Front matter (continued 3)

"Of course my husband writes mostly essays and articles," said Mrs. Greene explanatorily, "but at present he's engaged on something more ambitious, and he felt it would be a help to get out of town away from people and things."

"Of course," agreed Mrs. Pilkington, "I quite understand his point of view. You'll find this quite a nice quiet neighbourhood, but we must try and provide a little amusement for your sons."

She smiled at Edwin as she spoke. Everything seemed very hopeful to her. It was obvious that Edwin was a little bored and restless. His work at the Bar was as yet negligible, and the prospect of three months' idling in the country was considerably brightened by the thought of the Pilkington girl who apparently felt as bored as he did.

He accepted eagerly Mrs. Pilkington's invitation to tennis and supper at the Vicarage a few days hence, but the elder boy, Rodney, refused. He was only spending a few days at The Hall and was then obliged to return to the engineering works where he was a very junior partner with his uncle.

That evening Dora wandered out into the garden face to face with a clear-cut issue. Her mother's injunctions were perfectly definite; every effort was to be made to attract Edwin Greene and if Dora could not succeed in eliciting a proposal she must at least entrap him into some unwary declaration which could be taken advantage of.

The sordid meanness of the project was evident, but Dora Pilkington after six years of endurance, decided that she was willing to fall in with any scheme that would lead to freedom from the incessant taunts and nagging to which she was subject.

As she looked at the moon she thought vaguely and sentimentally that perhaps he would fall in love with her, and it would turn out all right; as she thought of her awkwardness and badly made clothes, this faint hope died, and was succeeded by a resolution to capture by hook or crook the one eligible man within reach.

The afternoon when Edwin came to tennis was a success. Dora played passably, and the only other woman was the doctor's young wife, absorbed in herself and her husband. Edwin stayed on to supper, an unusually pleasant meal at which Mr. Pilkington expanded conversationally, and Dora and her mother formed a smiling and apparently harmonious background.

It was a lovely night.

"Would you two young people like to walk down to the river?" asked Mrs. Pilkington.

"May we? That would be more than charming," answered Edwin, and in a few moments Dora found herself strolling through the murmurous summer fields, with a young man saying to her ardently:

"Do let's have a lot of tennis and walks and picnics, Miss Pilkington; there are so few people round here that you really must put up with me a good deal this summer."

She felt a strange movement in her blood. It was going to be all right then; no need to plot and plan; she, Dora Pilkington, was embarking on a genuine romance. Her heart beat unevenly, and as she looked at Edwin's young face, clear and dark in the yellow moonlight, she thought suddenly: I love him; I'll do anything for him.

The days that followed were busy and happy, but July merged into August and August into September, and the harvest was stacked in the fields among the shorn poppies.

"Is nothing ever going to happen, Dora?" asked Mrs. Pilkington, and Dora asked herself the same question, still more bitterly.

Apparently nothing was going to happen. Edwin Greene enjoyed and sought her company, but by no word had he ever suggested that his feelings for her were stronger than affection and gratitude towards an acquaintance who was making a dull summer less dull.

One Saturday after a particularly trying lunch alone with her Mother, Dora walked by herself towards the river where she and Edwin had gone on that first most hopeful night. Edwin, lying in a canoe tethered to an overhanging tree, saw her white frock coming along the bank above him. He felt comfortably lazy and disinclined to make any move to greet her, but the disconsolate swing of the hat which she was carrying in her hand, touched him. He knew by this time that the relations between Dora and her mother were not of the happiest, and he guessed at the trouble that had marred the drowsy afternoon.

When she drew near to the tree under which he was lying, he called softly. Startled, she looked around in every direction but the right one, until guided by his laughter she parted the branches and leaned through, looking down into the cool gloomy green cavern.

Edwin sat up suddenly with a quick intake of breath as he looked at her face framed by leaves and twigs that caught at her tumbled fair hair. Dora had been crying, she was flushed and tremulous, but as she looked at Edwin her eyes brightened and she smiled. In her dishevelment she achieved an unusual warm prettiness, heightened by the contrast between smiling mouth and tear-stained eyes.

"You look simply stunning, Dora," he said eagerly; "but I can see that something is wrong: you must let me help you, you really must. Wait a minute till I come up beside you."

This unprecedented offer of help combined with Edwin's flattering words and look, broke down completely Dora's already shaken self-control. She felt, as on their first walk together, that strange surging in her veins, and her response to it was one of courage and sincerity; virtues as a rule quite alien to her unreliable and compromising nature.

"You can't help me," she said desperately turning to him with tears streaming unheeded down her cheeks. "You mustn't even try; you of all people must keep clear of me; you don't understand at all; Mother is determined that you should marry me."

Dora was sobbing loudly and her words were only spasmodically audible.

"You don't know how dreadful Mother is," she gasped between sobs. "She's always going on at me about you. You mustn't come and see us any more; it isn't safe for you; I don't know what she mayn't do; she's quite set on it."

Emotions and ideas were crowding in on Edwin: surprise, amounting to amazement, genuine sympathy with the helplessly sobbing girl, pride at the thought that he and he alone could turn her misery to bliss, and at the same time, against these, the urgings of common-sense.

He recognised clearly that he was not in love with Dora Pilkington; he visualised the family difficulties that must inevitably present themselves if he adopted the heroic attitude to which he was drawn. He had shown no inkling of anything beyond the most casual affection for Dora; in conversation he had referred to her as a nice girl and a good companion, but he knew that his mother would certainly perceive an engagement between him and Dora to be the result of some transitory passion which had led to a declaration.

He hesitated, automatically patting Dora's shoulder with murmurs of sympathetic encouragement.

Suddenly she caught his hand, and held it to her hot wet cheek.

"You've been wonderful to me," she said, "nobody has ever been so kind before, but this is the end now."

This, however, proved not to be true. At the unsolicited tribute Edwin's young breast swelled with the desire to make a heroic gesture. He thought of the duty that the strong owe to the weak; visions of gallant men and kneeling beggar-maids floated cloudily in his brain; he drew himself up, and strove for his most resonant chest-notes as he said gravely:

"Please don't say anything more, Dora. You will make me very happy if you will consent to be my wife."

It was a magnificent gesture and it had its instant reward.

"No, no," cried Dora through her tears, "I couldn't take advantage of your kindness; you don't mean it; it's only that you're so good."

This protest, these doubts hazarded as to his resolution, only served to intensify it, the more so as the sound of his own voice making its formal proposal had struck chill upon Edwin's heart.

"You wrong me," he protested. "Indeed I mean it; it will make me very happy if your answer is yes."

Dora had lived her moment; she had flung away weapons and armour and renounced her hopes. It had been an impulse and she was incapable of carrying it to a conclusion of sustained unselfishness. She knew that Edwin did not love her and that the whole situation was false and garish, but the chance was too good to be let slip.

"Oh, Edwin," she gasped, "indeed it is yes," and then relapsed into further sobbing.

Edwin too had had his moment, but his was no isolated detachable fragment of his life. The results of it had closed on him like a trap; all that he could do was to follow up the line of conduct imposed on him by his own act. He put his arm round Dora, and kissed her gently.

"My dear," he urged, "don't cry any more. Please try not to; it does upset me to see you, and surely everything will be all right now. Let's sit down on the bank and discuss things.

"I'm only crying because I'm so happy," said Dora attempting to dry her tears. "It's all so wonderful. Mother and Father will be so pleased."

Edwin was conscious of a tremor of disgust at the thought of Mrs. Pilkington, but Dora seemed to have forgotten the prelude of frankness which had led to his proposal.

"Will Mr. and Mrs. Greene mind your getting engaged to me?" she asked tentatively, and Edwin's doubts were lulled by pleasure in her humility and dependence, and in his own protectiveness.

"They won't interfere," he assured her stoutly. "Mother will say I'm too young and we must wait a little and are we sure we know our own minds and so on, but Father won't take any part. He never does; he says everyone must buy their own experience."

At his own careless words, Edwin again felt chilled and dismayed; he was buying his so dear, at the cost perhaps of all his future happiness.

Suddenly in a fever of impatience to make it irrevocable and be quit of doubts and tremors, he dragged Dora to her feet.

"Let's go home at once," he said, "and tell them we're engaged; let's get all the fuss over and be married as soon as we can; I'm not earning any money yet, but I shall soon, and Father gives me a decent allowance."

As they walked back to the Vicarage through the warm afternoon, Dora thought vaguely of how crossing these fields an hour ago, she had been disconsolate, futureless, forlorn.

The miseries of her immediate past were already dimming; her facile and slovenly character found in her present triumph enough satisfaction to obscure the legitimate rancour of six sordid years.

III

Shortly after his marriage which took place in the Spring of 1901, Edwin Greene found that the qualms which had shaken him at the very moment of proposing to Dora Pilkington were amply justified.

His father had increased his allowance in order to make it possible for him to marry and take a small house while waiting and hoping for work to materialise. Dora, who had chosen the house in Maida Vale, furnished it with the help of her mother who since the announcement of the engagement had been her daughter's admirer and ally, and had thrown herself with zest into preparations for the wedding.

It was an inconvenient little house, made still more inconvenient by the profusion of small tables, ornaments and unnecessary objects which cluttered up the floor space and made it impossible to cross the room with any ease. To Dora these represented the perfection of gentility; this picture was a signed water colour, that vase a wedding present from the choir, the rug in front of the fire superimposed on a larger rug of different pattern, had come from Dora's own home which gradually acquired in her mind an aura of sanctified sentimentality.

