I stared at her, scarcely able to believe the evidence of my own ears. Then, remembering that she is a girl greatly given to a maudlin kind of sentiment, I was reassured. 'You have been mistaken,' I said with quiet dignity. 'Mr. Rawlings is incapable of such a display as you have just described. If, as you say, he was holding my photo in his hand, it was, no doubt, for the purpose of using it as an ash-tray.'

'Never seen 'im use an ash-tray,' commented Elizabeth.

'Being in the drawing-room he might, for once, have had some qualms about the carpet,' I explained. Under his rugged exterior he may have a conscience. I rather doubt it myself, but one should never judge too harshly.

'Arter 'earing 'im say that,' went on Elizabeth, 'I didn't like to let 'im see I'd been in the room all the time, an' I was just goin' to creep out quiet when 'e starts talkin' to the photo again. "Marryun," 'e ses, "if I carn't 'ave you I'll go away in the wilderness, or be an 'ermit in a cave, or go an' live in Tibbet, or give away every farthin' I've got in the world." That's wot 'e sed, an' 'e looked so wild I was fair scared, miss.'

I stared at Elizabeth, quite unable to speak a word. The whole thing sounded so wildly improbable and yet she was obviously speaking the truth. She is, I should say, a girl of no imagination and, being entirely artless, could not possibly have invented such a thing. At last I found my voice, which sounded rather hollow. 'What a terrible thing,' I said.

'Why terrible?' she inquired.

Poor, simple girl, with her primitive views of life, how little she understood the delicate situation that had been created, or the significance of the words she had just repeated to me.

'I detest the idea of inflicting pain even on an animal,' I replied, 'and if, as you say, Mr. Rawlings appeared to be suffering on my account——'

''E was—agonies,' she put in.

'Well, is not the whole position dreadful? Mr. Rawlings is the last, the very last man, Elizabeth, in the whole world that I should think of in the way you mention.'

I could not repress a sigh as I spoke. How peculiar is the irony of fate. Why should I deny (particularly in this, my diary, which contains the outpourings of my soul) that I have often wished to win the love of some good strong man who could protect me in the battle of life and be willing, as it were, like the knights of old, to enter the lists for my sake. This I could in no way imagine Mr. Rawlings doing. My conception of the hero of my dreams may have varied from time to time, but never has it included even the smallest of the characteristics of William Rawlings. He reminds me of nothing so much as the very shaggiest bear I have ever seen at the Zoo—not even a nice white Polar bear, but one of those nondescript, snuff-coloured kinds that are all ragged ends from top to toe. That a man with such a rough exterior could be capable of such sickening sentimentality as Elizabeth had just described quite nauseated me. It made me dislike him more, if possible, than I had done before.

'Remember, Elizabeth,' I said, looking at her steadily, 'you must not repeat a word of this to any one. Mr. Rawlings must never know that he has been discovered in this——'

'Well, 'e knows that I know,' she interrupted.

I stared. 'What do you mean?'

'You see, me bein' in the room when 'e was a-kissin' of your fotograft, 'e looks up an' sees me afore I could get away, quiet, like. "Good lor', Elizabeth," 'e breaks out, "you don't mean to tell me that you sor everything, that you 'eard my 'eart strings burstin' in a manner of speakin'."

'"I'm afraid I did, sir," ses I, "I was just comin' in to dust an' your sighs bein' rather loud, I couldn't 'elp overhearing."

'"Listen," 'e ses, goin' ashy pale, "you must never tell 'er. I will win 'er in my own way," 'e ses. "In the meantime, 'ere is ten shillings, my good girl. Will you put in a word for me with Miss Worryington from time to time? She may not like me just yet, but I'll make 'er mine or blow my brains out."

'"I shouldn't do that, sir, if I was you," I ses, "leastways not yet until you see 'ow things turns out, like."

'"I'm goin' to lead a better life," 'e goes on, "an' stop puttin' baccy ash in my pocket, an' dustin' my boots with my handkercher, an' all those little things that a gentle woman might find careless."'

'Elizabeth,' I put in weakly, 'this is terrible. I do not want Mr. Rawlings to make any sacrifices for me. I do not want Mr. Rawlings. Nothing in the world would make me consider his suit.'

''Is suit's all right if it were well brushed an' pressed,' she said. 'An if 'e isn't quite a fancy style 'isself we can't all pick an' choose in this world. Don't go despisin' of 'im too much, miss. If 'e was properly done up, now, and sort o' dusted an' polished, like, 'e mightn't be so bad.'

I turned on her with burning indignation. 'How dare you openly assist his plans after confessing to taking his money as a bribe? Don't mention his name to me again, or I shall refuse to listen to you.'

She actually had the impertinence to look indignant. 'It's shame I cry on you, miss, for tryin' to break the pore man's 'eart. Then I s'pose I can't give 'im that there fotograft of you?'

'My photograph! Of all the unspeakable——'

'It was with 'im sayin' that if 'e only 'ad it to look at it might 'elp to parss all the dark 'ours 'e 'as to spend away from you. 'E sed 'e wanted it to look at wen 'e was lyin' awake at night, thinkin' of you.'

I strove to be reasonable. 'To let him have my photo, Elizabeth, would only encourage his mad ideas. No, all this must be stopped immediately. I shall take prompt measures. Once more, let me beg of you never to mention this painful occurrence to any one.' I turned to go out of the kitchen, but when I reached the door Elizabeth called to me. 'I wanted to ask you a favour, miss, if it isn't troublin' you too much,' she began.

'What is it?' I inquired rather absently, for my mind was very much disturbed just then.

'You see, miss, it's this way. I gotta young man wot's very poetick, like. 'E's always sendin' me portry copied from mottoes out o' crackers. It's very 'ard to keep up with 'im.'

'Then how do you want me to help you?' I asked, puzzled.

'I wondered if you'd be so kind as to copy me a bit o' portry I sor in one o' master's books. It sounds real pretty, but I can't get it down right. My 'andwritin' is that bad.' She took a leather-bound volume of Byron from the kitchen drawer. 'It's just this yere bit:—

"Yet, oh, yet thyself deceeve not, Luv' may sink by slow decay; But by suddint wrench beleeve not 'Earts can thus be torn away."'

'Have you had a quarrel with your young man?' I asked, perplexed at the strange selection of verse.

'No, miss, but 'e's 'overin' just now—you know what I mean. I want to bring 'im up to the scratch, like.'

I could not help thinking what blunt direct methods the lower classes employ in affairs of the heart. In our walk in life the sending of such lines to a gentleman who had not declared himself would be considered almost indelicate. However, I wrote out the absurd lines for the girl without comment, and rescued Henry's volume of Byron, which I felt would not improve in appearance by contact with the meat chopper, knife-board and other miscellaneous objects which she keeps in the kitchen drawer. It is a pity Netta does not exercise stricter supervision over Elizabeth. The girl seems to do what she likes.

'You had better ask permission from Mrs. Warrington before taking books into the kitchen,' I said with gentle reproof. 'They might get lost or soiled.'

'Right-o!' said Elizabeth. 'An' do you reely mean that you're not a-goin' to give your fotograft to Mr. Roarings?'

'Indeed not,' I said vehemently, 'don't dare to suggest the idea to me again. If Mr. Rawlings ever speaks of it to you, you can tell him how amazed and indignant I was.'

'Right-o!' said Elizabeth, as I hurried out of the kitchen.

On thinking the whole matter over I must admit I am greatly perturbed. I am not like those women who glory in winning a man's love for the mere gratification of their vanity. I know myself how much one can suffer from unrequited affection, and I am steadily determined to cure Mr. Rawlings of his love-madness by every means in my power.



CHAPTER X

The study door burst open and one end of Elizabeth—the articulate end—was jerked into view.

'Wot will you 'ave for lunch, 'm?' she demanded breathlessly. 'Lamb or 'am?'

Abruptly recalled from the realms of fiction writing I looked up a little dazed. 'Lamb or 'am,' I repeated dully, 'lamorram? Er—ram, I think, please, Elizabeth.'

Having thus disposed of my domestic obligations for the day, I returned to my writing. I was annoyed therefore to see the other end of Elizabeth travel round the doorway and sidle into the room. Her pretext for entering—that of dusting the roll-top desk with her apron—was a little thin, for she has not the slightest objection to dust. I rather think it cheers her up to see it about the place. Obviously she had come in to make conversation. I laid down my pen with a sigh.

'I yeerd from my young man this morning,' she began. A chill foreboding swept over me. (I will explain why in a minute.)

'Do you mean the boiler one?' I asked.



''Im wot belongs to the Amalgamated Serciety of Boilermakers,' she corrected with dignity. 'Well, they've moved 'is 'eadquarters from London to Manchester.'

There was a tense silence, broken only by Elizabeth's hard breathing on a brass paper-weight ere she polished it with her sleeve.

'If 'e goes to Manchester, there I goes,' she went on; 'I suppose I'd quite easy get a situation there?'

'Quite easy,' I acquiesced in a hollow voice.

She went out leaving me chill and dejected. Not that I thought for a moment that I was in imminent danger of losing her. I knew full well that this was but a ruse on the part of the young man to disembarrass himself of Elizabeth, and, if he had involved the entire Amalgamated Society of Boilermakers in the plot, that only proved how desperate he was.

I have very earnest reasons for wishing that Elizabeth could have a 'settled' young man. You see, as I have previously explained, she never retains the same one for many weeks at a time. It isn't her fault, poor girl. She would be as true as steel if she had a chance; she would cling to any one of them through thick and thin, following him to the ends of the earth if necessary.

It is they who are fickle, and the excuses they make to break away from her are both varied and ingenious. During the War, of course, they always had the pretext of being ordered to the Front at a moment's notice, and were not, it appears, allowed to write home on account of the Censor. Elizabeth used to blame Lloyd George for these defects of organization. Even to this day she is extremely bitter against the Government.

In fact, she is bitter against every one when her love affairs are not running smoothly. The entire household suffers in consequence. She is sullen and obstinate; she is always on the verge of giving notice. And the way she breaks things in her abstraction is awful. Elizabeth's illusions and my crockery always get shattered together. My rose-bowl of Venetian glass got broken when the butcher threw her over for the housemaid next door. Half a dozen tumblers, a basin and several odd plates came in two in her hands after the grocer's assistant went away suddenly to join the silent Navy. And nearly the whole of a dinner service was sacrificed when Lloyd George peremptorily ordered her young man in the New Army to go to Mesopotamia and stay there for at least three years without leave.

