"Wonder they stand it," said Bob.

"Why, naturally, they enjoy it. Mustn't they get frightfully bored, poor things, with talking all the time about other people, and be only too thankful and delighted to be allowed to talk about themselves a little? Fancy how refreshing it must be; what a relief! Think of the tedium of always bothering about perfect strangers—pretending to care about their luck and their love affairs, their fortunes and their failures, and all their silly little private affairs. It must be absolutely fascinating for them to meet a person so interested in other people as Bertie."

"Perhaps he only does it out of kindness," said Vera. "I shouldn't wonder. Asks them questions and shows interest just to please them."

"Well, I call it infernal cheek," said Bob resentfully.

"Not at all. Some people aren't always absorbed in themselves," said Vera, with a reproachful look as she gave Bob a cup of tea.

At this moment Sylvia was announced. She looked very happy and excited.

"I hope I'm not too late. I only want to ask Madame Zero one question. I shan't be a moment."

"Of course you shall, dear, and I know you won't keep her long, as she'll be very tired now after seeing us all. Now, Sylvia"—Vera turned to Felicity—"is unusual. She's neither curious about other people nor intensely interested in herself."

"I don't mind how interested people are in themselves, so long as they're interesting people," said Felicity.

"Do you call it taking too much interest in oneself to want to back a winner just once—for a change? I had tips straight from the stable about three horses yesterday, at Haydock Park. And I give you my word, Lady Chetwode, they all went down."

"Dead certainties never seem to do anything else," Felicity answered.

"Mind you, it was partly my own fault," continued Bob. "If I'd had the sense to back Little Lady for the Warrington Handicap Hurdle Race—as any chap in his senses would have done after her out-jumping the favourite and securing a lead at the final obstacle in the Stayer Steeplechase, I should have got home on the day—or at any rate on the week. But then, you see, I'd seen her twice refuse at the water—and I was a bit too cautious, I suppose!"

"You generally are," murmured Vera, but he did not hear, having sunk into a racing reverie.

Bertie appeared through the curtains.

"I congratulate you, Mrs. Ogilvie. Your soothsayer is a marvel."

"Isn't she!" triumphantly said his hostess.

"It's the most extraordinary thing I ever came across in my life. She simply took my breath away. Yes, tea, please. She's a genius."

"Does she seem very exhausted? Or do you think Sylvia might just ask her one question?"

"Oh, surely—Miss Sylvia's so reposeful," said Bertie. "I fancy I could answer the one question myself," he added in a low voice to Sylvia, as he held the curtains back for her to pass.

"She's been a success with you, I see," said Felicity.

"She has, indeed! She got right there every time—as she would say herself in her quaint Eastern phraseology. She has one of the most remarkable personalities I ever met. No one would believe what that girl has gone through in her life—and she's been so brave and plucky through it all! Did you notice what remarkable hands she has?"

"I told you so," laughed Felicity. "She's been confiding in Bertie and he's told her fortune! I knew it."

Bertie coloured slightly as he ate a pink cake.

"Shouldn't have thought that of her," grumbled Bob. "She seemed a sensible sort of girl."

"My dear Henderson, don't be absurd. After her wonderful divination about me, of course I couldn't help asking her a few questions as to how she developed the gift—and so on—and she told me the most amazing things."

"She would, I'm sure," said Vera sympathetically. "I wonder if she'll tell Sylvia anything about what Mr. Ridokanaki is doing."

"Oh, I can tell you all about him," said Bertie readily. "He's having a very good time in Paris just now. I hear he's always about with the Beaugardes. Miss Beaugarde's a very pretty girl just out of her convent. Her mother's working it for all she's worth. Clever woman. I shouldn't be surprised if it came off, if Madame Beaugarde can make him believe the girl's in love with him for himself."

"You see we really need no sibyls and soothsayers when we have Bertie," said Felicity. "To know him really is a liberal education. He knows everything."

"Sort of walking Harmsworth's Self-educator," said Bob rather bitterly, as he took his hat.

Sylvia returned, evidently content. She told Felicity afterwards that Madame Zero had seen her in the crystal in a large building of a sacred character, dressed all in white and holding a bouquet. The sound of the chanting of sweet boys' voices was in the air. What could it possibly mean?

* * * * *

Whether or not Madame Zero had demonstrated her gifts so convincingly as to have converted a sceptic, there was no doubt that she had perceptibly raised the spirits of the whole party (not excluding her own), so the seance was quite deservedly pronounced an immense success.



CHAPTER XXI

"THE OTHER GIRL"

Savile had received a note from Dolly, asking him to go and see her in the square. Savile was feeling rather sore because Dolly and her French friends had gone to a fancy ball the night before, a kind of semi-juvenile party where all the children wore powdered hair. Dolly had offered to get him an invitation, but he scornfully refused, knowing she was going to dance the cotillon with Robert de Saules.

So depressed had he seemed that evening that Sylvia had played "Home, Sweet Home" to him five or six times. It made him miserable, which he thoroughly enjoyed, and he was feeling altogether rather cynical and bitter when he got Dolly's little note. He had heard nothing more of Chetwode, and intended to see Jasmyn Vere before he left; there was only another week before the end of his holidays. Should he be cool to Dolly? or not let her know how he felt about the fancy ball?

As soon as he arrived he thought she looked different. The powder had been imperfectly brushed out of her hair; also she had been crying. She greeted him very gently. She wore a pretty white dress and a pale blue sash.

"I suppose you've been very happy these holidays?" said Dolly.

"Oh, I don't know! I've had a great deal to—to see to," said Savile.

"I suppose you see a great deal of The Other Girl?" said Dolly.

Considering that he had only been once to Wales to hear his idol sing at a concert, there was a certain satisfaction in giving Dolly to understand that he hadn't really had half a bad time; so he smiled and didn't answer.

"Is she grown up?" asked Dolly.

Savile was cautiously reserved on the subject, but seemed to think he might go so far as to say she was grown up.

"Did you have fun last night?" he then asked.

"No. I was simply miserable."

"Why?"

"I kept the cotillon for Robert, though he hadn't exactly asked for it, and when the time came the girl of the house, who is eighteen, actually danced it with him!"

"Hope you didn't show you cared."

"No, I didn't; but I danced with a lot of stupid little boys, and I was so bored! Besides, I hate Robert. Wasn't it mean of him? He went to supper with this grown-up girl, who was awfully amused at his foreign accent, and he behaved as if I was just a child, a friend of his little sister Therese. Now, do you think, Savile, as a man of the world, that I ought ever to speak to him again?"

"When's he going away?" asked Savile.

"Next week; at the end of the holidays."

"If you cut him dead as he deserves," said Savile, "it's treating him as if he mattered. Of course, you really showed you were offended?"

"Well—I suppose I did. You see, his head was quite turned by these old grown-up girls making a fuss about him."

"What a rotter!" said Savile kindly. "Well, do you still like him?"

"No; I simply hate him, I tell you," said Dolly.

"Then don't bother about him any more."

Savile forbore to say, "I told you so!" He was however naturally gratified.

"What I should like," said Dolly candidly, "would be to be able to tell Therese—who would tell Robert—that I'm engaged to you!"

"Well, tell her so, if you like."

"Oh, what a brick you are! It's not very truthful though, is it?"

Savile said that didn't matter with foreigners.

"It is a pity," Dolly murmured, with a sigh, "that it can't be true!"

"Yes—isn't it?" said Savile.

"After all," said Dolly, "you're not exactly engaged to the other girl."

"How do you know?"

"Oh, I'm sure you're not."

"As a matter of fact I'm not."

"But you think she might marry you when you're grown up?"

Savile smiled. "Before there'll be a chance of marrying her, I shall be dead of old age."

"When shall you see her again?"

"Next Wednesday, the day before I go away."

