They left Stoendyck standing in the hall, looking sentimental.

"All foreigners not of the Latin race go on like that," said Val, as they drove back. "They may be scientific, or soldiers, philosophers, or musicians, but if they're Germans or Belgians or Austrians, or anything of that sort, they always get bowled over by a young girl, a blue ribbon, plumpness, or fair hair."

"But I'm very thin and dark," said Daphne angrily.

"I don't care if you are. You're a pretty girl, you're unmarried, you've got blue chiffon round your head—and there it is.... I don't mean Prussian officers, of course."

"They would appreciate you, I suppose you mean!"

"One can't say. They'd probably take on anything."

Valentia took out the little looking-glass from her motor-bag, looked at it, put it back, and added—

"Anything possible, I mean."

"Go on, Val."

"Go on how?"

"Telling me things. You're so interesting, you know such a lot. Now, about the Latin races—wouldn't they like—er—me?"

"Of course they would. But they'd like you better if you were married to Cyril or any one. Frenchmen and Italians always want their love-making or flirtations to have something in it of the nature of a score. They love scoring off a third person, whoever it may be,—whether it's their friend's wife, or their wife's friend, or anything."

"They're not sincere, then?"

"Don't be silly. If they weren't sincere, why are there nothing but unwritten-law crimes all over France and Italy? And why do Parisians think and talk of ... nothing else! They're sincere all right: it's their hobby. Italians, of course, are more jealous and faithful, and Parisians are frightfully vain—there's a good deal of a sort of snobbism about it. They love to show off. That's why they're so keen on dress."

"Do you think," said Daphne, with sudden anxiety, "that if you don't dress to perfection you can't keep a man's love? I do hope not! I mean because when I'm married to Cyril I shan't be able to afford to wear anything at all, except a clean blouse which I shall have to iron out myself, like in Hearth and Home."

Valentia shook her head.

"Dressing to perfection doesn't make men love you, silly. It only makes women hate you. And I never have yet seen the advantage of that."

"Oh, then, do Parisians want other women to hate you?" asked Daphne. Her sister hesitated.

"Sometimes. Very often they don't. They want you to be admired by other people, whoever they are, men or women. But in Paris dress counts in a different sort of way—it means more—it stands for more. Oh, don't bother!"

"Well, give me a straightforward Englishman!" exclaimed Daphne.

"Yes, indeed!" replied Val. "That Belgian Herr, anyhow, doesn't count. I can't think why Mrs. Preb. and Miss Campbell are so much in love with him."

"Isn't it funny? Why do you think it is, Val?"

"Perhaps it's because he's a man. You see, they're accustomed to curates."



CHAPTER XXXI

AT EDGWARE

Miss Brill had twisted up her hair and put on her Sunday dress to receive Vaughan.

To harmonise with the Dickens's garden it ought to have been white muslin with flounces and a pink sash. But it was a quite long, dark blue Liberty satin, made by a smart dressmaker in the Finchley Road. It had a high collar, an Empire waist, and gathers.

Her mother was delighted with it. Gladys had not been quite satisfied herself, and had tried to tie it in round the ankles with concealed string, to make it look more like a nobble skirt, as she called it.

Her almost too abundant hair had been piled over a pad, which gave her the appearance of having a swollen head. Yet even so she looked lovely, rather like an old-fashioned picture in the Academy of I'se Gan'ma, or something of the kind, suggesting a baby disguised as a grown-up-person.

Vaughan went through the usual ritual of asking after Mrs. Brill—he rather hurried Mr. Brill over his remark about the finest woman one would see in a day's march—then admired the weather, ordered tea, and asked for Miss Brill.

Gladys came and sat down with a rather shy, self-conscious air.

She soon lost it, however, and began to get natural again.

"Oh, Mr. Vaughan! I never was more surprised than I was at that piece in the paper! And mother come over quite queer, she was so surprised. You were kind in your letter to forgive me for being rude. Who'd ever have thought you was clever?"

"Who, indeed! But, Gladys, why this get-up? Why are you dressed up in satin and dark colours on a summer day?"

"Why, mother said a nice navy blue was always useful. I'd rather have had a Cambridge blue myself. Mother says navy blue's so ladylike. Don't you like it?"

"Charming. But I don't like what you've done to your hair."

"Don't you, though? Fancy! Well, I don't seem to care much for it myself. It's a Pompadour, you know—a pad."

"Take it off," said Vaughan.

"Oh, I can't!"

"All right, I will. Come in the field."

"Well, I don't mind if you do. I'll say I took my hair down because it was heavy."

"You've tried to spoil yourself, but you haven't succeeded. Why did you do it, Gladys?"

"Seeing you was clever, I thought pr'aps I'd better try to look more grown-up."

"Ah! what a mistake! Your great charm is that you're such a regular J.F."

"What's that?"

"A jeune fille."

"What does that mean? What's a J.F. in English?"

"A jolly flapper."

"Oh, I say!"

* * * * *

In the field Vaughan, with several interruptions and reproaches for being a caution, managed to take the pad off her head and to throw it in the field. But an unfortunate thing happened. All the corn-coloured hair fell down over his face and he had kissed her—by accident—before he knew it.

"Oh, I say! You are a caution!" was her only remark. But she did not laugh, and as she hastily did a little amateur coiffing, he thought she looked slightly annoyed. At any rate, she hadn't much more to say to him, and he went back to London almost immediately, feeling quite absurdly agitated about such an unimportant trifle.

