For a long moment I looked at the portrait. Then I turned to George and clapped him on the back.

"I think you're going to make a name," said I.

"That's right," he said. "And now give me a cigarette."

Before we went to lunch, he showed me the picture of the girl. It was almost finished. Such a fine, brave face. Not a bit pretty—just beautiful. Dark hair showing under the brim of the hat, steady brown eyes, the mouth exquisite...

That was three days ago. And now—pleasedly I regarded the original.

"May I offer you a cigarette?" I said.

When I had lighted it for her:

"To-day is Thursday, isn't it?" she said.

"That's just what I was going to say."

"Yes, I'm sure it is, because last night brother left—"

"The light on in the kitchen garden, with the result that this morning all the cocks were two hours fast. I know. But of course it is. Hasn't Thursday always been my lucky day?"

She blew out a little cloud of smoke and smiled at it. Then:

"I don't know you at all, you know," she said gravely, "and Aunt Prudence always used to say—"

"I know. 'Beware of pickpockets. No smoking.' They quote her in the lifts on the Tube. But then I'm not a pickpocket, and you are smoking. Besides, your picture knows mine very well. They've seen quite a lot of each other lately.

"Yes, but—"

"And then you know my picture a little, and I know yours by heart."

"You're quick to learn."

"Perhaps. But I do. I know every eyelash, long as they are. I believe I could say them. But then I was always good at poetry." This with a bow.

She rose and made the daintiest curtsey. "Would have been better," she said, resuming her seat in the depths of 'Luxury.' "But the skirts of to-day don't help."

"And my bow would have been deeper: but the braces I bought yesterday afternoon—"

"That'll do," she said, laughing. "Seriously, where is Mr. Larel, and why are you here?"

"George is probably scouring Battersea for a child he saw there last autumn with ears such as he has never beheld outside Khartoum. I am here, as you are, in the interest of Posterity."

"Did he tell you Thursday, too?"

"Certainly. I remember it perfectly. We were standing in St. James's Square, near where I get my shirts. Nobody recognized us. George had a cigar in his mouth, and his exact words were, 'Wottabow Hursday?' I had some of the wood pavement in my eye, and my exact words were therefore excusable."

"And now he's forgotten us both."

"On the contrary, he's probably remembered."

"And is consequently afraid to come himself?"

"Exactly. Well, we couldn't very well overlook the insult, could we?"

"It might be wiped out in paint."

I shook my head. Then:

"French polish might do," I said. "But then, he hasn't got any of that. However. To tell you the truth, I don't know that I'm very angry with him. I shall pretend to be, of course. But, now that from admiring the imitation, I find myself face to face with the real thing, I—"

"And the rest. I like these cigarettes rather."

"Dear Sir or Madam," said I, "what is it about our cigarettes that so appeals to your palate?"

She laughed. "I don't know anything about cigarettes, really, but these seem so fresh."

"My dear," said I, "you could have said nothing more calculated to warm the cockles of my heart. You are a connoisseurs (very good indeed). These cigarettes are actually straight from the stable, I mean the Ottoman Empire. I shall send you a box this afternoon by Carter Paterson."

"You're very kind. But tell me, why is their paper brown?"

"Berry says it's swank. But then he would. As a matter of fact, it's maize. I like it myself: it's so nourishing. Besides, it goes so well with a blue suit. Talking of which, with a flowered dress and dark hair, it's absolutely it."

She stretched out a shapely hand, reflectively settling her frock. "White ones would match my gloves, though."

"They would. And the whites of your eggs—I mean eyes. I know. Oh, and your soft throat. But—"

"He said you were awful."

"You see, my dear, we live in an age of contrast. Women no longer play for safety in dress. They have begun to dare. And contrasts show imagination. Sometimes they're actually striking."

"While matches have to be struck."

"Like bargains. Exactly. They're passive, while contrasts are active. We're rather clever this morning, aren't you?"

"It's the coming of summer in my case. I was in the Row at half-past seven this morning, and the air—"

"I know. It was like hock-cup out of a stone jar, while the others are on the bank looking for a place to tie the punt up. I noticed it too. I was in the bathroom—"

"Lazy."

"Taking off my riding boots. You see, you don't give me time."

"I don't believe you."

"Hush. I feel that my tie is not straight. This must be rectified. Is there a mirror in the room? No, there is not a mirror in the room. The room is mirrorless. Very well, then. Either I must use the patent-leather of your little shoes, or perhaps you will lend me one of your large eyes. Of the two, I'd rather have the eye. There's more room."

"Sorry the line's engaged. Shah I call you?"

"If you please. My pet name is Birdie, short for Bolingbroke. Meanwhile, may I have a nail? Only one little nail?"

"You'll have a whole palm in a minute."

"Which will be quite in order. I have frequently borne the palm."

"How many biscuits have yon taken?"

"Seven, and two buns. My sister's awfully proud of them. But about this tie."

"You shouldn't wear made-up ties," she said severely.

I sat up and looked at her. Mischievously she regarded the ceiling. Presently:

"Note the awful silence," I said.

"And dickeys are going out too."

"Look here," said I, "I shall undress in a minute. Just to show you. These are matters touching the reputation."

With that I gravely untied my tie.

To my indignation she clapped her small hands with delight, and gave way to quiet laughter. I nodded solemnly.

"Very good," I said. "Now I shall simply have to have an eye. No mere nail will suffice."

"You will have nothing of the kind."

I rose and walked to the window in some dudgeon. After considerable focussing, I managed to locate the environs of my collar in a dusty pane. While the work of reconstruction was proceeding:

"Once upon a time," said I, "there was a queen. She was very beautiful from the crown of her little head, which the dark hair kept always, to the soles of her shining feet. And people loved to look at her and hear the music of her laughing. Only, it was no good going on Thursday, because that was early-closing day in her realm, and she and The Mint and The Dogs' Cemetery, and all the other places of interest were closed. You weren't allowed to see the crown jewels, which she wore in her eyes..."

Outside a taxi slowed down and stopped. Cautiously I peered out of the window. George.

I turned to the girl. "Here he is," I said.

As I spoke, an idea came to me. Hurriedly I glanced round the studio. Then:

"Quick," I said, pointing to a little recess, which was curtained off. "You go in there. We'll punish him."

A smile, and she whipped behind the curtain.

"Are you all right?" I whispered.

"Yes."

"Put your hand out a second. Quick, lass!" I spoke excitedly.

"What for?" she said, thrusting it between the curtains.

"Homage," said I, kissing the slight fingers.

The next moment George burst into the room. "Thank heaven," he said, as soon as he saw me.

"What d'you mean?" I said stiffly.

"I'm so thankful," he said with a sigh of relief. "I knew it was you. I was a fool to worry. But, you know, I suddenly got an idea that I'd fixed Thursday for Margery Cicester."

"That would have been awful," I said bitterly.

"Yes," said George, "it would, wouldn't it?"

I could have sworn I heard smothered laughter in the recess.

"But, George," I said, "how did you know I liked waiting?"

George laughed and clapped me on the back.

"I forgot." he said. "I'm sorry, old man. But you see—"

"One hour and ten minutes," said I, looking at my watch. George took off his coat, and began to draw a blind over the sky-light.

"I was very late last night," he said.

I gasped.

"D'you mean to say you've only just got up?" I roared.

"Oh, I've had breakfast."

I picked up my hat and turned to the door.

"Where are you going?" said George.

"There are limits," I said over my shoulder. "If it had been Miss Cicester, you would have crawled about the room, muttering abject apologies and asking her to kick you. But as it's me—"

"No, I shouldn't. I should have said that my housekeeper'd been taken ill suddenly, or..."

"Go on," said I.

This was better.

"Or that the Tube had stuck, or something."

"Why not tell her the truth, and fling yourself—"

"You know what women are?"

"George, you surprise me. Would you deceive an innocent girl?"

"Women are so narrow-minded. They can't understand...Nice kid, though, this."

This was splendid. "You mean, Margery—er—What's-her-name?"

"Yes. She's taken rather a fancy to you—your picture, I mean."

I laughed deprecatingly. Then:

"What's she like?" I said carelessly. "To look at, I mean?"

"Like!" roared George. "What d'you mean?"

"Like," I replied coolly. "You know. Similar to."

"Well, she's like that, you fool!" said George heatedly, pointing to the picture.

"Ah, of course. Is she really?"

"Look here," said George. "If you can't—"

"Wait a bit," said I. "When was she due here? I mean to say, supposing you had fixed to-day for her to come?"

"Eleven o'clock. Why?"

"There now," I said musingly. "It must have been just about then."

George seized me by the arm. "Has she been and gone?" he cried.

"Well, I don't know. But about an hour ago a girl did come here. Now I come to think, she was something like the picture. I thought she was a model, and—"

George flung up his hands with a cry. I stopped and looked at him.

"Go on," he said excitedly. "What did she say?"

"Yes, I know it was about then, because a van had just gone up the street. You know. One of those big vans with—"

"Damn the van!" said George. "What did she say?"

"She didn't say anything. I tell you, I thought she was a model. I just said you didn't want one this morning."

George literally recoiled.

"What's the matter?" said I. "Aren't you well?"

"Had she a lilac dress on?" he cried, with the air of one hoping against hope.

"Er—yes," said I.

At that, George uttered a terrible cry, snatched up his coat, and before I could stop him, rushed out of the studio. I put my head out of the window. As he dashed hatless out of the front door:

"Where are you going?" I said.

He threw me a black look. Then: "To wire an apology," he said.

I turned to find my lady at my shoulder.

"He's gone to wire you an apology," I said.

"You are wicked," she said. "Poor Mr. Larel. I feel quite—"

I put my head on one side and regarded her. "Nice kid, though," I said.

"I know," she said severely. "But the poor man—"

"She's taken quite a fancy to me," said I.

She drew back, biting a red lip and trying hard not to smile.

"He'll soon be back," I went on, "and then you're going to have your show. Kindly ascend the throne. All queens do sooner or later.

"Really, I think he's had enough," she said, settling herself in the high-backed chair.

After a little argument:

"All you've got to remember," I said, "is that you're awfully sorry you're so late, and that the truth is you forgot all about the sitting, and that, by the way, when you got here, you met a man going out, and that you don't know who he was, but you suppose it was alright. Only you thought Mr. Larel ought to know."

"I've never met anyone like you before."

"My dear, you never will. I am unique. And remember you've taken rather a fancy—— Here he is. Yes, queens always have their hands kissed. All real queens..."

