Her manner was indifferently expectant, if one can use such a paradoxical description—.

"I—I—wondered if you played the piano?—"I blurted out.

She looked surprised—if one can ever say she looks anything, with the expression of her eyes completely hidden. She answered as usual with one word—.

"Yes."

"I suppose you would not play to me?—er—it might give me an inspiration for the last chapter—"

She went and opened the lid of the instrument.

"What sort of music do you like?" she asked.

"Play whatever you think I would appreciate."

She began a Fox trot, she played it with unaccountable spirit and taste, so that the sound did not jar me—but the inference hurt a little. I said nothing, however. Then she played "Smiles," and the sweet commonplace air said all sorts of things to me—Desire to live again, and dance, and enjoy foolish pleasures—How could this little iceberg of a girl put so much devilment into the way she touched the keys? If it had not been for the interest this problem caused me, the longing the sounds aroused in me to be human again, would have driven me mad.

No one who can play dance music with that lilt can be as cold as a stone—.

From this she suddenly turned to Debussy—she played a most difficult thing of his—I can't remember its name—then she stopped.

"Do you like Debussy?" I asked.

"No, not always."

"Then why did you play it?"

"I supposed you would."

"If you had said in plain words, 'I think you are a rotter who wants first dance music, then an unrestful modern decadent, brilliantly clever set of disharmonies,' you could not have expressed your opinion of me more plainly."

She remained silent—I could have boxed her ears.

I leaned back in my chair, perhaps I gave a short harsh sigh—if a sigh can be harsh—I was conscious that I had made some explosive sound.

She turned back to the piano again and began "Waterlily" and then "1812"—and the same strange quivering came over me that I experienced when I heard the cooing of the child.—My nerves must be in an awful rotten state—Then a longing to start up and break something shook me, break the windows, smash the lamp—yell aloud—I started to my one leg—and the frightful pain of my sudden movement did me good and steadied me.

Miss Sharp had left the piano and came over to me—.

"I am afraid you did not like that," she said—"I am so sorry"—her voice was not so cold as usual.

"Yes I did—" I answered—"forgive me for being an awful ass—I—I—love music tremendously, you see—"

She stood still for a moment—I was balancing myself by the table, my crutch had fallen. Then she put out her hand.

"Can I help you to sit down again?"—she suggested.

And I let her—I wanted to feel her touch—I have never even shaken hands with her before. But when I felt her guiding me to the chair, the maddest desire to seize her came over me—to seize her in my arms to tear off those glasses, to kiss those beautiful blue eyes they hid—to hold her fragile scrap of a body tight against my breast, to tell her that I loved her—and wanted to hold her there, mine and no one else's in all the world——My God! what am I writing—I must crush this nonsense—I must be sane—. But—what an emotion! The strongest I have ever felt about a woman in my life—.

When I was settled in the chair again—things seemed to become blank for a minute and then I heard Miss Sharp's voice with a tone—could it be of anxiety? in it? saying "Drink this brandy, please." She must have gone to the dining-room and fetched the decanter and glass from the case, and poured it out while I was not noticing events.

I took it.

Again I said—"I am awfully sorry I am such an ass."

"If you are all right now—I ought to go back to my work," she remarked—.

I nodded—and she went softly from the room. When I was alone, I used every bit of my will to calm myself—I analysed the situation. Miss Sharp loathes me—I cannot hold her by any means if she decides to go—. The only way I can keep her near me is by continuing to be the cool employer—And to do this I must see her as little as possible—because the profound disturbance she is able to cause in me, reacts upon my raw nerves—and with all the desire in the world to behave like a decent, indifferent man, the physical weakness won't let me do so, and I am so bound to make a consummate fool of myself.

When I was in the trenches and the shells were coming, and it was beastly wet and verminy and uncomfortable, I never felt this feeble, horrible quivering—I know just what funk is—I felt it the day I did the thing they gave me the V.C. for. This is not exactly funk—I wish I knew what it was and could crush it out of myself—.

Oh! if I could only fight again!—that was the best sensation in life—the zest—the zest!—What is it which prompts us to do decent actions? I cannot remember that I felt any exaltation specially—it just seemed part of the day's work—but how one slept! How one enjoyed any old thing—!

Would it be better to end it all and go out quite? But where should I go?—the me would not be dead.—I am beginning to believe in reincarnation. Such queer things happened among the fellows—I suppose I'd be born again as ugly of soul as I am now—I must send for some books upon the subject and read it up—perhaps that might give me serenity.

The Duchesse returned yesterday. I shall go and see her this afternoon I think,—perhaps she could suggest some definite useful work I could do—It is so abominably difficult, not being able to get about. What did she say?—She said I could pray—I remember—she had not time, she said—but the Bon Dieu understood—I wonder if He understands me—? or am I too utterly rotten for Him to bother about?

* * * * *

The Duchesse was so pleased to see me—she kissed me on both cheeks—.

"Nicholas! thou art better!" she said—"As I told you—the war is going to end well—!"

"And how is the book?" she asked presently—"It should be finished—I am told that your work is intermittent—."

My mind jumped to Maurice as the connecting link—the Duchesse of course must have seen him—but I myself have seen very little of Maurice lately—how did he know my work was intermittent—?

"Maurice told you?" I said.

"Maurice?"—her once lovely eyes opened wide—she has a habit of screwing them up sometimes when she takes off her glasses.—"Do you suppose I have been on a partie de plaisir, my son—that I should have encountered Maurice—!"

I dared not ask who was her informant—.

"Yes, I work for several days in succession, and then I have no ideas. It is a pretty poor performance anyway—and is not likely to find a publisher."

"You are content with your Secretary?"

This was said with an air of complete indifference. There was no meaning in it of the kind Madame de Clerte would have instilled into the tone.

"Yes—she is wonderfully diligent—it is impossible to dislodge her for a moment from her work. She thinks me a poor creature I expect."

The Duchesse's eyes, half closed now, were watching me keenly—.

"Why should she think that, Nicholas—you can't after all fight."

"No——but—."

"Get well, my boy—and these silly introspective fancies will leave you—Self analysis all the time for those who sit still—they imagine that they matter to the Bon Dieu as much as a Corps d'Armee—!"

"You are right, Duchesse, that is why I said Miss Sharp—my typist—probably thinks me a poor creature—she gets at my thoughts when I dictate."

"You must master your thoughts——"

And then with a total change of subject she remarked.

"Thou art not in love, Nicholas?"

I felt a hot flush rise to my face—What an idiotic thing to do—more silly than a girl—Again how I resent physical weakness reacting on my nerves.

"In love!"—I laughed a little angrily—"With whom could I possibly be in love, chere amie?! You would not suggest that Odette or Coralie or Alice could cause such an emotion!"

"Oh! for them perhaps no—they are for the senses of men—they are the exotic flowers of this forcing time—they have their uses—although I myself abhor them as types—but—is there no one else?"

"Solonge de Clerte?—Daisy Ryven?—both with husbands—."

"Not as if that prevented things" the Duchesse announced reflectively—"Well, well—Some of my blesses show just your symptoms, Nicholas, and I discover almost immediately it is because they are in love—with the brain—with the imagination you must understand—that is the only dangerous kind—. When it is with a pretty face alone—a good dose and a new book helps greatly."

"There would be no use in my being in love, Duchesse—"

"It would depend upon the woman—you want sympathy and a guiding hand—Va!—"

Sympathy and a guiding hand!

"I liked ruling and leading when I was a man—"

"——We all have our ups and downs—I like my own bed—but last night an extra batch of blesses came in—and I had to give it up to one whose back was a mass of festers—he would have lain on the floor else—. What will you—hein?—We have to learn to accommodate ourselves to conditions, my son."

Suddenly the picture of this noble woman's courage came to me vividly, her unvarying resourcefulness—her common sense—her sympathy with humanity—her cheerfulness—I never heard her complain or repine, even when fate took her only son at Verdun—Such as these are the glory of France—and Coralie and Odette and Alice seemed to melt into nothingness—.

"The war will be finished this autumn—" she told me presently—"and then our difficult time will begin—. Quarrels for all the world—Not good fighting—But you will live to see a Renaissance, Nicholas—and so prepare for it."

"What can I do, dear friend—If you knew how much I want to do something!"

"Your first duty is to get well.—Have yourself patched together—finished so to speak, and then marry and found a family to take the place of all who have perished. It was good taste when I was young not to have too many—but now!—France wants children—and England too. There is a duty for you, Nicholas!"

I kissed her hand—.

"If I could find a woman like you!" I cried—"indeed then I would worship her—."

"So—so—! There are hundreds such as I—when I was young I lived as youth lives—You must not be too critical, Nicholas."