Felicity had promised to take him to a concert where he might not only see her but possibly even be introduced to her in the artists' room, through the good nature of De Valdez, who had been told of Savile's romantic devotion.

But Savile was now feeling rather tenderly towards Dolly, who had evidently learnt by experience to put her trust in Englishmen. In fact, at this moment he was thoroughly enjoying himself again.

"I don't think after all I shall say I'm engaged to you," said Dolly sadly. "There's something depressing about it when it isn't true."

"Oh well, let's make it true."

"Really; but what about The Other Girl?"

"You don't quite understand. That's a different thing. There she is—but—that's all. It's nothing to do with being engaged to you."

She looked bewildered.

"But is she very fond of you?"

"Not at all," said Savile.

"Oh, she must be," said Dolly admiringly.

Savile blushed and said, "My dear girl, she doesn't know me from Adam! So there!"

"Then why on earth did you break it off before?" said Dolly, clapping her hands and beaming.

"Well, you see, I think a good deal of her," said Savile, "and then, what with one thing and another—you didn't seem to want me much."

"But I do now!" said Dolly frankly.

"Oh, all right. Well, look here, old girl, we'll be engaged, just as we were before; but—I must have my freedom."

"Indeed you shan't," said Dolly, with flashing eyes. "I never heard such nonsense! What do you mean by your freedom? Then can't I have mine too?"

"Rather not! What a baby you are, Dolly. Don't you know, there's one law for a man and another for a woman?"

She gasped with rage.

"I never heard such nonsense in my life. I shall certainly not allow anything of the kind. Either we're engaged or we're not."

"Very well, my dear, keep calm about it. It doesn't matter. Here I offer," said Savile, "to please you, to be engaged again, and you don't like my terms. Then it's off."

"I think you're more cruel than Robert," said Dolly.

"But not such an ass," said Savile.

"And not so treacherous," admitted Dolly, who seemed as if she did not want him to go.

"Just tell me what you mean by your freedom," she said pleadingly.

"As I'm placed," said Savile mysteriously, "all I want is to see The Other Girl once, on Wednesday. I shall probably only have a few words with her. Then I believe they are going away, and I'm going back to school."

"They are going away," said Dolly, mystified. "Then is there more than one?"

"More than one? Good God, no! One's enough!" said Savile, with a sigh.

"After all," said Dolly very prettily, "I do trust you, Savile."

Savile was intensely pleased, but he only answered gruffly, "That's as well to know!"

"Then I'll try not to be jealous of her. I won't think about her at all."

"No, I shouldn't," said Savile.

"Then we are engaged," said Dolly again, "definitely?"

"Of course we are. And look here, you've got to do what I tell you."

"What am I to do?"

"You're to be jolly, just as you used to be; you're to come and meet me here every day, and—I'm not quite sure we really saw Madame Tussaud's properly that day."

"Well, you were so cross, Savile."

"I shan't be cross now. I'll take you there, and we'll have tea. Could you go to-day?"

"I think, just to-day," said Dolly, "I might be allowed. A particular friend of mamma's is coming to-day whom she hasn't seen for ages. She told me not to come into the drawing-room."

"All right. Run in now and fix it up."

"Mamma," said Dolly, "will expect me to go to the De Saules; but as my holiday task is about Charles II, and we shall see him at the waxworks——"

"I leave all that to you," said Savile.

"Very well, then. Come and fetch me at three. I'm sure I can arrange it. Won't Robert be surprised!"

"One more thing," said Savile rather sternly. "Remember that I don't care two straws whether he's surprised or not, and I don't want his name mentioned again."

"Then it's not to annoy him?"

"No. It's to please me. Us."

"Very well."

She gave him her hand.

"And you won't even—now that we're engaged properly—give up seeing—The Other Girl on Wednesday?" she pleaded.

Savile frowned darkly.

"You may be sure I shall do the right thing," he said rather grandly, "and you're not to refer to her again. I've told you I shall only see her once, and that's enough for you."

"I think you are very tyrannical," said Dolly, pouting.

"That won't do you any harm, my dear."

"And—you don't seem fond of me a bit!"

"Yes I am. What a fool you are! I'm awfully fond of you, Dolly."

"And are you very happy?"

"Yes, very fairly happy," said Savile. "And mind you have that powder all brushed out of your hair. I don't like it."

They walked to the gate.

"I really have missed you awfully, dear," said Savile gently.

"You have your faults, Savile, but you are reliable, I will say that."

"Rather," said Savile. "I'll bring you a ring this afternoon or to-morrow."

"What! How lovely! But I shan't be allowed to wear it."

"Then keep it till you can."

"It's very sweet of you. Good-bye, Savile."

"Good-bye, dear. I say, Dolly?"

"Yes?"

"Oh, nothing!"



CHAPTER XXII

SAVILE AND JASMYN

Savile had written asking Jasmyn Vere to see him on a matter of importance.

Jasmyn promptly and courteously made an appointment, and spent the intervening hours chuckling to himself at the solemn tone of the letter, and wondering what in Heaven's name the child could possibly want.

He received Savile in a kind of winter garden, or conservatory at the back of his house, and went to meet him with the most charming cordiality, to put the boy at his ease. He would have been rather surprised had he known that something about his reddish hair, and his mouth open with hospitable welcome against the green background, reminded the boy irresistibly of an amiable gold-fish.

"So delighted, dear boy, that you should have thought of me. Anything, of course, in the world that I could do for you, or for any of your charming family, I should look upon as a real privilege. Have a cigarette? You smoke, of course? You oughtn't to. Take this nice comfortable chair—not that one, it's horrid—and tell me all about it."

"Thanks, awfully," said Savile seriously, intensely amused at his host's nervous, elaborate politeness, and trying hard to repress the inclination to laugh that Jasmyn always inspired in him. How fluttered and flattered the dear old thing seemed! Savile wasn't a bit frightened of him.

"I knew you know all about things, Mr. Vere," said Savile, accepting a cigarette and a cushioned deck-chair, "and I thought I'd ask your advice about something."

Jasmyn was completely at a loss. Could it be a question of a tenner? It so often was. But no, he felt sure that it was nothing quite so commonplace, or quite so simple.

In a few minutes he had heard and thoroughly taken in the whole story.

He was most interested, and particularly sympathetic about Sylvia, though from his own point of view—the worldly social-conventional view—she ought to have done better. As he thought it over he walked up and down the winter garden.

Some birds were twittering in gold cages among the palms and plants, and every now and then he stopped to talk to them in the little language one uses to pets, which irritated Savile to the verge of madness.

"I know of one thing," said Jasmyn, "and only one, that might do. I know a charming young fellow who's been ordered to travel for a year, and needs a companion. He doesn't want to go, a bit; but his relatives might be able to persuade him to, if he took a fancy to Woodville, and I'm sure he would. He's just a little mad. That would be delightful for your friend if he could get it: yachting for six months; a motoring tour in Italy; all sorts of nice things. He's a man called Newman Ferguson."

"But you see, it's Woodville himself who wants a companion," said Savile. "I don't think in his present state he'd be particularly keen on being shut up alone on a yacht with a raving lunatic, and struggling with him in a padded state-room. I shouldn't think he'd do for the post. Then, I don't see how his going away for a year would help."

"True, my dear boy. How clever you are! Well, I suppose I must think it over, and look round."

Savile looked very disappointed.

"I mustn't let you go without giving you some hope, though. I see how much your heart is in it!" said Jasmyn good-naturedly.

"Can you give any general sort of advice?" Savile asked. "How does a chap get things?"

"It's very, very difficult, dear Savile, and it's getting more and more difficult—unless you're related to somebody—or have heaps of money. The really best thing, of course, for our friend, would be to go into some kind of business. I'll look out and see if something turns up. Now look here," and Jasmyn put his arm in Savile's, "if it's something of that sort, and it's merely some—a—cash for capital that's required, let him look upon me as his banker. Tell him that, Savile. You'll know how."