Three months after her marriage she referred to "my old home in the country" in such languishing tones that Edwin, who had been the easy victim of the old home's cruelty could not restrain himself, and burst out, "My dear Dora, for goodness sake don't talk like that; you know perfectly well you were utterly miserable at home."

Resentful of this plain-speaking, not even recognising its truth, Dora shed a few tears through which she contrived to utter: "You do exaggerate shockingly, Edwin. I really think you might try and spare my feelings more."

"Well, I'm sorry, and I don't say it wasn't a better home than this."

Edwin looked gloomily round the crowded little drawing-room, but Dora immediately flamed up in its defence.

"There you are, criticising again. You only do it because Mother and I chose it. It's a lovely little house, and I'm sure I take enough trouble to keep it nice. Look at the way I dust all the china myself every morning."

Her sobs redoubled in vigour, but Edwin sat humped up in his chair.

He wondered if all young wives cried on an average three times a day and if all women twisted every remark into an insult directed against themselves, their taste, or their relations. There must be some who don't, he thought drearily; some women that you can talk to without having to remember not to say this or that. Oh well, it's my own fault, I suppose; I must make the best of it.

He got up, came over to where Dora sat, and awkwardly patted her bowed head.

"Don't cry," he said, and even as he said the words he wondered savagely how often he had said them since the day of his engagement. He pushed the thought away.

"Don't cry," he repeated mechanically. "I must go and do some work in my study."

"But you do like the house?" Dora looked up at him plaintively.

"Of course I do," he answered reassuringly, and when he stumbled over a footstool on the way to the door, he put it tidily on one side instead of kicking it under the nearest table as he was tempted to do.

By 1904, when Dora was expecting her first child, their positions were reversed. After one visit to her sister-in-law's new house in Sussex Square, Dora came back to Maida Vale discontented and jealous. She attacked Edwin that night after dinner with a complaint which could not fail to arouse his annoyance.

"Oh, Edwin I went to tea with Edith to-day, and I do think it's dreadfully unfair that she and Rodney should have so much more money than we have."

Edwin felt completely helpless. He knew by this time that if Dora felt a thing to be unfair, no amount of proof to the contrary would convince her, but he felt constrained to reason gently with her petulance which he supposed to be in part due to her condition.

"I don't think you see it quite clearly," he urged, "Rodney and I both have the same allowance from Father, but for one thing he is three years older than me, and then being in the Works with Uncle Hugh he is bound to make more money than I am at first."

"I don't see why," said Dora rebelliously.

"The Bar's always slow at the beginning," explained Edwin. "You know I've often told you it may be a long time before I make a decent income."

"It seems very cruel to me," said Dora, her voice trembling with self-pity. "Here am I boxed up in this little house, and there's Edith with her lovely new drawing-room and two perfect nurseries."

"But I thought you liked this house?" Edwin was upset at the new development.

"I don't; I hate it. It's a mean little house, and I know perfectly well that Edith looks down on it, and me, and you, and everything. But there's no use speaking to you; you won't do anything about it."

She left the room, holding her handkerchief to her eyes in a gesture so familiar that Edwin did not notice it.

He sat still, oppressed by the bitterness of his thoughts. All his youthful flamboyance was gone, and with its going he had gained immensely in appearance.

Edwin Greene at twenty-nine was extremely good-looking in the austere manner affected by young barristers. He looked older than his age and the lines from nose to mouth were deeply carved, but the modelling of his face, with its unmistakable resemblance to his mother, was excellent.

I'm damnably handicapped, he thought, and there's no way out. I'm beginning to get on now; with luck another five or six years will see me with as much work as I can tackle, but what's the use of it all?

The door opened gently, and Dora came in and knelt by his side.

"Oh, Edwin, dear," she said. "I never meant to get so cross; I am sorry. But I feel so ill and miserable these days, and it was just too much for me to see Edith's beautiful new house."

At the recollection her mouth trembled again, and Edwin roused himself from his abstraction.

"Don't worry," he said heavily. "We'll be able to have a house like that later on. But in the meantime you must try not to make yourself so wretched over things."

"Oh, Edwin, I do try, but I feel so terribly ill; you can't possibly understand what I'm feeling."

"I'm sure it's perfectly rotten for you, but do you think you go out enough? It's supposed to be good to take a little exercise, isn't it?"

"I do go out a little of course, but I really don't like to be seen very much."

"I think that's nonsense, Dora. Edith tells me that before her two babies were born she used to go out every day, and just not think of it, and she's having another now, isn't she, but she seems quite bright."

Dora's face flamed. "It's all very well for Edith," she exclaimed loudly. "She's got other nice things to think about, and anyhow she's as strong as a horse. But it's very different for me."

She flounced from the room for the second time, and listening to the sounds overhead, Edwin judged rightly that this second flight was final and that she would now withdraw for the night.

Their son, Edwin Pilkington, was born and lived for the first five years of his life in the same small house that had provoked so many battles between his parents.

Dora was an injudicious mother, prodigal of caresses, bribes, scoldings and injunctions. Nurses and nursery governesses succeeded each other so rapidly that the little boy had no sooner got used to eating, sleeping, and going for walks with one person than another was immediately substituted. This was partly because no one could put up for long with the suspicions and jealousies of such an employer and partly because Dora suffered so intensely when she saw her son developing any affection for whomsoever was in charge of him, that she immediately trumped up some excuse for getting rid of the interloper.

The small Edwin, living in this state of emotional bewilderment gradually grew to rely on his quiet and repressed looking father as the one normal steady person in an otherwise chaotic existence.

Edwin himself who had looked forward with foreboding to the birth of the child was surprised and amused when he found what pleasure he gained from his son's companionship.

By 1909 he was a busy man with a steadily increasing income, and Dora was able to move to the larger house on which her heart had been set since Edith's move to Sussex Square. For a time she was so happily occupied in furnishing and decorating that life flowed more evenly for both husband and son. The former was spared anything in the nature of a scene for some months; days and even weeks went by without Dora having recourse to her favourite weapon—tears—and the younger Edwin for nearly a year enjoyed the ministrations of the same nursery governess.

This tranquil state of things was only a lull. It occurred to Edwin one day that the time had come for his son's education to begin. He mooted the project very tentatively to Dora, hoping that the idea of looking for a suitable kindergarten would prove some solace for what he knew she would regard as a tragic break in her relationship with the little boy.

His hopes were unfounded. As he mentioned the word "school," she produced her handkerchief, and before the end of his sentence she was sobbing bitterly.

"It's the beginning of the end," she wept, "the beginning of the end. He'll never be mine again; once he goes to school he is lost to me."

In vain Edwin pointed out half-jocularly that it was the inevitable destiny of mothers to lose their sons in this way; in vain he attempted to console her by saying it would only be for a few hours daily. She was inconsolable.

"It's the beginning of the end," she repeated. "You don't understand how a mother feels, but at least you might postpone it for a year or two."

But Edwin was determined that some consistent influence should be brought to bear on his son's impressionable nature and he persisted.

A satisfactory kindergarten was decided on, and this in turn was succeeded by a day-school.

The younger Edwin adapted very easily to school life, but retained an immense admiration for his father which at times provoked his mother to jealous annoyance.

"You're silly about your father," she would say. "It's all very well for me to take you about with me, but it isn't manly to hang round your father as you do."

However, Edwin, so easily swayed in many ways, presented a quietly stubborn front to her on this point, and continued to seek his father's company.

In the summer of 1914 when he was nearly ten, a severe battle raged over his head.

He had been entered for a preparatory school for the Lent Term of 1915, but a vacancy had unexpectedly occurred and Edwin was anxious for the boy to take advantage of it and go one term earlier than had been arranged.

Dora set her face against it.

"You really are very unreasonable," said Edwin at last, thoroughly exasperated.

"I may or may not be," answered Dora, always ready to complicate the issue, "But Edwin's not looked so well lately, and after all I'm his mother, and I ought to know whether or not he's ready for a boarding school."

"I know he isn't looking too well; that's another reason why I'm keen for him to start next term. He'll be better out of town."

"You mean he'll be better away from me?" asked Dora on that rising note which preceded a hysterical outburst.

"I mean nothing of the sort. I mean precisely what I say; that he'll be better out of town, and I've decided once and for all that he is to go at the end of these holidays."

"So I'm to have no say in it; I'm only his mother to be pushed aside and ignored."

"I'm extremely sorry you take it like this, Dora, but I'm not open to changing my mind this time," answered Edwin, and left the house for Chambers before the storm of tears, which was the conclusion of all arguments, burst over the household.

The subject was not, however, finally disposed of till the evening in August when Edwin, who had felt it impossible to leave London at the outbreak of war, came home and said rather abruptly:

"I'm afraid you won't approve of what I've done, Dora, but I felt I really couldn't keep out of things so I applied for a commission a few days ago, and have got it all right."

To his surprise, Dora answered quietly: "Oh, Edwin, that's splendid," and then fell silent.

He eyed her distrustfully. He could have understood a manifestation of emotional patriotism that would have culminated in a fit of sobbing on his breast, or a paroxysm of sentiment and pride, but what he really expected was an impassioned reproach for his cruelty and selfishness in being willing to abandon her.

This quietness and restraint was the one attitude he had not dared to hope for.

