Chapter 1 Sally Gives A Party
　　Sally looked contentedly down the long table. She felt happy at last.
　　Everybody was talking and laughing now, and her party, rallying after anuncertain start, was plainly the success she had hoped it would be. Thefirst atmosphere of uncomfortable restraint, caused, she was only toowell aware, by her brother Fillmore's white evening waistcoat, had wornoff; and the male and female patrons of Mrs. Meecher's selectboarding-house (transient and residential) were themselves again.
　　At her end of the table the conversation had turned once more to thegreat vital topic of Sally's legacy and what she ought to do with it.
　　The next best thing to having money of one's own, is to dictate thespending of somebody else's, and Sally's guests were finding a good dealof satisfaction in arranging a Budget for her. Rumour having put the sumat their disposal at a high figure, their suggestions had certainspaciousness.
　　"Let me tell you," said Augustus Bartlett, briskly, "what I'd do, if Iwere you." Augustus Bartlett, who occupied an intensely subordinateposition in the firm of Kahn, Morris and Brown, the Wall Street brokers,always affected a brisk, incisive style of speech, as befitted a man inclose touch with the great ones of Finance. "I'd sink a couple ofhundred thousand in some good, safe bond-issue--we've just put one outwhich you would do well to consider--and play about with the rest. WhenI say play about, I mean have a flutter in anything good that crops up.
　　Multiple Steel's worth looking at. They tell me it'll be up to a hundredand fifty before next Saturday."Elsa Doland, the pretty girl with the big eyes who sat on Mr. Bartlett'sleft, had other views.
　　"Buy a theatre. Sally, and put on good stuff.""And lose every bean you've got," said a mild young man, with a deepvoice across the table. "If I had a few hundred thousand," said the mildyoung man, "I'd put every cent of it on Benny Whistler for theheavyweight championship. I've private information that Battling Tukehas been got at and means to lie down in the seventh...""Say, listen," interrupted another voice, "lemme tell you what I'd dowith four hundred thousand...""If I had four hundred thousand," said Elsa Doland, "I know what wouldbe the first thing I'd do.""What's that?" asked Sally.
　　"Pay my bill for last week, due this morning."Sally got up quickly, and flitting down the table, put her arm round herfriend's shoulder and whispered in her ear:
　　"Elsa darling, are you really broke? If you are, you know, I'll..."Elsa Doland laughed.
　　"You're an angel, Sally. There's no one like you. You'd give your lastcent to anyone. Of course I'm not broke. I've just come back from theroad, and I've saved a fortune. I only said that to draw you."Sally returned to her seat, relieved, and found that the company had nowdivided itself into two schools of thought. The conservative and prudentelement, led by Augustus Bartlett, had definitely decided on threehundred thousand in Liberty Bonds and the rest in some safe real estate;while the smaller, more sporting section, impressed by the mild youngman's inside information, had already placed Sally's money on BennyWhistler, doling it out cautiously in small sums so as not to spoil themarket. And so solid, it seemed, was Mr. Tuke's reputation with those inthe inner circle of knowledge that the mild young man was confidentthat, if you went about the matter cannily and without precipitation,three to one might be obtained. It seemed to Sally that the time hadcome to correct certain misapprehensions.
　　"I don't know where you get your figures," she said, "but I'm afraidthey're wrong. I've just twenty-five thousand dollars."The statement had a chilling effect. To these jugglers withhalf-millions the amount mentioned seemed for the moment almost toosmall to bother about. It was the sort of sum which they had beenmentally setting aside for the heiress's car fare. Then they managed toadjust their minds to it. After all, one could do something even with apittance like twenty-five thousand.
　　"If I'd twenty-five thousand," said Augustus Bartlett, the first torally from the shock, "I'd buy Amalgamated...""If I had twenty-five thousand..." began Elsa Doland.
　　"If I'd had twenty-five thousand in the year nineteen hundred," observeda gloomy-looking man with spectacles, "I could have started a revolutionin Paraguay."He brooded sombrely on what might have been.
　　"Well, I'll tell you exactly what I'm going to do," said Sally. "I'mgoing to start with a trip to Europe... France, specially. I've heardFrance well spoken of--as soon as I can get my passport; and after I'veloafed there for a few weeks, I'm coming back to look about and findsome nice cosy little business which will let me put money into it andkeep me in luxury. Are there any complaints?""Even a couple of thousand on Benny Whistler..." said the mild young man.
　　"I don't want your Benny Whistler," said Sally. "I wouldn't have him ifyou gave him to me. If I want to lose money, I'll go to Monte Carlo anddo it properly.""Monte Carlo," said the gloomy man, brightening up at the magic name.
　　"I was in Monte Carlo in the year '97, and if I'd had another fiftydollars... just fifty... I'd have..."At the far end of the table there was a stir, a cough, and the gratingof a chair on the floor; and slowly, with that easy grace which actorsof the old school learned in the days when acting was acting, Mr.
　　Maxwell Faucitt, the boarding-house's oldest inhabitant, rose to hisfeet.
　　"Ladies," said Mr. Faucitt, bowing courteously, "and..." ceasing to bowand casting from beneath his white and venerable eyebrows a quellingglance at certain male members of the boarding-house's younger set whowere showing a disposition towards restiveness, "... gentlemen. I feelthat I cannot allow this occasion to pass without saying a few words."His audience did not seem surprised. It was possible that life, alwaysprolific of incident in a great city like New York, might some dayproduce an occasion which Mr. Faucitt would feel that he could allow topass without saying a few words; but nothing of the sort had happened asyet, and they had given up hope. Right from the start of the meal theyhad felt that it would be optimism run mad to expect the old gentlemanto abstain from speech on the night of Sally Nicholas' farewell dinnerparty; and partly because they had braced themselves to it, butprincipally because Miss Nicholas' hospitality had left them with agenial feeling of repletion, they settled themselves to listen withsomething resembling equanimity. A movement on the part of theMarvellous Murphys--new arrivals, who had been playing the Bushwickwith their equilibristic act during the preceding week--to form a partyof the extreme left and heckle the speaker, broke down under a cold lookfrom their hostess. Brief though their acquaintance had been, both ofthese lissom young gentlemen admired Sally immensely.
　　And it should be set on record that this admiration of theirs was notmisplaced. He would have been hard to please who had not been attractedby Sally. She was a small, trim, wisp of a girl with the tiniest handsand feet, the friendliest of smiles, and a dimple that came and went inthe curve of her rounded chin. Her eyes, which disappeared when shelaughed, which was often, were a bright hazel; her hair a soft mass ofbrown. She had, moreover, a manner, an air of distinction lacking in themajority of Mrs. Meecher's guests. And she carried youth like a banner.
　　In approving of Sally, the Marvellous Murphys had been guilty of nolapse from their high critical standard.
　　"I have been asked," proceeded Mr. Faucitt, "though I am aware thatthere are others here far worthier of such a task--Brutuses comparedwith whom I, like Marc Antony, am no orator--I have been asked topropose the health...""Who asked you?" It was the smaller of the Marvellous Murphys who spoke.
　　He was an unpleasant youth, snub-nosed and spotty. Still, he couldbalance himself with one hand on an inverted ginger-ale bottle whilerevolving a barrel on the soles of his feet. There is good in all of us.
　　"I have been asked," repeated Mr. Faucitt, ignoring the unmannerlyinterruption, which, indeed, he would have found it hard to answer, "topropose the health of our charming hostess (applause), coupled withthe name of her brother, our old friend Fillmore Nicholas."The gentleman referred to, who sat at the speaker's end of the table,acknowledged the tribute with a brief nod of the head. It was a nod ofcondescension; the nod of one who, conscious of being hedged about bysocial inferiors, nevertheless does his best to be not unkindly. AndSally, seeing it, debated in her mind for an instant the advisability ofthrowing an orange at her brother. There was one lying ready to herhand, and his glistening shirt-front offered an admirable mark; but sherestrained herself. After all, if a hostess yields to her primitiveimpulses, what happens? Chaos. She had just frowned down the exuberanceof the rebellious Murphys, and she felt that if, even with the highestmotives, she began throwing fruit, her influence for good in thatquarter would be weakened.
　　She leaned back with a sigh. The temptation had been hard to resist. Ademocratic girl, pomposity was a quality which she thoroughly disliked;and though she loved him, she could not disguise from herself that, eversince affluence had descended upon him some months ago, her brotherFillmore had become insufferably pompous. If there are any young menwhom inherited wealth improves, Fillmore Nicholas was not one of them.
　　He seemed to regard himself nowadays as a sort of Man of Destiny. Toconverse with him was for the ordinary human being like being receivedin audience by some more than stand-offish monarch. It had taken Sallyover an hour to persuade him to leave his apartment on Riverside Driveand revisit the boarding-house for this special occasion; and, when hehad come, he had entered wearing such faultless evening dress that hehad made the rest of the party look like a gathering of tramp-cyclists.
　　His white waistcoat alone was a silent reproach to honest poverty, andhad caused an awkward constraint right through the soup and fishcourses. Most of those present had known Fillmore Nicholas as animpecunious young man who could make a tweed suit last longer than onewould have believed possible; they had called him "Fill" and helped himin more than usually lean times with small loans: but to-night they hadeyed the waistcoat dumbly and shrank back abashed.
　　"Speaking," said Mr. Faucitt, "as an Englishman--for though I have longsince taken out what are technically known as my 'papers' it was as asubject of the island kingdom that I first visited this great country--Imay say that the two factors in American life which have always made theprofoundest impression upon me have been the lavishness of Americanhospitality and the charm of the American girl. To-night we have beenprivileged to witness the American girl in the capacity of hostess, andI think I am right in saying, in asseverating, in committing myself tothe statement that his has been a night which none of us present herewill ever forget. Miss Nicholas has given us, ladies and gentlemen, abanquet. I repeat, a banquet. There has been alcoholic refreshment. I donot know where it came from: I do not ask how it was procured, but wehave had it. Miss Nicholas..."Mr. Faucitt paused to puff at his cigar. Sally's brother Fillmoresuppressed a yawn and glanced at his watch. Sally continued to leanforward raptly. She knew how happy it made the old gentleman to delivera formal speech; and though she wished the subject had been different,she was prepared to listen indefinitely.
　　"Miss Nicholas," resumed Mr. Faucitt, lowering his cigar, "... But why,"he demanded abruptly, "do I call her Miss Nicholas?""Because it's her name," hazarded the taller Murphy.
　　Mr. Faucitt eyed him with disfavour. He disapproved of the marvellousbrethren on general grounds because, himself a resident of yearsstanding, he considered that these transients from the vaudeville stagelowered the tone of the boarding-house; but particularly because the onewho had just spoken had, on his first evening in the place, addressedhim as "grandpa.""Yes, sir," he said severely, "it is her name. But she has anothername, sweeter to those who love her, those who worship her, those whohave watched her with the eye of sedulous affection through the threeyears she has spent beneath this roof, though that name," said Mr.
　　Faucitt, lowering the tone of his address and descending to what mightalmost be termed personalities, "may not be familiar to a couple of dudacrobats who have only been in the place a week-end, thank heaven, andare off to-morrow to infest some other city. That name," said Mr.
　　Faucitt, soaring once more to a loftier plane, "is Sally. Our Sally. Forthree years our Sally has flitted about this establishment like--Ichoose the simile advisedly--like a ray of sunshine. For three years shehas made life for us a brighter, sweeter thing. And now a sudden accessof worldly wealth, happily synchronizing with her twenty-firstbirthday, is to remove her from our midst. From our midst, ladies andgentlemen, but not from our hearts. And I think I may venture to hope,to prognosticate, that, whatever lofty sphere she may adorn in thefuture, to whatever heights in the social world she may soar, she willstill continue to hold a corner in her own golden heart for the comradesof her Bohemian days. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you our hostess, MissSally Nicholas, coupled with the name of our old friend, her brotherFillmore."Sally, watching her brother heave himself to his feet as the cheers diedaway, felt her heart beat a little faster with anticipation. Fillmorewas a fluent young man, once a power in his college debating society,and it was for that reason that she had insisted on his coming heretonight.
　　She had guessed that Mr. Faucitt, the old dear, would say all sorts ofdelightful things about her, and she had mistrusted her ability to makea fitting reply. And it was imperative that a fitting reply shouldproceed from someone. She knew Mr. Faucitt so well. He looked on theseoccasions rather in the light of scenes from some play; and, sustaininghis own part in them with such polished grace, was certain to be painedby anything in the nature of an anti-climax after he should have ceasedto take the stage. Eloquent himself, he must be answered with eloquence,or his whole evening would be spoiled.
　　Fillmore Nicholas smoothed a wrinkle out of his white waistcoat; andhaving rested one podgy hand on the table-cloth and the thumb of theother in his pocket, glanced down the table with eyes so haughtilydrooping that Sally's fingers closed automatically about her orange, asshe wondered whether even now it might not be a good thing...
　　It seems to be one of Nature's laws that the most attractive girlsshould have the least attractive brothers. Fillmore Nicholas had notworn well. At the age of seven he had been an extraordinarily beautifulchild, but after that he had gone all to pieces; and now, at the age oftwenty-five, it would be idle to deny that he was something of a mess.
　　For the three years preceding his twenty-fifth birthday, restrictedmeans and hard work had kept his figure in check; but with money therehad come an ever-increasing sleekness. He looked as if he fed too oftenand too well.
　　All this, however, Sally was prepared to forgive him, if he would onlymake a good speech. She could see Mr. Faucitt leaning back in his chair,all courteous attention. Rolling periods were meat and drink to the oldgentleman.
　　Fillmore spoke.
　　"I'm sure," said Fillmore, "you don't want a speech... Very good ofyou to drink our health. Thank you."He sat down.
　　The effect of these few simple words on the company was marked, but notin every case identical. To the majority the emotion which they broughtwas one of unmixed relief. There had been something so menacing, so easyand practised, in Fillmore's attitude as he had stood there that thegloomier-minded had given him at least twenty minutes, and even theoptimists had reckoned that they would be lucky if they got off withten. As far as the bulk of the guests were concerned, there was nogrumbling. Fillmore's, to their thinking, had been the idealafter-dinner speech.
　　Far different was it with Mr. Maxwell Faucitt. The poor old man waswearing such an expression of surprise and dismay as he might have wornhad somebody unexpectedly pulled the chair from under him. He wasfeeling the sick shock which comes to those who tread on a non-existentlast stair. And Sally, catching sight of his face, uttered a sharpwordless exclamation as if she had seen a child fall down and hurtitself in the street. The next moment she had run round the table andwas standing behind him with her arms round his neck. She spoke acrosshim with a sob in her voice.
　　"My brother," she stammered, directing a malevolent look at theimmaculate Fillmore, who, avoiding her gaze, glanced down his nose andsmoothed another wrinkle out of his waistcoat, "has not saidquite--quite all I hoped he was going to say. I can't make a speech,but..." Sally gulped, "... but, I love you all and of course I shallnever forget you, and... and..."Here Sally kissed Mr. Faucitt and burst into tears.
　　"There, there," said Mr. Faucitt, soothingly. The kindest critic couldnot have claimed that Sally had been eloquent: nevertheless Mr. MaxwellFaucitt was conscious of no sense of anti-climax.
　　Sally had just finished telling her brother Fillmore what a pig he was.
　　The lecture had taken place in the street outside the boarding-houseimmediately on the conclusion of the festivities, when Fillmore, who hadfurtively collected his hat and overcoat, had stolen forth into thenight, had been overtaken and brought to bay by his justly indignantsister. Her remarks, punctuated at intervals by bleating sounds from theaccused, had lasted some ten minutes.
　　As she paused for breath, Fillmore seemed to expand, like an indiarubberball which has been sat on. Dignified as he was to the world, he hadnever been able to prevent himself being intimidated by Sally when inone of these moods of hers. He regretted this, for it hurt hisself-esteem, but he did not see how the fact could be altered. Sally hadalways been like that. Even the uncle, who after the deaths of theirparents had become their guardian, had never, though a grim man, beenable to cope successfully with Sally. In that last hectic scene threeyears ago, which had ended in their going out into the world, togetherlike a second Adam and Eve, the verbal victory had been hers. And it hadbeen Sally who had achieved triumph in the one battle which Mrs.
　　Meecher, apparently as a matter of duty, always brought about with eachof her patrons in the first week of their stay. A sweet-tempered girl,Sally, like most women of a generous spirit, had cyclonicpotentialities.
　　As she seemed to have said her say, Fillmore kept on expanding till hehad reached the normal, when he ventured upon a speech for the defence.
　　"What have I done?" demanded Fillmore plaintively.
　　"Do you want to hear all over again?""No, no," said Fillmore hastily. "But, listen. Sally, you don'tunderstand my position. You don't seem to realize that all that sort ofthing, all that boarding-house stuff, is a thing of the past. One's gotbeyond it. One wants to drop it. One wants to forget it, darn it! Befair. Look at it from my viewpoint. I'm going to be a big man ...""You're going to be a fat man," said Sally, coldly.
　　Fillmore refrained from discussing the point. He was sensitive.
　　"I'm going to do big things," he substituted. "I've got a deal on atthis very moment which... well, I can't tell you about it, but it'sgoing to be big. Well, what I'm driving at, is about all this sort ofthing"--he indicated the lighted front of Mrs. Meecher's home-from-homewith a wide gesture--"is that it's over. Finished and done with. Thesepeople were all very well when...""... when you'd lost your week's salary at poker and wanted to borrow afew dollars for the rent.""I always paid them back," protested Fillmore, defensively.
　　"I did.""Well, we did," said Fillmore, accepting the amendment with the air of aman who has no time for chopping straws. "Anyway, what I mean is, Idon't see why, just because one has known people at a certain period inone's life when one was practically down and out, one should have themround one's neck for ever. One can't prevent people forming anI-knew-him-when club, but, darn it, one needn't attend the meetings.""One's friends...""Oh, friends," said Fillmore. "That's just where all this makes me sotired. One's in a position where all these people are entitled to callthemselves one's friends, simply because father put it in his will thatI wasn't to get the money till I was twenty-five, instead of letting mehave it at twenty-one like anybody else. I wonder where I should havebeen by now if I could have got that money when I was twenty-one.""In the poor-house, probably," said Sally.
　　Fillmore was wounded.
　　"Ah! you don't believe in me," he sighed.
　　"Oh, you would be all right if you had one thing," said Sally.
　　Fillmore passed his qualities in swift review before his mental eye.
　　Brains? Dash? Spaciousness? Initiative? All present and correct. Hewondered where Sally imagined the hiatus to exist.
　　"One thing?" he said. "What's that?""A nurse."Fillmore's sense of injury deepened. He supposed that this was alwaysthe way, that those nearest to a man never believed in his ability tillhe had proved it so masterfully that it no longer required theassistance of faith. Still, it was trying; and there was not muchconsolation to be derived from the thought that Napoleon had had to gothrough this sort of thing in his day. "I shall find my place in theworld," he said sulkily.
　　"Oh, you'll find your place all right," said Sally. "And I'll comeround and bring you jelly and read to you on the days when visitors areallowed... Oh, hullo."The last remark was addressed to a young man who had been swingingbriskly along the sidewalk from the direction of Broadway and who now,coming abreast of them, stopped.
　　"Good evening, Mr. Foster.""Good evening. Miss Nicholas.""You don't know my brother, do you?""I don't believe I do.""He left the underworld before you came to it," said Sally. "Youwouldn't think it to look at him, but he was once a prune-eater amongthe proletariat, even as you and I. Mrs. Meecher looks on him as a son."The two men shook hands. Fillmore was not short, but Gerald Foster withhis lean, well-built figure seemed to tower over him. He was anEnglishman, a man in the middle twenties, clean-shaven, keen-eyed, andvery good to look at. Fillmore, who had recently been going in for oneof those sum-up-your-fellow-man-at-a-glance courses, the better to fithimself for his career of greatness, was rather impressed. It seemed tohim that this Mr. Foster, like himself, was one of those who Get There.
　　If you are that kind yourself, you get into the knack of recognizing theothers. It is a sort of gift.
　　There was a few moments of desultory conversation, of the kind thatusually follows an introduction, and then Fillmore, by no means sorry toget the chance, took advantage of the coming of this new arrival toremove himself. He had not enjoyed his chat with Sally, and it seemedprobable that he would enjoy a continuation of it even less. He was gladthat Mr. Foster had happened along at this particular juncture. Excusinghimself briefly, he hurried off down the street.
　　Sally stood for a minute, watching him till he had disappeared roundthe corner. She had a slightly regretful feeling that, now it was toolate, she would think of a whole lot more good things which it wouldhave been agreeable to say to him. And it had become obvious to her thatFillmore was not getting nearly enough of that kind of thing said to himnowadays. Then she dismissed him from her mind and turning to GeraldFoster, slipped her arm through his.
　　"Well, Jerry, darling," she said. "What a shame you couldn't come tothe party. Tell me all about everything."It was exactly two months since Sally had become engaged to GeraldFoster; but so rigorously had they kept the secret that nobody at Mrs.
　　Meecher's so much as suspected it. To Sally, who all her life had hatedconcealing things, secrecy of any kind was objectionable: but in thismatter Gerald had shown an odd streak almost of furtiveness in hischaracter. An announced engagement complicated life. People fussed aboutyou and bothered you. People either watched you or avoided you. Suchwere his arguments, and Sally, who would have glossed over and foundexcuses for a disposition on his part towards homicide or arson, putthem down to artistic sensitiveness. There is nobody so sensitive asyour artist, particularly if he be unsuccessful: and when an artist hasso little success that he cannot afford to make a home for the woman heloves, his sensitiveness presumably becomes great indeed. Puttingherself in his place, Sally could see that a protracted engagement,known by everybody, would be a standing advertisement of Gerald'sfailure to make good: and she acquiesced in the policy of secrecy,hoping that it would not last long. It seemed absurd to think of Geraldas an unsuccessful man. He had in him, as the recent Fillmore hadperceived, something dynamic. He was one of those men of whom one couldpredict that they would succeed very suddenly and rapidly--overnight, asit were.
　　"The party," said Sally, "went off splendidly." They had passed theboarding-house door, and were walking slowly down the street. "Everybodyenjoyed themselves, I think, even though Fillmore did his best to spoilthings by coming looking like an advertisement of What The Smart MenWill Wear This Season. You didn't see his waistcoat just now. He hadcovered it up. Conscience, I suppose. It was white and bulgy andgleaming and full up of pearl buttons and everything. I saw AugustusBartlett curl up like a burnt feather when he caught sight of it. Still,time seemed to heal the wound, and everybody relaxed after a bit. Mr.
　　Faucitt made a speech and I made a speech and cried, and ...oh, it was allvery festive. It only needed you.""I wish I could have come. I had to go to that dinner, though.
　　Sally..." Gerald paused, and Sally saw that he was electric withsuppressed excitement. "Sally, the play's going to be put on!"Sally gave a little gasp. She had lived this moment in anticipation forweeks. She had always known that sooner or later this would happen. Shehad read his plays over and over again, and was convinced that they werewonderful. Of course, hers was a biased view, but then Elsa Doland alsoadmired them; and Elsa's opinion was one that carried weight. Elsa wasanother of those people who were bound to succeed suddenly. Even old Mr.
　　Faucitt, who was a stern judge of acting and rather inclined to considerthat nowadays there was no such thing, believed that she was a girl witha future who would do something big directly she got her chance.
　　"Jerry!" She gave his arm a hug. "How simply terrific! Then Goble andKohn have changed their minds after all and want it? I knew they would."A slight cloud seemed to dim the sunniness of the author's mood.
　　"No, not that one," he said reluctantly. "No hope there, I'm afraid. Isaw Goble this morning about that, and he said it didn't add up right.
　　The one that's going to be put on is 'The Primrose Way.' You remember?
　　It's got a big part for a girl in it.""Of course! The one Elsa liked so much. Well, that's just as good.
　　Who's going to do it? I thought you hadn't sent it out again.""Well, it happens..." Gerald hesitated once more. "It seems that thisman I was dining with to-night--a man named Cracknell...""Cracknell? Not the Cracknell?""The Cracknell?""The one people are always talking about. The man they call theMillionaire Kid.""Yes. Why, do you know him?""He was at Harvard with Fillmore. I never saw him, but he must berather a painful person.""Oh, he's all right. Not much brains, of course, but--well, he's allright. And, anyway, he wants to put the play on.""Well, that's splendid," said Sally: but she could not get the rightring of enthusiasm into her voice. She had had ideals for Gerald. Shehad dreamed of him invading Broadway triumphantly under the banner ofone of the big managers whose name carried a prestige, and there seemedsomething unworthy in this association with a man whose chief claim toeminence lay in the fact that he was credited by metropolitan gossipwith possessing the largest private stock of alcohol in existence.
　　"I thought you would be pleased," said Gerald.
　　"Oh, I am," said Sally.
　　With the buoyant optimism which never deserted her for long, she hadalready begun to cast off her momentary depression. After all, did itmatter who financed a play so long as it obtained a production? Amanager was simply a piece of machinery for paying the bills; and if hehad money for that purpose, why demand asceticism and the finersensibilities from him? The real thing that mattered was the question ofwho was going to play the leading part, that deftly drawn characterwhich had so excited the admiration of Elsa Doland. She soughtinformation on this point.
　　"Who will play Ruth?" she asked. "You must have somebody wonderful.
　　It needs a tremendously clever woman. Did Mr. Cracknell say anythingabout that?""Oh, yes, we discussed that, of course.""Well?""Well, it seems..." Again Sally noticed that odd, almost stealthyembarrassment. Gerald appeared unable to begin a sentence to-nightwithout feeling his way into it like a man creeping cautiously down adark alley. She noticed it the more because it was so different from hisusual direct method. Gerald, as a rule, was not one of those whoapologize for themselves. He was forthright and masterful and inclinedto talk to her from a height. To-night he seemed different.
　　He broke off, was silent for a moment, and began again with a question.
　　"Do you know Mabel Hobson?""Mabel Hobson? I've seen her in the 'Follies,' of course."Sally started. A suspicion had stung her, so monstrous that itsabsurdity became manifest the moment it had formed. And yet was itabsurd? Most Broadway gossip filtered eventually into theboarding-house, chiefly through the medium of that seasoned sport, themild young man who thought so highly of the redoubtable Benny Whistler,and she was aware that the name of Reginald Cracknell, which was alwaysgetting itself linked with somebody, had been coupled with that of MissHobson. It seemed likely that in this instance rumour spoke truth, forthe lady was of that compellingly blonde beauty which attracts theCracknells of this world. But even so...
　　"It seems that Cracknell..." said Gerald. "Apparently this manCracknell..." He was finding Sally's bright, horrified gaze somewhattrying. "Well, the fact is Cracknell believes in Mabel Hobson...and...
　　well, he thinks this part would suit her.""Oh, Jerry!"Could infatuation go to such a length? Could even the spacious heart ofa Reginald Cracknell so dominate that gentleman's small size in heads asto make him entrust a part like Ruth in "The Primrose Way" to one who,when desired by the producer of her last revue to carry a bowl of rosesacross the stage and place it on a table, had rebelled on the plea thatshe had not been engaged as a dancer? Surely even lovelorn Reginaldcould perceive that this was not the stuff of which great emotionalactresses are made.
　　"Oh, Jerry!" she said again.
　　There was an uncomfortable silence. They turned and walked back in thedirection of the boarding-house. Somehow Gerald's arm had managed to getitself detached from Sally's. She was conscious of a curious dull achethat was almost like a physical pain.
　　"Jerry! Is it worth it?" she burst out vehemently.
　　The question seemed to sting the young man into something like hisusual decisive speech.
　　"Worth it? Of course it's worth it. It's a Broadway production.
　　That's all that matters. Good heavens! I've been trying long enough toget a play on Broadway, and it isn't likely that I'm going to chuck awaymy chance when it comes along just because one might do better in theway of casting.""But, Jerry! Mabel Hobson! It's... it's murder! Murder in the firstdegree.""Nonsense. She'll be all right. The part will play itself. Besides,she has a personality and a following, and Cracknell will spend all themoney in the world to make the thing a success. And it will be a start,whatever happens. Of course, it's worth it."Fillmore would have been impressed by this speech. He would haverecognized and respected in it the unmistakable ring which characterizeseven the lightest utterances of those who get there. On Sally it had notimmediately that effect. Nevertheless, her habit of making the best ofthings, working together with that primary article of her creed that theman she loved could do no wrong, succeeded finally in raising herspirits. Of course Jerry was right. It would have been foolish to refusea contract because all its clauses were not ideal.
　　"You old darling," she said affectionately attaching herself to thevacant arm once more and giving it a penitent squeeze, "you're quiteright. Of course you are. I can see it now. I was only a little startledat first. Everything's going to be wonderful. Let's get all our chickensout and count 'em. How are you going to spend the money?""I know how I'm going to spend a dollar of it," said Gerald completelyrestored.
　　"I mean the big money. What's a dollar?""It pays for a marriage-licence."Sally gave his arm another squeeze.
　　"Ladies and gentlemen," she said. "Look at this man. Observe him. Mypartner!"
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.
Chapter 3 The Dignified Mr. Carmyle
    By six o'clock on the following evening, however. Sally had beenforced to the conclusion that Ginger would have to struggle through lifeas best he could without the assistance of her contemplated remarks: forshe had seen nothing of him all day and in another hour she would haveleft Roville on the seven-fifteen express which was to take her toParis, en route for Cherbourg and the liner whereon she had booked herpassage for New York.
　　It was in the faint hope of finding him even now that, at half-past six,having conveyed her baggage to the station and left it in charge of anamiable porter, she paid a last visit to the Casino Municipale. Shedisliked the thought of leaving Ginger without having uplifted him. Likeso many alert and active-minded girls, she possessed in a great degreethe quality of interesting herself in--or, as her brother Fillmorepreferred to put it, messing about with--the private affairs of others.
　　Ginger had impressed her as a man to whom it was worth while to give afriendly shove on the right path; and it was with much gratification,therefore, that, having entered the Casino, she perceived a flaming headshining through the crowd which had gathered at one of theroulette-tables.
　　There are two Casinos at Roville-sur-Mer. The one on the Promenade goesin mostly for sea-air and a mild game called boule. It is the big CasinoMunicipale down in the Palace Massena near the railway station which isthe haunt of the earnest gambler who means business; and it was plain toSally directly she arrived that Ginger Kemp not only meant business butwas getting results. Ginger was going extremely strong. He wasentrenched behind an opulent-looking mound of square counters: and, evenas Sally looked, a wooden-faced croupier shoved a further instalmentacross the table to him at the end of his long rake.
　　"Epatant!" murmured a wistful man at Sally's side, removing an elbowfrom her ribs in order the better to gesticulate Sally, though no Frenchscholar, gathered that he was startled and gratified. The entire crowdseemed to be startled and gratified. There is undoubtedly a certainaltruism in the make-up of the spectators at a Continentalroulette-table. They seem to derive a spiritual pleasure from seeingsomebody else win.
　　The croupier gave his moustache a twist with his left hand and the wheela twist with his right, and silence fell again. Sally, who had shiftedto a spot where the pressure of the crowd was less acute, was now ableto see Ginger's face, and as she saw it she gave an involuntary laugh.
　　He looked exactly like a dog at a rat-hole. His hair seemed to bristlewith excitement. One could almost fancy that his ears were pricked up.
　　In the tense hush which had fallen on the crowd at the restarting of thewheel, Sally's laugh rang out with an embarrassing clearness. It had amarked effect on all those within hearing. There is something almost ofreligious ecstasy in the deportment of the spectators at a table whereanyone is having a run of luck at roulette, and if she had guffawed in acathedral she could not have caused a more pained consternation. Theearnest worshippers gazed at her with shocked eyes, and Ginger, turningwith a start, saw her and jumped up. As he did so, the ball fell with arattling click into a red compartment of the wheel; and, as it ceased torevolve and it was seen that at last the big winner had picked the wrongcolour, a shuddering groan ran through the congregation like that whichconvulses the penitents' bench at a negro revival meeting. More glancesof reproach were cast at Sally. It was generally felt that herinjudicious behaviour had changed Ginger's luck.
　　The only person who did not appear to be concerned was Ginger himself.
　　He gathered up his loot, thrust it into his pocket, and elbowed his wayto where Sally stood, now definitely established in the eyes of thecrowd as a pariah. There was universal regret that he had decided tocall it a day. It was to the spectators as though a star had suddenlywalked off the stage in the middle of his big scene; and not even a loudand violent quarrel which sprang up at this moment between two excitablegamblers over a disputed five-franc counter could wholly console them.
　　"I say," said Ginger, dexterously plucking Sally out of the crowd, "thisis topping, meeting you like this. I've been looking for youeverywhere.""It's funny you didn't find me, then, for that's where I've been. I waslooking for you.""No, really?" Ginger seemed pleased. He led the way to the quietante-room outside the gambling-hall, and they sat down in a corner. Itwas pleasant here, with nobody near except the gorgeously uniformedattendant over by the door. "That was awfully good of you.""I felt I must have a talk with you before my train went."Ginger started violently.
　　"Your train? What do you mean?""The puff-puff," explained Sally. "I'm leaving to-night, you know.""Leaving?" Ginger looked as horrified as the devoutest of thecongregation of which Sally had just ceased to be a member. "You don'tmean leaving? You're not going away from Roville?""I'm afraid so.""But why? Where are you going?""Back to America. My boat sails from Cherbourg tomorrow.""Oh, my aunt!""I'm sorry," said Sally, touched by his concern. She was a warm-heartedgirl and liked being appreciated. "But...""I say..." Ginger Kemp turned bright scarlet and glared before him atthe uniformed official, who was regarding their tête-à-tête with theindulgent eye of one who has been through this sort of thing himself. "Isay, look here, will you marry me?"Sally stared at his vermilion profile in frank amazement. Ginger, shehad realized by this time, was in many ways a surprising young man, butshe had not expected him to be as surprising as this.
　　"Marry you!""You know what I mean.""Well, yes, I suppose I do. You allude to the holy state. Yes, I knowwhat you mean.""Then how about it?"Sally began to regain her composure. Her sense of humour was tickled.
　　She looked at Ginger gravely. He did not meet her eye, but continued todrink in the uniformed official, who was by now so carried away by theromance of it all that he had begun to hum a love-ballad under hisbreath. The official could not hear what they were saying, and would nothave been able to understand it even if he could have heard; but he wasan expert in the language of the eyes.
　　"But isn't this--don't think I am trying to make difficulties--isn'tthis a little sudden?""It's got to be sudden," said Ginger Kemp, complainingly. "I thoughtyou were going to be here for weeks.""But, my infant, my babe, has it occurred to you that we are practicallystrangers?" She patted his hand tolerantly, causing the uniformedofficial to heave a tender sigh. "I see what has happened," she said.
　　"You're mistaking me for some other girl, some girl you know reallywell, and were properly introduced to. Take a good look at me, andyou'll see.""If I take a good look at you," said Ginger, feverishly, "I'm dashed ifI'll answer for the consequences.""And this is the man I was going to lecture on 'Enterprise.'""You're the most wonderful girl I've ever met, dash it!" said Ginger,his gaze still riveted on the official by the door "I dare say it issudden. I can't help that. I fell in love with you the moment I saw you,and there you are!""But...""Now, look here, I know I'm not much of a chap and all that, but...
　　well, I've just won the deuce of a lot of money in there...""Would you buy me with your gold?""I mean to say, we should have enough to start on, and... of course I'vemade an infernal hash of everything I've tried up till now, but theremust be something I can do, and you can jolly well bet I'd have agoodish stab at it. I mean to say, with you to buck me up and so forth,don't you know. Well, I mean...""Has it struck you that I may already be engaged to someone else?""Oh, golly! Are you?"For the first time he turned and faced her, and there was a look in hiseyes which touched Sally and drove all sense of the ludicrous out ofher. Absurd as it was, this man was really serious.
　　"Well, yes, as a matter of fact I am," she said soberly.
　　Ginger Kemp bit his lip and for a moment was silent.
　　"Oh, well, that's torn it!" he said at last.
　　Sally was aware of an emotion too complex to analyse. There was pity init, but amusement too. The emotion, though she did not recognize it, wasmaternal. Mothers, listening to their children pleading with engagingabsurdity for something wholly out of their power to bestow, feel thatsame wavering between tears and laughter. Sally wanted to pick Ginger upand kiss him. The one thing she could not do was to look on him, sorryas she was for him, as a reasonable, grown-up man.
