Alymer Hermon confessed that he loved giving advice to people years older than himself, concerning things he knew nothing whatever about.

Lorraine tried to cry off, but, hard pressed, she admitted that she liked the excitement of spending money she had not got, and then having to pawn something to satisfy her creditors. "Spending money you will not miss," she finished, "is very dull beside spending money you do not possess."

Alymer Hermon then suggested they should tell each other of besetting faults, and at once informed Hal her colossal opinion of herself and all she did was only equalled by its entire lack of foundation.

Hal hurled back at him that every inch in height after six feet absorbed vitality from the brain, and that, though his dense stupidity was most trying, the reason for it claimed their compassion.

"You pride yourself beyond all reason on your stature," she said, "and are too dense to perceive it is your undoing."

Lorraine leant towards him and said:

"Inches give magnanimity: big men are always big-hearted; you can afford to forgive her, and retaliate that too much brain-power sinks individuality into mere machinery. I should say Hal's besetting fault was rapping every one on the knuckles, as if they were the keys of a typewriting machine."

"And yours, my dear Lorraine, is smiling into every one's eyes, as if the world held no others for you. Were I a man, and you smiled at me so, I would strangle you before you had time to repeat the glance on some one else."

"And Dick's besetting sin," murmured St. Quintin plaintively, "is a persistent fancy for other people's ties and other people's boots. I have cause to bless the benign and other people's boots. I have cause to bless the benign providence who fashioned my shoulders sufficiently smaller than his to prevent his wearing my coats."

"And yours, Quin," broke in Hermon, "is a fond and loathsome affection for pipes so seasoned that the Board of Trade ought to prohibit their use."

"After all," Hal rapped out at him, "that's not so bad as love of a looking-glass."

"And love of a looking-glass is no worse than love of throwing stones from glass houses," he retorted.

"Of course it isn't, Hal," broke in her cousin, "and probably if you had anything nice to look at in your glass - "

Hal stood up.

"The meeting is adjourned," she announced solemnly, "and the honourable member who was just spoken has the president's leave to absent himself on the occasion of the next gathering."

"Excellent," cried Quin, while Hermon in great glee rapped the table with his knife handle and exclaimed, "Capital, Dick!... That drew her... I think you might say it took the middle stump."

"Oh, thank goodness he's got on to cricket," breathed Hal. "He does know a little about that, and may possibly talk sense for ten minutes. Come along, Lorraine, and don't address Baby at present, for fear you distract him from his game and start him off struggling to be clever again. As it is Sunday night, perhaps Dick would like to read us his latest effusions in the way of boisterous hymns!"

She led the way back to the bachelor sitting-room, and for some little time Dick amused them greatly with his experiences over editors and magazines, and then the two went off together to Lorraine's flat.

At this time she was living at the bottom of Lower Sloane Street, with windows looking over the river, and it was generally supposed that her mother lived with her.

As a matter of fact, Mrs. Vivian only occupied the ground floor flat in company with a friend. Lorraine give her an income on condition she should live there, and so, in a sense, act as a sort of chaperone to silence the tongues ever ready to find food for scandal in the fact of brilliance and beauty living alone; but mother and daughter had never again been on terms of cordiality.

So Hal was often Lorraine's companion for several nights, coming and going as she fancied, always sure of a welcome. To her the flat was a constant delight, and in the evening she loved to sit on the verandah and watch the gliding river - not to sentimentalise and dream, but because she loved London with all her heart and soul and strenght, and to her the river was as the city's pulsing heart.

The moist freshness of the air coming across from Battersea Park was only the more refreshing after Bloomsbury, and the vicinity of several well-known names in the world of art and letters appealed porwerfully to her imagination. Lorraine usually sat just inside the long French window, taking care of her voice, and listening contentedly to Hal's chatter.

They sat thus for a little while after their return from Cromwell Road, and it was noticeable that Lorraine was even more silent than usual. Hald told her something about each of their three hosts in turn, while showing an unmistakable preference for the slum-worker and her cousin. At last Lorraine interrupted her.

"Why do you say so little about Mr. Hermon?... you merely told me he was a cricketer,which doesn't, as a matter of fact, describe him at all."

Hal shrugged her shoulders.

"I suppose he doesn't interest me except in that way."

"But it is a mere side issue. If he weren't a cricketer he would be just as remarkable."

"But he isn't remarkable. He's only exceptionally big."

"He's one of the most remarkable men I've ever seen, anyway."

"Oh, nonsense, Lorraine. Besides, he is hardly a man yet. He's only twenty-four."

"I can't help that," with a little laugh. "I've seen a great many men in my life, but I've never seen any one before like Alymer Hermon."

"Why in the world not? What do you mean?"

"Well, to begin with, he's the most perfect specimen of manhood I've ever beheld. He's abnormally big without the slightest suggestion of being either too big or awkward. He's simply magnificent. Most men of that size are just leggy and gawky: he is neither. Again, other men built as he, are usually rather brainless and weak, or probably made so much of by women that they become wrapped up in themselves, and are always expecting admiration. Alymer Hermon has the freshness of a delightful boy, with the fine face and courtly manners of a charming man. If you can't see this, it's because you don't know men as well as I do."

Hal stepped over the window sill into the room.

"Pooh!" she said impatiently. "What in the world has happened to you? He's just a stuffed blue-and-gold Apollo."

Lorraine got up also.

"He's more than that. Some day you will see; unless... unles..."

"Well, unless what?"

"Oh, nothing, only a man like that can't expect to escape being spoilt. A certain type of woman will inevitably mark him down for her prey, and ruin all his freshness."

"Then you had better take him under your wing," Hal laughed. "It would be a pity for such a paragon to be lost to society. Personally, stuffed blue-and-gold Apollos don't interest me in the least. Come along to bed. I'm dead tired," and she dragged Lorraine away.

But instead of sleeping, the acress lay silently watching a star that shone in at her window, and thinking a little sadly about the man nature had chosen to endow so bountifully. In a few weeks she would be thirty-two and he was twenty-four.

Supposing it had been twenty-two instead of thirty-two, and out of his splendour he had given his heart to her dark beauty, what a tale it might have been - what a fairy-tale of sweet, impossible things, with a golden-haired prince and a dark-eyed princess.

She awoke from her day-dream with a touch of impatience, apostrophising herself for her folly. After all, what had a beautiful, successful woman at her prime to do with a youth of twenty-four, who played foolish games at a supper-table, and was only just beginning to know his world? Of course he would bore her intolerably at a second interview, and, closing her eyes resolutely, she drove his image from her mind.



CHAPTER VII

The second interview, however, by a mere coincidence, took place at Lorraine's flat. She was walking leisurely down Sloane Street one afternoon, after visiting hermilliners, when she ran into the young giant going in the opposite direction.

"How so?..." she asked gaily, as is face lit up with a pleased smile, and he stopped in front of her. "Whither away at this hour? Are you chasing a brief?"

"Much too brief," he told her. "I had to carry some important papers to a certain well-known Cabinet Minister; and he did not even vouchsafe me a glance of his countenance. I was given an acknowledgment of them by the footman, as if I had been a messenger boy."

"Too bad. I think you deserve that another celebrity should give you a cup of tea, to redeem your opinion of the immortals. My flat is quite near, and I am now returning. Will you come?"

"Oh, won't I?" he said boyishly, and turned back.

It was the fashionable hour in Sloane Street, when many well-dressed, well-known people are often seen walking, and when the road is full of private motors and carriages. Lorraine found herself moving still more slowly. She was accustomed to being gazed at herself, had in fact grown a little blas of it, but the frank admiration bestowed on her giant amused and pleased her.

Covertly she watched, as she chatted up to him, for the tell-tale consciousness and perhaps heightened colour. But when he was looking back into her face he looked straight before him, over the heads of the admiring eyes, and paid no smallest heed to them. Neither was he in the least self-conscious with her. She wondered if he even realised that the tte—tte he accepted so simply would have been a joy of heaven to many. Anyhow, far from resenting his seeming want of due appreciation, she found it made him more interesting.

She spoke of Hal, and he immediately exclaimed: "Hal is a ripper, isn't she? I can't help teasing her, you know; it's the best fun in the world."

"Do you usually tease your feminine friends?" she asked. "I've no doubt you have a great many."

"Oh, no, I haven't. Men pals are far jollier."

"Still, I expect your inches bring you many fair admirers."

He shrugged his shoulders slightly, and looked a trifle bored, and she divined that he disliked flattery and probably the subject of his appearance. She adroitly turned the conversation back to Hal, and spoke of her until they reached the block of flats.

"Is this where you live? What a ripping situation!" he exclaimed. "I would sooner be near the river than near Knightsbridge, even if it is not so classy."

He followed her into the lift, and then into her charming home, full of enthusiasm, and still without exhibiting a shade of self-consciousness.

Lorraine found her interest growing momentarily, as he took up his stand on her hearth and gazed frankly around, with undisguised pleasure.

"What a jolly nice room. It's one of the prettiest I've seen. You have the same color-scheme as the Duchess of Medstone in het boudoir, but I like your furniture better."

Lorraine glanced up a little surprised.

"Do you know the Duchess of Medstone?"

"Well, yes" - a trifle bashfully. "You see, those sort of people ask me to their houses because of my cricket. Private cricket weeks are rather fashionable, and I get invitations as the late Oxford captain."

"And do you go to people you don't know?"

"Yes, rather, if I can raise the funds. The nuisance is the tipping. There's always such a rotten lot of servants; and I'm too much afraid of them to give anything but gold."

The tea came in, and she saw him glance round for the chair best suited to his bulk.

"My chairs were not designed for giants," she told him laughingly; "you will have to come and sit on the settee."

