Today the wedding had been definitely fixed, and she had come out to give way to the bitterness of her solitude.

She realised that she had not the slightest affection for anyone in the world except Hyacinth, and that no-one had any for her, on anything like the same scale.

Anne was a curious creature. Her own family had always been absolutely indifferent to her, and from her earliest youth she had hated and despised all men that she had known. Sir Charles Cannon was the only human being for whom she felt a little sympathy, instinctively knowing that under all his amiable congratulations he disliked Hyacinth's marriage almost as much as she did, and in the same way.

All the strength of her feelings and affections, then, which in the ordinary course would have gone in other channels, Anne had lavished on Hyacinth. She adored her as if she had been her own child. She worshipped her like an idol. As a matter of fact, being quite independent financially, it was not as a paid companion at all that she had lived with her, though she chose to appear in that capacity. And, besides, Hyacinth herself, Anne had, in a most superlative degree, enjoyed the house, her little authority, the way she stood between Hyacinth and all tedious little practical matters. Like many a woman who was a virago at heart, Anne had a perfect passion for domestic matters, for economy, for managing a house. Of course she had always known that the pretty heiress was sure to marry, but she hoped the evil day would be put off, and somehow it annoyed her to such an acute extent because Hyacinth was so particularly pleased with the young man.

As she told Anne every thought, and never dreamt of concealing any nuance or shade of her sentiments, Anne had suffered a good deal.

It vexed her particularly that Hyacinth fancied Cecil so unusual, while she was very certain that there were thousands and thousands of good-looking young men in England in the same position who had the same education, who were precisely like him. There was not a pin to choose between them. How many photographs in groups Cecil had shown them, when she and Hyacinth went to tea at his rooms! Cecil in a group at Oxford, in an eleven, as a boy at school, and so forth! While Hyacinth delightedly recognised Cecil, Anne wondered how on earth she could tell one from the other. Of course, he was not a bad sort. He was rather clever, and not devoid of a sense of humour, but the fault Anne really found with him, besides his taking his privileges so much as a matter of course, was that there was nothing, really, to find fault with. Had he been ugly and stupid, she could have minded it less.

Now what should she do? Of course she must remain with Hyacinth till the marriage, but she was resolved not to go to the wedding, although she had promised to do so. Both Hyacinth and Cecil really detested the vulgarity of a showy fashionable wedding as much as she did, and it was to be moderated, toned down as much as possible. But Anne couldn't stand it—any of it—and she wasn't going to try.

As she sat there, wrapped up in her egotistic anguish, two young people, probably a shop-girl and her young man, passed, sauntering along, holding hands, and swinging their arms. Anne thought that they were, if anything, less odious than the others, but the stupidity of their happiness irritated her, and she got up to go back.

She felt tired, and though it was not far, she decided, with her usual unnecessary economy, to go by omnibus down Park Lane.

As she got out and felt for the key in her pocket, she thought how soon she would no longer be able to go into her paradise and find the lovely creature waiting to confide in her, how even now the lovely creature was in such a dream of preoccupied happiness that, quick as she usually was, she was now perfectly blind to her friend's jealousy. And, indeed, Anne concealed it very well. It was not ordinary jealousy either. She was very far from envying Hyacinth. She only hated parting with her.

As she passed the studio she heard voices, and looked in, just as she was, with a momentary desire to gener them.

Of course they got up, Hyacinth blushing and laughing, and entreated her to come in.

She sat there a few minutes, hoping to chill their high spirits, then abruptly left them in the middle of a sentence.

At dinner that evening she appeared quite as usual. She had taken a resolution.



CHAPTER XXIII

Bruce Convalescent

'It's very important,' said Bruce, 'that I don't see too many people at a time. You must arrange the visitors carefully. Who is coming this afternoon?'

'I don't know of anyone, except perhaps your mother, and Mr Raggett.'

'Ah! Well, I can't see them both at once.'

'Really? Why not?'

'Why not? What a question! Because it would be a terrible fatigue for me. I shouldn't be able to stand it. In fact I'm not sure that I ought to see Raggett at all.'

'Don't, then. Leave a message to say that after all you didn't feel strong enough.'

'But, if we do that, won't he think it rather a shame, poor chap? As I said he could come, doesn't it seem rather hard lines for him to come all this way—it is a long distance, mind you—and then see nobody?'

'Well, I can see him.'

Bruce looked up suspiciously.

'Oh, you want to see him, do you? Alone?'

'Don't be silly, Bruce. I would much rather not see him.'

'Indeed, and why not? I really believe you look down on him because he's my friend.'

'Not a bit. Well, he won't be angry; you can say that you had a relapse, or something, and were not well enough to see him.'

'Nothing of the sort. It would be very good for me; a splendid change to have a little intellectual talk with a man of the world. I've had too much women's society lately. I'm sick of it. Ring the bell, Edith.'

'Of course I will, Bruce, but what for? Is it anything I can do?'

'I want you to ring for Bennett to pass me my tonic.'

'Really, Bruce, it's at your elbow.' She laughed.

'I suppose I've changed a good deal since my illness,' said he looking in the glass with some complacency.

'You don't look at all bad, dear.'

'I know I'm better; but sometimes, just as people are recovering, they suddenly have a frightful relapse. Braithwaite told me I would have to be careful for some time.'

'How long do you suppose he meant?'

'I don't know—five or six years, I suppose. It's the heart. That's what's so risky in influenza.'

'But he said your heart was all right.'

'Ah, so he thinks. Doctors don't know everything. Or perhaps it's what he says. It would never do to tell a heart patient he was in immediate danger, Edith; why, he might die on the spot from the shock.'

'Yes, dear; but, excuse my saying so, would he have taken me aside and told me you were perfectly well, and that he wouldn't come to see you again, if you were really in a dangerous state?'

'Very possibly. I don't know that I've so very much confidence in Braithwaite. I practically told him so. At least I suggested to him, when he seemed so confident about my recovery, that he should have a consultation. I thought it only fair to give him every chance.'

'And what did he say?'

'He didn't seem to see it. Just go and get the cards, Edith, that have been left during my illness. It's the right thing for me to write to everyone, and thank them for their kindness.'

'But there are no cards, dear.'

'No cards?'

'You see, people who knew you were ill inquired by telephone, except your mother, and she never leaves a card.'

He seemed very disgusted.

'That's it,' he said. 'That's just like life; "laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and you weep alone!" Get out of the running, and drop aside, and you're forgotten. And I'm a fairly popular man, too; yet I might have died like a dog in this wretched little flat, and not a card.—What's that ring?'

'It must be your mother.'

Bruce leant back on the sofa in a feeble attitude, gave Edith directions to pull the blinds a little way down, and had a vase of roses placed by his side.

Then his mother was shown in.

'Well, how is the interesting invalid? Dear boy, how well you look! How perfectly splendid you look!'

'Hush, Mother,' said Bruce, with a faint smile, and in a very low voice. 'Sit down, and be a little quiet. Yes, I'm much better, and getting on well; but I can't stand much yet.'

'Dear, dear! And what did the doctor say?' she asked Edith.

'He won't come any more,' said Edith.

'Isn't he afraid you will be rushing out to the office too soon— over-working? Oh well, Edith will see that you take care of yourself. Where's little Archie?'

'Go and see him in the nursery,' said Bruce, almost in a whisper. 'I can't stand a lot of people in here.'

'Archie's out,' said Edith.

There was another ring.

'That's how it goes on all day long,' said Bruce. 'I don't know how it's got about, I'm sure. People never cease calling! It's an infernal nuisance.'

'Well, it's nice to know you're not neglected,' said his mother.

'Neglected? Why, it's been more like a crowded reception than an invalid's room.'

'It's Mr Raggett,' said Edith; 'I heard his voice. Will you see him or not, dear?'

'Yes. Presently. Take him in the other room, and when the mater goes he can come in here.'

'I'm going now,' said Mrs Ottley; 'you mustn't have a crowd. But really, Bruce, you're better than you think.'

'Ah, I'm glad you think so. I should hate you to be anxious.'

'Your father wanted to know when you would be able to go to the office again.'

'That entirely depends. I may be strong enough in a week or two, but I promised Braithwaite not to be rash for Edith's sake. Well, good-bye, Mother, if you must go.'

She kissed him, left a box of soldiers for Archie and murmured to Edith—

'What an angel Bruce is! So patient and brave. Perfectly well, of course. He has been for a week. He'll go on thinking himself ill for a year—the dear pet, the image of his father! If I were you, Edith, I think I should get ill too; it will be the only way to get him out. What a perfect wife you are!'

'I should like to go back with you a little,' said Edith.

'Well, can't you? I'm going to Harrod's, of course. I'm always going to Harrod's; it's the only place I ever do go. As Bruce has a friend he'll let you go.'

Bruce made no objection. Edith regarded it as a treat to go out with her mother-in-law. The only person who seemed to dislike the arrangement was Mr Raggett. When he found he was to be left alone with Bruce, he seemed on the point of bursting into tears.



CHAPTER XXIV

The Wedding

The wedding was over. Flowers, favours, fuss and fluster, incense, 'The Voice that breathed o'er Eden,' suppressed nervous excitement, maddening delay, shuffling and whispers, acute long-drawn-out boredom of the men, sentimental interest of the women, tears of emotion from dressmakers in the background, disgusted resignation on the part of people who wanted to be at Kempton (and couldn't hear results as soon as they wished), envy and jealousy, admiration for the bride, and uncontrollable smiles of pitying contempt for the bridegroom. How is it that the bridegroom, who is, after all, practically the hero of the scene, should always be on that day, just when he is the man of the moment, so hugely, pitiably ridiculous?