She was called away then, back to one of the wards, and I hobbled down the beautiful staircases by myself—the lift was not working. The descent was painful and I felt hot and tired when I reached the ground floor, it was quite dusk then, and the one light had not yet been lit. A slight wisp of a figure passed along the end of the corridor. I could not see plainly, but I could have sworn it was Miss Sharp—I called her name—but no one answered me so I went on out,—the servant, aged ninety, now joining me, he assisted me into my one horse Victoria beyond the concierge's lodge.

Miss Sharp and the Duchesse!—? Why if this is so have I never been told about it?—The very moment Maurice returns I must get him to investigate all about the girl—In the meantime I think I shall go to Versailles—. I cannot stand Paris any longer—and the masseur can come out there, it is not an impossible distance away.



VII

RESERVOIRES, VERSAILLES. September 10th.

How I love Versailles—the jolliest old hole on earth—(I wonder why one uses slang like this, I had written those words as an exact reflection of my thoughts—and nothing could be more inexact as a description of Versailles! It is as far from being "jolly" as a place can be—nor is it a "hole!") It is the greatest monument which the vanity of one man ever erected, and like all other superlatives it holds and interests. If the Grand Monarque squandered millions to build it, France has reaped billions from the pockets of strangers who have come to look at it. And so everything that is well done brings its good. Each statue is a personal friend of mine—and since I was a boy I have been in love with the delicious nymph with the shell at the bottom of the horse-shoe descent before you come to the tapis vert on the right hand side. She has two dimples in her back—I like to touch them—.

Why did I not come here sooner? I am at peace with the world—Burton wheels me up onto the terrace every evening to watch the sunset from the top of the great steps. All the masterpieces are covered with pent houses of concrete faced with straw, but the lesser gods and goddesses must take their chance.

And sitting here with peaceful families near me—old gentlemen—soldiers on leave—a pretty war widow with a great white dog—children with spades—all watching the glorious sky, seated in groups on the little iron park chairs, a sense of stupefaction comes over me—for a hundred or two kilometres away men are killing one another—women are searching for some trace of their homes—the ground is teeming with corpses—the air is foetid with the smell of death! And yet we enjoy the opal sunset at Versailles and smile at the quaint appearance of the camouflaged bronzes!

Thus custom deadens all painful recollections and so are we able to live.

I wonder what Louis XIV would say if he could return and be among us? He, with all his faults being a well bred person, would probably adapt himself to circumstances, as the Duchesse does.

Suzette suggested that she should come and stay the week end out here—She wants change of air she says. I have consented.—Miss Sharp does not bring her eternal block and pencil until Tuesday—when Suzette will have left.

Now that I am peaceful and have forgotten my perturbations, Suzette will jolly me up—I have used the right term there!—Suzette does jolly one—! I feel I could write out here, but not about William and Mary furniture—! I could write a cynical story of the Duc de Richelieu's loves.—Armande, the present duc, tells me that he has a dispatch box filled with the love letters his ancestor received—their preservation owed to a faithful valet who kept them all separated in bundles tied with different ribbons—and every lock of hair and souvenir attached to each.—There is an idea!—I wonder if Burton has ever thought of keeping mine? He would not have had a heavy job in these last years—!

I read all the mornings, seated in the sun—I read Plato—I want to furbish up my Greek—For no reason on earth except that it is difficult, and perhaps if I start doing difficult things I may get more will.

* * * * *

Suzette arrived in an entirely new set of garments—the "geste" had altered, she said, one had to have a different look, and she was sure the autumn fashions would be even more pronounced.

"As you can readily understand, my friend, one cannot be demode, dans le metier,—especially in war time!—"

Naturally I agreed with her—.

"The only unfortunate part is that it obliged me to break into the sum for Georgine's education."

"That is at least reparable"—I answered, and reached for my cheque-book—Suzette is such a good little sort—and clothes give her pleasure—and fancy being able to give real pleasure for a few thousand francs—pleasure, not comfort, or charity, or any respectable thing, but just pleasure! The only worry about this cheque was that Suzette was a little too affectionate after it!—I would nearly always rather only talk to her—now.

She accompanied my bath chair on to the terrace. Her ridiculous little outline and high heels contradicting all ideas of balance, and yet presenting an indescribable elegance. She prattled gaily—then when no one was looking she slipped her hand into mine.

"Mon cher! Mon petit chou!" she said.

We had the gayest dinner in my sitting-room—.

"The war was certainly nearing its close—Toinette, the friend of one of the Generals, assured her—people were thoroughly bored, and it was an excellent thing to finish it—."

"But even when peace comes, never again the restaurants open all night to dance, Nicholas!—there is a sadness, my friend!"

That was one of the really bad aspects of wars—the way they upset people's habits—, she told me. Even "dans le metier" things became of an uncertainty! '—One was never sure if the amant would not be killed—and it might be difficult to replace him advantageously!'

"It is perhaps fortunate for you that I am wounded and an institution, Suzette!"

"Thou—Nicholas!—Just as if I did not understand—I represent nothing but an agreeable passing of some moments to thee—Thou art not an Amant!—Not even a little pretense of loving me thou showest!"—

"But you said you never allowed yourself to care—perhaps I have the same idea—"

She shook with laughter.

"An artist at love thou, Nicholas—but no lover!"

"It is a nice distinction—would you like me better if I were a lover?"

"We have before spoken of this, Mon ami—If you were a lover—that is, if you loved—you would be dangerous even with your one leg and your one eye—a woman could be foolish for you. There is that air of Grand seigneur—that air of—mocking—of—Mon Dieu! Something which I can't find my word for—Thou art rudement chic cheri!"

I wished then that I had made the cheque larger—because there was something in her merry black eyes which told me she meant what she said—at the moment. I must be grateful to my money though after all—I could not be "rudement chic" or a "Grand seigneur" without it—Thus we get back to material things again!

——I wonder if material things could affect Miss Sharp?—One side of her certainly—or she could not have played that dance music——What can she think about all day?—certainly not my affairs, attending to them must be purely mechanical—. I know she is not stupid. She plays beautifully—she thinks—she has an air, and knowledge of the world. If I were not so afraid of losing her I would act toward her quite differently—I would chance annoying her by making her talk—but that fear holds me back.

George Harcourt says that between men and women, no matter what the relation may be, one or the other holds the reins and is the real arbiter of things, and that if you find yourself not in the happy position of master, there are many occasions when a man must look ridiculous.—I feel ridiculous when I think about Miss Sharp. I am "demand" and she is "supply"—I am wanting every moment of her time, and to know all her thoughts—and she is entirely uninterested in me, and grants nothing.

* * * * *

Suzette left last evening in the best of moods—I made the cheque larger—and now I am awaiting Miss Sharp in my sitting-room—I love this hotel—it has an air of indifference about it which is soothing, and the food is excellent.

* * * * *

Miss Sharp arrived about eleven to-day. Her cheeks were quite pink when she came in, and I could see she was warm with walking.—I wish I had remembered to send to the station to meet her.

"Do you think we shall be able to work here?" I asked her—"we have only the resume chapter to do, and then the book will be finished."

"Why not here as well as any other place?"

"Does not environment matter to you?"

"I suppose it would if I were creating it, it does not matter now."

"Do you ever write—I mean write on your own?"

"Sometimes."

"What sort of things?"

She hesitated for a moment and then said as though she regretted having to speak the truth.—

"I write a journal."

I could not prevent myself from replying too eagerly—.

"Oh! I should like to see it!—er—I write one too!"—

She was silent. I felt nervous again—.

"Do you put down your impressions of people—and things?"

"I suppose so—."

"Why does one write a journal?—" I wanted to hear what she would answer.

"One writes journals if one is lonely."

"Yes, that is true. Then you are lonely?"

Again she conveyed to me the impression that I had shown bad taste in asking a personal question—and I felt this to be unjust, because in justice, she would have been forced to admit that her words were a challenge.

"You explain to me why one writes journals, and then when I presume upon the inference you snub me—You are not fair, Miss Sharp—"

"It would be better to stick to business," was all she answered—"will you dictate, please?"

I was utterly exasperated—.

"No, I won't!—If you only admit by inference that you are lonely, I say it right out—I am abominably lonely this morning and I want to talk to you.—Did I see you at the Duchesse de Courville-Hautevine's on Wednesday last?"

"Possibly."

I literally had not the pluck to ask her what she was doing there. However, she went on—.

"There are still many wounded who require bandages—."

That was it! of course—she was bringing bandages!

"She is a splendid woman, the Duchesse, she was a friend of my mother's—" I said.

Miss Sharp looked down suddenly—she had her head turned towards the window.

"There are many splendid women in France—but you don't see them—the poor are too wonderful, they lose their nearest and dearest and never complain, they only say it is 'la Guerre!'."

