"Who's Gaga?"

"He's Mr. Sally Minto," said Sally with mystic insolence. "That's who Gaga is. He calls himself my husband, but he's no more my husband than you are, ma. And never will be. But oh, Lor! He's going to be the worry of my life! Ma, did Pa chase you all over the place when you was married? I mean, chase you all about trying to kiss you and fuss you?"

"No, dear," said Mrs. Minto. "He was drunk. He didn't know what he was doing."

"Hn," Sally grunted. Then she stood up again. "I'm going now," she announced. "I'm going back to Gaga. He's ill. I expect he's being sick."

And before her mother could make startled enquiries, Sally had kissed her and gone to the door. She ran in high spirits down the stairs and out of the front door not laughing, but in a curious way moved by this conversation and the strange turn which it had taken. She slammed the door after her, and met with a sudden squall of wind. And as she went away from the house she was conscious of a feeling of relief. She had escaped from it, and her heart was beating rather fast. All the time, under her speech and her thoughts, she had unconsciously been listening for Toby's step upon the stair. Even now, she knew that her shoulders were contracted with apprehensiveness.

She hurried along in the direction of Holloway Road, still flinching, with her nerves uncommonly strained. It was such an odd feeling that she had in thus revisiting her ugly old home. She had noticed it all afresh—the tired linoleum, and the oil stove and the tiny fire made from coal blocks, and the stupid old bed and the browned wallpaper—and she felt that it all belonged to a time when she had been a different girl altogether. She had never before been away from home, without her mother, for so long. She had never once been away from this room for a night, until her marriage. And to come thus into the dark street, in a wind, with the door slamming behind her, took Sally's memories uncontrollably back to the days which followed their first arrival, the days when she had met Toby and talked to him and walked with him about the streets. She recalled her visit to Mrs. Perce, and the sight of that grim figure relentlessly waiting for her outside the Stores; and the struggle with Toby, and her resultant happiness; and the night when he had first come to the room while her mother lay in the hospital. Heigho! She had been young in those days; now she felt an old woman, with all the sense of ageless age which the young feel after a transition from one kind of life to another. She was in a sense disillusioned. She had taken her step, and cut the link that bound her to this neighbourhood and the starveling room. She had cut the link that bound her to Toby. And he was now swiftly back in her consciousness, in her heart; so that she knew she would never forget him because he was the first man she had loved, and thus forever her idea of a lover. So strong was her emotion that she felt a strange little dryness in her throat and her burning eyes, and fancied she heard his voice. It was as though two years had been taken away, as though she once again—as she done two years ago—longed and feared to meet Toby.

As Sally, with her head bent and her thoughts active, pressed onward, she heard the clanging bell of a passing tramcar, and saw its brilliant lights rush by along the Holloway Road. A cart rattled on the rough stones of the road, and the wind blew the leaves of the bushes in the gardens she passed. And as she shivered a little at the wind's onset she again imagined that she heard Toby's voice, and inevitably turned in the direction from which the sound had appeared to reach her. Everything was quite dark; but there was a blackness just behind her that was like the figure of a man. It took shape; it came nearer and nearer. Sally's heart stopped beating, and she shrank back against the railing of one of the houses. She felt a deadly sickness upon her, a dreadful horror.

"Sally!"

It was Toby. He was abreast, inescapable. He loomed over her like a figure of vengeance. Her heart was like water. She was hysterically afraid.

vi

"Hallo, Sally!" Toby was by her side, and his arms round her, and his kisses on her cheek. "Why, aren't you going to kiss me?"

Sally's eyes opened wide at his tone of innocent surprise. She suffered him to kiss her lips. Toby had not received her letter! He was on leave, and.... She gasped. An indescribable relief caused her to rest limply and unprotestingly in his arms. Once again they were engulfed in merciful darkness, hidden from each other and from anybody who might happen to pass. She could not think at all; but she was thankful at this reprieve. Not yet would he kill her. And as they stood embraced she was suddenly happy, with a passion that astonished her. Toby— Toby, her love; and she herself in his arms again, as she had never thought to be. A strange laugh, low and tender, came from her lips. Her cheek was gently rubbed against his, and her body quite relaxed. Every one of Sally's difficulties suffered an oblivion; they were all dispersed in the extraordinary mist of sensation which enwrapped her.

"I was surprised," she murmured, kissing him with all her heart. "Didn't expect to see you. Funny to see you ... so funny ... and when I was thinking of you. I must have known you were coming."

"I just got in," Toby said. "I say, where you going, Sal?"

Sally flinched again. Immediately she was conscious of terror.

"Stoke Newington," she cried; in a flash. What was she to do? What was she to do? She was desperate. Fear was strong; but love was stronger. It was not only now that she did not dare to tell him the truth in case he killed her; much more than that was her understanding of the fact that she could not bear to lose him. Such gust of thankfulness had shaken Sally when she knew that Toby had not received her letter that she was brimming now with joy. It was impossible to lose her rapture at the moment of its full glory. She could not tell him.

"Stoke Newington? Whatever for? Here, wait till I've had some grub.... No, I'll come with you now. Get some grub later. Have you got to go there now?"

"You musn't come, Toby."

"Why not?" He was instantly suspicious. His grip tightened, and he forced her to look at him.

"Didn't you get my letter?"

"When? Now? I've had no letter. What you going to Stoke Newington for? No, I want to know. You going to meet another chap? I believe you are, you little devil! By Christ! If you.... I will come!" Toby was now fiercely suspicious. She could tell from his ferocious grip, and the urgency of his tone. "If you're playing that game, I'll kill you. By Christ, I will!"

"I'm not. I'm not," cried Sally. "You're hurting me, Toby!"

"You swear it?" He relaxed his hold, which was strangling her. In the darkness he again strove to see her expression and judge for himself of her honesty.

"I'm not going to see anybody. I swear I'm not."

"Why did you ask if I'd had your letter? What you bin writing to me?"

"Oo, a lot of lies...." breathed Sally. "Silly talk and rubbish. That's all it was."

"What about?" He was still intense. Sally could hardly breathe, and her courage was fading. They were so much in the darkness that they could not be seen, and she was entirely dominated by Toby's physical strength. Within his grasp she was helpless, and not all her dartingly-imagined expedients would be enough to secure her escape. Hastily she improvised a story.

"Well, I'm not living with ma any longer. I gone out to live in," she lied.

"Stoke Newington?"

"No."

"Lost your job?"

"No."

He was baffled! but he knew that something was amiss. Sally could feel him drawing deep breaths. In the shadow she could imagine that his jaw was firmly set. It was strange to feel so happy in his arms, so afraid of death, so frustrated in the composition of any tale by which she could free herself and thus gain time to make some fresh plan. Sally had never been in a comparable quandary.

"Where you living?" he next demanded.

"Don't be rough. You're hurting. Well, I'm living. I forget the address. Only went there last night. I'm with a friend."

"What sort of a friend? A girl? What's her name?"

"Miss Summers."

Toby considered. He had heard that name, Sally knew, and must remember it. She felt that at last she had stumbled upon something which would seem to him probable enough to allay immediate suspicion.

"She's your forewoman or something, isn't she?" he demanded.

"Yes. She's very kind. She's ever so nice." Sally prayed that he might believe her. There was a long pause of doubt, during which hysteria, rising, nearly provoked a frantic struggle for freedom and flight. But she remembered a former occasion, and her knees were weak at the foreknowledge of failure. He would not be merciful. She feared him and adored him.

"Well," Toby said at last, in a grumble; "when do I see you? Eh?" Thank God, his voice had changed. He had spoken slowly and in acceptance of the tale. Sally conquered a sob that would have betrayed her. Toby had been tricked. There was still a chance that she might be able to manage him for the present.

Sally thought for a moment, but in a distracted blur. All her plans, made upon the assumption that he would be at sea for at least a week longer, had miscarried. There was now no sense in moving her mother hurriedly and secretly. Toby, in the room above, would be aware of everything. She must arrange this differently. It would need a careful scheme. When would Toby receive his letter? Probably it would not be forwarded at all, but would be kept at the offices of the shipping company. That was what had happened once or twice before. He would be at home a week. She had a week. How tired she was! She must get away now, and have a chance to think; but she must see Toby again. She must.

"To-morrow," Sally gasped. "To-morrow night. Eight o'clock. Marble Arch. Eight o'clock, or a bit after. I might be kept a little late."

To her inexpressable thankfulness, Toby rather grumblingly agreed.

"We'll go to the pictures," he said. "There's a picture house there."

"Wherever you like. Toby, I must go."

