Chapter 2 Enter Ginger

    Sally was sitting with her back against a hillock of golden sand,watching with half-closed eyes the denizens of Roville-sur-Mer at theirfamiliar morning occupations. At Roville, as at most French seashoreresorts, the morning is the time when the visiting population assemblesin force on the beach. Whiskered fathers of families made cheerfulpatches of colour in the foreground. Their female friends and relativesclustered in groups under gay parasols. Dogs roamed to and fro, andchildren dug industriously with spades, ever and anon suspending theirlabours in order to smite one another with these handy implements. Oneof the dogs, a poodle of military aspect, wandered up to Sally: anddiscovering that she was in possession of a box of sweets, decided toremain and await developments.

　　Few things are so pleasant as the anticipation of them, but Sally'svacation had proved an exception to this rule. It had been a magic monthof lazy happiness. She had drifted luxuriously from one French town toanother, till the charm of Roville, with its blue sky, its Casino, itssnow-white hotels along the Promenade, and its general glitter andgaiety, had brought her to a halt. Here she could have stayedindefinitely, but the voice of America was calling her back. Gerald hadwritten to say that "The Primrose Way" was to be produced in Detroit,preliminary to its New York run, so soon that, if she wished to see theopening, she must return at once. A scrappy, hurried, unsatisfactoryletter, the letter of a busy man: but one that Sally could not ignore.

　　She was leaving Roville to-morrow.

　　To-day, however, was to-day: and she sat and watched the bathers with afamiliar feeling of peace, revelling as usual in the still novelsensation of having nothing to do but bask in the warm sunshine andlisten to the faint murmur of the little waves.

　　But, if there was one drawback, she had discovered, to a morning on theRoville plage, it was that you had a tendency to fall asleep: and thisis a degrading thing to do so soon after breakfast, even if you are on aholiday. Usually, Sally fought stoutly against the temptation, butto-day the sun was so warm and the whisper of the waves so insinuatingthat she had almost dozed off, when she was aroused by voices close athand. There were many voices on the beach, both near and distant, butthese were talking English, a novelty in Roville, and the sound of thefamiliar tongue jerked Sally back from the borders of sleep. A few feetaway, two men had seated themselves on the sand.

　　From the first moment she had set out on her travels, it had been one ofSally's principal amusements to examine the strangers whom chance threwin her way and to try by the light of her intuition to fit them out withcharacters and occupations: nor had she been discouraged by an almostconsistent failure to guess right. Out of the corner of her eye sheinspected these two men.

　　The first of the pair did not attract her. He was a tall, dark manwhose tight, precise mouth and rather high cheeks bones gave him anappearance vaguely sinister. He had the dusky look of the clean-shavenman whose life is a perpetual struggle with a determined beard. Hecertainly shaved twice a day, and just as certainly had the self-controlnot to swear when he cut himself. She could picture him smiling nastilywhen this happened.

　　"Hard," diagnosed Sally. "I shouldn't like him. A lawyer or something,I think."She turned to the other and found herself looking into his eyes. Thiswas because he had been staring at Sally with the utmost intentness eversince his arrival. His mouth had opened slightly. He had the air of aman who, after many disappointments, has at last found something worthlooking at.

　　"Rather a dear," decided Sally.

　　He was a sturdy, thick-set young man with an amiable, freckled face andthe reddest hair Sally had ever seen. He had a square chin, and at oneangle of the chin a slight cut. And Sally was convinced that, however hehad behaved on receipt of that wound, it had not been with superiorself-control.

　　"A temper, I should think," she meditated. "Very quick, but soon over.

　　Not very clever, I should say, but nice."She looked away, finding his fascinated gaze a little embarrassing.

　　The dark man, who in the objectionably competent fashion which, onefelt, characterized all his actions, had just succeeded in lighting acigarette in the teeth of a strong breeze, threw away the match andresumed the conversation, which had presumably been interrupted by theprocess of sitting down.

　　"And how is Scrymgeour?" he inquired.

　　"Oh, all right," replied the young man with red hair absently. Sallywas looking straight in front of her, but she felt that his eyes werestill busy.

　　"I was surprised at his being here. He told me he meant to stay inParis."There was a slight pause. Sally gave the attentive poodle a piece ofnougat.

　　"I say," observed the red-haired young man in clear, penetrating tonesthat vibrated with intense feeling, "that's the prettiest girl I've seenin my life!"At this frank revelation of the red-haired young man's personalopinions, Sally, though considerably startled, was not displeased. Abroad-minded girl, the outburst seemed to her a legitimate comment on amatter of public interest. The young man's companion, on the other hand,was unmixedly shocked.

　　"My dear fellow!" he ejaculated.

　　"Oh, it's all right," said the red-haired young man, unmoved. "Shecan't understand. There isn't a bally soul in this dashed place that canspeak a word of English. If I didn't happen to remember a few odd bitsof French, I should have starved by this time. That girl," he went on,returning to the subject most imperatively occupying his mind, "is anabsolute topper! I give you my solemn word I've never seen anybody totouch her. Look at those hands and feet. You don't get them outsideFrance. Of course, her mouth is a bit wide," he said reluctantly.