"Have you any near relations fighting?"—

"Yes"—

It was too stupid having to drag information out of her like this—I gave it up—and then I was haunted by the desire to know what relations they were?—If she has a father he must be at least fifty—and he must be in the English Army—why then does she seem so poor?—It can't be a brother—her's is only thirteen—would a cousin count as a near relation?—or—can she have a fiance—?!

The sudden idea of this caused me a nasty twinge—But no, her third finger has no ring on it.—I grew calmer again—.

"I feel you have a hundred thousand interesting things to say if you would only talk!" I blurted out at last.

"I am not here to talk, Sir Nicholas—I am here to do your typing."

"Does that make a complete barrier?—Won't you be friends with me?"

Burton came into the room at that moment—and while he was there she slipped off to her typing without answering me. Burton has arranged a place for her in his room, which is next to mine, so that I shall not be disturbed by the noise of her machine clicking.

"Miss Sharp must lunch with me"—I said.

Burton coughed as he answered.

"Very good, Sir Nicholas."

That meant that he did not approve of this arrangement—why?—Really these old servants are unsupportable.

The antediluvian waiters come in to lay the table presently, and I ordered peaches and grapes and some very special chablis—I felt exultant at my having manoeuvred that Miss Sharp should eat with me!

She came in when all was ready with her usual serene calm—and took her place at right angles to me.

Her hands are not nearly so red to-day, and their movements when she began to eat pleased me—her wrists are tiny, and everything she does is dainty.

She did not peck her food like a bird, as very slight people sometimes do—and she was entirely at ease—it was I who was nervous—.

"Won't you take off your glasses," I suggested—but she declined—.

"Of what use—I can see with them on."

This disconcerted me.

The waiter poured out the chablis carefully. She took it casually without a remark, but for an instant a cynical expression grew round her mouth—What was she thinking of?—it is impossible to tell, not seeing her eyes—but some cynical thought was certainly connected with the wine—By the direction of her head she may have been reading the label on the bottle—Does she know how much it cost and disapprove of that in war time—or what?

We talked of French politics next,—that is, she answered everything I said with intelligence, and then let the subject drop immediately—Nothing could be more exasperating because I knew it was deliberate and not that she is stupid, or could not keep up the most profound conversation. She seemed to know the war situation very well—Then I began about French literature—and at the end of the meal had dragged out enough replies to my questions to know that she is an exquisitely cultivated person—Oh! what a companion she would make if only I could break down this wretched barrier of her reserve!

She ate a peach—and I do hope she liked it—but she refused a cigarette when I offered her one—.

"I don't smoke."

"Oh, I am so sorry I did not know—" and I put out mine.

"You need not do that—I don't mind other people smoking, so long as I need not do it myself."

I re-lit another one—.

"Do you know—I believe I shall have my new eye put in before Christmas!" I told her just before she rose from the table—and for the first time I have known her, the faintest smile came round her mouth—a kindly smile—.

—"I am so very glad," she said.

And all over me there crept a thrill of pleasure.

After lunch I suggested the parc, and that I should dictate in some lovely cool spot. She made no objection, and immediately put on her hat—a plain dark blue straw. She walked a little behind my bath chair as we turned out of the Reservoires courtyard and began ascending the avenue in the parc, so that I could not converse with her. By the time we had reached the parterre I called to her—

"Miss Sharp"—

She advanced and kept beside me—.

"Does not this place interest you awfully?" I hazarded.

"Yes."

"Do you know it well?"

"Yes."

"What does it say to you?"

"It is ever a reminder of what to avoid."

"What to avoid! but it is perfectly beautiful. Why should you want to avoid beauty?!"

"I do not—it is what this was meant to stand for and what human beings failed in allowing it to do—that is the lesson."

I was frightfully interested.

"Tell me what you mean?"

"The architects were great, the king's thought was great—but only in one way—and everyone—the whole class—forgot the real meaning of noblesse oblige, and abused their power—and so the revolution swept them away—They put false value upon everything—false values upon birth and breeding—and no value upon their consequent obligations, or upon character—."

"You believe in acknowledging your obligations I know"—

"Yes—I hope so—Think in that palace the immense importance which was given to etiquette and forms and ceremonies—and to a quite ridiculous false sense of honour—they could ruin their poor tradesmen and—yet—."

"Yes"—I interrupted—"it was odd, wasn't it?—a gentleman was still a gentleman, never paying his tailor's bills—but ceased to be one if he cheated at cards—."

Miss Sharp suddenly dropped her dark blue parasol and bent to pick it up again—and as she did she changed the conversation by remarking that there were an unusual quantity of aeroplanes buzzing from Buc.

This was unlike her—I cannot think why she did so. I wanted to steer her back to the subject of Versailles and its meaning—.

Burton puffed a little as we went up the rather steep slope by the Aile du Nord, and Miss Sharp put her hand on the bar and helped him to push the chair.

"Is it not hateful for me being such a burden"—I could not help saying—.

"It leaves you more time to think—."

"Well! that is no blessing—that is the agony—thinking."

"It should not be—to have time to think must be wonderful"—and she sighed unconsciously.

Over me came a kind of rush of tenderness—I wanted to be strong again, and protect her and make her life easy, and give her time and love and everything in the world she could wish for—But I dared not say anything, and she hung back again a little, and once more it made the conversation difficult—and when we reached a sheltered spot by the "point du jour" I felt there was a sort of armour around her, and that it would be wiser to go straight to work and not talk further to-day.

She went directly from the parc to catch her train at five o'clock—and I was wheeled back to the hotel.

And now I have the evening alone before me—but the day is distinctly a step onward in the friendship line.



VIII

I spent a memorable day with Miss Sharp in the parc yesterday. I do not even remember what I did in the intermediate time—it seems of so little importance—but this Thursday will always stand out as a landmark of our acquaintance.

We drove in a fiacre to the Little Trianon after she arrived, with Burton on the box to help me out, and then I walked with my crutch to a delicious spot I know, rather near the grotto, and yet with a view of the house—I was determined I would entice her to talk as much as I could, and began very cautiously so as not to provoke her to suggest work.

"Have you ever read that wonderful story called 'An Adventure'—The two old ladies seeing Marie Antoinette and some other ghosts here?"

"No."

So I told her about it, and how they had accounted for it.

"I expect it was true," she said.

"You believe in ghosts then?"

"Some ghosts."

"I wish I did—then I should know that there is a beyond—."

I felt she was looking surprised.

"But of course there is a beyond—we have all been there many times during our evolution, after each life."

"That is what I want to know about—that theory of reincarnation," I responded eagerly—"can you tell me?"

"I could get you a book about it—."

"I would much rather hear it personally explained—the merest outline,—please tell me, it might help me not to be such a rotter—."

She looked away toward the giant trees, her mouth had a slightly sad expression, I could have torn those glasses off her blue eyes!

"We came up through the animal group soul—and finally were re-born individualized, into man—and from then onward the life on this earth is but a school for us to learn experience in, to prepare us eventually for higher spheres. When we advance far enough we need not be re-born again—."

"Yes—as a theory—I follow that—."

She went on—

"Everything is cause and effect—We draw the result of every action we commit, good or bad—and sometimes it is not until the next re-birth we pay for the bad ones, or receive the result of the good ones—."

"Is that why then that I am a cripple and life seems a beastly affair—?"

"Of course—You drew that upon yourself by some actions in your last life—. Also it may be to teach you some lesson in the improvement of the soul—."

"I don't seem to have learned anything—I believe I am rebellious all the time—."

"Probably."

"Miss Sharp—you could really help me if you would. Please explain to me—I will be a diligent pupil."

"Perhaps you were in a position of great power the last time, and were lavish and kind to people in a way—or you would not be so rich now—but you caused suffering and relied upon yourself, not on anything divine—you must have caused much suffering, perhaps mentally even, and so you had to be re-born and be wounded—to teach you the lesson of it all;—that is called your Karma. Our Karma is what we bring on with us from life to life in the way of obligations which we must discharge—so you see it rests with each one of us not to lay up more debts to pay in the future."

Her refined voice was level, as though she were controlling herself, not to allow any personal feeling to enter her discourse—her gloved hands were perfectly still in her lap—She was in profile to me so that I could see that her very long eyelashes seemed to be rather pressed against the glasses—I have not before been so close to her in a bright light.—Why does she wear those damned spectacles? I was thinking, when she said—

"You find it hard to be confined to your chair and not to be able to fight, don't you?—Well when you could fight it was not always the pleasure of going over the top? You had to have times in the trenches too, hadn't you—when you just had to bear it?"

"Of course—?"

"Well—you are in the trenches now, don't you see—and it is according to how your soul learns the lesson of them, as to whether in this life you will ever be allowed to go over the top again—or even to have peace."

"What is the lesson?"

"I am not God—I cannot tell you—but we would all know what our lesson to learn is, if we were not too vain to face the truth into ourselves."

