we had tableaux. Mrs. Pickering and I did a lovely tableau, 'Death in the Desert.' She fell down dead suddenly, on the sand, you know, and I was a vulture. I'm an awfully good vulture. And I vultured about and hopped round her for some considerable time."

"Horrible!" cried Lady Kellynch. "Revolting! What an unpleasant subject for a game."

"It wasn't a game: it was a proper tableau: we had a curtain and all that sort of thing. They said I made a capital vulture. I pecked at Mrs. Pickering. It was a great success."

"Dear me! Was it indeed? Well, if this lady's coming, you'd better go and wash your hands," said Lady Kellynch, who felt a disposition to snub Clifford on the subject.

"Of course I will! I say, mother, what cakes have you got?"

"Really, Clifford, I think you can leave that to me."

"They have jolly little foie gras sandwiches at the Pickerings."

"I daresay they have."

"Can I go and tell cook to make some?"

"Most certainly not, Clifford!" cried the indignant mother.

"But if there aren't any, she might miss them," said Clifford.

"She will probably enjoy the change."

"You can't think how pretty she is! I say, mother."

"Yes, dear."

"I say, can't you have fur put round the edge of your shoes!"

"Fur round the edge of my shoes!" she repeated in a hollow voice.

He twisted his hands together self-consciously.

"Mrs. Pickering had an awful ripping violet sort of dress, and violet satin boots with fur round the edge. ... I noticed them when we played 'Death in the Desert.' I thought they were rather pretty."

"Extremely bad style, I should think. At any rate, not the sort of thing that I should dream of wearing. Now get along."

Clifford went down to the kitchen and worried the cook with descriptions of the gorgeous cakes he had seen at the Pickerings till she said that his ma had better accept her notice, and engage the Pickerings' cook instead.

"Orders from you, Master Clifford, I will not take. And now you've got it straight. For grars in the afternoon is a thing I don't hold with and never would hold with, and I've lived in the best families. There's some nice sandwiches made of gentlemen's relish made of Blootes' paste, your ma's always 'ad since I've been here; it's done for her and the best families I've lived in. Fors grars is served at the end of dinner with apsia and jelly, or else in one of them things with crust on the top and truffles. But for tea I consider it quite out of place."

She went on to say that if she couldn't have her kitchen to herself without the young gentlemen of the house putting their oar in, she would leave that day month.

Clifford fled, frightened, and tidied himself.

At about five, when two or three old cronies of Lady Kellynch's were sitting round, talking about the royal family, a gigantic motor, painted white, came to the door, and Mrs. Pickering was announced.

She was very young and very pretty. Her hair was the very brightest gold, and she had rather too much mauve and too much smile; she almost curtsied to her hostess, and instantly gave that lady the impression that she must have been not so very long ago the principal boy at some popular pantomime.



CHAPTER XXV

MRS. PICKERING

"Our boys are such very great friends—I really felt I must know you!" cried Mrs. Pickering in the most cordial way. She spoke with a very slight Cockney accent. She bristled with aigrettes and sparkled with jewels. Her bodice was cut very low, her sleeves very short, and her white gloves came over the braceleted elbows. She wore a very high, narrow turban, green satin shoes and stockings, and altogether was dressed rather excessively; she looked like one of Louis Bauer's drawings in Punch. She was certainly most striking in appearance, and a little alarming in a quiet room, but most decidedly pretty and with a very pleasant smile.

Lady Kellynch received her with great courtesy, but was not sufficiently adaptable and subtle to conceal at once the fact that Mrs. Pickering's general appearance and manner had completely taken her breath away. Also, she was annoyed that Lady Gertrude Muenster was there to-day. Lady Gertrude was one of her great cards. She was a clever, glib, battered-looking, elderly woman, who, since her husband had once been at the Embassy in Vienna, had assumed a slight foreign accent; it was meant to be Austrian but sounded Scotch. Lady Gertrude looked rather muffled and seemed to have more thick veils and feather boas on than was necessary for the time of the year. She was an old friend of Lady Kellynch's, and they detested each other, but never missed an opportunity of meeting, chiefly in order to impress each other, in one way or another, or cause each other envy or annoyance.

Lady Kellynch was always very specially careful whom she asked, or allowed, to meet Lady Gertrude. She had wanted Bertha particularly to-day and was vexed at this unexpected arrival.

"Your daughter-in-law, my dear?" asked Lady Gertrude, in a surprised tone, putting up her long tortoiseshell glass.

"Oh dear, no, Gertrude! Surely you know Bertha by sight! I never had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Pickering before."

"Charmed to meet you," said Mrs. Pickering again, giving a kind of curtsy and smiling at Lady Gertrude. "Ah, there's my little friend! Well, Cliff, didn't we have fun the other day? Eustace was sorry he couldn't come to-day. We had the greatest larks, Lady Kellynch! I play with the kids just like one of themselves. We've got a great big room fixed up on purpose for Cissie and Eustace to romp. We haven't been there very long yet, Lady Kellynch. You know that big corner house in Hamilton Place leading into Park Lane. My husband thinks there's nothing good enough for the children. If it comes to that, he thinks there's nothing good enough for me." She giggled. "He gave me this emerald brooch only this morning. 'Oh, Tom,' I said, 'what a silly you are. You don't want to make a fuss about birthdays now we're getting on.' But he is silly about me! It's a nice little thing, isn't it?" she said, showing it to Lady Gertrude, who put up her glass to examine it.

"Lady Gertrude Muenster—Mrs. Pickering," said Lady Kellynch. "Some tea?"

"Thanks, no tea. It's a pretty little thing, isn't it, Lady Muenster?"

"Rather nice. Are they real?" asked Lady Gertrude.

Mrs. Pickering laughed very loudly. "You're getting at me. I shouldn't be so pleased with it if it came out of a cracker! But what I always say about presents, Lady Kellynch, is, it isn't so much the kind thought, it's the value of the gift I look at. No, I meant——"

"What you said, I suppose," said Lady Gertrude, who was rather enjoying herself, as she saw her hostess was irritated.

"Whoever's that pretty picture over there?"

Mrs. Pickering got up and went to look at the piano.

Lady Kellynch still retained (with several other passe fashions) the very South Kensington custom of covering up her large piano with a handsome piece of Japanese embroidery, which was caught up at intervals into bunchy bits of drapery, fastened by pots of flowers with sashes round their necks and with a very large number of dark photographs in frames, so very artistic in their heavy shading that one saw only a gleam of light occasionally on the tip of the nose or the back of the neck—all the rest in shadow—all with very large dashing signatures slanting across the corners, chiefly of former dim social celebrities or present well-known obscurities. The photograph she was looking at now was a pretty one of Bertha.

"Ah, that is my daughter-in-law."

Lady Kellynch pointed it out to Lady Gertrude.

"This is pretty—what you can see of it."

"Here she is herself."

Bertha came in.

"Mrs. Pickering—Mrs. Percy Kellynch."

The hostess gave Bertha an imploring look. She took in the situation at a glance and drew Mrs. Pickering a little aside, where Lady Gertrude could not listen to her piercing Cockney accent.

Clifford joined the group.

