Front matter (continued 3)

I sometimes feel that in London one uproots one lie only to make room for another. A few days' "propaganda", as Will would say, convinced people that "the mystery woman", as some one christened her, had no homicidal husband lurking with a revolver behind the nearest bush. But a different story became wide-spread ... indeed, universally repeated and almost universally believed. The old story, I should say, was revived. People said that she had come over with a few thousands and had spent every penny of it.

"I have no more knowledge than you have," said Major Blanstock, when I tackled him about it one day at Brackenbury; and then he added with rather a tiresome assumption of virtue: "I didn't feel it was my affair."

"But you're her friend," I said.

"If she gives me an opportunity of proving it."

"And in some ways her sponsor," I said.

"Oh, I would stand sponsor for her at all times," he answered. "If your story is true, she will have an opportunity of proving the quality of all her friends."

And there the thing ended, so far as we were concerned. Brackenbury had lent us the house for two months; but, when Consuelo left us after a fortnight, we were not sorry to return the following day to London. I was in terror that Will might commit himself before we had really found out anything; but, the moment these stories began circulating again, he very wisely retired into his shell; I suppose it was because she felt that no progress was being made that Consuelo curtailed her visit. Or, perhaps, with that restlessness of hers, she was simply bored; my feelings would not suffer if she told me that one dull old woman... I should explain that our scheme of house-parties broke down; the women, indeed, came, but man after man failed us at the last moment. One spent Friday morning despatching one's staff in turn to the telephone with names and more names and yet more names...

I found it hard to believe that all the "Bunnies" and "Theos" were in such request, but no enlightenment was vouchsafed until our return to Mount Street. If there had been a panic when we left London, the phrase sauve-qui-peut is hardly too strong for the condition we found awaiting us. Some one had industriously spread this story that Mrs. Sawyer was a mere adventuress, and everybody was anxiously disclaiming all acquaintance with her. I have suggested that for months it was impossible to enter South Audley Street without running into Mr. "Reggie" Gorleigh; with my own ears I heard him say: "Mrs. Sawyer? Oh, that South American woman! I think I know who you mean."

For sheer audacity...

"I don't know what else you would expect," said Major Blanstock one day. "People in London will take anything from anybody—and go on taking it so long as they think there's money about. If you whisper that they may afterwards have to make a return, they vanish into thin air. I know nothing of Mrs. Sawyer's affairs; but, if it's true that she has lost all her money, I should have thought that her friends would have rallied round her and shewn that it made no difference. On a strict calculation of one meal against another, they could keep her from starving for a year or two."

"And so I have no doubt they will," I said, though I detest all this modern weighing and balancing.

Where calculation comes in, hospitality goes out.

"She's absolutely deserted!," he cried. "I know, because I'm the only man who goes near her."

"That, Major Blanstock," I said rather sharply, "is neither fair nor true. Consuelo spent a fortnight with us, she was invited to stay longer."

"But would you ask her again?," he sneered; and I could see that he was most offensively hinting that we, like the rest, had dropped her when the bubble was pricked.

"My brother has unfortunately resumed possession of Brackenbury," I told him.

And then I really had to pretend that there was somebody at the other end of the room who wanted to speak to me... I hope I am tolerably good-tempered, but I will not allow every one to make himself a ruler and a judge...

All through the summer it had been "Mrs. Sawyer this" and "Mrs. Sawyer that". Dear Consuelo was so charming, her parties were so delightful. If one did not know her, one must take steps to become acquainted. And so forth and so on... In the autumn there was what I can only describe as a guilty silence; it was in questionable taste to mention her; she dropped out completely, and one almost begged one's man not to bring the car home by way of South Audley Street. Every one seemed to fear that she might present herself any day at the door and claim to be taken in and supported by those who had only accepted her too lavish hospitality because they were "friends" and a little sorry for her lonely state. Then came the great surprise...

It can only have been a surprise to people who had jumped to conclusions without troubling to collect a shred of evidence... I purposely kept my mind a blank... There were rumours; and then one read the announcement—that she was marrying this Major Blanstock. I believe she is a great heiress, I believe her husband did drink himself to death. And I still believe, as I always believed, that she is a thoroughly nice, very unhappy woman...

She would never have done for Will... As you would be the first to agree, if you had seen her. Oh, I can't describe my relief that nothing came of that. The difference of blood and breeding—Roman Catholic and Anglican, Latin and Anglo-Saxon...

But I feel that the poor woman would have been given a fairer chance if her own people at the Legation had been able to tell us something about her. If they can't do that, I really don't know what they are there for or why one takes the trouble to invite them to one's house...

VII LADY ANN SPENWORTH DEPLORES PROPOSALS BY WOMEN

Lady Ann (to a friend of proved discretion): Oh, but I fully believe they do it! There were rumours even before the war. To my mind, the idea that any girl should ask a man to marry her is so repugnant that I can hardly think of it calmly. All so-called "Leap-Year jokes" seem to me to be in execrable taste... Since the war, with these millions of superfluous women, I am told that it has become quite common. You have always had the cranks who claimed that a woman had as much right to choose a husband as a husband to choose a wife; and now girls like my niece Phyllida say that, with the general upset of war, a little money frightens a man away and, if you want him to see that a difference of means is not a real obstacle, you have to take the first step. I'm inclined to say: "Rubbish, child, rubbish"—and again "Rubbish". Since when have young men developed these fantastic scruples? And does any girl think that the only way of securing a man is to propose to him? I should have imagined... But I was brought up in a different school...

Phyllida, of course, was struggling with her obsession. I do feel Brackenbury incurred a responsibility in not sending her right away. Ever since Colonel Butler disappeared, she has alternately fumed and fretted. Now she is becoming hard and cynical; if she were ten years older, you would call her "soured". Ridiculous at one-and-twenty, or whatever she is... And she became no more normal after giving up hope of him. Oh, yes, I'm thankful to say that I think all that is quite over, though we must expect to see an occasional relapse; hence the discussion. She said that, if she met her Hilary or ever found out where he was, she would throw herself into his arms and ask him to marry her. And sotto voce the customary hateful suggestion that I had taunted him with wanting to marry her for her money and so driven him away in order to clear the ground for my Will. It is always on the tip of my tongue to say that she seems very certain of my boy. But it is the modern fashion for a girl to think she has only to drop the handkerchief... Brackenbury patted her hand (if he had slapped her it would have been more to the point), I went on with my work. She wanted the stimulus of a little opposition, and that was just what I refused to give her. Then she began talking in general terms about the difficulty that a girl has in finding a husband nowadays: fewer men than ever, all of them uprooted by the war and uncertain of their future, widows marrying again, the older women remaining young so much longer. I felt that, to some extent, it was all true, but I was surprised to hear such truths on Phyllida's lips if she still wanted me to think she was faithful to Colonel Butler's memory...

Culroyd's marriage made a difference, of course. He was a devoted brother, according to his lights; and I think she is missing him greatly. And one wedding, like one funeral, leads to another. You have seen it again and again! The trousseau, the presents, the letters, the general excitement, the very contagion of two young lovers... All this coming at a time when she seemed deliberately to be making herself as unhappy as possible... I knew there would be a strong reaction, I was only afraid that she might throw herself at my Will's head and that he might be unable to say "no". I kept him away from the Hall as much as I could. If he really wanted her, he could drop the handkerchief—I felt—in his own good time...

"Your turn will come," I told her.

"Oh, I don't care who I marry," she answered. "I suppose I shall need a home when I'm turned out of here; and, if so, I'd better get to work while I'm still young enough to attract men. I'm open to any offer; the man mustn't be too hopeless a cad, that's all."

This mock-desperation would have been very cynical if it had not been so unconvincing. I said nothing at the time; but, when I had a moment alone with her poor mother, I did feel it my duty to say candidly that it was time somebody did something to change the girl's thoughts. Ruth agreed, but in a helpless, hopeless way that always makes me wonder how Brackenbury has put up with her for so many years. In her opinion, Phyllida was pining for her young soldier and would continue to pine, so far as I could gather, until she found him.

"Is it not better," I asked, "to face facts? Colonel Butler was certainly attracted, but he realized in time that he had hardly the means or the position to qualify him as husband to Phyllida and son-in-law to Brackenbury. Very properly he made himself scarce; and nothing in life became him so well as his leaving of it. You say he has not written? He won't write;—and I respect him for it. But, goodness me, I hope you're not going to encourage Phyllida to think that she's broken her heart in a hopeless passion. If you won't send her right away (as, you will have the justice to remember, I felt it my duty to suggest at the outset), let her come to me for a few weeks and let me see if London can't provide something to turn her thoughts."

