"Oh, what fun! I should love to come! Thanks, dearest."

"All right. Meet us there at four, and if you ever meet Arthur Mervyn again, don't talk about the stage. He hates it."

"What does he like?"

"He's interested in murders, and things of that kind," said Felicity; "or anything cheery, you know, but not the theatre."

"Do you think he would come to see me if I asked him?" asked Vera.

"He hates paying visits," said Felicity, and she glanced round the room judicially, "but if you can make him believe that some horrible crime has been acted here,—I must say it doesn't look like it, all pink and white!—then I think he would call. Or, if you suggested—just hinted—that you believed the liftman had once been mixed up in some horrible case—I think he likes poisoning or strangling best—then he'd come like a shot!"

Felicity got up laughing.

"I say," she continued as she fastened her white furs, "have you heard the very latest thing about the Valettas and Guy Scott? Bertie's going to tell me all about it to-night; he is the only really brilliant gossip I know. He's raised it to such an art that it's no longer gossip: it's modern history and psychology! First he gets his facts right; then he takes a sort of vivid analytical interest in every one—always a humorously sympathetic view, of course—and has so much imagination that he makes you see the whole thing!"

"Good gracious! I think I don't care for gossip about other people," said Vera; "I'm sure I shouldn't like that at all. I am really only interested in my own life."

"Then no wonder you find it so difficult to be amused, darling."

They parted, kissing affectionately.



CHAPTER XIV

LORD CHETWODE

"I have to go down to Fulham this morning; don't let me forget it," said Lord Chetwode.

He was sitting in the green library with Felicity, markedly abstaining from the newspapers surrounding him, and reading over an old catalogue. He was a fair, delicate-looking young man of twenty-eight years the amiability of whose expression seemed accentuated by the upward turning of his minute blonde moustache. He had deep blue eyes, rather far apart, regular features, and a full, very high forehead, on which the fair hair was already growing scanty. Tall and slight, he had a rather casual, boyish air, and beautiful but useful-looking white hands, the hands of the artist. His voice and manner had the soft unobtrusive gentleness that comes to those whose ancestors for long years have dared and commanded. In time, when there's nothing more to fight for, the dash naturally dies out.

"My dear boy, why Fulham?" said Felicity, who was sitting at her writing-table not answering letters.

"About that bit of china."

"We don't want any more china, dear."

"It isn't a question of what we want! It is a question of what it would be a crime to miss. Old Staffordshire going for nothing! Really, Felicity!"

Felicity gave up the point. "I see.... How long are you going to stay in London?" she said.

"Well, I was just thinking.... You know, I don't care much about the season."

"You haven't had ten days of it," his wife answered. "Don't you think it looks rather odd always letting me go to dances and things alone?"

"No. Why odd? You like them. I don't."

She looked rather impatient. "Has it ever struck you that I'm—rather young—and not absolutely hideous?"

"Yes, very often," he said smiling. "Don't I show how it strikes me? Why?"

"It's so difficult to say. Don't you see; people try to flirt with me, and that sort of thing."

"Oh yes, they would. Naturally."

"Sometimes," said Felicity, darting a look at him like a needle, "I shouldn't be surprised if people fell in love with me. So there!"

"You couldn't be less surprised than I should," said her husband, rather proudly. "Shows their good taste."

"Well, for instance—you know Bertie Wilton, don't you?"

"Oh yes, I think I've seen him. A boy who rattles about in a staring red motor-car. How any one on earth can stand those things when they can have horses——"

"That's not the point, Chetwode. I think Bertie Wilton is really in love with me. I really do."

Chetwode tried to look interested. "Is he though?"

"Well, I don't like it," she said pettishly.

"Then, don't stand it. But why? Isn't he a nice fellow?"

"Oh yes, he's very nice. But he seems to—sort of think you neglect me."

"But other men go away, for months at a time, shooting big game, or anything of that sort. Only shows he doesn't know.... What an ass he must be!" Chetwode's voice showed slight irritation.

"No he's not. He was quite disappointed that you came home the other night when Savile went to fetch you. He went away at once."

"Poor chap!—Well, ask him to dinner," relented Chetwode.

She got up and went close to him. "You're hopeless! Chetwode, do you really care for me—or do you like your curiosities and things better?"

Lord Chetwode looked slightly nervous. His one mortal horror was anything that bore the most distant resemblance to a scene.

"My dear child, why, surely you know you are far and away the most beautiful thing I am ever likely to have in my collection!" he said, most admiringly.

She turned away. She was terribly hurt; in her heart she had always feared her husband regarded her as a bibelot. The subject was, to her, too painful to discuss further. That he was sure of her—that showed knowledge of her—that she deserved. But he ought to have minded about little things as she would. And he ought not always to be satisfied to leave her safe as the gem of the collection—and just come and look at it sometimes.

Chetwode returned to the catalogue, and then said, "Of course you know I'm going to Teignmouth's for a week."

"And you don't want me to go?"

"It's a man's party, darling! Only a week."

"But wouldn't you like me to go racing with you sometimes? I would. I should love to."

He looked up lazily. "I don't think a racecourse is the place for a woman. I like you better here. Of course, come if you like. Whenever you like. Would you like to see Princess Ida run?"

"No, thanks.—Shall you be home to lunch?"

"Yes, I dare say I shall. Are you lunching at home?"

"I was going to Vera's, but I'd rather stay at home—for you."

"Oh, don't do that, dear," he said decidedly. "I may look in at White's."

"Well, when shall I see you?"

"Why this evening, of course. Aren't we going to the opera, or something?" he asked.

"Is it great agony for you to sit out Wagner?" She showed real sympathy. "It's Tannhaeuser, you know."

"Can't say I'm keen about it," he answered in a depressed voice.

"If you like," she said, slightly piqued, "I could easily go with Sylvia and papa."

"All right—or, I know—don't let us go at all!" said Chetwode. He was now in the hall, and she followed him. "Anything I can do for you, darling?" Then he added, "Don't move for a minute!" He was admiring her golden hair against the tapestry, and smiled with the real pride of the collectionneur. "Yes, you must really have your portrait painted, Felicity," he said. "Sargent's the man, I think—or—well, we'll talk it over." He went out, and the door banged relentlessly.

Felicity moved back to the library and looked in the little carved silver mirror that lay on the table. She saw tears gradually stealing into her beautiful blue eyes, enlarging them, and she grew so sorry for the lovely little sad face—in fact for herself!—that she hastily put down the looking-glass, ran upstairs, and rang for her maid to dress her to go out.

* * * * *

Chetwode completely failed in his mission, as the china-man, not expecting him to call so soon, had gone out for the day. He strolled down the Brompton Road, stopping from time to time to look at various pretty things in little curiosity shops, and then he thought, as a contrast, he would have a look at the Albert Memorial. But, changing his mind again, he went a little way into Kensington Gardens. Suddenly, he thought he recognised two people, rather beautiful people, who were sitting under a tree, talking together with animation. It was his sister-in-law, Sylvia, with her little dog, and Woodville. Before they saw him, Sylvia got up and walked quickly towards the Row with the dog. Woodville looked after her, and then strolled slowly towards the bridge. How well the sylvan surroundings suited them! Sylvia was a wood nymph in a fashionable dress; Woodville, a faun in Bond Street clothes. Chetwode smiled to himself. Then for a moment he was surprised.... It seemed odd to see the secretary so far from his usual haunts. Why should Sylvia sit in Kensington Gardens with him, and then go on alone to the Row? However, he thought, it wasn't his business. As he walked towards Knightsbridge, it struck him that he would tell Felicity. She would understand, and explain. Then he thought he wouldn't tell Felicity. He had a curious delicate dislike to mentioning anything he had seen accidentally. He would chaff Sylvia about it when he saw her again.... No, he wouldn't; it would be a shame to make a girl uncomfortable. He would mention it to Woodville. Yes, that was it; he would chaff Woodville about it....

Seeing a hansom, he jumped into it and went to the Club. As he drove there he remembered vaguely several little things that he had noticed subconsciously before, and he began to think that probably Woodville and Sylvia were in love with each other. What more natural! In that case one wouldn't talk about it. It might annoy them. There was nothing on earth Lord Chetwode disliked so much as the idea of anything that would annoy any one.

So he never did tell Woodville nor anybody else. When it did not slip his memory, his almost morbid dread of anything disagreeable prevented his mentioning it, and he left London without having spoken of the incident. Probably it was of no importance after all.

At this time Woodville was really miserable. Their position was more difficult than ever. Of course he had kept his word to her, and written to Ridokanaki that he could not accept the offer. They remained privately engaged, and waiting; Savile their only confidant. He had got rid of the little studio, and was half sorry and half relieved not to be able to go there as a retreat. It had some painful but also some exquisite associations. Since he had made the sacrifice of Athens for Sylvia—for it was a sacrifice—he was, of course, more in love with her than before. That quarter of an hour in Kensington Gardens this morning was the only clandestine appointment they had ever made in the course of five years.