　　Sally's immobility, added to the other's assurance concerning thelinguistic deficiencies of the inhabitants of Roville, seemed toreassure the dark man. He breathed again. At no period of his life hadhe ever behaved with anything but the most scrupulous correctnesshimself, but he had quailed at the idea of being associated evenremotely with incorrectness in another. It had been a black moment forhim when the red-haired young man had uttered those few kind words.

　　"Still you ought to be careful," he said austerely.

　　He looked at Sally, who was now dividing her attention between thepoodle and a raffish-looking mongrel, who had joined the party, andreturned to the topic of the mysterious Scrymgeour.

　　"How is Scrymgeour's dyspepsia?"The red-haired young man seemed but faintly interested in thevicissitudes of Scrymgeour's interior.

　　"Do you notice the way her hair sort of curls over her ears?" he said.

　　"Eh? Oh, pretty much the same, I think.""What hotel are you staying at?""The Normandie."Sally, dipping into the box for another chocolate cream, gave animperceptible start. She, too, was staying at the Normandie. Shepresumed that her admirer was a recent arrival, for she had seen nothingof him at the hotel.

　　"The Normandie?" The dark man looked puzzled. "I know Roville prettywell by report, but I've never heard of any Hotel Normandie. Where isit?""It's a little shanty down near the station. Not much of a place.

　　Still, it's cheap, and the cooking's all right."His companion's bewilderment increased.

　　"What on earth is a man like Scrymgeour doing there?" he said. Sallywas conscious of an urgent desire to know more and more about the absentScrymgeour. Constant repetition of his name had made him seem almostlike an old friend. "If there's one thing he's fussy about...""There are at least eleven thousand things he's fussy about,"interrupted the red-haired young man disapprovingly. "Jumpy oldblighter!""If there's one thing he's particular about, it's the sort of hotel hegoes to. Ever since I've known him he has always wanted the best. Ishould have thought he would have gone to the Splendide." He mused onthis problem in a dissatisfied sort of way for a moment, then seemed toreconcile himself to the fact that a rich man's eccentricities must behumoured. "I'd like to see him again. Ask him if he will dine with me atthe Splendide to-night. Say eight sharp."Sally, occupied with her dogs, whose numbers had now been augmented by awhite terrier with a black patch over its left eye, could not see theyoung man's face: but his voice, when he replied, told her thatsomething was wrong. There was a false airiness in it.

　　"Oh, Scrymgeour isn't in Roville.""No? Where is he?""Paris, I believe.""What!" The dark man's voice sharpened. He sounded as though he werecross-examining a reluctant witness. "Then why aren't you there? Whatare you doing here? Did he give you a holiday?""Yes, he did.""When do you rejoin him?""I don't.""What!"The red-haired young man's manner was not unmistakably dogged.

　　"Well, if you want to know," he said, "the old blighter fired me the daybefore yesterday."There was a shuffling of sand as the dark man sprang up. Sally, intenton the drama which was unfolding itself beside her, absent-mindedly gavethe poodle a piece of nougat which should by rights have gone to theterrier. She shot a swift glance sideways, and saw the dark man standingin an attitude rather reminiscent of the stern father of melodrama aboutto drive his erring daughter out into the snow. The red-haired youngman, outwardly stolid, was gazing before him down the beach at a fatbather in an orange suit who, after six false starts, was now actuallyin the water, floating with the dignity of a wrecked balloon.

　　"Do you mean to tell me," demanded the dark man, "that, after all thetrouble the family took to get you what was practically a sinecure withendless possibilities if you only behaved yourself, you havedeliberately thrown away..." A despairing gesture completed thesentence. "Good God, you're hopeless!"The red-haired young man made no reply. He continued to gaze down thebeach. Of all outdoor sports, few are more stimulating than watchingmiddle-aged Frenchmen bathe. Drama, action, suspense, all are here. Fromthe first stealthy testing of the water with an apprehensive toe to thefinal seal-like plunge, there is never a dull moment. And apart from theexcitement of the thing, judging it from a purely aesthetic standpoint,his must be a dull soul who can fail to be uplifted by the spectacle ofa series of very stout men with whiskers, seen in tight bathing suitsagainst a background of brightest blue. Yet the young man with red hair,recently in the employment of Mr. Scrymgeour, eyed this free circuswithout any enjoyment whatever.

　　"It's maddening! What are you going to do? What do you expect us to do?

　　Are we to spend our whole lives getting you positions which you won'tkeep? I can tell you we're... it's monstrous! It's sickening! Good God!"And with these words the dark man, apparently feeling, as Sally hadsometimes felt in the society of her brother Fillmore, the futility ofmere language, turned sharply and stalked away up the beach, the dignityof his exit somewhat marred a moment later by the fact of his straw hatblowing off and being trodden on by a passing child.