"The aim being?"—

"Why of course to improve character and learn strength."

"What qualities do you most admire in a person, Miss Sharp?"

"Self control and strength."

"You have no sympathy with weaklings?"

"None whatever—bad strong people are better than weak good ones."

I knew this was true. This fragile creature suggests infinite repose and strength—what could she have done in a former life to bring her back in such unkind surroundings, that she must spend her days in drudgery, so that she has never even leisure to think?—I longed to ask her, but did not dare.

"Shall we not begin work now," she suggested—and I demonstrated my first lesson in self control by agreeing, and we did not talk again until luncheon time.

"If you don't mind we shall go to the little cafe by the lac," I said—"and then afterwards we can find another place and work again—Burton will have had my wheeled chair brought down there, so we can choose a decent spot in one of the bosquets."

She nodded slightly—Now that it was not to help my moral regeneration she did not intend to talk any more, it seemed!

As we got into the fiacre I slipped in the slightest degree, and caught on to her arm—It was bare to the elbow in the little cheap cotton frock, and as I touched the fine, fine skin, that maddening feeling came over me again to clasp her in my arms.—I pulled myself together, and she got in beside me. She has a darling tiny curl which comes behind her ear, slipped down probably because her hair is so unfashionably dressed—None of Suzette's "geste," nor even the subtle perfect taste of the fluffies.—It is just torn back and rolled into a tight twist. But now that I see her out of doors and in perspective I realize that she has a lovely small figure, and that everything is in the right place. I had told Burton to order the nicest lunch he could think of in that simple place, and our table under one of the umbrellas was waiting for us when we arrived.

There were only four other people there besides ourselves, and a few came in afterwards.

I had forgotten my bread tickets, so Miss Sharp gave me one of hers. She had relapsed into absolute silence. The only words she had uttered as we came down that avenue from The Trianon to the lac were when I exclaimed at the beauty of it—I judged by her mouth that she was admiring it too—and she said softly—

"For me, Versailles is the loveliest spot on earth!"

My mind flew then to the thought of what it would be to buy a really nice house here and spend the summers—with her—for my own—. I found myself clutching at my crutch—.

I tried to make conversation at lunch. There is nothing in the world so difficult as to keep this up when you are nervous with interest, and the other person is determined not to say a sentence which is unnecessary. A chill crept over me.

Burton turned up in time to pay the bill and put me into my chair.

"I don't think you look well enough to stay out the afternoon, Sir Nicholas"—he said—"Better go straight back to the hotel and rest—."

Miss Sharp joined in.

"I was going to say that"—she said.

I felt like a cross, disappointed child—I knew they were both right though; I was feeling pretty tired and had not an idea in my head. But if I did that, there would be a chance to see her lost—and all the long hours to face alone—.

"I am quite all right and I want to work," I said fretfully—and we started off.

We went up through the lovely allees past Enceledus—and on to the Quinconce du Nord, Miss Sharp walking a little behind my chair.

Here Burton bent over me—.

"It would be good for you to be taking a nap, Sir Nicholas—Indeed it would."

It seemed as if Miss Sharp was abetting him, for she came to my side—.

"If you can get quite comfortable—I would read to you, and you might sleep," she said—.

"We've no book"—I retorted—peeved, and yet pleased at the idea.

"I have one here which, will do"—and she took a little volume from her bag.—"I have wanted it for a long time, and I bought it at the Foire as I came from the station to-day—it cost a franc!"

It was a worn eighteenth century copy of Francois Villon—.

"Yes, that will be nice," I agreed—and leaned back while Burton settled my cushion, and then retired to a distance. Twelve years on and off of Paris has not taught him French—at least not the French of Francois Villon!

Miss Sharp took a little parc chair and I was able to watch her as she read—I did not even hear the words—because, as she was looking down I had not to guard myself, but could let my eye devour her small oval face. All my nerves were thrilling again and there was no peace—how I longed—ached—to take her into my arms!

She looked up once after an hour, to see if I were asleep, I suppose.—She must have observed passionate emotion in my eye—she looked down at the book instantly, but a soft pink flush came into her cheeks—which have a mother of pearl transparency usually. This caused me deep pleasure—I had been able to make her feel something at any rate! but then I was frightened—perhaps she would suggest going if she found the situation uncomfortable. Her voice had a fresh tone in it as she went on, and finally it faltered, and she stopped.

"If it is not putting you to sleep" she remarked—"perhaps you would not object if I walked on and typed what I took down this morning—It seems a pity to waste this time."

I knew that if I did not let her have her way there might be difficulties, so I agreed—and said that I would go back to the hotel and rest upon the sofa in the salon—So the procession started, and as we took the allee, to bring us to the Reservoirs on the level—I suddenly caught sight of Coralie and her last favoured one!—both of whom are supposed to be at Deauville with the rest!

Coralie was exquisitely dressed, Duquesnois in uniform.

I realized that she had seen us, and that she could not avoid coming up to talk, although that had not been her intention—When one is supposed to be at Deauville with one's family, and is in reality at Versailles with one's lover—one does not seek to recognize one's friends!

She came forward with empressement when she found the meeting was inevitable—.

"Nicholas!" she cooed "—what happiness!"—

Then she eyed Miss Sharp mischievously, making a movement as though she expected me to introduce them—.

But Miss Sharp defeated this by immediately walking on—.

"Tiens!" said Coralie—.

"That is Miss Sharp—my secretary—What are you doing—here Coralie?"

"Perhaps the same as you, cher ami—" and she rippled with laughter—"Versailles is so tranquil a place!"

I could have slapped her—fortunately Miss Sharp was out of earshot—.

Jean Duquesnois now joined in—he was back from the front for two days—things were going better—peace would certainly be declared before Christmas—.

Coralie meanwhile was looking after Miss Sharp with an expression upon her clever face which only a Frenchwoman is able to put there—It said as plainly as words, "So this is the reason Nicholas!—Well you have chosen something very every-day and inexpensive this time!—Men are certainly crazy in their tastes!"

I pretended not to notice, and so she spoke.

"Why if you can come here cannot you come to Deauville, Nicholas?—there must be some irresistible attraction stronger than to be with your friends!"

"Yes—he is an excellent Swedish masseur who is glued to Paris.—Also I like solitude sometimes—."

"Solitude!" and Coralie glanced at Miss Sharp's rapidly disappearing figure—. "Hein?"

I would not permit myself to grow angry.

"The book is nearly finished—you can tell the rest—."

"That old book! You were much more entertaining before you commenced it, Nicholas! Perhaps the idea has come to me why!"

I would not be drawn—I threw the war into the enemy's country.

"You are staying at the Reservoirs?"

I saw that she was—and that now the thought of my being there disconcerted her—.

"But no!" she lied sweetly—"I am merely out here for the day to see Louise, who has a son in the hospital—."

It was my turn to say—

"Tiens?"

And then we both laughed—and I let them go on—.

But when I got into my salon—I heard no typing—only there was a note from Miss Sharp to say that some slight thing had gone wrong with the machine, so she had taken the work to finish it at home—.

I cursed Coralie and all the fluffies in the world, and then in pain laid down upon my bed.



IX

Saturday Morning:

Yesterday I was so restless I could not settle to anything. I read pages and pages of Plato and was conscious that the words were going over in my head without conveying the slightest meaning, and that the other part of my mind was absorbed with thoughts of Miss Sharp—. If I only dared to be natural with her we surely could be friends, but I am always obsessed with the fear that she will leave me if I transgress in the slightest beyond the line she has marked between us—. I see that she is determined to remain only the secretary, and I realize that it is her breeding which makes her act as she does—. If she were familiar or friendly with me, she would feel it was not correct to come to my flat alone—She only comes at all because the money is so necessary to her—and having to come, she protects her dignity by wearing this ice mask.—I know that she was affronted by Coralie's look on Thursday, and that is why she went home pretending the typing machine was out of order—Now if any more of these contretemps happen she will probably give me warning. Burton instinctively sensed this, and that is why he disapproved of my asking her to lunch—If she had been an ordinary typist Burton would not have objected in the least,—as I said before, Burton knows the world!

Now what is to be done next?—I would like to go and confide in the Duchesse, and tell her that I believe I have fallen in love with my secretary, who won't look at me, and ask her advice—but that I fear with all her broad-minded charity, her class prejudice is too strong to make her really sympathetic. Her French mind of the Ancien Regime could not contemplate a Thormonde—son of Anne de Mont-Anbin—falling in love with an insignificant Miss Sharp who brings bandages to the Courville hospital!

These thoughts tormented me so all yesterday that I was quite feverish by the evening—and Burton wore an air of thorough disapproval. A rain shower came on too, and I could not go up on the terrace for the sunset.

I would like to have taken asperines and gone to sleep, when night came—but I resisted the temptation, telling myself that to-morrow she would come again.