Nevertheless, he was envied. It was said on all sides that Hyacinth looked beautiful, though old-fashioned people thought she was too self-possessed, and her smile too intelligent, and others complained that she was too ideal a bride—too much like a portrait by Reynolds and not enough like a fashion-plate in the Lady's Pictorial.

Sir Charles had given her away with his impassive air of almost absurd distinction. It had been a gathering of quite unusual good looks, for Hyacinth had always chosen her friends almost unconsciously with a view to decorative effect, and there was great variety of attraction. There were bridesmaids in blue, choristers in red, tall women with flowery hats, young men in tight frock-coats and buttonholes, fresh 'flappers' in plaits, beauties of the future, and fascinating, battered creatures in Paquin dresses, beauties of the past.

As to Lady Cannon, she had been divided between her desire for the dramatic importance of appearing in the fairly good part of the Mother of the Bride, and a natural, but more frivolous wish to recall to the memory of so distinguished a company her success as a professional beauty of the 'eighties, a success that clung to her with the faded poetical perfume of pot-pourri, half forgotten.

Old joys, old triumphs ('Who is she?' from the then Prince of Wales at the opera, with the royal scrutiny through the opera-glass), and old sentiments awoke in Lady Cannon with Mendelssohn's wedding March, and, certainly, she was more preoccupied with her mauve toque and her embroidered velvet gown than with the bride, or even with her little Ella, who had specially come back from school at Paris for the occasion, who was childishly delighted with her long crook with the floating blue ribbon, and was probably the only person present whose enjoyment was quite fresh and without a cloud.

Lady Cannon was touched, all the same, and honestly would have cried, but that, simply, her dress was really too tight. It was a pity she had been so obstinate with the dressmaker about her waist for this particular day; an inch more or less would have made so little difference to her appearance before the world, and such an enormous amount to her own comfort. 'You look lovely, Mamma—as though you couldn't breathe!' Ella had said admiringly at the reception.

Indeed, her comparatively quiet and subdued air the whole afternoon, which was put down to the tender affection she felt for her husband's ward, was caused solely and entirely by the cut of her costume.

Obscure relatives, never seen at other times, who had given glass screens painted with storks and water-lilies, or silver hair-brushes or carriage-clocks, turned up, and were pushing at the church and cynical at the reception. Very smart relatives, who had sent umbrella-handles and photograph-frames, were charming, and very anxious to get away; heavy relatives, who had sent cheques, stayed very late, and took it out of everybody in tediousness; the girls were longing for a chance to flirt, which did not come; young men for an opportunity to smoke, which did. Elderly men, their equilibrium a little upset by champagne in the afternoon, fell quite in love with the bride, were humorous and jovial until the entertainment was over, and very snappish to their wives driving home.

Like all weddings it had left the strange feeling of futility, the slight sense of depression that comes to English people who have tried, from their strong sense of tradition, to be festive and sentimental and in high spirits too early in the day. The frame of mind supposed to be appropriate to an afternoon wedding can only be genuinely experienced by an Englishman at two o'clock in the morning. Hence the dreary failure of these exhibitions.

Lord Selsey was present, very suave and cultivated, and critical, and delighted to see his desire realised. Mrs Raymond was not there. Edith looked very pretty, but rather tired. Bruce had driven her nearly mad with his preparations. He had evidently thought that he would be the observed of all observers and the cynosure of every eye. He was terribly afraid of being too late or too early, and at the last moment, just before starting, thought that he had an Attack of Heart, and nearly decided not to go, but recovered when Archie was found stroking his father's hat the wrong way, apparently under the impression that it was a pet animal of some kind. Bruce had been trying, as his mother called it, for a week, because he thought the note written to thank them for their present had been too casual. Poor Edith had gone through a great deal on the subject of the present, for Bruce was divided by so many sentiments on the subject. He hated spending much money, which indeed he couldn't afford, and yet he was most anxious for their gift to stand out among the others and make a sensation.

He was determined above all things to be original in his choice, and after agonies of indecision on the subject of fish-knives and Standard lamps, he suddenly decided on a complete set of Dickens. But as soon as he had ordered it, it seemed to him pitiably flat, and he countermanded it. Then they spent weary hours at Liberty's, and other places of the kind, when Bruce declared he felt a nervous breakdown coming on, and left it to Edith, who sent a fan.

When Hyacinth was dressed and ready to start she asked for Anne. It was then discovered that Miss Yeo had not been seen at all since early that morning, when she had come to Hyacinth's room, merely nodded and gone out again. It appeared that she had left the house at nine o'clock in her golf-cap and mackintosh, taking the key and a parcel. This had surprised no-one, as it was thought that she had gone to get some little thing for Hyacinth before dressing. She had not been seen since.

Well, it was no use searching! Everyone knew her odd ways. It was evident that she had chosen not to be present. Hyacinth had to go without saying good-bye to her, but she scribbled a note full of affectionate reproaches. She was sorry, but it could not be helped. She was disappointed, but she would see her when she came back. After all, at such a moment, she really couldn't worry about Anne.

And so, pursued by rice and rejoicings—and ridicule from the little boys in the street by the awning—the newly-married couple drove to the station, 'en route,' as the papers said, with delightful vagueness, 'for the Continent.'

What did they usually talk about when alone?

Cecil wondered.

The only thing he felt clearly, vividly, and definitely was a furious resentment against Lord Selsey.

'Do you love me, Cecil? Will you always love me? Are you happy?'

Ashamed of his strange, horrible mood of black jealousy, Cecil turned to his wife.



CHAPTER XXV

Accounts

'How about your play, Bruce? Aren't you going to work at it this evening?'

'Why no; not just at present. I'm not in the mood. You don't understand, Edith. The Artist must work when the inspiration seizes him.'

'Of course, I know all that, Bruce; but it's six months since you had the inspiration.'

'Ah, but it isn't that only; but the trend of public taste is so bad—it gets worse and worse. Good heavens, I can't write down to the level of the vulgar public!'

'But can you write at all?'

'Certainly; certainly I can; but I need encouragement. My kind of talent, Edith, is like a sort of flower—are you listening?—a flower that needs the watering and tending, and that sort of thing, of appreciation. Appreciation! that's what I need—that's all I ask for. Besides, I'm a business man, and unless I have a proper contract with one of the Managers—a regular arrangement and agreement about my work being produced at a certain time—and, mind you, with a cast that I select—I just shan't do it at all.'

'I see. Have you taken any steps?'

'Of course I've taken steps—at least I've taken stalls at most of the theatres, as you know. There isn't a play going on at this moment that isn't full of faults—faults of the most blatant kind—mistakes that I myself would never have made. To begin with, for instance, take Shakespeare.'

'Shakespeare?'

'Yes. A play like The Merchant of Venice, for example. My dear girl, it's only the glamour of the name, believe me! It's a wretched play, improbable, badly constructed, full of padding—good gracious! do you suppose that if I had written that play and sent it to Tree, that he would have put it up?'

'I can't suppose it, Bruce.'

'It isn't sense, Edith; it isn't true to life. Why, who ever heard of a case being conducted in any Court of Law as that is? Do you suppose all kinds of people are allowed to stand up and talk just when they like, and say just what they choose—in blank verse, too? Do you think now, if someone brought an action against me and you wanted me to win it, that you and Bennett could calmly walk off to the Law Courts disguised as a barrister and his clerk, and that you could get me off? Do you suppose, even, that you would be let in? People don't walk in calmly saying that they're barristers and do exactly what they please, and talk any nonsense that comes into their head.

'I know that; but this is poetry, and years and years ago, in Elizabeth's time.'

'Oh, good gracious, Edith, that's no excuse! It isn't sense. Then take a play like The Merry Widow. What about that? Do you suppose that if I liked I couldn't do something better than that? Look here, Edith, tell me, what's the point? Why are you so anxious that I should write this play?'

He looked at her narrowly, in his suspicious way.

'First of all, because I think it would amuse you.'

'Amuse me, indeed!'

'And then, far more, because—Bruce, do you remember assuring me that you were going to make L5,000 a year at least?'

'Well, so I shall, so I shall. You must give a fellow time. Rome wasn't built in a day.'

'I know it wasn't, and if it had been it would be no help to me. Will you look at the bills?'

'Oh, confound it!'

'Bruce dear, if you're not going to work at your play tonight, won't you just glance at the accounts?'

'You know perfectly well, Edith, if there's one thing I hate more than another it's glancing at accounts. Besides, what good is it? What earthly use is it?'

'Of course it would be use if you would kindly explain how I'm going to pay them?'

'Why, of course, we'll pay them—gradually.'

'But they're getting bigger gradually.'

'Dear me, Edith, didn't we a year or two ago make a Budget?

Didn't we write down exactly how much every single item of our expenditure would be?'

'Yes; I know we did; but—'

'Well, good heavens, what more do you want?'

'Lots more. You made frightful mistakes in the Budget, Bruce; at any rate, it was extraordinarily under-estimated.'

'Why, I remember I left a margin for unexpected calls.'

'I know you left a margin, but you left out coals and clothes altogether.'

'Oh, did I?'

'And the margin went in a week, the first week of your holiday. You never counted holidays in the Budget.'

'Oh! I—I—well, I suppose it escaped my recollection.'

'Never mind that. It can't be helped now. You see, Bruce, we simply haven't enough for our expenses.'

'Oh, then what's the use of looking at the accounts?'

'Why, to see where we are. What we've done, and so on. What do you usually do when you receive a bill?'

'I put it in the fire. I don't believe in keeping heaps of useless papers; it's so disorderly. And so I destroy them.'

'That's all very well, but you know you really oughtn't to be in debt. It worries me. All I want you to do,' she continued, 'is just to go through the things with me to see how much we owe, how much we can pay, and how we can manage; and just be a little careful for the next few months.'