Dora was obviously making a determined effort at self-control. She stood in front of him, twisting her hands a little, but showing no signs of hysteria.

"I'm glad about it," she said at last, "I think it will be good for us to have a big break like this. You know, Edwin, things haven't gone quite as I meant. I know I've never really pleased you and yet I meant to try so hard when I married you. But I think perhaps after this it will be different."

Edwin looked at her curiously.

"It's been my fault," she continued simply, "so it's I who must change myself and in the meantime I'll do all I can to help instead of hindering."

"You've helped me enormously by the way you've taken this," said Edwin warmly. "I was afraid you'd be very upset. You see, dear——" he hesitated and then plunged, "I'm afraid it means I must be off to a training camp the day after to-morrow."

Dora's newly discovered composure appeared unshakable.

"We'll have a good deal to do getting you ready," she said, "but don't worry, we'll manage all right."

Throughout the three months of Edwin's training in England, even during the trying days of his last leave, she maintained this admirable self-command.

It lasted indeed until the Spring of 1915 when she received news of Edwin's death.

At that her resolution broke. It seemed to her that Providence had played her an unwarrantable trick. She had vowed to be a different woman; she had been a different woman, and this was her reward: that her husband had been taken from her.

She sat looking dumbly at the telegram, while floods of self-pity rolled over her. Suddenly she realised that nobody knew yet, that Mr. and Mrs. Greene and Rodney ought to be told at once. At the thought of Rodney working hard but in safety at his engineering works, she was suddenly seized by a fervour of hysterical resentment.

Unclenching her damp hands she went to the telephone and rang up his house.

"I want to speak to Mrs. Rodney, please," she said, "Mrs. Hugh speaking."

In a moment she heard Edith's voice.

"Hullo, Dora, did you want me?"

"Edwin's dead," she stated baldly into the telephone.

"What did you say?" asked Mrs. Rodney, for once at a loss.

"Edwin's been killed," said Dora, her voice rising dangerously.

"My dear Dora," she heard, "This is terrible. I'll come round at once. I'm dreadfully sorry."

"Oh, are you?" shouted Dora, "It's an easy thing to be. You've got your husband at home safely tied to your apron strings. You can afford to be sorry for me, can't you?"

"Hush, Dora," Mrs. Rodney's voice sounded authoritatively down the wire. "You must control yourself. I'll come round to you at once."

But it was too late to stop the outburst.

"Come if you like; I won't see you," Dora was screaming now. "You've always done your best to spite me, and you needn't pretend now that you've ever cared for Edwin or me. You've always had more luck and more money and now I've lost Edwin too, and I know perfectly well you think I deserve it, but at least my husband doesn't hide like a coward in his engineering works."

Her voice died away, as it dawned on her that Edith had rung off. She was speaking to nobody.

As she hung up the receiver she caught sight of the parlourmaid's scared and anxious face looking over the banisters.

"When Mrs. Rodney calls, tell her I can't see her," she said harshly. "Mr. Greene's dead; he's been killed."

She pushed past the maid on the stairs, and burst into her own room, wringing her hands and crying loudly.

IV

After his father's death young Edwin Greene found school holidays very trying. He continued to miss his father both as an actual presence and as the restful element in the house, and he found himself embroiled in a series of exhausting scenes with his mother. These scenes ended in still more exhausting reconciliations, during which she would hold him, clasped in her arms while she repeated that she was now a widow and he her only hope, in accents varying from the genuinely tearful to the luxuriously sentimental.

The fact that Edwin was only a child of ten did not deter her from reproaching him bitterly when he wriggled, embarrassed, from her embrace, and stood sullenly beside her, anxious only to get away from an emotional situation with which he could not cope.

Exasperated by what she took to be indifference, she would stress still further the note of affection.

"You're all I've got now, Edwin, and it seems as though you don't care about me at all. Surely you can tell me that you'll love me and look after me now your father's gone."

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, staring at the carpet in an agony of uneasy bewilderment, Edwin would mutter: "Of course I shall."

"Is that all you can say?" Dora would cry, the familiar note of hysteria creeping into her voice. "Leave me then; I'm better alone than with a son who doesn't love his mother."

Guiltily conscious that something was expected of him, but not knowing what it was, Edwin would seize his opportunity to escape from the room, and the whole scene would be renewed later.

In time, however, Dora found it impossible to feed the flames of despair on Edwin's mute discomfort, and she resigned herself to a state of aggrieved self-pity.

A year or two after his father's death, Edwin, who had grown wary and perceptive, realised that his mother's greatest pleasure in life was to invite a few women friends to tea, to play bridge, or to spend the evening, and then to embark on a prolonged and enjoyable narration of her grievances; which was sure to be followed by an equally prolonged recitation of similar grievances endured by one or other of the ladies present. Conversation would continue along these lines until everyone had exposed to their satisfaction, the more intimate difficulties, annoyances and sorrows of their private life.

Expressions of sympathy having been exchanged, the depressing coterie would break up, to meet again a few days hence and go over the same ground with undiminished ardour.

On one occasion Edwin found himself involved in a painful scene not only with his mother, but with one of his mother's friends, a Mrs. Pratt, whom he instinctively disliked and distrusted. It was during the summer holidays of 1917. For the last few years the person with whom he had most in common, apart from his school-friends, was old Mrs. Greene, his father's mother.

He was invited regularly to spend part of his holidays with his grandparents in the country, and the tranquil undisturbed atmosphere of their house was very welcome to him. He was on terms of easy intimacy with both grandparents; they accepted him unquestioningly without any of these probing enquiries into the state of his emotions which made life at home so difficult for the rapidly developing boy.

At the beginning of these holidays he had already spent a week with Mr. and Mrs. Greene before going to Bournemouth for a month with his mother. But now there still remained a fortnight before going back to school, and a letter had come from his grandmother inviting him to stay again for as long as he could.

He opened the subject at breakfast.

Dora had been frowning over her newspaper as he read his letter, and she suddenly burst out: "Well I must say I don't see why The Times should report that Rodney and Edith were at the Ledyard wedding, and leave my name out of the list. But some people always manage to get their name in the papers."

Edwin realised that the moment was not propitious, but his eagerness carried him beyond the need for discretion.

"I say, Mother," he began, "I've got a letter from Grannie asking me to stay for a bit. Could I go to-morrow do you think? There isn't very much of the holidays left."

Dora put down her paper and looked at him.

"You want to go then, Edwin?"

"Rather," Edwin assented heartily. "I'd love it."

He stopped dismayed as he saw his mother's hand grope for her handkerchief, and her face slowly crumple into misery.

"I did enjoy Bournemouth," he began, "but I just think a little while with Grannie would be nice."

Dora burst into tears.

"Oh, Edwin," she sobbed, "oh, Edwin. This is a terrible blow to me. You're all I've got, everything I do is for you, and now you say you'd rather be with your Grannie than with me."

She sobbed on, as Edwin got up and came round to her end of the table.

"Of course I don't mean that," he said. "I'm awfully sorry, Mother; I won't go if you don't want me to, but of course it would be rather decent there."

"This is my reward. This is what comes of all my devotion to you. Oh, Edwin, I didn't think you could have hurt me so."

"But I've said I won't go. I can't help wanting to, but I've said I won't and I don't see why that hurts you."

Dora dried her tears and took his hand.

"Oh, my dear," she said, "you'll never know what pain a mother feels when her child wants to leave her. But when I'm dead you'll be glad you offered to stay." She put away her handkerchief and added heroically. "You may go, Edwin; I like you to do what makes you happy."

Edwin's face brightened.

"May I really, Mother? Thanks most awfully; I'd love it. Do you think I may go to-morrow?"

Dora Greene looked pained, but only answered in a fading voice:

"Yes, Edwin, you may go to-morrow," and left the room.

Edwin felt a little damped, but when he sat down to write to Mrs. Greene that he would arrive the following day, his spirits rose again.

His mother was out for lunch, so he ate it alone, and afterwards went for a solitary walk, elated to think that there would be no more hanging about in London with nothing to do. The ten days before school began stretched pleasantly ahead and as he came quietly into the drawing-room for tea, his cheeks flushed with walking, he looked a happy, carefree, small boy.

Mrs. Pratt was sitting on the sofa beside his mother.

"How do you do, Edwin?" she said gravely, "your poor Mother's just been telling me how upset she is."

Edwin looked both surprised and concerned.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Mrs. Pratt looked at him reproachfully and shook her head slowly from side to side as she said:

"Oh, Edwin. To think you've forgotten already how you grieved her this morning."

"Don't say anything more," interrupted Dora, smiling bravely. "I suppose it is weak of me to be so hurt, and since Edwin wants to go and leave me, he must just do it."

"Listen to your mother," urged Mrs. Pratt admiringly. "Never thinking of herself, always planning for your happiness, and then see if you've the heart to go against her wishes."

Edwin felt that he had been treated with some sort of subtle treachery. His brows were drawn into a scowl, and he looked sullen and resentful as he said stubbornly:

"I don't know what you mean. I told Mother I wouldn't go to Grannie if she didn't want me to, but she said I might, and I've written and now I'm going."

He half turned away but Mrs. Pratt laid her hand on his arm as her voice went on gently:

"That action was so like your wonderful mother, dear boy. You're all she's got and yet she'll sacrifice herself to let you go if you want. Now don't you think you could make a little sacrifice for her and stay at home?"