If Lady Kellynch had been, almost against her will, reminded by something in her visitor of a pantomime, Bertha saw far more. She was convinced at once that the rich eldest son of Pickering, the Jam King, had been dazzled and carried away, some fourteen years ago, and bestowed his enormous fortune and himself, probably against his family's wish, on a little provincial chorus girl. Her cheery determination to get on, and an evident sense of humour, made Bertha like her, in spite of her snobbishness and her manner. She was a change, at least, to meet here, and when Mrs. Pickering produced her card, which she did to everyone to whom she spoke, Bertha promised to call and asked her also. Of course one would have to be a shade careful whom one asked to meet her, but probably it would be a jolly house to go to. And nowadays! Still, Bertha was a little surprised that Clifford was so infatuated with the mother of his friend. She forgot that at twelve years old one is not fastidious; the taste is crude. If he admired Bertha's fair hair, he thought Mrs. Pickering's brilliant gold curls still prettier. Besides, Mrs. Pickering petted and made much of him, and was very kind.

She stayed much too long for a first visit, and as she went of course produced another card, saying to the muffled lady:

"Pleased to have met you, Lady Muenster. I hope you'll call and see our new house. We're going to give a ball soon. We're entertaining this season."

"She certainly is," murmured Lady Gertrude. Then, as she left: "My dear, where do you pick up your extraordinary friends?"

This was a particularly nasty one for Lady Kellynch, who made such a point of her exclusiveness.

"Clifford is responsible for this, I think," said Bertha. "The boys are at the same school, and they've been very kind to him. I think she's very amusing, and a good sort."

"Oh, quite a character! She told me she met her husband at Blackpool. He fell in love with her when she was playing Prince Charming in No. 2 B Company on tour with the pantomime Little Miss Muffet."

"Just what one would have thought!" said Lady Kellynch, rather tragically.

"I've come to ask you if you'll go with Percy to the Queen's Hall to-morrow," Bertha said. "He wants you to come so much."

The mother delightedly consented.

"Curious fad that is the mania for serious music," said Lady Gertrude. "You don't share your husband's taste for it, it seems?"

"Well, I do, really. But it's such a treat for him to take his mother out!" said Bertha tactfully.

"I say, Bertha, may I come back with you? I'm going back to school next week."

"Of course you shall, if your mother likes."

His mother was glad to agree. She did not feel inclined to discuss Mrs. Pickering with the boy that evening.

"Try and make him see what an awful woman she is," she murmured.

"I will; but it isn't dangerous," laughed Bertha. "Madeline is spending the evening with me to-morrow."

"Oh yes, that nice quiet girl. By the way, do you know, I heard she was engaged to young Charles Hillier. And then somewhere else I was told it was Mr. Rupert Denison."

"It's neither," calmly replied Bertha, "But I believe each of them proposed to her."

"Is that a fact? Dear me! Just fancy her refusing them both! What a grief for poor Mrs. Irwin!"

Bertha laughed as she remembered that as a matter of fact Madeline had accepted both, within two days.



CHAPTER XXVI

NEWS FROM VENICE

Madeline was sitting one afternoon with her mother in their little Chippendale flat, all inlaid mahogany and old-fashioned chintz, china in cabinets, and miniatures on crimson velvet; it was so perfectly in keeping that the very parlourmaid's cap looked Chippendale, and it somehow suggested Hugh Thomson's illustrations to Jane Austen's books. Mrs. Irwin and Madeline were not, however, in the least degree like Miss Austen's heroines and their mothers, except that Mrs. Irwin, though very thin and elegant, had this one resemblance to the immortal Mrs. Bennet in "Pride and Prejudice": "the serious object of her life was to get her daughter married; its solace, gossiping and news." Also she had much of the same querulousness, and complained every night of nerves, and each morning of insomnia.

Madeline was reading John Addington Symonds' Renaissance and everything that she could get on the subject of Italian history and cinquecento art. These studies she pursued still as a sort of monument to Rupert, or as a link with him. And to-day, as she was waiting for Bertha to call and take her out, she received a letter from him, from Venice.

It was one of his long, friendly, cultured letters; making no allusion to any thoughts of becoming more than friends to each other, and no reference to the interlude of his proposal, or the episode of her engagement to Charlie. This memory seemed to have faded away, and he wrote in his old instructive way a long letter in his pretty little handwriting, speaking of gondoliers, Savonarola, hotels, pictures, lagoons, fashions and the weather. This last, he declared to be so unbearable that he thought of coming back to London before very long. He asked for an answer to his letter, and wished to know what she was reading, what concerts she had been to, and whether she had seen the exhibition at the Goupil Gallery.

But though it took her back to long before the period of his love-letter, and he appeared to wish the whole affair to be forgotten, it gave her considerable satisfaction. He wanted to hear of her, and, what was more, he was coming back. Of course Mrs. Irwin saw that the letter was from him, and she remarked that she had always said everyone had a right to their own letters, and that after twenty-one, nowadays, she supposed girls could do exactly what they liked, which she thought was only fair; that mothers, very rightly, hardly counted in the present day, were regarded as nobody, and were treated with no confidence of any kind, of which she thoroughly approved; that Madeline's new coat and skirt suited her very badly and did not fit; and that grey had never been her colour.

Madeline's reply to this was to place the long letter into her mother's hand.

Having read it, Mrs. Irwin said she did not wish to force anybody's confidence, and she was evidently disappointed at its contents. However, she advised her daughter to answer without loss of time.

The conversation was interrupted by Bertha's arrival.

"You know my brother-in-law, Clifford?" she said. "The funny boy has 'littery' tastes and began writing an historical play! But he got tired of it and now he's taken to writing verses. I've brought you one of his poems; they're so funny I thought it would amuse you. Fancy if a brother of Percy's should grow up to be a 'littery gent'. I suspect it to be addressed to the mother of his beloved friend, Pickering. He is devoted to her."

"Where are you going to-day?" inquired Mrs. Irwin.

"I'm taking Madeline to see Miss Belvoir. She has rather amusing afternoons. Her brother, Fred Belvoir, whom she lives with, is a curious sort of celebrity. When he went down from Oxford they had a sort of funeral procession because he was so popular. He's known on every race-course; he's a great hunting man, an authority on musical comedy, and is literary too—he writes for Town Topics. Miss Belvoir is the most good-natured woman in the world, and so intensely hospitable that she asks everyone to lunch or dinner the first time she meets them, and sometimes without having been introduced, and she asks everyone to bring their friends. They have a charming flat on the Thames Embankment and a dear little country house called The Lurch, where her brother often leaves her. They're mad on private theatricals, too, and are always dressing up."

"It sounds rather fun," said Madeline.

"Not very exclusive," suggested her mother.

"No, not a bit. But it's great fun," said Bertha, "and I've heard people say that you can be as exclusive as you like at Miss Belvoir's by bringing your own set and talking only to them. People who go to her large parties often don't know her by sight; she's so lost in the crowd, and she never remembers anybody, or knows them again. To be ever so little artistic is a sufficient passport to be asked to the Belvoirs'. In fact if a brother-in-law of a friend of yours once sent an article to a magazine which was not inserted, or if your second cousin once met Tree at a party, and was not introduced to him, that is quite sufficient to make you a welcome guest there. Now that my little brother-in-law has written a poem, I shall have a raison d'etre in being there. You'll see, Madeline, you'll enjoy yourself."



CHAPTER XXVII

ANOTHER ANONYMOUS LETTER

"Oh, Bertha, I've heard from Rupert again," said Madeline, as they drove along.

