Emile, it appeared, was still pressing for payment of the bill and refused to supply any more clothes. However, neither age nor custom had staled the splendour of the purple velvet gown and the jewellery—Madame Ypsilante always wore a great deal of jewellery—was dazzling.

The king seemed a little uneasy, and after dinner spoke to Gorman about the Megalian Order of the Pink Vulture.

"You are magnificent, Gorman," he said, "and your English press! Ah, my friend, if you had been Prime Minister in Megalia, and if there had been newspapers, I might to-day be sitting on the throne, though I do not want to, not at all. The throne of Megalia is what you call a hot spot. But my friend is it wise? There must be someone who knows that the Pink Vulture of Megalia is not an antique. It is, as the English say, mid-Victorian. 1865, Gorman. That is the date; and someone will know that."

"I daresay," said Gorman, "that there may be two or three people who know; but they haven't opened their mouths so far and before they do we ought to have Bilkins' checque safe."

"How much?" said Madame. "That is the thing which matters."

"After he's read the list of distinguished men who held the order in the past and digested the names of all the generals and people who've just been given it, we may fairly expect L5,000. We'll screw him up a bit if we can, but we won't take a penny less. Considering the row there'll be afterwards, when Bilkins finds out, we ought to get L10,000. It will be most unpleasant, and it's bound to come. Most of the others will refuse the Order as soon as they hear they've been given it, and Bilkins will storm horribly and say he has been swindled, not that there is any harm in swindling Bilkins. After that egg racket of his he deserves to be swindled. Still it won't be nice to have to listen to him."

"Bah!" said Madame, "we shall have the cash."

"And it was not I," said the king, "who said that the Duke of Wellington wore the Pink Vulture. It was not Corinne. It was not you, Gorman, It was the newspapers. When Bilkins come to us we say 'Bah! Go to The Times, Sir Bilkins, go to The Daily Mail.' There is no more for Bilkins to say then."

"One comfort," said Gorman, "is that he can't take a legal action of any kind."

Their fears were, as it turned out, unfounded. Bilkins, having paid, not L5,000 but L6,000, for the Megalian Order, was not anxious to advertise the fact that he had made a bad bargain. Indeed he may be said to have got good value for his money. He has not many opportunities of wearing the ribbon and the star; but he describes himself on his visiting cards and at the head of his business note paper as "Sir Timothy Bilkins, K.C.O.P.V.M." Nobody knows what the letters stand for, and it is generally believed that Bilkins has been knighted in the regular way for services rendered to the country during the war. The few who remember his deal in eggs are forced to suppose that the stories told about that business at the time were slander. Lady Bilkins, who was present at the ceremony of in-vesture, often talks of the "dear King and Queen of Megalia." Madame Ypsilante can, when she chooses, look quite like a real queen.



X. THE EMERALD PENDANT

Even as a schoolboy, Bland-Potterton was fussy and self-important At the university—Balliol was his college—he was regarded as a coming man, likely to make his mark in the world. This made him more fussy and more self-important. When he became a recognised authority on Near Eastern affairs he became pompous and more fussy than ever. His knighthood, granted in 1918, and an inevitable increase in waist measurement emphasised his pompousness without diminishing his fussiness. When the craze for creating new departments of state was at its height, Bland-Potterton, then Sir Bartholomew, was made Head of the Ministry for Balkan Affairs. It was generally felt that the right man had been put into the right place. Sir Bartholomew looked like a Minister, talked like a Minister, and, what is more important, felt like a Minister. Indeed he felt like a Cabinet Minister, though he had not yet obtained that rank. Sir Bartholomew's return from Bournmania was duly advertised in the newspapers. Paragraphs appeared every day for a week hinting at a diplomatic coup which would affect the balance of power in the Balkans and materially shorten the war. Gorman, who knew Sir Bartholomew well, found a good deal of entertainment in the newspaper paragraphs. He had been a journalist himself for many years. He understood just whom the paragraphs came from and how they got into print. He was a little surprised, but greatly interested, when he received a note from Sir Bartholomew.

"My dear Mr. Gorman," he read, "can you make it convenient to lunch with me one day next week? Shall we say in my room in the office of the Ministry—the Feodora Hotel, Piccadilly—at 1.30 p.m. There is a matter of some importance—of considerable national importance—about which we are most anxious to obtain your advice and your help. Will you fix the earliest possible day? The condition of the Near East demands—urgently demands—our attention. I am, my dear Mr. Gorman, yours, etc...."

Gorman without hesitation fixed Monday, which is the earliest day in any week except Sunday, and he did not suppose that the offices of the Ministry of Balkan Affairs would be open on Sunday.

It is not true, though it is frequently said, that Sir Bartholomew retained the services of the chef of the Feodora Hotel when he took over the building for the use of his Ministry. It is well known that Sir Bartholomew—in his zeal for the public service—often lunched in his office and sometimes invited men whom he wanted to see on business, to lunch with him. They reported that the meals they ate were uncommonly good, as the meals of a Minister of State certainly ought to be. It was no doubt in this way that the slanderous story about the chef arose and gained currency. Gorman did not believe it, because he knew that the Feodora chef had gone to Beaufort's Hotel when the other was taken over by the Government. But Gorman fully expected a good luncheon, nicely served in one of the five rooms set apart for Sir Bartholomew's use in the hotel.

He was not disappointed. The sole was all that anyone could ask. The salmi which followed it was good, and even the Feodora chef could not have sent up a better rum omelette.

Sir Bartholomew was wearing a canary-coloured waistcoat with mother-of-pearl buttons.

It seemed to Gorman that the expanse of yellow broadened as luncheon went on. Perhaps it actually did. Perhaps an atmosphere of illusion was created by the port which followed an excellent bottle of sauterne. Yellow is a cheerful colour, and Sir Bartholomew's waistcoat increased the vague feeling of hopeful well-being which the luncheon produced.

"Affairs in the Near East," said Sir Bartholomew, "are at present in a critical position."

"Always are, aren't they?" said Gorman. "Some affairs are like that, Irish affairs for instance."

Sir Bartholomew frowned slightly. He hated levity. Then the good wine triumphing over the dignity of the bureaucrat, he smiled again.

"You Irishmen!" he said. "No subject is serious for you. That is your great charm. But I assure you, Mr. Gorman, that we are at this moment passing through a crisis."

"If there's anything I can do to help you—" said Gorman. "A crisis is nothing to me. I have lived all my life in the middle of one. That's the worst of Ireland. Crisis is her normal condition."

"I think——" Sir Bartholomew lowered his voice although there was no one in the room to overhear him. "I think, Mr. Gorman, that you are acquainted with the present King of Megalia."

"If you mean Konrad Karl," said Gorman, "I should call him the late king. They had a revolution there, you know, and hunted him out, I believe Megalia is a republic now."

"None of the Great Powers," said Sir Bartholomew, "has ever recognised the Republic of Megalia."

He spoke as if what he said disposed of the Megalians finally. The front of his yellow waistcoat expanded when he mentioned the Great Powers. This was only proper. A man who speaks with authority about Great Powers ought to swell a little.

"The Megalian people," he went on, "have hitherto preserved a strict neutrality."

"So the king gave me to understand," said Gorman, "He says his late subjects go about and plunder their neighbours impartially. They don't mind a bit which side anybody is on so long as there is a decent chance of loot."

"The Megalians," said Sir Bartholomew, "are a fighting race, and in the critical position of Balkan Affairs—a delicate equipoise—" He seemed taken with the phrase for he repeated it—"A remarkably delicate equipoise—the intervention of the Megalian Army would turn the scale and—I feel certain—decide the issue. All that is required to secure the action of the Megalians is the presence in the country of a leader, someone whom the people know and recognise, someone who can appeal to the traditional loyalty of a chivalrous race, in short——"

"You can't be thinking of the late king?" said Gorman. "They're not the least loyal to him. They deposed him, you know. In fact by his account—I wasn't there myself at the time—but he told me that they tried to hang him. He says that if they ever catch him they certainly will hang him. He doesn't seem to have hit it off with them."

Sir Bartholomew waved these considerations aside.

"An emotional and excitable people," he said, "but, believe me, Mr. Gorman, warm-hearted, and capable of devotion to a trusted leader. They will rally round the king, if——"

"I'm not at all sure," said Gorman, "that the king will care about going there to be rallied round. It's a risk, whatever you say."

"I appreciate that point," said Sir Bartholomew. "Indeed it is just because I appreciate it so fully that I am asking for your advice and help, Mr. Gorman. You know the king. You are, I may say, his friend."

"Pretty nearly the only friend he has," said Gorman.

"Exactly. Now I, unfortunately—I fear that the king rather dislikes me."

"You weren't at all civil to him when he offered you the Order of the Pink Vulture; but I don't think he has any grudge against you on that account. He's not the sort of man who bears malice. The real question is—what is the king to get out of it? What are you offering him?"

"The Allies," said Sir Bartholomew, "would recognise him as the King of Megalia, and—er—of course, support him."

"I don't think he'd thank you for that," said Gorman, "but you can try him if you like."