　　"You don't really mean it, you know.""Don't I!" said Ginger, hollowly. "Oh, don't I!""You can't! There isn't such a thing in real life as love at firstsight. Love's a thing that comes when you know a person well and..." Shepaused. It had just occurred to her that she was hardly the girl tolecture in this strain. Her love for Gerald Foster had been sufficientlysudden, even instantaneous. What did she know of Gerald except that sheloved him? They had become engaged within two weeks of their firstmeeting. She found this recollection damping to her eloquence, and endedby saying tamely:
　　"It's ridiculous."Ginger had simmered down to a mood of melancholy resignation.
　　"I couldn't have expected you to care for me, I suppose, anyway," hesaid, sombrely. "I'm not much of a chap."It was just the diversion from the theme under discussion which Sallyhad been longing to find. She welcomed the chance of continuing theconversation on a less intimate and sentimental note.
　　"That's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about," she said, seizingthe opportunity offered by this display of humility. "I've been lookingfor you all day to go on with what I was starting to say in the liftlast night when we were interrupted. Do you mind if I talk to you likean aunt--or a sister, suppose we say? Really, the best plan would be foryou to adopt me as an honorary sister. What do you think?"Ginger did not appear noticeably elated at the suggested relationship.
　　"Because I really do take a tremendous interest in you."Ginger brightened. "That's awfully good of you.""I'm going to speak words of wisdom. Ginger, why don't you brace up?""Brace up?""Yes, stiffen your backbone and stick out your chin, and square yourelbows, and really amount to something. Why do you simply flop about anddo nothing and leave everything to what you call 'the family'? Why doyou have to be helped all the time? Why don't you help yourself? Why doyou have to have jobs found for you? Why don't you rush out and get one?
　　Why do you have to worry about what, 'the family' thinks of you? Whydon't you make yourself independent of them? I know you had hard luck,suddenly finding yourself without money and all that, but, good heavens,everybody else in the world who has ever done anything has been broke atone time or another. It's part of the fun. You'll never get anywhere byletting yourself be picked up by the family like... like a floppyNewfoundland puppy and dumped down in any old place that happens to suitthem. A job's a thing you've got to choose for yourself and get foryourself. Think what you can do--there must be something--and then go atit with a snort and grab it and hold it down and teach it to take ajoke. You've managed to collect some money. It will give you time tolook round. And, when you've had a look round, do something! Try torealize you're alive, and try to imagine the family isn't!"Sally stopped and drew a deep breath. Ginger Kemp did not reply for amoment. He seemed greatly impressed.
　　"When you talk quick," he said at length, in a serious meditative voice,"your nose sort of goes all squiggly. Ripping, it looks!"Sally uttered an indignant cry.
　　"Do you mean to say you haven't been listening to a word I've beensaying," she demanded.
　　"Oh, rather! Oh, by Jove, yes.""Well, what did I say?""You... er... And your eyes sort of shine, too.""Never mind my eyes. What did I say?""You told me," said Ginger, on reflection, "to get a job.""Well, yes. I put it much better than that, but that's what it amountedto, I suppose. All right, then. I'm glad you..."Ginger was eyeing her with mournful devotion. "I say," he interrupted,"I wish you'd let me write to you. Letters, I mean, and all that. I havean idea it would kind of buck me up.""You won't have time for writing letters.""I'll have time to write them to you. You haven't an address oranything of that sort in America, have you, by any chance? I mean, sothat I'd know where to write to.""I can give you an address which will always find me." She told him thenumber and street of Mrs. Meecher's boarding-house, and he wrote themdown reverently on his shirt-cuff. "Yes, on second thoughts, do write,"she said. "Of course, I shall want to know how you've got on. I... oh,my goodness! That clock's not right?""Just about. What time does your train go?""Go! It's gone! Or, at least, it goes in about two seconds." She made arush for the swing-door, to the confusion of the uniformed official whohad not been expecting this sudden activity. "Good-bye, Ginger. Write tome, and remember what I said."Ginger, alert after his unexpected fashion when it became a question ofphysical action, had followed her through the swing-door, and theyemerged together and started running down the square.
　　"Stick it!" said Ginger, encouragingly. He was running easily and well,as becomes a man who, in his day, had been a snip for his internationalat scrum-half.
　　Sally saved her breath. The train was beginning to move slowly out ofthe station as they sprinted abreast on to the platform. Ginger divedfor the nearest door, wrenched it open, gathered Sally neatly in hisarms, and flung her in. She landed squarely on the toes of a man whooccupied the corner seat, and, bounding off again, made for the window.
　　Ginger, faithful to the last, was trotting beside the train as itgathered speed.
　　"Ginger! My poor porter! Tip him. I forgot.""Right ho!""And don't forget what I've been saying.""Right ho!""Look after yourself and 'Death to the Family!'""Right ho!"The train passed smoothly out of the station. Sally cast one last lookback at her red-haired friend, who had now halted and was waving ahandkerchief. Then she turned to apologize to the other occupant of thecarriage.
　　"I'm so sorry," she said, breathlessly. "I hope I didn't hurt you."She found herself facing Ginger's cousin, the dark man of yesterday'sepisode on the beach, Bruce Carmyle.
　　Mr. Carmyle was not a man who readily allowed himself to be disturbed bylife's little surprises, but at the present moment he could not helpfeeling slightly dazed. He recognized Sally now as the French girl whohad attracted his cousin Lancelot's notice on the beach. At least he hadassumed that she was French, and it was startling to be addressed by hernow in fluent English. How had she suddenly acquired this gift oftongues? And how on earth had she had time since yesterday, when he hadbeen a total stranger to her, to become sufficiently intimate withCousin Lancelot to be sprinting with him down station platforms andaddressing him out of railway-carriage windows as Ginger? Bruce Carmylewas aware that most members of that sub-species of humanity, hiscousin's personal friends, called him by that familiar--and, so Carmyleheld, vulgar--nickname: but how had this girl got hold of it?
　　If Sally had been less pretty, Mr. Carmyle would undoubtedly havelooked disapprovingly at her, for she had given his rather rigid senseof the proprieties a nasty jar. But as, panting and flushed from herrun, she was prettier than any girl he had yet met, he contrived tosmile.
　　"Not at all," he said in answer to her question, though it was far fromthe truth. His left big toe was aching confoundedly. Even a girl with afoot as small as Sally's can make her presence felt on a man's toe ifthe scrum-half who is handling her aims well and uses plenty of vigour.
　　"If you don't mind," said Sally, sitting down, "I think I'll breathe alittle."She breathed. The train sped on.
　　"Quite a close thing," said Bruce Carmyle, affably. The pain in his toewas diminishing. "You nearly missed it.""Yes. It was lucky Mr. Kemp was with me. He throws very straight,doesn't he.""Tell me," said Carmyle, "how do you come to know my Cousin? On thebeach yesterday morning...""Oh, we didn't know each other then. But we were staying at the samehotel, and we spent an hour or so shut up in an elevator together. Thatwas when we really got acquainted."A waiter entered the compartment, announcing in unexpected English thatdinner was served in the restaurant car. "Would you care for dinner?""I'm starving," said Sally.
　　She reproved herself, as they made their way down the corridor, forbeing so foolish as to judge anyone by his appearance. This man wasperfectly pleasant in spite of his grim exterior. She had decided by thetime they had seated themselves at the table she liked him.
　　At the table, however, Mr. Carmyle's manner changed for the worse. Helost his amiability. He was evidently a man who took his meals seriouslyand believed in treating waiters with severity. He shuddered austerelyat a stain on the table-cloth, and then concentrated himself frowninglyon the bill of fare. Sally, meanwhile, was establishing cosy relationswith the much too friendly waiter, a cheerful old man who from the startseemed to have made up his mind to regard her as a favourite daughter.
　　The waiter talked no English and Sally no French, but they were gettingalong capitally, when Mr. Carmyle, who had been irritably waving asidethe servitor's light-hearted advice--at the Hotel Splendide the waitersnever bent over you and breathed cordial suggestions down the side ofyour face--gave his order crisply in the Anglo-Gallic dialect of thetravelling Briton. The waiter remarked, "Boum!" in a pleased sort ofway, and vanished.
　　"Nice old man!" said Sally.
　　"Infernally familiar!" said Mr. Carmyle.
　　Sally perceived that on the topic of the waiter she and her host did notsee eye to eye and that little pleasure or profit could be derived fromany discussion centring about him. She changed the subject. She was notliking Mr. Carmyle quite so much as she had done a few minutes ago, butit was courteous of him to give her dinner, and she tried to like him asmuch as she could.
　　"By the way," she said, "my name is Nicholas. I always think it's agood thing to start with names, don't you?""Mine...""Oh, I know yours. Ginger--Mr. Kemp told me."Mr. Carmyle, who since the waiter's departure, had been thawing,stiffened again at the mention of Ginger.
　　"Indeed?" he said, coldly. "Apparently you got intimate."Sally did not like his tone. He seemed to be criticizing her, and sheresented criticism from a stranger. Her eyes opened wide and she lookeddangerously across the table.
　　"Why 'apparently'? I told you that we had got intimate, and I explainedhow. You can't stay shut up in an elevator half the night with anybodywithout getting to know him. I found Mr. Kemp very pleasant.""Really?""And very interesting."Mr. Carmyle raised his eyebrows.
　　"Would you call him interesting?""I did call him interesting." Sally was beginning to feel theexhilaration of battle. Men usually made themselves extremely agreeableto her, and she reacted belligerently under the stiff unfriendlinesswhich had come over her companion in the last few minutes.
　　"He told me all about himself.""And you found that interesting?""Why not?""Well..." A frigid half-smile came and went on Bruce Carmyle's darkface. "My cousin has many excellent qualities, no doubt--he used to playfootball well, and I understand that he is a capable amateurpugilist--but I should not have supposed him entertaining. We find him alittle dull.""I thought it was only royalty that called themselves 'we.'""I meant myself--and the rest of the family."The mention of the family was too much for Sally. She had to stoptalking in order to allow her mind to clear itself of rude thoughts.
　　"Mr. Kemp was telling me about Mr. Scrymgeour," she went on at length.
　　Bruce Carmyle stared for a moment at the yard or so of French breadwhich the waiter had placed on the table.
　　"Indeed?" he said. "He has an engaging lack of reticence."The waiter returned bearing soup and dumped it down.
　　"V'la!" he observed, with the satisfied air of a man who hassuccessfully performed a difficult conjuring trick. He smiled at Sallyexpectantly, as though confident of applause from this section of hisaudience at least. But Sally's face was set and rigid. She had beensnubbed, and the sensation was as pleasant as it was novel.
　　"I think Mr. Kemp had hard luck," she said.
　　"If you will excuse me, I would prefer not to discuss the matter."Mr. Carmyle's attitude was that Sally might be a pretty girl, but shewas a stranger, and the intimate affairs of the Family were not to bediscussed with strangers, however prepossessing.
　　"He was quite in the right. Mr. Scrymgeour was beating a dog...""I've heard the details.""Oh, I didn't know that. Well, don't you agree with me, then?""I do not. A man who would throw away an excellent position simplybecause...""Oh, well, if that's your view, I suppose it is useless to talk aboutit.""Quite.""Still, there's no harm in asking what you propose to do aboutGin--about Mr. Kemp."Mr. Carmyle became more glacial.
　　"I'm afraid I cannot discuss..."Sally's quick impatience, nobly restrained till now, finally got thebetter of her.
　　"Oh, for goodness' sake," she snapped, "do try to be human, and don'talways be snubbing people. You remind me of one of those portraits ofmen in the eighteenth century, with wooden faces, who look out of heavygold frames at you with fishy eyes as if you were a regrettableincident.""Rosbif," said the waiter genially, manifesting himself suddenly besidethem as if he had popped up out of a trap.
　　Bruce Carmyle attacked his roast beef morosely. Sally who was in themood when she knew that she would be ashamed of herself later on, butwas full of battle at the moment, sat in silence.
　　"I am sorry," said Mr. Carmyle ponderously, "if my eyes are fishy. Thefact has not been called to my attention before.""I suppose you never had any sisters," said Sally. "They would havetold you."Mr. Carmyle relapsed into an offended dumbness, which lasted till thewaiter had brought the coffee.
　　"I think," said Sally, getting up, "I'll be going now. I don't seem towant any coffee, and, if I stay on, I may say something rude. I thoughtI might be able to put in a good word for Mr. Kemp and save him frombeing massacred, but apparently it's no use. Good-bye, Mr. Carmyle, andthank you for giving me dinner."She made her way down the car, followed by Bruce Carmyle's indignant,yet fascinated, gaze. Strange emotions were stirring in Mr. Carmyle'sbosom.
Chapter 4 Ginger In Dangerous Mood
    Some few days later, owing to the fact that the latter, beingpreoccupied, did not see him first, Bruce Carmyle met his cousinLancelot in Piccadilly. They had returned by different routes fromRoville, and Ginger would have preferred the separation to continue. Hewas hurrying on with a nod, when Carmyle stopped him.
　　"Just the man I wanted to see," he observed.
　　"Oh, hullo!" said Ginger, without joy.
　　"I was thinking of calling at your club.""Yes?""Yes. Cigarette?"Ginger peered at the proffered case with the vague suspicion of the manwho has allowed himself to be lured on to the platform and is acceptinga card from the conjurer. He felt bewildered. In all the years of theiracquaintance he could not recall another such exhibition of geniality onhis cousin's part. He was surprised, indeed, at Mr. Carmyle's speakingto him at all, for the affaire Scrymgeour remained an un-healed wound,and the Family, Ginger knew, were even now in session upon it.
　　"Been back in London long?""Day or two.""I heard quite by accident that you had returned and that you werestaying at the club. By the way, thank you for introducing me to MissNicholas."Ginger started violently.
　　"What!""I was in that compartment, you know, at Roville Station. You threw herright on top of me. We agreed to consider that an introduction. Anattractive girl."Bruce Carmyle had not entirely made up his mind regarding Sally, but onone point he was clear, that she should not, if he could help it, passout of his life. Her abrupt departure had left him with that baffled anddissatisfied feeling which, though it has little in common with love atfirst sight, frequently produces the same effects. She had had, hecould not disguise it from himself, the better of their late encounterand he was conscious of a desire to meet her again and show her thatthere was more in him than she apparently supposed. Bruce Carmyle, in aword, was piqued: and, though he could not quite decide whether he likedor disliked Sally, he was very sure that a future without her would havean element of flatness.
　　"A very attractive girl. We had a very pleasant talk.""I bet you did," said Ginger enviously.
　　"By the way, she did not give you her address by any chance?""Why?" said Ginger suspiciously. His attitude towards Sally's addressresembled somewhat that of a connoisseur who has acquired a unique workof art. He wanted to keep it to himself and gloat over it.
　　"Well, I--er--I promised to send her some books she was anxious toread...""I shouldn't think she gets much time for reading.""Books which are not published in America.""Oh, pretty nearly everything is published in America, what? Bound tobe, I mean.""Well, these particular books are not," said Mr. Carmyle shortly. Hewas finding Ginger's reserve a little trying, and wished that he hadbeen more inventive.
　　"Give them to me and I'll send them to her," suggested Ginger.
　　"Good Lord, man!" snapped Mr. Carmyle. "I'm capable of sending a fewbooks to America. Where does she live?"Ginger revealed the sacred number of the holy street which had the luckto be Sally's headquarters. He did it because with a persistent devillike his cousin there seemed no way of getting out of it: but he did itgrudgingly.
　　"Thanks." Bruce Carmyle wrote the information down with a gold pencil ina dapper little morocco-bound note-book. He was the sort of man whoalways has a pencil, and the backs of old envelopes never enter into hislife.
　　There was a pause. Bruce Carmyle coughed.
　　"I saw Uncle Donald this morning," he said.
　　His manner had lost its geniality. There was no need for it now, and hewas a man who objected to waste. He spoke coldly, and in his voice therewas a familiar sub-tingle of reproof.
　　"Yes?" said Ginger moodily. This was the uncle in whose office he hadmade his debut as a hasher: a worthy man, highly respected in theNational Liberal Club, but never a favourite of Ginger's. There wereother minor uncles and a few subsidiary aunts who went to make up theFamily, but Uncle Donald was unquestionably the managing director ofthat body and it was Ginger's considered opinion that in this capacityhe approximated to a human blister.
　　"He wants you to dine with him to-night at Bleke's."Ginger's depression deepened. A dinner with Uncle Donald would hardlyhave been a cheerful function, even in the surroundings of a banquet inthe Arabian Nights. There was that about Uncle Donald's personalitywhich would have cast a sobering influence over the orgies of theEmperor Tiberius at Capri. To dine with him at a morgue like that relicof Old London, Bleke's Coffee House, which confined its customprincipally to regular patrons who had not missed an evening there forhalf a century, was to touch something very near bed-rock. Ginger wasextremely doubtful whether flesh and blood were equal to it.
　　"To-night?" he said. "Oh, you mean to-night? Well...""Don't be a fool. You know as well as I do that you've got to go."Uncle Donald's invitations were royal commands in the Family. "Ifyou've another engagement you must put it off.""Oh, all right.""Seven-thirty sharp.""All right," said Ginger gloomily.
　　The two men went their ways, Bruce Carmyle eastwards because he hadclients to see in his chambers at the Temple; Ginger westwards becauseMr. Carmyle had gone east. There was little sympathy between thesecousins: yet, oddly enough, their thoughts as they walked centred on thesame object. Bruce Carmyle, threading his way briskly through the crowdsof Piccadilly Circus, was thinking of Sally: and so was Ginger as heloafed aimlessly towards Hyde Park Corner, bumping in a sort of comafrom pedestrian to pedestrian.
　　Since his return to London Ginger had been in bad shape. He moonedthrough the days and slept poorly at night. If there is one thingrottener than another in a pretty blighted world, one thing which givesa fellow the pip and reduces him to the condition of an absolute onion,it is hopeless love. Hopeless love had got Ginger all stirred up. Hishad been hitherto a placid soul. Even the financial crash which had soaltered his life had not bruised him very deeply. His temperament hadenabled him to bear the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune with aphilosophic "Right ho!" But now everything seemed different. Thingsirritated him acutely, which before he had accepted as inevitable--hisUncle Donald's moustache, for instance, and its owner's habit ofemploying it during meals as a sort of zareba or earthwork against theassaults of soup.
　　"By gad!" thought Ginger, stopping suddenly opposite Devonshire House.
　　"If he uses that damned shrubbery as soup-strainer to-night, I'll sloshhim with a fork!"Hard thoughts... hard thoughts! And getting harder all the time, fornothing grows more quickly than a mood of rebellion. Rebellion is aforest fire that flames across the soul. The spark had been lighted inGinger, and long before he reached Hyde Park Corner he was ablaze andcrackling. By the time he returned to his club he was practically amenace to society--to that section of it, at any rate, which embracedhis Uncle Donald, his minor uncles George and William, and his auntsMary, Geraldine, and Louise.
　　Nor had the mood passed when he began to dress for the dismalfestivities of Bleke's Coffee House. He scowled as he struggled moroselywith an obstinate tie. One cannot disguise the fact--Ginger was warmingup. And it was just at this moment that Fate, as though it had beenwaiting for the psychological instant, applied the finishing touch.
　　There was a knock at the door, and a waiter came in with a telegram.
　　Ginger looked at the envelope. It had been readdressed and forwarded onfrom the Hotel Normandie. It was a wireless, handed in on board theWhite Star liner Olympic, and it ran as follows:
　　Remember. Death to the Family. S.
　　Ginger sat down heavily on the bed.
　　The driver of the taxi-cab which at twenty-five minutes past seven drewup at the dingy door of Bleke's Coffee House in the Strand was ratherstruck by his fare's manner and appearance. A determined-looking sort ofyoung bloke, was the taxi-driver's verdict.
Chapter 5 Sally Hears News
    It had been Sally's intention, on arriving in New York, to take a roomat the St. Regis and revel in the gilded luxury to which her wealthentitled her before moving into the small but comfortable apartmentwhich, as soon as she had the time, she intended to find and make herpermanent abode. But when the moment came and she was giving directionsto the taxi-driver at the dock, there seemed to her somethingrevoltingly Fillmorian about the scheme. It would be time enough tosever herself from the boarding-house which had been her home for threeyears when she had found the apartment. Meanwhile, the decent thing todo, if she did not want to brand herself in the sight of her conscienceas a female Fillmore, was to go back temporarily to Mrs. Meecher'sadmirable establishment and foregather with her old friends. After all,home is where the heart is, even if there are more prunes there than thegourmet would consider judicious.
　　Perhaps it was the unavoidable complacency induced by the thought thatshe was doing the right thing, or possibly it was the tinglingexpectation of meeting Gerald Foster again after all these weeks ofseparation, that made the familiar streets seem wonderfully bright asshe drove through them. It was a perfect, crisp New York morning, allblue sky and amber sunshine, and even the ash-cans had a stimulatinglook about them. The street cars were full of happy people rollickingoff to work: policemen directed the traffic with jaunty affability: andthe white-clad street-cleaners went about their poetic tasks with aquiet but none the less noticeable relish. It was improbable that any ofthese people knew that she was back, but somehow they all seemed to bebehaving as though this were a special day.
　　The first discordant note in this overture of happiness was struck byMrs. Meecher, who informed Sally, after expressing her gratification atthe news that she required her old room, that Gerald Foster had lefttown that morning.
　　"Gone to Detroit, he has," said Mrs. Meecher. "Miss Doland, too." Shebroke off to speak a caustic word to the boarding-house handyman, who,with Sally's trunk as a weapon, was depreciating the value of thewall-paper in the hall. "There's that play of his being tried out there,you know, Monday," resumed Mrs. Meecher, after the handyman had bumpedhis way up the staircase. "They been rehearsing ever since you left."Sally was disappointed, but it was such a beautiful morning, and NewYork was so wonderful after the dull voyage in the liner that she wasnot going to allow herself to be depressed without good reason. Afterall, she could go on to Detroit tomorrow. It was nice to have somethingto which she could look forward.
　　"Oh, is Elsa in the company?" she said.
　　"Sure. And very good too, I hear." Mrs. Meecher kept abreast oftheatrical gossip. She was an ex-member of the profession herself,having been in the first production of "Florodora," though, unlikeeverybody else, not one of the original Sextette. "Mr. Faucitt was downto see a rehearsal, and he said Miss Doland was fine. And he's not easyto please, as you know.""How is Mr. Faucitt?"Mrs. Meecher, not unwillingly, for she was a woman who enjoyed thetragedies of life, made her second essay in the direction of loweringSally's uplifted mood.
　　"Poor old gentleman, he ain't over and above well. Went to bed earlylast night with a headache, and this morning I been to see him and hedon't look well. There's a lot of this Spanish influenza about. It mightbe that. Lots o' people have been dying of it, if you believe what yousee in the papers," said Mrs. Meecher buoyantly.
　　"Good gracious! You don't think... ?""Well, he ain't turned black," admitted Mrs. Meecher with regret. "Theysay they turn black. If you believe what you see in the papers, that is.
　　Of course, that may come later," she added with the air of one confidentthat all will come right in the future. "The doctor'll be in to see himpretty soon. He's quite happy. Toto's sitting with him."Sally's concern increased. Like everyone who had ever spent any lengthof time in the house, she had strong views on Toto. This quadruped, whostained the fame of the entire canine race by posing as a dog, was asmall woolly animal with a persistent and penetrating yap, hard to bearwith equanimity in health and certainly quite outside the range of asick man. Her heart bled for Mr. Faucitt. Mrs. Meecher, on the otherhand, who held a faith in her little pet's amiability and power tosoothe which seven years' close association had been unable to shake,seemed to feel that, with Toto on the spot, all that could be done hadbeen done as far as pampering the invalid was concerned.
　　"I must go up and see him," cried Sally. "Poor old dear.""Sure. You know his room. You can hear Toto talking to him now," saidMrs. Meecher complacently. "He wants a cracker, that's what he wants.
　　Toto likes a cracker after breakfast."The invalid's eyes, as Sally entered the room, turned wearily to thedoor. At the sight of Sally they lit up with an incredulous rapture.
　　Almost any intervention would have pleased Mr. Faucitt at that moment,for his little playmate had long outstayed any welcome that mightoriginally have been his: but that the caller should be his belovedSally seemed to the old man something in the nature of a return of theage of miracles.
　　"Sally!""One moment. Here, Toto!"Toto, struck momentarily dumb by the sight of food, had jumped off thebed and was standing with his head on one side, peering questioningly atthe cracker. He was a suspicious dog, but he allowed himself to be luredinto the passage, upon which Sally threw the cracker down and slipped inand shut the door. Toto, after a couple of yaps, which may have beengratitude or baffled fury, trotted off downstairs, and Mr. Faucitt drewa deep breath.
　　"Sally, you come, as ever, as an angel of mercy. Our worthy Mrs.
　　Meecher means well, and I yield to no man in my respect for her innatekindness of heart: but she errs in supposing that that thrice-damnedwhelp of hers is a combination of sick-nurse, soothing medicine, and aweek at the seaside. She insisted on bringing him here. He was yappingthen, as he was yapping when, with womanly resource which I cannotsufficiently praise, you decoyed him hence. And each yap went through melike hammer-strokes on sheeted tin. Sally, you stand alone amongwomankind. You shine like a good deed in a naughty world. When did youget back?""I've only just arrived in my hired barouche from the pier.""And you came to see your old friend without delay? I am grateful andflattered. Sally, my dear.""Of course I came to see you. Do you suppose that, when Mrs. Meechertold me you were sick, I just said 'Is that so?' and went on talkingabout the weather? Well, what do you mean by it? Frightening everybody.
　　Poor old darling, do you feel very bad?""One thousand individual mice are nibbling the base of my spine, and Iam conscious of a constant need of cooling refreshment. But what ofthat? Your presence is a tonic. Tell me, how did our Sally enjoy foreigntravel?""Our Sally had the time of her life.""Did you visit England?""Only passing through.""How did it look?" asked Mr. Faucitt eagerly.
　　"Moist. Very moist.""It would," said Mr. Faucitt indulgently. "I confess that, happy as Ihave been in this country, there are times when I miss those wonderfulLondon days, when a sort of cosy brown mist hangs over the streets andthe pavements ooze with a perspiration of mud and water, and you seethrough the haze the yellow glow of the Bodega lamps shining in thedistance like harbour-lights. Not," said Mr. Faucitt, "that I specifythe Bodega to the exclusion of other and equally worthy hostelries. Ihave passed just as pleasant hours in Rule's and Short's. You missedsomething by not lingering in England, Sally.""I know I did--pneumonia."Mr. Faucitt shook his head reproachfully.
　　"You are prejudiced, my dear. You would have enjoyed London if you hadhad the courage to brave its superficial gloom. Where did you spend yourholiday? Paris?""Part of the time. And the rest of the while I was down by the sea. Itwas glorious. I don't think I would ever have come back if I hadn't hadto. But, of course, I wanted to see you all again. And I wanted to be atthe opening of Mr. Foster's play. Mrs. Meecher tells me you went to oneof the rehearsals.""I attended a dog-fight which I was informed was a rehearsal," said Mr.
　　Faucitt severely. "There is no rehearsing nowadays.""Oh dear! Was it as bad as all that?""The play is good. The play--I will go further--is excellent. It hasfat. But the acting...""Mrs. Meecher said you told her that Elsa was good.""Our worthy hostess did not misreport me. Miss Doland has greatpossibilities. She reminds me somewhat of Matilda Devine, under whosebanner I played a season at the Old Royalty in London many years ago.
　　She has the seeds of greatness in her, but she is wasted in the presentcase on an insignificant part. There is only one part in the play. Iallude to the one murdered by Miss Mabel Hobson.""Murdered!" Sally's heart sank. She had been afraid of this, and it wasno satisfaction to feel that she had warned Gerald. "Is she veryterrible?""She has the face of an angel and the histrionic ability of that curioussuet pudding which our estimable Mrs. Meecher is apt to give us onFridays. In my professional career I have seen many cases of what I mayterm the Lady Friend in the role of star, but Miss Hobson eclipses themall. I remember in the year '94 a certain scion of the plutocracy tookit into his head to present a female for whom he had conceived anadmiration in a part which would have taxed the resources of the ablest.
　　I was engaged in her support, and at the first rehearsal I recollectsaying to my dear old friend, Arthur Moseby--dead, alas, these manyyears. An excellent juvenile, but, like so many good fellows, cursedwith a tendency to lift the elbow--I recollect saying to him 'Arthur,dear boy, I give it two weeks.' 'Max,' was his reply, 'you are anincurable optimist. One consecutive night, laddie, one consecutivenight.' We had, I recall, an even half-crown upon it. He won. We openedat Wigan, our leading lady got the bird, and the show closed next day. Iwas forcibly reminded of this incident as I watched Miss Hobsonrehearsing.""Oh, poor Ger--poor Mr. Foster!""I do not share your commiseration for that young man," said Mr. Faucittausterely. "You probably are almost a stranger to him, but he and I havebeen thrown together a good deal of late. A young man upon whom, mark mywords, success, if it ever comes, will have the worst effects. I dislikehim. Sally. He is, I think, without exception, the most selfish andself-centred young man of my acquaintance. He reminds me very much ofold Billy Fothergill, with whom I toured a good deal in the latereighties. Did I ever tell you the story of Billy and the amateur who...?"Sally was in no mood to listen to the adventures of Mr. Fothergill. Theold man's innocent criticism of Gerald had stabbed her deeply. Amomentary impulse to speak hotly in his defence died away as she saw Mr.
　　Faucitt's pale, worn old face. He had meant no harm, after all. Howcould he know what Gerald was to her?
　　She changed the conversation abruptly.
　　"Have you seen anything of Fillmore while I've been away?""Fillmore? Why yes, my dear, curiously enough I happened to run into himon Broadway only a few days ago. He seemed changed--less stiff and aloofthan he had been for some time past. I may be wronging him, but therehave been times of late when one might almost have fancied him a trifleup-stage. All that was gone at our last encounter. He appeared glad tosee me and was most cordial."Sally found her composure restored. Her lecture on the night of theparty had evidently, she thought, not been wasted. Mr. Faucitt, however,advanced another theory to account for the change in the Man of Destiny.
　　"I rather fancy," he said, "that the softening influence has been theyoung man's fiancée.""What? Fillmore's not engaged?""Did he not write and tell you? I suppose he was waiting to inform youwhen you returned. Yes, Fillmore is betrothed. The lady was with himwhen we met. A Miss Winch. In the profession, I understand. Heintroduced me. A very charming and sensible young lady, I thought."Sally shook her head.
　　"She can't be. Fillmore would never have got engaged to anyone likethat. Was her hair crimson?""Brown, if I recollect rightly.""Very loud, I suppose, and overdressed?""On the contrary, neat and quiet.""You've made a mistake," said Sally decidedly. "She can't have beenlike that. I shall have to look into this. It does seem hard that Ican't go away for a few weeks without all my friends taking to beds ofsickness and all my brothers getting ensnared by vampires."A knock at the door interrupted her complaint. Mrs. Meecher entered,ushering in a pleasant little man with spectacles and black bag.
　　"The doctor to see you, Mr. Faucitt." Mrs. Meecher cast an appraisingeye at the invalid, as if to detect symptoms of approachingdiscoloration. "I've been telling him that what I think you've gotten isthis here new Spanish influenza. Two more deaths there were in the paperthis morning, if you can believe what you see...""I wonder," said the doctor, "if you would mind going and bringing me asmall glass of water?""Why, sure.""Not a large glass--a small glass. Just let the tap run for a fewmoments and take care not to spill any as you come up the stairs. Ialways ask ladies, like our friend who has just gone," he added as thedoor closed, "to bring me a glass of water. It keeps them amused andinterested and gets them out of the way, and they think I am going to doa conjuring trick with it. As a matter of fact, I'm going to drink it.
　　Now let's have a look at you."The examination did not take long. At the end of it the doctor seemedsomewhat chagrined.
　　"Our good friend's diagnosis was correct. I'd give a leg to say itwasn't, but it was. It is this here new Spanish influenza. Not a badattack. You want to stay in bed and keep warm, and I'll write you out aprescription. You ought to be nursed. Is this young lady a nurse?""No, no, merely...""Of course I'm a nurse," said Sally decidedly. "It isn't difficult, isit, doctor? I know nurses smooth pillows. I can do that. Is thereanything else?""Their principal duty is to sit here and prevent the excellent andgarrulous lady who has just left us from getting in. They must also beable to aim straight with a book or an old shoe, if that small woollydog I met downstairs tries to force an entrance. If you are equal tothese tasks, I can leave the case in your hands with every confidence.""But, Sally, my dear," said Mr. Faucitt, concerned, "you must not wasteyour time looking after me. You have a thousand things to occupy you.""There's nothing I want to do more than help you to get better. I'lljust go out and send a wire, and then I'll be right back."Five minutes later, Sally was in a Western Union office, telegraphing toGerald that she would be unable to reach Detroit in time for theopening.
Chapter 6 First Aid For Fillmore
    It was not till the following Friday that Sally was able to start forDetroit. She arrived on the Saturday morning and drove to the HotelStatler. Having ascertained that Gerald was stopping in the hotel andhaving 'phoned up to his room to tell him to join her, she went into thedining-room and ordered breakfast.
　　She felt low-spirited as she waited for the food to arrive. The nursingof Mr. Faucitt had left her tired, and she had not slept well on thetrain. But the real cause of her depression was the fact that there hadbeen a lack of enthusiasm in Gerald's greeting over the telephone justnow. He had spoken listlessly, as though the fact of her returning afterall these weeks was a matter of no account, and she felt hurt andperplexed.
　　A cup of coffee had a stimulating effect. Men, of course, were alwayslike this in the early morning. It would, no doubt, be a very differentGerald who would presently bound into the dining-room, quickened andrestored by a cold shower-bath. In the meantime, here was food, and sheneeded it.
　　She was pouring out her second cup of coffee when a stout young man, ofwhom she had caught a glimpse as he moved about that section of thehotel lobby which was visible through the open door of the dining-room,came in and stood peering about as though in search of someone. Themomentary sight she had had of this young man had interested Sally. Shehad thought how extraordinarily like he was to her brother Fillmore. Nowshe perceived that it was Fillmore himself.
　　Sally was puzzled. What could Fillmore be doing so far west? She hadsupposed him to be a permanent resident of New York. But, of course,your man of affairs and vast interests flits about all over the place.
　　At any rate, here he was, and she called him. And, after he had stood inthe doorway looking in every direction except the right one for anotherminute, he saw her and came over to her table.
　　"Why, Sally?" His manner, she thought, was nervous--one might almosthave said embarrassed. She attributed this to a guilty conscience.
　　Presently he would have to break to her the news that he had becomeengaged to be married without her sisterly sanction, and no doubt he waswondering how to begin. "What are you doing here? I thought you were inEurope.""I got back a week ago, but I've been nursing poor old Mr. Faucitt eversince then. He's been ill, poor old dear. I've come here to see Mr.
　　Foster's play, 'The Primrose Way,' you know. Is it a success?""It hasn't opened yet.""Don't be silly, Fill. Do pull yourself together. It opened lastMonday.""No, it didn't. Haven't you heard? They've closed all the theatresbecause of this infernal Spanish influenza. Nothing has been playingthis week. You must have seen it in the papers.""I haven't had time to read the papers. Oh, Fill, what an awful shame!""Yes, it's pretty tough. Makes the company all on edge. I've had thedarndest time, I can tell you.""Why, what have you got to do with it?"Fillmore coughed.
　　"I--er--oh, I didn't tell you that. I'm sort of--er--mixed up in theshow. Cracknell--you remember he was at college with me--suggested thatI should come down and look at it. Shouldn't wonder if he wants me toput money into it and so on.""I thought he had all the money in the world.""Yes, he has a lot, but these fellows like to let a pal in on a goodthing.""Is it a good thing?""The play's fine.""That's what Mr. Faucitt said. But Mabel Hobson..."Fillmore's ample face registered emotion.
　　"She's an awful woman, Sally! She can't act, and she throws her weightabout all the time. The other day there was a fuss about apaper-knife...""How do you mean, a fuss about a paper-knife?""One of the props, you know. It got mislaid. I'm certain it wasn't myfault...""How could it have been your fault?" asked Sally wonderingly. Loveseemed to have the worst effects on Fillmore's mentality.
