"I've only seen one," she remarked.

"They're all the same," I assured her, becoming fervent in my humility.

"But why go to Canada?" she asked. "Why not try to write better plays?"

"Because I saw my whole life plainly, in the wood this afternoon," was my reply. "I did not know what to do then. I couldn't see any answer to my problem. But when you were speaking to me a minute ago, I realised the whole thing clearly. I understood what I wanted to do.

"It's a form of conversion," I concluded resolutely.

"I'm sure you mean it all—now," she commented, as if she were speaking to herself.

"It isn't a question of meaning anything," I replied. "The experiences of this week-end have put the whole social question in a new light for me. I could never go back, now, to the old life. My conscience would always be reproaching me, if I did."

"But if you're rich, and feel like that, oughn't you to shoulder your responsibilities?" she asked.

"Do something? Wouldn't it be rather like running away to give your money to the hospitals and go to Canada to work on a farm?"

"That's my present impulse," I said. "And I mean to follow it. I don't know that I shall want to stay in Canada for the rest of my life. I may see further developments after I've been there for a few years. But..."

"Go on," she urged me.

"But I want to—to stay near you—all of you. I can't tell you how I admire your father and mother and Arthur and—all of you. And you see, I admit that this conversion of mine has been very sudden. I—I want to learn."

"Do you always follow your impulses like this?" she put in.

"I've never had one worth following before," I said.

"What about wanting to fight Frank Jervaise?" she asked. "And running away from the Hall? And suddenly taking Arthur's side in the row? and all those things? Didn't you follow your impulses, then?"

And yet, it had never before occurred to me that I was impulsive. I had imagined myself to be self-controlled, rather business-like, practical. I was frankly astonished at this new light on my character.

"I suppose I did, in a way," I admitted doubtfully.

"To say nothing of..." she began, and stopped with a little, rather embarrassed laugh.

"Of what?" I urged her.

"How many times before have you imagined yourself to be head over ears in love?" she asked.

I was repaid in that moment for all the self-denials and fastidious shrinkings of my youth.

"Never once!" I acclaimed triumphantly. "It's the one common experience that has passed me by. I've often wondered why I could never fall in love. I've admired any number of women. I've tried to fall in love with them. And I have never been able to, try as I would. I could deceive myself about other things, but never about that. Now, I know why."

I waited for her encouragement, but as she did not speak I went on with more hesitation. "You'll think me a romantic fool, I suppose, if I tell you why?"

"Oh! I know, I know," she said. "You've told me already in so many words. You mean that you've been waiting for me; that you had to wait for me. You've been very frank. You deserve some return. Shall I tell you just how I feel? I will. I don't mind telling you the truth, too. I did remember you last night. But not since; not even now. But I like you—I like you very much—as you are this evening. More than I've ever liked any man before. And if you went away, I should remember you; and want you to come back. But you must give me time. Lots of time. Don't make love to me any more; not yet; not till I've really remembered. I think I shall—in a little while—when you've gone away. You're so near me, now. And so new. You don't belong to my life, yet."

She paused and then went on in another tone. "But I believe you're right about Canada. I'll explain it all to the others. We'll make some kind of arrangement about it. I expect it will have to be your farm, nominally, for a time—until we all know you better. I can feel that you do—that you have taken a tremendous fancy to all of us. I felt it just now, after supper. I was watching you and—oh! well, I knew what you were feeling about my father and mother; and it seemed to be just what I should have liked you to feel. But I don't think I would give all my money to the hospitals, if I were you. Not without thinking it over a bit, first. Wait until we get to Canada and see—how we get on."

"You don't trust my impulses," I said.

She laughed. "Wait till to-morrow anyway," she replied.

And as she spoke I heard far away, across the Park, the sound of the stable-clock at the Hall, striking twelve. The artificial sound of it was mellowed and altered by distance; as different from that theatrical first striking I had noticed in the exciting atmosphere of the crowd, as was my present state of mind from that in which I had expectantly waited the coming of romance....

"To-morrow begins now," I said.

"And I have to be up before six," she added, in the formal voice she knew so well how to assume.

I felt as though she had by that one return to civility cancelled all that she said, and as we turned back to the house, I began to wonder whether the promise of my probation was as assured as I had, a minute earlier, so confidently believed.

We were nearly at the little porch that would for ever be associated in my mind with the fumbling figure of Frank Jervaise, when she said,

"One moment. I'll get you something," and left me standing in almost precisely the same spot from which I had gazed up at her window the night before.

She returned almost immediately, but it was not until we were inside the house and she had lighted my candle that she gave me the "something," pressing it into my hand with a sudden delicious, girlish embarrassment.

She was gone before I recognised that the precious thing she had given me was a sprig of Rosemary.



POSTSCRIPT

THE TRUE STORY

It was by the merest accident that we gathered that delightful piece of information—on our first trip to England, not quite three years after we were married.

