"Myra," retorted the other, "I walk ten times as much as you do."

"Pray take care of yourself, for my sake."

"I hope to find some better incentive than that," said the old lady.

Lady Douglass approached the task of pouring out tea with the hopeless air of one who scarcely hoped to escape error, and when she had asked for and obtained particulars concerning tastes, Clarence Mills came, and his presence seemed to upset all the table plans; Mrs. Douglass arrested her action as she started to pour tea into the sugar basin. The arrival of Miss Loriner enabled her to resign the position. Going across to sit beside Gertie, she gave a highly interesting account of the way in which she had by sheer force of will conquered the cigarette habit; at present she consumed but twenty a day, unless, of course, special circumstances provided an excuse.

"Not for me, thanks," said Gertie, shaking her head. "I can't smoke; and if I could, I shouldn't."

"Tell me!" begged Lady Douglass; "how is that eccentric old gentleman we met at the Zoological Gardens?—Crew, or Brew, or some astonishing name of the kind?"

"I don't suppose," answered the girl defensively, "that you really want to know how he is, but Mr. Trew is quite well, and he isn't in the least eccentric, and he doesn't profess to be a gentleman."

Henry touched her shoulder with a gesture of appeal; she gave an impatient movement.

"But how extremely interesting," cried Lady Douglass, with something like rapture. "And do most of your friends work for a living?"

"All of 'em. I don't care for loafers."

"I myself have been up to my eyebrows in industry this week," said the other, self-commiseratingly. "I sometimes wish charity could be abolished altogether. It does entail such an enormous amount of hard labour. One might as well be in Wormwood Scrubbs."

She paused and looked at the girl intently.

"By the bye, where is Wormwood Scrubbs? One often hears of it."

"Over beyond Shepherd's Bush."

"Have you ever been there?"

"No," answered Gertie; "and I've never been to Portland, and I'm not acquainted with Dartmoor, and I don't know much about Newgate. Why do you ask?"

"I am hugely interested in prison life," declared the other.

"You mustn't be surprised," interposed Henry, addressing Gertie, "at any new subject that my sister-in-law mentions. I haven't heard her speak of this before; and it's only fair to her to say that when she takes up anything fresh, she drops it long before it has the chance of becoming stale. Another cup?"

He went to the table.

"A strange lad," said Lady Douglass musingly. "His heart is in the right place, but sometimes I wonder whether it is the right kind of heart. Do you mind dining at seven for once in your life. Miss Higham? It's a ridiculous hour, I know, but we must be at the hall sharp by eight. Miss Loriner will show you your room when you are ready. I have a thousand and one things to do," she added exhaustedly.

When Jim Langham joined the party and sat on the grass beside Miss Higham's chair, the girl rose, and Miss Loriner conducted her into the house; Henry regarded them with a cheerful smile as they left. The doors gave entrance to a square hall, with a broad staircase going up and turning suddenly to an open corridor that went around three sides. Gertie looked about her astonishedly.

"I've never been in a house like this before," she explained.

They went up the highly-polished staircase, Gertie holding at the banisters for safety.

"So Mr. Henry explained to me; and because he was so very good as to ask your cousin Clarence down, we have made a bargain between each other. I am to look after you, if you don't mind, and see that you get through all right."

"In a general way," confessed Gertie Higham, "I can look after myself, but just now it's likely I may be glad of a wrinkle or two." The other nodded.

"I have some on my forehead to spare, thanks to Lady Douglass. This is your room"—throwing open a door—"and mine is here, next door. Come along in, and let us have a talk."

Miss Loriner had a good deal to say, mainly in describing her present happiness. Clarence was a dear; Clarence was a clever dear, Clarence had brought a joy into her life that had previously been absent. Hitherto Miss Loriner, living in houses as a companion to some testy and difficult woman, found herself only annoyed by the attentions of men of the Jim Langham type; it was new and enchanting to be approached courteously. Gertie, when the other stopped to regain breath, managed to ask how Henry Douglass filled his time, and was surprised, and partially hurt, to discover that he still went up to Old Quebec Street on five days of the week.

"He might have called at the shop," she argued.

Miss Loriner, for the defence, commended him for his industry. Henry would, later, have to face the alternative of either giving up his office in London, or relinquishing duties in the country, but at present he was engaged in a double task; and if Gertie appreciated how difficult it proved to deal with Lady Douglass, she would not utter a word of blame in regard to Henry. One of Lady Douglass's inconvenient tricks was to shift responsibility. As a case in point, take the entertainment to which they were going that evening. Lady Douglass, having promised to organize it, had done not a single thing in the way of—

"Is the place on fire?" asked Gertie, startled.

"That's the first warning for dinner. You have twenty minutes to dress. Be sure to let me know if there is anything you want."

Gertie left, to return immediately with a concerned expression and the announcement that her portmanteau had been robbed of every blessed thing it contained. Miss Loriner accompanied her to make investigations, and, switching on the electric light, pointed out that the maid had unpacked the bag—the articles were on the dressing-table, and hanging up in the wardrobe. Gertie had only to ring, and the maid would come at once to help her to dress. Gertie said she had done this without assistance since the age of three.

Apologies were made later for the brevity of the evening meal, but it seemed to her a dinner that could only be eaten by folk who had starved for weeks. Her cousin sat opposite, and she watched his methods as each course arrived; envied the composure with which Clarence dealt with such trying dishes as vol au vent and artichokes. Her serviette was of a larkish disposition, declining to remain on her lap, and distress increased each time that Henry recovered it; generally, at these moments of confusion, Lady Douglass took the opportunity to send down some perplexing inquiry, and the girl felt grateful to Henry for replying on her behalf. Henry, it appeared, was to contribute to the programme at the hall, but he declined to give particulars; the disaster would, he said, be serious enough when it came. Jim Langham excused himself after dinner from joining the party on the grounds that he had to play billiards with the groom; and this reminded him of one of the groom's stories which (taking her aside) he thought Miss Higham as a Londoner would relish. The anecdote was but half told when Miss Higham turned abruptly.

"That's the right way," said old Mrs. Douglass to her approvingly.

At the door of the town hall carriages and motor cars were setting folk down, and Gertie, who had hoped the new blouse would enable her to smile at country costumes, felt depressed by their magnificence. In the front row Lady Douglass stood up, nodded, gave brief ingratiating smiles, and told people how remarkably well they were looking. Gertie, comforted by the near presence of her cousin, glanced over her shoulder, and wished she were with the shilling folk.

"Care to see the programme, Gertie?"

"I'll do the same as I do at a music hall," she said, "and take it as it comes. How did you think I managed at dinner, Clarence?"

"Capitally!"

"I had a knife and two forks left at the end," she said regretfully.

"A recitation," Clarence read from his programme. "Our friend ought to be here."

"Who do you mean?"

"Bulpert. You remember Bulpert, don't you?"

"I'd nearly forgotten him," she admitted.

There was an interval after men had sung and ladies had played, and a nervous youth had given imitations of popular actors who, it seemed, possessed the same tone of voice, and practised identical gestures. The curtain went up on an outdoor scene. A lady was reclining in a hammock.

"Why, it's Miss Loriner," whispered Gertie.

A man in tweeds came on backwards and collided with the hammock.

"Who's this supposed to be, Clarence?"

"Young Douglass. Made up with a beard."

An apology was made for the accident, and with the rapidity that the drama exacts in matters of the heart, the bearded gentleman was in less than fifteen minutes deeply in love with the lady of the hammock. "And if I promise to worship you all my life, will you then give me my heart's desire?" The lady, with a dexterous movement, came out of her resting-place. "You must first make a name in the world, and, hand upon heart, show yourself worthy of a woman's love!"

"What's the matter, Gertie?" asked Clarence Mills.

"I've made a—made a fearful muddle of nearly everything."

"Buck up!" urged Clarence. "Don't let people see you giving way."

The bearded man was leaving when the lady bethought herself to inquire his name; he proved to be none other than Mr. Francis Mainright, the well-known African explorer; and after a few more words the curtain came down on an affianced couple, with applause from all parts of the hall.

"Easy enough," said Gertie, in ceasing to clap hands, "for troubles to be put right on the stage. It's a bit harder in real life."

Lady Douglass accepted congratulations upon the success of her entertainment, and turned at the end, before leaving the hall, to request Gertie's attention for a moment. She was extremely anxious that her dear young brother-in-law should not commit an error that might last a lifetime. Apparently there was some one up in town who had managed to engage his affections: Lady Douglass did not know her; Miss Higham, of course, had not her acquaintance. The young woman, she believed, occupied an inferior position in life, and Lady Douglass would dearly like to have the opportunity of pointing out that supposing the two married, all the stories of ill-bred wives would be fastened upon Mrs. Henry Douglass. Every night, in every billiard-room, in every smoking-room in Berkshire, amusing stories, not always true, would be told of her mistakes; dull folk might find themselves reckoned as humorists by inventing anecdotes about her, and the general gaiety would find itself increased. Furthermore, there was this to be said. Supposing—

"Are you ready, dear girl?" asked Henry. He came down the steps from the platform, addressing his inquiry to Gertie.