The trouble was, if you will promise not to tell any one I said so, that Phyllida's vanity was hurt. When she was running after this young man, there was so much publicity that people began to wonder; they became spied on and whispered about; when he was summoned to Brackenbury, every one felt that now they were going to make certain of him; when he left before his time, without saying a word to her, it was naturally assumed that he had run away. Rather than believe that any man could weary of her charms, Phyllida will convince herself that I turned young Butler against her... Hence this terrible bitterness...

If you ask me whether I expected to have my offer accepted, I will frankly say "no". I think Phyllida must enjoy surprises, for she accepted the invitation at once, though perhaps a little ungraciously and with a suggestion that, within limits, any one was welcome to her... Will was at home; and, though I have never been able to decide what I should think if he told me that he was going to marry his cousin, I was certainly beginning to feel that it was time for him to find a suitable wife and settle down. Will is nearly thirty, and I have always considered that a popular and good-looking bachelor is unfairly exposed to temptation in England. They will let well alone if only others would leave them alone...

As witness that girl at Morecambe. I shall not tell you about that, because I hope—nay more; I pray—that it is all satisfactorily settled; and, also, I was never told the full story. It was enough for me that he had lost a splendid appointment and now, once more, has nothing to live on; he must marry or find a job... When the girl's father came to the house—one of these rugged, north-of-England clergymen who always have the air of intimidating you into a state of grace—, it was my husband whom he insisted on seeing. I had never known Arthur in a state of such ungovernable fury. Bursting into my room, he stamped up and down, incoherent, beside himself... To this day I do not know what Will is supposed to have done. The girl kissed him good-night or something. I suppose I am the last person to condone any freedom, but she was a mere child ten years younger than my boy—what more natural or innocent? The old father spied on them... Hence the storm. Reading between the lines, I should conjecture that the girl deliberately laid herself out to catch Will. The one time I saw this Molly Phenton, she seemed an attractive child, with deep-set, rather appealing eyes; a good deal of soft brown hair, too, and pretty hands. Quiet, simply dressed; a perfect specimen of "the old country clergyman's pretty little daughter." And that, I have no doubt, was the effect she wanted to achieve with Will, the appeal of innocence and youth to a palate grown weary of more sophisticated charms; I wonder more men are not caught in that way... Will, I am thankful to say, pulled back before the trap could close on him; I was really astounded that the father had the effrontery to come all the way from Morecambe on what was nothing less or more than a blackmailing expedition. Futile, if nothing else; Will is not one of those men who find it necessary to buy popularity by giving presents to all and sundry; and I am sure he is too prudent to write a girl foolish letters...

"Arthur, do stop walking about," I said, "and tell me what has happened."

Too often, only too often, when Will has been in trouble of any kind, I have been excluded on the pretext that this was not a woman's province. His own mother!

"What has happened?," he shouted. "Why, we have brought into this world as choice a young blackguard as any one is ever likely to meet. Phenton told me so to my face; and I had to agree with him. He said he wished he were young enough to horse-whip the fellow; I said I agreed. He wished the girl had a brother to do it; I said again that I agreed."

I really thought it best to let him wear himself out... When a man speaks in that tone about his own son, when a Christian minister talks about horse-whipping people... All these wild words made rather less than no impression on me, as I was quite sure that my boy hadn't written anything that could be used against him.

"And what is the outcome of it all?," I ventured to ask, when the storm had abated.

"The outcome?" When Arthur is moved, he has a most irritating trick of repeating one's words. For thirty years I have tried to break him of it, but he is obdurate. "You'd better find some woman who'll marry the young scamp and keep him in order. The sooner the better. And I wish her joy of him."

When Will returned to Mount Street—he lived at his club until the wild clergyman returned to Morecambe—, I begged for enlightenment, but he would say nothing. For that, I am not ashamed to confess, I respected him; however badly this Molly Phenton (or "Molly Wanton," as I prefer to call her) had behaved, Will was too chivalrous to clear himself at the expense of a woman—and this though I could see that he was worried out of his mind. To a man, that is a law of the Medes and Persians...

"Son of mine, you must try to forget the whole thing," I said. "When you are older, I am afraid that some of your ideals will be modified; in future, no doubt, you will be more on your guard; but you will never be secure until you are yourself married."

"Oh, I'm open to any offer," said Will, exactly as poor Phyllida had done.

I was disquieted, for I could see clearly that he would indeed never feel secure from this girl until he was plighted to another woman. When once a man is "Morning-Posted", as he would say, all other fancied claims dissolve into thin air... The mere sight of the Morecambe post-mark in those days sent my heart into my mouth, and I could see that the strain of this persecution was telling on his nerves. "Ann Spenworth," I said to myself, "you must make up your mind; if he wants to marry Phyllida, you must not stand in the way." ...

All my life I have shrunk from the responsibility of interfering with the destiny of a boy and girl in love. The relationship is too delicate, the consequences are too grave. Before Phyllida came, I reviewed the position and decided to make no change.

"Your cousin," I told Will, "is coming to us for a few weeks, and I wish her to carry back pleasant memories of her visit. It is no secret to you that she has been disappointed through fancying herself in love with a man who could never have been a suitable husband for the Earl of Brackenbury's daughter. We have to be kind to her; and, if I know anything of girls, you will find that one who for the moment feels forlorn and uncared-for will repay the affection of him who can overcome her sense of loneliness and convince her that the whole world is not indifferent to her happiness. The labour and heat of the day," I said, "must inevitably fall on you. I cannot hope that your cousin will be amused by the society of a dull old woman like me; and I am unequal to the physical strain of accompanying her to dances and plays. If you will relieve me of this burden, you will be doing us both a kindness; and, though I cannot hope to repay you, I should like you to feel that you may draw on me for any expenses to which you may be put in the course of keeping her amused."

Some people—especially the really good-natured—feel that they owe themselves a grumble before ever consenting to do a kind act. Will is like that; unless you knew him well, you might think that he made difficulties before putting himself out in the slightest degree, but on this occasion he promised without demur. Perhaps he hoped that in playing cavalier to Phyllida he would turn his own thoughts from that unhappy episode at Morecambe; I prefer to think that, having now suffered himself, he was more sensitive to others' suffering... I did not enquire how they spent their time; they were cousins and could go about together without being spied on and whispered about; I made over the car to them, kept Will supplied with little sums to cover their amusements and asked no questions. From start to finish, he behaved splendidly. I am not being unkind if I say that Phyllida was sometimes a little difficile... You have noticed, I expect, that, when people of a certain class become possessed of a motor-car for the first time, their ambition is to see how fast they can drive it. Phyllida, I am afraid—and I was sorry to see it, though I could hardly hope for any other fruit of poor Ruth's upbringing; you may copy the mannerisms of others, but you can only give forth the breeding that is in you... I have lost the thread... Ah, yes! Phyllida, I am afraid, seeing a loyal and attentive cavalier always by her side... She tried my Will very hard; I sometimes felt that she was deliberately experimenting to see how much he would bear.

Among places of amusement it was always her choice that prevailed; Will has a weakness for these revues—"you can at least smoke there," he says—; Phyllida seemed to have developed into a remorseless blue-stocking. By day she wore him out at exhibitions... When he was not cooling his heels in a shop... At night he was expected to stay up till all hours to bring her home from dances. And so forth and so on...

Perhaps she tried us all rather hard. Money seemed to melt in her hands; and, though I did not grudge her my last penny if it was going to turn her thoughts, I am not ashamed to confess that I have reached an age where I set great store by my personal comfort. When you have lived for thirty years under the same vine and fig-tree, you begin to regard your home as a frame and setting which you are not too anxious to share with any one; hitherto my guests, when any have done me the honour to make my house their own, have recognized that the hostess has the first claim on their consideration. Not so Phyllida, who seems to have been brought up in a very different school. She was ruthless in her unpunctuality at meals and in her general disregard of every one else's convenience; plans were chopped and changed up to the last moment, and there were times when I felt that she was deliberately making everything as difficult as possible—almost as though the absurd old feud had not been forgotten and I had put myself at her mercy. More than anything else I felt the loss of the car. They used it so unmercifully that I hourly expected the man to give notice; and in the meantime poor Aunt Ann was left to go by taxi—when she could find one.

I ought never to have lent it? My dear, you are preaching to the converted, but I have a reason different from yours. I was standing helplessly outside Covent Garden one night, when a taxi providentially drove up and I got into it. Only when I was half-way home did I remember that I had not told the man where to take me. Laugh, if you will; but I have never been so frightened! The wildest stories of kidnapping and robbery surged into my head. I was wearing my tiara, and the man had made a bee-line for me... Yet we were driving the shortest way to Mount Street, and the mystery was not explained until the man—with delightful and most unexpected civility—jumped down from the box, opened the door and stood cap in hand, waiting to help me out. Almost as though one had been Royalty...