Sir Bartholomew, on reflection, was inclined to agree with Gorman. Mere recognition, though agreeable to any king, is unsubstantial, and the support suggested was evidently doubtful.

"What else?" He spoke in a very confidential tone. "What other inducement would you suggest our offering? We are prepared to go a long way—to do a good deal——"

"Unfortunately for you," said Gorman, "the king is pretty well off at present. He got L6,000 three weeks ago out of Bilkins—the man who ran the egg swindle—and until that's spent he won't feel the need of money. If you could wait six weeks—I'm sure he'll be on the rocks again in six weeks—and then offer a few thousand——"

"But we can't wait," said Sir Bartholomew. "Affairs in the Near East are most critical. Unless the Megalian Army acts at once——"

"In that case," said Gorman, "the only thing for you to do is to try Madame Ypsilante."

"That woman!" said Sir Bartholomew. "I really cannot—— You must see, Mr. Gorman, that for a man in my position——"

"Is there a Lady Bland-Potterton?" said Gorman. "I didn't know."

"I'm not married," said Sir Bartholomew. "When I speak of my position—I mean my position as a member of the Government——"

"Madame has immense influence with the king," said Gorman.

"Yes. Yes. But the woman—the—er—lady has no recognised status. She——"

"Just at present," said Gorman, "she is tremendously keen on emeralds. She has got a new evening dress from Emile and there's nothing she wants more than an emerald pendant to wear with it. I'm sure she'd do her best to persuade the king to go back to Megalia if——"

"But I don't think—" said Sir Bartholomew. "Really, Mr. Gorman——"

"I'm not suggesting that you should pay for it yourself," said Gorman. "Charge it up against the Civil List or the Secret Service Fund, or work it in under 'Advances to our Allies.' There must be some way of doing it, and I really think it's your best chance."

Sir Bartholomew talked for nearly an hour. He explained several times that it was totally impossible for him to negotiate with Madame Ypsilante. The idea of bribing her with an emerald pendant shocked him profoundly. But he was bent on getting King Konrad Karl to go back to Megalia. That seemed to him a matter of supreme importance for England, for Europe and the world. In the end, after a great deal of consultation, a plan suggested itself. Madame should have her emeralds sent to her anonymously. Gorman undertook to explain to her that she was expected, by way of payment for the emeralds, to persuade the king to go back to Megalia and once more occupy the throne. Sir Bartholomew Bland-Potterton would appear at the last moment as the accredited representative of the Allied Governments, and formally lay before the king the proposal for the immediate mobilisation of the Megallian Army.

"I shall have a lot of work and worry," said Gorman, "and I'm not asking anything for myself; but if the thing comes off——"

"You can command the gratitude of the Cabinet," said Sir Bartholomew, "and anything they can do for you—an O.B.E., now, or even a knighthood———"

"No thank you," said Gorman, "but if you could see your way to starting a few munition works in Upper Offaly, my constituency, you know. The people are getting discontented, and I'm not at all sure that they'll return me at the next election unless something is done for them now."

"You shall have an aeroplane factory," said Sir Bartholomew, "two in fact. I think I may safely promise two—and shells—would your people care for making shells?"

The plan worked out exceedingly well. The pendant which Madame Ypsilante received was very handsome. It contained fourteen stones of unusual size set in circles of small diamonds. She was delighted, and thoroughly understood what was expected of her. A Government engineer went down to Upper Offaly, and secured, at enormous expense, sites for three large factories. The men who leased the land were greatly pleased, everyone else looked forward to a period of employment at very high wages, and Gorman became very popular even among the extreme Sinn Feiners. Sir Bartholomew Bland-Potterton went about London, purring with satisfaction like a large cat, and promising sensational events in the Near East which would rapidly bring the war to an end. Only King Konrad Karl was a little sad.

"Gorman, my friend," he said, "I go back to that thrice damned country and I die. They will hang me by the neck until I am dead as a door mat."

"They may not," said Gorman. "You can't be certain."

"You do not know Megalia," said the king. "It is sure, Gorman, what you would call a dead shirt. But Corinne, my beloved Corinne, says 'Go. Be a king once more.' And I—I am a blackguard, Gorman. I know it. I am not respectable. I know it. But I am a lover. I am capable of a great passion. I wave my hand. I smile. I kiss Corinne. I face the tune of the band. I say 'Behold, damn it, and Great Scott!—at the bidding of Corinne, I die.'"

"If I were you," said Gorman, "I'd conscript every able-bodied man in the country directly I got there and put the entire lot into a front line trench. There won't be anyone left to assassinate you then."

"Alas! There are the Generals and the Staff. It is not possible, Gorman, even in Megalia, to put the Staff into a trench, and that is enough. One General only and his Staff. They come to the palace. They say 'In the name of the Republic, so that the world may be safe for democracy—' and then—! There is a rope. There is a flag staff. I float in the air. They cheer. I am dead. I know it. But it is for Corinne. Good."

It was in this mood of chivalrous high romance that the king received Sir Bartholomew Bland-Potterton. Gorman was present during the interview. He had made a special effort, postponing an important engagement, in order to hear what was said. He expected to be interested and amused. He was not disappointed.

Sir Bartholomew Bland-Potterton was at his very best. He made a long speech about the sacred cause of European civilisation, and the supremely important part which the King of Megalia was called upon to play in securing victory and lasting peace. He also talked about the rights of small nationalities. King Konrad Karl rose to the same level of lofty sentiment in his reply. He went further than Sir Bartholomew for he talked about democracy in terms which were affectionate, a rather surprising thing for a monarch whose power, when he had it, was supposed to be absolute.

"I go," he said. "If necessary I offer up myself as a fatted calf, a sacrifice, a burnt ewe lamb upon the altar of liberty. I say to the people—to my people 'Damn it, cut off my head.' It's what they will do."

"Dear me," said Sir Bartholomew. "Dear me. I trust not. I hope not. You will have the support, the moral support, of all the Allies. I should be sorry to think—we should all be sorry——"

The king, who was standing in the middle of the hearthrug, struck a fine attitude, laying his hand on his breast.

"It will be as I say," he said. "Gorman knows. Corinne, though she says 'No, no, never,' she knows. The people of Megalia, what are they? I will tell you. Butchers and pigs. Pork butchers. To them it is sport to kill a king. But you say 'Go,' and Gorman says 'Go.' And the cause of Europe says 'Go.' And Corinne she also. Good. The Prime Minister of Megalia trots out his hatchet. I say 'By Jove, here is my neck."

Sir Bartholomew Bland-Pottertan was greatly affected. He even promised that a British submarine would patrol the Megalian coast with a view to securing the king's safety. He might perhaps have gone on to offer a squadron of aeroplanes by way of body-guard, but while he was speaking, Madame burst into the room.

She was evidently highly excited. Her face, beneath its coating of powder, was flushed. Her eyes were unusually bright. Her hair—a most unusual thing with her—appeared to be coming down. She rushed straight to the king and flung her arms round his neck.

"Konrad," she said, "my Konrad. You shall not go to Megalia. Never, never will I say 'Be a King.' Never shall you live with those so barbarous people. I said 'Go.' I admit it. I was wrong, my Konrad. Behold!"

She released the king from her embrace, fumbled in her handbag and drew out a small leather case. She opened it, took out a magnificent looking pendant. She flung it on the ground and trampled on it. Gorman stepped forward to rescue the emeralds.

"Don't do that," he said. "Hang it all! Don't. Give the thing back if you like, but don't destroy it. Those stones must be immensely valuable."

"Valuable!" Madame's voice rose to a shriek. "What is valuable compared to the safety of my Konrad? Valuable? They are worth ten pounds. Ten pounds, Gorman! I took them to Goldstein to-day. He knows jewels, that Goldstein. He is expert and he said 'They are shams. They are worth—at most ten pounds.'"

Gorman stared for a moment at the stones which lay on the floor in their crushed setting. Then he turned to Sir Bartholomew.

"You don't mean to say," he said, "that you were such a d——d ass as to send Madame sham stones?"

Sir Bartholomew's face was a sufficient answer to the question. Gorman took him by the arm and led him out of the room without a word.

"You'd better go home," he said. "Madame Ypsilante is violent when roused, and it is not safe for you to stay. But how could you have been such an idiot——!"

"I never thought of her having the stones valued," said Sir Bartholomew.

"Of course she had them valued," said Gorman. "Anyone else in the world would have known that she'd be sure to have them valued. Of all the besotted imbeciles—and they call you a statesman!"

Sir Bartholomew, having got safely into the street, began to recover a little, and attempted a defence of himself.

"But," he said, "a pendant like that—emeralds of that size are enormously expensive. The Government would not have sanctioned it. After all, Mr. Gorman, we are bound to be particularly careful about the expenditure of public funds. It is one of the proudest traditions of British statesmanship that it is scrupulously honourable even to the point of being niggardly in sanctioning the expenditure of the tax-payer's money."

"Good Lord!" said Gorman. "I didn't think—I really did not think that I could be surprised by anything in politics—But when you talk to me—You oughtn't to do it, Potterton. You really ought not. Public funds. Tax-payers' money. Scrupulously honourable, and—niggardly. Good Lord!"