Edwin kicked the leg of the tea table and fidgeted with his hands, but he did not answer.

"You see it's no use," said Dora bitterly. "He'll do nothing for me; better say no more."

She poured out tea, clattering the china in her nervous annoyance.

Mrs. Pratt began again:

"Oh, Edwin, dear, I'm sure you don't mean to be unkind——" but Edwin interrupted her rudely. His mouth was shaking, but his voice was quite steady.

"It isn't fair," he said passionately. "It isn't fair of Mother to begin at me again. She shouldn't have told you anything about it. I said I'd do what she wanted, but it was all arranged that I could go and now she's gone and raked it all up again with you. But I'm going all the same."

He stopped confusedly, and became aware of his mother moaning gently: "Oh, Edwin, oh, Edwin!" Mrs. Pratt was repeating in her amazement. "Well, I'd never have believed it; I'd never have believed it."

"Believe what you like," Edwin addressed her distractedly and turned to his mother. "Don't go on saying 'Oh, Edwin'," he shouted. "I hate my name; I hate everything."

He ran from the drawing-room, and Mrs. Greene subsided into tears.

"My poor Dora," said Mrs. Pratt soothingly. "My poor, dear Dora, what a terrible afternoon. I know how sensitive you are, and how you must suffer from such a scene."

"Indeed I do. Nothing could be more unlike me. But what can I do? My son's been taken from me by his grandmother. I'm powerless against her."

"It's shocking, really shocking, and especially when you've got nobody but him."

"I've always been lonely; I've had very little happiness since I was a girl. When I look back to my old home and then think of what I've suffered since I left it, I often wonder I've lived so long."

"You're wonderful, Dora; always so brave, always putting the best face on things."

"I do try," said Dora beginning to brighten, "But oh how difficult it is when Edwin behaves to me like this."

"I don't think you should worry. I'm sure it must be Mrs. Greene's influence. No boy of his age could possibly behave like that unless his mind was being poisoned."

"Do you really think so?" asked Dora with interest.

"I do," said Mrs. Pratt, dropping her voice to a mysterious note. "And I really think you ought to work out some scheme to prevent it."

"But what can I do?" There was pause, and then Mrs. Pratt spoke triumphantly.

"I know, Dora. I've thought of the very idea. You must let him go this visit, and then towards the end of next term you must write and say you're not at all well, and the doctor is very anxious about you and says that you must be spared all worries and troubles."

"But I'm quite well," said Dora limply.

"Yes, of course, I know you are, but don't you see? It's a real opportunity for you if you do that. He can't go and stay with the old woman if your heart is weak, and gradually you can get him away from her influence."

"I'll do anything for Edwin. You know that, Violet. I'll make any sacrifice for him; anything to free him from this terrible effect his grannie is having on him."

Dora spoke earnestly, beginning to believe under the spell of Mrs. Pratt's suggestion that Mrs. Greene was indeed exercising a malign influence on her son.

The plot to rescue Edwin was gradually evolved in all its details, but it was never carried out.

Early in November, Dora received a telegram that sent her straight to Waterloo, and thence—after a hideous hour of waiting for a train—down to Edwin's school, where she was greeted by his pale and anxious-looking headmaster.

"I have very bad news for you," he said. "I find it utterly impossible to express my regrets and sympathy."

"Is Edwin alive?" asked Dora Greene steadily.

"Yes, he is alive," answered Mr. Foster. "But the doctor has seen him and the spine is severely injured. He is quite unconscious."

"Will he live?"

Dora Greene, to whom tears came so easily, was dry-eyed and stony as she asked the question and listened to the answer.

"Only for a few hours. He may regain consciousness before the end."

"Tell me exactly how it happened, please."

"It appears that this morning during the recreation half-hour, Edwin and another boy were so foolish as to dare each other to walk round the gymnasium roof on the coping that you can see from here." Mr. Foster moved over to the window as he spoke. Mrs. Greene followed him and stood looking at the long, high building jutting out from the side of the house.

"Is that the coping?" she asked, "where that bird is?" A pigeon was walking jerkily along the narrow ledge, stopping every now and again to nod its head with meaningless little movements.

"Yes, that's it. I need hardly tell you that it is absolutely against the rules to do so, and indeed no boy has ever before made the attempt. Edwin was to go first. He climbed out through a dormitory window, up a sloping piece of roof and from that on to the coping. He walked quite steadily the full length of the building, but at the corner the boys think he looked down and got dizzy. Anyhow he fell."

Mr. Foster stopped for a moment. His voice was husky as he continued:

"I was there in a few minutes; the matron too, but he was quite unconscious. When the doctor came we moved him into a ground-floor room, and the doctor fitted up a bed and made his examination."

Mr. Foster looked desperately at the silent woman confronting him and said again:

"I cannot tell you Mrs. Greene, what this means to me. It's the most tragic thing that has happened in all my school career."

"I should like to see Edwin now, please," said Mrs. Greene, and was taken to the class-room where Edwin lay, his eyes closed, his rosy face pale and drawn, on an improvised bed.

The matron who was sitting beside him, rose and offered her chair to Mrs. Greene who sat down, still silent. All through the evening she sat there, gazing unflinchingly at the small figure on the bed. The doctor came in and spoke to her, but she did not answer. Food was brought on a tray, but she refused it. The matron sat opposite her on the other side of the bed, occasionally moving a pillow or bending down to listen to the child's uncertain breathing.

Towards eleven o'clock Edwin's heavy eyelids lifted and he looked vaguely at his mother.

"I didn't know you were here, Mother," he said uninterestedly.

"I've just come to see you, darling," said Dora Greene stooping to kiss him.

"Am I ill?" he asked.

"Yes, Edwin, you've had a bad accident."

Presently he asked, still passively:

"Am I going to die, do you think?"

"You've hurt yourself rather badly, dear," his mother answered and could not keep a tremor from her voice. He lay still with closed eyes. At the first sign of consciousness the matron had hurried from the room. She now came back with the doctor, who lifted Edwin's hand to feel his pulse and then laid it gently back on the coverlet.

Suddenly Edwin opened his eyes.

"I say, Mother," he said, with more animation than he had shown, "if I'm going to die, I'd awfully like to smoke a cigarette first."

Dora looked at the doctor, who shook his head. She stood up and drew him a little aside.

"Give me a cigarette," she said in a savage undertone. "Give me one at once; it can make no difference."

"I hardly think——" he began helplessly. But she interrupted, still in an undertone of concentrated intensity.

"Give me it at once; I insist."

The doctor handed her his case. She took out a cigarette.

"There, darling," she said to Edwin, and her voice was soft again. "Look, I'll put it in your mouth for you and light it."

The doctor gave her a match and she held the little flame steadily to Edwin's cigarette. He drew in a breath and choked a little.

"It's ripping," he said thickly. "Thanks awfully, Mother." His eyelids fell again and the cigarette dropped from his flaccid lips. With a little choking sigh, Edwin Greene died.

Mrs. Greene stood still, but in a moment the doctor took her arm.

"He's gone, Mrs. Greene; poor little chap. Will you come away now?"

But with a loud moan Dora Greene fell on her knees and subsided in a passion of tears over the body of her son.

"He's gone," she cried, "gone, and he never loved me. First his father took him from me, and then his grandmother, and now he's dead and I'll never have him."

For a moment both doctor and matron were taken aback by the sudden change from rigid self-control to complete abandon, but as the sobs turned into laughter and screams, both regained their composure. With some difficulty they half led, half carried, Dora Greene to the school sanatorium, where she passed the night between tears, hysteria and passionate vituperations against the father and grandmother who had robbed her of her son during his short life.

V

During the next few months Mrs. Pratt proved herself so willing a confidante, so soothing and consoling a listener that Dora Greene finally asked her to come and live with her.

The arrangement worked surprisingly well. Life settled into a routine of gossip, bridge and tea-parties, broken only by a joint summer holiday and an occasional week at Easter when Dora went to stay with her father, now a widower, but still running his small parish competently and successfully.

It was tacitly understood between the two ladies that when Mrs. Greene had indulged in a long narrative embracing every sorrow and grievance of her existence, she should pay for the luxury of having an audience by performing that function in her turn.

Mrs. Pratt's saga confined itself to full details of her sufferings at Mr. Pratt's hands during the months that preceded his departure from this life in a violent attack of delirium tremens.

Mrs. Greene was already acquainted with the history of Mr. Pratt's life and death, but it made good hearing none the less, and on the other hand Mrs. Pratt particularly enjoyed the point in Mrs. Greene's reminiscences at which handkerchiefs were brought out, and they recalled what a happy, bright boy little Edwin had been.

"Those were happy days," Dora would sigh fondly. "I was a happy wife and mother till death stole both my treasures."

"But you've been so wonderfully brave, dear," Mrs. Pratt would murmur. "See how you've built up your life again."

"I have been lucky in having you to help me. I couldn't have done it without you, Violet; you know how little use the Greenes have been to me."

This was an immensely satisfactory opening. Violet Pratt, a solitary woman except for her friendship with Dora Greene, enjoyed vicariously the many slights and rebuffs which Dora considered that she endured from her husband's relations.

By 1928 this list of slights had been added to by both Mrs. Rodney's daughter-in-laws. Helen, Mrs. Geoffrey Greene had failed to call on her Aunt Dora for nearly two years, and had moreover never once invited her to a meal of any sort.

"Not even tea," said Dora acidly. "And you can hardly think that would be too much trouble even in a small house."