How often he remembered the day he had first arrived at the Croftons! Sylvia was fifteen then, and her governess, Miss Dawe, took the place, as far as could be, of her dead mother, chaperoning Felicity and teaching Sylvia. He remembered that it was bitterly cold and snowing hard. As he passed the schoolroom, of which the door was open, to his own room, escorted by the servant, he heard what sounded like a quarrel going on. A poor old man with a battered accordion was making a pathetic noise on the cold pavement.

"You shall not do it, Sylvia!" Miss Dawe was speaking authoritatively. "Your father did not give you five pounds to throw away. It isn't the right thing for young ladies to run down to the hall." And Felicity's voice said imperiously, he knew it afterwards, "Quick; ring the bell, and tell Price to give him the money."

While the electric bell was being rung he distinctly heard the window flung wide open, and a soft thud on the pavement. Sylvia had thrown her purse into the street. From his own room next to the schoolroom, he saw the man pick it up and go away. The doors were closed now, but he imagined the governess's anger. The incident had afterwards seemed very characteristic of the two girls, and he often thought of it.... That evening at dinner he met Sylvia for the first time, and he felt now as if he had loved her ever since. But it was not until three years ago, when she was seventeen, that he betrayed himself, by some word or look.... As she grew into a woman she filled his life, became his one joy and torment. On Felicity's wedding-day he had told Sylvia of his love, and they had become engaged. How was it to end?



CHAPTER XV

MADAME TUSSAUD'S

"Savile," said Sylvia, smoothing his tie unnecessarily (a process that he endured like a martyr who had been very well brought up), "Felicity's coming to fetch me to go to Madame Tussaud's this afternoon. Would you like to come too, dear?"

"Who's your party?"

"Frank is going to meet us there, and Mrs. Ogilvie and Bertie Wilton."

"Oh, then, can I bring Dolly Clive?"

"Yes, of course, she's sweet. But—will they let her come?"

"Yes, they will with us. It's good for her history, and she can have a look in at her precious Charles II. What time?"

"Punctually about four," Felicity said. "Don't forget, Savile!"

"Righto! I'll bring Dolly and take her back. I say, shall we have tea there?"

"Of course, if you want to. Why fancy, Frank said it would be the greatest joke to dine there! You can, you know, if you like; wouldn't it be fun, and ghastly, with Byron and Peace, and Sir Campbell-Bannerman, and people like that, looking on?"

"No it wouldn't. These ghastly jokes never come off. They last too long. While you're about it, have a good dinner for Heaven's sake. And I dare say the people at the Savoy are quite as bad—if that's all—if you only knew, and more up to date."

"Yes, very likely, and people at real places often have no more expression than the waxworks. But, Savile, I thought it was all off between you and Dolly now?"

He answered, with a sigh, "So it is, in a way, but you'll learn in this life, old girl, that you must take what you can get—especially if you're not sure you can get it! Mind you," lowering his voice, "that little foreign bounder, de Saules, isn't going to have it all his own way."

"Oh," Sylvia, being in good spirits, was inclined to tease him, "I should have thought it would be a capital opportunity to show an intelligent foreigner the sights of London!"

"The intelligent foreigners are the sights of London," said Savile as he went out.

The same morning Vera rustled into her friend's room, with her usual air of vagueness and devotion, and said with a sort of despairing cry—

"Oh, Felicity darling! you're the only person in the world who always has clothes for every occasion, and knows everything. How on earth does one dress for Tussaud's? Should you regard it as a Private View, or treat it more like—say—Princes'?"

"Neither. Why on earth Princes'? Were you thinking of bringing your skates?"

"Don't be absurd. Then I had better not wear my new Paquin?"

"Certainly not. Nothing trailing, or showy. But for Heaven's sake don't dress for skating or bicycling. I fancy there is a notice up to say you can't do either of those things there. And please not too much of your Oriental embroideries."

"Well, my new tailor-made dress then, and a large hat?"

Felicity laughed.

"My dear girl, what does it matter? If you fondly imagine that any one will look at your dress while there are real horrors to see——!"

"Darling little creature!" said Vera, who absolutely idolised Felicity, and looked up to her in the most absurd way, although she was five years younger—often taking her ironical advice quite literally, and regarding her as a rare combination of faultless angel, brilliant genius, and perfect beauty.

"And now," said Felicity, standing up to her full height—which was far from imposing—"Go, please, Vera! I expect the hairdresser."

"Oh, then, you're taking a little trouble, after all," Vera said, laughing, and she vanished vaguely, behind a brocaded portiere, leaving a very faint perfume of gilliflower.

The party met fairly punctually in the hideous hall, furnished with draughts and red velvet. The gloom was intensified by the sound of an emaciated orchestra playing "She was a Miller's Daughter," with a thin reckless airiness that was almost ghostly.

"Let's be a regular party," said Felicity, "and keep together, and get that nice chasseur-looking person to show us round."

Savile and Dolly preferred to stroll about alone, with a catalogue, and "take the Royal Family in their order." Woodville and Sylvia sat down near the band.

The amiable chasseur, who greatly enjoyed his work, and who saw that the living celebrities left our friends rather cold, showed them "The road to ruing," as displayed in six tableaux.

"No. 1, Temptation. 'Ere you see the young man being tempted to 'is ruing by cards—and what not."

The party gazed at the green table on which were strewn a few cards.

"Fancy being able to be ruined by only half a pack of cards!" said Felicity admiringly.

"Who," asked Wilton with interest, "is the lady in crimson satin, with pearls as big as oysters and diamonds like broken windows, holding out her hand so cordially to welcome the young man with long hair and an intelligent expression? (Obviously a very excellent model of Arthur Symons, the poet)."

"Why, she's the Decoy," said the chasseur, with intense relish. A sinister man with very black hair (probably in collusion with the decoy) was looking on, enjoying the scene.

"How symbolic those two champagne-glasses are on the card-table! What is that dark brown liquid in them?" asked Wilton.

"Still champagne, I suppose," said Felicity.

"Oh dear, yes, ma'am! It ain't been changed. Nothing's been changed."

"How sad it all is!" sighed Vera.

"It gets better later on," said Bertie consolingly.

"No. 3. 'Ere you find 'im ruinged by gambling. Take notice of the evil appearance of 'is accomplice."

The young man was now forging ahead for all he was worth (and a great deal more) with a cheque-book and a fountain pen. The sinister friend was leaning over his shoulder as if to jog his elbow.

"No. 4. 'Ere you see the sad result of all these goings on," said the chasseur morally, if vaguely. "The pore young man is condemned to several years."

"Does he break out again?" asked Wilton.

"Oh, lor', yes, sir! Don't you fret! he breaks out again all right. And 'ere you 'ave Revenge! A dark resolve 'as taken distinct form in the ruinged man's mind."

"Poor man, how long his hair has grown in prison," murmured Felicity sympathetically. "Who has he killed?"

"Why, the decoy!" said the chasseur, "and (if you ask me) serve 'er right!"

"How helpful all this is," said Bertie Wilton. "I feel really a better man since I've seen it. Seriously, I don't think I shall ever drink champagne of that colour now that we have seen the appalling results. It's a terrible lesson, isn't it, Lady Chetwode?"

They left the young man to his fate and followed the showman.

"'Ere we see Mary Manning, also Frederick George of same name, who, in singularly atrocious circumstances, killed a retired custom-'ouse officer."

"Why?" asked Vera inquisitively.

"They took against him, miss."

"I think I like the ladies best," said Bertie. "Who is this really terrible-looking woman?"

The showman hurried towards him, still repeating like a parrot what he wished to tell them about Manning.

"Yes, Manning was a railway guard, and 'is wife was highly connected with the best families—as lady's-maid. Ah, sir, you're looking at Cathering Webster. She was executed for the murder of another lady at Richmond. Jealousy was the reason of 'er motive for the crime."

"I say," said Felicity suddenly, to the guide, "don't you find all this terribly depressing? Do you hate all these creatures?"

"No, miss," said the showman smilingly, "I'm so used to them. I regard them almost like relations. 'Ere we 'ave a couple of French criminals. Their little game, if you please, was to decoy to their 'ome young ladies, and take away all their belongings, and everything else they possessed."

"Oh, how horrid of them!" said Vera indignantly.

The chasseur grinned. "Yes, they weren't nice people, miss."

"I think you would like Burke and Hare, sir," he said persuasively to Wilton. "Let me tell you a bit about them."

"He talks as if they were Marshall and Snelgrove," murmured Wilton.

"What was the reason of their motive?" asked Felicity.

"Strychnine, miss," readily answered the well-informed guide.

"I suppose people get awfully hardened, eventually, to this sort of thing? I'm not. I'm terribly nervous. I'm frightened out of my life. If it weren't for you, Lady Chetwode, I should faint, and be carried out by the emergency exit."