I seized my hat, stick, and gloves, and faded behind the curtains. She was really wonderful. "Mr. Larel, will you ever forgive me? I'm most awfully sorry. D'you know I quite forgot. I suppose you'd given me up? And now it's too late. Oh, yes. I only came to apologize. I can't think—"

George couldn't get a word in edgeways. I watched him through the crack of the curtains. His face was a study. Of course, he was mentally cursing himself for sending the wire so precipitately, and wondering how the deuce he could explain its arrival without revealing the true state of affairs. Apparently in the end he decided for the moment, at any rate, to say nothing about it, for, as soon as she let him speak, he assured her it didn't matter at all, and passed, somewhat uneasily, direct to the weather.

"By the way," said Margery suddenly, "there was a man here when I came. I suppose it was all right."

George started. "You mean him?" he said, pointing to my portrait.

"That?" cried Margery. "The man you're painting? Oh, no. It wasn't him. At least," she added, leaning forward and looking carefully at the picture, "I don't think so."

"But it must have been," cried George. "He was here five minutes ago, and no other man—it must have been him."

"But the one I saw was clean-shaven," said Margery.

George pointed to my portrait with a shaking finger. "Isn't that one clean-shaven?" he wailed.

"So it is," said Margery. "For the moment, the shadow—"

"I'll never paint again!" said George fiercely. "They've hung over each other's portraits for a week—" "Oh!" cried Margery. "And the first time they see one another, they don't know one another from Adam."

"Did you find the post office all right?" said I. Then I came out.

"One thing," said Margery. "Did the Tube stick?"

George stared at her. "Then you were here," he gasped.

"All the time," said I. Margery broke into long laughter.

George regarded us darkly. "You two," he said.

"One hour and ten minutes," said I. "To say nothing of asking us both on the same day."

"You two," said George.

"We two give you five minutes," I said. "Of these, three may be conveniently occupied by your full and abject apology, and two by the arranging of our next sittings. Then we two are going to lunch. It is, ah, some time since we two breakfasted."

I made a careful note of Margery's sittings-to-be, as well as of my own.

As we were going: "You know, old chap," said I, "you've never apologized."

"Miss Cicester knows that I am her humble servant."

"At any rate," said I, "there'll be the telegram."

Half-way down the stairs Margery turned and ran back to the studio. When she came back, she was smiling.

"What new mischief...?" I began.

She turned to me with a maddening smile and opened her mouth. Then she changed her mind and raised her eyebrows instead.

"This isn't fair," I said. "You can't ride with the herring and run with the beagles too."

But she would not tell me. Neither would she let me give her lunch.

"But the telegram," said I desperately. "You might let me—"

"I don't suppose you have tea, but if you do happen to be in St. James's Street about a quarter to five..."

That afternoon she showed me the wire. It was as follows:

"Thousand apologies housekeeper's sudden illness detained me just learned my fool of servant misunderstood hasty instructions and refused you admission another thousand apologies two thousand in all writing." We thought it was rather good.

The next morning I glanced at the clock and pushed back my chair.

"I must be off," I murmured.

Jonah raised his eyes and then looked at Berry. The latter's eyes were already raised. He had begun to sigh.

"What's the matter with you?" said I defiantly.

"One moment," said Berry. "My flesh is creeping. Now then. How many more of these sittings?"

"Wednesdays be the last, I think."

"Which means that she's leaving Town on Thursday."

I looked at him sharply. Then:

"What d'you mean, 'She'" I said shortly.

"I have known you for—"

"Less of it," said I. "Much less."

"You know, old chap," said Daphne lazily, "you do seem suspiciously keen about this portrait business, don't you?"

I looked at her. She returned my indignant gaze with a steady smile, her chin propped on her white hands, her elbows upon the table.

"Yes," said Jonah. "Afraid of being a minute late, and all that sort of bilge."

"This is an outrage," I gasped. This was nothing but the truth. It really was, They were simply drawing a bow at a venture.

"Don't tell me—" Berry began.

"I shan't," said I.

"Naughty temper," said my brother-in-law. "Has she shell-like ears?"

"Look here," I said, "all of you."

"Must we?" said Berry. "We've only just finished a heavy meal, and—"

"I have been five times to George's studio, each time solely with the object of affording him an opportunity, if possible, of perpetuating upon canvas my gripping personality." This was the whole truth.

"Guilty upon your own confession of felony," said Jonah. "Have you anything to say why the Court—"

"With the same object I am going to-day." This was the truth. George was going to give me an hour before Margery came.

"Perhaps we're wronging Boy," said Jill.

"Thank you, dear," said I.

"You can't wrong outlaws," said Berry. "Never mind. Some day we shall know the ter-ruth."

"I believe you're jealous," said I. "Just because you can't find an artist sufficiently dauntless to reproduce your brutal physiognomy—"

"He means to be rude," Berry explained.

I walked to the door.

"Don't forget our lunch, old chap," said my sister.

"You've taken away my appetite," said I.

"Oh, Boy, you know we love you."

I opened the door.

"I say," said Berry.

"What?" said I, pausing.

"Tell George to put in the warts."

Six weeks had hurried away. And then, one morning, I got a note from George, saying that he had had my picture framed and was sending it along. I broke the news to the others after breakfast.

"Oh, Boy!" cried Jill excitedly.

"I want to see it awfully," said Daphne.

"Why rush upon your fate?" said her husband.

"I hope you'll like it," said I nervously.

"Where are we going to bury—I mean, hang it?" said Jonah.

"What about the potting-shed?" said Berry. "We can easily move the more sensitive bulbs."

"If it's good," said Daphne, "we'll have it in the library."

"I object," said her husband. "I don't want to be alone with it after dark."

I smiled upon him. Then:

"Bur-rother," said I. "I like to think that I shall be always with you. Though in reality harsh leagues may lie between us, yet from the east wall of the library, just above the type-writer, I shall smile down upon your misshapen head a peaceful, forgiving smile. What a thought! And you will look UP from your London Mail and—"

"Don't," said Berry, emitting a hollow groan. "I am unworthy. Unworthy." He covered his face with his hands. "Where is the Indian Club?" he added brokenly, "I don't mean the one in Whitehall Court. The jagged one with nails in it. I would beat my breast. Unworthy."

"Conundrum," said Jonah. "Where were the worthy worthies worthy?"

"I know," said I. "They were worthy where they were."

"Where the blaze is," said Berry.

"The right answer," said Jonah, "is Eastbourne."

Daphne turned to Jill. "Is the trick-cycle ready, dear? We're on next, you know."

Here a servant came in and announced that a picture had come for me. We poured into the hall. Yes, it had come. In the charge of two messenger-boys and a taxi, carefully shrouded in sackcloth. Berry touched the latter and nodded approval. Then he turned to the boys.

"Are there no ashes?" he said.

We bore it into the dining-room and set it upon a chair by the side of a window. I took out my knife and proceeded to cut the string.

"Wait a moment," said Jonah. "Where's the police-whistle?"

"It's all right," said Berry. "James has gone for the divisional surgeon."

I pulled off the veil. It was really a speaking likeness of Margery.

Two hours later the telephone went. I picked up the receiver. "Is that six-o-four-o-six Mayfair?"—excitedly.

Margery's voice.

"It is," said I.

"Oh, is that you?"

"It is."

"Oh, d'you know, the most awful thing has happened."

"I know," I said heavily.

"Then you have got mine?"

"Yes."

"I suppose you guessed I've got yours?"

"You don't sound very sympathetic,"—aggrievedly.

"My dear, I'm—"

"You don't know what I've been through."

This tearfully.

"Don't I?" I said wearily.



CHAPTER VIII

THE BUSY BEERS

"They never sting some people," said Daphne.

"Perhaps," said I, "perhaps that is because they never get the chance. It doesn't offer, as they say."

"Oh, yes, they do. They simply don't sting them."

"'M. During Lent, I suppose?" I murmured drowsily. A May afternoon can be pleasantly hot.

"It's a sort of power they have," said Daphne mercilessly.

I opened my eyes. "The bees? It's a very offensive power."

"No, Boy, the people. They simply swarm all over some persons, and it's all right."

I shuddered.

"Perhaps," said Berry, looking at me, "perhaps you have that power. Who knows?"

"Who will ever know?" said I defiantly.

"We can easily find out," said Berry eagerly.

I sat up. "It is," I said, "just conceivable that I have that power. I do not recollect my immersion in the Styx, but it is, I suppose, not impossible that, although I am not actually invulnerable, my sterling qualities may yet be so apparent to the bee mind that, even were I so indiscreet as to lay hands upon their hive, they would not so far forget themselves as to assail me. At the same time, it is equally on the cards that the inmates of the hive I so foolishly approached would be a dull lot—shall we say, Baeotian bees? Or an impulsive lot, who sting first and look for qualities afterwards. In short, mistakes will occur, and, as an orphan and a useful member of society, I must refuse to gratify your curiosity."

"I think you might try," said Daphne. "We want them to swarm awfully, and they might actually swarm on you. You never know."

"Pardon me, I do know. I have no doubt that they would swarm on me. No doubt at all."

"Well, then—"

"Disobliging of me not to let them, isn't it? And we could have the funeral one day next week. What are you doing on Tuesday?"

"Well, we've got to move them from the skep into the new hive tonight somehow," said my sister, "and you've got to help."

"Oh, I'Il help right enough."

"What'll you do?"

"I'Il go up the road and send the traffic round by West Hanger. We don't want to be hauled up for manslaughter."

Daphne turned to Berry.

"He'd better hold the skep, I think," she said simply.

"Yes," said her husband. "Or keep the new hive steady while we shake the bees out of the skep into it. We've only got two veils, but he won't want one for that."

"Of course not," said I with a bitter laugh. "In fact, I think I'd better wear a zephyr and running shorts. I shall be able to move with more freedom."

"Ah, no," said Berry. "You must keep the trunk covered. The face and hands don't really matter, but the back and legs...That might be dangerous."

"Nonsense, nonsense," said I. "I'm not afraid of a bee or two. How many are there in the hive?"

"Twenty or twenty-five thousand," said Daphne. "Where are you going?"

"To set my house in order. Heaven forgive you, as I do. I have already forgiven Berry. I should like Jonah to have my stop-watch."

As I walked across the lawn, I heard the wretched girl reading from The Busy Bee-Keeper:

"Toads are among the bees' most deadly enemies. They will sit at the mouth of a hive and snap up bees as fast as they emerge..."

Till then I had always been rather against toads.