XI. SETTLED OUT OF COURT

There are many solicitors in London who make larger incomes than Mr. Dane-Latimer, though he does very well and pays a considerable sum every year by way of super-tax. There are certainly solicitors with firmly established family practices, whose position is more secure than Mr. Dane-Latimer's. And there are some whose reputation stands higher in legal circles. But there is probably no solicitor whose name is better known all over the British Isles than Mr. Dane-Latimer's. He has been fortunate enough to become a kind of specialist in "Society" cases. No divorce suit can be regarded as really fashionable unless Mr. Dane-Latimer is acting in it for plaintiff, defendant, or co-respondent. A politician who has been libelled goes to Mr. Dane-Latimer for advice. An actress with a hopeful breach of promise case takes the incriminating letters to Mr. Dane-Latimer. He knows the facts of nearly every exciting scandal. He can fill in the gaps which the newspapers necessarily leave even in stories which spread themselves over columns of print. What is still better, he can tell stories which never get into the papers at all, the stories of cases so thrilling that the people concerned settle them out of court.

It will easily be understood that Mr. Dane-Latimer is an interesting man to meet and that a good many people welcome the chance of a talk with him.

Gorman, who has a cultivated taste for gossip, was greatly pleased when Dane-Latimer sat down beside him one day in the smoking-room of his club. It was two o'clock, an hour at which the smoking-room is full of men who have lunched. Gorman knew that Dane-Latimer would not talk in an interesting way before a large audience, but he hoped to be able to keep him until most of the other men had left. He beckoned to the waitress and ordered two coffees and two liqueur brandies. Then he set himself to be as agreeable as possible to Dane-Latimer.

"Haven't seen you for a long time," he said. "What have you been doing? Had the flu?"

"Flu! No. Infernally busy, that's all."

"Really," said Gorman. "I should have thought the present slump would have meant rather a slack time for you. People—I mean the sort of people whose affairs you manage—can't be going it in quite the old way, at all events not to the same extent."

Dane-Latimer poured half his brandy into his coffee cup and smiled. Gorman, who felt it necessary to keep the conversation going, wandered on.

"But perhaps they are. After all, these war marriages must lead to a good many divorces, though we don't read about them as much as we used to. But I dare say they go on just the same and you have plenty to do."

Dane-Latimer grinned. He beckoned to the waitress and ordered two more brandies. Gorman talked on. One after another the men in the smoking-room got up and went away. At three o'clock there was no one left within earshot of Gorman and Dane-Latimer. A couple of Heads of Government Departments and a Staff Officer still sat on at the far end of the room, but they were busy with a conversation of their own about a new kind of self-starter for motor cars. Dane-Latimer began to talk at last.

"The fact is," he said, "I shouldn't have been here to-day—I certainly shouldn't be sitting smoking at this hour if I hadn't wanted to talk to you."

Gorman chuckled pleasantly. He felt that something interesting was coming.

"I've rather a queer case on hand," said Dane-Latimer, "and some friends of yours are mixed up in it, at least I think I'm right in saying that that picturesque blackguard Konrad Karl of Megalia is a friend of yours."

"I hope he's not the co-respondent," said Gorman.

"No. No. It's nothing of that sort. In fact, strictly speaking, he's not in it at all. No legal liability. The action threatened is against Madame Ypsilante."

"Don't say shop lifting," said Gorman. "I've always been afraid she's take to that sooner or later. Not that she's a dishonest woman. Don't think that. It's simply that she can't understand, is constitutionally incapable of seeing any reason why she shouldn't have anything she wants."

"You may make your mind easy," said Dane-Latimer. "It's not shop-lifting. In fact it isn't anything that would be called really disgraceful."

"That surprises me. I should hardly have thought Madame could have avoided—but go on.

"You know Scarsby?" said Dane-Latimer.

"I know a Mrs. Scarsby, a woman who advertises herself and her parties and pushes hard to get into the smartest set. She's invited me to one of her shows next week. Very seldom does now, though I used to go there pretty often. She has rather soared lately, higher circles than those I move in."

"That's the wife of the man I mean."

"Never knew she had a husband," said Gorman. "She keeps him very dark. But that sort of woman often keeps her husband in the background. I suppose he exists simply to earn what she spends."

"That's it. He's a dentist. I rather wonder you haven't heard of him. He's quite at the top of the tree; the sort of dentist who charges two guineas for looking at your front tooth and an extra guinea if he tells you there's a hole in it."

"I expect he needs it all," said Gorman, "to keep Mrs. Searsby going. But what the devil has he got to do with Madame Ypsilante. I can't imagine her compromising herself with a man whose own wife is ashamed to produce him."

Dane-Latimer smiled. "I told you it was nothing of that sort," he said. "In fact it's quite the opposite. Madame went to him as a patient in the ordinary way, and he started to put a gold filling into one of her teeth. She was infernally nervous and made him swear beforehand that he wouldn't hurt her. She brought Konrad Karl with her and he held one of her hands. There was a sort of nurse, a woman whom Scarsby always has on the premises, who held her other hand. I mention this to show you that there were plenty of witnesses present, and it won't be any use denying the facts. Well, Scarsby went to work in the usual way with one of those infernal drill things which they work with their feet. He had her right back in the chair and was standing more or less in front of her. He says he's perfectly certain he didn't hurt her in the least, but I think he must have got down to a nerve or something without knowing it. Anyhow Madame—she couldn't use her hands you know—gave a sort of twist, got her foot against his chest and kicked him clean across the room."

"I'd give five pounds to have been there," said Gorman.

"It must have been a funny sight. Scarsby clutched at everything as he passed. He brought down the drilling machine and a table covered with instruments in his fall. He strained his wrist and now he wants to take an action for a thousand pounds damages against Madame."

"Silly ass," said Gorman. "He might just as well take an action against me for a million. Madame hasn't got a thousand pence in the world."

"So I thought," said Dane-Latimer, "and so I told him. As a matter of fact I happen to know that Madame is pretty heavily in debt."

"Besides," said Gorman. "He richly deserved what he got. Any man who is fool enough to go monkeying about with Madame Ypsilante's teeth—you've seen her, I suppose."

"Oh, yes. Several times."

"Well then you can guess the sort of woman she is. And anyone who had ever looked at her eyes would know. I'd just as soon twist a tiger's tail as try to drill a hole in one of Madame Ypsilante's teeth. Scarsby must have known there'd be trouble."

"I'm afraid the judge won't take that view," said Dane-Latimer, smiling.

"He ought to call it justifiable self-defence. He will too if he's ever had one of those drills in his own mouth."

"As a lawyer," said Dane-Latimer, "I'd like to see this action fought out. I don't remember a case quite like it, and it would be exceedingly interesting to see what view the Court would take. But of course I'm bound to work for my client's interest, and I'm advising Scarsby to settle it if he can. He's in a vile temper and there's no doubt he really is losing money through not being able to work with his strained wrist. Still, if Madame, or the king on her behalf, would make any sort of offer—She may not have any money, Gorman, but everybody knows she has jewellery."

"Do you really think," said Gorman, "that Madame will sell her pearls to satisfy the claims of a dentist who, so far as I can make out, didn't even finish stopping her tooth for her?"

"The law might make her."

"The law couldn't," said Gorman. "You know perfectly well that if the law tried she'd simply say that her jewellery belonged to King Konrad and you've no kind of claim on him."

"That's so," said Dane-Latimer. "All the same it won't be very nice if the case comes into court. Madame had far better settle it. Just think of the newspapers. They'll crack silly jokes about it for weeks and there'll be pictures of Madame in most undignified attitudes. She won't like it."

"I see that," said Gorman. "And of course Konrad Karl will be dragged in and made to look like a fool."

"Kings of all people," said Dane-Latimer, "can't afford to be laughed at. It doesn't do a king any real harm if he's hated, but if once he becomes comic he's done."

Gorman thought the matter over for a minute or two.

"I'll tell you what," he said at last. "You hold the dentist in play for a day or two and I'll see what I can do. There'll be no money. I warn you fairly of that. You won't even get the amount of your own bill unless Scarsby pays it; but I may be able to fix things up."

It was not very easy for Gorman to deal with Madame Ypsilante. Her point was that Scarsby had deliberately inflicted frightful pain on her, breaking his plighted word and taking advantage of her helpless position.

"He is a devil, that man," she said. "Never, never in life has there been any such devil. I did right to kick him. It would be more right to kick his mouth. But I am not a dancer. I cannot kick so high."

"Corinne," said the king. "You have suffered. He has suffered. It is, as the English say in the game of golf 'lie as you like.' Let us forgive and regret."

"I do not regret," said Madame, "except that I did not kick with both feet. I do not regret, and I will not forgive."

"The trouble is," said Gorman, "that the dentist won't forgive either. He's talking of a thousand pounds damage."

Madame's face softened.

"If he will pay a thousand pounds—" she said. "It is not much. It is not enough. Still, if he pays at once——"

"You've got it wrong," said Gorman. "He thinks you ought to pay. He's going to law about it."