While the chasseur went into atrocious details, Bertie was so frightened that he had to hold Felicity's hand.... Vera felt quite out of it, and in the cold. When once they got into the Chamber of Horrors, nobody had taken any notice of her, nor even heard her remarks. Felicity and Bertie were evidently at once excited and amused. As she was standing alone pretending to look at some relics, the gallant chasseur came up and said, "There's an emergency exit 'ere, if you like to go out 'ere, madam."

"There seems to be nothing else," said Bertie. "As soon as you get into Madame Tussaud's the main object seems to be to drive you out. They keep on telling you how you can get out, and where you can get out, and when. How wonderful a fire would be here!"

"Do you think Sylvia got out by one of the emergency exits? I haven't seen her or Woodville for some time."

"Oh, can't you let them have tea in peace?" said Bertie.

"I'm sure they are not having tea. Sylvia hates Bath buns. But we'll go and look for them, and the children too."

Savile and Dolly were found on a red velvet sofa, sulking, while Sylvia and Woodville were still listening to the band.

Dolly complained that Savile had been "horrid to her about Charles II," and that he said she was too young to see the Horrors.

Sylvia and Woodville had simply forgotten all about the waxworks.

The band was so very good and had been playing musical-comedy airs so charmingly.

Wilton declared his nerves were completely shattered and he must have a rest cure in the form of being driven home by Felicity, he could not possibly go alone.

Vera had to fetch Mr. Ogilvie from the chambers. Savile, feeling very grown-up, drove Dolly back in a hansom.

"Oughtn't I to take you?" said Felicity to Sylvia.

"My dear Lady Chetwode, please remember that Woodville is staying in the same house as Miss Crofton, and it is perfectly absurd, and cruelty to the horses to drag them out of their way, when you live in Park Street, and I only a stone's-throw from you! Do be practical!" cried Wilton.

"Oh, all right."

"Won't you take Miss Sylvia home?" said Bertie.

"Oh, certainly," said Woodville, and they walked a little way towards the cab together.

* * * * *

Ever since Ridokanaki's departure, Woodville, having consented to keep their engagement secret until Sylvia was twenty-one, had sought, and thought he had found, a solution, which was at once balm to his conscience and support to his pride. Sylvia and he should make a compact that they should be to one another in reality as they appeared to her father, and to the world: friends only. They would neither seek nor avoid tete-a-tetes, and when alone would ignore, crush, and temporarily forget their tenderer relations. Sylvia had willingly, eagerly agreed. She knew, in fact, that these were the only terms on which he would remain there. And yet it was rather hard. She remembered (how clearly!) that during all these years he had kissed her on seven separate occasions only, and those occasions, after the first, were always, or nearly always, at her suggestion—because it was her birthday—or because it was Christmas Day—because she was unhappy—or because he was in good spirits, and similar reasons. How admirable they had seemed! How sophistically she argued!

All this, Woodville had explained, must now cease. He tried with some difficulty to point out to her that this innovation was because he loved her, not less, but more. He could not trust himself, and did not intend to try. She was so happy to think he had given up going to Athens that she was only too glad to consent to anything.

* * * * *

This was the first time they had been alone since the compact. She looked at him beamingly as they started on their drive.

"But I'm not going home," said Woodville.

"Aren't you? Where are you going?"

"To the Beafsteak Club. I'm dining with Mervyn, and we're not going to dress. I'll take you home first, if you like."

"No," said Sylvia. "I shall drive you nearly as far as the Club, drop you, and then go home by myself." She spoke decidedly, and gave the direction to the cabman. She had calculated that it would be a longer drive.

"It's twice as far!" she said with childish triumph. He looked at her trusting, adoring eyes, her smiling, longing lips, and looked out of the window. She put her hand on his arm, and he moved away quickly, almost shaking her off. With a smile she sat as far from him as possible. They began talking of all kinds of things—Sylvia talked most and most gaily—then, gradually, they fell into silence.

It was the end of a warm April day; they passed quickly, in the jingling cab, through the stale London streets, breathing the spring air that paradoxically suggested country walks, tender vows, sentiment and romance.... Was she hurt at his coldness? On the contrary, it seemed to exhilarate her. So close, yet so absolutely separated—not in mind, but by his will only—by that extraordinary moral sense of his, that was, to her, in her innocence, a dark mystery. Sylvia never forgot that drive. She felt one of those unforgettable moments of exalted passion, like the attainment of some great height that one may never reach again. She worshipped him.

As they reached the end of their drive, the personal magnetism was almost too strong for her—she nearly took his hand again, but resisted. The cab stopped.

"I should like to drive you back, Sylvia," he said, as he got out, "but—it's better not."

"All right!—Good-bye! I suppose I shall see you to-morrow morning."

"I hate leaving you here," he said.

"Never mind!" She smiled brightly, and waved her hand. The cab drove off, and he seemed to be swallowed up by the darkness of the street, looking, as she thought, very wonderful, very handsome.... Then, quite suddenly, she felt cold, quite lonely, almost forsaken....

For hours she could not shake off the horrible impression of his walking away from her into the darkness, leaving her alone.

After her conventional evening at home, she shed bitter tears on her pillow. Could he care for her really? She knew he did, and she suddenly suspected that it was a sort of pleasure, a kind of indulgence to him to play the ascetic when so near her, and at this fancy she felt a little momentary resentment. But as soon as she saw him again, a word or a smile was sunshine and life to her. She wanted so little, and she was again her happy and gentle self.... At least, she could see him—while, if he had gone to Athens.... Surely they would not have to wait a year? No—Savile would find out some splendid arrangement that would make it all right. She loved Woodville too much not to be hopeful; he cared too much for her not to feel, almost, despair. The conditions of their present existence were far harder for him, though she never knew it, and did not dream how much she—not he—was exacting.



CHAPTER XVI

A GOLDEN DAY

Woodville was sitting in the library, supposed to be digging up old Bluebooks for Sir James, but, instead, he found himself lingering over a curious book of poems with a white cover and a black mask on the outside. He read (and sighed):

Dear, were you mine for one full hour, A lifetime, an hour, that is all I ask. Dear, like a thing of lace, or a flower Before the end would you drop your mask?

Dear, days and hours are not for me— I may not know you, nor forgive, For you are like the distant sea, And I upon the hills must live.

"This," he said to himself, "is rot for me! It isn't a good poem,—and if it were a good poem (it has some good qualities) it's idiotic for me to read poetry. What is the matter with me?" He put down all the books, and went and looked at himself in the mirror. He saw a face rather paler, more worn than some weeks ago.

For the last few nights Woodville had suffered from insomnia—a trouble at which he used to scoff and smile, firmly believing, until it had been his own experience, that it was affectation. The second day that he had gone to look out of the window at about five o'clock in the morning, feeling that curious lucid clearness of brain, almost a kind of second-sight, sometimes produced by unwonted sleeplessness, he still thought that people made much too much fuss about a restless night or two.

"Suppose a fellow couldn't sleep for a time! Well, he can read, or work. It was nothing." But, about eleven in the morning the exaltation of the wakefulness had gone off, and he felt stupid and depressed. He suddenly began to feel anxious about himself. Of course, it was all Sylvia! This life, seeing her more or less all day, under the same roof, pretending to be only friends, without any sort of vent, any expression, verbal or otherwise, for his sentiment, was impossible! It was unbearable! He ought to have gone to Athens.... Suddenly Sylvia came into the room. She looked the picture of freshness and happiness. She had come to fetch a book, she said. But she lingered a moment, to ask Woodville if he liked her new dress. It was a Paris marvel of simplicity in pale grey, and neither disguised nor over-emphasised the lines of her exquisite figure.

"Yes, I think it's all right," said Woodville.

"All right!" she exclaimed indignantly. "Don't you see how it fits? Why, it's simply wonderful! How heartless you are!" There was just a tinge of coquetry in her manner, which was rather unwonted. "You're not looking very well to-day," she said, looking sympathetically at him.

"I'm very well. I'm always all right."

"Are you angry with me, Frank? What's the matter? What's that you're reading?" She snatched the book of poems away from him, read the poem and blushed with pleasure.

"Yes! You see that's what I'm reduced to!" he said.

"Frank, I don't think you go out enough. Look, what a lovely day it is!"

"Where do you propose I should go? To the theatre to-night? I hate theatres." He spoke irritably.

"No," she said in a low, soft voice; "let's break the compact, just for once—just for once!" She was instinctively taking advantage of a kind of weakness he showed this morning for the first time—due to his nervous fatigue—the weariness of long self-repression.

"Certainly not!" he answered, with no conviction whatever. "Whose birthday is it? It isn't Christmas Day—it isn't Midsummer Day. No! I don't see any excuse for doing it."

"Yes, there's a reason! It will be Sexagesima Sunday next week!"

"So it will!"

"Ah, you admit that! Well, let's go and have lunch at Richmond—or somewhere like that!"

"My poor dear child, what's the matter! You're not sane.... Besides, it's impossible," said Woodville, hesitating, in a hopeful voice.