"Quite!" answered Lady Douglass. "We were just chatting about your performance. Miss Higham seems to think you should have had more rehearsals. Doesn't exactly say so, but that is evidently what she means."



CHAPTER VII.

There came a pleasant luxury in waking in a large room, with a maid pulling up the blinds, and reporting that the day promised to be grand. The maid could be looked upon as a friend, in that she knew the best and the worst concerning Miss Higham's clothes, and inquiries were put to her concerning breakfast; the answer came that this meal was ready at half-past eight; you went down at any time you pleased between this and ten o'clock. Mr. Henry breakfasted early; her ladyship and Mr. Langham were always the last. A start had to be made for church at twenty past ten. The maid asked whether Miss Higham would like the bathroom now, and Miss Higham, not quite certain whether it was good form to say "Yes" or "No," replied in the affirmative. As they went along the corridor, Gertie heard Henry Douglass singing in the hall below. The most astonishing detail in this wonderful house proved to be the size of the sponge.

She determined to hurry over her dressing and get downstairs quickly in order to talk privately with him, and consequent on this resolve, found herself, later, knocking at Miss Loriner's room and inquiring whether that young woman was ready to accompany her. After all, there would be time to make the announcement during the day.

"Have you slept well?"

"Like a top," declared Gertie. "For all the world as though I'd nothing on my mind."

"I don't suppose you have many serious murders to brood about."

"Not exactly murders," she replied. "Plenty of blunders."

Henry rose from the table as she entered; he dropped his open arms on seeing that she was not alone. Miss Loriner poured out coffee, and Henry, at the sideboard, recited the dishes that were being kept warm there. "Sausages," decided Gertie, "because it's Sunday morning!" She smiled, out of sheer content at being thus waited upon, and gave them a description of Praed Street, where the meal was continually interrupted by purchasers of journals, buyers of half-ounces of shag. She remarked that it would have been possible here to take breakfast out of doors, and Henry rang and gave instructions to Rutley, the butler, and the next moment, as it seemed, they were at table on the lawn, with sparrows pecking at stray crumbs. Henry, asking permission to smoke, lighted a pipe.

"I've only seen you with cigarettes before," she remarked. "Doesn't the tobacco smell good in the morning air! Do you know what I miss most of all? Sound of cabs going along to Paddington Station. I shouldn't care for the country, you know, not for always." She rattled on, jumping, as was her custom when happy, from one subject to another.

"It's miraculous to hear you talking again," he declared. "Last night we could scarcely get a word out of you."

"Tell me if I babble too much."

"You dear little woman!" he cried protestingly.

Clarence Mills came down, and Miss Loriner was relieved of the difficult task of keeping her eyes averted. Clarence, on the plea that he had some writing to do, wondered whether he might be excused from church, and Henry recommended the billiard-room as a quiet place for work; there was a writing-table at the end, and no one would interfere. Miss Loriner, when Clarence had finished his meal, offered to conduct him to the apartment; it was, it seemed, over the stables at the back of the house, and not easy for a stranger to find; moreover, Miss Loriner felt anxious to see how writing people started their work. Thus Henry Douglass and Gertie Higham would have been left alone, but that Jim Langham, exercising his gift of interference, appeared, rather puffed about the eyes, and one or two indications hinting that the task of shaving had not been without accident. Jim Langham's temper in the early hours seemed to be imperfect; he made only a pretence of eating, crumbling toast and chipping the top of an egg; he admitted he never felt thoroughly in form until after lunch. When Henry suggested that Gertie would like to see the grounds, Jim Langham followed them, pointing out the rose walk, and the summer-house (that was like a large beehive) with an air of proprietorship which Henry did not assume. Henry made an inquiry.

"I'm really chapel, if I'm anything," she answered; "but I shall like to go. Especially if you're to be there. It'll be the first time we've ever been in a place of worship together."

"We shall go together again," he said, "some day." She shook her head quickly.

Lady Douglass had breakfasted in her room, and came when they were ready and waiting; she complained severely that she seemed to be always the first when any expedition was in train. They walked around the carriage drive and across fields; at the porch, Lady Douglass offered to Gertie the hospitable inquiry in regard to the night's rest that Miss Loriner had made, and went on without waiting for a reply.

Gertie found herself wishing the service would continue for ever. It was soothing, beautiful, appropriate. "Forgiving us those things whereof our conscience is afraid, and giving us those good things which we are not worthy to ask," said the first collect of the day. "Grant that this day we fall into no sin, neither run into any kind of danger," said the third collect. "Fulfil now," said the prayer, "the desires and petitions of Thy servants, as may be most expedient for them." Announced the nervous young curate from the pulpit, "The eighth chapter of John, the thirty-second verse. 'The truth shall make you free.'" The curate had an artificial voice, and he glanced anxiously at Lady Douglass's aspect of jaded resignation; but it soon became evident he had something to say; Gertie, listening attentively, wondered whether he might, in some remarkable manner, have become acquainted with the particulars of her own case. Truth, he contended, was indispensable to the wise and comfortable conduct of life. Truth could only run on the main line; any deviation led to serious disaster. Truth might, at times, hurt others at the moment, but, in the end, it did nothing but good. Gertie felt impressed, and the effect of the address upon her was not decreased when, outside the church, and in accepting Lady Douglass's invitation to lunch, the young curate mentioned that he well remembered the great pleasure of meeting Miss Higham at a garden party, given up in town by the Bishop of London.

Folk had been asked for three o'clock to play tennis, and in walking across the lawn to look for them, Henry found the first opportunity of speaking to her alone.

"Tell me, dear girl," he said urgently, "why did you take no notice of my letters?"

"I never received any."

"Are you sure? I don't mean that," he went on hurriedly. "Only, I wrote to you three times, and no answer came."

"They must have been wrongly addressed. What number did you put on the envelopes?"

"But I also called, and saw your aunt."

"I didn't know that," admitted Gertie.

"Looks as though she stopped your notes. I'm sorry if that's the case."

"It worried me frightfully at the time," he said; "but it doesn't matter now."

"I rather fancy it does matter now." The tennis players came in sight, waving a salutation with their rackets.

Henry's mother apologized for a late appearance; no longer young, no longer indeed middle-aged, she found it necessary to save up strength, to use it economically. Gertie listened, content to be free from the presence of Lady Douglass, and genuinely interested in the other's conversation. Mark, the eldest son, she explained, arrived within a year after her marriage; then came two baby girls who went back to Heaven; then, after a long interval—

"It was because I had given away the rocking-horse," she declared.

—Then Henry. Mark was a good lad, but Henry had always been a dear lad. Poor Mark made the one great mistake of his life when he selected a wife, and Mrs. Douglass hoped the girl would understand why she felt anxious that Henry should not commit a similar error.

"I don't care whom he marries," declared the old lady resolutely, "providing he loves her, that she loves him, and that she is a good girl."

"That sort ought not to be hard to find."

"They are less plentiful," said the other, "than some people imagine. Now I want you to tell me something, my dear."

The girl was preparing to use caution when Jim Langham strolled up; his expectations of increased cheerfulness appeared to be realized, and his manner was almost rollicking. He suggested that Gertie should walk around with him; and the girl, to evade the threatened cross-examination, nodded an acceptance.

"You don't go in for many games, I suppose?"

"Wish I did," replied Gertie. "I shouldn't feel quite so much out of it."

"Henry will expect you to play him at billiards this evening. If you care to come across now," he offered, "I shall be delighted to give you some idea how to start."

As they turned to go along the path that led to the back of the house, Gertie glanced over her shoulder. Henry, watching their departure, missed an easy serve, and endured the reproaches of his partner.

"Rutley, I want the key of the billiard-room. Rutley, get it at once."

"I think I know where it was put last," said the butler.

They went up the steps, and waited until Rutley came. Jim Langham called him a slow-coach, a tortoise, a stick-in-the-mud, and a few other names. Rutley, unmoved, inquired whether his services were wanted as marker. Mr. Langham retorted that the butler might take it that whenever his help was required, definite instructions would be given.

The long room being well lighted by windows on both sides, the assistance of green shaded lamps that hung dependent above the table was not required. At the end, a raised platform with table and corner couches; on the mantelpiece rested a box of cigars, a silver case containing cigarettes and matches. A dozen cues stood upright in a military position on a stand. Jim Langham placed the red ball in its position, and Gertie took spot white. In showing her how to hold the cue, he touched her hand, and looked quickly to see if she resented this.

"You are going to make a very fine player," he declared presently. "All you need is practice."

Because of the pronounced scent of spirits, she drew away when he came too near; Jim Langham instantly became more deferential. By the luck that often comes to beginners, Gertie presently made five, potting the red and effecting a cannon; she beamed with the delight of success. Spot white was left in the centre of the table, and Langham, obtaining the long rest, explained the manner of using it. In doing so, he placed his hand upon her neck; the next moment he was on his knees conducting an active search under the table. Gertie, flushed with annoyance, went towards the door. Before she reached it, a knock came; the door was rattled impatiently.

"Open it from your side," ordered the high-pitched voice of Lady Douglass.

"The key is not here," answered Gertie.

"It must be there. Why is the door locked?"