"You have forgotten me, Lady Ann?," he asked.

And then I'm not sure that the second shock wasn't worse than the first. Colonel Butler! Phyllida's soldier-hero, driving a cab! He had won a Military Cross and a D.S.O.—with a bar, I believe; he had always seemed a manly, straightforward young fellow—and here he was driving a cab! "This—this—" I felt myself apostrophizing Phyllida, Brackenbury, that poor fool Ruth—"this is what I've saved you from." ... And then one had a certain revulsion of feeling: the pity of it! ... And then stark horror! If Phyllida met him! Not then; I knew she was at a dance with Will and would not be back for hours, but at any moment when I was not there to protect her from herself. I recalled her dreadful threat that, if she saw or heard of Hilary Butler, she would fling herself into his arms and beg him to marry her...

"But—of course I remember you," I said.

He smiled—without embarrassment of any kind—and walked up the steps with me.

"Have you a key?," he asked, "or shall I ring?"

He spoke so nicely... If you like, just a touch of what I think must be West Country; but, when things were at their worst and I felt that we had to be prepared for anything, it was a slight consolation to know that he could easily have it drilled out of him... I could have done the same for Ruth twenty-three years ago, but she seemed to pride herself on her provincialism.

Now I wonder what you would have done... When Phyllida was nursing him at the hospital—or just afterwards—, he was always in Mount Street, lunching, dining; before they took to going about by themselves quite so much, we had all been to the play, he had seen us home—just like this—and asked me—just like this—whether I had my key or whether he should ring... There was no one at home; even Arthur was in the country. I felt I couldn't suddenly freeze...

"I have my key, thanks," I said. "Won't you come in for a moment?"

He stopped his engine and came in... Now, I wonder what you would have done, if you'd been in his place? ... He took off coat and gloves (he was wearing quite a presentable blue suit underneath), and I led the way into the morning-room, where I offered him cigarettes and something to drink ... wondering the whole time, don't you know, why one had done it and how long he would stay... With the coat and cap he seemed to divest himself of what I can only call the professional manner; asked me if I wouldn't have a little of my own brandy, commented on some new curtains I'd bought when we did up the house after Hilda Culroyd's illness. Absolutely at home...

"How is Phyllida?," he asked.

"My niece is very well, thank you," I answered, hardly caring—at that moment—to notice the familiarity. "And what have you been doing with yourself since last we met?," I made haste to ask.

"Oh, as you see," he said, "I've turned taxi-man. Owner-driver. One in action, four in support and nine training."

I had to beg for enlightenment. And I am not ashamed to confess that his explanation, when it came, greatly increased my respect for him. The father, one gathered, was an estate-agent and surveyor in Devonshire, highly esteemed, but neither a millionaire himself nor in a position to make his son a millionaire simply by wishing it. The boy had realized everything—war-bonus, wound-gratuity and the rest—and had invested in a car which he learned to drive himself. One always suspected that here was a fortune for any young man who was not too proud to take off his coat, and so it proved: the one car became two, the two four and five—hence his expression "one in action and four in support." Now, I was given to understand, he was launching out more widely and negotiating for the purchase of nine more. A few of his friends—young fellows like himself discharged from the army—were coming into partnership with him; and in six months he hoped to give up driving himself and to turn his business into a limited company, partly taxis and partly those really magnificent private cars that one sees at the opera and everywhere, filled by people who one knows could not afford to buy such things at the present prices...

I complimented him most warmly on his enterprise and determination.

"It was so obvious," he answered. "Stand outside any theatre or restaurant on a wet night, and you'll agree with me. There are thousands of people living in London, hundreds of thousands coming to London for a few nights, who need a car and can't afford to keep one. By the time you've ordered dinner at fifteen shillings a head and champagne at two guineas a bottle and brandy at five shillings a glass and cigars at four shillings a-piece and stalls at twelve and six and anything else that occurs to you at any price that occurs to any one else, you don't grudge an extra guinea for a car that takes you from your house to the restaurant, from the restaurant to the theatre and from the theatre home again. You'd spend the best part of a guinea in fares and tips—without any certainty. For two guineas I give you certainty and a private car. In two years no one who can afford to dine at Claridge's or go to the stalls will dream of going any other way. Whether it pays you can judge from the progress I've made in less than a year."

Like all enthusiasts on their own hobby, he deluged me with figures until my poor head reeled. I did not complain, however, because I felt that so long as he was doing sensible hard work he would be unlikely to return and disturb our peace of mind. Apart from the one formal question he had not mentioned Phyllida; and I was strengthened in the belief which I had always held that it was a momentary infatuation and that he proved he had overcome it when he declined to communicate with her.

I hope I did nothing to suggest that one can have too much even of percentages and running expenses and allowances for depreciation and the like, but he jumped up suddenly and said:

"Well, I mustn't keep you and I mustn't be late for my next job. I hope your brother and Lady Brackenbury are all right? I see Culroyd is married."

"They are all very well," I said, as I walked with him to the door.

"If I may ask a favour, Lady Ann, don't tell any of them what I'm doing," he begged.

Do you know, that was the only jarring note... The first recognition, of course, was a shock. "D.S.O. Taxi-driver," don't you know? In some strange way it grates... Having taken the plunge, our young friend, I felt, was entitled to the highest credit, and anything like false shame would have been discordant.

"They would be the first," I said, "to join me in applauding your resolution and hoping for your success."

"But I want it to be a surprise," he said.

At that, my heart sank.

"But why?," I asked.

"For Phyllida's sake," he answered. "I've not seen her since that week-end at the Hall, I've not written to her; and she can't write to me, because she doesn't know where I am. I presume she's not engaged, because I've seen no announcement of it, but I don't want to do anything that may stand in her light. If my present scheme fails, I shall have to start on something else; if it succeeds—and when it succeeds—, it will be time enough for me to see what's happened to her. I've never forgotten our talk. If I didn't love a girl, I might cheerfully marry her for her money; but, when I do love her, I couldn't bear to have people even hinting such a thing. You told me that she had four thousand of her own; when I can go to her father and say that I'm making more than that—clear profit to my own pocket—, I shan't be afraid to look any one in the face. But I've not asked her to wait for me; and, if in the meantime she meets any one that she wants to marry more, no one will ever hear me complain."

And then he buttoned himself into his coat—even now I couldn't quite get over the disc with the number on it, hanging from a button-hole—, picked up his cap and held out his hand.

I walked to the door,—and then my heart seemed to stop. You may remember that the horn of our car has a note which I at least find unmistakable. I heard it in the distance, I heard it coming nearer. Phyllida and Will! It was only twelve, and I had not expected them for hours. Evidently the dance had not been to their liking. I prayed that I might prove equal to the crisis...

"Colonel Butler!," I cried. (One never troubled to think whether he should rightly be given his military rank). "Shut that door! Run upstairs to the drawing-room! Hide there till I fetch you, but on no account turn on the light! My niece is coming now; if you want to avoid her..."

He acted with great decision and literally dashed upstairs. I heard the door gently closing as Will fitted his key into the lock... My dear, I am too old for excitements of this kind; my heart was beating; I had no idea what to say if they asked me why a taxi was standing there unattended. Oh, and I felt sure Phyllida would say she had left her work or her book in the drawing-room...

It was agony! I could not persuade them to go to bed. First of all they wanted to know why I was still up, then they must needs tell me about their party, then Phyllida wanted a cigarette, then Will wanted to give her some soda-water. One false start after another... When at last I thought I had set them moving, Phyllida sat down again and said:

"Will dear, see if there are any letters for me, there's an angel."

Do you know, I was so much obsessed by the thought of that man in the drawing-room that I was blind to everything else. As my boy went into the hall, I felt that I had seen a change without noticing it, if you understand me. Will was transformed, elated ... and there was a new gentleness about Phyllida. When he brought the letters to her, I could see that he pressed her hand; and she sighed wistfully and then smiled. Now I could understand why they complained that the dance was so crowded, no room to sit, impossible even to talk...

"Read those upstairs, dear Phyllida," I begged.

And I took her arm and led her up, past that terrifying drawing-room, into safety. Will ... When I returned, he wanted to talk; but I implored him to go up and let me come to him in a moment. He was curious, mystified ... but at least he could not doubt my earnestness. Then at last I released my prisoner and hurried him through the hall and into the street. When I had shut the door I leaned against it, panting. I couldn't walk, I could hardly stand...