"It isn't impossible. Papa's gone out for the whole day. Leave it to me! I'll arrange it. If the worst came to the worst, I could tell papa that I longed for a little air and made you take me down to Richmond! Why! you know he wouldn't mind. He would see nothing in it. We'd be back before five."

Woodville looked tempted.

"Besides, there would be nothing in it," added Sylvia softly.

He took her hand. "Temptress!" he said. "Of course there wouldn't be any earthly harm in it," he said doubtfully.

"Then we're going to do it!"

"Are we, Eve?"

"Oh, Frank!" she exclaimed passionately, "it's too absurd, too unnatural! Why shouldn't we have a moment's happiness? Aren't we going to be married next year?"

"Probably, if I live through this one."

She was smiling, for she knew she had won. "Yes, you'll live through it all right—if you only have a little fresh air and change of scene now and then!"

"I couldn't do it, Sylvia!—How should we go?"

"Drive in a hansom?"

"No, I'll meet you at the Underground Railway at Earl's Court."

"When?" she asked.

"In twenty minutes."

"All right. We'll have a holiday! Everybody has a holiday sometimes! It's a heavenly day! We will go and walk in Richmond Park and forget all about the compact worries till we come back at tea-time. Papa won't, then, be back, and no one will ever know anything about it!" She clapped her hands. He smiled at her.

"It's settled," he said.

As she went out of the door, she murmured, "In twenty minutes, then," and vanished, radiant.

When she had gone, he found all trace of his usual scruples had inexplicably disappeared. It was natural, and (he said to himself) it was right! What use was this continual sacrifice of the precious hours and days of their youth—for an Idea? Besides, she looked so lovely. A man must be a stone to refuse such a delightful suggestion, or a fool. He was neither. The reaction was inevitable, and in half an hour they were in the train together, in the highest spirits, all cares thrown aside, in the hope of the spring, of sunlight, fresh air, and above all, being together alone, free, for several hours. It seemed like a dream, a dream with the added substantial tangible joy of being real.



CHAPTER XVII

SAVILE TAKES A LINE

"Hallo, Savile!" said Felicity, who was putting the last touch to her veil in front of the mirror. "Nice boy! You're just what I wanted. Come out with me!"

It was about twelve o'clock, a lovely warm morning. The first hum of the season was just beginning, like the big orchestra of London tuning up. There seemed a sort of suppressed excitement in the air. People of average spirits appeared unusually happy; the very highly strung seemed just a little wild; their eyes dancing, their tread lighter, and laughs were heard on the smallest provocation. Certainly the vision that met Felicity in the mirror was exhilarating enough. Dressed in the softest of blues, with a large brown hat on her golden hair, she looked like a pastel—a combination of the vagueness, remoteness, and delicacy of a Whistler with the concrete piquancy of a sketch in L'Art et La Mode.

Savile, however, showed none of the intoxicating effect of a gay London morning. He seemed more serious, more self-controlled, more correct even than usual.

"Where's Chetwode?" he asked.

"Oh, he's just going out, dear, I think. Do you want him? Shall I ring?"

"No; I shouldn't ring. What's the point of that except to delay my seeing him? No; I want to see him, so I'll go and look for him, and perhaps go out with him. I suppose you're driving, and don't need me?"

"Need you? Oh no, darling; not exactly. Only I thought it would be fun to go out and look at the people in the Row—and laugh at them. Besides, I always drive down Piccadilly and Bond Street when I have a new hat, to find out whether it suits me. It's such fun. I can always tell."

"Frightfully comic, no doubt, but I've got something more important to think about this morning."

"What a bad temper you're in, Savile! Anything wrong, darling?"

"Just like a girl!" said Savile. "I never yet showed any woman I had something to do that she didn't say I was in a bad temper."

Felicity laughed. He went to the door and added—

"Oh, by the way, don't trouble to give my love to Wilton."

She made a rush for him, and he ran out of the room.

He found Lord Chetwode, as usual, in the green library, not reading the newspapers, and reposefully smoking. Savile accepted a cigarette and sat down.

"Thought you were going out?" said Savile.

"Yes, so did I. But why go out? It's all right here. Besides, I am going out. No hurry."

"Good," said Savile, and they smoked in silence.

"You're not stopping in town long, are you?" said Savile.

"No, old boy. Season's beginning. I hate London. I'm going week-ending next Saturday."

"And you won't come back?"

"I shall probably stop ten days."

"I've got something to say to you," said Savile.

Lord Chetwode smiled encouragingly.

"Fire away!"

"There's something I want particularly to ask you."

There was a pause. Such a remark as this from any one but Savile would have alarmed Chetwode, suggesting something in the nature of a scene, but he felt pretty safe with his brother-in-law of sixteen. He wondered what on earth the boy wanted, and felt only good-humouredly amused. Savile had chosen his words before he came, and had that rash longing we all feel when we have made out a verbal programme, to make the suitable remark before the occasion arises.

"We're both men of the world," began Savile.

"Are we, though?" said Chetwode. "Please spare me this irony! You're a man of the world all right, I know. I don't pretend to be."

"May as well come to the point," said Savile. "You know Woodville, don't you?"

"Woodville? Rather. Capital chap. What's wrong with him?"

"There's nothing wrong with him," said Savile, "but I want to get him something to do."

"Really? Doesn't he like being with you and Sir James and Sylvia, and all that?"

"Yes, he likes it all right. But he isn't much with Sylvia and all that. He'd like to be more. So would she—a good deal more. That's the point."

Chetwode instantly recollected the incident in the Park. He said without turning a hair, "Quite so. Most natural, I'm sure——" and then thought a moment. Savile was silent.

"What Woodville needs," said Chetwode, lighting another cigarette, "is, of course, less of you and Sir James, and a great deal more of Sylvia; and he can't very well marry her while he's her father's secretary. Though—by Jove!—I don't see why not!"

"What rot!" said Savile.

"Yes, you're right, Savile. It's true Sir James wouldn't give him a minute's time for anything. Well, you want me to get him something to do then?"

"Now, look here, Chetwode, don't play the fool about this. Here's a chap, considered a brilliant man at Oxford; in every way a thoroughly good sort, and a gentleman, who, if it weren't for circumstances, would have been called a good match."

"If it weren't for circumstances, anybody would be called a good match," said Chetwode casually.

"What sort of thing do you think you can get him?" asked Savile, "before Saturday?"

"Before Saturday? Well, what sort of thing does he want before Saturday?"

"Oh, something political. Or some post—or something diplomatic."

"You're pleased to be vague," said Chetwode, bowing.

"Oh, all right! Then you can't do it?" Savile stood up.

"Please, Savile, no violence! Take another cigarette. Of course, the idea is that I must talk to somebody. Perhaps Teignmouth——"

"Put the whole thing before him," said Savile.

"The beastly part is no one will stand being talked to about things, and everybody hates having the whole matter put before them—unless it's gossip. Then, by Jove, won't they go into details!"

Savile controlled his feelings, and said, "Well, here's a romantic story, a lovely girl—young man disinherited——"

Chetwode visibly shrank from the explicitness.

"All right, old boy. Look here, I see your point—I give you my word I'll try."

Savile, terrified at the thought that he might have been a bore, got up again and held out his hand.

"When will you let me know?"

"As soon as I've seen anybody or done anything that seems to help at all.... Let's see, what's your telephone number?"

"I haven't got any telephone number," said Savile, "at least, not on this subject. Won't kill you to wire and let me know when I can see you again."

"Good! that's the idea. And look here, Savile, you think I am not going to trouble, I can see that. But you happen to be wrong. I'll fix it up all right."

"I thought you would," said Savile.

"And we won't talk it over, don't you know, to—a—women or anything. Eh?"

"Catch me," said Savile.

"Well, I must go out now," said Chetwode. "Can I drop you?"

"Think I'll walk," said Savile.

They shook hands most cordially. Chetwode went out smiling to himself, and strolled towards the Club.



CHAPTER XVIII

FELICITY'S ENGAGEMENTS

"Is Lady Chetwode at home?"

Before Greenstock, who seemed about to give a negative answer, could reply, Wilton went on.

"Oh yes, she must be at home; please ask her to read this note, and send me down a verbal answer immediately."

"Very well, sir."

"I won't get out, Greenstock. I'll just wait in the motor till I get an answer."

"Yes, sir."

Wilton turned to the chauffeur and said, "How do you think she's looking to-day, Pearce?"

The motor had recently been painted green, because Felicity had said it was too compromising to drive with Wilton in a scarlet one.

"Never better, sir," said the chauffeur.

"You know I was right, Pearce. Green suits her much better than scarlet. In fact, I rather doubt whether you could point me out a case in which I am ever wrong, Pearce. With regard to the motor, I mean, of course."

"Oh no, sir."

"How do you mean 'Oh no'? Do you mean I'm ever wrong then?"

"Oh no, sir."

They both looked with suppressed pride at the automobile which was snorting rather impatiently under these personal remarks.

Greenstock appeared.