'Oh, if that's all you want—well, perhaps you're right, and we'll do it, some time or other; but not tonight.'

'Why not? You have nothing to do!'

'Perhaps not; but I can't be rushed. Of course, I know it's rather hard for you, old girl, being married to a poor man; but you know you would do it, and you mustn't reproach me with it now.'

She laughed.

'We're not a bit too hard up to have a very pleasant time, if only you weren't so—,' then she stopped.

'Go on; say it!' he exclaimed. 'You want to make out I'm extravagant, that's it! I have large ideas, I own it; it's difficult for me to be petty about trifles.'

'But, Bruce, I wasn't complaining at all of your large ideas. You hardly ever give me a farthing, and expect me to do marvels on next to nothing. Of course, I know you're not petty about some things.' She stopped again.

'All right then; I'll give up smoking and golfing, and all the little things that make life tolerable to a hard-working man.'

'Not at all, dear. Of course not. There's really only one luxury—if you won't think me unkind—that I think, perhaps, you might try to have less of.'

'What is that?'

'Well, dear, couldn't you manage not to be ill quite so often? You see, almost whenever you're bored you have a consultation. The doctors always say you're quite all right; but it does rather—well, run up, and you can't get much fun out of it. Now, don't be angry with me.'

'But, good God, Edith! If I didn't take it in time, you might be left a young widow, alone in the world, with Archie. Penny-wise and pound-foolish to neglect the health of the breadwinner! Do you reproach me because the doctor said I wasn't dangerously ill at the time?'

'Of course not; I'm only too thankful.'

'I'm sure you are really, dear. Now yesterday I felt very odd, very peculiar indeed.'

'Oh, what was it?'

'An indescribable sensation. At first it was a kind of heaviness in my feet, and a light sensation in my head, and a curious kind of emptiness—nervous exhaustion, I suppose.'

'It was just before lunch, no doubt. I daresay it went off. When I have little headache or don't feel quite up to the mark, I don't send for the doctor; I take no notice of it, and it goes away.'

'But you, my dear—you're as strong as a horse. That reminds me, will you fetch me my tonic?'

When she came back, he said—

'Look here, Edith, I'll tell you what you shall do, if you like. You're awfully good, dear, really, to worry about the bills and things, though it's a great nuisance, but I should suggest that you just run through them with my mother. You know how good-natured she is. She'll be flattered at your consulting her, and she'll be able to advise you if you have gone too far and got into a little debt. She knows perfectly well it's not the sort of thing I can stand. And, of course, if she were to offer to help a little, well! she's my mother; I wouldn't hurt her feelings by refusing for anything in the world, and the mater's awfully fond of you.'

'But, Bruce, I'd much rather—'

'Oh, stop, Edith. I'm sorry to have to say it, but you're becoming shockingly fussy. I never thought you would have grown into a fidgety, worrying person. How bright you used to seem in the old days! And of course the whole thing about the accounts, and so on, must have arisen through your want of management. But I won't reproach you, for I believe you mean well.... I've got one of my headaches coming on; I hope to goodness I'm not going to have an attack.'

He looked in the glass. 'I'm rather an odd colour, don't you think so?'

'No; I don't think so. It's the pink-shaded light.'

He sighed.

'Ah, suppose you had married a chap like Reeve—rolling in gold! Are he and Hyacinth happy, do you think?'

'I think they seem very happy.'

'We're lunching there on Sunday, aren't we? Don't forget to order me a buttonhole the day before, Edith.'

'I'll remember.'

She looked at her engagement-book.

'It's not next Sunday, Bruce. Next Sunday we're lunching with your people. You'll be sure to come, won't you?'

'Oh, ah, yes! If I'm well enough.'



CHAPTER XXVI

Confidences

'I know who you are. You're the pretty lady. Mother won't be long. Shall I get you my bear?'

Hyacinth had come to see Edith, and was waiting for her in the little drawing-room of the flat. The neat white room with its miniature overmantel, pink walls, and brass fire-irons like toys, resembled more than ever an elaborate doll's house. The frail white chairs seemed too slender to be sat on. Could one ever write at that diminutive white writing-desk? The flat might have been made, and furnished by Waring, for midgets. Everything was still in fair and dainty repair, except that the ceiling, which was painted in imitation of a blue sky, was beginning to look cloudy. Hyacinth sat on a tiny blue sofa from where she could see her face in the glass. She was even prettier than before her marriage, now three months ago, but when in repose there was a slightly anxious look in her sweet, initiated eyes. She had neither the air of prosaic disillusion nor that of triumphant superiority that one sees in some young brides. She seemed intensely interested in life, but a little less reposeful than formerly.

'Why, Archie! What a big boy you've grown!'

'Shall I bring you my bear?'

'Oh, no; never mind the bear. Stay and talk to me.'

'Yes; but I'd better bring the bear. Mother would want me to amuse you.'

He ran out and returned with his beloved animal, and put it on her lap.

'Father calls him mangy, but he isn't, really. I'm going to cut its hair to make it grow thicker. I can say all the alphabet and lots of poetry. Shall I say my piece? No; I know what I'll do, I'll get you my cards, with E for ephalunt and X for swordfish on, and see if you can guess the animals.'

'That would be fun. I wonder if I shall guess?'

'You mustn't read the names on them, because that wouldn't be fair. You may only look at the pictures. Oh, won't you have tea? Do have tea.'

'I think I'll wait for your mother.'

'Oh, no; have tea now, quick. Then I can take some of your sugar.'

Hyacinth agreed; but scarcely had this point been settled when Edith returned and sent him off.

'Edith,' Hyacinth said, 'do you know I am rather worried about two things? I won't tell you the worst just yet.'

'It's sure to be all your fancy,' said Edith affectionately.

'Well, it isn't my fancy about Anne. Is it not the most extraordinary thing? Since the day of my wedding she's never been seen or heard of. She walked straight out into the street, and London seems to have swallowed her up. She took nothing with her but a large paper parcel, and left all her luggage, and even her dress that I made her get for the wedding was laid out on the bed. What can have become of her? Of course, I know she has plenty of money, and she could easily have bought an entirely new outfit, and gone away—to America or somewhere, under another name without telling anyone. We've inquired of her father, and he knows nothing about her. It really is a mysterious disappearance.'

'I don't feel as if anything had happened to her,' Edith said, after a pause. 'She's odd, and I fancy she hated your marrying, and didn't want to see you again. She'll get over it and come back. Surely if there had been an accident, we should have heard by now. Do you miss her, Hyacinth?'

'Of course I do, in a way. But everything's so different now. It isn't so much my missing her, if I only knew she was all right. There's something so sad about disappearing like that.'

'Well, everything has been done that can be done. It's not the slightest use worrying. I should try and forget about it, if I were you. What's the other trouble?'

Hyacinth hesitated.

'Well, you know how perfect Cecil is to me, and yet there's one thing I don't like. The Selseys have come back, and have asked us there, and Cecil won't go. Isn't it extraordinary? Can he be afraid of meeting her again?'

'Really, Hyacinth, you are fanciful! What now, now that she's his aunt—practically? Can you really still be jealous?'

'Horribly,' said Hyacinth frankly. 'If she married his uncle a hundred times it wouldn't alter the fact that she's the only woman he's ever been madly in love with.'

'Why, he adores you, Hyacinth!'

'I am sure he does, in a way, but only as a wife!

'Well, good heavens! What else do you want? You're too happy; too lucky; you're inventing things, searching for troubles. Why make yourself wretched about imaginary anxieties?'

'Suppose, dear, that though he's devoted to me, we suit each other perfectly, and so on, yet at the back of his brain there's always a little niche, a little ideal for that other woman just because she never cared for him? I believe there will always be—always.'

'Well, suppose there is; what on earth does it matter? What difference does it make? Why be jealous of a shadow?'

'It's just because it's such a shadow that it's so intangible—so unconquerable. If she had ever returned his affection he might have got tired of her, they might have quarrelled, he might have seen through her—realised her age and all that, and it would have been over—exploded! Instead of this, he became fascinated by her, she refused him; and then, to make it ever so much worse for me, Lord Selsey, whom he's so fond of and thinks such a lot of, goes and puts her upon a pedestal, constantly in sight, yet completely out of reach.'

'You are unreasonable, Hyacinth! Would you prefer a rival of flesh and blood. Don't be so fanciful, dear. It's too foolish. You've got your wish; enjoy it. I consider that you haven't a trouble in the world.'

'Dear Edith,' said Hyacinth, 'have you troubles?'

'Why, of course I have—small ones. Bruce has taken to having a different illness every day. His latest is that he imagines he's a malade imaginaire!'

'Good gracious, how complicated! What makes him think that?'

'Because he's been going to specialists for everything he could think of, and they all say he's specially well. Still, it's better than if he were really ill, I suppose. Only he's very tormenting, and hardly ever works, and lately he's taken to making jealous scenes.'

'Oh, that must be rather fun. Who is he jealous of?'

'Why, he thinks he's jealous of his friend Raggett—the most impossible, harmless creature in the world; and the funny thing is whenever Bruce is jealous of anyone he keeps on inviting them—won't leave them alone. If I go out when Raggett appears, he says it's because I'm so deep; and if I stay he finds fault with everything I do. What do you advise me to do, Hyacinth?'

'Why, give him something more genuine to worry about—flirt with a real person. That would do Bruce good, and be a change for you.'

'I would—but I haven't got time! What chance is there for flirting when I have to be always contriving and economising, and every scrap of leisure I must be there or thereabouts in case Bruce has heart disease or some other illness suddenly? When you are living with a strong young man who thinks he's dangerously ill, flirting is not so easy as it sounds. When he isn't here I'm only too glad to rest by playing with Archie.'

