"Suppose we have a crowd round the house," she murmured.

"You see how easy it is," Pickering said. "Anyone with a little sense can do it. Now! Now, Cissy! get out of the way!"

They waited and waited. But, alas! nothing happened. He tried again and yet again, but it turned out a failure, the sort of tragedy that is more disappointing than any danger or even any accident. ... It fell completely flat.

* * * * *

There must have been something the matter with the infernal fireworks. It couldn't have been Pickering not knowing how to do them.

That was impossible, simply because Pickering always knew how to do everything.

The wretched man who sold them to him must have cheated.

It was a terrible fiasco. Not a single one of the rotten things went off. The most awful thing happened that could happen in life. After great fear, hope, suspense, excitement and joy, the squibs were damp!

Nothing went off. Nothing happened. As to the Bengal fire, nothing was ever seen of it but some damp paper and a very horrible scent.

Certainly there was no vulgarity about it, no ostentation, except the perfume. The fireworks were as private as they could possibly be!

"At any rate," said Cissy, trying to console her guest, "perhaps it's better than if the house had caught fire and we had all been burnt up!"

They weren't so very sure. It wouldn't have been so flat.

Then Pickering made an attempt to imply that the whole thing was simply a practical joke of his.

"Well, if it is," said Clifford to himself, "by Jove, if it is—it's the greatest success I've ever seen in my life!"



CHAPTER XXXIII

NIGEL ABROAD

Nigel "ran across" Rupert in Paris—Englishmen who are acquainted with each other always do meet in Paris—and they agreed to dine together. Each was pleased to see the other, not so much for each other's own sake, but for the pleasure of associations. The sight of Rupert reminded Nigel of one of the pleasantest evenings in his life—that evening they had spent at the Russian Ballet. Bertha had sat next to him. Bertha had been delightful. She had looked lovely and laughed at his jokes, and had been all brightness and amiability—it had been before the first shadow, the first thought of arriere pensee had risen in her mind to cloud her light heart. And he at that time, with what he saw now to be his dense stupidity, had believed that she was beginning to like him, that she was even on the way to get to care for him in time if he managed with great tact and did not annoy Percy nor seem wanting in deference for him, and above all if he did not give it away about Mary's jealousy. He always knew that if Bertha once learnt that, it would be fatal to his hopes. She was never to know it.

* * * * *

And now everything had come out, everything had gone wrong in the most horrible, hideous way. It had all gone off like young Pickering's fireworks. When he remembered that dreadful scene at the party it made him shudder. How hopelessly stupid he had been to persuade her to come! How could he have been so idiotic? Looking at Rupert reminded him of the delightful little meetings and talks he had had with Bertha about him and Madeline. How charmingly grateful and delighted she had been at his offering to help her and smooth away the difficulties by diplomacy. And this was how he had done it! Madeline was now engaged to nobody.

Bertha knew all about the jealousy and had been exposed to insults. And Percy knew even more about it than she did. Talk of diplomacy! Nigel must have been indeed a poor diplomatist, since, without having ever done the slightest harm or indeed really said a word of love to Bertha, he had yet brought her husband down upon him, forbidding him the house and sending him to the devil. That was diplomacy, wasn't it? and as to success, she regarded him with indifference bordering on aversion and was clearly madly in love with that dull uninteresting Percy. All (Nigel admitted), all his own stupidity. Whether or not wickedness is punished in another world, there can be no doubt that stupidity and folly is most decidedly punished in this.

But then, could he help it that Mary went behind his back and wrote the most dreadful letters, that she had this terrible mania for writing letters? But if he had been so very clever and diplomatic he would somehow or another have prevented it. Oh yes, there was no doubt he was a fool, and he had without doubt been made supremely ridiculous. He was well aware that he was ridiculous.

* * * * *

Rupert Denison liked Nigel, but he had no idea how intimate he was with Nigel. In other words he hadn't the faintest idea how well Nigel knew him. And this is a case which happens every day owing to the present custom of confidential gossip; and is too frequently rather unfairly arranged through the intimate friendship of women. For example, Madeline, regarding Bertha as the most confidential of sisters, told her every little thing, showed her every letter, and had no shadow of a secret from her in word or thought. Bertha was almost equally confiding except than an older married woman is never quite so frank with a girl friend—there must always be certain reservations. Bertha was an intimate friend of Nigel and practically told him every little thing—he was "the sort of man you could tell everything to," he was interested, amused, and gave excellent advice. The result was obvious; very little about Rupert and his private romance with Madeline was unrevealed to Nigel.