He came at once, stretching his long legs out before him, with lazy ease, and then drawing his knees up sharply, as if in sudden remembrance that he was a guest and they were comparative strangers. Lorraine liked him, both for the moment's forgetfulness and the sudden remembrance, and as she glanced again at his beautiful head and splendid shoulders, she was conscious of a sudden thrill of appreciative admiration.

Hal was right in naming him Apollo. The Sun God might have been fashioned just so, when first he ravished the eyes of Venus.

"And so the duchess took you into her boudoir?" she asked, with an unaccountable twinge of jealousy. "I do not know her. I'm afraid my friends are not so aristocratic as yours. But I believe she is considered very handsome."

"Hard," he said, with an old-fashioned air. "Handsome enough, but very hard. I did not like her nearly so much as Lady Moir, her sister."

"Still no doubt she was very nice to you?"

Lorraine rather hated herself for the question. The ways of aristocratic ladies, whose idle hours often supply a field of labour for the Evil One, were perfectly well known to her; and she wondered a little sharply how far he was still unspoilt. The majority of big, strong, full-blooded young men in his place would assuredly have sipped the cup of pleasure pretty deeply by now, even at his years, but with that fine, strong face, and the clear, frank eyes was he of these? She believed not, and was glad.

He did not treat her question as if it implied any special favours, and merely replied jocularly:

"Well, I suppose, since her blood is very blue and mine merely tinged, she was rather gracious, but of course the really 'blue' people generally are."

"Tell me who you happen to be?" Lorraine leant back against her cushions, with her slow, easy grace, asking the question with a lightness that robbed it of all pointedness or snobbery.

He seemed amused, for he smiled as he answered frankly:

"I happen to be Alymer Hadstock Hermon, one fo the Hermons all right, but not the drawing-room end, so to speak; at the same time tinged with her family shadiness - 'blue' of course I mean - though no doubt it applies in other ways as well. Does that satisfy your curiosity, or do you want to know more?"

She loved looking at him, particularly with that humorous little smile on his lips, so she said:

"Not half. I want to know all the rest."

"Very well. It's quite an open book. I was born twenty-four years ago. I am an only child, and, as usula, the apple of my mother's eye and the terror of my father's pocket. He, my father, is not much else just now except a recluse. He was recently a member of parliament, a Liberal member, and, God knows, that's little enough. I believe he even climbed in by a Chinese pigtail.

"My grandfather was a Judge in the Divorce Court, which doesn't somehow sound quite respectable, and my great-grandfather was a writer of law books, for which, personally, I think he ought to have been hanged. I can't go any farther back; at any rate I don't want to, because I'm certain it's all so correct and dull there isn't even a family skeleton."

"Is it the women or the men of the family that are beautiful?"

"Oh, both," with humorous eagerness. "Skeletons and ghosts we sought, and clamoured for, but ugliness, never."

"Well, it's a pity you were not a woman. Looks are wasted in a man. Give a man a ready tongue and a taking manner, and he can usually get what he wants, if he's as ugly as a frog. With you, on the other hand, things will come too easily. You will miss all the fun of the chase. On my soul I'm sorry for you."

"The briefs don't come anyway, nor the 'oof': that's all I can see to be sorry for."

"You don't want them badly enough, that's all. If you want the one, you'll make love to an influential woman who can get them, and if you want the other, you'll marry an heiress."

"I say, you're giving me rather a rotten character, aren't you?"

He faced her suddenly, and a new expression dawned in his eyes, as if he were only just awakening to the fact that she was beautiful.

"Do you really think I'm such a rotter as all that?"

She glanced away, lowering her eyelids, so that her long lashes swept the warm olive cheeks, and with a little callous shrug answered:

"Why should you be a rotter for doing what all the rest of the world does? Four-fifths of mankind would give anything for your chances."

"But you just said you were sorry for me?"

"So I am. So I should be for the four-fifths of mankind, if they got all they wanted just for the asking."

He smiled with a sudden, charming whimsicality.

"I don't feel much in need of sympathy, you know. It's a ripping old world, as long as you can indulge a few mild fancies, and be left alone."

"Mild fancies!"

She turned on him suddenly.

"What have you to do with mild fancies? Why, you can have the world at your feet with a little exertion. Haven't you any ambition? Don't you even want to plead in the greatest law court in the world as one of the first barristers in Europe?"

"Not particularly. Why should I? It would be no end of a fag. I'd far rather be left alone."

"You... you... sluggard,' breaking into a laugh. "If I were Fate, I'd just take you by the shoulders and shake you till you woke up. Then I'd go on shaking to keep you awake. You shouldn't be wasted on mere nonentity if I held the threads."

But his blue eyes only smiled whimsically back at her.

"I'm jolly glad you haven't a say in the matter. Why, I should have to give up cricket, and take to working! You're as bad as Quin with his slumming, and Dick with his rotten verses."

"You don't know yet that I haven't a say in the matter," she remarked daringly. "Have a cigarette. I'm awfully sorry I didn't remember sooner."

"Indeed, you ought to be," was the gay rejoinder. "I've been just dying for the moment when you would remember."

An electric bell rang out as they were lighting their cigarettes, and a moment later Hal danced into the room with shining eyes and glowing cheeks. A few paces from the door she stopped suddenly.

"Hullo, Baby," she said, addressing Hermon, "where have you sprung from?"

"I found it wandering alone in Sloane Street," Lorraine remarked, "and now we've been teaing together."

Alymer did not look any too pleased at Hal's frank appellation, but former remonstrance had only been met with derision, and he knew he had no choice but to submit with a good grace.

"I might ask the same question, Lady-Clerk," he replied.

"Don't call me a lady-clerk - I hate the term. I'm a typist, secretary, bachelor-girl, city-worker, anything you like, not a lady-clerk - bah!..."

"Then don't call me Baby."

Hal's face broke into the most attractive of smiles.

"I can't help it. Everything about you, your size, your face, your ways just clamour to be called 'Baby'. Of course if you'd rather be Apollo - "

"Good Lord, no: is that the only alternative?"

"I'm afraid so; you needn't go if you don't want to," as he prepared to depart. "We are not going to talk grown-up secrets."

"If I were Mr. Hermon, I'd give you one good shaking, Hal," put Lorraine. "I'm sure you deserve it."

"Not a bit. Nothing could do him more good than regular interviews with me, to undo all the harm he has received in between from silly, idiotic women, who make him think he is something out of the ordinary. Isn't that so, Baby? Aren't you labouring under the delusion that you're a remarkable fine specimen of humanity? And all the time, Heaven knows, you've about as much honest purpose and brains as a big over-grown school-boy."

"I hope you are not intending to imply he is more richly endowed with dishonest purpose?" said Lorraine.

"Oh, I wouldn't mind that," Hal declared, "so long as it was energy and purpose of some kind."

"Even to giving you that good shaking," he asked, coming forward a step menacingly.

"Not in here," in alarm; "you and I scrapping in Lorraine's drawing-room would cost a hundred pounds or so in valuables. I'll cry 'pax'," as he still advanced. "Of course you are rather a fine boy really, I was only pulling your leg."

Hermon subsided with a laugh, and Hal proceeded to explain that she had come on business, having been asked by the editor of one of their small magazines to write up an interview with the actress for him.

"I shall say I found you having a cosy tte—tte with a young barrister of many inches and little brains," she laughed. "Come, Lorraine, spout away. What is your favourite hors d'oeuvre? Did you feel like a boiled owl at your first appearance? And which horse do you back for next year's Derby?"

She started scribbling, to the amusement of the other two, carrying on a desultory conversation meanwhile.

"This isn't anything to do with my department, but I like Mr. Hadley, and he was keen about it, and offered me three guineas, so I said I'do do it... Are your eyes yellow or green? For the life of me, I don't know. Which would you rather I called them? ... I've got to go to Marlboro' House to-morrow to get up a short and vivid account of a garden party, because Miss Alton, who generally does it, is down with 'flu'. Were you a prodigal as a kid? no; I mean a prodigy... Fancy me at Marlboro' House! Awful thought, isn't it? How they dare?

"What is your favourite pastime? Shall I put down shooting? I know you don't know one end of a gun from the other, but it doesn't matter; and it reads rather well - something unique about it in an actress."

"Why not put angling, and give some of my dear enemies a chance to ask what for?"

"Or jam-making," suggested Alymer, "and redeem the stage in the eyes of the British matron."

"Oh, don't talk... how can I write? Shall I bring myself in, and dig up the dear old chestnut of David and Jonathan?... or shall I describe Dudley's disapproval melting into undisguised worship," she rippled with laughter as she scribbled on. "Oh dear, think if Dudley were to find it, and read it, because he hasn't even discovered yet that he has ceased to disapprove.

"Who's your favourite poet? I might say Dick Bruce; he would write a book of poems at once. And Quin might be your hero in real life. Do you know where you were born? Up in the Himalayas sounds nice and airy, and it might as well have been there as anywhere."

"If you want anymore you must get it while I eat my dinner," said Lorraine, rising. "I have to try and be at the theatre at seven just now. You may as well both dine with me, and you can come to my dressing-room afterwards if you like, Hal."

"No, thank you"; and Hal pulled a wry face. "I've seen quite enough of the wings, and the green-room, and all the rest of it. You might take Baby, just to show him the real thing, and put him off it once for all."

She turned to Hermon.

"Have you ever been behind the scenes? I used to go sometimes, just for the fun of it, while it was a novelty; but it quite cured me of any possible taste of the stage. Most of the performers were so nervous they could hardly speak, their teeth just chattered with cold and fright mingled, and the gloom of it was like a vault. And then all the gaping, staring faces in rows, looking out of the darkness. You can't think how idiotic people look seen like that. It always suggested to me that both stage and stalls were like children playing at being lunatics."