"And now, Will?," I said, when I was able to drag myself upstairs.

"There's nothing much to tell—as yet," he answered. "You've probably seen that she's been getting steadily more miserable the last few days. I asked her to-night what it was all about, though I knew that she was eating her heart out for this Butler fellow. She would only say that she was unhappy and lonely; and I told her that was all rot, because any number of men would be in love with her if she gave them half a chance. Then she said it was no good, because she couldn't give them any love in return, her heart was dead... The usual rot a girl talks. I told her that, so far as I was concerned, I'd gladly risk all that; and she said she didn't care who she married or what became of her and she wished she'd never been born... That," said Will, "was nearer by a long chalk than I've ever been before; and you may take it as absolutely certain that, if she doesn't hear anything of Butler pretty soon... She dried up and began to talk of something else when I tried to pin her to a day, but she was quite decent to me as we drove home."

I could say nothing until I had been given time to digest his news. Whoever Will marries must have some money; he has earned nothing since he resigned his post at Morecambe... Perhaps dear Phyllida thinks a little too much about herself to be the perfect wife for Will, but it is not cynical to say that, if you look for perfection in woman or man, you will never marry. One has to consider the balance of advantage... I did most earnestly want to see Will established in life and settled down before those dreadful blackmailing Phentons could make another descent on us. And it would do Phyllida so much good to marry...

After all my excitements and alarms, I could not sleep for sheer thankfulness. And, when my tea was brought me and Phyllida of all people came in with it, I felt that now at last my Will must have dropped the handkerchief and she was coming to tell me that she had picked it up.

"My dear, what makes you so energetic?," I asked.

As a rule she insisted on lying in bed until all hours and having her breakfast brought to her there, making work for my unhappy servants.

"I want to know if you can tell me Hilary Butler's address?," she said.

"I've never heard it," I told her. "How should I?"

"Apparently he came here yesterday. When I went down to get my bag, I found his gloves in the hall. But they only have his initials."

I did wish that Phyllida had been less collected and businesslike! Hard, not daring to let herself go... I ought to have looked, I suppose, to see that he was leaving nothing behind, but one cannot think of everything. And now I knew that Phyllida would start all over again...

Yet one must expect an occasional relapse...

"I've never heard it," I told her again.

She did not trouble to ask anything more... Just looked at me for a moment. I made up my mind that her visit must be cut short; if I had met Colonel Butler, she might. And I have no doubt of any kind that she would do what she threatens and ask him to marry her. And he wouldn't refuse. Moreover, I am not made of money, as she and Will seemed to think...

Brackenbury was a fool not to send her right away, as I recommended. Nothing is decided; I sometimes wonder whether anything ever will be decided. We are precisely where we stood before...

I had time to warn Will, I am thankful to say. A girl who shilly-shallies like that... I shall make the best of it, if I have to; but I am not sure she is the sort of wife for my boy...

VIII LADY ANN SPENWORTH REFERS TO HER DIARY

Lady Ann (to a friend of proved discretion): It is only a question of habit. When I first went to Italy, at the age of sixteen, my dear mother insisted that I should keep a diary, and I have kept one ever since. Goodness me, I am more likely to overlook my letters or the morning paper than forget to write up my journal. Sometimes it is only a few lines, for the spacious days are over, I am a dull old woman, and the most I ask of life is that I may be allowed to live. Very often I let months go by without turning back to see what I have written; but the record is there if I ever want to consult it. Usually at the end of the year one likes to take stock...

Not that it is very cheerful reading, alas! But at our age we must expect that. Another year gone, when perhaps we cannot hope to see so very many more; another hope dashed and yet another deferred, making the heart sick; gaps in the circle of those one loves; increasing frailty or ill-health; and that indefinable, inexplicable narrowing of outlook, interest, enthusiasm—and with us, I am afraid, of worldly circumstance. Inevitable... For oneself, perhaps, one does not mind it, but it is sometimes heart-rending to see the boys and girls setting out with those high hopes that we have been compelled, one by one, to discard; heart-rending, too, when those who seemed to walk with their heads on a level with the stars trip and sprawl like the rest...

No, I assure you I was not thinking of any one in particular. The feeling returns with the season and is quite general. One could find particular applications, no doubt, very near at hand. Begin where you will: my brother-in-law Spenworth... I wonder what we shall be thinking of him in a year's time; divorced, remarried—and nobody one penny the worse! I am not ashamed to confess that, when the word "divorce" is mentioned, I am translated to another sphere... Groping blindly among things I don't understand and don't want to understand... Say what you will, we were not so lax a generation ago; those who fell remained where they fell ... or climbed back with effort, difficulty and an acknowledgement of wrong-doing. Not as of right... The new Lady Spenworth I hardly know; she who marries a man that has been put away... I have not refused to meet her, but the opportunity has not come my way. Whether she will be able to hold him... Perhaps if she presents him with an heir ... though I have had to change my views on that subject, as you know. Oh, I can speak about it now; and I shall never forget, when things were at their blackest, it was you who came to me with your divine sympathy. I could tell you the whole story if you truly honestly would not be bored; your discretion has been proved... I have lost the thread...

Ah, yes!—the family... My nephew Culroyd—and Hilda? I am humbly thankful to say that there has been no catastrophe so far, though when the first, honeymoon intoxication wears off... Long may it be delayed, for they are the one bright spot in my poor brother Brackenbury's life. That pathetic child Phyllida is still breaking her heart over the cabman-colonel whom I, if you please, am supposed to have set against her in order to keep her for my boy. Thank goodness, she does not know he is driving a cab! Breaking her heart or pretending to. And I really think my brother encourages her. He wouldn't send her right away as I advised; and now he pats her hand and looks worried when she comes down boasting that she hasn't slept. And Ruth does the same... I don't want to bring bad luck by talking about it; but I sometimes wonder how much longer Brackenbury will put up with that—invertebrate woman; I sometimes fear that the record of the year will shew that there, too, the blow has fallen. We have seen to our cost that the most devoted husband and father may sometimes go apparently quite mad... I feel that Phyllida, with her youth and her looks and her money, is being so shamefully wasted...

But, until she shakes off her obsession, I should pity any man who tried to marry her. At one time my boy Will seemed attracted to her out of compassion for her loneliness and misery. Those were anxious days, I can assure you, though I should have been glad to see Will safely married to almost any one. He is undoubtedly of an age; and what I called "the Morecambe menace"... We have heard nothing of the Phentons (you know, I always called her Miss Molly "Wanton") since the father conducted his blackmailing descent upon us, protesting that Will had made this girl an offer of marriage, talking about horse-whips. I hope and pray that it is all over, but one can never be certain. For the last fortnight I have succeeded in not thinking about them; I suppose I should be grateful to Arthur for turning my thoughts...

You are quite right! I have tried to avoid speaking bitterly to him, I must not speak bitterly about him. But, when the news came to me, I said: "Now indeed the bottom has fallen out of the world." It was towards the end of the year, and I had been turning the pages of my journal. Catastrophe, disappointment, anxiety... But, whatever storms may blow, I said, I can always trust my husband. Arthur was my rock and anchor. He and I seemed to stand erect, with our heads level with the stars, while these others, one after another, tripped and sprawled. And then Arthur too...

I tell you now, as I told you then: I had heard and suspected nothing until you put me on my guard. I truly believe that the person most affected is commonly the last to hear... And Arthur's way of life made it almost impossible for me even to guess: for years he has spent as much time away from me as with me—his board-meetings in London and Birmingham, his shooting ... and, with Will at home, there was so much unhappy friction that I was not sorry when one or other went off and left me in peace for a few days. I did not enquire; so was it surprising that, if the board-meetings and so on were simply a blind, I should be the last person to hear? So with money. My father-in-law's will was so iniquitous... Cheniston and the house in Grosvenor Square went naturally to Spenworth; but every penny, with the exception of a wretched thousand a year for Arthur,—that was sheer wickedness. My dear father would have done more for me if he could; but he had impoverished himself when he was ambassador at Vienna, and, until Brackenbury sold himself to Ruth, we were all very, very poor. The result has been that throughout my married life we have been forced to pinch and scrape. You may say that the house in Mount Street was an extravagance, but one had to live somewhere. It was for one's friends rather than oneself; I could not ask the princess to dine with me in Bayswater... Pinch and scrape, scrape and pinch. Arthur made a fair income by his director's fees, but I had dreadful moments when I thought of the future. Spenworth will do no more than he has already done—that we know—; when I lay at death's door and begged him with what might have been my last breath to make a settlement on Will—his own nephew... And at Brackenbury it is canny, north-country little Ruth who holds the purse-strings ... and dispenses her charity, offering to pay for my operation and reminding me that, when Will was at Eton, the bills came to them... I have felt for more years than I like to count that pinching and scraping are my appointed lot...