"Will you step in, sir?"

At the summons Wilton sprang out and ran quickly up into the drawing-room.

It was a beautiful room with hardly anything in it; a large, high, empty room in pure First Empire style. A small yellow sofa with gilded claws, and narrow bolster cushions, was near the fireplace; a light blue curved settee, with animals' heads, was in the middle of the room. There was a highly polished parquet floor with no carpet, a magnificent chandelier, and the curtains were held up by elaborately carved and gilded cornices with warlike ornaments.

Bertie wandered round the room, tried, vainly, to see himself in the narrow looking-glass, which was placed too high, and admired the refreshing absence of fat cushions, unnecessary draperies, photographs, and vases of flowers. On a small console-table was one immense basket of mauve orchids. Bertie was looking at this with some curiosity, not unmixed with annoyance, when Felicity came into the room.

"How marvellous of you!" he exclaimed. "Again I'm thunderstruck at your having exactly the right thing to wear, to come down early in the morning to see a too persistent friend!" He looked at her dress. "Pale green—how well it suits you; and how wonderful of you to be so empireish—at this hour!"

"What do you want, Bertie?" said Felicity, smiling, but impatiently.

"Oh, please don't be so definite! and I thought you knew!"

"Please don't be so imbecile; I don't want to know."

They both sat down, and she held out the letter.

"I didn't read all this," she said; "but you seem to have given me a programme of your engagements for to-day. I can't think why."

"Because I want to know yours. To come to the point," said Wilton. "If I go to the Ogilvies', will you be there?"

"Well, of course! As if Vera could have a musical afternoon without me!"

"Good, that's settled. And what are you doing to-night?"

"Well, which do you advise?" she said. "The Creepers'? Or Jasmyn Vere's party?"

"If I might advise, do go there. His things are really rather jolly. Is Chetwode coming?"

"No, Chetwode's struck. He won't go to anything more. He's going away on Saturday for the week end, so I shall stop at home with him to-morrow. To-night I'll go to Jasmyn Vere's. What time does one get there?"

"One gets there a little before you do, for the pleasure of the anxiety and agonising suspense of dreading you won't come and knowing you will." He got up. "If you would turn up at half-past ten—before the crush—we could sort of sit out, and laugh at the people."

"Perhaps I shall," said Felicity.

"Lady Chetwode, you are as good as you are beautiful."

"Oh, don't carry on like that, Bertie! I suppose it's through your having gone to that ball as Louis XIX; every now and then you seem to think you're in the last century."

"But when I'm here, I know I'm in the next," and he took his leave in the highest spirits.

* * * * *

At lunch, "Chetwode," said Felicity, "I shall be at Vera's till seven. They're going to have the wonderful new child harpist. He looks like a sort of cherub, with golden hair."

"Little beast," said Chetwode, "he ought to be in bed."

"Oh, darling, not at four in the afternoon! And what about to-night? I suppose we dine together at home? and then I'm going to Jasmyn Vere's, one of his musical parties."

"Oh, yes."

"Chetwode dear, you know the horses will be out all the afternoon. I thought I'd have the carriage just to take me to the party and come home in a cab—it's only round the corner. Is there any off-chance of your coming to fetch me? Oh do! You really might!"

"No," said Chetwode. He added, "No doubt Wilton will see you home."

She looked up quickly. Was there a tone of irony in his voice? Could he be a shade jealous? How delightful!

"Why, I can come home alone," she said. "It's not sure that Bertie and I will both want to leave at the same time."

"But I should think it's on the cards," said Chetwode, rather coldly.

"No use bothering you to come?"

"None at all. Who does the hostess at Jasmyn's parties?"

"Oh, Bertie's mother, Lady Nora Wilton, you know."

"I see."

"Did you think," said Felicity, laughing, "that it would be Agatha, Mrs. Wilkinson?"

"Oh—you mean the woman who's so fond of horses. Why, is she a friend of Vere's?"

"Some people say so, of course I don't know."

"I always see her," said Chetwode, "at races, with Bobby Henderson."

"Oh yes," said Felicity, "but that's only intellectual sympathy! I can't see the point of Bobby Henderson, can you? Vera likes him so much too."

"There is no point about him. He's just the usual sporting, stupid guardsman."

Felicity lit her husband's cigarette and left him.

* * * * *

Her dress this afternoon had been very carefully thought out to contrast with Vera's.

Vera was dressed in dull flame colour, becoming to her white skin and black hair. Felicity was in black and white. She wore a white hat, with a black velvet bow, and one enormous gardenia. It was impossible not to be pleased at Bertie's suppressed enthusiasm when she arrived. He was so fastidious about clothes, and she knew she was a real success to-day.

"Oh, Felicity, isn't it too horrible? The chief person can't come!" Vera was fluttering a telegram and evidently trying not to cry. "The great tenor, you know." She turned to Wilton. "Isn't it cruel at the last minute?"

"Oh, don't worry, darling. Most likely no one will notice it—you see you kept it dark as a surprise, luckily," said Felicity.

"And it is a surprise—to me!" said Vera.

"Oh, isn't the little harpy infant phenomenon coming?" asked Felicity.

"Oh yes, that's all right; he's here now, playing draughts with his mother in my room to prevent him getting nervous; and eating bread and jam. Thank goodness for that!"

"Oh, what sort of jam?" asked Wilton eagerly. "Pray don't keep it from me! Raspberry, greengage—please tell me, Mrs. Ogilvie!"

"Why, what can it matter?"

"It matters enormously."

"One would think you were a reporter," said Felicity.

"I'm not. I'm only a psychologist."

"Same thing," said Felicity.

"Well, anyhow, it's marmalade—so there!" said Vera.

"Oh, how delightful," exclaimed Wilton; "to match his hair, of course. Of course it's his mother's idea though. What a good mother she must be!"

"Oh, here he is, at last. Where are his wings?"

The boy, with his white suit and golden hair and small harp, looked, literally, angelic. There was a murmur of admiration.

"There oughtn't to be a dry eye in the room when he plays Schumann," said Felicity; "and fancy, Savile wouldn't come because he said he would long to kick him, and he was afraid Vera wouldn't like it."

"I rather agree with Vera there," said Bertie.

"No one would like, at one's musical party, to have one's artists kicked!"

"Everything is all right," said Felicity, as she smiled and bowed to some one.

"Why is everything all right? You gave one of your special smiles just now! Who was it?"

"De Valdez. It's rather jolly of him to have come here to-day. He was expected at the Spanish Embassy."

"Probably going on afterwards."

"Possibly not," said Felicity.

"I admit I admire De Valdez very much," said Wilton. "Caring for nothing on earth but music and philosophy, and the kindest-hearted man in the world, he has been literally hounded into society by admiring women, and all the fuss about him hasn't spoilt him a bit; he would keep a royal party waiting for luncheon while he ran down to Bedford Park to spend the day with an old friend."

"The point is," said Felicity calmly, "that he's a genius."

"Oh, is he? I don't know much about music," said Wilton rather jealously.

"I know you don't."

"The point is, that he's remarkably handsome," said Bertie.

"Now you're being disagreeable. Of course he's handsome, but that's not the point."

At this moment De Valdez joined them. Felicity took his arm and went down to tea.

The boy harpist created wildest enthusiasm; a little later De Valdez sang (after which nearly every husband present suggested it was time to go), and, on the whole, the afternoon was as great a success as these things ever are.

Quite late Bob Henderson arrived, full of tips—straight from the stable. Vera did not try to detain her lingering guests. Mr. Ogilvie never appeared on these occasions, but came home to dinner at eight, cross-questioned Vera, and did not listen to her answers in his usual amiable manner.

* * * * *

Jasmyn Vere was extremely anxious, as he always was, to have something a little out of the way for his party. He literally lived for society, and, in a minor degree, for Agatha. As he was a bachelor, and had devoted even more time and energy to knowing none of the wrong people than to knowing all the right ones, a party of his was looked upon as not a thing to miss, particularly as a decorous originality was always to be expected.

Lady Nora Wilton, a beauty of the early '80's, was a graceful and still pretty woman of forty-five; it was probably from her that Bertie had inherited his good looks and high spirits.

"What can we do just a little original?" Jasmyn had asked her.

"What sort of thing? You don't mean to be American and let all the people come dressed as children, or ask some wild animals to look in in the evening?"

Jasmyn threw up his hands in horror.

"My dear Lady Nora, don't make fun of me! No, some rather intelligent people are coming."

"Really? I thought your parties were always very smart!"

"There'll be some people who can talk, don't you know."

"What about?" said Lady Nora.

"Ah! that's the point! Now, I propose that when supper's on there shall be a special supper served at one table for ten in my little octagon room, and with the menu a subject for conversation with each item! It will, of course, not bore people, because, from the programme, they will see there is an ordinary supper-room too, and they can choose!"

"It will be a general conversation, remember; and people aren't very keen on that," said Lady Nora.