"That's only your dreadfully prosaic, unromantic mind, Hal. You just like to write newspaper articles, and type letters, and smother your imagination under dry-and-dust facts."

"Smother my imagination," echoed Hal, with a laugh. "Why, it would take the imaginations of fifty ordinary people to concoct some of the paragraphs we fix up during the week. My imagination is a positive goldmine at the office, at least it would be if they dare print all that I suggest."

"You should run a paper yourself," suggested Hermon; "a few libel actions would made it pay like anything."

"Ah, you haven't seen Dudley," with a little grimace. "Dudley would have a fit and die before the first action had had time to reach its interesting stage. I'd take you home to see him now, but he happens to have gone up to Holloway to dinner."

"I'm dinning out myself, so I must fly." He turned to Lorraine, with a gay smile. "I say, may I come and dine with you some other time?"

"Come to the Carlton on Sunday, will you?"

Lorraine hardly knew why she made the sudden decision; she only knew perfectly well she would have to break another engagement to keep it, and that she was foolishly gland when he accepted.

"It's all right; you needn't ask me," volunteered Hal, as her friend glanced at her. "I'm going motoring with Dick, and I shall insist upon staying out until ten or eleven. I always try and fill my Sundays full of fresh air. "Where are you going to-night, Baby?" she added, with a charmingly impudent smile.

"The Albert Hall, with Lady Selon"; and a twinkle shone in his eyes.

"Goodness gracious! What in the world are you going to the Albert Hall for? and who is Lady Selon?"

"She is Soccer Selon's sister-in-law, and she asked me to take her to a concert. Is there anything else you would like to know?"

"Her age?" archly.

"Somewhere about thirty-five, I should imagine."

"Oh! your grandmother, or thereabouts. Well, skip along. Tell Dick to call for me early on Sunday."

When he had said good-bye to Lorraine and departed, Hal held up her hand, hanging in a limp fashion.

"I wish you'd teach him to shake hands, Lorry. It feels like shaking a blind cord and tassel. Are you going to mother him? What an odd idea for you to bother with a boy! You surely don't mean to tell me he interests you?"

"I like to look at him. He's such a splendid young animal. I feel - oh, I don't know what I feel."

"Lots of London policemen are splendid young animals, but you don't want tte—tte teas with them if they are."

"You absurd child! Is there any reason why I shouldn't have tea with Mr. Hermon, if it amuses me?"

"None specially; but if it's just a splendid young animal to look at, you want, I daresay it would be safer to import a polar bear from the Zoo."

Lorraine felt a spot of colour burn in het cheeks, but she only laughed the subject aside, and alluded to it no more before they parted at the theatre door.

Only at a late supper-party that night she was quieter than was her wont; and, contrary to her habit, one of the first to leave. A well-known rising politician, who had been paying her much attention of late, prepared, as usual, to escort her home. She wished he would have stayed behind, but had no sufficient reason for refusing his company. He taxed her with silence as they spun westwards, and she pleaded a headache, wondering a little why all he said, and looked, and did, somehow seemed banal and irritating to-night.

He was so sure of himself, so fashionably blas, so carelessly clever, so daringly frank, with all the finished air of the modern smart man, basking callously in the assured fact of his own brilliance and superiority. She knew that most women would envy her the attentions of such a one, and that his interest was undoubtedly a great compliment, as such compliments go; but to-night she found herself remembering all the other women who had reigned before her, all those who would presently succeed her, and she was conscious of an impatient disgust of all the shallowness and insincerety of the fashinable, successful man.

"May I come in?" he asked, when they reached the flat, looking rather as if he were conferring a favour than soliciting one.

"No; it is too late. Good-night."

"Too late!... " he laughed a little, and Lorraine felt her temper rising. "It is not exceptionally late, a little earlier than usual in fact. Why mayn't I come in?"

"Because I don't want you," she said coldly, and she saw him bite his lip in swift vexation.

"I shall certainly not press you," he retorted, and turned away.

At the window of her drawing-room Lorraine lingered a few moments, gazin with a half-longing expression at the gleam of the lights on the dark flowing river. What was it that gave her that strange sense of heartache to-night? Why had her usual companions bored and irritated her? Why did Alymer Hermon's fine, boyish, refreshing face come so often to her mind?

She was certainly not in love with him. The mere idea was ridiculous, but it was equally certain that something about him had given rise to this vague unrest and longing. Was it perhaps that he called to her mind the youth she had never known, the young splendid, whole-hearted years, when it was so easy to believe and hope and enjoy that which life had never given her time for?

True, the world was at her feet now, just as much as it would ever be at his, but with what a difference? For her, with the work and stain of the knowledge of much evil, and little good. For him, at present, with aal the glorious freshness of the morning.

She glanced back into the dim room, and among the shadows she saw him standing there again, towering up upon her hearthrug, before her hearth, with that youthful, frank assurance that was so attractive. Of a truth he was unspoilt yet, unspoilt and splendid as the dawn of the morning - but for how long?

What would they make of him presently, the women of the world, who must needs worship such a man, and strew their charms before him. How was he to keep his freshness, when temptation hemmed him in on every side?

She felt a sudden yearning as of hungry mother-love towards him. If he had been her son, her very own son, how she would have fought the whole world to help him keep his armour bright, and his colours flying high.

And instead?...

The wave of hungry mother-love was followed by one as of swift and angry protest. Who had ever cared whether she kept her armour bright and her colours flying high? Had not life itself mocked at her early aspirations, and trampled jeeringly on her untutored, unformed high desires? What chance had she ever had, long as she might, to keep the morning freshness?

Well, what of it? She had sought and striven for fame, and fame had come; she was a poor creature if she could not look life in the face now, and laugh above her wounds.

And in the meantime perhaps she could help him fight some of those other women still; the women who would drag him down for their own satisfaction, and care nothing for the hurt to him.

Anyhow, she would try to be good pal to him, and not a temptress. For once she would fight for some one else's hand instead of her own, and gain what satisfaction she could in feeling herself a true friend.



CHAPTER VIII

About the time that the three in the Chelsea flat were leave-taking, a stream of women-clerks in the long passages of the General Post Office proclaimed that pressure of work had again meant "overtime" to these energetic City-workers.

In consequence, there was a lack of elasticity in the many passing feet, and the suggestion of a tired silence in the cloak-room; for though the girls hastened to get away from the dreary monotony of the huge building, they were, many of them, too tired to depart as joyfully as was their wont.

Yet most of them, behind the tiredness, looked out upon the world with clear, capable eyes, and strong, self-reliant faces, that spoke well for the spirit of their set. Up there in the big office-rooms, year in year out, these refined, well-educated women kept ledgers and accounts and did the general office work of the Civil Service with a precision and neatness and correctness equal to the work of any men, and invariably to the astonishment of any interested visitor who was permitted to inquire into the system.

Yet the majority of their salaries ranged from 90 a year to 210, and they were obliged to pas an examination of no mean stamp to attain a post. Small wonder that many of them, having to help support others as well as keep themselves, had the delicate, listless, anaemic appearance of underfed women badly in need of fresh air, good food, and wholesome exercise.

The policy of Great Britain towards her women workers is surely one of the greatest contradictions of our enlightened age. Even putting aside the vexed question of suffragism, how little has she ever done to try and cope with the needs of working womanhood?

In som Government departments, as, for instance, the Army Clothing Department, it is a known fact that the women are actually sweated; and that in the higher branches, employing gentlewomen, they pay them the lowest possible wage, not because the work is ill-done, but because, owing to present conditions, plenty of gentlewomen are found to accept the offer.

Many of these gentlewomen lose their health in their struggle to obtain good food, decent lodging, and a neat appearance on Government salaries, knowing full well that the moment they fall out of the ranks numbers will be waiting to fill their places.

And in the meantime enlightened authors and politicians write articles, and make speeches, holding forth upon the charm and beauty of the Home Woman, and drawing unflattering comparisons between her and the worker.

Comfortable elderly gentlemen, who have had successful careers and can now afford to dine unwisely every night, and keep their daughters in well-dressed indolence, self-satisfied, self-aggrandising, self-advertising young politicians, who, having obtained an attentive public, delight to cant about the rights of the citizen and the good of the Empire, clever, intuitive, charming novelists, who apparently possess an unaccountable vein of dense non-comprehension on some points - all harp upon this theme of the Home Woman, and the Home Sphere, and the infinite superiority, in their own lordly eyes, of the gentle, domesticated scion of the family hearth.

As if one-fourth of the women wage-earners, gentle or otherwise, in England to-day had any choice in the matter whatever. The rapidity with which a vacant place in the ranks is filled and the numbers waiting for it is surely sufficient proof of that; to say nothing of the pitiful conditions under which many, gentle and otherwise, cling to their posts long after a merciful fate should have given them the opportunity to save the remnants of their shattered health amidst country breezes.

It is useless to cry out to the woman that work and competition with men is unbecoming to her. She must work, and she must compete, and seeing this, it is surely time the British Government accepted the fact magnanimously, and took more definite steps to assure her welfare.

If it can only be done through woman's suffrage, then woman's suffrage must surely come, because, whether British legislators care for the good of women or not, nature does care, and as the race moves forward the working woman will have to be protected.

It has been seen over and over again that no band of politicians, nor powerful men, nor tape-bound State can long defy any advancing good for the needs of the whole.

Wheter women work or not, they are the mothers of the future; and because this fact is greater than the sum of all other facts brought forward by the narrowness and short- sightedness of men, we may safely believe that, since they must work, nature will see to it that they work under the most favourable conditions, no matter what rich men have to go the poorer for it.