They kissed long and passionately; and when Sally was alone, sitting in the tramcar on its way to Holborn, she found that she was trembling from head to foot. She was in consternation, and prevented from crying only by the steadily inquisitive stare of a stout woman opposite. Sally had never been so afraid, so distraught. She had never been in such a bewildering and terrifying difficulty. She was only half conscious.

vii

And when she reached the hotel their sitting-room was in darkness. Gaga had evidently been home, for the evening paper had been thrown upon the floor, and his hat and coat were upon one of the chairs. Sally remembered what she had told her mother, and went quickly to the bedroom door. It was true. Gaga lay groaning in bed, and there was a faint smell of sickness in the air. Sally instinctively recoiled, and went back into the sitting-room. Her hands came together and jerked in a gesture of despair. Everything was against her. The white face was whiter; the mischievous eyes were sombre. She was a lonely and frightened child without any support in her life. She was too young, in spite of her vivacity, to endure such trials unbroken; and in this situation she was overwhelmed.

With her hands to her mouth, Sally stumbled to the hearthrug, and bowed her head against the arm of a chair. Painful sobs shook her body.

"Oh, I wish I was dead! I wish I was dead!" she wailed.

In that moment of lost hope she was faced only with the impossibility of dealing with all her trials. She had been over-excited, and she was desperate. Everything had gone wrong. She was thus early face to face with the consequences of her own blithe and over-confident actions; and the consequences threatened disaster. Death would really at this moment have seemed better than the effort she must make to grapple with her problems. It would have been so much easier, and she was without courage. Afraid lest her sobs might arouse Gaga and bring him groaning to her side, she stifled them. But they made her body heave for a long time, until at last with tear-filled eyes she stared at the fire, and knew that the fit was over.

What was Sally to do? There was the fatal letter already waiting somewhere for Toby, or on its way to him. The thought of it made her body feel as though it were covered with prickles. She could not keep still, but started to her feet and took several paces, her hand to her cheek, as she remained deep in disturbed thought. If she saw Toby the next night, and was again afraid to tell him of her marriage, what would become of her? Sooner or later he was bound to know. The letter would tell him. Oh, if only she had not written that letter! She would have had time, and time was what she needed—time to remove her mother, to cover her own tracks. And yet she knew now that she could not give Toby up. And yet to give up her ambitions was now a proposition equally impossible. She could not. She would not. She wanted everything. She wanted Toby; but she wanted her opportunity with the business. If Toby would only ... what? She could not bear the idea of his marrying another girl. She wanted him for herself. But if he would only accept the situation—for the present. If he would keep quiet. He would not. She could not control him, because he was another human being, with desires and impulses as insistent as her own.

Her mind came round to another position. If she had not married Gaga—if she had kept on playing with him, tantalising him, until she had been indispensable! No; that was impossible. Wretched creature though she felt him at this moment to be, Gaga also was a human being. Sally was in conflict with the world, because the world opposes to the wilfulness of the individual a steady pressure that is without mercy because it is without considerateness. Nothing is more selfish than the individual, except the mass of individuals, which has greater power. Again, in her torment, Sally longed for death. Then, quickly tangential, she returned to Toby and their coming meeting. If she did not tell him, but let him find her letter—she would have lost him. He would be savagely angry. He would infallibly kill her, because she would have deserved his vengeful hatred.

A moan reached Sally's ears. Her name was called. Gaga must have seen from his bed the light in the next room. She hesitated, repugnance and cruelty struggling in her mind with the knowledge that she must submit to her burden. Then she again turned to the bedroom, fighting down her distaste, her horror of sickness and illness, of invalidism, of Gaga in particular. She saw his grey face all pointed and sunken in the electric light, and took in the general bareness of the bedroom, with its plain iron bedstead and cream coloured crockery and worn carpet and walls of a cold pale blue.

"Sally," groaned Gaga. "I've been waiting for you."

"You ill?" she asked, perfunctorily. "Is your head bad?"

"Dreadful! How long you've been." Gaga's voice was feeble. He spoke with difficulty. His hand was reached out for hers. With an effort Sally took it, and bent and kissed Gaga's temple. He looked ghastly, and his face was moist with perspiration. Had Gaga seen the aversion in Sally's eyes he would have released her in horror; but he was self-engrossed. He had been longing for her, and as Sally sat on the edge of the bed smoothing the hair back from his brow he nestled closer to her, appeased by the contact, and genuinely comforted by her presence. His eyes closed. He made no attempt to speak.

So they remained for several moments. Then Sally tried to move, and he resisted her movement with a clinging protest.

"I'm just going to tidy up a bit," she said. "Then I'm coming to bed."

"I wish you'd get me something.... Some Bovril ... or ... something." Gaga was like a wasted child, not fractious, but fretful and wanting to be petted. Sally shuddered as she took steps to gratify him; and was glad to have some occupation that carried her out of the room and gave her something to do. She was momentarily diverted from thought of Toby; but she had a new desire to be away from the hotel, and in some house or flat which she could control by herself. It would be so much easier. It would....

When she was in bed she was prevented from sleeping by her now recurring difficulties. She was absolutely unable to make a plan for Toby. She was disgusted with Gaga and his sickness. She was afraid and rebellious and exasperated. And as she lay there she felt Gaga moving, and heard his faint groaning, and shook with a frenzy that was a thousand times more than irritation at the tangle in which she was placed. Like all young people, she imperiously demanded a fresh start—to cut all this mess away, and begin again as though nothing at all had happened. She tried to repudiate her own actions. It was no good. She could not cancel them. What she had done was done, and the consequences were inexorable. It was with consequences alone that she had to deal. Stifled screams rose within her. She turned frantically from side to side.

"Sally!" peevishly protested Gaga. "I can't get ... get to sleep if you fidget like that. You're keeping me ... awake. Disturbing me."

"Am I?" cried Sally, with suppressed anger steeling her voice. "I can't get to sleep either. It's deadly!"

"But you're ... fidgetting."

"Oh.... I thought I was lying quite still!" she exclaimed, with irony. A bitter laugh was checked upon her lips.

There was a silence, and Sally tried to sleep. It was of no use. With a deep sigh that was almost a passionate exclamation, she once again gave way to her uncontrollable restlessness.

"Sally!" came the grizzling voice of Gaga.

"What?" she shouted, past all self-restraint.

"You're fidgetting!"

"Well! Who wouldn't? You groaning—groaning—groaning. Enough to make anybody fidget. Why, you're making me sick! Why can't you look after yourself?... What's the use of eating things that make you ill?"

"I didn't," groaned Gaga. "I only want to get to sleep."

"O—oh!" It was a savage, inhuman sound of horror and despair. Sally, unendurably exasperated, slipped out of bed, and put on a skirt and coat. Then she went into the sitting-room, made up the fire, and curled herself up in one of the armchairs. A thin voice followed her.

"Sally!" It was a direct call to hysteria. "Sally.... Sally...."

"Oh, shut up!" cried Sally. "I can't stand it. I can't stand it."

"My dearest...."

She ignored Gaga; but she could not sleep. Although he called no more, she heard him still occasionally making some plaintive sound, while she continued to lie curled in the chair until her limbs were cramped. Long she pondered upon her fate and her situation; and the morning found her still irresolute, filled with distaste for Gaga, and fear of Toby, and a general loathing of the difficulties which she and they had jointly created. She was unhappy in a way that she had never previously known, helplessly indignant, and all the time argumentative and explanatory to herself because she knew that for all that was now threatening her she alone was at heart to blame. But this did not prevent Sally from disliking Gaga as she had not hitherto disliked him; for Gaga was the person whom she had most injured, and the person who now stood in the way of complete liberty. It was as yet only an hysterical exasperation due to her search for some scapegoat; but his sickness and his peevish complaints of her restlessness had added to Sally's feeling an ingredient of distaste which she could not overcome.

viii

In the morning, when they met, Gaga was sulkily distant; and Sally sat opposite to him at their chilly breakfast with a puckered brow and a curled lip. It was not hatred that fired her, but repugnance. If Gaga had made any motion towards an embrace she would wildly have pushed him from her. She could not have borne his touch. She was even thankful that he was so silent. In this estrangement she found momentary relief. And all the time, hammering in her head, was the one thought—Toby, Toby. What was she to do with Toby? As she left Gaga at breakfast she was still on the borders of hysteria. She was suffering so much from the trials of the night that she was hardly in her senses.

The workroom, with its routine and the need for hiding her feelings, gave her more relief. She could at least take some pains to sew accurately, to watch the other girls, and to notice how Miss Summers started at the slightest noise. Miss Summers, Sally knew, was worrying about Madam and Madam's health. By now Gaga would be on his way to his mother's home, equally concerned. Only Sally was indifferent to Madam's health. She had no interest in it. Where she would, but for Toby, have followed every report with curiosity, she was now more than callous. Madam was the least of her dilemmas. Sally's eyes closed; slowly she rocked to and fro, forgetting even the girls, and ignoring her work altogether. Toby. Her heart contracted with fear. Toby.

And yet the day wore on, and she came to no conclusion. Late in the afternoon there came a telephone message. Gaga was on the line, asking for Sally. A thrill went round the workroom. Gaga— Sally! All the girls looked at one another. With a quickly-beating heart Sally went into the telephone box and answered. As if directly in her ear, Gaga spoke; but his voice was so strained that she hardly recognised it. She was still unforgiven. The voice said: "Sally, my ... my mother's very ill. I must stay here. I shan't come to the hotel to-night. You ... you'll be all right."