"Well, we shall see. So long as you don't disapprove (and one other lady to whom I shall speak of it). I think it's not a bad idea. I shall not have good music, Lady Nora. It isn't a concert—it's a conversazione."

"But you won't have bad music? I can't imagine anything bad in your house," said Lady Nora.

"No, but music that encourages talk. De Valdez once sang at my house—Everybody was there, and they all talked! He got up and said, in the middle of Although, that lovely song, 'Here are five hundred people who want to talk, and only one who wants to sing. The odds are not fair. I give in.' And nothing would induce him to go on. But as he remained and was most agreeable to every one, one could hardly call it the caprice of a spoilt artist. Indeed, I think he was quite right."

Lady Nora sighed. "But how uncomfortable! Well, then, you'd better have the Blue Hungarians and the Red ones too. Those who don't like the one can listen to the other."

He laughed and said, "Bertie's the image of his mother. I shall have a first-rate band and second-rate music."

"Agatha, Mrs. Wilkinson," was delighted at all the plans but said she simply must go to supper with Bobby Henderson, as it would be too marked to be escorted by the host.

As a matter of fact, nothing Agatha did was ever noticed, because she never did anything that was not extraordinary.

* * * * *

"Do I look all right, Chetwode?"

"Quite unnecessarily so," said Chetwode, and he gave her a look, which she recognised as the greatest compliment she ever received.

Her eyes brightened and she blushed.

"And who," said Chetwode, "may I ask, put it into your head to wear an entirely gold dress with your golden hair?"

She hesitated half a second.

"Oh! not the dressmaker? and it wasn't your own idea? I can only think of one other person. Do congratulate Wilton from me on his success as a designer."

"Chetwode! if I did ask him to design it, it was so that you should be pleased with the dress."

He smiled. "Quite so. And I am."

"Oh, won't you come and fetch me?"

"It's quite impossible. How late shall you stay?"

"I'll come back just when you like."

"Oh, enjoy yourself, dear. I'm going to stop at home."

He seemed to have regained the equanimity that for a moment he seemed to have lost.

Driving along, Felicity thought, "Perhaps if Chetwode could be a shade jealous of Bertie, it might be a good thing. Still, that sort of thing is so commonplace. We oughtn't to have to descend to it."

Surely Chetwode, who never went by the opinion of others, who absolutely judged for himself, and for whom general success by no means raised the value of his choice, could not care a shade more for his wife because she was admired by Wilton, and would care less for her if he did not think her incapable of admiring any one but himself.

"Are any of those eternal vulgar theories about love really ever true?" thought Felicity. Then wasn't Chetwode superior? Of course he was. That was why she loved him, and in wishing him to be an ordinary jealous man, she was wishing him to descend. However, when "Faute des roses" greeted her (exquisitely played by the Hungarians), and she was sitting in a bower of roses in her gold dress, with her respectfully worshipping and delightfully amusing Bertie, Felicity forgot her anxiety and thoroughly enjoyed herself. She was made much of, and admired; the homage was intoxicating, she was young, and she imprudently gave every one present the impression that she was flirting desperately with Bertie Wilton.



CHAPTER XIX

THE VELVET CASE

Savile, remembering that Chetwode had told him he was going away for 'a week end for ten days', and that Felicity had said he was going away for three days, went to see his sister. He had not received the promised wire from Chetwode, but instead a cordial invitation to lunch at the Savoy, in the course of which he told Savile that the whole thing had been laid before Teignmouth; that Teignmouth was slow but sure; that he was frightfully keen on arranging it, but said it can't be done in three days. Savile forbore to press the matter, and said that he, of course, disliked going back to school under the present circumstances; but if he could rely on Chetwode and Teignmouth he would only worry two more people. The spirit of emulation that Savile hoped to rouse in his brother-in-law was not observable. But Savile knew him to be a man of his word, and really felt certain of Teignmouth's influence—he had Aunt William and Jasmyn Vere up his sleeve. Aunt William was very rich and very interested in politics, being an ardent member of the Primrose League; Jasmyn Vere was so frightfully good-natured, and so anxious to set people at their ease, that if Savile appeared with a shy request (he smiled to himself as he thought of his being shy of old Jasmyn!) he would probably grant the request if he could. In fact, having seen in the World a paragraph speaking of Jasmyn as "one of the leaders of society, the brilliancy of whose entertainments was only equalled by their delightful originality" had decided Savile on the question.

"A chap," he said to himself, "who has a room arranged on purpose for bright conversation at supper, with the subjects on the menu, and spends thousands on orchids and gardenias for his parties, and admires Mrs. Wilkinson, and yet is at large, must have some peculiar power! I should have thought he'd got nothing in him; but he's got such a tremendous lot on him and around him, I suppose it does instead."

Thus Savile, lost in these thoughts, rang rather judicially at the house in Park Street that no ordinary house-agent could speak of without emotion as a noble mansion; others, more genuinely enthusiastic still, called it, with self-restraint, a commodious residence.

In the little blue-striped room that opened out of her bedroom he found Felicity in tears and a tea-gown. He remembered that day he had found Sylvia crying, and congratulated himself; first, that he was not a girl, secondly, that he and not another man had seen them thus grieving.

Felicity looked up and said, "Oh, Savile, you're just the person I want—an appalling thing has happened."

Savile sat down, lit a cigarette, and offered one to her, which she accepted.

Her manner was rather like that of a young man who, though he dislikes it, has decided to confide in a friend.

"Look here," she said, "I've had a wire from Chetwode to say he's going to stay on at the Tregellys till next week."

"Well, what of that? That can't be all, surely?"

"You're right, it's not. I was looking in one of his innumerable carved chests for some novels, when I found a locked velvet case." She stopped a minute. He was silent.

"I found a key that fitted it," she went on.

"Did you, though?" said Savile.

"In it I found a lovely porcelain picture of a woman. Blanche Tregelly was written on the back. Where he's staying, you know. I've never seen her. I vaguely knew Tregelly was more or less married: he was at Oxford with Chetwode; but as they live so far away I've never got to know them."

"Don't see your point," said Savile.

"Why has he got that picture, and is staying on?"

"Tregelly," said Savile, "probably gave it to Chetwode to get something done to it—get it framed or something."

"Chetwode's not a framemaker! Why is he staying on?"

"Because he's having a good time."

"You're shirking the whole thing. The point is that when he stays away so long, it isn't only racing."

"Of course not. At the Tregellys, it's bridge."

"Yes—and Mrs. Tregelly."

Angry tears again filled her eyes, but she brushed them away.

"You know Chetwode does admire beauty," she said.

Savile looked at the picture. "But only the very most beautiful. I've never yet seen him admire anything second-rate. Have you?"

She beamed and said, "Savile, is she second-rate?"

"Perhaps not, on porcelain."

"Savile, you know that if Chetwode likes her, she's not only pretty, but very charming. In fact, I'm certain Blanche is perfectly delightful! Pretending to oneself that one's rival is hideous and vulgar is a bit too cheap. It doesn't console me."

"You're worse than an ordinary woman, Felicity," said Savile, with a laugh. "What do you propose to do? Go and consult George Lewis?"

"You're worse than an ordinary boy. I'm consulting you."

"No, you're not. You're asking my opinion. Chetwode is very——" He paused. "I've never seen him look at any other woman."

"Let's face facts, dear," said Felicity. "It's not what we've seen, of course."

"What have you decided to do?" said Savile. "To write and tell him you've found the photograph?"

"Yes."

"I thought you wanted him to come home."

"Don't you?"

"Yes, rather!" said Savile. "And I don't think he would come home if he thought there was going to be a row of any kind. Lots of people love rows. He doesn't."

She looked rather at a loss, and then said, "Well, what would you do if you were in my place?"

He waited a minute and then said: "Don't you always write to him, when he's away, as if you were enjoying yourself?"

"Yes."

"Doesn't he ever think that there's a good deal of Wilton one—way or another?"

"I think he has," she said, brightening up a little.

"Well, for heaven's sake don't try that with Chetwode! The more he was riled, the more he'd say to himself, 'Of course she's enjoying herself. There's no harm in it. No hurry to go back.'"

"Chetwode," said Felicity, "is one of those very English men who would never own they're jealous unless things came to extremities, which, of course, naturally, they never would."

"Look here, you're making a fool of yourself," said Savile. "You're making yourself miserable over nothing at all." He stood up. "Don't do anything till after lunch, perhaps not till this evening. You've just had a bit of a shock. You'll find you're wrong. Telephone when you want me."

He kissed her and went away.

Felicity closed the velvet case. She then dressed very beautifully to go out, but when it came to putting on her hat she couldn't. It requires fairly good spirits to put on a modern hat and veil. She thought she would go downstairs and think. Then she saw Bertie's green motor at the door. She hesitated a moment about letting him come in; then she thought that she would tell him about it, and according to how he behaved, would test him once for all. If he didn't do exactly the right thing, she would never see him again.