Pity is that the hour is so delayed; that narrowness, and selfishness, and self-aggrandisement still flourish, to the eternal cost of those of England's mothers who bring weaklings into the world, through the hard conditions of their enforced labour.

The true patriot of to-day will agitate not only for the highest possible efficiency in the Navy and Army; but, with no less resolve and sincerety, for the best possible conditions obtainable for all women-workers, that the Empire may not later sink suddenly to decay, in spite of her defences, through the impoverished, feeble, sickly off-spring who are all the men she has left.

The true patriot will accept the ever-strengthening fact, however unpalatable, that the development and emancipation of womanhood has brought women to the front as workers, to stay; and he will perceive that therefore it is incumbent upon the men to endeavour to find that happy mean, where they can work together to the advantage of both, and to the stability and greatness of a beloved country.

Only now the women-workers toil bravely on, heartening each other with jests under conditions in which it is extremely likely men would merely cavil and sulk and fill the air with their complainings; dressing themselves daintily through personal effort in spite of meagre purses; throwing themselves with a splendid joyousness into their few precious days of freedom; banding themselves together often and often to wring occasional hours of gaiety from the months of toil; keeping brave eyes to the front and brave hearts to the task, while they wait steadfastly for the day when their worth shall be appreciated and their claims recognised.

Hastening to the office in the morning, or hastening home (probably to cook their own dinner) at night, they read those clever, carefully worded articles and speeches by the men of power and weight, harping upon the charm and beauty and superiority of the Home Woman; and they laugh across to each other with a frank, rather pitying, rather irritated laughter, at the extraordinary dull-wittedness of some brilliant brains.

They wonder gaily how these enlightened, clever gentlemen would like it if they all became sweet Home women in the workhouses, cultivating elegant gardens, and floating round in flowing gowns at their expense.

The men call them "new women" with derision, or mannish, or unsexed; but those who have been among them, and known them as friends, know that they hold in their ranks some of the most generous-hearted, unselfish, big-souled women to exist in England to-day; and that it is just because of that they are able to plod cheerfully on, and laugh that indulgent, pitying little laugh, when an outraged man swells with virtuous indignation, and waxes eloquent upon their want of womanly attributes.

Of such as the best of these was Ethel Hayward. Among the crowd now hurrying more or less tiredly into the open air, she might not have been noticed. So many had white faces, dark-circled eyes, shabby-genteel clothing, and just a commonplace fairness, that in the throng it was difficult to discover distinguishing attributes.

One had to see her apart, and note the quick, urgent step, the independent, lofty poise of her head, and the steadfastness of the tired eyes, and firm, strong mouth, to feel that life had given her a heavy burden, which only a noble soul could have supported with heroism.

As she left the portals of the General Post Office she hesitated a few seconds as to her direction. "Should she go straight back to the little flat in Holloway, or should she go west, and get the drawing-paper Basil was wanting?"

Doris could easily get the drawing-paper the next day, if she chose; and at the flat Dudley Pritchard would have arrived for the evening. She surmised hastily that it was extremely probable Doris had made some other engagement for herself that she would be unwilling to delay, and that Dudley would in no wise regret her own tardy return.

The last thought caused her eyes to grow a little strained, as she walked quickly westwards - strained with the determination to face the fact unflinchingly, and try to overcome the deep, insistent ache it caused.

But the love of a lifetime is not dismissed at will, and looking a little pitifully backward, though she was but twenty-eight, Ethel felt she could not remember the time when she did not love Dudley Pritchard, though it had perhaps only crystallised into the great feature of her life at the time when, in silent, heroic endeavour, he had given of all he had to win his friend back to life and health.

It was Dudley's careful savings that he had paid for the great specialist and the big operation; Dudley's courage and devotion that had nerved the stricken man to take up the awful burden of perpetual invalidism; Dudley's never-failing encouragement and friendship that helped him still to bear the dreary months of utter weariness, in the little home kept together by his sister's salary.

High up in the dreary-looking block of flats in Holloway, attended through the day by the erratic ministrations of Doris, and at night by the yearning tenderness of Ethel, Basil Hayward dragged out a weary martyrdom, that prayed only for release. In vain Ethel murmured over him, that to work for him was a glory compared to what it would be to live without him; in the silent, tedious hours of her absence, his soul broke itself in hopeless, passionate protest against the decree that compelled him to accept his daily bread at the hands of the sister he would gladly have striven for day and night.

It as a martyrdom across which one can but draw a curtain, and stand "eyes front". Look this way, look that, what answer is there, what reason, what explanation, of the hidden martyrdoms of the work-a-day world, which the blank wall of heaven seems to regard with utter unconcern?

Mankind to-day is less disposed than ever of yore to calmly fold the hands and say, "It is the will of God." They can no longer do so honestly without either blaming or criticising the Divine Will that not merely permits, but is said to send, such martyrdoms.

Better surley to accept bravely the enigma of the universe, and strive to lessen the suffering in our own little sphere, believing that same Divine Will is striving with us to mitigate the ills humanity has brought upon itself through blind disobedience and careless indifference to the laws of nature.

Uncomplaining resignation may help by its example, but the resignation which sits with folded hands and makes no effort to amend, is only a form of feebleness. The strong soul accepts life silently as a field of battle, asking for energy, resource, courage, and that fine spirit which obeys the unseen general in unquestioning faith.

It was only in such a spirit, through those years of pain and mysgtery, that Ethel was able to witness her passionately loved brother's martyrdom, and give all the years of her youth to earn that pour salary from a wealthy Empire, to keep some sort of a home for the three of them in the little, dingy Holloway flat.

For even if Doris had been capable of sustained endeavour, the bedridden man could not have been left alone for long, and no choice was left them but to eke out Ethel's pitiful 110 salary between them.

Often perhaps a passionate resentment burned in her heart concerning the heavy handicaps under which a woman achieves work equal to a man's; but she had no time to lend herself to any open protest, and toiled on, silently fighting her individual daily battle the better encouraged by those brave women taking all the opprobrium of the warfare upon their own shoulders, for the sake of working womanhood as a whole.

Only, of late a fresh burden had been added in the fear that Dudley was growing to care for her sister Doris.

It was not that she grudged Doris the happiness, nor the prospect of a home in which she and Dudley might together take care of Basil; but she saw ahead the tragedy of the awakening, when Dudley learnt of the shallow, selfish little heart behind Doris's charming exterior.

That he, of all people, should be drawn to such an one was only the contradiction seen on all sides in life. Because he had that old-fashioned distrust of the independent, self-reliant woman, he must needs go to the opposite extreme, and let himself be drawn to one capable of little else in the world but ornamentation. Doris, she knew, was fitted only to be a rich man's plaything. Dudley, she felt instinctively, would start off by expecting of her things she had never had to give, and in his dismay and disappointment might wreck both their lives.

Yet she felt powerless to take any step that might save them from each other, knowing full well that Doris, bored with her life at the flat, had decided that even life with Dudley would be better. And even as Ethel hastened westwards, instead of towards home, Doris with infinite pains put the finishing touches to her pretty hair, and took a last survey of her dainty person before the well-known step should sound on the stone staircase outside their unpretentious litte door.

She had been very irritable with the invalid, because he was trying to get a plan copied quickly, and wanted a special arrangement of light, just when she was ready to go and dress after preparing the dinner; but when at last Dudley knocked on the door, Doris opened it to him with a face of such charming innocence and smiles that irritability would never have been imagined in the rpertoire of her characteristics. A little helpless, a little childish, she might be, but what clever man does not love a clinging woman?

"It was so nice of you to come," she said. "It is such a dreary place to turn out to after your long day at the office."

"But I love coming," he answered simply. "You know I do."

He looked at her with unconscious admiration, and Doris noted for the hundredth time that although he was not particularly tall, nor particularly good-looking, nor particularly anything, yet his thin, clean-shaven face had a clever, distinguished air, and he had unmistakably the cut and breeding of a gentleman. She knew that even if he were only moderately well off, and could not afford the dash she loved, he was at least good to be seen with, and a man who might one day make his mark. So, though she deprecated most of the qualities which were in reality his best points, she decided in her calculating little head she would seriously contemplate becoming Mrs. Dudley Pritchard.

His greeting with the invalid was, for Dudley, a little boisterous - the result of a hint from Ethel. He would probably never have had time to see for himself that such a man as Basil Hayward would hate a pitying air or invalid manner, but he was sympathetic enough to respond quickly to a suggestion that the latest cricket or football news, gaily imparted, was far more pleasing to the invalid than a sympathetic inquiry after his health.

For Basil Hayward, sufferer and martyr, was prouder of his near relationship to a celebrated international cricketer than he would ever had been of his own sublime courage had it been lauded to the skies. Life had left him little enough, but "give me the power still to glory in every manly and athletic achievement of my countrymen," was his unspoken request.

So they discussed the latest sporting news of the world, and then had a great argument on a plan of Dudley's for a competition for a grand-stand and pavilion on a celebrated aviation ground, while they waited for Ethel.

The small flat had only one sitting-room, and while they talked Doris flitted gracefully about, putting the finishing touches to the table. Afterwards she sat on a low chair under the lamp, so that the light fell full on her pretty hair, while she bowed her head with unwonted industry over a piece of sewing.

Occasionally she glanced up at the two men, meeting Dudley's eyes with a pretty confiding look that only added to her charm.

"Ethel is so late. I wonder if we had better wait," she said at last. "She told me on no account to do so."

Basil glanced at the clock a little anxiously.

"It is too bad," he murmured; "they have no right to expect so much overtime work. She is sure to come soon."