Of recent months the task became almost too much for my powers. Not only the cost of living... Will had lost this Morecambe appointment without finding another. Arthur complained that figure-head directors were not in so great request as formerly; he was shame-faced about it, as though his pride were hurt; I did not then imagine that he had to give me less money because he was giving more in another quarter...

And you will remember that, when you told me, I refused to believe it. Goodness me, I am not so vain as to think that the man who once loved me must always love me, but there is such a thing as loyalty—and gratitude. I had trusted him ... and that was enough; I did not need to tell him—or you—or even myself that he had enjoyed the best years of my life, that I was an old woman while he was still—thanks to me—a young man, that I had borne him a son and worn myself out before my time in scheming and contriving for the comfort and well-being of them both...

It was brave of you to tell me, to insist on my knowing... and believing. I was dazed. That Arthur should be giving her dresses and jewellery, when he could not afford to redecorate his wife's house... And apparently it was the common talk of the clubs; and no doubt kind friends were secretly pitying me... The last infatuation of the middle-aged man—they were telling one another that I was six years Arthur's senior—and what could you expect? As if I had made any secret of my age! It is in the books. And they were, perhaps, wondering how soon he would outgrow it and how much I knew and whether I minded... There was the rub—this savage, impertinent curiosity. What business of theirs if my husband humiliated me? And, strangely enough, one has so often seen it with other women and somehow always fancied that it would never happen to oneself. The swan-song... As a man feels that his youth is slipping out of his grasp, he makes this one last despairing effort. And love at that age is like a blow from a sledge-hammer; Arthur was prepared to run away with the woman. Indeed I know what I am talking about. Then, I felt, it was time for me to intervene...

You had been clever enough to find out the address—the house, by the way, Arthur did not give her. She told me so, but without that I knew enough of his finances to realize that it was physically impossible—; and all the way there I tried to understand this strange streak which apparently runs through all men. The old phrase: "Sowing one's wild oats." ... When I married Arthur, he had never had an affaire of any kind with any one; and so for thirty years. Am I very cynical in thinking that perhaps it would have been better if he had? ... Spenworth, on the other hand, had been tossed from one woman's arms to another's ever since he was a lad at Eton. You entered his house and never knew whom you would find at the head of his table—except that it would not be the one you had seen there a month before; the only difference that marriage made to him was that, while Kathleen sat at the head of his table, he dined elsewhere. Now that he has married again in middle life, one has no sort of guarantee. It seems impossible to frame any rules for a man of that age...

I had not spoken to Arthur beforehand, of course. He would have spoiled everything. What I wanted was a cold, passionless talk with this Mrs. Templedown. Two women, even in our position, could understand each other: neither of us wanted a scandal, I was prepared to admit even that she might be genuinely fond of Arthur and would try—according to her lights—to do the best for him. I need hardly say that I did not dream of intimidating—Arthur was her property—nor of bribing—goodness me, what had I to offer? Nor did I feel constrained to beg for mercy or to ask what manner of life she proposed to leave for me. I hardly think that pride held me in check, but—somehow—to go on one's knees to a young woman who started life on the stage was hardly... Well, as my boy would say, "It is not done." I knew she was clever, I hoped to find her sensible; and then the only thing was to decide what to do...

Of course I did not send up my name...

"Say that a lady wishes to see her," I told the maid.

And I was shewn upstairs readily enough. Not into the drawing-room; I think that class of person lives entirely in her bedroom. She was lying on the sofa in a kimono and—so far as I could judge from the generous opportunities which she insisted on giving me—nothing else; a lovely animal, as she was at pains that I should see, with perfect skin, a great mane of copper hair and golden-brown eyes. Very red lips, very white teeth; I was reminded of a soft, beautiful lion-cub. She moved and stretched herself like an animal, speaking as though she were only half-awake. I don't think she could have been more than twenty. She left the stage to marry a man in the Air Force, I understand, and he was killed at the end of the war, leaving her very ill-provided-for... "Seductive" was the word I was trying to think of...

"It's easy to see why men should fall down and worship you," I said.

"Who's in love with me now?," she asked with the laugh of a child, exulting in her beauty, as it were, until in a flash I saw that her whole life was natural to her... Inevitable, I might say.

"Arthur Spenworth," I told her.

"Oh, he's a dear old thing," she answered.

"He is my husband," I said.

I might have added "and the father of our boy," but I would make no appeal; I had come there to decide dispassionately what had to be done... The woman jumped up and faced me, but I stood my ground. Her eyes kept changing in expression, and I saw that she was first bewildered ... and then defiant ... then curious ... then a little ashamed, then defiant again and once more bewildered.

"Well?," she said; and then in spite of herself, as it were, "You're not a bit like what I expected."

"Older perhaps?," I asked. "My dear young lady, my husband and I are much of an age, but he carries his years better. Why, goodness me, you are a child! Our boy must be ten years older than you... Won't you ask me to sit down? Walking upstairs makes me out of breath, and I want to have a little talk with you. I have only just heard of this; and I want to know what is to be done. You will find me a reasonable woman, I hope, and perhaps I know too much of the world to judge hastily or reproach easily. Won't you tell me everything, so that we may understand better how we are situated?"

Do you know, because I remained dispassionate, I felt in a moment that I was holding my own and in another moment that I was gaining ground. I who had walked upstairs wondering whether my knees would give way under me... It was Mrs. Templedown who was embarrassed... And I had not sought to make myself a ruler or a judge...

I will not weary you with the story. Arthur had met her—in the train from Birmingham! Is there not dignity and distinction in that? He had asked her to dine with him on reaching London, they had met three or four times, Arthur had begun giving her little presents. How much one can ever believe of such a woman's story I do not profess to judge. She vowed that their relations were innocent, that her husband's death had left her heart-broken and that she was simply and sincerely grateful to any man who shewed her a little kindness; in that class I gather it is only natural for every girl to have some benevolent elderly protector who takes her out to dinner and gives her little presents. If it had not been Arthur, I was to understand, it would have been some one else. I confess that her ingenuousness rang a little hollow when she betrayed how intimately and accurately she knew who he was—the connection with Spenworth on one side and with Brackenbury on the other; like the rest of them, she hunted with one quarry—or one type of quarry—definitely in view...

After the little presents came the big presents—dresses, jewellery and sums of money which she did not specify. One thought of the rags that one had worn oneself during the war... No shame in telling me about that! She had nothing of her own except this house which the husband had left her, and Arthur would have been hurt if she had refused... So charming! So delicate—on both sides... By and by Arthur seems to have become more exacting, but the girl vowed again that she kept him at arm's length—knowing her own value, one presumes. I did not enquire very closely into this aspect of the campaign, as I knew only too well what was coming. When everything else failed, he would have to offer her marriage—by way of the Divorce Court.

"And that is how things stand now?," I asked, as she came to the end of her story.

"That's what he wants," she answered. "Oh, but I can't discuss it with you, Lady Ann."

"My dear young lady," I said, "that is just what we have to do—quite dispassionately, to decide what's best. He is my husband, I love him in spite of everything; you love him too, I judge, and we have to put our heads together. You will go away with him, I take it?"

It was then that she began to cry. I knew it would come sooner or later. Convulsively... I have told you that she was nothing more nor less than a child...

"Yes," she sobbed.

"To France? Next Thursday?"

It was no second-sight on my part, I can assure you. Arthur had arranged to visit Paris and Lyons—on business, I was told—, and the guess was natural, though Mrs. Templedown seemed to think I was some sort of witch.

"Yes," she answered again. And then—really, you know, for all the world as though we were at a play: "Oh, don't torture me!"

Torture her...?

"And then," I said, "my husband will write to tell me he loves you and has been unfaithful to me and is never coming back and I had better divorce him and he is sorry for the unhappiness he is causing me..."

Those terrible letters that the papers always publish. I never read them myself. In the school in which I was brought up, divorce lay beyond the pale: "Whom God hath joined..."

"And then you will divorce him, won't you?" she asked.

Really, you know, it was almost comic! She was afraid, after plunging herself in dishonour, that I might refuse to divorce Arthur so that she could never marry him.

"If he asks me," I promised. "I am thinking solely of his happiness. He could not live with you unless you were married—I am not now thinking of Right or Wrong; it would cause too great a scandal, and he would have to resign his various public positions. I only hope that the divorce will not compel him to do that, for you will both be entirely dependent on the fees that he earns. We find it hard enough to live on his income as it is, by ceaseless scraping and pinching, denying ourselves little luxuries... I hope you are a good house-keeper? ...