* * * * *

An hour later, when quietly at home in his study, Vaughan was suddenly seized by that species of madness that has been known to wreck careers, "to launch a thousand ships," to cause all kinds of chaos. It was that terrible once-on-board-the-lugger-and-the-girl-is-mine-I-must-and-shall-possess-her feeling in its most acute form. Most men have known it at some time in their lives. He thought of Harry de Freyne, and felt noble and superior in contrast to what his conduct would have been, as he sat down and wrote with intense pleasure—

"Darling Gladys,

"I love you. Will you marry me? Please try. I'm writing to your father. Don't keep me waiting long for the answer.

"Yours for always, "GILLIE."

He then wrote a long and sensible letter to Mr. Brill; all business, respect, and urgency, saying he knew that Gladys was very young, but that he would make her happy, and so forth.

These two letters he sent off by express messenger in a taxicab to the "Bald-faced Stag," and then sat down to dinner.

What a dinner! And what an evening he spent! He planned a long journey—what fun to show the child new places and things! Why shouldn't he marry the charming, refined, and beautiful daughter of an hotel-keeper? He decided even on alterations in the house, and he meant to be ecstatically happy.

What did he care for people? He had never lived either to epater the bourgeois or to satisfy the ideal of the gentleman next door. He was going to do something he liked!...

* * * * *

He woke up the next morning at six o'clock with a ghastly chilly horror on him. What had he done? Had he been mad? To marry Miss Brill, the daughter of the landlord of a little suburban public-house! A girl of sixteen, pretty enough certainly, but with no pretensions to being a lady, no possibility of having anything in common with him. But it wasn't so much the question of what people would say—of course, most of the women he knew would drop him, and the men would laugh at him and make love to her—but, how long would it last? How long would this strange mania endure? Perhaps not a week. The poor child would have an awful time, too. She was much happier as she was.

Well! He was a sportsman, and had taken the risk. He must wait now. At the back of his mind he was wondering how he could get out of it.

He had not to wait long. His letters were answered by the first post. Evidently, the "Bald-faced Stag" had been kept up late that night to reply in time.

Gladys wrote very respectfully that she was very sorry she hadn't told him before, but she was privately engaged to the son of the landlord of the Green Man at Stanmore: the Eldest Son, she wrote with pride (as though he would inherit the title). She was awfully sorry. Besides, she was going to be a manicure, first, for two years, and then settle down at Stanmore. Her fiance was twenty-one. She hoped Mr. Vaughan would come over to tea very soon, and she thought his letter was very kind, and remained his truly, Gladys Brill.

Mr. Brill had written a long and slightly rambling letter which suggested rough copies and even some assistance from the old vintages of the "Bald-faced Stag." He refused most firmly, though thoroughly sensible of the honour done him by Mr. Vaughan's offer, but he couldn't go back on his word to his friend at the Green Man. The arrangement had been made, when Gladys and the son were in their cradles, by him and his pal of the Green Man and he couldn't go back on his word. And Gladys liked the young chap; and it was a great honour, indeed, that Mr. Vaughan had done them, and it would have been splendid for Gladys in the worldly sense. But there! it was better, perhaps, not to mix up Stations. Mr. Brill repeated this sentiment over and over again, always using a capital S for station—(as though Vaughan had expressed an insane desire to confuse Victoria with the Great Western). And he remained very respectfully, Tom Brill.

"A manicure in Bond Street and then the landlady of a common country inn! Never! She shan't! I'll go down and persuade her. I'll make them come round."

Vaughan was so hurt and disappointed that he felt he could never smile again.

But he did.



CHAPTER XXXII

TENSION

When the sisters came back from their drive Harry was sitting on the little marble terrace reading Count Florio and Phillis K. and smoking cigarettes. With almost conjugal unfairness he complained that Valentia always went out just before he arrived. In fact, he had begged her to get the visit over that afternoon, as he intended to be late.

Valentia sat down and began a lively account of "The Angles," but he implored her not to describe those awful people at home, and particularly not to tell him anything about that poisonous Belgian. Then he told Val that blue didn't suit her, and, when she agreed with him, petulantly complained that she had no ideas of her own.

"But I had an idea of my own; only now you say it's wrong."

"So it is. But, even if it is wrong, you should stick to it. You should have more individuality."

"What an awful word," she said.

"What's the matter with the word?"

"Nothing. It's so long."

"You're talking nonsense, Valentia."

"Well, why shouldn't I talk nonsense? I'm sure I've heard you say there's nothing so depressing as a woman with no nonsense about her."

"I know. But there needn't be nothing else."

"Harry, are you trying to quarrel? If so I'd better go away."

"Oh, all right! Very well! Do as you like," said Harry. "It seems a curious way to treat a guest: to go out when you expect him, and then the moment you come in to make an excuse to leave him alone again. But please yourself!"

He took up his book and turned away.

Valentia went into the house, to her room, and sat down opposite the looking-glass with a sigh. It was at moments like these that she sometimes thought, with a slight reaction, of Romer. Romer was never capricious, never irritable, never trying. It was true that he rarely answered her except in monosyllables, but yet she knew that he delighted in and tacitly encouraged her fluency. He did not respond to every idea she expressed as Harry did (when Harry was in a good temper), but she knew she had no better audience. His extreme quietness might be admitted, occasionally, to cast a slight gloom, but negatively what enormous advantages his silence had! Romer never scolded, never laid down the law; never thought it necessary to give her long, minute, detailed accounts of his impressions of art, or life, or literature; never insisted on pointing out, as if it were a matter of life and death, precisely where he differed in his opinions of a book, a play, or an incident, from the criticisms in the daily papers. Nor did he refer to some annoying past incident half a dozen times a day as a sealed subject. He had other qualities. He could take tickets, he could sign cheques (and even seemed to like doing it). He could see about things. He wasn't selfish. Yes, Valentia thought, when she saw Harry at his worst, that perhaps she didn't really quite appreciate her husband. How irritating Harry would have been in that capacity!