"No, I shan't know how, Mr. Vere. He wouldn't like it. And then, besides, you see he doesn't know anything about it—I mean about my coming to you like this. Sylvia doesn't, either. Of course, old Woodville would be very pleased if I went and told him he'd got some capital appointment. He'd soon forgive me then for my cheek in interfering. But not what you've just said. Awfully jolly of you, though."

Jasmyn took a few steps back and stared at Savile.

"You mean to say you've undertaken this all on your own? Why, you're a marvel! Haven't you really mentioned it to a soul?"

"As a matter of fact," said Savile scrupulously, "I did just mention something about it—not your name or theirs, of course—to the girl I'm engaged to. But she doesn't know any more about it than she did before."

Jasmyn exploded with laughter.

"Savile, you'll go far. So much prudence combined with so much pluck—why you'll end by being Prime Minister!"

"I shouldn't care for that. Besides, I can't," Savile said apologetically, "I'm going into the army."

"And what about your engagement?"

"Nothing about it. It won't make any difference."

"To whom?"

"Why, to me—or to her either—so far as that goes."

"Tell me why you're so keen about Woodville, and what you're taking all this trouble for, old boy?"

"Why, for my sister, of course!" Savile answered, surprised.

"You're a dear good boy. And you shan't be disappointed. As soon as I hear of anything I'll let you know, and we'll talk it over again. When do you go back to school?"

"In a few days," said Savile, getting up to go.

"Poor chap! Well, well, we'll see what happens. Must you go now? Cheer up. It's sure to come all right. And I say, Savile——"

"Yes?"

"Remember me kindly to your fiancee, won't you?"

"Of course I shan't! She's never heard of you. Her mother doesn't let her read the papers, not even the Morning Post. And besides, it's quite a private engagement."

"You can trust me, Savile. Just tell me one thing," Jasmyn said, with an inquisitive leer. "Is she dark or fair?"

"Not very," said Savile.



CHAPTER XXIII

SAVILE AND BERTIE

As Wilton was convinced that a satisfactory ending to the trouble was imminent, he naturally felt a great desire to be, somehow, the cause of Felicity's renewed happiness; to get, as it were, the credit of it. That his admiration (to put it mildly) should take the form of chivalrous devotion would be, at least, something; especially as it was evident that no other satisfaction was likely to come his way. Her one other confidant was Savile; and it struck Bertie that a kind of confederation with the boy might be a success.

Besides, it would be fun.... Savile hadn't ever been cordial with him, but had retained a rather cool, ironical manner, as if suspicious of his attitude. Bertie had that peculiar vanity that consists in an acute desire to be able to please everybody. He had always felt absurdly annoyed at being unable to gain Savile's approval. And the wish to make a conquest of every one connected with Her was no doubt part of his reason for sending Savile an urgent message to come and see him immediately.

He was now waiting in his rooms at Half-Moon Street for the boy's arrival.

Savile had promised to come round in a reserved and cautious note, but the request had given him intense gratification and joy. He felt he really was becoming a person of importance.

The instant Savile arrived he made up his mind that as soon as he was grown up and able to have rooms of his own, they should be arranged, in every particular, exactly like Wilton's. But instead of the Romney, the one picture that Bertie possessed, and which bore so striking a likeness to Felicity, he decided he would have in its place a large portrait of Madame Patti.

"Look here, old boy, perhaps you think this rather cheek of me. But we both know that your sister's rather worried just now."

"She is a bit off colour," admitted Savile.

"Well, why on earth don't you put it straight?"

Savile's expression remained impassible. He said:

"Think I ought?"

"You're the only person who can."

"All right," said Savile. "I'll write to Chetwode."

"It'll take some time, writing and getting an answer," said Wilton.

"No good expecting an answer," said Savile. "He's the sort of chap who never writes letters unless they're unnecessary."

"And Lady Chetwode will be in a hurry," observed Bertie.

"You know her pretty well," said Savile.

"Then what's your idea?"

"I shall send him an enormous wire," said Savile—"he's more likely to read it than a letter—explaining the whole thing, and telling him to come home at once. I shan't ask for an answer."

"Why not?"

"Because I shouldn't get it."

"Good. That's a capital idea. But—a—Savile, can you afford these luxuries? I couldn't have, when I was a boy at Eton.—Look here, let me——"

Savile turned round and looked Wilton straight in the face.

"No, thanks," he said deliberately, shaking his head. Bertie's colour rose.

"But, my dear boy, why on earth not?"

"Oh, I expect you know," said Savile. Then feeling a little remorseful for the rebuff, he added: "Don't you bother about that. Besides, Aunt William gave me a couple of quid the other day to buy a ring for the girl I'm engaged to. I shan't buy it just yet. That's all."

Bertie concealed his amusement.

"Then you'll have to keep the poor girl waiting," he said.

"Keep her waiting?" said Savile. "Of course I shall. It's a very good plan." He got up and took his hat. "Makes them more keen. Don't you find it so?"

"In my unfortunate experience nothing makes them keen at all, unless, of course, it's some one one doesn't want. And then everything does."

"Hard luck!" said Savile, shaking his head wisely, and took his leave, thinking with a smile that Wilton, having obviously got the chuck, was trying to keep in favour by playing the good friend. "He's not half a bad chap," thought Savile. "And I'll send that wire; it's a good idea."

He stood under a lamp at the corner of Half-Moon Street and counted his money.

"Confound it, I've only got a bob! It'll just pay for a cab to Aunt William's."

Thoroughly enjoying this exciting and adventurous life of diplomacy, he arrived at his aunt's. She was dressing for dinner. Nevertheless, for Savile, she came downstairs in a magenta wrapper.

"I hope there's nothing wrong, my dear boy," she said.

"No, everything's quite all right. But—you know what you gave me the other day, Aunt William?"

"Yes, dear."

"Sorry to say it's all gone."

"Oh, Savile!"

"Before I go back," said Savile, with a note of pathos in his voice, "I've one or two little presents I'm awfully keen on giving. I dare say you understand."

She didn't understand, but she gave him a five-pound note.

He beamed, and said, "Well, of all the bricks!"

"You promise me to spend it wisely, Savile dear. But I know I can trust you."

"Rather! This will be more frightfully useful than you can possibly imagine. Well, it seems beastly to rush in and get all I can, and then fly; but I've simply got to go. Besides, you want to dress," said Savile, looking at the wrapper.

"Yes. Get along with you, and I do hope that you won't turn out a dreadful, extravagant, fast young man when you're grown up," said Aunt William, with relish at the idea.

Savile smiled.

"Don't you worry about that, Aunt William! Why, you're thinking of ages ago, or Ouida, or something. There's no such thing nowadays as a fast young man, as you call it. They're always talking about how ill they are, or how hard up, and how they don't want to be bothered with women."

"How do you mean, dear?"

"Why, they're frightened to death of girls marrying them against their will—or getting mixed up in things—oh, I don't know! Anyhow, women seem to think it a great score to get hold of one. So that proves it, don't you think?"

"Then why is it that your sisters, for instance, are always surrounded by admirers?" said Aunt William.

"First of all, surrounded is bosh. Just as much as what you're always saying, that Sylvia has the world at her feet. They happen to be particularly pretty, and Felicity's jolly clever. But after all, they have only one or two each—admirers, I mean. And they—the girls—are exceptions."

Aunt William sighed.

"You're very worldly-wise, and you're a very clever boy, but you don't know everything."



CHAPTER XXIV

THE EXPLANATION

The fact that Chetwode was returning more than a week sooner than she had expected, seemed to Felicity a hopeful sign. She hesitated for about half an hour as to whether or not she should go and meet him at the station. Doubt and dignity suggested remaining at home, but impatience carried the day.