"Indeed you can not," Mrs. Pratt answered warmly. "And especially after the kind way you asked her to dinner as a bride."

But the most recent insult was naturally the most interesting.

At the wedding of Hugh and Jessica only three weeks ago, Mrs. Edwin, arriving a little late when the bride was already in the church, had been hustled into a back seat instead of being allowed to take her place in one of the front pews with the rest of the family.

"Of course I don't really blame Jessica," said Dora, as she had already said some twenty or thirty times during the last three weeks. "But still, it just shows. Some arrangement should surely have been made for me to take my proper place, and even if I was a little late, well, I haven't a motor like some of the others."

"I expect it was all Mrs. Rodney's doing," suggested Mrs. Pratt darkly.

Dora pounced on this.

"Do you really think so?" she asked eagerly. "Well, I wouldn't be surprised at anything after the way she has always looked down on me and put me on one side."

It was at this propitious moment that the maid brought in a letter at which Dora exclaimed triumphantly:

"There now, talk of the Devil——"

She read the letter and handed it to Mrs. Pratt.

"Read that, Violet," she said. "Read it and tell me what you think of it. I should have thought that even Edith might have remembered that next week is the anniversary of little Edwin's death. Not the actual day of course, but I should have thought that a different week altogether would have shown more courtesy and consideration. She knows I always keep these few days sacred to my memories."

Mrs. Pratt read the short letter.

"207 Sussex Square, "November 12th.

"DEAR DORA,

"I hear that Aunt Sarah is to be in town next week when Hugh and Jessica get home from their honeymoon, and I feel it would be nice both for her and for Mrs. Greene to have a reunion with the young people. There are six of us now, and my idea is to have a little dinner-party next Friday night at 7.45, for the six Mrs. Greenes. I do hope you will be able to come; both the old ladies are getting rather frail now, and I think it would give them pleasure.

"With love from Rodney and myself,

"Your affectionate sister-in-law, "EDITH GREENE."

Mrs. Pratt sniffed.

"I see," she said venomously. "I see, Mrs. Rodney makes it sound like a treat for her mother-in-law, but I suppose its just to make another opportunity for showing off."

"Of course it is," answered Dora angrily. "And what a cruel week to choose. She can't have forgotten old Mrs. Greene's wickedness to my poor little Edwin and yet she asks me to meet her almost on the anniversary of his death. And I don't at all care about meeting Hugh and Jessica after the way I was treated at their wedding."

"I should refuse if I were you, Dora."

"I've a good mind to do so. I should have thought even Edith would have known better than to ask me to a party next week."

"Perhaps she doesn't mean you to accept."

"That's probably it, Violet. I believe you're right. She's chosen that date purposely so that I shan't go. Well, she'll be disappointed for once. I'll go. I'll write this minute and tell her that I'll come but that I think she should have known better than to ask me."

Dora Greene moved over to her desk.

"Come and help me, Violet," she said. "We must concoct a good letter."

The two ladies sat happily down to accept with the maximum of ungraciousness the invitation which would provide them for weeks to come with a fruitful topic of discussion and complaint.

MRS. GEOFFREY H. GREENE

MRS. GEOFFREY H. GREENE

I

It was at Lavinia's wedding that Geoffrey was introduced to a tall girl wearing a green frock and a green hat fitting her head so closely that only two small curves of bright hair were visible on her cheeks.

She looked moody and impatient, and when he asked if she had seen the presents she said: "No thanks, I don't want to."

Slightly repelled by her manner but attracted by her lime green frock and her copper-beech hair, Geoffrey tried again.

"Shall we get out of the crowd and find a peaceful corner somewhere?"

She shook her head.

"No, I don't really think it's worth while," she said. "I'm going home now. I wouldn't have come at all if I hadn't been afraid Martin's parents would be piqued, but now they've both seen me so I can justifiably escape."

Geoffrey noticed that her eyes were a clear, cool grey that contradicted the warmth of her hair, and he liked the wide smile that lightened her face as she explained her presence at the wedding, so there was a trace of eagerness in his voice as he asked:

"Are you a Peile relation then? I'm sorry I didn't hear your name when we were introduced."

"Yes, I'm a sort of cousin of Martin. My name's Helen Guest. I didn't hear your name either, but you're a Greene, of course."

"I'm Lavinia's brother."

"Yes, I thought you were. You're rather like her. She's extremely pretty, isn't she, but not at all paintable."

"Do you paint then?" asked Geoffrey diffidently, conscious of ignorance and anxious to avoid a snub.

She frowned. "Well, yes I do; off and on, and not very well. But there it is, I do. I'm going now. Good-bye."

Her smile followed quickly on her frown, she nodded to him, and merged into the crowd, leaving Geoffrey bewildered and a little depressed and solitary.

Three months later when he met her at dinner at Lavinia and Martin's house, he went up to her with the pleasant sensation of renewing an interrupted friendship.

"How do you do, Miss Guest," he began. "I've been hoping to meet you again in some place not so crowded as the last time."

Helen looked at him coldly and directly.

"Was there a last time?" she queried.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I merely said, 'Was there a last time?'" she repeated in a nonchalant voice.

Geoffrey flushed.

"Yes," he said very distinctly, and his look matched hers in coldness. "We met before at Lavinia's wedding which you were not enjoying very much. You said I was very like my sister who was pretty but not paintable, and you were wearing a green frock, very much the colour of the one you've got on now. Have I produced sufficient evidence to prove that I am not trying the old familiar gambit of 'where have we met before?'"

He noticed that her cheeks were scarlet and that she was obviously discomfited, and it surprised him that anyone so aggressive should be so easily routed. She stood silent for a moment, and then laughed suddenly.

"We're obviously going to quarrel," she said. "Let's do it nicely; we'll preserve a state of armed neutrality as long as we can, and when we have to abandon it we'll keep to all the rules of pretty fighting, and to begin with I'll admit that I remember you quite well at the wedding. I was only being contrary."

Geoffrey's heart leapt. There was something fresh and vital about this girl. She provoked him, but she attracted him far more. He found it immensely stimulating to be repelled by her at one moment, and in the next, subjugated by her candid charm.

He sat opposite her at dinner, and though she talked animatedly to the man on her left, her colour remained high and he knew that she was conscious of him.

He speculated hazily on the nature of her attraction for him and decided that it was partly due to her looks, partly to her brusque inconsistency, and that undoubtedly in this strange duel which had started between them, hers was the next move. It was his role to wait and lurk, hers to make the attack or the appeal.

After dinner two tables for bridge were arranged, with Geoffrey at one, Helen at the other, and he did not speak to her again until, after saying good-night to Lavinia, she half-turned to him, bringing into play the suave clear line of chin and throat.

"I'll take you home if you like," she offered casually. "I've got my car here."

As Geoffrey thanked her formally he felt that again she had put him at a disadvantage. He should have had a car to take her home in, but for her to take him, dropping him like a small boy at his mother's front door, was humiliating. It irked him to sit idle while she slipped into the driver's seat and pressed a green slipper ruthlessly on the starter knob. There was a moment of rending noise, then, "Better let me turn her over once or twice," Geoffrey suggested. "The engine's bound to be cold if it's been standing out here all that long time with no rug on.

"I never do put a rug on," Helen looked at him sidelong. "If you once begin pampering your car there's no end to it."

Geoffrey burst out laughing. It re-established his superiority to find that she could be silly, petulant and peevish.

"I simply don't believe you," he said through the agonising noise of the self-starter. "You forgot I expect, and now you won't admit it."

At that minute the engine suddenly jumped to life, and Helen started the car with a grinding of gears and a jerk.

There was good ground for criticism but Geoffrey held his peace, and in a moment he heard her saying: "Do you want to go straight home or would you like to come to my studio for a bit?"

Surprised, he answered promptly.

"The studio most certainly, please."

"It's a queer untidy sort of hovel. Only a bedroom and a kitchen and a lovely big studio. I don't live there all the time you see. In fact my family kick against my living there at all, and I have to go home at frequent intervals. But when they get too much for me I come and live in the studio for a few weeks."

"Is the family atmosphere particularly trying then, and is it in London?"

"No, and yes. It is in London, in Lowndes Square, and it isn't really trying at all. They're darlings, but I'm very difficult, you know."

"So I should imagine," said Geoffrey softly, to which Helen only replied:

"Do you mind not talking? I can't cope with the traffic if I have to concentrate on you."

As they drove along the Embankment, Geoffrey twisted his body into the corner of the car, to watch her face as she drove. Even in the cold yellow light that struck over her as they approached each lamp-post, and faded so quickly as they passed it, her colouring disturbed and troubled him.

He wondered if she still had a trace of summer sunburn, or if all through the winter she kept that orange glow under her skin, so that it seemed to be lit from underneath. Concealed lighting, he thought vaguely; and very subtle too. Much more attractive than pink laid on, or even pink that looks as if it were the top surface; this is really orange and pink mixed, and a layer of skin over it all.

He was conscious of his hurried heart-beats and his thick, hurried breathing when he looked at the dark-red hair lying so flat on her glowing cheeks, and when for a second she turned to him, he found himself completely disconcerted.

"We're nearly there," she said. "It's painfully conventional to have a studio in Chelsea, but I couldn't find another that I liked."

She ran the car into a garage; they got out, walked along the road, and turned up a narrow little alley at the end of which they were confronted by a blue door.