Daphne came in, and Valentia went on, as usual, with her thoughts aloud.

"Wouldn't Harry be a maddening husband?" she said as she brushed out her hair.

"Oh! Would he? In what way?"

"He'd be so selfish, so obtrusive—he'd always want you to do exactly what he liked, just when he liked, and never when he didn't, or when you liked, I mean."

"How could he like you to do what he liked when he didn't like? That would be expecting too much. I don't see what you mean, Val."

"I only mean that when he's in a bad temper Harry's tiresome, and if he were married he'd be in one oftener."

"Oh dear! Are most men bad-tempered when they're married, Val?"

"Yes. Nearly always."

"What? Then, will Cyril ..."

"Cyril's a pleasant, easy-going boy, but, as you won't have enough money, he's sure to be bad-tempered at times."

"Then aren't married men bad-tempered when they have plenty of money, Val?"

"Oh, if they have a great deal they're awfully bad-tempered, too; because, you see, then they lose it, or if they don't do that they're always trying to enjoy themselves with it and finding the enjoyment flat, and then they blame their wives. Besides, anyhow, having enough money leads to all sorts of complications."

"Oh dear! Then what do you advise?" Daphne hung on Valentia's words, respecting her superior knowledge and experience.

"Oh, I advise enough, anyhow. It can't make you happy, but it can avoid certain troubles. Love in a cottage is only all right for the week-end when you have a nice house in London as well, and a season ticket or a motor, and electric light and things, and a telephone. Oh, by the way, our telephone here is eating its head off. We never use it. Go and ring up to the grocer, not to forget to send the things, will you, dear? He's got a telephone, too—the only tradesman in the village who has."

"What things isn't he to forget to send?"

"How should I know?—the usual things. He never does forget, but it looks well to remind him, and the 'phone needs exercise."

"All right. But before I go, Val—suppose you can't have the sort of love-in-a-cottage you mean, and there's no fear of your being so rich that it makes you miserable, what is the best thing to do?"

"Why, I suppose the old business in the old novels, a competence with the man of your heart, would do all right."

Daphne looked pleased.

"For six months, anyhow. Or a year or two, perhaps," Val added.

"Oh dear!" cried Daphne again, as she left the room.

"Poor pet," Val murmured to herself. "I hope I'm not teaching her to be cynical."



CHAPTER XXXIII

GOOD-BYE

The only person in the family who did not thoroughly approve of Gladys's decision was her mother. Mrs. Brill thought it sheer madness to decline proposals of a 'gentleman from the West End,' as she called him; so clever and so rich, so handsome and so much in love. She was romantic and yet worldly in her views, and was much excited at the idea of the rivalry for her daughter. There were bitter scenes between Mr. and Mrs. Brill on the subject. Mr. Brill was not romantic nor worldly, but he was very sentimental, and he didn't hold with breaking his word to the Green Man, nor indeed with that mixing up of Stations to which he had already alluded.

Between the opposing views of her parents Gladys became somewhat bewildered. She liked the son of the Green Man (he was in reality only a green boy, but good-looking, and she had always known him), and she wished to be loyal to him. Yet her mother's remarks about Mr. Vaughan began to appeal to her imagination, such as it was. She was rather dazzled and began to weaken. She was at the age when one can really be in love with anybody, and she was flattered. Though she felt she would feel more at home with her childhood's friend, she began, very slightly, to look down upon him when she compared him with Gillie.

Vaughan came down the day after he had received her letter, and behaved precisely as usual.

Mr. Brill, meeting him with a rather shamefaced air in the garden, said straightforwardly—

"Very pleased indeed to see you, Mr. Vaughan. You got my letter, sir?"

"Yes, indeed. To my sorrow. I want to talk to you about it."

"Well, I was sorry to write it, sir, if you take my meaning. But there! Well, Mrs. Brill 'as expressed a wish for a few words with you, if you wouldn't mind."

"I shall be delighted, of course. But—may I see Gladys?"

"Why, yes, sir. Tea and bread and butter? The usual thing?"

"Yes, please. As usual." Mr. Brill lingered.

"Ave some watercress with it, sir," he added sympathetically, "or we've got some very nice little radishes. Ow about them?"

Vaughan nearly laughed.

"No, thank you! I'm afraid they wouldn't be any use to me, Mr. Brill."

"Ha, ha! You will have your joke!"

Mr. Brill went in and told his wife that Mr. Vaughan was "sitting there looking that miserable it was enough to make one's heart ache."

With this satisfactory intelligence he sent Gladys into the garden.

She was all blushes and shyness. Her hair had gone back into the long plait, and she wore her schoolgirl dress again.

"You're too proud, Gladys!" he said reproachfully. "Why did you never tell me of your engagement?"

"Why, I didn't ardly count it to interest you, Mr. Vaughan. Besides, it's not to be for two years."

"Are you in love with him?"

"Why, what a question! I like him. He's a nice boy."

"I suppose he's very much in love with you?"

"Oh, he's all right."

"That was a very cruel letter you wrote me, Gladys."

"I was afraid you'd think it rude," she answered apologetically.

"No, dear. It isn't rude to refuse a proposal. You can't accept them all, can you?"

"You've made a wretched tea, Mr. Vaughan. Is there anything else you'd like?"

"Yes, I want to go in the field again, like the day before yesterday."

"Was it only the day before yesterday? So it was. A lot seems to ave appened since. Well, come along."

She looked such an absolute child as she climbed the gate that Gillie felt almost ashamed of his proposal, and thought that probably her father was quite right.... But her face was so exactly like Sir Joshua Reynolds' angels' heads, she might have sat for them. She was too absurdly pretty. And sweet, too, he thought. She had no vulgar pretensions, she was simple. She only wanted a little polish. He could teach her everything necessary. No task could have been more congenial....

