Chapter 6

1.

　　A taxi-cab stopped at the door of number twenty-two Ovington Square.

　　Freddie Rooke emerged, followed by Jill. While Freddie paid thedriver, Jill sniffed the afternoon air happily. It had turned into adelightful day. A westerly breeze, springing up in the morning, hadsent the thermometer up with a run and broken the cold spell whichhad been gripping London. It was one of those afternoons whichintrude on the bleakness of winter with a false but none the lessagreeable intimation that Spring is on its way. The sidewalks werewet underfoot, and the gutters ran with thawed snow. The sun shoneexhilaratingly from a sky the color of a hedge-sparrow's egg.

　　"Doesn't everything smell lovely, Freddie," said Jill, "after ourprison-life!""Topping!""Fancy getting out so quickly! Whenever I'm arrested, I must alwaysmake a point of having a rich man with me. I shall never tease youabout that fifty-pound note again.""Fifty-pound note?""It certainly came in handy today!"She was opening the door with her latch-key, and missed the suddensagging of Freddie's jaw, the sudden clutch at his breast-pocket, andthe look of horror and anguish that started into his eyes. Freddiewas appalled. Finding himself at the police-station penniless withthe exception of a little loose change, he had sent that message toDerek, imploring assistance, as the only alternative to spending thenight in a cell, with Jill in another. He had realized that there wasa risk of Derek taking the matter hardly, and he had not wanted toget Jill into trouble, but there seemed nothing else to do. If theyremained where they were overnight, the thing would get into thepapers, and that would be a thousand times worse. And if he appliedfor aid to Ronny Devereux or Algy Martyn or anybody like that allLondon would know about it next day. So Freddie, with misgivings, hadsent the message to Derek, and now Jill's words had reminded him thatthere was no need to have done so. Years ago he had read somewhere orheard somewhere about some chappie who always buzzed around with asizeable banknote stitched into his clothes, and the scheme hadseemed to him ripe to a degree. You never knew when you might findyourself short of cash and faced by an immediate call for the ready.

　　He had followed the chappie's example. And now, when the crisis hadarrived, he had forgotten--absolutely forgotten!--that he had thedashed thing on his person at all.

　　He followed Jill into the house, groaning in spirit, but thankfulthat she had taken it for granted that he had secured their releasein the manner indicated. He did not propose to disillusion her. Itwould be time enough to take the blame when the blame came along.

　　Probably old Derek would simply be amused and laugh at the wholebally affair like a sportsman. Freddie cheered up considerably at thethought.

　　Jill was talking to the parlormaid whose head had popped up over thebanisters flanking the stairs that led to the kitchen.

　　"Major Selby hasn't arrived yet, miss.""That's odd. I suppose he must have taken a later train.""There's a lady in the drawing-room, miss, waiting to see him. Shedidn't give any name. She said she would wait till the major came.

　　She's been waiting a goodish while.""All right, Jane. Thanks. Will you bring up tea."They walked down the hall. The drawing-room was on the ground floor,a long, dim room that would have looked like a converted studio butfor the absence of bright light. A girl was sitting at the far end bythe fireplace. She rose: as they entered.

　　"How do you do?" said Jill. "I'm afraid my uncle has not come backyet . . .""Say!" cried the visitor. "You _did_ get out quick!"Jill was surprised. She had no recollection of ever having seen theother before. Her visitor was a rather pretty girl, with a sort ofjaunty way of carrying herself which made a piquant contrast to hertired eyes and wistful face. Jill took an immediate liking to her.

　　She looked so forlorn and pathetic.

　　"My name's Nelly Bryant," said the girl. "That parrot belongs to me.""Oh, I see.""I heard you say to the cop that you lived here, so I came along totell your folks what had happened, so that they could do something.

　　The maid said that your uncle was expected any minute, so I waited.""That was awfully good of you.""Dashed good," said Freddie.

　　"Oh, no! Honest, I don't know how to thank you for what you did. Youdon't know what a pal Bill is to me. It would have broken me all upif that plug-ugly had killed him.""But what a shame you had to wait so long.""I liked it."Nelly Bryant looked about the room wistfully. This was the sort ofroom she sometimes dreamed about. She loved its subdued light and thepulpy cushions on the sofa.

　　"You'll have some tea before you go, won't you?" said Jill, switchingon the lights.

　　"It's very kind of you.""Why, hullo!" said Freddie. "By Jove! I say! We've met before, what?""Why, so we have!""That lunch at Oddy's that young Threepwood gave, what?""I wonder you remember.""Oh, I remember. Quite a time ago, eh? Miss Bryant was in that show,'Follow the Girl,' Jill, at the Regal.""Oh, yes. I remember you took me to see it.""Dashed odd meeting again like this!" said Freddie. "Really rummy!"Jane, the parlormaid, entering with tea, interrupted his comments.

　　"You're American, then?" said Jill, interested. "The whole companycame from New York, didn't they?""Yes.""I'm half American myself, you know. I used to live in New York whenI was very small, but I've almost forgotten what it was like. Iremember a sort of over-head railway that made an awful noise . . .""The Elevated!" murmured Nelly devoutly. A wave of homesicknessseemed to choke her for a moment.

　　"And the air. Like champagne. And a very blue sky.""Yes," said Nelly in a small voice.