Like lightning Sally answered: "I'll go home to-night."

The voice said "Wha-at?" and she repeated her reply. Gaga seemed almost pleased. He commended the plan. And Sally hung up the receiver with a sudden flush that made her whole body feel warm. It was a profound relief to her. And in the midst of relief she found another emotion more vehement still. She found passionate joy, and overwhelming temptation, and then again a sharp icy fear. The emotions were all gone in an instant. She was once more self-possessed. She returned to the workroom with an impassive face.

"He didn't say anything about Madam. He wants me to take round a parcel he left here last night," she glibly explained. "He's not coming in to-day at all. I'm to take it round after I leave work."

With immediate care, she went into Madam's room and made up a small parcel containing a cheap novel which Gaga had left there. This she brought to her place and kept before her. Incredulously, the other girls watched and sneered. It was the first inkling they had had of any special relationship between Sally and Gaga. To the minds of all occurred memory of that scene in the country, when Gaga had been entranced by Sally's song. They remembered the unknown girl's joyous yell, "What price Gaga on the love path! Whey!" And they remembered Miss Rapson's word about Sally—"deep." The white-faced cocket! Rose Anstey stared angrily at Sally, who returned the glance with a coolness the more destructive because it arose from indifference. But Sally knew all that was going on around her. Gaga had been a fool to ask for her pointedly; and yet what else, in the circumstances, could he have done?

Her excitement rose as the afternoon progressed; and by the evening she was in a fever. When all the other girls were gathering together their work and their out-of-door clothes she joined the general melee with something that approached fierceness. It was not that Sally had any need to hurry, for there were two hours ahead of her; but she was on fire to be gone, to take her little parcel to the hotel, to give the clerk there news of her intended absence for the night, and to make a careful toilette before her appointment. The time was too slow for Sally. She was biting her lips with impatience more than an hour before the time agreed upon for the meeting. Her old longing for Toby had come back with extraordinary strength. As the darkness grew she slipped out of the hotel and into the night-sheltered streets. For long she walked rapidly about London, examining each clock she passed until the vagaries of them all so heightened her passion that she could have shrieked at their fresh discrepancies.

And at last it was nearly eight o'clock, and she walked round and round the Marble Arch in the tortured light of the ballooned lamps, and round the outer side of the wide road thereabouts. There was as yet no sign of Toby. It wanted two or three minutes to the hour. A rush of traffic made Oxford Street roar as if with fury. It was like the sea, but without gradations of sound. Big red motor-omnibuses thundered along, and cabs flew by. There were occasional electric broughams such as she coveted, which tinkled a bell instead of sounding some one of the ugly horns which added their noise to the general racket. And Toby did not come. A panic seized her. Perhaps her letter after all had been forwarded to him? Perhaps he was not coming? Much as she had dreaded his violence, such a failure now impressed her as even more sinister. She had stopped dead in the violence of this sudden thought, and was for the moment blinded and deafened, when Toby gently took her arm. Sally's first jump of horror was followed by such an abandonment to his arms that she was rendered quite unconscious of the place and the notice of those who passed. Only she recognised that Toby was there, that he was not angry, that he was the same strong lover she had always known, ready and determined, her lover among all men.

"Not the pictures. Not the pictures," she pleaded, with tears in her voice. "Come for a walk. Come this way!"

She pulled at Toby's arm, and drew him towards the entrance to Hyde Park. Her arm was hugging his, her body pressed against Toby's. Only when they were out of that circle of light did she feel safe, appeased, able to think with any of her old clearness. She had been a frightened child. Now she was an exultantly happy one, given over to the great joy of the moment.

ix

They were immediately lost in the darkness of the Park, hidden from all, and oblivious of the flashing lamps of vehicles which drove endlessly up the broad road from Piccadilly. And Sally was in Toby's arms, straining him to her, sobbing and uttering little sounds of love and relief.

"Hullo, hullo!" cried Toby, jerking her chin up with a rough hand.

"I thought you'd never come! I thought you wouldn't come!" whispered Sally. "Oh, Toby, I thought you'd never come!" She was hysterical in her joy.

"Course I come!" exclaimed Toby. "Wodjer take me for?"

"Well, I didn't know." Sally was quite unguarded. "Thought you might have...." She checked herself. Her body was shaken with a little thrill of laughter—laughter of silly joy. She hugged him closer. "Been away a long time this time," she said. "Quite a sailor, ain't you?... Did you have rough weather? Ship all sloppy with the waves? And you dancing about to keep your feet?"

"It's always rough weather," gloried Toby. "Sea goin' all the time. But she's a daisy to keep steady. Wouldn't hardly notice you was moving."

"I'm sure!" cried Sally, ironically. "And you and the captain chatting together in the cabin, and all."

"No." Toby was condescending under chaff. "But we're quite.... Skipper, he's called. You don't call him captain. He's just like me. He's no better; only he...."

"Only he knows how to sail a boat," mocked Sally.

"So do I. I sailed her up the river." He was recklessly and untruthfully boastful, as instinct told her.

"I should think so." Sally's voice was so jeering that it laughed his pretensions to nothing at all. "And then you woke up."

Toby became expostulatory. But all the time Sally was not listening. She was not thinking of his words at all; but was only conscious of the warm glow running through her at his nearness and his strong clasp. Every now and then she prompted him to kiss her; and when Toby kissed her she felt as though she did not know what unhappiness was. He was so strong, and his chin so firm and rough; and he had such an air of the salt sea about him, that she was like a baby at the breast. She loved him. No thought of Gaga came. Only the moment's delight absorbed them both.

Presently they began to walk along the dark path, Toby's arm still pressing Sally to his side, and his head every now and then almost savagely down against her hair. The small hat she had worn was taken off, and was carried, swinging. Sally was so small and so comparatively weak beside Toby's burly strength that she was all the time relishing his power entirely to subdue her; and her wits were so quick that she never had a moment's hesitation as to the right way to tease him. She was without any least sensation of unhappiness. She had never been so glad of Toby since their first exulting days of passion, and her whole nature was bubbling and trembling towards him in the old way, as if they had come together again after some long dreadful estrangement.

And then Sally remembered Gaga. She had been laughing so much in herself at this long evening of freedom, that the recollection was like ice to her heart. It was all a mockery, a fantasy; and Toby was no more hers. She was separated from him for ever, and the more closely she was embraced by him the less she felt herself free to belong to him. A revulsion of feeling shook her. With an instinctive movement almost savage, she escaped from his arm and walked onward, her face set and her spirits banished.

"No," she cried, when Toby sought to re-establish his protective hold. She was as if deep in thought; but in fact she was not thinking at all, but was only overwhelmed by the old horror of her situation which had newly arisen after this short respite of dreaming. Toby let her walk alone, and lighted a cigarette, slouching beside her with his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He was a dim hunched figure in the gloom. Sally could not see him clearly; her sense of him was simply of his strength and his responsiveness to her own physical inclinations. The sense evoked in her heart longing which made Sally bow her head. She sighed deeply; her fixed eyes were closed. She was quite blind. For an instant she was lost in grave humility. Her smile in the darkness held such sweetness that it gave proof of her true love, her beautiful and entranced adoration.

"What time you got to be back?" Toby abruptly questioned in a matter-of-fact tone. It was like the unexpected tearing of calico, so sharply did such a demand break the vision and show his insensitiveness to her mood.

"Back?" Sally was dazed. She could not understand Toby's speech. "Back where?" She had an extraordinary feeling of shock. Her peace was destroyed.

"To-night."

Sally caught her breath. In a strained tone that sounded, as she meant it to sound, as though she had been merely inattentive, she made answer:

"Oh, I.... I'm going home to-night. Holloway. Stopping with mother."

Toby had looked at his watch before throwing his match away.

"It's ha' parce eight," he mentioned.

A fierceness shook Sally. It was more than she could bear. She turned upon him in a fury. With such a snarling venom did she speak that Toby drew himself almost defensively to his full height.

"Don't let me keep you!" she cried. "I didn't know you were in a hurry. If you want to go home, go. Go!" She ended almost in a scream, and her fists were frantically jerked.

"Here!" Toby was disconcerted. "What you talking about? I only said the time." He seized her, and Sally struggled as of old. But she could not resist him. There was too great a discrepancy in their strength, and in their will, when her own will so dangerously betrayed her. Toby held her closer and closer. His grip was tyrannic. Sally's breath was short, sobbing; her eyes were again closed, and her lips tragically pressed together. Her face might have been marble. And as he held her fast, Toby forced back Sally's head and many times kissed her hotly and possessively. "What's the row?" he demanded. She heard the savagery of his tone, and felt his warm breath on her cheek; and some undertone of his husky voice vibrated in her ear. "Ain't you well, Sal?" he whispered. "I never meant I wanted to go home. I don't. You know that. I only said the time. Only ... how long had we got? Sally, old girl...."