"I saw you'd had a letter from that talented young cul-de-sac," replied Bertha.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing. I didn't mean anything. I like to tease you, and you must confess that he's the sort of man—well, nothing ever seems to get much forrarder with him! What does he say?"

"It's just the sort of letter he wrote long before he ever dreamt of proposing to me."

"Well, I think that's rather a good sign. He's reassumed his early manner. I believe he's going to work his way up all over again—all through the beaten paths, and ignore the incident that hurt his vanity, and then propose again. We may have rather fun here to-day. Sometimes there are only a few fly-blown celebrities, and sometimes there are very new beginners without a future, debutantes who will never debuter, singers who can't sing, actors who never have any engagements, and editors who are just thinking of bringing out a paper. Miss Belvoir collects people who are unknown but prominent, noticeable and yet obscure. Here we are."

* * * * *

While Bertha and Madeline were being entertained in Miss Belvoir's drawing-room something more serious was happening to Percy.

The day after the Hilliers' party Nigel had a terrible quarrel with his wife, and he threatened that if she ever again lost her self-control and disgraced him or herself by anything in the way of a scene, that he would leave her and never come back. This really frightened her, for she knew she had behaved unpardonably. She would not have minded so very much if he had gone away for a little while, but how was she to prevent the Kellynches going to the same place—even travelling with him? She had been amazed to see Bertha. At the time she sent the letters there had certainly been a marked change, a new movement, as she thought. They had had an effect, without a doubt, though how or what she hardly knew, but she supposed she had roused Percy's suspicions and he had stopped the meetings. And then Mrs. Kellynch calmly came to the party without her husband, which seemed to prove she knew nothing of the letters, and disappeared at once with Nigel into the shaded conversation-room, snatching her host and openly flirting with him in the most marked way! It had been too much for her self-restraint. But now Mary saw she had gone too far. Her open fury had been less successful than her secret intriguing, so she apologised most humbly, entreated him to forgive her, and even swore never to interfere again. He was to be quite free. He might see Mrs. Kellynch whenever he liked. But all this was, of course, too late for Nigel, since Bertha herself had declined to see him again, and Mary resolved to start afresh. Probably the husband had lost his suspicions and they must be roused again. If only Bertha had told him all that had happened at the party, and if only Percy had frankly shown her the letters and concealed nothing from her, there would have been no more trouble. But each of them, from mistaken reasons, had concealed these facts from the other. So, within a week of the entertainment, when he had been so enchanted with her coming home early, Percy received another shock, another warning anonymous letter.

It told him that his wife had made herself so conspicuous with Nigel Hillier that the hostess had requested her to leave, also that their meetings and their intrigue were the talk of London. He was again advised to put a stop to it, but was not this time given any day and hour or place to find them.

This time Percy said nothing to his wife. He made up his mind to have it out, for several reasons, with Nigel. Though he was angry and jealous, he now did not believe for a moment that Bertha was in any way to blame, but simply that Nigel must be paying her marked attention, and whatever the cause of the talk he was determined to stop it.

He thought for some time about where he could have an interview with Nigel. He could not ask him to his own house, nor could he go and see him at Grosvenor Street. His former idea of talking at the club he saw to be impossible.

He sat down and wrote:

"DEAR HILLIER,—I want to have a talk with you. Will you come and see me at my chambers at four o'clock the day after to-morrow? No. 7 Essex Court, Temple. Yours sincerely,

"PERCIVAL KELLYNCH."

Nigel was amazed to receive this, and rather alarmed too. It was about a week since he had had Bertha's little letter, but he had made no attempt to see her since.

He answered immediately that he would call at the time appointed and passed a very restless day and night beforehand.



CHAPTER XXVIII

AN INTERVIEW

Nigel, filled with curiosity, and rather anxious, arrived punctually to the moment. He was shown into Percy's chambers by a stout and prosperous-looking middle-aged clerk, with a gold watch-chain.

He waited there for some minutes, walking slowly up and down the room and examining it. It was a very dull, serious room, almost depressing. On the large table lay bulbous important-looking briefs, tied up with red tape. Framed caricatures of judges and eminent barristers from Vanity Fair hung round the walls. The furniture was scarce, large and heavy. On the mantelpiece was a framed photograph with a closed leather cover. It looked interesting and expensive, and Nigel with his quick movements had the curiosity to go across the room to open it. It contained two lovely photographs of Bertha: one in furs and a hat, the other in evening dress. It irritated Nigel. ... A sound of footsteps gave him only just time to close it with a spring, and sit down.

Percy came in looking as Nigel had never seen him look before. There had been an unimportant case in court, but he had been unable to get away before. He was so orderly as a rule that he detested keeping anybody waiting. He looked flushed and hurried, and his black smooth hair was extraordinarily rough and wild. Of course, Nigel remembered, he had just taken off his wig. There was a red line on his forehead, the mark left by this ornament. The effect made him look like a different person. He threw off his coat and spoke seriously and rather formally.

"Sorry, Hillier. Delayed in court. Hope I haven't kept you?"

"It doesn't matter in the least," Nigel answered in his cheery way.

Nigel was looking exceedingly at ease, and happy, though the manner was really assumed to-day. He was very smartly dressed, with light gloves and a buttonhole of violets, and looked a gay contrast to Percy, with his unusually rough hair and solemn expression.

"I was very interested. I don't think I've ever seen a barrister's chambers before. Jolly rooms you've got here. What a charming place the Temple is. ... Well! I've been simply dying of curiosity," he went on, with a pleasant smile.

"Sit down," said Percy. "Have a cigarette?"

Nigel lighted up. Percy did not.

"It's not very pleasant what I want to say to you. It's simply that I don't want you to come to our house any more."

Nigel looked surprised and coloured slightly.

"And may I ask your reason?"

"I don't see why I should give it, but I will. I don't wish you to see my wife any more."

"This is very extraordinary, Kellynch! Why?"

"I've reason to believe that your old friendship has been the cause of some talk—some scandal. I don't like it. I won't have it, and that's sufficient. I insist on you avoiding her in future."

Nigel stared blankly.

"I can only agree of course. I'll do just as you tell me. But I think, as we've known each other so long, that it would be only fair for you to tell me what is your reason for thinking this."

Nigel walked up and down the room, turned suddenly and said: "What has put this idea into your head?"

Percy hesitated a moment.

"I'll tell you if you like. But, mind, I want no explanations. I needn't say," he glanced at the closed photograph, "that I could have no doubt of any kind. ... But I have a right to choose my friends and my wife's also."

"She doesn't object?"

Percy frowned and looked him straight in the face.

"I undertake to say she will not object. We'll make this conversation as short as we can. You've asked me my reason and I'll give it you. I've had a series of extraordinary anonymous letters concerning you."

Nigel stared, horrified.

"She knows nothing about it," continued Percy, "and I attach no importance to them, except, as I say, they show that your acquaintance must have been misconstrued, and I won't have a shadow ... on her."

"This is rather hard on me, Kellynch. However, I have the satisfaction of knowing my conscience is absolutely clear, and of course, I'll do just as you wish. Have you any objection to showing me the letters?"

After a moment's pause, Percy said:

"No. I don't know that I have. I've got them here. I meant to shove them in the fire, but I'll let you read them first, if you like."