As she was waiting on the platform, the prophecy of Madame Zero occurred to her, and she thought to herself, with a smile—

"She doesn't seem so bad at prophesying what one's going to do. It's when she prophesies what one ought to have done that the poor dear gets out of her depth."

When he had arrived, and they were driving off together, she thought he looked neither more nor less serene and casual than usual; his actual presence seemed to radiate calm and dispose of anxiety; her suspicions began to melt away.

They had dined together, and talked on generalities, and neither had mentioned the subject. Chetwode's intense dislike to any disturbing topic infected Felicity; she now felt a desire to let him off even an explanation. She wished she had never seen the velvet case, or, at any rate, that she had never mentioned it to any one. He didn't, she fancied, look as if he were deceiving her in any way. His affection was not more marked than usual, nor less so. She observed there was no tinge in his manner of an attempt to make up for anything. Yet the question had to be asked.

"What did you do most of the time there?" began Felicity.

"Nothing. Played bridge."

"By the way," said Felicity, "you've never told me what Mrs. Tregelly's like."

"Of course I haven't. She isn't like anything."

"Isn't she very pretty?"

"Oh, I suppose she's all right—for Tregelly," said Chetwode.

"Then if you don't admire her at all, would you mind telling me why you have her portrait locked up in a velvet case?" demanded Felicity in a soft, sweet voice.

"I wonder!" said Chetwode.

"Oh, don't be so irritating. Don't you know you have it?"

"I haven't known it long."

His coolness roused her, and she said angrily—

"Then you ought to have known. I've been fearing that your casual ways are a very convenient screen for——"

"For what?" he asked, smiling. He was disposed to tease her for having doubted him.

She did not answer. He came and sat next to her.

"And so you would have cared?"

"Cared? I should think so. I've been miserable!"

"What a shame! I'm very sorry—I mean, very glad. But you might have spared yourself all this worry, dear, if you'd thought two minutes."

"How? How do you prove that what I imagined isn't true?"

"My dear girl, could you seriously suspect me of wanting to possess a coloured portrait on porcelain taken from a photograph? Did you think I'd have such a thing in the house—except inadvertently?"

"It's a pretty face," she said.

"But it's an appalling picture! Don't I care about things? I hope I haven't got any silly vanity about it, but I don't think I ever have anything wrong—I mean, artistically."

He looked round the room with the uncontrollable pride of the collector.

"No, my dear," he went on, "you've done me an injustice. From you I'm really surprised."

"But anything, as a souvenir of a person you like very much ..." she said hesitatingly.

"Oh, all right!" he answered. "Do you suppose if I'd an awful oleograph of you, even—that I'd keep it as a souvenir? Good heavens, Felicity, one doesn't bring sentiment into that sort of thing! You ought to have known me better."

She waited a moment.

"Then on those grounds alone I'm to consider I'm utterly wrong?"

"Rather! Suppose you'd found a wonderful early sketch by Whistler or Burne-Jones, say, of a pretty woman—even then I should never have believed you'd be such a Philistine as to suppose that the person who sat for it had any interest for me. But a thing like that!" He laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

"How did it get there?"

"How did it get there?" he answered. "Last time I stayed with them, Tregelly sent it up to me for my critical opinion on it as a work of art." He laughed. "It made me so sick that I locked it up, and dropped or lost the key, or else I told the man to put it away. As he's an ass, I suppose he packed it among my things. I suppose Tregelly thought I gave it to his wife, and she thought I gave it back to him, as I heard no more about the thing then. But this time, as soon as I arrived," he smiled, "it was passionately reclaimed by both—and I promised to have a look."

Felicity clapped her hands.

"Then I'll send it back at once, and—will you have a look?"

"Good God, no! Never let me see the thing again." He took up a paper as if tired of the subject.

"Did you come back to look for it?" she asked.

"I came back because I received a three-volume novel wire from Savile, explaining what he called the situation."

"Fancy! Isn't he wonderful?"

"He's the limit," said Chetwode, laughing.

"But you might tell me, dear Chetwode; it isn't really for her that you go there?"

"Really, Felicity! I hardly ever see her! She's always busy with her children or rattling her house-keeping keys. Oh, she's all right—suits Tregelly, poor chap! Are we through now?" he asked, with patience.

"No. Won't you kiss me and forgive me?"

"Presently," he said, turning a page of the paper.

"May I just say that nothing of this sort could ever have happened if—if you didn't go away just a little too much? From the very first you know you were always absolutely free. I've the greatest horror of bothering you, or tyrannising in any way, but don't you think it's gone a little too far? If we hadn't been rather separated, I couldn't have made such a mistake about you. Suppose you'd found, privately locked up, a similar portrait of Bertie Wilton, say, wouldn't you have thought things?"

"Wilton's an ass," said Chetwode. "But he does know. To give him his due, I couldn't have found a similar portrait of him. He isn't capable of allowing such a thing to exist."

"Well, say a good portrait," said Felicity. "Do let us be perfectly frank with each other."

"We will," said Chetwode. "I am rather sick of Wilton."

"He's really an awfully good boy," said Felicity.

"Then let him be a good boy somewhere else. I'm tired of him."

"I'll see less of him," she answered.

"Good!" said Chetwode.

"And—I know it was a very long speech I made just now, but don't you think I'm right?"

"I didn't hear," he answered. "I was listening to your voice."

"Then must I say it all over again? I really want you to take it in, Chetwode," she said pleadingly.

"Say it all over again, and as much more as you like, dear."

"And then will you tell me you haven't heard?"

He threw down the newspaper.

"Very likely. I shall have been looking at your lips."



CHAPTER XXV

THE QUARREL

"The other day," said Sylvia, "you were perfectly sweet to me. I was really happy; I knew you loved me, and that was quite enough. Now again I feel that miserable doubtfulness."

"May I ask," said Woodville, who was sitting in front of a pile of papers, while Sylvia was leaning her head on her hand opposite him at the table, "how it is that you're here again?"

He spoke in a tone that was carefully not affectionate and that he tried not to make irritable.

"Certainly. I arranged to go out with Felicity—before papa—and then I telephoned to her that I had a headache."

"Isn't that what you did on Thursday?"

"No; on Thursday I said I was going to the dentist. And came in here instead."

"Do you intend to do this often?" he asked.

"Yes, continually."

He rustled the papers.

"Why shouldn't I? Don't you like it?" she said.

"I can't help thinking it's rather risky. Suppose Felicity comes and finds you in blooming health?"

"Surely I can recover from my headache if I like? Besides, she telephoned to me to get some aspirin. She won't expect me to be down till this afternoon, and she won't come till then."

"Did you get some?"

"Frank, what idiotic questions you ask!"

There was a pause.

"Don't you think, dear," she said, "this is very jolly, to arrange to have two hours like this alone together?"

"Oh, delightful! But I don't see what's the good of it, as we're placed."

"Not to have a nice quiet talk?"

"I have nothing to talk about." He seemed nervous.

"Are you going to be like this when we're married?" asked Sylvia in a disappointed voice.

"Not at all!"

"Oh, I'm so glad! If you'll excuse my saying so, Frank darling, you seem to me to have a rather sulky disposition."

He seized the papers and threw them on the floor.

"Sulky? I, sulky? You never made a greater mistake. You're not a good judge of character, Sylvia. Don't go in for it. Leave it alone. You'll never make anything of it, you haven't the gift. As it happens, I have a very good temper, except that now and then I'm 'rather violent when roused,' as the palmists say, but sulky—never!"

Sylvia seemed to have made up her mind to be irritating. She laughed a good deal. (She looked most lovely when laughing.)

"What are you laughing at?" he asked.

"At you. Pretending to be violent, good-tempered. Of course you're neither. What you think is self-control is merely sulkiness."

His eyes flashed.

"What do you want?" he said, in an undertone.

"Why, I want you to be sensible and jolly; like you were that day at Richmond."