"So you think I'm too old for you. Is that it?"

"No, it isn't. It isn't that. It's what father told you."

"Would you hate to go for a long journey with me, to see other places, other countries?"

"Oh no; I'd like it. We went to Clacton last summer. It was fun."

He thought a little.

"Gladys, as you're so young, won't you leave the whole thing in abeyance for a time?"

"In what, did you say?"

"Undecided. Let me come and talk to you about it in six months. The only thing I can't bear you to do is to be a manicure. I'm going to speak to your mother about it. I can't stand it."

"Oh, why, Mr. Vaughan? I should have thought it was nice for me to sort of better myself."

"Nonsense. Far better stay here. Well, will you agree to that?"

"To give up the manicuring and to leave the engagement open like? Is that what you mean?"

"That's the idea."

She thought a minute.

"I really don't see how I can. And—my boy would feel it something cruel if I put him off like that."

"When do you see him?" he asked jealously.

"Why, on Sundays. Only on Sundays."

"Ah, that's why I've never seen him. I wondered why I'd never met my hated rival."

She laughed.

"Oh, now, you're going on silly, like the people in the play!... I don't believe you alf mean it."

"Don't you believe I love you?"

"How can you? You don't ardly know me, except as a friend."

"I'll tell you why I love you if you like, dearest."

"Well, why?" She spoke with girlish curiosity.

"Because you're lovely, and lovable, and sweet. Because you're a darling."

"Oh, I say!"

"Doesn't your boy, as you call him, say these things to you?"

"Not like that. I only see him on Sundays."

"And does he kiss you on Sundays?"

"Oh yes."

Vaughan got up.

"All right, I won't worry you any more.... I'll let you be happy in your own way, dear.... I must go now."

"Oh, must you?"

She seemed very disappointed.

"Yes, I'm going to France."

"What, to-day?"

"No, next week."

"Oh, I am sorry."

"Good-bye, dear."

He went in and bid adieu to Mr. and Mrs. Brill and the "Bald-faced Stag" for ever. He said to her father that he was resigned.

* * * * *

As soon as he had gone, Gladys went upstairs to her room, looked in the glass, then burst out crying.

She had fallen in love with Gillie.



CHAPTER XXXIV

ROMER OVERHEARS

Romer started to go by himself for a five-mile walk, leaving Daphne, Valentia and Harry in the garden, but a nail in his boot hurt so much that, after the first half-mile, Romer decided he couldn't stand it any longer, and would walk back, go quietly in, and then surprise them by coming to tea in the garden.

He was gone a very short time, but he hastened his steps, looking forward immensely to the removal of the boot, and also to seeing Valentia again.

Lately he had been more than ever devoted to her. Ever since they had been at the Green Gate she had been specially gentle and charming—but not nearly so lively as usual. Sometimes she looked quite anxious and preoccupied. He thought, too, that she was occasionally irritable; which was unlike her—and her spirits varied continually.

He asked her one day what was the matter, and she assured him that there was nothing, so he believed her. But he was always thinking about her, trying to find some means to please her. He was dissatisfied about her.

He came back, went into his room, and his spirits incalculably raised by the cessation of the torture, he went and sat by the window, and looked out at the lovely garden.

It was a hot summer day; a little wind was in the trees.

Exactly under the window, on the little verandah, sat Harry with Valentia. Daphne was no longer there.

They were talking; and talking, it seemed to him, in an agitated way.

Leaning a little over he could see Valentia on a bamboo chair. To his horror he saw that she was crying.

Harry, speaking in a suppressed but rather angry voice, appeared to be trying to comfort her.

Without a second's hesitation or a moment's scruple, Romer intently listened. He did not hide or draw behind the curtain. He remained in full view, in the window, so that they could see him easily if they happened to look up. But they did not; they were far too much preoccupied.... He heard Harry speaking volubly, saying, in a tone of irritated apology and explanation—

"My dear girl, I do wish to heaven you wouldn't take it like that. I haven't changed—I never shall. I don't care two straws about Miss Walmer. But really, it is such a splendid chance for me! You ought no more to expect me to give it up than any other good business opportunity that might crop up."

"I should never see you again," she answered, her voice broken by sobs.

"Yes, you would. We should be the same as ever. You know we can't do without each other. You're part of my life."

He spoke casually, but with irritation, as if mentioning a self-evident fact.

"Oh yes, you say that," she answered sadly. "But nothing could alter the fact that you wish to be treacherous, and throw me over—and just for money! It's simply degrading. It's all nonsense to say it will be just the same!"

"Well, of course—for a time—immediately after the marriage—it couldn't be; but it would gradually drift into very much the same."

"It wouldn't, even if it could, because I should never see you again," she repeated.

Harry stood up with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders raised.

Romer could see his face quite plainly, and wondered at its hard, selfish, almost cruel expression.

"Well, if you won't you won't," he said. "How can I waste all my life dangling after a woman who is married to somebody else? I should be only too delighted—if I could afford it. But I can't, and that's the brutal truth. And then, you know, there has been a little talk. That mother-in-law of yours has been gossiping about us. Some day, Romer's bound to get hold of it, and then where shall we be? Don't you see, dear," he went on more gently, "this will stop all that? Wouldn't it be better for me to be married—just in this official sort of way—to remain in England, and be able to see you just the same as ever—very soon—than to go out to the colonies or somewhere, and never see you again at all? There's no doubt I've got to do something. I'm in a frightful hole. Seven thousand a year—a place in the country—and a decent sort of girl, dropped down on me, as it were, from heaven! I hadn't the slightest idea of such luck—and hadn't any pretensions to it. But the girl has taken a liking to me, and her mother wants to get her married. It's ugly—unromantic—but there are the facts. If you cared for me really, I shouldn't think you would want to stand in my way."