"All right, all right!" Sally did not know what she was saying. Her brows were knitted in distraction. Then: "Oh, any old time...." And as she spoke temptation suddenly swept her with a tingling heat, and her mouth was dry and her body tense with the excitement of the overwhelming moment. Her heart beat so fast that she was quite breathless. With an impulse too strong for resistance she returned her lips to Toby's, half-crying, and in vehement surrender. She could see no further, could endure no more. At the withdrawal she cried gaspingly: "I needn't ... needn't go home at all ... to-night. Nobody ... expects me. Toby!"

x

In the morning Sally awoke with a heavy heart. Foreboding was more gloomy than she had ever known it. The hotel bedroom in which they had slept was very small, and the walls towered above her. It was a dirty room, and the bright sunlight that came through the slats of the blinds revealed the thick London dust in the curtains and on the walls. Toby was by her side, fast asleep. She had no sense of wrong-doing—it never troubled Sally, who judged her own conduct by exceptional standards; but she was again full of fear. Lightly she touched Toby's thick strong hair, and kissed it, half raised from her pillow; and bending over him. Her love was undiminished, but her fear of him was suddenly increased. And as she withdrew her hand and sat upright she caught sight of the wedding-ring which she had taken from her purse and slipped onto her finger before they reached the hotel. They had come without luggage, and it had been an impulse of caution which had led her to wear the ring. Slowly she turned it round and round upon her finger, not recalling that it was Gaga's ring, not considering her use of it an added dishonour to Gaga, but looking at it abstractedly. The ring meant so much, and so little. Her marriage had meant so much and so little. A faint smile stole to her lips and played about them.

A stirring of Toby's body made her glance quickly down. His eyes were open, and he was staring solemnly at her. His hair was all roughened, and his dark face was puffed with sleep. He looked like her big baby, irresistibly lovable. The smile deepened; but she did not speak. She made no movement at all; and Toby, stretching out a lazy arm, put it round her waist.

"Ugh!" he said, grunting with satisfaction. With calm pleasure she enjoyed the knowledge of his great muscular strength; but she did not respond to him at all. Toby jerked towards her, so that his head rested against her side, and Sally mechanically crooked her arm lightly over his further cheek. Toby blinked a little, and yawned, and looked at the sunshine. "Wha's time?" he gaped. "Oh-o-oo."

"Dunno. Oo, bless me!" Sally roused herself. "I mustn't be late." She reached out for Toby's watch, on the table at his side of the bed, and held it up to the light. The time was half-past-seven. She looked at the old watch, a cheap one with a loud tick. "I'll give you a watch, one day," she said, condescendingly. "A watch."

"Here!" Toby's voice changed. He caught her wrist sharply—so sharply that Sally almost dropped the watch on the quilt. "What's that?" His tone was so strange that she was surprised, and tried to follow his glance. It rested upon her hand—upon the wedding ring. Sally's blood froze.

"Oh, that?" she said, with an attempt to be easy. "Can't come into a place like this.... I mean, without a ring of some sort."

"Oh?" asked Toby, sternly. "You know all about it, don't you?"

"Well?" Sally was frightened, but simulating defiance. "It's true, isn't it?"

"Where'd you get it?"

"Shop." She was so afraid that she was insolent.

"I s'pose you're used to this sort of thing," cried Toby. He sat up beside her, his face deeply crimsoned, his expression accusing. "Used to it, are you?"

"No!" answered Sally.

"What did you get it for?"

Sally could not hide her trembling. She was blanched, and her shoulder was raised as if to avoid a blow. It came. Toby released her wrist, and seized her shoulder. Roughly, he so shoved her away from him that she was thrown upon her face. She scrambled out of bed, and stood panting before him, while Toby, kicking down the bedclothes, seemed crouched upon the bed as if he might murderously spring at her. She watched his hands, fascinated by an imagination of their grip upon her throat.

"What did you get it for?" Toby repeated, in a voice of madness.

"To come here."

"Liar!" He leapt out of bed, and Sally, in a panic, turned to fly. She could not escape. Toby held her shoulder again. Again he savagely pushed her, so that she fell against the wall, her head striking it. Sally slid to the floor, shrinking from him, terrified now that death seemed so near. She did not scream. She could still have done so; but it was not her instinct to cry out. "You liar!" Toby said again. "What did you get it for? Christ!" He dragged Sally once again to her feet. His fingers were bruising her arm. She was physically helpless and half-stunned. "Is that the way you make your living?" demanded Toby, beside himself.

"No!" It was Sally's turn to shout. "No, you fool. You fool!"

"You dirty little liar! It is!"

"It's not!" cried Sally. With a tremendous effort for self-control she checked a sob that would have plunged her into hysteria. "I'm married!"

Toby fell away, his mouth open. The release sent Sally against the wall once more. He stood looking at her, his face grey, his eyes smouldering.

"You tell me that?" he said. "Married!"

"Yes. Married."

He did not speak. He eyed her with a sombre and threatening appraisement. Then, more quietly, he went on:

"You can't be. You're mine. You belong to me. Nobody else can't have you!"

"Nobody else can have me. But I'm married, all right," Sally told him. She was recovering some composure. When she moistened her lips she glanced sideways at him, like lightning. Toby had not struck her. He was too surprised.

"Married.... And you come here with me. Liar!"

"My husband's away.... We don't.... His mother's ill. I don't love him—never did. We were only married a few days ago. I wrote to you. You never got the letter."

"Oh, that's why...." Toby's tone was vengeful. His fists were clenched.

"See, Toby, I only love you. Only you. But he's rich. We.... I don't sleep with him, Toby. He's never...."

"You liar!" Toby approached her. Sally could see his teeth glistening.

"I swear it's true. Toby!"

Toby suddenly caught her a blow on the arm which sent her spinning across the tiny room. She held on to the mantelpiece to save a fall. They were both panting now; but Toby was like a bulldog. The colour was returning to his cheeks. He was watching Sally, as she was watching him. She was ready to dodge a further blow; but she knew that if he was determined to kill her nothing would stop him. She was filled with abject fear at her own physical powerlessness. But by now her wits were alert again. Toby made a movement, and Sally started, ready to dart away. He did not come nearer. A stupidity seemed to descend upon him.

A loud rap at the door startled them both.

"Hot water. Half-past seven. And less noise there!" came a loud voice. The whole scene was transformed by the interruption. Both became listless.

"Married!" Toby said, as if to himself. He shook his head.

"I love you," Sally told him.

He sat dully upon the bed. Timidly, for fear of another outburst, Sally approached him. At last, standing by his side, she held Toby's head to her breast, kissing him with little fierce kisses that must have carried their message to his heart. At last Toby's arms were raised, and around her, and she was pressed to him once more. Their lips met. Toby made a muffled, snarling sound that was a mixture of love and hatred and masterfulness. He held her with ferocity. Then, as suddenly, his muscles relaxed, until Sally by repeated endearments baffled his indignation and softened his anger. She was struggling with all her might to keep possession of him, moving each instant with more assurance among his dull thoughts and his easily-roused passions. As the moments passed she knew that she had kept him, and at this knowledge her own passion rose until it equalled Toby's.

"My love," she whispered. "My dear love."

xi

Later in the day, when she was able to think of all that had happened, Sally had an unexpected glimpse of the situation. She realised that she was a victor. She was almost too satisfied. She had no shame, no contrition; she merely knew that if she might still keep Toby her marriage with Gaga would be bearable. She had none of the turmoil of the conventional married woman who takes a lover; but then she had never been trained to be scrupulous. She was still young enough to be intoxicated by her own prowess. She could manage Gaga; she could manage Toby; she could manage the business—there was no end to her power. More than anything else, it was necessity to her to gratify her sense of power. If that necessity had been removed she would have known herself for a reckless fool; but the demand for power obliterated every inconvenient thought of risk. As for a sense of honour, Sally had been born without one.

All the girls looked at her "very old-fashioned," as they would have said, when she arrived in the morning; but as the day wore on, and there was no further telephone message for her from Gaga, they began to forget what had happened on the previous day. Sally worked like a mouse, her brain exulting in its vivid memories of her time with Toby; and she did not think of Gaga at all. She only hoped that he would not come to the office. She was feeling too tired to deal effectively with any peevishness from Gaga; although, the causes of her hysteria having been removed, she was not likely to repeat the failure of that other restless night. A heaviness hung upon her as the day wore on; a kind of thick readiness for sleep. She yawned over her work. The workroom seemed stuffy, the day unusually long. The nervous strain of the past few days was reacting, and even Sally's vitality was shaken by the consequences of her successive excitements. When tea-time came she was relieved. But there had been no news of Gaga, or from him: not even a message through Miss Summers. Miss Summers grew more and more fidgetty and anxious as the hours went by.

"I do hope nothing's happened," she clucked. "So funny not having heard. I wonder if I ought to telephone to ask. Perhaps Mr. Bertram's ill. Did you see him last night? D'you think I ought to ring up? I'm so worried. It's so strange, and Madam being so ill, and that."

"I shouldn't worry," urged Sally. "He'll 'phone fast enough if there's anything to say. Look at yesterday."