　　"Well--er--you know how it is. Angry woman... blames the first personshe sees... This paper-knife..."Fillmore's voice trailed off into pained silence.
　　"Mr. Faucitt said Elsa Doland was good.""Oh, she's all right," said Fillmore indifferently. "But--" His facebrightened and animation crept into his voice. "But the girl you want towatch is Miss Winch. Gladys Winch. She plays the maid. She's only in thefirst act, and hasn't much to say, except 'Did you ring, madam?' andthings like that. But it's the way she says 'em! Sally, that girl's agenius! The greatest character actress in a dozen years! You mark mywords, in a darned little while you'll see her name up on Broadway inelectric light. Personality? Ask me! Charm? She wrote the words andmusic! Looks?...""All right! All right! I know all about it, Fill. And will you kindlyinform me how you dared to get engaged without consulting me?"Fillmore blushed richly.
　　"Oh, do you know?""Yes. Mr. Faucitt told me.""Well...""Well?""Well, I'm only human," argued Fillmore.
　　"I call that a very handsome admission. You've got quite modest,Fill."He had certainly changed for the better since their last meeting.
　　It was as if someone had punctured him and let out all the pomposity.
　　If this was due, as Mr. Faucitt had suggested, to the influence of MissWinch, Sally felt that she could not but approve of the romance.
　　"I'll introduce you sometime,' said Fillmore.
　　"I want to meet her very much.""I'll have to be going now. I've got to see Bunbury. I thought hemight be in here.""Who's Bunbury?""The producer. I suppose he is breakfasting in his room. I'd better goup.""You are busy, aren't you. Little marvel! It's lucky they've got you tolook after them."Fillmore retired and Sally settled down to wait for Gerald, no longerhurt by his manner over the telephone. Poor Gerald! No wonder he hadseemed upset.
　　A few minutes later he came in.
　　"Oh, Jerry darling," said Sally, as he reached the table, "I'm so sorry.
　　I've just been hearing about it."Gerald sat down. His appearance fulfilled the promise of his voice overthe telephone. A sort of nervous dullness wrapped him about like agarment.
　　"It's just my luck," he said gloomily. "It's the kind of thing thatcouldn't happen to anyone but me. Damned fools! Where's the sense inshutting the theatres, even if there is influenza about? They let peoplejam against one another all day in the stores. If that doesn't hurt themwhy should it hurt them to go to theatres? Besides, it's all infernalnonsense about this thing. I don't believe there is such a thing asSpanish influenza. People get colds in their heads and think they'redying. It's all a fake scare.""I don't think it's that," said Sally. "Poor Mr. Faucitt had it quitebadly. That's why I couldn't come earlier."Gerald did not seem interested either by the news of Mr. Faucitt'sillness or by the fact that Sally, after delay, had at last arrived. Hedug a spoon sombrely into his grape-fruit.
　　"We've been hanging about here day after day, getting bored to death allthe time... The company's going all to pieces. They're sick ofrehearsing and rehearsing when nobody knows if we'll ever open. Theywere all keyed up a week ago, and they've been sagging ever since. Itwill ruin the play, of course. My first chance! Just chucked away."Sally was listening with a growing feeling of desolation. She tried tobe fair, to remember that he had had a terrible disappointment and wasunder a great strain. And yet... it was unfortunate that self-pity was athing she particularly disliked in a man. Her vanity, too, was hurt. Itwas obvious that her arrival, so far from acting as a magic restorative,had effected nothing. She could not help remembering, though it made herfeel disloyal, what Mr. Faucitt had said about Gerald. She had nevernoticed before that he was remarkably self-centred, but he wasthrusting the fact upon her attention now.
　　"That Hobson woman is beginning to make trouble," went on Gerald,prodding in a despairing sort of way at scrambled eggs. "She ought neverto have had the part, never. She can't handle it. Elsa Doland could playit a thousand times better. I wrote Elsa in a few lines the other day,and the Hobson woman went right up in the air. You don't know what astar is till you've seen one of these promoted clothes-props from theFollies trying to be one. It took me an hour to talk her round and keepher from throwing up her part.""Why not let her throw up her part?""For heaven's sake talk sense," said Gerald querulously. "Do yousuppose that man Cracknell would keep the play on if she wasn't in it?
　　He would close the show in a second, and where would I be then? Youdon't seem to realize that this is a big chance for me. I'd look a foolthrowing it away.""I see," said Sally, shortly. She had never felt so wretched in herlife. Foreign travel, she decided, was a mistake. It might be pleasantand broadening to the mind, but it seemed to put you so out of touchwith people when you got back. She analysed her sensations, and arrivedat the conclusion that what she was resenting was the fact that Geraldwas trying to get the advantages of two attitudes simultaneously. A manin trouble may either be the captain of his soul and superior to pity,or he may be a broken thing for a woman to pet and comfort. Gerald, itseemed to her, was advertising himself as an object for hercommiseration, and at the same time raising a barrier against it. Heappeared to demand her sympathy while holding himself aloof from it. Shehad the uncomfortable sensation of feeling herself shut out and useless.
　　"By the way," said Gerald, "there's one thing. I have to keep herjollying along all the time, so for goodness' sake don't go letting itout that we're engaged."Sally's chin went up with a jerk. This was too much.
　　"If you find it a handicap being engaged to me...""Don't be silly." Gerald took refuge in pathos. "Good God! It's tough!
　　Here am I, worried to death, and you..."Before he could finish the sentence, Sally's mood had undergone one ofthose swift changes which sometimes made her feel that she must belacking in character. A simple, comforting thought had come to her,altering her entire outlook. She had come off the train tired andgritty, and what seemed the general out-of-jointness of the world wasentirely due, she decided, to the fact that she had not had a bath andthat her hair was all anyhow. She felt suddenly tranquil. If it wasmerely her grubby and dishevelled condition that made Gerald seem to herso different, all was well. She put her hand on his with a quick gestureof penitence.
　　"I'm so sorry," she said. "I've been a brute, but I do sympathize,really.""I've had an awful time," mumbled Gerald.
　　"I know, I know. But you never told me you were glad to see me.""Of course I'm glad to see you.""Why didn't you say so, then, you poor fish? And why didn't you ask meif I had enjoyed myself in Europe?""Did you enjoy yourself?""Yes, except that I missed you so much. There! Now we can consider mylecture on foreign travel finished, and you can go on telling me yourtroubles."Gerald accepted the invitation. He spoke at considerable length, thoughwith little variety. It appeared definitely established in his mind thatProvidence had invented Spanish influenza purely with a view to wreckinghis future. But now he seemed less aloof, more open to sympathy. Thebrief thunderstorm had cleared the air. Sally lost that sense ofdetachment and exclusion which had weighed upon her.
　　"Well," said Gerald, at length, looking at his watch, "I suppose I hadbetter be off.""Rehearsal?""Yes, confound it. It's the only way of getting through the day. Areyou coming along?""I'll come directly I've unpacked and tidied myself up.""See you at the theatre, then."Sally went out and rang for the lift to take her up to her room.
　　The rehearsal had started when she reached the theatre. As she enteredthe dark auditorium, voices came to her with that thin and reedy effectwhich is produced by people talking in an empty building. She sat downat the back of the house, and, as her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom,was able to see Gerald sitting in the front row beside a man with a baldhead fringed with orange hair whom she took correctly to be Mr. Bunbury,the producer. Dotted about the house in ones and twos were members ofthe company whose presence was not required in the first act. On thestage, Elsa Doland, looking very attractive, was playing a scene with aman in a bowler hat. She was speaking a line, as Sally came in.
　　"Why, what do you mean, father?""Tiddly-omty-om," was the bowler-hatted one's surprising reply.
　　"Tiddly-omty-om... long speech ending in 'find me in the library.' Andexit," said the man in the bowler hat, starting to do so.
　　For the first time Sally became aware of the atmosphere of nerves. Mr.
　　Bunbury, who seemed to be a man of temperament, picked up hiswalking-stick, which was leaning against the next seat, and flung itwith some violence across the house.
　　"For God's sake!" said Mr. Bunbury.
　　"Now what?" inquired the bowler hat, interested, pausing hallway acrossthe stage.
　　"Do speak the lines, Teddy," exclaimed Gerald. "Don't skip them in thatsloppy fashion.""You don't want me to go over the whole thing?" asked the bowler hat,amazed.
　　"Yes!""Not the whole damn thing?" queried the bowler hat, fighting withincredulity.
　　"This is a rehearsal," snapped Mr. Bunbury. "If we are not going to doit properly, what's the use of doing it at all?"This seemed to strike the erring Teddy, if not as reasonable, at anyrate as one way of looking at it. He delivered the speech in an injuredtone and shuffled off. The atmosphere of tenseness was unmistakable now.
　　Sally could feel it. The world of the theatre is simply a large nurseryand its inhabitants children who readily become fretful if anything goeswrong. The waiting and the uncertainty, the loafing about in strangehotels in a strange city, the dreary rehearsing of lines which had beenpolished to the last syllable more than a week ago--these things hadsapped the nerve of the Primrose Way company and demoralization had setin. It would require only a trifle to produce an explosion.
　　Elsa Doland now moved to the door, pressed a bell, and, taking amagazine from the table, sat down in a chair near the footlights. Amoment later, in answer to the ring, a young woman entered, to begreeted instantly by an impassioned bellow from Mr. Bunbury.
　　"Miss Winch!"The new arrival stopped and looked out over the footlights, not in thepained manner of the man in the bowler hat, but with the sort of genialindulgence of one who has come to a juvenile party to amuse thechildren. She was a square, wholesome, good-humoured looking girl with aserious face, the gravity of which was contradicted by the faint smilethat seemed to lurk about the corner of her mouth. She was certainly notpretty, and Sally, watching her with keen interest, was surprised thatFillmore had had the sense to disregard surface homeliness and recognizeher charm. Deep down in Fillmore, Sally decided, there must lurk anunsuspected vein of intelligence.
　　"Hello?" said Miss Winch, amiably.
　　Mr. Bunbury seemed profoundly moved.
　　"Miss Winch, did I or did I not ask you to refrain from chewing gumduring rehearsal?""That's right, so you did," admitted Miss Winch, chummily.
　　"Then why are you doing it?"Fillmore's fiancée revolved the criticized refreshment about her tonguefor a moment before replying.
　　"Bit o' business," she announced, at length.
　　"What do you mean, a bit of business?""Character stuff," explained Miss Winch in her pleasant, drawling voice.
　　"Thought it out myself. Maids chew gum, you know."Mr. Bunbury ruffled his orange hair in an over-wrought manner with thepalm of his right hand.
　　"Have you ever seen a maid?" he asked, despairingly.
　　"Yes, sir. And they chew gum.""I mean a parlour-maid in a smart house," moaned Mr. Bunbury. "Do youimagine for a moment that in a house such as this is supposed to be theparlour-maid would be allowed to come into the drawing-room champingthat disgusting, beastly stuff?"Miss Winch considered the point.
　　"Maybe you're right." She brightened. "Listen! Great idea! Mr. Fostercan write in a line for Elsa, calling me down, and another giving me agood come-back, and then another for Elsa saying something else, andthen something really funny for me, and so on. We can work it up into abig comic scene. Five or six minutes, all laughs."This ingenious suggestion had the effect of depriving the producermomentarily of speech, and while he was struggling for utterance, theredashed out from the wings a gorgeous being in blue velvet and a hat ofsuch unimpeachable smartness that Sally ached at the sight of it with aspasm of pure envy.
　　"Say!"Miss Mabel Hobson had practically every personal advantage which naturecan bestow with the exception of a musical voice. Her figure wasperfect, her face beautiful, and her hair a mass of spun gold; but hervoice in moments of emotion was the voice of a peacock.
　　"Say, listen to me for just one moment!"Mr. Bunbury recovered from his trance.
　　"Miss Hobson! Please!""Yes, that's all very well...""You are interrupting the rehearsal.""You bet your sorrowful existence I'm interrupting the rehearsal,"agreed Miss Hobson, with emphasis. "And, if you want to make a littleeasy money, you go and bet somebody ten seeds that I'm going tointerrupt it again every time there's any talk of writing up any darnedpart in the show except mine. Write up other people's parts? Not while Ihave my strength!"A young man with butter-coloured hair, who had entered from the wings inclose attendance on the injured lady, attempted to calm the storm.
　　"Now, sweetie!""Oh, can it, Reggie!" said Miss Hobson, curtly.
　　Mr. Cracknell obediently canned it. He was not one of your brutalcave-men. He subsided into the recesses of a high collar and began tochew the knob of his stick.
　　"I'm the star," resumed Miss Hobson, vehemently, "and, if you thinkanybody else's part's going to be written up... well, pardon me while Ichoke with laughter! If so much as a syllable is written into anybody'spart, I walk straight out on my two feet. You won't see me go, I'll beso quick."Mr. Bunbury sprang to his feet and waved his hands.
　　"For heaven's sake! Are we rehearsing, or is this a debating society?
　　Miss Hobson, nothing is going to be written into anybody's part. Now areyou satisfied?""She said...""Oh, never mind," observed Miss Winch, equably. "It was only a randomthought. Working for the good of the show all the time. That's me.""Now, sweetie!" pleaded Mr. Cracknell, emerging from the collar like atortoise.
　　Miss Hobson reluctantly allowed herself to be reassured.
　　"Oh, well, that's all right, then. But don't forget I know how to lookafter myself," she said, stating a fact which was abundantly obvious toall who had had the privilege of listening to her. "Any raw work, andout I walk so quick it'll make you giddy."She retired, followed by Mr. Cracknell, and the wings swallowed her up.
　　"Shall I say my big speech now?" inquired Miss Winch, over thefootlights.
　　"Yes, yes! Get on with the rehearsal. We've wasted half the morning.""Did you ring, madam?" said Miss Winch to Elsa, who had been reading hermagazine placidly through the late scene.
　　The rehearsal proceeded, and Sally watched it with a sinking heart. Itwas all wrong. Novice as she was in things theatrical, she could seethat. There was no doubt that Miss Hobson was superbly beautiful andwould have shed lustre on any part which involved the minimum of wordsand the maximum of clothes: but in the pivotal role of a serious play,her very physical attributes only served to emphasize and point herhopeless incapacity. Sally remembered Mr. Faucitt's story of the ladywho got the bird at Wigan. She did not see how history could fail torepeat itself. The theatrical public of America will endure much fromyouth and beauty, but there is a limit.
　　A shrill, passionate cry from the front row, and Mr. Bunbury was on hisfeet again. Sally could not help wondering whether things were goingparticularly wrong to-day, or whether this was one of Mr. Bunbury'sordinary mornings.
　　"Miss Hobson!"The action of the drama had just brought that emotional lady on leftcentre and had taken her across to the desk which stood on the otherside of the stage. The desk was an important feature of the play, forit symbolized the absorption in business which, exhibited by herhusband, was rapidly breaking Miss Hobson's heart. He loved his deskbetter than his young wife, that was what it amounted to, and no wifecan stand that sort of thing.
　　"Oh, gee!" said Miss Hobson, ceasing to be the distressed wife andbecoming the offended star. "What's it this time?""I suggested at the last rehearsal and at the rehearsal before and therehearsal before that, that, on that line, you, should pick up thepaper-knife and toy negligently with it. You did it yesterday, andto-day you've forgotten it again.""My God!" cried Miss Hobson, wounded to the quick. "If this don't beateverything! How the heck can I toy negligently with a paper-knife whenthere's no paper-knife for me to toy negligently with?""The paper-knife is on the desk.""It's not on the desk.""No paper-knife?""No paper-knife. And it's no good picking on me. I'm the star, not theassistant stage manager. If you're going to pick on anybody, pick onhim."The advice appeared to strike Mr. Bunbury as good. He threw back hishead and bayed like a bloodhound.
　　There was a momentary pause, and then from the wings on the prompt sidethere shambled out a stout and shrinking figure, in whose hand was ascript of the play and on whose face, lit up by the footlights, thereshone a look of apprehension. It was Fillmore, the Man of Destiny.
　　Alas, poor Fillmore! He stood in the middle of the stage with thelightning of Mr. Bunbury's wrath playing about his defenceless head, andSally, recovering from her first astonishment, sent a wave of sisterlycommiseration floating across the theatre to him. She did not often pityFillmore. His was a nature which in the sunshine of prosperity had atendency to grow a trifle lush; and such of the minor ills of life ashad afflicted him during the past three years, had, she considered, beenwholesome and educative and a matter not for concern but forcongratulation. Unmoved, she had watched him through that lean periodlunching on coffee and buckwheat cakes, and curbing from motives ofeconomy a somewhat florid taste in dress. But this was different. Thiswas tragedy. Somehow or other, blasting disaster must have smitten theFillmore bank-roll, and he was back where he had started. His presencehere this morning could mean nothing else.
　　She recalled his words at the breakfast-table about financing the play.
　　How like Fillmore to try to save his face for the moment with anoutrageous bluff, though well aware that he would have to reveal thetruth sooner or later. She realized how he must have felt when he hadseen her at the hotel. Yes, she was sorry for Fillmore.
　　And, as she listened to the fervent eloquence of Mr. Bunbury, sheperceived that she had every reason to be. Fillmore was having a badtime. One of the chief articles of faith in the creed of all theatricalproducers is that if anything goes wrong it must be the fault of theassistant stage manager and Mr. Bunbury was evidently orthodox in hisviews. He was showing oratorical gifts of no mean order. The paper-knifeseemed to inspire him. Gradually, Sally began to get the feeling thatthis harmless, necessary stage-property was the source from which sprangmost, if not all, of the trouble in the world. It had disappearedbefore. Now it had disappeared again. Could Mr. Bunbury go onstruggling in a universe where this sort of thing happened? He seemed todoubt it. Being a red-blooded, one-hundred-per-cent American man, hewould try hard, but it was a hundred to one shot that he would getthrough. He had asked for a paper-knife. There was no paper-knife. Whywas there no paper-knife? Where was the paper-knife anyway?
　　"I assure you, Mr. Bunbury," bleated the unhappy Fillmore, obsequiously.
　　"I placed it with the rest of the properties after the last rehearsal.""You couldn't have done.""I assure you I did.""And it walked away, I suppose," said Miss Hobson with cold scorn,pausing in the operation of brightening up her lower lip with alip-stick.
　　A calm, clear voice spoke.
　　"It was taken away," said the calm, clear voice.
　　Miss Winch had added herself to the symposium. She stood besideFillmore, chewing placidly. It took more than raised voices andgesticulating hands to disturb Miss Winch.
　　"Miss Hobson took it," she went on in her cosy, drawling voice. "I sawher."Sensation in court. The prisoner, who seemed to feel his positiondeeply, cast a pop-eyed glance full of gratitude at his advocate. Mr.
　　Bunbury, in his capacity of prosecuting attorney, ran his fingersthrough his hair in some embarrassment, for he was regretting now thathe had made such a fuss. Miss Hobson thus assailed by an underling, spunround and dropped the lip-stick, which was neatly retrieved by theassiduous Mr. Cracknell. Mr. Cracknell had his limitations, but he wasrather good at picking up lip-sticks.
　　"What's that? I took it? I never did anything of the sort.""Miss Hobson took it after the rehearsal yesterday," drawled GladysWinch, addressing the world in general, "and threw it negligently at thetheatre cat."Miss Hobson seemed taken aback. Her composure was not restored by Mr.
　　Bunbury's next remark. The producer, like his company, had been feelingthe strain of the past few days, and, though as a rule he avoidedanything in the nature of a clash with the temperamental star, thismatter of the missing paper-knife had bitten so deeply into his soulthat he felt compelled to speak his mind.
　　"In future, Miss Hobson, I should be glad if, when you wish to throwanything at the cat, you would not select a missile from the propertybox. Good heavens!" he cried, stung by the way fate was maltreating him,"I have never experienced anything like this before. I have beenproducing plays all my life, and this is the first time this hashappened. I have produced Nazimova. Nazimova never threw paper-knives atcats.""Well, I hate cats," said Miss Hobson, as though that settled it.
　　"I," murmured Miss Winch, "love little pussy, her fur is so warm, and ifI don't hurt her she'll do me no...""Oh, my heavens!" shouted Gerald Foster, bounding from his seat and forthe first time taking a share in the debate. "Are we going to spend thewhole day arguing about cats and paper-knives? For goodness' sake, clearthe stage and stop wasting time."Miss Hobson chose to regard this intervention as an affront.
　　"Don't shout at me, Mr. Foster!""I wasn't shouting at you.""If you have anything to say to me, lower your voice.""He can't," observed Miss Winch. "He's a tenor.""Nazimova never..." began Mr. Bunbury.
　　Miss Hobson was not to be diverted from her theme by reminiscences ofNazimova. She had not finished dealing with Gerald.
　　"In the shows I've been in," she said, mordantly, "the author wasn'tallowed to go about the place getting fresh with the leading lady. Inthe shows I've been in the author sat at the back and spoke when he wasspoken to. In the shows I've been in..."Sally was tingling all over. This reminded her of the dog-fight on theRoville sands. She wanted to be in it, and only the recognition that itwas a private fight and that she would be intruding kept her silent. Thelure of the fray, however, was too strong for her wholly to resist it.
　　Almost unconsciously, she had risen from her place and drifted down theaisle so as to be nearer the white-hot centre of things. She was nowstanding in the lighted space by the orchestra-pit, and her presenceattracted the roving attention of Miss Hobson, who, having concluded herremarks on authors and their legitimate sphere of activity, was lookingabout for some other object of attack.
　　"Who the devil," inquired Miss Hobson, "is that?"Sally found herself an object of universal scrutiny and wished that shehad remained in the obscurity of the back rows.
　　"I am Mr. Nicholas' sister," was the best method of identification thatshe could find.
　　"Who's Mr. Nicholas?"Fillmore timidly admitted that he was Mr. Nicholas. He did it in themanner of one in the dock pleading guilty to a major charge, and atleast half of those present seemed surprised. To them, till now,Fillmore had been a nameless thing, answering to the shout of "Hi!"Miss Hobson received the information with a laugh of such exceedingbitterness that strong men blanched and Mr. Cracknell started soconvulsively that he nearly jerked his collar off its stud.
　　"Now, sweetie!" urged Mr. Cracknell.
　　Miss Hobson said that Mr. Cracknell gave her a pain in the gizzard. Sherecommended his fading away, and he did so--into his collar. He seemedto feel that once well inside his collar he was "home" and safe fromattack.
　　"I'm through!" announced Miss Hobson. It appeared that Sally's presencehad in some mysterious fashion fulfilled the function of the last straw.
　　"This is the by-Goddest show I was ever in! I can stand for a whole lot,but when it comes to the assistant stage manager being allowed to fillthe theatre with his sisters and his cousins and his aunts it's time toquit.""But, sweetie!" pleaded Mr. Cracknell, coming to the surface.
　　"Oh, go and choke yourself!" said Miss Hobson, crisply. And, swinginground like a blue panther, she strode off. A door banged, and the soundof it seemed to restore Mr. Cracknell's power of movement. He, too, shotup stage and disappeared.
　　"Hello, Sally," said Elsa Doland, looking up from her magazine. Thebattle, raging all round her, had failed to disturb her detachment.
　　"When did you get back?"Sally trotted up the steps which had been propped against the stage toform a bridge over the orchestra pit.
　　"Hello, Elsa."The late debaters had split into groups. Mr. Bunbury and Gerald werepacing up and down the central aisle, talking earnestly. Fillmore hadsubsided into a chair.
　　"Do you know Gladys Winch?" asked Elsa.
　　Sally shook hands with the placid lodestar of her brother's affections.
　　Miss Winch, on closer inspection, proved to have deep grey eyes andfreckles. Sally's liking for her increased.
　　"Thank you for saving Fillmore from the wolves," she said. "They wouldhave torn him in pieces but for you.""Oh, I don't know," said Miss Winch.
　　"It was noble.""Oh, well!""I think," said Sally, "I'll go and have a talk with Fillmore. He looksas though he wanted consoling."She made her way to that picturesque ruin.
　　Fillmore had the air of a man who thought it wasn't loaded. A wild,startled expression had settled itself upon his face and he wasbreathing heavily.
　　"Cheer up!" said Sally. Fillmore jumped like a stricken jelly. "Tellme all," said Sally, sitting down beside him. "I leave you a gentlemanof large and independent means, and I come back and find you one of thewage-slaves again. How did it all happen?""Sally," said Fillmore, "I will be frank with you. Can you lend me tendollars?""I don't see how you make that out an answer to my question, but hereyou are.""Thanks." Fillmore pocketed the bill. "I'll let you have it back nextweek. I want to take Miss Winch out to lunch.""If that's what you want it for, don't look on it as a loan, take it asa gift with my blessing thrown in." She looked over her shoulder at MissWinch, who, the cares of rehearsal being temporarily suspended, waspractising golf-shots with an umbrella at the other side of the stage.
　　"However did you have the sense to fall in love with her, Fill?""Do you like her?" asked Fillmore, brightening.
　　"I love her.""I knew you would. She's just the right girl for me, isn't she?""She certainly is.""So sympathetic.""Yes.""So kind.""Yes.""And she's got brains enough for two, which is the exact quantitythe girl who marries you will need."Fillmore drew himself up with as much hauteur as a stout man sitting ina low chair can achieve.
　　"Some day I will make you believe in me, Sally.""Less of the Merchant Prince, my lad," said Sally, firmly. "You justconfine yourself to explaining how you got this way, instead of takingup my valuable time telling me what you mean to do in the future. You'velost all your money?""I have suffered certain reverses," said Fillmore, with dignity, "whichhave left me temporarily... Yes, every bean," he concluded simply.
　　"How?""Well..." Fillmore hesitated. "I've had bad luck, you know. First Ibought Consolidated Rails for the rise, and they fell. So that wentwrong.""Yes?""And then I bought Russian Roubles for the fall, and they rose. So thatwent wrong.""Good gracious! Why, I've heard all this before.""Who told you?""No, I remember now. It's just that you remind me of a man I met atRoville. He was telling me the story of his life, and how he had made ahash of everything. Well, that took all you had, I suppose?""Not quite. I had a few thousand left, and I went into a deal thatreally did look cast-iron.""And that went wrong!""It wasn't my fault," said Fillmore querulously. "It was just mypoisonous luck. A man I knew got me to join a syndicate which had boughtup a lot of whisky. The idea was to ship it into Chicago inherring-barrels. We should have cleaned up big, only a mutt of adetective took it into his darned head to go fooling about with acrowbar. Officious ass! It wasn't as if the barrels weren't labelled'Herrings' as plainly as they could be," said Fillmore with honestindignation. He shuddered. "I nearly got arrested.""But that went wrong? Well, that's something to be thankful for.
　　Stripes wouldn't suit your figure." Sally gave his arm a squeeze. Shewas very fond of Fillmore, though for the good of his soul she generallyconcealed her affection beneath a manner which he had once compared, notwithout some reason, to that of a governess who had afflicted theirmutual childhood. "Never mind, you poor ill-used martyr. Things are sureto come right. We shall see you a millionaire some day. And, oh heavens,brother Fillmore, what a bore you'll be when you are! I can just see youbeing interviewed and giving hints to young men on how to make good.
　　'Mr. Nicholas attributes his success to sheer hard work. He can lay hishand on his bulging waistcoat and say that he has never once indulged inthose rash get-rich-quick speculations, where you buy for the rise andwatch things fall and then rush out and buy for the fall and watch 'emrise.' Fill... I'll tell you what I'll do. They all say it's the firstbit of money that counts in building a vast fortune. I'll lend you someof mine.""You will? Sally, I always said you were an ace.""I never heard you. You oughtn't to mumble so.""Will you lend me twenty thousand dollars?"Sally patted his hand soothingly.
　　"Come slowly down to earth," she said. "Two hundred was the sum I hadin mind.""I want twenty thousand.""You'd better rob a bank. Any policeman will direct you to a goodbank.""I'll tell you why I want twenty thousand.""You might just mention it.""If I had twenty thousand, I'd buy this production from Cracknell.
　　He'll be back in a few minutes to tell us that the Hobson woman hasquit: and, if she really has, you take it from me that he will close theshow. And, even if he manages to jolly her along this time and she comesback, it's going to happen sooner or later. It's a shame to let a showlike this close. I believe in it, Sally. It's a darn good play. WithElsa Doland in the big part, it couldn't fail."Sally started. Her money was too recent for her to have grown fullyaccustomed to it, and she had never realized that she was in a positionto wave a wand and make things happen on any big scale. The financing ofa theatrical production had always been to her something mysterious andout of the reach of ordinary persons like herself. Fillmore, thatspacious thinker, had brought it into the sphere of the possible.
　　"He'd sell for less than that, of course, but one would need a bit inhand. You have to face a loss on the road before coming into New York.
　　I'd give you ten per cent on your money, Sally."Sally found herself wavering. The prudent side of her nature, whichhitherto had steered her safely through most of life's rapids, seemedoddly dormant. Sub-consciously she was aware that on past performancesFillmore was decidedly not the man to be allowed control of anybody'slittle fortune, but somehow the thought did not seem to grip her. He hadtouched her imagination.
　　"It's a gold-mine!"Sally's prudent side stirred in its sleep. Fillmore had chosen anunfortunate expression. To the novice in finance the word gold-mine hadrepellent associations. If there was one thing in which Sally hadproposed not to invest her legacy, it was a gold-mine; what she had hadin view, as a matter of fact, had been one of those little fancy shopswhich are called Ye Blue Bird or Ye Corner Shoppe, or something likethat, where you sell exotic bric-a-brac to the wealthy at extortionateprices. She knew two girls who were doing splendidly in that line. AsFillmore spoke those words, Ye Corner Shoppe suddenly looked very goodto her.
　　At this moment, however, two things happened. Gerald and Mr. Bunbury,in the course of their perambulations, came into the glow of thefootlights, and she was able to see Gerald's face: and at the same timeMr. Reginald Cracknell hurried on to the stage, his whole demeanour thatof the bearer of evil tidings.
　　The sight of Gerald's face annihilated Sally's prudence at a singlestroke. Ye Corner Shoppe, which a moment before had been shiningbrightly before her mental eye, flickered and melted out. The wholeissue became clear and simple. Gerald was miserable and she had it inher power to make him happy. He was sullenly awaiting disaster and shewith a word could avert it. She wondered that she had ever hesitated.
　　"All right," she said simply.
　　Fillmore quivered from head to foot. A powerful electric shock couldnot have produced a stronger convulsion. He knew Sally of old ascautious and clear-headed, by no means to be stampeded by a brother'seloquence; and he had never looked on this thing as anything better thana hundred to one shot.
　　"You'll do it?" he whispered, and held his breath. After all he mightnot have heard correctly.
　　"Yes."All the complex emotion in Fillmore's soul found expression in one vastwhoop. It rang through the empty theatre like the last trump, beatingagainst the back wall and rising in hollow echoes to the very gallery.
　　Mr. Bunbury, conversing in low undertones with Mr. Cracknell across thefootlights, shied like a startled mule. There was reproach and menace inthe look he cast at Fillmore, and a minute earlier it would have reducedthat financial magnate to apologetic pulp. But Fillmore was not to beintimidated now by a look. He strode down to the group at thefootlights,"Cracknell," he said importantly, "one moment, I should like a word withyou."
Chapter 7 Some Meditations On Success
    If actors and actresses are like children in that they are readilydepressed by disaster, they have the child's compensating gift of beingeasily uplifted by good fortune. It amazed Sally that any one mortalshould have been able to spread such universal happiness as she had doneby the simple act of lending her brother Fillmore twenty thousanddollars. If the Millennium had arrived, the members of the Primrose WayCompany could not have been on better terms with themselves. Thelethargy and dispiritedness, caused by their week of inaction, fell fromthem like a cloak. The sudden elevation of that creature of the abyss,the assistant stage manager, to the dizzy height of proprietor of theshow appealed to their sense of drama. Most of them had played in pieceswhere much the same thing had happened to the persecuted heroine roundabout eleven o'clock, and the situation struck them as theatricallysound. Also, now that she had gone, the extent to which Miss Hobson hadacted as a blight was universally recognized.
　　A spirit of optimism reigned, and cheerful rumours became current. Thebowler-hatted Teddy had it straight from the lift-boy at his hotel thatthe ban on the theatres was to be lifted on Tuesday at the latest; whileno less an authority than the cigar-stand girl at the Pontchatrain hadinformed the man who played the butler that Toledo and Cleveland wereopening to-morrow. It was generally felt that the sun was burstingthrough the clouds and that Fate would soon despair of the hopeless taskof trying to keep good men down.
　　Fillmore was himself again. We all have our particular mode ofself-expression in moments of elation. Fillmore's took the shape ofbuying a new waistcoat and a hundred half-dollar cigars and being veryfussy about what he had for lunch. It may have been an optical illusion,but he appeared to Sally to put on at least six pounds in weight on thefirst day of the new regime. As a serf looking after paper-knives andother properties, he had been--for him--almost slim. As a manager heblossomed out into soft billowy curves, and when he stood on thesidewalk in front of the theatre, gloating over the new posters whichbore the legend,FILLMORE NICHOLASPRESENTSthe populace had to make a detour to get round him.
　　In this era of bubbling joy, it was hard that Sally, the fairy godmotherresponsible for it all, should not have been completely happy too; andit puzzled her why she was not. But whatever it was that cast the faintshadow refused obstinately to come out from the back of her mind andshow itself and be challenged. It was not till she was out driving in ahired car with Gerald one afternoon on Belle Isle that enlightenmentcame.
　　Gerald, since the departure of Miss Hobson, had been at his best. LikeFillmore, he was a man who responded to the sunshine of prosperity. Hismoodiness had vanished, and all his old charm had returned. And yet...
　　it seemed to Sally, as the car slid smoothly through the pleasant woodsand fields by the river, that there was something that jarred.
　　Gerald was cheerful and talkative. He, at any rate, found nothing wrongwith life. He held forth spaciously on the big things he intended to do.
　　"If this play get over--and it's going to--I'll show 'em!" His jaw wassquared, and his eyes glowed as they stared into the inviting future.
　　"One success--that's all I need--then watch me! I haven't had a chanceyet, but..."His voice rolled on, but Sally had ceased to listen. It was the time ofyear when the chill of evening follows swiftly on the mellow warmth ofafternoon. The sun had gone behind the trees, and a cold wind wasblowing up from the river. And quite suddenly, as though it was the windthat had cleared her mind, she understood what it was that had beenlurking at the back of her thoughts. For an instant it stood out nakedlywithout concealment, and the world became a forlorn place. She hadrealized the fundamental difference between man's outlook on life andwoman's.
　　Success! How men worshipped it, and how little of themselves they hadto spare for anything else. Ironically, it was the theme of this veryplay of Gerald's which she had saved from destruction. Of all the menshe knew, how many had any view of life except as a race which they muststrain every nerve to win, regardless of what they missed by the waysidein their haste? Fillmore--Gerald--all of them. There might be a woman ineach of their lives, but she came second--an afterthought--a thing fortheir spare time. Gerald was everything to her. His success would neverbe more than a side-issue as far as she was concerned. He himself,without any of the trappings of success, was enough for her. But she wasnot enough for him. A spasm of futile jealousy shook her. She shivered.
　　"Cold?" said Gerald. "I'll tell the man to drive back... I don't seeany reason why this play shouldn't run a year in New York. Everybodysays it's good... if it does get over, they'll all be after me. I..."Sally stared out into a bleak world. The sky was a leaden grey, and thewind from the river blew with a dismal chill.
Chapter 8 Reappearance Of Mr. Carmyle--And Ginger
When Sally left Detroit on the following Saturday, accompanied byFillmore, who was returning to the metropolis for a few days in order tosecure offices and generally make his presence felt along Broadway, herspirits had completely recovered. She felt guiltily that she had beenfanciful, even morbid. Naturally men wanted to get on in the world. Itwas their job. She told herself that she was bound up with Gerald'ssuccess, and that the last thing of which she ought to complain was theenergy he put into efforts of which she as well as he would reap thereward.