I well remember the day on which I learned of the purchase of the bees. It had been raining the night before and all day the clouds hung low and threatening. Misfortune was in the air. Their actual advent I do not recollect, for when I had heard that they were to arrive on Saturday night, I had made a point of going away for the week-end.

On my return I avoided the kitchen garden assiduously for several days, but after a while I began to get used to the presence of the bees, and their old straw home—I could see it from my bedroom—looked rather pretty and comfortable.

Then Daphne, who never will leave ill alone, had announced that they must be moved into a new hive.

In vain I characterized her project as impious, wanton, and indecent in turn.

A new hive, something resembling a Swiss chalet was ordered, and with it came two pairs of gauntlets and some veils which looked like meat-safes. Oh yes, and a 'smoker'.

The 'smoker' was the real nut.

At a distance of five paces this useful invention might have been mistaken for a small cannon. As a matter of fact, it consisted of a pair of bellows, with the nozzle, which was very large, on the top instead of at the end. As touching the 'smoker' the method of procedure was as follows:—One lighted a roll of brown paper, blew It out again and placed it in the nozzle. Then, telling the gardener's boy to stand by with the salvolatile, one began to blow the bellows. Immediately the instrument belched forth clouds of singularly offensive smoke.

One might think that, if this were done in the vicinity of a hive, such a proceeding would tend to irritate the bees into a highly dangerous, if warrantable, frenzy, and that they would take immediate steps to abate the nuisance in their own simple way. But that, my brothers, is where we are wrong. Where bees are concerned, the 'smoker's' fumes are of a soporific and soothing nature. Indeed, before a puff of its smoke a bee's naughty malice and resentment disappear, and the bee itself sinks, gently humming, into the peaceful, contented slumber of a little che-ild.

At least, that was what the books said.

Seven o'clock that evening found us huddled apprehensively together outside the kitchen garden, talking nervously about the Budget. All was very quiet. A fragrant blue smoke stole up gently from the 'smoker,' which I held at arm's length. Berry and Daphne were arrayed in veils and gauntlets. They reminded me irresistibly of Tenniel's Tweedledum and Tweedledee.

"Mind you're ready with the 'smoker' when I want it," said Berry shortly.

"I—er—I thought you'd take it with you," I said uneasily.

"Nonsense," said Daphne. "We can't do everything. You must be ready to hand it to Berry if the bees get infuriated."

Thank you.

"Look here," said I, "I'm sure I shall do something wrong. You'd much better have the gardener's boy."

"And have to pay him hundreds of pounds compensation. I don't think," said Berry.

At the mention of compensation I started violently and dropped the 'smoker'. When I had picked it up:

"Look here," I said, "I'll stand on the path and keep the beastly thing smoking and if—if they should get—er—— excited, well—er—there it'll be all ready for you."

"Where?" said Daphne suspiciously.

"On the path."

"And you?"

"I shall probably be just getting my second wind."

They looked at one another and sneered into their veils.

"It's murder," I said desperately, "sheer murder. You ask my death."

The stable clock chimed a quarter past seven.

We entered the kitchen garden in single file.

The hive was as silent as the tomb. It seemed almost wicked to—

All went well until Berry was on the point of lifting the skep. Suddenly something jumped in the wallflowers by Daphne, and she started against her husband with a little scream. It was a toad. I felt braver. We were not alone. But my pleasure was shortlived. Berry's hand had been upon the skep and the jolt had aroused the bees.

Uprose an angry murmur. I felt instinctively it was an angry one.

My brother-in-law had the 'smoker' in his hand. They told me afterwards that I had gone and given it him. That shows the state I was in. I was not responsible for my actions.

With all speed he applied the nozzle to the mouth of the skep. He was in time to stop the main body, but a few had already emerged.

I stood as if rooted to the spot.

Immediately seven bees alighted on Berry's left hand. I saw them black against the white of his gauntlet. Spellbound I watched him train the 'smoker' upon them one by one. Three rolled slowly off before as many puffs, intoxicated, doubtless, with delight and drunk with ecstasy. The fourth one he missed. The fifth moved as he was shooting and he missed again. Then he got nervous and tried to please two at once. The sixth began to buzz and four more arrived.

Berry lost his head and began to shoot wildly. One settled on Daphne's veil and she screamed. The hive began to hum again. With mistaken gallantry, Berry left the bees on his gauntlet and turned to the one on his wife's veil. The next moment she was reeling against the wall in a paroxysm of choking coughs. Some more of the twenty-five thousand began to emerge from the skep, and a moment later I was stung in the lobe of the right ear.

The pain, I may say, was acute, but it certainly broke the spell, and I turned and ran as I have never run before.

Across the garden, down the drive, out of the lodge gates, over a hedge, with eighteen inches to spare, and across country like a thoroughbred.

At last I plunged into a roadside wood almost on the top of a girl. She stared at me.

"Lie down," I gasped.

"Why?"

"Never mind why. Lie down for your life."

She lay down wonderingly beside me, as I sobbed and panted in the undergrowth.

At last, after cautioning her to keep quiet, I listened long and carefully. The result was satisfactory. My escape was complete.

I turned my attention to the girl. She was sitting up now regarding me with big eyes.

Her hair was almost hidden under a big-brimmed garden hat, but I could see her face properly. Her features were delicate and regular, and her mouth was small and red. Steady grey eyes. She was wearing a soft blue dress of linen, and her brown arms were bare to the elbow. In her hand she had a posy of wild flowers. Little shoes of blue, untanned leather, I think it is. She was slender and lithe to look at, and the flush of health glowed in her cheeks.

"I'm sorry," I said. "It all comes of beeing. If we hadn't been beeing—"

"And yet he doesn't look mad," she said musingly.

"I'm not mad," I said. "I admit that if I had on a bonnet, I should have several bees in it. Happily I lost it at the water jump. I'm a beer."

"A what?" she said, recoiling.

"A beer. At least I was one. Two other beers were with me—busy beers. Stay," I went on, "be of good beer—I mean cheer. I do not refer to the beverage of that name. By 'beer' I mean one actively interested in bees."

She looked more reassured.

"Why were you running?"

I spread out my hands.

"The beggars were at my heels."

"By which you mean—"

"That the inmates of the hive in which I was just now actively interesting myself, resented such active interest and endeavoured to fall upon me in great numbers."

"And you escaped unhurt?"

"Except that at the outset I was winged in the ear, I have baulked them of their prey. Selah!"

"I had an idea that the person of a beer was sacred."

"So it is, my dear. But these were impious bees, dead to all sense of right and wrong. They've done themselves in this time. Guilty of sacrilege and brawling, they may shortly expect a great plague of toads. It will undoubtedly come upon them. I shall curse them tomorrow morning directly after breakfast."

"Have you really been stung?"

"Every time."

"How exciting."

"Perhaps. But it's very overrated, believe me."

"Let me look."

I submitted readily. After a brief scrutiny my lady announced that she could see the sting. Her fingers dealt very gently with the injured lobe, and by dint of looking out of the far corners of my eyes, I just managed to command a prospect of one grey eye and half the red mouth. Her lips were parted and she was smiling a little.

"If I didn't love your mouth when you smile, I should be inclined to suggest that it was nothing to laugh about," I said reprovingly.

The grey eye met mine. Then she laid a small cool hand firmly on my chin and pushed it round and away.

"Otherwise I can't see properly," she explained. Then, "I believe I can dig it out," she said quietly.

I broke away at that and looked round. She was quite serious and began to unfasten a gold safety-pin.

"Look here," I said hurriedly. "You're awfully kind; but, you know, as it is in, don't you think perhaps it had better stay in? I mean, after all, a sting in the ear—"

She just waved my head round and began.

"Police," I said feebly. "Assault and wounding stalk in your midst. Police."

She really got it out very well...

"And so you live here?" she said, after a while.

"In the vicinity," said I. "About a mile and a half away as the crow flies or a beer runs—the terms are synonymous, you know. Large, grey, creepered residence, four reception, two bed, six bath, commands extensive views, ten minutes from workhouse, etc., etc."

"Is it 'White Ladies?'"

"It is. From which you now behold me an outcast—a wanderer upon the face of the earth. But how did you know?"

"They'll be quiet by now," she said, ignoring my question. "The bees, I mean."

"I'm not so sure."

She rose to her knees, but I laid a hand on her shoulder.

"What are you going to do, lass?"

"I shall be late for dinner."

"Your blood be upon your head. The bees certainly will."

"Nonsense."

"I have no doubt they are at this moment going about like raging lions seeking upon whom they may swarm."

"Must I pass your house?"

"To get to the village you must."

"Well I'm going, anyway."

I rose also. She stared at me and her glad smile settled it.

"One must die some time," said I, "and why not on a Wednesday?"

It was with no little misgiving that I stepped out into the road, and walked beside her towards the village. As we approached White Ladies, a solitary bee sang by us and startled me. My nerves were on edge. I breathed more freely when we had passed the lodge gates. All was very still. The village lay half a mile further on.

Suddenly she caught at my arm. Behind us came from a distance a faint, drowsy hum. Even as we listened, it grew louder.

The next second we were running down the straight white road, hand in hand and hell for leather.

She ran nobly, did the little girl. But all the time the hum was getting more and more distinct.

I wondered if the village would ever come. It seemed as if someone had moved it since the morning.

About the first house was the old Lamb Inn, with its large stable yard. There stood a lonely brougham, horseless with upturned shafts. The yard was deserted.

She slipped on the cobbles, as we turned in, and almost brought me down.

"Go on," she gasped. "I'll—"

I picked her up and ran to the brougham. The humming was very loud. To fling open the door and push her in was the work of a moment. Then I stumbled in after her and slammed the door. As I pulled up the window, several bees dashed themselves buzzing against it.

Neither of us spoke for a minute or two. We lay back against the cushions sobbing and gasping for breath, while more bees pattered against the windows.

Presently I stole a glance at my companion. She was leaning back in her comer, still breathing hard with her eyes shut. But she seemed to know I was looking at her, for the soft lips parted in a smile. But she did not open her eyes.

I laid a hand on her arm.

"How's the ankle?" I said. "You turned it, didn't you?"

"Yes, but it's not very bad, thanks. I think you saved my life."

"I'm afraid that's putting it rather high. But you might have been stung, so I'm thankful I was there. At the same time, I can't help feeling that it is to my company that you owe this—this unwarrantable assault. It's me they're after. They want to swarm on me. Or else they've recognized one of their enemies. They said, 'That's a beer, one of the beers. Let us slay him, and the intoxicants...' Exactly. Of course, Berry and Daphne are dead. It's really very tiresome. With Jill and Jonah both away, I don't know what on earth we shall do about tennis tomorrow."