"Yes; but perhaps he's ill himself."

"Sick," commented Sally. "He's bilious, you know."

Miss Summers shook her head, and sighed.

"Yes," she readily agreed. "I'm afraid he's not the man his mother is."

They had hardly finished speaking when Miss Summers was called to the telephone. She was away for two or three minutes; and returned with tears streaming down her cheeks. All their pink plumpness was softened into a blur of tearful weakness. She was bent and dissolved under disaster. As she made her way up the long workroom to her place the girls all craned their necks to look at Miss Summers, and one or two—the kinder ones—rose to see if they could do anything to comfort her. But it was to Sally that Miss Summers turned, and within an inch of Sally's cheeks that she shook her tear-stained face. At first she could not speak; but grimaced like a child, as if her cold nose was smarting. Sally was first to hear the news; but all of them had known it from the first glimpse of Miss Summers in tears.

"She's gone," cried Miss Summers, "Poor soul, she's gone. And what will happen to us I don't know."

"We'll be all right," Sally murmured, with singular confidence. A shock had slightly discomposed her, but it was not a shock of sorrow for the death of Madame Gala. Rather was it a passing thrill of dismay at her own responsibility, which her reassuring speech had been intended to remove.

"She's dead.... Madam's dead...." ran through the workroom. One girl hurried to tell Miss Rapson and the workers in her department, who came crowding immediately into the room, agog with excitement. They all gathered together in a body, and then in detached groups, talking fast.

"I s'pose we'll all have a day off for the funeral," somebody said with a giggle.

"Oo, yes. Sure to. And have to wear mourning," added another girl, more solemnly and hopefully.

Sally stood, as if by right, with Miss Summers and Miss Rapson. She was definitely a principal figure in the scene. Just as the other girls began to notice this, and murmuringly to comment upon it as a piece of characteristic impudence, Miss Summers had a quick return of memory. Gesticulating with helpless impatience, she said:

"Oh, Sally; I'd quite forgotten. Mr. Bertram is ill. And the nurse said he was asking to see you. Yes, asking to see ... Miss Minto."

Asking to see Sally Minto! There was a thrill among the girls that was even greater than the one which they had felt at the news of Madam's death. Gaga asking to see Sally Minto! Whew! Everything became electric. Rose Anstey coloured deeply, and turned upon her heel. Sally knew they were all staring at her, like fish in an aquarium. With something approaching dignity she ignored them and directly addressed Miss Summers.

"Did you mean he wanted me to go at once?" she asked.

"Yes, child. Yes. At once. Better run along now...." Miss Summers was distracted, tearful, inclined to kiss Sally, and altogether without knowledge of what she was doing or what she ought to do. "Wait.... Tell him—perhaps I ought to write a letter? Oh, dear! I don't know...." She pressed her fingers to her temples. "No, tell him how sorry we all are. Say if he wants me.... Run along, run along!"

"Yes, Miss Summers."

In a very leisurely manner, Sally rolled up her pinafore and put her work away. Then she washed and dressed herself to go out. She walked back through the workroom like a queen, sedately bidding Miss Summers "good-afternoon" and smiling a cool farewell to the girls. The buzz of their amazed whispering followed her into the waiting-room. She felt their eyes like stings in her back. On the way downstairs the memory of the scene and an understanding of the girls' feelings made her laugh. Well, that was that; and she was face to face with her problem in its entirety. Unconsciously, Sally walked more erect.

xii

Sally never went back to the workroom. She hurried from it to the old house in Kensington in which the Merricks had lived for years; and as she saw the house, so black with dust, and the steps that led up to the heavy front door, even Sally's heart quailed. She hesitated for several minutes before going up the steps, and loitered there, a little figure in a grey dress, trim and chic, but not at all the girl to take control of such a mansion and of the difficulties which lay within. She could not tell what a mass of custom the house indicated; but her instinct was enough to make her feel extraordinarily small, extraordinarily untrained and incapable. It had been very well for her to suppose that everything could be seized and controlled at a glance. The reality was too solid for a longer dream. Thoughtless, over-confident as her fantasy had been, she had the sense which a child has when a running man comes threateningly near—of a great shape, of unexpected size and dangerousness, looming out of the focussed picture, and setting all previous conceptions at nought. Here was this giant house, and Madam lying dead in it, and servants who would resent her appearance, and Gaga; and Sally was such a little girl in the face of a definite trial. She was a little girl, and she would never be able to deal with what lay ahead. It was a long, devastating spasm of doubt, like a trembling of the earth. The house towered above her, huge and gloomy; and other houses, equally oppressive, continued from the Merricks' house, with basements and railings and great black fronts and lace curtains, until the road turned and its end was unseen. And Sally, who had lived all her life in small flats and single rooms, was shaken. Her heart sank. She entered the house. Her head was high, from pride; but her qualms were intense. An atmosphere of solemn melancholy made everybody speak in low tones. She had difficulty in remaining calm.

All the rooms were large rooms, filled with large furniture and old pictures and prints. Madam had made her home for comfort; and the taste which had marked her other work was here subdued. An old clock ticked steadily; and if there were no ancient horrors at least the house within did not belie its serious front. Sally was like a little doll, shrinking under the weight of such solid comfort, and not yet able to appraise it in terms of possession and disposal. She was still shy and timid. Wherever, upon this first entrance, she looked round for encouragement, she found none. During that first evening she was so miserable that she could have run away. She was like a child that goes for the first time to school, and feels bereft of every familiar support and association.

But in the morning Sally found everything better. She saw Gaga's doctor, and she talked to the three servants. She telephoned to Miss Summers and asked her to come to the house in the afternoon. She wrote to Mrs. Perce and to Toby. She nursed Gaga and refused to see the dead body of his mother. Every minute which she spent in the house increased her familiarity with it; and her youth and smallness captivated the three middle-aged servants, who were glad to have somebody there whom they could advise. Sally had long been able to behave as somebody other than a workgirl, and the servants were so well-behaved that they did not make any attempt to be too much at ease with her. Sally, moreover, looked down with all the contempt of her class upon women who worked in domestic service—SKIVVIES! She was drawlingly refined with them, but not grotesquely so, and they respected her.

First in importance among the things which Sally had to seem to arrange was the funeral. She handed all the details to the undertaker. This showed her to be a general. From the first she followed the only possible plan—to give carte blanche to those who had to deal with matters of urgency. Gaga was all the time ill. His mother's death had so broken down his strength and his self-control that Sally often found him weak with crying; a pathetic figure, in bed, woebegone and feeble. His delight at seeing her was so violent that he had covered her hands with kisses before he fell back exhausted upon his pillow. He constantly called for her. The servants noticed with clucked tongues how feverish was his devotion; but they also recognised Sally's patience. Sally was angelic to Gaga. She tended him so protectively that one might have thought her loving. And in the rest of her free time she tried hard to learn about the house. Mistakes she made, of course, and many of them; but she was still shrewd, and if she was often superficial and hasty, at least she was alert.

Miss Summers Sally found invaluable. Once Miss Summers had overcome her surprise at the new order and once she had found that Sally was the old Sally, who relied upon her, she rose to every call. Her kindness and her generalship were unfailing. She it was who kept the business moving at a trying time. In her hands orders were filled with the expected promptitude and the customary excellence. She obsequiously interviewed those who came to be fitted; and her knowledge of the business enabled her to satisfy these customers and make them understand that in spite of the extraordinary conditions they could still rely upon proper attention. She was unsparing of her time and her devotion. She had at last a satisfactory mission.

And all this Sally recognised. While Gaga claimed her attention, and household affairs worried her, she did not trouble very much about the business. Miss Summers would come in the evening to Kensington, tell her the news, and give advice upon other matters. The two had long talks at night. Sally suddenly knew how valuable a friend she had in Miss Summers. She knew the value of an unselfish readiness to serve; and she herself was generous enough and, in a sense, imaginative enough not to exploit Miss Summers. There was a good understanding between them. And Sally, as she looked round at the mahogany furniture in this old house, and saw the dull carpets and engravings which Madam had gathered together in other days for the suitable adornment of her rooms, could think of no better repayment than a gift of some of the things which Miss Summers might prize, and which Sally and Gaga could never use. It was characteristic of her that she made this definite reservation; but with Gaga's consent she finally made Miss Summers happy by such a lavish present that Sally might have done many strange things without ever losing the loyalty of her adjutant.

She slept by herself in a room connected with Gaga's room by an open door. She was thus able to tend him during his frequent fits of sickness and weakness, which often took the form of long hypochondriacal attacks; and was at the same time given opportunity for active thought and planning. Sally was very happy in these days, for nothing gives greater happiness than incessant occupation that is flattering to the vanity. She walked with a new air, looked about her with confidence and a sense of ownership. Above all, she had reached that almost super-human state—she knew herself to be indispensable.

xiii

When Gaga seemed to be well enough, they went out for a time each day, and Sally tried to interest him in plans for a change of home. He was still so feeble that he was rather listless and querulous; but when she told him the sort of flat she wanted nearer town, and the sort of furniture, Gaga caught fire, and became enthusiastic. His eyes glowed. Much more gently than ever before, and to that extent more tolerably, he kissed her. He proclaimed Sally's genius. Everything she suggested appeared to him more excellent than the last thing: if she had been a silly girl she might have been made reckless. But having interested him she became rather afraid of his eager support. The flat was to be her flat. She did not want Gaga blundering in with enthusiastic mistakes. And another thing was that the doctor warned her about the dangers of excitement.