He went to a drawer, unlocked it, gave Nigel the letters, and watched him while he read them.

* * * * *

The moment Nigel glanced at them he knew they were written by Mary. He remembered by the dates when she had had the typewriter; he remembered, even, seeing some of the white notepaper. He read them all. Then he looked up and said:

"Kellynch, it's good of you to show these to me. I'm sorry to say I know who wrote them. The earlier ones telling of the appointments are all perfectly true, but entirely misrepresented. They can all be explained."

"I understand that," said Percy. "Of course the suggestion and the impression the writer tries to give are absolutely false."

"Quite so. May I burn the letters now?"

There was a fire and Nigel threw them into it. He saw no point in keeping them to confront Mary with. She would confess anyhow.

"May I ask one thing more?"

"My wife knows nothing about them," repeated Percy.

Nigel thought what a pity that was. If she had, she would not have come to the party; things might have been tided over. But now. ... He had no hope of the wish of his life, he was as furious as a spoilt child who is deprived of a favourite toy—or, rather, disappointed of all hopes of getting one. He became more and more angry with Percy and longed to annoy him. The fellow was too satisfied—too lucky—he had everything too much his own way!

"May I ask one thing?" said Nigel, as the letters were burning and he gave them one last irritated touch with the poker, "may I ask, does this affair give you the impression that I—only I naturally—had any—er—motives in trying to see Mrs. Kellynch often? If I may put it plainly, did you think I cared for her in a way that I had no right to?"

"To tell you the honest truth," said Percy, "as I choose to be frank with you, I won't say you had ... motives, but I have the impression that you—er—admire her too much."

Nigel waited a moment.

"And there you are perfectly right, Kellynch."

Percy started up, looking a little pale.

* * * * *

Nigel had got a little of his revenge.

He had annoyed the comfortable Percy.

"But let me say that all this time I have never, never shown it by word or look. Our talks were almost entirely about Madeline Irwin and my brother, or about Rupert Denison. Your wife is so exceedingly kind and good that she wished to see Miss Madeline as happy as herself."

"Yes, yes, I know all that," said Percy impatiently.

"I shall follow your wishes to the very letter," said Nigel. "You see how very open I've been. How will you explain to her that I drop your acquaintance?"

"I think I shall tell her now," said Percy, "that I had received a letter and that I've seen you. But I shall tell her we parted the best of friends, and nothing must be done, above all things, to annoy or agitate her."

He looked at the closed leather case again.

"Just now I want to take special care of her. I daresay she won't notice not meeting you, as we're not going out in the evening the rest of the season nor entertaining."

Nigel looked amazed. An idea occurred to him that caused him absurd mortification. It dawned upon his mind that perhaps Bertha was going to have her wish. If so, he would be forgotten more completely than ever.

"Forgive me for asking, Kellynch. I think you've been very good to me, really. I trust your wife is not ill?"

"Ill?—oh dear, no."

Percy smiled a smile that to Nigel seemed maddeningly complacent. "She merely wants a little care for a time. We shall go to the country very early this year. As a matter of fact, it's something she's very pleased about." He stopped.

Nigel gave a pale smile. Percy was too irritating!

"Well, you were right not to worry her about the letters. I'm very sorry for the whole thing. I think it's been hard on me, Kellynch."

He stood up.

"Good-bye, Hillier!"

Nigel held out his hand; Percy shook it coldly.

As he went to the door, taking up his hat and stick, Nigel said:

"I sincerely hope you won't miss me!"



CHAPTER XXIX

NIGEL AND MARY

Nigel rushed back. On his way, he decided that he had got a real excuse for a holiday; he had every right to go away for a time from such a wife; and he found himself thinking chiefly about where he would go and how he would amuse himself. If the husband had only known it, Bertha had already, if not exactly forbidden him the house, discouraged his calling, almost as distinctly, though more kindly, than Percy did. Still, if Percy had not given him that piece of information, he would have remained in London, and left it to chance that they might meet again somehow. He was such an optimist, and was really so very much in love with her. Curious that this news of Bertha should annoy and should excite him so much! Why, it seemed to him to be a matter of more importance and far more interest than in his own wife's case. That he had taken quite as a matter of course, an ordinary everyday occurrence "which would give her something to do." He was really disappointed when he found that Mary did not absorb herself in her children, and found she was only anxious—foolishly anxious—that he should not think that they could take his place as companions.

Nigel was affectionate by nature, and if Mary had insisted on that note—if she had made him proud of his children, encouraged his affection for them, if she had played the madonna—his affection for her would have been immensely increased. She would have had a niche in his heart—a respect and tenderness, even if she had never been able to make him entirely faithful, which, perhaps, only one woman could have done. But, instead of that, Mary had been jealous and silly and violently exacting. She wished him to be her slave and under her thumb, and yet she wanted him to be her lover. Every word she had ever spoken, everything she had ever done since their marriage had had the exact contrary effect of what she desired. She had sent him further and further away from her. That she knew he had married her for her money embittered her and yet made her tyrannical. She wanted to take advantage of that fact, in a way that no man could endure. Yet she was to be pitied. Anyone so exacting must be terribly unhappy.

It was not in Nigel, either, to care long for anyone who cared for him so much. And even if Bertha, who was now his ideal and his dream, had been as devoted to him as Mary, and shown it in anything like the same sort of way, he would in time have become cool and ceased to appreciate her. He thought now that he would always adore her, and yet, when they had been actually engaged, it had been he who had allowed it to lapse. He might think that he cared for her far more now and understood her better, and now no worldly object would induce him to give up the possibility of their passing their lives together. And yet the fact remained. She had loved him as a girl—worshipped him. But he had broken it off. So now that he has lost all hope of his wish, he does not, strictly speaking, deserve any sympathy; yet all emotional suffering appeals to one's pity rather than to one's sense of justice. And Nigel was miserable.

* * * * *

The letter Bertha had sent him the other day, though it put an end to their meeting, had a sort of fragrance; a tender kindness about it. He could make himself believe that she also was a little sorry. Perhaps she did it more from motives of duty than from her own wish; something about it left a little glamour, and he had still hope that somehow or other circumstances might alter so much that even so they might be friends again. But now! it was very different. Percy's quiet satisfaction showed that they were on the most perfect terms, and he could imagine Bertha's delight—her high spirits—and her charming little ways of showing her pleasure. It forced itself on his mind against his will, that she was very much in love with Percy after all these ten years, difficult as it seemed to him to realise it.

So they were hardly going out any more! So they were going to the country early to have a sort of second honeymoon! It seemed to him that after ten years of gay camaraderie they were now suddenly going to behave like lovers, like a newly married young couple.

How sickening it was, and how absorbed she would be now! People always made much more of an event like that when it happened after some years. Personally he tried to think it made him like her less, at any rate it seemed to make her far more removed from him. But all the real estrangement had been caused undoubtedly by his wife.

* * * * *

On the whole, to be just, that pompous ass, as he called him, Percy Kellynch, had really behaved very well. He had accused Nigel of nothing; he had suggested nothing about his wife, who was still, evidently, on a pedestal; he had really done the right thing and been considerate to her in the highest degree. Any man who cared for his wife would have naturally requested him, Nigel, to keep away. And it was really decent, frightfully decent of him, to let him see the letters, really kind and fair. Of course what put old Percy in a good temper, in spite of all, was this news, and, no doubt, Bertha was being angelic to him.