　　"I shouldn't half mind popping over New York for a bit," saidFreddie, unconscious of the agony he was inflicting. "I've met somevery sound sportsmen who came from there. You don't know a fellownamed Williamson, do you?""I don't believe I do.""Or Oakes?""No.""That's rummy! Oakes has lived in New York for years.""So have about seven million other people," interposed Jill. "Don'tbe silly, Freddie. How would you like somebody to ask of you if youknew a man named Jenkins in London?""I do know a man named Jenkins in London," replied Freddietriumphantly.

　　Jill poured out a cup of tea for her visitor, and looked at theclock.

　　"I wonder where Uncle Chris has got to," she said. "He ought to behere by now. I hope he hasn't got into any mischief among the wildstock-brokers down at Brighton."Freddie laid down his cup on the table and uttered a loud snort.

　　"Oh, Freddie, darling!" said Jill remorsefully. "I forgot!

　　Stock-brokers are a painful subject, aren't they!" She turned toNelly. "There's been an awful slump on the Stock Exchange today, andhe got--what was the word, Freddie?""Nipped!" said Freddie with gloom.

　　"Nipped!""Nipped like the dickens!""Nipped like the dickens!" Jill smiled at Nelly. "He had forgottenall about it in the excitement of being a jailbird, and I went andreminded him."Freddie sought sympathy from Nelly.

　　"A silly ass at the club named Jimmy Monroe told me to take a flutterin some rotten thing called Amalgamated Dyes. You know how it is,when you're feeling devilish fit and cheery and all that afterdinner, and somebody sidles up to you and slips his little hand inyours and tells you to do some fool thing. You're so dashed nappy yousimply say 'Right-ho, old bird! Make it so!' That's the way I gothad!"Jill laughed unfeelingly.

　　"It will do you good, Freddie. It'll stir you up and prevent youbeing so silly again. Besides, you know you'll hardly notice it.

　　You've much too much money as it is.""It's not the money. It's the principle of the thing. I hate lookinga frightful chump.""Well, you needn't tell anybody. We'll keep it a secret. In fact,we'll start at once, for I hear Uncle Chris outside. Let usdissemble. We are observed! . . . Hullo, Uncle Chris!"She ran down the room, as the door opened, and kissed the tall,soldierly man who entered.

　　"Well, Jill, my dear.""How late you are. I was expecting you hours ago.""I had to call on my broker.""Hush! Hush!""What's the matter?""Nothing, nothing. . . . We've got visitors. You know Freddie Rooke,of course?""How are you, Freddie, my boy?""Cheerio!" said Freddie. "Pretty fit?""And Miss Bryant," said Jill.

　　"How do you do?" said Uncle Chris in the bluff, genial way which, inhis younger days, had charmed many a five-pound note out of thepockets of his fellow-men and many a soft glance out of the eyes oftheir sisters, their cousins, and their aunts.

　　"Come and have some tea," said Jill. "You're just in time."Nelly had subsided shyly into the depths of her big armchair. Somehowshe felt a better and a more important girl since Uncle Chris hadaddressed her. Most people felt like hat after encountering Jill'sUncle Christopher. Uncle Chris had a manner. It was not preciselycondescending, and yet it was not the manner of an equal. He treatedyou as an equal, true, but all the time you were conscious of thefact that it was extraordinarily good of him to do so. Uncle Chrisaffected the rank and file of his fellow-men much as a genial knightof the Middle Ages would have affected a scurvy knave or varlet if hehad cast aside social distinctions for awhile and hobnobbed with thelatter in a tavern. He never patronized, but the mere fact that heabstained from patronizing seemed somehow impressive.

　　To this impressiveness his appearance contributed largely. He was afine, upstanding man, who looked less than his forty-nine years inspite of an ominous thinning of the hair which he tended and brushedso carefully. He had a firm chin, a mouth that smiled often andpleasantly beneath the closely-clipped moustache, and very brightblue eyes which met yours in a clear, frank, honest gaze. Though hehad served in his youth in India, he had none of the Anglo-Indian'ssun-scorched sallowness. His complexion was fresh and sanguine. Helooked as if he had just stepped out of a cold tub,--a misleadingimpression, for Uncle Chris detested cold water and always took hismorning bath as hot as he could get it.

　　It was his clothes, however, which, even more than his appearance,fascinated the populace. There is only one tailor in London, asdistinguished from the ambitious mechanics who make coats andtrousers, and Uncle Chris was his best customer. Similarly, London isfull of young fellows trying to get along by the manufacture offoot-wear, but there is only one boot-maker in the true meaning ofthe word,--the one who supplied Uncle Chris. And, as for hats, whileit is no doubt a fact that you can get at plenty of London shops somesort of covering for your head which will keep it warm, the onlyhatter--using the term in its deeper sense--is the man who enjoyedthe patronage of Major Christopher Selby. From foot to head, inshort, from furthest South to extremest North, Uncle Chris wasperfect. He was an ornament to his surroundings. The Metropolislooked better for him. One seems to picture London as a mother with ahorde of untidy children, children with made-up ties, children withwrinkled coats and baggy trouser-legs, sighing to herself as shebeheld them, then cheering up and murmuring with a touch of restoredcomplacency, "Ah, well, I still have Uncle Chris!""Miss Bryant is American, Uncle Chris," said Jill.

　　Uncle Chris spread his shapely legs before the fire, and glanced downkindly at Nelly.

　　"Indeed?" He took a cup of tea and stirred it. "I was in America as ayoung man.""Whereabouts?" asked Nelly eagerly.