"Yes; but I think she would like us to begin"; and Doris rose slowly. "It will save time when she does come in."

It was plain Basil disapproved, but she pretended not to see it, and in a short time she and Dudley were seated tte—tte, while the invalid remained on his couch. They were gay from spontaneity of pleasure, and Hal would have been surprised at the cheeriness of het grave brother, had she seen how he responded to Doris's playful mood.

Then Ethel"s key sounded in the door, and it was as though a slight shadow fell upon them. Doris wished she had been later still; Dudley seemed to grow grave again, from habit, and Basil watched the door like a big devoted dog, with eyes of hungry love.

As she entered her first glance was for him, and her nod and smile ere she turned to greet the visitor hid all her own weariness, and was reflected in a light of glad welcome on the sick man's face.

"I'm so glad you didn't wait," she said; "I stayed to get the drawing-paper."

"But why did you, dear?" he asked, with quick remonstrance. "Doris could easily have gone to-morrow."

"Of course I could"; and Doris skilfully threw a hurt tone in her voice, which Dudley was quick to detect.

"I wanted to walk," was all Ethel said, as she moved away to take off her hat and coat.

But in spite of her efforts the gaiety did not return, and Doris grew a little pensive and sad.

Dudley, with his surface reasoning, saw in her attitude something that suggested the other two were in the habit of being entirely wrapped up in each other, to the exclusion of the young sister.

Ethel might be a remarkably clever and capable woman; he knew perfectly well that she was just as able with her fingers as her brain, and did nearly all the upholstering and dressmaking of the household in her evening free time; but wasn't she just a little superior and self-satisfied also - just a little unkindly indifferent to the monotony and dulness of her young sister's existence?

Dudley found his sympathy go out more and more to those childlike eyes, and the pretty, clinging ways; and a sort of half-fledged resentment grew up against the elder sister. He could not choose but admire her, if it were only for her devotion to her brother, but he felt a vague something, in his thoughts of her, that he could not express, and remained grave.

Ethel, watching them both covertly while she moved about helping Doris to clear away the dinner things, guessed at much that was passing in his mind, and unconsciously grew a little strained in her manner to him. That he should pity Doris and blame her seemed at last irony, but it could not be helped; and not even to win his love could she attempt to change her natural manner, and appear what might better please him.

She even said "good-night" a little coldly, and remained beside Basil while Doris went out into the tiny hall with him to get his hat and coat.

Doris seemed to Dudley a lonely little figure out there in the dim light, with just the suggestion of a droop about her lips and wistfulness in her eyes. He believed that she found herself left out in the cold with those other two, but was too proud to complain. He felt a tenderness springing up in his heart and spreading to his eyes as he leaned towards her with a protecting air.

She was small and fragile. It made him feel big and protective; and he liked it. Has was so tal and straight and slim and boyish - not in the least the sort of person one could really feel protective to; and he liked clinging women... His head bent down quite near to hers as he said in a low tone: "I suppose they are like lovers, those two, and you feel a little out of it, eh?"

"Yes" - confidingly and gratefully - "and it makes me very unhappy, because I love to slave for Basil just as much as Ethel does. But he does not want me... " with a little sad air.

"Oh, I think you are mistaken. It could never be that. It is only that they have always been so devoted, and I expect it is too lonely for you here. You do not get enough change. Would you care to go to the White City with me on Thursday evening?"

"Oh, I should love it!" and there was a quick gleam in her eyes.

"Very well, I will arrange it." His hand closed over hers lingeringly. "Good-bye. Don't be despondent. I will let you know where to meet me. We might have dinner at a restaurant first; shall we?"

Again she expressed her delight, and Dudley went off with a glow of pleasure that was a surprise to him.

But behind the closed door Doris smiled a little smile in the darkness, that had none of the artless innocence of the smiles reserved for him.

"Ethel would just give her head to go with him," was her first thought; and then, "I hope he won't go to a cheap restaurant."

In the sitting-room Ethel was putting the last touches to the invalid's comfort for the night, moving about busily. Doris leaned against the table, and made no attempt to help her.

"Dudley wants me to go to the White City with him on Thursday evening. I said I would."

"Thursday is the night I have to go and see Dr. Renshaw"; and Ethel glanced round with a shadow of vexation on her face.

"I know it is, but you will not be very late." She paused, then added, "I do not get so many treats that I can afford to miss one."

"Dudley could probably have gone any other night. Did you ask him?"

Ethel spoke a little quickly, and Doris looked ready with a sharp retort, when Basil interposed.

"Thursday will be all right, chum. Doris won't leave before six and you will get in by half-past seven. I shall have nearly two whole hours in which to do any silly thing I like, without getting scolded"; and his smile was very winsome.

"I don't like you to have to wait so long for your dinner. You always get faint. Perhaps Dr. Renshaw would see me another evening... I -"

"Oh, nonsense, chum" - in the same cheery voice - "I'll have a tin of sardines, and eat one every ten minutes until you come."

Ethel let the matter drop, seeing it would please him best, and Doris retired to their room with a slightly sulky air.

"There always seems to be something to damp it if I am to have a treat," was her complaint.

"I don't think you will feel damped after you start," Ethel replied quietly, and they went to bed in silence.



CHAPTER IX

When Dudley got back he found Hal waiting up for him, with an expression of shining eagerness on her face.

"Oh, Dudley, such fun!" she began, "Lorraine has got the royal box for me for Thursday evening. We must have a little dinner-party. Who shall we take? It holds four comfortably, and two men could stand at the back."

"Thursday evening!" looking a little taken aback. "I am engaged."

"Engaged! Well, you must put it off. Why didn't you tell me? I thought you said you had any night free except Friday."

"I only made the engagement this evening."

"Are you going to see Basil again? He won't mind being put off."

"No. It isn't Basil."

"What then?"

Dudley turned away, threw his gloves carelessly down on a sidetable, and picked up some letters.

"I asked Doris to go to the White City with me."

"You... you asked Doris to go to the White City?... " she repeated incredulously. "What in the world for?"

"To see it, of course. What else should I ask her for?"

"Oh, Heaven only knows! Why ask her at all? I should certainly upset her into the canal from sheer irritation if she came with me."

"Such nonsense." He knit his forehead into a decided frown. "You are so unfair to Doris. You used to complain that I was unfair to Lorraine. I was never as unfair as you are now. You don't really know Doris at all; and she has never done anything to hurt you."

"It doesn't follow that she wouldn't if she had the chance. You're so awfully dense about women, Dudley. Why didn't you invite Ethel instead? She is worth a hundred Dorises. Then we could have taken her to the theatre."

His voice and manner grew very cold.

"I don't agree with you, but it is not a subject I care to discuss. Is there any reason why Doris should not be invited to the theatre?"

"None whatever, except that I don't propose to ask her."

They faced each other a moment almost angrily, except that whereas Dudley was distinctly vexed, Hal was a little scornful, and half-laughing.

"Then I cannot come either, and" - he paused a moment, to add with decision - "I object to your going unchaperoned."

"Do you mean that you wish me to give up the box?"

"You know what I mean."

Hal was thoughtful a moment, and then remarked with sudden glee:

"I know what I'll do. I'll take the Three Graces, and persuade Quin's aunt to come as chaperone. Then we'll all have supper with Lorraine afterwards. You shall have a nice, quiet, interesting evening with Doris, and I'll get two stalls for you for another night."

She moved about, gathering up her things.

"You don't know Quin's aunt, Lady Bounce, do you? She's the dearest old soul, and she loves a theatre. Night-night, old boy; don't keep Doris too long near the canal, in case you are taken with my inclination"; and she went gaily off, humming a popular air.

Dudley read through his letters without grasping any of their contents. For the first time Hal's attitude to Doris seriously worried him, and he felt vaguely there was trouble ahead.

But when Thursday came, and they were together, she again had the same pleasing effect upon his senses, and he let himself be persuaded that if Hal grew to know her better, she could not choose but grow fond of her.

In the meantime a group in the royal box at the Greenway Theatre was causing no small interest to a crowded house.

There was Hal, with her smart, well-groomed air, gleaming white neck and arms, and her white, even teeth that looked so attractive even in the distance when she smiled.

Dick Bruce, spruce and scholarly, hugely pleased with himself, because he had an article in The National Review, on the strenght of the colonies in war time; and some lines entitled "Baby's Boredom" in Fireside Chat, concerning which he had already announced his intention of standing the champagne for their supper with the cheque.

Of the other two occupants it would be difficult to say which attracted the most attention. Alymer Hermon, with his immense stature and splendid head, or Quin's aunt, Lady Bounce, who presented so striking a resemblance to another well-known little old lady sometimes seen at the theatre, that friends of the last-mentioned were utterly puzzled.

Surely only one little lady in London wore that early Victorian dress, with the ringlets and "grande dame" air, and sat with such genuine delight and enjoyment through a play? And yet why did she not look out for her numerous friends, down there in the stalls, and recognise them?

And who in the world was she with? If that were indeed Lady Phyllis Fenton - and it seemed incredible it should not be - who was the splendid young giant, and who the white-faced girl with the brilliant smile?

And all the time, absorbed in the play and her companions, the little old lady smiled and talked, calmly indifferent to the many eyes below waiting for the expected bow of recognition.

Quin, apparently, had not been willing to desert his slummers for a gay West-end theatre; so Hal was only escorted by two Graces instead of three, but the light in her eyes, for any one near enough to see, suggested she was enjoying herself to the utmost in spite of it.

Then came the final sensation, of the little old lady in her strange costume and ringlets, passing through the vestibule, on the arm of the young giant, followed by the sleek-looking, well-groomed pair of cousins, who chatted to each other with an air of the utmost unconcern towards the curious glances now levelled at them upon all sides.