　　To this happier frame of mind the excitement of the last few days hadcontributed. Detroit, that city of amiable audiences, had liked "ThePrimrose Way." The theatre, in fulfilment of Teddy's prophecy, had beenallowed to open on the Tuesday, and a full house, hungry forentertainment after its enforced abstinence, had welcomed the playwholeheartedly. The papers, not always in agreement with the applauseof a first-night audience, had on this occasion endorsed the verdict,with agreeable unanimity hailing Gerald as the coming author and ElsaDoland as the coming star. There had even been a brief mention ofFillmore as the coming manager. But there is always some trifle thatjars in our greatest moments, and Fillmore's triumph had been almostspoilt by the fact that the only notice taken of Gladys Winch was by thecritic who printed her name--spelt Wunch--in the list of those whom thecast "also included.""One of the greatest character actresses on the stage," said Fillmorebitterly, talking over this outrage with Sally on the morning after theproduction.
　　From this blow, however, his buoyant nature had soon enabled him torally. Life contained so much that was bright that it would have beenchurlish to concentrate the attention on the one dark spot. Business hadbeen excellent all through the week. Elsa Doland had got better at everyperformance. The receipt of a long and agitated telegram from Mr.
　　Cracknell, pleading to be allowed to buy the piece back, the passage oftime having apparently softened Miss Hobson, was a pleasant incident.
　　And, best of all, the great Ike Schumann, who owned half the theatres inNew York and had been in Detroit superintending one of his musicalproductions, had looked in one evening and stamped "The Primrose Way"with the seal of his approval. As Fillmore sat opposite Sally on thetrain, he radiated contentment and importance.
　　"Yes, do," said Sally, breaking a long silence.
　　Fillmore awoke from happy dreams.
　　"Eh?""I said 'Yes, do.' I think you owe it to your position.""Do what?""Buy a fur coat. Wasn't that what you were meditating about?""Don't be a chump," said Fillmore, blushing nevertheless. It was truethat once or twice during the past week he had toyed negligently, as Mr.
　　Bunbury would have said, with the notion, and why not? A fellow mustkeep warm.
　　"With an astrakhan collar," insisted Sally.
　　"As a matter of fact," said Fillmore loftily, his great soul ill-attunedto this badinage, "what I was really thinking about at the moment wassomething Ike said.""Ike?""Ike Schumann. He's on the train. I met him just now.""We call him Ike!""Of course I call him Ike," said Fillmore heatedly. "Everyone callshim Ike.""He wears a fur coat," Sally murmured.
　　Fillmore registered annoyance.
　　"I wish you wouldn't keep on harping on that damned coat. And, anyway,why shouldn't I have a fur coat?""Fill... ! How can you be so brutal as to suggest that I ever said youshouldn't? Why, I'm one of the strongest supporters of the fur coat.
　　With big cuffs. And you must roll up Fifth Avenue in your car, and I'llpoint and say 'That's my brother!' 'Your brother? No!' 'He is, really.'
　　'You're joking. Why, that's the great Fillmore Nicholas.' 'I know. Buthe really is my brother. And I was with him when he bought that coat.'""Do leave off about the coat!""'And it isn't only the coat,' I shall say. 'It's what's underneath.
　　Tucked away inside that mass of fur, dodging about behind that dollarcigar, is one to whom we point with pride... '"Fillmore looked coldly at his watch.
　　"I've got to go and see Ike Schumann.""We are in hourly consultation with Ike.""He wants to see me about the show. He suggests putting it into Chicagobefore opening in New York.""Oh no," cried Sally, dismayed.
　　"Why not?"Sally recovered herself. Identifying Gerald so closely with his play,she had supposed for a moment that if the piece opened in Chicago itwould mean a further prolonged separation from him. But of course therewould be no need, she realized, for him to stay with the company afterthe first day or two.
　　"You're thinking that we ought to have a New York reputation beforetackling Chicago. There's a lot to be said for that. Still, it worksboth ways. A Chicago run would help us in New York. Well, I'll have tothink it over," said Fillmore, importantly, "I'll have to think itover."He mused with drawn brows.
　　"All wrong," said Sally.
　　"Eh?""Not a bit like it. The lips should be compressed and the forefinger ofthe right hand laid in a careworn way against the right temple. You've alot to learn. Fill.""Oh, stop it!""Fillmore Nicholas," said Sally, "if you knew what pain it gives me tojosh my only brother, you'd be sorry for me. But you know it's for yourgood. Now run along and put Ike out of his misery. I know he's waitingfor you with his watch out. 'You do think he'll come, Miss Nicholas?'
　　were his last words to me as he stepped on the train, and oh, Fill, theyearning in his voice. 'Why, of course he will, Mr. Schumann,' I said.
　　'For all his exalted position, my brother is kindliness itself. Ofcourse he'll come.' 'If I could only think so!' he said with a gulp. 'IfI could only think so. But you know what these managers are. A thousandcalls on their time. They get brooding on their fur coats and forgeteverything else.' 'Have no fear, Mr. Schumann,' I said. 'FillmoreNicholas is a man of his word.'"She would have been willing, for she was a girl who never believed insparing herself where it was a question of entertaining her nearest anddearest, to continue the dialogue, but Fillmore was already moving downthe car, his rigid back a silent protest against sisterly levity. Sallywatched him disappear, then picked up a magazine and began to read.
　　She had just finished tracking a story of gripping interest through ajungle of advertisements, only to find that it was in two parts, ofwhich the one she was reading was the first, when a voice spoke.
　　"How do you do, Miss Nicholas?"Into the seat before her, recently released from the weight of thecoming manager, Bruce Carmyle of all people in the world insinuatedhimself with that well-bred air of deferential restraint which neverleft him.
　　Sally was considerably startled. Everybody travels nowadays, ofcourse, and there is nothing really remarkable in finding a man inAmerica whom you had supposed to be in Europe: but nevertheless she wasconscious of a dream-like sensation, as though the clock had been turnedback and a chapter of her life reopened which she had thought closed forever.
　　"Mr. Carmyle!" she cried.
　　If Sally had been constantly in Bruce Carmyle's thoughts since they hadparted on the Paris express, Mr. Carmyle had been very little inSally's--so little, indeed, that she had had to search her memory for amoment before she identified him.
　　"We're always meeting on trains, aren't we?" she went on, her composurereturning. "I never expected to see you in America.""I came over."Sally was tempted to reply that she gathered that, but a suddenembarrassment curbed her tongue. She had just remembered that at theirlast meeting she had been abominably rude to this man. She was neverrude to anyone, without subsequent remorse. She contented herself with atame "Yes.""Yes," said Mr. Carmyle, "it is a good many years since I have taken areal holiday. My doctor seemed to think I was a trifle run down. Itseemed a good opportunity to visit America. Everybody," said Mr. Carmyleoracularly, endeavouring, as he had often done since his ship had leftEngland, to persuade himself that his object in making the trip had notbeen merely to renew his acquaintance with Sally, "everybody ought tovisit America at least once. It is part of one's education.""And what are your impressions of our glorious country?" said Sallyrallying.
　　Mr. Carmyle seemed glad of the opportunity of lecturing on an impersonalsubject. He, too, though his face had shown no trace of it, had beenembarrassed in the opening stages of the conversation. The sound of hisvoice restored him.
　　"I have been visiting Chicago," he said after a brief travelogue.
　　"Oh!""A wonderful city.""I've never seen it. I've come from Detroit.""Yes, I heard you were in Detroit."Sally's eyes opened.
　　"You heard I was in Detroit? Good gracious! How?""I--ah--called at your New York address and made inquiries," said Mr.
　　Carmyle a little awkwardly.
　　"But how did you know where I lived?""My cousin--er--Lancelot told me."Sally was silent for a moment. She had much the same feeling that comesto the man in the detective story who realizes that he is beingshadowed. Even if this almost complete stranger had not actually cometo America in direct pursuit of her, there was no disguising the factthat he evidently found her an object of considerable interest. It wasa compliment, but Sally was not at all sure that she liked it. BruceCarmyle meant nothing to her, and it was rather disturbing to find thatshe was apparently of great importance to him. She seized on the mentionof Ginger as a lever for diverting the conversation from its present toointimate course.
　　"How is Mr. Kemp?" she asked.
　　Mr. Carmyle's dark face seemed to become a trifle darker.
　　"We have had no news of him," he said shortly.
　　"No news? How do you mean? You speak as though he had disappeared.""He has disappeared!""Good heavens! When?""Shortly after I saw you last.""Disappeared!"Mr. Carmyle frowned. Sally, watching him, found her antipathy stirringagain. There was something about this man which she had dislikedinstinctively from the first, a sort of hardness.
　　"But where has he gone to?""I don't know." Mr. Carmyle frowned again. The subject of Ginger wasplainly a sore one. "And I don't want to know," he went on heatedly, adull flush rising in the cheeks which Sally was sure he had to shavetwice a day. "I don't care to know. The Family have washed their handsof him. For the future he may look after himself as best he can. Ibelieve he is off his head."Sally's rebellious temper was well ablaze now, but she fought it down.
　　She would dearly have loved to give battle to Mr. Carmyle--it was odd,she felt, how she seemed to have constituted herself Ginger's championand protector--but she perceived that, if she wished, as she did, tohear more of her red-headed friend, he must be humoured andconciliated.
　　"But what happened? What was all the trouble about?"Mr. Carmyle's eyebrows met.
　　"He--insulted his uncle. His uncle Donald. He insulted him--grossly.
　　The one man in the world he should have made a point of--er--""Keeping in with?""Yes. His future depended upon him.""But what did he do?" cried Sally, trying hard to keep a thoroughlyreprehensible joy out of her voice.
　　"I have heard no details. My uncle is reticent as to what actually tookplace. He invited Lancelot to dinner to discuss his plans, and itappears that Lancelot--defied him. Defied him! He was rude andinsulting. My uncle refuses to have anything more to do with him.
　　Apparently the young fool managed to win some money at the tables atRoville, and this seems to have turned his head completely. My uncleinsists that he is mad. I agree with him. Since the night of that dinnernothing has been heard of Lancelot."Mr. Carmyle broke off to brood once more, and before Sally could speakthe impressive bulk of Fillmore loomed up in the aisle beside them.
　　Explanations seemed to Fillmore to be in order. He cast a questioningglance at the mysterious stranger, who, in addition to being inconversation with his sister, had collared his seat.
　　"Oh, hullo, Fill," said Sally. "Fillmore, this is Mr. Carmyle. We metabroad. My brother Fillmore, Mr. Carmyle."Proper introduction having been thus effected, Fillmore approved of Mr.
　　Carmyle. His air of being someone in particular appealed to him.
　　"Strange you meeting again like this," he said affably.
　　The porter, who had been making up berths along the car, was nowhovering expectantly in the offing.
　　"You two had better go into the smoking room," suggested Sally. "I'mgoing to bed."She wanted to be alone, to think. Mr. Carmyle's tale of a roused andrevolting Ginger had stirred her.
　　The two men went off to the smoking-room, and Sally found an empty seatand sat down to wait for her berth to be made up. She was aglow with acurious exhilaration. So Ginger had taken her advice! Excellent Ginger!
　　She felt proud of him. She also had that feeling of complacency,amounting almost to sinful pride, which comes to those who give adviceand find it acted upon. She had the emotions of a creator. After all,had she not created this new Ginger? It was she who had stirred him up.
　　It was she who had unleashed him. She had changed him from a meekdependent of the Family to a ravening creature, who went about the placeinsulting uncles.
　　It was a feat, there was no denying it. It was something attempted,something done: and by all the rules laid down by the poet it should,therefore, have earned a night's repose. Yet, Sally, jolted by thetrain, which towards the small hours seemed to be trying out some newbuck-and-wing steps of its own invention, slept ill, and presently, asshe lay awake, there came to her bedside the Spectre of Doubt, gaunt andquestioning. Had she, after all, wrought so well? Had she been wise intampering with this young man's life?
　　"What about it?" said the Spectre of Doubt.
　　Daylight brought no comforting answer to the question. Breakfast failedto manufacture an easy mind. Sally got off the train, at the GrandCentral station in a state of remorseful concern. She declined the offerof Mr. Carmyle to drive her to the boarding-house, and started to walkthere, hoping that the crisp morning air would effect a cure.
　　She wondered now how she could ever have looked with approval on herrash act. She wondered what demon of interference and meddling hadpossessed her, to make her blunder into people's lives, upsetting them.
　　She wondered that she was allowed to go around loose. She was nothingmore nor less than a menace to society. Here was an estimable young man,obviously the sort of young man who would always have to be assistedthrough life by his relatives, and she had deliberately egged him on towreck his prospects. She blushed hotly as she remembered that madwireless she had sent him from the boat.
　　Miserable Ginger! She pictured him, his little stock of money gone,wandering foot-sore about London, seeking in vain for work; forcinghimself to call on Uncle Donald; being thrown down the front steps byhaughty footmen; sleeping on the Embankment; gazing into the dark watersof the Thames with the stare of hopelessness; climbing to the parapetand...
　　"Ugh!" said Sally.
　　She had arrived at the door of the boarding-house, and Mrs. Meecher wasregarding her with welcoming eyes, little knowing that to all practicalintents and purposes she had slain in his prime a red-headed young manof amiable manners and--when not ill-advised by meddling, muddlingfemales--of excellent behaviour.
　　Mrs. Meecher was friendly and garrulous. Variety, the journal which,next to the dog Toto, was the thing she loved best in the world, hadinformed her on the Friday morning that Mr. Foster's play had got overbig in Detroit, and that Miss Doland had made every kind of hit. It wasnot often that the old alumni of the boarding-house forced their wayafter this fashion into the Hall of Fame, and, according to Mrs.
　　Meecher, the establishment was ringing with the news. That blue ribbonround Toto's neck was worn in honour of the triumph. There was also,though you could not see it, a chicken dinner in Toto's interior, by wayof further celebration.
　　And was it true that Mr. Fillmore had bought the piece? A great man, wasMrs. Meecher's verdict. Mr. Faucitt had always said so...
　　"Oh, how is Mr. Faucitt?" Sally asked, reproaching herself for havingallowed the pressure of other matters to drive all thoughts of her latepatient from her mind.
　　"He's gone," said Mrs. Meecher with such relish that to Sally, in hermorbid condition, the words had only one meaning. She turned white andclutched at the banisters.
　　"Gone!""To England," added Mrs. Meecher. Sally was vastly relieved.
　　"Oh, I thought you meant...""Oh no, not that." Mrs. Meecher sighed, for she had been a littledisappointed in the old gentleman, who started out as such a promisinginvalid, only to fall away into the dullness of robust health once more.
　　"He's well enough. I never seen anybody better. You'd think," said Mrs.
　　Meecher, bearing bearing up with difficulty under her grievance, "you'dthink this here new Spanish influenza was a sort of a tonic or somep'n,the way he looks now. Of course," she added, trying to findjustification for a respected lodger, "he's had good news. His brother'sdead.""What!""Not, I don't mean, that that was good news, far from it, though, cometo think of it, all flesh is as grass and we all got to be prepared forsomep'n of the sort breaking loose...but it seems this here new brother ofhis--I didn't know he'd a brother, and I don't suppose you knew he had abrother. Men are secretive, ain't they!--this brother of his has lefthim a parcel of money, and Mr. Faucitt he had to get on the Wednesdayboat quick as he could and go right over to the other side to look afterthings. Wind up the estate, I believe they call it. Left in a awfulhurry, he did. Sent his love to you and said he'd write. Funny himhaving a brother, now, wasn't it? Not," said Mrs. Meecher, at heart areasonable woman, "that folks don't have brothers. I got two myself, onein Portland, Oregon, and the other goodness knows where he is. But whatI'm trying to say..."Sally disengaged herself, and went up to her room. For a brief whilethe excitement which comes of hearing good news about those of whom weare fond acted as a stimulant, and she felt almost cheerful. Dear oldMr. Faucitt. She was sorry for his brother, of course, though she hadnever had the pleasure of his acquaintance and had only just heard thathe had ever existed; but it was nice to think that her old friend'sremaining years would be years of affluence.
　　Presently, however, she found her thoughts wandering back into theirmelancholy groove. She threw herself wearily on the bed. She was tiredafter her bad night.
　　But she could not sleep. Remorse kept her awake. Besides, she couldhear Mrs. Meecher prowling disturbingly about the house, apparently insearch of someone, her progress indicated by creaking boards and thestrenuous yapping of Toto.
　　Sally turned restlessly, and, having turned remained for a long instanttransfixed and rigid. She had seen something, and what she had seen wasenough to surprise any girl in the privacy of her bedroom. Fromunderneath the bed there peeped coyly forth an undeniably masculine shoeand six inches of a grey trouser-leg.
　　Sally bounded to the floor. She was a girl of courage, and she meant toprobe this matter thoroughly.
　　"What are you doing under my bed?"The question was a reasonable one, and evidently seemed to the intruderto deserve an answer. There was a muffled sneeze, and he began to crawlout.
　　The shoe came first. Then the legs. Then a sturdy body in a dustycoat. And finally there flashed on Sally's fascinated gaze a head of sonearly the maximum redness that it could only belong to one person inthe world.
　　"Ginger!"Mr. Lancelot Kemp, on all fours, blinked up at her.
　　"Oh, hullo!" he said.
Chapter 9 Ginger Becomes A Rihgt-Hand Man
    It was not till she saw him actually standing there before her with hishair rumpled and a large smut on the tip of his nose, that Sally reallyunderstood how profoundly troubled she had been about this young man,and how vivid had been that vision of him bobbing about on the waters ofthe Thames, a cold and unappreciated corpse. She was a girl of keenimagination, and she had allowed her imagination to riot unchecked.
　　Astonishment, therefore, at the extraordinary fact of his being therewas for the moment thrust aside by relief. Never before in her life hadshe experienced such an overwhelming rush of exhilaration. She flungherself into a chair and burst into a screech of laughter which even toher own ears sounded strange. It struck Ginger as hysterical.
　　"I say, you know!" said Ginger, as the merriment showed no signs ofabating. Ginger was concerned. Nasty shock for a girl, finding blightersunder her bed.
　　Sally sat up, gurgling, and wiped her eyes.
　　"Oh, I am glad to see you," she gasped.
　　"No, really?" said Ginger, gratified. "That's fine." It occurred to himthat some sort of apology would be a graceful act. "I say, you know,awfully sorry. About barging in here, I mean. Never dreamed it was yourroom. Unoccupied, I thought.""Don't mention it. I ought not to have disturbed you. You were havinga nice sleep, of course. Do you always sleep on the floor?""It was like this...""Of course, if you're wearing it for ornament, as a sort ofbeauty-spot," said Sally, "all right. But in case you don't know, you'vea smut on your nose.""Oh, my aunt! Not really?""Now would I deceive you on an important point like that?""Do you mind if I have a look in the glass?""Certainly, if you can stand it."Ginger moved hurriedly to the dressing-table.
　　"You're perfectly right," he announced, applying his handkerchief.
　　"I thought I was. I'm very quick at noticing things.""My hair's a bit rumpled, too.""Very much so.""You take my tis," said Ginger, earnestly, "and never lie about underbeds. There's nothing in it.""That reminds me. You won't be offended if I asked you something?""No, no. Go ahead.""It's rather an impertinent question. You may resent it.""No, no.""Well, then, what were you doing under my bed?""Oh, under your bed?""Yes. Under my bed. This. It's a bed, you know. Mine. My bed. Youwere under it. Why? Or putting it another way, why were you under mybed?""I was hiding.""Playing hide-and-seek? That explains it.""Mrs. What's-her-name--Beecher--Meecher--was after me.
　　Sally shook her head disapprovingly.
　　"You mustn't encourage Mrs. Meecher in these childish pastimes. Itunsettles her."Ginger passed an agitated hand over his forehead.
　　"It's like this...""I hate to keep criticizing your appearance," said Sally, "andpersonally I like it; but, when you clutched your brow just then, youput about a pound of dust on it. Your hands are probably grubby."Ginger inspected them.
　　"They are!""Why not make a really good job of it and have a wash?""Do you mind?""I'd prefer it.""Thanks awfully. I mean to say it's your basin, you know, and all that.
　　What I mean is, seem to be making myself pretty well at home.""Oh, no.""Touching the matter of soap...""Use mine. We Americans are famous for our hospitality.""Thanks awfully.""The towel is on your right.""Thanks awfully.""And I've a clothes brush in my bag.""Thanks awfully."Splashing followed like a sea-lion taking a dip. "Now, then," saidSally, "why were you hiding from Mrs. Meecher?"A careworn, almost hunted look came into Ginger's face. "I say, youknow, that woman is rather by way of being one of the lads, what! Scaresme! Word was brought that she was on the prowl, so it seemed to me ajudicious move to take cover till she sort of blew over. If she'd foundme, she'd have made me take that dog of hers for a walk.""Toto?""Toto. You know," said Ginger, with a strong sense of injury, "no dog'sgot a right to be a dog like that. I don't suppose there's anyone keeneron dogs than I am, but a thing like a woolly rat." He shudderedslightly. "Well, one hates to be seen about with it in the publicstreets.""Why couldn't you have refused in a firm but gentlemanly manner to takeToto out?""Ah! There you rather touch the spot. You see, the fact of the matteris, I'm a bit behind with the rent, and that makes it rather hard totake what you might call a firm stand.""But how can you be behind with the rent? I only left here the Saturdaybefore last and you weren't in the place then. You can't have been heremore than a week.""I've been here just a week. That's the week I'm behind with.""But why? You were a millionaire when I left you at Roville.""Well, the fact of the matter is, I went back to the tables that nightand lost a goodish bit of what I'd won. And, somehow or another, when Igot to America, the stuff seemed to slip away.""What made you come to America at all?" said Sally, asking the questionwhich, she felt, any sensible person would have asked at the opening ofthe conversation.
　　One of his familiar blushes raced over Ginger's face. "Oh, I thought Iwould. Land of opportunity, you know.""Have you managed to find any of the opportunities yet?""Well, I have got a job of sorts, I'm a waiter at a rummy little placeon Second Avenue. The salary isn't big, but I'd have wangled enough outof it to pay last week's rent, only they docked me a goodish bit forbreaking plates and what not. The fact is, I'm making rather a hash ofit.""Oh, Ginger! You oughtn't to be a waiter!""That's what the boss seems to think.""I mean, you ought to be doing something ever so much better.""But what? You've no notion how well all these blighters here seem to beable to get along without my help. I've tramped all over the place,offering my services, but they all say they'll try to carry on as theyare."Sally reflected.
　　"I know!""What?""I'll make Fillmore give you a job. I wonder I didn't think of itbefore.""Fillmore?""My brother. Yes, he'll be able to use you.""What as?"Sally considered.
　　"As a--as a--oh, as his right-hand man.""Does he want a right-hand man?""Sure to. He's a young fellow trying to get along. Sure to want aright-hand man.""'M yes," said Ginger reflectively. "Of course, I've never been aright-hand man, you know.""Oh, you'd pick it up. I'll take you round to him now. He's staying atthe Astor.""There's just one thing," said Ginger.
　　"What's that?""I might make a hash of it.""Heavens, Ginger! There must be something in this world that youwouldn't make a hash of. Don't stand arguing any longer. Are you dry?
　　and clean? Very well, then. Let's be off.""Right ho."Ginger took a step towards the door, then paused, rigid, with one leg inthe air, as though some spell had been cast upon him. From the passageoutside there had sounded a shrill yapping. Ginger looked at Sally. Thenhe looked--longingly--at the bed.
　　"Don't be such a coward," said Sally, severely.
　　"Yes, but...""How much do you owe Mrs. Meecher?""Round about twelve dollars, I think it is.""I'll pay her."Ginger flushed awkwardly.
　　"No, I'm hanged if you will! I mean," he stammered, "it's frightfullygood of you and all that, and I can't tell you how grateful I am, buthonestly, I couldn't..."Sally did not press the point. She liked him the better for a ruggedindependence, which in the days of his impecuniousness her brotherFillmore had never dreamed of exhibiting.
　　"Very well," she said. "Have it your own way. Proud. That's me allover, Mabel. Ginger!" She broke off sharply. "Pull yourself together.
　　Where is your manly spirit? I'd be ashamed to be such a coward.""Awfully sorry, but, honestly, that woolly dog...""Never mind the dog. I'll see you through."They came out into the passage almost on top of Toto, who was stalkingphantom rats. Mrs. Meecher was manoeuvring in the background. Her facelit up grimly at the sight of Ginger.
　　"Mister Kemp! I been looking for you."Sally intervened brightly.
　　"Oh, Mrs. Meecher," she said, shepherding her young charge through thedanger zone, "I was so surprised to meet Mr. Kemp here. He is a greatfriend of mine. We met in France. We're going off now to have a longtalk about old times, and then I'm taking him to see my brother...""Toto...""Dear little thing! You ought to take him for a walk," said Sally.
　　"It's a lovely day. Mr. Kemp was saying just now that he would haveliked to take him, but we're rather in a hurry and shall probably haveto get into a taxi. You've no idea how busy my brother is just now. Ifwe're late, he'll never forgive us."She passed on down the stairs, leaving Mrs. Meecher dissatisfied butirresolute. There was something about Sally which even in herpre-wealthy days had always baffled Mrs. Meecher and cramped her style,and now that she was rich and independent she inspired in the chatelaineof the boarding-house an emotion which was almost awe. The front doorhad closed before Mrs. Meecher had collected her faculties; and Ginger,pausing on the sidewalk, drew a long breath.
　　"You know, you're wonderful!" he said, regarding Sally with unconcealedadmiration.
　　She accepted the compliment composedly.
　　"Now we'll go and hunt up Fillmore," she said. "But there's no need tohurry, of course, really. We'll go for a walk first, and then call atthe Astor and make him give us lunch. I want to hear all about you. I'veheard something already. I met your cousin, Mr. Carmyle. He was on thetrain coming from Detroit. Did you know that he was in America?""No, I've--er--rather lost touch with the Family.""So I gathered from Mr. Carmyle. And I feel hideously responsible. Itwas all through me that all this happened.""Oh, no.""Of course it was. I made you what you are to-day--I hope I'msatisfied--I dragged and dragged you down until the soul within youdied, so to speak. I know perfectly well that you wouldn't have dreamedof savaging the Family as you seem to have done if it hadn't been forwhat I said to you at Roville. Ginger, tell me, what did happen? I'mdying to know. Mr. Carmyle said you insulted your uncle!""Donald. Yes, we did have a bit of a scrap, as a matter of fact. Hemade me go out to dinner with him and we--er--sort of disagreed. Tostart with, he wanted me to apologize to old Scrymgeour, and I rathergave it a miss.""Noble fellow!""Scrymgeour?""No, silly! You.""Oh, ah!" Ginger blushed. "And then there was all that about the soup,you know.""How do you mean, 'all that about the soup'? What about the soup? Whatsoup?""Well, things sort of hotted up a bit when the soup arrived.""I don't understand.""I mean, the trouble seemed to start, as it were, when the waiter hadfinished ladling out the mulligatawny. Thick soup, you know.""I know mulligatawny is a thick soup. Yes?""Well, my old uncle--I'm not blaming him, don't you know--more hismisfortune than his fault--I can see that now--but he's got a heavymoustache. Like a walrus, rather, and he's a bit apt to inhale the stuffthrough it. And I--well, I asked him not to. It was just a suggestion,you know. He cut up fairly rough, and by the time the fish came round wewere more or less down on the mat chewing holes in one another. Myfault, probably. I wasn't feeling particularly well-disposed towards theFamily that night. I'd just had a talk with Bruce--my cousin, youknow--in Piccadilly, and that had rather got the wind up me. Brucealways seems to get on my nerves a bit somehow and--Uncle Donald askingme to dinner and all that. By the way, did you get the books?""What books?""Bruce said he wanted to send you some books. That was why I gave himyour address." Sally stared.
　　"He never sent me any books.""Well, he said he was going to, and I had to tell him where to sendthem."Sally walked on, a little thoughtfully. She was not a vain girl, but itwas impossible not to perceive in the light of this fresh evidence thatMr. Carmyle had made a journey of three thousand miles with the soleobject of renewing his acquaintance with her. It did not matter, ofcourse, but it was vaguely disturbing. No girl cares to be dogged by aman she rather dislikes.
　　"Go on telling me about your uncle," she said.
　　"Well, there's not much more to tell. I'd happened to get that wirelessof yours just before I started out to dinner with him, and I was more orless feeling that I wasn't going to stand any rot from the Family. I'dgot to the fish course, hadn't I? Well, we managed to get through thatsomehow, but we didn't survive the fillet steak. One thing seemed tolead to another, and the show sort of bust up. He called me a good manythings, and I got a bit fed-up, and finally I told him I hadn't any moreuse for the Family and was going to start out on my own. And--well, Idid, don't you know. And here I am."Sally listened to this saga breathlessly. More than ever did she feelresponsible for her young protégé, and any faint qualms which she hadentertained as to the wisdom of transferring practically the whole ofher patrimony to the care of so erratic a financier as her brothervanished. It was her plain duty to see that Ginger was started well inthe race of life, and Fillmore was going to come in uncommonly handy.
　　"We'll go to the Astor now," she said, "and I'll introduce you toFillmore. He's a theatrical manager and he's sure to have something foryou.""It's awfully good of you to bother about me.""Ginger," said Sally, "I regard you as a grandson. Hail that cab, willyou?"
Chapter 10 Sally In The Shadows
    It seemed to Sally in the weeks that followed her reunion with GingerKemp that a sort of golden age had set in. On all the frontiers of herlittle kingdom there was peace and prosperity, and she woke each morningin a world so neatly smoothed and ironed out that the most captiouspessimist could hardly have found anything in it to criticize.
　　True, Gerald was still a thousand miles away. Going to Chicago tosuperintend the opening of "The Primrose Way"; for Fillmore had accededto his friend Ike's suggestion in the matter of producing it first inChicago, and he had been called in by a distracted manager to revise thework of a brother dramatist, whose comedy was in difficulties at one ofthe theatres in that city; and this meant he would have to remain on thespot for some time to come. It was disappointing, for Sally had beenlooking forward to having him back in New York in a few days; but sherefused to allow herself to be depressed. Life as a whole was much toosatisfactory for that. Life indeed, in every other respect, seemedperfect. Fillmore was going strong; Ginger was off her conscience; shehad found an apartment; her new hat suited her; and "The Primrose Way"was a tremendous success. Chicago, it appeared from Fillmore's account,was paying little attention to anything except "The Primrose Way."National problems had ceased to interest the citizens. Local problemsleft them cold. Their minds were riveted to the exclusion of all else onthe problem of how to secure seats. The production of the piece,according to Fillmore, had been the most terrific experience that hadcome to stir Chicago since the great fire.
　　Of all these satisfactory happenings, the most satisfactory, to Sally'sthinking, was the fact that the problem of Ginger's future had beensolved. Ginger had entered the service of the Fillmore NicholasTheatrical Enterprises Ltd. (Managing Director, FillmoreNicholas)--Fillmore would have made the title longer, only that was allthat would go on the brass plate--and was to be found daily in the outeroffice, his duties consisting mainly, it seemed, in reading the eveningpapers. What exactly he was, even Ginger hardly knew. Sometimes he feltlike the man at the wheel, sometimes like a glorified office boy, andnot so very glorified at that. For the most part he had to prevent themob rushing and getting at Fillmore, who sat in semi-regal state in theinner office pondering great schemes.
　　But, though there might be an occasional passing uncertainty inGinger's mind as to just what he was supposed to be doing in exchangefor the fifty dollars he drew every Friday, there was nothing uncertainabout his gratitude to Sally for having pulled the strings and enabledhim to do it. He tried to thank her every time they met, and nowadaysthey were meeting frequently; for Ginger was helping her to furnish hernew apartment. In this task, he spared no efforts. He said that it kepthim in condition.
　　"And what I mean to say is," said Ginger, pausing in the act of carryinga massive easy chair to the third spot which Sally had selected in thelast ten minutes, "if I didn't sweat about a bit and help you after theway you got me that job...""Ginger, desist," said Sally.
　　"Yes, but honestly...""If you don't stop it, I'll make you move that chair into the nextroom.""Shall I?" Ginger rubbed his blistered hands and took a new grip.
　　"Anything you say.""Silly! Of course not. The only other rooms are my bedroom, thebathroom and the kitchen. What on earth would I want a great lumberingchair in them for? All the same, I believe the first we chose was thebest.""Back she goes, then, what?"Sally reflected frowningly. This business of setting up house wascausing her much thought.
　　"No," she decided. "By the window is better." She looked at himremorsefully. "I'm giving you a lot of trouble.""Trouble!" Ginger, accompanied by a chair, staggered across the room.
　　"The way I look at it is this." He wiped a bead of perspiration from hisfreckled forehead. "You got me that job, and...""Stop!""Right ho... Still, you did, you know."Sally sat down in the armchair and stretched herself. Watching Gingerwork had given her a vicarious fatigue. She surveyed the room proudly.
　　It was certainly beginning to look cosy. The pictures were up, thecarpet down, the furniture very neatly in order. For almost the firsttime in her life she had the restful sensation of being at home. She hadalways longed, during the past three years of boarding-house existence,for a settled abode, a place where she could lock the door on herselfand be alone. The apartment was small, but it was undeniably a haven.
　　She looked about her and could see no flaw in it... except... She had asudden sense of something missing.
　　"Hullo!" she said. "Where's that photograph of me? I'm sure I put it onthe mantelpiece yesterday."His exertions seemed to have brought the blood to Ginger's face. He wasa rich red. He inspected the mantelpiece narrowly.
　　"No. No photograph here.""I know there isn't. But it was there yesterday. Or was it? I know Imeant to put it there. Perhaps I forgot. It's the most beautiful thingyou ever saw. Not a bit like me; but what of that? They touch 'em up inthe dark-room, you know. I value it because it looks the way I shouldlike to look if I could.""I've never had a beautiful photograph taken of myself," said Ginger,solemnly, with gentle regret.
　　"Cheer up!""Oh, I don't mind. I only mentioned...""Ginger," said Sally, "pardon my interrupting your remarks, which I knoware valuable, but this chair is--not--right! It ought to be where itwas at the beginning. Could you give your imitation of a pack-mule justonce more? And after that I'll make you some tea. If there's any tea--or milk--or cups.""There are cups all right. I know, because I smashed two the day beforeyesterday. I'll nip round the corner for some milk, shall I?""Yes, please nip. All this hard work has taken it out of me terribly."Over the tea-table Sally became inquisitive.
　　"What I can't understand about this job of yours. Ginger--which as youare just about to observe, I was noble enough to secure for you--is theamount of leisure that seems to go with it. How is it that you are ableto spend your valuable time--Fillmore's valuable time, rather--jugglingwith my furniture every day?""Oh, I can usually get off.""But oughtn't you to be at your post doing--whatever it is you do? Whatdo you do?"Ginger stirred his tea thoughtfully and gave his mind to the question.
　　"Well, I sort of mess about, you know." He pondered. "I interviewdivers blighters and tell 'em your brother is out and take theirnames and addresses and... oh, all that sort of thing.""Does Fillmore consult you much?""He lets me read some of the plays that are sent in. Awful tosh most ofthem. Sometimes he sends me off to a vaudeville house of an evening.""As a treat?""To see some special act, you know. To report on it. In case he mightwant to use it for this revue of his.""Which revue?""Didn't you know he was going to put on a revue? Oh, rather. A whackingbig affair. Going to cut out the Follies and all that sort of thing.""But--my goodness!" Sally was alarmed. It was just like Fillmore, shefelt, to go branching out into these expensive schemes when he ought tobe moving warily and trying to consolidate the small success he had had.
　　All his life he had thought in millions where the prudent man would havebeen content with hundreds. An inexhaustible fount of optimism bubbledeternally within him. "That's rather ambitious," she said.
　　"Yes. Ambitious sort of cove, your brother. Quite the Napoleon.""I shall have to talk to him," said Sally decidedly. She was annoyedwith Fillmore. Everything had been going so beautifully, with everybodypeaceful and happy and prosperous and no anxiety anywhere, till he hadspoiled things. Now she would have to start worrying again.
　　"Of course," argued Ginger, "there's money in revues. Over in Londonfellows make pots out of them."Sally shook her head.
　　"It won't do," she said. "And I'll tell you another thing that won'tdo. This armchair. Of course it ought to be over by the window. You cansee that yourself, can't you.""Absolutely!" said Ginger, patiently preparing for action once more.
　　Sally's anxiety with regard to her ebullient brother was not lessened bythe receipt shortly afterwards of a telegram from Miss Winch in Chicago.