"Your husband's not a strong man, Mrs. Merrick," he said. "He's not even a sound man. You don't want him to get too excited. It's bad for him. Go slow."

"I'll try," agreed Sally. But it was with a shrug. "You see how he is. I mustn't be out of his sight; and yet something's got to be done."

"You're a very plucky girl," remarked the doctor feebly; and he went away.

Sally's shrug had been sincere. She would have preferred to do everything alone; but to do so would have been to make Gaga fully as ill as any over-excitement could do. They accordingly went about together, looking for a flat. They discovered one at last in Mayfair; and decorations were begun there. It was not a large flat, and the rooms were not all large; but it was cosy, and the furnishing of it was going to give Sally a satisfaction hard to exceed. The two of them exulted in the flat. They walked through and through it. They saw the wallpapers and the paint, and admired everything in the most delicious manner possible.

And then the doctor's warning was justified. Gaga collapsed. He fainted in the flat, overcome by the smell of paint and the excitement of proprietorship. With the help of one of the painters Sally took him home in a cab and put him to bed. The doctor arrived, nodded, and was not in the least surprised or alarmed. Sally was merely to be Gaga's nurse once more. It did not matter to the doctor, who had no interest in Gaga except as a patient.

"It's rough on you, though," he said to Sally. He was a bald man of fifty, with a cold eye and a cold, fish-like hand. He was interested in nothing outside his profession and his meals. To him Sally was a plucky little thing; but Sally could not find that he thought anything more about her. She shrugged again. "So sorry," said the doctor. "Good-bye."

When he had gone, Sally frowned. Bother! All her plans were interrupted. Her energies were subdued. Thoughtfully, she began to consider how far she might act alone. She wondered whether she might persuade Gaga to let her go out in the mornings or the afternoons. He must do so, and yet she knew he would not like it. Although the decision always lay with her, he had the sick and nervous man's fussy wish to seem to make a choice. He wanted to be there, to be heard, to announce Sally's decision in a loud voice as his own.

"What a man he is!" thought Sally. "Big kid. Got to have a say in everything. And he can't!" The last words were spoken aloud, so vehemently did she feel them. "He can't, because he doesn't know. O-o-oh!"

She beat one hand upon the other, in a sudden passion. For a moment she had an unexpected return of hysteria. And as she took two or three fierce paces Sally without warning felt dizzy. She clung to a chair; and the dizziness immediately passed. It frightened her, none the less, because she had been feeling unwell for some days, and she had a horror of illness.

"Here, here!" she exclaimed. "None of that. I mustn't get ill. Oh, lor! If I was to get ill wouldn't there be a shimozzle! Gaga'd go off his head. And everything else—pouf!"

It amused her to realise this. It made her forget the unexplained sick dizziness which had given rise to her reflections, because the thing which Sally above everything else had always desired was to be as important as she now found herself. At the age of eighteen she was dominating a world which she had long since determined to conquer.

xiv

During the week following, Sally had no time for any thing but attendance upon Gaga. She was herself feeling sick and wretched; and Gaga was very ill indeed. He was sometimes extremely feeble, so that a lethargy fell upon him and he lay so quiet that Sally believed him to be asleep. But at her first movement he would unclose his eyes and groan her name, groping with his finger to detain her. So she sat in his big square bedroom with the drab walls and the plain furniture, watching the daylight fade and pondering to herself. It was a gloom period, and it had a perceptible effect upon her vitality. At other times Gaga would rally, would even sit up and talk in his old stammer, his grey face whitened and sharpened by illness. Always he demanded her kisses, although at times she had such horror of being made love to by one so ill that she was pricked by a perfect frenzy of nerves. He would sit by the fire, passing his thin hand across her shoulders, stooping and caressing her and catching her neck with his fingers in order to bring her cheek the more submissively to his own. His lips were ever encroaching, and his fevered clasp was so incessant and so vibrant with overstrung excitement as to create a sense of repulsion. It was a tyranny, to which Sally listlessly yielded because she had not the spirit to resist. She also knew that resistance would make him ill again; and however much she chafed at his kisses she chafed still more at the constant attention demanded by Gaga's state of health, which kept her ever there and delayed intolerably the execution of those plans which would have interposed a relief from these intimacies. Then again he would be seized with fits of vomiting which shook his frame and made him so ill that he had to be helped back to bed and comforted as if he were a child. It was a weary time, much shorter than it appeared to be in her slow watching of the clock; and she could not have endured it at all if her resolution had been less tough. Sometimes, too, Sally knew that she was rather fond of Gaga. Her feeling for him was a mixture of emotion; but she never actively disliked him, even when she was bored by his constant show of possessiveness. The truth was that she had grown to be afraid. She was like a Frankenstein, and her monstrous plan had become too great to be carried through alone. She was frightened that Gaga would die; and she did not want him to die. He was necessary to her, because at present he was the key to her scheme of immediate life.

Each evening Miss Summers came; and the tale she brought of orders given and executed was satisfactory. But even Miss Summers knew that things were not going well. All that practical direction which Madam had brought to the business was lost. Everything that had given distinction in the choice of material and style was in danger. There were new purchases to be made, and new designs furnished. All that vast part in the business which occurred before a customer entered into negotiations had been managed entirely by Madam, and it was suspended in her absence. Some of this work was routine, and could be conducted without her; but as the days passed it became evident that important matters were being delayed, that they were accumulating, that unless something could be done quickly to check the slide the business would become mechanical and its individuality be destroyed. Thus Sally learnt that her ambition had led her to grasp at power which she could not wield. If she had been able to go to work she could have learnt very easily. She had such quick taste, and such confidence, that, with Miss Summers at her side, in spite of many mistakes, she could have dealt with much that was now slipping. But she was unable to leave Gaga. When she tried to explain the needs of the moment to him Gaga turned weakly away, incapable of grasping more than the fact that she was his wife and that he needed her. At a speech concerning the business he shrugged his shoulders, and became stupidly ineffective.

One night, when she was in bed, Sally thought of all this, and was first despondent and then dispirited. The mood intensified. Once it had gripped her she knew no peace. She was in helpless torment. Before she knew quite what she was doing she had drawn the bedclothes over her head and was bitterly sobbing. Little disjointed phrases were jerked from her lips in this painful abandonment to fear and the sense of lonely powerlessness. She was at last unrestrained in her admission of failure. She did not know ... she did not know. By herself she could do nothing. And there was nobody to whom she could turn for succour. Her mother was useless, Mrs. Perce was useless. Her one support was Miss Summers, and Miss Summers this evening had been unable to hide her trepidation, but had sat licking her lips and blinking her eyes, which held such concern that she could in no way disguise the cause of her gloom. Miss Summers also, then, was full of foreboding; and Sally, tied fast here, a child, thrown off her balance by illness and nervous excitement, had lost confidence in her star.

When she was calm again she slept; but in the morning the preoccupation returned to her, and her head ached, and the tears filled her eyes as though she were fighting against grief. And her first visit to Gaga disgusted her and made her feel the more miserable. She had often been more poignantly affected, but never had she experienced such a sense of complete distaste for life. She was like a child given an impossible task to perform; and instead of being able to rise on the wings of her arrogance as she was in the habit of doing, Sally was weighed down by leaden sickness and fear. She went slowly downstairs to have her breakfast, and sat solitary in the big brown dining-room which overlooked a square of grass and a high wall. A dismal grey oppressed the atmosphere, and an autumn chill. She could not eat, could only sniff despairingly and drink a cup of tea and wander to the fire and lay her forehead against the mantelpiece, which was cooling indeed, but without comfort. Its hard coldness was unbearable. Sally's arms crept up as a pillow. She stared downwards at the dead fire.

"O-o-oh!" she groaned bitterly. "I wish I was dead! I do wish I was dead!" And at the sound of her wretched voice Sally once more gave way completely and began to sob aloud. She was beaten, and her spirit was gone.

xv

And so more days passed, each filled with a sort of numbing dread. Sally thought of the business, of her future, of Toby—from whom she had received several letter reflecting his moods of ferociousness and resentment,—and of the bonds which kept her tied to the house. She knew during all this time no peace. She grew thinner, and began to take less care of herself. She was not aware of the beginning of a loss of self-respect, but it was there. She—she who had always been so strict in regard to her toilette and dress, whatever her state of mind—went down to breakfast one morning in a kimono which she had found in Madam's wardrobe and shortened for herself. It was a proof that she no longer cared for her appearance. She lay through the nights often only half-asleep, in a stupor which presently led her to an attitude almost of indifference to the needs of the day. And for the rest of the time Sally was so lethargic that it one morning occurred to her to think that she had caught from Gaga whatever was the unnamed illness from which he was suffering. The thought once arisen, flew to her head. It became a horror. She had heard of bad fruit corrupting fruit that was sound and this was a new preoccupation for her. When Gaga would have kissed her lips she turned away in sudden nausea, fighting instinctively against a subjection which her indifference had hitherto made allowable. And she had several times to invent an excuse to be alone, so active had her distress become; and in these absences she would walk vehemently up and down the dining-room until she was forced by exhaustion to sit or by a message from Gaga to return to his room.