　　"Oh, here and there and everywhere. I travelled considerably.""That's how it is with me," said Nelly, overcoming her diffidence asshe warmed to the favorite topic. "I guess I know most every town inevery State, from New York to the last one-night stand. It's a greatold country, isn't it?""It is!" said Uncle Chris. "I shall be returning there very shortly."He paused meditatively. "Very shortly indeed."Nelly bit her lip. It seemed to be her fate today to meet people whowere going to America.

　　"When did you decide to do that?" asked Jill.

　　She had been looking at him, puzzled. Years of association with UncleChris had enabled her to read his moods quickly, and she was surethat there was something on his mind. It was not likely that theothers had noticed it, for his manner was as genial and urbane asever. But something about him, a look in his eyes that came and went,an occasional quick twitching of his mouth, told her that all was notwell. She was a little troubled, but not greatly. Uncle Chris was notthe sort of man to whom grave tragedies happened. It was probablysome mere trifle which she could smooth out for him in five minutes,once they were alone together. She reached out and patted his sleeveaffectionately. She was fonder of Uncle Chris than of anyone in theworld except Derek.

　　"The thought," said Uncle Chris, "came to me this morning, as I readmy morning paper while breakfasting. It has grown and developedduring the day. At this moment you might almost call it an obsession.

　　I am very fond of America. I spent several happy years there. On thatoccasion, I set sail for the land of promise, I admit, somewhatreluctantly. Of my own free will I might never have made theexpedition. But the general sentiment seemed so strongly in favor ofmy doing so that I yielded to what I might call a public demand. Thewilling hands for my nearest and dearest were behind me, pushing, andI did not resist them. I have never regretted it. America is a partof every young man's education. You ought to go there, Freddie.""Rummily enough," said Freddie, "I was saying just before you came inthat I had half a mind to pop over. Only it's rather a bally fag,starting. Getting your luggage packed and all that sort of thing."Nelly, whose luggage consisted of one small trunk, heaved a silentsigh. Mingling with the idle rich carried its penalties.

　　"America," said Uncle Chris, "taught me poker, for which I can neverbe sufficiently grateful. Also an exotic pastime styled Craps,--or,alternatively, 'rolling the bones'--which in those days was a verypresent help in time of trouble. At Craps, I fear, my hand in lateyears had lost much of its cunning. I have had little opportunity ofpractising. But as a young man I was no mean exponent of the art. Letme see," said Uncle Chris meditatively. "What was the precise ritual?

　　Ah! I have it, 'Come, little seven!'""'Come, eleven!'" exclaimed Nelly excitedly.

　　"'Baby . . .' I feel convinced that in some manner the word babyentered into it.""'Baby needs new shoes!'""'Baby needs new shoes!' Precisely!""It sounds to me," said Freddie, "dashed silly.""Oh, no!" cried Nelly reproachfully.

　　"Well, what I mean to say is, there's no sense in it, don't youknow.""It is a noble pursuit," said Uncle Chris firmly. "Worthy of thegreat nation that has produced it. No doubt, when I return toAmerica, I shall have opportunities of recovering my lost skill.""You aren't returning to America," said Jill. "You're going to staysafe at home like a good little uncle. I'm not going to have yourunning wild all over the world at your age.""Age?" declaimed Uncle Chris. "What is my age? At the present momentI feel in the neighborhood of twenty-one, and Ambition is tapping meon the shoulder and whispering 'Young man, go West!' The years areslipping away from me, my dear Jill,--slipping so quickly that in afew minutes you will he wondering why my nurse does not come to fetchme. The wanderlust is upon me. I gaze around me at all thisprosperity in which I am lapped," said Uncle Chris, eyeing thearm-chair severely, "all this comfort and luxury which swaddles me,and I feel staggered. I want activity. I want to be braced!""You would hate it," said Jill composedly. "You know you're thelaziest old darling in the world.""Exactly what I am endeavoring to point out. I am lazy. Or, I wastill this morning.""Something very extraordinary must have happened this morning. I cansee that.""I wallowed in gross comfort. I was what Shakespeare calls a 'fat andgreasy citizen'!""Please, Uncle Chris!" protested Jill. "Not while I'm eating butteredtoast!""But now I am myself again.""That's splendid.""I have heard the beat of the off-shore wind," chanted Uncle Chris,"and the thresh of the deep-sea rain. I have heard the song--Howlong! how long! Pull out on the trail again!""He can also recite 'Gunga Din,'" said Jill to Nelly. "I really mustapologize for all this. He's usually as good as gold.""I believe I know how he feels," said Nelly softly.

　　"Of course you do. You and I, Miss Bryant, are of the gipsies of theworld. We are not vegetables like young Rooke here.""Eh, what?" said the vegetable, waking from a reverie. He had beenwatching Nelly's face. Its wistfulness attracted him.

　　"We are only happy," proceeded Uncle Chris, "when we are wandering.""You should see Uncle Chris wander to his club in the morning," saidJill. "He trudges off in a taxi, singing wild gipsy songs, absolutelydefying fatigue.""That," said Uncle Chris, "is a perfectly justified slur. I shudderat the depths to which prosperity has caused me to sink." He expandedhis chest. "I shall be a different man in America. America would makea different man of you, Freddie.""I'm all right, thanks!" said that easily satisfied young man.

　　Uncle Chris turned to Nelly, pointing dramatically.

　　"Young woman, go West! Return to your bracing home, and leave thisenervating London! You . . ."Nelly got up abruptly. She could endure no more.

　　"I believe I'll have to be going now," she said. "Bill misses me ifI'm away long. Good-bye. Thank you ever so much for what you did.""It was awfully kind of you to come round," said Jill.