'I see. What do you think could cure Bruce of his imaginary maladies?'

'Oh, not having to work, coming into some money. You see, it fills up the time which he can't afford to spend on amusements.'

Edith laughed.

'It's a bore for you....'

'Oh, I don't mind much; but you see we all have our little troubles.'

'Then, how did you say I ought to behave about the Selseys?'

'Don't behave at all. Be perfectly natural, ignore it. By acting as if things were just as you liked, they often become so.'

There was a ring on the telephone.

Edith went into the next room to answer it, and came back to say—

'Bruce has just rung up. He wants to know if Raggett's here. He says he'll be home in half an hour. He doesn't feel up to the mark, and can't stay at the office.'

'Poor little Edith!'

'And don't for goodness sake bother yourself about Cecil. As if there was any man in the world who hadn't liked somebody some time or other!'

Hyacinth laughed, kissed her, and went away.



CHAPTER XXVII

Miss Wrenner

One day Bruce came into the flat much more briskly than usual. There was a certain subdued satisfaction in his air that Edith was glad to see. He sat down, lit a cigarette, and said—

'Edith, you know how strongly I disapprove of the modern fashion of husbands and wives each going their own way—don't you?'

'Where are you thinking of going, dear?'

'Who said I was thinking of going anywhere?'

'No-one. But it's obvious, or you wouldn't have begun like that.'

'Why? What did you think I was going to say next?'

'Of course, you were going to say, after that sentence about "you know how strongly I disapprove," etc., something like, "But, of course, there are exceptions to every rule, and in this particular instance I really think that I had better," and so on. Weren't you?'

'Odd. Very odd you should get it into your head that I should have any idea of leaving you. Is that why you're looking so cheerful—laughing so much?'

'Am I laughing? I thought I was only smiling.'

'I don't think it's a kind thing to smile at the idea of my going away. However, I'm sorry to disappoint you'—Bruce spoke rather bitterly—'very sorry indeed, for I see what a blow it will be to you. But, as a matter of fact, I had not intention whatever of leaving you at all, except, perhaps, for a few hours at a time. However, of course, if you wish it very much I might arrange to make it longer. Or even to remain away altogether, if you prefer it.'

'Oh, Bruce, don't talk such nonsense! You know I wish nothing of the kind. What's this about a few hours at a time?'

'Naturally,' Bruce said, getting up and looking in the glass; 'naturally, when one has an invitation like this—oh, I admit it's a compliment—I quite admit that—one doesn't want to decline it at once without thinking it over. Think how absurd I should appear to a man like that, writing to say that my wife can't possibly spare me for a couple of hours two or three times a week!'

'A man like what? Who is this mysterious man who wants you for two or three hours two or three times a week?'

'My dear, it can't be done without it; and though, of course, it is rather a nuisance, I daresay in a way it won't be bad fun. You shall help me, dear, and I'm sure I shall be able to arrange for you to see the performance. Yes! you've guessed it; I thought you would. I've been asked to play in some amateur theatricals that are being got up by Mitchell of the F O in aid of the 'Society for the Suppression of Numismatics', or something—I can't think why he chose me, of all people!'

'I wonder.'

'I don't see anything to wonder about. Perhaps he thought I'd do it well. Possibly he supposed I had talent. He may have observed, in the course of our acquaintance, that I was threatened with intelligence! Or again, of course, they want for theatricals a fellow of decent appearance.'

'Ah, yes; of course they do.'

'It would be very absurd for the heroine of the play to be madly in love with a chap who turned up looking like, God knows what! Not that I mean for a moment to imply that I'm particularly good-looking, Edith—I'm not such a fool as that. But—well, naturally, it's always an advantage in playing the part of a jeune premier not to be quite bald and to go in decently at the waist, and to—Fancy, Miss Wrenner didn't know I was a married man!'

'Miss Wrenner! Who's Miss Wrenner?'

'Why she—Don't you know who Miss Wrenner is?'

'No.'

'Oh, Miss Wrenner's that girl who—a friend of the Mitchells; you know.'

'I don't know. Miss Wrenner is quite new to me. So are the Mitchells. What is she like?'

'Like!' exclaimed Bruce. 'You ask me what she's like! Why, she isn't like anything. She's just Miss Wrenner—the well-known Miss Wrenner, who's so celebrated as an amateur actress. Why, she was going to play last Christmas at Raynham, only after all the performance never came off.'

'Is Miss Wrenner pretty?'

'Pretty? How do you mean?'

'What colour is her hair?'

'Well, I—I—I didn't notice, particularly.'

'Is she dark or fair? You must know, Bruce!'

'Well, I should say she was a little darker than you—not a great deal. But I'm not quite certain. Just fancy her not thinking I was married!'

'Did you tell her?'

'Tell her! Of course I didn't tell her. Do you suppose a girl like Miss Wrenner's got nothing to do but to listen to my autobiography? Do you imagine she collects marriage certificates? Do you think she makes a hobby of the census?'

'Oh! then you didn't tell her?'

'Yes, I did. Why should I palm myself off as a gay bachelor when I'm nothing of the sort?'

'When did you tell her, Bruce?'

'Why, I haven't told her yet—at least, not personally. What happened really was this: Mitchell said to me, "Miss Wrenner will be surprised to hear you're a married man," or something like that.'

'Where did all this happen?'

'At the office. Where else do I ever see Mitchell?'

'Then does Miss Wrenner come to the office?'

Bruce stared at her in silent pity.

'Miss Wrenner! At the office! Why you must be wool-gathering! Women are not allowed at the F O. Surely you know that, dear?'

'Well, then, where did you meet Miss Wrenner?'

'Miss Wrenner? Why do you ask?'

'Simply because I want to know.'

'Oh! Good heavens! What does it matter where I met Miss Wrenner?'

'You're right, Bruce; it doesn't really matter a bit. I suppose you've forgotten.'

'No; I haven't forgotten. I suppose I shall meet Miss Wrenner at the first rehearsal next week—at the Mitchells.'

'Was it there you met her before?'

'How could it be? I have never been to the Mitchells.'

'As a matter of fact, you've never seen Miss Wrenner?'

'Did I say I had? I didn't mean to. What I intended to convey was, not that I had seen Miss Wrenner, but that Mitchell said Miss Wrenner would be surprised to hear I was married.'

'Funny he should say that—very curious it should occur to him to picture Miss Wrenner's astonishment at the marriage of a man she didn't know, and had never seen.'

'No—no—no; that wasn't it, dear; you've got the whole thing wrong—you've got hold of the wrong end of the stick. He—Mitchell, you know—mentioned to me the names of the people who were going to be asked to act, and among them, Miss Wrenner's name cropped up—I think he said Miss Wrenner was going to be asked to play the heroine if they could get her—no—I'm wrong, it was that she had asked to play the heroine, and that they meant to get out of it if they could. So, then, I said, wouldn't she be surprised at having to play the principal part with a married man.'

'I see. You said it, not Mitchell. Then are you playing the hero?'

'Good gracious! no—of course not. Is it likely that Mitchell, who's mad on acting and is getting up the whole thing himself, is jolly well going to let me play the principal part? Is it human nature? Of course it isn't. You can't expect it. I never said Mitchell was not human—did I?'

'What is your part, dear?'

'They're going to send it to me tomorrow—typewritten. It's not a long part, and not very important, apparently; but Mitchell says there's a lot to be got out of it by a good actor; sometimes one of these comparatively small parts will make the hit of the evening.'

'What sort of part is it?'

'Oh, no particular sort. I don't come on until the second act. As I told you, one of the chief points is to have a good appearance—look a gentleman; that sort of thing.'

'Well?'

'I come on in the second act, dressed as a mandarin.'

'A mandarin! Then you play the part of a Chinaman?'

'No, I don't. It's at the ball. In the second act, there's a ball on the stage—for the hero's coming of age—and I have to be a mandarin.'

'Is the ball given at the Chinese Embassy?'

'No; at the hero's country house. Didn't I tell you—it's a fancy ball!'

'Oh, I see! Then I shouldn't have thought it would have mattered so very much about whether you're good-looking or not. And Miss Wrenner—how will she be dressed at the fancy ball?'

'Miss Wrenner? Oh! Didn't I tell you—Miss Wrenner isn't going to act—they've got someone else instead.'



CHAPTER XXVIII

Anne Returns

It was about six o'clock, and Hyacinth was sitting in her boudoir alone. It was a lovely room and she herself looked lovely, but, for a bride of four months, a little discontented. She was wondering why she was not happier. What was this unreasonable misery, this constant care, this anxious jealousy that seemed to poison her very existence? It was as intangible as a shadow, but it was always there. Hyacinth constantly felt that there was something in Cecil that escaped her, something that she missed. And yet he was kind, affectionate, even devoted.

Sometimes when they spent evenings at home together, which were calm and peaceful and should have been happy, the girl would know, with the second-sight of love, that he was thinking about Eugenia. And this phantom, of which she never spoke to him and could not have borne him to know of, tormented her indescribably. It seemed like a spell that she knew not how to break. It was only a thought, yet how much it made her suffer! Giving way for the moment to the useless and futile bitterness of her jealousy, she had leant her head on the cushion of the little sofa where she sat, when, with a sudden sensation that she was no longer alone, she raised it again and looked up.

Standing near the door she saw a tall, thin figure with a rather wooden face and no expression—a queer figure, oddly dressed in a mackintosh and a golf-cap.

'Why do you burn so much electric light?' Anne said dryly, in a reproachful voice, as she turned a button on the wall.

Hyacinth sprang up with a cry of surprise.

Anne hardly looked at her and walked round the room.

'Sit down. I want to look at your new room. Silk walls and Dresden china. I suppose this is what is called gilded luxury. Do you ever see that the servants dust it, or do they do as they like?'