　　Have you been feeding Fillmore meat?
　　the telegram ran: and, while Sally could not have claimed that shecompletely understood it, there was a sinister suggestion about themessage which decided her to wait no longer before makinginvestigations. She tore herself away from the joys of furnishing andwent round to the headquarters of the Fillmore Nicholas TheatricalEnterprises Ltd. (Managing Director, Fillmore Nicholas) without delay.
　　Ginger, she discovered on arrival, was absent from his customary post,his place in the outer office being taken by a lad of tender years andpimply exterior, who thawed and cast off a proud reserve on hearingSally's name, and told her to walk right in. Sally walked right in, andfound Fillmore with his feet on an untidy desk, studying what appearedto be costume-designs.
　　"Ah, Sally!" he said in the distrait, tired voice which speaks of vastpreoccupations. Prosperity was still putting in its silent, deadly workon the Hope of the American Theatre. What, even at as late an epoch asthe return from Detroit, had been merely a smooth fullness around theangle of the jaw was now frankly and without disguise a double chin. Hewas wearing a new waistcoat and it was unbuttoned. "I am rather busy,"he went on. "Always glad to see you, but I am rather busy. I have ahundred things to attend to.""Well, attend to me. That'll only make a hundred and one. Fill, what'sall this I hear about a revue?"Fillmore looked as like a small boy caught in the act of stealing jam asit is possible for a great theatrical manager to look. He had beenwondering in his darker moments what Sally would say about that projectwhen she heard of it, and he had hoped that she would not hear of ituntil all the preparations were so complete that interference would beimpossible. He was extremely fond of Sally, but there was, he knew, alamentable vein of caution in her make-up which might lead her tocriticize. And how can your man of affairs carry on if women are buzzinground criticizing all the time? He picked up a pen and put it down;buttoned his waistcoat and unbuttoned it; and scratched his ear with oneof the costume-designs.
　　"Oh yes, the revue!""It's no good saying 'Oh yes'! You know perfectly well it's a crazyidea.""Really... these business matters... this interference...""I don't want to run your affairs for you, Fill, but that money of minedoes make me a sort of partner, I suppose, and I think I have a right toraise a loud yell of agony when I see you risking it on a...""Pardon me," said Fillmore loftily, looking happier. "Let me explain.
　　Women never understand business matters. Your money is tied upexclusively in 'The Primrose Way,' which, as you know, is a tremendoussuccess. You have nothing whatever to worry about as regards any newproduction I may make.""I'm not worrying about the money. I'm worrying about you."A tolerant smile played about the lower slopes of Fillmore's face.
　　"Don't be alarmed about me. I'm all right.""You aren't all right. You've no business, when you've only just gotstarted as a manager, to be rushing into an enormous production likethis. You can't afford it.""My dear child, as I said before, women cannot understand these things.
　　A man in my position can always command money for a new venture.""Do you mean to say you have found somebody silly enough to put upmoney?""Certainly. I don't know that there is any secret about it. Yourfriend, Mr. Carmyle, has taken an interest in some of my forthcomingproductions.""What!" Sally had been disturbed before, but she was aghast now.
　　This was something she had never anticipated. Bruce Carmyle seemed tobe creeping into her life like an advancing tide. There appeared to beno eluding him. Wherever she turned, there he was, and she could donothing but rage impotently. The situation was becoming impossible.
　　Fillmore misinterpreted the note of dismay in her voice.
　　"It's quite all right," he assured her. "He's a very rich man. Largeprivate means, besides his big income. Even if anything goes wrong...""It isn't that. It's..."The hopelessness of explaining to Fillmore stopped Sally. And while shewas chafing at this new complication which had come to upset the orderlyroutine of her life there was an outburst of voices in the other office.
　　Ginger's understudy seemed to be endeavouring to convince somebody thatthe Big Chief was engaged and not to be intruded upon. In this he wasunsuccessful, for the door opened tempestuously and Miss Winch sailedin.
　　"Fillmore, you poor nut," said Miss Winch, for though she might wrap upher meaning somewhat obscurely in her telegraphic communications, whenit came to the spoken word she was directness itself, "stop pickingstraws in your hair and listen to me. You're dippy!"The last time Sally had seen Fillmore's fiancée, she had been impressedby her imperturbable calm. Miss Winch, in Detroit, had seemed a girlwhom nothing could ruffle. That she had lapsed now from this sereneplacidity, struck Sally as ominous. Slightly though she knew her, shefelt that it could be no ordinary happening that had so animated hersister-in-law-to-be.
　　"Ah! Here you are!" said Fillmore. He had started to his feetindignantly at the opening of the door, like a lion bearded in its den,but calm had returned when he saw who the intruder was.
　　"Yes, here I am!" Miss Winch dropped despairingly into a swivel-chair,and endeavoured to restore herself with a stick of chewing-gum.
　　"Fillmore, darling, you're the sweetest thing on earth, and I love you,but on present form you could just walk straight into Bloomingdale andthey'd give you the royal suite.""My dear girl...""What do you think?" demanded Miss Winch, turning to Sally.
　　"I've just been telling him," said Sally, welcoming this ally, "I thinkit's absurd at this stage of things for him to put on an enormousrevue...""Revue?" Miss Winch stopped in the act of gnawing her gum. "Whatrevue?" She flung up her arms. "I shall have to swallow this gum," shesaid. "You can't chew with your head going round. Are you putting on arevue too?"Fillmore was buttoning and unbuttoning his waistcoat. He had a houndedlook.
　　"Certainly, certainly," he replied in a tone of some feverishness. "Iwish you girls would leave me to manage...""Dippy!" said Miss Winch once more. "Telegraphic address: Tea-Pot,Matteawan." She swivelled round to Sally again. "Say, listen! This boymust be stopped. We must form a gang in his best interests and get himput away. What do you think he proposes doing? I'll give you threeguesses. Oh, what's the use? You'd never hit it. This poor wandering ladhas got it all fixed up to star me--me--in a new show!"Fillmore removed a hand from his waistcoat buttons and waved itprotestingly.
　　"I have used my own judgment...""Yes, sir!" proceeded Miss Winch, riding over the interruption.
　　"That's what he's planning to spring on an unsuspicious public. I'msitting peacefully in my room at the hotel in Chicago, pronging a fewcents' worth of scrambled eggs and reading the morning paper, when thetelephone rings. Gentleman below would like to see me. Oh, ask him towait. Business of flinging on a few clothes. Down in elevator. Brightsunrise effects in lobby.""What on earth do you mean?""The gentleman had a head of red hair which had to be seen to bebelieved," explained Miss Winch. "Lit up the lobby. Management hadswitched off all the electrics for sake of economy. An Englishman hewas. Nice fellow. Named Kemp.""Oh, is Ginger in Chicago?" said Sally. "I wondered why he wasn't onhis little chair in the outer office.
　　"I sent Kemp to Chicago," said Fillmore, "to have a look at the show.
　　It is my policy, if I am unable to pay periodical visits myself, to senda representative...""Save it up for the long winter evenings," advised Miss Winch, cuttingin on this statement of managerial tactics. "Mr. Kemp may have beenthere to look at the show, but his chief reason for coming was to tellme to beat it back to New York to enter into my kingdom. Fillmore wantedme on the spot, he told me, so that I could sit around in this officehere, interviewing my supporting company. Me! Can you or can you not,"inquired Miss Winch frankly, "tie it?""Well..." Sally hesitated.
　　"Don't say it! I know it just as well as you do. It's too sad forwords.""You persist in underestimating your abilities, Gladys," said Fillmorereproachfully. "I have had a certain amount of experience in theatricalmatters--I have seen a good deal of acting--and I assure you that as acharacter-actress you..."Miss Winch rose swiftly from her seat, kissed Fillmore energetically,and sat down again. She produced another stick of chewing-gum, thenshook her head and replaced it in her bag.
　　"You're a darling old thing to talk like that," she said, "and I hate towake you out of your daydreams, but, honestly, Fillmore, dear, do juststep out of the padded cell for one moment and listen to reason. I knowexactly what has been passing in your poor disordered bean. You tookElsa Doland out of a minor part and made her a star overnight. She goesto Chicago, and the critics and everybody else rave about her. As amatter of fact," she said to Sally with enthusiasm, for hers was anhonest and generous nature, "you can't realize, not having seen her playthere, what an amazing hit she has made. She really is a sensation.
　　Everybody says she's going to be the biggest thing on record. Very well,then, what does Fillmore do? The poor fish claps his hand to hisforehead and cries 'Gadzooks! An idea! I've done it before, I'll do itagain. I'm the fellow who can make a star out of anything.' And he pickson me!""My dear girl...""Now, the flaw in the scheme is this. Elsa is a genius, and if hehadn't made her a star somebody else would have done. But little Gladys?
　　That's something else again." She turned to Sally. "You've seen me inaction, and let me tell you you've seen me at my best. Give me a maid'spart, with a tray to carry on in act one and a couple of 'Yes, madam's'
　　in act two, and I'm there! Ellen Terry hasn't anything on me when itcomes to saying 'Yes, madam,' and I'm willing to back myself for gold,notes, or lima beans against Sarah Bernhardt as a tray-carrier. Butthere I finish. That lets me out. And anybody who thinks otherwise isgoing to lose a lot of money. Between ourselves the only thing I can doreally well is to cook...""My dear Gladys!" cried Fillmore revolted.
　　"I'm a heaven-born cook, and I don't mind notifying the world to thateffect. I can cook a chicken casserole so that you would leave home andmother for it. Also my English pork-pies! One of these days I'll take anafternoon off and assemble one for you. You'd be surprised! Butacting--no. I can't do it, and I don't want to do it. I only went on thestage for fun, and my idea of fun isn't to plough through a star partwith all the critics waving their axes in the front row, and me knowingall the time that it's taking money out of Fillmore's bankroll thatought to be going towards buying the little home with stationarywash-tubs... Well, that's that, Fillmore, old darling. I thought I'djust mention it."Sally could not help being sorry for Fillmore. He was sitting with hischin on his hands, staring moodily before him--Napoleon at Elba. It wasplain that this project of taking Miss Winch by the scruff of the neckand hurling her to the heights had been very near his heart.
　　"If that's how you feel," he said in a stricken voice, "there is nothingmore to say.""Oh, yes there is. We will now talk about this revue of yours. It'soff!"Fillmore bounded to his feet; he thumped the desk with a well-nourishedfist. A man can stand just so much.
　　"It is not off! Great heavens! It's too much! I will not put up withthis interference with my business concerns. I will not be tied andhampered. Here am I, a man of broad vision and... and... broad vision...
　　I form my plans... my plans... I form them... I shape my schemes... andwhat happens? A horde of girls flock into my private office while I amendeavouring to concentrate... and concentrate... I won't stand it.
　　Advice, yes. Interference, no. I... I... I... and kindly remember that!"The door closed with a bang. A fainter detonation announced thewhirlwind passage through the outer office. Footsteps died away down thecorridor.
　　Sally looked at Miss Winch, stunned. A roused and militant Fillmore wasnew to her.
　　Miss Winch took out the stick of chewing-gum again and unwrapped it.
　　"Isn't he cute!" she said. "I hope he doesn't get the soft kind," shemurmured, chewing reflectively.
　　"The soft kind.""He'll be back soon with a box of candy," explained Miss Winch, "and hewill get that sloshy, creamy sort, though I keep telling him I like theother. Well, one thing's certain. Fillmore's got it up his nose. He'sbeginning to hop about and sing in the sunlight. It's going to be hardwork to get that boy down to earth again." Miss Winch heaved a gentlesigh. "I should like him to have enough left in the old stocking to paythe first year's rent when the wedding bells ring out." She bitmeditatively on her chewing-gum. "Not," she said, "that it matters. I'dbe just as happy in two rooms and a kitchenette, so long as Fillmore wasthere. You've no notion how dippy I am about him." Her freckled faceglowed. "He grows on me like a darned drug. And the funny thing is thatI keep right on admiring him though I can see all the while that he'sthe most perfect chump. He is a chump, you know. That's what I loveabout him. That and the way his ears wiggle when he gets excited. Chumpsalways make the best husbands. When you marry. Sally, grab a chump. Taphis forehead first, and if it rings solid, don't hesitate. All theunhappy marriages come from the husband having brains. What good arebrains to a man? They only unsettle him." She broke off and scrutinizedSally closely. "Say, what do you do with your skin?"She spoke with solemn earnestness which made Sally laugh.
　　"What do I do with my skin? I just carry it around with me.""Well," said Miss Winch enviously, "I wish I could train my darned foolof a complexion to get that way. Freckles are the devil. When I waseight I had the finest collection in the Middle West, and I've beenadding to it right along. Some folks say lemon-juice'll cure 'em. Minelap up all I give 'em and ask for more. There's only one way of gettingrid of freckles, and that is to saw the head off at the neck.""But why do you want to get rid of them?""Why? Because a sensitive girl, anxious to retain her future husband'slove, doesn't enjoy going about looking like something out of a dimemuseum.""How absurd! Fillmore worships freckles.""Did he tell you so?" asked Miss Winch eagerly.
　　"Not in so many words, but you can see it in his eye.""Well, he certainly asked me to marry him, knowing all about them, Iwill say that. And, what's more, I don't think feminine loveliness meansmuch to Fillmore, or he'd never have picked on me. Still, it iscalculated to give a girl a jar, you must admit, when she picks up amagazine and reads an advertisement of a face-cream beginning, 'Yourhusband is growing cold to you. Can you blame him? Have you really triedto cure those unsightly blemishes?'--meaning what I've got. Still, Ihaven't noticed Fillmore growing cold to me, so maybe it's all right."It was a subdued Sally who received Ginger when he called at herapartment a few days later on his return from Chicago. It seemed to her,thinking over the recent scene, that matters were even worse than shehad feared. This absurd revue, which she had looked on as a mereisolated outbreak of foolishness, was, it would appear, only a specimenof the sort of thing her misguided brother proposed to do, a sampleselected at random from a wholesale lot of frantic schemes. Fillmore,there was no longer any room for doubt, was preparing to express hisgreat soul on a vast scale. And she could not dissuade him. Ahumiliating thought. She had grown so accustomed through the years tobeing the dominating mind that this revolt from her authority made herfeel helpless and inadequate. Her self-confidence was shaken.
　　And Bruce Carmyle was financing him... It was illogical, but Sally couldnot help feeling that when--she had not the optimism to say "if"--helost his money, she would somehow be under an obligation to him, as ifthe disaster had been her fault. She disliked, with a whole-heartedintensity, the thought of being under an obligation to Mr. Carmyle.
　　Ginger said he had looked in to inspect the furniture on the chance thatSally might want it shifted again: but Sally had no criticisms to makeon that subject. Weightier matters occupied her mind. She sat Gingerdown in the armchair and started to pour out her troubles. It soothedher to talk to him. In a world which had somehow become chaotic againafter an all too brief period of peace, he was solid and consoling.
　　"I shouldn't worry," observed Ginger with Winch-like calm, when she hadfinished drawing for him the picture of a Fillmore rampant against abackground of expensive revues. Sally nearly shook him.
　　"It's all very well to tell me not to worry," she cried. "How can Ihelp worrying? Fillmore's simply a baby, and he's just playing the fool.
　　He has lost his head completely. And I can't stop him! That is the awfulpart of it. I used to be able to look him in the eye, and he would waghis tail and crawl back into his basket, but now I seem to have noinfluence at all over him. He just snorts and goes on running round incircles, breathing fire."Ginger did not abandon his attempts to indicate the silver lining.
　　"I think you are making too much of all this, you know. I mean to say,it's quite likely he's found some mug... what I mean is, it's justpossible that your brother isn't standing the entire racket himself.
　　Perhaps some rich Johnnie has breezed along with a pot of money. Itoften happens like that, you know. You read in the paper that somemanager or other is putting on some show or other, when really the chapwho's actually supplying the pieces of eight is some anonymous lad inthe background.""That is just what has happened, and it makes it worse than ever.
　　Fillmore tells me that your cousin, Mr. Carmyle, is providing themoney."This did interest Ginger. He sat up with a jerk.
　　"Oh, I say!" he exclaimed.
　　"Yes," said Sally, still agitated but pleased that she had at lastshaken him out of his trying attitude of detachment.
　　Ginger was scowling.
　　"That's a bit off," he observed.
　　"I think so, too.""I don't like that.""Nor do I.""Do you know what I think?" said Ginger, ever a man of plain speech anda reckless plunger into delicate subjects. "The blighter's in love withyou."Sally flushed. After examining the evidence before her, she had reachedthe same conclusion in the privacy of her thoughts, but it embarrassedher to hear the thing put into bald words.
　　"I know Bruce," continued Ginger, "and, believe me, he isn't the sort ofcove to take any kind of flutter without a jolly good motive. Of course,he's got tons of money. His old guvnor was the Carmyle of Carmyle, Brent& Co.--coal mines up in Wales, and all that sort of thing--and Isuppose he must have left Bruce something like half a million. No needfor the fellow to have worked at all, if he hadn't wanted to. As far ashaving the stuff goes, he's in a position to back all the shows he wantsto. But the point is, it's right out of his line. He doesn't do thatsort of thing. Not a drop of sporting blood in the chap. Why I've knownhim stick the whole family on to me just because it got noised aboutthat I'd dropped a couple of quid on the Grand National. If he's reallybrought himself to the point of shelling out on a risky proposition likea show, it means something, take my word for it. And I don't see whatelse it can mean except... well, I mean to say, is it likely that he'sdoing it simply to make your brother look on him as a good egg and apal, and all that sort of thing?""No, it's not," agreed Sally. "But don't let's talk about it any more.
　　Tell me all about your trip to Chicago.""All right. But, returning to this binge for a moment, I don't see howit matters to you one way or the other. You're engaged to anotherfellow, and when Bruce rolls up and says: 'What about it?' you've simplyto tell him that the shot isn't on the board and will he kindly meltaway. Then you hand him his hat and out he goes."Sally gave a troubled laugh.
　　"You think that's simple, do you? I suppose you imagine that a girlenjoys that sort of thing? Oh, what's the use of talking about it? It'shorrible, and no amount of arguing will make it anything else. Do let'schange the subject. How did you like Chicago?""Oh, all right. Rather a grubby sort of place.""So I've always heard. But you ought not to mind that, being aLondoner.""Oh, I didn't mind it. As a matter of fact, I had rather a good time.
　　Saw one or two shows, you know. Got in on my face as your brother'srepresentative, which was all to the good. By the way, it's rummy howyou run into people when you move about, isn't it?""You talk as if you had been dashing about the streets with your eyesshut. Did you meet somebody you knew?""Chap I hadn't seen for years. Was at school with him, as a matter offact. Fellow named Foster. But I expect you know him, too, don't you? Byname, at any rate. He wrote your brother's show."Sally's heart jumped.
　　"Oh! Did you meet Gerald--Foster?""Ran into him one night at the theatre.""And you were really at school with him?""Yes. He was in the footer team with me my last year.""Was he a scrum-half, too?" asked Sally, dimpling.
　　Ginger looked shocked.
　　"You don't have two scrum-halves in a team," he said, pained at thisignorance on a vital matter. "The scrum-half is the half who works thescrum and...""Yes, you told me that at Roville. What was Gerald--Mr. Foster then? Asix and seven-eighths, or something?""He was a wing-three," said Ginger with a gravity befitting his theme.
　　"Rather fast, with a fairly decent swerve. But he would not learn togive the reverse pass inside to the centre.""Ghastly!" said Sally.
　　"If," said Ginger earnestly, "a wing's bottled up by his wing and theback, the only thing he can do, if he doesn't want to be bundled intotouch, is to give the reverse pass.""I know," said Sally. "If I've thought that once, I've thought it ahundred times. How nice it must have been for you meeting again. Isuppose you had all sorts of things to talk about?"Ginger shook his head.
　　"Not such a frightful lot. We were never very thick. You see, thischap Foster was by way of being a bit of a worm.""What!""A tick," explained Ginger. "A rotter. He was pretty generally barredat school. Personally, I never had any use for him at all."Sally stiffened. She had liked Ginger up to that moment, and later on,no doubt, she would resume her liking for him: but in the immediatemoment which followed these words she found herself regarding him withstormy hostility. How dare he sit there saying things like that aboutGerald?
　　Ginger, who was lighting a cigarette without a care in the world,proceeded to develop his theme.
　　"It's a rummy thing about school. Generally, if a fellow's good atgames--in the cricket team or the footer team and so forth--he canhardly help being fairly popular. But this blighter Fostersomehow--nobody seemed very keen on him. Of course, he had a few of hisown pals, but most of the chaps rather gave him a miss. It may have beenbecause he was a bit sidey... had rather an edge on him, you know...
　　Personally, the reason I barred him was because he wasn't straight. Youdidn't notice it if you weren't thrown a goodish bit with him, ofcourse, but he and I were in the same house, and..."Sally managed to control her voice, though it shook a little.
　　"I ought to tell you," she said, and her tone would have warned him hadhe been less occupied, "that Mr. Foster is a great friend of mine."But Ginger was intent on the lighting of his cigarette, a delicateoperation with the breeze blowing in through the open window. His headwas bent, and he had formed his hands into a protective framework whichhalf hid his face.
　　"If you take my tip," he mumbled, "you'll drop him. He's a wrong 'un."He spoke with the absent-minded drawl of preoccupation, and Sally couldkeep the conflagration under no longer. She was aflame from head tofoot.
　　"It may interest you to know," she said, shooting the words out likebullets from between clenched teeth, "that Gerald Foster is the man I amengaged to marry."Ginger's head came slowly up from his cupped hands. Amazement was inhis eyes, and a sort of horror. The cigarette hung limply from hismouth. He did not speak, but sat looking at her, dazed. Then the matchburnt his fingers, and he dropped it with a start. The sharp sting of itseemed to wake him. He blinked.
　　"You're joking," he said, feebly. There was a note of wistfulness inhis voice. "It isn't true?"Sally kicked the leg of her chair irritably. She read insolentdisapproval into the words. He was daring to criticize...
　　"Of course it's true...""But..." A look of hopeless misery came into Ginger's pleasant face. Hehesitated. Then, with the air of a man bracing himself to a dreadful,but unavoidable, ordeal, he went on. He spoke gruffly, and his eyes,which had been fixed on Sally's, wandered down to the match on thecarpet. It was still glowing, and mechanically he put a foot on it.
　　"Foster's married," he said shortly. "He was married the day before Ileft Chicago."It seemed to Ginger that in the silence which followed, brooding overthe room like a living presence, even the noises in the street hadceased, as though what he had said had been a spell cutting Sally andhimself off from the outer world. Only the little clock on themantelpiece ticked--ticked--ticked, like a heart beating fast.
　　He stared straight before him, conscious of a strange rigidity. He feltincapable of movement, as he had sometimes felt in nightmares; and notfor all the wealth of America could he have raised his eyes just then toSally's face. He could see her hands. They had tightened on the arm ofthe chair. The knuckles were white.
　　He was blaming himself bitterly now for his oafish clumsiness inblurting out the news so abruptly. And yet, curiously, in his remorsethere was something of elation. Never before had he felt so near to her.
　　It was as though a barrier that had been between them had fallen.
　　Something moved... It was Sally's hand, slowly relaxing. The fingersloosened their grip, tightened again, then, as if reluctantly relaxedonce more. The blood flowed back.
　　"Your cigarette's out."Ginger started violently. Her voice, coming suddenly out of thesilence, had struck him like a blow.
　　"Oh, thanks!"He forced himself to light another match. It sputtered noisily in thestillness. He blew it out, and the uncanny quiet fell again.
　　Ginger drew at his cigarette mechanically. For an instant he had seenSally's face, white-cheeked and bright-eyed, the chin tilted like a flagflying over a stricken field. His mood changed. All his emotions hadcrystallized into a dull, futile rage, a helpless fury directed at a mana thousand miles away.
　　Sally spoke again. Her voice sounded small and far off, an odd flatnessin it.
　　"Married?"Ginger threw his cigarette out of the window. He was shocked to findthat he was smoking. Nothing could have been farther from his intentionthan to smoke. He nodded.
　　"Whom has he married?"Ginger coughed. Something was sticking in his throat, and speech wasdifficult.
　　"A girl called Doland.""Oh, Elsa Doland?""Yes.""Elsa Doland." Sally drummed with her fingers on the arm of the chair.
　　"Oh, Elsa Doland?"There was silence again. The little clock ticked fussily on themantelpiece. Out in the street automobile horns were blowing. Fromsomewhere in the distance came faintly the rumble of an elevated train.
　　Familiar sounds, but they came to Sally now with a curious, unreal senseof novelty. She felt as though she had been projected into another worldwhere everything was new and strange and horrible--everything exceptGinger. About him, in the mere sight of him, there was something knownand heartening.
　　Suddenly, she became aware that she was feeling that Ginger was behavingextremely well. She seemed to have been taken out of herself and to beregarding the scene from outside, regarding it coolly and critically;and it was plain to her that Ginger, in this upheaval of all things, wasbearing himself perfectly. He had attempted no banal words of sympathy.
　　He had said nothing and he was not looking at her. And Sally felt thatsympathy just now would be torture, and that she could not have borne tobe looked at.
　　Ginger was wonderful. In that curious, detached spirit that had comeupon her, she examined him impartially, and gratitude welled up from thevery depths of her. There he sat, saying nothing and doing nothing, asif he knew that all she needed, the only thing that could keep her sanein this world of nightmare, was the sight of that dear, flaming head ofhis that made her feel that the world had not slipped away from heraltogether.
　　Ginger did not move. The room had grown almost dark now. A spear oflight from a street lamp shone in through the window.
　　Sally got up abruptly. Slowly, gradually, inch by inch, the greatsuffocating cloud which had been crushing her had lifted. She felt aliveagain. Her black hour had gone, and she was back in the world of livingthings once more. She was afire with a fierce, tearing pain thattormented her almost beyond endurance, but dimly she sensed the factthat she had passed through something that was worse than pain, and,with Ginger's stolid presence to aid her, had passed triumphantly.
　　"Go and have dinner, Ginger," she said. "You must be starving."Ginger came to life like a courtier in the palace of the SleepingBeauty. He shook himself, and rose stiffly from his chair.
　　"Oh, no," he said. "Not a bit, really."Sally switched on the light and set him blinking. She could bear to belooked at now.
　　"Go and dine," she said. "Dine lavishly and luxuriously. You'vecertainly earned..." Her voice faltered for a moment. She held out herhand. "Ginger," she said shakily, "I... Ginger, you're a pal."When he had gone. Sally sat down and began to cry. Then she dried hereyes in a business-like manner.
　　"There, Miss Nicholas!" she said. "You couldn't have done that an hourago... We will now boil you an egg for your dinner and see how thatsuits you!"
Chapter 11 Sally Runs Away
    If Ginger Kemp had been asked to enumerate his good qualities, it is notprobable that he would have drawn up a very lengthy list. He might havestarted by claiming for himself the virtue of meaning well, but afterthat he would have had to chew the pencil in prolonged meditation. And,even if he could eventually have added one or two further items to thecatalogue, tact and delicacy of feeling would not have been among them.
　　Yet, by staying away from Sally during the next few days he showedconsiderable delicacy. It was not easy to stay away from her, but heforced himself to do so. He argued from his own tastes, and was stronglyof opinion that in times of travail, solitude was what the sufferer mostdesired. In his time he, too, had had what he would have described asnasty jars, and on these occasions all he had asked was to be allowed tosit and think things over and fight his battle out by himself.
　　By Saturday, however, he had come to the conclusion that some form ofaction might now be taken. Saturday was rather a good day for picking upthe threads again. He had not to go to the office, and, what was stillmore to the point, he had just drawn his week's salary. Mrs. Meecher haddeftly taken a certain amount of this off him, but enough remained toenable him to attempt consolation on a fairly princely scale. Therepresented itself to him as a judicious move the idea of hiring a car andtaking Sally out to dinner at one of the road-houses he had heard aboutup the Boston Post Road. He examined the scheme. The more he looked atit, the better it seemed.
　　He was helped to this decision by the extraordinary perfection of theweather. The weather of late had been a revelation to Ginger. It was hisfirst experience of America's Indian Summer, and it had quite overcomehim. As he stood on the roof of Mrs. Meecher's establishment on theSaturday morning, thrilled by the velvet wonder of the sunshine, itseemed to him that the only possible way of passing such a day was totake Sally for a ride in an open car.
　　The Maison Meecher was a lofty building on one of the side-streets atthe lower end of the avenue. From its roof, after you had worked yourway through the groves of washing which hung limply from theclothes-line, you could see many things of interest. To the left layWashington Square, full of somnolent Italians and roller-skatingchildren; to the right was a spectacle which never failed to intrigueGinger, the high smoke-stacks of a Cunard liner moving slowly down theriver, sticking up over the house-tops as if the boat was travellingdown Ninth Avenue.
　　To-day there were four of these funnels, causing Ginger to deduce theMauritania. As the boat on which he had come over from England, theMauritania had a sentimental interest for him. He stood watching herstately progress till the higher buildings farther down the town shuther from his sight; then picked his way through the washing and wentdown to his room to get his hat. A quarter of an hour later he was inthe hall-way of Sally's apartment house, gazing with ill-concealeddisgust at the serge-clad back of his cousin Mr. Carmyle, who wasengaged in conversation with a gentleman in overalls.
　　No care-free prospector, singing his way through the Mojave Desert andsuddenly finding himself confronted by a rattlesnake, could haveexperienced so abrupt a change of mood as did Ginger at this revoltingspectacle. Even in their native Piccadilly it had been unpleasant to runinto Mr. Carmyle. To find him here now was nothing short of nauseating.
　　Only one thing could have brought him to this place. Obviously, he musthave come to see Sally; and with a sudden sinking of the heart Gingerremembered the shiny, expensive automobile which he had seen waiting atthe door. He, it was clear, was not the only person to whom the idea hadoccurred of taking Sally for a drive on this golden day.
　　He was still standing there when Mr. Carmyle swung round with a frown onhis dark face which seemed to say that he had not found the janitor'sconversation entertaining. The sight of Ginger plainly did nothing tolighten his gloom.
　　"Hullo!" he said.
　　"Hullo!" said Ginger.
　　Uncomfortable silence followed these civilities.
　　"Have you come to see Miss Nicholas?""Why, yes.""She isn't here," said Mr. Carmyle, and the fact that he had foundsomeone to share the bad news, seemed to cheer him a little.
　　"Not here?""No. Apparently..." Bruce Carmyle's scowl betrayed that resentmentwhich a well-balanced man cannot but feel at the unreasonableness ofothers. "... Apparently, for some extraordinary reason, she has taken itinto her head to dash over to England."Ginger tottered. The unexpectedness of the blow was crushing. Hefollowed his cousin out into the sunshine in a sort of dream. BruceCarmyle was addressing the driver of the expensive automobile.
　　"I find I shall not want the car. You can take it back to the garage."The chauffeur, a moody man, opened one half-closed eye and spatcautiously. It was the way Rockefeller would have spat when approachingthe crisis of some delicate financial negotiation.
　　"You'll have to pay just the same," he observed, opening his other eyeto lend emphasis to the words.
　　"Of course I shall pay," snapped Mr. Carmyle, irritably. "How much isit?"Money passed. The car rolled off.
　　"Gone to England?" said Ginger, dizzily.
　　"Yes, gone to England.""But why?""How the devil do I know why?" Bruce Carmyle would have found his bestfriend trying at this moment. Gaping Ginger gave him almost a physicalpain. "All I know is what the janitor told me, that she sailed on theMauretania this morning."The tragic irony of this overcame Ginger. That he should have stood onthe roof, calmly watching the boat down the river...
　　He nodded absently to Mr. Carmyle and walked off. He had no furtherremarks to make. The warmth had gone out of the sunshine and allinterest had departed from his life. He felt dull, listless, at a looseend. Not even the thought that his cousin, a careful man with his money,had had to pay a day's hire for a car which he could not use brought himany balm. He loafed aimlessly about the streets. He wandered in the Parkand out again. The Park bored him. The streets bored him. The whole citybored him. A city without Sally in it was a drab, futile city, andnothing that the sun could do to brighten it could make it otherwise.
　　Night came at last, and with it a letter. It was the first evenpassably pleasant thing that had happened to Ginger in the whole of thisdreary and unprofitable day: for the envelope bore the crest of the goodship Mauretania. He snatched it covetously from the letter-rack, andcarried it upstairs to his room.
　　Very few of the rooms at Mrs. Meecher's boarding-house struck any noteof luxury. Mrs. Meecher was not one of your fashionable interiordecorators. She considered that when she had added a Morris chair to theessentials which make up a bedroom, she had gone as far in the directionof pomp as any guest at seven-and-a-half per could expect her to go. Asa rule, the severity of his surroundings afflicted Ginger with a touchof gloom when he went to bed; but to-night--such is the magic of aletter from the right person--he was uplifted and almost gay. There aremoments when even illuminated texts over the wash-stand cannot whollyquell us.
　　There was nothing of haste and much of ceremony in Ginger's method ofapproaching the perusal of his correspondence. He bore himself afterthe manner of a small boy in the presence of unexpected ice-cream,gloating for awhile before embarking on the treat, anxious to make itlast out. His first move was to feel in the breast-pocket of his coatand produce the photograph of Sally which he had feloniously removedfrom her apartment. At this he looked long and earnestly before proppingit up within easy reach against his basin, to be handy, if required, forpurposes of reference. He then took off his coat, collar, and shoes,filled and lit a pipe, placed pouch and matches on the arm of the Morrischair, and drew that chair up so that he could sit with his feet on thebed. Having manoeuvred himself into a position of ease, he lit his pipeagain and took up the letter. He looked at the crest, the handwriting ofthe address, and the postmark. He weighed it in his hand. It was abulky letter.
　　He took Sally's photograph from the wash-stand and scrutinized it oncemore. Then he lit his pipe again, and, finally, wriggling himself intothe depths of the chair, opened the envelope.
　　"Ginger, dear."Having read so far, Ginger found it necessary to take up the photographand study it with an even greater intentness than before. He gazed at itfor many minutes, then laid it down and lit his pipe again. Then he wenton with the letter.
　　"Ginger, dear--I'm afraid this address is going to give you rather ashock, and I'm feeling very guilty. I'm running away, and I haven't evenstopped to say good-bye. I can't help it. I know it's weak and cowardly,but I simply can't help it. I stood it for a day or two, and then I sawthat it was no good. (Thank you for leaving me alone and not cominground to see me. Nobody else but you would have done that. But then,nobody ever has been or ever could be so understanding as you.)"Ginger found himself compelled at this point to look at the photographagain.
　　"There was too much in New York to remind me. That's the worst of beinghappy in a place. When things go wrong you find there are too manyghosts about. I just couldn't stand it. I tried, but I couldn't. I'mgoing away to get cured--if I can. Mr. Faucitt is over in England, andwhen I went down to Mrs. Meecher for my letters, I found one from him.
　　His brother is dead, you know, and he has inherited, of all things, afashionable dress-making place in Regent Street. His brother wasLaurette et Cie. I suppose he will sell the business later on, but, justat present, the poor old dear is apparently quite bewildered and thatdoesn't seem to have occurred to him. He kept saying in his letter howmuch he wished I was with him, to help him, and I was tempted and ran.
　　Anything to get away from the ghosts and have something to do. I don'tsuppose I shall feel much better in England, but, at least, every streetcorner won't have associations. Don't ever be happy anywhere, Ginger.
　　It's too big a risk, much too big a risk.
　　"There was a letter from Elsa Doland, too. Bubbling over withaffection. We had always been tremendous friends. Of course, she neverknew anything about my being engaged to Gerald. I lent Fillmore themoney to buy that piece, which gave Elsa her first big chance, and soshe's very grateful. She says, if ever she gets the opportunity of doingme a good turn... Aren't things muddled?
　　"And there was a letter from Gerald. I was expecting one, of course,but... what would you have done, Ginger? Would you have read it? I satwith it in front of me for an hour, I should think, just looking at theenvelope, and then... You see, what was the use? I could guess exactlythe sort of thing that would be in it, and reading it would only havehurt a lot more. The thing was done, so why bother about explanations?
　　What good are explanations, anyway? They don't help. They don't doanything... I burned it, Ginger. The last letter I shall ever get fromhim. I made a bonfire on the bathroom floor, and it smouldered and wentbrown, and then flared a little, and every now and then I lit anothermatch and kept it burning, and at last it was just black ashes and astain on the tiles. Just a mess!