"How can I be like I was that day at Richmond? It was a lovely day; we were in the country; it was our escapade. It was an exceptional case."

"Oh dear! Then will you only be like that as an exceptional case?"

"My dear child, you don't understand. When a man has—has work to do," he said rather hesitatingly.

She laughed again.

"Work! It must be frightfully important work if you throw it on the floor from temper."

He bore this well, and answered, picking up the papers, "Important or not, it's what I'm here for—it's what your father pays me for. How on earth he can think I'm the slightest use to him I can't imagine."

"Oh, he knows you're not, really, dear," said Sylvia soothingly. "But he's grown used to you, and to have a secretary makes him feel he's a sort of important public man. Don't you see?"

"What! I'm not useful to him?" Woodville asked angrily. "I should like to know——" Here he stopped.

"I suppose you think he won't know what to do without you when we're married," said Sylvia.

"Oh, I do wish you'd leave off saying that, Sylvia."

"Saying what?"

"When we're married. You have no idea how irritating you are, darling."

"Irritating? Oh dear, Frank, I'm so sorry. Do forgive me. Perhaps it is rather bad taste, but I say it to cheer you up, to remind you you have something to look forward to. Do you see?"

She looked at him sweetly, but he would not meet her eyes.

"Perhaps you're not looking forward to it?" she said in a piqued voice.

"Sylvia, would you mind going away?"

"Oh, all right. Very well. I won't disturb you any more. It's very sweet and conscientious of you to bother about the papers. I'll go. Shan't you want me always with you when we're married?"

"Never!" he answered. "At least, not if I have any other occupation."

Her eyes brightened.

"Oh! then it isn't that I worry you, but I sort of distract your attention. Is that it?"

He made no answer.

"I'm afraid," said Sylvia sadly, "that we shall quarrel dreadfully."

"Quarrel? Rot!" said Woodville. "We shall never quarrel. You'll do exactly what I tell you—and I shall devote myself to doing everything for your good."

"If I thought you meant anything as dull as that I should break it off at once," said Sylvia. "The programme doesn't sound attractive."

He laughed. "How do you think it ought to be then?"

"There'll be only one will between us," said Sylvia, "that is to say, you'll do everything I want always, Frank. Do you hear? Won't you answer? Well, I see you're in a bad temper." She got up. "Good-bye." She held out her hand. "I shall hardly see you again all day, and Frank——I see you don't want to kiss me once before I go."

"Oh, you see that, do you?"

"Of course, I think you're an ideal man and a darling in every way, and I love you very much, but I think it's a pity you're so cold and heartless." She came nearer to him.

"Don't say that again," he said, with a rather dangerous look.

"But you are! You're absolutely cold. I think you only love me as a duty."

At this Woodville seemed to lose his head. He seized her in his arms and kissed her roughly and at random, holding her close to him.

"Oh don't, Frank. How can you be so horrid? You're making my hair untidy. Oh, Frank!"

When he at last released her, he walked to the window and looked out. She went to the looking-glass with tears in her eyes, and arranged her hair.

"I didn't think," she said reproachfully, "that you could behave like that, Frank!"

He made no reply.

As she stood at the door she said, pouting, "You didn't seem to care whether I liked it or not."

"And I didn't!" said Woodville. "I wasn't thinking about what you'd like."

"And—shan't you ever think about what I'd like?"

"Oh, I shall think a great deal about what you'd like," said Woodville, "and I shall see that you like it. But that will be different. I don't apologise; you brought it on yourself."

"I'll try to forgive you," said Sylvia. "But now, I really have a headache."

"Take some aspirin," said Woodville.

"How peculiar you are! Then I'm not to come in to-morrow morning?"

"Do as you like; you know what to expect."

"Why, you don't mean to say you would behave like that again?"

"I shall make it a rule," he answered.

"It's unkind of you to say that, because now you know I can't come."

"This sort of thing is becoming impossible," said Woodville. "You make it worse for me."

"I'm sorry," she said gently. "I assure you it wasn't what I wanted, really."

"I dare say not. But you don't understand."

"Will you promise never to break the compact again?" said Sylvia, looking up at him sweetly.

"Will you go?" he answered in a low voice.

This time she went.



CHAPTER XXVI

VERA'S ADVENTURE

Mrs. Ogilvie stopped at Hatchards' and fluttered in her usual vague way to the bookshop.

"I want some serious books," she said. "Something about Life or Philosophy or anything of that kind."

The young man said he understood exactly what she meant, and produced a new book by Hichens.

"But that's a novel! I want a real philosophical work."

"Maxims of Love, by Stendhal," suggested the young man.

"What a pretty book! No—I mean something really dull. Have you anything by Schopenhauer? or Dr. Reich?"

The young man said that he thought anything of that kind could be got, and meanwhile suggested Benson.

"No, that's too frivolous," said Vera seriously. She then bought casually Mr. Punch on the Continong, and left orders for books by Plato, Herbert Spencer, and various other thoughtful writers, to be sent to her without loss of time.

She then drove to the dressmaker's. Whenever she had fallen freshly in love she got new dresses and new books. To-day she ordered a rather ugly but very expensive new evening dress, rather weakly, at the last moment, buying a tea-gown that she did not want.

Then she began to think she wanted to see Felicity, and yet she liked to feel she had a sort of secret to herself for a little while. It really had been a declaration, and Felicity had a way of inquiring into these things and examining them until they were entirely analysed away.

No, she thought she would like to see him again before saying anything about it. He was a serious man. She had met him at a musical German lunch, where she had not expected to be amused. He looked as if he had suffered—or, perhaps, sat up too late.... He had dark blue eyes, which she chose to call violet. He talked, beautifully about philosophy. He made her feel she had a Soul—which was just the sort of thing she needed; and though he was at a musical German lunch, he was neither musical nor German, and his satisfaction in sitting next to her instead of next a celebrated German singer who was present was both obvious and complimentary. Yet what had he really said?

He had said, "My dear Mrs. Ogilvie, human nature is human nature all the world over, and there's no getting away from it, try how you will. Oh! don't get me on my hobby, because I'm afraid I shall bore you, but I'm a bit of a philosopher in my way."

How clever! But what did he mean? He told her to read philosophy. He said she had the eyes of a mystic. She had spent several minutes looking in the mirror trying to see the strange mysticism he saw in her eyes, and remembering the prophesies of Zero.

They talked a long time after lunch in the deep window seat, where the music was audible but not disturbing, and she had not asked him to call. She was always asking people to call, and they always called, and it was always the same, nothing ever came of it. Probably some instinct told her she would see him again, or she could not have resisted. Finally he said, "We have known each other in a previous existence. This is an old friendship. I shall come and see you to-morrow."

"Not to-morrow—Thursday," said Vera, thinking she would not have time to get a new dress. So he was coming to-morrow. Perhaps he would give her some new philosophy of life. He would make the riddle of existence clear. He had bright and beautiful eyes, but—and here came in Vera's weakness—she could not make up her mind even to fall in love without some comment of Felicity's.

Supposing Felicity said it was charming and just the right thing for her, how delightful that would be! On the other hand, she might make one of those terrible enlightening little remarks that smashed up all illusions and practically spoilt the fun. How right she had been about Bobby! "Not worth worrying about." How right about many other people! Then Felicity now settled nothing (with regard to people) without consulting Bertie. Instead of taking a person just as he appeared as Vera did, "Charming man, most cultured—I'm sure you'll like him," as the hostess, Mrs. Dorfenstein, had said, Bertie would know everything about him—who his father and mother were, why he happened to be at the German lunch, his profession, his favourite hobbies, what was his usual method, and a hundred other things likely to prevent any sort of surprises. Really, Felicity and Bertie together were a rather formidable couple of psychologists. Felicity often amused herself by experimenting on the people that Bertie had discovered. What Vera feared more than anything else was that Mr. Newman Ferguson would be pronounced a very simple case. When she came home from her drive she saw a letter—a new handwriting, which she instinctively felt certain was from Mr. Ferguson. Therefore, although she was alone, she put it in her muff, went and locked herself into her room, and began to read it.