'Anne! How can you? Do you know how anxious we've been about you? Do you know we weren't sure you were not dead?'

'Weren't you? I wasn't very sure myself at one time. I see you took the chances, though, and didn't go into mourning for me. That was sensible.'

'Anne, will you have the ordinary decency to tell me where you've been, after frightening me out of my life?'

'Oh, it wouldn't interest you. I went to several places. I just went away because at the last minute I felt I couldn't stand the wedding. Besides, you had a honeymoon. I didn't see why I shouldn't. And mine was much jollier—freer, because I was alone. Cheaper, too, thank goodness!'

'What an extraordinary creature you are, Anne! Not caring whether you heard from me, or of me, for four months, and then coolly walking in like this.'

'It was the only way to walk in. I really had meant never to see you again, Hyacinth. You didn't want me. I was only in the way. I was no longer needed, now you've got that young man you were always worrying about. What's his name? Reeve. But I missed you too much. I was too bored without you. I made up my mind to take a back seat, if only I could see you sometimes. I had to come and have news of you. Well, and how do you like him now you've got him? Hardly worth all that bother—was he?'

'I'll tell you, Anne. You are the very person I want. I need you immensely. You're the only creature in the world that could be the slightest help to me.'

'Oh, so there is a crumpled rose-leaf! I told you he was exactly like any other young man.'

'Oh, but he isn't, Anne. Tell me first about you. Where are you—where are you staying?'

'That's my business. I'm staying with some delightful friends. You wouldn't know them—wouldn't want to either.'

'Nonsense! You used to say you had no friends except mine. You must come and stay here. Cecil would be delighted to see you.'

'I daresay—but I'm not coming. I may be a fool, but I'm not stupid enough for that. I should hate it, besides! No; but I'll look in and see you from time to time, and give you a word of advice. You doing housekeeping, indeed!' She laughed as she looked round. 'Who engaged your servants?'

'Why, I did.'

'I suppose you were too sweet and polite to ask for their characters, for fear of hurting their feelings? I suppose you gave them twice as much as they asked? This is the sort of house servants like. Do you allow followers?'

'How should I know? No; I suppose not. Of course, I let them see their friends when they like. Why shouldn't they? They let me see mine.'

'Yes! that's jolly of them—awfully kind. Of course you wouldn't know. And I suppose the young man, Cecil, or whatever you call him, is just as ignorant as you are, and thinks you do it beautifully?'

'My dear Anne, I assure you—'

'I know what you are going to say. You order the dinner. That's nothing; so can anyone. There's nothing clever in ordering! What are you making yourself miserable about? What's the matter?'

'Tell me first where you're staying and what you're doing. I insist on being told at once.'

'I'm staying with charming people. I tell you. At a boarding-house in Bloomsbury. I'm a great favourite there; no—now I come to think of it—I'm hated. But they don't want me to leave them.'

'Now, Anne, why live like that? Even if you wouldn't stay with us, it's ridiculous of you to live in this wretched, uncomfortable way.'

'Not at all. It isn't wretched, and I thoroughly enjoy it. I pay hardly anything, because I help with the housekeeping. Of course it isn't so much fun as it used to be with you. It's a little sordid; it isn't very pretty but it's interesting. It's not old-fashioned; there's no wax fruit, nor round table in the middle of the room. It's only about twenty-five years out of date. There are Japanese fans and bead curtains. They think the bead curtains—instead of folding-doors—quite smart and Oriental—rather wicked. Oh and we have musical evenings on Sundays; sometimes we play dumb crambo. Now, tell me about the little rift within the lute.'

'I always told you every little thing, Anne—didn't I?'

Anne turned away her head.

'Who arranges your flowers?'

'I do.'

'Oh, you do do something! They look all right but I did it much better. Oh—by the way—you mustn't think these are the only clothes I've got. I have a very smart tailor-made coat and skirt which I bought at a sale at a little shop in Brixton. I went to Brixton for the season. There's nothing like the suburbs for real style—I mean real, thoroughly English style. And the funny part is that the suburban English dresses all come from Vienna. Isn't it queer?'

'All right, come to see me next time in your Brixton-Viennese costume, and we'll have a long talk. I think you're pleased I've got a little trouble. Aren't you?'

'Oh, no—I don't want you to have trouble. But I should like you to own he isn't so wonderful, after all.'

'But I don't own that—not in the least. The thing is, you see'—she waited a minute—'I believe I'm still jealous of Mrs Raymond.'

'But she isn't Mrs Raymond any more. You surely don't imagine that he flirts with his aunt?'

'Of course not—how absurd you are! That's a ridiculous way to put it. No—he won't even see her.'

'Is that what you complain of?'

'His avoiding her shows he still thinks of her. It's a bad sign—isn't it? What I feel is, that he still puts her on a pedestal.'

'Well, that's all right. Let her stay there. Now, Hyacinth, when people know what they want—really want something acutely and definitely—and don't get it, I can pity them. They're frustrated—scored off by fate, as it were; and even if it's good for them, I'm sorry. But when they have got what they wanted, and then find fault and are not satisfied, I can't give them any sympathy at all. Who was it said there is no tragedy like not getting your wish—except getting it? You wanted Cecil Reeve. You've got him. How would you have felt if the other woman had got him instead?'

'You're right, Anne—I suppose. And yet—do you think he'll ever quite forget her?'

'Do you think, if you really tried hard, you could manage to find out what your grievance is, Hyacinth?'

'Yes.'

'Well, then, try; and when you've found it, just keep it. Don't part with it. A sentimental grievance is a resource—it's a consolation for all the prosaic miseries of life. Now I must go, or I shall be late for high tea.'



CHAPTER XXIX

The Ingratitude of Mitchell

Since Bruce had had the amateur-theatrical trouble, he had forgotten to have any other illness. But he spent many, many half-hours walking up and down in front of the glass rehearsing his part—which consisted of the words, 'Ah, Miss Vavasour, how charming you look—a true Queen of Night! May a humble mandarin petition for a dance?' He tried this in many different tones; sometimes serious and romantic, sometimes humorous, but in every case he was much pleased with his reading of the part and counted on a brilliant success.

One evening he had come home looking perturbed, and said he thought he had caught a chill. Eucalyptus, quinine, sal-volatile, and clinical thermometers were lavishly applied, and after dinner he said he was better, but did not feel sufficiently up to the mark to go through his part with Edith as usual, and was rather silent during the rest of the evening.

When he came down to breakfast the next morning, Edith said—

'Do you know Anne's come back?'

'Who's Anne?'

'Anne. Hyacinth's companion. Miss Yeo, I mean.'

'Come back from where?'

'Don't you remember about her going away—about her mysterious disappearance?'

'I seem to remember now. I suppose I had more important things to think about.'

'Well, at any rate, she has come back—I've just had a letter—Hyacinth wants me to go out with her this afternoon and hear all about it. At four. I can, of course; it's the day you rehearse, isn't it?'

Bruce waited a minute, then said—

'Curious thing, you can't get our cook to make a hot omelette! And we've tried her again and again.'

'It was a hot omelette, Bruce—very hot—about three-quarters of an hour ago. Shall I order another?'

'No—oh, no—pray don't—not for me. I haven't the time. I've got to work. You have rather a way, Edith, of keeping me talking. You seem to think I've nothing else to do, and it's serious that I should be punctual at the office. By the way—I shouldn't go out with Hyacinth today, if I were you—I'd rather you didn't.'

'Why not, Bruce?'

'Well, I may want you.'

'Then aren't you going to the Mitchells'?'

'The Mitchells'? No—I am certainly not going to the Mitchells'—under the present circumstances.'

He threw down a piece of toast, got up, and stood with his back to the fire.

'How you can expect me to go to the Mitchells' again after their conduct is more than I can understand! Have you no pride, Edith?'

Edith looked bewildered.

'Has anything happened? What have the Mitchells done?' she asked.

'What have they done!' Bruce almost shouted. He then went and shut the door carefully and came back.

'Done! How do you think I've been treated by these Mitchells—by my friend Mitchell—after slaving night and day at their infernal theatricals? I have slaved, haven't I, Edith? Worked hard at my part?'

'Indeed you have, dear.'

'Well, you know the last rehearsal? I had got on particularly well. I told you so, didn't I? I played the little part with a certain amount of spirit, I think. I certainly threw a good deal of feeling and suppressed emotion, and also a tinge of humorous irony into my speech to Miss Vavasour. Of course, I know quite well it doesn't seem of any very great importance, but a lot hinges on that speech, and it isn't everyone who could make the very most of it, as I really believe I did. Well, I happened to be pointing out to Mitchell, yesterday at the office, how much I had done for his play, and how much time and so forth I'd given up towards making the thing a success, then, what do you think he turned round and said? Oh, he is a brute!'

'I can't think!'

'He said, "Oh, by the way, Ottley, old chap, I was going to tell you there's been a change in the scheme. We've altered our plans a little, and I really don't think we shall need to trouble you after all. The fact is, I've decided to cut out the fancy ball altogether." And then people talk of gratitude!'

'Oh, dear, Bruce, that does seem a pity!'

'Seems a pity? Is that all you've got to say! It's an outrage—a slight on me. It isn't treating me with proper deference. But it isn't that I care personally, except for the principle of the thing. For my own sake I'm only too pleased—delighted, relieved. It's for their sake I'm so sorry. The whole thing is bound to be a failure now—not a chance of anything else. The fancy ball in the second act and my little scene with Miss Vavasour, especially, was the point of the play. As Mitchell said at first, when he was asking me to play the part, it would have been the attraction.'

'But why is he taking out the fancy ball?'