"I wish we could have some air," said the girl.

I opened the near side window an inch and stood by to close it if necessary. But the bees kept to the other side, where they crawled venomously over the pane.

"What ever are we to do?" she said.

"Wait awhile," said I.

"Excuse me, but you don't happen to have such a thing as a toad on you, have you?"

"I hope not."

"That's a pity," I said thoughtfully.

"Sorry to disappoint you," she said. "Have you lost yours?"

"It's all right," said I. "Toads are with us. They simply hate bees. I'm going to get a pack of toads and hunt them. I shall advertise in the Exchange and Mart tomorrow. How's the ankle?"

"A little stiff."

"Let me rub it, please. It's the only thing."

"Oh, no, thanks." "Don't be ungrateful," I said. "What about my ear?"

She set a small foot on the opposite seat. I took off the little shoe. At length:

"I say," she said suddenly, "what about dinner?"

"Dinner!" I exclaimed. "Oh, dinner's gone right out. Simply not done in the best circles. Dinner indeed. My dear, you surprise me!"

"Ah, but you see I don't move in the best circles. I'm only very common and vulgar and actually get hungry sometimes. Shocking, isn't it?"

"Never mind," I said encouragingly. "You are still young. If you begin to break off this indecent habit—"

"It seems I have begun. It's a quarter to nine. You know it is awful. If you had told me yesterday that to-night I should be sitting shut up in a horseless brougham at the back of an inn, alone with a strange man massaging my foot, I should have—"

"Of course you would. But there you are, lass, you never know your luck."

She looked at me darkly.

"Needs must when the devil drives," she said.

I looked at her.

"My skin may be thick," said I, "but it's not impenetrable. But you knew that."

With a light laugh she laid a hand on my arm.

"Don't be silly, lad, but put my shoe on again."

As I fitted it on, I heard footsteps in the yard outside. Instinctively we both shrank back into the brougham. It was quite dark now. Then a stable door grated and I heard a horse move.

"Who is it?" she whispered.

"Some ostler, I expect."

"What's he going to do?"

"I forget for the moment," said I. "I ought to know, too," I added reflectively. "Wait a minute, I will consult the oracle."

So saying I made a pass or two and gazed intently into the gloom.

"Idiot," she murmured.

"Hush," I said. "Do not speak to the man at the wheel, and, above all, refrain from disconcerting the beer—— I mean seer. What do I see? A man—let him pass for a man—in motion. He moves. Yes," I said excitedly, "yes, it is a stable. The man moves across the stable. Lo, he leads forth a horse. There now." I turned to her triumphantly. "The horse you fancy, madam, will also run, and the—ah—fee is one guinea. You don't fancy any horse, madam? Ah, but you will. Very soon too. Sooner, perhaps, than you—— But you can't help it, madam. The crystal cannot lie. Pleasant weather we're having, aren't we? No, I'm afraid I haven't change for a note, but I could send it on, madam. On. On Monday you for instance—"

"Stop, stop," she said, laughing and putting a little hand on my wrist. "Listen. Oh, I say."

A horse was undoubtedly led out of the stable. Breathlessly we heard it come across the yard, and the next moment we felt rather than saw it put between the shafts of our brougham.

My companion uttered a stifled cry and set a hand upon the door handle.

"Sit still, lass," I whispered; "for the love of Heaven, sit still. He's going to drive us away."

"Oh, lad."

"We are in luck."

"But where are we going?"

"Heaven knows. But away from the bees, any way."

The horse was harnessed at last. The lamps were lighted—the while we cowered in the depths of the brougham, the coachman mounted heavily upon the box and we rolled slowly out of the yard.

Round to the left we swung, away from White Ladies, slowly into the village and to the left again. I kept my companion informed as to our whereabouts.

"That's right," I said, "there's the butcher's. Splendid meat he sells—I beg his pardon—purveys. Wears wonderfully well. Always follows the hounds on one of his own saddles. And there's the tobacconist. You should see the plugs he keeps. I've got one I use as a paper-weight. We used to think it was a piece of the original Atlantic cable. I've had it years now, and it's still going strong—very strong. It makes rather a good paperweight, imparts a homely soupcon of farmyard life into one's correspondence, you know. The P.M. had to give up reading my letters—said they made him feel as if he'd gone to the country. Ah, we are now within a stone's throw of the church—a noble edifice, complete with one bell. Hullo! Stand by with that ankle, lass; we're going to the doctor's. You'll like him rather. Incompetent, but genial. Shouldn't wonder if he wants to paint your foot. He is a bit of an artist in his way. When I cut my head open last year, he painted the place all over with some of his stuff. It certainly healed all right, but the way the wasps followed me—I might have been a private view. Now for it. You stand on the steps quite naturally, and I'll manage the driver."

As we drew up to the porch, I opened the door of the vehicle and handed her out. Then I closed the door very carefully and looked at the coachman. His eyes were protruding from his head, and he recoiled as I laid a hand the box.

"How much?" I said carelessly.

A choking sound came from between his lips, and the the next moment he had flung off the opposite side and was peering into the depths of the brougham. When he had felt all over the cushions, he shut the door and came and looked at me over the back of the horse.

"Well, I'm drat—"

"Not yet," I said. "Don't anticipate. How much?"

"Six months' 'ard, I should say," he replied slowly, "and let down easy at that, gettin' into a private broom wiv yeller wheels an' frightenin' an honest man out of his blooming life. Look at the perspiration on my forehead."

He took off his hat, and bent his head toward the lamp, that my view might be the better.

"I had already noticed that you were rather hot," I said shortly, "but had in error attributed it to the clemency of the weather. But pray be covered. I would not have your blood also upon my soul. The air strikes cold."

"Go hon," he said with ponderous sarcasm. "Go hon. Hi am all ears."

"No, no," I said hastily, "not all. Do yourself justice, man."

"Justice," he said bitterly. "Justice. I wonder you 'ave the face to—"

"Be thankful that one of us has a face to have," I said shortly. "Among other maladies you suffer from irritation of the palm. Yes?"

He stared at me.

"Don't know about the palm in particular," he said, after a while, "but being so much with the 'orses it do tend to—"

"That'll do," I said hurriedly. "Lo, here is a crown, by the vulgar erroneously denominated a 'dollar'. Take it, and drink the lady's health before you go to bed."

He took the coins greedily, and touched his hat. Then he partially undressed, in the traditional fashion, and put them away, apparently in a wallet next to his skin.

I turned to the girl.

"We'll go in, shall we?" I said. "They'll give us some food, even if they do want to paint us. And we can ring up your people. I expect they'll be getting anxious."

"Oh, no. This morning they went up to town for the day, and they've only just about got back. And, as I was dining out, they won't expect me for another half-hour. But I think—"

"Dining out, lass? Good heavens, I'm afraid you'll have missed the soup, won't you?"

"I thought they'd given up dinner in the best circles."

"Ah, yes. Of course. But what about the auction halma?"

"That's what's worrying me. And so I was going to say if you'll be good enough to tell me where I am, I'll make my way home to where I'm staying."

Before I could reply, a voice that I recognized came through the drawing—room window.

"Ah, how do you do, Mrs. Fletcher. Sorry we've taken to up so much of your husband's time. But he's done us proud. I had fourteen. Just cast your eye—your critical eye—over this arm and take your pick. How do you like them? Penny plain, twopence coloured. Walk up. Damn. I beg your pardon. Has the ambulance arrived?"

The voice was the voice of Berry.

"The cab's here," said another voice. "I can see the horse's nose."

I suddenly realized that Jonah had got the car and was just wondering what was the matter with our own brougham, when:

"That's Daphne," said my companion. "Was it Berry who spoke first?"

I stared at her.

"Was it, lad?" she repeated.

"Yes, witch, it was. But how on earth?"

"I admit I'm only your second cousin and haven't seen Daphne for eighteen months, still, after being at school in France together for two years, we ought to have some dim recollection of each other's tones."

"Why," I said, "you're cousin Madrigal, who bit me on the nose, aged four, under the nursery table. Are you sorry, now?"

"I did it in self-defence, lad."

"What was I doing?"

"You tried to kiss me."

I glanced round. The coachman had begun to undress again, and it was very dark.

"That was a long time ago," I said wistfully.

"Once bitten, twice shy," she said.

As I kissed her, the light went up in the hall.

"Put not your faith in proverbs," said I.

Dr. Fletcher opened the door.

"Hullo," said the worthy leech.

"Bring forth your dead," said I.

He laughed heartily.

"Have you come for them?"

"We have. Complete with plague-cart. Allow me introduce my cousin. Dr. Fletcher—Miss Madrigal Stukely. How are the deceased?"

"Flourishing," replied the leech. "I took eleven out of your sister."

"And fourteen out of Berry—that's twenty-five. I say, there's no chance of their getting bee hydrophobia, is there? And stinging us, or anything?"

At this moment Daphne appeared, smelling like a consulting room.

"Why, Madrigal darling, so Boy brought you to fetch us back; did he? I'm so awfully sorry Berry and I weren't there for dinner. I hope Boy entertained you properly."

I gasped. Then:

"Madrigal, were you—?"

Daphne was staring at me. So our brougham had been sent to fetch...

Madrigal laid her band on my arm.

"It's all right, Daphne dear. As I was going home to dress about half-past seven, I met Boy—"

"Hurrying?" said Daphne.

"Now I come to think of it, he was walking rather—"

"A nice brisk pace," said I.

"Be quiet," said Daphne, "or I'Il sting you."

"Well," resumed Madrigal, "I met him and he explained—"

"About dinner?"

"About dinner. So we didn't either of us dress. In fact we didn't dine either; we were—er..."

"So anxious about you and Berry," I suggested.

My brother-in-law put his head round the door and looked at me.

"I remember," he said slowly, "I remember catching a fleeting glance—a very fleeting glance—of the anxious look upon your face as you cleared the second celery bed. At the time I thought—but never mind. I now realize that the solicitude there portrayed was on our account. Woman, I fear we judged your brother too hastily."

"I was going for assistance," I said.

"And lost your way," said Berry. He turned to his wife: "M'dear, I'm afraid he will always remain a worm. What a thought."

"Make it toads," said I. "It's safer."



CHAPTER IX

A POINT OF HONOUR

"The point is—" I began.

The girl looked up quickly.

"What?"

"This," said I. "Would you be alarmed or offended if I put my services—"

"Such as they are."

"Such as they are, thank you, at your disposal?"