"Very well, do it, then," she said, drying her eyes. "If you can speak in this heartless way it shows you are very different from what I believed you. But it will kill me; I shall never get over it."

She was rushing away when Harry caught her hand and stopped her.

"Listen," he said, in an impressive voice. "Go to your room, bathe your eyes, and calm yourself down. Make no more scenes, for heaven's sake, and we'll see what can be done."

"Oh, Harry, really—is there any hope? Or are you deceiving me again?"

"I've almost agreed to it, you know," he said. "Still, there's not what one could call an actual engagement yet. At any rate, it might be delayed. I'll see; I'll think—really if I weren't so hard up I wouldn't do it."

"Oh, Harry!" A gleam of joy came into her eyes, and she clasped her hands.

"Then you won't worry me any more about it for the next few days?" he asked.

"I promise;" and smiling sweetly through her tears she left him, going into the house. Her room, on the same floor as Romer's, was at the other end of the corridor, so she did not even pass his door, and had not the slightest idea that he was at home.

He was still at the window, looking out apparently at the garden.

Harry gave an impatient sigh, lit a cigarette and strolled off through the garden.

It had been about three o'clock when Romer had come in and sat down by the window. He was still there in precisely the same position at seven, when his valet brought his hot water.

But Romer could not dress and go down to dinner. He could not see them till he had made up his mind what to do. He always thought slowly, and now he was acutely anxious to make no mistake. He felt that by the slightest wrong move he might lose Valentia altogether. That, at least, was his instinctive dread. He sent Valentia a message that he had to go up to London to see his mother, and would be back the next day. He arranged that she did not get the message till he was driving to the station—just before dinner.

He went up to London and stayed at an hotel, but did not go to his mother's, and thought nearly all night till he had made a resolution. Then he slept till nine o'clock, feeling much happier. He remembered clearly that Harry was coming to town and going to the studio on this day, as he often did. He calculated that he would be likely to arrive by the quick early morning train, and was standing waiting at the door of the studio at twelve o'clock when Harry drove up, looking intensely surprised, with hand outstretched, cordial and delighted.

"My dear fellow, how jolly of you to remember I was coming up! Come in, come in! I've only got this bothering business to attend to, then we'll lunch together, and go back by the four train, shall we? You won't have to stop on here, will you?"

"I don't know," said Romer, as he followed Harry.

"Your mother's not ill, I hope," said Harry, throwing himself into an arm-chair.

"I don't think so," said Romer; "she's at Bournemouth."

"Bournemouth! How like her! But you haven't been down there to see her?"

"No."

"Are you going?"

"Don't think so."

"Then it isn't your mother that brought you up to town, old chap?"

"No."

"Is anything wrong?" asked Harry, after a moment's pause.

It struck him that Romer looked very odd, and as he noted a slightly greyish tinge in Romer's face, he turned pale himself under his becoming sunburn.

"What is the matter?" repeated Harry, who could not be quiet. His weakness lay in the fact that he never, under any circumstances, could entirely "hold his tongue."

Romer put down his stick and hat, which he had been holding, took a chair exactly opposite Harry, stared him in the face, and said in a dry, hard voice, much less slowly than usual—

"There's something I wish you to do."

"You wish me to——"

"Yes. Write to Miss Walmer definitely breaking off your engagement."

"My—engagement?"

"I heard what you said yesterday afternoon. I came back from my walk—there was a nail in my boot. I heard every word from the window in my room."

"You listened?"

"Yes, I listened."

"Romer, my dear fellow, I swear to you that ..."

"Don't swear anything to me," said Romer quietly. "And don't dare to defend Valentia to me.... I advise you not."

Harry was silent, utterly bewildered.

"I find that your——friendship, instead of being a pleasure to her, is making her miserable. For some reason she likes to have you about. She doesn't wish you to marry Miss Walmer. Well, you shan't! Do you hear that? You shan't! You're not going to marry that girl and then come dangling about again."

He waited a minute and then said—

"Valentia's got to be happy. You're not going to have everything you want. You can surely make a little sacrifice to be her friend!" Then for one moment only Romer nearly lost his control. He said—

"We've been married five years, and I've never said a word or done a thing that she didn't like. And you made her cry. You! You made her cry!"

"My dear Romer, I assure you it's all ..."

Romer interrupted him in a low voice, impatiently.

"Oh, shut up, will you? I want no talk or discussion. I want only one thing. You're to write immediately, definitely putting an end to this engagement. While you write the letter I'll wait, and then I'll post it myself. Will you do it?"

"My dear fellow, of course I'll do anything. But how strange you are! I should have thought——"

"I don't want to know what you would have thought, and I don't care a straw what you think of my attitude. On condition you do what I say, I shall never refer to the subject again, and everything shall be as it has been."

Harry was obviously greatly relieved.

"I will do whatever you wish," he said, looking and feeling ashamed of himself.

Seeing that Romer was evidently in a hurry for the letter, he drew writing materials to him.

Then Romer said—

"One more thing. You are not to tell Valentia anything about this. She's not to know I overheard. I won't have her distressed. Remember that."

"I give you my word of honour," said Harry.

"Very well. And when I've posted the letter we'll wipe out the whole thing. Don't even say you saw me in town."

"Of course I won't."