"Law!" said Madame. "Pouf! What is your law? I spit at it. It is to laugh at, the law."

The king took a different view. He knew by painful experience something about law, chiefly that part of the law which deals with the relations of creditor and debtor. He was seriously alarmed at what Gorman said.

"Alas, Corinne," he said, "in Megalia, yes. But in England, no. The English law is to me a black beast. With the law I am always the escaping goat who does not escape. Gorman, I love your England. But there is, as you say, a shift in the flute. In England there is too much law. Do not, do not let the dentist go to law. Rather would I——"

"I will not pay," said Madame.

"Corinne," said the king reproachfully, "would I ask it? No. But if the dentist seeks revenge I will submit. He may kick me."

"That's rot of course," said Gorman. "It wouldn't be the slightest satisfaction to Scarsby to kick you. What I was going to suggest——"

"Good!" said the king. "Right-O! O.K.! Put it there. You suggest. Always, Gorman, you suggest, and when you suggest, it is all over except to shout."

"I don't know about that," said Gorman. "My plan may not work, and anyway you won't like it. It's not an agreeable plan at all. The only thing to be said for it is that it's better than paying or having any more kicking. You'll have to put yourself in my hands absolutely."

"Gorman, my friend," said the king, "I go in your hands. In both hands or in one hand. Rather than be plaintiff-defendant I say, 'Gorman, I will go in your pocket.'"

"In your hands," said Madame, "or in your arms. Sir Gorman, I trust you. I give you my Konrad into your hands. I fling myself into your arms if you wish it."

"I don't wish it in the least," said Gorman. "In fact it will complicate things horribly if you do."

Three days later Gorman called on Dane-Latimer at his office.

"I think," he said, "that I've got that little trouble between Madame Ypsilante and the dentist settled up all right."

"Are you sure?" said Dane-Latimer. "Scarsby is still in a furious temper. At least he was the day before yesterday. I haven't seen him since then."

"You won't see him again," said Gorman. "He has completely climbed down."

"How the deuce did you manage it?"

Gorman drew a heavy square envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to Dane-Latimer.

"That's for you," he said, "and if you really want to understand how the case was settled you'd better accept the invitation and come with me."

Dane-Latimore opened the envelope and drew out a large white card with gilt edges and nicely rounded corners.

"10 Beaulieu Gardens, S.W." he read. "Mrs. J. de Montford Scarsby. At Home, Thursday, June 24, 9 to 11. To have the honour of meeting His Majesty the King of Megalia. R.S.V.P."

"The king," said Gorman, "is going in his uniform as Field Marshal of the Megalian Army. It took me half an hour to persuade him to do that, and I don't wonder. It's a most striking costume—light blue silk blouse, black velvet gold-embroidered waistcoat, white corded breeches, immense patent leather boots, a gold chain as thick as a cable of a small yacht with a dagger at the end of it, and a bright red fur cap with a sham diamond star in front. The poor man will look an awful ass, and feel it. I wouldn't have let him in for the uniform if I could possibly have helped it, but that brute Scarsby was as vindictive as a red Indian and as obstinate as a swine. His wife could do nothing with him at first. She came to me with tears and said she'd have to give up the idea of entertaining the king at her party if his coming depended on Scarsby's withdrawing his action against Madame Ypsilante. I told her to have another try and promised her he'd come in uniform if she succeeded. That induced her to tackle her husband again. I don't know how she managed it, but she did. Scarsby has climbed down and doesn't even ask for an apology. I advise you to come to the party."

"Will Madame Ypsilante be there?"

"I hope not," said Gorman. "I shall persuade her to stay at home if I can. I don't know whether Scarsby will show up or not; but it's better to take no risks. She might kick him again."

"What I was wondering," said Dane-Latimer, "was whether she'd kick me. She might feel that she ought to get a bit of her own back out of the plaintiff's solicitor. I'm not a tall man. She could probably reach my face, and I don't want to have Scarsby mending up my teeth afterwards."

"My impression is," said Gorman, "that Mrs. Scarsby would allow anyone to kick her husband up and down Piccadilly if she thought she'd be able to entertain royalty afterwards. I don't think she ever got higher than a Marquis before. By the way, poor Konrad Karl is to have a throne at the end of her drawing-room, and I'm to present her. You really ought to come, Dane-Latimer."



XII. A COMPETENT MECHANIC

The car swept across the narrow bridge and round the corner beyond it. Geoffrey Dane opened the throttle a little and allowed the speed to increase. The road was new to him, but he had studied his map carefully and he knew that a long hill, two miles or more of it, lay before him. His car was highly powered and the engine was running smoothly. He looked forward to a swift, exhilarating rush from the river valley behind him to the plateau of the moorlands above. The road was a lonely one. Since he left a village, three miles behind him, he had met nothing but one cart and a couple of stray cattle. It was very unlikely that he would meet any troublesome traffic before he reached the outskirts of Hamley, the market town six miles beyond the hill and the moorland. The car swept forward, gathering speed. Geoffrey Dane saw the hand of his speedometer creep round the dial till it showed forty miles an hour.

Then rounding a bend in the road he saw another car motionless in the very middle of the road. Greoffrey Dane swore abruptly and slowed down. He was not compelled to stop. He might have passed the obstructing car by driving with one wheel in the ditch. But he was a young man with a troublesome conscience, and he was a member of the Royal Automobile Club. He was bound in honour to render any help he could to motorists in distress on the high road.

On a stone at the side of the road sat a girl, smoking a cigarette. She was, apparently, the owner or driver of the motionless car. Greoffrey Dane stopped.

"Anything wrong?" he asked.

The girl threw away the cigarette she was smoking and stood up.

"Everything," she said.

Geoffrey Dane stopped his engine with a sigh and got out of his car. He noticed at once that the girl was dishevelled, that her face, particularly her nose, was smeared with dirt, and that there was a good deal of mud on her frock. He recognised the signs of a long and useless struggle with an engine; but he was too well bred to smile. He also noticed that the girl was pretty, slight of figure, and fair, with twinkling eyes.

This consoled him a little. Succouring a stranger in distress on a lonely road towards the close of a winter afternoon is not pleasant, but it is distinctly less unpleasant if the stranger is a pretty girl.

"Do you know anything about motors?" said the girl.

To Geoffrey the question was almost insulting. He was a young man who particularly prided himself on his knowledge of mechanics and his skill in dealing with engines. Also the girl spoke abruptly, not at all in the manner of a helpless damsel seeking charitable assistance. But Geoffrey was a good-humoured young man and the girl was very pretty indeed. He was prepared to make allowances for a little petulance. No temper is exactly sunny after a struggle with a refractory engine.

"I ought to know something about motors," he said. "I'm driving one."

He looked round as he spoke at his own large and handsome car. The girl's car in comparison, was insignificant.

"It doesn't in the least follow that you know anything about it," said the girl. "I was driving that one." She pointed to the car in the middle of the road. "And I haven't the remotest idea what's wrong."

This time Geoffrey felt that the girl, though pretty, deserved a snub. He was prepared to help her, at some personal inconvenience, but he felt that he had a right to expect politeness in return.

"I don't think you ought to have drawn up right in the middle of the road," he said. "It's beginning to get dark and if anything came down the road at all fast there'd be an accident."

"I didn't draw up in the middle of the road," said the girl.

Geoffrey looked at her car. It was in the middle, the very middle of the road.

"I didn't draw up at all," said the girl. "The beastly thing just stopped there itself. But I don't mind telling you that if I could, I'd have turned the car across the road so as to block the way altogether. I'd rather there wasn't any room to pass. I wanted anyone who came along to stop and help me."

Geoffrey remained polite, which was very much to his credit

"I see she's a Ford," he said, "and Fords are a bit hard to start sometimes, especially in cold weather. I'll have a try."

He went to the front of the car and seized the crank handle. He swung it, jerked, it, pulled at it with his full strength. There was a slight gurgling noise occasionally, but the engine refused to start. Geoffrey stood erect and wiped his forehead. The evening was chilly, but he had no reason to complain of being cold. The girl sat on her stone at the side of the road and smoked a fresh cigarette.

"I don't think you'll do much good that way," she said. "I've been at that for hours."

Geoffrey felt there was, or ought to be a difference between the efforts of a girl, a slight, rather frail looking girl, and those of a vigorous young man. He took off his overcoat and tried again, vainly. Then he opened the throttle wide, and advanced the sparking lever a little.

"If you do that," said the girl, "she'll back-fire and break your arm—that is to say if she does anything at all, which she probably won't. She sprained father's wrist last week. That's how I came to be driving her to-day."

Geoffrey was aware of the unpleasant effects of a back-fire. But he took the risk without hesitating. Nothing happened. The car, though obstinate, was not apparently malicious.

"There must be something wrong," he said. "Did you try the sparking plugs?"

"I had them all out," said the girl, "and cleaned them with a hairpin and my pocket handkerchief. It isn't worth your while to take them out again."

Geoffrey fetched a wrench from his own car and began to work on the sparking plugs.

"I see you don't believe me," said the girl. "But I really did clean them. Just look."