"Is that an offer or a question?"

"Neither," said I. "It's a point."

She knitted her brows.

"What does one do with points?"

"One deals with them."

"M'm. Well, you can see what you can do, if you like. You mustn't be rough with the bag. It's sensitive, for all that it's made of pigskin."

"May I have the alleged key? Thank you. It is not by force, but by persuasion, that I—ahem—gain my points."

"I should think you're an only child."

"I am," I said. "That's why."

We were in a first-class compartment on the London South Western Railway, rushing away from London, down to Dorsetshire, with its heights and woodland and its grey stone walls. There had been some trouble at Waterloo, and it was only at the last moment that an 'engaged' label had been torn off our carriage window and we had been permitted to enter. The other occupant of the carriage—an aged member of the House of Lords—after regarding us with disapproval for ninety miles, had left the train at the last station. Then my lady had turned to her nice new dressing—bag and had sought to open it. In vain she had inserted a key. In vain she had attempted to insert other keys, obviously too large. Therein she had shown her feminism. I love to see a woman do a womanly thing. Finally she had sighed and pushed her dark hair back from her temples with a gesture of annoyance. The time seeming ripe, I had spoken.

Now I turned to the obstructive wards. All she had done was to double—lock it, and I had it open in a moment.

"Thank you so much."

"Not at all. I was brought up as a burglar. What a blessed thing the old earl's left us."

"I suppose it is."

"Thank you so much."

"Not at all."

"You see if I had offered my services—such as they are—in his presence, he would probably have challenged me, and stuck your glove in his hat."

She laughed.

"He looked rather like it, didn't he?"

"And, of course, according to his lights, you should still be endeavouring to pull the alarm cord."

"Instead of which—"

"You are going to put your feet up and smoke one of my cigarettes. It's not a smoking carriage so you'll be able to taste the tobacco."

"Is this another point?" she said, smiling.

"No," said I. "It's a certainty."

Her dark hair was smooth and shining and full of lights and set off her fresh complexion to perfection. This was not at all brown, but her eyes were. Great, big ones these, with a star in each of them for laughter. Her nose turned up ever so slightly, and she had a little way of tilting her dainty chin, as if to keep it company. Red lips. Presently she looked at me through the smoke.

"Are you going to Whinnerley?" she said.

"Yes, please."

"To the Hall?"

"Even as you are."

"How did you know?"

"The sensitive bag had a label."

"Oh, I believe you're one of Berry and Co."

"Look here," I said, "you mustn't judge me by my company. If my relatives and connections by marriage like to make themselves infamous, that is no fault of mine. They have made their beds. Let them lie on them. I will recline upon my humble, but separate couch."

"What have they done?"

"Notorious wrong. Only last week, for instance, they mocked me."

"No?"

"They did, indeed—during the savoury. As part-owner, I craved a seat in the car. They scorned my request. Who was I? To—day, they drive from Norfolk to Dorset. But for their swabhood they would have picked me up in London on the way."

"On the what?"

"I admit it would have necessitated a slight deviation, but against that you must set off the tone my presence lends— Forgive me, but there's a wasp on your left leg."

She sat up with a cry.

"Oh, take it off! Take it off!"

"Its taste—"

"Bother its taste. Take it off! Is it crawling—"

"Up? Yes. Don't move. Draw your dress tight."

Obediently, she drew her dress close about her, perhaps half an inch below a knee that Artemis might have been proud to display. I let the wasp reach the dark blue cloth. Then I seized him. As I put him out of the window, he naturally stung me. Before I had time to apologize for the expletive which escaped me, she had caught my hand.

"Which finger is it?"

"The second. South and by east of the nail."

"Here?"

"Yes."

"Shall I press the poison out?"

"You can amputate it and sear the stump if you like. Good heavens, your necklace is undone at the back."

"It isn't?"

"It is really."

"Well, do it up with your left hand. I'll attend to the sting."

It was at this interesting juncture that the door opened and a footman stood in the August afternoon sunshine, touching his cap and staring fixedly down the platform. On a station lamp was 'Whinnerley Bluff'.

How we got out of the train and into the car, neither of us ever knew. When I recovered my senses, she was sitting as far away as possible in an open landaulette, staring at my dressing-case and her bag, and moaning.

"Whatever must they think? Whatever must they think?"

"They can't think we've been married long," said I musingly. "They only do that sort of thing on the honeymoon."

She shivered.

"I wouldn't mind if they thought we were married, but they know we aren't."

"I suppose they do."

"Of course they do. Or they will."

Here some children cheered as we went by. She bowed abstractedly, and I raised my hat, as in a trance.

"What's this village?" I said.

"Oh, Whinnerley, I suppose. No, it isn't."

"Here. Where are we going?" said I.

As I spoke, we swung through lodge gates I had never seen before, while two gardeners and a smiling woman beamed delightedly upon us. We stared at them in return. It was all wrong. This wasn't the Hall, and it wasn't Whinnerley. There was some mistake. The car must have been sent to meet somebody else—somebody like us. And we—

I think we saw the streamer at the same moment. It was a large white one, slung across the curling drive from one tree to another. On it were the words: "Welcome to the Happy Pair."

As we left it behind, we turned and faced one another. It was all as clear as daylight. We were the wrong pair. The right pair had never come. We had travelled in their 'engaged' carriage. We had alighted at their station—Whinnerley Bluff—doubtless some new halt, built since my last visit. We were in their car. We had received cheers and smiles meant for them. We were being greeted by a banner for them set up. And we were on the point of arriving at the house lent to them for their honeymoon. Thank you.

Suddenly my companion's words flashed across my mind.

"I wouldn't mind if they thought we were married." I caught her arm.

"Do you see what has happened?" I said.

She nodded frightenedly.

"They think we're a married couple—married this morning."

She shivered again.

"Let them go on thinking it."

She stared at me.

"Play up," I cried. "You know what you said just now. Well, here's our chance. Only play up for an hour or two. The real ones can't arrive before seven. There isn't a train before then. We can slip away after tea. Whinnerley proper can't be far. Play up, my dear, play up. It's a chance in a lifetime."

A wonderful light came into her eyes.

"Shall we?" she whispered.

"Yes, yes. Say you will."

She looked away suddenly over the sunlit park. Then she spoke very slowly.

"I'm trusting you rather a lot, aren't I?" she said.

"Yes," I said quietly.

"But since you make such a point—"

I took her hand. As I raised it, she turned, and we looked each other full in the eyes.

Said I: "This point is a point of honour."

Then I kissed her small, gloved fingers.

A moment later the car swept out of the avenue, under an old gateway and into a fair courtyard, which I seemed to have seen before in the pages of Country Life. The house was beautiful. There it lay, in the hot sunshine, all grey and warm and peaceful—a perfect specimen of the Tudor period, and about its walls a tattered robe of wisteria. It seemed to be smiling in its sleep. As we drove up to the great stone steps, the studded door was opened and a manservant appeared. The car stopped.

"Oh, I'm afraid," whispered my companion.

"Play up," I whispered back. "It's all right."

"No, no. I'm afraid. I don't know what to say to them."

The footman opened the door, and I got out. As I handed her out, her hand was trembling terribly. Suddenly there was a scrambling noise, and a great black and white Newfoundland came bounding down the steps. When he saw us, he stopped.

"Oh, you darling." said my companion.

The dog looked at her for a moment uncertainly. Then he threw up his head and barked twice, wagging his tail. She put out her hand and stroked his head. The great fellow whined with pleasure. Then he took her hand in his mouth and turned up the steps once more.

"Oh, look!" she cried delightedly. "He's leading me in."

The situation was saved. I followed thankfully. As I entered the hall:

"He has taken to your ladyship," a gentle housekeeper was saying. "It's not many he welcomes like that."

The woman bowed to me, and turned towards the staircase. Mechanically I took the two letters from the salver the footman was holding out. Then I thought of something. I looked at the girl. She was half-way up the stairs.

"Er—darling," I said.

She swung round and stopped, flushing furiously. Then:

"Yes, dear?"

I went to where she was standing. The housekeeper was twenty paces away at the top of the stairs. I spoke as carelessly as I could, and in an undertone.

"They will want to unpack your things. Also they will soon know that there is no luggage. Ours, of course, went on to Whinnerley proper. Say your maid is coming on with it by the next train, and that she will unpack when she comes."

"All right."

I returned to the hall. Not to be outdone by the housekeeper, the footman was most solicitous. He led me to an oak-panelled lavatory, turned on the water, and held a towel ready while I washed. Then he brushed me all over, and flicked the dust from my shoes. With the slightest encouragement, I believe he would have shaved me. Then he led me to the 'reception rooms' in turn. When the tour was over, he brought me cigarettes and asked me if I would like tea served in the garden.

"By all means," I said.

"Tell her ladyship she will find me out of doors."

"Yes, sir."

I passed through the dining-room and on to a great lawn. The garden was in exquisite order. Everywhere there was a profusion of flowers, and on all sides beyond a sunk fence lay the great park. Far in a cool glade I saw some deer browsing. On the left, I could see the drive by which we had come. Lazily I traced its line curling away between the trees. Suddenly something red and moving caught my eye. For a moment the trees hid it from view. Then I saw it again—just a flash of red in the avenue—moving towards the house. I watched it curiously. It approached a small gap. The next second there appeared a telegraph boy upon a red bicycle. Thank you. Instinctively I started to head him off. I had to run to do it, but I prayed that no one was looking. We reached the gate house together.

"Telegram?" said I.

He dismounted and gave it to me like a lamb. It was addressed to Maulfry Tower, Winningly Bluff, and it read: Missed train arrive 7.10 Tagel.

"No answer," said I. Then I remembered the cheering children, and gave him a shilling. He thanked me shyly and sped away to the lodge gates. I turned to see the girl approaching, and went to meet her.

"For him, ginger beer," said I; "for us, tea. For them, when they arrive, the wagonette. They will not send the car for your maid. But, never mind, they have a good time coming. Isn't it all beautiful!"

"Of course," said she, "after this I shall go into a convent—that is, after I have served my term of imprisonment. I can never face the world again."

"Why again?" said I. "You see, my dear, we're not facing it now. If we were, it would be different. But now we're in a backwater. In an hour or two we shall be on the broad stream of Life once more. The current is very strong sometimes. But here there is no current, nor any time, nor action. Only the sun makes shining patches on the water, while now and again dragon-flies dart through the sleepy hum of insect life, like bright thoughts flashing across a reverie. Now, isn't that nice? I really don't know how I do it. But to resume. No one knew of our turning aside—no one will see us return. For us the universe is standing still. And there's the tea. Come, madam wife, sit by my side, and let the world slip; we shall ne'er be younger."