"How should I know?" retorted the girl sharply. "You don't suppose I locked it, do you?" She heard Lady Douglass call for the useful Rutley; and when the butler came, there was a consultation outside. The door creaked, the lock gave way; Rutley, falling in with the door, just escaped collision with the perturbed girl. He was told to go.

"What does this mean?" demanded Lady Douglass. "Why are you in the billiard-room alone, Miss Higham?"

"I'm not alone. Your brother is here."

"That scarcely improves the look of affairs.—Jim, where are you?"

The gentleman, half emerging, made a mumbled, indistinct request for matches. Gertie, walking to the end of the room, found a box.

"There's your set of teeth," she pointed out, "just by the corner leg. It half frightened me when I saw I'd knocked the whole lot out."

"This is a serious matter," said Lady Douglass judicially. "The great thing will be to keep it from the knowledge of Henry."

"I'm not ashamed of my part in it!" She turned indignantly upon the red-faced man; his mouth was again furnished with the productions of the dentist, but he scowled in an alarming way. "What did you mean by it? Was this a dodge of yours, or of hers?"

"I simply, and by the merest chance," he complained to his sister, "happened to touch her near the shoulder, and you saw for yourself how she treated me. I shall go off and get a drink, and leave you both to clear it up as best you can. Serves her right!" He repeated this remark several times, with additions, as he stamped out of the room.

"My brother," said Lady Douglass, "is peculiar in his manners."

"I haven't met his sort before."

"But I wonder you did not know better than to trust yourself with him. Fortunately, you can rely upon me to say nothing about the affair. It would have been very unlucky if someone else had happened to come to the door."

"I don't particularly like being under any sort of obligation to you."

"We won't say anything more about it," ordered the other. "I have an enormous objection to a scandal."

"You're not alone in that respect," she retorted.

"And we will of course avoid all references to Wormwood Scrubbs."

"I don't know what you mean by that!"

The tennis folk, after they had replayed their games over the tea-table, left; Gertie was quiet, and her cousin inquired anxiously whether anything had occurred. Clarence urged her to keep up courage, declaring she had managed admirably up to the present.

"I feel as though there's thunder in the air," she said.

"There isn't," he assured her; "not a trace of it. It's a beautiful day. And," with enthusiasm, "Mary tells me she doesn't mind waiting until I make three hundred a year."

"Lucky boy!" she remarked absently.

They were still out on the lawn, and Henry had made a suggestion that they should all play golf-croquet when Rutley came to clear the table. Lady Douglass gave an instruction aside. "Very well, my lady," said Rutley; "it shall be seen to first thing in the morning. If we could only find the key I'd manage it myself." Henry asked whether anything was missing; his sister-in-law replied that it was nothing of importance—nothing that he need trouble about. Henry had quite enough to occupy his mind, and he must please allow her to take charge of some of the domestic anxieties.

"Rather unusual," said old Mrs. Douglass, "to find you so considerate."

"I get very little credit," sighed Lady Douglass.

As they waited on the croquet lawn to take their turn, Henry remarked to Gertie that no opportunity had yet been found for their long talk; looking down at her affectionately, he added that perhaps she could guess all that was in his mind. It had been perfectly splendid, he went on in his boyish way, simply magnificent, to be near to her for so long a period of time; they would have many week-ends similar to this. His mother had spoken approvingly of Gertie, and nothing else mattered. The girl kept her eyes on her mallet; she could not bring herself to the point of arresting his speech.

"We are waiting for yellow," said Lady Douglass resignedly.

Miss Loriner and Clarence seemed to lose interest in the game as it proceeded; later, they were missing when their colours were called. Lady Douglass, throwing down her mallet, delivered a brief oration. If people intended to play golf-croquet, they should play golf-croquet; if, on the other hand, they did not propose to play golf-croquet, they should say, frankly and openly, that they did not propose to play golf-croquet. Deploring the lack of candour and straight-forwardness, she pronounced the game at an end.

"Where are you going, Henry?" He answered promptly. "Come back! I don't want you to go to the billiard-room. You dare not ask me why; you must just comply with this one wish of mine."

"Have you any reasons?"

"The best of reasons." She exhibited a considerable amount of agitation; her head went from side to side. "Do please obey me. If you do not, you will regret it to the last hour of your life."

He stared at her curiously.

"I rather fancy," interposed Gertie, breaking the pause, "that I'm the best one to explain." She was standing beside old Mrs. Douglass, and as she spoke she gripped at the back of the wicker chair. "I don't like this mystery where I am concerned. Lady Douglass came to the door of the billiard-room whilst Mr. Langham and me—Mr. Langham and I were there. The door was locked. She had it burst open."

Henry held out his hand appealingly. "That can't be all," he urged.

"It's all that matters."

"Where is Jim?" he demanded of Lady Douglass.

"I am not my brother's keeper, but I believe he has gone down into the village."

"There's something more I've got to say," Gertie went on. Her voice trembled; she made an effort to control it. "It's kind of you to ask me down here, but I wish you had invited Clarence alone. He knows how to behave in company like this; I don't. I'm not in it. It was foolish of me to come. It's like anybody trying to go Nap without a single picture card in their hand. And I want to tell you something more—I'm engaged! Engaged to a youngish man in my own station of life."

"No, no!" he cried.

"My dear," said old Mrs. Douglass, looking up concernedly, "surely you're not in earnest!"

"I think," remarked Lady Douglass impartially, "that she is acting with great wisdom."

"I was wishing to-day," the girl went on, raising her voice, "that I hadn't got myself engaged. It happened because of a misunderstanding, and I did it on the impulse of the moment; all the same, it can't be helped. And I was pretty jolly before I met Henry, and—I don't know—I may be pretty jolly again. If I go right out of his life now—why, I shall only think, I shall only remember—"

Old Mrs. Douglass turned in her chair and patted the girl's hand.

"I shall only remember how happy I was all the time after I was lucky enough to meet him. It's over and done with now, and I'm going back home, where I can be trusted. I must be trusted. Here, you don't quite believe me." She bent down to old Mrs. Douglass. "Not even you. I'm a foreigner at this place; a foreigner, trying to learn your habits and customs, and trying to forget my own. Perhaps, one day, you'll see that although I wasn't very refined, and not too well brought up," she raised her face, and her chin went out, "all the same, I did know how to keep myself straight."

Young Mills came across the croquet lawn.

"Want you for a moment, Clarence," she said.

Henry Douglass, descending the staircase slowly and thoughtfully at eight o'clock, asked Rutley whether Miss Higham was in the drawing-room. Rutley answered that the young lady and Mr. Mills had gone. Walked to Cholsey to catch the evening train to town. One of the under-gardeners carried their luggage.

"Quite thought you knew, sir," mentioned Rutley.



CHAPTER VIII.

Frederick Bulpert, having obtained two professional engagements at seven shillings and sixpence each, resigned his situation in the Post Office, and this left him free to call at Praed Street whenever he cared to do so. Mrs. Mills described him as a hearty eater, but she made much of him, apparently out of gratitude. Gertie had spoken to her about Henry's letters—

"She looked rather white," said Mrs. Mills to Mr. Trew confidentially; "but I must admit she kept her temper wonderfully well, considering!"

—And the girl took charge of the intercepted envelopes with their contents. Her aunt declared, with emphasis, that all along she had acted for the best. Gertie remarked that people said this whenever they had done their worst: this was the only reproach given, and Mr. Trew, as a candid friend, assured Mrs. Mills she had been let off very lightly. Mr. Trew had anxieties of his own. The new motor omnibuses still broke down occasionally, and he was able, in passing, to make offers for the conveyances at an extremely low figure; but many of them ran without accident, and ran speedily, and he was losing customers hitherto considered faithful and regular. Summing up, he came to the conclusion that the world was becoming a jolly sight too clever; the only comfort he found was that it could not possibly exist much longer. Regaining cheerfulness, he mentioned that if Mrs. Mills happened to hear of an American heiress who wanted a good-looking English husband with a special and particular knowledge of horses, well acquainted with London, and fond of the sea, why, it would be kind of her to drop him a postcard, giving the name and address.

"When you've finished talking nonsense," she said, "perhaps you'll kindly tell me how I'm to manage in order to get these two young people married. She'll be happy enough, once she settles down; but, meanwhile, I don't like seeing her so quiet and thoughtful."

"I have never denied," he remarked, "that you are the prize packet of your sex, and in many respects you've got almost the intelligence of a man. But in a matter of this kind—remember, she's as pretty as they make 'em—you're a born muddler. Leave it to me, and I'll do the best I can for you."

Wherefore, Mr. Trew made appointments with Bulpert and held secret discussions with him, sheltering his words with a broad, big hand, enjoying greatly the sense of management, and, even more, the atmosphere of conspiracy. Bulpert, on his side, began to realize his importance, and treated Praed Street with a condescension that was meant to represent a correct and proper pride. One evening, seated at the counter there, and waiting for the return of Gertie, he gave a formal warning to the effect that any cigar presented to him was, in future, to be taken from the threepenny box.