As Wilton came in, all the fluent conversation and compliments, the gossip and jokes he had been saving up to tell her, died away on his lips. He saw she had been crying. He sat down further away than usual, and said—

"Don't tell me if you'd rather not. I'll go away, shall I? I'm quite sure you're not in the mood for me."

She said, "No, don't go."

There was a moment's silence.

"What was the party like last night at the Harpers?" she then asked.

"I haven't the slightest idea," he answered.

"But you must have been there? I didn't tell you I'd changed my mind about going. I meant to, and then at the last minute something rather dreadful happened, and I stayed at home."

"Yes, I'm almost sure I was there," said Wilton thoughtfully. "I think I must have gone if I expected to see you. But I don't remember anything about it. I must look in the Morning Post and see if I'm in the list of guests. I'm afraid you think I'm not the sort of friend to tell anything serious to, but really, Lady Chetwode, you're wrong there. If there was anything on earth that I could do——"

"It's something so annoying, so horrid," she said. Her voice was trembling.

"Tell me."

He looked so genuinely unhappy for her sake that, not being of the disposition that conceals its sorrows from the sympathetic, Felicity of course told him all about it.

He waited a minute, pale with interest, and then said—

"I appreciate your telling me this. But, of course, the whole trouble is entirely imaginary. Oh, I know that doesn't make it any better for the moment; but it's more evanescent."

"Imaginary? Why do you think that?"

"Well, the one thing that I pride myself on just the least little bit is an instinct—an instinct for temperament. I would undertake to swear that Chetwode is one of those exceptional people who only love one woman in their lives. He would never think of looking at any one except you. Of course, I know there are many men who don't really appreciate the most perfect woman if she happens to belong to them. But Chetwode isn't like that. He hasn't a fickle nature; he doesn't seek for variety and novelty. What you suppose is impossible to him. Not only now, but it always will be."

"You may be quite right about his temperament, Bertie. I dare say you are. But how do you account for the picture?"

"I don't. But there is an explanation. I don't pretend to be one of those wonderful thought-readers who, in some public calamity, see in the crystal everything they've read in the papers. You'll soon find out about it. It's some mistake."

She held out the picture to him.

"But she's very pretty, Bertie."

Wilton examined the picture.

"A very dull, harmless, insipid style of prettiness," he said consolingly. "The kind of face that once seen is never remembered, as has been so well said of the characteristic British face. This woman is devoted to her husband; goes to church every Sunday, takes great interest in parish work, adores her children——"

"How many has she?"

He looked at the picture again.

"From her expression, I should say two—two boys; and I'm quite sure she's very much more interested in their reports and their colds, their sins and their talents, than in—for instance—Chetwode, or in anything of the kind you seem to suggest."

"She never comes to London," said Felicity. "They live nearly all the year round at their country place."

"Of course she doesn't come to London. Why should she? She has a domestic face. Her home is her world. If she ever does come to town, she wears a short serge skirt and a blouse with tight sleeves—because she doesn't know they're coming in again—and takes one of the boys to the dentist."

"And you can see all that in the porcelain picture?" said Felicity, laughing.

"More. Far more. And all in your favour."

"But I think you're rather prejudiced, Bertie. You're such a convinced Londoner yourself that you think every one who lives in the country must be a paragon of virtue, just as people who live in the country suppose their London friends to be given up to wickedness and frivolity. Lots of people have a very good time in the country."

"No one knows that better than I do. I assure you I'm not a bit prejudiced. I quite believe and realise that people can have a good time anywhere. Why, even in provincial towns—what was that case at Bradford, that astonished everybody so much? However, my point is, that Mrs. Tregelly doesn't."

"Why? I think she looks very happy," said Felicity.

"Yes. Exactly. Happy, but perfectly calm. A woman placed as she is could not possibly look as calm as that if she had a secret purple romance with Chetwode, or with any other man. It just shows—if I may say so—how blind Love is. If this had happened to anybody else, you would be the first to see, on the face of it, that anything like a flirtation between the Lady of the Velvet Case and your husband is one of those hopeless impossibilities that only the wildly imaginative and charming people who have no relation to real life, like yourself, could possibly conceive."

Felicity seemed comforted.

"You think it utterly impossible?"

"Oh, I go further than that. I think it highly improbable. Can you see," continued Wilton, "this gentle, harmless creature, a woman capable of having her portrait painted on porcelain, from a photograph, and framed in crimson velvet, who never in her life had a secret except when she concealed from her husband her real reason for sending the housemaid away in order to give the girl another chance by giving her a good character—can you see her, I say, privately slipping this enormous case into Chetwode's small and reluctant white hand just as she was going to church, and saying, 'Keep it for my sake'?"

"You make the whole thing so ridiculous, Bertie, I begin to think you're right, but still it's very extraordinary that he did have it."

"Our not knowing the reason is not nearly so extraordinary as your explanation."

"But I can't wait for the real explanation. Suspense is torture," she said.

"But delightful—or there'd be no gambling in the world. Still, if you dislike it, why not telegraph?" Wilton suggested.

"Because, you see, if there's nothing in it, I should appear so utterly absurd. And if there was, is it likely that Chetwode would wire and say so?"

"Scarcely. You have sparks of real genius, Lady Chetwode, I must say! I never thought of that! The best way would be to make him come back as quickly as possible. Of course, he'd return if you were ill?"

"Rather. Besides, I am. Very."

"So you are. Then write to that effect."

"I think I will, but not yet." She remembered Savile's advice to wait till after dinner.

"May I ask," inquired Wilton, "if you're delaying in order to confide in women? This, I know, seems very impertinent of me, but I can't help advising you not. You'd be so sorry afterwards! When you go and tell Vera that it is all right after all, however pleased she is, there'll always be an uncomfortable feeling on your side that perhaps she doesn't quite believe you—that she thinks you're making the best of it. And Miss Sylvia will be so gloriously indignant and jealous for you that she won't do you any good."

"I know, Bertie. You are absolutely right. But I never do confide in women—only in men whom I can trust. Like you—and Savile."

"Thank you. And how right you are! Then if you're going to delay any action in the matter and put the picture aside, what are you going to do to-day?"

"I half promised Vera to meet her marvellous new palmist, Madame Zero, at her house this afternoon."

She took Vera's note out of a long grey envelope sealed with an Egyptian seal.

"It seems she's too wonderful. Only one or two people are going."

"Mrs. Ogilvie kindly asked me," said Bertie modestly. "Of course you'll go and hear what the soothsayer has to say about the velvet case?"

"Perhaps, but I'm not sure.... I feel restless.... I must say, it does seem unlikely there could be much harm in a woman who has her portrait painted in porcelain from a photograph—by the young lady at the photographer's, I dare say, who makes the appointments and touches up the negatives. And yet—perhaps that very innocence—that sweet, blank expression—even the tight sleeves and the two boys may make her all the more attractive!"

Wilton got up.

"Good-bye," he said. "You're perverse. It's no use, I see, telling you not to worry; but please try to realise there's no occasion."

"Wouldn't you say just the same if you thought there had been occasion?" she persisted.

"Absolutely. But that doesn't prove I'm not sincere now."

He pressed her hand with a look that he hoped conveyed the highest respect, the tenderest sympathy, a deep, though carefully suppressed passion, and a longing to administer some refined and courteous consolation, and went away.

Wilton was only twenty-five, so, naturally, as soon as he got home, he tried the expression in the mirror, and was horribly disappointed in it.

"I must have looked as if I'd suddenly got an awful twinge of neuralgia," he said to himself.

"It shows how careful one ought to be. Confound it!"

* * * * *

Felicity, however, was not troubling herself about Wilton or his expressive looks. The complicated glance, which he feared was a failure, had not even been seen by her. What he had said cheered her for the moment, and au fond, at the back of her brain, with her real sound common sense, she did not actually believe in the cause of her grief. But passion and jealousy, unfortunately, are not governed by sound common sense; they work in circles. Argument and reasoning have but a temporary effect on them; they come back to the point at which they started.

As she looked at Mrs. Tregelly's picture, the feverish chills of suspicion again took possession of her. She told herself repeatedly that she had only been married a year, that Chetwode was in love with her, and had always seemed cold to other women. But he was continually away. He was charming and attractive. Perhaps the other women he met thought she lived for amusement and was utterly neglectful of him. She was afraid she had been imprudent in being seen so much with Wilton, but Chetwode never seemed, really, to mind. He trusted her as she deserved, and as she ought to trust him. Considering the terms that they were on—far more like lovers than husband and wife—it would be real treachery on his part. He was incapable of treachery. She would trust him.

Then the image of Chetwode making love to that pretty woman abruptly forced itself on her mental vision in spite of all reasoning, like a sudden violent physical pain, and she burst into tears.

* * * * *

She controlled them as soon as possible, for she strongly dissented from the old-fashioned idea that a good cry was consoling. On the contrary, she thought that the headache and unbecoming traces of emotion that followed tears had a particularly depressing effect, and left one with nerves. She resolved to dismiss the subject for the moment, anyhow, and to go to Vera's in the afternoon to meet Madame Zero and two or three of Vera's most favoured and intimate friends.