She held up her pocket handkerchief. It was thickly smeared with soot. She had certainly cleaned something with it. Geoffrey worked away steadily with his wrench.

"And the worst of it is," said the girl, "that this is just the sort of evening on which one simply must blow one's nose. I've had to blow mine twice since I cleaned the plugs and I expect its awful."

Geoffrey looked up from his work. He had noticed when he first saw her that her face was very dirty. He knew now where the dirt came from. He smiled. The girl smiled, too. Her temper was beginning to improve. Then she sniffed. Geoffrey offered her his pocket handkerchief. She took it without saying thank you.

The sparking plugs were cleaned very carefully, for the second time. Then Geoffrey took another turn at the crank handle. He laboured in vain. The engine did not respond with so much as a gasp.

"The next thing I did," said the girl, "was to take out the commutator and clean it. But I don't advise you to do that unless you really do know something about engines."

It was Geoffrey's turn to feel a little irritated.

"I'm a competent mechanic," he said shortly.

"All right," said the girl, "don't be angry. I'm a competent mechanic, too. At least I thought I was before this happened.

"Perhaps," said Geoffrey, "you didn't put the commutator back right after you took it out. I've known people make mistakes about that."

His suspicion was unjust. The commutator was in its place and the wire terminals correctly attached. He took it out again, cleaned it, oiled it, and replaced it. Then he tried the crank handle again. The engine was entirely unaffected.

"The feed pipe must be choked," said Geoffrey decisively.

"I didn't try that," said the girl, "but you can if you like. I'll lend you a hairpin. The one I cleaned the plugs with must be lying about somewhere."

It was getting dark, and a search for a lost hairpin would be very little use. Geoffrey said he would try blowing through the feed pipe with the pump. The girl, coming to his assistance, struck matches and held them dangerously near the carburetter while he worked. The clearing of the feed pipe made no difference at all to the engine. It was quite dark and freezing hard when the job was finished. Geoffrey, exhausted and breathless, gave up his final attempt at the starting crank.

"Look here," he said, "I'm awfully sorry; but I'll have to chuck it. I've tried everything I can think of. The only thing to do is to send someone out from the nearest town. If I had a rope, I'd tow you in, but I haven't. Is there a motor man in Hamley?"

"Yes," said the girl, "there's a man called Jones, who does motors, but——"

"Well," said Geoffrey, "you get into my car. I'll drive you home, and then—by the way, where do you live?"

"In Hamley. My father's the doctor there."

"That's all right. I'll drive you home and send out Jones."

"The worst of that is," said the girl, "that Jones always charges the most frightful sums for anything he does."

"But you can't stay here all night," said Geoffrey. "All night! It'll be all day to-morrow too. As far as I can see it'll be always. You'll never make that car go."

"If father was in any ordinary temper," said the girl, "he wouldn't grouse much about Jones's bill. But just now, on account of what happened to him——"

"Yes," said Geoffrey. "I understand. The sprained wrist makes him irritable."

"It's not exactly that," said the girl. "Anyone might sprain a wrist. There's no disgrace about that. The real trouble is that the poor old dear put some stuff on his wrist, to cure it, you know. It must have been the wrong stuff, for it brought on erysipelas."

"I thought you said he was a doctor."

"That's just it. He thinks that no one will believe in him any more now that he's doctored his own wrist all wrong. That's what makes him depressed. I told him not to mind; but he does."

"The best doctors make mistakes sometimes," said Geoffrey.

"Everybody does," said the girl. "Even competent mechanics aren't always quite sure about things, are they? Now you see why I don't want to send out Jones if I can possibly help it."

"But you can't possibly help it," said Geoffrey.

He wondered whether he could offer to pay Jones' bill himself. It would not, he supposed, be very large, and he would have been glad to pay it to save the girl from trouble. But he did not like to make the offer.

"We might," he said, "persuade Jones not; to send in his bill till your father's wrist is better. Anyhow, there's nothing for it but to get him. We'll just push your car to the side of the road out of the way and then I'll run you into Hamley."

The car was pushed well over to the side of the road, and left on a patch of grass. Geoffrey shoved hard at the spokes of one of the back wheels. The girl pushed, with one hand on a lamp bracket. She steered with the other, and added a good deal to Geoffrey's labour by turning the wheel the wrong way occasionally.

The drive to Hamley did not take long; but it was nearly half-past six before they reached the village street. Jones's shop and motor garage were shut up for the night; but a kindly bystander told Geoffrey where the man lived. Unfortunately, the man was not at home. His wife, who seemed somewhat aggrieved at his absence, gave it as her opinion that he was likely to be found in the George Inn.

"But it isn't no use your going there for him," she said. "There's a Freemason's dinner tonight, and Jones wouldn't leave that, not if you offered him a ten-pound note."

Geoffrey turned to the girl.

"Shall we try?" he asked. "Is it worth while going after him?"

"I can't leave the car on the side of the road all night," she said. "If we can't get Jones, I must walk back and try again."

Geoffrey made a heroic resolve.

"I'll leave you at home first," he said, "and then I'll go and drag Jones out of that dinner party of his. I'm sure you must be very tired."

But the girl firmly refused to go home without the car. Her plan was to go back with Jones, if Jones could be persuaded to start, and then drive home when the car was set right.

"Very well," said Geoffrey, "let's go and get Jones. We'll all go back together. I can stop the night in Hamley and go on to-morrow morning."

He rather expected a protest from the girl, a protest ending in warm thanks for his kindness. He received instead a remark which rather surprised him.

"I daresay," she said, "that you'd rather like to see what really is the matter with the car. It will he so much knowledge gained for you afterwards. And you do take an interest in mechanics, don't you?"

Geoffrey, in the course of his operations on the car, had several times professed a deep interest in mechanics. He recollected that, just at first, he had boasted a good deal about his skill and knowledge. He suspected that the girl was laughing at him. This irritated him, and when he reached the George Inn he was in no mood to listen patiently to Jones' refusal to leave the dinner.

Jones did refuse, firmly and decisively. Geoffrey argued with him, attempted to bribe him, finally swore at him. The girl stood by and laughed. Jones turned on her truculently.

"If young ladies," he said, "would stay in their homes, which is the proper place for them, and not go driving about in motor cars, there'd be less trouble in the world; and decent men who work hard all day would be left to eat their dinners in peace."

The girl was entirely unabashed.

"If decent men," she said, "would think more about their business and less about their dinners, motors wouldn't break down six miles from home. You were supposed to have overhauled that car last week, Jones, and you told father yourself that the engine was in first rate order."

"No engine will go," said Jones, "if you don't know how to drive it.

"Look here," said Geoffrey, "hop into my car. I'll have you there in less than half an hour. We'll bring a rope with us, and if you can't make the car start at once, we'll tow it home. It won't be a long job. I'll undertake to have you back here in an hour. Your dinner won't be cold by that time."

He took Jones by the arm and pulled him towards the door of the inn. Jones, protesting and muttering, gave way at last. He fetched his hat and coat, and took a seat in Geoffrey's car.

Geoffrey made good his promise. Once clear of the town, with an empty road before him, he drove fast and reached the scene of the breakdown in less than twenty minutes.

Jones was evidently sulky. Without speaking a word to either Geoffrey or the girl he went straight to the car at the side of the road. He gave the starting handle a single turn. Then he stopped and went to the back of the car. He took out a tin of petrol and emptied it into the tank. Then he gave another jerk to the starting handle. The engine responded at once with a cheerful rattle. The girl, to Geoffrey's amazement, laughed loud. He felt abashed and humiliated, very little inclined to mirth.

"I'm awfully sorry," he babbled his apologies. "I'm really awfully sorry. It was extremely stupid of me, but I never thought——. Of course I ought to have looked at the petrol tank first thing."

"It was a bit stupid of you, I must say," said the girl, "considering what you said about understanding motors."

Geoffrey felt inclined to remind her that she, too, had boasted some knowledge of cars and that she had been at fault even more than he had, and that in fact she ought to have guessed that her petrol had gone. He was saved from making his retort by Jones. Ignoring the girl completely, as if she were beneath contempt, Jones spoke to Geoffrey.

"I dunno," he said, "how you expected the engine to work without petrol."

His tone was full of scorn, and Geoffrey felt like a withered flower. The girl was in no way abashed.

"It's just like asking a man to work without his dinner," she said, "but they sometimes do, you know."

Then she turned to Geoffrey.

"If you promise faithfully," she said, "not to tell father what happened, you can come and have dinner with us to-night."

It was the only sign of gratitude that the girl had shown, and Geoffrey's first inclination was to refuse the invitation definitely. But he caught sight of her face before she spoke. She was standing in the full glare of one of the lamps. Her eyes were twinkling and very bright. On her lips was a smile, impudent, provocative, extremely attractive.

Geoffrey Dane dined that night with the doctor and his daughter. He described the breakdown of the motor in the vaguest terms.