At Great Titchfield Street, Gertie tried to divert her mind from personal anxieties by throwing energy into work, with more than common resolution. A large commission arrived from a ruler of an Eastern nation, who considered a new and elaborately ornamental sash would revive a feeling of loyalty in his army and patriotism in his country. The girls were not permitted except on strictly limited occasions to work after nine o'clock in the evening, and extra assistants had to be engaged; the men upstairs who made the leather foundations were watched and encouraged; Madame begged Gertie to recommend them to keep off the drink, adding that they would take more notice of this advice if it came from Miss Higham and not from Madame herself. All the looms were at their noisy spider work; reels of gold thread were ordered in twenties; the bobbins began to dance around the maypole, sewing-machines sang lustily; the telephone only ceased ringing to deliver messages. Miss Rabbit became hysterical, vehement, cross; Gertie's intervention became necessary to prevent a strike amongst the pinafored young women.

"We can be led, Miss Higham," they announced determinedly, "but we won't be drove. You tell her to keep a civil tongue in her head, and all will go well. We're not going to be treated as though we was Russians."

The rush of work had, for consequence, a distinct advantage to Gertie, apart from useful occupation of the mind. She stayed late to finish books which could not be entered up in the day, and this meant that, on returning home, the good news was frequently communicated that Mr. Bulpert had gone; there was also the comfortable fact that she felt sufficiently tired to go straight to bed. Bunny, at Great Titchfield Street, on the occasions when she herself had to depart and leave Madame and Miss Higham together, was a picture of woeful apprehension; if she managed to gain the private ear of the girl, she reminded her that no good ever yet came to one who failed to keep a solemn promise.

"Don't you worry," answered Gertie. "I'm not a parrot."

"I shan't feel happy about you," said the forewoman solicitously, "until I hear you've got another berth. The smash-up will come as a surprise to the others, but I don't care a snap of the fingers about them or about myself. It's you I'm thinking about!"

Madame one night, at the sloping desk, referred vaguely to a wish that, as she hastened to add, could never in any circumstances be gratified. Urged by Gertie, on the other side, to put the desire into words, Madame took off spectacles which she wore only when the rest of the staff had gone, and said wistfully that if she could but get a paragraph into the newspapers containing the name of the firm, she thought it would be possible to die happy. Having ascertained this did not mean that suicide would follow, Gertie sent a note to Clarence Mills, absent since the evening of the impulsive departure from Ewelme. No answer came, and Gertie was assuming that her cousin intended, in this way, to prove he was not on terms of peace with her, when one of the loom workers brought in, after lunch hour, an evening journal, obtained by him because he required advice regarding the investment of small sums on the prospects of racehorses.

"Here's a bit about us, miss," he said exultantly, with thumb against the paragraph. "Here we are. Large as life, and twice as natural!"

The paragraph was found in other newspapers, and indeed it went about Great Britain later and found its way to the Colonies. "An Oriental Omen" it was headed, and Madame's only regret appeared to be that it could not be held to be distinguished by the quality of absolute truth. But there it stood in print, and there was the name of Hilbert and Co., the old established firm, making a speciality of manufacturing military accoutrements, dating from the glorious year of Waterloo, and Madame's delight proved beyond the powers of expression; her gratitude to Miss Higham was conveyed by a kiss. One competing firm, it was discovered, wrote a sarcastic letter to the papers that must have taken hours to compose, throwing doubts on the accuracy of the report and inquiring whether it was a fact that Wellington's achievement followed the Franco-Prussian War, and this might have been inserted but for the suggestion of self-advertisement made with something less than the dexterity that belonged to Clarence's pen.

"I tell you what, Miss Higham," said Madame definitely. "You must come to supper at my house the very next Sunday evening that ever is. Your aunt won't mind for once. I'll write down the address. My proper name is Jacks. Yes, dear, I'm married, to tell you the truth, only I don't want it talked about here."

Frederick Bulpert, when he arrived on the Sunday evening, entered a warm protest against what he described as this eternal gadding about. On ascertaining the destination, he admitted circumstances altered cases; where business was concerned, private interests had to give way. He explained that some of his present irritation was due to the fact that, at a Bohemian concert the previous evening, an elderly gentleman had been pointed out to him as the representative of an important Sunday newspaper; the comic singer who gave the information, encountered a few minutes since in Marylebone Road, confessed that it was one of his jokes. "And all the drinks I stood," complained Bulpert, "and all the amiable remarks I made, absolutely wasted!" Gertie, apparelled in her finest and best, went at the hour of seven, after Bulpert and her aunt had quarrelled regarding the best and speediest mode of transit, to make her way to King's Road, Chelsea. There, in a turning she twice walked by without noticing, she found a house with several brass knobs at the side of the door. A maid answered her ring.

"Sounds as though they're in the studio," remarked the maid, with a wink. "What name?"

The servant opened the door and gave the announcement, but in the tumult it was not heard. Madame's husband was informing Madame in a loud voice that the most unfortunate day in his life was the occasion when he allowed her to drag him into a registrar's office. Gertie went back a few steps, and the maid repeated the name.

"You dear!" cried Madame, coming forward pleasantly. "This is my husband. You know him by name, I expect." She whispered, "The celebrated river painter. Most successful. And such a worker. Never idle for a moment."

"How d'ye do?" said Mr. Jacks, coming forward casually. "Sorry I'm just going out. What's the night like?"

Madame switched on the electric light, and Gertie could see that the room suggested a large cucumber frame with a sloping glass roof and windows at the far end. On a raised square platform in a corner stood a draped lay figure, not, apparently, quite sober.

"Well," said Madame's husband, after glancing again at the visitor, "if it's fine, I don't know that there's any special necessity for me to go. What do you say, darling?" This to his wife.

"Please yourself, Digby, my sweet. If you think you can put up with our company, I am sure Miss Higham and myself will be delighted if you can stay. Mr. Jacks," she explained to Gertie, "is naturally attracted to his club, not only because he finds there all the latest news concerning his profession, but because it gives him an opportunity of coming into contact with other bright, vivacious spirits." She took Gertie's coat and hat. "Perhaps we can get him to tell us some of his best stories presently."

Her husband smoothed his hair at the mirror with both hands, and gave style and uniformity to the two halves of his moustache. This done, he turned and asked the girl whether she did not consider Whistler an overrated artist. Just because he happened to be dead, people raved about him. Would not allow any one else to produce impressions of the Thames round about Chelsea. Mr. Jacks said, rather bitterly, that when he too was no more, folk would doubtless be going mad about him, and Jubilee Place might become impassable owing to the crowd of dealers waiting their turn there.

"And what good do you imagine that will do to me?" he demanded. "Eh, what? No use you saying that I ought to be content with the praise of posterity."

"I didn't say so. How many hours do you work a day?"

"I can't work unless the fit takes me," argued Madame's husband weakly.

"Are you subject to them? Fits, I mean?"

Madame, assisting the maid in setting the table, took up the case for the defence, and pointed out to Miss Higham that one profession differed from another. In the case of painting, for instance, you could not expect to be ruled by office hours; you had to wait until inspiration came, and then the light was, perhaps, not exactly what you required. Besides, friends might drop in at that moment for a smoke and a chat.

"Sounds like an easy life," remarked Gertie.

"You forget the wear and tear of the brain," said Madame.

"But we get that in our business."

"Hush!" whispered the other. "He doesn't like hearing that referred to."

Conversation during the meal was restricted to the subject of the production of pictures and their subsequent disposal; Madame showed great deference to the arguments of her husband, occasionally interposing a mild suggestion which he had no difficulty in knocking down. At moments of excited contention Madame's husband became inarticulate, and had to fall back upon the gestures of the studio, that conveyed nothing to the visitor.

"How much do you make a year?" she asked, when an opportunity came. He paused in his task of opening another bottle of stout, and regarded her with something of surprise.

"My good girl," he replied, "I don't estimate my results by pounds, shillings, and pence."

"Do you earn a hundred in twelve months?"

"Wish I did," confessed Madame's husband. "In that case, I shouldn't have to be beholden to other people."

"How would you manage if you weren't married?"

He looked at the mantelpiece, and inquired of his wife if the clock was indicating the correct time. Receiving the answer, Madame's husband became alarmed, declaring it a fortunate thing that he had remembered a highly important appointment. It represented, he said, the chance of a lifetime, and to miss it would be nothing short of madness; he bade Miss Higham good evening in a curt way, and Madame accompanied him to the front door. There they had a spirited discussion. Madame considered an allowance of half a crown would be ample; he said, in going, that his wife was a mean, miserable cat.

"I'm afraid, my dear, you shunted him off," remarked Madame, coming back to the studio. "You don't seem to know how to manage men, do you?"

"Had my suspicions of that before now."

"Of course, they're very trying but"—helplessly—"I don't know. Sometimes I wish I'd kept single, and then again at other times, when I've had a hard day of it, I feel glad I'm not coming home to empty rooms. Taking the rough with the smooth, I suppose most women think that any husband is better than no husband at all."

"Rather than get hold of one who didn't earn his living," declared Gertie with vehemence, "I'd keep single all my life."

"He did nearly sell a picture," argued the other, "once!"