I am dawdling over this last chapter on purpose—and I have re-read the former ones and decided to rewrite one or two, but at best I cannot spread this out over more than six weeks, I fear, and then what excuse can I have for keeping her? I feel that she would not stay just to answer a few letters a day, and do the accounts and pay the bills with Burton. I feel more desperately miserable than I have felt since last year—And I suppose that according to her theory, I have to learn a lesson. It seems if I search, as she said one must do without vanity, that the lesson is to conquer emotion, and be serene when everything which I desire is out of reach.

* * * * *

Saturday Night:

To-day has been one of utter disaster and it began fairly well. Miss Sharp turned up at eleven as I shut my journal. I had sent to the station to meet her this time—She brought all the work she had taken away with her on Thursday, quite in order—and her face wore the usual mask. I wonder if I had not ever seen her without her glasses if I should have realized now that she is very pretty—I can see her prettiness even with them on—her nose is so exquisitely fine, and the mouth a Cupid's bow really—if one can imagine a Cupid's bow very firm. I am sure if she were dressed as Odette, or Alice, or Coralie, she would be lovely. This morning when she first came I began thinking of this and of how I should like to give her better things than any of the fluffies have ever had—how I would like her to have some sapphire bangles for those little wrists and a great string of pearls round that little throat—my mother's pearls—and perhaps big pearls in those shell ears—And how I would like to take her hair down and brush it out, and let it curl as it wanted to—and then bury my face in it—those stiff twists must take heaps of hair to make.—But why am I writing all this when the reality is further off than ever, and indeed has become an impossibility I fear.

We worked in the sitting-room—it was a cloudy day—and presently, after I had been dreaming on in this way, I asked her to read over the earlier chapters of the book.—She did—.

"Now what do you think of the thing as a whole?" I asked her.

She was silent for a moment as though trying not to have to answer directly, then that weird constitutional honesty seemed to force out the words.

"It perhaps tells what that furniture is."

"You feel it is awful rot?"

"No—."

"What then?"

"It depends if you mean to publish it?"

I leaned back and laughed—bitterly! the realization that she understood so completely that it was only a "soulagement"—an "asperine" for me, so to speak as the Duchesse said—cut in like a knife. I had the exasperated feeling that I was just being pandered to, humored by everyone, because I was wounded. I was an object of pity, and even my paid typist—but I can't write about it.

Miss Sharp started from her chair, her fine nostrils were quivering, and her mouth had an expression I could not place.

"Indeed, it is not bad," she said—"You misunderstand me—."

I knew now that she was angry with herself for having hurt me—and that I could have made capital out of this, but something in me would not let me do that.

"Oh—it is all right—" I replied, but perhaps my voice may have been flat and discouraged—for she went on so kindly.

"You know a great deal about the subject of course—but I feel the chapters want condensing—May I tell you just where?"

I felt that the thing did not interest me any more, one way or another, it was just a ridiculous non-essential—. I saw it all in a new perspective—but I was glad she seemed kindly—though for a moment even that appeared of less importance. Something seemed to have numbed me. What, what could be the good of anything?—the meaning of anything?—I unconsciously put my head back against the cushion of my chair in weariness—I felt the soft silk and shut my eye for a moment.

When Miss Sharp spoke again, her voice was full of sympathy—and was it remorse—?

"I would like to help you to take interest in it—again—won't you let me?" she pleaded.

I was grateful that she did not say she was sorry she had hurt me—that I could not have stood—.

I opened my eye now and looked at her, she was bending nearer to me, but I felt nothing particular, only a desire to go to sleep and have done with it all. It was as if the fabric of my make-believe had been rent asunder.

"It is very good of you," I answered politely—"Yes—say what you think."

Her tact is immense—she plunged straight into the subject without further imputation of sympathy,—her voice, full of inflections of interest and friendliness, her constrained self-control laid aside for the time. She spoke so intelligently, showing trained critical faculties—and at last my numbness began gradually to melt, and I could not help some return of sensation. There may have been soothing syrup in the fact that she must have been interested in the work, or she could not have dissected it chapter by chapter, point by point, as she was doing.

She grew animated as we discussed things, and once unconsciously took off her glasses—It was like the sun coming out after days of storm clouds—her beautiful, beautiful blue eyes!—My "heart gave a bound"—(I believe that is the way to express what I mean!)—I felt a strange emotion of excitement and pleasure—I had not time to control my admiration, I expect,—for she took fright and instantly replaced them, a bright flush in her cheeks—and went on talking in a more reserved way—Alas!—

Of course then I realized that she does not wear the glasses for any reason of softening light or of defective sight, but simply to hide those blue stars and make herself unattractive—.

How mysterious it all is!—

I wish I had been able to conceal the fact that I had noticed that the glasses were off—Another day I would certainly have taken advantage of this moment and would have tried to make her confess the reason of her wearing them; but some odd quality in me prevented me from reaping any advantage from this situation, so I let the chance pass.—Perhaps she was grateful to me, for she warmed up a little again.

I began to feel that I might write the fool of a book right over from the beginning—and suggested to her that we should take it in detail.

She acquiesced—.

Then it suddenly struck me that she had not only spoken of style in writing, of method in book making—but had shown an actual knowledge of the subject of the furniture itself.—How could little Miss Sharp, a poverty stricken typist, be familiar with William and Mary furniture? She has obviously not "seen better days," and only taken up a stenographic business lately, because such proficiency as she shows, not only in this work but in account keeping and all the duties of a secretary, must have required a steady professional training.

Could she have studied in Museums?

But the war has been on for four years and I had gathered that she has been in Paris all that time—Even if she had left England in 1914, she could only have been eighteen or nineteen then, and girls of that age do not generally take an interest in furniture. This thought kept bothering me—and I was silent for some moments. I was weighing things up.

Her voice interrupted my thoughts.

"The Braxted chair has the first of the knotted fringes known"—it was saying.

I had spoken of the Braxted chair—but had not recorded this fact—.

How the devil could she have known about it?

"Where did you find that?"

"I knew someone who had seen it—" she answered in the same voice, but her cheeks grew pinker—.

"You have never seen it yourself?"

"No—I have never been in England—."

"——Never been in England?"

I was stupefied.

She went on hurriedly—I was going to write feverishly,—so quickly did she rush into questions of method in arranging the chapters, her armour was on again—she had become cautious, and was probably annoyed with herself for ever having allowed herself to slip off her guard.

I knew that I could disconcert her, and probably obtain some interesting admissions from her—and have a thrilling fencing match, but some instinct warned me not to do so—I might win out for the time being, but if she has a secret which she does not wish me to discover, she will take care not again to put herself in a situation where this can happen. I have the apprehension always hanging, like Damocles' sword, over my head, of her relinquishing her post. Besides, why should I trouble her for my own satisfaction?—However, I registered a vow then that I would find out all I could from Maurice.

The inference of everything she says, does and unconsciously infers, is that she is a cultivated lady, accustomed to talking with people of our world—people who know England and its great houses well enough to have made her familiar with the knowledge of where certain pieces of famous furniture are.—The very phrasing of her sentences is the phrasing of our Shibboleth, and not the phrasing of the professional classes.

And yet—she is meanly dressed—does housework—and for years must have been trained in professional business methods. It is profoundly interesting.

I have never even questioned Maurice as to how he heard of her.

Well, I write all this down calmly, the record of the morning, to let myself look back on it, and to where the new intimacy might have led us, but for the sickening end to the day.

Burton did not question her lunching with me this time—he had given the order as a matter of course—He is very fine in his distinctions, and understood that to make any change after she once had eaten with me would be invidious.

By the time the waiters came in to lay the table, that sense of hurt, and then of numbness, had worn off—I was quite interested again in the work, and intensely intrigued about the possible history of the Sharp family!

I was using cunning, too, and displaying casual indifference, so watchfulness was allowed to rest a little with the strange girl.

"I believe if you will give me your help I shall be able to make quite a decent book of it after all,—but does it not seem absurd to trouble about such thing's as furniture with the world in ruins and Empires tottering!"—I remarked while the ark-relic handed the omelette—.

"All that is only temporary—presently people will be glad to take up civilized interests again."

"You never had any doubt as to how the war would end?"

"Never."

"Why?"

"Because I believe in the gallantry of France, and the tenacity of England, and the—youth of America."

"And what of Germany?"

"The vulgarity."

This was quite a new reason for Germany's certain downfall—! It delighted me—.

"But vulgarity does not mean weakness!"

"Yes it does—Vulgar people have imperfect sensibilities, and cannot judge of the psychology of others, they appraise everything by their own standard—and so cannot calculate correctly possible contingencies—that shows weakness."

"How wise you are—and how you think!"

She was silent.