'He says they can't get enough people. Says they won't make fools of themselves and buy fancy dresses just to make one in a crowd and not be noticed—not even recognised. Says the large fancy ball for the coming of age of the hero in his ancestral halls would have consisted of one mandarin, one Queen of the Night, and a chap in a powdered wig. He thinks it wouldn't have been worth it.'

'Well, I am sorry! Still, couldn't you say your part just the same in an ordinary dress?'

'What! "Ah, Miss Vavasour, how charming you look—a true Queen of Night!" Why, do you remember the lines, Edith? Don't you recollect how they refer to our costumes? How could I say them if we weren't in fancy dress?'

'Still, if the whole plot hinges on your scene—'

'Well! all I know is, out it goes—and out I go. The second act will be an utter frost now. They're making a terrible mistake, mind you. But that's Mitchell's business, not mine. It's no kind of deprivation to me—you know that. What possible gratification can it be for a man like me—a man of the world—to paint my face and put on a ridiculous dress and make a general ass of myself, just to help Mitchell's rotten performance to go off all right!'

'I don't know. I daresay it would have amused you. I'm sorry, anyhow.'

'I'm sorry enough, too—sorry for them. But if you really want to know the root of the matter, I shrewdly suspect it's really jealousy! Yes, jealousy! It's very odd, when people get keen on this sort of thing, how vain they begin to get! Perfectly childish! Yes, he didn't want me to make a hit. Old Mitchell didn't want to be cut out! Natural enough, in a way, when one comes to think it over; but a bit thick when one remembers the hours I've worked for that man—isn't it?'

'What did you say to him, Bruce, when he first told you?'

'Say? Oh, nothing. I took it very coolly—as a man of the world. I merely said, "Well, upon my word, Mitchell, this is pretty rough," or something of that sort. I didn't show I was hurt or offended in any way. I said, of course, it was like his beastly ingratitude—or words to that effect.'

'Oh! Was he angry?'

'Yes. He was very angry—furious.'

'Then you've had a quarrel with Mitchell?'

'Not a quarrel, Edith, because I wouldn't quarrel. I merely rubbed in his ingratitude, and he didn't like it. He said, "Well, let's hope if you're no longer wasting your valuable life on my theatricals you'll now be able to arrive at the office in fairly decent time," or something nasty like that. Disgusting—wasn't it?'

Edith looked at the clock.

'Too bad,' she said. 'Well, you must tell me all about it—a long account of the whole thing—this afternoon. I won't go out. I'll be at home when you come—to hear all about it. And now—'

'But that wasn't nearly all,' continued Bruce, without moving; 'you'd hardly believe it, but Mitchell actually said that he didn't think I had the smallest talent for the stage! He said I made much too much of my part—over-acted—exaggerated! When I made a point of keeping my rendering of the little scene particularly restrained! The fact is, Mitchell's a conceited ass. He knows no more of acting than that chair, and he thinks he knows everything.'

'It's fortunate you hadn't ordered your costume.'

'Yes, indeed. As I told him, the whole thing might have cost me a tremendous lot—far more than I could afford—put me to tremendous expense; and all for nothing! But he said no doubt the costumier would take it back. Take it back, indeed! And that if he wouldn't I could send the costume to him—Mitchell—and the bill—it would be sure to come in useful some time or other—the costume, I mean. As though I'd dream of letting him pay for it! I told him at once there could be no question of such a thing.'

'Well, there won't, as you haven't ordered it.'

'Now, Edith, let me beg you not to argue. Isn't it bad enough that I'm slighted by my so-called friends, and treated with the basest ingratitude, without being argued with and nagged at in my own home?'

'I didn't know I was arguing. I beg your pardon. You mustn't worry about this, dear. After all, I suppose if they found at the rehearsals that they didn't really need a mandarin—I mean, that the fancy-ball scene wasn't necessary—perhaps from their point of view they were right to cut it out. Don't have a lasting feud with Mitchell—isn't he rather an important friend for you—at the office?'

'Edith, Mitchell shall never set foot under my roof—never darken these doors again!'

'I wonder why, when people are angry, they talk about their roofs and doors? If you were pleased with Mitchell again, you wouldn't ask him to set foot under your roof—nor to darken the door. You'd ask him to come and see us. Anyhow, he won't feel it so very much—because he'll not notice it. He's never been here yet.'

'I know; but Mrs Mitchell was going to call. You will be out to her now, remember.'

'I can safely promise, I think, never to receive her, Bruce.'

'Good heavens!' cried Bruce, looking at the clock. 'Do you know what the time is? I told you so! I knew it! You've made me late at the office!'



CHAPTER XXX

Mitchell Behaves Decently

For the last few days Bruce had been greatly depressed, his temper more variable than ever, and he had managed to collect a quite extraordinary number of entirely new imaginary illnesses. He was very capricious about them and never carried one completely through, but abandoned it almost as soon as he had proved to Edith that he really had the symptoms. Until she was convinced he never gave it up; but the moment she appeared suitably anxious about one disease he adopted another. She had no doubt that he would continue to ring the changes on varieties of ill-health until he had to some extent recovered from the black ingratitude, as he considered it, of Mitchell, in (what he called) hounding him out of the amateur theatricals, and not letting him play the part of one line at which he had slaved night and day.

One evening he came home in quite a different mood, bright and cheerful. He played with Archie, and looked in the glass a good deal; both of which signs Edith recognised as hopeful.

'How is your temperature tonight, do you think?' she asked tentatively.

'Oh, I don't know. I can't worry about that. A rather gratifying thing has happened today, in fact, very gratifying.' He smiled.

'Really? You must tell me about it.'

'However badly a chap behaves—still, when he's really sorry—I mean to say when he climbs down and begs your pardon, positively crawls at your feet, you can't hold out, Edith!'

'Of course not. Then did Mitchell—'

'And when you have known a fellow a good many years, and he has always been fairly decent to you except in the one instance—and when he is in a real difficulty—Oh, hang it! One is glad to do what one can.'

'Do I gather that there has been a touching scene between you and Mitchell at the office?'

He glanced at her suspiciously. 'May I ask if you are laughing?'

'Oh, no, no! I was smiling with pleasure, hoping you had made it up.'

'Well, yes, it may be weak of me, but I couldn't see the poor fellow's scheme absolutely ruined without lending a helping hand. I have got my share of proper pride, as you know, Edith, but, after all, one has a heart.'

'What did he do?'

'Do!' exclaimed Bruce triumphantly. 'Do! Only apologised—only begged me to act with them again—only said that the piece was nothing without me, that's all! So I forgave him, and he was jolly grateful, I can tell you.'

'Fancy! Is it the same part?'

'Of course not. Didn't I tell you that the fancy ball in the second act has been cut out, so of course they don't want a mandarin. No; but Frank Luscombe has given up his part—chucked it, and they have asked me to take it.'

'Is it as long as the other one?'

'Longer! I appear twice. Mind you, in a way it's not such an important part as the other would have been; but the play wouldn't hold together without it, and, as Mitchell said, Frank Luscombe is such a conceited chap he thought himself too grand to play a footman. He didn't have the proper artistic feeling for the whole effect; it appears that he was grumbling all the time and at last gave it up. Then it occurred to Mitchell that perhaps I would help him out, and I said I would. It is a bit of a triumph, isn't it, Edith?'

'A great triumph. Then you will be going back to the rehearsals again?'

'Of course I shall; they begin tomorrow. Mitchell thinks that I shall make the hit of the evening. Some of these comparatively unimportant parts, when they are really well played, are more effective than the chief characters. Mitchell says he saw before, by the rehearsals, what a tremendous lot of talent I had. But it isn't merely talent, as he said; what they all noticed was my Personal Magnetism—and I expect that's it. Fancy a man like Mitchell coming cringing to me, after all that has passed between us! Mind you, it's a distinct score, Edith!'

'It is, indeed. If you have not got your part with you, you won't want to work at it tonight. I wonder, as you seem better, whether you would feel up to listening while I tell you something about the accounts?'

'There you are! How like a woman! The very moment I am a bit cheered up and hopeful and feeling a little stronger, you begin worrying me again.'

'Dear Bruce, I wasn't going to worry you. I don't want you to do anything—anything at all but listen, and it really will take hardly any time at all. You remember you said you weren't strong enough to go through them, and suggested I should show them to your mother? Well, I went today, and I only want to tell you what happened.'

'Awfully good of you. What did she say?'

'She didn't say much, and she thought she could arrange it, but not without speaking to your father.'

'Oh, I say, really? Well, that's all right then. The girl who plays Miss Vavasour is quite as good as any professional actress, you know; in fact, she would have made a fortune on the stage. She's a Miss Flummerfelt. Her father was German by birth. If she weren't a little bit inclined to be fat, she would be wonderfully handsome. I shall have a little scene with her in the third act, at least, not really a scene exactly, but I have to announce her. I open the door and say, "Miss Vavasour!" and then she rushes up to Lady Jenkins, who is sitting on the sofa, and tells her the bracelet has been found, and I shut the door. But there's a great deal, you know, in the tone in which I announce her. I have to do it in an apparently supercilious but really admiring tone, to show that all the servants think Miss Vavasour had taken the bracelet, but that I am certain it isn't true. Frank Luscombe, it seems, used to say the words without any expression at all, just "Miss Vavasour!" like that, in an unmeaning sort of way.'

'I see. Your father was at home at the time, so your mother most kindly said she would go in to him at once, and try to get it settled, just to spare you the suspense of waiting for a letter about it. Isn't it sweet and considerate of her?'

'Awfully. In the second act, Lady Jenkins says to me, "Parker, has an emerald snake bracelet with a ruby head been found in any of the rooms?" and I have to say, "I will inquire, my lady." And then I move about the room, putting things in order. She says, "That will do, Parker; you can go."'