Those brief periods when Elizabeth's young men are in the incipient stages of paying her marked attention are agreeable to everybody. Elizabeth, feeling no doubt in her rough untutored way that God's in his Heaven and all's right with the world, sings at her work; she shows extraordinary activity when going about her duties. She does unusual things like remembering to polish the brasses every week—indeed, you have only to step in the hall and glance at the stair rods to discover the exact stage of her latest 'affair.' I remember once when one ardent swain (who she declared was 'in the flying corpse') got to the length of offering her marriage before he flew away, she cleaned the entire house down in her enthusiasm—and had actually got to the cellars before he vanished out of her life.

You will now understand why I was dejected at the perfidy of the follower belonging to the Boilermakers' Society. I saw a dreary period of discomfort ahead of me. Worst of all I was expecting the Boscombes to dinner that very week. They had not before visited us, and Henry was anxious to impress Mr. Boscombe, he being a publisher. It is surprising, when you come to think of it, how full the world is of writers trying to make a good impression on publishers. Yet no one has met the publisher who ever tries to make a good impression on any one.

I will not elaborate the situation as it stood. All I can say is that there is no earthly possibility of making a good impression on any living thing if Elizabeth is in one of her bad moods. And it would be no use explaining the case to Mrs. Boscombe, because she has no sense of humour; or to Mr. Boscombe, because he likes a good dinner.

Finally, the Domestic Bureau failed me. Hitherto they had always been able to supply me with a temporary waitress on the occasion of dinner parties. Now it appeared these commodities had become pearls of great price which could no longer be cast before me and mine (at the modest fee of ten shillings a night) without at least fourteen days' notice.

The Bureau promised to do its best for me, of course, but reminded me that women were scarce. I asked, with bitterness, what had become of the surplus million we heard so much about. They replied with politeness that, judging from the number of applications received, they must be the million in search of domestics.

Returning home from the Bureau, I found Elizabeth studying a time-table.

'I see it's a 'undred and eighty-three miles to Manchester,' she commented, 'an' the fare's 15s. 5 1/2d.'

'That's an old time-table you've got,' I hastened to remark, 'it is now L2 13s. 7 1/2d.—return fare.'

'I shan't want no return ticket,' said Elizabeth grimly.

Sickening outlook, wasn't it?

* * * * * *

The day of my dinner-party dawned fair and bright, but Elizabeth was raging. Things got so bad, in fact, that about mid-day I decided I must telephone to the Boscombes and tell them Henry had suddenly been taken ill; and I was just looking up the doctor's book to find something especially virulent and infectious for Henry, when Elizabeth came in. Amazing to relate, her face was wreathed in smiles.

'They've sent from the Domestic Boorow,' she began.

'What!' I exclaimed, 'did they get me a waitress after all?'

She smirked. 'They've sent a man this time. A footman 'e was before the War, but 'e didn't take it up again arter 'e was demobbed. Just now, bein' out of a job 'e's takin' tempory work and——-'

'He seems to have told you quite a lot about himself already,' I interposed.

She smirked again. 'I 'adn't been talkin' to 'im ten minutes afore 'e arsked me wot was my night out. 'E isn't arf a one.'

'It seems he isn't,' I agreed. And I sent up a silent prayer of thankfulness to Heaven and the Domestic Bureau. 'But what about the Amalgamated boilermaker?'

'Oh, 'im!' She tossed her head. ''E can go to—Manchester.'



CHAPTER XI

'Have you observed William closely, recently, Netta?' Henry asked me. 'Something seems to have happened to him?'

'Why should I observe William?' I demanded, puzzled, 'he is not the sort of man a woman would observe, closely or otherwise.'

'That is exactly one of the reasons why I like him—you leave him alone,' remarked that horrid Henry. 'I can talk to him without your distracting his attention by flirting with him.'

I felt wounded. 'Henry, this is monstrous.'

'You cannot deny, my dear, that I have brought men—fluent conversationalists—round here for a pleasant evening's debate only to see them become abstracted and monosyllabic directly you appear.'

'You can't blame me for that, Henry.'

'Yes, I do. You deliberately seek to interest them. I've seen you at it. You spare no pains or powder to gain your object. Don't dare to deny it.'

Chastened, I replied meekly: 'Dear Henry, I love my fellow-creatures—if they haven't beards,' I added hastily. 'After all, doesn't the Scripture command it?'

'But you don't love William.'

'The Scripture says nothing at all about William,' I replied decidedly. 'I—er—tolerate him. What is this you tell me about something having happened to him?'

'He's growing peculiar.'

'More peculiar, I suppose you mean?'

'His manner is erratic and changed. It isn't another invention, because when he is inventing he is merely monosyllabic, with spasms of muttering and an increased tendency to knock things over. Now he's altogether different. It's the trend of his conversation that puzzles me. He talks of love.'

'Love and William,' I remarked, 'are as incompatible as acids and alkalis. In what way does he touch on the subject? With bitterness or curiosity?

'Both, I should say. For one thing he is most 'anxious to know what are the effects of unrequited affection, and if the results can be serious. Seems strange, doesn't it?'

'It's passing strange, Henry.'

'You don't think he's fallen in love with you, Netta?'

'What makes you suggest he's fallen in love with me?'

'Because he comes in contact with no other woman beyond you and his landlady, who, I understand, is over sixty and weighs fifteen stone—so it must be you if it's anybody.' (This is a Scotsman's way of paying a compliment; if you can follow the workings of his mind up to the source of the idea you will see he means well.)

'That William should fall in love seems incredible—and entirely unnecessary,' I commented. 'There must be some other explanation of his manner. As he's coming to dinner to-night, I'll watch and see if I can find anything unusually strange about him.'

When William made his appearance, therefore, I observed him intently. Surely enough I was struck by the fact that he was changed in some subtle way. He looked dejected. Of course it was impossible to see much of his expression, owing to his face being almost entirely obliterated with hair, but what was visible was extremely sad.

Then a strange thing happened. As soon as we were alone he began to exhibit signs of acute mental distress, and to my astonishment burst out, 'Mrs. Warrington, there is something I wanted to—er—ask you. You are a woman for whom I have a profound respect; though you are inclined by character to be un peu moqueuse, you have, I feel, an exceedingly tender heart.'

I felt uneasy. 'Yes, William, it is tender—but not for everybody,' I added warningly. Really, it was going to be very awkward if he, in his elephantine way, had conceived an infatuation for me. My conscience was perfectly clear—I had not encouraged him in any way, but nevertheless I did not wish to see him suffer from unrequited affection. It would be so awkward in many ways. William, even in his sane moods, has a dreadful habit of knocking things over. If the abstraction of the lover descended upon him, it was going to have a dire effect on our household goods.

'Because your heart is tender,' he pursued, 'you will be able to realize the difficulty of my—er—you can better understand the sufferings of others. Do you think an ill-placed affection can be combated—that is, in time, be utterly stamped out?'

'I do, William,' I said firmly, 'but it must be stamped effectively, you understand. No half measures, you know.'

'Yes, yes, I quite see that,' he said eagerly. 'Then do you think in such a case it would help matters if a man—if one of the parties, I mean—went right away. You know the adage, "Out of sight out of mind"?'

I pondered. It would, I knew, be a great denial to William if he was debarred from coming about our place—almost the only home he had ever known. Henry, too, would be lost with no one to argue with. If you want to manage a Scotsman properly see that he gets plenty of argument, and he'll rarely develop any other vice. No, the pair must not be separated.

'There is another adage, William, which says, "Absence makes the heart grow fonder,"' I said, 'so I think, after all, you—I mean he, had better stay.'

William looked relieved. 'You think that I—er—I mean one—ought to face it?'

'I am sure one should,' I acquiesced.

William pressed my hand gratefully, and I sighed as I examined his physiognomy in the hope of finding one attractive feature. I sighed again as I finished my inspection. What a pity, I thought, that he had not just a little dash about him, even the merest soupcon of fascination, in order to make the situation interesting. He was still holding my hand as the door opened and Elizabeth shot into view with the declaration, 'Dinner's in.'

We have a massive and imposing looking gong erected in the hall for the sole purpose of announcing when meals are ready, but nothing will induce Elizabeth to make use of it. If we are upstairs she hails us from below with such expressions as 'Come on, now, it's getting cold,' or, 'I won't bring it in till you're all 'ere, so mind you 'urry.'

If William had appeared strange, it struck me that Marion—who was also dining with us that evening—was even stranger. For one thing, I regret to say, she was exceedingly rude to William. She does not like him, I know, but he was after all our guest, and she was not justified in remarking, when he upset his wine on the tablecloth, and knocked over an adjacent salt-cellar, 'If there's anything in the world I loathe, it is a clumsy man.'

'I must admit I am extremely clumsy—like an elephant, in fact,' came the soft answer from William.

It did not turn away Marion's wrath. 'So I see,' she snapped.

I kicked her gently under the table. 'Marion, dear,' I remonstrated.

'Nothing in the world will ever improve me,' continued William.

'I'm sure of it,' replied Marion, 'it's in your system.'

She seemed in a most contrary mood that evening. For instance, William had remarked quite nicely and affably that he considered smoking pernicious for women. He said his mother had always declared it was, and he thought they were better without it. Whereupon Marion, who dislikes the weed as a general rule, immediately got up, took a cigarette from the box on the table and asked William for a light.

'I suppose I'm shocking you terribly,' she remarked to him.



'I don't think there's anything you could do that would shock me now,' he replied. It was rather a peculiar retort, especially as he laid a faint accent on the 'you.' Evidently he wished to have his revenge for what she had said to him at dinner.

'I smoke even in bed,' said Marion, regarding him steadily. I was at a loss to understand why she told this deliberate falsehood.

'So do I,' said William calmly.

'I smoke in the bath,' continued Marion.

'By Jove, so do I,' said William, looking at her with a new interest. 'But don't you find it rather awkward when you're washing your back?'

Marion looked rather scandalized, as though she considered William's remark in bad taste. But she had only herself to blame after all. She was silent and rather moody after that, until the episode of the photograph occurred. We were assembled in the drawing-room, and I suddenly noticed that a photo of Marion which stands on the mantelpiece had been removed from its frame.