As Harry bent his head low over the writing-table, Romer, who was sitting motionless, looked at a curious dagger that was hanging on the wall, with a horrible sudden longing to plunge it in Harry's neck.... Horrified at his own fancy, he looked away from it and thought of Valentia. Valentia would smile and be happy now, and everything would go smoothly again. He would not have to say anything painful to her; she would never be uncomfortable in his presence. In time she would probably grow tired of Harry and could turn to him, Romer, again, with more affection than if anything painful had passed between them.... His attitude had been extraordinarily unselfish, and yet it had its root in the deep scheming selfishness and subtle calculation of the passion of love. To get Valentia back, as he vaguely hoped, some time, however distant, he had acted most wisely, and he knew it. For he cared for her far too much ever to have conventional thoughts on the subject. It never even occurred to him to try to act as the husband ought to act, or as by the incessant insidious influence of plays and novels most of us have been brought up to think he ought to act. Most people are far more guided than they know in their views of life by the artificial conventions of the theatre and of literature, or by tradition. In fact, most people are other people. Romer was himself. He thought simply for himself, like a child. And so it happened that he acted in a crisis terrible to him, more wisely for his own interest than the most sophisticated of men....

* * * * *

"Here is the letter. Will you read it?"

Romer read it and put it back in the envelope. Then he said—

"All right. You're going back to the Green Gate this afternoon?"

"If I may."

"I shall be back to-morrow," said Romer, in his ordinary voice.

Harry accompanied him to the door and held out his hand.

Romer hesitated a moment. Then he said—

"Good-bye," with a nod, and went away, taking no notice of it.

* * * * *

"By Jove!" said Harry, to himself.



CHAPTER XXXV

THE LIMIT

Romer went back to his hotel that evening feeling happier than he had ever expected to be again. He felt sure now that everything would be perfectly right. He refused to allow himself to dwell for a moment on possibilities, and on what had been, or on what might have been. But he was like a man who had been slightly stunned by a blow on the head and was beginning to feel the pain the next day. Yet the pain was not very acute; he did not quite realise it, but, unconsciously, it made him feverish. And he was still a little stupefied. It did not occur to him to go to the Club, or to look up any friends, and he remained in the little hotel in Jermyn Street, filled at this time of the year principally by Americans, and he dined alone there—dined well, and smoked a long cigar. Then he went for a walk. London at the beginning of August was not empty, but stale, crowded, untidy, hot—unlike itself. He tried not to think of the garden of the Green Gate. Suddenly, with a stab, he imagined Harry and Valentia; probably now he was telling her that the engagement was broken off, and she was smiling and happy. Well! it was what he wished. Since what had happened he felt his great love for Valentia was much less vivid than it had been. He cared for her more remotely. She seemed at a great distance. He thought that he felt more to her as if she were a dear sister and living far away. Yes, that was it; he loved her now like a sister.

Surprised at his own calm, and much pleased with his behaviour in the matter, he retired to bed. The instant he had closed his eyes he seemed to see, with the clearness of an hallucination, Harry's head bending low over the writing-table, and, hanging above him on the wall of the studio, the curious dagger; a Japanese weapon that was one of Harry's treasures. And Romer felt again precisely the same horrible longing that he had felt that morning at the studio—the sudden longing to plunge it into Harry's neck. Horrified at the fancy and at himself, he turned up the light and tried to read. He could not fix his attention on a word of the article "Silk and Stuff" in the Pall Mall....

Of course he was not angry with Valentia; how could she help it? She must be made happy. But she seemed dim, distant, remote. It was an effort to recall her face.... Harry—Harry did not seem very real to him either. It was all unreal. But he, Romer, had done the right thing. Harry would never make her cry again.

Everything would go on as before. And he had never said a word that it would be painful for them both to remember. There was nothing uncomfortable between them. He felt she would grow tired of Harry of her own accord, and would then return to him, Romer, with no disagreeable recollection of scenes, nor of their having said horrible things to one another. Yes, he had been quite right. Yet she did not seem to him so near as she used to be. He was not angry with her.... No, of course not. He was not jealous. Perhaps she seemed more remote, more distant, because he felt a certain coldness, and—yes—the coldness was there because he was a little hurt perhaps.... And then he tried to go to sleep again. But instantly his insane vision came back, and he got up and walked round the room and tried to banish it.... At last he really went to sleep, and awoke trembling with horror. He had had a horrible dream. He dreamt that Harry was writing a letter, and that he had taken the dagger from the wall of the studio and killed him. This was simply horrible.

Then he began to realise the reason. It was subconscious jealousy. Then he saw that he had set himself a task too big for him, and that he could not endure to see Harry with Valentia now. It would be impossible to bear it. He would have to tell him to go. He had mistaken his own feelings. What he had heard on the verandah, what he had imagined, could never be obliterated. Indeed, he saw clearly that if he tried to endure it he would break down. The effort would lead to madness.—It was impossible.... He had sent Harry back to her! He had actually sent him; it was unbearable.

He would go back the next day, take Harry aside, and tell him that he had found he couldn't bear it, and that on some pretext he must go away. He would tell him that he had reached the limit of his endurance and could bear no more. He would never speak of it to Valentia. Valentia would be sad—but that could not be helped. He knew, now, that he could not endure the sight of Harry again.

Having made this resolution, he became much calmer. But the dream recurred each time he went to sleep until, in dread of it, he resolved to sleep no more. His nerves felt shattered.

And then, he began to count the minutes till he could be back at the Green Gate. To see Valentia again and to banish Harry for ever! And all the obvious, human feelings that he thought he was free from had come back. He broke down; bitter tears of self-pity, of sentiment, and of heartbroken humiliation fell from his eyes. He remembered their engagement and their honeymoon, and then the eternal and everlasting amusing cousin; Harry, and his sickening good looks and ceaseless chatter. No more of it, by heaven! It would be something worth having lived for to have no more of the brilliant Harry. He saw now that he had always been subconsciously jealous of him—that he had always loathed and hated him. And rightly, by instinct; for not only had he done the most unpardonable injury one friend can do to another, without a scruple and without a hesitation, but he had shown the same baseness to her. He made her unhappy. He made her cry. He wanted to marry for money and come back again, treacherous to every one—hard, heartless, selfish, vulgar in mind and in attitude to life. Romer hated him.