XIII. MY NIECE KITTY

I consider it fortunate that Kitty is my niece. She might have been my daughter and then I should have had a great deal of responsibility and lived a troublous life. On the other hand if Kitty had not been related to me in some way I should have missed a pleasant intimacy. I should probably very seldom see her if she were the daughter of a casual acquaintance, and when I did see her she would be shy, perhaps, or pert. I should almost certainly be awkward. I am, I regret to say, fifty years of age. Kitty is just sixteen. Some kind of relationship is necessary if there is to be real friendship between an elderly man and a young girl Uncles, if they did not exist in nature, would have to be invented for the sake of people like Kitty and myself.

I see Kitty twice a year regularly. She and her mother come to town at Christmas time for shopping. They stay at my house. In summer I spend my three weeks holiday with my sister who lives all the year round in a seaside place which most people regard as a summer resort. She does this on account of the delicate health of her husband, who suffers from an obscure nervous disease. If I were Kitty's father I should probably have a nervous disorder, too.

In December I am master of the situation. I treat Kitty exactly as an uncle ought to treat a niece. I take her to theatres and picture houses. I feed her at irregular hours on sweet, unwholesome food. I buy her presents and allow her to choose them. Kitty, as my guest, behaves as well as any niece could. She is respectful, obedient, and always delighted with the entertainments I provide for her. In summer—Kitty being then the hostess and I the guest—things are different. She considers it her duty to amuse me. Her respect for me vanishes. I am the one who is obedient; but I am not always delighted at the entertainments she provides. She means well, but she is liable to forget that a stiff-limbed bachelor of fifty prefers quiet to strenuous sports.

One morning during the second week of my last holiday Kitty came down late for breakfast. She is often late for breakfast and she never apologises. I daresay she is right. Most of us are late for breakfast, when we are late, because we are lazy and stay too long in bed. It is impossible to think of Kitty being lazy. She always gets up early and is only late for breakfast because she has had time to find some enthralling occupation before breakfast is ready. Breakfast and the rest of the party ought to apologise to her for not being ready sooner. It is really we who keep her waiting. She was dressed that morning in a blue cotton frock, at least two inches longer than the frocks she used to wear last year. If her face had not been as freckled as a turkey's egg and the skin had not been peeling off her nose with sunburn she would have looked very pretty. Next year, I suppose, her frocks will be down to her ankles and she will be taking care of her complexion. Then, no doubt, she will look very pretty. But she will not look any more demure than she did that morning.

"It is always right," she said, "to do good when we can, and to show kindness to those whose lot in life is less happy than our own."

When Kitty looks particularly demure and utters sentiments of that kind, as if she were translating one of Dr. Watts' hymns into prose, I know that there is trouble coming. I did not have to wait long to find out what was in store.

"Claire Lane's aunt," she said, "does a great deal of work for the children of the very poor. That is a noble thing to do."

It is. I have heard of Miss Lane's work. Indeed I give a subscription every year towards carrying it on.

"Claire," Kitty went on, "is my greatest friend at school, and she sometimes helps her aunt. Claire is rather noble too, though not so noble as Miss Lane."

"I am glad to hear," I said, "that you have such a nice girl for a friend. I suppose it was from her you learnt that it was right to show kindness to those whose lot is less happy than our own."

Kitty referred to a letter which she had brought with her into the room, and then said:

"To-day Claire and her aunt are bringing fifty children down here to spend the day playing on the beach and paddling in the sea. That will cost a lot and I expect you to subscribe, Uncle John."

I at once handed Kitty all the money I had in my pocket. She took it without a word of thanks. It was quite a respectable sum, perhaps deserving a little gratitude, but I did not grudge it. I felt I was getting off cheap if I only had to give money. My sister, Kitty's mother, understood the situation better.

"I suppose I must send down bread and jam," she said. "Did you say fifty children, Batty?"

"Fifty or sixty," said Kitty.

"Three pots of jam and ten loaves ought to be enough," said my sister.

"And cake," said Kitty. "They must have cake. Uncle John," she turned to me, "would you rather cut up bread and jam or walk over to the village and bring back twenty-five pounds of cake?"

I was not going to get off so easily as I hoped. The day was hot, far too hot for walking, and the village is two miles off; but I made my choice without hesitation. I greatly prefer heat to stickiness and I know no stickier job than making bread and jam sandwiches.

"If you start at once," said Kitty, "you'll be back in time to help me with the bread and jam."

I regret to say I was back in time to spread the jam out of the last pot.

Miss Lane's party arrived by train at 12 o'clock. By that time I had discovered that I had not bought freedom with my subscription, nor earned the title of noble by walking to the village. I was expected to spend the rest of the day helping to amuse Miss Lane's picnic party. Kitty and I met them when they arrived.

Miss Lane, the aunt, is a very plump lady with nice white hair. Her face, when she got out of the train, was glistening with perspiration. Claire, the niece, is a pretty little girl. She wore a pink frock, but it was no pinker than her face. Her efforts to show kindness to the children in the train had been too much for her. She was tired, bewildered, and helpless. There were fifty-six children, all girls, and they ranged in ages from about 18 years down to toddling infants. Miss Lane, the aunt, asked me to count them for her. I suppose she wanted to make sure that she had not lost any on the way down and that she would have as many to take home as she had when she started. Left to my own resources I could not possibly have counted fifty delirious children, not one of whom stood still for a single instant. Kitty came to my rescue. She coursed up and down among the children, shouting, pushing, occasionally slapping in a friendly way, and, at last, corralled the whole party in a corner between two sheds. I have seen a well-trained sheep dog perform a similar feat in much the same way. I counted the flock, with some difficulty even then, and noted the number carefully in my pocket book. Then there was a wild rush for the beach. Miss Lane headed it at first, carrying one of the smallest children in her arms and dragging another by the hand. She was soon overtaken and passed by Kitty and six lean, long-legged girls, who charged whooping, straight for the sea. Claire and I followed slowly at the tail of the procession. I was sorry for her because one of her shoes was beginning to hurt her. She confided this to me and later on in the day I could see that the pain was acute. We reached the beach in time to see Kitty dragging off her shoes and stockings. Eight or ten of the girls had walked straight into the sea and were splashing about up to their knees in water. Kitty went after them and dragged them back. She said that if they wanted to bathe they ought to take their clothes off. Kitty is a good swimmer, and I think she wanted those children to bathe so as to have a chance of saving their lives when they began to drown. Fortunately, Miss Lane discovered what was going on and put a stop to the bathing. She was breathless but firm. I do not know whether she shrank from drowning the children or held conventional ideas about the necessity of bathing dresses for girls. Whatever her reasons were she absolutely forbade bathing. The day was extraordinarily hot and our work was most strenuous. We paddled, and I had to wade in several times, far above the part of my legs to which it was possible to roll up my trousers. We built elaborate sand castles, and enormous mounds, which Kitty called redoubts. I was made to plan a series of trenches similar to those used by the armies in France, and we had a most exciting battle, during which Kitty compelled me to become a casualty so that six girls might have the pleasure of dragging me back to a place of safety. We very nearly had a real casualty afterwards when the roof of a dug-out fell in and buried two infants. Kitty and I rescued them, digging frenziedly with our hands. Miss Lane scooped the sand out of their mouths afterwards with her forefinger, and dried their eyes when they had recovered sufficiently to cry. We fed the whole party on buns and lemonade and became sticky from head to foot. We ran races and had tugs-of-war with a rope made of stockings tied together. It was not a good rope because it always broke at the most exciting moments, but that only added to our pleasure; for both teams fell flat on their backs when the rope gave way, and Miss Lane looked particularly funny rolling on the sand.

At six o'clock the gardener and the cook, sent by Kitty's mother, came down from the house carrying a large can of milk and a clothes basket full of bread and jam and cake. We were all glad to see them. Even the most active children were becoming exhausted and were willing to sit down and be fed. I was very nearly done up. Poor Claire was seated on a stone, nursing her blistered foot. Only Miss Lane and Kitty had any energy left, and Miss Lane was in an appalling state of heat. Kitty remained cool, owing perhaps to the fact that she was soaked through from the waist down, having carried twenty or thirty dripping infants out of the sea in the course of the day.

My sister's gardener, who carried the milk, is a venerable man with a long white beard. He is greatly stooped from constant digging and he suffers from rheumatism in his knees. It was his appearance, no doubt, which suggested to Kitty the absolutely fiendish idea of an obstacle race for veterans. The veterans, of course, were Miss Lane, the gardener, the cook, who was a very fat woman, and myself. Miss Lane agreed to the proposal at once with apparent pleasure, and the whole fifty-six children shouted with joy. The gardener, who has known Kitty since she was born, recognised the uselessness of protest and took his place beside Miss Lane. The cook said she never ran races and could not jump. Anyone who had looked at her would have known she was speaking the truth. But Kitty would take no refusal. She took that cook by the arm and dragged her to the starting line.

The course, which was arranged by Kitty, was a stiff one. It took us all over the redoubts, castles, and trenches we had built during the day and across a tract of particularly soft sand, difficult to walk over and most exhausting to anyone who tried to run. It finished up with what Kitty called a water jump, though no one could possibly have jumped it. It was a wide shallow pool, formed in the sand by the flowing tide and the only way of getting past it was to wade through.