They took easy-chairs, and Madame found a box of chocolates. Mr. Jacks, it appeared, was not Madame's first love. Mr. Jacks's predecessor had been ordered out years ago to take part in a war that improved the receipts entered up in Hilbert's books; on the debit side, the loss of a good sweetheart had to be placed. Madame dried her eyes, and in less than half a minute the two were on the subject which absorbed their principal interests. Price of gold thread, difficulty with one of the home workers, questions of aiguillettes, sword belts, sashes, grenades; hopes that the King would shortly issue a new order concerning officers' uniforms. Madame said that, nowadays, profits were cut very close; she could remember, in her father's time, when, if there was not a balance at the end of the year of over a thousand pounds, serious anxiety ensued. Madame brought out a large album to show pictures of gorgeous apparel that belonged to days before thrift became a hobby.

"Seems to me," she said, without leading up to the remark, "that Miss Rabbit is the weak link in our chain." Gertie did not make any comment. "I'm going to tell you something. I want to give her other work to do, and get you to take her place. It will amount to an extra ten shillings a week, Miss Higham."

"Do you really mean it?"

"It's why I asked you to come here this evening. You see, you have improved so much this summer. Improved in style, speech, everything!"

"There's a reason for that!"

Gertie Higham walked up and down the studio with excitement in her eyes. She wanted to ask Madame how long the firm was likely to endure, but to do this might lead to the betrayal of confidence; meanwhile she fired inquiries, and Madame, eager to gain her approval of the suggestion, answered each one promptly. Bunny was not to be reduced in wages; only in position. One of the new duties would be to run about and see people; Madame's nerves were not quite all they used to be, and the hurried traffic of the street frightened her. Next to Madame, Gertie would be considered, so to speak, as head cook and bottle-washer. Gertie, collecting all this information, wondered how it would be possible to let Henry Douglass know that she was making important progress. Possibly it could be managed through Clarence Mills and Miss Loriner; she might meet him in London, at some unexpected moment.

"Do you object, Madame," she asked, "if I run off now, and tell aunt about it?"

"You accept the offer?"

"Like a shot!" answered Gertie.

"You dear!" cried Madame.

Frederick Bulpert was on the point of leaving when she reached Praed Street; he came back into the shop parlour to hear the news. Her aunt kissed her, and said Gertie was a good, clever girl; Bulpert declared the promotion well earned.

"This is distinctly frankincense and myrrh," he acknowledged. "I feel proud of you, and I don't care who hears me say so. Let me see; your birthday's next week, isn't it? How about arranging something in the nature of a conversazione, or what not?"

"I hope," said Mrs. Mills, escorting him through the shop, "that, later on, you'll do your best to make her happy."

"But it's her," protested Bulpert, "it's her that's got to make me happy."



CHAPTER IX.

Clarence Mills, invited to be present at the birthday evening, wrote in frolicsome terms, from which the young hostess judged that with him the progress of love was satisfactory. "My dear young relation, near Paddington Station, of course I will come to your show. If forced to leave early, you won't think me surly; I have to meet some one you know!" To this Gertie sent a card begging Miss Loriner to include herself in the invitation, and that young woman forwarded a telegram from Ewelme with the word "Delighted."

"Now"—to herself hopefully—"now I shall hear some news about him!"

Gertie decided the evening should differ from evenings which had preceded it, in that the entire expense was to be borne by herself; and Mrs. Mills therefore only offered a feeble objection when the girl arranged that the front room upstairs was to be turned out, rout seats hired, and a few articles of furniture, including the piano-forte (which, at one perilous moment, threatened to remain for the rest of its life at the turn of the staircase), transferred from the shop parlour. Bulpert announced his intention of taking charge of the musical and dramatic part of the entertainment. Bulpert no longer considered himself a visitor at Praed Street, and on one occasion he entered a stern protest when he found Mr. Trew's hat there, resting upon the peg which he considered his own. Twice he had suggested that Gertie should lend him half a sovereign, reducing the amount, by stages, to eighteenpence; but she answered definitely that advances of this kind interfered with friendship, and she preferred not to start the practice.

"I could let you have it back in a fortnight."

"Perhaps!" she said. "And if you did, you would be under the impression that you were doing me a great favour."

"I like to see a girl economical," he remarked, frowning, "but there's a diff'rence between that and being miserly. And," with resolution, "I go further, and I say that if there's anybody who's got a just and fair and proper claim on your consideration, it is F. W. B."

"There's some one who comes before you."

"The name, please?"

"Myself," replied Gertie.

The question of conciliating Miss Rabbit at Great Titchfield Street had been solved, and matters there were going smoothly. Miss Rabbit continued to hold her title of forewoman, although she was no longer forewoman; and Miss Higham took the label of secretary, which well described duties she did not perform. The girls in the workroom made no concealment of their satisfaction with the change, and men at the looms upstairs came individually to Gertie and said, "Look here, miss! If ever you have any difficulty or awk'ardness or anything of the kind with the other chaps, just give the word, and I'll put it all right."

Bunny, for the preservation of friendship, went down on the birthday party list, and Miss Radford (who had not been seen for some time) and two girls (formerly at school with Gertie, and then known as a couple of terrors, but now grown tall and distinguished, and doing well in a notable shop in Westbourne Grove), and, of course, Mr. Trew, and two friends of Bulpert's, whom he guaranteed capable of keeping any party on the go. Mrs. Mills checked the names, expressed satisfaction.

"I was half afraid," she said, "you'd want to send a note to that young gentleman who lives near where I was brought up."

"If he came here," replied the girl steadily, "I should only fall in love with him again, and that would complicate matters."

"I think you're wise," approved Mrs. Mills.

A charwoman from Sale Street came in to scrub floors, to see to fireplaces, and to renovate apartments generally—a slow worker, on account of some affection of the heart, but an uncommonly good talker. When human intercourse failed she addressed articles of furniture, asking them how much they cost originally, and, sarcastically, whether they were under the impression that they looked as good as new; to some she gave the assurance that if she were to meet them at a jumble sale, she would pass by without a second glance. The charwoman suggested, at the completion of her task, and rolling up her square mat with the care of one belonging to an Oriental sect, that her help should be engaged for the party; Mrs. Mills replied that if they required help, some one of more active methods and of less years would be approached.

"Right you are!" she said, taking her money from the counter. "In that case, I'll send along my Sarah."

To suit the young hostess, and to meet the convenience of one or two of the guests, the party began at an hour that was quite fashionably late. Miss Radford came early, excusing herself for this breach of decorum on the grounds that it made her painfully nervous to enter a room when strangers were present; apart from which, to arrive in good time meant that one had a chance of looking at oneself in the mirror. Did Gertie consider that her (Miss Radford's) complexion was showing signs of going off? A lady friend, who, from the description given, seemed to be neither a friend nor a lady, had mentioned that Miss Radford was beginning to look her full age; and remarks of this kind might be contradicted but could not be ignored.

"Don't you ever get anxious about your personal appearance?" she inquired.

"Not specially."

"I suppose," agreed Miss Radford, "that being properly engaged does make you a bit less anxious."

Clarence came with Miss Loriner, and the young hostess flushed at the young woman's first words. Henry sent his best regards. Henry, it appeared, no longer spent week-ends at Ewelme—this because of some want of agreement with Lady Douglass; and he was now busy in connection with a sanatorium at Walton-on-Naze, which demanded frequent journeys from Liverpool Street. Gertie, in taking Miss Loriner to get rid of hat and dust-cloak in the adjoining room, felt it good to find herself remembered. Miss Loriner wanted a small fan, and searching the hand-bag which she had brought, first looked puzzled, and then became enlightened.

"I've brought Lady Douglass's bag by mistake," she cried, self-reproachfully. "Here are her initials in the corner—'M. D.'; not 'M. L.'" Miss Loriner gave an ejaculation.

"What is it you've found there?"

"This," announced the other deliberately, "is the missing key of the billiard-room at Morden Place!"

The two girls looked at each other, and Gertie nodded.

"I've been blaming her brother all along for that trick."

"My dear girl," demanded Miss Loriner, "aren't you fearfully excited and indignant about it?"

"Doesn't seem to matter much now. But," smiling, "she is a character, isn't she? I pity you if she often does things like that."

"I shall be uncommonly glad," admitted the other, "when Clarence earns three hundred a year. Do you know that if you had stayed on at Morden Place, this key would most likely have been found in your portmanteau."

Frederick Bulpert, arriving with his friends, asserted his position by attempting to kiss Gertie; she drew back, and Bulpert said manfully that if she could do without it he could also afford to dispense with the ceremony. He introduced his companions as two of the very best and brightest, and they intimated, by a modest shrug of the shoulders, that this might be taken as a correct description. The sisters of Westbourne Grove came bearing a highly-ornamental cardboard case with a decoration of angels, and containing a pair of gloves. They mentioned that if the size was not correct the gloves could be changed, and at once took seats in the corner of the room, whence they surveyed the company with a critical air, sighing in unison, as though regretting deeply their mad impulsiveness in accepting the invitation. On this, other presents were offered; Bulpert said his memento would come later on. One of his friends sat on the music-stool, and Sarah, the charwoman's daughter, entering at the first chord with a tray that held sandwiches and cakes, said to him casually, "Hullo, George, you on in this scene?" and handed around the refreshments. Bulpert's friend, disturbed by the incident, waited until the girl left the room, and then explained that he had met her in pantomime, the previous Christmas, at the West London Theatre; he argued forcibly that people encountered behind the footlights had no right to claim acquaintance outside. "Otherwise," contended Bulpert's friend, "we're none of us safe." He was induced to give his song, and the first lines,—

"I went to Margate, once I did, to spend my holidee, Such funny things you seem to see beside the silver sea"

suggested that he was not one disposed to worship originality or make a fetish of invention. Bulpert, at the end, pointed out that his friend had omitted the last verse; the man at the pianoforte said there were some places where he was in the habit of giving the last verse; this, he declared flatteringly, was not one of them. Gertie's aunt came upstairs to announce that, the occasion being special, she had taken it upon herself to put up the shutters. If they excused her for half a second this would give her sufficient space to tittivate and smarten up.