She looked at me critically, bending her brows. Then:

"I should never have married you," she said, "if I had known there was insanity in your family."

Tea was set out under the trees on the lawn, between the house and the drive. On three sides roses and honey-suckle screened the table from view. The fourth lay open to the sinking sun and the park and the distant hills. The footman had been joined by a butler, who bowed at our approach. In silence she poured out the tea. Then:

"Sugar?" she said, without thinking.

"Ahem! Not to—day, thanks, dear. I had mine in the champagne."

"As the footman handed me the cucumber sandwiches, his hand shook a little. I went on ruthlessly:

"Talking of which, did you notice the detectives?"

"No," she said. "What about them?"

"Wall—eyed, my dear, all of them. Cost me two-and-six extra, but I thought it was worth it. Worries the thieves awfully, you know. They can't tell whether they're watching the fish-slice or the 'Longfellow'. And all the time they're really counting the marron glaces. It's called 'getting the wall—eye.'"

I stooped to straighten my spat. When I looked up, the servants had disappeared. I glanced through the leaves to see them pass into the dining—room.

"Gone?" said the girl. I nodded.

"Thank goodness! And now, who are you? I believe one is supposed to get to know one's husband on the honeymoon."

I took one of the letters the footman had given me out of my pocket.

"I am," said I, "Sir Peter Tagel. That's why you're 'my lady'.

"Is it really? And now, your alias?"

"I'll tell you when we separate. Meanwhile, I do hope I shall make you happy. When the time comes I shall win you bread. To do this I shall, of course, have to leave your side. But that's for after. Till then—but I fear my thoughtless reference to our parting has unnerved you. You are overwrought. Lean upon me. That's what I'm for. I am your man—your husband. Where's that come from?"

"Surrey, I should think."

I frowned at my cigarette. "I don't think you're honouring me enough," I said. "Of course, it's early days yet, but—good heavens! What about the ring?"

"What about it?"

"Well, they'll see you haven't—"

I stopped, for a smile was playing about her lips as she lay back, looking into the elm-tops. Then I caught her cool, left hand. From the third finger a plain gold ring winked at me. I stared at it. Till we arrived at the house, her hands had been gloved. I balanced her hand in my palm, and looked at her.

"There is," I said, "a question."

"Yes?"

"Yes. Are you married?"

"You've been telling me I am for the last half—hour."

"Yes, but are you really?"

"Peter, dear!" This in a tone of gentle rebuke.

I ground my teeth.

"And you're going to win me bread, you know—nice brown bread."

I rose, and stood in front of her. Still the faint smile on the red mouth.

"Look at me," I commanded.

"It wasn't an 'obey' marriage, was it?" This dreamily.

"Was that ring on that finger when we were in the train?"

Slowly she got up and faced me, her eyes six inches from mine, but still looking away over my head, up at the high elms. Then she put her hands on my shoulders.

"Oh, Saint Anthony," I whispered.

The smile deepened. Then:

"I'll tell you when we separate," she said.

For one dear, short half-hour we had wandered in the park. The sunshot glades hung out an invitation it would have been churlish to refuse. And so in and out of the tall bracken, under the spreading oaks, close to the gentle-eyed deer, we had roamed for a while at will, carelessly, letting the world slip. Sir Peter and his lady taking the air.

And now we were back in the gentle garden, facing the old grey house, watching the smoke rise from a tall chimney, a slight, straight wisp against the background of blue. And—the sun was low.

I sighed. Somehow it seemed such a pity. I glanced at my companion. She looked rather wistful.

"Why is everything all wrong?" I said suddenly.

She smiled a little.

"Is it?"

"Of course it is. Haven't we got to slink away and leave all this? My dear, it's all utterly wrong. The time is out of joint—dislocated."

"It isn't really, Peter."

I looked at her quickly. Her eyes were wide open now, and very bright.

"You're right, lass," said I. "If one goes up a backwater, I suppose one's got to come down again. Only—

"Only it's been a rather short backwater, hasn't it?"

"It has been very sunny, Peter."

A pause, then:

"It was sweet of you to say that," I said. "Thank you." But, as I spoke, I did not look at her. I dared not.

A clock chimed the three-quarters. A quarter to seven. Thank you. A moment later we were arranging our escape.

When retrieved, our impedimenta would consist of her parasol and dressing-bag, and my dressing-case. My stick and gloves were in the hall, and I decided to let them go. Her bag was in a fair bedroom—a little brass knocker upon the door—hard by the top of the staircase. She had heard them put my case in the room adjoining. Very well. She was to sit—loll, if she liked—in the arbour, where tea had been served, while I ventured indoors and secured the luggage. Once across the lawn, I was to drop it over the sunk fence close to the drive. Together we could then stroll towards the lodge gates. I should leave her half—way, come by the wood to the fence, take up our chattels, and join her again somewhere on the verge of the grounds close to the lodge gates. Then we could scramble over the oak palisade into the road.

As I strolled towards the dining-room, wheels crunched on the gravel-drive. I turned to see a wagonette swinging down the avenue.

There was a writing-table in the bedroom window, and before I crept out of the room I sat down and wrote a few lines:

"To THE HOUSEKEEPER—Lady Pan and I regret the unfortunate confusion for which a certain similarity of name and title has been responsible.

"(SIR PETER PAN.)

Then I took a five-pound note from my case and slipped it into the envelope. I addressed the latter, and put it with the two letters and the telegram on the dressing-table.

On my way indoors and upstairs I had encountered no one. Incidentally, I should not have minded if I had. But now it was a very different matter. Mentally and physically the luggage embarrassed me. My appearance proclaimed an exodus—suggested a flight. Of course, if I did meet a servant, I should try and bluff my way out; but—— There was no doubt about it this was one of the tighter places.

I lighted a cigarette. Then I put the parasol under my arm and opened the door. Not a sound. I picked up her bag and my case, and started.

I am sure there is not another edifice in England with so many creaking boards. They shrieked beneath me at every step. At the top of the stairs I put down the luggage and listened carefully. As yet there were no lights burning, and it was more than dusk in the hall below. I wiped the sweat off my forehead, and began the descent. At the bottom I ran into the footman. He was very nice about it, though I am certain the dressing-case bruised his shin. Then:

"Excuse me, sir," he said, and switched on the light.

And with the light came the brain-wave.

"I want the car at once," I said. "There's been some terrible mistake. This isn't our luggage. I don't know whose it is. The label on this bag says 'Whinnerley Hall', and that's not my dressing-case. I'm not even sure that this is her ladyship's parasol."

"Not—not yours, sir?"

"Certainly not. Beastly things." I flung them down in the hall.

"Never seen them before in my life. Order the car, man; order the car. I want to take them back to the station and find out what's become of our own."

The footman fled. When the housekeeper appeared, breathless, I was sitting on a table, swinging the parasol and smoking angrily.

"Is the car coming?" I demanded.

"Yes, indeed, sir. It'll be round in a moment. What a dreadful thing to have happened, sir. I can't understand—"

"Neither can I, except that they're both something like our things. But look at that label. This isn't Whinnerley Hall, is it?"

"No, indeed, sir."

"Well, have them put in the car. I'll go and find her ladyship. I'm afraid she'll be terribly upset."

I flung out of the house. Thirty seconds later I was explaining things to an open-mouthed girl in the arbour. As I finished, I heard the car coming round from the garage.

"Come along, dear." I glanced at my watch. "With any luck we shall just catch the seven-ten on to Whinnerley. Remember, you're terribly upset and simply frantic about your jewellery, especially the tiara Uncle George gave you. Do you think you could cry? I should have to kiss you then."

Again the faint smile. The next minute we were in the car, rushing down the avenue. There was the white banner, hanging very still now, for the faint breeze had died with the day. As we approached the lodge gates I leaned forward and looked across her—she was on my right—looked away over the park to where the sun had set. The sky was flaming.

"Sic transit," said I.

"Good-bye, backwater," said she.

Her voice was not unsteady, but there was that in her tone that made me look at her. Her lashes were wet.

As the car swung out of the gates, our hands touched. I took hers in mine and held it. Then I started. It was the left hand, but there was no ring upon its fingers. I tightened my hold. So we sat for two minutes or more. Then:

"Do you think they would see?" I said, glancing at the chauffeur and groom.

"I'm afraid they might. But—"

"But what, darling?"

"It wouldn't matter very much if they did, would it?"

We reached the station simultaneously with the seven ten. As the groom opened the door—

"Come along, dear." I handed her out. Turning to the servant, "Bring the bag and the dressing—case," I added. "Quick!"

"Yes, sir."

A small boy waved an implement and uttered a feeble protest about tickets, but we thrust past him on to the platform. There I looked round wildly.

"Where's Delphine?" I cried.

"I don't believe she's come," wailed my companion.

I turned to the groom.

"You'd better go back," I said. "Put those things down and go back to the car, in case we miss her ladyship's maid. Don't let her go off in the wagonette."

"Very good, sir."

He put the luggage on a seat and ran back to the exit. Exactly opposite to where we were standing was a first-class carriage. As the guard's whistle was blown:

"Have you got my bag, Peter?" said a plaintive voice.

"Yes, m'dear," and Sir Peter and Lady Tagel passed down the platform. We watched them greedily.

The train began to move.

"The last lap," said Berry. "Courage, my travel-stained comrades. Where was it we broke down? Oh, yes, Scrota Gruff. Such a sweet name, so full of promise, so—"

Then he took his head in and pulled up the window.

"Fancy you two being in the next carriage all the time," said Daphne. "I expect Boy's introduced himself, Julia dear. Yes, I thought so. Still for what it's worth, my brother—Lady Julia Lory."

Which is why she's 'my lady'. Though she always says it isn't.



CHAPTER X

PRIDE GOETH BEFORE

"Who is Silvia? What is she? That all her swains commend he. Holy, fair, and wise is she; The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be."

The song and its melody floated out into the night, away and over the sleeping countryside. In no way breaking the silence; rising up out of it, rather. It was as if Nature dreamed as she lay sleeping, a dream clear-cut, melodious. Over all the moon hung full, turning the world to silver. Never had music so fairy a setting.

"Then to Sylvia let us sing, That Silvia is excelling, She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling To her let us garlands bring."