"It must be Lady Phyllis Fenton," said some. "It can't be," said others. "Then who the devil is it?" asked the men.

And still the little group passed on, smiling and unconcerned, though a red spot burned in the giant's smooth cheeks, and he carefully avoided any possibility of meeting Hal's gleaming eyes.

A roomy electric brougham was awaiting them, and then the watchers said it glided away: "Surely that is Lady Phyllis's car and liveries?"

But what they would have made of the scene inside the car it is difficult to say, for the dear little old lady suddenly collapsed backwards on her seat, with a howl of laughter, and shot into the air a pair of trousered legs.

"Oh my conscience!" gasped Quin, amid choking laughter. "It will be the sensation of the season; and when Aunt Phyllis gets to hear about it she'll first have a fit with wrath and then laugh until she's ill."

"I'd no idea you were such an actor, Quin," Hal exclaimed admiringly when she could speak; "you ought be holding crowded houses enthralled, instead of slumming."

"Heaven preserve me. Theatres are mostly mummies looking at mummies. Down east I get in touch with flesh and blood - the real thing; and I prefer it. But I wouldn't have missed to-night for something. Oh, lord!... just think of the people who know Aunt Phyllis that I must have cut; and all the fuss there will be when aunt is admonished for supping at the Savoy with an actress! We aren't half through the fun yet."

With which they all went off into fresh peals of laughter, at various reminiscences, and were bordering upon a condition of imbecility when Lorraine at last joined them with the latest news.

""It's positively immense," she said. "The manager told me Lady Phyllis Fenton had come with Miss Pritchard, and to-morrow every paper will announce it, and the mystery will grow. I 'phoned for a private room at the Savoy, to keep the puzzle up. She must only be seen passing through on Mr. Hermon's arm. How splendid they must look. I almost wish I wasn't in the secret."

"Oh, they do!" Hal cried. "Alymer ought to have had knee breeches and silk stockings, and they would look just perfect. I have to talk fast to Dick, or I should give it all away in my face."

"You'll have to settle with your aunt," Lorraine laughed to Quin. "I hope she won't cut you off with a shilling."

"She will be furiously angry and terrifically interested," he said. "I expect I shall have to take you all to dinner to show her what the party looked like. Of course, Bonne, her maid, will give it away, because I borrowed the garments from her, and said they were for a play I was getting up in the East End."

"You'll have a bad half-hour with Dudley," Dick remarked to Hal, with enjoyment. "He is sure to hear of it somewhere."

"Quite sure," resignedly; "but if it were a bad two hours it would still have been worth it. It reminds me of the old days at school, Lorraine, when we used to get into scrapes on purpose, if the fun made it worth while."

There was no gayer supper party in the Savoy that night, and the champagne paid for with the proceeds of "Baby's Boredom" proved none the less vivifying for the insipidity of its source. Dick insisted upon reciting his doggerel, and Quin was not only much toasted as "Lady Bounce", but carried kicking round the room by the giant, because in a moment of forgetfulness he used a swear-word, which they all insisted was a reflecton upon the conversation of his illustrious aunt.

Lorraine, in most amusing form herself, laughed until she was tired out, and wondered why she was not bored. She asked the question of Alymer Hermon, who was privileged to see her home, while Dick returned with Hal, and Quin beat a hasty retreat to get rid of his disguise.

"After all, you are only boys," she said, with a little smile, "and I'm... well, I'm Lorraine Vivian."

The giant gazed thoughtfully out of the brougham window a moment, and from her corner Lorraine looked long, and a little sadly, at the finely modelled head and profile.

"Perhaps," he said at length, "a great many people you meet make a special effort to please you, and try to make an impression on you. We being all so young, and just nobodies, realise the uselessness of wasting our efforts, and are merely natural."

She smiled in the shadow, and glanced away from him with the sadness deepening.

"I feel to-night I should like to be one of you - so young and just nobody. It would be a pleasant change."

"I don't think you would like it at all."

He looked at her with a slightly puzzled air.

"Only the other day you were speaking to me of achievement and ambition. You seemed to care so much. You must be glad."

"Oh yes, yes," wearily; "but it isn't enough by itself. There is something I have missed, and to-night I feel that it might outweight all the rest - something to do with being young, and careless, and fresh, and just nobody."

Still looking at her with slightly puzzled, very kindly eyes, he answered simply, "I'm so sorry."

She seemed to shrink away suddenly into her corner. The very simplicity of his sympathy, and the quiet, natural friendliness in his face, stirred some strange chord in her heart with a swift, unaccountable ache. He looked so big and strong and splendid there in the shadow, with his freshness and his charm; and she felt very brain-fagged and world-weary; and without in the least knowing why, or what led up to the desire, she wanted to feel his arms about her, and his freshness soothing her spirit.

And instead he was not even attempting to make love to her, not even flirting with her. Would any other man she knew have ridden beside her thus after the gentleness she had shown? Was that perhaps the very secret of his attraction? Or was it a physical allurement - the irresistible charm of bigness and strength, independent of anything else, drawing with its time-old sway?

She had no time to probe further, as the brougham stopped at her door. He handed her out with the deference so often met with in big men, remarking width an old-fashioned air that suited him to perfection:

"I'm afraid we have all tired you very much. It was good of you to come with us. I can't tell you how much we appreciate it."

"Oh, indeed no; you refreshed me. Good-night. Stevens will run you home. Don't forget Sunday", and she moved away.

"It must be his bigness," was her last thought as her head touched the pillow. "When I am used to it, no doubt the novelty will pass, and I shall find him merely boyish, and be rather bored."

"I wonder if it is her dainty smallness," Dudley was musing, away in his Bloomsbury lodging, feeling still, with a pleasant thrill, the touch of Doris's small hand on his arm, and seeing again the upward, confiding expression in her wide blue eyes. "Odd that Hal should be so far astray in her judgment, when she is usually so clever; but if she knew her better she would change her mind."

As for Hal herself, she hastily tumbled into bed, still chuckling in huge enjoyment over her evening.

"Those boys are just dears," was her thought, "and I wouldn't have missed Lady Bounce for the world. What a good thing Dudley was taken with paternal affection for that little fool Doris, and I had to have a chaperone. Heigh-ho! what a scene there will be if he hears about it; but what's the odds so long as you're happy? And oh dear! what will Lady Phyllis Fenton say when she finds out"; and once more the even teeth flashed an irresistible smile into the darkness.



CHAPTER X

It was force of habit chiefly that caused Lorraine, as a rule, to sleep long and late on Sunday mornings; and it was greatly to her advantage that for so many months, and even years, no mental anxiety had robbed her of a splendid capacity to rest. She seemed to have a faculty for limiting her worrying hours to the daylight, and being able to lay them aside, like her correspondence, at night.

Yet on the following Sunday morning she found herself early awake, with a brain only too ready to begin probing restlessly, and having little of the calm friendliness she intended it should have towards her guest of the evening.

To add to her unrest, her mother paid her an early visit, of a sort that had been growing too frequent of late. It was not enough that Lorraine paid her rent, and gave her a handsome allowance; when there chanced to be no one else to pay her debts, these came upon Lorraine's shoulders also.

T-day it was a long, rambling tale of a hard-hearted dressmaker who, having had a new frock back for alteration, had taken upon herself to return the skirt, without the bodice, with an intimation that she was retaining the delayed portion until her long account was settled. Hence Mrs. Vivian found herself with what she called a most important engagement, without the equally important new frock to go in.

Lorraine lay under the bedclothes, with only her head showing, and watched her a little coldly, as she moved restlessly about the room airing her woes. She had promised Madame Luce, over and over again, to settle in a week or two; and who would have believed the odious woman would serve her such a trick?

Never again, if she had to go naked, would she order a garment from her of any description whatever. And the friends she had sent to her as customers! Why, half the woman's trade was owing to her introduction.

"Perhaps the friends don't pay their bills," Lorraine suggested in a tired voice.

Mrs. Vivian drew herself up a little haughtily.

"I do not think there is any occasion to cast reflections on my friends, even if you do not choose to be sociable to them," which remark was intended as a dignified hit at Lorraine's invincible determination to maintain friendly relations with her mother, without having anything whatever to do with her mother's friends.

As many previous hits, it fell quite harmlessly; it was doubtful if Lorraine even heard it, half hidden there in the bedclothes with her tired eyes.

"I suppose it isn't any use reminding you that your personal expenditure exceeds mine?" she hinted, "and that you have already far overstepped the allowance we stipulated?"

"You do not have time to go about as much as I do, and it makes a great difference not having hosts of friends."

"You don't seem to get much pleasure out of them," Lorraine could not resist saying, knowing as she did how much of her salary went into the pockets of these so-called friends, in order to buy their adherence.

"Do I get much pleasure out of anything?" irritably. "My only child is one of the first actresses in London, and what is it to me? Do I have the pleasure of going abouth with her? or living with her? or taking any part in her success?"

"I suppose it isn't such a small thing to live by her. If I were not successful, we could certainly not live here. It might have been Islington and omnibuses," and she smiled.

"As if that were all. Probably, as real companions we might have been even happier in Islington."

Lorraine stiffened. "Companions!... Ah, I, with whom else ever dancing attendance, and changing in identity every few months?"

But she made no comment, for the days of her hot-headed, deep-hearted judging were over; and from behind inscrutable eyes she looked upon the things that one sees without seeming to see them, and accepted facts that hurt her very soul, with a callous, cynical air that defied the keenest shafts of probing.

It was her armour in an envious, merciless world, that would have rejoiced before her eyes if it could have driven in a barbed arrow even through her mother.