　　"Ginger, burn this letter, too. I'm pouring out all the poison to you,hoping it will make me feel better. You don't mind, do you? But I knowyou don't. If ever anybody had a real pal...
　　"It's a dreadful thing, fascination, Ginger. It grips you and you arehelpless. One can be so sensible and reasonable about other people'slove affairs. When I was working at the dance place I told you aboutthere was a girl who fell in love with the most awful little beast. Hehad a mean mouth and shiny black hair brushed straight back, andanybody would have seen what he was. But this girl wouldn't listen to aword. I talked to her by the hour. It makes me smile now when I thinkhow sensible and level-headed I was. But she wouldn't listen. In somemysterious way this was the man she wanted, and, of course, everythinghappened that one knew would happen.
　　"If one could manage one's own life as well as one can manage otherpeople's! If all this wretched thing of mine had happened to some othergirl, how beautifully I could have proved that it was the best thingthat could have happened, and that a man who could behave as Gerald hasdone wasn't worth worrying about. I can just hear myself. But, you see,whatever he has done, Gerald is still Gerald and Sally is still Sallyand, however much I argue, I can't get away from that. All I can do isto come howling to my redheaded pal, when I know just as well as hedoes that a girl of any spirit would be dignified and keep her troublesto herself and be much too proud to let anyone know that she was hurt.
　　"Proud! That's the real trouble, Ginger. My pride has been battered andchopped up and broken into as many pieces as you broke Mr. Scrymgeour'sstick! What pitiful creatures we are. Girls, I mean. At least, I supposea good many girls are like me. If Gerald had died and I had lost himthat way, I know quite well I shouldn't be feeling as I do now. I shouldhave been broken-hearted, but it wouldn't have been the same. It's mypride that is hurt. I have always been a bossy, cocksure littlecreature, swaggering about the world like an English sparrow; and nowI'm paying for it! Oh, Ginger, I'm paying for it! I wonder if runningaway is going to do me any good at all. Perhaps, if Mr. Faucitt has somereal hard work for me to do...
　　"Of course, I know exactly how all this has come about. Elsa's prettyand attractive. But the point is that she is a success, and as a successshe appeals to Gerald's weakest side. He worships success. She is goingto have a marvellous career, and she can help Gerald on in his. He canwrite plays for her to star in. What have I to offer against that? Yes,I know it's grovelling and contemptible of me to say that, Ginger. Iought to be above it, oughtn't I--talking as if I were competing forsome prize... But I haven't any pride left. Oh, well!
　　"There! I've poured it all out and I really do feel a little better justfor the moment. It won't last, of course, but even a minute issomething. Ginger, dear, I shan't see you for ever so long, even if weever do meet again, but you'll try to remember that I'm thinking of youa whole lot, won't you? I feel responsible for you. You're my baby.
　　You've got started now and you've only to stick to it. Please, please,please don't 'make a hash of it'! Good-bye. I never did find thatphotograph of me that we were looking for that afternoon in theapartment, or I would send it to you. Then you could have kept it onyour mantelpiece, and whenever you felt inclined to make a hash ofanything I would have caught your eye sternly and you would have pulledup.
　　"Good-bye, Ginger. I shall have to stop now. The mail is just closing.
　　"Always your pal, wherever I am.---SALLY."Ginger laid the letter down, and a little sound escaped him that washalf a sigh, half an oath. He was wondering whether even now somedesirable end might not be achieved by going to Chicago and breakingGerald Foster's neck. Abandoning this scheme as impracticable, and notbeing able to think of anything else to do he re-lit his pipe andstarted to read the letter again.
Chapter 12 Some Letters For Ginger
    Laurette et Cie,Regent Street,London, W.,England.
　　January 21st.
　　Dear Ginger,--I'm feeling better. As it's three months since I lastwrote to you, no doubt you will say to yourself that I would be a poor,weak-minded creature if I wasn't. I suppose one ought to be able to getover anything in three months. Unfortunately, I'm afraid I haven'tquite succeeded in doing that, but at least I have managed to get mytroubles stowed away in the cellar, and I'm not dragging them out andlooking at them all the time. That's something, isn't it?
　　I ought to give you all my impressions of London, I suppose; but I'vegrown so used to the place that I don't think I have any now. I seem tohave been here years and years.
　　You will see by the address that Mr. Faucitt has not yet sold hisinheritance. He expects to do so very soon, he tells me--there is arich-looking man with whiskers and a keen eye whom he is always lunchingwith, and I think big deals are in progress. Poor dear! he is crazy toget away into the country and settle down and grow ducks and things.
　　London has disappointed him. It is not the place it used to be. Untilquite lately, when he grew resigned, he used to wander about in adisconsolate sort of way, trying to locate the landmarks of his youth.
　　(He has not been in England for nearly thirty years!) The trouble is, itseems, that about once in every thirty years a sort of craze for changecomes over London, and they paint a shop-front red instead of blue, andthat upsets the returned exile dreadfully. Mr. Faucitt feels like RipVan Winkle. His first shock was when he found that the Empire was atheatre now instead of a music-hall. Then he was told that anothermusic-hall, the Tivoli, had been pulled down altogether. And when on topof that he went to look at the baker's shop in Rupert Street, over whichhe had lodgings in the eighties, and discovered that it had been turnedinto a dressmaker's, he grew very melancholy, and only cheered up alittle when a lovely magenta fog came on and showed him that some thingswere still going along as in the good old days.
　　I am kept quite busy at Laurette et Cie., thank goodness. (Not being aFrench scholar like you--do you remember Jules?--I thought at first thatCie was the name of the junior partner, and looked forward to meetinghim. "Miss Nicholas, shake hands with Mr. Cie, one of your greatestadmirers.") I hold down the female equivalent of your job at theFillmore Nicholas Theatrical Enterprises Ltd.--that is to say, I'm asort of right-hand woman. I hang around and sidle up to the customerswhen they come in, and say, "Chawming weather, moddom!" (which isusually a black lie) and pass them on to the staff, who do the actualwork. I shouldn't mind going on like this for the next few years, butMr. Faucitt is determined to sell. I don't know if you are like that,but every other Englishman I've ever met seems to have an ambition toown a house and lot in Loamshire or Hants or Salop or somewhere. Theirone object in life is to make some money and "buy back the old place"--which was sold, of course, at the end of act one to pay the heir'sgambling debts.
　　Mr. Faucitt, when he was a small boy, used to live in a little villagein Gloucestershire, near a place called Cirencester--at least, it isn't:
　　it's called Cissister, which I bet you didn't know--and after forgettingabout it for fifty years, he has suddenly been bitten by the desire toend his days there, surrounded by pigs and chickens. He took me down tosee the place the other day. Oh, Ginger, this English country! Why anyof you ever live in towns I can't think. Old, old grey stone houses withyellow haystacks and lovely squelchy muddy lanes and great fat trees andblue hills in the distance. The peace of it! If ever I sell my soul, Ishall insist on the devil giving me at least forty years in some Englishcountry place in exchange.
　　Perhaps you will think from all this that I am too much occupied toremember your existence. Just to show how interested I am in you, let metell you that, when I was reading the paper a week ago, I happened tosee the headline, "International Match." It didn't seem to mean anythingat first, and then I suddenly recollected. This was the thing you hadonce been a snip for! So I went down to a place called Twickenham, wherethis football game was to be, to see the sort of thing you used to dobefore I took charge of you and made you a respectable right-hand man.
　　There was an enormous crowd there, and I was nearly squeezed to death,but I bore it for your sake. I found out that the English team were theones wearing white shirts, and that the ones in red were the Welsh. Isaid to the man next to me, after he had finished yelling himself blackin the face, "Could you kindly inform me which is the Englishscrum-half?" And just at that moment the players came quite near where Iwas, and about a dozen assassins in red hurled themselves violently ontop of a meek-looking little fellow who had just fallen on the ball.
　　Ginger, you are well out of it! That was the scrum-half, and I gatheredthat that sort of thing was a mere commonplace in his existence.
　　Stopping a rush, it is called, and he is expected to do it all the time.
　　The idea of you ever going in for such brutal sports! You thank yourstars that you are safe on your little stool in Fillmore's outer office,and that, if anybody jumps on top of you now, you can call a cop. Do youmean to say you really used to do these daredevil feats? You must havehidden depths in you which I have never suspected.
　　As I was taking a ride down Piccadilly the other day on top of a bus, Isaw somebody walking along who seemed familiar. It was Mr. Carmyle. Sohe's back in England again. He didn't see me, thank goodness. I don'twant to meet anybody just at present who reminds me of New York.
　　Thanks for telling me all the news, but please don't do it again. Itmakes me remember, and I don't want to. It's this way, Ginger. Let mewrite to you, because it really does relieve me, but don't answer myletters. Do you mind? I'm sure you'll understand.
　　So Fillmore and Gladys Winch are married! From what I have seen of her,it's the best thing that has ever happened to Brother F. She is asplendid girl. I must write to him...
　　Laurette et Cie..
　　LondonMarch 12th.
　　Dear Ginger,--I saw in a Sunday paper last week that "The Primrose Way"had been produced in New York, and was a great success. Well, I'm veryglad. But I don't think the papers ought to print things like that. It'sunsettling.
　　Next day, I did one of those funny things you do when you're feelingblue and lonely and a long way away from everybody. I called at yourclub and asked for you! Such a nice old man in uniform at the desk saidin a fatherly way that you hadn't been in lately, and he rather fanciedyou were out of town, but would I take a seat while he inquired. He thensummoned a tiny boy, also in uniform, and the child skipped offchanting, "Mister Kemp! Mister Kemp!" in a shrill treble. It gave mesuch an odd feeling to hear your name echoing in the distance. I felt soashamed for giving them all that trouble; and when the boy came back Islipped twopence into his palm, which I suppose was against all therules, though he seemed to like it.
　　Mr. Faucitt has sold the business and retired to the country, and I amrather at a loose end...
　　Monk's Crofton,(whatever that means)Much Middleford,Salop,(slang for Shropshire)England.
　　April 18th.
　　Dear Ginger,--What's the use? What is the use? I do all I can to getright away from New York, and New York comes after me and tracks me downin my hiding-place. A week or so ago, as I was walking down the Strandin an aimless sort of way, out there came right on top of me--who doyou think? Fillmore, arm in arm with Mr. Carmyle! I couldn't dodge. Inthe first place, Mr. Carmyle had seen me; in the second place, it is aday's journey to dodge poor dear Fillmore now. I blushed for him.
　　Ginger! Right there in the Strand I blushed for him. In my worst dreamsI had never pictured him so enormous. Upon what meat doth this ourFillmore feed that he is grown so great? Poor Gladys! When she looks athim she must feel like a bigamist.
　　Apparently Fillmore is still full of big schemes, for he talked airilyabout buying all sorts of English plays. He has come over, as I supposeyou know, to arrange about putting on "The Primrose Way" over here. Heis staying at the Savoy, and they took me off there to lunch, whoopingjoyfully as over a strayed lamb. It was the worst thing that couldpossibly have happened to me. Fillmore talked Broadway without a pause,till by the time he had worked his way past the French pastry and waslolling back, breathing a little stertorously, waiting for the coffeeand liqueurs, he had got me so homesick that, if it hadn't been that Ididn't want to make a public exhibition of myself, I should have brokendown and howled. It was crazy of me ever to go near the Savoy. Ofcourse, it's simply an annex to Broadway. There were Americans at everytable as far as the eye could reach. I might just as well have been atthe Astor.
　　Well, if Fate insists in bringing New York to England for my specialdiscomfiture, I suppose I have got to put up with it. I just let eventstake their course, and I have been drifting ever since. Two days ago Idrifted here. Mr. Carmyle invited Fillmore--he seems to loveFillmore--and me to Monk's Crofton, and I hadn't even the shadow of anexcuse for refusing. So I came, and I am now sitting writing to you inan enormous bedroom with an open fire and armchairs and every other sortof luxury. Fillmore is out golfing. He sails for New York on Saturday onthe Mauretania. I am horrified to hear from him that, in addition to allhis other big schemes, he is now promoting a fight for the light-weightchampionship in Jersey City, and guaranteeing enormous sums to bothboxers. It's no good arguing with him. If you do, he simply quotesfigures to show the fortunes other people have made out of these things.
　　Besides, it's too late now, anyway. As far as I can make out, the fightis going to take place in another week or two. All the same, it makes myflesh creep.
　　Well, it's no use worrying, I suppose. Let's change the subject. Doyou know Monk's Crofton? Probably you don't, as I seem to rememberhearing something said about it being a recent purchase. Mr. Carmylebought it from some lord or other who had been losing money on the StockExchange. I hope you haven't seen it, anyway, because I want todescribe it at great length. I want to pour out my soul about it.
　　Ginger, what has England ever done to deserve such paradises? I thought,in my ignorance, that Mr. Faucitt's Cissister place was pretty good, butit doesn't even begin. It can't compete. Of course, his is just anordinary country house, and this is a Seat. Monk's Crofton is the sortof place they used to write about in the English novels. You know. "Thesunset was falling on the walls of G---- Castle, in B----shire, hard bythe picturesque village of H----, and not a stone's throw from thehamlet of J----." I can imagine Tennyson's Maud living here. It is oneof the stately homes of England; how beautiful they stand, and I'm crazyabout it.
　　You motor up from the station, and after you have gone about threemiles, you turn in at a big iron gate with stone posts on each side withstone beasts on them. Close by the gate is the cutest little house withan old man inside it who pops out and touches his hat. This is only thelodge, really, but you think you have arrived; so you get all ready tojump out, and then the car goes rolling on for another fifty miles or sothrough beech woods full of rabbits and open meadows with deer in them.
　　Finally, just as you think you are going on for ever, you whizz round acorner, and there's the house. You don't get a glimpse of it till then,because the trees are too thick.
　　It's very large, and sort of low and square, with a kind of tower at oneside and the most fascinating upper porch sort of thing withbattlements. I suppose in the old days you used to stand on this anddrop molten lead on visitors' heads. Wonderful lawns all round, andshrubberies and a lake that you can just see where the ground dipsbeyond the fields. Of course it's too early yet for them to be out, butto the left of the house there's a place where there will be about amillion roses when June comes round, and all along the side of therose-garden is a high wall of old red brick which shuts off the kitchengarden. I went exploring there this morning. It's an enormous place,with hot-houses and things, and there's the cunningest farm at one endwith a stable yard full of puppies that just tear the heart out of you,they're so sweet. And a big, sleepy cat, which sits and blinks in thesun and lets the puppies run all over her. And there's a lovelystillness, and you can hear everything growing. And thrushes andblackbirds... Oh, Ginger, it's heavenly!
　　But there's a catch. It's a case of "Where every prospect pleases andonly man is vile." At least, not exactly vile, I suppose, but terriblystodgy. I can see now why you couldn't hit it off with the Family.
　　Because I've seen 'em all! They're here! Yes, Uncle Donald and all ofthem. Is it a habit of your family to collect in gangs, or have I justhappened to stumble into an accidental Old Home Week? When I came downto dinner the first evening, the drawing-room was full to burstingpoint--not simply because Fillmore was there, but because there wereuncles and aunts all over the place. I felt like a small lion in a denof Daniels. I know exactly now what you mean about the Family. They lookat you! Of course, it's all right for me, because I am snowy white clearthrough, but I can just imagine what it must have been like for you withyour permanently guilty conscience. You must have had an awful time.
　　By the way, it's going to be a delicate business getting this letterthrough to you--rather like carrying the despatches through the enemy'slines in a Civil War play. You're supposed to leave letters on the tablein the hall, and someone collects them in the afternoon and takes themdown to the village on a bicycle. But, if I do that some aunt or uncleis bound to see it, and I shall be an object of loathing, for it is nolight matter, my lad, to be caught having correspondence with a humanJimpson weed like you. It would blast me socially. At least, so I gatherfrom the way they behaved when your name came up at dinner last night.
　　Somebody mentioned you, and the most awful roasting party broke loose.
　　Uncle Donald acting as cheer-leader. I said feebly that I had met youand had found you part human, and there was an awful silence till theyall started at the same time to show me where I was wrong, and howcruelly my girlish inexperience had deceived me. A young and innocenthalf-portion like me, it appears, is absolutely incapable of suspectingthe true infamy of the dregs of society. You aren't fit to speak to thelikes of me, being at the kindest estimate little more than a blot onthe human race. I tell you this in case you may imagine you're popularwith the Family. You're not.
　　So I shall have to exercise a good deal of snaky craft in smuggling thisletter through. I'll take it down to the village myself if I can sneakaway. But it's going to be pretty difficult, because for some reason Iseem to be a centre of attraction. Except when I take refuge in my room,hardly a moment passes without an aunt or an uncle popping out andhaving a cosy talk with me. It sometimes seems as though they wereweighing me in the balance. Well, let 'em weigh!
　　Time to dress for dinner now. Good-bye.
　　Yours in the balance,sally.
　　P.S.--You were perfectly right about your Uncle Donald's moustache, butI don't agree with you that it is more his misfortune than his fault. Ithink he does it on purpose.
　　(Just for the moment)Monk's Crofton,Much Middleford,Salop,England.
　　April 20th.
　　Dear Ginger,--Leaving here to-day. In disgrace. Hard, cold looks fromthe family. Strained silences. Uncle Donald far from chummy. You canguess what has happened. I might have seen it coming. I can see now thatit was in the air all along.
　　Fillmore knows nothing about it. He left just before it happened. Ishall see him very soon, for I have decided to come back and stoprunning away from things any longer. It's cowardly to skulk about overhere. Besides, I'm feeling so much better that I believe I can face theghosts. Anyway, I'm going to try. See you almost as soon as you getthis.
　　I shall mail this in London, and I suppose it will come over by the sameboat as me. It's hardly worth writing, really, of course, but I havesneaked up to my room to wait till the motor arrives to take me to thestation, and it's something to do. I can hear muffled voices. TheFamily talking me over, probably. Saying they never really liked me allalong. Oh, well!
　　Yours moving in an orderly manner to the exit,sally.
Chapter 13 Strange Behaviour Of A Sparring-Partner
    Sally's emotions, as she sat in her apartment on the morning of herreturn to New York, resembled somewhat those of a swimmer who, afterwavering on a raw morning at the brink of a chill pool, nerves himselfto the plunge. She was aching, but she knew that she had done well. Ifshe wanted happiness, she must fight for it, and for all these monthsshe had been shirking the fight. She had done with wavering on thebrink, and here she was, in mid-stream, ready for whatever might befall.
　　It hurt, this coming to grips. She had expected it to hurt. But it was apain that stimulated, not a dull melancholy that smothered. She feltalive and defiant.
　　She had finished unpacking and tidying up. The next move was certainlyto go and see Ginger. She had suddenly become aware that she wanted verybadly to see Ginger. His stolid friendliness would be a support and aprop. She wished now that she had sent him a cable, so that he couldhave met her at the dock. It had been rather terrible at the dock. Theechoing customs sheds had sapped her valour and she felt alone andforlorn.
　　She looked at her watch, and was surprised to find how early it was.
　　She could catch him at the office and make him take her out to lunch.
　　She put on her hat and went out.
　　The restless hand of change, always active in New York, had not sparedthe outer office of the Fillmore Nicholas Theatrical Enterprises Ltd. inthe months of her absence. She was greeted on her arrival by an entirelynew and original stripling in the place of the one with whom at her lastvisit she had established such cordial relations. Like his predecessorhe was generously pimpled, but there the resemblance stopped. He was agrim boy, and his manner was stern and suspicious. He peered narrowly atSally for a moment as if he had caught her in the act of purloining theoffice blotting-paper, then, with no little acerbity, desired her tostate her business.
　　"I want Mr. Kemp," said Sally.
　　The office-boy scratched his cheek dourly with a ruler. No one wouldhave guessed, so austere was his aspect, that a moment before herentrance he had been trying to balance it on his chin, juggling thewhile with a pair of paper-weights. For, impervious as he seemed tohuman weaknesses, it was this lad's ambition one day to go intovaudeville.
　　"What name?" he said, coldly.
　　"Nicholas," said Sally. "I am Mr. Nicholas' sister."On a previous occasion when she had made this announcement, disastrousresults had ensued; but to-day it went well. It seemed to hit theoffice-boy like a bullet. He started convulsively, opened his mouth,and dropped the ruler. In the interval of stooping and recovering it hewas able to pull himself together. He had not been curious about Sally'sname. What he had wished was to have the name of the person for whom shewas asking repeated. He now perceived that he had had a bit of luck. Awearying period of disappointment in the matter of keeping thepaper-weights circulating while balancing the ruler, had left himpeevish, and it had been his intention to work off his ill-humour on theyoung visitor. The discovery that it was the boss's sister who wastaking up his time, suggested the advisability of a radical change oftactics. He had stooped with a frown: he returned to the perpendicularwith a smile that was positively winning. It was like the sun suddenlybursting through a London fog.
　　"Will you take a seat, lady?" he said, with polished courtesy evenunbending so far as to reach out and dust one with the sleeve of hiscoat. He added that the morning was a fine one.
　　"Thank you," said Sally. "Will you tell him I'm here.""Mr. Nicholas is out, miss," said the office-boy, with gentlemanlyregret. "He's back in New York, but he's gone out.""I don't want Mr. Nicholas. I want Mr. Kemp.""Mr. Kemp?""Yes, Mr. Kemp."Sorrow at his inability to oblige shone from every hill-top on the boy'sface.
　　"Don't know of anyone of that name around here," he said,apologetically.
　　"But surely..." Sally broke off suddenly. A grim foreboding had come toher. "How long have you been here?" she asked.
　　"All day, ma'am," said the office-boy, with the manner of a Casablanca.
　　"I mean, how long have you been employed here?""Just over a month, miss.""Hasn't Mr. Kemp been in the office all that time?""Name's new to me, lady. Does he look like anything? I meanter say,what's he look like?""He has very red hair.""Never seen him in here," said the office-boy. The truth shone coldlyon Sally. She blamed herself for ever having gone away, and told herselfthat she might have known what would happen. Left to his own resources,the unhappy Ginger had once more made a hash of it. And this hash musthave been a more notable and outstanding hash than any of his previousefforts, for, surely, Fillmore would not lightly have dismissed one whohad come to him under her special protection.
　　"Where is Mr. Nicholas?" she asked. It seemed to her that Fillmore wasthe only possible source of information. "Did you say he was out?""Really out, miss," said the office-boy, with engaging candour. "Hewent off to White Plains in his automobile half-an-hour ago.""White Plains? What for?"The pimpled stripling had now given himself up wholeheartedly to socialchit-chat. Usually he liked his time to himself and resented theintrusion of the outer world, for he who had chosen jugglery for hiswalk in life must neglect no opportunity of practising: but sofavourable was the impression which Sally had made on his plastic mindthat he was delighted to converse with her as long as she wished.
　　"I guess what's happened is, he's gone up to take a look at BugsButler," he said.
　　"Whose butler?" said Sally mystified.
　　The office-boy smiled a tolerant smile. Though an admirer of the sex,he was aware that women were seldom hep to the really important thingsin life. He did not blame them. That was the way they were constructed,and one simply had to accept it.
　　"Bugs Butler is training up at White Plains, miss.""Who is Bugs Butler?"Something of his former bleakness of aspect returned to the office-boy.
　　Sally's question had opened up a subject on which he felt deeply.
　　"Ah!" he replied, losing his air of respectful deference as heapproached the topic. "Who is he! That's what they're all saying, allthe wise guys. Who has Bugs Butler ever licked?""I don't know," said Sally, for he had fixed her with a penetrating gazeand seemed to be pausing for a reply.
　　"Nor nobody else," said the stripling vehemently. "A lot of stiffs outon the coast, that's all. Ginks nobody has ever heard of, except CycloneMullins, and it took that false alarm fifteen rounds to get a referee'sdecision over him. The boss would go and give him a chance against thechamp, but I could have told him that the legitimate contender was K-legBinns. K-leg put Cyclone Mullins out in the fifth. Well," said theoffice-boy in the overwrought tone of one chafing at human folly, "ifanybody thinks Bugs Butler can last six rounds with Lew Lucas, I've twobucks right here in my vest pocket that says it ain't so."Sally began to see daylight.
　　"Oh, Bugs--Mr. Butler is one of the boxers in this fight that my brotheris interested in?""That's right. He's going up against the lightweight champ. Lew Lucasis the lightweight champ. He's a bird!""Yes?" said Sally. This youth had a way of looking at her with his headcocked on one side as though he expected her to say something.
　　"Yes, sir!" said the stripling with emphasis. "Lew Lucas is a hotsketch. He used to live on the next street to me," he added as clinchingevidence of his hero's prowess. "I've seen his old mother as close as Iam to you. Say, I seen her a hundred times. Is any stiff of a BugsButler going to lick a fellow like that?""It doesn't seem likely.""You spoke it!" said the lad crisply, striking unsuccessfully at a flywhich had settled on the blotting-paper.
　　There was a pause. Sally started to rise.
　　"And there's another thing," said the office-boy, loath to close thesubject. "Can Bugs Butler make a hundred and thirty-five ringsidewithout being weak?""It sounds awfully difficult.""They say he's clever." The expert laughed satirically. "Well, what'sthat going to get him? The poor fish can't punch a hole in anut-sundae.""You don't seem to like Mr. Butler.""Oh, I've nothing against him," said the office-boy magnanimously.
　　"I'm only saying he's no licence to be mixing it with Lew Lucas."Sally got up. Absorbing as this chat on current form was, moreimportant matters claimed her attention.
　　"How shall I find my brother when I get to White Plains?" she asked.
　　"Oh, anybody'll show you the way to the training-camp. If you hurry,there's a train you can make now.""Thank you very much.""You're welcome."He opened the door for her with an old-world politeness which disuse hadrendered a little rusty: then, with an air of getting back to businessafter a pleasant but frivolous interlude, he took up the paper-weightsonce more and placed the ruler with nice care on his upturned chin.
　　Fillmore heaved a sigh of relief and began to sidle from the room. Itwas a large room, half barn, half gymnasium. Athletic appliances ofvarious kinds hung on the walls and in the middle there was a wideroped-off space, around which a small crowd had distributed itself withan air of expectancy. This is a commercial age, and the days when aprominent pugilist's training activities used to be hidden from thepublic gaze are over. To-day, if the public can lay its hands on fiftycents, it may come and gaze its fill. This afternoon, plutocrats to thenumber of about forty had assembled, though not all of these, to theregret of Mr. Lester Burrowes, the manager of the eminent Bugs Butler,had parted with solid coin. Many of those present were newspaperrepresentatives and on the free list--writers who would polish up Mr.
　　Butler's somewhat crude prognostications as to what he proposed to do toMr. Lew Lucas, and would report him as saying, "I am in really superbcondition and feel little apprehension of the issue," and artists whowould depict him in a state of semi-nudity with feet several sizes toolarge for any man.
　　The reason for Fillmore's relief was that Mr. Burrowes, who was a greattalker and had buttonholed him a quarter of an hour ago, had at last hadhis attention distracted elsewhere, and had gone off to investigatesome matter that called for his personal handling, leaving Fillmore freeto slide away to the hotel and get a bite to eat, which he sorelyneeded. The zeal which had brought him to the training-camp to inspectthe final day of Mr. Butler's preparation--for the fight was to takeplace on the morrow--had been so great that he had omitted to lunchbefore leaving New York.
　　So Fillmore made thankfully for the door. And it was at the door thathe encountered Sally. He was looking over his shoulder at the moment,and was not aware of her presence till she spoke.
　　"Hallo, Fillmore!"Sally had spoken softly, but a dynamite explosion could not haveshattered her brother's composure with more completeness. In the leapingtwist which brought him facing her, he rose a clear three inches fromthe floor. He had a confused sensation, as though his nervous system hadbeen stirred up with a pole. He struggled for breath and moistened hislips with the tip of his tongue, staring at her continuously during theprocess.
　　Great men, in their moments of weakness, are to be pitied rather thanscorned. If ever a man had an excuse for leaping like a young ram,Fillmore had it. He had left Sally not much more than a week ago inEngland, in Shropshire, at Monk's Crofton. She had said nothing of anyintention on her part of leaving the country, the county, or the house.
　　Yet here she was, in Bugs Butler's training-camp at White Plains, in theState of New York, speaking softly in his ear without even going throughthe preliminary of tapping him on the shoulder to advertise herpresence. No wonder that Fillmore was startled. And no wonder that, ashe adjusted his faculties to the situation, there crept upon him a chillapprehension.
　　For Fillmore had not been blind to the significance of that invitationto Monk's Crofton. Nowadays your wooer does not formally approach agirl's nearest relative and ask permission to pay his addresses; but,when he invites her and that nearest relative to his country home andcollects all the rest of the family to meet her, the thing may be saidto have advanced beyond the realms of mere speculation. ShrewdlyFillmore had deduced that Bruce Carmyle was in love with Sally, andmentally he had joined their hands and given them a brother's blessing.
　　And now it was only too plain that disaster must have occurred. If theinvitation could mean only one thing, so also could Sally's presence atWhite Plains mean only one thing.
　　"Sally!" A croaking whisper was the best he could achieve. "What...
　　what... ?""Did I startle you? I'm sorry.""What are you doing here? Why aren't you at Monk's Crofton?"Sally glanced past him at the ring and the crowd around it.
　　"I decided I wanted to get back to America. Circumstances arose whichmade it pleasanter to leave Monk's Crofton.""Do you mean to say... ?""Yes. Don't let's talk about it.""Do you mean to say," persisted Fillmore, "that Carmyle proposed to youand you turned him down?"Sally flushed.
　　"I don't think it's particularly nice to talk about that sort of thing,but--yes."A feeling of desolation overcame Fillmore. That conviction, whichsaddens us at all times, of the wilful bone-headedness of our fellowsswept coldly upon him. Everything had been so perfect, the wholearrangement so ideal, that it had never occurred to him as a possibilitythat Sally might take it into her head to spoil it by declining to playthe part allotted to her. The match was so obviously the best thing thatcould happen. It was not merely the suitor's impressive wealth that madehim hold this opinion, though it would be idle to deny that the prospectof having a brother-in-lawful claim on the Carmyle bank-balance had casta rosy glamour over the future as he had envisaged it. He honestly likedand respected the man. He appreciated his quiet and aristocraticreserve. A well-bred fellow, sensible withal, just the sort of husband agirl like Sally needed. And now she had ruined everything. With thecapricious perversity which so characterizes her otherwise delightfulsex, she had spilled the beans.
　　"But why?""Oh, Fill!" Sally had expected that realization of the facts wouldproduce these symptoms in him, but now that they had presentedthemselves she was finding them rasping to the nerves. "I should havethought the reason was obvious.""You mean you don't like him?""I don't know whether I do or not. I certainly don't like him enough tomarry him.""He's a darned good fellow.""Is he? You say so. I don't know."The imperious desire for bodily sustenance began to competesuccessfully for Fillmore's notice with his spiritual anguish.
　　"Let's go to the hotel and talk it over. We'll go to the hotel and I'llgive you something to eat.""I don't want anything to eat, thanks.""You don't want anything to eat?" said Fillmore incredulously. Hesupposed in a vague sort of way that there were eccentric people of thissort, but it was hard to realize that he had met one of them. "I'mstarving.""Well, run along then.""Yes, but I want to talk..."He was not the only person who wanted to talk. At the moment a smallman of sporting exterior hurried up. He wore what his tailor'sadvertisements would have called a "nobbly" suit of checked tweedand--in defiance of popular prejudice--a brown bowler hat. Mr. LesterBurrowes, having dealt with the business which had interrupted theirconversation a few minutes before, was anxious to resume his remarks onthe subject of the supreme excellence in every respect of his youngcharge.
　　"Say, Mr. Nicholas, you ain't going'? Bugs is just getting ready tospar."He glanced inquiringly at Sally.
　　"My sister--Mr. Burrowes," said Fillmore faintly. "Mr. Burrowes is BugsButler's manager.""How do you do?" said Sally.
　　"Pleased to meecher," said Mr. Burrowes. "Say...""I was just going to the hotel to get something to eat," said Fillmore.
　　Mr. Burrowes clutched at his coat-button with a swoop, and held him witha glittering eye.
　　"Yes, but, say, before-you-go-lemme-tell-ya-somef'n. You've never seenthis boy of mine, not when he was feeling right. Believe me, he's there!
　　He's a wizard. He's a Hindoo! Say, he's been practising up a left shiftthat..."Fillmore's eye met Sally's wanly, and she pitied him. Presently shewould require him to explain to her how he had dared to dismiss Gingerfrom his employment--and make that explanation a good one: but in themeantime she remembered that he was her brother and was suffering.
　　"He's the cleverest lightweight," proceeded Mr. Burrowes fervently,"since Joe Gans. I'm telling you and I know! He...""Can he make a hundred and thirty-five ringside without being weak?"asked Sally.
　　The effect of this simple question on Mr. Burrowes was stupendous. Hedropped away from Fillmore's coat-button like an exhausted bivalve, andhis small mouth opened feebly. It was as if a child had suddenlypropounded to an eminent mathematician some abstruse problem in thehigher algebra. Females who took an interest in boxing had come into Mr.
　　Burrowes' life before---in his younger days, when he was a famousfeatherweight, the first of his three wives had been accustomed to sitat the ringside during his contests and urge him in language of theseverest technicality to knock opponents' blocks off--but somehow he hadnot supposed from her appearance and manner that Sally was one of theelect. He gaped at her, and the relieved Fillmore sidled off like a birdhopping from the compelling gaze of a snake. He was not quite sure thathe was acting correctly in allowing his sister to roam at large amongthe somewhat Bohemian surroundings of a training-camp, but the instinctof self-preservation turned the scale. He had breakfasted early, and ifhe did not eat right speedily it seemed to him that dissolution wouldset in.
　　"Whazzat?" said Mr. Burrowes feebly.
　　"It took him fifteen rounds to get a referee's decision over CycloneMullins," said Sally severely, "and K-leg Binns..."Mr. Burrowes rallies.
　　"You ain't got it right" he protested. "Say, you mustn't believe whatyou see in the papers. The referee was dead against us, and Cyclone wasdown once for all of half a minute and they wouldn't count him out. Gee!
　　You got to kill a guy in some towns before they'll give you a decision.
　　At that, they couldn't do nothing so raw as make it anything but a winfor my boy, after him leading by a mile all the way. Have you ever seenBugs, ma'am?"Sally had to admit that she had not had that privilege. Mr. Burroweswith growing excitement felt in his breast-pocket and produced apicture-postcard, which he thrust into her hand.
　　"That's Bugs," he said. "Take a slant at that and then tell me if hedon't look the goods."The photograph represented a young man in the irreducible minimum ofclothing who crouched painfully, as though stricken with one of theacuter forms of gastritis.
　　"I'll call him over and have him sign it for you," said Mr. Burrowes,before Sally had had time to grasp the fact that this work of art was agift and no mere loan. "Here, Bugs--wantcher."A youth enveloped in a bath-robe, who had been talking to a group ofadmirers near the ring, turned, started languidly towards them, then,seeing Sally, quickened his pace. He was an admirer of the sex.
　　Mr. Burrowes did the honours.
　　"Bugs, this is Miss Nicholas, come to see you work out. I have beentelling her she's going to have a treat." And to Sally. "Shake handswith Bugs Butler, ma'am, the coming lightweight champion of the world."Mr. Butler's photograph, Sally considered, had flattered him. He was,in the flesh, a singularly repellent young man. There was a mean andcruel curve to his lips and a cold arrogance in his eye; a somethingdangerous and sinister in the atmosphere he radiated. Moreover, she didnot like the way he smirked at her.
　　However, she exerted herself to be amiable.
　　"I hope you are going to win, Mr. Butler," she said.
　　The smile which she forced as she spoke the words removed the comingchampion's doubts, though they had never been serious. He was convincednow that he had made a hit. He always did, he reflected, with the girls.
　　It was something about him. His chest swelled complacently beneath thebath-robe.
　　"You betcher," he asserted briefly.
　　Mr. Burrows looked at his watch.
　　"Time you were starting, Bugs."The coming champion removed his gaze from Sally's face, into which hehad been peering in a conquering manner, and cast a disparaging glanceat the audience. It was far from being as large as he could have wished,and at least a third of it was composed of non-payers from thenewspapers.
　　"All right," he said, bored.
　　His languor left him, as his gaze fell on Sally again, and his spiritsrevived somewhat. After all, small though the numbers of spectatorsmight be, bright eyes would watch and admire him.