Half-past eleven o'clock of a fine moonlit night, and I was alone with the car all among the Carinthian Alps. It was for Fladstadt that I was making. That was the Bairlings' nearest town. Their place, St. Martin, lay twenty odd miles from Fladstadt. But in the town people would show me the way. At St. Martin I should find Daphne and the others, newly come from Vienna this afternoon. Friends of Jonah's, the Bairlings. None of us others knew them.

At ten o'clock in the morning I had slid out of Trieste, reckoning to reach Fladstadt in twelve hours. And, till I lost my way, I had come well. I had lost it at half-past nine and only discovered that I had lost it an hour later. It was too late to turn back then. I tried to get on and across by by-roads—always a dangerous game. Just when I was getting desperate I had chanced on a signpost pointing to the town I sought. The next moment one of the tires had gone.

The puncture I did not mind, The car had detachable wheels, and one was all ready, waiting to be used. But when I found that I had no jack...Better men than I would have sworn. The imperturbable Jonah would have stamped about the road. As for Berry, with no one there to suffer his satire, suppressed enmity would have brought about a collapse. He would probably have lost his memory.

There was nothing for it, but to drive slowly forward on the flat tire. When I came to a village I could rouse an innkeeper, and if the place did not boast a jack, at least sturdy peasants should raise the car with a stout pole. Accordingly, I had gone on.

For the first five miles I had not lighted on so much as a barn. Then suddenly I had swung round a bend of the road to see a great white mansion right ahead of me. The house stood solitary by the roadside, dark woods rising steep behind. No light came from its windows. Turreted, white-walled, dark-roofed in the moonlight, it might have been the outpost of some fairy town. The building stood upon the left-hand side of the way, and, as I drew slowly alongside, wondering if I dared knock upon its gates for assistance, I found that house and road curled to the left together. Round the bend I had crept, close to the white facade. As I turned, I saw a light above me, shining out over a low balcony of stone. I had stopped the car and the engine, and stepped on tiptoe to the other side of the road. From there I could see the ceiling of a tall, first-floor room, whose wide, open windows led on to the balcony. I saw no figure, no shadow. For a minute or two I had heard no sound. Then, with no warning, had come an exquisite touching of keys and a girl's voice.

"To her let us garlands bring."

The melody faded and ceased. The refrain melted into the silence. For a moment I stood still, my eyes on the balcony above. Then I slipped noiselessly to the car, picked up a rug from the back seat and laid it, folded small, on the edge of the car's back. Half on the padded leather and half on the cape hood, strapped tight, I laid it. Standing upon this perilous perch, I was just able to lay my fingers upon the cold edge of the balcony's floor. With an effort I could grasp one of the stone balusters. An idea occurred to me, and I got carefully down. One of the luggage-carrier's straps was six feet long. I had it loose in a moment. A minute later and I had wheedled it round the baluster I could clutch. Buckled, it made a loop three feet in length that would have supported a bullock. I was about to soar, when I remembered the car. I jumped down once more, turned the key of the switch, and slipped it into my pocket. No one could steal her now. The next second I had my foot in the thong.

I sat on the coping, looking into the room. Broad and lofty it was, its walls hung with a fair blue paper. A handsome tapestry, looped up a little on one side, masked the tall double doors, and in the far corner stood a great tiled stove for burning wood. From the ceiling was hanging a basin of alabaster—an electric fitting, really. The powerful light of its hidden lamps spread, softened, all about the chamber. The blue walls bore a few reproductions of famous pictures. Meisonnier seemed in high favour, while Sir Joshua's Nellie O'Brien surveyed the salon with her quiet, steady gaze. A great bowl of fresh flowers stood on the grand piano.

The girl herself was sitting half on the edge of an old gate-table in the middle of the room. The toe of one rosy slipper touched the polished boards, and her other foot swung gently to and fro. One of her short sleeves she had pushed up to the shoulder and was looking critically at a scratch, which showed red, high up on her round, white arm. A simple evening frock of old-rose colour, dainty old gold slippers to keep her feet. Her skin was wonderfully white, her hair dark and brown. This was cut straight across her forehead in French fashion, and then brought down and away over the ears. Her face was towards me, as she examined her arm. I could see she was very pretty.

"Don't you think you ought to apologize?" she said suddenly.

Her words took me by surprise. For a moment I did not answer.

"Eh?" she said, looking up.

"Yes," I said, "I do. Fact is, I haven't any, and the gardens are all shut now."

"Any what?" she said, letting the sleeve slip back into its place.

"Garlands, Silvia."

She smiled for an instant. Then:

"How dare you come up like this?"

"I wanted to see what Silvia was like."

She stifled a little yawn.

"You heard me say she was holy, fair and wise."

"And excelling, I know. But the second verse asks,

"Is she kind as she is fair?"

"Well?"

"I came up to see if she was."

"And is she?"

"I don't think she is quite."

"Can you get down all right?"

"In fact, I'm sure she isn't," I said. "But then—"

"What?"

"She'd have to be most awfully kind to be that, Silvia. Good-bye."

"I say," said Silvia.

"Yes? I said, with one leg over the balustrade.

"As you're here, if you would like to come in and sit down for a little—I mean, I don't want to seem inhospitable."

"I knew it," said I. "I knew she was, really."

"Goodbye, Silvia. Thank you very, very much all the same. I've found out what I wanted to know."

I slipped over the coping and set my foot in the thong. There was a rustle of silk and a quick step on the balcony. Then two soft hands took hold of my wrists. I looked up at the big eyes, the face white in the moonlight, the dark, straight-cut hair.

"Wait!" she said. "Who are you and where do you come from?"

"My name's Valentine," said I. "I am a gentleman of Verona."

The small mouth twitched. "Be serious," she said. I told her my name and spoke of my run from Trieste, adding that I sought Fladstadt and St. Martin. She heard me in silence. Then:

"Are you tired?" she said quietly.

"A little."

"Then I tell you that you may come in and rest for a while. Yes, and talk to me. Presently you can go on. I will show you the way."

She let go my wrists and stood up, clasping her hands behind her head.

"You're very hospit—"

"It isn't a question of hospitality or anything else," she said slowly. "I just tell you that you may come in if you want to."

I gazed at the slim, straight figure, the bare bent arms, the soft white throat. Then I drew myself up and bestrode the coping.

"Of course," I said, "this is a dream. In reality I am fast asleep in the car. Possibly I have met with an accident and am still unconscious. Yet your hands felt warm..."

"And your wrists very cold, sir. Come along in and sit down. Even if you are dreaming I suppose you'll be able to drink some coffee if I give it you."

"If you give it me."

I drew up the thong and followed her into the room. She motioned me to sit in a deep chair and put cigarettes by my side. Then she lighted the lamps that were set beneath two little silver coffee-pots, standing on a tray on the gate-table. I watched her in silence. When the lamps were burning, she turned and seated herself on the table as I had seen her first. She regarded me curiously, swinging that little right leg.

"I shouldn't have liked you to think me unkind," she said, with a grave smile.

I rose to my feet.

"Silvia," I said.

"Sir"

"I do not know what to say. Yet I want to say something. I think you are very gentle, Silvia. If I were old, I think the sight of you would make me feel young again, and if Shakespeare had known you, I think he would have written more sonnets and fewer plays."

Silvia spread out deprecating white arms and bowed low.

"I doubt it," she said. "But I know he would have given me a cigarette."

"I beg your pardon," said I, handing her the box.

When I had given her a light, she turned again to the coffee.

"It ought to be hot enough now, I think. D'you mind using my cup? I don't take sugar."

"It will be a privilege, Silvia."

"Milk?"

"Please."

The hot cafe-au-lait was very grateful. Despite the season, my long drive through the mountain air had left me a little cold. I took my seat on an arm of the deep chair. Outside, somewhere close at hand, a clock struck twelve.

"The witching hour," said I. "How is it you're not in bed and asleep, Silvia?"

"Sleep! What with the noise of passing cars?"

"I forgot," said I. "The continuous roar of the traffic here must be very trying. The congestion between here and Villach is a disgrace. I met three carts in the last forty odd miles myself. Can't something be done about it?"

"-And the curiosity of cold-wristed burglars—By the way, I can't get over your climbing up like that, you know. It's all right, as it happens, and I'm rather glad you did, but this might have been a bedroom or—or anything."

"Or a bathroom. Of course it might. But then, you see, you very seldom find a piano in the bathroom nowadays, Silvia. Incidentally, what a sweet room this is."

"Do you like my pictures?"

"Awfully. Especially the one on the gate-table."

My lady blew smoke out of a faint smile. Then:

"If it comes to that, there's rather a good one on the arm of your chair," she said.

"Yes. By the same artist, too. But the one on the table knocks it. That'll be hung on the line year after year."

"What line?"

"At the Academy of Hearts. I beg your pardon, my dear. It slipped out."

Silvia threw back her dainty head and laughed merrily. Presently:

"But the one on the table's damaged," she said. "Didn't you see the scratch?"

"And the one on the chair wants cleaning badly. In its present state they wouldn't hang it anywhere except at Pentonville. But the scratch. How did you get it?"

"Ah! That was the Marquis. We were by the window, and when you slipped that strap round, he jumped like anything. He was in my arms, you see."

"I'm awfully sorry; but do you often embrace nobles, and how do you say good-bye to dukes? I mean to say, I haven't got my patent with me, and my coronet's in the store—I mean, strong room; but anyone who doesn't know me will tell you—Besides, I never scratch."

"The Marquis is a Blue Persian."

"These foreign titles," I murmured scornfully.

"Don't be patronizing," said Silvia. "You know where Pride goes. Besides, I've met some very nice counts."

I leaned forward. "I know. So've I. Barons, too. The last I struck's doing seven years now. But you're English, Silvia. English, d'you hear? I'll bet they're all over you out here. I know them. I'm a fool, but I don't like to think of your—I mean, I'd rather be an English—er—"

"Burglar?"

We both laughed, and I got up. "Silvia," I said, "tell me the best way to Fladstadt and turn me out while there is yet time."

"What do you mean?"

"This. I've already been in love with you for a quarter of an hour. In another ten minutes I shall be sitting at your feet. Half an hour later—"

"You will be just running into Fladstadt. It's straight on. You can't miss the way."

"And St. Martin? Have you ever heard of it?"

She puckered her brows.

"Isn't that where some English people have a place? People called—er—Waring, is it?"

"Bairling," said I.

"Bairling. That's it. Let's see. I'm afraid it's some miles from Fladstadt."

"Twenty, I'm told."

"About that."

"And this is how far?"

"From Fladstadt? About twenty-three."

I groaned. "Forty-three miles to go, and a flat tire," I said.