　　He left behind him the sort of electric calm which follows the fallingof a thunderbolt; that stunned calm through which the air seems still toquiver protestingly. How long this would have lasted one cannot say: fortowards the end of the first minute it was shattered by a purelyterrestrial uproar. With an abruptness heralded only by one short, lowgurgling snarl, there sprang into being the prettiest dog fight thatRoville had seen that season.

　　It was the terrier with the black patch who began it. That was Sally'sopinion: and such, one feels, will be the verdict of history. His bestfriend, anxious to make out a case for him, could not have denied thathe fired the first gun of the campaign. But we must be just. The faultwas really Sally's. Absorbed in the scene which had just concluded andacutely inquisitive as to why the shadowy Scrymgeour had seen fit todispense with the red-haired young man's services, she had thrice insuccession helped the poodle out of his turn. The third occasion was toomuch for the terrier.

　　There is about any dog fight a wild, gusty fury which affects theaverage mortal with something of the helplessness induced by some vastclashing of the elements. It seems so outside one's jurisdiction. One isoppressed with a sense of the futility of interference. And this was noordinary dog fight. It was a stunning mêlée, which would have excitedfavourable comment even among the blasé residents of a negro quarter orthe not easily-pleased critics of a Lancashire mining-village. From allover the beach dogs of every size, breed, and colour were racing to thescene: and while some of these merely remained in the ringside seats andbarked, a considerable proportion immediately started fighting oneanother on general principles, well content to be in action withoutbothering about first causes. The terrier had got the poodle by the lefthind-leg and was restating his war-aims. The raffish mongrel wasapparently endeavouring to fletcherize a complete stranger of theSealyham family.

　　Sally was frankly unequal to the situation, as were the entire crowd ofspectators who had come galloping up from the water's edge. She had beenparalysed from the start. Snarling bundles bumped against her legs andbounced away again, but she made no move. Advice in fluent French rentthe air. Arms waved, and well-filled bathing suits leaped up and down.

　　But nobody did anything practical until in the centre of the theatre ofwar there suddenly appeared the red-haired young man.

　　The only reason why dog fights do not go on for ever is that Providencehas decided that on each such occasion there shall always be among thosepresent one Master Mind; one wizard who, whatever his shortcomings inother battles of life, is in this single particular sphere competent anddominating. At Roville-sur-Mer it was the red-haired young man. His darkcompanion might have turned from him in disgust: his services might nothave seemed worth retaining by the haughty Scrymgeour: he might be apain in the neck to "the family"; but he did know how to stop a dogfight. From the first moment of his intervention calm began to stealover the scene. He had the same effect on the almost inextricablyentwined belligerents as, in mediaeval legend, the Holy Grail, slidingdown the sunbeam, used to have on battling knights. He did not look likea dove of peace, but the most captious could not have denied that hebrought home the goods. There was a magic in his soothing hands, a spellin his voice: and in a shorter time than one would have believedpossible dog after dog had been sorted out and calmed down; untilpresently all that was left of Armageddon was one solitary small Scotchterrier, thoughtfully licking a chewed leg. The rest of the combatants,once more in their right mind and wondering what all the fuss was about,had been captured and haled away in a whirl of recrimination by volubleowners.

　　Having achieved this miracle, the young man turned to Sally. Gallant,one might say reckless, as he had been a moment before, he now gaveindications of a rather pleasing shyness. He braced himself with thatpainful air of effort which announces to the world that an Englishman isabout to speak a language other than his own.

　　"J'espère," he said, having swallowed once or twice to brace himself upfor the journey through the jungle of a foreign tongue, "J'espère quevous n'êtes pas--oh, dammit, what's the word--J'espère que vous n'êtespas blessée?""Blessée?""Yes, blessée. Wounded. Hurt, don't you know. Bitten. Oh, dash it.

　　J'espère...""Oh, bitten!" said Sally, dimpling. "Oh, no, thanks very much. Iwasn't bitten. And I think it was awfully brave of you to save all ourlives."The compliment seemed to pass over the young man's head. He stared atSally with horrified eyes. Over his amiable face there swept a vividblush. His jaw dropped.

　　"Oh, my sainted aunt!" he ejaculated.

　　Then, as if the situation was too much for him and flights the onlypossible solution, he spun round and disappeared at a walk so rapid thatit was almost a run. Sally watched him go and was sorry that he had tornhimself away. She still wanted to know why Scrymgeour had fired him.

　　Bedtime at Roville is an hour that seems to vary according to one'sproximity to the sea. The gilded palaces along the front keep deplorablehours, polluting the night air till dawn with indefatigable jazz: but atthe pensions of the economical like the Normandie, early to bed is therule. True, Jules, the stout young native who combined the offices ofnight-clerk and lift attendant at that establishment, was on duty in thehall throughout the night, but few of the Normandie's patrons made useof his services.

　　Sally, entering shortly before twelve o'clock on the night of the day onwhich the dark man, the red-haired young man, and their friendScrymgeour had come into her life, found the little hall dim and silent.