I did not know that "The Mulberry Bush" had been revived for a few weeks as a stop-gap, until we saw the boards outside the theatre. Anne insisted that we should go in, and the arbiters of coincidence ordained that I should take seats in the stalls immediately behind one of those well-informed society women who know the truth about everything.

We were somewhat amused by her omniscience during the first interval, but it was not until the second that she came to the priceless report of our own two selves.

I was not listening to her when she began, but Anne's sudden grasp of my arm and the inclination of her head, awoke me to the fact that the gossip just in front of us must, for some reason or other, be instantly attended to.

There was a good deal of chatter going on in the auditorium and I missed an occasional sentence here and there in addition to the opening, but there could be no doubt as to the application of the reminiscence I heard.

"Got himself into a scrape and had to leave the country," was the first thing that reached me. "As a matter of fact I had the whole story from some one who was actually staying in the house at the time." She dropped her voice as she added something confidentially of which I only caught the sound of the name Jervaise. Anne was squeezing my arm violently.

"Yes, his father's house," the gossip continued in answer to a question from her companion. "A young man of great promise. He took silk last year, and is safe for a place in the Cabinet sooner or later."

"Our Frank," Anne whispered.

I nodded and waited eagerly, although I had not, then, realised my own connection with the story.

"Oh! yes, that other affair was four years ago—nothing to do with the dear Jervaises, except for the unfortunate fact that they were entertaining him at the time. He ran away with a farmer's daughter; eloped with her in the middle of a dance the Jervaises were giving. Never seen her before that evening, I believe. The father was one of the Jervaises' tenants.... A superior kind of young woman in some ways, I've heard; and a friend of the youngest Jervaise girl ... you wouldn't remember her ... she went with her friend to Australia or somewhere ... some quixotic idea of protecting her, I believe ... and married out there. The farmer's name was Baggs. The whole family were a trifle queer, and emigrated afterwards ... yes, it was a pity about Melhuish, in a way. He was considered quite a promising young dramatist. This thing of his was a distinct success. Very amusing. But naturally, no one would receive him after he'd married this Baggs girl. Besides which ..."

But at that point the orchestra began, the woman dropped her voice again, and the only other fragment I heard was, "... after the disgraceful scene at the dance ... quite impossible...."

I looked at Anne and was surprised to find that she was white with indignation.

"I must tell them," she whispered passionately.

"Oh! no, please," I whispered back. "They wouldn't believe you. It would only add another shocking detail to the next exposition of the scandal."

"Detestable people," she said, in a voice that must have been heard by our gossip, although she evidently did not realise the application of the description to herself and her friend.

"Let's be thankful," I whispered to Anne, "that I'm no longer writing this sort of piffle to amuse them. If it hadn't been for you..."

The two women had left the theatre before the end of the third act, but long before that Anne had seen the humour of this true story of our elopement.



THE END



The following pages contain advertisements of a few of the Macmillan books on kindred subjects.

* * * * *

MAY SINCLAIR'S NEW NOVEL

Mary Olivier: A Life

BY MAY SINCLAIR,

Author of "The Tree of Heaven," etc.

Cloth, 12mo.

No novel of the war period made a more profound impression than did Miss Sinclair's "The Tree of Heaven." The announcement of a new book by this distinguished author is therefore most welcome. "Mary Olivier" is a story in Miss Sinclair's best manner. Once again she has chosen a theme of vital interest and has treated it with the superb literary skill which has put her among the really great of contemporary novelists.

A woman's life, her thoughts, sensations and emotions directly presented, without artificial narrative or analysis, without autobiography.

The main interest lies in Mary Olivier's search for Reality, her relations with her mother, father and three brothers, and her final passage from the bondage of infancy, the conflicts of childhood and adolescence, the disenchantments (and other drawbacks) of maturity, to the freedom, peace and happiness of middle-age.

The period covered is from 1865 when Mary is two years old to 1910 when she is forty-seven.

* * * * *

EDEN PHILLPOTTS' NEW NOVEL

Storm in a Teacup

BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS

Author of "The Spinners," "Old Delabole," "Brunel's Towers," etc.

Cloth, 12mo.

This carries on Mr. Phillpotts' series of novels dealing with the human side of the different industries. Here the art of paper making furnishes the background. The theme is somewhat humorous in nature. A young wife picks a quarrel with her husband because he is commonplace, and elopes with a man of high intellectual ability. Finding him, however, extremely prosaic and a bore, she is glad in the end to return to her first love.

The elopement, it might be explained, was purely a nominal one, carried out on a high moral basis with the most tender respect for the lady's reputation and character. This fact leads to a number of unusual and frequently amusing situations.

* * * * *

From Father to Son

BY MARY S. WATTS

Author of "Nathan Burke," "The Rise of Jennie Gushing," "The Boardman Family," etc.

Cloth, 12 mo.

The hero of Mrs. Watts' new story is a young man belonging to a very wealthy family, who has had every sort of luxury and advantage and who, upon entering his father's office after leaving college, finds that the huge fortune founded by his grandfather was mainly made by profiteering on the grandfather's part during the Civil War. The question is what is this young man of the present day to do? He is high-minded and sensitive and the problem is a difficult one. What, too, is his own father to do—also a man of sterling character, though of a sterner type. The theme which grows out of this situation is one of singular interest and power and involves a moving crowd of characters.