Do you know, as soon as I said it, I realized what an absurd question it was. One look at her, one glance at the room, the least spark of imagination, any guess at what she was and what her life had been! An economical housekeeper indeed! I wish I could describe her room to you: great bowls and vases of the most expensive flowers, boxes of sweets, cigarettes; all the magazines and illustrated papers that one really does think twice about before buying... Clothes, too... I am sure that even my niece Phyllida or Culroyd's wife, who seem to have money to burn, would not have quite such a profusion. Lingerie, gloves, handkerchiefs, the finest silk stockings—and everything thrown about on floor and chairs like so much waste-paper. And I in rags that truly honestly I am ashamed for my maid to see... Her dressing-table alone supported a small fortune—bottles and boxes and looking-glasses and brushes that really made me feel a pauper. The door of her bathroom was open—in that class it is a point of honour never to shut anything or put anything away—, and I saw the most extravagant array of salts and soaps and powders and scents ... like the tiring-room of some great eastern queen. Things I simply couldn't afford; we discontinued bath-salts when the war broke out and one had an excuse for economizing, and we have never resumed them.

"I don't know what your plans are, Mrs. Templedown," I said. "If you return to the stage, everything may be different, but I know my husband's income to a penny. The court will no doubt insist that he makes what provision he can for my son and myself; I should be greatly surprised if he could allow you more than about a thousand a year."

"Well, I suppose it's possible to manage on that," she said.

It was pathetic! Money had no meaning for her! And, so long as other people paid the bills, what else could you expect? It must have required twice that sum to keep that beautiful body of hers in its present embarrassing state of semi-nudity.

"A thousand pounds—at present prices,": I said very distinctly, "for two people—to cover everything—, it's not much, you will find. And, if you have been used to luxury, you will miss it more than a person who has always had to live on a small income. That is your affair, of course, and you mustn't think me brutal if I tell you candidly that I'm considering my husband as much as I can and you not at all. You are young enough to take care of yourself, but he needs a great deal of looking after..."

I paused to let my words sink in. Of course she didn't believe me! Because Arthur had squandered a few hundreds on her, she thought he could produce thousands merely by pressing a bell; and, when she had sucked him dry, she expected Spenworth and Brackenbury to come forward. I had to tell her how things really were... We should all be poorer than we are by a divorce... Though she clearly did not believe me, she was impressed; she was thinking. In that class one doesn't think very much, apparently. I gathered that she could not go back to the stage; she had no position there and could only hope for work in the chorus...

"Old Boy says it will be all right," she said, and I could see that she was exhausted by the rare exertion of thinking. Until you have heard your husband described as "Old Boy" by a half-naked chorus-girl who is slowly bleeding him to death, you have not realized how highly your self-restraint may be tested...

"I don't suggest more than that it will be an effort," I said. "My dear young lady, I speak with some knowledge. You were married for a few months to a husband whom you hardly saw and who spent what money he had like water. I have kept house for more than thirty years on an income which you would not think large, but which is bigger than anything you can hope for. I know something of men and their ways and their extravagances and humours. It will be a great change, and I only hope that you will prove equal to it." I pointed—not unkindly—at the litter in her room. "I trust for your sake as well as his that you will learn habits of tidiness."

"Is Old Boy a fusser?," she asked.

I wish to be judged by results. If you tell me that the end has justified the means, I give you complete freedom to say that I spoke of Arthur as one might speak of a cook when one's name had been furnished as a reference. I gave him a character—for his next employer. No, indeed, he was not what the young woman could fairly call a "fusser", but all men of his age had contracted certain habits. He abominated untidiness and unpunctuality—the necessary fruit of his business-training; though generous, he had long been compelled to be careful about money. I offered to shew her my books, but she said she didn't think she could understand them. And so on and so forth. He was very particular about his food, and in this respect Mrs. Templedown would have to be a veritable martinet—not only to the servants but to him.

"My dear young lady," I said, "you know what men of that age are like—or perhaps you still don't. My husband is essentially temperate, but he is also criminally injudicious. He thinks that an occasional glass of champagne—he cannot afford to drink it regularly—is good for him; I know better. Acidity... Whisky and soda—two, if he likes—, one glass of port and nothing else. The moment he takes liberties with himself, his digestion suffers, he cannot sleep—and you pay the penalty. Similarly with what he eats; he must never be given butcher's meat more than once a day, shell-fish of every kind are poison to him, and, though he will never admit it, any rich sweets tell their tale next day. I could give you a list, but you will find out for yourself... Smoking again ... one cigar does him no harm, after two he can hardly breathe; all the Spenworths are liable to bronchitis. And exercise. My husband was quite an athlete as a young man; he says he doesn't need exercise, but I know better. If I may speak quite openly, he suffers from what men call 'liver.' ... I should dearly like to give you a little list of things, if you won't think me impertinent; one does not live with a man for more than thirty years without coming to regard him as one's child..."

And, whether she liked it or not, then and there, I took pencil and paper and just jotted things down. He would never put on his winter underclothes unless some one reminded him; result—a week in bed with a severe chill...

"You make him out to be a complete crock," said Mrs. Templedown. Poor soul! one hardly looked for any great elegance from her...

"Not that, by any means," I told her, "but, at his age, a man has to be careful."

We were still at work on the list when her maid came in and whispered that she had to dress and be out to dinner in half an hour. She was, I understand, going to a dance.

"Not with Arthur!" I said.

Oh no! She was going with some friend of her husband. I told her that, if Arthur was ever persuaded or even allowed to stay up after midnight, one paid for it next day... She asked if I would not wait with her while she dressed, but I was glad to escape while the maid was still in the room. The parting, had we been by ourselves, must inevitably have been difficult. As it was, we just shook hands...

I honestly cannot tell you whether I expected to hear anything more. I did not know what to think and was trying to keep my mind a blank... She came next day, when Arthur was out; it was pleasant to feel that she knew more of his movements than I did! We—my maid and I—were upstairs, looking through Arthur's clothes before packing them to go abroad with him. I sent the maid out of the room and asked if Mrs. Templedown would mind coming up to me. And, when she came, I added practice to theory. Until you do it, you're hardly conscious of it; but you cannot be a man's wife for thirty-two years without finding out thirty-two thousand little peculiarities about him. I had spoken about the winter underclothing already... I gave her the prescription for his tonic and told her where to have it made up and when he must be forced to take it—the symptoms, danger-signals... My dear, I talk frankly to you and I sometimes fear that you must think me terribly sordid, but truly honestly, if one neglects small things, one neglects everything. You may fancy that there is little difference between two shillings and half-a-crown on a bottle of medicine, but, when you take the medicine for half the year and multiply the difference by twenty-six,—thirteen shillings! Multiply that one item of medicine by half a hundred things... I am not very enthusiastically supported; at dinner it is always "Why don't we ever have this or that?," when this or that is out of season and prohibitive; even Will rounded on me once and said that his poor old mother had reduced meanness to a fine art. I had to bite my lip! From Will... I told poor little Mrs. Templedown everything; and, if you say that I failed in loyalty to Arthur, I can only answer that the end must justify the means and that I am content to be judged by results.

"And now," I said, "I can only wish you good luck. I am nothing to you, but, if you ever feel kindly disposed to a dull old woman, do your best for Arthur, keep him happy—for my sake. You are making a great experiment and taking a great risk; you, and you alone, can crown it with success. When you both ask me to divorce my husband, I shall take the necessary steps; but I shall do nothing hastily. Perhaps, when you have been with him for a time, you will find that the difficulties are greater than you anticipated—or, let me say, that success is harder of achievement than you hoped. I ask only one thing: do not force yourselves into an extremity from any false pride. Be candid with me, as I have been candid with you. Should you find only failure and the prospect of failure, recognize it boldly. Write to me. Say 'It has not turned out as we expected. Your husband is coming back to you.' I shall receive him without reproaches, I shall know nothing. He will find his favourite dinner, his chair and cigar, his book and 'night-cap', as he calls it... I shall be truly glad to see him back, but I look at you, with all your youth and beauty; I know that I must not keep him if you are his hope of happiness. Kiss me, dear child," I said, "and do better for him than I have been able to do."

A singular meeting! She stayed with me for nearly two hours longer. I won't say "not speaking a word", but I can say "not finishing a sentence." Bewildered... Then she went away, and I rang for my maid. I never heard from her again. On Thursday—the Thursday—Arthur found his suit-case and kit-bag packed and labelled in the hall. "I don't want all this," he said, "for one night." ... And he was back again in three days. I happen to know that he went alone and returned alone—and was alone in Paris...