　　"I'll go a couple of rounds with Reddy for a starter," he said. "Seenhim anywheres? He's never around when he's wanted.""I'll fetch him," said Mr. Burrowes. "He's back there somewheres.""I'm going to show that guy up this afternoon," said Mr. Butler coldly.
　　"He's been getting too fresh."The manager bustled off, and Bugs Butler, with a final smirk, left Sallyand dived under the ropes. There was a stir of interest in the audience,though the newspaper men, blasé through familiarity, exhibited noemotion. Presently Mr. Burrowes reappeared, shepherding a young manwhose face was hidden by the sweater which he was pulling over his head.
　　He was a sturdily built young man. The sweater, moving from his body,revealed a good pair of shoulders.
　　A last tug, and the sweater was off. Red hair flashed into view,tousled and disordered: and, as she saw it, Sally uttered an involuntarygasp of astonishment which caused many eyes to turn towards her. And thered-headed young man, who had been stooping to pick up his gloves,straightened himself with a jerk and stood staring at her blankly andincredulously, his face slowly crimsoning.
　　It was the energetic Mr. Burrowes who broke the spell.
　　"Come on, come on," he said impatiently. "Li'l speed there, Reddy."Ginger Kemp started like a sleep-walker awakened; then recoveringhimself, slowly began to pull on the gloves. Embarrassment was stampedon his agreeable features. His face matched his hair.
　　Sally plucked at the little manager's elbow. He turned irritably, butbeamed in a distrait sort of manner when he perceived the source of theinterruption.
　　"Who--him?" he said in answer to Sally's whispered question. "He's justone of Bugs' sparring-partners.""But..."Mr. Burrowes, fussy now that the time had come for action, interruptedher.
　　"You'll excuse me, miss, but I have to hold the watch. We mustn't wasteany time."Sally drew back. She felt like an infidel who intrudes upon thecelebration of strange rites. This was Man's hour, and women must keepin the background. She had the sensation of being very small and yetvery much in the way, like a puppy who has wandered into a church. Thenovelty and solemnity of the scene awed her.
　　She looked at Ginger, who with averted gaze was fiddling with hisclothes in the opposite corner of the ring. He was as removed fromcommunication as if he had been in another world. She continued tostare, wide-eyed, and Ginger, shuffling his feet self-consciously,plucked at his gloves.
　　Mr. Butler, meanwhile, having doffed his bath-robe, stretched himself,and with leisurely nonchalance put on a second pair of gloves, wasfilling in the time with a little shadow boxing. He moved rhythmicallyto and fro, now ducking his head, now striking out with his muffledhands, and a sickening realization of the man's animal power swept overSally and turned her cold. Swathed in his bath-robe, Bugs Butler hadconveyed an atmosphere of dangerousness: in the boxing-tights whichshowed up every rippling muscle, he was horrible and sinister, a machinebuilt for destruction, a human panther.
　　So he appeared to Sally, but a stout and bulbous eyed man standing ather side was not equally impressed. Obviously one of the Wise Guys ofwhom her friend the sporting office-boy had spoken, he was franklydissatisfied with the exhibition.
　　"Shadow-boxing," he observed in a cavilling spirit to his companion.
　　"Yes, he can do that all right, just like I can fox-trot if I ain't gota partner to get in the way. But one good wallop, and then watch him."His friend, also plainly a guy of established wisdom, assented with acurt nod.
　　"Ah!" he agreed.
　　"Lew Lucas," said the first wise guy, "is just as shifty, and he canpunch.""Ah!" said the second wise guy.
　　"Just because he beats up a few poor mutts of sparring-partners," saidthe first wise guy disparagingly, "he thinks he's someone.""Ah!" said the second wise guy.
　　As far as Sally could interpret these remarks, the full meaning of whichwas shrouded from her, they seemed to be reassuring. For a comfortingmoment she ceased to regard Ginger as a martyr waiting to be devoured bya lion. Mr. Butler, she gathered, was not so formidable as he appeared.
　　But her relief was not to be long-lived.
　　"Of course he'll eat this red-headed gink," went on the first wise guy.
　　"That's the thing he does best, killing his sparring-partners. But LewLucas..."Sally was not interested in Lew Lucas. That numbing fear had come backto her. Even these cognoscenti, little as they esteemed Mr. Butler, hadplainly no doubts as to what he would do to Ginger. She tried to tearherself away, but something stronger than her own will kept her therestanding where she was, holding on to the rope and staring forlornlyinto the ring.
　　"Ready, Bugs?" asked Mr. Burrowes.
　　The coming champion nodded carelessly.
　　"Go to it," said Mr. Burrowes.
　　Ginger ceased to pluck at his gloves and advanced into the ring.
　　Of all the learned professions, pugilism is the one in which the trainedexpert is most sharply divided from the mere dabbler. In other fieldsthe amateur may occasionally hope to compete successfully with the manwho has made a business of what is to him but a sport, but at boxingnever: and the whole demeanour of Bugs Butler showed that he had laidthis truth to heart. It would be too little to say that his bearing wasconfident: he comported himself with the care-free jauntiness of aninfant about to demolish a Noah's Ark with a tack-hammer. CycloneMullinses might withstand him for fifteen rounds where they yielded to aK-leg Binns in the fifth, but, when it came to beating up asparring-partner and an amateur at that, Bugs Butler knew hispotentialities. He was there forty ways and he did not attempt toconceal it. Crouching as was his wont, he uncoiled himself like astriking rattlesnake and flicked Ginger lightly over his guard. Then hereturned to his crouch and circled sinuously about the ring with theamiable intention of showing the crowd, payers and deadheads alike, whatreal footwork was. If there was one thing on which Bugs Butler pridedhimself, it was footwork.
　　The adverb "lightly" is a relative term, and the blow which had justplanted a dull patch on Ginger's cheekbone affected those present indifferent degrees. Ginger himself appeared stolidly callous. Sallyshuddered to the core of her being and had to hold more tightly to therope to support herself. The two wise guys mocked openly. To the wiseguys, expert connoisseurs of swat, the thing had appeared richlyfarcical. They seemed to consider the blow, administered to a thirdparty and not to themselves, hardly worth calling a blow at all. Twomore, landing as quickly and neatly as the first, left them equallycold.
　　"Call that punching?" said the first wise guy.
　　"Ah!" said the second wise guy.
　　But Mr. Butler, if he heard this criticism--and it is probable that hedid--for the wise ones had been restrained by no delicacy of feelingfrom raising their voices, was in no way discommoded by it. Bugs Butlerknew what he was about. Bright eyes were watching him, and he meant togive them a treat. The girls like smooth work. Any roughneck could sailinto a guy and knock the daylights out of him, but how few could beclever and flashy and scientific? Few, few, indeed, thought Mr. Butleras he slid in and led once more.
　　Something solid smote Mr. Butler's nose, rocking him on to his heels andinducing an unpleasant smarting sensation about his eyes. He backed awayand regarded Ginger with astonishment, almost with pain. Until thismoment he had scarcely considered him as an active participant in thescene at all, and he felt strongly that this sort of thing was bad form.
　　It was not being done by sparring-partners.
　　A juster man might have reflected that he himself was to blame. He hadundeniably been careless. In the very act of leading he had allowed hiseyes to flicker sideways to see how Sally was taking this exhibition ofscience, and he had paid the penalty. Nevertheless, he was piqued. Heshimmered about the ring, thinking it over. And the more he thought itover, the less did he approve of his young assistant's conduct. Hardthoughts towards Ginger began to float in his mind.
　　Ginger, too, was thinking hard thoughts. He had not had an easy timesince he had come to the training camp, but never till to-day had heexperienced any resentment towards his employer. Until this afternoonBugs Butler had pounded him honestly and without malice, and he had gonethrough it, as the other sparring-partners did, phlegmatically, takingit as part of the day's work. But this afternoon there had been adifference. Those careless flicks had been an insult, a deliberateoffence. The man was trying to make a fool of him, playing to thegallery: and the thought of who was in that gallery inflamed Ginger pastthought of consequences. No one, not even Mr. Butler, was more keenlyalive than he to the fact that in a serious conflict with a man whoto-morrow night might be light-weight champion of the world he stood nochance whatever: but he did not intend to be made an exhibition of infront of Sally without doing something to hold his end up. He proposedto go down with his flag flying, and in pursuance of this object he dugMr. Butler heavily in the lower ribs with his right, causing that expertto clinch and the two wise guys to utter sharp barking sounds expressiveof derision.
　　"Say, what the hell d'ya think you're getting at?" demanded theaggrieved pugilist in a heated whisper in Ginger's ear as they fell intothe embrace. "What's the idea, you jelly bean?"Ginger maintained a pink silence. His jaw was set, and the temper whichNature had bestowed upon him to go with his hair had reached white heat.
　　He dodged a vicious right which whizzed up at his chin out of thebreaking clinch, and rushed. A left hook shook him, but was too high todo more. There was rough work in the far corner, and suddenly withstartling abruptness Bugs Butler, bothered by the ropes at his back andtrying to side-step, ran into a swing and fell.
　　"Time!" shouted the scandalized Mr. Burrowes, utterly aghast at thisfrightful misadventure. In the whole course of his professionalexperience he could recall no such devastating occurrence.
　　The audience was no less startled. There was audible gasping. Thenewspaper men looked at each other with a wild surmise and conjured uppleasant pictures of their sporting editors receiving this sensationalitem of news later on over the telephone. The two wise guys, continuingto pursue Mr. Butler with their dislike, emitted loud and raucouslaughs, and one of them, forming his hands into a megaphone, urged thefallen warrior to go away and get a rep. As for Sally, she was consciousof a sudden, fierce, cave-womanly rush of happiness which swept awaycompletely the sickening qualms of the last few minutes. Her teeth wereclenched and her eyes blazed with joyous excitement. She looked atGinger yearningly, longing to forget a gentle upbringing and shoutcongratulation to him. She was proud of him. And mingled with the pridewas a curious feeling that was almost fear. This was not the mild andamiable young man whom she was wont to mother through the difficultiesof a world in which he was unfitted to struggle for himself. This was anew Ginger, a stranger to her.
　　On the rare occasions on which he had been knocked down in the past, ithad been Bugs Butler's canny practice to pause for a while and restbefore rising and continuing the argument, but now he was up almostbefore he had touched the boards, and the satire of the second wise guy,who had begun to saw the air with his hand and count loudly, lost itspoint. It was only too plain that Mr. Butler's motto was that a man maybe down, but he is never out. And, indeed, the knock-down had beenlargely a stumble. Bugs Butler's educated feet, which had carried himunscathed through so many contests, had for this single occasion managedto get themselves crossed just as Ginger's blow landed, and it was tohis lack of balance rather than the force of the swing that his downfallhad been due.
　　"Time!" he snarled, casting a malevolent side-glance at his manager.
　　"Like hell it's time!"And in a whirlwind of flying gloves he flung himself upon Ginger,driving him across the ring, while Mr. Burrowes, watch in hand, staredwith dropping jaw. If Ginger had seemed a new Ginger to Sally, stillmore did this seem a new Bugs Butler to Mr. Burrowes, and the managergroaned in spirit. Coolness, skill and science--these had been thequalities in his protégé which had always so endeared him to Mr. LesterBurrowes and had so enriched their respective bank accounts: and now, onthe eve of the most important fight in his life, before an audience ofnewspaper men, he had thrown them all aside and was making an exhibitionof himself with a common sparring-partner.
　　That was the bitter blow to Mr. Burrowes. Had this lapse into theunscientific primitive happened in a regular fight, he might havemourned and poured reproof into Bug's ear when he got him back in hiscorner at the end of the round; but he would not have experienced thisfeeling of helpless horror--the sort of horror an elder of the churchmight feel if he saw his favourite bishop yielding in public to thefascination of jazz. It was the fact that Bugs Butler was loweringhimself to extend his powers against a sparring-partner that shocked Mr.
　　Burrowes. There is an etiquette in these things. A champion may batterhis sparring-partners into insensibility if he pleases, but he must doit with nonchalance. He must not appear to be really trying.
　　And nothing could be more manifest than that Bugs Butler was trying.
　　His whole fighting soul was in his efforts to corner Ginger and destroyhim. The battle was raging across the ring and down the ring, and up thering and back again; yet always Ginger, like a storm-driven ship,contrived somehow to weather the tempest. Out of the flurry of swingingarms he emerged time after time bruised, bleeding, but fighting hard.
　　For Bugs Butler's fury was defeating its object. Had he remained hiscool and scientific self, he could have demolished Ginger and cutthrough his defence in a matter of seconds. But he had lapsed back intothe methods of his unskilled novitiate. He swung and missed, swung andmissed again, struck but found no vital spot. And now there was blood onhis face, too. In some wild mêlée the sacred fount had been tapped, andhis teeth gleamed through a crimson mist.
　　The Wise Guys were beyond speech. They were leaning against oneanother, punching each other feebly in the back. One was crying.
　　And then suddenly the end came, as swiftly and unexpectedly as thething had begun. His wild swings had tired Bugs Butler, and with fatigueprudence returned to him. His feet began once more their subtle weavingin and out. Twice his left hand flickered home. A quick feint, a short,jolting stab, and Ginger's guard was down and he was swaying in themiddle of the ring, his hands hanging and his knees a-quiver.
　　Bugs Butler measured his distance, and Sally shut her eyes.
Chapter 14 Mr. Abrahams Re-Engages An Old Employee
    The only real happiness, we are told, is to be obtained by bringinghappiness to others. Bugs Butler's mood, accordingly, when some thirtyhours after the painful episode recorded in the last chapter he awokefrom a state of coma in the ring at Jersey City to discover that Mr. LewLucas had knocked him out in the middle of the third round, should havebeen one of quiet contentment. His inability to block a short left-hookfollowed by a right to the point of the jaw had ameliorated quite anumber of existences.
　　Mr. Lew Lucas, for one, was noticeably pleased. So were Mr. Lucas'sseconds, one of whom went so far as to kiss him. And most of the crowd,who had betted heavily on the champion, were delighted. Yet Bugs Butlerdid not rejoice. It is not too much to say that his peevish bearingstruck a jarring note in the general gaiety. A heavy frown disfiguredhis face as he slouched from the ring.
　　But the happiness which he had spread went on spreading. The two WiseGuys, who had been unable to attend the fight in person, received theresult on the ticker and exuberantly proclaimed themselves the richer byfive hundred dollars. The pimpled office-boy at the Fillmore NicholasTheatrical Enterprises Ltd. caused remark in the Subway by whoopinggleefully when he read the news in his morning paper, for he, too, hadbeen rendered wealthier by the brittleness of Mr. Butler's chin. And itwas with fierce satisfaction that Sally, breakfasting in her littleapartment, informed herself through the sporting page of the details ofthe contender's downfall. She was not a girl who disliked many people,but she had acquired a lively distaste for Bugs Butler.
　　Lew Lucas seemed a man after her own heart. If he had been a personalfriend of Ginger's he could not, considering the brief time at hisdisposal, have avenged him with more thoroughness. In round one he haddone all sorts of diverting things to Mr. Butler's left eye: in roundtwo he had continued the good work on that gentleman's body; and inround three he had knocked him out. Could anyone have done more? Sallythought not, and she drank Lew Lucas's health in a cup of coffee andhoped his old mother was proud of him.
　　The telephone bell rang at her elbow. She unhooked the receiver.
　　"Hullo?""Oh, hullo," said a voice.
　　"Ginger!" cried Sally delightedly.
　　"I say, I'm awfully glad you're back. I only got your letter thismorning. Found it at the boarding-house. I happened to look in thereand...""Ginger," interrupted Sally, "your voice is music, but I want to seeyou. Where are you?""I'm at a chemist's shop across the street. I was wondering if...""Come here at once!""I say, may I? I was just going to ask.""You miserable creature, why haven't you been round to see me before?""Well, as a matter of fact, I haven't been going about much for the lastday. You see...""I know. Of course." Quick sympathy came into Sally's voice. She gavea sidelong glance of approval and gratitude at the large picture of LewLucas which beamed up at her from the morning paper. "You poor thing!
　　How are you?""Oh, all right, thanks.""Well, hurry."There was a slight pause at the other end of the wire.
　　"I say.""Well?""I'm not much to look at, you know.""You never were. Stop talking and hurry over.""I mean to say..."Sally hung up the receiver firmly. She waited eagerly for some minutes,and then footsteps came along the passage. They stopped at her door andthe bell rang. Sally ran to the door, flung it open, and recoiled inconsternation.
　　"Oh, Ginger!"He had stated the facts accurately when he had said that he was not muchto look at. He gazed at her devotedly out of an unblemished right eye,but the other was hidden altogether by a puffy swelling of dull purple.
　　A great bruise marred his left cheek-bone, and he spoke with somedifficulty through swollen lips.
　　"It's all right, you know," he assured her.
　　"It isn't. It's awful! Oh, you poor darling!" She clenched her teethviciously. "I wish he had killed him!""Eh?""I wish Lew Lucas or whatever his name is had murdered him. Brute!""Oh, I don't know, you know." Ginger's sense of fairness compelled himto defend his late employer against these harsh sentiments. "He isn't abad sort of chap, really. Bugs Butler, I mean.""Do you seriously mean to stand there and tell me you don't loathe thecreature?""Oh, he's all right. See his point of view and all that. Can't blamehim, if you come to think of it, for getting the wind up a bit in thecircs. Bit thick, I mean to say, a sparring-partner going at him likethat. Naturally he didn't think it much of a wheeze. It was my faultright along. Oughtn't to have done it, of course, but somehow, when hestarted making an ass of me and I knew you were looking on... well, itseemed a good idea to have a dash at doing something on my own. No rightto, of course. A sparring-partner isn't supposed...""Sit down," said Sally.
　　Ginger sat down.
　　"Ginger," said Sally, "you're too good to live.""Oh, I say!""I believe if someone sandbagged you and stole your watch and chainyou'd say there were faults on both sides or something. I'm just a cat,and I say I wish your beast of a Bugs Butler had perished miserably. I'dhave gone and danced on his grave... But whatever made you go in forthat sort of thing?""Well, it seemed the only job that was going at the moment. I've alwaysdone a goodish bit of boxing and I was very fit and so on, and it lookedto me rather an opening. Gave me something to get along with. You getpaid quite fairly decently, you know, and it's rather a jolly life...""Jolly? Being hammered about like that?""Oh, you don't notice it much. I've always enjoyed scrapping rather.
　　And, you see, when your brother gave me the push..."Sally uttered an exclamation.
　　"What an extraordinary thing it is--I went all the way out to WhitePlains that afternoon to find Fillmore and tackle him about that and Ididn't say a word about it. And I haven't seen or been able to get holdof him since.""No? Busy sort of cove, your brother.""Why did Fillmore let you go?""Let me go? Oh, you mean... well, there was a sort of mix-up. A kind ofmisunderstanding.""What happened?""Oh, it was nothing. Just a...""What happened?"Ginger's disfigured countenance betrayed embarrassment. He lookedawkwardly about the room.
　　"It's not worth talking about.""It is worth talking about. I've a right to know. It was I who sentyou to Fillmore...""Now that," said Ginger, "was jolly decent of you.""Don't interrupt! I sent you to Fillmore, and he had no business to letyou go without saying a word to me. What happened?"Ginger twiddled his fingers unhappily.
　　"Well, it was rather unfortunate. You see, his wife--I don't know ifyou know her?...""Of course I know her.""Why, yes, you would, wouldn't you? Your brother's wife, I mean," saidGinger acutely. "Though, as a matter of fact, you often findsisters-in-law who won't have anything to do with one another. I know afellow...""Ginger," said Sally, "it's no good your thinking you can get out oftelling me by rambling off on other subjects. I'm grim and resolute andrelentless, and I mean to get this story out of you if I have to use acorkscrew. Fillmore's wife, you were saying..."Ginger came back reluctantly to the main theme.
　　"Well, she came into the office one morning, and we started foolingabout...""Fooling about?""Well, kind of chivvying each other.""Chivvying?""At least I was.""You were what?""Sort of chasing her a bit, you know."Sally regarded this apostle of frivolity with amazement.
　　"What do you mean?"Ginger's embarrassment increased.
　　"The thing was, you see, she happened to trickle in rather quietly whenI happened to be looking at something, and I didn't know she was theretill she suddenly grabbed it...""Grabbed what?""The thing. The thing I happened to be looking at. She bagged it...
　　collared it... took it away from me, you know, and wouldn't give it backand generally started to rot about a bit, so I rather began to chivvyher to some extent, and I'd just caught her when your brother happenedto roll in. I suppose," said Ginger, putting two and two together, "hehad really come with her to the office and had happened to hang back fora minute or two, to talk to somebody or something... well, of course,he was considerably fed to see me apparently doing jiu-jitsu with hiswife. Enough to rattle any man, if you come to think of it," saidGinger, ever fair-minded. "Well, he didn't say anything at the time, buta bit later in the day he called me in and administered the push."Sally shook her head.
　　"It sounds the craziest story to me. What was it that Mrs. Fillmoretook from you?""Oh, just something."Sally rapped the table imperiously.
　　"Ginger!""Well, as a matter of fact," said her goaded visitor, "It was aphotograph.""Who of? Or, if you're particular, of whom?""Well... you, to be absolutely accurate.""Me?" Sally stared. "But I've never given you a photograph of myself."Ginger's face was a study in scarlet and purple.
　　"You didn't exactly give it to me," he mumbled. "When I say give, Imean...""Good gracious!" Sudden enlightenment came upon Sally. "That photographwe were hunting for when I first came here! Had you stolen it all thetime?""Why, yes, I did sort of pinch it...""You fraud! You humbug! And you pretended to help me look for it." Shegazed at him almost with respect. "I never knew you were so deep andsnaky. I'm discovering all sorts of new things about you."There was a brief silence. Ginger, confession over, seemed a triflehappier.
　　"I hope you're not frightfully sick about it?" he said at length. "Itwas lying about, you know, and I rather felt I must have it. Hadn't thecheek to ask you for it, so...""Don't apologize," said Sally cordially. "Great compliment. So I havecaused your downfall again, have I? I'm certainly your evil genius,Ginger. I'm beginning to feel like a regular rag and a bone and a hankof hair. First I egged you on to insult your family--oh, by the way, Iwant to thank you about that. Now that I've met your Uncle Donald I cansee how public-spirited you were. I ruined your prospects there, and nowmy fatal beauty--cabinet size--has led to your destruction once more.
　　It's certainly up to me to find you another job, I can see that.""No, really, I say, you mustn't bother. I shall be all right.""It's my duty. Now what is there that you really can do? Burglary, ofcourse, but it's not respectable. You've tried being a waiter and aprize-fighter and a right-hand man, and none of those seems to be justright. Can't you suggest anything?"Ginger shook his head.
　　"I shall wangle something, I expect." '
　　"Yes, but what? It must be something good this time. I don't want to bewalking along Broadway and come on you suddenly as a street-cleaner. Idon't want to send for an express-man and find you popping up. My ideawould be to go to my bank to arrange an overdraft and be told thepresident could give me two minutes and crawl in humbly and find youprezzing away to beat the band in a big chair. Isn't there anything inthe world that you can do that's solid and substantial and will keep youout of the poor-house in your old age? Think!""Of course, if I had a bit of capital...""Ah! The business man! And what," inquired Sally, "would you do, Mr.
　　Morgan, if you had a bit of capital?""Run a dog-thingummy," said Ginger promptly.
　　"What's a dog-thingummy?""Why, a thingamajig. For dogs, you know."Sally nodded.
　　"Oh, a thingamajig for dogs? Now I understand. You will put things soobscurely at first. Ginger, you poor fish, what are you raving about?
　　What on earth is a thingamajig for dogs?""I mean a sort of place like fellows have. Breeding dogs, you know, andselling them and winning prizes and all that. There are lots of themabout.""Oh, a kennels?""Yes, a kennels.""What a weird mind you have, Ginger. You couldn't say kennels at first,could you? That wouldn't have made it difficult enough. I suppose, ifanyone asked you where you had your lunch, you would say, 'Oh, at athingamajig for mutton chops'... Ginger, my lad, there is something inthis. I believe for the first time in our acquaintance you have spokensomething very nearly resembling a mouthful. You're wonderful with dogs,aren't you?""I'm dashed keen on them, and I've studied them a bit. As a matter offact, though it seems rather like swanking, there isn't much about dogsthat I don't know.""Of course. I believe you're a sort of honorary dog yourself. I couldtell it by the way you stopped that fight at Roville. You plunged into ahowling mass of about a million hounds of all species and just whisperedin their ears and they stopped at once. Why, the more one examines this,the better it looks. I do believe it's the one thing you couldn't helpmaking a success of. It's very paying, isn't it?""Works out at about a hundred per cent on the original outlay, I've beentold.""A hundred per cent? That sounds too much like something of Fillmore'sfor comfort. Let's say ninety-nine and be conservative. Ginger, you havehit it. Say no more. You shall be the Dog King, the biggestthingamajigger for dogs in the country. But how do you start?""Well, as a matter of fact, while I was up at White Plains, I ran into acove who had a place of the sort and wanted to sell out. That was whatmade me think of it.""You must start to-day. Or early to-morrow.""Yes," said Ginger doubtfully. "Of course, there's the catch, youknow.""What catch?""The capital. You've got to have that. This fellow wouldn't sell outunder five thousand dollars.""I'll lend you five thousand dollars.""No!" said Ginger.
　　Sally looked at him with exasperation. "Ginger, I'd like to slap you,"she said. It was maddening, this intrusion of sentiment into businessaffairs. Why, simply because he was a man and she was a woman, shouldshe be restrained from investing money in a sound commercialundertaking? If Columbus had taken up this bone-headed stand towardsQueen Isabella, America would never have been discovered.
　　"I can't take five thousand dollars off you," said Ginger firmly.
　　"Who's talking of taking it off me, as you call it?" stormed Sally.
　　"Can't you forget your burglarious career for a second? This isn't thesame thing as going about stealing defenceless girls' photographs. Thisis business. I think you would make an enormous success of a dog-place,and you admit you're good, so why make frivolous objections? Whyshouldn't I put money into a good thing? Don't you want me to get rich,or what is it?"Ginger was becoming confused. Argument had never been his strong point.
　　"But it's such a lot of money.""To you, perhaps. Not to me. I'm a plutocrat. Five thousand dollars!
　　What's five thousand dollars? I feed it to the birds."Ginger pondered woodenly for a while. His was a literal mind, and heknew nothing of Sally's finances beyond the fact that when he had firstmet her she had come into a legacy of some kind. Moreover, he had beenhugely impressed by Fillmore's magnificence. It seemed plain enoughthat the Nicholases were a wealthy family.
　　"I don't like it, you know," he said.
　　"You don't have to like it," said Sally. "You just do it."A consoling thought flashed upon Ginger.
　　"You'd have to let me pay you interest.""Let you? My lad, you'll have to pay me interest. What do you thinkthis is--a round game? It's a cold business deal.""Topping!" said Ginger relieved. "How about twenty-five per cent.""Don't be silly," said Sally quickly. "I want three.""No, that's all rot," protested Ginger. "I mean to say--three. Idon't," he went on, making a concession, "mind saying twenty.""If you insist, I'll make it five. Not more.""Well, ten, then?""Five!""Suppose," said Ginger insinuatingly, "I said seven?""I never saw anyone like you for haggling," said Sally with disapproval.
　　"Listen! Six. And that's my last word.""Six?""Six."Ginger did sums in his head.
　　"But that would only work out at three hundred dollars a year. It isn'tenough.""What do you know about it? As if I hadn't been handling this sort ofdeal in my life. Six! Do you agree?""I suppose so.""Then that's settled. Is this man you talk about in New York?""No, he's down on Long Island at a place on the south shore.""I mean, can you get him on the 'phone and clinch the thing?""Oh, yes. I know his address, and I suppose his number's in the book.""Then go off at once and settle with him before somebody else snaps himup. Don't waste a minute."Ginger paused at the door.
　　"I say, you're absolutely sure about this?'''
　　"Of course.""I mean to say...""Get on," said Sally.
　　The window of Sally's sitting-room looked out on to a street which,while not one of the city's important arteries, was capable,nevertheless, of affording a certain amount of entertainment to theobserver: and after Ginger had left, she carried the morning paper tothe window-sill and proceeded to divide her attention between a thirdreading of the fight-report and a lazy survey of the outer world. It wasa beautiful day, and the outer world was looking its best.
　　She had not been at her post for many minutes when a taxi-cab stopped atthe apartment-house, and she was surprised and interested to see herbrother Fillmore heave himself out of the interior. He paid the driver,and the cab moved off, leaving him on the sidewalk casting a largeshadow in the sunshine. Sally was on the point of calling to him, whenhis behaviour became so odd that astonishment checked her.
　　From where she sat Fillmore had all the appearance of a man practisingthe steps of a new dance, and sheer curiosity as to what he would donext kept Sally watching in silence. First, he moved in a resolute sortof way towards the front door; then, suddenly stopping, scuttled back.
　　This movement he repeated twice, after which he stood in deep thoughtbefore making another dash for the door, which, like the others, came toan abrupt end as though he had run into some invisible obstacle. And,finally, wheeling sharply, he bustled off down the street and was lostto view.
　　Sally could make nothing of it. If Fillmore had taken the trouble tocome in a taxi-cab, obviously to call upon her, why had he abandoned theidea at her very threshold? She was still speculating on this mysterywhen the telephone-bell rang, and her brother's voice spoke huskily inher ear.
　　"Sally?""Hullo, Fill. What are you going to call it?""What am I... Call what?""The dance you were doing outside here just now. It's your owninvention, isn't it?""Did you see me?" said Fillmore, upset.
　　"Of course I saw you. I was fascinated.""I--er--I was coming to have a talk with you. Sally..."Fillmore's voice trailed off.
　　"Well, why didn't you?"There was a pause--on Fillmore's part, if the timbre of at his voicecorrectly indicated his feelings, a pause of discomfort. Something wasplainly vexing Fillmore's great mind.
　　"Sally," he said at last, and coughed hollowly into the receiver.
　　"Yes.""I--that is to say, I have asked Gladys... Gladys will be coming to seeyou very shortly. Will you be in?""I'll stay in. How is Gladys? I'm longing to see her again.""She is very well. A trifle--a little upset.""Upset? What about?""She will tell you when she arrives. I have just been 'phoning to her.
　　She is coming at once." There was another pause. "I'm afraid she has badnews.""What news?"There was silence at the other end of the wire.
　　"What news?" repeated Sally, a little sharply. She hated mysteries.
　　But Fillmore had rung off. Sally hung up the receiver thoughtfully.
　　She was puzzled and anxious. However, there being nothing to be gainedby worrying, she carried the breakfast things into the kitchen andtried to divert herself by washing up. Presently a ring at the door-bellbrought her out, to find her sister-in-law.
　　Marriage, even though it had brought with it the lofty position ofpartnership with the Hope of the American Stage, had effected nonoticeable alteration in the former Miss Winch. As Mrs. Fillmore she wasthe same square, friendly creature. She hugged Sally in a muscularmanner and went on in the sitting-room.
　　"Well, it's great seeing you again," she said. "I began to think youwere never coming back. What was the big idea, springing over to Englandlike that?"Sally had been expecting the question, and answered it with composure.
　　"I wanted to help Mr. Faucitt.""Who's Mr. Faucitt?""Hasn't Fillmore ever mentioned him? He was a dear old man at theboarding-house, and his brother died and left him a dressmakingestablishment in London. He screamed to me to come and tell him what todo about it. He has sold it now and is quite happy in the country.""Well, the trip's done you good," said Mrs. Fillmore. "You're prettierthan ever."There was a pause. Already, in these trivial opening exchanges, Sallyhad sensed a suggestion of unwonted gravity in her companion. She missedthat careless whimsicality which had been the chief characteristic ofMiss Gladys Winch and seemed to have been cast off by Mrs. FillmoreNicholas. At their meeting, before she had spoken, Sally had not noticedthis, but now it was apparent that something was weighing on hercompanion. Mrs. Fillmore's honest eyes were troubled.
　　"What's the bad news?" asked Sally abruptly. She wanted to end thesuspense. "Fillmore was telling me over the 'phone that you had some badnews for me."Mrs. Fillmore scratched at the carpet for a moment with the end of herparasol without replying. When she spoke it was not in answer to thequestion.
　　"Sally, who's this man Carmyle over in England?""Oh, did Fillmore tell you about him?""He told me there was a rich fellow over in England who was crazy aboutyou and had asked you to marry him, and that you had turned him down."Sally's momentary annoyance faded. She could hardly, she felt, haveexpected Fillmore to refrain from mentioning the matter to his wife.
　　"Yes," she said. "That's true.""You couldn't write and say you've changed your mind?"Sally's annoyance returned. All her life she had been intenselyindependent, resentful of interference with her private concerns.
　　"I suppose I could if I had--but I haven't. Did Fillmore tell you totry to talk me round?""Oh, I'm not trying to talk you round," said Mrs. Fillmore quickly.
　　"Goodness knows, I'm the last person to try and jolly anyone intomarrying anybody if they didn't feel like it. I've seen too manymarriages go wrong to do that. Look at Elsa Doland."Sally's heart jumped as if an exposed nerve had been touched.
　　"Elsa?" she stammered, and hated herself because her voice shook.
　　"Has--has her marriage gone wrong?""Gone all to bits," said Mrs. Fillmore shortly. "You remember shemarried Gerald Foster, the man who wrote 'The Primrose Way'?"Sally with an effort repressed an hysterical laugh.
　　"Yes, I remember," she said.
　　"Well, it's all gone bloo-ey. I'll tell you about that in a minute.
　　Coming back to this man in England, if you're in any doubt about it... Imean, you can't always tell right away whether you're fond of a man ornot... When first I met Fillmore, I couldn't see him with a spy-glass,and now he's just the whole shooting-match... But that's not what Iwanted to talk about. I was saying one doesn't always know one's ownmind at first, and if this fellow really is a good fellow... andFillmore tells me he's got all the money in the world..."Sally stopped her.
　　"No, it's no good. I don't want to marry Mr. Carmyle.""That's that, then," said Mrs. Fillmore. "It's a pity, though.""Why are you taking it so much to heart?" said Sally with a nervouslaugh.
　　"Well..." Mrs. Fillmore paused. Sally's anxiety was growing. It must,she realized, be something very serious indeed that had happened if ithad the power to make her forthright sister-in-law disjointed in hertalk. "You see..." went on Mrs. Fillmore, and stopped again. "Gee! I'mhating this!" she murmured.
　　"What is it? I don't understand.""You'll find it's all too darned clear by the time I'm through," saidMrs. Fillmore mournfully. "If I'm going to explain this thing, I guessI'd best start at the beginning. You remember that revue ofFillmore's--the one we both begged him not to put on. It flopped!""Oh!""Yes. It flopped on the road and died there. Never got to New York atall. Ike Schumann wouldn't let Fillmore have a theatre. The book wantedfixing and the numbers wanted fixing and the scenery wasn't right: andwhile they were tinkering with all that there was trouble about the castand the Actors Equity closed the show. Best thing that could havehappened, really, and I was glad at the time, because going on with itwould only have meant wasting more money, and it had cost a fortunealready. After that Fillmore put on a play of Gerald Foster's and thatwas a frost, too. It ran a week at the Booth. I hear the new piece he'sgot in rehearsal now is no good either. It's called 'The Wild Rose,' orsomething. But Fillmore's got nothing to do with that.""But..." Sally tried to speak, but Mrs. Fillmore went on.
　　"Don't talk just yet, or I shall never get this thing straight. Well,you know Fillmore, poor darling. Anyone else would have pulled in hishorns and gone slow for a spell, but he's one of those fellows whosehorse is always going to win the next race. The big killing is alwaysjust round the corner with him. Funny how you can see what a chump a manis and yet love him to death... I remember saying something like that toyou before... He thought he could get it all back by staging this fightof his that came off in Jersey City last night. And if everything hadgone right he might have got afloat again. But it seems as if he can'ttouch anything without it turning to mud. On the very day before thefight was to come off, the poor mutt who was going against the championgoes and lets a sparring-partner of his own knock him down and foolaround with him. With all the newspaper men there too! You probably sawabout it in the papers. It made a great story for them. Well, thatkilled the whole thing. The public had never been any too sure that thisfellow Bugs Butler had a chance of putting up a scrap with the championthat would be worth paying to see; and, when they read that he couldn'teven stop his sparring-partners slamming him all around the place theysimply decided to stay away. Poor old Fill! It was a finisher for him.