"Say when you want me to liven 'em up, Gertie," remarked Bulpert.

"Go and be nice to those two sisters in the corner."

"When we're married," he said, "we'll often give little affairs of this kind. I'm a great believer in hospitality myself."

As he did not appear to make a great deal of headway with the Westbourne Grove ladies, he was recalled and the task handed over to Clarence Mills. Clarence scored an immediate success. The sisters, it seemed, prided themselves upon being tremendous readers; Clarence was acquainted with some of the writers who, to them, were only names. And the young hostess would have been able to survey the room with contentment, but for the fact that Miss Radford suddenly became depressed—with hands clasped over a knee she rocked to and fro in her chair. Gertie discovered that to her friend had just come the terrifying thought that no one loved her, nobody cared for her, and for all practical purposes Miss Radford might as well be dead and buried, with daisies growing over her grave. Gertie argued against this melancholy attitude, and the other explained that it came to her only at moments when every one else was jolly and cheerful, adding defiantly that she could not avoid it, and did not mean to avoid it.

"People," declared Miss Radford with truculence, "have to take me as they happen to find me!"

Bulpert's second friend, advancing with a pack of cards, asked if Miss Radford would kindly select one and tell him the description. "The Queen of Hearts? Nothing," said Bulpert's second friend, with a gallant bow, "nothing could be more appropriate." Miss Radford cried, "Oh, what a cheeky thing to say!" and at once bade farewell to melancholy.

A wonderful man, the second friend—able to do everything with cards that ordinary folk deemed impossible. If you selected a card and tore it up; and he presently—talking all the while—produced a card, and said in the politest way, "I think that is yours, madam?" and you remarked that this was the four of clubs, whereas you selected the five, he exclaimed, with pretence of irritation, "Well, what is there to grumble at?" and, looking again, you saw that it had changed to the five of clubs. There was nothing to do but to applaud and wonder. He swallowed cards, and produced them with a slight click from his elbow, the middle of his back, and his ankle. He allowed Miss Loriner to find the four aces and put them at the bottom of the pack, and the next moment asked Mr. Trew, who had just arrived, to produce them from the inside pocket of his coat. Mr. Trew had some difficulty in finding them, but the conjurer assisted, and there were the four aces; and Mr. Trew, after denying the suggestion that he had come prepared to play whist, admitted the young man was a masterpiece. Mr. Trew's watch was next borrowed and wrapped in paper; the poker borrowed in order to smash it; the violent blow given. Miss Radford was asked to be so very kind as to assist by looking in the plate of nuts that stood on the table, and there the watch was discovered, safe and sound. Some thought-reading followed, not easy to understand because of the incessant monologue kept up by the gifted youth; but the results were satisfactory, and by pressing the folded pieces of paper very hard against his forehead, he was able to announce the names written within.

"This is yours, I think, Miss Higham. Now, I don't guarantee success, mind you, in every case, but—the name, I think, is Henry"—he contorted his features—"Henry Douglass. Is that right, may I ask?"

"Quite correct!" replied Gertie.

"What did you want to write his name for?" demanded Bulpert, seated next to her.

"It was the first that came into my head."

"Kindly keep it out of your head in future," he ordered, "or else there'll be ructions."

Did the ladies object to smoke? asked some one. The ladies answered, separately and collectively, that they adored smoke; the Westbourne Grove young women, now in excellent fettle, admitted that, at times, they themselves enjoyed a cigarette, but could not be persuaded to give a public exhibition of their powers. They did, however, agree to give a short sketch entitled "Who is Who?" and the hearthrug was given up to them; and if they had not made so many corrections—neither appeared to be well acquainted with her own part in the piece, but each was letter perfect in the part of the other—the duologue would have been a great success.

"And now," said Mrs. Mills, "let's see about refreshments. Mr. Trew, where's that corkscrew of yours?"

"Isn't it about time I was asked to do something?" demanded Bulpert, with an injured air.

"Let us see you do your celebrated trick," suggested Gertie's aunt, with irony, "of eating nearly everything there is on the table. That's what you're really clever at."

Miss Radford, by a sudden inspiration, suggested the ladies should wait upon the gentlemen, and herself took a plate to Bulpert's conjuring friend; the example was imitated. Mr. Trew, attended to by Gertie, declared it a real treat to see her looking like his own little friend once again.

"Makes me think," he said, "that if there wasn't quite so much diplomacy about on the part of those of us who reckon we know everything, you young uns would get a far better chance. Speaking as one who's been a fusser all my life, that's my candid opinion."

"If you interfered, Mr. Trew, you would interfere wisely."

He emptied his glass in one drink, and set it upon the mantelpiece. "I wouldn't kiss the book on that, if I was you," he replied. "But what you can be very well certain about is that if I saw the chance of doing anything for you—"

Miss Rabbit was announced by Sarah, and Gertie had to leave Mr. Trew in order to make much of her colleague. Bulpert, having edged other folk from the hearthrug, announced that he was about to give, with the aid of memory, a short incident of the American Civil War; to his astonishment and open indignation, one of the Westbourne Grove girls arrested him with the suggestion that instead they should all have a game. Challenged to indicate one, she asked what was the matter with musical chairs. So chairs were placed down the centre of the room, facing opposite ways alternately. Gertie went to the pianoforte, and all prepared to join, with the exception of Bulpert, who, in the corner, and his back to the others, ate sandwiches.

Admirable confusion, thanks to Gertie's ingenious playing. As they started to march warily in a line up and down the row, she, after giving the first bar, stopped, and they had to rush for seats. Clarence Mills was left out and a chair withdrawn. The next trial was much longer, and only when caution was being relaxed did the music cease; Miss Loriner, defeated at this bye-election, had to take a seat near to Clarence. The joyousness was so pronounced that Bulpert found himself to take some interest, and when Mrs. Mills, left in with Mr. Trew, eventually won the game, he urged it should be restarted, and that some other lady should play the music. On the first arrest by Miss Rabbit at the pianoforte, he sat himself on a chair already occupied by Gertie. At the moment, Sarah appeared again at the doorway.

"A young man," she announced importantly. "A gentleman this time."

Henry Douglass came in. Gertie struggled to disengage herself, but Bulpert declined to move.

"Mrs. Mills, I must apologize for calling at this late hour."

"Don't mention it, sir."

"I have just had a message from my sister-in-law, and I wanted to see Miss Loriner. Lady Douglass has been taken seriously ill."

Mr. Trew took Bulpert by the collar and sent him with a jerk against the wall. Gertie, flushed and confused, shook hands with Henry.

"I'm not going to break up your evening," he said, looking at her eagerly. "The matter is urgent, or I wouldn't have dared to call."

"We are always," she stammered, "always pleased to see you, Mr. Douglass."

"My dear mother asked me to give you her love when I met you. There is a car waiting," he went on, addressing Miss Loriner; "could you manage to come now? We can do it in little over a couple of hours."

Gertie took Miss Loriner into the adjoining room.

"If she's really ill," said the girl, "don't tell him anything about the key. He can hear it all, later on. And nobody at Praed Street knows anything about the affair."

Bulpert declined to escort Miss Rabbit to her omnibus, and, in spite of hints from Mrs. Mills, remained when all the other guests had departed. He took opportunity to criticize the management of the evening, and to deplore the fact that his services had not been utilized. Making an estimate of the total cost, he again referred to his suggestion in regard to a series of similar entertainments later on.

"If you find you can afford it," agreed Gertie.

"If I can afford it!" he echoed surprisedly. "There's no question of me affording it. Why don't you talk sense? You'll be earning the same good salary after we're spliced as you're earning at the present moment."

"No!" she answered definitely. "When I'm married I give up work at Great Titchfield Street."

"Why, of course," agreed Mrs. Mills. "She'll have her home duties to attend to."

Bulpert stared at the two separately. Then he rose, pulled at his waistcoat, and went without speaking a word.

"He's took the precaution," remarked Sarah, coming in to clear, as a bang sounded below, "to shut the door after him."

Mrs. Mills, reviewing the party, and expressing the hope that all had enjoyed themselves, mentioned that Miss Rabbit in the course of the evening made a statement to her which had, apparently, been weighing on the lady's mind. Miss Rabbit reproached herself for giving wrong information in regard to the stability of the firm of Hilbert, and begged Mrs. Mills would explain. In her own phrase she tried to out Gertie, and as this had not come off, her suggestion was that bygones should be considered as bygones, and nothing more said about the matter.