'Why, Marion, what has become of your photo?' I inquired.

There was, after all, nothing unusual in its disappearance. It was one that she did not like and she had often threatened to remove it. What was my astonishment now to see her spring to her feet and, going white with suppressed anger, exclaim, 'Who has dared to take it? It is a piece of unwarrantable impertinence. Who has dared, I say?'

I saw William looking at her in surprise—it was, indeed, something even deeper than that. Fascinated horror seems a more apt expression.

'I insist on its being recovered,' went on Marion.

A strange exclamation from William made us all look at him. 'Women,' he said, 'are beyond me—utterly beyond me, I repeat.'

'I'm glad you admit it,' snapped Marion.

'In guile,' he continued coldly. 'I suppose, now, you have never heard of a woman thrusting her photograph where it is not wanted accompanied by verse of an amorous character?'

Marion looked contemptuously at him. 'What on earth are you raving about?' she inquired.

Henry and I intervened at this moment and changed the subject, feeling that a quarrel between them was imminent. It was all very strange and puzzling. But the strangest thing was yet to come. I had accompanied Marion upstairs to put on her cloak before departure, and when we descended William had vanished. Henry related that he was just answering a call on the 'phone when he saw William dash past him into the small lobby off the hall, possess himself of hat and coat, and, after muttering some words of apology, go forth into the darkness.

'How eccentric—and ill-behaved, too,' I commented. 'It looks almost as if he wished to avoid accompanying Marion home.'

We were standing in the drawing-room as I spoke. Suddenly I gave a start as my eye drifted to the mantelpiece. 'What an extraordinary coincidence!' I exclaimed. A strange eerie feeling came over me. Marion's lost photo had been restored to its frame.



CHAPTER XII

William resumes his story: I am now aware that I should not have invoked the aid of Elizabeth. A man should work out his own destiny. Once a woman precipitates herself in an affair, complications are bound to follow. Also Elizabeth is no ordinary woman. There are times when I question whether she is human. Was it not her idea that I should—but I must try to chronicle the events in their correct sequence.

The mistake I made primarily, was in not going away directly I first heard from Elizabeth of Miss Warrington's unfortunate and misplaced attachment for me. Things might then have adjusted themselves quite naturally. The idea, however, of a sensitive woman suffering on my account was exceedingly distasteful to me. If, I decided, I could bring about her complete disillusionment my conscience would be at rest. Also there would then be no necessity to cut myself off from the Warringtons, and give up my pleasant discourses with Henry. Thus, I felt, I was taking the most advisable course under the circumstances.

As for Miss Warrington herself, her behaviour was so inexplicable I wondered if her mind was not beginning to get unhinged. In the first place it was, I thought, unmaidenly enough that she should, through the medium of Elizabeth, thrust her photo on me; but that the photo should be accompanied by some feeble selection from the ill-balanced outpourings of Byron (who is my pet aversion) was, indeed, almost revolting.

Further, her attitude towards me in the presence of others was one of open hostility. So well, indeed, did she act on one occasion when I happened to be dining at her brother's house, that a new hope sprang up within me. I began to think that her strange uncalled-for passion for me had passed—in short, that her love had turned to hate. So impressed was I with this idea that when I next called at the Warringtons' I asked Elizabeth if I could speak to her alone for a few moments.

'About Miss Marryun, I'll bet,' she remarked. Looking at her I thought she accompanied her words with a slight lowering of the left eyelid. I trust I was mistaken. Free as the girl is in her speech I have never given her any encouragement to embellish it by winking.



'Naturally, the subject has been preying on my mind,' I admitted. 'But I am not so tortured with misgivings as before. Miss Warrington has ceased to—er—interest herself in me. In fact she detests me.'

'Oo ses that tom-my-rot?' asked the girl, turning on me almost fiercely.

'Miss Warrington was so excessively rude and abrupt in her manner to me the other evening,' I explained, 'that I am now convinced she has suddenly grown to hate me.'

'If you're not as blind as a bat!' commented Elizabeth. 'Can't you see she's doin' that to 'ide 'er feelings—so that you'll never guess 'ow 'er 'eart is torn an' bleedin' like.'

'Dear me, Elizabeth, do you mean this?' I asked in the utmost concern.

'Sure of it. As a matter o' fact she's more gone on you than ever. She's got to not eatin' now, so you can guess 'ow bad she is.'

I wiped the gathering moisture from my brow. 'Elizabeth, this is terrible—it must be stopped. I must discover some way to make Miss Warrington actually dislike me. In this I hope for your assistance. You know Miss Warrington much better than I do. You are, no doubt, acquainted with her likes and prejudices?'

'Not 'arf, I aint,' she said.

Taking this as meaning an affirmative, I continued, 'Perhaps you are able to tell me what it is about me that attracts her. I have a plan—I shall do exactly the opposite of what she desires of me.'

'To set her agen you, like,' remarked Elizabeth.

'Exactly.'

She stood for a few moments regarding me with her head on one side. Had you known her to be capable of it you might almost have imagined that she was thinking. Certainly she breathed much harder than usual. At last, to my profound astonishment, she suddenly sat down, threw her apron over her face and burst into unrestrained laughter.

'Compose yourself, my good girl,' I said, anxious lest the family should overhear, 'what is the matter?'

'I got an idea,' she said as soon as she had recovered. 'It aint 'arf a bad one. You say you want to know wot it is Miss Marryun likes about you?'

'I do, indeed,' I said eagerly.

'Well, I can tell you that right away. It's your towsled look, so to speak. Only the other day she ses to me, she ses, "Wot I like about Mr. Roarings is the rough kind o' suits 'e wears, them baggy trousis, an' also 'is great clompin' boots. I like the free an' easy way 'e throws 'is feet up to the ledge of the mantelpiece," she ses, "an' the way 'e 'as of wearin' 'is 'air 'anging all about 'is ears, shaggy-like."'

'Incredible!' I exclaimed.

'An' only yesterday she stood on this very spot where you are now and ses to me, thoughtful like: "Don't you love a man with a heavy beard an' moustarch—like Mr. Roarings, f'r instance?" she ses.'

'"Well, miss, since you put the question to me," I ses plain out; "I'm not parshul to either, though I've 'ad young men with 'em, singly and both together. I prefers 'em entirely without, but beggars can't be choosers, can they?"

'Then Miss Marryun said thoughtful like: "I think I'm rather different from other wimmin, Elizabeth. Very few would admire a man like Mr. Roarings. But 'e's my style, so to speak, if I was pickin' an' choosin'. But to show you 'ow strange I am," she goes on, "if 'e made 'isself spruce I should get to dislike 'im all at once."'

I raised my head sharply, suffused by a glow of hope. 'Elizabeth, my good girl,' I exclaimed, 'is it so easy to accomplish as all that?'

'I'm not so sure about easy,' she commented, looking me over as if I'd been an unlabelled exhibit in a Zoo. '"Rome wasn't built in a day," as the sayin' is, but it's a long lane that 'as no turnin'. "If 'e," ses Miss Marryun, meanin' you, "was got up real smart with a fancy westcoat, a crease down the front of 'is trousis, shinin' button boots, and wos to shave orf 'is beard and moustarch—" she said that bit very earnest, too—"well, I should fair detest the sight of 'im."'

I sank down in a seat with a groan of despair. Elizabeth was right. Such a metamorphosis would not be easy. It would mean the overturning of my most cherished convictions, an upheaval of the very routine of my existence. Would life be worth living if one awoke in a morning to the knowledge of the rites that every day would bring forth? A matutinal shave, trousers to be taken from the press, collars and cuffs to be changed, hair and nails to be trimmed, the two latter, if not every day, at all events occurring with enough frequency to keep a simple man in a constant state of unrest.

'Elizabeth,' I said, shuddering, 'I cannot do all this.'

'Oo's arskin' you to?' demanded the girl. 'I was only repeating wot Miss Marryun ses to me with 'er own lips. "Yes, I should fair get to detest 'im if 'e was spruce," was 'er very words.'

I pondered. 'Are you quite sure she stipulated about the beard?'

'She did that. She mentioned it pertickler three times.'

I shook my head firmly. Whatever happened I did not mean to concede that point. My beard is one of my best friends. By allowing it to grow to a suitable length it conceals the fact when my ties have grown shabby, and saves me any unnecessary changing of collars. No, I would never be clean-shaven. I could not face the world stripped of my natural facial coverings.

'There may be something in what you say, and I will consider your suggestion regarding the trousers, Elizabeth,' I conceded, 'but the suggestion that I should shave is perfectly monstrous and I won't think of it for a moment.'

'Well, to my mind it's one of the first things wot ought to be done with you,' she said in what seemed to me a disparaging sort of voice, 'wots the good o' puttin' a fancy westcoat an' a watch an' albert on a chap when 'e's got an 'ead like a wild man o' the woods. There ort to be no 'arf an' 'arf about it, I ses.'

I looked at the girl sternly, feeling that her speech was becoming unduly familiar. Nevertheless, I was conscious of a certain gratitude for her suggestion, and after she had gone out, I began to consider it from all points. There could be no harm in gradually making those changes in my habits and apparel which would bring about Miss Warrington's disillusionment, but it must be fairly gradual. Otherwise it might attract undue attention, for there are times when I think I am just a trifle careless about my appearance.

I decided I had better begin operations with a new suit. This would involve changing my regular tailor. The one who has had my custom for the last quarter of a century is used to my way of putting my head round his door once in three years and commanding, 'A tweed lounge suit, the same as the last.'

'Yes, sir,' he invariably concurs, 'any difference in measurements, sir?'

'I think not,' I reply, 'but make it quite loose and comfortable in case I've added a few inches to the waist.'

That is all. Occasionally, of course, I vary the order by making it an overcoat, or an extra pair of slacks (when I burn holes in my usual ones, which frequently happens), but the procedure is always the same. It can easily be understood that I had not the courage to confront him after all these years with a demand for the latest thing in the season's suitings, and especial injunctions regarding style and cut.