I was talking about the diary, was I not? It is not cheerful reading, and much of it is dull. This entry in question: "Arthur returned from France tired and depressed, but very glad to be home again..." It does not mean much...

To any one else...

I am not crying! I am simply worn-out...! Oh, my dear, I am too old for this kind of thing, apart from the long agony of humiliation. Arthur must send me right away for a complete change. He can afford it now...

IX LADY ANN SPENWORTH NARRATES AN EMBARRASSMENT AVERTED

Lady Ann (to a friend of proved discretion): When do I start, indeed? My dear, you are not very complimentary! We have been back nearly a week. That shews how you have deserted me! ... No, I never intended to be away for more than about a fortnight. You see, so long as this wild beast is at large, prowling about Morecambe and preparing to spring at any moment, I dare not leave Will unprotected. I really don't think I can add anything to what I've already told you; my boy himself is so very uncommunicative, and Arthur becomes alternately violent and morose when I beg in the humblest way for the least enlightenment. My reading of the position is that this "Molly Wanton" set her cap at Will and, when he refused to have anything to do with her, rounded on him until he threw up a first-rate appointment rather than stay another hour in Morecambe; then she stuffed her foolish father with lies until the man comes to this house like a demented creature and vows that my boy promised to marry his Molly.

Indeed I know what I am talking about. In this very room, though Arthur would not allow me to be present: it was not "a woman's province." Clergyman or no, the mad old father would have had short shrift from me. "Proof, my good man," I would have said, "proof." ... That is how the matter stands at present, and you can realize that, while we are braced to receive the next onslaught, there can be no question of long, careless holidays.

But I was glad I went even for a short time. Even to Menton, which truly honestly is only a suburb of Monte Carlo (I had a reason), even with the railways in their present abominable condition—the French seem to be making no effort to pull themselves together after the war except by means of wholesale robbery. They have clearly decided that, as we came to their rescue and paid for their war, it is now our bounden duty to pay for them in peace as well... I always believe in going right away after a domestic crisis of that kind; and I was really beginning to fear a break-down if I stayed any longer in London. There is a curious convention that there is something funny about a man of Arthur's age and position falling under the spell of a little chorus-girl; it is less funny when you have to fight for your life to preserve your husband and the father of your child. Some form of madness that overtakes men... I have not told you, I never shall tell you what Arthur was like when he found that this girl had thrown him over at the last moment. Dazed... His behaviour to me seemed of no account; the fact that I knew everything from the girl's own lips and had helped to pack the clothes in which he was to run away with her... He was like a man in a trance...

I uttered no word of reproach. It was unnecessary. At first he behaved as if the light had gone out of his life—which was pleasant for me; then he seemed to realize that perhaps some amends were owing to me... Assented immediately to my proposal that we should go right away...

I chose Menton because Sir Appleton Deepe was there. He, I fancy, would be the first to tell you that I really made him. Unheard-of before the war, except in business... I wanted his advice about Will: where he could lay out his talents to greatest advantage, as it were; and, though nothing has been decided definitely, I have a promise, and he is most anxious to meet Will... So one's time was not wasted...

And there, in the peace and wonderful sunshine, one had an opportunity of recovering one's perspective. I had tided Arthur through his great crisis; and there was nothing, I felt, to fear in the future. But we could not let it rest at that. There had been an intolerable amount of malicious gossip—how wide-spread I could not believe until the proof was thrust before me—; men jesting in their clubs, women gloating... And you may be sure that the Brackenbury and Spenworth broods were only too delighted to think that yet another had been dragged down to their level; if one was not to be a by-word and an object of scorn... Goodness me, I wasn't thinking of my own poor dignity, but these stories had to be stopped somehow. In the school in which I was brought up one was supposed to set something of an example; for what it may be worth, one does occupy a certain niche; it was more than time for us to shew that there had been no catastrophe, as our kind friends would have liked to think.

"Arthur," I said, "you will never hear me allude to this again. We have passed through a time of trouble, but God has mercifully brought us into safety. For some months we have been spied on and whispered about; it is our duty to shew a happy and united front!"

Arthur said at once that he would do whatever I wanted...

You do not often hear me talking of "position" or "dignity" or "rights", but I did indeed feel that any poor little niche we might occupy was threatened. Spenworth's own record is so infamous that people would feel it was only natural for his brother to tread the same path. I am not ashamed to confess that I do feel what people say about me. Some people... And it was these people, the people who mattered, that I wanted to convince; if there was indeed no rift between Arthur and me, why should we allow the gossips to pretend there was? ...

I decided to signalize our return to England by a little party—just a few friends to dinner, a little music, a few more friends coming in if they had nothing better to do. I have never found it necessary to inform the world—as your Mrs. Tom Noddys do—that they have left Gloucester Place for Eastbourne or Eastbourne for Gloucester Place. Goodness me, "Who wonders—and who cares?," as they say. But I was not sorry to find that our little party was being discussed; and, of course, when once the princess's name was mentioned, the papers came at me with open arms... I left no stone unturned to make a success of the little gathering. We have always been quite pitiably restricted in our entertaining, but this was not the moment to grudge a few extra pounds well laid-out... And it does not require a mathematician to prove that Arthur could have given me more money if he had given less in other directions. Of course, I did not hint such a thing; my dear, peace, forgiveness, forgetfulness was what I wanted... And it was not necessary; Arthur assented to everything.

First of all I made certain of the princess. What she can see in a dull old woman like me you must ask her; but she has been a true and loving friend for perhaps more years than either of us now cares to recall; and, if humble affection and gratitude matter to her, she knows that they are hers whenever she does me the honour of visiting my house... She likes coming, I know; in me, she has been gracious enough to say, she finds an attitude of mind, a point of view which is disappearing only too fast; in a sense—I am sure she would be the first to excuse my presumption—we were brought up in the same school.

There was no difficulty about securing my brother. It is a pose with Brackenbury to pretend that he hates what he calls "orders-and-decorations" parties, but my sister-in-law is not so jaded. Perhaps in the world in which she was reared... I certainly notice marked civility and almost affection if Ruth hears that I am giving a party and that the princess has graciously consented to be present. My niece Phyllida is less punctilious in her courtesy; there is rather too much of the "Oh-I-don't-care-what-I-do" attitude about her, and, since she found that her cabman hero was still alive and somewhere in London... A curious recklessness and restlessness... I invited her because I cannot bear to see a girl—young, well-connected, rich, good-looking—simply moping... They say it takes two to make a quarrel, and I have refused to quarrel with Phyllida, so that at last I think she has ceased to believe that I turned the cabman hero against her in the hope of keeping her for my boy. I—have—not—lifted—a—finger! She evidently enjoys being with Will; and, if he wanted to marry her, I should not stand in the way. Ever since that Morecambe nightmare began, I have felt that I shall never know a moment's peace until he is safely married...

I don't want him to go abroad... When any one in his position seeks his fortune in a foreign country, there is always a tendency among some people to ask what he has done, to treat him as a remittance-man ... which is offensive without being particularly amusing... I have lost the thread...

Ah, yes! My little party. One thing I noticed on returning to England was the extraordinary mixture of people that one met everywhere. For this, though I am personally fond of her, I blame Connie Maitland more than any dozen other women. Not being a persona grata in certain circles to which she would dearly like to have the entrée, she seems to cultivate numbers for their own sake. When the princess... More by a hint, you understand, than by any direct criticism... But she cannot help seeing that the old barriers have been broken down... It is always on the tip of my tongue to make my Lady Maitland wholly responsible. During the war one was flung against these people, as it were: the strangest generals who seemed to have been stock-brokers the moment before... All that sort of thing... "Captains of Industry" (I believe they are called) with the queerest accents and all holding high office. There was an epidemic of cabinet rank; and, if one had business in Whitehall, one met the oddest people—never the same two days running. Connie Maitland thoroughly enjoyed herself, I always felt; so many new people to know before any one else. (I am not ashamed to confess that it is not my ambition simply to know new people.) When I returned from Menton, I did drop a little hint and suggest that, as the war was now over, she ought to revise some of her war friendships. Quite kindly and gradually, you understand; I know that with some of the really estimable women who sat on committees with me... "Is it true kindness?," I asked myself. "They lead their lives, you lead yours; the war brought you together, but you've nothing else in common..." After that breath of fresh air at Menton, I was honestly truly aghast to find what London had become without one's noticing it. I sought an opportunity of speaking to the princess about it: I felt some one ought to make a little stand. I don't count, because I'm not in a position to entertain; but I did resolve to confine my little party simply to the old friends...