Nigel felt inclined to smile when he remembered all he had heard. Rupert, on the other hand, was not "the sort of man you could tell everything to"; he therefore had no confidential women friends and knew nothing at all about Nigel. For all he knew, he was just as much as ever l'ami de la maison at Percy's house.

At the very end of the dinner, which was a very pleasant one, during which Nigel had been sparkling and Rupert a little quiet, Nigel suddenly "felt it in his bones," as Bertha used to say—dear Bertha, she used to declare that her bones were so peculiarly and remarkably sensitive to anything of interest—Nigel felt, as I say, Rupert was longing to talk about Madeline.

He therefore led the conversation to her, remarked how quiet she had been of late, and told him various things about her.

"Did she ever mention me?" asked Rupert, as he looked down at his wineglass.

"Oh yes, rather."

"What did she say?"

"She said," replied Nigel, "that she was jolly glad she never saw you now and that you were a silly rotter!"

"I recognise Miss Madeline's style," replied Rupert with a smile, as he rose from the table.



CHAPTER XXXIV

MOONA

Like all cultivated people, particularly those who attach much importance to pleasure and amusement, variety, art, and the play, Nigel was very fond of Paris; it always pleased him to go there; and yet he doubted if he were quite as fond of it in reality as he was in theory. The best acting, the best cooking, the best millinery in the world was to be found in Paris; and yet Nigel wasn't sure that he didn't enjoy those things more when he got them in London—that he enjoyed French cooking best in an English restaurant, and even a French play at an English theatre. Certainly Paris was the centre of art. Nigel was fond of pictures, and he amused himself more with a few young French artists whom he happened to know living here than with anybody else in the city; and yet when he went back to London he sometimes felt that the recollection of it, the chatter of studios, the slang of the critics, even the whole sense and sound of Paris gave him a little the recollection as of a huge cage of monkeys. Like most modern Englishmen, he talked disparagingly about British hypocrisy, Anglo-Saxon humbug, English stiffness and London fog; and yet, after all, he missed and valued these very things. Wasn't the fog and the hypocrisy—one was the symbol of the other—weren't all these things the very charm of London? Fog and hypocrisy—that is to say, shadow, convention, decency—these were the very things that lent to London its poetry and romance.

Everything in Paris, it was true, was picturesque, everything had colour and form, everything made a picture. But it was all too obvious; everything was all there ready for one's amusement, ready for one's pleasure. People were too obliging, too willing. And the men! Well, Nigel was far more of a viveur, of a lover of pleasure than ninety-nine Englishmen out of a hundred, yet he found too much of that point of view among the men he came across in Paris. From boys to old gentlemen, from the artists to a certain set among the haute finance—of whom he had some acquaintances—from the sporting young sprig of the Faubourg to the son of the sham jeweller in the Rue de Rivoli—all, without a single exception, seemed to think of nothing else but pleasure, in other words, of les petites femmes. For that—paying attention more or less serious to les petites femmes—seemed the one real idea of pleasure. Of this point of view Nigel certainly grew very tired, and he marvelled at the wonderful energy, the unflagging interest in the same eternal subject.

They said, and of course thought, that there was nothing so charming as a French woman, particularly the Parisienne; but, except on one point, he was not entirely inclined to agree. This point was their dress. Their dress was delightful, their fashion was an art, and it had great, real charm. In whatever walk of life they were placed they were always exquisitely dressed. Nigel appreciated this sartorial gift, it was an art he understood and that amused, but weren't they on the whole—also in every walk of life—a little too much arranged, overdone, too much maquillees; weren't their faces too white, their lips too red, their hats too new? They knew how to put on their clothes to perfection, but he was not sure that he didn't prefer these beautiful clothes not quite so well put on; he thought he liked to see the pretty French dress put on a little wrong on a pretty Englishwoman; and then he thought of Bertha, of course. Nowhere in Paris was there anything quite like Bertha, that pink and white English complexion, that abundant fair hair, the natural flower-like look.