"Why, whatever's come to me?" she demanded. "It's awful! I'm ill."

The doctor called every day to see Gaga, and spoke as though there was a definite improvement in his patient's health. The medicine Gaga was taking would finally give him strength. Already he was beginning to eat more, and beginning also to retain what he had eaten.

"It's nerves, you know," the doctor told Sally one day. "Mere nerves. Your husband's run down. He's not strong. He's had a shock. As soon as he's well enough he ought to be got away for a holiday. You take him away. About the end of next week, if he makes good progress. Take him to the sea."

"He hates it," cried Sally. "Upsets him."

"Oh." The doctor considered. "Where did you go for your honeymoon? Penterby—well, that would do, if you can take drives to the sea. He doesn't want too bracing a place. And now, Mrs. Merrick, I've been noticing you lately. You're run down, too. We can't have you ill. You've been very plucky; but you've had a great strain, and all this nursing has worn you out. I'm going to have a look at you...."

Sally was conscious of a sinking of the heart.

"I'm quite all right!" she protested. She could not have told what intuition had created this panic; but her heart had begun instantly to thump in her breast, and she became, as she had done once before, almost dizzy. She could not say anything more. She submitted to his examination, and answered his questions. It was an ordeal, and she watched his serious face with its cold eyes, and felt his chilly hand, and guessed at what he would say. The doctor seemed appallingly slow, appallingly deliberate and immovable and ruthless in his perceptions. She was terrified. The room wavered before her; and her fright grew greater and greater. He was very patient. She felt strange trust in him; but always the same dread, which made her teeth chatter a little. Soon he had finished; and then he looked at her with a slight smile and a nod.

"Yes," he said, reflectively. "Oh, there's nothing to be alarmed about at all. Nothing. All you've got to do is to take care of yourself, and not worry; and it will do you good to get away. Women in your condition, especially if it's the first, often...."

"My condition!" exclaimed Sally. It was like a blow. "Doctor!"

"Nothing to be alarmed at," he repeated. "You'll be very happy after a bit. You know, you're going to have a baby." He stood away from her, smiling in a friendly way.

"A baby!" Sally was shaken from head to foot. She stared at the doctor in an extremity of horror. "A baby!"

He patted her arm. Before she was able to collect herself he had gone—a busy doctor with a long round and a large practice. Sally sat looking at the fire. Then she rose. A scream came to her lips. Again and again she shuddered. A baby! A baby! Toby's baby!

xvi

The news confirmed what Sally had never consciously thought, but what she now felt she had known for days. If anything had been needed to complete her despair it was this. She felt suicidal. She could have borne illness, even failure in the business, even all the complications of distress which she had been already experiencing; but the knowledge of ultimate disgrace so inevitable drove her mad. Vainly Sally's mind flew in every direction for relief—the doctor might be wrong; the coming of babies could be prevented; perhaps Gaga might never know—she could persuade him to go away, could go away herself, could do a hundred things to tide over the difficulty. And at the end of all these twistings of the mind she would find herself still terribly in danger, and would fight against hideous screaming fits by lying on the floor or on a couch and crushing her handkerchief into her mouth. She was quite overcome by her new disaster, the fruit of wild temptation, and the consequence of her whole course of action. Used as Sally was to meeting every emergency with cool shrewdness, she could not bring to her present situation the necessary philosophy, because she was ill, and fear-stricken, and made crazy by the impossibility of finding a solution to her anxieties.

Hour after hour was spent with horrible nightmarish imaginings, in frenzied self-excuses and improvised expedients. And never did there come one moment of peace in the midst of all this panic. Sally had no friend. More and more she began to realise this. She had no friend. She had made use of people, they were fond of her, would submit to her; but she had no friend. More than anything in the world she now needed a friend. There was nobody in whom she could confide, from whose love and sympathy she could draw the strength which at this point she so greatly needed. She had a husband, a lover, a mother—to none of these could she go with the truth. It needed all Sally's egotism to make the truth seem capable of justification, or indeed to make it seem even credible, so different is the standard by which we judge our own actions from that which we apply to others. Sally saw everything so much in relation to all that she had ever thought and felt that she could not understand how her impulses might horrify one coming to them only after translation into action. She only knew that she could not betray herself unreservedly to anybody with the hope of being found innocent. The knowledge made her at first full of terror; and the terror and the successive elaborate self-explanation, given to an unresponsive silence which she could easily suppose to be hostile, made her obstinate; then she became the more passionately afraid. She could have stormed, lied, wriggled; but she could never hope to escape the consequences that she dreaded.

At times Sally could not bear to be with Gaga at all. She told him she was ill, and that the doctor said she must go out; and in spite of his protests she would run from the house and walk rapidly for an hour about Kensington, and even into Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens. The weather made no difference to her. She was desperate, and must seek some relief from the horror of being cooped up in that house with her secret. She had begged the doctor to give no hint of it to Gaga, and had tried to pretend to herself that he had been mistaken in his diagnosis; but her pretence was of no avail, because each day she became more certain that he had been right. And still she could not think of any way out. She had been betrayed by a single act of irresistible passion.

Presently, as her frenzy spent itself, Sally began to think more collectedly. She remembered Toby's last letter. She began to think of him. She thought even that she could run away and be divorced and abandon all her schemes for the sake of the baby. But as soon as Sally had such an imagining she knew that it was an impossibility for her. Only as a last resource could she accept her disaster. All her self-confidence fought against it. She must find some other way. At first she thought it would be simple to do so; but as her brain worked upon the problem she found so many difficulties in the way that she again lost hope. The baby would ruin everything. Finally the return of Toby seemed to her to be the first necessity. She must see him. She could do nothing until she saw him. Longing seized her—a quick sense that at least he was her lover, and therefore her partner. She wrote to Toby, asking him to come and meet her as soon as he reached London. Then she waited, her exhausted torments having left her in a mood of glittering-eyed sullen misery that might at any moment rise sharply to angry shrillness. Calm hid genuine fear, and it was the calm of one who has no hope other than self-control.

Gradually Sally came to know the big house in exact detail, because in these days she was forced to find occupation for herself. The drawing-room, the dining-room, all the rooms upstairs, were ransacked. They held no treasures, indeed; but they gave Sally a rather distracting interest because they aroused her sense of possession. She had wanted to own things—and these, although they were not what she had pictured, were property. There was the beginning of bourgeoise acquisitiveness and pride of ownership in her, after all. Scratch the worker and you found the bourgeoise. There were carefully-hoarded lengths of rich material in the cupboards, lace and ribbons and shawls in different chests of drawers; upon Madam's dressing-table was a manicure set and a set of tortoiseshell-backed brushes; in the drawers of the same table were perfumes in great variety. Far below stairs, Sally found the wine cellar, and although it was small in size it contained more kinds of wine than she had been able to imagine hitherto, and filled her with an almost grinning satisfaction. Not yet was her sense of social ambition roused; but it was born. She began to look ahead. Parties, with the wine as a feature of them, were imagined. She began, in a manner, to picture what she would lose by defeat. The baby would ruin all. And she was helpless, because she could speak to nobody. She was condemned. There would be ruin, dreadful ruin, and she was glimpsing the very things which she might have enjoyed. Fresh paroxysms shook Sally. Somehow—somehow, and by some means not as yet to be discovered, she must save the situation. And Toby must save her. Toby must find a way. He must do it because he loved her. It was his duty. He must find a way to save her. And even as she frantically said this, Sally knew that she herself must control the situation. Thus early in her life she had learnt that for a girl of her type men, whatever her desire for any other state, must always be employed under her direction. Toby would obey. He might do the donkey-work; but in fact Sally must lead. It was her fate, the fate of the girl with her own star to follow.

Nevertheless, it was upon Toby that the immediate future depended. Not yet has woman the power to attain her ends except by and through men. Sally waited in ever-increasing excitement for some word from Toby, some hint of his coming. She was kept within the house at all times except during her short flights in the morning or afternoon. She could not be long away from the house. And she must rely upon a letter, and then perhaps a brief meeting, for her purposes. The time was going. Gaga was getting better, was growing more and more like the man in whose company she had gone to Penterby. His demand upon her presence was increasing in power, because he was sitting up, leaving his room, coming in search of her. Sally felt that already he was beginning to exercise an inquisition. A tremor shook her nerves. Sometimes it seemed to her that Gaga's glance held a strangeness, almost a faint suspicion. When she thought that she was conscious of a feeling akin to aversion.