"Now far's the next village?"

"Why?"

"I want to get another wheel on."

"If you like to wait here a little longer, my brother'll be back with the car. He's on the way from Fladstadt now. That's why I'm sitting up. He'll give you a jack."

"You're awfully good, Silvia. But have you forgotten what I said?"

"About sitting at my feet? No, but I don't think you meant it. If I did, I should have rung long ago."

"Thank you," said I.

"Of course," she went on; "you're only a burglar, but you are—English."

"Yes, Silvia. I mightn't have been, though."

"You mean, I didn't know whether you were English or not, till after you'd climbed up? Nor I did. But one of the men's up, and there's a bell-push under the flap of the table."

She slipped a hand behind her. "I'm touching it now," she added.

"I wondered why you didn't sit in a chair," I said, with a slow smile. A deep flush stole over the girl's features. For a moment she looked at me with no laughter in her eyes. Then she slipped off the table and moved across the room to an open bureau. She seemed to look for something. Then she strolled back to the table and took her seat on its edge once more.

"Is that a car coming?" she said suddenly, her dark eyes on the floor.

I listened. "I don't think so," I said, and stepped out on to the balcony.

There was no sound at all. It was the dead of night indeed. I glanced over the balustrade at the car. Her headlights burned steadily, making the moonlit road ahead more bright.

"I can hear nothing," I said, coming back into the boudoir.

"Look," said Silvia, pointing over my shoulder.

As I turned, something struck me on the cheek. I stooped and picked it up. A piece of flexible cord about five inches long. I swung round and looked at the girl. On the table a pair of scissors lay by her side.

"Why have you done this?" I demanded.

She raised her eyebrows by way of answer and reached for a cigarette. As she lighted it, I saw that her hand was trembling.

"Silvia, dear, surely you don't think—"

"Must you go?"

"It was a poor joke of mine, I know; but—"

"It was. I don't think a count or a baron would have said such a rotten thing."

Her eyes flashed and she was trembling all over. From being pretty, she had become beautiful.

"Perhaps not," said I steadily. "But if they had, they would have meant it, Silvia."

"As you did."

I coiled the flexible cord about a finger, loosed it and thrust it into my pocket.

"I'll go now," I said, "as I came."

"Like a thief."

"Like a thief. You have been wonderfully kind, and I—I have spoiled everything. Let's try and forget this evening. For you, a car passed in the night, the hum of its engine swelling up, only to fade again into the silence. For me, I lingered to listen to the words of a song, and when it was done, sped on into the shadows. I wish you hadn't cut that bell, lass."

"Why?"

I walked out on to the balcony and swung myself over the coping.

"Because then I should have asked if I might kiss you."

When I had lowered myself on to the seat of the car, I unbuckled the strap and started to pull it down. But the buckle caught on the baluster, and I had to stand on my old perch to reach and loosen it. I did so, balancing myself with one hand on the balcony's door. As the strap slipped free, there was a burning pain in my fingers. With a cry I tore them away, lost my balance, and fell sideways into the car on to the back of the front seat. I stood up unsteadily. It hurt me to breathe rather, and there was a stabbing pain in my right side.

"Are you hurt?" said a quick voice above me. Dazedly I raised my head. Silvia was leaning over the balcony, one hand to her white throat. I could hear her quick-coming breath.

"No," I said slowly, "I'm not. But until you tell me that you know I did not mean what I said, I will not believe that you did not mean to stand upon my fingers."

"Are you hurt, lad?"

"No. Did you hear what I said?"

Silvia stood up, her hands before her on the coping.

"You know I didn't."

Without a word I stepped carefully out of the car. The pain was intense. It was as if my side was being seared with a hot iron. How I started the car I shall never know. The effort brought me to my knees. Somehow I crept into my seat, took out the clutch and put in the first speed. I was moving. Mechanically I changed into second, third, and top. We were going now, but the trees by the wayside seemed to be closing in on me. The road was really ridiculously narrow. I could see a corner coming. The pain was awful. My head began to swim, and I felt the near wheel rise on the bank. I wrenched the car round, took out the clutch and dragged the lever into neutral. As I jammed on the hand-brake, I seemed to see many lights. Then came the noise of a horn, cries, and the sound of tires tearing at the road. I fell forward and fainted.

I could smell Daphne. Somewhere at hand was my sister's faint perfume: I opened my eyes.

"Hullo, Boy!" said Jill, her small, cool hand on my forehead.

"Better, darling?" said Daphne, brushing my cheek with soft lips.

"I'm all right," I said, raising myself on my left elbow. Still the stabbing pain in my right side. "Where are we?"

"In the hall at St. Martin, dear. How did it all happen?"

"How did I get here?" I asked. "And you—I don't understand."

"We nearly ran you down, old chap." Berry's voice. "About a quarter of a mile from here, towards Fladstadt. But why were you driving away?"

I stared at him. "Driving away?" I said slowly. "Then—"

There were quick steps and the rustling of a dress.

Then Silvia spoke. "What is it, Bill? Tell me. Who's hurt?"

"It's all right, m'dear," said the man's voice. "Mrs. Pleydell's brother's met with an accident. We found him in the road. Don't make a noise. This is my sister, Mrs. Pleydell."

"How d'you do?" said Daphne. "My brother seems—"

"I'm all right," I said suddenly. "I'd lost my way, see? And one of the tires went, just as I was passing a big white house on the left. I stopped under a balcony, I think."

"That's right," said Bill Bairling. "Balcony of Silvia's room."

"I never knew it was St. Martin, though. I must have cut across country somehow. Still. Well, there was no jack on the car so I couldn't do anything. Just as I was getting in again, I heard a noise above me and turned. My foot slipped on the step, and I fell on my side. Couple of ribs gone, I think. I tried to get on to Fladstadt. Is the car all right?"

"And you said you weren't hurt," cried Silvia, sinking on her knees by Jill.

"Was it you who asked me?" I spoke steadily, looking her full in the eyes.

"Yes," said Silvia.

"I know I did. But then, you know, I don't always mean what I say." Then the pain surged up once more, and I fainted.

"Is she kind as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness. Love doth to her eyes repair To help him of his blindness, And, being helped, inhabits there."

The singing was very gentle. Overnight the song had floated into the air, rich, full, vibrant; but now a tender note had crept into the rendering, giving the melody a rare sweetness. I listened pleasedly. My side was very sore and stiff. Also my head ached rather.

"Priceless voice that little girl's got," said Berry in a low voice.

"Isn't she a dear, too?" said Daphne. "Fancy giving up her own bedroom, so that we could have the salon next door."

"I know. But I wish she wouldn't keep on reproaching herself so. If a girl likes to step on to her own balcony, it's not her fault if some fellow underneath falls over himself and breaks a couple of ribs. However. When's the comic leech coming back?"

"This afternoon," said my sister. "But he'll wake before then. I don't expect he'll remember much about last night. I'm so thankful it's not more serious."

"How soon did he say he'd be up?"

"Inside a week. It's a clean fracture. Of course, he'll be strapped up for some time. Fancy his going on, though."

"Must have been temporarily deranged," said my brother-in-law airily. "Shock of the fall, I expect."

"Rubbish!" said his wife. "Just because you'd have lain there, giving directions about your funeral and saying you forgave people, you think anybody's mad for trying to get on. Boy has courage."

"Only that of his convictions," said Berry. "You forget I've got a clean sheet. My discharge from the Navy was marked 'Amazing'. The only stain upon my character is my marriage. As for my escutcheon, I've shaved in it for years."

"Fool!" said his wife.

"I shall turn my face to the wall if you're not careful."

"Don't," said Daphne. "Remember, it's not our house.

"There was a tap at the door. Then:

"May I come in?" said Silvia.

"Of course you may, dear. No. He's still asleep."

"It's nearly twelve," said Silvia. "Won't you go and rest a little, and let me stay here? You must be so tired. I'll call you the moment he wakes."

Daphne hesitated. "It's awfully good of you—"

"But it isn't. I'd love to."

"The truth is, she's afraid to trust you, Miss Bairling," said Berry. "She thinks you're going to steal his sock-suspenders."

"Will you leave the room?" said my sister.

"After you, beloved."

I could hear Silvia's gentle laughter. Then:

"I shall come back about one, dear, if you don't send for me before," said Daphne.

The next moment I heard the door close, and Silvia seated herself on my left by the side of the bed. I opened my off eye. I lay in a fair, grey-papered chamber, darkened, for the green shutters were drawn close about the open windows. Some of their slides were ajar, letting the bright sunshine slant into the room.

"There was once," I said, "a fool." A smothered exclamation close to my left ear. "A fool, who did everything wrong. He lost his way, his heart, his head, and, last of all, his balance. In that order. Yet he was proud. But then he was only a fool."

"But he was—English," she murmured.

"Yes," I said.

"And there was another fool," said Silvia. "A much bigger one, really, because, although she never lost her way or her head or her balance, she lost something much more precious. She lost her temper."

"But not her voice," said I. "And the fools went together to Scotland Yard, and there they found the way and the head and the balance and the temper. But not the heart, Silvia."

"Plural," said Silvia, softly. I opened my near eye and turned my head. The first thing I saw was a rosy arm, lying on the edge of my pillow. Within reach.

"I say," I whispered. "Is the bell in this room all right?"



CHAPTER XI

THE LOVE SCENE

When I had drawn blood for the third time, I felt that honour was satisfied, so I cleaned the safety razor carefully and put it away.

Quarter of an hour later I entered the dining-room.

"I said so," said Daphne.

"I know," said I, frowning.

"You don't even know what I said."

"I know that some surmise of yours has proved correct, which is enough."

The coffee really was hot. After drinking a little, my smile returned.

"Tell him," said Berry.

"We've been thinking it over," said Daphne, "and we've come to the conclusion that you'd better call."

"On whom? For what?"

"Be call-boy."

I rose to my feet.

"Ladies and gentlemen," I said, "I have to thank you this day—it is meant for a day, isn't it?—for the honour you have done me. Although I can scarcely hope to sustain the role in a manner worthy of the best traditions of—"

"We'd cast you for something else, if it was safe," said Daphne.

"You don't really think I'm going to call, do you?"

"Why not?"

"And have to stand in the wings while you all get crowds of cabbages and things. Not much! I've been relying on this show ever since Berry trod on the big marrow."

"Well, of course, there is Buckingham," said Berry.

"Or the soothsayer," said Jill.

"You are now talking," I said. "Soothsaying is one of my fortes—my Martello tower, in fact. Of course, Hurlingham—"