Of course Bertha was unusually clever, lively and charming; she was not stiff or prim, she was very exceptional, but distinctly English, and he admired her more than all the Parisiennes in the world. Besides, he thought, one got very tired of them. When they were bourgeoises they were so extremely bourgeoises; when they were smart they were so excessively snob. Perhaps it was through having seen a good deal of them for a little while that he met a compatriot of his with unexpected gratification.

* * * * *

He was walking with one of his artist friends on the boulevard when, to his great surprise, the artist was stopped by a young lady walking alone who evidently knew him. She was dressed in a very tight blue serge coat and skirt, she had black bandeaux of hair over her ears, from which depended imitation coral ear-rings. She had shoes with white spats, and a very small hat squashed over her eyes. She did not look in the least French. He knew her at once. It was the girl whose artistic education Rupert had at one time undertaken. It was Moona Chivvey.

"Ah! Miss Chivvey! What a pleasure! And what are you doing here?"

She replied that she and her friend, Mimsie Sutton, had taken a little studio and were studying art together with a number of other English and American girls with a great artist.

Nigel's friend left his arm and went away. Nigel strolled on with Miss Chivvey.

"And are you here quite alone with no chaperon," asked Nigel, with that momentary sort of brotherly feeling of being shocked that an Englishman nearly always feels when he sees a compatriot behaving unconventionally in a foreign land.

"Chaperon! Oh! come off the roof," replied the young lady in her boisterous manner, which he saw had not at all toned down. "Of course I'm being chaperoned by Miss Sutton. I'm staying with Mimsie. Mother couldn't come, and didn't want me to come, but there's no hope of learning art in London; it's simply hopeless. You see we're serious, Mr. Hillier, we're studying really hard. We're going to do big things. Mimsie's a genius. I'm not; but I'm industrious. I'm a tremendous worker. Oh, I shall do something yet!"

She was full of fire and enthusiasm, and continued to give him an immense quantity of information. He listened with interest and thought it rather touching. Of course she was genuine and believed in herself; equally, of course, she had no sort of talent. She was in a position in which no girl in her own class could be placed who was not English, except an American, and then it wouldn't be the same thing. No doubt she knew thoroughly well how to take care of herself, and most likely there was no need, even, that she should. Still, he thought it was rather pathetic that she should leave her parents and a thoroughly comfortable home in Camden Hill, in order to live in a wretchedly uncomfortable studio—he was sure it was wretchedly uncomfortable—and have a dull life with other depressing girls—all for the cultivation of a gift that was purely imaginary.

"You must come and dine with me to-night, won't you, Miss Chivvey?"

She was rather pretty, rather amusing, and she was English. He liked talking English again.

"Well, I should like to very much, Mr. Hillier. Is your wife here?"

"No; she's going to Felixtowe in a week or two with the children, and I'm going to join her there. I'm quite alone, so you must take pity on me. Must we have your friend Miss Sutton too?" he asked.

"Oh no—I don't think it's necessary; it will be a change to go out without her. You see, here I am a worker and a Bohemian," she explained. "I don't go in for chaperons. I'm not social here!"

"Besides, I'm English. You're all right with me," he returned in his most charming way. "Have you many English friends here?"

He wanted to find out whether she was seeing Rupert; he soon discovered she was not, and he determined not to tell her of the presence of that young man. They might make it up, and Nigel thought it would be far better for Rupert to come back to Madeline. He was sure she was his real taste. And he still wanted to please Bertha.

* * * * *

They dined in a small but particularly excellent restaurant. She seemed to enjoy herself immensely, and grew every moment more confidential. Nigel tried not to flirt. He had no intention of doing so, and, had they met in London, would not have dreamt of such a thing; but meeting an English girl placed as she was gave a tinge of adventure and romance to his taking her out.

She told him she had no flirtations and cared for no man in the world. He then led the conversation gradually to Rupert Denison. It did not take long for her to work herself up to give him a somewhat highly coloured version of their quarrel, which amused him. It ended with "and so I never saw him again."

"I can't see that you have any real grievance, I must say. He seems to have been very nice to you, taken you out a great deal, and gone to see you pretty often. Did he not make love to you?"