"It isn't such a bad world," decided Mrs. Mills, "if you only come to look at it in a good light."



CHAPTER X.

Gertie's sympathy with the invalid of Morden Place found itself slightly diminished on Monday morning. The front room had not yet been restored to its normal state, and Mrs. Mills, before rising to start the boy with his delivery of morning newspapers, had given a brief lecture on the drawback of excessive ambition, the advisability of not going on to Land's End when you but held a ticket for Westbourne Park. Ten minutes later she brought upstairs an important-looking envelope that bore her name and address in handwriting which left just the space for the stamp, and Mrs. Mills speculated on the probable contents of the communication until Gertie made the useful suggestion that the envelope should be opened. Mrs. Mills, after reading the letter, flung herself upon the bed and, her head resting on the pillow, sobbed hysterically.

Lady Douglass wrote near the telegram instructions "Private," and, to ensure perfect secrecy, underlined the word three times. Nevertheless, Gertie read it without hesitation, and her first impression was one of regard for the writer's ingenuity. Lady Douglass feared some rumours might have reached Praed Street concerning the behaviour of Miss Higham during the brief stay at Ewelme; unable to rid her mind of this, she was sending a note to assure Mrs. Mills that no grounds whatever existed for the statements. She, herself, had taken great trouble to keep the incident quiet, and could not understand how it had become public property. She hoped Mrs. Mills would believe that Miss Higham had been guilty of nothing more than a want of discretion, natural enough in a girl of her age, and, if Lady Douglass might be allowed to say so, her position in life. Lady Douglass felt it only right to send this note, and hoped her motives would be understood.

"Her motives are clear enough," agreed Gertie. "What I can't quite make out is why she should take so much trouble in going for me. I'm out of her way, and I shan't get into her way again. What more does she want?"

"I'd no idea," wailed her aunt, "that there'd been anything amiss. Of course, I knew you came back Sunday night instead of Monday morning, but you hinted that was because of Clarence. What are the facts, dear?"

Particulars given, Mrs. Mills changed her attitude, both of body and of mind, and announced an intention of starting at once to have it out with her ladyship. A good straight talking to, that was what my lady required, with plain language which included selection of home truths, and Mrs. Mills flattered herself she was the very woman to undertake the task. To this Gertie offered several determined objections. First, Henry's sister-in-law was ill; second, she had endured trouble, and was not perhaps quite herself; third, the incident was ended, and there would be nothing useful in raking up the past. Mrs. Mills listened to the arguments, and agreed to substitute a new resolution—namely, that a reply was to be written couched in terms which could not be charged with the defect of ambiguity.

"I shan't help you with the spelling," declared the girl.

"Somehow or other," complained Mrs. Mills, "you always seem to manage to get everything your own way."

"Not always."

One gratifying result of the evening party came in the fact that Bulpert decreased his visits. For two or three weeks he absented himself from Praed Street; and Mrs. Mills approved this, mentioning as one of the reasons, that it was not wise for an engaged couple to have too much of each other's company. When he did call, Mrs. Mills reported of him that he appeared to have something on his mind; he left before Gertie arrived, and without disclosing the nature of the burden.

As a rule, it happened at Great Titchfield Street that one good contract was followed by a slack period, when the difficulty was to find sufficient work to keep all hands going. But here and now, a high authority ordered some alteration in the uniform of certain of His Majesty's officers of the army, and either Madame or Miss Higham was called frequently to Pall Mall; and, in a brief period, all the outworkers were again busy: Great Titchfield Street found itself so fully occupied that the girls had no time to recall songs learned at the second house of their favourite music hall. Into the hum and activity of this busy hive came, one evening, Madame's husband, making his way to the office where Madame and Miss Higham faced each other at sloping desks. He began to shout; it was clear that on the way from King's Road he had been taking refreshment to encourage determination. When he raised his fist, Gertie stepped forward.

"Miss Higham," said Madame calmly, "I wish you would just run downstairs and fetch a policeman."

Madame's husband instantly showed a diminution of aggressiveness. All he wanted was fair play and reasonable treatment. If there did not happen to be a five-pound note handy, gold would do; failing gold, he must, of course, be content with silver.

"You will go out of this place at once," ordered Madame, in an even voice; "and as a punishment for disobeying my orders, I shall not give you a single penny all this week. I know very well what you want money for. I know what you do with money when I give it to you."

"Impossible to discuss these matt'rs with you," he said, with an effort at haughtiness. "Purely private 'fairs."

"If it wasn't for the business here," she went on, "I think you'd succeed in driving me mad. This just saves me. I'm not going to allow you to interfere with it, and if you dare to come here again, I shall most certainly lock you up. Now be off with you."

Mr. Digby Jacks wept, and, at the doorway, threatened to drown himself in the Thames. In the Thames, just to the right of Cleopatra's Needle.

"I wish you would."

"Shan't, now," he retorted sulkily, "just in order to dis'point you. You're cruel woman, and some day you'll realize it and be sorry. Goo' night, and be hanged to you."

Gertie congratulated Madame upon her firmness, and the other admitted the situation was one not easy to handle. For if, she explained, money had been given, then he would have absented himself from Jubilee Place for a week; as it was, he would be absent for a space of two or three days. Gertie expressed surprise at this behaviour, and Madame said it was almost bound to happen where the wife earned an income, and the husband gained none. By rights, it should be the other way about, and then there was a fair prospect of happiness. Madame counselled the girl to be careful not to imitate the example; Gertie replied that she had long since made up her mind on this point.

"But why don't you get rid of him?" she inquired.

"Because I've left it too long. Besides, I'm too old to get anybody else."

"Surely you'd be better off alone?"

"No, I shouldn't," answered Madame promptly. "What do you make the proper total, my dear, of that account Miss Rabbit made a muddle of?"

Within her experience it had sometimes happened that Gertie, on the way home, found herself spoken to by a stranger; this rarely occurred, because she walked with briskness, and refrained from glancing at other pedestrians. (Generally the intruder was a youth anxious to make or sustain a reputation for gallantry, and he accepted the sharp rebuff with docility.) But news came from Miss Loriner that Lady Douglass, after years of the luxury of imagining herself in delicate health, was now genuinely ill, and Henry went down from town each evening by a late train to make inquiries, returning in the morning. Miss Loriner added that some of Lady Douglass's indisposition might be due to the fact that the executors were hinting at the eventual necessity of taking out probate in regard to Sir Mark's will; this done, a considerable change in affairs was inevitable. In consequence of the information, Gertie could not avoid looking about her in the vague hope of encountering Henry; she wanted to see him, although she knew a meeting would only disturb and confuse. She waited outside the street door after business was over, gazing up and down before making a start for home, and it occurred frequently that a short man of middle age moved a few steps towards her, and stopped; later, in turning out of Portland Place, she observed he was following. Once he came so close that she expected to hear a whining voice complain of space of time since the last meal, and having the superstition that casual charity appeased the gods, she found some coppers; but he fell back, and did not speak. It was at the close of a trying day when the representative of a firm had called, in Madame's absence, to have what he described in a preface as a jolly, thundering good row, which finished by an endeavour on his part to indicate apology by stroking Miss Higham's hand—on this night, Gertie, less composed than usual, again caught sight, in crossing Great Portland Street, of the short man. He turned. She, also turning, met him in the centre of the roadway.

"Do you want to speak to me?" she demanded sharply.

"Not specially," he answered, in a husky voice.

"Then why do you so often follow me about?"

"I hope I don't cause you any ill convenience; if so be as I do, I'll stop it at once."

"That's all right," said Gertie, impressed by his deferential manner. "Only it seemed to me rather odd. And just now my nerves are somewhat jerky." He touched his cap, and was shuffling off, when she recalled him. "Stroll along with me, and let's have a talk. What do you do for a living?"

"Sure you don't mind being seen with me?" he asked.

"We'll go up Great Portland Street, and you can say 'good-bye' when we reach the underground station."

He buttoned his well-worn frock coat, gave himself a brisk punch on the chest, and with every indication of pride, accompanied her, keeping, however, slightly to the rear. Gertie repeated her question, and he replied it was not easy to explain how he gained a livelihood; odd jobs, was perhaps the best answer he could give. Warning her not to be frightened, he gave the information that he had spent fifteen years of his life in prison. Did he begin young, then? No, that was the curious part about it. He had little thought of starting the game until, in one week, he lost his wife and, through the failure of a firm, his employment. Then it seemed to him nothing mattered, and another out-of-work made a suggestion, and he fell into it, was caught, and his friend managed to get away.

"When I came out," he went on, "I found I'd lost all respect for myself, and I assumed everybody else had lost all respect for me. I tell you, it isn't a hard task to go down in this world. I've no business to complain, but there it is; plenty can help you in that direction, but there's very few capable of assisting you to pick yourself up."

"It's not too late to make a change."

"I've got no luck, you see," he explained patiently. "This summer I did nearly get back to what you may call the old style. I was in a reg'lar job; I contrived to dress myself up almost like a duke, and I sets out on Sunday afternoon with the full intention of calling on some old friends I hadn't seen for a good many years. It didn't come off."

"Drink, I suppose."