More than once a jealous enemy had tried and failed, routed utterly by Lorraine's cynical, cool treatment of a fact that she knew no persuasion nor arguing could have helped her to refute. She did not even weep about it now in secret.

It was as though she had shed all the tears she had to shed during that year of utter revulsion spent in the Italian Riviera, companied by the passionless solitudes of snowtopped mountains. Something of a great patience and a great gentleness had come to her then, helping her to hide the loathing she could not crush, and place the fact of motherhood first of all.

As her mother, she had taken Mrs. Vivian back into her heart, and given her generously of what worldly possessions she had. And she had done it with a wondrous quiet and absence of all ostentation either outwardly or inwardly. It had never occured to Lorraine that, whether it was a duty or not, after what had passed it was certainly a fine act upon her part.

She had not questioned about it at all. To her mother's apologetic gush she had merely turned calm eyes and a strong face.

"It isn't worth while to remember the past at all," she had said; "we will just begin again on rather different lines. I'll always let you have as much money as I can spare."

Mrs. Vivian had been a little taken aback by the new Lorraine who returned from Italy; and not a little afraid before the calm, inscrutable eyes; so that she had secretly rejoiced at the arrangement which gave her a separate establishment of her own; but none the less, in bursts of righteous indignation supposed to emanate from her outraged feelings as a mother, she usually chose to make it her pet grievance.

And still Lorraine only smiled the tired smile, and glanced carelessly aside with the inscrutable eyes until the tirade was over, the coveted cheque made out, and her own little sanctum once again in peaceful possession.

Only just occasionally, if the interview had been specially trying, she might have been seen afterwards to glance whimsically across to the picture, recently enlarged from an old photograph, of a fine-looking man in full hunting-rig standing beside a favourite hunter.

"Poor old dad," she murmured once; "I don't wonder you couldn't keep up the old place. I don't know how you got along at all without my salary."

Once when she was feeling the drag of it all a little keenly she told the man in the picture: "Mother is splendidly handsome, and I daresay I owe her a good deal; but thank God you were there with your fine old name and family to give me the things that matter most. It sometimes seems as if we had got each other still, dad, and, for the rest, some are frail in one way and some another, and fretting doesn't help any one." The fine eyes had grown more whimsically wistful looking into the face of the huntsman as she finished: "Anyhow, the last favourite is second cousin to a duke, and she pointed out to me, he might have been only a butcher."

How much Hal knew of her mother's life Lorraine had never been able to gauge, but she had reason to think she knew something and was sporting enough to pretend otherwise. If so, she blessed her for it, feeling that by that generous non-acknowledgment she rendered a service both to her and her dead father.

Yet it seemed strange that any one so young and fresh as Hal should be able to act thus, instead of suffering a violent repulsion. Was it the depth of her splendid friendship; or was it a naturally adaptable, common-sense nature; or was it non-comprehension?

As time passed and she grew to know Hal yet better, she felt instinctively it was the first of these, coupled with that true sportsman-spirit which was one of her strongest attributes.

Lorraine was not the only one who felt that whether Hal had any religion or not, or any faith, through good and ill, by easy paths and difficult, one might be absolutely sure that she would "play the game." It made her feel herself richer with her one friend than with her mother's admitted hosts, and though she seemed to hesitate and reason on that Sunday morning, both knew the cheque would finally be written, and the coveted garment rescued in time for the important lunch.

Only, afterwards, a shadow seemed to linger to-day that heretofore would have vanished with the departing figure. The sunshine crept through the drawn curtains, lying like a shaft of hope across the gloom, but it brought no answering gleam into the beautiful eyes, with their tired, far-off gaze.

It was all very well for Hal to be a main feature in her life, blessing it with her friendship, while she turned kindly, unseeing eyes away from the corners where the murky shadows lay: Hal, who knew about the mad, discreditable marriage and its violent termination, and probably also of her mother's insatiable thirst for admiration and excitement at any cost.

There was something about Hal in herself that was as a shining armour, against which unkind barbs fell harmlessly, and enabled her to go on her serene and joyful way in blissful non-attention.

But could it be the same with this treasured only son, who was doubtless destined for a hight place in the world by doting parents, and other proud bearers of the same old name? Of course he might sup and trifle with certain denizens of the theatrical world galore; it would only be part of his education, and a thing to wink at, but she already doubted whether such a slight companionship would have any attraction.

In spite of his youthfulness, there was something in him that would naturally and quickly respond to the fine shades in herself, and grow into a friendship that had no part with the casual, gay acquaintanceships of the theatre and the world.

In a sense he was like Hal, and she knew that just as she attracted Hal's devotion in spite of all disparity of years and circumstances, so, if she chose, she could make this young giant more or less her slave.

But was it worht it?

What did she, on her high pedestal, want with his young admiration? What did she want with a companion so undeveloped that she herself must awaken his strongest forces?

Through the gloom, unheeding the shaft of sunlight, she saw him again, towering up there on her hearth, with his young splendour, so extraordinarily unspoilt as yet; and she knew that, reasonable or unreasonable, she was attracted far beyond her wont.

And then she thought of his easy-going temperament, his lack of ambition, his half-sleepy attitude towards life.

What if the wheels ran so smoothly for him that the latent forces were never aroused, and little achieved of all that might be?

If love came at his asking, and a sufficiency of success to satisfy an easy-going nature, what would there ever be to stir depths which she truly believed were worth stiring? Was it so small a thing to help a fine soul forward to its best attainment?... was such an aim not worth some going aside for both?

She felt there were things she could teach him, which without her he might entirely miss; and if without her he were the better according to a conventional standard, he might yet be far the poorer in the big, deep things of life.

Well, no doubt circumstances would end by suiting themselves, with or without her agency. In the meantime why worry, in a world that it would seem worked out its own ends, sublimely indifferent to the individual?

They were going to dine together to-night anyhow; their first tte—tte dinner and evening: time enough to probe and worry when she was more sure a mutual attraction existed; wiser at present to seek a counter attraction for her own sake, that she might not uselessly build a castle without foundations.

Prompt as ever, she reached out for the receiver beside her bed and rang up the Albany to know if Lord Denton were awake yet.

"I'm not awake," came back a sleepy answer. "I am asleep, and dreaming of Lorraine Vivian. If my man wakes me now, I shall curse him solidly for half an hour."

"Well, will you dream you are going to take her for a spin into the country shortly? I happen to know she is fainting for the longing to breathe country air."

"In my dream I am already waiting at her door, with the Yellow Peril spluttering its heart out with delight, and eagerness to be off. I have even dreamt she managed to put a motor bonnet on in half-an-hour - is it conceivable - or should it be half a day?"

"No, your dream is right. Be outside the door in half an hour, and you will see."

An hour later they were spinning out into Surrey at an alarming pace, both silently revelling in the freshness and motion and the fact that they were too old friends to need to trouble about conversation. When they dived into the lanes he slowed down, remarking:

"I suppose we mustn't risk scrunching any one up."

Lorraine only smiled, remaining silent a little longer, and then she suddenly asked him:

"When you feel yourself inclined to fall in love foolishly what do you do?"

"Well... as a rule..." he began slowly and humorously, "I either cut and run, or I hurry to see so much of her that I am bound to get bored."

"The first plan sounds the safest, but would often be the most difficult of execution. Supposing the second miscarries and you don't get bored?"

"Well, then I think - usually - there is an awful moment when I have to tell her I can't afford both a motor and a wife; and to be motorless would kill me."

A sudden little twitching at the corners made Lorraine's mouth dangerously fascinating.

"Evidently you have never fallen in love with me," she said, "for you have not been driven to either way of escape."

He looked into her face with an answering humour, and a twinkle in his eyes as alluring as her smilling lips.

"Because when I fell in love with you I did it sensibly, and not foolishly," was his answer; "instinct told me I couldn't have you for my wife however much I wished it, so I said myself: 'Flip, old boy, she'll make a thundering good pal, you close with it,' and I did."

She made no comment, and he went on more seriously:

"You see, even if you became marriageable and I cut out the motor, you wouldn't be attracted to an ordinary sort of cove like me. I suit you down to the ground as a pal, but it wouldn't go any farther."

"I wonder why you think that?"

"I don't exactly think it - thinking is too much bother - but it's just there, like a commonplace fact. You are all temperament, and high-strung nerves, and soul, and enthusiasm, and that sort of thing, which makes you a great actress. I'm just a two-legged, superior sort of animal, who hasn't much brain, but knows what he likes, and usually does it without wasting time on pros and cons. Consequently, I'm just as likely to end in prison as anywhere else, and take it without much concern as all in the day's work. You are more likely to end in a nunnery, as the most devout of all the nuns."

"What an odd idea! Why a nunnery?"

"Oh, because it's an extreme of one sort or another, and you are made for extremes. You'll perhaps be very wicked first" - he smiled delightfully - "after which, of course, you'd have to be very good. It's the way you're made. I'm cut out on quite a different plan. I can't be 'very' anything, unless it's very drunk after the Oxford and Cambridge at Lord's."

"Do you think I could be very wicked?" She asked the question with a thoughtfulness that amused him greatly, and he answered at once:

"I haven't a doubt of it. You are probably plotting the particular form of wickedness at this very moment."

She laughed, and he went on in the same serio-comic mood:

"I quite envy you. It mus be very thrilling to think to oneself, 'I've dared to be desperately wicked.' You cease to be a nonentity at once and become a force. You get right to hand-grips with the big elemental things. Of course that is interesting, but it usually means a confounded lot of bother."

"You are as bad as Hal Pritchard. She announced the other day she would rather have a dishonest purpose than no purpose at all."