　　"Good-bye, Major Selby.""Good-bye.""Good-bye, Mr Rooke."Freddie awoke from another reverie.

　　"Eh? Oh, I say, half a jiffy. I think I may as well be toddling alongmyself. About time I was getting back to dress for dinner and allthat. See you home, may I, and then I'll get a taxi at Victoria.

　　Toodle-oo, everybody."* * *Freddie escorted Nelly through the hall and opened the front door forher. The night was cool and cloudy, and there was still in the airthat odd, rejuvenating suggestion of Spring. A wet fragrance camefrom the dripping trees.

　　"Topping evening!" said Freddie conversationally.

　　"Yes."They walked through the square in silence. Freddie shot anappreciative glance at his companion. Freddie, as he would haveadmitted frankly, was not much of a lad for the modern girl. Themodern girl, he considered, was too dashed rowdy and exuberant for achappie of peaceful tastes. Now, this girl, on the other hand, hadall the earmarks of being something of a topper. She had a softvoice. Rummy accent and all that, but nevertheless a soft andpleasing voice. She was mild and unaggressive, and these werequalities which Freddie esteemed. Freddie, though this was a thing hewould not have admitted, was afraid of girls, the sort of girls hehad to take down to dinner and dance with and so forth. They were toodashed clever, and always seemed to be waiting for a chance to scoreoff a fellow. This one was not like that. Not a bit. She was gentleand quiet and what not.

　　It was at this point that it came home to him how remarkably quietshe was. She had not said a word for the last five minutes. He wasjust about to break the silence, when, as they passed under a streetlamp, he perceived that she was crying,--crying very softly toherself, like a child in the dark.

　　"Good God!" said Freddie, appalled. There were two things in lifewith which he felt totally unable to cope,--crying girls anddog-fights. The glimpse he had caught of Nelly's face froze him intoa speechlessness which lasted until they reached Daubeny Street andstopped at her door.

　　"Good-bye," said Nelly.

　　"Good-bye-ee!" said Freddie mechanically. "That's to say, I mean tosay, half a second!" he added quickly. Ha faced her nervously, withone hand on the grimy railings. This wanted looking into. When itcame to girls trickling to and fro in the public streets, weeping,well, it was pretty rotten and something had to be done about it.

　　"What's up?" he demanded.

　　"It's nothing. Good-bye.""But, my dear old soul," said Freddie, clutching the railing formoral support, "it _is_ something. It must be! You might not think it,to look at me, but I'm really rather a dashed shrewd chap, and I can_see_ there's something up. Why not give me the jolly old scenario andsee if we can't do something?"Nelly moved as if to turn to the door, then stopped. She wasthoroughly ashamed of herself.

　　"I'm a fool!""No, no!""Yes, I am. I don't often act this way, but, oh, gee! hearing you alltalking like that about going to America, just as if it was theeasiest thing in the world, only you couldn't be bothered to do it,kind of got me going. And to think I could be there right now if Iwasn't a bonehead!""A bonehead?""A simp. I'm all right as far up as the string of near-pearls, butabove that I'm reinforced concrete."Freddie groped for her meaning.

　　"Do you mean you've made a bloomer of some kind?""I pulled the worst kind of bone. I stopped on in London when therest of the company went back home, and now I've got to stick.""Rush of jolly old professional engagement, what?"Nelly laughed bitterly.

　　"You're a bad guesser. No, they haven't started to fight over me yet.

　　I'm at liberty, as they say in the Era.""But, my dear old thing," said Freddie earnestly, "if you've gotnothing to keep you in England, why not pop back to America? I meanto say, home-sickness is the most dashed blighted thing in the world.

　　There's nothing gives one the pip to such an extent. Why, dash it, Iremember staying with an old aunt of mine up in Scotland the yearbefore last and not being able to get away for three weeks or so, andI raved--absolutely gibbered--for a sight of the merry old metrop.

　　Sometimes I'd wake up in the night, thinking I was back at theAlbany, and, by Jove, when I found I wasn't I howled like a dog! Youtake my tip, old soul, and pop back on the next boat.""Which line?""How do you mean, which line? Oh, I see, you mean which line? Well. . . well . . . I've never been on any of them, so it's rather hard tosay. But I hear the Cunard well spoken of, and then again somechappies swear by the White Star. But I should imagine you can't gofar wrong, whichever you pick. They're all pretty ripe, I fancy.""Which of them is giving free trips? That's the point.""Eh? Oh!" Her meaning dawned upon Freddie. He regarded her with deepconsternation. Life had treated him so kindly that he had almostforgotten that there existed a class which had not as much money ashimself. Sympathy welled up beneath his perfectly fitting waistcoat.

　　It was a purely disinterested sympathy. The fact that Nelly was agirl and in many respects a dashed pretty girl did not affect him.

　　What mattered was that she was hard up. The thought hurt Freddie likea blow. He hated the idea of anyone being hard up.

　　"I say!" he said. "Are you broke?"Nelly laughed.

　　"Am I! If dollars were doughnuts, I wouldn't even have the hole inthe middle."Freddie was stirred to his depths. Except for the beggars in thestreets, to whom he gave shillings, he had not met anyone for yearswho had not plenty of money. He had friends at his clubs whofrequently claimed to be unable to lay their hands on a bally penny,but the bally penny they wanted to lay their hands on generallyturned out to be a couple of thousand pounds for a new car.

　　"Good God!" he said.