I felt fairly confident I should win that race. The gardener is ten years older than I am and very stiff in the joints. The cook plainly did not mean to try. Miss Lane is far past the age at which women cease to be active, and was badly handicapped by having to run in a long skirt. I started at top speed and cleared the first redoubt without difficulty, well ahead of anyone else. I kept my lead while I floundered through three trenches, and increased it among the castles which lay beyond. When I reached the soft sand I ventured to look back. I was gratified to see that the cook had given up. The gardener was in difficulties at the second trench, and Miss Lane had fallen. When I saw her she was sprawling over a sand castle, surrounded by cheering children. It did not seem likely that she would have strength enough to get up again or breath to run any more if she did get on her feet. I felt that I was justified in walking quietly over the soft sand. Beyond it lay a tract of smooth, hard sand, near the sea, and then the water jump. My supporters, a number of children who had easily kept pace with me and were encouraging me with shouts, seemed disappointed when I dropped to a walk. To please them I broke into a gentle trot when I reached the hard sand. I still felt perfectly sure that the race was mine.

I was startled out of my confidence by the sound of terrific yells, just as I stepped cautiously into the water jump. I looked round and saw Miss Lane. Her hair was flying behind her in a wild tangle. Her petticoats were gathered well above her knees. She was crossing the hard sand at a tremendous pace. I saw that my only chance was to collect my remaining energies for a spurt. Before I had made the attempt Miss Lane was past me. She jumped a clear eight feet into the shallow water in which I stood and came down with a splash which nearly blinded me with spray. I rubbed the salt water out of my eyes and started forward. It was too late. Miss Lane was ten or twelve yards ahead of me. She was splashing through the water quicker than I should have believed possible. She stumbled, and once I thought she was down, but she did not actually fall until she flung herself, breathless, at Kitty's feet, at the winning post.

The children shrieked with joy, and Kitty said she was very glad I had been beaten.

I did not understand at the time why she was glad, but I found out afterwards. I was stiff and tired that evening but rather proud of myself. I had done something to be proud of. I had spent a whole day in showing kindness—I suppose it really was kindness—to those whose lot on other days is worse than my own; and that, as Kitty says, is a noble thing to do. I was not, however, left in peace to enjoy my pleasant mood of self-congratulation. I had just lit my cigar and settled comfortably in the verandah when Kitty came to me.

"I suppose you know," she said, "that there was a prize for that veterans' race this afternoon."

"No," I said, "I didn't know, but I'm glad to hear it. I hope Miss Lane will enjoy the prize. She certainly deserves it."

"The prize," said Kitty, "is——"

To my surprise she mentioned a sum of money, quite a large sum.

"—To be paid," said Kitty, "by the losers, and to go to the funds of Miss Lane's Society for giving pleasure to poor children. The gardener and cook can't pay, of course, being poor themselves. So you'll have to pay it all."

"I haven't the money in my pocket," I said. "Will it do if I send it to-morrow?"

Kitty graciously agreed to wait till the next day. I hardly expected that she would.

"By the way, Kitty," I said, "if I'd won, and I very nearly did, would Miss Lane have paid me?"

"Of course not. Why should she? You haven't got a society for showing kindness to the poor. There'd be no sense in giving you money."

The gardener to whom I was talking next morning, gave it to me as his opinion that "Miss Kitty is a wonderful young lady," I agreed with him and am glad that she is my niece, not my daughter.



XIV. A ROYAL MARRIAGE

Michael Kane carried His Majesty's mails from Clonmethan to the Island of Inishrua. He made the voyage twice a week in a big red boat fitted with a motor engine. He had as his partner a young man called Peter Gahan. Michael Kane was a fisherman, and had a knowledge of the ways of the strange tides which race and whirl in the channel between Inishrua and the mainland. Peter Gahan looked like an engineer. He knew something about the tides, but what he really understood was the motor engine. He was a grave and silent young man who read small books about Socialism. Michael Kane was grey-haired, much battered by the weather and rich in experience of life. He was garrulous and took a humorous view of most things, even of Peter Gahan's Socialism.

There are, perhaps, two hundred people living on Inishrua, but they do not receive many letters. Nor do they write many. Most of them neither write nor receive any letters at all. A post twice a week is quite sufficient for their needs, and Michael Kane is not very well paid for carrying the lean letter bag. But he makes a little money by taking parcels across to the island. The people of Inishrua grow, catch or shoot most of the things they want; but they cannot produce their own tea, tobacco, sugar or flour. Michael Kane takes orders for these and other things from Mary Nally, who keeps a shop on Inishrua. He buys them in Clonmethan and conveys them to the island. In this way he earns something. He also carries passengers and makes a little out of them.

Last summer, because it was stormy and wet, was a very lean season for Michael Kane. Week after week he made his journeys to Inishrua without a single passenger. Towards the middle of August he began to give up hope altogether.

He and Peter sat together one morning on the end of the pier. The red post boat hung at her moorings outside the little harbour. The day was windless and the sea smooth save for the ocean swell which made shorewards in a long procession of round-topped waves. It was a day which might have tempted even a timid tourist to visit the island. But there was no sign of anyone approaching the pier.

"I'm thinking," said Michael Kane, "that we may as well be starting. There'll be no one coming with us the day."

But he was mistaken. A passenger, an eager-looking young woman, was hurrying towards the pier while they were making up their minds to start.

Miss Ivy Clarence had prepared herself for a voyage which seemed to her something of an adventure. She wore a tight-fitting knitted cap, a long, belted, waterproof coat, meant originally to be worn by a soldier in the trenches in France. She had a thick muffler round her neck. She carried a rug, a packet of sandwiches, a small handbag and an umbrella, of all possible accoutrements the least likely to be useful in an open boat. But though she carried an umbrella, Miss Clarence did not look like a fool. She might know nothing about boats and the way to travel in them, but she had a bright, intelligent face and a self-confident decision of manner. She was by profession a journalist, and had conceived the idea of visiting Ireland and writing articles about that unfortunate country. Being an intelligent journalist she knew that articles about the state of Ireland are overdone and very tiresome. Nobody, especially during the holiday season, wants to be bored with Irish politics. But for bright, cheery descriptions of Irish life and customs, as for similar descriptions of the ways of other strange peoples, there is always a market. Miss Clarence determined to exploit it. She planned to visit five or six of the larger islands off the Irish coast. There, if anywhere, quaint customs, picturesque superstitions and primitive ways of living might still be found.

Michael greeted her as if she had been an honoured guest. He was determined to make the trip as pleasant as he could for anyone who was wise enough to leave the tennis-courts and the golf-links.

"It's a grand day for seeing Inishrua," he said. "Not a better day there's been the whole summer up to now. And why wouldn't it be fine? It would be a queer day that wouldn't when a young lady like yourself is wanting to go on the sea."

This was the kind of speech, flattering, exaggerated, slightly surprising, which Michael Kane was accustomed to make to his passengers. Miss Clarence did not know that something of the same sort was said to every lady, young or old, who ventured into Michael's boat. She was greatly pleased and made a mental note of the words.

Michael Kane and Peter Gahan went over to a dirty and dilapidated boat which lay on the slip. They seized her by the gunwale, raised her and laid her keel on a roller. They dragged her across the slip and launched her, bow first, with a loud splash.

"Step easy now, miss," said Michael, "and lean on my shoulder. Give the young lady your hand, Peter. Can't you see the stones is slippy?"

Peter was quite convinced that all members of the bourgeois class ought to be allowed, for the good of society, to break their legs on slippery rocks. But he was naturally a courteous man. He offered Miss Clarence an oily hand and she got safely into the boat.

The engine throbbed and the screw under the rudder revolved slowly. The boat slid forward, gathering speed, and headed out to sea for Inishrua.

Michael Kane began to talk. Like a pianist who strikes the notes of his instrument tentatively, feeling about for the right key, he touched on one subject after another, confident that in the end he would light on something really interesting to his passenger. Michael Kane was happy in this, that he could talk equally well on all subjects. He began with the coast scenery, politics and religion, treating these thorny topics with such detachment that no one could have guessed what party or what church he belonged to. Miss Clarence was no more than moderately interested. He passed on to the Islanders of Inishrua, and discovered that he had at last reached the topic he was seeking. Miss Clarence listened eagerly to all he said. She even asked questions, after the manner of intelligent journalists.

"If it's the island people you want to see, miss," he said, "it's well you came this year. There'll be none of them left soon. They're dying out, so they are."

Miss Clarence thought of a hardy race of men wringing bare subsistence from a niggardly soil, battered by storms, succumbing slowly to the impossible conditions of their island. She began to see her way to an article of a pathetic kind.

"It's sleep that's killing them off," said Michael Kane.

Miss Clarence was startled. She had heard of sleeping sickness, but had always supposed it to be a tropical disease. It surprised her to hear that it was ravaging an island like Inishrua.

"Men or women, it's the same," said Michael. "They'll sleep all night and they'll sleep the most of the day. Not a tap of work will be done on the island, summer or winter."

"But," said Miss Clarence, "how do they live?"

"They'll not live long," said Michael. "Amn't I telling you that they're dying out? It's the sleep that's killing them."