Well! Romer would tell him that very day that he had changed his mind and that he was to go anywhere—anyhow—only to go. Neither he nor Valentia should ever see him again.

Valentia seemed a long way off. She seemed remote and distant. That was because he was still hurt and angry. When Harry had once gone, perhaps she would seem near again.



CHAPTER XXXVI

RECONCILIATION

Romer had made one mistake in his calculations. He had forgotten that Harry was a talker. He fully believed that the young man would go back and get all possible credit from Valentia for breaking off the engagement, and would adhere to the very letter of their strange agreement. This, indeed, Harry fully intended to do. When he first went back he told her, to her immense joy and satisfaction, merely that he had broken it off. But when some people who had come to dinner had gone away and she and Harry could be alone, the habit of confidential gossip, the habit, especially, of impressing and surprising her, and, above all, the inability to keep to himself anything so amazing, was too strong for him.

Picturesquely, vividly, and quite amusingly Harry told her every word of the story; first exacting a solemn promise not to repeat it.

"Isn't he impayable? Isn't he a marvel? No, Valentia, don't look so grave, or I shall think you've lost your sense of humour."

"But do you believe he really thinks——"

"He doesn't think," said Harry, stopping her. "He won't think. You're faultless in his eyes. He would never allow himself to imagine you anything else. Valentia, this is a wonderful situation—you don't appreciate it! It's unheard of! He particularly wished that everything should go on as before."

He took her hand. She immediately took it away and drew back coldly.

"A wonderful situation! Do you think Van Buren will enjoy it?" she asked satirically.

"Van Buren! What on earth do you mean, Val? Do you suppose for a minute that I'd talk about it?"

"I know you will. You couldn't resist it. It's impayable you say.... Oh, but it was mean of you to tell me!"

"Mean!" cried Harry indignantly. "Why, it was very generous! I might easily have pleased you very much more by saying I broke it off quite of my own accord."

"That wasn't why you told me. You wanted me to laugh at Romer and think him ridiculous."

"I don't at all. I was in the ridiculous position. Be a woman of the world, Val. Don't talk bosh! We shall soon forget it happened."

"I shall never forget," she answered. "And things can't go on as they were, because I think he's behaved magnificently, because I think he's heroic. And if I didn't appreciate the way he spared me I should be.... Why, don't you realise what it must have been for him, Harry, to hear every word we said? And yet he didn't try to make me suffer for it!"

"He complained that I made you cry!" said Harry with a ghost of a smile.

"Look here, Harry, it's no good. I see I was right about Romer from the first. I married him because I thought there was something remarkable—something finer than other people about him. And I was right."

"If you talk like that, I shall know you're in love with him," said Harry tauntingly and angrily. "I was a fool to tell you. You're just upset, my dear," he added, "at the idea of his knowing of the whole thing. By to-morrow, when he comes back, everything will have calmed down."

"I want to be left alone," said Valentia.

Harry was annoyed, for he himself was not just now in the mood for reverie, and even in the smallest things he disliked giving up his own wishes.

"Oh, very well," he said ungraciously; "perhaps it's a pity I wrote the letter."

"Perhaps it is," she answered as she went away and shut the door.

Harry sat up late, swearing at his own indiscretion and the unaccountability of women. But he was not prepared for what followed.

The next morning, as he was dressing, a note was given to him. It said—

"Dear Harry,

"After what you told me yesterday, I feel I never wish to see you again. This is not anger; but it's incurable. I can't account for it, but it is there. How you could have been so stupid as to think I could remain with both you and Romer in the house with this knowledge between us, I simply can't understand. How could I help contrasting his generosity with your self-interested selfishness? I am not angry any more about Miss Walmer. I'm quite indifferent. If you married her to-morrow it would give me no pain. The only kind thing you can do for me now, and the one thing I implore, is to go away on any pretext you like and without seeing me again. To put it perfectly plainly, Harry, I have changed entirely since last night. I see everything differently. Everything is different. Forgive me, but I don't wish to see you any more. "VALENTIA.

"P.S.—I will send your photographs and other things to the studio. I should like you to burn mine, but do not send them back. I don't want to look at anything that reminds me of you. Do not be angry—I can't help it. I am so unhappy.

V.

"If you don't go I know I shall be seriously ill."

After reading this letter Harry was probably about a thousand times more in love with Valentia than he had ever been in his life. Indeed, he felt that he had never cared for her before. He pretended even to himself to laugh at it, and walked up and down his room, saying to himself: "What a couple! What a woman! What a man! They're unique. No, they're too wonderful!"

But he didn't succeed in deceiving himself. He knew that letter was final. He did not give it up at once. He wrote her three letters. The first, one of indignant reproach: "You never really cared for me," and so forth, which she did not answer; the second, witty and trivial, with allusions to mountains and molehills and tragedy queens; the third, desperately imploring her to see him once before he went away. To the third one she sent a reply, simply saying—

"Please, please go as soon as possible."

After all his emotion and passionate correspondence it was by this time only about half-past ten. Harry packed, dressed, and went off to the station, mad with rage. He left no word for Romer at all. He felt he had better leave all that to the wife. He had lost her absolutely and for ever—and Miss Walmer too.

In prompt response to his wire Van Buren met him at the station.

And what a wonderful consolation it was to tell him all about it!