As I was dwelling on the annoyances and difficulties that were already presenting themselves, Miss Warrington came in. I must confess that, as I looked at the irritating female whose misplaced affections were already harassing me, I felt slightly confused. Since I had first learned of her insane infatuation I had studiously avoided being left alone with her for one instant. At the moment, however, there was no possibility of escape, as she stood between me and the door, thus effectively barring my exit. I could only confront her uneasily, trying to avoid her direct gaze and, as I did so, I could not help remarking that she, too, was obviously embarrassed.

Then, as if taking a resolution, she came up to me and looked me squarely in the face. I moved away, a faint shiver of apprehension going down my spine.

'Mr. Rawlings,' she said slowly and impressively, 'there is one thing I want to say regarding your conduct. When you are addressing photographs, may I ask you to do it with lowered voice, or at all events in a purely conversational tone?' Then she swept out of the room, banging the door behind her.

As for me, I was left dazed and struggling to grasp the strange import of her mystic words. Why this constant reference to the photograph she had so shamelessly thrust upon me, and which, as a direct hint to her that I did not desire it, I had replaced in its frame at the first opportunity?

What had come over the woman? I began to be more than ever convinced of my former suspicion that her fatal and erratic passion for myself was beginning to unhinge her mind. I saw that I must lose no time in bringing about her disillusionment.



CHAPTER XIII

'Henry, do you think William has been looking particularly unhappy lately?' I inquired.

Henry grunted. Converted for the moment into 'A Well-known Actor,' he was digging amongst his theatrical cuttings for reminiscent purposes, and was, therefore, somewhat abstracted.

I, too, was supposed to be working, but try as I would I could not help thinking of William. I felt sorry for him—he looked so distrait. When, as he vaguely hinted, he had conceived an attachment for me I did not think it was likely to cause him any unhappiness. Indeed, I never imagined him capable of feeling any emotions but those of a purely physical character—such as the effects of cold, heat, hunger or bodily pain. And here he was, sighing and looking so dejected it was depressing even to see him about the place. I had just been re-reading Cyrano de Bergerac, whose case seemed rather applicable to William. Could it be possible that under his rough exterior the poor fellow had all the sentiment and fiery imagination of Cyrano, and suffered the same sensitive torment about his appearance. Did William, like Cyrano, shudder when his eye rested even on his own shadow? Did he feel that because of his physical failings the love of woman must be for ever denied him?

I must admit that William was a trifle more interesting to me now than he had previously been. Every woman finds something rather gratifying in being worshipped from afar, even if it is by an 'impossible.' Yet the idea of making him unhappy was distasteful to me. I repeated my question to Henry.

'Never seen William unhappy yet,' replied Henry, looking up, 'he's one of those few chaps who seem contented with life—only wish I was the same.'

Something in his tone made me promptly forget William and concentrate on Henry. 'Aren't you contented?' I asked.

He paused a moment before replying, and then rather wearily indicated the article he was writing. 'It's this kind of thing, you know—where does it all lead to? At times I think journalism is the most exacting profession in the world.'

'What do you mean?' I asked, puzzled at his tone.

'It is exacting because it seems to lead to nothing,' he continued. 'For instance, just think of all the energy, brains and effort involved in the bringing out of a newspaper. Yet it is only read casually, skimmed over by most people, then tossed on one side and instantly forgotten. It is conceived, born, and it dies all in one day. Do you ever see any one reading a morning paper at, say, four o'clock in the afternoon? It is hopelessly out of date by that time.'

'I hadn't thought of it like that,' I pondered. 'Of course, journalism isn't like a business that you can build up and constantly improve; but you can at least establish a reputation amongst newspaper readers.'

'You can't do that so well nowadays,' returned Henry, who seemed in pessimistic vein, 'owing to the present demand for getting well-known names attached to articles. We write them all the same, of course, but it's the people with the well-known names that get the credit for having a good literary style. Well, I always put the best of myself into my work—I can't write anything in a hasty, slovenly manner—but where does it lead to? Some day, perhaps, my ideas will give out and then——' he made a little hopeless gesture.

He was silent a moment, staring out of the window. 'Then there's another thing,' he went on, 'this constant grind leaves me no time to get on with my play. If I could only get it finished it might bring me success—even fame. But how shall I ever get the leisure to complete it?'

A feeling of compunction swept over me. I went up to him and put my hand on his shoulder. 'Henry, dear old chap, I never thought you felt like this about things.' Certainly he was writing a play, but as he had been engaged on it now for over ten years (Henry is a conscientious writer), my interest in it was not so keen as it had been when he first told me of the idea a decade previously.

'Couldn't you do a little of your play every evening after dinner?' I suggested.

'I'm too brain weary by that time—my ideas seem to have given out. Sometimes I think I must renounce the notion of going on with it—and it's been one of my greatest ambitions.'

I smoothed his hair tenderly, noticing how heavily flecked it was with grey and how it silvered at the temples. Poor Henry, he reminded me just then of L'homme a la cervelle d'or, a fantastic story of Daudet's, where he tells of a man possessed of a brain of gold which he tore out, atom by atom, to buy gifts for the woman he loved until, in the end (she being an extravagant type), he was left without a scrap of brain to call his own and so expired. The man was, of course, supposed to be a writer, and the brain of gold his ideas. It made me feel quite uneasy to think that Henry, too, might be, metaphorically speaking, steadily divesting himself of brain day by day in order to support The Kid and me in comfort.

'I ought not to grumble,' he said at last. 'Very few people can do what they want to in this world. Take you, my dear, for instance. You are not following your natural bent when you write those articles for the Woman's Page.'

'I should hope not—I loathe 'em,' I said viciously.

'There's one thing about it,' he went on musingly, 'we'll see that The Kid has every chance when she grows up.'

We are looking forward very much to the time when The Kid will be grown up. Henry says he pictures her moving silently about the house, tall, graceful, helpful, smoothing his brow when he is wearied, keeping his papers in order, correcting his proofs and doing all his typing for him. I, too, for my part, have visions of her taking all household cares off my shoulders, mending, cooking, making my blouses and her own clothes, and playing Beethoven to us in the evenings when our work is done. In her spare time we anticipate that she will write books and plays that will make her famous.

We have visions of these things, I repeat—generally when The Kid is in bed asleep with her hands folded on her breast in a devotional attitude, a cherubic smile on her lips. There are, however, other times when I hope for nothing more exacting than the day to come when she will keep herself clean.

I often wonder where all the stickiness comes from that she manages to communicate from her person to the handles of doors, backs of chairs and other such places where you are most likely to set your hand unconsciously. Henry has a theory about it oozing from the pores of her skin, and says she conceals some inexhaustible sources of grime which is constantly rising to the surface. In which case you can't entirely blame The Kid.

Under the circumstances, however, we feel that she ought to practise more restraint. Always when she is most thickly coated in dirt and varnished with the glutinous substance already referred to, does she most strongly feel the calls of affection. Then is the moment when she flings her arms about Henry and presses long kisses on his clean collar, or gently caresses the entire surface of my new blouse. Nothing, I have remarked, can stir her demonstrative nature so much as the sight of Henry and me arrayed in all the glory of evening attire. The merest glimpse of my georgette theatre gown, or the chaste folds of Henry's tie, scintillating collar and shirt front send her flying to us with hands that fondle and lips that cling. If we repel her and compromise by kissing the middle of her head, she has a way of giving us haunting looks that, after we have sallied forth to the halls of pleasure, can make us feel uncomfortable for the entire evening.

'Yes, when The Kid is grown up,' Henry went on, 'perhaps she'll have the success that has been denied to us, old girl.'

I was about to reply when my attention was arrested by a confused murmur of voices in the hall. I distinguished Elizabeth's, and as the other was a man's tones, I supposed she was having a little badinage at the side door with one of the tradesmen, as is her wont. As in time it did not die away, but began to get a little more heated (one voice appearing to be raised in entreaty and the other, Elizabeth's, in protest), I thought I had better saunter out and interrupt the causerie. Elizabeth has occasionally to be reminded of her work in this manner. She is too fond of gossiping.

I opened the door ostentatiously and sallied out—just in time to see Elizabeth playfully pulling William by the beard. 'You get them whiskers orf—narsty, rarspin' things,' she was saying.

It was an awful moment. Elizabeth had the grace to look ashamed of herself for once, and drifted back to her sink without a word. As for William, he appeared thoroughly unnerved. He tottered towards me. 'Let me explain,' he began.

'William!' I said in stern tones. Then again, 'William!' He wilted under my gaze. 'I should never have thought such a thing of you,' I continued.

He pointed with a finger that trembled in the direction of the kitchen. 'That girl has no respect for any one or anything in the world. Traditions, class distinctions are as nothing to her. She would put out her tongue at Homer.'

'Or pull the beard of William,' I added sarcastically.

'Until I met her,' he went on fiercely, 'I was entirely a democrat. But now I see that once power gets into the hands of the common people we are damned!'

'But what has all this to do with your flirting with Elizabeth?' I demanded.

He seemed so overcome at this very natural comment on my part that for a moment I thought he was going to have a seizure of some sort. 'I—I—flirt, and with Elizabeth?' he repeated when he had slightly recovered himself. 'Madame, what do you mean to insinuate?'

He drew himself up to his full height of six feet three, and, looking at him as he towered above me with his mane of disordered hair and flowing beard, I could not help thinking he rather resembled Samson in one of his peevish moods. The indignation that possessed him seemed sincere enough, but the circumstances of the case utterly bewildered me. I was gazing at him in perplexity when Henry came out of the study.

'What's all this parleying in the hall, noise without, voices heard "off," and so forth?' he demanded.

William gave me such an agonized look of entreaty I decided I would say nothing about what had just occurred. 'It is only I endeavouring to get our friend William to rub his feet on the mat,' I retorted cheerfully. 'But let us go into the consulting chamber.'



William followed me into the study and took his usual seat at the fireside in a dejected manner. Then went through a strange gymnastic.

He had just started to swing his feet up to the mantelpiece when he paused with them in mid-air and brought them down again. The arrested action had a droll effect.

'Have a smoke,' said Henry, pretending not to notice this peculiar conduct and pushing the tobacco jar towards him.

'No thanks, old man,' he replied. 'I'm giving up smoking—for a time.'

It was now Henry's turn to look surprised. 'Giving up smoking,' he ejaculated. 'What's wrong—is it your liver?'

'No, no, my liver's all right.'

'Your lungs, then?'

'Of course, not.'

'It surely can't be your heart?'