I invited Spenworth... You look surprised; but, if you will think for a moment... Arthur's brother. It was notorious that I had for years disapproved of his whole way of life, but the family had to shew a united front. His very recent divorce, which—between ourselves—I think was forgiven far too quickly; goodness me, I hope I am not a bigot and I would assuredly persecute no one, but "whom God hath joined together" ... I invited him chiefly on his wife's account; her position is not so secure that she can altogether dispense with a supporting hand, and I was tired of confessing to people that I had not even met her... Never can I forget, either, Spenworth's triumph when for a moment Arthur seemed to be treading his path... My Nemesis for trying to hold my head erect and daring to reprove him. No, I did not hear what he said, but I am certain that he said it...

For several days—to my amazement, for I knew they were at Cheniston—there was no reply. Then I met Spenworth in the street.

"Oh, I say!," he began. (You know that hunting-field voice of his?) "You aren't playing the game with poor old Arthur, you know."

"I'm afraid I must beg for enlightenment," I said.

"Oh, well, you know, this is the first time the poor old boy has ever left the rails." (I am always lost in admiration of Spenworth's elegance!) "Dust his jacket for him at home as much as you like, but don't make him eat humble-pie in public, don't make an exhibition of him."

"I don't know what you mean," I said.

"Oh, bunkum! Every one knows he tried to slip his collar, every one thought he'd got away; and, now that you've recaptured him, you want to shew him off in his muzzle. 'Tain't cricket, Ann, if you ask me; you've won, and there's no need to crow over the old boy. 'Tain't as if he'd given you any trouble before."

"I must give it up," I said in despair. "Spenworth, will you tell me—in language comprehensible to my poor wits—whether you and your wife are coming to dine on the eighteenth?"

"Thank you very much, Ann," he answered, "we are not. 'Matter o' fact, I'm taking the chair at a regimental dinner, but if I wasn't... I think it's an infernal shame and I hope it's a rotten party."

And then he turned on his heel...

I can never see his charm, myself. People excuse his rudeness, his immorality, his utterly wasted, self-indulgent life... They say he's "such a good fellow", whatever that may mean... But I find it very hard to speak coolly about Spenworth...

Without wanting to be inhospitable, I was secretly relieved that he could not come. The dear princess is the soul of tolerance, but I was not at all sure how she would receive his name; I was not at all sure that he would even behave himself properly. Did I ever tell you how he set himself to drive the Archbishop out of the house by sheer—but I prefer not to discuss it. "Indecency" is really the only word; under the guise of an ethical discussion... As we literally cannot sit down more than twenty-four in Mount Street, two spare places are a consideration. I was fortunate enough to secure the Duke and Duchess of Yarrow; one had not seen much of them for some years, and the duchess is so deaf that I sometimes wonder whether she is really quite right in her head, but the duke is a director of the Far East Trading Company, and I thought that, if Will ever did think of going abroad to seek his fortune, the duke ought to know of it before he was snapped up by any one else. The others... But I expect you saw the list; it was in all the papers—the Bishop of Hatwell, dear old Lady Ursula Bedmont, the Minister of Fine Arts, the Spanish Ambassador...

Or was it the Italian? I'm quite stupid about remembering who was there. It was so long since I'd given a party of any kind that I'm not ashamed to confess I was a little nervous. And we began badly: Lord Fenchurch, who really grows more and more absent-minded every day, arrived with a black tie and one of those detestable little jackets that young men affect in theatres. Arthur was waiting in the hall to receive the princess and in a moment had him fitted out properly, while a maid dashed to Hay Hill to fetch his St. George. (As Arthur said, "We can lend you anything from the South African medal to the Victorian Order, but we don't fly as high as Garters.")

One or two tiny hitches like that, just enough to make me nervous... When the princess arrived, all was transformed: she was more than gracious, wanting to know why she never saw anything of me nowadays... Some people are quite wonderfully able to give you that sense of well-being. I presented Will. She said:

"But you're not old enough to have a grown-up son!"

"I am old enough to be proud of it, ma'am," I said.

I don't think I am envious; but, when I saw the success of my little party, when I looked at Brackenbury, who has the money and does nothing with it, and at Ruth, who couldn't do anything with it if she wanted to ... just an over-grown school-girl... When I thought of Spenworth and the opportunities at Cheniston, I felt it was a little hard... They do come to me, gladly, graciously; and I am not in a position to entertain them...

After dinner we had music...

I don't know what your experience has been, but I find it hard to remain patient with the whole world of people who delight in calling themselves "artists". (If English has any meaning, an artist is a person who paints, not a fiddler or a poet or an actor.) So much fuss has been made of them that their heads have really been turned. Before I had quite decided what music to have, I heard a young man playing at Connie Maitland's. Quite well he played—for an Englishman, and I asked Connie to present him.

"I have a few friends dining on the eighteenth," I said, "and I was wondering whether you would be so very kind as to come and give us an opportunity of hearing a little more of your too delightful playing."

These people expect to be flattered, as no doubt you know...

"The eighteenth?," he repeated. "I'm not dining anywhere that night, so far as I know; I will come with great pleasure."

The impudence of the man!

"Dinner itself..." I said. "My dining-room is so absurdly small that I am absolutely restricted in numbers. But afterwards... I have asked a few friends, real music-lovers; say about half-past ten. The address—"

"Oh," he interrupted, "I'll ask you to get in touch with my agent. He'll tell you my terms and make all arrangements."

"But there are no arrangements to make," I protested. "Lady Maitland told me that you were a new-comer to London, and I thought you might like to meet a few people..."

And then I told him that the princess had graciously promised to come.

The young man thought it over—for all the world as though he were at a bazaar and I were pressing him to buy something that he didn't want! I was beside myself...

"I should like to meet her," he was good enough to say. "She may be useful. All right, I'll do it this once."

And, do you know, it was on the tip of my tongue to say that never should he set foot inside my house! First of all inviting himself to dinner, then trying to make me pay him for coming... An artist I can understand; and a tradesman I can understand. But this hybrid...

And on the night he insisted on my presenting him to the princess. Insisted! There is no other word... She, of course, was too sweet ... made no objection and even complimented him. I kept thinking of the old days. When my niece Phyllida came out just before the war, Brackenbury gave a ball for her and asked me to do what I could (Ruth is worse than useless on such occasions, because she tries to cover up her ignorance by saying it doesn't matter—and being obstinate about it). I ordered the band—from those really nice people in Clifford Street—; and the princess was present on that occasion too. I wondered what we should have thought if the leader had strolled up, baton in hand, and said: "Oh, won't you present me to Her Royal Highness?" ...

I will say this boy played well. Magnetically... The whole room was silent and motionless. One looked up through a mist, as it were, and saw rows of rapt faces, a regiment of men by the walls, a mere black and white cloud by the door.

At first I did not notice...

I mean, one cannot be expected to identify eighty or a hundred people all at once; the princess was obviously my first concern, and, when this young fellow ceased playing and I stood up, naturally I imagined that they would all come forward. So they did ... some of them. I am not good at recognizing people, so I made allowances for myself; but, even so, a great many of the faces were unfamiliar. Nothing in that, you may say; a little music and some light refreshments—sandwiches and cake, you know, with perhaps claret-cup and coffee—afford a wonderful opportunity for making a little return to people whom one truly honestly doesn't want to have dining; I'm sure you understand! There is nothing wrong with them or I would not invite them to have the honour of meeting the princess; but, as Will would say, they just don't pull their weight in the boat... I recognized one or two ... and then, really, I did not know what to make of it. After anything I may have said to the princess about the unpleasantly go-as-you-please, enjoy-yourself-and-don't-ask-questions character of modern London, you may be sure that I had not encouraged anybody to collect the first half-dozen waifs and strays from the street and bring them in. Every one had been told that the princess would be there, so that they might equip themselves accordingly; yet, when I looked round the room, I did not know a tenth of the people!

It was like a bad dream! You know my drawing-room in Mount Street: windows on the south side, and between them a sofa on which I was sitting with the princess; to the left, at the far end, the piano; to the right, the door. At one moment—a perfect picture! Dear old Lord Fenchurch with his St. George, Brackenbury with the Bath, my boy with his war medals—almost every one with a little something to enhance what will always be the most dignified dress in the world. Repose... Distinction. And then, at the door, an invading army! Men I had never seen before, some in uniform, some in those detestable little jackets and limp, pleated shirts; flushed, dishevelled... And all of them unknown to me as the man in the moon! The princess, perhaps you know, abominates the smell of tobacco; need I say that a positive cloud of smoke was bursting in from the stair-case? ...