Helen fumbled with her key; the lock was stiff; impatiently she flung back her dark shawl and stooped, green-frocked and red-haired, against the bright blue background.

Geoffrey took a step forward. The juxtaposition of the three colours was intolerable to his nerves, already jangled and overstrained. His chest was aching, his ears drumming, and just as the lock yielded he caught Helen in his arms and kissed her violently and repeatedly.

Suddenly he released her and stood on the threshold feeling cold and sick.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I've been unpardonable."

"You have," she said. "Entirely. I can't imagine what happened. Anyhow I think you'd better go now; everything's sordid and abominable."

There was a small red mark at the side of her mouth. Geoffrey stared at it stupidly and could not find anything to say that would not sound either meaningless or offensive. Suddenly he was filled with immense pity for himself and her, and words came easily.

"I've hurt you a little," he said, "I'm sorry, my dear, but I'm afraid we're bound to hurt each other, you and I. I never meant to kiss you; it was entirely because of the blue door and the way you stood against it. It really was too much, all that blazing blue and green, and your red hair."

"What do you mean?" she asked curiously. "You can come in for a minute if you like. I want to know what you mean when you say it was the blue door."

Geoffrey followed her into the small hall and through to a big room at the back whose long windows looked on to a paved garden. She put on the light, drew the curtains of some heavy, dark blue stuff, and knelt down by the fire with a pair of bellows which she used energetically till a small flame wavered up from the sullen coal.

"There," she said triumphantly. "That's all right. Now, please, talk to me about everything."

Geoffrey had stood looking at her as she coaxed the fire, but he was suddenly overwhelmed by fatigue. He sat down.

"I feel completely dull and stupid," he said heavily. "I can't explain myself at all. I'm sorry I offended you."

"You needn't be," Helen's voice was light. "It's all right. It didn't occur to me that a mere colour effect would unnerve you."

"I'm not temperamental as a rule," Geoffrey said sombrely. "But I'm conscious of a painful and lovely tie between us. It wasn't only the colour effect; it was dinner and the whole evening, and driving with you, a frightful strain the whole time. Listen, Helen," he leaned forward. "I've only known you for an hour or two, but do you think you could marry me sometime. It seems idiotic to say I love you, but I do. I want to marry you desperately, and do you realise that for all I know you may be engaged to someone else."

Geoffrey broke off abruptly. He no longer felt tired, a deep exhilaration was creeping over him, and he experienced an almost savage foretaste of triumph as he said urgently: "Helen, you will marry me, won't you?"

Helen shook her head. All the colour had drained slowly from her cheeks, and the little mark beside her mouth stood out hot and scarlet. She put a finger up to it and felt it gently.

"No," she answered, "I won't marry you, Geoffrey. There is a queer link between us. I felt it the first minute we met, but I won't marry you; at least not now. I might in ten years if my work fails me, but not now. You see it is important to me; I love it, and I feel I'm going to do something good, and whatever anyone may say I'm certain it's impossible to work decently and be married as well."

"I don't believe it is," said Geoffrey strongly. "Frankly I've never thought about it, but I'm perfectly sure we could do it."

"No we couldn't; no one can."

"Helen, you must marry me. It seems to me utterly impossible that you should refuse to. And that's not conceit, it's simply that I know we ought to be together, you and I."

Helen smiled a little wanly.

"I didn't think it was conceit, and if I could marry anyone it would be you, but I can't, don't you see. It would be like walking into a cage, and with my eyes open too. The minute I got in and heard the doors shut on me I'd go mad with terror till I got out again."

"You're wrong. It wouldn't be like that, not with us, Helen."

"It would. Look at us now, Geoffrey. A minute ago you were nearly dead with weariness and I was bursting with vitality and now I'm nearly dead, and you're alive again."

"My love, that only shows. Of course now as things are we fight each other and exhaust each other, but if we were married, it wouldn't be like this, we'd both be quite admirably stimulated all the time."

"No, we shouldn't," Helen shook her head again. "One of us would be completely on top, and the other would have to give up everything, and I might easily be the other!"

"That's not fair. I don't want you to give up anything; I only want you to marry me."

"That's just it, and it's no good," Helen looked at him levelly. "I'll be your mistress, Geoffrey, at least I think I will; not now I mean,"—she looked fearfully round the room as if the shadows might hear and bear witness against her—"but sometime I think I will be. Anyhow I won't marry anyone but you ever, and you must leave it at that."

"My sweet," Geoffrey knelt by her chair and held her against him, "I don't want a mistress, and certainly not you. I want you to marry me, and you will some day, won't you. I can wait."

Helen freed herself and sat bolt upright.

"I love you in a way, Geoffrey, but don't begin being good to me. I have people who are good to me. If you stop fighting me altogether, I'll simply trample on you. I'd hate you to try and bully me, but I'd hate you still more to be kind to me."

"I'm not a very kind person," said Geoffrey soberly. "At home I'm supposed to be moody and difficult—like you I suppose—and Hugh is much more charming and likeable."

"That'll do very well then. I like this feeling of half loving you and with the other half being antipathetic to you."

"I don't like it. It's hell unless you'll marry me. Listen Helen; if we made a treaty with conditions so that your work was protected, don't you think you could bring yourself to it then?"

"I might; I don't want to; it's against my better judgment and I'd be a bad wife, but I might. Tell me what conditions you'd suggest. For one thing there's children."

"I don't see that that matters. Don't have them if you don't want them."

"Wouldn't you mind?"

"No, not a bit now anyhow. And if I wanted one in ten years or so perhaps you might consider it."

"Geoffrey, I almost think we might manage," Helen said eagerly. "I've always ruled out marriage, and I won't do it at once anyhow, but if we did really make a sort of treaty that would safeguard my painting, then perhaps in two or three years I'd marry you."

"I'll work out the clauses. You'll have to be protected against me, and against children, and against my relations, and heaps of other things."

"Then why do you want me at all?" Helen asked in a small voice.

"I do. I want you most painfully. I hate your work in a way because it comes between us, but it's part of you too, and I don't know you well enough to disassociate bits of you from other bits."

"Don't hate it, Geoffrey. It's the most important part of me. I've not done anything to matter yet, but I'll show you my last thing if you like. I had an idea that all this talk about schools and styles was nonsense and that one could paint in two distinct styles in one picture and still keep the unity."

She went over and lifted a canvas that was turned against the wall.

"It's not framed," she said. "So I'll hold it up against these curtains; they're a good background."

She held it at arm's length standing very straight and tall, the outstretched arm and hand trembling a little with its weight.

Two white ponies were coming through a wood, with a violent sun striking between the trees. Each tree was painted as a solemn dark column with four twisting branches on each of which hung four formal emerald leaves. But the ponies were round and fat, with flowing manes and tails and little hooves uplifted. There was a classical rotundity about their haunches; their necks were thick and curved.

Geoffrey looked at them and thought how much happier they would have been frolicking in some flowery glade, or prancing round a little copse with a white temple in the centre. Against these stark blue-brown trees they became fantastic: the wood seemed real and permanent, the ponies—ironically robust—were creatures of an hour, a fashion, a convention.

"It's unkind to the ponies," he said, turning to Helen. "They're wretched in that wood. They want to caper in a nice little meadow full of daisies and buttercups."

"Daisies and buttercups," repeated Helen broodingly. "Yes, I suppose they do. Anyhow, it's no good at all. I thought I had discovered something when I began, but half-way through I lost my idea. That's why I haven't finished it. Perhaps after all I'll marry you and have a red plush dining-room and hang that over the mantelpiece."

Her voice was sullen, her face pinched and plain. Geoffrey was conscious of a profound and weary melancholy settling on his spirits. He looked at Helen who returned his look suspiciously, like a stranger. Their marriage seemed remote and improbable.

Vaguely he contemplated kissing her, but the effort was too great in his dazed and empty state.

"I'll ring up," he said disjointedly. "I must go now. Or I'll come and see you; perhaps Sunday would do, would it? Anyhow I must go now; I'm so tired I don't know what I'm saying."

"Yes, come on Sunday. I'll give you some supper. And don't even mention my name to anyone. I don't know yet what I'm going to do about you."

Her tone was withdrawn and hostile; it matched her suspicious glance.

"Good-night, Helen," said Geoffrey wearily, and the blue door shut behind him as she said, "Good-night, Geoffrey Greene."

II

Six months of alternating ecstasy and despair with a persistent undercurrent of nervous fatigue, so wrought upon Geoffrey's healthy frame that when he caught influenza in the spring of 1924, he was seriously ill and convalescence was long and difficult.

The day before he took ill when he was feeling particularly low and inadequate, Helen had come to a serious and, she proclaimed, a final decision. It coincided with a change in her method of painting. She had abandoned the genre of conventional subjects placed in a futurist setting of which the two white ponies were the last example, and had turned instead to poster painting. After some months of very hard work she had succeeded with a design which momentarily at least, satisfied her exacting standards.

It was austere in line but richly heraldic in colouring and when she stepped back to look at the finished work, she decided in one and the same moment that it was good and that she would now have to eliminate Geoffrey from her scheme of life.

Her reasons were obscure. The thought of doing without him brought with it a faint shock of surprise and pain, but standing there in front of her own work it seemed to her impossible to reconcile anything so simple, so vigorous and so disciplined, with her passionate and confused love for Geoffrey. Her painting was clear and strenuous; it brought her a few moments of ease, followed always by dissatisfaction and renewed efforts, which in their turn brought her again to a period of content.