William began to look annoyed. 'Look here, can't I go without a smoke for once without my entire anatomy being held up for discussion?' He then produced a cigarette and proceeded to light it.

'I thought you'd given up smoking,' commented the puzzled Henry.

'Do you call this smoking?' he replied in disgust. 'You might as well give lemonade to a man who asks for a brandy and soda and tell him it's just as good.'

'Then why renounce your pipe at all?' asked Henry, still mystified.

'I've decided to go through a sort of mental training,' replied William, speaking rather quickly and avoiding my eye. 'I think a man has no right to become the slave of habit. Directly he feels he is dropping into a groove he ought to face about and go in exactly the opposite direction.'

'Is that what you're doing just now?' I asked, wondering if this was an explanation of the Elizabeth episode.

'Exactly. It is the only way to build up one's character. Now, some people might think me a little careless regarding dress.'

'The ultra-fastidious might consider you a trifle insouciant, William.'

'That is one of the points in my character I intend to correct.' He dived into his pocket as he spoke and produced a brown paper parcel. William can carry any number of things in his pockets without making his figure look any bulgier or more unsymmetrical than usual. He boasts that he has at times gone on a three weeks' walking tour with all the luggage he required for that period disposed about his person, his damp sponge (concealed in the crown of his hat) keeping his head delightfully cool in the heat of the day.

'What have you got there, William?' I inquired as he unfolded the parcel.

'My first step in the evolution of character,' he replied solemnly, and took out a pair of white spats, and some fawn-coloured gloves.

'You don't mean you're going to wear those?' gasped Henry.

'I am—abhorrent as they are to me,' rejoined William mournfully.

'You may call it building up character if you like,' said Henry shortly, 'but I call it a lot of damned rot.' He pulled hard at his cigar, and then added, 'You're suffering from softening of the brain, my boy, or something of the sort.'

William looked at me in questioning despair, and in that moment my heart softened towards him. In a flash I understood. He had so often heard me urge Henry to wear white spats and light-coloured gloves, though all my coercion and entreaty had been in vain. William had thought by donning these things—which on him would have a grotesque effect—he would win my favour. Poor fellow! I was quite touched by his devotion, his absolutely hopeless passion.

'These things wouldn't be in keeping with the rest of you,' I said gently; 'they require to be accompanied by all the—er—appurtenances of the smart man.'

'Is—is—a beard an appurtenance?' he asked in a hollow voice.

'Not an appurtenance, William—perhaps a detriment would be the better word.'

He emitted a sound that was half a groan. 'I knew it,' he said. 'Well, what must be, must be, I suppose.'

'You're getting profound,' snorted Henry, who apparently objected to William in his present mood; and he proceeded to distract his attention by touching on a recent stirring debate in the House. William allowed Henry to talk on unchecked—your man who indulges in argument abhors that—and left unusually early for him.

'That fellow is undoubtedly going off his head,' commented Henry after his departure. 'I wonder what's wrong with him.'

I smiled rather sadly, and mentally decided that I must cure William of his infatuation for me without delay.



CHAPTER XIV

It is not easy to write—even on such a simple topic as 'How to Retain a Husband's Love'—if your attention is being distracted by a conscientious rendering of Czerny's 101 Exercises in an adjoining room. I could get no further with my article than the opening lines (they like an introductory couplet on the Woman's Page):—

It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute!

whereas The Kid, having disposed of all the major and minor scales and a goodly slice of Czerny, had now started her 'piece,' 'The Blue Bells of Scotland.' It was too much. I flung down my pencil and strode to the door. 'Moira,' I shrieked, 'stop that practising instantly.'

'Yes, Mama, dear.'

'Don't you understand I'm writing and want to be quiet?'

'Yes, Mama, dear. May I go on when you've finished writing?'

'I suppose so; but when I've quite finished it will be about your bedtime,' I said, trying not to feel exasperated.

'Then, may I get up an hour earlier in the morning to practise, Mama, dear?'

There is something almost unnatural in the way that child fights her way through all obstacles to the piano and the monotony of Czerny. All the other parents in the world seem to be bewailing the fact that they can't get their children to practise. I know I ought to be proud and glad that The Kid is so bent upon a musical career, but even as the lion and the lamb cannot lie down together, neither can a writer and an incipient musician dwell in the same house in amity.

Through almost illimitable difficulties (for when at work Henry can no more stand piano practice than I can) The Kid has got to the Variations of 'The Blue Bells of Scotland.' Nevertheless she is yearning for the day when she will arrive at the part where she crosses hands (Var. 8)—a tremendous achievement in her eyes, but viewed with cold aloofness by Henry and me.

As I returned to my writing Henry entered the room.

'Will you as a Scotsman tell me,' I inquired before he could speak, 'what English people have done that they should be so unduly annoyed by the bells of Scotland, why those bells should be blue, and who was responsible for bringing the said blue bells (with variations) across the Border?'

'I see The Kid's been annoying you again,' he commented. 'It's a pity she gets no chance of practising.'

I looked at him sternly. 'No chance! On the contrary, she never lets a chance escape her. I think it's the fierce Northern strain she inherits from you, Henry, that makes her so persistent. She reminds me of Bannockburn——'

'Bannockburn!' ejaculated Henry.

'King Bruce and the Spider and all that, you know. Didn't he go on trying and trying until he succeeded? That's what The Kid does with her scales. I think I understand why in 1603 we put a Scotch King on the English throne—you wouldn't have given us any peace if we hadn't.'

'Well, don't blame me for it, my dear,' replied Henry. 'I dropped in to tell you that William has just 'phoned up to say he accepts our invitation to dinner this evening, but he is most anxious to know who else is coming.'

I stared. 'This is most unusual. What should it matter to him who is coming?'

'I told him, of course, that there was only Marion and ourselves, and then he asked if he should get into evening dress. What do you think of that?' We looked at each other in silent amazement.

'William—in—evening—dress,' I echoed blankly. 'What can it mean?'

'Frankly, I think the poor old chap's brain is getting a little unhinged,' hazarded Henry. 'Do you remember the episode with the white spats and gloves the other day? I think you ought to persuade him to see a specialist, my dear.'

Suddenly I remembered the apparent reason for poor William's altered manner and smiled. 'I don't think we need call in medical aid just yet,' I replied.

Nevertheless, I felt that he must be cured of this foolishness as soon as possible, for, as I had already hinted to him, any attempt at embellishing his person would only make him appear more grotesque. How little did I then dream of the amazing surprise that was in store for me!

I was sitting alone in the drawing-room that same evening awaiting my two guests, Marion and William (Henry was upstairs dressing), when Elizabeth burst into the room.

'Oh, 'm, 'e's come!' she exclaimed, 'an' you never did see anything in your life 'arf so funny. I've been larfin' fit to split my sides.'

'Elizabeth,' I said coldly, 'what is wrong? Of whom are you speaking?'

For answer she threw her apron over her head and went off into an almost hysterical fit of laughing.

''Oo'd have thort it,' she said when she had slightly recovered. 'That there grizzly bear of a Mr. Roarings, too!'

'So you are referring to one of my guests,' I interrupted sternly. 'I'm ashamed of you, Elizabeth.'

'Well, you only ort ter see 'im now! Talk about grubs turnin' into butterflies——'

'I'm not talking about anything of the sort,' I interposed with extreme asperity of manner. 'Am I to understand that Mr. Rawlings has arrived?'

'Not 'arf, 'e 'asn't. Wait till you see Mamma's boy. 'E's a fair razzle-dazzle from top to toe. Oh, my godmother!' And being seized with another burst of hysterical laughter she dashed from the room.



I sighed as I put aside the French novel I had been reading when I was so rudely disturbed. I could not help wishing just then that Elizabeth had a little less character and a little more deference, and I decided that I must rebuke her for her familiarity. Then, remembering her supreme art in grilling a steak, I decided that rebukes—practised on domestics—are rather risky things in these days.

'Good evening,' said the deep voice of William behind me.

'Good evening,' I said casually, turning round and holding out my hand. Then I started back, my hand falling limply to my side. It was William who stood before me, because I recognized his voice—but that was all I recognized at the moment. Not a shred of his former self seemed to have remained.

I think I have, from time to time, represented William as shabby, bulky, shapeless, hairy, and altogether impossible as far as appearance goes. Can any words depict my astonishment at seeing him so suddenly transformed, glorified, redeemed and clean-shaven? His figure, which once appeared so stodgy, now looked merely strong and athletic encased in a well-fitting morning coat, a waistcoat of a discreet shade of smoke grey, with a hint of starched pique slip at the opening. His irreproachable trousers were correctly creased—not too marked to be ostentatious, but just a graceful fold emerging, as it were, out of the texture, even as the faint line of dawn strikes across the darkened sky.

But it was his head that attracted me most. There was no denying it—shorn of his overgrowth of whiskers and put into a correct setting, William was handsome; even more than that, he was interesting. He had that firm, chiselled kind of mouth which women and artists find so attractive, and a delightful cleft in his chin; his hair, which had hitherto always struck me as being so unkempt and disordered, now that it was brushed smoothly back from his brow and curled into the nape of his neck gave him a distinguished appearance. I directed one long look at him and then instinctively dived to the mirror.

'Oh, William,' I gasped, 'is it possible?'

'Is what possible?' he inquired.

'Why just think of it,' I replied, groping in my pocket for my powder puff. 'You're a man!'

'What else should I be?' he asked, apparently mystified.

'You used to be—just William. But now,' I sidled up to him, 'you've changed amazingly.'

'Yes, I know that,' he growled with some of his former gruffness of manner. 'Can you imagine what a tremendous amount of determination and will power I required to get myself up like this?'

'And a good tailor as well—don't forget that,' I added, running an appraising eye over his form. 'I must get his address for Henry. Yes, it was brave of you. What made you do it, William?'

He avoided my eye and looked embarrassed. 'I had an object, of course. Didn't I explain the other evening——'

'I remember. You did say something about a man not getting into a groove.' I smiled, feeling slightly self-conscious for a moment. 'And how do you feel now you're entirely metamorphosed?'

'Entirely metamorphosed, am I?' he said rather bitterly, 'Just on account of a change of raiment. Yet Dr. Johnson said, "Fine clothes are good only as they supply the want of other means of procuring respect."'