"All the fighting nations will be filled with vulgarians even when we do win, though with most of the decent people killed—" I ventured to say—.

"Oh! no—Lots of their souls are not vulgar, only their environment has caused their outward self-expression to seem so. Once you get below the pompous bourgeoisie in France, for instance, the more delightful you find the spirit, and I expect it is the same in England. It is the pretentious aspiring would-bes who are vulgar—and Germany seems filled with them,"

"You know it well?"

"Yes, pretty well."

"If it is not a frightfully impertinent question—how old are you really, Miss Sharp—?" I felt that she could not be only twenty-three after this conversation.

She smiled—the second smile I have seen—.

"On the twentieth of October I shall be twenty-four."

"Where on earth did you learn all your philosophy of life in the time!"

"It is life which teaches us everything—if we are not half asleep—especially if it is difficult—."

"And the stupid people are like me—not liking to learn any lessons and kicking against the pricks—.",

"Yes—."

"I would try to learn anything you would teach me though, Miss Sharp."

"Why?"

"Because I have confidence in you"—I did not add—because I loved her voice and respected her character and——.

"Thank you"—she said.

"Will you teach me?"

"What?"

"How not to be a rotter—."

"A man knows that himself—."

"How to learn serenity then?"

"That would be difficult."

"Am I so impossible?"

"I cannot say—but."

"But—what?"

"One would have to begin from the beginning—."

"Well?"

"And I have not time—."

I looked at her as she said this—there was in the tone a faint echo of regret, so I wanted to see the expression of her mouth—It told me nothing.

I could not get anything further out of her, because the waiters came in and out after this rather frequently, changing the courses—and so I did not have any success.

After lunch I suggested as it had cleared up that we should go at least as far as the parterre, and sit under the shadow of the terrace—the flower beds are full of beans now—their ancient glories departed. Miss Sharp followed my bath chair,—and with extreme diligence kept me to the re-arranging of the first chapter. For an hour I watched her darling small face whenever I could. A sense of peace was upon me. We were certainly on the first rung of the ladder of friendship—and presently—presently—If only I could keep from annoying her in any way!

When we had finished our task she rose—.

"If you don't mind, as it is Saturday I have promised Burton"—and she looked at him, seated on a chair beyond earshot enjoying the sun—"to do up the accounts and prepare the cheques for you to sign—. So I will go in now and begin."

I wanted to say "Damn the accounts"—but I let her go—I must play the tortoise in this game, not the hare. She smiled faintly—the third smile—as she made me a little bow, and walked off.

After a few paces she came back again.

"May I ask Burton for the bread ticket I lent you on Thursday," she said—"No one can afford to be generous with them now, can they!"

I was delighted at this. I would have been delighted at anything which kept her with me an extra minute.

I watched her as she disappeared down towards the Reservoirs with longing eyes, then I must have dozed for a while, because it was a quarter to five when I got back to my sitting-room.

And when I was safely in my chair there was a knock on the door, and in she came—with a cheque-book in her hand. Before I opened it or even took it up I knew something had happened which had changed her again.

Her manner had its old icy respect as of a person employed, all the friendliness which had been growing in the last two or three days had completely departed. I could not imagine why—.

She put the cheque-book open, and handed me a pen to sign with, and then I signed the dozen that she had filled in, and tore them off as I did so. She was silent, and when I had finished she took them, saying casually that she would bring the corrected chapter typed again on Tuesday, and was now going to catch her train—and before I could reply, she had gone into the other room—.

A frightful sense of depression fell upon me—What could it possibly be—?

Idly I picked up the cheque-book—and absently fingered the leaves—then my eye caught a counterfoil where I had chanced to open it. It was not in Miss Sharp's handwriting, although this was the house cheque-book which Burton usually keeps, but in my own and there was written, just casually as I scribble in my private account.—"For Suzette 5000 francs" and the date of last Saturday—and on turning the page there was the further one of "For Suzette 3000 francs" and the date of Monday!!

The irony of fate!—I had picked this cheque-book up inadvertently I suppose on these two days instead of my own.



X

It is quite useless for me to comment upon the utterly annoying circumstance of that mixup of cheque-books—Such things are fate—and fate I am beginning to believe is nothing but a reflex of our own actions. If Suzette had not been my little friend, I should not have given her eight thousand francs—but as she has been—and I did—I must stand by the consequences.

After all—a man?—Well—what is the use of writing about it. I am so utterly mad and resentful that I have no words.

It is Sunday morning, and this afternoon I shall hire the one motor which can be obtained here, at a fabulous price, and go into Paris. There are some books I want to get out of my bookcase—and somehow I have lost interest here. But this morning I shall go and sit in the parish church and hear Mass.—I feel so completely wretched, the music may comfort me and give me courage to forget all about Miss Sharp. And in any case there is a soothing atmosphere in a Roman Catholic church, which is agreeable. I love the French people! They are a continual tonic, if one takes them rightly. So filled with common sense, simply using sentiment as an ornament, and a relaxation; and never allowing it to interfere with the practical necessities of life. Ignorant people say they are hysterical, and over passionate—They are nothing of the kind—They believe in material things, and in the "beau geste." Where they require a religion, they accept a comforting one; and meanwhile they enjoy whatever comes in their way and get through disagreeables philosophically. Vive la France!

* * * * *

I am waiting for the motor now—and trying to be resigned.—Mass did me good—I sat in a corner and kept my crutch by me. The Church itself told me stories, I tried to see it in Louis XV's time—I dare say it looked much the same, only dirtier—And life was made up with etiquette and forms and ceremonies, more exasperating than anything now. But they were ahead of us in manners, and a sense of beauty.

A little child came and sat beside me for about ten minutes, and looked at me and my crutch sympathetically.

"Blesse de la guerre," I heard her whisper to her mother—"Comme Jean."

The organ was not bad—and before I came out I felt calmer.

After all it is absurd of Miss Sharp to be disgusted about Suzette—She must know, at nearly twenty-four, and living in France, that there are Suzettes—and I am sure she is not narrow-minded in any way—What can have made her so censorious? If she took a personal interest in me it would be different, but entirely indifferent as she is, how can it matter to her?—As I write this, that hot sense of anger and rebellion arises in me—I'll have to keep saying to myself that I am in the trenches again and must not complain.

I'll make Burton find out if Coralie is really staying here, and get her to dine with me to-night—Coralie always pretended to have a beguin for me—even when most engaged elsewhere.

* * * * *

Monday:

Sunday was a memorable day—.

I went through the Bois de Marne on that bad road because the trees were so lovely—and then through the parc de St. Cloud. Even in war time this wonderful people can enjoy the open air life!—

I think of Henriette d' Angleterre looking from the terrace of her Chateau over the tree tops—The poor Chateau! not a stone of which is standing to-day—Did she feel sentimental with her friend the Comte de Guiche—as I would like to feel now?—If I had someone to be sentimental with. Alas! There was an ominous hot stillness in the air, and the sky beyond the Eiffel tower had a heavy, lurid tone in it.

When we got across the river into the Bois de Boulogne it seemed as if all Paris was enjoying a holiday. I told the chauffeur to go down a side allee and to go slowly, and presently I made him draw up at the side of the road. It was so hot, and I wanted to rest for a little, the motion was jarring my leg.

I think I must have been half asleep, when my attention was caught by three figures coming up another by-path obliquely—the tallest of them was undoubtedly Miss Sharp—but Miss Sharp as I had never seen her before!—

And a boy of thirteen, and a girl of eleven were at either side of her, the boy clinging on to her arm, he was lame and seemed to be a dreadfully delicate, rickety person. The little girl was very small and sickly looking too—but Miss Sharp—my secretary!—appeared blooming and young and lovely in her inexpensive foulard frock—No glasses hid her blue eyes. Her hair was not torn back and screwed into a knot, but might have been dressed by Alice's maid—and her hat, the simplest thing possible, was most becoming, with the proper modish "look."—

Refinement and perfect taste proclaimed themselves from every inch of her, even if everything had only cost a small sum.

So that dowdy get-up is for my benefit, and is not habitual to her!—Or is it, that she has only one costume and keeps it for Sundays and days of fete?—

In spite of my determination to put all thought of her from me—a wild emotion arose—a passionate longing to spring from the car and join her—to talk to her, and tell her how lovely I thought she was looking.

They came nearer and nearer—I could see that her face was rippling with smiles at something the little brother had said—Its expression was gentle and sympathetic and it was obvious that fond affection held all three.

The children might have been drawn by Du Maurier in Punch long ago, to express a family who were overbred. Race run to seed expressed itself in every line of them. The boy wore an Eton jacket and collar and a tall hat—and it looked quite strange in this place.

As they got close to me I could hear him cough in the hollow way which tells its own story—.