The first thing that struck her was the remarkably beautiful, carefully formed handwriting, and the immense length of the letter.

Pink with joy and excitement, her hat and furs still on, she read—

"My dear Mrs. Ogilvie, ... Ships that pass in the night.... Friends signalling.... Elective affinities." ... "Oh, good gracious!" She glanced hastily at the signature. "Strange as it may seem, I am now and for all time your devoted slave, Newman Ferguson."

* * * * *

At last Vera's wish had been granted; some one had really fallen in love with her. But she had not patience to read the letter through. Her friend's counsel was necessary instantly.

She flew to the telephone. "Felicity!—Oh, there you are!... I meant not to tell you, but something so exciting has happened.... Yesterday at the German lunch ... a wonderful person.... His name?—Newman Ferguson.... Have you ever heard of him?... You'll find out all about him from Bertie.... Thanks.... Couldn't I see you to-day? Very well, then, ring me up if you have any news.... Keep calm indeed! I am keeping calm!"

Mr. Ogilvie's knock was heard. Vera hid the letter and went downstairs.

Felicity walked in at ten o'clock the next morning. Vera thought she had rather a peculiar expression.

"Don't you think it sounds lovely?" said Vera.

"I should like to see the letter."

They read the letter together.

"What an extraordinary conglomeration! I can't make head or tail of it."

"He's coming to see me this afternoon."

"Is he, though?"

"What do you know about him?"

"Well, Bertie knows the Dorfensteins who gave the lunch, and he says they don't know anything about him at all. He was just sort of brought instead of some one else."

"Does Bertie know him?" asked Vera.

"Well, yes, he does a little, and he says he's very nice generally."

"What do you mean by 'generally'?"

At this moment the servant came in and said, "Mr. Newman Ferguson has called and wishes to see you immediately."

"Good heavens!" said Vera.

"Show him in!" said Felicity.

They were sitting in the little yellow boudoir, Mr. Ogilvie having just gone out.

Mr. Newman Ferguson came in, carrying an enormous bouquet. He bowed most courteously, offered Vera the bouquet, and said—

"Human nature is human nature all the world over, my dear lady. There's no getting away from it, try how you will."

"It's very early for you to think of such a clever thing to say," said Felicity.

"I trust you don't think it's too early to call."

"Not at all," said Vera, looking terrified.

"The only thing is," said Felicity, "that my friend and I are just going out."

She stood up.

"Then pray excuse me," said Mr. Newman Ferguson; "I will call a little later on to-day instead."

"Where did you say you were staying now?" said Felicity.

"I'm at the Savoy at present, but I hope to move very soon," he said, with a meaning look.

Felicity saw him to the door where he had left his cab, came back, and stood silently looking at her friend and the bouquet.

"My dear Felicity, there's no doubt he's madly in love with me," said Vera. "Can you deny it?"

"My dear Vera, he's raving mad," answered Felicity.

"What?" cried Vera.

"Is it possible that you don't see it?"

"But look at that clever letter!" said Vera.

"It's the maddest letter I ever read. Besides, dear, I know about it. Don't distress yourself. Bertie says he was always eccentric, but sometimes he's quite all right for years. Then, any sudden excitement, especially Falling in Love——"

"Then you own he did fall in love with me?"

"Oh, of course, of course! Certainly! No one denies that. But I really think we ought to write to the Dorfensteins and get them to tell the Savoy people to look after him. It's very sad. He has rather a nice manner—nice eyes."

Vera buried her face in her handkerchief.

"Now don't worry, darling," said Felicity affectionately. "Be out when he calls, and I'm quite sure we shall soon find some one quite sane who will amuse you just as much."

"Never!" sobbed Vera. "It's just like my luck! Oh, and the books I ordered, and the new dress. I can never bear to look at them."

"It's a very good thing we found it out," said Felicity.

"But how on earth does Bertie know?"

"He knows everything—about people, I mean—and he's always right. In fact, he sent you a message to ask you to be very careful, and said he'd come and see you about it."

"Rather cool! It seems I can't have any secret to myself now," panted Mrs. Ogilvie.

"Well, you see, dear, you did ask me to get all the information I could, and after all I only told Bertie you met Mr. Ferguson. He guessed that he would fall in love with you, and bring you a bouquet early in the morning, and write you a lot of letters about philosophy."

"How did he know?"

"Well, if you don't mind my saying so, dear, it's because it's what he always does."

Vera began to laugh.

"Tell Bertie he need not trouble to call about it, I'd rather forget it."

"Oh, of course he won't now!"

"He doesn't know, then, that I was in love with him? Besides, I wasn't."

"Certainly he doesn't. Besides, you weren't."

"I hate the sight of that bouquet," said Vera.

"Yes, let's send it away; and now come for a drive with me."

"All right, dear. I say, couldn't we countermand those philosophical books?"

"Yes, of course we will. What do you feel you'd like instead?"

"Oh, something by Pett Ridge," said Vera, recklessly.



CHAPTER XXVII

AUNT WILLIAM'S DAY

It was a chilly spring afternoon and Aunt William was seated by the fire doing wool-work, for she disapproved of the idle habits of the present day and thought that a lady should always have her fingers employed in some way; not, of course, either with cards or cigarettes. She was getting on steadily with the foot-stool she was making; a neat design of a fox's head with a background of green leaves. In the course of her life Aunt William had done many, many miles of wool-work. It was neither embroidery nor tapestry; it was made on canvas with what is known for some mysterious reason as Berlin wool; and was so simple that it used to be called the Idiot Stitch; but the curious elaboration of the design and sort of dignified middle-Victorian futility about it cast a glamour over the whole, and dispelled any association of idiocy from the complete work. A banner screen was now in front of the fire, which Aunt William had worked during a winter at St. Leonards, and which represented enormous squashed roses like purple cauliflowers, with a red-brown background—a shade called, in her youth, Bismarck brown, and for which she always retained a certain weakness.

It was her day, and on Aunt William's day she invariably wore a shot-silk dress, shot with green and violet; the bodice trimmed with bugles, the skirt plain and flowing. Aunt William did not have that straight-fronted look that is such a consolation to our modern women who are getting on in years, but went in decidedly at the waist, her figure being like a neat pincushion. Her voice was deep, her mind of a somewhat manly and decided order, so that the touches of feminine timidity or sentiment taught her in early youth sat oddly enough on her now. In reality she hated wool-work, but did it partly from tradition and partly from a contrary disposition; because other people didn't like it, and even because she didn't like it herself.

Her first visitor was a very old and dear friend of hers whom she particularly disliked and disapproved of, Lady Virginia Harper. Lady Virginia was a very tall, thin, faded blonde, still full of shadowy vitality, who wore a flaxen transformation so obviously artificial that not the most censorious person by the utmost stretch of malice could assume it was meant to deceive the public. With equal candour she wore a magnificent set of teeth, and a touch of rouge on each cheek-bone. To Aunt William's extreme annoyance Lady Virginia was dressed to-day in a strange medley of the artistic style combined oddly with a rather wild attempt at Parisian smartness. That is to say, in her cloak and furs she looked almost like an outside coloured plate on the cover of Paris Fashions; while when she threw it open one could see that she wore a limp crepe de chine Empire gown of an undecided mauve, with a waist under the arms and puffed sleeves. On her head was a very smart bright blue flower toque, put on entirely wrong, with a loose blue veil hanging at the back. Had anything been required to decide the question of her looking grotesque, I should mention that she wore long mauve suede gloves. That settled it. A gold bag dangled from her left wrist, and she carried a little fan of carved ivory. She looked, naturally,—or unnaturally—slightly absurd, but had great distinction and no sort of affectation, while an expression that alternated between amiable enthusiasm and absent-minded depression characterised her shadowy indefinite features.