'Oh, I always respected you, William,' I put in hastily, 'And don't quote Dr. Johnson now. It doesn't go with your tie.'

He groaned. 'Must I change my expressions, my thoughts, my very mode of living to match the garments I wear?'

'I'm afraid you must. But tell me,' I added, looking earnestly into his face, 'doesn't this outward change affect you inwardly as well—just a little? You must be feeling more—what shall I say—sprightly than before?'

He looked down at me as if puzzled, and then said in a half shame-faced way, 'Mrs. Warrington, there is some truth in that remark of yours. Some subtle, inexplicable change that I cannot account for has come over me. Even as Samson's strength lay in his hair, do you think my reason lay in my beard?'

'It depends on the quality of the reason. Describe your present symptoms to me, William.'

He avoided my gaze. 'It is quite impossible to analyse them, I assure you.'

'Let me help. Look at me steadily,' I said impressively. 'Now try, as far as possible, to describe me.'

There was a pause. 'I'm afraid you'll be offended, Madame,' he began.

'No, I won't. Go on,' I commanded.

'Well, as a matter of fact, although I have known you for over nine years, it has never before occurred to me to notice that you are an—an—exceedingly pretty woman—but I am offending you?'

'Not in the least, William. Go on.'

'Before, I merely remarked you as Henry's wife—that was all. Why should I so suddenly observe your facial aspect? As Dr. Johnson once said——'

'Cut out Dr. Johnson, and go on with that bit about the facial aspect,' I put in gently.

'It must, of course, be self-consciousness arising out of my unusual adornment,' he went on, 'but despite myself I am compelled to notice your attractive qualities. I must, however, overcome this deplorable tendency—combat it——'

'I shouldn't combat it too strongly at first,' I suggested. 'It's always better to do things by degrees. What a nice mouth you have, William.'

'So have you,' he said, pondering on the discovery.

I blushed. William suddenly started back and smote his brow with his hand. 'Isn't Henry coming in? Where is he?' he demanded wildly.

'Are you so anxious to see Henry at the moment?'

'I am. Mrs. Warrington, I am ashamed to admit the preposterous idea that came into my mind just now. You and Henry would never forgive me—never countenance me again—it was intolerable, incredible——' He paused and wiped his brow. 'Why doesn't Henry come in?'

'What was the preposterous idea?' I asked, wondering.

'Well, you'll hardly believe it—scarcely realize what you've escaped . . . just now, had you been a foot closer to me I believe—I believe, Mrs. Warrington, I should have kissed you!'

I moved a step nearer to him. 'William, I should never have forgiven you if you had,' I said, raising my face to his so that he could see how intensely earnest I was.

The door opened, and Henry and Marion came in together.

'Netta!' exclaimed Marion, 'how could you!'

'My dear,' remarked Henry, 'I am surprised. How is it I come in and find a man kissing you?'

'I don't know, Henry,' I replied meekly, 'unless it's because that door opens so quietly!'



CHAPTER XV

An exclamation from William made us all turn and look at him.

'I must have been mad,' he groaned, sinking into a chair and covering his face with his hands.

'That's what I thought myself just now when I caught sight of your waistcoat,' said Henry, staring at him. 'What is the meaning of all this—why the flawless trousers, the immaculate morning coat?'

'I—I—put on a morning coat because you said I wasn't to get into evening dress,' he replied. 'I know it isn't the correct thing for dinner, but you've only yourself to blame.'

Henry continued to stare at him. 'I was quite right. Your brain is unhinged, William. When I last saw you, you appeared fairly normal—and now I come in and discover you arrayed like the lilies of the field and kissing my wife.'

William gave a cry like a wounded animal. 'Your indictment is only too true. Henry, it is terrible. I can never even hope for your forgiveness for such a heinous offence. The only reparation I can make is to go forth from your house, shake from my feet the dust of your hospitable roof——'

'That metaphor's wrong, William,' I interposed.

'—and pass out of your lives for ever.'

'What on earth are you talking about, old chap?' inquired Henry.

'Have I not betrayed the trust you always reposed in me?'

'I wouldn't put it as strong as that,' replied Henry, eyeing him up and down, 'though you certainly have made a bit of a guy of yourself. Who created those trousers?'

'I—I—was not referring to my change of apparel, Henry, but to that most unfortunate aberration on my part, when I was impelled by some strange uncontrollable impulse to bestow a labial salute on your wife. Heaven only knows that I——'

'As for that, I expect she egged you on,' calmly rejoined that horrid Henry. 'I know her. You did flirt with him, didn't you, Netta?'

Before I could reply William sprang to his feet and placed himself before me. 'Stop, Henry!' he exclaimed, 'You have no right to suggest such a thing. If I took a gentle unsuspecting woman unawares, then I am willing to stand by the consequences of my rash act. Never for one moment, I can assure you, did such a thought enter Mrs. Warrington's head. She was wholly unprepared——'

'I'm not so sure of that,' put in Marion, with a sniff.

I began to feel somewhat of a martyr. 'Yes, it was rather a surprise,' I remarked.

'Only a moment before,' continued William, 'Mrs. Warrington had said to me, "If you do kiss me, I shall never forgive you!"' Oh, clumsy, clumsy William!

'Then you had been discussing it,' commented Marion, who seemed unusually chilly about the innocent affair.

'Well, I'm hungry, so let's have dinner now,' suggested Henry, 'and we can settle the discussion afterwards.'

But William strode to the door. 'No, no, Henry, I cannot break bread in your house again after this distressing incident. I have imposed on your kindness and good faith, disturbed your trust in me——'

'Well, I forgive you this time if you promise never to bestow any of those, what d'ye call 'em—labial salutes on Netta again. Now let's have dinner.'

'No, no, old man, you may forgive me, but I shall never forgive myself.'

Henry began to look irritated. 'For Heaven's sake, Netta, tell him the truth and admit it was your fault, or we shall never get anything to eat to-night.'

I sighed, and going up to William gently pulled back his retreating form by the coat tails. 'You are young, Father William,' I said, 'and innocent in the wiles of women. You've only been born a few hours as far as they are concerned—I don't think it's quite safe for you to go about without your beard just yet. I will tell you nothing but the truth. I incited you to kiss me.'

'I knew it!' snapped Marion.

'Henry, as you see, has treated me under the First Offenders Act and forgiven me. And now, William, I will kiss you once again (with Henry's full consent) for your youth and innocence.' And I suited the action to the word. 'So will Marion, won't you, dear?'

At this William started as if shot. 'Never, never!' he exclaimed, staring at Marion with a hunted look, 'it would be preposterous—infamous.'

The situation was decidedly awkward, especially as Marion, going suddenly pale, gave a little hysterical sort of cry and ran out of the room.

The meal that followed was a silent one. Marion did not speak at all, and when she was not casting furtive glances in William's direction, kept her gaze fixed on her plate. William was monosyllabic, partly, I gathered, on account of recent events, and partly because one of his patent leather boots was obviously causing him anguish. I noticed that he occasionally lifted his foot (as an animal raises a wounded paw) and then set it down again with a sort of half moan.

For one reason I was rather grateful that my guests were so abstracted. That reason was Elizabeth. Her behaviour during dinner, to put it mildly, was disturbing and abnormal. Every time she entered the room to change the plates or hand round the dishes she went through remarkable pantomimic gestures behind the unconscious William's back. She drew my attention to him by nods, winks, and significant gestures. Once or twice she was impelled to clap her hand over her mouth and dash from the room in a spasm of uncontrollable mirth. It was most unnerving; and what with William's gloomy looks, Marion's abstraction, and my constant fear that Elizabeth would spill gravy, custard or something of an equally clinging character, over William during her contortions behind him, I was relieved when the meal was ended.



William at once retired to the study with Henry, presumably for a chat, but chiefly, as I afterwards discovered, to remove his right boot for an hour's respite. He left early, limping heavily.

'It is really most curious about William,' I said to Marion as we sat alone in the drawing-room—Henry having remained in the study to finish some work. 'One can hardly conceive a reason strong enough to induce him to renounce his aboriginal mode of living and become so highly civilized almost in a day.'

Marion lowered her head, and I thought she looked self-conscious. 'A man might do a thing like that for—for love,' she murmured.

I blushed slightly. 'I scarcely think it's more than a passing infatuation.'

'I feel convinced it's stronger than that,' she replied tensely.

'I hope not,' I said in an alarmed tone. 'It would be horrid to see the poor fellow in the throes of a hopeless passion.'

'Perhaps after all it might not be quite hopeless,' rejoined Marion softly.

I raised my head sharply. 'I don't think you are justified in that remark,' I said stiffly, 'what you saw between him and me was only a little harmless fun. As if, indeed, there is any man living who could make me forget dear old Henry for a minute——'

'You!' exclaimed Marion with a start. 'I wasn't thinking of you, Netta.'

'Then who——?'

'I—I—was referring to—myself.' She put down her knitting on her knee and looked at me half defiantly, her cheeks flushed.

'But, my dear Marion, when has he shown you the slightest attention?' I was impelled to remark. 'You have always professed the profoundest contempt for him.'

'Not contempt, Netta. I have remarked that he was untidy.'

'You said the other evening that you considered him to be the last man on earth a woman could like.'

'No doubt, dearest, but that was before I had discovered a woman kissing him.'

'Perhaps you regret it was not yourself in that enviable position, darling?'

'No, my love. I don't think the position of a married woman discovered kissing a man other than her husband is enviable; do you?'

Marion's obtuse and unreasonable attitude puzzled me. I am quick tempered, and was about to reply hotly, when the door opened and Elizabeth entered.

'Miss Marryun,' she said, nodding mysteriously in the direction of my sister-in-law, 'I bin lookin' at the cards for you an' I see a warnin' in 'em. You'll 'ave to keep an eye on 'im if you want to keep 'im.'

Marion did not look so mystified as I expected at this unusual outburst. 'Thank you for the warning, Elizabeth,' she said in an affable tone.

'You gotta rival for 'is affeckshuns,' continued Elizabeth.

Marion raised an eyebrow in my direction. 'No doubt,' she commented.

'What is all this nonsense?' I asked, a little testily.

'Elizabeth is, as you know, a fatalist,' explained Marion. 'She places her faith in cards, which, I am repeatedly telling her, is utter nonsense.'