Nigel made up his mind to try and throw it off. But he couldn't do it by staying with his wife.

To look at her would be agonising now.

Still he made up his mind he would be calm, he would not be unkind to her; he would be firm, and, as far as possible, have no sort of scene.

* * * * *

When he went in, she was sitting in the boudoir looking out of the window as usual. She saw him before he came in. It was not six o'clock yet and quite light.

"Well, Nigel darling?" She ran up to him.

He moved away.

"Please don't, Mary. I've got something serious to speak to you about."

She turned pale, guiltily.

"What is it? What on earth is it?"

"You shall hear. Shall we talk about it now, or wait till after dinner? I think I'd rather wait. I've got a bit of a headache."

"After dinner, then," murmured Mary.

This was very unlike her. Had she had nothing on her conscience, nothing she was afraid of, she would never have ceased questioning and worrying him to get it all out of him.

* * * * *

He went up to his room, and asked her to leave him, and this she actually did. She wanted time to think!

With the weak good nature that was in Nigel, curiously side by side with a certain cruel hardness, he now felt a little sorry for her. It must be awful to be waiting like this. And she really had been in the wrong. It was an appalling thing to do—mad, hysterical, dangerous. It might have caused far more trouble than it had! Suppose Percy had believed it all!

Nigel thought of scandals, divorces, all sorts of things. Yes, after all, Kellynch had really been kind; and clever. He was not a bad sort. Then Nigel found that last little letter of Bertha's. How sweet it was! But he saw through it now, that she was deeply happy and didn't want to be bothered with him. She forgave the scene his wife had made at the party, as not one woman in a hundred would do—but she didn't want him. The moment she realised that he wanted to flirt with her, that there was even a chance of his loving her, she was simply bored. Yes, that was it—gay, amusing, witty, attractive Nigel bored her! Dull, serious, conventional Percy did not! She was in love with him.

In books and plays it was always the other way: it was the husband that was the bore; but romances and comedies are often far away from life. Curious as it seemed, this was life, and Nigel realised it. He destroyed her letter and went down to dinner.

They were quiet at dinner, talked a little only for the servants. Nigel asked about the little girl.

"How's Marjorie getting on with her music lessons?"

Mary answered in a low voice that the teacher thought she had talent. ...

They were left alone.

"Well, what is it, Nigel?" She spoke in querulous, frightened voice.

They were sitting in the boudoir again. Coffee had been left on the table.

Nigel lighted a cigarette.

He was still a little sorry for her. Then he said:

"Look here, Mary, I'm sorry to say I've found out you've been doing a very terrible thing! I ask you not to deny it, because I know it. The only chance of our ever being in peace together again, or in peace at all, is for you to speak the truth."

She did not answer.

"I've forgiven heaps of things—frightful tempers, mad suspicions, that disgraceful scene you made at our party—but I always thought you were honourable and truthful. What you've done is very dishonourable. Don't make it worse by denying it." He paused. "You have written five anonymous letters, dictated in typewriting, about me and Mrs. Kellynch to her husband. I don't know what you thought, but you certainly tried to give the impression that our harmless conversations meant something more. That there was an intrigue going on. Did you really think this, may I ask?"

"Yes, I did," she said, in a low voice, looking down.

"Well, first allow me to assure you that you are entirely wrong. It was completely false. Can't you see now how terrible it was to suggest these absolute lies as facts to her husband? Did you write the letters?"

"Yes, I did; I was in despair. I couldn't think of anything else to stop it."

Nigel gave a sigh of relief.

"Thank God you've admitted it, Mary. I'm glad of that. At least if we have the truth between us, we know where we are."

"Did she—did she—tell you?"

"She knows nothing whatever about it," said Nigel. "She has never been told, and never will be. You need worry no more about the letters. Her husband gave them to me this afternoon, and I destroyed them before him. And he doesn't know who wrote them."

Nigel forgot that he had told Percy or did not choose to say.

"They're completely wiped out, and will be forgotten by the person to whom you sent them. The whole affair is cleared up and finished and regarded as an unfortunate act of folly."

"Oh, Nigel!" Mary burst into tears. "You're very good."

"Now listen, Mary ... I can't endure to stay with you any more at present."

"What!" she screamed.

"If I continue this existence with you I shall grow to hate it. I wish to go away for a time."

"You want to leave me!"

"Unless I go now for a time to try and get over this act of yours, I tell you frankly that I shall leave you altogether."

He spoke sternly.

"If you will have the decency not to oppose my wishes, I will go away for six or seven weeks, and when I come back we'll try and take up our life again a little differently. You must be less jealous and exacting and learn to control yourself. I will then try to forget and we'll try to get on better together. But I must go. My nerves won't stand it any longer."

She sobbed, leaning her head on the back of an arm-chair.

"If you agree to this without the slightest objection," said Nigel, "I will come and join you and the children somewhere in the first week in August. Till then I'm going abroad, but I don't exactly know where. You shall have my address, and, of course, I shall write. I may possibly go to Venice. I have a friend there."

She still said nothing, but cried bitterly. She was in despair at the idea of his leaving her, but secretly felt she might have been let off less lightly.

One thing Nigel resolved. He would not let her know he had been forbidden the house. She would be too pleased at having succeeded. But he said:

"One thing you may as well know, I shall see nothing more of the Kellynches, because they are going into the country in a few days. They have had no quarrel, they are perfectly devoted to each other, and she has not the faintest idea of it. So you see you haven't done the harm, or caused the pain you tried to, except to me. I was ashamed when I saw——"

"Oh, Nigel, forgive me! I am sorry! Don't go away!"

"Unless I go away now, I shall go altogether. Don't cry. Try to cheer up!"

With these words he left the room.



CHAPTER XXX

MISS BELVOIR

We left Bertha and Madeline in the lift going up to call on Miss Belvoir. This lady was sitting by the fire, holding a screen. She came forward and greeted them with great cordiality. She was a small, dark, amiable-looking woman about thirty. Her hair and eyes were of a blackness one rarely sees, her complexion was clear and bright, her figure extremely small and trim. Without being exactly pretty, she was very agreeable to the eye, and also had the attraction of looking remarkably different from other people. Indeed her costume was so uncommon as to be on the verge of eccentricity. Her face had a slightly Japanese look, and she increased this effect by wearing a gown of which a part was decidedly Japanese. In fact it was a kimono covered with embroidery in designs consisting of a flight of storks, some chrysanthemums, and a few butterflies, in the richest shades of blue. In the left-hand corner were two little yellow men fighting with a sword in each hand; otherwise it was all blue. It was almost impossible to keep one's eyes from this yellow duel; the little embroidered figures looked so fierce and emotional and appeared to be enjoying themselves so much.

The room in which Miss Belvoir received her friends was very large, long and low, and had a delightful view of the river from the Embankment. It was a greyish afternoon, vague and misty, and one saw from the windows views that looked exactly like pictures by Whistler. The room was furnished in a Post-Impressionist style, chiefly in red, black and brown; the colours were all plain—that is to say, there were no designs except on the ceiling, which was cosily covered with large, brilliantly tinted, life-sized parrots.

Miss Belvoir's brother, Fred, often declared that when he came home late, which he generally did—between six and nine in the morning were his usual hours—he always had to stop himself from getting a gun, and he was afraid that some day he might lose his self-control and be tempted to shoot the parrots. He was an excellent shot.