　　There was a pause. Then, with a sudden impulse, he began to fumble inhis breast-pocket. Rummy how things worked out for the best, howeverscaly they might seem at the moment. Only an hour or so ago he hadbeen kicking himself for not having remembered that fifty-pound note,tacked onto the lining of his coat, when it would have come in handyat the police-station. He now saw that Providence had had the matterwell in hand. If he had remembered it and coughed it up to theconstabulary then, he wouldn't have had it now. And he needed it now.

　　A mood of quixotic generosity had surged upon him. With swift fingershe jerked the note free from its moorings and displayed it like aconjurer exhibiting a rabbit.

　　"My dear old thing," he said, "I can't stand it! I absolutely cannotstick it at any price! I really must insist on your trousering this.

　　Positively!"Nelly Bryant gazed at the note with wide eyes. She was stunned. Shetook it limply, and looked at it under the dim light of the gas-lampover the door.

　　"I couldn't!" she cried.

　　"Oh, but really! You must!""But this is a fifty-pound!""Absolutely! It will take you back to New York, what? You asked whichline was giving free trips. The Freddie Rooke Line, by Jove, sailingsevery Wednesday and Saturday! I mean, what!""But I can't take two hundred and fifty dollars from you!""Oh, rather. Of course you can."There was another pause.

　　"You'll think--" Nelly's pale face flushed. "You'll think I told youall about myself just--just because I wanted to . . .""To make a touch? Absolutely not! Kid yourself of the jolly oldsuperstition entirely. You see before you, old thing, a chappie whoknows more about borrowing money than any man in London. I mean tosay, I've had my ear bitten more often than anyone, I should think.

　　There are sixty-four ways of making a touch--I've had them all workedon me by divers blighters here and there--and I can tell any of themwith my eyes shut. I know you weren't dreaming of any such thing."The note crackled musically in Nelly's hand.

　　"I don't know what to say!""That's all right.""I don't see why . . . Gee! I wish I could tell you what I think ofyou!"Freddie laughed amusedly.

　　"Do you know," he said, "that's exactly what the beaks--the masters,you know,--used to say to me at school.""Are you sure you can spare it?""Oh, rather."Nelly's eyes shone in the light of the lamp.

　　"I've never met anyone like you before. I don't know how . . ."Freddie shuffled nervously. Being thanked always made him feel prettyrotten.

　　"Well, I think I'll be popping," he said. "Got to get back and dressand all that. Awfully glad to have seen you, and all that sort ofrot."Nelly unlocked the door with her latchkey, and stood on the step.

　　"I'll buy a fur-wrap," she said, half to herself.

　　"Great wheeze! I should!""And some nuts for Bill!""Bill?""The parrot.""Oh, the jolly old parrot! Rather! Well, cheerio!""Good-bye . . . You've been awfully good to me.""Oh, no," said Freddie uncomfortably. "Any time you're passing . . . !""Awfully good . . . Well, good-bye.""Toodle-oo!""Maybe we'll meet again some day.""I hope so. Absolutely!"There was a little scurry of feet. Something warm and soft pressedfor an instant against Freddie's cheek, and, as he stumbled back,Nelly Bryant skipped up the steps and vanished through the door.

　　"Good God!"Freddie felt his cheek. He was aware of an odd mixture ofembarrassment and exhilaration.

　　From the area below a slight cough sounded. Freddie turned sharply. Amaid in a soiled cap, worn coquettishly over one ear, was gazingintently up through the railings. Their eyes met. Freddie turned awarm pink. It seemed to him that the maid had the air of one about togiggle.

　　"Damn!" said Freddie softly, and hurried off down the street. Hewondered whether he had made a frightful ass of himself, sprayingbank-notes all over the place like that to comparative strangers.

　　Then a vision came to him of Nelly's eyes as they had looked at himin the lamp-light, and he decided--no, absolutely not. Rummy as thegadget might appear, it had been the right thing to do. It was abinge of which he thoroughly approved. A good egg!

　　2.

　　Jill, when Freddie and Nelly left the room, had seated herself on alow stool, and sat, looking thoughtfully into the fire. She waswondering if she had been mistaken in supposing that Uncle Chris wasworried about something. This restlessness of his, this desire formovement, was strange in him. Hitherto he had been like a dear oldcosy cat, revelling in the comfort which he had just denounced soeloquently. She watched him as he took up his favorite stand in frontof the fire.

　　"Nice girl," said Uncle Chris. "Who was she?""Somebody Freddie met," said Jill diplomatically. There was no needto worry Uncle Chris with details of the afternoon's happenings.

　　"Very nice girl." Uncle Chris took out his cigar-case. "No need toask if I may, thank goodness." He lit a cigar. "Do you remember,Jill, years ago, when you were quite small, how I used to blow smokein your face?"Jill smiled.

　　"Of course I do. You said that you were training me for marriage. Yousaid that there were no happy marriages except where the wife didn'tmind the smell of tobacco. Well, it's lucky, as a matter of fact, forDerek smokes all the time."Uncle Chris took up his favorite stand against the fireplace.