Miss Clarence drew a large notebook and a pencil from her bag. Michael was greatly pleased. He went on to tell her that the Inishrua islanders had become enormously rich during the war. Wrecked ships had drifted on to their coasts in dozens. They had gathered in immense stores of oil, petrol, cotton, valuable wood and miscellaneous merchandise of every kind. There was no need for them to work any more. Digging, ploughing, fishing, toil of every kind was unnecessary. All they had to do was eat and sleep, waking up now and then for an hour or two to sell their spoils to eager buyers who came to them from England.

Michael could have gone on talking about the immense riches of the islanders. He would have liked to enlarge upon the evil consequences of having no work to do, the inevitable extinction which waits for those who merely sleep. But he was conscious that Peter Gahan was becoming uneasy. As a good socialist, Peter knew that work is an unnecessary evil, and that men will never be healthy or happy until they escape from the tyranny of toil He was not likely to listen patiently to Michael's doctrine that a race of sleepers is doomed to extinction. At any moment he might burst into the conversation argumentatively. And Michael Kane did not want that. He liked to do all the talking himself. He switched off the decay of the islanders and started a new subject which he hoped would be equally interesting to Miss Clarence.

"It's a lucky day you have for visiting the island," he said. "But sure you know that yourself, and there's no need for me to be telling you."

Beyond the fact that the day was moderately fine, Miss Clarence did not know that there was anything specially lucky about it. She looked enquiringly at Michael Kane.

"It's the day of the King's wedding," said Michael.

To Miss Clarence "the King" suggested his Majesty George V. But he married some time ago, and she did not see why the islanders should celebrate an event of which most people have forgotten the date. She cast round in her mind for another monarch likely to be married; but she could not think of any. There are not, indeed, very many kings left in the world now. Peter Gahan gave a vicious dab at his engine with his oil-can, and then emerged feet first from the shelter of the fore deck. This talk about kings irritated him.

"It's the publican down by the harbour Michael Kane's speaking about," he said. "King, indeed! What is he, only an old man who's a deal too fat!"

"He may be fat," said Michael; "but if he is, he's not the first fat man to get married. And he's a king right enough. There's always been a king on Inishrua, the same as in England."

Miss Clarence was aware—she had read the thing somewhere—that the remoter and less civilised islands off the Irish Coast are ruled by chieftains to whom their people give the title of King.

"The woman he's marrying," said Michael, "is one by the name of Mary Nally, the same that keeps the post-office and sells tobacco and tea and suchlike."

"If he's marrying her to-day," said Peter Gahan, "it's the first I heard of it."

"That may be," said Michael, "but if you was to read less you'd maybe hear more. You'd hardly believe," he turned to Miss Clarence with a smile—"you'd hardly believe the time that young fellow wastes reading books and the like. There isn't a day passes without he'd be reading something, good or bad."

Peter Gahan, thoroughly disgusted, crept under the fore deck again and squirted drops of oil out of his can.

Miss Clarence ought to have been interested in the fact that the young boatman was fond of reading. His tastes in literature and his eagerness for knowledge and culture would have provided excellent matter for an article. But the prospect of a royal marriage on Inishrua excited her, and she had no curiosity left for Peter Gahan and his books. She asked a string of eager questions about the festivities. Michael was perfectly willing to supply her with information; indeed, the voyage was not long enough for all her questions and his answers. Before the subject was exhausted the boat swung round a rocky point into the bay where the Inishrua harbour lies.

"You see the white cottage with the double gable, Miss," said Michael. "Well, it's there Mary Nally lives. And that young lad crossing the field is her brother coming down for the post-bag. The yellow house with the slates on it is where the king lives. It's the only slated house they have on the island. God help them!"

Peter Gahan slowed and then stopped his engine. The boat slipped along a grey stone pier. Michael stepped ashore and made fast a couple of ropes. Then he gave his hand to Miss Clarence and helped her to disembark.

"If you're thinking of taking a walk through the island, Miss," he said, "you'll have time enough. There's no hurry in the world about starting home. Two hours or three will be all the same to us."

Michael Kane was in no hurry. Nor was Peter Gahan, who had taken a pamphlet from his pocket and settled himself on the edge of the pier with his feet dangling over the water. But Miss Clarence felt that she had not a moment to lose. She did not want to miss a single detail of the wedding festivities. She stood for an instant uncertain whether she should go first to the yellow, slated house of the bridegroom or cross the field before her to the double-gabled cottage where the bride lived. She decided to go to the cottage. In any ordinary wedding the bride's house is the scene of most activity, and no doubt the same rule holds good in the case of royal marriages.

The door of the cottage stood open, and Miss Clarence stepped into a tiny shop. It was the smallest shop she had ever seen, but it was crammed from ceiling to floor with goods.

Behind the counter a woman of about thirty years of age sat on a low stool. She was knitting quietly, and showed no sign whatever of the excitement which usually fills a house on the day of a wedding. She looked up when Miss Clarence entered the shop. Then she rose and laid aside her knitting. She had clear, grey eyes, an unemotional, self-confident face, and a lean figure.

"I came to see Miss Mary Nally," said Miss Clarence. "Perhaps if she isn't too busy I could have a chat with her."

"Mary Nally's my name," said the young woman quietly.

Miss Clarence was surprised at the calm and self-possession of the woman before her. She had, in the early days of her career as a journalist, seen many brides. She had never seen one quite so cool as Mary Nally. And this woman was going to marry a king! Miss Clarence, startled out of her own self-control, blurted out more than she meant to say.

"But—but aren't you going to be married?" she said.

Mary Nally smiled without a sign of embarrassment.

"Maybe I am," she said, "some day."

"To-day," said Miss Clarence.

Mary Nally, pulling aside a curtain of pendent shirts, looked out through the window of the little shop. She knew that the post boat had arrived at the pier and that her visitor, a stranger on the island, must have come in her. She wanted to make sure that Michael Kane was on board.

"I suppose now," she said, "that it was Michael Kane told you that. And it's likely old Andrew that he said I was marrying."

"He said you were going to marry the King of the island," said Miss Clarence.

"Well," said Mary Nally, "that would be old Andrew."

"But isn't it true?" said Miss Clarence.

A horrible suspicion seized her. Michael Kane might have been making a fool of her.

"Michael Kane would tell you lies as quick as look at you," she said; "but maybe it wasn't lies he was telling this time. Come along now and we'll see."

She lifted the flap of the counter behind which she sat and passed into the outer part of the shop. She took Miss Clarence by the arm and they went together through the door. Miss Clarence expected to be led down to the pier. It seemed to her plain that Mary Nally must want to find out from Michael whether he had told this outrageous story or not. She was quite willing to face the old boatman. Mary Nally would have something bitter to say to him. She herself would say something rather more bitter and would say it more fiercely.

Mary turned to the right and walked towards the yellow house with the slate roof. She entered it, pulling Miss Clarence after her.

An oldish man, very fat, but healthy looking and strong, sat in an armchair near the window of the room they entered. Round the walls were barrels of porter. On the shelves were bottles of whisky. In the middle of the floor, piled one on top of the other, were three cases full of soda-water bottles.

"Andrew," said Mary Nally, "there's a young lady here says that you and me is going to be married."

"I've been saying as much myself this five years," said Andrew. "Ever since your mother died. And I don't know how it is we never done it."

"It might be," said Mary, "because you never asked me."

"Sure, where was the use of my asking you," said Andrew, "when you knew as well as myself and everyone else that it was to be?"

"Anyway," said Mary, "the young lady says we're doing it, and, what's more, we're doing it to-day. What have you to say to that now, Andrew?"

Andrew chuckled in a good-humoured and tolerant way.

"What I'd say to that, Mary," he said, "is that it would be a pity to disappoint the young lady if her heart's set on it."

"It's not my heart that's set on it," said Miss Clarence indignantly. "I don't care if you never get married. It's your own hearts, both of them, that ought to be set on it."

As a journalist of some years' experience she had, of course, outgrown all sentiment. But she was shocked by the cool indifference of these lovers who were prepared to marry merely to oblige a stranger whom they had never seen before and were not likely to see again. But Mary Nally did not seem to feel that there was any want of proper ardour in Andrew's way of settling the date of their wedding.

"If you don't get up out of your chair," she said, "and be off to Father McFadden to tell him what's wanted, it'll never be done either to-day or any other day."

Andrew roused himself with a sigh. He took his hat from a peg, and a stout walking-stick from behind a porter barrel. Then, politely but firmly, he put the two women out of the house and locked the door behind them. He was ready to marry Mary Nally—and her shop. He was not prepared to trust her among his porter barrels and his whisky bottles until the ceremony was actually completed.

The law requires that a certain decorous pause shall be made before the celebration of a marriage. Papers must be signed or banns published in church. But Father McFadden had lived so long on Inishrua that he had lost respect for law and perhaps forgotten what the law was. Besides, Andrew was King of the island by right of popular assent, and what is the use of being a king if you cannot override a tiresome law? The marriage took place that afternoon, and Miss Clarence was present, acting as a kind of bridesmaid.