The room was full of low bookcases crammed with books, and large fat cushions on the floor. They looked extremely comfortable, but as a matter of fact nobody ever liked sitting on them. When English people once overcame their natural shyness so far as to sit down on them, they were afraid they would never be able to get up again.

Three or four people were dotted about the room, but no one had ventured on the cushions. There was one young lady whose hair was done in the early Victorian style, parted in the middle, with bunches of curls each side. As far as her throat she appeared to be strictly a Victorian—very English, about 1850—but from that point she suddenly became Oriental, and for the rest was dressed principally in what looked like beaded curtains.

Leaning on the mantelpiece and smoking a cigarette with great ease of manner was a striking and agreeable-looking young man, about eight and twenty, whom Miss Belvoir introduced as Mr. Bevan Fairfield. He was fair and good-looking, very dandified in dress, and with a rather humorously turned-up nose and an excessively fluent way of speaking.

"I was just scolding Miss Belvoir," he said, "when you came in. She's been playing me the trick she's always playing. She gets me here under the pretext that some celebrity's coming and then they don't turn up. Signor Semolini, the Futurist, I was asked to meet. And then she gets a telegram—or says she does—that he can't come. Very odd, very curious, they never can come—at any rate when I'm here. Some people would rather say, 'Fancy, I was asked to Miss Belvoir's the other day to meet Semolini, only he didn't turn up,' than not say anything at all. Some people think it's a distinction not to have met Semolini at Miss Belvoir's."

"It's quite a satisfactory distinction," remarked Bertha. "Semolini has been to see us once, but he really isn't very interesting."

"Ah, but still you're able to say that. I sha'n't be able to say, 'I met Semolini the other day, and, do you know, he's such a disappointment.'"

"Well, I couldn't help it, Bevan," murmured Miss Belvoir, smiling.

"No, I know you couldn't help it. Of course you couldn't help it. That's just it—you never expected the man. I went to lunch with another liar last week—I beg your pardon, Miss Belvoir—who asked me to meet Duse. She was so sorry she couldn't come at the last minute. She sent a telegram. Well, all I ask is, let me see the telegram."

"But you couldn't; he 'phoned," objected Miss Belvoir.

"So you say," returned the young man, as he passed a cup of tea to Bertha.

"Will you have China tea and lemon and be smart, or India tea and milk and sugar and enjoy it? I don't mind owning that I like stewed tea—I like a nice comfortable washer-woman's cup of tea myself. Well, I suppose we're all going to the Indian ball at the Albert Hall. What are you all going as? I suppose Miss Belvoir's going as a nautch-girl, or a naughty girl or something."

"I'm going as a Persian dancer," said Miss Belvoir.

"I'm not going as anything," said Bertha. "I hate fancy balls. One takes such a lot of trouble and then people look only at their own dresses. If you want to dress up for yourself, you'd enjoy it just as much if you dressed up alone, I think."

"Well, of course it's not so much fun for women," said Mr. Fairfield. "You are always more or less in fancy dress; it's no change for you. But for us it is fun. The last one I went to I had a great success as a forget-me-not. Miss Belvoir and I met an elephant, an enormous creature, galumphing along, knocking everybody down, and wasn't it clever of me? I recognised it! 'Good heavens!' I exclaimed, 'this must be the Mitchells!' And so it turned out to be. Mr. Mitchell was one leg, Mrs. Mitchell the other, two others were their great friends and their little nephew was the trunk. Frightfully uncomfortable, but they did attract a great deal of attention. They nearly died of the stuffiness, but they took a prize. My friend Linsey usually takes a prize, though he always contrives some agonising torture for himself. The last time he was a letter-box, and he was simply dying of thirst and unable to move. I saved his life by pouring some champagne down the slit for the letters, on the chance. Another friend of mine who was dressed in a real suit of armour had to be lifted into the taxi, and when he arrived home he couldn't get out. When he at last persuaded the cabman to carry him to his door—it was six o'clock in the morning—the man said, 'Oh, never mind, sir, we've had gentlemen worse than this!' And the poor fellow hadn't had a single drop or crumb the whole evening, because his visor was down and he couldn't move his arm to lift it up. If you went as anything, Mrs. Kellynch, you ought to be a China Shepherdess. I never saw anyone so exactly like one."

"And what ought I to go as?" asked Madeline.

"You would look your best as a Florentine page," replied Mr. Fairfield. "Or both of you would look very nice as late Italians."

"I'm afraid we shall be late Englishwomen unless we go now," said Bertha. "I can only stay a very few minutes to-day, Miss Belvoir."

They persuaded her to remain a little longer, and Mr. Fairfield continued to chatter on during the remainder of their visit. He did not succeed in persuading them to join in making up the party for the Indian ball.



CHAPTER XXXI

MARY'S PLAN

Mary was so terrified that Nigel might keep his threat altogether and really leave her permanently that she made less opposition than he expected. She felt instinctively that it was her only chance of getting him back. She could see when he really meant a thing, and this time it was evident he intended to follow out his scheme, and she could not help reflecting that it might have been very much worse. How much more angry many husbands might have been! On the whole she had been let off fairly lightly. There was this much of largeness in Nigel's nature that he could not labour a point, or nag, or scold, or bully. He was really shocked and disgusted, besides being very angry at what she had done, and he did not at all like to dwell on it. He was even grateful that she spared him discussions of the subject, and sincerely thankful that she had admitted it. All men with any generosity in their temperament are disarmed by frankness, and most irritated by untruth. He wondered at her daring, and when she humbly owned she saw how dreadful it was—that she saw it in the right light and would never be tempted to do anything of the sort again—he was glad to forgive her. But he wanted to go away and forget it, and he certainly made up his mind to make the whole affair an excuse for having more freedom. He had never been away without her for more than a day, and he looked forward to it with great pleasure. He determined to let his journey help to cure him of his passion for Bertha, though it seemed at present an almost impossible task.

He was resolved to strike when the iron was hot, and to get away while she was in this docile mood. She was gentle and quiet and seemed very unhappy, but made no objections to his plans; she would not, perhaps, have minded his leaving her for a day or two, since she felt uncomfortable and in the wrong, but she dreaded his being away for weeks. He said he would join Rupert at Venice; and this she rather preferred, as Rupert was known to be a quiet, steady, studious young man.

But when the last moment came and the packed trunks were put on the cab, he had said good-bye to her and the children and that last terrible bang of the hall door resounded in her heart, she could not look out of the window in her usual place. She had felt the agony known to all loving hearts, the conviction that a traveller is already at a distance before he goes. He is no longer with her when his thoughts are with stations and tickets—indeed the real parting is long before he starts. Then the unconscious sparkle of pleasure in his eyes as he imagines himself away! He had gone already before he went; she did not want to see the last of him. She went up to her room and locked the door, and threw herself on the sofa in a terrible fit of despair and jealousy. Jealousy still, that was her great fear of his going away. He would forget her and be unfaithful, she thought. ...