"Never, never, never," she replied. "He was just like a brother, or, rather, a sort of schoolmaster."

"Then I believe that's what made you angry," he replied.

"Indeed it isn't. At any rate, if it was a little, I assure you I'm not in love with him."

He laughed, teased her about it, and now he found that she wished to go home. Feeling he ought not to take advantage of her position here, he was exceedingly respectful, and drove her to her flat, not before she had consented to dine and go to the theatre with him the next day.

"That sort of girl is rather difficult to understand," he thought, as he drove away from the studio. "Perhaps now she's thinking me a fool as she thought Rupert."

However, he remembered he was married. He looked forward to the next evening with interest. At least Miss Chivvey was different from other people. One wasn't quite sure of her, and that fact had its attraction. She was really very good-looking too, very young, had beautiful eyes and teeth, and the high spirits of youth and health and enthusiasm. Pity she thought she could draw. How much better if she had gone in for first-rate plain cooking! He was sure she could learn that—if it was really plain.

Next day he sent her a few flowers. After all, an Englishman must be gallant to his country-woman; but the next evening he thought she met him with a slightly cooler air and even with a little embarrassment. This melted away before the end of the evening.

He then took her to the theatre in a little box. He was careful to choose a piece that he would have taken his own sister to see, but he forgot that he would not have let his own sister go to see it with a married man and no chaperon.

His manner was becoming a shade more tender than was necessary, and he was sitting perhaps a shade nearer to her than was absolutely required, when, looking up, he saw two young men in the stalls, one of whom was looking at him and his companion with very great interest through an opera-glass. It was Rupert.

Moona had not seen him, and Nigel now became aware of a distinct anxiety that she should not. He was rather sorry he had come: it might give Rupert a mistaken impression. It was not right to compromise her. He would explain, of course, the next day. But it was annoying to have to explain, and he would have explained anyhow. Nigel greatly disliked getting the credit, or, rather, the discredit, of something he did not deserve.

He pretended to be bored with the play, and persuaded her to come and have an ice at a quiet and respectable place before she saw Rupert. She went in high spirits and great innocence.

When they left Nigel said: "Do you know that I oughtn't to have taken you there to-night? It was wrong of me. If anyone had seen us there they would probably have mistaken our relations."

She gave her boisterous laugh and said: "I see. Well, you would have had all the credit and none of the trouble."

"You mean," he replied, "that I should have had all the infamy and none of the satisfaction."

As they drove to the studio he took her hand and said: "One kiss."

"Certainly not," she replied, taking it away. "Certainly not. Do you want me to be sorry I came out with you?"

"I should like you to be glad," he replied. "Never mind, Miss Chivvey, forgive me. I won't ask you out again."

"Why not? Haven't I been nice?"

"Very nice. Too nice, too charming, too dangerous." He kissed her hand respectfully. "Good-bye. I'm angry with myself."

"Never mind, I'll forgive you," she laughed flippantly.

He drove away. Yes, one loses one's bearings travelling about alone, taking jeunes filles to the theatre who live alone in Paris, say anything, have no chaperons, and are prudes all the time.

"Confound it. I've made a fool of myself. But I must go and see Rupert."

He lunched with that young man that day and told him word for word what had passed, even to the incident in the cab.

He need not have been so expansive nor have humbled himself so much.

Rupert had not for a moment misconstrued their presence at the theatre.

Also he was not in the least surprised about the incident in the cab.

Rupert was on the whole irritating. Nigel was glad to leave him.



CHAPTER XXXV

TWO WOMEN

Bertha was very much surprised at Mary's wishing to see her. She thought it most extraordinary and was much inclined to refuse, remembering the strangely insulting way Mary had behaved at her party. Nigel had apologised indeed; had implored for forgiveness; and she had written to say it was forgotten. But it is not an easy thing to forget.

Percy had given a mild version of his interview with Nigel. He had also told her now about the destroyed letters. Bertha was certainly vexed that she had not been told before. It would have, at least, prevented her going to the party. However, she was soon tired of the subject and agreed with Percy not to mention it again. Bertha was, as she said herself, nothing of a harpist. She could not go on playing on one string. She made up her mind to forget it. She had begun to do so when Mary's telephone message reached her.