Aunt William received her with self-control, and she immediately asked for tea.

"Certainly. It is half-past three, and I regard five as tea-time. But as you wish, dear Virginia." Aunt William pulled the bell with manly vigour and ill-tempered hospitality.

"Have you heard that divine new infant harpist? He's perfectly exquisite—a genius. But the person I've come to talk to you about, Mary, is the new singer, Delestin. He's perfectly heavenly! And so good-looking! I've taken him up—quite—and I want you to be kind about him, dear Mary."

"I'll take two tickets for his concert," said Aunt William harshly. "But I won't go to the concert and I won't come and hear him sing."

"Now that's so like you, Mary! He isn't giving a concert, and I want you to hear him sing. He's too charming. Such a gentle soft creature, and so highly-strung. The other day after he had sung at my house—it was something of Richard Strauss's, certainly a very enervating song, I must own that—he simply fainted at the piano, and had to be taken away. So, if you give a party, do have him, dear Mary! You will, won't you?"

"Most certainly not! A protege of yours who faints at the piano wouldn't be at all suitable for one of my Evenings, thank you, Virginia."

Lady Virginia did not answer. She evidently had not heard. She never listened and never thought of one subject for more than two seconds at a time. She used a long-handled lorgnette, but usually dropped it before it had reached her eye.

"Oh! and there's something else I wanted to speak to you about. A sweet girl, a friend of mine (poor thing!), has lost her parents. They were generals or clergymen or something, and she's obliged to do something, so she's going in for hats. So sensible and brave of her! She's taken the sweetest little shop just out of Bond Street. Do, dear, go and get some toques there, for my sake. Won't you?"

"Some toques?" repeated Aunt William. "I don't know what you mean. Hats are not things you order by the half-dozen. I have my winter's bonnet, my spring bonnet which I have got already, a sun-hat for travelling in the summer, and so forth."

"I got a beautiful picture-hat from her," said Lady Virginia dreamily. "An enormous black one, with Nattier blue roses in front and white feathers at the back—- only five guineas. But then she makes special prices for me, of course."

"No doubt she does," said Aunt William.

"Of course I can't wear it, my dear," continued Virginia. "I hate to attract attention so, and I look too showy in a picture-hat with my fair hair. But it was a kindness to the girl. Poor girl!"

Aunt William was boiling over.

"Of course you can't wear it. Do you imagine you can wear the hat you've got on now, Virginia?"

"What this? It's only a little flower toque."

"At our age," said Aunt William, "only little flower toques, as you call them, should be left to younger people. Oh how much nicer you would look, Virginia, in a black or brown silk dress, and a close bonnet with strings, say with a chrysanthemum or two, and a few bugles if you like. It would be so much more suitable."

"What is a close bonnet?" asked Lady Virginia, trying to concentrate her thoughts and not in the least offended.

The arrival of Savile at this moment created a diversion. His air of inscrutability and self-restraint was neither more nor less marked than usual; but, to the acute observer, it would have been evident that he was crammed with suppressed and exciting information.

"You remember my nephew, Virginia? My brother James's only son, you know." Aunt William spoke proudly, as if his being an only son were some remarkable merit of his own.

"Not at all," murmured Savile indistinctly.

"Oh, is he really? What a darling! I adore children," said Lady Virginia, benevolently smiling at him. "And so tall for his age, too!"

"You don't know his age," snapped Aunt William.

"No, I don't; but I can see he's tall—a very fine child. What do you learn at school, darling?"

"Oh, nothing much," said Savile, with patience.

Lady Virginia laughed inconsequently.

"What a clever boy he is! Children are so wonderful nowadays! When Delestin was only six he played all Chopin's Valses and Liszt's Rhapsodies by heart. Of course that's some time ago now, but it shows what boys can do."

"By Jove!" said Savile.

"Who's your great friend at school, dear?"

"Oh—I suppose Sweeny's my greatest pal. He's in the eleven," added Savile explanatorily.

"Oh, yes! I daresay—a very nice boy too. He has a marvellous likeness to you, Mary dear," Lady Virginia said, using the long-handled glass, "especially about the—well—the ears—and forehead. Are you musical, my dear?"

"I like some of it," said Savile, with a sigh.

"You're like James, too," said Lady Virginia, "and I think I see a look of his mother, Mary."

"You never saw her, and you know it," said Aunt William, who always tried in vain to pin Virginia down to facts.

"Yes, but that was merely by chance," said Lady Virginia, getting into her cloak. "Then I shall expect you, Mary, to come and hear Delestin play? Oh, no, I forgot—you said you couldn't. I'm so sorry; but I must fly.... I've a thousand things to do. You know my busy life! I'm the President of the Young Girls' Typewriting Society, and I have to go and see about it. How we poor women ever get through the season with all the work we do is more than I can ever understand."

Aunt William became much more cordial at the prospect of her friend's departure, and when Virginia had at last fluttered out, after dropping the gold bag and the ivory fan twice, Savile said—

"Do you expect many more visitors like that to-day, Aunt William?"

"None like that."

"Well, while you're alone I've got some news to tell you. Sylvia would have come herself, but she's engaged—this afternoon."

"Not engaged to be married, I suppose!" said Aunt William, with a sort of triumphal archness.

"Yes, you've hit it in once. At least, up to a certain point. It'll be all right. But the Governor's a bit nasty—and the fact is, we want you to come and see him, and sort of talk him over, you know."

"Savile! Do you mean it? How charming!... But who's the young man—and what's the objection?"

Savile thought a moment, and remembered her tinge of snobbishness. "He's Sir Bryce Woodville's nephew. Chap who died. I mean, the uncle died. It's Woodville, you know!"

"Your father's secretary?"

"Yes, and a rattling good chap, too. Sylvia's liked him for ages, and he didn't like to come up to the scratch because he was hard up. Now something's turned up. Old Ridokanaki's written him a letter—wants him to go into his bank. He'll have three thousand a year. It's only habit with the Governor to pretend to mind. But a few words with you will settle it. I'll tell you more about it later on."

"I am amazed at the news, Savile. He's a very fine young man, but——"

"He's all right, Aunt William."

"But I thought the Greek gentleman with the unpronounceable name was madly in love with Sylvia himself? I've often talked it over with your father. He and I took opposite views."

"So he was, but he's got some one else now. It's simply got to come off. Now will you come and see us?"

"Certainly. When?"

"As soon as possible. I wish you'd come now."

"But this is my Day, Savile! How can I go out on my Day?"

"Of course you can. You'll have heaps of other days, but none like this—for Sylvia."

Aunt William hesitated, then her intense romantic curiosity got the upper hand.

"Savile, I'll come back with you now! Do you think James will listen to reason? He never agrees with me. And I don't know yet what to think myself."

"Of course he will. You're a brick, Aunt William. I'll tell you more about it in the cab. It's as right as rain for Sylvia, or you may be pretty certain I shouldn't have allowed it," said Savile.

To get Aunt William to go out on her Day, a thing she had not done for thirty years, was so great a triumph that he had little fear of not getting her to be on the right side. He knew she always made a point of disagreeing with his father on every subject under heaven, so he rubbed in Sir James's opposition, and gradually worked on her sentimental side until she was almost tearfully enthusiastic.

"How shall I behave? Go right in and tell your father he must consent?—or what?"

"Play for safety," said Savile.



CHAPTER XXVIII

THE TWELFTH HOUR

Sir James was extremely annoyed with the weather. In his young days, as he remarked with bitterness, spring was spring, and it didn't thunder and snow in April. He was prattling pompously of the sunshine in the past, when a sudden heavy shower of hail, falling rather defiantly in spite of his hints, made him lose his temper. Sir James, looking angrily up at the sky, declared that unless it stopped within half an hour he would write to the Times about it.