'You seem to make yourself rather a nuisance, then; but do listen, Bruce. I waited, feeling most frightfully uncomfortable, and I am afraid there was a fearful row—I felt so sorry for your mother, but you know the way she has of going straight to the point. She really wasn't long, though it seemed long. She came back and said—'

'Of course there's one thing Mitchell asked me to do, but I was obliged to refuse. I can't shave off my moustache.'

'Heavens! You aren't going to play the part of a powdered footman with a moustache?'

'Yes, I shall; Mitchell doesn't know it yet, but I mean to. I can carry it off. I can carry off anything.'

'Well, your mother came back and said that your father had given an ultimatum.'

'Is that all he's given?'

'He will put the thing straight on one condition—it seems it is quite an easy condition; he's going to write and tell it you. Your mother says you must agree at once, not argue, and then everything will be all right.'

'Oh, I am glad. It's all through you, Edith. Thanks, awfully. It's really very good of you. You should have seen how pleased Mitchell was when I said I'd do this for him. Simply delighted. Oh, and Mrs Mitchell is going to call on you. I'll find out which day.'

'I suppose I am to be at home to her now? You told me before not to receive her, you know.'

'Well, no; if you could manage it without being rude, I would rather she only left a card. The Mansions look all right from outside, and they are in a decent neighbourhood and all that, but the flat is so very small. I hardly like her to see it.'

'Really, Bruce, you are absurd. Does Mitchell suppose that you live in a palace?'

'Not a palace, exactly; but I expect I have given him an impression that it is—well—all right.'

'Well, so it is. If you think the flat unworthy to be seen by Mrs Mitchell, why be on visiting terms with her at all? I don't want to be.'

'But, Edith, you can't refuse the advances of a woman like that, the wife of such a friend of mine as Mitchell. He's a most valuable friend—a splendid fellow—a thoroughly good sort. You've no idea how upset he was about our little quarrel the other day. He said he couldn't sleep at night thinking about it; and his wife, too, was fretting dreadfully, making herself quite ill. But now, of course, it is all right.'

'I am not so sure that it is all right; perhaps you will quarrel again on the moustache question.'

'Oh, no, we shan't! There can't be any more choppings and changings. After telling the whole company that we buried the hatchet and that I am going to take Luscombe's part, he wouldn't care to disappoint them all again. They are very keen, too, on pleasing Miss Flummerfelt, and it seems Mitchell thought she would be particularly glad I was going to act with her instead of Luscombe, because, as I say, Luscombe put so little meaning into the words. It never would have got over the footlights. Old Mitchell will be too pleased to get me back to worry about a trifle like that.'

'Well, that's all right. But do you mind writing to your mother tonight, just a line to thank her for being so kind? It was awfully nice of her, you know—she stuck up for you like anything, and put all the little extravagances on to your ill-health; and, you see, she has spared you having a scene with your father—he is just going to write you a nice note.'

'Yes, I understand, you told me before; but I have got to write a letter tonight, a rather important one. I'll write to the mater tomorrow.'

'Oh, Bruce!'

'My dear girl, business first, pleasure after. To write to one's mother is a pleasure. I wonder what the blessed ultimatum is. Look here, Edith, don't take any engagements for the next two or three weeks, will you? I shall want you every evening for rehearsing. I mean to make a good piece of work of this. I think I shall rather surprise Miss Flummerfelt and Mitchell.' 'Very well; but still I think you might write to your mother. Who is the very important business letter to?'

'Why, it's to Clarkson.'



CHAPTER XXXI

Jane's Sister

'I have made up my mind, Charles, never to go and see Hyacinth again!'

'Indeed! What's the matter? What has happened?' Sir Charles looked up rather wearily from his book and took off his gold-rimmed spectacles.

'Why should I wear myself out giving advice that is never followed?' indignantly said the lady.

'Why, indeed?'

Lady Cannon looked more than ever like a part of her own furniture, being tightly upholstered in velvet and buttons, with a touch of gold round the neck. She was distinctly put out. Her husband glanced at her and then at the door, as she poured out tea with an ominous air.

'You know how gratified I was, how thankful to see no more of that odious Miss Yeo. I always disapproved of her. I felt she had a bad influence—at any rate not a good one—in the household. I was simply delighted to hear that Hyacinth never saw her now. Well, today I called in to give Hyacinth a suggestion about her under-housemaid—I knew she wanted a new one; and Jane has a sister out of a situation who, I felt certain, would be the very person for her; when, who do I find sitting chatting with Hyacinth, and taking the lead in the conversation in the same odious way she always did, but Miss Yeo!'

'Oh, she has come back, has she? Well, I'm glad she's all right. Poor old Anne! How is she looking?'

'Looking!' almost screamed Lady Cannon. 'As if it mattered how she looked! What did she ever look like? She looked the same as ever. Although it's a lovely day, she had on a mackintosh and a golf-cap and dogskin riding-gloves. She was dressed for a country walk in the rain, but hardly suitable for a visit to Hyacinth. How ever, that is not the point. The point is her extraordinary impertinence and disrespect to me. I naturally took scarcely any notice of her presence beyond a slight bow. I made no reference whatever to her sudden disappearance, which, though exceedingly ill-bred and abrupt, I personally happened to be very glad of. I merely said what I had come to say to Hyacinth: that Jane's sister was looking for a situation, and that Hyacinth's was the very one to suit her. Instead of allowing Hyacinth to speak, what does Miss Yeo do but most impertinently snap me up by saying—what do you suppose she asked me, Charles?'

'How on earth could I possibly guess?'

'She asked me, in a hectoring tone, mind, what I knew about Jane's sister! Daring to ask me a thing like that!'

'What did you say?'

'I answered, in a very proper and dignified way, of course, that I personally knew nothing whatever about her, but that I was always glad to get a good place for a relative of any domestic of mine; so Miss Yeo answered that she thought her sister—I mean Jane—having been with me five years was a circumstance not in her favour at all, quite the contrary, and she would strongly advise Hyacinth not to take Jane's sister on so flimsy recommendation. I was thunderstruck. But this is not all. Before I left Miss Yeo dared to invite me to go to see her and her friends, and even went so far as to say she could get me an invitation to a musical party they are giving in a boarding-house in Bloomsbury! She says they have charming musical evenings every Sunday, and sometimes play dumb crambo! It was really almost pathetic. To ask me to play dumb crambo! The woman can have no sense of humour!'

'I'm not so sure of that,' murmured Sir Charles.

'I merely replied that I had a great deal to do, and could make no engagements at present. I did not like to hurt her feelings by pointing out the glaring incongruity of her suggestion, but really I was astonished; and when I said this about the engagements, she answered, "Oh well, never mind; no doubt we shall often meet here," almost as if she guessed my strong aversion to seeing her at Hyacinth's house. Then she went away; and I took the opportunity to advise Hyacinth against encouraging her. Hyacinth seemed extremely vexed and did not take my suggestion at all well. So now, if I know I am to run the risk of meeting that person there and, as I say, am to give advice to no purpose, I prefer to keep away altogether.'

'Did you ask Hyacinth how it was Miss Yeo turned up again?'

'I did; and she answered that Anne could not live without her I Did you ever hear of anything so ridiculous in your life?'

'One can understand it,' said Sir Charles.

'I can't. What use can she possibly be to Hyacinth?'

'It isn't only a question of use, I suppose. They've been great friends for years, but as far as that goes, there's not the slightest doubt Anne could be of great use if she chose. Hyacinth isn't practical, and has never learnt to be, and Anne is.'

'Then you approve?' said Lady Cannon in a low voice of anger; 'you defend my being insulted, contradicted, and—and—asked to play dumb crambo by such a person as Miss Yeo!'

'Oh, no, my dear; of course I don't. But I daresay she didn't mean to be rude; she was always rather eccentric, and she can be very tactful when she likes. She never was in the slightest degree in the way when she was Hyacinth's companion and actually lived with her, so I don't see how she possibly can be now by going to see her occasionally. Really, I rather like Anne Yeo.'

'Oh, you do,' said his wife furiously; 'then I regret to say we differ very radically. It is most unnecessary that you should like her at all.'

'No doubt it is unnecessary, but how can it possibly hurt you? When I say I like her, I mean that I have a friendly sort of feeling for her. I think she's a very good sort, that's all.'

'Then perhaps if you were Cecil Reeve you would like her to live in the house altogether?'

'Oh, I don't go so far as that,' said Sir Charles.

'What I can't get over,' continued Lady Cannon, who could never forgive the slightest opposition, and was intensely annoyed and surprised at her husband for once being of a different opinion, 'what I can't forgive is her astonishing interference on the question of Jane's sister! When I know that it is the very situation to suit the girl! Now, in future, whatever difficulty Hyacinth may be in, I shall never come forward again with my help and experience. I wash my hands of it. It was bad enough before; Hyacinth forgot every single thing I told her, but she never contradicted me and seemed grateful for my advice. But now—now that she has that creature to make her believe that my opinions are not worth considering, of course it is all over. I am sorry for Hyacinth, very sorry. By this, by her own folly, she loses a chance that very few young married women have—a chance of getting an under-housemaid, whose sister has been with me for five years! I have no doubt whatever in my own mind that it would have been arranged today, and that I should have brought the good news back to Jane, if it hadn't been for that unpleasant and unnecessary Miss Yeo. Poor thing! It is very hard on her.'

'What extraordinary creatures women are!' said Sir Charles. 'May I ask whom you are pitying now, Anne or Hyacinth?'

'Neither,' said Lady Cannon, with dignity as she left the room. 'I was pitying Jane's sister.'



CHAPTER XXXII

The Drive

From time to time invitations had been received from the Selseys, all of which Cecil had asked Hyacinth to refuse on various pretexts. As she was convinced that he intended never to see Lady Selsey again if he could possibly help it, she made no objection, and did not even remark to him that it would look odd.