Bertha was sitting by the fire when Mary was shown in. She looked at her most serene, her calmest and prettiest. It was not in her nature to bear malice nor even to be angry for more than a few hours about anything. By the end of that time she was always inclined to see the humorous side of anything, and to see that it was of less importance than appeared. She had already laughed several times to herself at the mere thought of the absurdity of a hostess asking one to her house and then behaving as Mary had done. Also she saw a comic—though pathetic—side to the typewritten letters. But it was painful, too, and she would very much rather have avoided this visit from Mrs. Hillier. It must be embarrassing for her, at least, and could hardly be other than disagreeable.

* * * * *

Mary came in looking very pale and rather untidy. In the excitement of her mind and her general perturbation she had come out with two left-handed gloves, and during the whole of her visit endeavoured to force a left hand into a right-hand glove. It was maddening to watch her.

Just as she started to go to see Bertha, poor Mary had gone to her toilet-table and put what she supposed to be powder lavishly on her nose without again looking in the glass. It was red rouge—the reddest and brightest. Although she afterwards rubbed a little of it off, she never saw herself in the glass again before starting. The result of this was to give her that touch of the grotesque that is so fatal to any scene of a serious nature but that in this case appealed to Bertha's kindness and sympathy rather than her sense of humour.

"How are you, Mrs. Hillier? I have really hardly met you to speak to until to-day."

"Good-morning, Mrs. Kellynch. ... It was kind of you to let me come."

Mary sat down awkwardly and began to put her left hand into the right-hand glove. She sat near the light, and Bertha saw that she had been covering her face with what she supposed to be powder, but what was nothing else than carmine.

Should she tell her?

Could she let her remain in ignorance of this until afterwards? She would find it out when she went home.

"I want to speak to you very much, Mrs. Kellynch. ... It is very awkward, but I feel I must."

"Have some tea first," said Bertha, and while she poured it out and passed it to Mrs. Hillier she felt she could no longer leave her in ignorance of her appearance.

She pointed to the silver looking-glass that stood on a small table, and said: "Mrs. Hillier, just look at that. I fancy you've put something on your face by mistake. Do forgive me!"

Mary gave a shriek.

"Good heavens, how horrible! I must have put rouge on instead of powder! I look like a comic actor!"

Both of them laughed, and this rather cleared the air.

"It was very good of you to tell me," said Mary. "Thank you. It's so like me! When I'm agitated I become too appallingly absent-minded for words. That's the sort of thing I do. How you must sneer—I mean, laugh at me, Mrs. Kellynch!"

"Indeed not! What an idea. It could happen to anyone."

"Well, I came to see you for two reasons. One is this: Mrs. Kellynch, I want to beg your pardon. I'm very, very sorry."

"For what, Mrs. Hillier?"

"For many things. I was horribly rude—I behaved shamefully at my party the other day. I must have been mad. I was so miserable." She said this in a low voice.

Bertha held out her hand. The poor girl—she was not much more—looked so miserable, and had just looked so absurd! It must have been such a humiliation to know that one had called on one's rival got up like a comedian—a singer of comic songs at the Pavilion.

"Mrs. Hillier, don't say any more. I quite forgive you, and will not think of it again. Don't let us talk of it any more. Have some more tea?"

"No, thank you, Mrs. Kellynch. This isn't all. I have something else to tell you, and then I want, if I may, to consult you. I did a dreadful, dreadful thing! I don't know how I could! Oh, when I see you—when I look at you and see how sweet and kind you are——"

Bertha, terrified that Mary would begin to cry and get hysterical, tried to stop her.

"Don't, Mrs. Hillier. Don't tell me any more. It might—I guess what you are going to say—I know it might have caused great trouble. But it didn't. So never mind. You were upset—didn't think."

"Oh no, Mrs. Kellynch; you must let me confess it. I sha'n't be at peace till I do. I want to tell—my husband—that I confessed and apologised. I actually wrote——"

"Really, all this is unnecessary. You are giving us both unnecessary pain," said Bertha. "I know it—I guess it. Won't you leave it at that? All traces of—the trouble were destroyed, and, if you want to be kind to me now, you'll not speak of it any more."

Mary had begun to cry, but she controlled herself, seeing it would please Bertha best.