　　"You're very fond of Derek, aren't you, Jill?""Of course I am. You are, too, aren't you?""Fine chap. Very fine chap. Plenty of money, too. It's a greatrelief," said Uncle Chris, puffing vigorously. "A thundering relief."He looked over Jill's head down the room. "It's fine to think of youhappily married, dear, with everything in the world that you want."Uncle Chris' gaze wandered down to where Jill sat. A slight mistaffected his eyesight. Jill had provided a solution for the greatproblem of his life. Marriage had always appalled him, but there wasthis to be said for it, that married people had daughters. He hadalways wanted a daughter, a smart girl he could take out and be proudof; and fate had given him Jill at precisely the right age. A childwould have bored Uncle Chris--he was fond of children, but they madethe deuce of a noise and regarded jam as an external ornament--but adelightful little girl of fourteen was different. Jill and he hadbeen very close to each other since her mother had died, a year afterthe death of her father, and had left her in his charge. He hadwatched her grow up with a joy that had a touch of bewilderment init--she seemed to grow so quickly--and had been fonder and prouder ofher at every stage of her tumultuous career.

　　"You're a dear," said Jill. She stroked the trouser-leg that wasnearest. "How do you manage to get such a wonderful crease? Youreally are a credit to me!"There was a momentary silence. A shade of embarrassment made itselfnoticeable in Uncle Chris' frank gaze. He gave a little cough, andpulled at his mustache.

　　"I wish I were, my dear," he said soberly. "I wish I were. I'm afraidI'm a poor sort of fellow, Jill."Jill looked up.

　　"What do you mean?""A poor sort of fellow," repeated Uncle Chris. "Your mother wasfoolish to trust you to me. Your father had more sense. He alwayssaid I was a wrong'un."Jill got up quickly. She was certain now that she had been right, andthat there was something on her uncle's mind.

　　"What's the matter, Uncle Chris? Something's happened. What is it?"Uncle Chris turned to knock the ash off his cigar. The movement gavehim time to collect himself for what lay before him. He had one ofthose rare volatile natures which can ignore the blows of fate solong as their effects are not brought home by visible evidence ofdisaster. He lived in the moment, and, though matters had been as badat breakfast-time as they were now, it was not till now, when heconfronted Jill, that he had found his cheerfulness affected by them.

　　He was a man who hated ordeals, and one faced him now. Until thismoment he had been able to detach his mind from a state of affairswhich would have weighed unceasingly upon another man. His mind was atelephone which he could cut off at will, when the voice of Troublewished to speak. The time would arrive, he had been aware, when hewould have to pay attention to that voice, but so far he had refusedto listen. Now it could he evaded no longer.

　　"Jill.""Yes?"Uncle Chris paused again, searching for the best means of saying whathad to be said.

　　"Jill, I don't know if you understand about these things, but therewas what is called a slump on the Stock Exchange this morning. Inother words . . ."Jill laughed.

　　"Of course I know all about that," she said. "Poor Freddie wouldn'ttalk about anything else till I made him. He was terribly blue whenhe got here this afternoon. He said he had got 'nipped' inAmalgamated Dyes. He had lost about two hundred pounds, and wasfurious with a friend of his who had told him to buy margins."Uncle Chris cleared his throat.

　　"Jill, I'm afraid I've got bad news for you. I bought AmalgamatedDyes, too." He worried his mustache. "I lost heavily, very heavily.""How naughty of you! You know you oughtn't to gamble.""Jill, you must be brave. I--I--well, the fact is--it's no goodbeating about the bush--I lost everything! Everything!""Everything?""Everything! It's all gone! All fooled away. It's a terriblebusiness. This house will have to go.""But--but doesn't the house belong to me?""I was your trustee, dear." Uncle Chris smoked furiously. "Thankheaven you're going to marry a rich man!"Jill stood looking at him, perplexed. Money, as money, had neverentered into her life. There were things one wanted, which had to bepaid for with money, but Uncle Chris had always looked after that.

　　She had taken them for granted.

　　"I don't understand," she said.

　　And then suddenly she realized that she did, and a great wave of pityfor Uncle Chris flooded over her. He was such an old dear. It must behorrible for him to have to stand there, telling her all this. Shefelt no sense of injury, only the discomfort of having to witness thehumiliation of her oldest friend. Uncle Chris was bound upinextricably with everything in her life that was pleasant. She couldremember him, looking exactly the same, only with a thicker andwavier crop of hair, playing with her patiently and unwearied forhours in the hot sun, a cheerful martyr. She could remember sittingup with him when she came home from her first grown-up dance,drinking cocoa and talking and talking and talking till the birdsoutside sang the sun high up into the sky and it was breakfast-time.

　　She could remember theatres with him, and jolly little suppersafterwards; expeditions into the country, with lunches at queer oldinns; days on the river, days at Hurlingham, days at Lords', days atthe Academy. He had always been the same, always cheerful, alwayskind. He was Uncle Chris, and he would always be Uncle Chris,whatever he had done or whatever he might do. She slipped her arm inhis and gave it a squeeze.

　　"Poor old thing!" she said.

　　Uncle Chris had been looking straight out before him with those fineblue eyes of his. There had been just a touch of sternness in hisattitude. A stranger, coming into the room at that moment, would havesaid that here was a girl trying to coax her blunt, straightforward,military father into some course of action of which his honest naturedisapproved. He might have been posing for a statue of Rectitude. AsJill spoke, he seemed to cave in.

　　"Poor old thing?" he repeated limply.

　　"Of course you are! And stop trying to look dignified and tragic!

　　Because it doesn't suit you. You're much too well dressed.""But, my dear, you don't understand! You haven't realized!""Yes, I do. Yes, I have!""I've spent all your money--_your_ money!""I know! What does it matter?""What does it matter! Jill, don't you hate me?""As if anyone could hate an old darling like you!"Uncle Chris threw away his cigar, and put his arms round Jill. For amoment a dreadful fear came to her that he was going to cry. Sheprayed that he wouldn't cry. It would be too awful. It would be amemory of which she could never rid herself. She felt as though hewere someone extraordinarily young and unable to look after himself,someone she must soothe and protect.