'It aint nonsense,' expostulated Elizabeth in an injured tone. 'You gotta fair rival acrost your parth——'

'I'm glad I'm dark,' I murmured.

'Fair an' false she is,' continued the soothsayer, 'the words of 'er mouth are like 'oney an'——'

'I tell you I consider all this rubbish,' interrupted Marion briskly. 'You would be far better not to believe in such foolish things, Elizabeth. They do you no good.'

Elizabeth retired in some indignation, muttering, 'Well, don't say you wasn't told.'

We sat in strained silence—for it was the first occasion there had been any hint of a tiff between us—and after a time Marion rose to go. When Henry had put on his overcoat to accompany her home she was nowhere to be found. Hearing voices proceeding from the kitchen, I went in that direction. It was then I heard Marion remark in a casual tone—the casualness a little overdone: 'You might let me hear if he says any more about it.'

'Right-o, Miss.'

'And, oh, by the way, Elizabeth, what was that you said about a rival—are you quite sure that she is fair?'



CHAPTER XVI

I should like to begin this chapter by saying it's the unexpected that always happens. As that, however, would be too trite a remark, I will only say that William was the last person on earth I should have suspected of falling in love with Gladys Harringay.

She is, indeed, exceedingly pretty in a fluffy kind of way and most men like to flirt with her, but they do not let their attentions develop into anything serious. Perhaps you know the sort of girl she is. She makes a dead set at every eligible man she meets and concentrates on him to such an extent that he ends by losing interest in her altogether—actually avoiding her, in fact. Man is like that, I've observed. I suppose it's the primitive instinct of the hunter which still lurks in him and makes him desire to stalk down his quarry instead of its stalking him. Gladys didn't seem aware of this supreme fact, and (though she affected the giddy airs of eighteen) she was getting perilously near the age when the country considers a woman is wise and staid enough to vote, yet she still remained unwed.

Never for a moment did it occur to me, when I asked her to dine with us one evening, that she would go for William. Still less did I think that he would take even the faintest interest in such a vapid creature. But, as I wanted to say before, it's the unexpected that always happens.

William was looking unusually nice that evening. His eyes had a far-away, rather haunted expression, due to his wearing sock-suspenders for the first time, but, of course, Gladys didn't know that. He seemed like one of the strong, silent heroes of fiction. I can testify that he was silent—perhaps because Gladys did all the talking—and he looked unusually strong. They sat together most of the evening, and she only left his side to go to the piano to sing one of her 'stock' French chansons. Even then she directed it entirely at William.

'Mamman, dites-moi, ce qu'on sent quand on aime Est-ce plaisir, est-ce tourment?'

she warbled, rolling her r's and looking so fixedly at William that he seemed quite uneasy—he might, indeed, have been more uneasy had his French been equal to following the words of the song. Modern languages, however, like modern writers, do not appeal to him. They must be as dead as mutton before they can awaken his interest. If you want to see him roused to a perfect frenzy of enthusiasm you should see him arguing with Henry as to the comparative dramatic values of Homeric hexameters and Ionian iambics.

But to return to Gladys—or rather Gladys and William, for they remained inseparable for the remainder of the evening. He even accompanied her home, for I saw him dart forward (in his patent leather boots, too, which demanded slow movement on his part), when she rose to go, and hurry out to act as her escort.

A few days later he called in to see us for the sole purpose of inquiring about her. He pretended he wanted to borrow Ruskin's Munera Pulveris, but as he went away without the volume we saw how feeble was that pretext.

'With regard to—er—Miss Harringay,' he began, almost as soon as he arrived, 'I must say I consider her a remarkable young lady.'

'She is,' I said grimly.

'Would you believe it,' he went on, addressing himself to Henry, 'she is actually a Dr. Johnson enthusiast.'

'Nonsense!' ejaculated Henry.

'It's a fact. Isn't it unusual in one so young and—er—tender and timid that she recalls Keats' dissertation on woman, "she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats for man's protection."'

'Oh, so she's been bleating, has she?' I said cruelly.

'It makes it all the more astonishing that she should have leanings toward the study of serious literature.'

'Who told you she had?'

'She told me so herself.'

'Do you mean to tell me you believe it?'

He looked puzzled. 'Why should she say that if it isn't true? She could have no object in making such a statement. As a matter of fact, I found out quite by accident, when she unconsciously quoted a passage from the great master.'

I began to see light. So that was why Gladys had come up in such haste the day following her introduction to William to borrow Johnson's Aphorisms. Oh, hapless, artless William!

'I see now that you were quite right when you once remarked that you feared you had lost your reason with your beard,' I remarked severely. 'Do let things grow again before it is too late.'

'Let what grow?' he asked.

'Everything. Moustache, beard and general air of fuzziness. It's the best protection you can have, my poor fellow.'

He departed rather abruptly after that, seeming somewhat annoyed. I could not understand what was making him so unusually touchy.

'Surely,' I said to Henry, 'even William isn't so blind as to let himself be taken in by that little noodle of a Gladys.'

'Of course he isn't,' replied Henry vehemently, 'do you think a chap is ever deceived by anything like that? He hates to be pounced on, so to speak. Do you know, my dear, that one of the things that first attracted you to me was your complete indifference to myself.'

'Indeed, Henry?' I said, with lowered eyes and modest mien.

'Yes. If you remember I was editing the Gazette at the time I first met you, and although you, as one of my contributors, often came up to the office to see me, we remained for a long time on a purely business footing.'

It is true Henry was an unconscionable time in coming to the point. 'Entirely business-like,' I acquiesced.

'When you called to see me to discuss a gross misstatement in one of your articles (which you refused to acknowledge until I had sent for you to put the matter clearly before you), you did not conduct yourself like so many other girls who came to discuss their work with me. You did not attempt to engage in a mild flirtation, make eyes, bend over me as I glanced through the manuscript——'

'Oh, bad, bad girls,' I murmured. 'Do women behave like that with you, Henry?'

'They did, my dear. I am speaking of the time before I was married.'

I smiled. What a comfort it is to have a Scotsman for a husband! He is so solid and reliable regarding the opposite sex.

'You, however, employed none of these wiles,' he continued, 'and were almost studiously cold and business-like. For a long time I thought I should never interest you in myself—in fact, I know I took you very much by surprise when I made you an offer, didn't I?'

'I was rather surprised, Henry,' I said, smiling at his retreating form as he went out of the room. Then I turned to Marion, who happened to be present. 'Why, of course,' I commented, 'that makes it all the more serious about William.'

'What are you talking about?' she asked in a puzzled tone.

'If Henry was deceived so easily——'

'Deceived! Oh, Netta!'

'Well, I mean, dear, I'd decided to marry Henry before the episode of the misstatement in my article he just mentioned. I—I—put the misstatement in on purpose to arouse a controversy between us.'

'Netta, how terrible!'

'Why terrible, Marion? I knew Henry would make an excellent husband. Am I not a suitable wife for him?'



'You are just perfect, dear—but you might have been otherwise.'

'That's exactly what I'm driving at, Marion. Gladys is an "otherwise." If I deceived Henry, how much easier is it for her to deceive William? No, she shan't marry him. He'd be wretched.'

Marion smiled. 'You surely don't think there's anything like that between them?'

'He's drifting that way if some one doesn't stop him.'

Again Marion smiled. 'I tell you it's impossible. He couldn't have got over his passion for me so quickly.'

'His passion for you,' I echoed. 'My dear, what do you mean?'

Marion then laid down her sewing and began to speak. I listened amazed, unable at first to credit what she was saying, though gradually I began to understand many things which had hitherto been obscure.

'It's wonderful to think of his having loved you secretly all this time,' I marvelled; 'yet why should he take Elizabeth into his confidence rather than myself? And why didn't you tell me all this before—it would have made things so much simpler.'

'At first, not being aware how handsome he could be made, I did not care for him and——'

'Do you mean, then, that you no longer dislike him, Marion?'

'On the contrary, dear, I have begun to regard him with—with feelings of warmth.'

'Then all goes well, it seems. Now I shall go and speak to Elizabeth about the affair.'

I thought Elizabeth seemed a little uneasy under my questioning, but she reiterated many times: 'I tell you 'e isn't 'arf gone on Miss Marryun—fair mad about 'er 'e is, but 'e told me not to breathe a word about it to a soul.'

'Well, he's mad about some one else now,' I interposed.

Elizabeth looked unduly startled. 'Oo with? Don't say it's that there Miss 'Arringay 'oo wos a-settin' 'er cap so 'ard at 'im the other night?'

I was a little taken aback. 'Yes, that's about it,' I confessed.

'Well, upon my soul, the sorcy baggage,' burst out Elizabeth with unexpected wrath, 'such imperence after me workin' an' plannin' the way I 'ave. But she shan't 'ave 'im. Look 'ere, 'm, Miss Marryun is just the one fer 'im. Can't it be brought off like?'

I pondered. 'I'll do my best, Elizabeth. If, as you say, he has formed such a strong attachment to Miss Marion, I should like to see them both happy. You say he was particularly anxious to have her photograph?'

I almost imagined at that moment Elizabeth avoided my eye. 'Very pertickler,' she retorted in a muffled voice.

'Very well, then. I, myself, will restore the photo he replaced. It will be the first step to an understanding between them.'

I left the kitchen smiling complacently, feeling that my latest matrimonial scheme for Marion was going to be the easiest I had ever attempted.

Alas! I was reckoning, as the saying is, without my host. The host in this case was Gladys.



CHAPTER XVII

Everything went wrong with my plans from the first. For instance, Marion, the central figure in the plot, went away suddenly to nurse a sick great-aunt. William now became so engrossed with Gladys that he talked of very little else. Thus Henry and I would have avoided him at this stage, if possible; it was not possible, however, to avoid him. We saw more of him than ever. I will explain why.

William was one of those lovers who are terrified of being over-bold or too confident, lest by their presumption they might alarm the timid object of their affections. He needn't have been afraid of wooing Gladys. She flung herself at his head rather obviously, but he seemed so obtuse she must have found him irritating at times. Thus, instead of calling upon her or asking her to meet him by appointment, or arranging an evening at the theatre and otherwise behaving in a sensible manner, he hung about her house, endeavouring to come upon her 'by chance.' Further, having met her at our place he seemed to be under the impression that she was one of my closest friends, and came to see me every day, judging by the times he 'dropped in' in the obvious anticipation of meeting her. Not finding his quarry, he talked about her to Henry, though I must admit his audience was not always sympathetic.