"Very well, I'll say no more. Only do, do try to forgive me."

"I do with all my heart."

"Then you're angelic. Thank you." After a moment's pause, Mary put away her handkerchief.

"Have a cigarette," suggested Bertha, who hardly knew what to do to compose her agitated visitor.

"No, no, thank you. Mrs. Kellynch, may I really ask you a great, great favour?"

"Please do."

"May I consult you? I'm so miserable—I'm wretched. Nigel has gone away and left me!"

"Gone away."

"Yes."

"But he'll come back? Surely, he means to come back?"

"I hope so. But he never left me before. Never since we have been married! And I am miserable. What shall I do—what can I do to make him fond of me?"

This pathetic question brought tears to Bertha's eyes. She was truly sorry for the poor little creature.

"Is he angry with you then?"

"He's not exactly angry, now. He has been very kind. He has behaved beautifully. But he said he must go away for a time, and when he came back he would not refer to—to the subject of our quarrel again."

"Well, that's all right then. There is no cause for being unhappy. It's nothing his going away for a week or two."

"He says six weeks. Six long, dreadful weeks!"

"Even six weeks—it's nothing. After, you'll both be much happier, I'm sure," said Bertha consolingly. "Sometimes there is a sort of strain and a change is needed. It will be all right."

"But, Mrs. Kellynch, you don't know—you don't understand. I have always been so terribly, madly jealous. I have worried him into it. You see—I can't help it, I love him so much! I do love him. You can't imagine what it is!"

"Indeed I can!" cried Bertha. "I care quite as much for Percy. You can't think how much."

"Really and truly? But that's so different, because he cares quite as much for you."

"Indeed, I hope so," said Bertha seriously.

"Yes. But Nigel doesn't—he's kind, but I don't think he cares much about me. What shall I do?"

Bertha paused, deeply sorry. Then she said:

"Nonsense! Of course he does, but you—if you'll excuse my saying so—you seem to worry him, to bother him with imaginary grievances, with unjust suspicious. What man will bear that?"

"Then will you tell me what to do?" she asked, like a child.

"First, don't beg him to come back. Write kindly, unselfishly, cheerfully."

"Cheerfully! Oh, I can't."

"Yes; you must if you want it to be all right. What man wants to be deluged with tears and complaints? Dear Mrs. Hillier, I'm speaking as a genuine friend. I'm speaking frankly. I'm advising you as I would my own sister. Write to him cheerily, and take an interest in his doings, but not too great. Show less curiosity. Above all, no jealousy, no suspicions. It's the worst thing in the world."

"Is it? Go on, dear Mrs. Kellynch. Tell me more."

"Talk of the children—show interest in them—make him proud of them. There you have an advantage no other woman has. You're the mother of his children."

"Does he care for that?"

"Of course he does—and he will more, if you do. Show an interest and a pride in it, and you will be what no one else can be to him."

Mary thought, and seemed to see it. "Go on, go on!" she said, putting out her hand.

"Dear Mrs. Hillier, I have envied you so for that! All these years, I've never had that great happiness. At last"—she paused—"I'll tell you, if you care to know—at last, after ten years, I am going to have my wish."

"Really! And you are pleased?"

"I'm divinely happy, delighted!"

"Then I'm very glad for you, Mrs. Kellynch. But can't you imagine—you're so pretty and charming and good-tempered and clever. I'm none of all these things. I'm not pretty, and I'm very bad-tempered and terribly jealous by nature and not clever."

"You are his wife and he chose you. And he is a charming, pleasant man. You ought to be very happy together."

"To tell the truth—I don't mind what I tell you—I feel you're kind and good and sincere—I have always had a horrible feeling that he married me—because—because he was hard up. And I had money! And yet——"

"Oh, Mrs. Hillier, don't talk nonsense! It's dreadful of you to say so. You ought to be very glad to be able to have everything you want, without having to consider for your children. It's a great thing, I assure you, to have no money troubles. It's another very big reason for you and Nigel to be happy. You don't know what it is. It's agony! I do, because before I was married I was one of a very large family, and my father was a very popular preacher and all that, but it was a terrible struggle. To send the boys to public schools and Oxford, the girls had to be really dreadfully pinched! And always worries about bills! I was brought up in that atmosphere, and I know that to be entirely free from it is a most enormous relief and comfort. You will probably never know how fortunate you are."