I cowered down behind the hood of the motor, and they passed without seeing me—or perhaps Miss Sharp did see me but was determined not to look—. I felt utterly alone and deserted by all the world—and the same nervous trembling came over me which once before made me suffer so, and again I was conscious that my cheek was wet with a tear.

The humiliation of it! the disgrace of such feebleness!—

When they had gone by, I started forward again to watch them—I could hear the little girl cry, "Oh! look Alathea!" as she pointed to the sky, and then all three began to quicken their pace down another allee, in the direction of Auteuil, and were soon out of sight.

Then, still quivering with emotion, I too glanced heavenward—Ye Gods! what a storm was coming on—!

Where were they going? there into the deep wood?—it was a good mile or two from the Auteuil gate—They would be soaked to the skin when the rain did commence to fall—and there was a thunder storm beginning also—were they quite safe?

All these thoughts tormented me, and I gave the chauffeur orders to take a road I thought might cut across the path they had followed, and when we reached the spot, I made him wait.

The livid lightning rent the sky and the thunder roared like guns, and the few people in sight rushed, panic-stricken, in a hopeless search for shelter—far greater fear on their faces than they show at German bombs.

My chauffeur complained audibly, as he got down to shut the car—Did Monsieur wish to be struck by lightning? he demanded, very enraged.

Still I waited—but no Sharp family appeared—and at last I knew I had missed them somehow—a very easy thing in that path-bisected wood. So I told him he could drive like hell to my appartement in the Place des Etats Unis—and off we rushed in the now torrential rain—It was one of the worst thunder storms I have ever seen in my life.

I was horribly worried as to what could have happened to that little party, for that allee where I had seen them, was in the very middle of the Bois, and far from any gate or shelter. They must have got soaking wet if nothing worse had happened to them. And how could I hear anything about them?—What should I do? Was the Duchesse in Paris?—Could I find the address possibly from her? But would she be likely to know it? just because Miss Sharp—"Alathea"—(what a lovely Greek name!) brought bandages to the hospital?

However, this was worth trying, and I could hardly wait to get out of the motor, and get to the telephone. The concierge came out with an umbrella in great concern and took me up in the lift herself—and there was Burton waiting for me, he had come in by train to take me back safely later on.

How I cursed my folly in not having asked Miss Sharp herself for her address! Could Burton possibly know it?—How silly of me not to have thought of that before!

"Burton, I saw Miss Sharp and her family in the Bois—do you know their address by chance?—I want to ring up and find out if they got home all right."

Burton could see my anxiety—and actually hurried in his reply!

"They live in Auteuil, Sir Nicholas, but I can't exactly say where—the young lady never seems very particular to give me the address. She said I should not be needing it, and that they were likely to move."

"Get on to the Duchesse de Courville-Hautevine as quickly as you can—."

Burton did so at once, but it seemed a long time.

—No, Madame la Duchesse was down at Hautevine taking some fresh convalescents, and would not return until the middle of the week—if then!

I nearly swore aloud—.

"Are they talking from the concierge's lodge or the hotel?—Burton ask at both if they know the address of a Miss Sharp who brings bandages to the hospital!"

Of course by this time the connection had been cut off, and it took quite ten minutes to get on again, and by that time I could have yelled aloud with the feverish fret of it all, and the pain!

No one knew anything of a "Mees Shearp."

"Mees Shearp—Mais non!"

Many ladies brought bandages, hein?!

I mastered myself as well as I could and got into my chair—.

And in a few moments Burton brought me a brandy and soda, and put it into my hand.

"It won't be cleared up enough to go back to Versailles before dinner, Sir Nicholas," he said—and coughed—"I was just thinking maybe—you'd be liking some friends to come in and dine—Pierre can get something in from the restaurant, if you'd feel inclined."

The cough meant that Burton knows I am dreadfully upset, and that under the circumstances anything to distract me is the lesser of two evils—!

"Ask whom you please," I answered and drank the brandy and soda down.

Presently, after half an hour, Burton came back to me, beaming—I had been sitting in my chair too exhausted even to feel pain meanwhile—.

He had telephoned everywhere, and no one was in town, but at last, at the Ritz, where the concierge knows all my friends, he had been informed that Mrs. Bruce (Nina) had arrived the night before, alone—he had got connected up at her appartement, and she would be ''round at eight o'clock, very pleased to dine!'

Nina!—A pleasant thrill ran through me—Nina, and without Jim—!

The wood fire was burning brightly, and the curtains were drawn when Nina, fresh as a rose, came in—.

"Nicholas!" she cried delightedly—and held out both hands.

"Nina!—this is a pleasure, you old dear!—now let me look at you and see what marriage has done—."

Nina drew back and laughed!

"Everything, Nicholas!" she said—.

A feeling of envy came over me—Jim's ankle is stiff for life—it seems hard that an eye can make such a difference!—Nina is in love with Jim, but no woman can be in love with me.

Her face is much softer, she is more attractive altogether.

"You look splendid, Nina," I told her—"I want to hear all about it."

"So you shall when we have finished dinner," and she handed me my crutch as I got up from my chair.

Pierre had secured some quite respectable food, and during dinner and afterwards when we were cosily smoking our cigarettes in the sitting-room, Nina gave me all the news of our friends at home.—Every single one of them was still working, she said.

"It is marvelous how they have stuck it," I responded—.

"Oh no, not at all," Nina answered. "We as a nation are people of habit—the war is a habit to us now—heaps of us work from a sense of duty and patriotism, others because they are afraid what would be said of them if they did not—others because they are thankful to have some steady job to get off their superfluous energy on—So it ends by everyone being roped in—and you can't think, Nicholas, how divine it is to get home after long hours of drudgery, to find the person you love waiting for you, and to know you are going to have all the rest of the time together, until next day!"

"No, I can't imagine the bliss of that, Nina—."

She looked at me suddenly—.

"Well, why don't you marry then, dear boy?"

"I would, if I thought I could secure bliss—but you forget, it would be from pity and not love that a woman would be kind to me."

"I am—not quite sure of that, Nicholas"—and she looked at me searchingly—"You are changed since last time—you are not so bitter and sardonic—and you, always have that—oh! you know what Elinor Glyn writes of in her books—that "it."—Some kind of attraction that has no name—but I am sure has a lot to do with love—."

"So you think I have got 'it,' Nina?"

"Yes, your clothes fit so well—and you say rather whimsical things—Yes, decidedly, Nicholas, now that you are not so bitter—I am sure—."

"What a pity you did not find that out before you took Jim, Nina!"

"Oh! Jim! that is different—You have much more brain than Jim, and would not have been nearly so easy to live with!"

"Is it going well, Nina?"

"Yes—perfectly—that is why I came to Paris alone—I knew it would be good for him—besides I wanted a rest, Nicholas."

"I thought you had married for a rest!"

"Well, if a man 'in love' is what you really want,—and not his just 'loving' you—you have to use your wits; it can't be a rest, not if he has made you care too.—When I was just tossing up between Jim and Rochester, then I had not to bother about how I behaved to them. You see I was the, as yet, unattained desired thing—but having accepted one of them, he has time to think of things, not having to fight to get me, and so I have to keep him thinking of things which have still speculation in them—don't you see?"

"You have to keep the hunting instinct alive, in fact."

"Yes—"

"You don't think it would be possible to find someone who was just one's mate so that no game of any sort would be necessary?"

She thought hard for a moment.

"That, of course, would be heaven—" then she sighed—"I am afraid it is no use in hoping for that, Nicholas!"

"Someone who would understand so well that silence was eloquent—someone who would read books with one, and think thoughts with one. Someone who would lie in one's arms and respond to caresses—and not be counting the dollars—or—doing her knitting—. Someone who was tender and kind and true—Oh! Nina!"

I suppose my voice had taken on a tone of emotion—I was thinking of Miss Sharp—Alathea—that shall be her name always for me now—.

"Nicholas!" Nina exclaimed—"My dear boy, of course you are in love!"

"And if so?"

Instantly I became of more value to Nina—she realized that she had lost me, and that some other woman drew me and not herself—and although Nina is the best sort in the world and more or less really in love with Jim, I knew that a new note could grow in our friendship if I wished to encourage it—Nina's fighting instinct had been aroused to try to get me back!

"Who with?" she demanded laconically.

"With a dream—."

"Nonsense! you are much too cynical—Is it anyone I know?"

"I should not think so—she has not materialised yet."

"This is frightfully interesting, my dear old boy!"

"So you think I'll have a chance then?"

"Certainly when you are all finished."

"My new eye is to be in before Christmas, and my new leg after the new year, and my shoulder gets straighter every day!"

Nina laughed—.

"Real love would be—I suppose—if you could make her adore you before you looked any handsomer!"

And this sentence of Nina's rang in my ears long after she had gone, and often in the night. I could not sleep, I felt something had happened and that fate might be going to take Miss Sharp—Alathea—from me—.