　　Through the iron cage of the lift a single faint bulb glowed: another,over the desk in the far corner, illuminated the upper half of Jules,slumbering in a chair. Jules seemed to Sally to be on duty in somecapacity or other all the time. His work, like women's, was never done.

　　He was now restoring his tissues with a few winks of much-needed beautysleep. Sally, who had been to the Casino to hear the band and afterwardshad strolled on the moonlit promenade, had a guilty sense of intrusion.

　　As she stood there, reluctant to break in on Jules' rest--for hersympathetic heart, always at the disposal of the oppressed, had longached for this overworked peon--she was relieved to hear footsteps inthe street outside, followed by the opening of the front door. If Juleswould have had to wake up anyway, she felt her sense of responsibilitylessened. The door, having opened, closed again with a bang. Julesstirred, gurgled, blinked, and sat up, and Sally, turning, perceivedthat the new arrival was the red-haired young man.

　　"Oh, good evening," said Sally welcomingly.

　　The young man stopped, and shuffled uncomfortably. The morning'shappenings were obviously still green in his memory. He had either notceased blushing since their last meeting or he was celebrating theirreunion by beginning to blush again: for his face was a familiarscarlet.

　　"Er--good evening," he said, disentangling his feet, which, in theembarrassment of the moment, had somehow got coiled up together.

　　"Or bon soir, I suppose you would say," murmured Sally.

　　The young man acknowledged receipt of this thrust by dropping his hatand tripping over it as he stooped to pick it up.

　　Jules, meanwhile, who had been navigating in a sort of somnambulistictrance in the neighbourhood of the lift, now threw back the cage with arattle.

　　"It's a shame to have woken you up," said Sally, commiseratingly,stepping in.

　　Jules did not reply, for the excellent reason that he had not been wokenup. Constant practice enabled him to do this sort of work withoutbreaking his slumber. His brain, if you could call it that, was workingautomatically. He had shut up the gate with a clang and was tuggingsluggishly at the correct rope, so that the lift was going slowly upinstead of retiring down into the basement, but he was not awake.

　　Sally and the red-haired young man sat side by side on the small seat,watching their conductor's efforts. After the first spurt, conversationhad languished. Sally had nothing of immediate interest to say, and hercompanion seemed to be one of these strong, silent men you read about.

　　Only a slight snore from Jules broke the silence.

　　At the third floor Sally leaned forward and prodded Jules in the lowerribs. All through her stay at Roville, she had found in dealing with thenative population that actions spoke louder than words. If she wantedanything in a restaurant or at a shop, she pointed; and, when she wishedthe lift to stop, she prodded the man in charge. It was a system worth adozen French conversation books.

　　Jules brought the machine to a halt: and it was at this point that heshould have done the one thing connected with his professionalactivities which he did really well--the opening, to wit, of the ironcage. There are ways of doing this. Jules' was the right way. He wasaccustomed to do it with a flourish, and generally remarked "V'la!" in amodest but self-congratulatory voice as though he would have liked tosee another man who could have put through a job like that. Jules'

　　opinion was that he might not be much to look at, but that he could opena lift door.

　　To-night, however, it seemed as if even this not very exacting feat wasbeyond his powers. Instead of inserting his key in the lock, he stoodstaring in an attitude of frozen horror. He was a man who took mostthings in life pretty seriously, and whatever was the little difficultyjust now seemed to have broken him all up.

　　"There appears," said Sally, turning to her companion, "to be a hitch.

　　Would you mind asking what's the matter? I don't know any French myselfexcept 'oo la la!'"The young man, thus appealed to, nerved himself to the task. He eyedthe melancholy Jules doubtfully, and coughed in a strangled sort of way.

　　"Oh, esker... esker vous...""Don't weaken," said Sally. "I think you've got him going.""Esker vous... Pourquoi vous ne... I mean ne vous... that is to say,quel est le raison..."He broke off here, because at this point Jules began to explain. Heexplained very rapidly and at considerable length. The fact that neitherof his hearers understood a word of what he was saying appeared not tohave impressed itself upon him. Or, if he gave a thought to it, hedismissed the objection as trifling. He wanted to explain, and heexplained. Words rushed from him like water from a geyser. Sounds whichyou felt you would have been able to put a meaning to if he had detachedthem from the main body and repeated them slowly, went swirling down thestream and were lost for ever.

　　"Stop him!" said Sally firmly.

　　The red-haired young man looked as a native of Johnstown might havelooked on being requested to stop that city's celebrated flood.

　　"Stop him?""Yes. Blow a whistle or something."Out of the depths of the young man's memory there swam to the surface asingle word--a word which he must have heard somewhere or readsomewhere: a legacy, perhaps, from long-vanished school-days.

　　"Zut!" he barked, and instantaneously Jules turned himself off at themain. There was a moment of dazed silence, such as might occur in aboiler-factory if the works suddenly shut down.

　　"Quick! Now you've got him!" cried Sally. "Ask him what he's talkingabout--if he knows, which I doubt--and tell him to speak slowly. Thenwe shall get somewhere."The young man nodded intelligently. The advice was good.