"Yes," he said. "A chap driving one of these motors had taken a drop too much. I was in St. Mary's in Praed Street for over six weeks. If it had been anybody but me, the car would have been driven by some well-to-do gentleman, and I should have found myself compensated for life. As I say, I never did have my share of good fortune, and I s'pose I never shall. All I haven't had of that, I hope will be passed on to my daughter."

"She ought to do something for you."

"I don't want her to. I've no wish to interfere with her. I can't flatter myself I've done her any good, and I'd like to have the satisfaction of feeling I've done her no harm. Here, I think," looking around him, "we say oh revor."

Gertie took out her purse; he gave an emphatic shake of the head, and went.

The next night he was at the same place, improved in appearance, and Gertie allowed him to accompany her along Marylebone Road so far as Harley Street. On the following evening he furnished an escort to Upper Baker Street, and afterwards extended the journey. His manner was always respectful, and he still made no attempt to walk abreast with her. Sometimes a constable would say, "Hullo, Joe!" and he replied, "Good evening, sir. Not bad weather for the time of year!" and going on, informed Gertie where, and in what circumstances, the acquaintance had been made.

It happened, on one occasion, that Gertie saw Mr. Trew on the box seat of his small brown omnibus coming along from the Great Central Station; he was preparing to flourish a cheery salute, when he caught sight of her companion. Almost dropping his whip, he gave his head a jerk to send the shining silk hat well back, and thus give relief to a suddenly heated brain.

Mrs. Mills was waiting on the Friday evening, some doors east of her own shop; Gertie's new friend did not wait for instructions from his companion, but left her instantly.

"Who's looking after the counter, aunt?"

"Mr. Bulpert," replied the other, panting. "I've give him a cigar to stick in his face. He wants to see you. And I want to see you, too. Who is that you were talking to?"

"The elderly man I told you about. The one who always waits now to see me part of the distance home. Quite a character in his way."

"Quite a bad character," snapped Mrs. Mills.

"Do you know him?"

Her aunt gave a gulp. "I had the word from Mr. Trew," she said, still rather breathless, "and his idea is that you may as well know it now as later on. That man is your father, my dear—your father; and the less you see of him the better. Now, perhaps, you can realize why I knew it was no use letting you carry on with Mr. Douglass. It was bound to come out some day!"

"My father," said the girl slowly and thoughtfully.

"Your very own, dearie. Don't let it upset you more than you can help. I know you've a good deal to put up with just now. Come along and see Mr. Bulpert. A little sweethearting talk will cheer you up."

Bulpert admitted he had one or two questions to put; but on Gertie ordering that they should be offered there and then, he said, gloomily, that some other time would do as well. The girl told him the news just communicated by her aunt, and waited hopefully for the comment; Bulpert remarked, with an indulgent air, that it took all sorts to make a world, and he thought no worse of Gertie because of the fact that she possessed a parent with a spotted record. He offered to see her father and give him a definitely worded warning; the girl answered that the matter could be left in her hands.

"But we don't want him to be a drain on us," he contended. "I know what these individuals are like. Species of blackmail, that's what it amounts to. And I don't wish to see you working your fingers to the bone, and a certain proportion of the money earned being paid out to him. I couldn't bear it, so I tell you straight!" He slapped a pile of magazines on the counter.

"I'm rather worried," she said, "and I don't want any more misunderstandings. I told you not long ago I shouldn't go back to Great Titchfield Street once I was married."

"That's what I wanted to speak to you about. You're not serious, I s'pose, in saying this. You're only doing it to test my affection."

"I mean every word."

"Very well!" announced Bulpert defiantly. "Understand, then, that the engagement's off. Entirely and absolutely off. And if you're so ill-advised as to bring an action for breach, you jolly well can. Won't be a bad advert, for a public man like F. W. B. It'll get him talked about!"



CHAPTER XI.

The final departure of Bulpert erased a troublesome detail in the girl's life, and she felt suitably thankful; another disappearance gave her a sensation of regret. She had thought seriously of the patient, elderly man whom she had now to look upon as her parent, and planned a scheme, to be prefaced by something in the nature of a brief lecture, involving pecuniary sacrifice; her game of bricks was knocked over by the hand of Fate, and Gertie Higham had to put them back into the box. Mrs. Mills told her much that had hitherto been a secret shared by Mr. Trew.

"Quite a good sort he was, my dear, until your poor young mother went, and then—well, Mr. Trew met him when he came out of Wormwood Scrubbs, and your father's first words were, 'Don't let the kid ever know!' Meaning yourself. So we kept it from you, you see, and I hope you don't blame us. No doubt, he recognized you, because you're so much like your poor mother, only more stylish, and of course better educated, and I suppose he felt as though he had to speak. Very likely he won't ever let you see him again."

"Wish I knew where to find him now."

"He was like a lot of the others. Not really bad, you understand, but just rather easily led; and because he thought everything was going against him, he became reckless. And he belonged to the old days when once in prison meant always in prison, and no one ever thought that a man who had made a single blunder could be reformed. I often used to think," declared Mrs. Mills, "that something ought to be done, but of course I had my business to look after."

"You found time to look after me, aunt."

"If you could realize," argued the other earnestly, "what a dear baby you was then, you wouldn't trouble to give me any credit for that." She hesitated. "What I've always hoped," lowering her voice, "that some day I might see another one like you."

"Madame's case," said Gertie, "is a warning to me. I want the right kind of husband, or none at all!"

From Clarence Mills, calling at Praed Street, came news that Lady Douglass had been instructed to go abroad so soon as she became well enough to endure the journey; to his great concern, Miss Loriner was instructed to accompany her. Gertie asked for further information, and Clarence replied that Henry Douglass had not given up the office in Old Quebec Street; indeed, he recently entered a competition for plans of a provincial art gallery, and his portrait was in some journal consequent on the decision of the judges. Gertie presumed that Clarence did not happen to have this with him; Clarence found the cutting in his letter-case and presented it. (Later, it was mounted carefully and placed in a small frame, and given a position upon her dressing-table.) Clarence's book was out, and he had just seen a copy at Paddington, with a card bearing the words, "Tremendously Thrilling."

On another point, Clarence was able to announce that Henry had held something like a court-martial at Ewelme, with all concerned present. Jim Langham gave evidence; and Lady Douglass, when her turn came, suggested the key had been placed in her bag by Miss Loriner. Upon which Miss Loriner declared it would be impossible, in view of this remark, to give her company to Beaulieu; and Lady Douglass, without any further hesitation, confessed the truth, urging, in excuse, that it was but natural in this world to look after oneself, adding a caution to the effect that anything in the nature of a scene would now mar the work of the London specialist. Henry's mother, it appeared, was in favour of taking the risk.

"I don't want to see her punished," remarked Gertie. "So long as he knows I was not to blame, I'm perfectly satisfied."

Clarence had private audience with Mrs. Mills before going, and, as a result, Sarah, the temporary assistant at the party, came to Praed Street daily; Mrs. Mills admitted that, seeing her niece frequently, any want of colour might not be so apparent to her as to any one who saw the girl less often. Sarah's objections to living in were easy to meet; the only other provision was that liberty should be given if her services were required for "Puss in Boots" during the Christmas period. An excellent worker, Sarah left nothing to be done at the end of the day, and Gertie, arriving home after the stress of business at Great Titchfield Street, was able to rest in the parlour, or give assistance in the shop.

She was making out orders for Christmas cards at the newspaper counter one night (the popular remark of customers at this period was "Ain't the evenings drawing in something awful!") when a man rushed in and looked around in a dazed, frightened manner. He muttered indistinctly some explanation, and was going off, when Gertie called to him.

"Thought it was a bar," he said confusedly. "My mistake."

"Come here, Mr. Langham," she ordered, putting down her book. "Sit on the high chair." He obeyed, blinking up at the light. "What's the matter?"

Jim Langham was trembling. He leaned across, and whispered.

"You've seen a ghost?" she echoed. "Don't be so stupid. There are no such things nowadays, especially in a neighbourhood like this. Where did you come across it?"

"Near—near the station. I've only just come from Wallingford. I was hurrying up the slope on the right-hand side, and about to turn into the hotel, when across the way—"

He looked around apprehensively, and caught sight of Mrs. Mills peeping over the half blind of the parlour door. Gertie sent her a reassuring nod, and she disappeared.

"What have I done," he wailed appealingly, "that everybody should spy? A police sergeant gazed at me in a most peculiar way about two minutes ago. What does it mean, Miss Higham?"

"Doesn't matter what it means," she said sharply, "so long as you've done nothing wrong. Pull yourself together, Mr. Langham. Why don't you knock off the drink, and be a man?"

"I'll go and get some now."

"It will do you no good. You've been in the habit of taking it when you didn't need it, and you've spoilt it as a remedy. Stay here for a while, and calm yourself."

"Bad enough," he complained, "when living people begin to track you about, but when the others start doing it—!" He shivered. Gertie went to the parlour, and asked her aunt to make some coffee.

"Has Lady Douglass gone away yet?"

"Now why, apropos of nothing, should you mention her name?"

"You never did have much sense about you, and now you seem to have none at all. Concentrate your mind. Think! What was the question I put to you?" He admitted he could not recall it, and she repeated the inquiry.