* * * * *

She suffered terribly that evening, and the next day resolved to take a somewhat singular step. If she had been doing Bertha an injustice, as it seemed, if Bertha was not seeing him at all, why should she not go and see her? She felt instinctively that besides getting the truth out of her, and perhaps apologising for what had happened at the party, Bertha might give her some advice. Everyone said she was so kind and clever. She decided not to write, but she rang up on the telephone and asked if Bertha would receive her at three o'clock. She felt a strange curiosity, a longing to see her. She received the answer, Mrs. Kellynch would be delighted to see her at any time in the afternoon.



CHAPTER XXXII

PRIVATE FIREWORKS AT THE PICKERINGS'

"I say, Clifford, when is your birthday?" This momentous question was asked of Clifford with the liveliest interest by Cissy Pickering, a remarkably pretty little girl of about his own age.

They were in the gigantic and gorgeous apartment set apart as a playroom for the young Pickerings in Hamilton Place, Park Lane, and arranged partly as a gymnasium—it had all the necessities—partly as a schoolroom. It contained a magnificent dolls' house fitted up with Louis Quinze furniture and illuminated with real electric light; a miniature motor car in which two small people could drive themselves with authentic petrol round and round the polished floor; a mechanical rocking-horse; a miniature billiard-table and croquet set; a gramophone; cricket on the hearth, roller-skates; a pianola, and countless other luxuries.

Decorated by illustrations of fairy tales on the walls, it was altogether a delightful room; made for all a child could want.

It is all very well to say that children are happier with mud pies and rag dolls than with these elaborate delights. There may be something in this theory, but when their amusements are carried to such a point of luxurious and imaginative perfection it certainly gives them great and even unlimited enjoyment at the time. Whether such indulgence and realisation of youthful dreams have a good effect on the character in later life is a different question. At any rate, to go to tea with the Pickerings was the dream of all their young friends and gave them much to think of and long for, while it gave to the young host and hostess immense gratification and material pride.

"My birthday? Oh, I don't know—oh, it's on the twenty-seventh May," said Clifford, who was far more shy of the young lady than of her mother.

"Fancy! Just fancy! and mine's on the twenty-eighth June! Isn't it funny!"

Cissy was surprised at almost everything. It added to her popularity.

"Not particularly."

"Oh, Clifford!"

"You must be born some time or other, I mean," he said, wriggling his head and twisting his feet, as he did when he felt embarrassed. Miss Pickering made him feel embarrassed because she asked so many direct personal questions, seemed so interested and surprised at everything, and volunteered so much private—but, it seemed to him, unimportant—information.

"My name is Cecilia Muriel Margaret Pickering. My birthday's on the twenty-eighth June, and Eustace's birthday is on the fifteenth February. Isn't it funny?"

"No, not at all," said Clifford.

"His name is Eustace Henry John Pickering, after father. At least John's after father and Henry's after grandpapa—I mean, mummy's father, you know. Eustace is just a fancy name—a name mummy thought of. Do you like it?"

"Not much."

"Oh, Clifford! Why not?"

"Well, it's rather a queer name."

"Do you call him Eustace?"

"I call him Pickering, of course," said Clifford. "At school we don't know each other's Christian names."

"Oh! ... Did you know mine before you came here, Clifford?"

"No. I only knew he had a kiddy sister, but he didn't tell me your name."

She looked rather crushed. Cissy was a lovely child with golden hair, parted on one side, and a dainty white and pink dress like a doll. Cissy was in love with Clifford, but Clifford was in love with her mother. This simple nursery tragedy may sound strange, but as a matter of fact it is a kind of thing that happens every day. Similar complications are to be found in almost every schoolroom.

"I hope you don't mind my saying that," said Clifford, who began to be sorry for her. "About your being a kid. It doesn't matter a bit—for a girl."

"Oh, Clifford! No, I don't mind." She smiled at him, consoled. "Eustace will soon be home. He's gone to get something."

"Oh, good."

"Do you mind his not being here yet?"

"No, not a bit."

"You told me you had something to show me," said the little girl. "You've been writing poetry. I should so like to see it."

He blushed and said: "I've brought it. But I don't think it's any good. I don't think I'll show it to you."

"Oh, please, please, please, do!"

"You'll go telling everyone. Girls always do."

"I promise, I swear I won't! Not a soul. Not even mummy. I never tell Eustace's secrets."

"I should think not! Now mind you don't, then. Will you, Cissy?"

"Oh, do go on, dear Clifford; because when Eustace is here we shall have to play games—'Happy Families' or something—and I sha'n't have another chance. I believe he's got some joke on. I hear you've written a play. Have you?"

"Well, I began an historical play," said Clifford, who was beginning to think a little sister with proper respect for one might be rather a luxury, "but I chucked it. I found it was rather slow. So then I tried to write a poem. But I'm not going to grow up and be one of those rotten poets with long hair, that you read of. Don't think that."

"Aren't you? Oh, that's right. What are you going to be, Clifford?"

"Oh! I think I shall be an inventor or an explorer, and go out after the North or South Pole, or shoot lions."

"Oh! How splendid! Won't you take me? I'd love to come!"

He smiled. "It wouldn't do for girls."

"But I sha'n't be a girl then. I'll be grown-up. Do let me come!"

"We'll see. Don't bother."

"Well! Show me the poem," she said, for she already had the instinct to see that it pleased him and interested him much more to show her what he was doing at present than to make promises and plans about her future.

They went and sat on the delightful wide-cushioned window-seat. Clifford pulled out of his pocket a crumpled paper, covered with pencil marks. He curled himself up, and Cissy curled herself up beside him and looked over his shoulder.

He began: "I'm afraid this one's no use—no earthly—— I say, Cissy, take your hair out of my eyes."

She shook it back and sat a little farther off, with her eyes and mouth open as he read in a rather gruff voice:

"Sonnet."

"What's a sonnet, Clifford?"

He was rather baffled. "This is."

He went on:

"'The day when first I saw Her standing by the door, I was taken by surprise By her pretty blue eyes, And then I thought her hair So very fair That I felt inclined to sing About Mrs. Pickering.'"

"Lovely! How beautiful!" exclaimed Cissy, like a true woman. "But Mrs. Pickering! Fancy! Does it mean mummy?"

"Why, yes. As a matter of fact it certainly does."

"Oh, Clifford! How clever! How splendid! But mustn't she know it?"

"Oh no. I'd rather not. At any rate, not now."

"I wish it was to me!" exclaimed the child. "Then you needn't be so shy about it. Why don't you change it to me? Look here—like this. Say:

"'I felt inclined to sing About Cissy Pickering.'

Cissy instead of Mrs.!"

"Oh no, my dear. That wouldn't do at all. It isn't done. You can't alter a sonnet to another person. If it came to that I'd sooner write one to you as well, some time or another, when you're older."

"Oh, do, dear Cliff! I should love it."

"All right. Perhaps I will some day. But, you see, just now I want to do the one about her."

"It's very nice and polite of you," she said in a doubting voice. "But you said you'd done some more."

"Rather. So I have. You mustn't think it's cheek, you know, if I call your mother by her Christian name in the poetry. It's only for the rhyme."

Blushing and apologetically he read aloud in his gruff, shy voice:

"'Geraldine, Geraldine, She has the nicest face I have ever seen, She did not say Until the other day That I might call her Geraldine, And I think she is like a Queen.'

"As a matter of fact she never said it at all," said the boy, folding it up. "That's only because it's poetry. And I only used her name for the rhyme."

"Yes, I see. You're very clever!"