Aversion had not yet arrived. Gaga was still to be despised. But Sally already felt that she might presently find her task of deception very hard under the constant scrutiny of such futile devotedness as he displayed. And Toby did not write. She had no means of knowing where he was, whether the voyage upon which he was engaged would be long or short, how much more time must elapse before their meeting. The suspense was killing her. More than once, hearing Gaga calling to her, Sally had hidden from him, and, at discovery, had been unable to conceal the hard coldness of her feeling for him. If Toby would only come! If he would only come! She thought that her nerve must before long give way, and once it had gone she would be prematurely ruined. She felt trapped. She even, desperately, would slip on a coat at nights and walk up and down outside the house, in case Toby should be lurking near on the chance of seeing her. She thought he might come thus. And on each occasion when she went out of the house in this way she returned to find Gaga standing in the dining-room, with the door open in such a way that he could command a view of the inside of the front door. The knowledge that he was waiting for her, and watching her, filled Sally with cold fury. His innocent delight at her return had the air of being a pretence. She could not suppose his eager caresses to be other than penitence for suspicion or an assertion of his claims upon her in perpetuity. The distress made her unresponsive, even repressive. Her foot tapped upon the floor even while she could not wholly quell his convulsive nervous embrace. And Toby did not come.

At last, one evening, her guess was justified. She had taken her coat, and had walked to the end of the road; and just as she turned back, without hope, she saw a burly figure almost opposite. It was Toby, in a sailor's short thick jacket, and his neck muffled, and a cap over his eyes. He was standing in the shadow, and as she crossed to him allowed Sally to enter that same embracing darkness which safely hid them both. She gave a little savage cry, and was in his strong arms, almost crazed with relief and her physical sense of his so long withheld nearness. She could feel herself shuddering and trembling, but she was not directly conscious of this. All she felt was a passionate joy at being able to abandon all her nervous self-control to this firmness and clenched vigour.

"Oh, Toby, Toby!" she whimpered, clutching him; and then no more for several minutes. Toby did not speak. He hugged Sally until she was breathless, and his hot kiss made her cheek burn. She pressed her forehead with all her strength against his breast, and longed that in this moment she might for ever lose all knowledge of the trials which beset her. The trembling persisted for a long time; and then, as she was comforted, it began to subside.

"My girl, my girl!" muttered Toby, in a thick voice, warm against her ear.

"Toby, listen.... Toby, I'm going to have a baby—it's your baby. What shall I do? Toby!" Sally clung to him. "I'm so frightened, Toby."

"Baby? Christ!" As suddenly, he repulsed her. "You say it's me. It's a lie! How d'you know? You little liar, you. What's your game?"

"Of course it's yours," fiercely cried Sally. "I told you."

"D'you think I believe that!" He was brutally incredulous. He held her away. "Why, you dirty little liar, you'd swear anything."

A ghastly anger took command of Sally.

"I told you," she steadily repeated. But she made no attempt to go back to him. They stood quite apart in the difficult gloom.

"I know you did. You told me you loved me. You married him."

"I told you," she obstinately went on. "I told you. I don't know what to do. He'll find out. He's bound to find out."

"He'll think it's his," said Toby. "By God, I believe it is."

"You're mad!" cried Sally. "He knows it can't be. And you know it, too. I tell you I shall be found out and disgraced." She was not crying. Her pride was aroused. She was full of scorn for one who could disbelieve what she herself knew to be true.

"Well?" Toby demanded. "What of it? Whose fault is it?" He was brutally angry, and a little frightened and blustering. They were still at arm's length in the darkness of the deserted street. There was no lamp near them, and the houses behind were unlighted. Sally's heart fell. She was almost paralysed at Toby's tone. She was puzzled and chagrined and angry. And then a change of mood came abruptly upon her.

"Don't you love me?" she mournfully asked. "I thought you did. I love you, Toby. I thought you loved me.

"I used to," came the grim reply out of the night. He sounded cautious, doubtful.

"Not any longer?" She withdrew herself wholly from him. They were completely sundered. Toby was failing her. She was stone cold to him—cold to all the world.

"Who says I don't?" asked Toby, in a grumbling way. He put out his arm, but Sally stepped back. "Here."

"No," she cried, sharply. Toby was not to take her for granted, not to hold her and make love to her. She was in earnest, and he was giving himself away as one who had taken what he could get.

"I do." At last Toby's sullen assent reached Sally.

"You think I'm a liar," she persisted. "You don't love me." It was bitter.

There was a silence. Toby was almost invisible. Both were lost in the dull estrangement of that troubled mood.

"Yes, I do," he muttered. "You are a liar."

"I'm not. It's true what I say. If Gaga finds out...."

"Well? What d'you suppose I can do? I can't do anything. It's you who's got to do something."

Sally thought for a moment at that savagely bullying tone, which was without love or understanding. She had a sudden sweep of hatred of Toby as an animal that took no heed of responsibility or consequences. The chill she had felt already deepened and filled her heart. Her loneliness was intensified. She gave a short laugh of bitter distraction. A greater fierceness shook her, and she began to walk slowly away from him.

"Oh, well then, I'm done," she said, with cold recklessness. "All right."

"Sally!" He came slowly after her; but his pursuit was not the old vigorous insistence for which she longed. He wanted Sally—not a baby, not a difficulty. He would shirk anything but the fulfilment of his passion. Instantly, she felt that he never would have married her if the time had come.

"No!" It was a harsh cry. "Don't touch me. Go on, push off.... I'm done with you." She walked more rapidly. She was only a little way now from the house, a hatless, disconsolate figure, oppressed and rigid.

"Sally." But he was still slow to follow. Sally cracked her fingers. She was finished with him. Her heart and her feet alike were leaden. She was too far gone for tears or sobs. It was not anguish that she felt; but bitterness so great that she could only hate Toby. She had loved him so much! And this was the end of him. She felt her love killed at a blow, and she was without resource.

Suddenly strong fingers were upon Sally's shoulder. In other days she would have been dominated. Not so now. She wrenched herself free, and walked on. There was no attempt to run. She was finished ... finished. Some further sound she heard; but it was unintelligible. Toby, presented with a real problem which a man who loved her would have solved, had been proved a doubting coward. She felt wronged, deceived. She had always expected violence from him, but she had always expected him to know that she truly loved him, whatever her actions might seem otherwise to suggest. Realisation of his ignorance destroyed her. Even at the gate Sally might still have been won; but as she came abreast of it she saw that the front door was open, and Gaga standing upon the top step. Coldly, she shut the gate; and walked resolutely up the steps. Toby was left dodging out of the circle of light, a pitiful conspirator. Gaga was silhouetted, a long lean figure, against the light of the hall. He peered down into the darkness.

"Sally, is that you?" he exclaimed. "I was quite anxious."

"Were you?" It was listless, scornful.

As she passed him, Gaga gazed still into the darkness.

"Is that somebody with you?" he asked. "It looks...."

Sally went into the house, and as he followed her she closed the front door quietly. It was strange to come from the black chilliness of the street into this new solid warmth and comfort. In the hall they faced one another. For once Sally was as grey as he—as grey and trembling.

"I thought.... I thought it was a man," said Gaga.

"Oh, did you?" Sally slipped off her coat, and threw it upon a chair. She was listening intently.

"Wasn't it?" Gaga did not touch her. He looked down with a startled expression. "It looked like a man out there.... Wasn't it?"

"You'd better go out and see," advised Sally, with snapping teeth. "Then you'll be sure." As a fury possessed her, she turned upon him like a cat at bay, all her teeth showing. "Funny if you were spying on me without any reason, wouldn't it be!"

She was so reckless that she did not measure consequences. She was in no mood to be cautious or considerate. Leaving him there Sally went into the dining-room, and when Gaga entered upon her heels she went out of the room again and slowly up the stairs.

xvii

But all the time, although she seemed to ignore him, Sally with a part of her consciousness was listening and watching. She dreaded to hear the groan of the gate upon its rusted hinges, the noise of a knock, or the gentle sound which the front door would make if Gaga accepted her challenge. Her heart was almost silent as she waited, and then, as the minutes passed without interruption, her relaxation was half relief and half disappointment. Something within her had craved this crisis which had not arrived. Some sensual longing for violence was frustrate. Sally was alone with Gaga, and Gaga, humble and obedient, was in her track, coming slowly and affectionately after her. As she saw from the landing the top of his dark, grey-streaked head she almost screamed with fury. It was in that moment that aversion for him rose in a tumult from her heart. She hated Toby, but for his base cruelty alone. She hated Gaga for his inescapable possessiveness and gentle persecution. It was a horror to Sally in her abnormal condition. She began to run up the next flight of stairs, and tripped upon her skirt. The stumble brought some little sense to her. She rose, holding the balustrade. Shot through and through with bitterness as she was, she yet clutched at sanity. When Gaga came abreast of her Sally took his arm; and they completed the journey together.