Certainly no man ever had a better audience; no one more impressed, shocked, delighted, horrified, amused, grieved, pleased and sympathetic ever listened to a confidence. For Van Buren it was as good as a cause celebre, a musical comedy, a feuilleton in the Daily Mail and a series of snapshots from the homes of the upper classes—all in one. Never in his life had he heard anything so intensely English. The story gave him the acute, objective, artistic joy that one takes in the best literature, an intellectual pleasure that is usually more or less mingled with the merely spiteful satisfaction that we are accused of taking in the misfortunes of our best friends. And how well Harry told it!

His style was perfect. It was brilliancy, charm, humour, and pathos; he laughed at himself, and yet made himself an object of real sympathy, without losing either his dignity or his dash.

He knew that his confidence aroused enormous interest, and to him that was a great gratification. And so Harry drowned his sorrows in talk, as other men drown theirs in wine, or in sport, or in taking some violent step. He intoxicated and soothed himself with conversation.

But Harry was not an unpractical man—not one of those for whom words take place of actions—and he could face facts. Valentia was irrevocably lost to him. To attempt to regain Miss Walmer, although it might perhaps not be impossible, would make him ridiculous. The letter he had written at Romer's dictation had been too definite. He would give himself away hopelessly as a fortune-hunter if he tried to go back on that. Besides, he was absolutely sick of it all, and if he was more in love with Valentia than he had ever supposed himself to be because she no longer wanted him, he disliked the thought of Miss Walmer far more than he ever had before, because he was convinced she would forgive him and be devoted to him even now.

Van Buren had taken the knock, as he expressed it, using with relish the English slang phrase, with regard to Daphne, and he had made up his mind to return to New York. Under the circumstances he now had little difficulty in persuading Harry to come out with him right away. He undertook to provide for his friend's future, and that he should make a fortune in the Bank, and perhaps when this was agreed upon Van Buren had never been so happy. He was far more genuinely a man's man than was Harry. He regarded women from the point of view of the well-bred American—with deference, a sort of distant tenderness, a most chivalrous and gentle respect. He looked upon them as ornamental and as delightful adjuncts to life, like flowers in a ball-room, but not seriously as part of it. Nor, either, as mere toys. He placed women far more highly than Harry did; he thought everything should be done for them, given to them, that they had a right to any position they were able to hold, that they should be treated with reverence, consideration, liberality ... and even justice; but—he could do without them. Harry couldn't. And so they would always continue to fall in love with Harry, and to find Van Buren a little dull.

* * * * *

When Romer arrived at the Green Gate that afternoon he found Valentia sitting alone in the drawing-room. Her hands were clasped, she had a serious, anxious, thoughtful expression that he had never seen before. He was surprised at the painful start it gave him to see her again, but he came in defying this sensation.

"Hallo!" he said, in what he meant to be a perfectly easy manner.

He glanced round the room.

"Where's Harry?"

"Harry's gone," said Valentia, in a low voice.

"Oh, has he?"

Romer walked to the window. He looked at her dress, a white dress that he liked, but did not meet her eyes. Then he said—

"Oh, he's gone. When is he coming back?"

"Never," she said.

Romer didn't answer, nor ask why.

After a minute he said—

"Where's Daphne?"

"Gone to stay with Mrs. Foster for a week."

"Oh! Who's coming down to-day?"

"Nobody. I thought perhaps you wouldn't mind—being alone, I mean." She spoke without her usual fluency.

He stood staring out of the window into the quiet, damp garden. Then he turned slowly round and looked at her. He looked at her little feet in their little white laced shoes; at the slim, narrow line of the white dress; at the hands clasped in her lap....

And he felt a sudden pang of cruel, realistic jealousy. But he looked at her eyes and saw tears in them, and, pitying her, he crushed it down for ever.

The marvellous instinct with which women are usually credited seems too often to desert them on the only occasions when it would be of any real use. One would say it was there for trivialities only, since in a crisis they are usually dense, fatally doing the wrong thing. It is hardly too much to say that most domestic tragedies are caused by the feminine intuition of men and the want of it in women. Fortunately, Valentia's feeling of remorseful tenderness towards Romer enabled her to read him now. Of course she would have loved to cry, to explain at great length, to beg him to forgive her and have a reconciliation. But something told her that he could not have borne it; that the subject must never be touched; that she must spare him any reference to it—any scene.

So she said nothing.

* * * * *

And, during the curious silence, he gradually and slowly took in the soothing facts. He regained his sense of proportion, of perspective. He saw she was disillusioned about Harry; he felt that the infatuation was over; and, what was more, he realised, to his unutterable relief, that she was not going to talk about it. How he dreaded that terrible explicitness of women, their passion for tidying up, their love of labels! He would not even have to hear it called a sealed subject, and he would not have to say anything at all.

* * * * *

He looked out of the window again, began to whistle in a slightly embarrassed way, and then said casually—

"Let's come out, Val. The lawn wants mowing."

THE END



* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes

The original spelling and punctuation were retained, except for a few issues that were believed to be typographical mistakes.

The full list of corrections is as follows:

+ + + + -+ page original text corrected to explanation + + + + -+ 15 old-fashoned old-fashioned a misspelling 32 ,old chap' 'old chap' comma corrected to single quote 142 of colour off colour a misspelling 144 CAPTER CHAPTER a misspelling 153 darling. darling." Double quote added. 181 on the 'thou.'"... on the 'thou.'..." The position of ellipsis was changed. 201 airdresser's hairdresser's a misspelling 220 "Ha! musical, "Ha! Musical, Lowercase corrected to uppercase. 256 Dicken's Dickens's a misspelling 273 things to you?' things to you?" Single quote corrected to double quote. + + + + -+

THE END