　　"Jill," said Uncle Chris, choking, "you're--you're--you're a littlewarrior!"Jill kissed him, and moved away. She busied herself with someflowers, her back turned. The tension had been relieved, and shewanted to give him time to recover his poise. She knew him wellenough to be sure that, sooner or later, the resiliency of his naturewould assert itself. He could never remain long in the depths.

　　The silence had the effect of making her think more clearly than inthe first rush of pity she had been able to do. She was able now toreview the matter as it affected herself. It had not been easy tograsp, the blunt fact that she was penniless, that all this comfortwhich surrounded her was no longer her own. For an instant a kind ofpanic seized her. There was a bleakness about the situation whichmade one gasp. It was like icy water dashed in the face. Realizationhad almost the physical pain of life returning to a numbed limb. Herhands shook as she arranged the flowers, and she had to bite her lipto keep herself from crying out.

　　She fought panic eye to eye, and beat it down. Uncle Chris, swiftlyrecovering by the fireplace, never knew that the fight had takenplace. He was feeling quite jovial again now that the unpleasantbusiness of breaking the news was over, and was looking on the worldwith the eye of a debonair gentleman-adventurer. As far as he wasconcerned, he told himself, this was the best thing that could havehappened. He had been growing old and sluggish in prosperity. Heneeded a fillip. The wits by which he had once lived so merrily hadbeen getting blunt in their easy retirement. He welcomed theopportunity of matching them once more against the world. He wasremorseful as regarded Jill, but the optimist in him, never crushedfor long, told him that Jill would be all right. She would step fromthe sinking ship to the safe refuge of Derek Underhill's wealth andposition, while he went out to seek a new life. Uncle Chris' blueeyes gleamed with a new fire as he pictured himself in this new life.

　　He felt like a hunter setting out on a hunting expedition. There werealways adventures and the spoils of war for the man with brains tofind them and gather them in. But it was a mercy that Jill had Derek.

　　. . .

　　Jill was thinking of Derek, too. Panic had fled, and a curiousexhilaration had seized upon her. If Derek wanted her now, it wouldbe because his love was the strongest thing in the world. She wouldcome to him like the beggar-maid to Cophetua.

　　Uncle Chris broke the silence with a cough. At the sound of it, Jillsmiled again. She knew it for what it was, a sign that he was himselfagain.

　　"Tell me, Uncle Chris," she said, "just how bad is it? When you saideverything was gone, did you really mean everything, or were youbeing melodramatic? Exactly how do we stand?""It's dashed hard to say, my dear. I expect we shall find there are afew hundreds left. Enough to see you through till you get married.

　　After that it won't matter." Uncle Chris flicked a particle of dustoff his coat-sleeve. Jill could not help feeling that the action wassymbolical of his attitude towards life. He flicked away life'sproblems with just the same airy carelessness. "You mustn't worryabout me, my dear. I shall be all right. I have made my way in theworld before, and I can do it again. I shall go to America and try myluck there. Amazing how many opportunities there are in America.

　　Really, as far as I am concerned, this is the best thing that couldhave happened. I have been getting abominably lazy. If I had gone onliving my present life for another year or two, why, dash it! Ihonestly believe I should have succumbed to some sort of seniledecay. Positively I should have got fatty degeneration of the brain!

　　This will be the making of me."Jill sat down on the lounge and laughed till there were tears in hereyes. Uncle Chris might be responsible for this disaster, but he wascertainly making it endurable. However greatly he might be deservingof censure, from the standpoint of the sterner morality, he madeamends. If he brought the whole world crashing in chaos about one'sears, at least he helped one to smile among the ruins.

　　"Did you ever read 'Candide', Uncle Chris?""'Candide'?" Uncle Chris shook his head. He was not a great reader,except of the sporting press.

　　"It's a book by Voltaire. There's a character in it called DoctorPangloss, who thought that everything was for the best in this bestof all possible worlds."Uncle Chris felt a touch of embarrassment. It occurred to him that hehad been betrayed by his mercurial temperament into an attitudewhich, considering the circumstances, was perhaps a trifle toojubilant. He gave his mustache a pull, and reverted to the minor key.

　　"Oh, you mustn't think that I don't appreciate the terrible, thecriminal thing I have done! I blame myself," said Uncle Chriscordially, flicking another speck of dust off his sleeve. "I blamemyself bitterly. Your mother ought never to have made me yourtrustee, my dear. But she always believed in me, in spite ofeverything, and this is how I have repaid her." He blew his nose tocover a not unmanly emotion. "I wasn't fitted for the position. Neverbecome a trustee, Jill. It's the devil, is trust money. However muchyou argue with yourself, you can't--dash it, you simply can't believethat it's not your own, to do as you like with. There it sits,smiling at you, crying 'Spend me! Spend me!' and you find yourselfdipping--dipping--till one day there's nothing left to dip for--onlya far-off rustling--the ghosts of dead bank-notes. That's how it waswith me. The process was almost automatic. I hardly knew it was goingon. Here a little--there a little. It was like snow melting on amountain-top. And one morning--all gone!" Uncle Chris drove the pointhome with a gesture. "I did what I could. When I found that therewere only a few hundreds left, for your sake I took a chance. Allheart and no head! There you have Christopher Selby in a nutshell! Aman at the club--a fool named--I've forgotten his damnname--recommended Amalgamated Dyestuffs as a speculation. Monroe,that was his name, Jimmy Monroe. He talked about the future ofBritish Dyes now that Germany was out of the race, and . . . well,the long and short of it was that I took his advice and bought onmargin. Bought like the devil. And this morning Amalgamated Dyestuffswent all to blazes. There you have the whole story!""And now," said Jill, "comes the sequel!""The sequel?" said Uncle Chris breezily. "Happiness, my dear,happiness! Wedding bells and--and all that sort of thing!" Hestraddled the hearth-rug manfully, and swelled his chest out. Hewould permit no pessimism on this occasion of rejoicing. "You don'tsuppose that the fact of your having lost your money--that is tosay--er--of my having lost your money--will affect a splendid youngfellow like Derek Underhill? I know him better than to think that!