　　"Lentement," he said. "Parlez lentement. Pas si--you know what Imean--pas si dashed vite!""Ah-a-ah!" cried Jules, catching the idea on the fly. "Lentement. Ah,oui, lentement."There followed a lengthy conversation which, while conveying nothing toSally, seemed intelligible to the red-haired linguist.

　　"The silly ass," he was able to announce some few minutes later, "hasmade a bloomer. Apparently he was half asleep when we came in, and heshoved us into the lift and slammed the door, forgetting that he hadleft the keys on the desk.""I see," said Sally. "So we're shut in?""I'm afraid so. I wish to goodness," said the young man, "I knew Frenchwell. I'd curse him with some vim and not a little animation, the chump!

　　I wonder what 'blighter' is in French," he said, meditating.

　　"It's the merest suggestion," said Sally, "but oughtn't we to dosomething?""What could we do?""Well, for one thing, we might all utter a loud yell. It would scaremost of the people in the hotel to death, but there might be a survivoror two who would come and investigate and let us out.""What a ripping idea!" said the young man, impressed.

　　"I'm glad you like it. Now tell him the main out-line, or he'll thinkwe've gone mad."The young man searched for words, and eventually found some whichexpressed his meaning lamely but well enough to cause Jules to nod in adepressed sort of way.

　　"Fine!" said Sally. "Now, all together at the word 'three.'

　　One--two--Oh, poor darling!" she broke off. "Look at him!"In the far corner of the lift, the emotional Jules was sobbing silentlyinto the bunch of cotton-waste which served him in the office of apocket-handkerchief. His broken-hearted gulps echoed hollowly down theshaft.

　　In these days of cheap books of instruction on every subject under thesun, we most of us know how to behave in the majority of life's littlecrises. We have only ourselves to blame if we are ignorant of what to dobefore the doctor comes, of how to make a dainty winter coat for babyout of father's last year's under-vest and of the best method of copingwith the cold mutton. But nobody yet has come forward with practicaladvice as to the correct method of behaviour to be adopted when alift-attendant starts crying. And Sally and her companion, as aconsequence, for a few moments merely stared at each other helplessly.

　　"Poor darling!" said Sally, finding speech. "Ask him what's thematter."The young man looked at her doubtfully.

　　"You know," he said, "I don't enjoy chatting with this blighter. I meanto say, it's a bit of an effort. I don't know why it is, but talkingFrench always makes me feel as if my nose were coming off. Couldn't wejust leave him to have his cry out by himself?""The idea!" said Sally. "Have you no heart? Are you one of those fiendsin human shape?"He turned reluctantly to Jules, and paused to overhaul his vocabulary.

　　"You ought to be thankful for this chance," said Sally. "It's the onlyreal way of learning French, and you're getting a lesson for nothing.

　　What did he say then?""Something about losing something, it seemed to me. I thought I caughtthe word perdu.""But that means a partridge, doesn't it? I'm sure I've seen it on themenus.""Would he talk about partridges at a time like this?""He might. The French are extraordinary people.""Well, I'll have another go at him. But he's a difficult chap to chatwith. If you give him the least encouragement, he sort of goes off likea rocket." He addressed another question to the sufferer, and listenedattentively to the voluble reply.

　　"Oh!" he said with sudden enlightenment. "Your job?" He turned toSally. "I got it that time," he said. "The trouble is, he says, that ifwe yell and rouse the house, we'll get out all right, but he will losehis job, because this is the second time this sort of thing hashappened, and they warned him last time that once more would mean thepush.""Then we mustn't dream of yelling," said Sally, decidedly. "It means apretty long wait, you know. As far as I can gather, there's just achance of somebody else coming in later, in which case he could let usout. But it's doubtful. He rather thinks that everybody has gone toroost.""Well, we must try it. I wouldn't think of losing the poor man his job.

　　Tell him to take the car down to the ground-floor, and then we'll justsit and amuse ourselves till something happens. We've lots to talkabout. We can tell each other the story of our lives."Jules, cheered by his victims' kindly forbearance, lowered the car tothe ground floor, where, after a glance of infinite longing at the keyson the distant desk, the sort of glance which Moses must have cast atthe Promised Land from the summit of Mount Pisgah, he sagged down in aheap and resumed his slumbers. Sally settled herself as comfortably aspossible in her corner.

　　"You'd better smoke," she said. "It will be something to do.""Thanks awfully.""And now," said Sally, "tell me why Scrymgeour fired you."Little by little, under the stimulating influence of this nocturnaladventure, the red-haired young man had lost that shy confusion whichhad rendered him so ill at ease when he had encountered Sally in thehall of the hotel; but at this question embarrassment gripped him oncemore. Another of those comprehensive blushes of his raced over his face,and he stammered.

　　"I say, I'm glad... I'm fearfully sorry about that, you know!""About Scrymgeour?""You know what I mean. I mean, about making such a most ghastly ass ofmyself this morning. I... I never dreamed you understood English.""Why, I didn't object. I thought you were very nice and complimentary.