"Don't you see any faults in it? I wish you'd tell me straight out exactly what you think, if you see anything wrong," said Clifford, like all young writers who think they are pining for criticism but are really yearning for praise. "I would like," he said, "for you to find any fault you possibly could! Say exactly what you really mean."

He really thought he meant it.

"Well, I don't see one fault! I think it's perfect," replied Cissy, like all intelligent women in love with the writer. Her instinct warned her against finding any fault. Had she found any it would have been the only thing Clifford would have thought she happened to be wrong about. As it was, his opinion of her judgment and general mental capacity went up enormously, and he decided that she was a very clever kid. A decent little girl too, and not at all bad looking.

"But aren't they a little short, Cissy?" he asked.

"Perhaps they are. But you can easily make them longer, can't you?"

"Oh yes, rather, of course I can."

"Don't you want mummy to see them?"

"Oh no, I don't think I do; wouldn't she laugh at me?"

"Oh no, I'm sure she wouldn't, Clifford. She's coming to have tea with us to-night."

"Well, mind you don't tell," he said threateningly.

"Of course, I won't. You can trust me. I say, Clifford."

"Well?"

"What do you think I used to want to do?"

"Haven't the slightest idea."

She hesitated a moment. "Shall I tell you?"

"If you like."

"Well, I used to want to marry Henry Ainley!"

"Did you, though," said Clifford, not very interested.

"Yes. But I don't now."

"Don't you, though?"

"No, not the least bit."

"Did he want to marry you?" asked Clifford. This idea occurred to him as being conversational, but he was still not interested.

"Oh, good gracious, no!" she exclaimed. "Of course not! rather not! Why, he doesn't know me. And if he did he would think I was a little girl."

"Well, so you are," said Clifford.

"I know. Shall I tell you why I don't want to marry Henry Ainley any more?"

"You can if you want to." These matrimonial schemes seemed to bore him, but he thought he ought to endure them as a matter of fair play, as she had listened to his poetry.

"Well, I don't care so much about marrying him now, because I should like to marry you!"

"Me! Oh, good Lord, I don't want to be engaged, thanks."

"Oh, Clifford, do!"

"None of the chaps at school are engaged. It isn't done. Being engaged is rot. Pickering isn't engaged."

"Yes; but I don't see why we shouldn't," she said, pouting.

"Well, I do, and I sha'n't be."

"But mightn't you later on, when we're older?" she implored.

"Why, no, I shouldn't think so. Why, your mother would be very angry. You're only twelve. You're not out. You can't be engaged before you're out. Your mother would think it awful cheek of me."

"Well, I won't say anything more about it now," she said. "But, Clifford, will you, perhaps, when I am out?"

"Oh, good Lord! What utter bosh. How do I know what I'll do when you're out?"

She began to look tearful.

"Oh, well, all right. I'll see. Perhaps I may. Mind, I don't promise."

He was thinking that if he refused her irrevocably and unconditionally he might not be asked to the house again. And he liked going on account of Pickering, Mrs. Pickering, and the house.

"Look here," he said after a moment's pause. "Let's forget all about this. I don't think your mother would like it."

"You think so much of my mother," she answered.

"Well, I should think so, don't you?"

"Oh yes, Clifford, I love her, of course."

"Well, then, don't you want me to like her?"

"Oh yes; but not much more than me."

"Oh, well, I can't help that," he said very decidedly.

She looked subdued.

"Then you do like me a little bit too, Clifford?"

"Yes, of course. I say, don't worry."

"All right, I beg your pardon, Clifford. ... Oh, there's Eustace!"

His step was heard. When his friends were there his sister called him Pickering, not to be out of it.

"Won't you kiss me to show you're not cross with me, Clifford?"

"Yes, if you like, my dear. But we're not engaged, you know."

"Right-o," she answered.

He kissed her hurriedly and Eustace came in. Eustace was a big dark thin boy of fourteen, not good-looking or like his sister in any way, but with a very pleasant humorous expression. He was remarkably clever at school, and his reports were, with regard to work, quite unusually high. Conduct was not so satisfactory, though he was popular both with boys and masters. His two hobbies were chemistry and practical jokes. Unfortunately the clear distinction between the two was not always sufficiently marked; the one merged too frequently into the other. Hence occasional trouble.

Eustace had his arms full of parcels, which looked rather exciting. He informed his delighted sister and friend that they were going to have private fireworks on the balcony.

"Gracious, how ripping!" cried Clifford. "But it isn't the fifth of November."

"Who on earth ever said it was?"

"Is it anybody's birthday?" asked Cissy.

"I daresay," said Pickering. "Sure to be."

"But you don't know that it's anybody's birthday for a fact, do you?"

"Yes, I do. It's a dead cert that it's somebody's. Somebody's born every day. It's probably several people's birthday."

"But you don't know whose?"

"No. I don't know whose and I don't want to; what does it matter? Who cares?"

They both laughed heartily. It was so like Pickering! That was Pickering all over to give an exhibition of fireworks in honour of the birthday of somebody he didn't know anything about, or in honour of its not being the fifth November.

"But will mummy mind? Won't she be afraid?"

"She won't mind, because she won't know. And she won't be afraid because she and father are going out to dinner and they won't hear anything about it until all the danger's over. I've got rockets and Bengal lights and all sorts of things here."

"But suppose they catch fire to the curtains on the balcony and we have a fire-escape here," suggested Cissy.

"Well, and wouldn't that be ripping?"

They admitted that it would.

"Have you ever been down a fire-escape, Clifford?" asked Pickering.

"Me? Down a fire-escape? Wait a minute, let me think. No, no. Now I come to think of it, upon my word, I don't think I ever have. Not down a fire-escape."

"Ah, I thought not," said Pickering knowingly, as if he had spent his life doing nothing else. "No, you wouldn't have."

"Well, have you?"

"Me?" said Pickering. "Well, I don't know that I have, exactly. But I know all about it. Besides I once drove to a fire with one of the firemen. It was jolly."

"But you're not going to give a fire-escape performance to-night, are you? I thought you were only going to have fireworks."

"Yes, of course, that's all, and there's no danger really. How surprised the people in the street will be when they see those ripping rockets go whizzing up! I daresay we shall have a crowd round us."

"But I say, Eustace. Won't mummy say it's vulgar?"

"What's vulgar?"

"Why, to have fireworks. She says we oughtn't to attract too much attention and do anything ostentatious. She often says so."

"Oh, my dear, that's all right. These are private fireworks! No one will know about it."

"But you'll have to tell Wenham," said Cissy.

Wenham was a confidential butler who helped Pickering out of many scrapes.

"Of course I shall tell Wenham; at least, I shall as soon as they have started. Now shut up about it. Here's mummy."

Pretty Mrs. Pickering joined them at tea, played games with them—they did some delightful charades—and amused them and herself until it was time for her to go and dress for dinner, leaving Clifford more enchanted with her than ever.

* * * * *

About a quarter to eight the children had the house more or less to themselves. Cissy's governess had a holiday and the aged nurse (who had no sort of control over Pickering) was the only person there who had even a shadow of authority. She was to see that Cissy didn't play wild games, and went to bed at half-past eight, but as a matter of fact the aged nurse did neither. Cissy stayed with the boys as long as they would allow her. At last the joyous moment arrived, they went on the balcony and Pickering started his first rocket. Cissy, a little frightened, clung to Clifford.