CHAPTER XX

ZERO, THE SOOTHSAYER

Mrs. Ogilvie looked more Egyptian than ever to-day. She always dressed for her parts; and as a believer in the Unseen, she felt it right, in honour of the sibyl, to wear her hair very low, with some green pins in it, long earrings, and a flowing gown, with Japanese sleeves.

"Vera, you're almost in fancy dress," said Felicity, as she arrived. "It's very becoming; but why?"

"Am I, dear? Well, it's as a sort of compliment to this wonderful girl. I've been draping the little boudoir with gold embroideries—and burning joss-sticks, too (though they give me a headache). I thought it would bring out her gift—make her feel more at home, you know."

"Good gracious, is she an Algerian or an Indian or anything?"

"Oh dear no, darling. Of course not. She's a Highlander, that's all. It runs in her family. To know things that haven't happened, I mean."

"But that will happen?"

"I hope so, I'm sure. She's in there," said Vera, pointing to a beaded curtain, that concealed the small drawing-room. "She's gazing into the crystal for Bob Henderson. You shall go next, darling."

"I should have imagined Captain Henderson the very last person in the world to dabble in the occult, as they call it in the newspapers. I should have thought he would laugh at superstition."

"Oh, so he does, dear, but he wants to know what's going to win the Derby."

"From all I've heard about racing," said Felicity, "if he wants to know that, he'd better wait till it's run."

"Oh, Felicity, don't cast a sort of damper on the thing before him! Perhaps he'll be converted. He may take it quite seriously now. It would do him good, he's so matter-of-fact."

At this moment a very loud and hearty laugh was heard, and Captain Henderson appeared through the beaded curtain and joined them.

"What a long time you've been," said Vera.

"She's a pretty girl," said Captain Henderson.

"Any success?" asked Felicity.

"She saw some horses in the crystal. But as she didn't know their names, it was no earthly use to me. Says I'll back the winner for a place, though. She's got second-rate sight—second sight, I mean."

"A great many of these old Highland families have," said Felicity seriously, to please Vera.

"Have they, though? She says she's half Irish," said Henderson, with his characteristic puzzled look. "She's been telling my character too—reading between the lines, you know, the lines on my hand. She doesn't seem to think much of me, Mrs. Ogilvie." He laughed again.

"As soon as she's had some tea," said Vera, ringing, "you must go in, Felicity. We mustn't tire her. It's frightfully exhausting work."

"Must be," assented Bob.

"It takes it out of her ever so much more with some people than with others," said Vera.

"Ah, it would," said Bob solemnly, shaking his head.

"I suppose complicated people are more wearing than the simpler kind," said Felicity. "There's more in them to find out."

"You mean it must have been pretty plain sailing with me?" said Henderson.

Here Wilton arrived.

"There's something about the tone of your delightful home to-day," he said as he greeted Vera, "that makes me feel curiously Oriental. I don't exactly know what it is, but I feel I want to sit down cross-legged on a mat and smoke a hookah. How do you account for it?"

"You 'hear the East a-calling,' and all that sort of thing," said Henderson, laughing. "Eh?"

"Yes. But perhaps after all it's only the east wind. No, it's the incense some one's been burning. At your shrine, of course, Mrs. Ogilvie. What a talent you have for creating the right atmosphere."

Vera was highly flattered.

"And now I think you might go in, Felicity," she said.

* * * * *

Felicity found a young girl with bright pleasant eyes, seated in front of a little yellow table. She had a magnifying-glass on one side of her and a crystal ball on the other. She was very neatly dressed in the tailor-made style, and had no superfluous decorations of any kind. Anything less like a sibyl could not be easily imagined.

Felicity took off her glove and placed her hand on a yellow cushion. As she did so, she remembered charming things that Chetwode had said about her hands, how he had compared them to white flowers; and she sighed....

"You're vurry sensitive indeed," said the palmist, with a slight American accent. "Your nerves seem to me to be vibrating."

"But isn't that usual?" said Felicity shyly. "I thought nerves always did."

"Just hold the crystal in your hand for a minute or two. Thank you. Ah! there's a slight cloud on your horizon at this moment, but it will pass away—I see it passing away."

"What else do you see?"

"I see you in a large space surrounded by a hurrying crowd. There are bookstalls, trucks of luggage, trains, I can't say precisely what it is."

"Surely a railway station?" said Felicity.

"You are perfectly right. I should fancy from this that you are either going to take a journey by rail, or that you are going to see a friend off."

"Do you advise me to take the journey?"

"I fear advice one way or the other would have vurry little effect. I am a believer in Fate. Either you're going to take that journey, or you're not, in spite of anything I may suggest to the contrary."

And the palmist smiled archly, then leant back and closed her eyes. Felicity wondered if she were tired with the noise of the railway station. But she opened them suddenly, and took Felicity's hand, which she looked at through the magnifying-glass.

"This is a most interesting hand. Mrs. Ogilvie's gentleman friend, who was in here just now, also had a vurry interesting hand. She's a lovely woman, and her hand is most interesting too...."

She paused.

"You have a curious temperament. You are easily impressed by the personality of other people. You are impulsive and emotional, and yet you have a remarkable amount of calm judgment, so that you can analyse, and watch your own feelings and those of the other persons as well as if it were a matter of indifference to you. Your strong affections never blind you to the faults and weaknesses of their object, and those faults do not make you care for them less, but in some cases attach you even more strongly. You are fond of gaiety; your moods vary easily, because you vibrate to music, bright surroundings, and sympathy. But you have depth, and in an emergency I should say you could be capable even of heroism. You have an astonishing amount of intuition."

"What a horrid little creature!" said Felicity.

"Your tact and knowledge of how to deal with people are so natural to you that you are scarcely conscious of them. You should have been the wife of a great diplomatist."

"But aren't they always very ugly?" asked Felicity.

"You're not as trivial as you wish to appear," replied the palmist; "you are very frank and straightforward, but reserved on subjects that are nearest your heart.... Is there any question you would like to ask me?"

"I should like to know," said Felicity, giving herself away as the most sceptical victim always does, "whether the person I care for is true to me."

As she said the words she thought they sounded as if she were a sentimental shop-girl whose young man had shown signs of ceasing his attentions. And why not? She felt exactly like that shop-girl. It was precisely the same thing.

The palmist smiled sympathetically, and said, "He has no other thought but you. Believe me, you are his one object, and he will be true to you through life."

"And how on earth can you see that?" said Felicity, unreasonably cheered, though inclined to laugh.

"I can't say. It's not possible to explain these things; but here, you see, your Fate line is a wonderfully good one, and it goes parallel (if I may say so) with the heart line. Now, if the Life line had crossed it, or reached the Mount of Luna—well, I should have said you were destined to disappointment in love. But that is not so. You have a lucky hand. You have artistic tastes, but would never work in any direction, except the social—that is why I say a diplomatic circle would have suited you."

Felicity feared the soothsayer was getting rather bored with her, so she said—

"Thank you. Have you any advice to give me before I go?"

"Yes. It would be to your advantage if you used your head less and followed your natural impulses more."

"Then I must throw something at Chetwode's head when I see him," thought Felicity.

As she got up, "I see two beautiful children in your hand," added the palmist.

"Oh, when?" said Felicity, starting, and accidentally knocking down the crystal ball.

"Within the next few years," answered the palmist cautiously.

* * * * *

"Now it's my turn," said Bertie, as Felicity joined them. "Do tell me," he said in an undertone, "was there anything about me in your hand?"

"Rather not—not a trace of you. Why, what did you expect?"

"Oh, then I don't think much of her. I thought at least she would see my initials all over your lifeline. I assure you, any good palmist would. I'm afraid she's a fraud."

"I trust not. She was rather consoling," said Felicity thoughtfully.

"She was wonderful with me," said Vera, as Bertie disappeared. "I wonder what her nationality really is."

"Thought you said she was a Highlander." Bob looked more puzzled than ever.

"Well, so she is, partly. In a way. Unless I'm mixing her up with some one else."

"And yet Zero isn't a Scotch name," remarked Felicity thoughtfully.

"No; and it's a rotten name too—doesn't suit her a bit. But it's not her real name. On her card is Miss Cora G. Donovan," said Bob.

"How do you know?" asked Vera sharply.

"Well, I had to ask her address. I've got to see her again, don't you know. Before the Derby. To make sure. Only fair to give it a chance," said Bob, rather apologetically.

"She's an Irish American," decided Felicity.

"Is she? I dare say she is. I wonder what she'll say to Wilton now," said Bob meditatively.

"Bertie will tell her everything he knows about himself, and about every one else in whom either he or she takes the slightest interest. Then he'll go on to tell her character, and prophesy her future, and she'll confide in him, and he'll give her good advice. He always tells fortune-tellers their fortune. That's why he's so popular in the occult world," said Felicity.