"You are right. Of course Nigel is not the man to endure money troubles well."

"Exactly. Well, now, can't you see that you've every possible chance of happiness together?"

"May I call you Bertha?" answered Mary. "You've been a real angel to me, I might have expected you to refuse to see me, or at least to be cold and unkind—and instead you're as sorry as you can be for me and want to see me happy! You are sweet."

"Of course I'd like to see you happy," said Bertha. "You understand now that I also care for my husband? You're not the only one in the world, though I admit we're rather exceptions nowadays!"

"Yes; and I thought because you were so pretty and sweet that you must be a flirt—at the very least."

"I don't say I'm not, all the same. But I would never wish to interfere with other people's happiness."

"I sometimes think it might be better if I were a little of a flirt," sighed Mary. "But I can't—it's not my nature—or, rather, I'm too busy always looking after Nigel!"

"Well, don't do that so much and he'll look after you all the more. Show interest in your appearance and society—let him be proud of you—and don't be afraid of being fond of the children!"

"I'm really tremendously fond of them," said Mary. "Only I was always so afraid he would think they would do instead of him! I have such a horror of his sending me off with them and thinking they will fill up all my life, while he was living like a gay bachelor! And when he was very sweet to them I really was jealous of them!"

"But all this is absurd. If you show your affection for them he will love you far more, and when he is devoted to them it shows he's devoted to you. Don't be foolish, Mrs. Hillier, you have had a sort of crisis. Do let it end there. Let things be different. He will be delighted to see you cheerful and jolly again. It's all in your own hands, really."

"Thank you. It was a shame to bother you."

She got up to go.

"May I tell you, later on ... how things are? I shall follow your advice exactly!"

Mary was looking at her now in a kind of worshipping gratitude and trust.

"Yes, do. But I know it will be all right. Only be a little patient just now. ... He will miss you awfully, I know," said Bertha, smiling.

"Oh! Will he really? How sweet of you to say that! Good-bye, Bertha. Dear Bertha, you have been kind. I'm so sorry." Tears came to her eyes again, but as she passed the little mirror she began to laugh. "To think I should have come to see you for the first time got up like a dame in a pantomime. How grotesque!"

They both laughed. Laughter altered and improved Mary wonderfully. It was a faculty she never exercised. She was always much too serious.

"Do you know, I haven't one woman friend," said Mary.

"Yes, you have, now." Bertha pressed her hand.

"Good-bye! ... Oh, Bertha, do you really think he'll miss me?"

"Of course he will! Awfully!"

"Thanks. Good-bye!"

* * * * *

"Poor girl!" Bertha said to herself as Mary left the house.



CHAPTER XXXVI

PLAIN SAILING

Whether or not it was through meeting Nigel, at any rate, Rupert became exceedingly anxious to see Madeline again. It would have happened anyhow, but perhaps a little more slowly, since Nigel's rapid views may have had some influence on that more deliberate young man.

* * * * *

However that may be, in the early autumn Madeline, almost overcome with joy, was married to her adored and cultured instructor. She always remained his painstaking pupil; and he seemed highly gratified with her general progress; while she continued to be equally pleased with his mode of instruction and anxious not to neglect her education in any way.

* * * * *

When Nigel joined his wife he found her decidedly improved. Perhaps he really had missed the fact that he was of far more importance to her than to anyone else in the world. She never conquered her jealousy; but she learnt to conceal it, and thus to keep the peace; the children became gradually a source of mutual interest that was a real tie between them; in fact it grew in time into a positive hobby and a cause of so much pride and satisfaction as to be rather a bore to many of their friends.

* * * * *

I find I am finishing my story in a manner no less strange than unconventional nowadays: I am leaving no less than three almost perfectly happy couples! If this is a strain on the imagination of the reader, let it be remembered that they had all had their troubles and storms before they reached this point of smooth water.

* * * * *

Nigel, of course, deserved his peace and comfort the least. Percy, however, with his squash rackets and afternoon concerts (which, however, he grew to neglect in order to be more with Bertha), was the least interesting of all my heroes. Yet Bertha remained, I must admit, of all my heroines, by far the most in love.

THE END