* * * * *

And then before morning in fretful dreams I seemed to be obsessed by the cooing of love words between a woman and a child—.



XI

Monday was a perfectly impossible day—I spent all the morning before I returned to Versailles in writing to Maurice, telling him he must find out all about Miss Sharp—Alathea—I felt if I told him her Christian name it would be a clue—and yet even to assist in that, which was, at the moment, my heart's desire, I could not overcome my personal dislike to pronounce it to Maurice!—it seemed as something sacred to me alone—which makes me reflect upon how egotistical we all are—and how we would all rather fail in attaining what is our greatest wish than not to be able to express our own personality—!

Nina had suggested before she left that I should stay in Paris and come to the theatre with her—.

"We could have some delicious old times, Nicholas, now that you are so much better."

Once this would have thrilled me—only last Spring! but now the contrariness in me made me say that it was absolutely necessary that I returned immediately to Versailles. I believe I should have answered like that even if there had been no Miss Sharp,—Alathea—in the case, just because I now knew Nina really wanted me to stay—every man is like that, more or less, if only women knew!—The whole sex relation is one of fence—until the object has been secured—and then emotion dies out altogether, or is revived in one or the other, but very seldom in both. Love—real love—is beyond all this I suppose, and does not depend upon whether or no the other person excites one's desire for conquest. Love must be wonderful—I believe Alathea—(I have actually written it naturally this time!—) could love. I never used to think I could, at the best of moments I have analysed my emotions, and stood aside as it were, and measured just how much things were meaning to me.

But when I think of that scrap of a girl, with her elusive ways, her pride, her refinement, even her little red hands—! I have a longing—a passionate longing to hold her always near me—to know that she is mine—that for the rest of time I should be with her, learning from her high thoughts, comforted by her strength of character—believing in her—respecting her—Yes, that is it—respecting her. How few women one meets with attractions that one really respects.—One respects many elderly ones, of course, and abstract splendid creatures, but bringing it down to concrete facts, how few are the women who have drawn one's admiration or excited one's desire, who at the same time one reverenced!—Love must mean reverence—that is it.

And what is reverence—?

The soul's acknowledgment of the purity of another—and purity in this sense means truth and honor, and lofty aims—not the denial of all passion, or the practice of asceticism.

I utterly reverence Alathea, and yet I am sure with that mouth—if she loved me she would be anything but cold. How on God's earth can I make her love me—?

I went back to Versailles after luncheon, having had to see the specialist about my eye, he thinks the socket is so marvelously healed lately, that I could have the glass one in now much sooner than Christmas. I wonder if some self confidence will return when I can feel people are not revolted when looking at me?—That again is super-sensitiveness. Of course no one is revolted—they feel pity—and that is perhaps worse. When I get my leg too, shall I have the nerve to make love to Alathea and use all the arts which used to be so successful in the old days?

I believe if I were back in 1914—I should still be as nervous as a cat when with her—Is this one of the symptoms of love again?

George Harcourt has many maxims upon the subject of love—One is that a Frenchman thinks most of the methods of love—An Englishman more of the sensations of love—and an Austrian of the emotions of love—. I wonder if this is true? He also says that a woman does not really appreciate a man who reverences her sex in the abstract, and is chivalrous about all women,—she rather thinks him a simpleton—. What she does appreciate is a man who holds cynical views about the female sex in general, and shows reverence and chivalry towards herself in particular!

This I feel is probably the truth—!

I did not expect to hear anything of Alathea on the Monday, she was not due until Tuesday at eleven o'clock, but when I came in from my sunset on the terrace, I found two telegrams, all the first one said was—

"Extremely sorry will be unable to come to-morrow, brother seriously ill. A. Sharp—."

And no address!

So I could not send sympathy, or even offer any help—I could have sworn aloud! The storm had wrecked its vengeance on someone, then, and the poor little chap had probably taken cold.

If I could only be of some use to them—Perhaps getting the best Doctor is out of their reach. I was full of turmoil while I tore open the other blue paper—this was from Suzette—.

"I come this evening at eight."

It was nearly seven o'clock now, so I could not put her off—and I am not sure that I wanted to—Suzette is a human being and kindly, and her heart is warm.

When Burton was dressing me I told him of Miss Sharp's telegram.

"The poor young lady!" he said—.

Burton always speaks of her as the "young lady"—he never makes a mistake about class.

Suzette for him is "Mam'zell"—and he speaks of her as a mother might about her boy's noisy, tiresome rackety school friends—necessary evils to be put up with for the boy's sake—The fluffies he announces always by their full titles—"Madame la Comtesse"—etc., etc., with a face of stone. Nina and the one or two other Englishwomen he is politely respectful to, but to Miss Sharp he is absolutely reverential—she might be a Queen!

"I expect the poor little fellow got wet through yesterday," I hazarded—.

"He's that delicate," Burton remarked.

So Burton knows something more about the family than I do after all—!

"How did you know he was delicate, Burton, or even that Miss Sharp had a brother?"

"I don't exactly know, Sir Nicholas—it's come out from one time to another—the young lady don't talk."

"How did you guess, then?"

"I've seen her anxious when I've brought in her tray—sometimes, and once I ventured to say to her—'I beg pardon Miss, but can I do anything for you,' and she took off her glasses sudden like—and thanked me, and said it was her little brother she was worrying about—and you may believe me or not as you like, Sir Nicholas, but her eyes were full of tears."

I wonder if Burton guessed the deep emotion he was causing me—My little darling! with her beautiful blue eyes full of tears, and I impotent to comfort or help her—!

"Yes—yes?" I said—.

"She told me then that he'd been delicate since birth, and she feared the winter in Paris for him—I do believe Sir, it's that she works so hard for, to get him away south."

"Burton—what the devil can we do about it?"

"I don't very well know, Sir Nicholas—Many's the time I've badly wanted to offer her the peaches and grapes and other things, to take back to him—but of course I know my place better than to insult a lady—tisn't like as if she were of another class you see Sir—she'd have grabbed 'em then, but bein' as she is, she'd have been bound to refuse them, and it might have tempted her for him and made things awkward."

Burton not only knows the world but has tact—!

He went on, now once started.

"I saw her outside a wine shop once when I got off the tram at Auteuil—She was looking at the bottles of port—and I made so as to pass, and her not see me, but she turned and said friendly like—'Burton, do you suppose this shop would keep really good port—?' I said as how I would go in and see, and she came with me—They had some fairly decent—though too young, Sir Nicholas, and it was thirty-five francs the bottle—I saw she had not an idea it would be as much as that—her face fell—Do you know, Sir, I could see she hadn't that much with her,—it was the day before she's paid you see—her colour came and went—then she said—'I wonder Burton if you could oblige me with paying the ten extra francs until to-morrow—I must have the best!'—You may believe me, Sir Nicholas, I got out my purse quick enough—and then she thanked me so sweet like—'The Doctor has ordered it for my mother, Burton,' she said—'and of course she couldn't drink any but the best!'"

"Who on earth can she be, Burton? It does worry me—can't you possibly find out? I would so like to help them."

"I feel that, Sir—but here's the way I figure it—When gentry lives in foreign towns and don't seem anxious for you to know their address it don't seem right like to pry into it."

"Burton, you dear old brick!—well supposing we don't try to pry, but just try how we can possibly help her—You could certainly be sympathetic about the brother since she has spoken to you—and surely something can be done—? I saw her at the Duchesse's you know—do you suppose she knows her—?"

"I do, Sir Nicholas—I never meant to speak of it, but one day Her Grace came to see you and you were out and she caught sight of Miss Sharp through the half open door—and she jumped like a cat, Her Grace did, 'Halthee'—she cried out—or some name like that,—and Miss Sharp started up and went down the stairs with her—She seemed to be kind of explaining, and I am not sure that Her Grace was too pleased—."

(Burton thinks all Duchesses should be called "Grace" whether they are French or English.)

"Then we should certainly be able to find out from the Duchesse—."

"Well, I would not be so sure of that Sir Nicholas—You see the Duchesse is a very kind lady, but she is a lady of the world, and she may have her reasons."

"Then what do you suggest, Burton?"

"Why, I hardly know—perhaps to wait and see, Sir Nicholas."

"Masterly inactivity!"

"It might be that I could do a bit of finding out if I felt sure no harm could come of it."

I was not quite certain what Burton meant by this—What possible harm could come of it?

"Find out all you can and let me know—."

* * * * *

Suzette opened the door and came in just as I finished dressing—Burton left the room.—She was pouting.

"So the book is not completed, Nicholas?—and the English Mees comes three times a week—hein?"

"Yes—does that upset you?"

"I should say!"

"May I not have a secretary?—You will be objecting to my Aunt coming to stay with me, or my dining with my friends—next!"