　　I've always liked him. He's a man you can trust! Besides," he addedreflectively, "there's no need to tell him! Till after the wedding, Imean. It won't be hard to keep up appearances here for a month orso.""Of course I must tell him!""You think it wise?""I don't know about it being wise. It's the only thing to do. I mustsee him tonight. Oh, I forgot. He was going away this afternoon for aday or two.""Capital! It will give you time to think it over.""I don't want to think it over. There's nothing to think about.""Of course, yes, of course. Quite so.""I shall write him a letter.""Write, eh?""It's easier to put what one wants to say in a letter.""Letters," began Uncle Chris, and stopped as the door opened. Janethe parlormaid entered, carrying a salver. "For me?" asked UncleChris.

　　"For Miss Jill, sir."Jill took the note off the salver.

　　"It's from Derek.""There's a messenger-boy waiting, miss," said Jane. "He wasn't toldif there was an answer.""If the note is from Derek," said Uncle Chris, "it's not likely towant an answer. You said he left town today."Jill opened the envelope.

　　"Is there an answer, miss?" asked Jane, after what she considered asuitable interval. She spoke tenderly. She was a great admirer ofDerek, and considered it a pretty action on his part to send noteslike this when he was compelled to leave London.

　　"Any answer, Jill?"Jill seemed to rouse herself. She had turned oddly pale.

　　"No, no answer, Jane.""Thank you, miss," said Jane, and went off to tell cook that in heropinion Jill was lacking in heart. "It might have been a bill insteadof a love-letter," said Jane to the cook with indignation, "the wayshe read it. _I_ like people to have a little feeling!"Jill sat turning the letter over and over in her fingers. Her facewas very white. There seemed to be a big, heavy, leaden somethinginside her. A cold hand clutched her throat. Uncle Chris, who atfirst had noticed nothing untoward, now began to find the silencesinister.

　　"No bad news, I hope, dear?"Jill turned the letter between her fingers.

　　"Jill, is it bad news?""Derek has broken off the engagement," said Jill in a dull voice. Shelet the note fall to the floor, and sat with her chin in her hands.

　　"What!" Uncle Chris leaped from the hearth-rug, as though the firehad suddenly scorched him. "What did you say?""He's broken it off.""The hound!" cried Uncle Chris. "The blackguard! The--the--I neverliked that man! I never trusted him!" He fumed for a moment.

　　"But--but--it isn't possible. How can he have heard about what'shappened? He couldn't know. It's--it's--it isn't possible!""He doesn't know. It has nothing to do with that.""But . . ." Uncle Chris stooped to where the note lay. "May I . . . ?""Yes, you can read it if you like."Uncle Chris produced a pair of reading-glasses, and glared throughthem at the sheet of paper as though it were some loathsome insect.

　　"The hound! The cad! If I were a younger man," shouted Uncle Chris,smiting the letter violently, "if I were . . . Jill! My dear littleJill!"He plunged down on his knees beside her, as she buried her face inher hands and began to sob.

　　"My little girl! Damn that man! My dear little girl! The cad! Thedevil! My own darling little girl! I'll thrash him within an inch ofhis life!"The clock on the mantelpiece ticked away the minutes. Jill got up.

　　Her face was wet and quivering, but her mouth had set in a braveline.

　　"Jill, dear!"She let his hand close over hers.

　　"Everything's happening all at once this afternoon, Uncle Chris,isn't it!" She smiled a twisted smile. "You look so funny! Yourhair's all rumpled, and your glasses are over on one side!"Uncle Chris breathed heavily through his nose.

　　"When I meet that man . . ." he began portentously.

　　"Oh, what's the good of bothering! It's not worth it! Nothing's worthit!" Jill stopped, and faced him, her hands clenched. "Let's getaway! Let's get right away! I want to get right away, Uncle Chris!

　　Take me away! Anywhere! Take me to America with you! I must getaway!"Uncle Chris raised his right hand, and shook it. His reading-glasses,hanging from his left ear, bobbed drunkenly.

　　"We'll sail by the next boat! The very next boat, dammit! I'll takecare of you, dear. I've been a blackguard to you, my little girl.

　　I've robbed you, and swindled you. But I'll make up for it, byGeorge! I'll make up for it! I'll give you a new home, as good asthis, if I die for it. There's nothing I won't do! Nothing! By Jove!"shouted Uncle Chris, raising his voice in a red-hot frenzy ofemotion, "I'll work! Yes, by Gad, if it comes right down to it, I'llwork!"He brought his fist down with a crash on the table where Derek'sflowers stood in their bowl. The bowl leaped in the air and tumbledover, scattering the flowers on the floor.