One afternoon Cecil was in St James's Street when he remembered that there was an exhibition at Carfax's. He strolled in, and was for the moment quite taken by surprise at the evident gaiety of the crowd. It seemed so incongruous to hear laughter at a private view, where it is now usual to behave with the embarrassed and respectful gloom appropriate to a visit of condolence (with the corpse in the next room).

Then he remembered that it was an exhibition of Max Beerbohm's caricatures, and that people's spirits were naturally raised at the sight of the cruel distortions, ridiculous situations, and fantastic misrepresentations of their friends and acquaintances on the walls.

Cecil was smiling to himself at a charming picture of the Archbishop of Canterbury, when someone touched him on the shoulder.

He turned round. It was Lord Selsey with his wife. He looked suave and debonair as ever, with his touch of attenuated Georgian dandyism. She had not changed, nor had her long brown eyes lost their sly and fascinating twinkle. Evidently Lord Selsey had not been able—if indeed he had tried—to persuade her to take much trouble about her appearance, but he had somehow succeeded in making her carelessness seem picturesque. The long, rather vague cloak that she wore might pass—at any rate, in a picture-gallery—as artistic, and the flat hat with its long brown feather suggested a Rembrandt, and must have been chosen for her against her will, no doubt by her husband. She really looked particularly plain this afternoon, but at the first glance Cecil admired her as much as ever.

'It's most fortunate we've met you. I have to go on somewhere, and you must drive Eugenia home. You must have a lot to talk about,' Lord Selsey said.

Cecil began to make an excuse.

'Oh, you can't refuse! Are you afraid of me? Don't you want to have a talk with your aunt?' said Eugenia.

He had no choice, and ten minutes later found himself driving in a hansom with his old love.

'Well, tell me, Cecil, aren't you happy? Weren't we quite right?'

'Of course,' said he.

'What an absurd boy you are. It's nice to see you again. I feel just like a mother to you. When am I going to see Hyacinth? Why won't you let me be friends with her? I fell in love with her at first sight. I suppose she worships you, eh? And you take it as a matter of course, and give yourself airs. Oh, I know you! I like Ted very much. He's a wonderful man. He knows everything. He's—what's the word—volatile? No, versatile. He's a walking encyclopaedia of knowledge. He can write Persian poetry as soon as look at you, and everything he hasn't learnt he knows by instinct. He has the disposition of an angel and the voice of a gazelle. No, wait a minute; do I mean gazelles? Gazelles don't sing, do they? I must mean nightingales. He sings and plays really beautifully. Why didn't you tell me what a rare creature your uncle is? He has the artistic temperament, as they call it—without any of the nasty temper and horrid unpunctuality that goes with it. I really do admire Ted, Cecil. I think he's perfect.'

'That is most satisfactory,' said Cecil.

She burst out laughing.

'Oh, Cecil, you haven't changed a bit! But marvellous and angelic as Ted is, it's a sort of relief in a way to meet an ordinary man. You don't know all about everything, do you? If I asked you the most difficult question about art or science or history or metaphysics, or even dress, you wouldn't be able to answer it, would you? Do you always keep your temper? Is your judgement thoroughly sound? Can you talk modern Greek, and Arabian? I think not. You're full of faults, and delightfully ignorant and commonplace. And it's jolly to see you again.'

'Eugenia, you're the same as ever. Don't go home yet. Let's go for a drive.'

'But oughtn't you to go back to your wife? I daresay she's counting the minutes. Nothing could ever grow prosaic to her, not even being married to you.'

'She's gone out somewhere, with Anne Yeo, I think. Do, Eugenia; I shall never ask you again. Just for once, like old times. I couldn't stand the idea of going to see you at Selsey House; it depressed and irritated me. This is different.'

'All right,' said Eugenia. 'Then make the most of it. I shan't do it again.'

'Where shall we drive?'

'I've always wondered what happened at the very end of the Cromwell Road. Let's drive there, and then you can leave me at home. That will be quite a long way. It's rather a mad idea, Cecil, but it's fun. Isn't it just like Ted to ask you to take me home? You see what a darling, clever creature he is. He guessed—he knew we should be a little excited at meeting again. He wanted to get it over by leaving us quite free to talk.'

'I must say I shouldn't have done that in his place,' said Cecil.

'Oh, you! You might have had some cause of jealousy. He never could. But don't think I shall allow any more freaks like this. In a way I'm rather pleased you haven't forgotten me, Cecil.'

'Who could ever forget you? Who could ever get tired of you?'

'You could; and you would have by now, if I had been foolish enough to marry you.'

She seemed to Cecil, as ever, a delightful medley of impulses, whims, and fancies. For him there was always some magic about her; in her pale radiance he still found the old dazzling, unaccountable charm....

'Hyacinth, do let us score off Lady Cannon, and get the housemaid without her help.'

'Why, I have, Anne, I advertised all by myself. Several came to see me yesterday.'

'Well, what did you do about it?'

'Nothing particular. Oh yes; I did. I wrote down the address of one or two. Emma Sinfield, Maude Frick, Annie Crutcher, and Mary Garstin. Which shall I have, Anne—which name do you like best?'

'Emma Sinfield, I think, or if she doesn't do, I rather fancy Garstin. Where does Emma live?'

'In the Cromwell Road. We ought to go and ask for her character today.'

'You go, then, and I'll go with you. You won't know what to ask. I'll do it for you.'

'All right. We may as well drive there as anywhere.'

Anne declared the character quite satisfactory, for Emma Sinfield's late employer, although displaying the most acute conscientiousness, could find no fault with her except a vaulting ambition and wild desire to better herself, which is not unknown in other walks of life, and they were driving away in the motor when they came face to face with Cecil and Eugenia in a hansom. He was talking with so much animation that he did not see them. She was looking straight before her.

Hyacinth turned pale as death and seized Anne's hand. Anne said nothing.



CHAPTER XXXIII

The Quarrel

'So that's why he wouldn't take me to see her! He's been meeting her in secret. My instinct was right, but I didn't think he would do that now. Oh, to think he's been deceiving me!'

'But you mustn't be in such a hurry to judge.' protested Anne; 'it may be just some accidental thing. Hyacinth, do take my advice. Don't say anything about it to him, and see if he mentions it. If he doesn't, then you'll have some reason for suspecting him, and we'll see what can be done.'

'He won't mention it—I know he won't. What accident could make them meet in a hansom in the Cromwell Road? It's too cruel! And I thought she was good. I didn't know she'd be so wicked as this. Why, they've only been married a few months. He never loved me; I told you so, Anne. He ought not to have married me. He only did it out of pique. He never cared for anyone but that woman.'

'Is it hopeless to ask you to listen to reason? So far you have no proof of anything of the kind. Certainly not that he cares for her now.'

'Didn't I see his face? I don't think he's ever looked like that at me.'

If Anne had had a momentary feeling of triumph, of that resignation to the troubles of other people that we are all apt to feel when the trouble is caused by one of whom we are jealous, the unworthy sentiment could not last at the sight of her friend's grief.

'This is serious, Hyacinth. And everything depends on your being clever now. I don't believe that she can possibly mean any harm. She never did. Why on earth should she now? And if you remember, she didn't look a bit interested. There must be some simple explanation.'

'And if there isn't?'

'Then a strong line must be taken. He must be got away from her.'

"To think of having to say that! And he says he loves me! On our honeymoon I began to believe it. Since we have been home I told you I had vague fears, but nothing like this. It's an outrage."

"It isn't necessarily an outrage for your husband to drive his aunt in a hansom."

"Don't make fun of me, Anne, when you know she was formerly—"

"But she wasn't, my dear. That's just the point. I'm perfectly sure, I really believe, that she never regarded him in that way at all. She looks on him as a boy, and quite an ordinary boy."

"Ah, but he isn't ordinary!"

"What ever you do, Hyacinth, don't meet him by making a scene. At present he associates you with nothing but gentleness, affection, and pleasure. That is your power over him. It's a power that grows. Don't let him have any painful recollections of you."

"But the other woman, according to you, never gave him pleasure and gentleness and all that—yet you see he turns to her."

"That's a different thing. She didn't love him."

There was a pause.

"And if I find he doesn't mention the meeting, deceives me about it, don't you even advise me to charge him with it then?"

"It is what I should advise, if I wanted you to have a frightful quarrel—perhaps a complete rupture. If you found out he had deceived you, what would you really do?"

Hyacinth stood up.

"I should—no, I couldn't live without him!"

She broke down.

"I give you two minutes by the clock to cry," said Anne dryly, "not a second more. If you spoil your eyes and give yourself a frightful headache, what thanks do you suppose you'll get?"

Hyacinth dried her eyes.

"Nothing he says, nothing he tells me, even if he's perfectly open about the drive this afternoon, will ever convince me that he's not in love with her, and that's the awful thing."

"Even if that were true, it's not incurable. You're his wife. A thousand times prettier—and twenty years younger! The longer he lives with you the more fond he'll grow of you. You are his life—and a very charming life—not exactly a dull duty. She is merely—at the worst—a whim."

'Horrid creature! I believe she's a witch,' Hyacinth cried.

'Don't let us talk it over any more. Just as if your own instinct won't tell you what to do far better than I ever could! Besides, you understand men; you know how to deal with them by nature—I never could. I see through them too well. I merely wanted to warn you—being myself a cool looker-on—to be prudent, not to say or do anything irrevocable. If you find you can't help making a scene, well, make one. It can't do much harm. It's only that making oneself unpleasant is apt to destroy one's influence. Naturally, people won't stand being bullied and interfered with if they can help it. It isn't human nature.'