"It's the same idea, only Miss Pritchard lives up to her creed by being full of energy and purpose; whereas I can't be anything but a mediocre waster. I've neither the pluck to be wicked, not the energy to be good, nor enough purpose to regret it. I believe I'm best described as an aristocratic 'stiff', a 'stiff' being a person who spends his life trying to avoid having to do things. "I fill a niche all the same," he finished, "because I make such an excellent foil for the other chaps, who like to pride themselves on their superiority and hard work. It's nice for them to be able to say contemptuously, 'Look at Denton,' and it's nice for me to be able to feel I'm of some use, without the bother of making an effort."

"You are certainly quite incorrigible as an idler, if that can be called a purpose, and, Flip, don't change; I love you for it; you are one of the most restful things I have ever known."

He glanced into her face with a keenness that somewhat belied his professed incapacity to be in earnest, and remarked with seeming lightness:

"Feeling a bit down on your luck, eh? Are you thinking of falling in love foolishly?"

"I'm thinking of trying to guard against doing so."

"You ought not to find it difficult. Crowd him out with other admirers."

"It seems as if he were going to do the crowding out."

"Why, is he so big?" jocularly.

"There's six foot five-and-a-half of him."

"Whew! And thin as a lathe, I suppose; a sort of animated telegraph pole."

"No; broad in proportion, cut to measure absolutely."

"Then he is a fine fellow," with conviction.

Lorraine felt a swift glow of pride, and then inwardly admonished herself for being silly. What, after all, was size? As Hal had trenchantly remarked, plenty of London policemen were just as big and fine. Half in self-defence she added:

"He has brains as well, and he is as handsome as Apollo."

"Then run," was the laconic response; "don't stop to buy a ticket; pay the other end."

She smiled, but grew suddenly serious. Leaning forward with eyes straining hard to the horizon, she said: "Flip, I've had a hard life, in spite of the success. Shall I run?... or... shall I stay, and snatch joy, while there is still time?"

He looked at her with a growing interest.

"If I were you I should run," he said; "but, all the same, I think you'll stay."

"No; I don't think I shall. There are other reasons. He is a good deal younger than I - and - well, I've a fair amount on my soul already."

The tired shadow was coming back to her eyes, but she laughed suddenly with an attempt at gaiety.

"You ought to have heard Hal Pritchard on the subject. She remarked there were plenty of London policemen just as big, and suggested if I wanted a fine young animal to play with, I should be safer with a polar bear from the Zoo."

"Well done, Hal. We ought to have brought her. Where is she to-day?"

"Careering across England in a haphazard fashion with her cousin Dick Bruce. Do you mind turning towards home now? I'm dinning out, and have some letters to write."

"Who's the happy man to-night? ... I thought of course I was to have the whole day."

"With a view to getting wholesomely bored! No, Flip, I don't propose to let you find that way out just yet."

"I should have found it for myself long ago if it were possible. As it is, I have grown resigned, and accept what crumbs fall to my portion." He paused a moment and then asked, "Is it Goliath to-night?"

"It is."

"Rash woman; and just when I have advised you to run."

"But it is not in the least serious yet. I only asked you in view of it becoming so."

"Which means you will try and start to run, after you are firmly in the trap."

"Not at all. I won't go near the trap. I'll tell him I'm old enough to be his mother, and talk down to him from years of detestable common sense and sagacity."

"Which sounds as if it would be even duller than dining with me."

"Oh no. It holds novelty anyway. You are never dull, but likewise you are no longer novel."

They made for the high roads again, and spun along mostly in silence until the car once more came to a standstill at Lorraine's door.

"Come in," she said, "I've lots of time."

"No,' with a little smile. "I've had my crumbs for the day. I'm going to have a good solid crust now to keep the balance. Do you know Lottie Bird?... Fourteen stone, if she's an ounce, and a tongue like a sixty-horse-power motor. There are times when she's so damned practical and overpowering she does me good. This is one of them. Good-bye. Don't kill the giant with a glance; and don't be silly enough to get hurt yourself."

"All right. I'll go in full armour," and she nodded gaily enough as he moved off down the street.



CHAPTER XI

What Lorraine exactly meant by full armour she did not quite know, but it might very well have been taken to mean the shining armour of her own best loveliness. Certainly after no small consideration she chose what she believed to be her most becoming gown, and she was unusually critical about the dressing of her hair.

All the same, at 7.45 she was ready, and her cavalier had not yet arrived. She waited five minutes until he came, and then it was necessary to wait another five minutes that he might not know she had been more up to time than he. Then she entered the drawing-room in a little bit of a hurry, and cut short his simple, direct apologies by regretting her own tardiness, and saying she had been out motoring until late.

But she had time to note quickly that he also had dressed himself with special care, plastering down resolutely the unruly determination of his fair hair to curl. That was good. Any suggestion of a curl must have produced an effect of effeminacy, whereas that neat, plastered wave showed the shapeliness of his head, and gave him a touch of manly decision. Her electric brougham was at the door, but she kept it waiting a few minutes, that they might be later than the majority of diners, and pass up a well-filled room.

In the end their arrival was equal to her best expectations. She led the way slowly, with a queenly grace that was one of her best attributes; but as she nodded casually to an acquaintance here and there, she had plenty of time to observe the curious eyes from all around, looking with undisguised admiration, not so much at her faultless appearance, which was more or less known, but at her striking cavalier.

She had engaged a small table at one of the top corners and arranged the seats sideways, so that both could look over the room if they wanted to, and at the same time be easily seen by others. She did this because it amused her to see people gazing at him, and to watch his quiet self-possession. She almost wondered if he even realised how much attention he attracted, but perceived that he could hardly help doing so, though he took it all with so simple and unabashed an air.

She watched also to see if, as most of the strikingly handsome men she had known, he courted tell-tale glances from other eyes, and sipped honey from any flower within reach, as well as from his own particular flower. And when she found that his absolute and undivided attention was given to her, and that all the power of entertaining he could muster was called into her service, she felt a glow of gratitude to him that he had not disappointed her, but proved himself the simple, high-bred gentleman she longed to find him.

It made her show herself to him at her very best. Not showily witty, nor callously gay, nor fashionably original, but just her own self of light humour and dainty speech and kindly sympathy, the true, best self that held Hal's unswerving devotion through good account and ill.

Unconsciously she left the time-worn paths of beauty and success, and became young, and fresh, and whole-hearted as he; tackling abstruse problems with a childlike, vigorous air; holding him spell-bound with her own charm of conversation one moment, and leading him on to talk with ease and frankness the next.

The other diners got up and retired to the lounge, and still they sat on; no hint of boredom, no note of disparity, no need of other companionship. As they were preparing to rise, she told him lightly that he talked amazingly well for his tender years.

"Only twenty-four," he answered; "it does seem a kiddish age, doesn't it!"

"Dreadfully kiddish. It makes me feel old enough to be your grandmother."

He glanced up, half-questioning, half-deprecating.

"That would be the oddest thing of all, unless I really appear to be about twenty years before my time."

For a reason she could not have fathomed, she looked into his eyes with a sudden seriousness and said:

"I was thirty-two last week."

She saw a quick look of surprise he did not attempt to hide, followed by a very charming smile, as he asserted:

"It is impossible. You could not sit there and look like that if you were thirty-two."

"The impossible is so often the true. I'm glad you don't think I seem old. It is nice to believe one can keep young at heart, in spite of the years. Shall we go to the lounge?"

Again they moved through the admiring crowd, but this time Lorraine felt less idle interest and more inward wonder; and without any misgiving she steered to a quiet alcove, where they could talk without again being the cynosure of many eyes.

Here, in a pleasant, friendly way, she led him once again to talk of the future, and was glad to find, in answering sincerity with sincerity, he was ready to admit that he was a little sorry about his own lack of ambition and want of application. He did not pretend now that it was of no moment. He told her he would like to achieve, only somehow he always found his attention wander to other things, and his desire grow slack after a week of rigid application.

She recognised that the motive-power was missing, and that unless something deeper than mere desire of achievement stirred him, he would probably never attain. He needed a goal that should make everything else in the world pale before it, and something that seemed almost as life and death to hang on his success. But how get it for him? If he loved, and was bidden wait until he had prospered, the end was all too sure and the love too easy.

It was something different that was needed; something that would bring him up with dead abruptness against a blank wall, and leave him with a taste of life that was dust and ashes unless he found a way through. Either that or some sweet, wild, unattainable desire, that might drive him to work and ambition by way of escape.

And there again, where should he encounter such a desire? One had only to look into his calm, fine face to feel that the unattainable in the form of love, barred by marriage vows as lightly made as broken, would never stir the depths of his heart, nor appeal to his real self in any way whatever.

He would not love such a woman, however for a time she might fascinate him; and afterwards there would only be the nausea and the memory that was like an unpleasant taste. Such a woman might teach him many things it is no harm for a man to know; but she would never call to the best in him, nor help him to realise himself.

"Have you seen your friend the duchess lately?" she asked, with a disarming smile, not wishing to appear merely curious.

"Yes; I saw her on Friday, at a ball. She was in great form."

"You danced with her?"

"Yes. She's not a good dancer."

"Then you only had one, I suppose?"

"No, three." He smiled a little. "We sat out two."

"You ought to have felt highly honoured."

"Oh, I don't know. She is very amusing. A very funny thing happened last week. Out of sheer devilry, she and a friend and two men went to the Covent Garden Fancy Dress Ball, disguised of course, and just for an hour or two. To their horror, after the procession, the friend was handed a large glass-and-silver salad bowl, as a prize for being the best 'twostep' dancer in the room. Of course she had to go off with the beastly thing; but she was so proud of winning it, she couldn't resist giving their escapade away, and it got round everywhere."