　　Of course, I don't know how many girls you've seen in your life, but...""No, I say, don't! It makes me feel such a chump.""And I'm sorry about my mouth. It is wide. But I know you're afair-minded man and realize that it isn't my fault.""Don't rub it in," pleaded the young man. "As a matter of fact, if youwant to know, I think your mouth is absolutely perfect. I think," heproceeded, a little feverishly, "that you are the most indescribabletopper that ever...""You were going to tell me about Scrymgeour," said Sally.

　　The young man blinked as if he had collided with some hard object whilesleep-walking. Eloquence had carried him away.

　　"Scrymgeour?" he said. "Oh, that would bore you.""Don't be silly," said Sally reprovingly. "Can't you realize that we'repractically castaways on a desert island? There's nothing to do tillto-morrow but talk about ourselves. I want to hear all about you, andthen I'll tell you all about myself. If you feel diffident aboutstarting the revelations, I'll begin. Better start with names. Mine isSally Nicholas. What's yours?""Mine? Oh, ah, yes, I see what you mean.""I thought you would. I put it as clearly as I could. Well, what isit?""Kemp.""And the first name?""Well, as a matter of fact," said the young man, "I've always ratherhushed up my first name, because when I was christened they worked alow-down trick on me!""You can't shock me," said Sally, encouragingly. "My father's name wasEzekiel, and I've a brother who was christened Fillmore."Mr. Kemp brightened. "Well, mine isn't as bad as that... No, I don'tmean that," he broke off apologetically. "Both awfully jolly names, ofcourse...""Get on," said Sally.

　　"Well, they called me Lancelot. And, of course, the thing is that Idon't look like a Lancelot and never shall. My pals," he added in a morecheerful strain, "call me Ginger.""I don't blame them," said Sally.

　　"Perhaps you wouldn't mind thinking of me as Ginger?'' suggested theyoung man diffidently.

　　"Certainly.""That's awfully good of you.""Not at all."Jules stirred in his sleep and grunted. No other sound came to disturbthe stillness of the night.

　　"You were going to tell me about yourself?" said Mr. Lancelot (Ginger)Kemp.

　　"I'm going to tell you all about myself," said Sally, "not because Ithink it will interest you...""Oh, it will!""Not, I say, because I think it will interest you...""It will, really."Sally looked at him coldly.

　　"Is this a duet?" she inquired, "or have I the floor?""I'm awfully sorry.""Not, I repeat for the third time, because I think It will interest you,but because if I do you won't have any excuse for not telling me yourlife-history, and you wouldn't believe how inquisitive I am. Well, inthe first place, I live in America. I'm over here on a holiday. And it'sthe first real holiday I've had in three years--since I left home, infact." Sally paused. "I ran away from home," she said.

　　"Good egg!" said Ginger Kemp.

　　"I beg your pardon?""I mean, quite right. I bet you were quite right.""When I say home," Sally went on, "it was only a sort of imitation home,you know. One of those just-as-good homes which are never assatisfactory as the real kind. My father and mother both died a goodmany years ago. My brother and I were dumped down on the reluctantdoorstep of an uncle.""Uncles," said Ginger Kemp, feelingly, "are the devil. I've got an...

　　but I'm interrupting you.""My uncle was our trustee. He had control of all my brother's money andmine till I was twenty-one. My brother was to get his when he wastwenty-five. My poor father trusted him blindly, and what do you thinkhappened?""Good Lord! The blighter embezzled the lot?""No, not a cent. Wasn't it extraordinary! Have you ever heard of ablindly trusted uncle who was perfectly honest? Well, mine was. But thetrouble was that, while an excellent man to have looking after one'smoney, he wasn't a very lovable character. He was very hard. Hard! Hewas as hard as--well, nearly as hard as this seat. He hated poorFill...""Phil?""I broke it to you just now that my brother's name was Fillmore.""Oh, your brother. Oh, ah, yes.""He was always picking on poor Fill. And I'm bound to say that Fillrather laid himself out as what you might call a pickee. He was alwaysgetting into trouble. One day, about three years ago, he was expelledfrom Harvard, and my uncle vowed he would have nothing more to do withhim. So I said, if Fill left, I would leave. And, as this seemed to bemy uncle's idea of a large evening, no objection was raised, and Filland I departed. We went to New York, and there we've been ever since.

　　About six months' ago Fill passed the twenty-five mark and collected hismoney, and last month I marched past the given point and got mine. So itall ends happily, you see. Now tell me about yourself.""But, I say, you know, dash it, you've skipped a lot. I mean to say,you must have had an awful time in New York, didn't you? How on earthdid you get along?""Oh, we found work. My brother tried one or two things, and finallybecame an assistant stage-manager with some theatre people. The onlything I could do, having been raised in enervating luxury, was ballroomdancing, so I ball-room danced. I got a job at a place in Broadwaycalled 'The Flower Garden' as what is humorously called an'instructress,' as if anybody could 'instruct' the men who came there.