But there was no such rhythm in her emotional life. She loved Geoffrey; at moments she desired him, and was impatient of the scruples which constrained him to refuse her as a mistress; at moments she was conscious of a surge of tenderness for him which made the thought of marriage almost attractive. Often however, she felt a strong revulsion against him, not only as an individual, but as an interloper in her private life who interfered with her peace of mind and destroyed her powers of concentration. The only constant factor in their relationship was her savage determination to protect her work against him. This determination showed itself in a frank and laughing hostility when she was painting well, and in sullen resentment when she was painting badly.

As she looked at the completed poster Helen sighed. Geoffrey must go and the sooner the better. It could not fail to be painful to both of them, but she must feel free again. She must disentangle herself from emotional disruptions and reactions.

She rang him up at his office and left a message asking him to call in the evening, then flung herself down in a big chair, her hands folded idly in her lap and an expression of weary disenchantment on her face.

Her thoughts depressed her. She realised that apart from all sentimental pangs she would miss Geoffrey as an irritant. Already she felt listless and uninspired at the thought of doing without him. He stimulated her, she was goaded to work by the desire to justify herself for her refusal to marry him. Even in her painting she was beginning to rely on him; a state of dependence was almost established.

She got up impatiently and looked at her watch. It was only four o'clock and there was no possibility of Geoffrey being with her for at least two hours.

Tearing off her painting overall she went through to her bedroom where she slipped on a frock of red-brick crêpe-de-chine that stole the colour from her cheeks and dulled her hair to brown. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and told herself defiantly that at times Helen Guest could look very plain, but when she had put on a dark coat, and a small dark hat, she carefully arranged her hair in an exact semi-circle on either cheek and brushed a little rouge over her cheek bones.

The studio seemed unfriendly as she went through; the ashes were cold in the grate, the sun lit up a layer of soft dust over the furniture, a curtain had torn away from one of its rings and drooped a little.

Helen decided impatiently that when she had finally broken with Geoffrey it would probably be better to go home for a time, and shut up the studio. A few weeks in Lowndes Square would effectively drive her to work again.

In the meantime, I'll go and see Lavinia, she decided; she's a soothing little thing, and the sight of her house all so smug and correct will reinforce me against Geoffrey. It's the sort of house and life I'd fall into if I were such a fool as to marry him. She shrugged at her own weakness in needing reinforcements and set out briskly for Lavinia's house in Catherine Street.

It happened that Mrs. Rodney Greene was having tea with her daughter when Helen was announced.

Lavinia greeted Helen affectionately, and turned to her mother.

"I don't think you've met Helen, Mother dear," she said. "Unless perhaps for a moment at the wedding, but that hardly counts."

"No, I don't think I have," answered Mrs. Rodney. "But I know you're a relation of Martin's, Miss Guest. I've often heard both him and Lavinia talking of your work. You paint, don't you?"

Her voice was pleasant, but her eye raked Helen from her long legs to the jaunty little hat that covered her eyebrows and it registered unmistakable disapproval.

"I've just finished a thing to-day, but I feel I'll never paint again," said Helen, and though her voice was low there was a violence behind the words that struck unpleasantly on Mrs. Rodney's ears.

"Oh, but surely you won't give up like that," she began persuasively. "Of course I can understand artistic discouragement; the finished work falling so far short of the ideal"—she sketched a vague gesture in the air—"But still I'm sure you should persevere."

She looked brightly and expectantly at Helen but her glib words of consolation fell on a grim silence. Helen lay back wearily in her chair hardly seeming to hear what was said, and it was Lavinia who answered rather awkwardly: "Helen paints beautifully, Mother. She did a picture of some ponies a little while ago that you would simply love."

"Oh Lavinia, that thing's no good at all," said Helen impatiently. "It's absolutely wrong; the idea was wrong to begin with, and then I didn't even carry it out properly. What I'm doing now is quite different," she leaned forward, eager and unselfconscious, "I think I've discovered at last what I want to do; not impressionistic at all, purely decorative and very severe and simple. I really believe it's a style I can express myself in."

She caught Mrs. Rodney's blank expression and relapsed into silence.

"Well, I'm glad to know you're not really giving it up," said Mrs. Rodney, kindly. "But now I must be going, Lavinia, dear; I've got some shopping to do on the way home." Mrs. Greene stood up. "Good-bye, Miss Guest," she said. "Perhaps Lavinia will bring you to tea with me one day. I should enjoy a little talk about art."

Helen winced visibly, but her voice was polite and non-committal as she said: "Thank you, Mrs. Greene, it's very good of you. Good-bye."

"Do you mind if I go down with Mother; I won't be a minute?" asked Lavinia.

She left the room, forgetting to close the door, and presently Mrs. Rodney's clear voice floated up from the hall.

"Well, come and see us soon, darling, won't you? And tell me, do you see much of that Miss Guest? I think she's a very exaggerated young woman, and her manner struck me as most unfortunate."

"We like her very much," Lavinia answered simply. "And she's awfully clever."

"I must say I don't think mere cleverness is enough to excuse such brusque behaviour. Good-bye, dear; take care of yourself."

The front door closed, and Lavinia came upstairs and into the drawing-room.

Helen looked at her and laughed.

"I'm glad you like me," she said. "But your Mother's perfectly right. I'm not nearly clever enough to justify my brusque behaviour, and from her point of view my manner is undoubtedly unfortunate."

Lavinia flushed. "I'm sorry you heard," she said. "Mother is very critical, but she would like you if she knew you properly."

"No she wouldn't. It's inconceivable that she could ever like me. Not in a thousand years. But I'm sorry I burst in on you and her like that. I was in a bad mood and thought I'd come and look at you and your house and profit by its example."

"How do you mean?"

"I don't mean anything at all nice, so let's leave it at that. You're looking very pretty Lavinia; the baby hasn't even begun to spoil your looks yet."

"It will soon, I'm afraid. I look horribly black under the eyes in the morning. I only begin to get human about midday."

"You really are extremely like Geoffrey." Helen spoke abruptly. "Lavinia, do you know I've been treating him abominably."

"No, I didn't know that. I'm sorry. Geoffrey is a dear really; I'm awfully fond of him."

"So am I. I love him in a way but I can't marry him. I can't face being stuck down in a little house and having to run it and be amiable at breakfast and welcome my husband's friends and be polite to his relations. I simply can't do it."

"Can't you really, Helen? Geoffrey hasn't told me anything about it, but I know he's been miserable about something for months, and I did just think once from something he said, that it might be because of you."

"Well, it's no good anyhow. I'm not going to see him any more after this evening. I do think anything's better than dragging on like this."

"You know, Helen, I honestly think you wouldn't find it so very difficult to be married. You'd be quite rich. You've got some money of your own, and Geoffrey isn't doing so badly; he went into the business very young, so you could have decent maids, who would run the house for you. It makes all the difference if you have enough money not to have to bother."

"Lavinia, your cynical outlook surprises me. But you see it isn't only things like that. It's Geoffrey. Loving him would get so frightfully in the way of my work. I don't believe it's possible to reconcile everything satisfactorily."

She shut her mouth obstinately and Lavinia sighed.

"I really am sorry," she said. "I think you could be perfectly happy, you two; and of course I'd love it from my own point of view, so perhaps I'm prejudiced, but still I do think it's possible."

"It isn't, Lavinia; don't let's talk about it any more. I must go now; I'm going to shut up the studio for a bit; come and see me at home. Mother would love you. She thinks my friends are apt to be a little erratic, and you'd be a welcome change. Goodbye and thanks; don't come down."

As Helen walked home she was racked with uncertainty. Lavinia had shaken instead of strengthening her decision. Nothing of this showed in her manner as she greeted Geoffrey a little later. He looked pale and ill, and when she said, "Sit down and be a little comfortable," he only shook his head, looked at her dumbly, and remained leaning against the mantelpiece.

"Geoffrey dear," she said. "I've been thinking and worrying about us, and I've come to the conclusion that we simply mustn't see each other any more. I'm sorry; I'm sorry for myself, and I'm sorry for you, but it's no good."

"You can't suddenly decide a thing like that; it isn't fair," said Geoffrey, but he spoke without conviction.

"I have decided," she answered. "There's no use going over the same old ground; don't let's discuss it again. I'm going home for a bit, and I don't know whether I'll come back to this studio or not, so there's no reason why we should meet ever if we're reasonably careful to avoid each other. Goodbye, Geoffrey; I'd like you to go now."

She spoke coldly, her plans seemed to be cut and dried, and there was a finality about her words that rang in Geoffrey's aching head.

"All right," he said. "I'll go now; goodbye."

Left alone, Helen began to pack a suitcase. As she threw in coats, shoes, and frocks, tears streamed steadily down her cheeks. Mechanically, she powdered her nose, locked the studio, got out her car and drove to Lowndes Square where she learned that her father and mother were away for the week-end and her sister out to dinner.

"I can easily get you something to eat, Miss Helen, and your room will be ready in a moment," said the parlourmaid pleasantly, accustomed to Helen's sudden arrivals and equally sudden departures.

"I don't want any dinner, thanks. I'll have a hot bath and go straight to bed, and I'd like a bowl of bread and milk in bed, lots of sugar and no crusts."

"Very well, Miss Helen."