'I don't believe in interfering in these things,' remarked Henry, one evening, when we were alone, 'but, frankly, I should be really sorry to see good old William throw himself away on that frivolous, stupid little Gladys. They'd be desperately unhappy after being married a week. Couldn't something be said to them, do you think—a hint thrown out from time to time?'

'Throwing hints—or anything else—wouldn't be of the slightest use, Henry. Have you ever met a person in love who would listen to sound advice of the sort? If you want to know how to get yourself intensely unpopular—with two people at least—try intervening in what you consider an unsuitable love match.'

I spoke with feeling, for I had once been implored to use my influence to part a couple who were, to all appearances, acutely incompatible. The job was distasteful to me, and I only undertook it because there is a strain of philanthropy in my nature (though that isn't what the incompatibles called it). My intervention had no effect, of course. They are now married—and quite happy—and neither of them will speak to me any more.

Henry continued to look disturbed. 'If he only knew Gladys,' he said, 'but as things are going at present I'm afraid he'll propose before his eyes are opened.'

I felt troubled. For a day or two I pondered on the distressing affair, but I was resolutely determined not to intervene. Then it was the idea occurred to me. To be frank, it was Elizabeth who actually inspired it. I was giving orders for dinner and was suggesting apple turnovers for a sweet, when she blandly remarked, 'Talkin' o' turnovers, Mr. Roarings is dead gone on that there Miss 'Arringay now, I 'ear.'

'Your hearing does seem unusually good,' I said coldly. Certainly, I had never mentioned the subject to any one but Henry. It was a surprise to discover that I had, at the same time, been mentioning it to Elizabeth as well.

'Nice wife she'd make him,' continued the irrepressible Elizabeth, 'a flipperty-flapperty piece o' goods like 'er.'

'We will have cheese straws after the sweet, Elizabeth,' I said in tones of chill rebuke.

'Right-o, 'm. Well, wot are you goin' to do about it?'

'Do about what?'

'Mr. Roarings an' Miss 'Arringay. 'E isn't 'er style as any one could see with 'arf an eye, but 'e's fair blinded just now. Wot an eye-opener it'd be if 'e got to know 'er proper—met 'er frequent, so to speak.'

'I'm afraid I don't quite understand.'

'Well, 'ere's a case in point. My sister-in-law's brother—nice young chap 'e was too—fell in with a girl that wasn't the right one fer 'im—no clarss like,—but 'e wouldn't 'ear a word agen 'er. So my sister-in-law thinks of a plan. She arsks both 'er brother an' the young woman 'e was courtin' to go and spend their 'olidays with 'er at the seaside. Which they did an'—bless yer—wot with seein' 'er every day an' gettin' to know 'er too well 'e soon got sick o' 'er. Why, 'e'd given 'er a black eye afore the week was out. Now if Mr. Roarings and Miss 'Arringay met frequent like that——'

'Elizabeth,' I interposed, 'mind your own business'; and I went out of the kitchen with dignity.

Nevertheless, I was compelled to admit that she had given me an inspiration. That girl, under a rough and unpromising exterior, has fecundity of ideas which astonishes me. Had she been in a higher class in life—or even able to spell—she might have been a regular contributor to the Sunday papers.

'Henry,' I said, hurrying into the study. 'I have got a solution regarding William's entanglement. I am going to invite Gladys to spend a week here with us.'

'How can that help? I don't quite see——'

'My dear ass, the idea isn't a novel one, but in this case it's excellent. I'll write her a note on the instant and ask her if she'll come, giving as a pretext that I'm feeling lonely in Marion's absence.'

'But why this hurry? Hadn't you better think it over first?'

'If I pause to think it over, Henry, I know I shall decide that I can't tolerate Gladys for an entire week. As it is, I expect she'll drive me stark mad. No, no, let me write while I am in my present frenzy of philanthropy?'

'I suppose,' he reflected, 'William will practically spend the week here, too, when he knows Gladys is coming.'

'Exactly. What about it?'

'I'm thinking of my work,' he grumbled. 'Two people being disillusioned under one roof are sure to create interruptions.'

'They shan't interrupt you. I intend to leave them together as much as possible. How glad I am that Gladys isn't the least bit clever—a week might not be long enough if she were.'

'I'm not sanguine about the idea,' was Henry's comment. 'It might work out all right in books and plays; but in real life its effect is extremely doubtful.'

'Not at all. Elizabeth knew a young man who was devoted to a girl until they spent a holiday together. At the end of the first week he gave her a black eye. What more do you want than that?'

'Nothing,' replied Henry, 'if she was quite satisfied. Do you think William's disillusionment will be as abrupt as all that?'

'I'm hopeful. Now don't talk to me until I've finished my letter to Gladys, which demands effort on my part. It must read as if I really wanted her to come.'

Evidently the letter was effective, for Gladys rang up directly she received it and told me she'd be simply charmed to come and that it was perfectly sweet of me to have her. (I rather thought it was myself.)

She came the next day with an abnormal amount of luggage for such a brief visit. But as I told Henry (who said it looked as though she intended wintering in our abode), I had distinctly stipulated that the invitation was for a week only. I was not at that time aware of the barnacle-like qualities of Gladys.

As I anticipated, William also descended on us when he knew we had Gladys for a visitor. I left them alone together at every opportunity, and for a day or two all went well.

Things might have gone better (for Gladys) if she hadn't attempted to be clever. As a matter of fact she over-reached herself. To this day I believe she ascribes her failure to Dr. Johnson, though she was far more to blame than that good old man. She talks very bitterly against him even now.

You see, knowing William's weakness, she played up to it, but not being clever she hadn't got her subject properly in hand. I know the poor girl worked hard at the Aphorisms, but she had exhausted what she knew of those by the end of the first day. She did her best, I will admit, and even took the Lives of the English Poets to bed with her and concentrated on them until midnight, while she dipped into The Vanity of Human Wishes before breakfast. But it was no use. William discovered her deception rapidly, and it seemed to annoy him unduly. His visits began to fall off, and after Gladys had artlessly remarked to him one day, 'Who is that Mr. Boswell you're always talking about—he must be a great friend of yours. I hope you'll introduce me,' he ceased to come altogether.

He had, in fact, arrived at the stage where Gladys irritated him. So had we. But unlike William we could not get away from her. Her visit had already extended two weeks and was melting into a third, and she gave no hint of returning home. It wouldn't have been so bad if only she had been quiet, but she is the most restless person I have ever known. She was always running up and down stairs, banging doors, playing fragments on the piano, and dashing into the study to talk to Henry when he was writing.

He is, on the whole, an equable man, but more than once I trembled for the consequences when I saw her go up to him, lean over his shoulder and, snatching at some loose pages of his MS., playfully remark, 'What funny crabbed letters! And what is it all about—something you're inventing to deceive us poor public, I'll be bound. I don't believe a word of what you're writing, so there!'

Henry used to say scorching things about Gladys when we retired at night (the only chance we seemed to have now of being alone was in our bedroom), and would ask me when I meant to tell her to go. I suggested he should tell her himself, and he declared it was not the duty of the host. I replied that it was the first time I'd ever heard it was the duty of the hostess either.

We planned to make little speeches in her presence based on the subject of her departure, and fraught with deep and subtle allusion, but she ignored them. We inquired if her mother did not miss her after such a prolonged absence, and she said they rather liked her to be away from home for a few months in the year, as a change was always good. No doubt it was good for her people, but it was bad for Henry and me.

Then one night Henry revolted. 'If she hasn't gone in another two days,' he informed me, 'I'm going to get rooms at an hotel.'

He spoke as if he meant it, and I was mournfully wondering what I ought to do to get Gladys to go, short of being downright rude, when Elizabeth drifted into the problem.

'If Miss 'Arringay's goin' to stop much longer, I ain't,' she announced. 'She makes too much extry work, an' the sight o' 'er about the place fair riles me.'

I looked wearily at Elizabeth. 'No doubt Miss Harringay will be going soon,' I said with an utter lack of conviction.

Elizabeth approached me, and bending down, said in a hoarse whisper, 'Wot is it—carn't you get rid of 'er?'



I did not reply, feeling it distasteful to discuss my guest with a domestic, though I could not refrain from discussing her with Henry.

'Tell you wot you orter do,' said the fertile Elizabeth, 'send for Miss Marryun to come 'ere unexpected, an' then tell Miss 'Arringay you'll want 'er room.'

'But—but I've got another spare room. Miss Harringay knows that.'

Elizabeth winked: I pretended not to see it, but there was no mistaking the distinct muscular movement of her left eyelid. 'No you 'aven't,' she said stoutly. 'You 'avent got any proper bedding in the spare room now, 'ave you?'

'That's too thin,' I said decidedly. Yet even as I spoke I clutched at the straw and, holding on to it, went at once and wrote to Marion.

'You must come home at once,' I commanded, 'in spite of great-aunt Jane's rheumatism. Is it not written that it is better to have one rheumatic great-aunt than a brother, sister-in-law, and a niece in an asylum!'

For answer Marion wired the time of her return train, and I began to grow hopeful.

'An' when Miss Marryun comes,' remarked Elizabeth, 'if I wos you I wouldn't say nothin' to 'er about the way Mr. Roarings went after Miss 'Arringay.'

'Why not?' I asked involuntarily.

'She mightn't trust 'im arter that. I never thort myself 'e'd turn as quick as 'e did. But men is queer, as my pore mother often said when father give 'er a black eye just to show 'ow fond 'e was of her like. No, the best thing to do is to let Miss Marryun think that Mr. Roarings is still taken up with 'er and only went after the other young lady to make 'er jealous.'

There was much wisdom in Elizabeth's words. Nevertheless, I did not intend to mix myself up in any more matrimonial schemes. Much as I desired to see Marion happy, I felt that arranging the destiny of others did not leave me enough leisure to arrange my own, besides interfering with my literary work. At the moment, too, the thought uppermost in my mind was how to dispose of Gladys.

I went to her with Marion's telegram in my hand and a falsely contrite expression on my face. 'I'm so awfully sorry, Gladys, but a most unforeseen thing has happened,' I said. 'Marion is coming to-day, and she'll have to take your room. Isn't it an idiotic situation?'