　　One was lucky if one saved one's life and wasn't quashed to death.""How perfectly foul!""Oh, I don't know. It was rather fun for a while. Still," said Sally,meditatively, "I'm not saying I could have held out much longer: I wasbeginning to give. I suppose I've been trampled underfoot by more fatmen than any other girl of my age in America. I don't know why it was,but every man who came in who was a bit overweight seemed to make for meby instinct. That's why I like to sit on the sands here and watch theseFrenchmen bathing. It's just heavenly to lie back and watch a twohundred and fifty pound man, coming along and feel that he isn't goingto dance with me.""But, I say! How absolutely rotten it must have been for you!""Well, I'll tell you one thing. It's going to make me a verydomesticated wife one of these days. You won't find me gadding about ingilded jazz-palaces! For me, a little place in the country somewhere,with my knitting and an Elsie book, and bed at half-past nine! And nowtell me the story of your life. And make it long because I'm perfectlycertain there's going to be no relief-expedition. I'm sure the lastdweller under this roof came in years ago. We shall be here tillmorning.""I really think we had better shout, you know.""And lose Jules his job? Never!""Well, of course, I'm sorry for poor old Jules' troubles, but I hate tothink of you having to...""Now get on with the story," said Sally.

　　Ginger Kemp exhibited some of the symptoms of a young bridegroom calledupon at a wedding-breakfast to respond to the toast. He moved his feetrestlessly and twisted his fingers.

　　"I hate talking about myself, you know," he said.

　　"So I supposed," said Sally. "That's why I gave you my autobiographyfirst, to give you no chance of backing out. Don't be such a shrinkingviolet. We're all shipwrecked mariners here. I am intensely interestedin your narrative. And, even if I wasn't, I'd much rather listen to itthan to Jules' snoring.""He is snoring a bit, what? Does it annoy you? Shall I stir him?""You seem to have an extraordinary brutal streak in your nature," saidSally. "You appear to think of nothing else but schemes for harassingpoor Jules. Leave him alone for a second, and start telling me aboutyourself.""Where shall I start?""Well, not with your childhood, I think. We'll skip that.""Well..." Ginger Kemp knitted his brow, searching for a dramaticopening. "Well, I'm more or less what you might call an orphan, likeyou. I mean to say, both my people are dead and all that sort of thing.""Thanks for explaining. That has made it quite clear.""I can't remember my mother. My father died when I was in my last yearat Cambridge. I'd been having a most awfully good time at the 'varsity,'"said Ginger, warming to his theme. "Not thick, you know, but good. I'dgot my rugger and boxing blues and I'd just been picked for scrum-halffor England against the North in the first trial match, and betweenourselves it really did look as if I was more or less of a snip for myinternational."Sally gazed at him wide eyed.

　　"Is that good or bad?" she asked.

　　"Eh?""Are you reciting a catalogue of your crimes, or do you expect me to getup and cheer? What is a rugger blue, to start with?""Well, it's... it's a rugger blue, you know.""Oh, I see," said Sally. "You mean a rugger blue.""I mean to say, I played rugger--footer--that's to say, football--Rugbyfootball--for Cambridge, against Oxford. I was scrum-half.""And what is a scrum-half?" asked Sally, patiently. "Yes, I know you'regoing to say it's a scrum-half, but can't you make it easier?""The scrum-half," said Ginger, "is the half who works the scrum. Heslings the pill out to the fly-half, who starts the three-quartersgoing. I don't know if you understand?""I don't.""It's dashed hard to explain," said Ginger Kemp, unhappily. "I mean, Idon't think I've ever met anyone before who didn't know what ascrum-half was.""Well, I can see that it has something to do with football, so we'llleave it at that. I suppose it's something like our quarter-back. Andwhat's an international?""It's called getting your international when you play for England, youknow. England plays Wales, France, Ireland, and Scotland. If it hadn'tbeen for the smash, I think I should have played for England againstWales.""I see at last. What you're trying to tell me is that you were verygood at football."Ginger Kemp blushed warmly.

　　"Oh, I don't say that. England was pretty short of scrum-halves thatyear.""What a horrible thing to happen to a country! Still, you were likely tobe picked on the All-England team when the smash came? What was thesmash?""Well, it turned out that the poor old pater hadn't left a penny. Inever understood the process exactly, but I'd always supposed that wewere pretty well off; and then it turned out that I hadn't anything atall. I'm bound to say it was a bit of a jar. I had to come down fromCambridge and go to work in my uncle's office. Of course, I made anabsolute hash of it.""Why, of course?""Well, I'm not a very clever sort of chap, you see. I somehow didn'tseem able to grasp the workings. After about a year, my uncle, getting abit fed-up, hoofed me out and got me a mastership at a school, and Imade a hash of that. He got me one or two other jobs, and I made a hashof those.""You certainly do seem to be one of our most prominent young hashers!"gasped Sally.

　　"I am," said Ginger, modestly.

　　There was a silence.

　　"And what about Scrymgeour?" Sally asked.