Whether or not this threat had any real meteorological influence, there is no doubt that the clouds dispersed rather hastily, the sun hurriedly appeared, and the weather promptly prepared to enable Sir James to venture out, which he did with a gracious wave of the hand to the entire horizon, as though willing to say no more about it.

Sylvia had been as anxious for the thermometer to go up as her father himself, for it was several days now since she had seen Woodville alone. And he had been nervously counting the minutes until the moment of freedom, having, to-day, a stronger reason than ever before to desire a quiet talk.

Woodville had expressed some remorse—not much, though considerably more than he felt—for what Sylvia called his conduct during their last interview, and she meant this morning to forgive him.

"I've only come," said Sylvia, sitting opposite him at the writing-table, "because I saw you were really sorry for ... the other day. Are you sorry?"

"Awfully."

"That's not very flattering," said Sylvia.

"I wanted you, too, dreadfully this morning," he said eagerly. "I've got something wonderful to tell you—to show you."

"Anything dreadful?" she asked, turning pale.

He took out a letter.

"Listen! Since the other day I had made up my mind to go away from here. I began to see I couldn't bear it. At least, for a time."

"What!" cried Sylvia, rising to her feet.

"Yes. But you needn't worry. I've changed my mind, darling. And before I tell you any more——"

He leant across the writing-table and kissed her softly, and at some length.

"Now," he said, "read this letter."

"From the Greek fiend! Is he trying to take you away from me again?"

"No, he's not. Read it aloud."

Sylvia read:—

"'RITZ HOTEL, PARIS.

"'My dear Woodville,—In the short time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, certain changes have come over my views on many subjects; my future is likely to be entirely different from what I had supposed, and I felt impelled to let you know, before any one else, of the unexpected happiness that is about to dawn for me.'

"Oh, Frank, how long-winded and flowery!"

"Never mind that. It's his style always when he's sentimental. Do go on reading."

Sylvia went on. "'I was greatly disappointed at first to know you were unwilling to go to Athens. Perhaps, however, it is better as it is. Briefly, I have found in la ville lumiere what I had longed for and despaired of—a reciprocal affection—that of a young and innocent girl—'"

"Sylvia, don't waste time. Go on!"

"'My heart'"—Sylvia continued to read—"'is filled with joy; but I will not take up all my letter to you with ecstatic rhapsodies; nor will I indulge myself by referring to her beauty, her charm, her Madonna-like face and sylph-like form. Her extraordinary affection for me (I speak with all humility)—tempered as it naturally was by the modesty of her age (she is barely seventeen)—was, I think, what first drew me towards her. We are to be married in May. You know that the sorrow of my life was that I had never been loved for myself. I have been called a successful man, but in my own heart I know that this is the only real success I have ever had during fifty-five years. It is certainly a great pleasure to think, as I do, that I shall be able to give my Gabrielle all (humanly speaking) that she can desire....'"

"Will you stop laughing? You must get through the preliminaries, Sylvia!"

"It seems all preliminaries," murmured Sylvia.

"'But, in my happiness, your troubles are not forgotten: and I hope now to be able to remove them in all essentials.

"'First, let me ask you to remember me to Miss Sylvia, and to tell her that with the deepest respect I now formally relinquish all hopes of her hand.'

"Very kind of him! He seems to claim some merit for not wanting to marry us both," Sylvia cried.

"'No doubt you remember my telling you of a post, similar to that which I proposed for you in the bank at Athens, and that might be vacant soon, in London. Since, to please my bride, (who is devoted to her mother), I intend to make my home in Paris, I have made arrangements for you to take that post now, if you will.

"'Shortly after this epistle a formal note will reach you, explaining all details. You will, I am sure, not refuse me the great pleasure of smoothing a little your path, under the present circumstances—since it is a very dear wish of mine to see you and Miss Sylvia happy.

"'I foresee no obstacles now to your wishes. Explain to Sir James that I intend to be your best friend, and shall be able, no doubt, to be of great assistance to you if you adopt this career.

"'At some future date I hope to present to you Mademoiselle de Beaugarde—and looking forward to your reply, I remain,

"'My dear Woodville,

"'Yours, with a thousand good wishes,

"'G. RIDOKANAKI.

"'P.S.—I should have written at greater length, but I am expecting Madame Beaugarde and her daughter, as I am to escort them to see some pictures. You will, therefore, grant me your indulgence for the bold, almost abrupt way in which I have conveyed to you my news. You will make excuses for the happy lover! She has an oval face, with a peach-like complexion. Her eyes resemble sapphires: her teeth are like pearls. Let me hear from you soon.'"

"Now, isn't he a wonderful chap?" asked Woodville. "And the best fellow in the world. I always liked him. How gifted he is! He describes people in detail, and by the yard, without giving one the very slightest idea of their appearance. He has a real genius for platitudes."

"And what an original description! Peach cheeks and sapphire eyes! Fruit and jewellery! But I daresay she's a dear, and I forgive him now. And Frank, do you realise what this means—to us?"

"I've been realising it since the first post this morning, Sylvia."

"You'll accept it?"

"Naturally. Everything is right, as you said it would be. We'll tell Sir James to-day."

"Look here, darling Frank, let me ring up a messenger to send a wire at once to accept, so that nothing can come between us!"

"Not just yet," said Woodville.

* * * * *

Savile's only comment when they told him was, "Just like that rotter to prefer another alien!" and he immediately wrote brief notes to Chetwode and Jasmyn Vere.

Sir James heard the news with real surprise and conventional indignation, principally because it was his practice to receive news in that way.

He refused his consent, sent Sylvia to her room, and turning round on Savile declared that the whole thing was caused by the disgraceful idleness of that boy, who ought to be at school. Such long holidays were not heard of in his younger days, and did the greatest harm mentally and physically to the boys and all their relatives.

The arrival of Aunt William diverted the storm. Sir James became far more angry with her for defending the young people than with them for requiring defence.

When she had left, he said that perhaps he would take it into consideration in a couple of years, if Woodville left the house at once, and they neither met nor corresponded in the interval.

At dinner he began to chaff them a little, and said Sylvia always got her own way with him.

After dinner, when he was smoking in the library, the desire to say "Take her, you dog, and be happy," or words to that effect, was too strong for him. He sent for Woodville, consented enthusiastically, and from that moment began to believe that with farseeing thoughtfulness he had planned her marriage from the very beginning. And he began to look forward to the list of political and other celebrities that would appear in the papers the day after the wedding.

Of course it was to be a long engagement and a quiet wedding; but entirely through the eager impetuosity of Sir James, they were married in six weeks, and every one said that in general splendour and gorgeousness it surpassed even the wedding of Sir James's elder daughter. Savile's attitude as best man was of such extraordinary correctness that it was the feature of the ceremony, and even distracted public attention from the bride and bridegroom.

THE END



* * * * *



Transcriber's note

The following changes have been made to the text:

Page 9: "expert in hand-writing" changed to "expert in handwriting".

Page 12: "I bar him rather" changed to "I bear him rather".

Page 58: "goodlooking young man" changed to "good-looking young man".

Page 96: "Wont you make" changed to "Won't you make".

Page 111: "St.James's" changed to "St. James's".

Page 155: "blue-green Empire teagown" changed to "blue-green Empire tea-gown".

Page 159: ""Bertie Wilton?" axclaimed" changed to ""Bertie Wilton?" exclaimed".

Page 173: "Saville their only confidant" changed to "Savile their only confidant".

Page 218: "in tears and a teagown" changed to "in tears and a tea-gown".

Page 228: "you going to do today" changed to "you going to do to-day".

Page 243: "sooth-sayer is a marvel" changed to "soothsayer is a marvel".

THE END