The maid disappeared with her case, as Helen went into the library to find a book before following her upstairs. She slept heavily for twelve hours and wakened to a mood of discouragement and lethargy. Life seemed meaningless. The thought of painting did not attract her, she had no particular engagements, there was nothing to do.

Mr. and Mrs. Guest, returning in the evening, were pleased to find her in the library sitting with her hands idle in her lap, but her depression persisted and she answered her Mother's questions with curt monosyllables.

"Yes, I'm all right thanks. No, nothing's wrong. Really, Mother, I'm all right. I know I look tired. I've been working very hard, but please just leave me alone."

In the weeks that followed she was forced to repeat very often her plea to be left alone. Her family were used to the sight of Helen working, but Helen idle and empty-handed was so unusual that they made unceasing efforts to interest her in their varying occupations which she as unceasingly spurned.

A month went past during which she had not lifted a brush and she was in her sitting-room one afternoon wondering dismally if she would ever again be caught by the desire to paint, when Lavinia was announced.

Helen jumped to her feet.

"Do come in, Lavinia. I'm nearly mad with mooning about doing nothing."

"But haven't you been painting?" Lavinia asked a little maliciously. "I thought you'd given up Geoffrey so as to be able to paint."

Helen spread out her hands.

"I haven't done a thing," she said. "Not a single thing and what's more I don't know whether I ever will or not. Sit down and talk to me, Lavinia."

"I can't," said Lavinia. "I'm on my way to Geoffrey now and I thought it just possible that you would like to come with me. You know he's been ill?'

"I haven't heard a thing about him. Tell me, is he really ill? What's wrong with him? I'll come with you at once."

"He's had influenza very badly. He was starting it that day you came to tea with me when Mother was there; he went home that night very seedy and he's really been pretty bad. He's much better now, but he's still in bed, and Mother's going to be out this afternoon so she rang me up to go and amuse him and I thought perhaps you'd come too."

"He may not want to see me," said Helen.

"He does, I asked him," answered Lavinia coolly.

Helen's cheeks were glowing, her eyes shining.

"I'll go and change. Wait here for me, I won't be long," she said imperiously.

"No, I think I'll go on now and you can follow when you're ready," suggested Lavinia.

Helen caught her hand.

"Please no," she said. "Please wait. I don't want to go alone. I'd rather go with you."

"You're shy," said Lavinia accusingly.

Helen was defiant and happy.

"And what if I am?" she said. "I'm going to ask Geoffrey to marry me, and I'd rather have a chaperon there to make it more seemly. Wait here for me."

She rushed upstairs to dress, and came down in the green frock and hat she had worn to Lavinia's wedding.

"Look," she said. "Sheer sentiment made me put this on."

Lavinia looked at her standing in the doorway, tall and upright, the rich green of her frock bringing out all the colour in her hair and skin.

"You're lovely," she said impulsively. "Really lovely. No wonder Geoffrey's quite mad about you."

"Is he?" asked Helen. "I do hope he is, I want him to be. You really think then I needn't be nervous as to whether he'll accept me or not."

She laughed. "Come on, Lavinia," she said. "I can't wait. I've had nothing for a month. Neither my painting nor Geoffrey and evidently I can't have one without the other, so even if they fight I'll have to have both."

Suddenly her face sobered.

"It'll be a cat and dog life. Everything I meant it not to be, but damn it, I can't help it; I can't do without him."

III

If Mrs. Greene was distressed by her son's engagement she concealed it perfectly after the first moment, when, opening the door of Geoffrey's bedroom, she was affronted by the sight of a young woman almost a stranger to her, sitting on the floor beside Geoffrey's bed, one arm round his neck, a long leg sprawling, her little green hat tossed on the hearthrug.

As Edith Greene stood in the doorway her thoughts were bitter, her expression bleak; but with undeniable gallantry she bowed to the inevitable, twisted her face into a semblance of happy surprise, and coming forward took Helen's hand as she scrambled to her feet.

"My dears," she said, "this is very unexpected. I didn't even know you knew Miss Guest, Geoffrey, but I mustn't call you Miss Guest any longer; it's Helen, isn't it, dear?" She smiled kindly, sat down on the edge of Geoffrey's bed and said: "Now tell me all about it."

It was a magnificent recovery. Geoffrey looked guilty and miserable, but Helen was filled with admiration. She stood up tall and unembarrassed, and leaning against the mantel-piece explained the situation in her quiet voice.

"We really owe you an apology, Mrs. Greene. Of course you must think it quite unseemly for me to be here like this, when I've never been in your house before, but everything has happened very suddenly. It's even been a surprise to us, hasn't it, darling?"

She turned to Geoffrey, and Mrs. Greene's start of annoyance at the last word was unnoticed.

"Geoffrey asked me to marry him a long time ago," she went on. "I wouldn't for several reasons, chiefly my work. Then only to-day I suddenly changed my mind and came to tell him so; at least Lavinia brought me."

"You actually proposed to Helen a long time ago, Geoffrey dear, and yet you've never mentioned her name to me?"

The playful reproach in Mrs. Greene's voice hid successfully the raging resentment in her heart, but before Geoffrey could answer, Helen broke in:

"That was entirely my fault. I felt so uncertain and wretched that the whole thing had to be kept absolutely private."

"Even from Geoffrey's mother," asked Mrs. Greene gently.

In the fading light Helen's young face looked stern, but she, too, spoke gently.

"Yes, even from you, I'm afraid. It was so vitally important to both of us that whichever way it had turned, whether we decided to marry or not to marry, we simply couldn't afford to let in any outside influence."

"I see," said Mrs. Greene slowly. "I've never really thought of myself as 'an outside influence.' My one desire has always been for my children's happiness. That's what comes first with me and always will. Geoffrey knows that; you'll learn it too, dear."

Geoffrey had caught the undertone of acidity that betrayed her real feelings, and he made an effort to placate her.

"You really are amazing, Mother," he said. "I know it must be a shock to you, but as Helen says, it's a shock to us too."

She bent and kissed him.

"My dear Geoffrey," she said, "I'm sure time will prove it to be a pleasant shock, not the reverse; I'm only too glad to have another little daughter."

Geoffrey grinned and said tactlessly:

"Not really a little one, Mother; Helen's quite a bit taller than you are."

Mrs. Greene's armour cracked.

"Don't be silly," she said sharply. "You know quite well I wasn't referring to her size."

Putting a hand on his brow she regained her poise.

"You're quite tired out," she said. "Such a hot head. Now, Helen, I'm only going to give you five minutes and then you must come downstairs and let Geoffrey rest. Come to the drawing-room, will you, and have a little chat before you go?"

"Thank you, I will," said Helen opening the door for Mrs. Greene who turned her head to smile tenderly at Geoffrey, gave Helen's shoulder a little pat, sighed, and left the room.

IV

If Helen was secretly disgusted by all the elaborate preparations for her wedding she disguised her feelings with considerable skill, and took part quite naturally, in endless discussions on trousseaux, red carpets and white satin. Both her mother and Geoffrey's mother were delighted at her unlooked-for docility, and Mrs. Guest admitted quite frankly to Mrs. Greene that Helen's engagement was having a very settling effect on her; to which Mrs. Greene replied firmly:

"Dear Helen. We all expect so much of her that I'm sure it makes her try to live up to our ideals."

There was a slight uneasiness in the air on the evening when Mrs. Greene asked brightly:

"And where are you two thinking of for your honeymoon?"

Helen looked up from some patterns of shot silk that she was considering.

"Oh, the Hague I think," she said casually. "There are some moderns there that I rather want to see, and some quite good old stuff too, I believe."

"Oh really. Yes, that would be very nice I suppose. But of course it's a big town. Don't you think Geoffrey would be happier among beautiful scenery? The Italian lakes, perhaps, or mountains if you want to be energetic."

"I don't know, I'm sure." Helen shrugged her shoulders. "Would you be happier with scenery, Geoffrey?"

"I think I'd like the Hague," he said. "For a week or so, anyhow, and then we can move on."

"You know, dear," said Mrs. Greene reasonably, "your interest in pictures is a very specialised thing. You mustn't expect Geoffrey to feel quite as you do about them. I don't think he knows very much about art."

Helen's face was grim.

"He doesn't," she answered, "but he'll learn." And her mouth shut ominously.

Mrs. Greene got up discreetly and murmuring something about dressing for dinner, went upstairs.

"Darling," said Geoffrey. "Mother thinks we are now about to quarrel fiercely, but we aren't, are we?"

"Of course not. I don't mind your not knowing anything about painting so long as you don't mind my concentrating on it a good deal."

"You know I don't. Tell me, Helen, is all this business driving you to frenzy?"

"No, not a bit. I think it's frightfully obscene, dressing up in white satin and being handed over to you at a given moment, but I can easily cope with it. Isn't there something about 'straining at a gnat and swallowing a camel'?"

"And I'm the camel," said Geoffrey sullenly.

"Yes, you are," Helen answered calmly. "And you understand the position perfectly well. You know I am marrying you quite reluctantly for the simple reason that I love you to distraction."

Geoffrey's face cleared.

"I am a fool," he said. "It's quite all right, Helen, and you're being marvellously good about all this sickening detail."

Helen shook her head.

"It's your mother who's marvellous," she said. "She really is a masterpiece. I've never seen anything so well done as her pose. She is so affectionate and maternal that anyone would think she was delighted with me. In fact she's almost coy, and yet she can't help disapproving of almost everything I say or do."