　　"That was the last of the jobs," said Ginger. "Scrymgeour is a pompousold ass who think's he's going to be Prime Minister some day. He's a bigbug at the Bar and has just got into Parliament. My cousin used to devilfor him. That's how I got mixed up with the blighter.""Your cousin used... ? I wish you would talk English.""That was my cousin who was with me on the beach this morning.""And what did you say he used to do for Mr. Scrymgeour?""Oh, it's called devilling. My cousin's at the Bar, too--one of ourrising nibs, as a matter of fact...""I thought he was a lawyer of some kind.""He's got a long way beyond it now, but when he started he used to devilfor Scrymgeour--assist him, don't you know. His name's Carmyle, youknow. Perhaps you've heard of him? He's rather a prominent johnny in hisway. Bruce Carmyle, you know.""I haven't.""Well, he got me this job of secretary to Scrymgeour.""And why did Mr. Scrymgeour fire you?"Ginger Kemp's face darkened. He frowned. Sally, watching him, feltthat she had been right when she had guessed that he had a temper. Sheliked him none the worse for it. Mild men did not appeal to her.

　　"I don't know if you're fond of dogs?" said Ginger.

　　"I used to be before this morning," said Sally. "And I suppose I shallbe again in time. For the moment I've had what you might call rather asurfeit of dogs. But aren't you straying from the point? I asked you whyMr. Scrymgeour dismissed you.""I'm telling you.""I'm glad of that. I didn't know.""The old brute," said Ginger, frowning again, "has a dog. A very jollylittle spaniel. Great pal of mine. And Scrymgeour is the sort of foolwho oughtn't to be allowed to own a dog. He's one of those asses whoisn't fit to own a dog. As a matter of fact, of all the blighted,pompous, bullying, shrivelled-souled old devils...""One moment," said Sally. "I'm getting an impression that you don'tlike Mr. Scrymgeour. Am I right?""Yes!""I thought so. Womanly intuition! Go on.""He used to insist on the poor animal doing tricks. I hate seeing a dogdo tricks. Dogs loathe it, you know. They're frightfully sensitive.

　　Well, Scrymgeour used to make this spaniel of his do tricks--fool-thingsthat no self-respecting dogs would do: and eventually poor old Billy gotfed up and jibbed. He was too polite to bite, but he sort of shook hishead and crawled under a chair. You'd have thought anyone would havelet it go at that, but would old Scrymgeour? Not a bit of it! Of all thepoisonous...""Yes, I know. Go on.""Well, the thing ended in the blighter hauling him out from under thechair and getting more and more shirty, until finally he laid into himwith a stick. That is to say," said Ginger, coldly accurate, "he startedlaying into him with a stick." He brooded for a moment with knit brows.

　　"A spaniel, mind you! Can you imagine anyone beating a spaniel? It'slike hitting a little girl. Well, he's a fairly oldish man, you know,and that hampered me a bit: but I got hold of the stick and broke itinto about eleven pieces, and by great good luck it was a stick hehappened to value rather highly. It had a gold knob and had beenpresented to him by his constituents or something. I minced it up agoodish bit, and then I told him a fair amount about himself. And then--well, after that he shot me out, and I came here."Sally did not speak for a moment.

　　"You were quite right," she said at last, in a sober voice that hadnothing in it of her customary flippancy. She paused again. "And whatare you going to do now?" she said.

　　"I don't know.""You'll get something?""Oh, yes, I shall get something, I suppose. The family will be prettysick, of course.""For goodness' sake! Why do you bother about the family?" Sally burstout. She could not reconcile this young man's flabby dependence on hisfamily with the enterprise and vigour which he had shown in his dealingswith the unspeakable Scrymgeour. Of course, he had been brought up tolook on himself as a rich man's son and appeared to have drifted as suchyoung men are wont to do; but even so... "The whole trouble with you,"she said, embarking on a subject on which she held strong views, "isthat..."Her harangue was interrupted by what--at the Normandie, at one o'clockin the morning--practically amounted to a miracle. The front door of thehotel opened, and there entered a young man in evening dress. Suchpersons were sufficiently rare at the Normandie, which cateredprincipally for the staid and middle-aged, and this youth's presence wasdue, if one must pause to explain it, to the fact that, in the middle ofhis stay at Roville, a disastrous evening at the Casino had sodiminished his funds that he had been obliged to make a hurried shiftfrom the Hotel Splendide to the humbler Normandie. His late appearanceto-night was caused by the fact that he had been attending a dance atthe Splendide, principally in the hope of finding there somekind-hearted friend of his prosperity from whom he might borrow.

　　A rapid-fire dialogue having taken place between Jules and the newcomer,the keys were handed through the cage, the door opened and the lift wasset once more in motion. And a few minutes later, Sally, suddenly awareof an overpowering sleepiness, had switched off her light and jumpedinto bed. Her last waking thought was a regret that she had not beenable to speak at length to Mr. Ginger Kemp on the subject of enterprise,and resolve that the address should be delivered at the earliestopportunity.