Among these is the hero's sister, who marries a German attache at the embassy in Washington; and another sister, who marries a young man of the same social set—and things happen. There is a drunken scalawag of a relative—who might be worse, and there are one or two other people whom readers of Mrs. Watts' books have met before. The dates of the story are from 1911 to the present year.

* * * * *

H. G. WELLS' NEW NOVEL

Joan and Peter

Cloth, 12mo, $1.75

"Never has Mr. Wells spread for such a gorgeous panorama ... a living story ... a vivacious narrative imperturbable in interest on every page, always fresh and personal and assured.... This is not a novel—it is a library. It is everything that one needs to know about the public life of the significant classes in England for last twenty-five years."—The Dial.

"Mr Wells, at his highest point of attainment.... An absorbingly interesting book ... consummate artistry ... here is Wells, the story teller, the master of narrative."—N.Y. Evening Sun.

* * * * *

A NEW NOVEL BY WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE

In the Heart of a Fool

Cloth, 12mo, $1.60

"A big novel—a book that will profoundly affect the thoughts and the feelings of the many who will read it.... Behind this chronicle lies the secret of the next fifty years of American history. The fruit of this book will be an awakening of the sleeping consciences in many men and a glimpse of what it is to live in America to-day."—N.Y. Sun.

"A great work. In its scope it is one of the most comprehensive American romances ever written.... An intensely dramatic story.... We have seen no truer nor more vital portraiture of distinctive and important American types."—N.Y. Tribune.

* * * * *

Our House

BY HENRY S. CANBY

Cloth, 12mo.

Mr. Canby, known as a teacher of literature and critic, also as a writer of books on literary subjects, has written a novel, and one of singular appeal. Its central character is a young man facing the world, taking himself perhaps over-seriously, but genuinely perplexed as to what to do with himself. Coming back from college to a sleepy city on the borders of the South, his problem is, whether he shall subside into local business affairs, keep up the home which his father has struggled to maintain, or whether he shall follow his instinct and try to do something worth while in literature. This problem is made intensely practical through the death of his father. The story of what the young man does is exceedingly interesting. It takes the hero to New York and into the semi-artificial life of young Bohemia and ultimately brings him back home, where he finds the real happiness and success.

* * * * *

All the Brothers Were Valiant

BY BEN AMES WILLIAMS

Cloth, 12mo.

This is a stirring story of the sea somewhat suggestive in manner of Jack London's work. It has to do with two brothers of a sea-going family who go on a cruise with the hope of ultimately finding their older brother, Mark, who was lost on his last voyage. The adventures which they have on a mid-sea island, where Mark, pagan, pirate, pearl-hunter, is found, are absorbing. Hidden treasure, mutinies, tropic love, all these are here. The book thrills with its incident and arouses admiration for its splendid character portrayal.

* * * * *

The Flaming Crucible: The faith of the Fighting Men

BY ANDRE FRIBOURG

Cloth, 12mo, $1.50

Under the title Croire, this autobiography of a French infantryman was published in Paris in 1917. It is a revelation of the French spirit. It is rather a biography of the spirit, than an account of the amazing experiences M. Fribourg encountered, from 1911 at Agadir, through the fighting on the Meuse, and part of the campaign in Flanders. The descriptions are memorable for their beautiful style, their pathos or their elevation. There is a definite climax toward the end where M. Fribourg returns to a hospital in Paris, broken and dulled, his faith momentarily befogged. Gradually he readapts himself, regains and confirms his faith in the human spirit that was so vivid when he lived with his fellow soldiers.

"An autobiographical novel, which was a close competitor for the last Goncourt Academy Prize and which was seriously considered in connection with the recently awarded Grand Prix of the French Academy."

"It emphasizes the benumbing monotony of the 'life in a circle' of billet and trench."

"It portrays realistically, if a shade too methodically at times, the racking torments of hunger and thirst, the dreary importunity of the rain, the loathsomeness of the all-invading mud, the sickening horror of the carrion smells, the pathetically inadequate relaxations of the cantonments."

"It dissects (a shade too scientifically and cold-bloodedly at times perhaps) the sentiments and emotions associated with attack and defence; the impulses that eventuate in heroism; the alternating super-sensitiveness and callousness of the nerves; fear and the mastery of fear; the 'hope deferred that maketh the heart sick'; the devious stratagems of the terrible 'cafard' (blues)."

"It narrates dramatically the outstanding episodes; the perilous corvee of bringing up fresh supplies of cartridges, the digging of an advance trench under fire, the pinioning of a comrade suddenly seized with dementia."

"All this, with sanity, simplicity, and sincerity and in a language of almost classical restraint, as a rule, but engagingly piquant and picturesque and fantastic even upon occasions."—Boston Evening Transcript.

* * * * *

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York

* * * * *

THE END