　　The house wasn't a quarter full, and after he'd paid these twopluguglies their guarantees, which they insisted on having before they'dso much as go into the ring, he was just about cleaned out. So there youare!"Sally had listened with dismay to this catalogue of misfortunes.
　　"Oh, poor Fill!" she cried. "How dreadful!""Pretty tough.""But 'The Primrose Way' is a big success, isn't it?" said Sally, anxiousto discover something of brightness in the situation.
　　"It was." Mrs. Fillmore flushed again. "This is the part I hate havingto tell you.""It was? Do you mean it isn't still? I thought Elsa had made such atremendous hit. I read about it when I was over in London. It was evenin one of the English papers.""Yes, she made a hit all right," said Mrs. Fillmore drily. "She madesuch a hit that all the other managements in New York were after herright away, and Fillmore had hardly sailed when she handed in her noticeand signed up with Goble and Cohn for a new piece they are starring herin.""Ah, she couldn't!" cried Sally.
　　"My dear, she did! She's out on the road with it now. I had to breakthe news to poor old Fillmore at the dock when he landed. It was rathera blow. I must say it wasn't what I would call playing the game. I knowthere isn't supposed to be any sentiment in business, but after all wehad given Elsa her big chance. But Fillmore wouldn't put her name upover the theatre in electrics, and Goble and Cohn made it a clause inher contract that they would, so nothing else mattered. People are likethat.""But Elsa... She used not to be like that.""They all get that way. They must grab success if it's to be grabbed.
　　I suppose you can't blame them. You might just as well expect a cat tokeep off catnip. Still, she might have waited to the end of the New Yorkrun." Mrs. Fillmore put out her hand and touched Sally's. "Well, I'vegot it out now," she said, "and, believe me, it was one rotten job. Youdon't know how sorry I am. Sally. I wouldn't have had it happen for amillion dollars. Nor would Fillmore. I'm not sure that I blame him forgetting cold feet and backing out of telling you himself. He just hadn'tthe nerve to come and confess that he had fooled away your money. He washoping all along that this fight would pan out big and that he'd be ableto pay you back what you had loaned him, but things didn't happenright."Sally was silent. She was thinking how strange it was that this room inwhich she had hoped to be so happy had been from the first moment of heroccupancy a storm centre of bad news and miserable disillusionment. Inthis first shock of the tidings, it was the disillusionment that hurtmost. She had always been so fond of Elsa, and Elsa had always seemed sofond of her. She remembered that letter of Elsa's with all itsprotestations of gratitude... It wasn't straight. It was horrible.
　　Callous, selfish, altogether horrible...
　　"It's..." She choked, as a rush of indignation brought the tears to hereyes. "It's... beastly! I'm... I'm not thinking about my money. That'sjust bad luck. But Elsa..."Mrs. Fillmore shrugged her square shoulders.
　　"Well, it's happening all the time in the show business," she said.
　　"And in every other business, too, I guess, if one only knew enoughabout them to be able to say. Of course, it hits you hard because Elsawas a pal of yours, and you're thinking she might have considered youafter all you've done for her. I can't say I'm much surprised myself."Mrs. Fillmore was talking rapidly, and dimly Sally understood that shewas talking so that talk would carry her over this bad moment. Silencenow would have been unendurable. "I was in the company with her, and itsometimes seems to me as if you can't get to know a person right throughtill you've been in the same company with them. Elsa's all right, butshe's two people really, like these dual identity cases you read about.
　　She's awfully fond of you. I know she is. She was always saying so, andit was quite genuine. If it didn't interfere with business there'snothing she wouldn't do for you. But when it's a case of her career youdon't count. Nobody counts. Not even her husband. Now that's funny. Ifyou think that sort of thing funny. Personally, it gives me thewillies.""What's funny?" asked Sally, dully.
　　"Well, you weren't there, so you didn't see it, but I was on the spotall the time, and I know as well as I know anything that he simplymarried her because he thought she could get him on in the game. Hehardly paid any attention to her at all till she was such a riot inChicago, and then he was all over her. And now he's got stung. Shethrows down his show and goes off to another fellow's. It's likemarrying for money and finding the girl hasn't any. And she's got stung,too, in a way, because I'm pretty sure she married him mostly becauseshe thought he was going to be the next big man in the play-writingbusiness and could boost her up the ladder. And now it doesn't look asthough he had another success in him. The result is they're at outs. Ihear he's drinking. Somebody who'd seen him told me he had gone all topieces. You haven't seen him, I suppose?""No.""I thought maybe you might have run into him. He lives right opposite."Sally clutched at the arm of her chair.
　　"Lives right opposite? Gerald Foster? What do you mean?""Across the passage there," said Mrs. Fillmore, jerking her thumb at thedoor. "Didn't you know? That's right, I suppose you didn't. They movedin after you had beaten it for England. Elsa wanted to be near you, andshe was tickled to death when she found there was an apartment to be hadright across from you. Now, that just proves what I was saying a whileago about Elsa. If she wasn't fond of you, would she go out of her wayto camp next door? And yet, though she's so fond of you, she doesn'thesitate about wrecking your property by quitting the show when shesees a chance of doing herself a bit of good. It's funny, isn't it?"The telephone-bell, tinkling sharply, rescued Sally from the necessityof a reply. She forced herself across the room to answer it.
　　"Hullo?"Ginger's voice spoke jubilantly.
　　"Hullo. Are you there? I say, it's all right, about that binge, youknow.""Oh, yes?""That dog fellow, you know," said Ginger, with a slight diminution ofexuberance. His sensitive ear had seemed to detect a lack of animationin her voice. "I've just been talking to him over the 'phone, and it'sall settled. If," he added, with a touch of doubt, "you still feel likegoing into it, I mean."There was an instant in which Sally hesitated, but it was only aninstant.
　　"Why, of course," she said, steadily. "Why should you think I hadchanged my mind?""Well, I thought... that is to say, you seemed... oh, I don't know.""You imagine things. I was a little worried about something when youcalled me up, and my mind wasn't working properly. Of course, go aheadwith it. Ginger. I'm delighted.""I say, I'm awfully sorry you're worried.""Oh. it's all right.""Something bad?""Nothing that'll kill me. I'm young and strong."Ginger was silent for a moment.
　　"I say, I don't want to butt in, but can I do anything?""No, really, Ginger, I know you would do anything you could, but this isjust something I must worry through by myself. When do you go down tothis place?""I was thinking of popping down this afternoon, just to take a lookround.""Let me know what train you're making and I'll come and see you off.""That's ripping of you. Right ho. Well, so long.""So long," said Sally.
　　Mrs. Fillmore, who had been sitting in that state of suspendedanimation which comes upon people who are present at a telephoneconversation which has nothing to do with themselves, came to life asSally replaced the receiver.
　　"Sally," she said, "I think we ought to have a talk now about whatyou're going to do."Sally was not feeling equal to any discussion of the future. All sheasked of the world at the moment was to be left alone.
　　"Oh, that's all right. I shall manage. You ought to be worrying aboutFillmore.""Fillmore's got me to look after him," said Gladys, with quietdetermination. "You're the one that's on my mind. I lay awake all lastnight thinking about you. As far as I can make out from Fillmore, you'vestill a few thousand dollars left. Well, as it happens, I can put you onto a really good thing. I know a girl...""I'm afraid," interrupted Sally, "all the rest of my money, what thereis of it, is tied up.""You can't get hold of it?""No.""But listen," said Mrs. Fillmore, urgently. "This is a really goodthing. This girl I know started an interior decorating business sometime ago and is pulling in the money in handfuls. But she wants morecapital, and she's willing to let go of a third of the business toanyone who'll put in a few thousand. She won't have any difficultygetting it, but I 'phoned her this morning to hold off till I'd heardfrom you. Honestly, Sally, it's the chance of a lifetime. It would putyou right on easy street. Isn't there really any way you could get yourmoney out of this other thing and take on this deal?""There really isn't. I'm awfully obliged to you, Gladys dear, but it'simpossible.""Well," said Mrs. Fillmore, prodding the carpet energetically with herparasol, "I don't know what you've gone into, but, unless they've givenyou a share in the Mint or something, you'll be losing by not makingthe switch. You're sure you can't do it?""I really can't."Mrs. Fillmore rose, plainly disappointed.
　　"Well, you know best, of course. Gosh! What a muddle everything is.
　　Sally," she said, suddenly stopping at the door, "you're not going tohate poor old Fillmore over this, are you?""Why, of course not. The whole thing was just bad luck.""He's worried stiff about it.""Well, give him my love, and tell him not to be so silly."Mrs. Fillmore crossed the room and kissed Sally impulsively.
　　"You're an angel," she said. "I wish there were more like you. But Iguess they've lost the pattern. Well, I'll go back and tell Fillmorethat. It'll relieve him."The door closed, and Sally sat down with her chin in her hands to think.
　　Mr. Isadore Abrahams, the founder and proprietor of that deservedlypopular dancing resort poetically named "The Flower Garden," leaned backin his chair with a contented sigh and laid down the knife and fork withwhich he had been assailing a plateful of succulent goulash. He wasdining, as was his admirable custom, in the bosom of his family at hisresidence at Far Rockaway. Across the table, his wife, Rebecca, beamedat him over her comfortable plinth of chins, and round the table hischildren, David, Jacob, Morris and Saide, would have beamed at him ifthey had not been too busy at the moment ingurgitating goulash. Agenial, honest, domestic man was Mr. Abrahams, a credit to thecommunity.
　　"Mother," he said.
　　"Pa?" said Mrs. Abrahams.
　　"Knew there was something I'd meant to tell you," said Mr. Abrahams,absently chasing a piece of bread round his plate with a stout finger.
　　"You remember that girl I told you about some time back--girl working atthe Garden--girl called Nicholas, who came into a bit of money andthrew up her job...""I remember. You liked her. Jakie, dear, don't gobble.""Ain't gobbling," said Master Abrahams.
　　"Everybody liked her," said Mr. Abrahams. "The nicest girl I everhired, and I don't hire none but nice girls, because the Garden's a niceplace, and I like to run it nice. I wouldn't give you a nickel for anyof your tough joints where you get nothing but low-lifes and scare awayall the real folks. Everybody liked Sally Nicholas. Always pleasant andalways smiling, and never anything but the lady. It was a treat to haveher around. Well, what do you think?""Dead?" inquired Mrs. Abrahams, apprehensively. The story had soundedto her as though it were heading that way. "Wipe your mouth, Jakiedear.""No, not dead," said Mr. Abrahams, conscious for the first time that theremainder of his narrative might be considered by a critic something ofan anti-climax and lacking in drama. "But she was in to see me thisafternoon and wants her job back.""Ah!" said Mrs. Abrahams, rather tonelessly. An ardent supporter of thelocal motion-picture palace, she had hoped for a slightly more gingerydenouement, something with a bit more punch.
　　"Yes, but don't it show you?" continued Mr. Abrahams, gallantly tryingto work up the interest. "There's this girl, goes out of my place notmore'n a year ago, with a good bank-roll in her pocket, and here she is,back again, all of it spent. Don't it show you what a tragedy life is,if you see what I mean, and how careful one ought to be about money?
　　It's what I call a human document. Goodness knows how she's been andgone and spent it all. I'd never have thought she was the sort of girlto go gadding around. Always seemed to me to be kind of sensible.""What's gadding, Pop?" asked Master Jakie, the goulash having ceased tochain his interest.
　　"Well, she wanted her job back and I gave it to her, and glad to get herback again. There's class to that girl. She's the sort of girl I want inthe place. Don't seem quite to have so much get-up in her as she usedto... seems kind of quieted down... but she's got class, and I'm gladshe's back. I hope she'll stay. But don't it show you?""Ah!" said Mrs. Abrahams, with more enthusiasm than before. It had notworked out such a bad story after all. In its essentials it was notunlike the film she had seen the previous evening--Gloria Gooch in "AGirl against the World.""Pop!" said Master Abrahams.
　　"Yes, Jakie?""When I'm grown up, I won't never lose no money. I'll put it in thebank and save it."The slight depression caused by the contemplation of Sally's troublesleft Mr. Abrahams as mist melts beneath a sunbeam.
　　"That's a good boy, Jakie," he said.
　　He felt in his waistcoat pocket, found a dime, put it back again, andbent forward and patted Master Abrahams on the head.
Chapter 15 Uncle Donald Speaks His Mind
    There is in certain men--and Bruce Carmyle was one of them--a quality ofresilience, a sturdy refusal to acknowledge defeat, which aids them aseffectively in affairs of the heart as in encounters of a sterner andmore practical kind. As a wooer, Bruce Carmyle resembled that durabletype of pugilist who can only give of his best after he has received atleast one substantial wallop on some tender spot. Although Sally hadrefused his offer of marriage quite definitely at Monk's Crofton, ithad never occurred to him to consider the episode closed. All his lifehe had been accustomed to getting what he wanted, and he meant to getit now.
　　He was quite sure that he wanted Sally. There had been moments when hehad been conscious of certain doubts, but in the smart of temporarydefeat these had vanished. That streak of Bohemianism in her which fromtime to time since their first meeting had jarred upon his orderly mindwas forgotten; and all that Mr. Carmyle could remember was thebrightness of her eyes, the jaunty lift of her chin, and the gallanttrimness of her. Her gay prettiness seemed to flick at him like a whipin the darkness of wakeful nights, lashing him to pursuit. And quietlyand methodically, like a respectable wolf settling on the trail of aRed Riding Hood, he prepared to pursue. Delicacy and imagination mighthave kept him back, but in these qualities he had never been strong. Onecannot have everything.
　　His preparations for departure, though he did his best to make themswiftly and secretly, did not escape the notice of the Family. In manyEnglish families there seems to exist a system of inter-communicationand news-distribution like that of those savage tribes in Africa whopass the latest item of news and interest from point to point over milesof intervening jungle by some telepathic method never properlyexplained. On his last night in London, there entered to Bruce Carmyleat his apartment in South Audley Street, the Family's chosenrepresentative, the man to whom the Family pointed with pride--UncleDonald, in the flesh.
　　There were two hundred and forty pounds of the flesh Uncle Donald wasin, and the chair in which he deposited it creaked beneath its burden.
　　Once, at Monk's Crofton, Sally had spoiled a whole morning for herbrother Fillmore, by indicating Uncle Donald as the exact image of whathe would be when he grew up. A superstition, cherished from earlyschooldays, that he had a weak heart had caused the Family's managingdirector to abstain from every form of exercise for nearly fifty years;and, as he combined with a distaste for exercise one of the threeheartiest appetites in the south-western postal division of London,Uncle Donald, at sixty-two, was not a man one would willingly havelounging in one's armchairs. Bruce Carmyle's customary respectfulnesswas tinged with something approaching dislike as he looked at him.
　　Uncle Donald's walrus moustache heaved gently upon his laboured breath,like seaweed on a ground-swell. There had been stairs to climb.
　　"What's this? What's this?" he contrived to ejaculate at last. "Youpacking?""Yes," said Mr. Carmyle, shortly. For the first time in his life he wasconscious of that sensation of furtive guilt which was habitual with hiscousin Ginger when in the presence of this large, mackerel-eyed man.
　　"You going away?""Yes.""Where you going?""America.""When you going?""To-morrow morning.""Why you going?"This dialogue has been set down as though it had been as brisk andsnappy as any cross-talk between vaudeville comedians, but in realityUncle Donald's peculiar methods of conversation had stretched it over aperiod of nearly three minutes: for after each reply and before eachquestion he had puffed and sighed and inhaled his moustache with suchpainful deliberation that his companion's nerves were finding itdifficult to bear up under the strain.
　　"You're going after that girl," said Uncle Donald, accusingly.
　　Bruce Carmyle flushed darkly. And it is interesting to record that atthis moment there flitted through his mind the thought that Ginger'sbehaviour at Bleke's Coffee House, on a certain notable occasion, hadnot been so utterly inexcusable as he had supposed. There was no doubtthat the Family's Chosen One could be trying.
　　"Will you have a whisky and soda, Uncle Donald?" he said, by way ofchanging the conversation.
　　"Yes," said his relative, in pursuance of a vow he had made in the earlyeighties never to refuse an offer of this kind. "Gimme!"You would have thought that that would have put matters on a pleasanterfooting. But no. Having lapped up the restorative, Uncle Donald returnedto the attack quite un-softened.
　　"Never thought you were a fool before," he said severely.
　　Bruce Carmyle's proud spirit chafed. This sort of interview, which hadbecome a commonplace with his cousin Ginger, was new to him. Hitherto,his actions had received neither criticism nor been subjected to it.
　　"I'm not a fool.""You are a fool. A damn fool," continued Uncle Donald, specifying moreexactly. "Don't like the girl. Never did. Not a nice girl. Didn't likeher. Right from the first.""Need we discuss this?" said Bruce Carmyle, dropping, as he was apt todo, into the grand manner.
　　The Head of the Family drank in a layer of moustache and blew it outagain.
　　"Need we discuss it?" he said with asperity. "We're going to discussit! Whatch think I climbed all these blasted stairs for with my weakheart? Gimme another!"Mr. Carmyle gave him another.
　　"'S a bad business," moaned Uncle Donald, having gone through themovements once more. "Shocking bad business. If your poor father werealive, whatch think he'd say to your tearing across the world after thisgirl? I'll tell you what he'd say. He'd say... What kind of whisky'sthis?""O'Rafferty Special.""New to me. Not bad. Quite good. Sound. Mellow. Wherej get it?""Bilby's in Oxford Street.""Must order some. Mellow. He'd say... well, God knows what he'd say.
　　Whatch doing it for? Whatch doing it for? That's what I can't see. Noneof us can see. Puzzles your uncle George. Baffles your aunt Geraldine.
　　Nobody can understand it. Girl's simply after your money. Anyone can seethat.""Pardon me, Uncle Donald," said Mr. Carmyle, stiffly, "but that issurely rather absurd. If that were the case, why should she have refusedme at Monk's Crofton?""Drawing you on," said Uncle Donald, promptly. "Luring you on.
　　Well-known trick. Girl in 1881, when I was at Oxford, tried to lure meon. If I hadn't had some sense and a weak heart... Whatch know of thisgirl? Whatch know of her? That's the point. Who is she? Wherej meether?""I met her at Roville, in France.""Travelling with her family?""Travelling alone," said Bruce Carmyle, reluctantly.
　　"Not even with that brother of hers? Bad!" said Uncle Donald. "Bad,bad!""American girls are accustomed to more independence than English girls.""That young man," said Uncle Donald, pursuing a train of thought, "isgoing to be fat one of these days, if he doesn't look out. Travellingalone, was she? What did you do? Catch her eye on the pier?""Really, Uncle Donald!""Well, must have got to know her somehow.""I was introduced to her by Lancelot. She was a friend of his.""Lancelot!" exploded Uncle Donald, quivering all over like a smittenjelly at the loathed name. "Well, that shows you what sort of a girl sheis. Any girl that would be a friend of... Unpack!""I beg your pardon?""Unpack! Mustn't go on with this foolery. Out of the question. Findsome girl make you a good wife. Your aunt Mary's been meeting somepeople name of Bassington-Bassington, related KentBassington-Bassingtons... eldest daughter charming girl, just do foryou."Outside the pages of the more old-fashioned type of fiction nobody everreally ground his teeth, but Bruce Carmyle came nearer to it at thatmoment than anyone had ever come before. He scowled blackly, and thelast trace of suavity left him.
　　"I shall do nothing of the kind," he said briefly. "I sail to-morrow."Uncle Donald had had a previous experience of being defied by a nephew,but it had not accustomed him to the sensation. He was aware of anunpleasant feeling of impotence. Nothing is harder than to know what todo next when defied.
　　"Eh?" he said.
　　Mr. Carmyle having started to defy, evidently decided to make a good jobof it.
　　"I am over twenty-one," said he. "I am financially independent. Ishall do as I please.""But, consider!" pleaded Uncle Donald, painfully conscious of theweakness of his words. "Reflect!""I have reflected.""Your position in the county...""I've thought of that.""You could marry anyone you pleased.""I'm going to.""You are determined to go running off to God-knows-where after this MissI-can't-even-remember-her-dam-name?""Yes.""Have you considered," said Uncle Donald, portentously, "that you owe aduty to the Family."Bruce Carmyle's patience snapped and he sank like a stone to absolutelyGingerian depths of plain-spokenness.
　　"Oh, damn the Family!" he cried.
　　There was a painful silence, broken only by the relieved sigh of thearmchair as Uncle Donald heaved himself out of it.
　　"After that," said Uncle Donald, "I have nothing more to say.""Good!" said Mr. Carmyle rudely, lost to all shame.
　　"'Cept this. If you come back married to that girl, I'll cut you inPiccadilly. By George, I will!"He moved to the door. Bruce Carmyle looked down his nose withoutspeaking. A tense moment.
　　"What," asked Uncle Donald, his fingers on the handle, "did you say itwas called?""What was what called?""That whisky.""O'Rafferty Special.""And wherj get it?""Bilby's, in Oxford Street.""I'll make a note of it," said Uncle Donald.
Chapter 16 At The Flower Garden
    "And after all I've done for her," said Mr. Reginald Cracknell, hisvoice tremulous with self-pity and his eyes moist with the combinedeffects of anguish and over-indulgence in his celebrated private stock,"after all I've done for her she throws me down."Sally did not reply. The orchestra of the Flower Garden was of acalibre that discouraged vocal competition; and she was having,moreover, too much difficulty in adjusting her feet to Mr. Cracknell'serratic dance-steps to employ her attention elsewhere. They manoeuvredjerkily past the table where Miss Mabel Hobson, the Flower Garden'snewest "hostess," sat watching the revels with a distant hauteur. MissHobson was looking her most regal in old gold and black, and a sorrowfulgulp escaped the stricken Mr. Cracknell as he shambled beneath her eye.
　　"If I told you," he moaned in Sally's ear, "what... was that your ankle?
　　Sorry! Don't know what I'm doing to-night... If I told you what I hadspent on that woman, you wouldn't believe it. And then she throws medown. And all because I said I didn't like her in that hat. She hasn'tspoken to me for a week, and won't answer when I call up on the 'phone.
　　And I was right, too. It was a rotten hat. Didn't suit her a bit. Butthat," said Mr. Cracknell, morosely, "is a woman all over!"Sally uttered a stifled exclamation as his wandering foot descended onhers before she could get it out of the way. Mr. Cracknell interpretedthe ejaculation as a protest against the sweeping harshness of his lastremark, and gallantly tried to make amends.
　　"I don't mean you're like that," he said. "You're different. I couldsee that directly I saw you. You have a sympathetic nature. That's whyI'm telling you all this. You're a sensible and broad-minded girl andcan understand. I've done everything for that woman. I got her this jobas hostess here--you wouldn't believe what they pay her. I starred herin a show once. Did you see those pearls she was wearing? I gave herthose. And she won't speak to me. Just because I didn't like her hat. Iwish you could have seen that hat. You would agree with me, I know,because you're a sensible, broad-minded girl and understand hats. Idon't know what to do. I come here every night." Sally was aware ofthis. She had seen him often, but this was the first time that LeeSchoenstein, the gentlemanly master of ceremonies, had inflicted him onher. "I come here every night and dance past her table, but she won'tlook at me. What," asked Mr. Cracknell, tears welling in his pale eyes,"would you do about it?""I don't know," said Sally, frankly.
　　"Nor do I. I thought you wouldn't, because you're a sensible,broad-minded... I mean, nor do I. I'm having one last try to-night, ifyou can keep a secret. You won't tell anyone, will you?" pleaded Mr.
　　Cracknell, urgently. "But I know you won't because you're a sensible...
　　I'm giving her a little present. Having it brought here to-night. Littlepresent. That ought to soften her, don't you think?""A big one would do it better."Mr. Cracknell kicked her on the shin in a dismayed sort of way.
　　"I never thought of that. Perhaps you're right. But it's too late now.
　　Still, it might. Or wouldn't it? Which do you think?""Yes," said Sally.
　　"I thought as much," said Mr. Cracknell.
　　The orchestra stopped with a thump and a bang, leaving Mr. Cracknellclapping feebly in the middle of the floor. Sally slipped back to hertable. Her late partner, after an uncertain glance about him, as if hehad mislaid something but could not remember what, zigzagged off insearch of his own seat. The noise of many conversations, drowned by themusic, broke out with renewed vigour. The hot, close air was full ofvoices; and Sally, pressing her hands on her closed eyes, was remindedonce more that she had a headache.
　　Nearly a month had passed since her return to Mr. Abrahams' employment.
　　It had been a dull, leaden month, a monotonous succession of lifelessdays during which life had become a bad dream. In some strange nightmarefashion, she seemed nowadays to be cut off from her kind. It was weekssince she had seen a familiar face. None of the companions of her oldboarding-house days had crossed her path. Fillmore, no doubt fromuneasiness of conscience, had not sought her out, and Ginger was workingout his destiny on the south shore of Long Island.
　　She lowered her hands and opened her eyes and looked at the room. Itwas crowded, as always. The Flower Garden was one of the manyestablishments of the same kind which had swum to popularity on therising flood of New York's dancing craze; and doubtless because, as itsproprietor had claimed, it was a nice place and run nice, it hadcontinued, unlike many of its rivals, to enjoy unvarying prosperity. Inits advertisement, it described itself as "a supper-club forafter-theatre dining and dancing," adding that "large and spacious, andsumptuously appointed," it was "one of the town's wonder-places, withits incomparable dance-floor, enchanting music, cuisine, and service deluxe." From which it may be gathered, even without his personalstatements to that effect, that Isadore Abrahams thought well of theplace.
　　There had been a time when Sally had liked it, too. In her first periodof employment there she had found it diverting, stimulating and full ofentertainment. But in those days she had never had headaches or, whatwas worse, this dreadful listless depression which weighed her down andmade her nightly work a burden.
　　"Miss Nicholas."The orchestra, never silent for long at the Flower Garden, had startedagain, and Lee Schoenstein, the master of ceremonies, was presenting anew partner. She got up mechanically.
　　"This is the first time I have been in this place," said the man, asthey bumped over the crowded floor. He was big and clumsy, of course.
　　To-night it seemed to Sally that the whole world was big and clumsy.
　　"It's a swell place. I come from up-state myself. We got nothing likethis where I come from." He cleared a space before him, using Sally as abattering-ram, and Sally, though she had not enjoyed her recentexcursion with Mr. Cracknell, now began to look back to it almost withwistfulness. This man was undoubtedly the worst dancer in America.
　　"Give me li'l old New York," said the man from up-state,unpatriotically. "It's good enough for me. I been to some swell showssince I got to town. You seen this year's 'Follies'?""No.""You go," said the man earnestly. "You go! Take it from me, it's aswell show. You seen 'Myrtle takes a Turkish Bath'?""I don't go to many theatres.""You go! It's a scream. I been to a show every night since I got here.
　　Every night regular. Swell shows all of 'em, except this last one. Icert'nly picked a lemon to-night all right. I was taking a chance,y'see, because it was an opening. Thought it would be something to say,when I got home, that I'd been to a New York opening. Set me backtwo-seventy-five, including tax, and I wish I'd got it in my kick rightnow. 'The Wild Rose,' they called it," he said satirically, as ifexposing a low subterfuge on the part of the management. "'The WildRose!' It sure made me wild all right. Two dollars seventy-five tossedaway, just like that."Something stirred in Sally's memory. Why did that title seem sofamiliar? Then, with a shock, she remembered. It was Gerald's new play.
　　For some time after her return to New York, she had been haunted by thefear lest, coming out other apartment, she might meet him coming out ofhis; and then she had seen a paragraph in her morning paper which hadrelieved her of this apprehension. Gerald was out on the road with a newplay, and "The Wild Rose," she was almost sure, was the name of it.
　　"Is that Gerald Foster's play?" she asked quickly.
　　"I don't know who wrote it," said her partner, "but let me tell you he'sone lucky guy to get away alive. There's fellows breaking stones on theOssining Road that's done a lot less to deserve a sentence. Wild Rose!
　　I'll tell the world it made me go good and wild," said the man fromup-state, an economical soul who disliked waste and was accustomed tospread out his humorous efforts so as to give them every chance. "Why,before the second act was over, the people were beating it for theexits, and if it hadn't been for someone shouting 'Women and childrenfirst' there'd have been a panic."Sally found herself back at her table without knowing clearly how shehad got there.
　　"Miss Nicholas."She started to rise, and was aware suddenly that this was not the voiceof duty calling her once more through the gold teeth of Mr. Schoenstein.
　　The man who had spoken her name had seated himself beside her, and wastalking in precise, clipped accents, oddly familiar. The mist clearedfrom her eyes and she recognized Bruce Carmyle.
　　"I called at your place," Mr. Carmyle was saying, "and the hall portertold me that you were here, so I ventured to follow you. I hope you donot mind? May I smoke?"He lit a cigarette with something of an air. His fingers trembled as heraised the match, but he flattered himself that there was nothing elsein his demeanour to indicate that he was violently excited. BruceCarmyle's ideal was the strong man who can rise superior to hisemotions. He was alive to the fact that this was an embarrassing moment,but he was determined not to show that he appreciated it. He cast asideways glance at Sally, and thought that never, not even in the gardenat Monk's Crofton on a certain momentous occasion, had he seen herlooking prettier. Her face was flushed and her eyes aflame. The stoutwraith of Uncle Donald, which had accompanied Mr. Carmyle on thisexpedition of his, faded into nothingness as he gazed.
　　There was a pause. Mr. Carmyle, having lighted his cigarette, puffedvigorously.
　　"When did you land?" asked Sally, feeling the need of saying something.
　　Her mind was confused. She could not have said whether she was glad orsorry that he was there. Glad, she thought, on the whole. There wassomething in his dark, cool, stiff English aspect that gave her acurious feeling of relief. He was so unlike Mr. Cracknell and the manfrom up-state and so calmly remote from the feverish atmosphere inwhich she lived her nights that it was restful to look at him.
　　"I landed to-night," said Bruce Carmyle, turning and faced her squarely.
　　"To-night!""We docked at ten."He turned away again. He had made his effect, and was content to leaveher to think it over.
　　Sally was silent. The significance of his words had not escaped her.
　　She realized that his presence there was a challenge which she mustanswer. And yet it hardly stirred her. She had been fighting so long,and she felt utterly inert. She was like a swimmer who can battle nolonger and prepares to yield to the numbness of exhaustion. The heat ofthe room pressed down on her like a smothering blanket. Her tired nervescried out under the blare of music and the clatter of voices.
　　"Shall we dance this?" he asked.
　　The orchestra had started to play again, a sensuous, creamy melody whichwas making the most of its brief reign as Broadway's leading song-hit,overfamiliar to her from a hundred repetitions.
　　"If you like."Efficiency was Bruce Carmyle's gospel. He was one of these men who donot attempt anything which they cannot accomplish to perfection.
　　Dancing, he had decided early in his life, was a part of a gentleman'seducation, and he had seen to it that he was educated thoroughly. Sally,who, as they swept out on to the floor, had braced herself automaticallyfor a repetition of the usual bumping struggle which dancing at theFlower Garden had come to mean for her, found herself in the arms of amasterful expert, a man who danced better than she did, and suddenlythere came to her a feeling that was almost gratitude, a miraculousslackening of her taut nerves, a delicious peace. Soothed andcontented, she yielded herself with eyes half closed to the rhythm ofthe melody, finding it now robbed in some mysterious manner of all itsstale cheapness, and in that moment her-whole attitude towards BruceCarmyle underwent a complete change.
　　She had never troubled to examine with any minuteness her feelingstowards him: but one thing she had known clearly since their firstmeeting--that he was physically distasteful to her. For all his goodlooks, and in his rather sinister way he was a handsome man, she hadshrunk from him. Now, spirited away by the magic of the dance, thatrepugnance had left her. It was as if some barrier had been broken downbetween them.
　　"Sally!"She felt his arm tighten about her, the muscles quivering. She caughtsight of his face. His dark eyes suddenly blazed into hers and shestumbled with an odd feeling of helplessness; realizing with a shockthat brought her with a jerk out of the half-dream into which she hadbeen lulled that this dance had not postponed the moment of decision, asshe had looked to it to do. In a hot whisper, the words swept away onthe flood of the music which had suddenly become raucous and blaringonce more, he was repeating what he had said under the trees at Monk'sCrofton on that far-off morning in the English springtime. Dizzily sheknew that she was resenting the unfairness of the attack at such amoment, but her mind seemed numbed.
　　The music stopped abruptly. Insistent clapping started it again, butSally moved away to her table, and he followed her like a shadow.
　　Neither spoke. Bruce Carmyle had said his say, and Sally was sittingstaring before her, trying to think. She was tired, tired. Her eyes wereburning. She tried to force herself to face the situation squarely. Wasit worth struggling? Was anything in the world worth a struggle? Sheonly knew that she was tired, desperately tired, tired to the verydepths of her soul.
　　The music stopped. There was more clapping, but this time the orchestradid not respond. Gradually the floor emptied. The shuffling of feetceased. The Flower Garden was as quiet as it was ever able to be. Eventhe voices of the babblers seemed strangely hushed. Sally closed hereyes, and as she did so from somewhere up near the roof there came thesong of a bird.
　　Isadore Abrahams was a man of his word. He advertised a Flower Garden,and he had tried to give the public something as closely resembling aflower-garden as it was possible for an overcrowded, overheated,overnoisy Broadway dancing-resort to achieve. Paper roses festooned thewalls; genuine tulips bloomed in tubs by every pillar; and from the roofhung cages with birds in them. One of these, stirred by the suddencessation of the tumult below, had began to sing.
　　Sally had often pitied these birds, and more than once had pleaded invain with Abrahams for a remission of their sentence, but somehow atthis moment it did not occur to her that this one was merely praying inits own language, as she often had prayed in her thoughts, to be takenout of this place. To her, sitting there wrestling with Fate, the songseemed cheerful. It soothed her. It healed her to listen to it. Andsuddenly before her eyes there rose a vision of Monk's Crofton, cool,green, and peaceful under the mild English sun, luring her as an oasisseen in the distance lures the desert traveller ...
　　She became aware that the master of Monk's Crofton had placed his handon hers and was holding it in a tightening grip. She looked down andgave a little shiver. She had always disliked Bruce Carmyle's hands.
　　They were strong and bony and black hair grew on the back of them. Oneof the earliest feelings regarding him had been that she would hate tohave those hands touching her. But she did not move. Again that visionof the old garden had flickered across her mind... a haven where shecould rest...
　　He was leaning towards her, whispering in her ear. The room was hotterthan it had ever been, noisier than it had ever been, fuller than it hadever been. The bird on the roof was singing again and now she understoodwhat it said. "Take me out of this!" Did anything matter except that?
　　What did it matter how one was taken, or where, or by whom, so that onewas taken.
　　Monk's Crofton was looking cool and green and peaceful...
　　"Very well," said Sally.
　　Bruce Carmyle, in the capacity of accepted suitor, found himself atsomething of a loss. He had a dissatisfied feeling. It was not themanner of Sally's acceptance that caused this. It would, of course, havepleased him better if she had shown more warmth, but he was prepared towait for warmth. What did trouble him was the fact that his correct mindperceived now for the first time that he had chosen an unsuitablemoment and place for his outburst of emotion. He belonged to theorthodox school of thought which looks on moonlight and solitude as theproper setting for a proposal of marriage; and the surroundings of theFlower Garden, for all its nice-ness and the nice manner in which it wasconducted, jarred upon him profoundly.
　　Music had begun again, but it was not the soft music such as a loverdemands if he is to give of his best. It was a brassy, clashy renderingof a ribald one-step, enough to choke the eloquence of the most ardent.
　　Couples were dipping and swaying and bumping into one another as far asthe eye could reach; while just behind him two waiters had halted inorder to thrash out one of those voluble arguments in which waiters loveto indulge. To continue the scene at the proper emotional level wasimpossible, and Bruce Carmyle began his career as an engaged man bydropping into Smalltalk.
　　"Deuce of a lot of noise," he said querulously.
　　"Yes," agreed Sally.
　　"Is it always like this?""Oh, yes.""Infernal racket!""Yes."The romantic side of Mr. Carmyle's nature could have cried aloud at thehideous unworthiness of these banalities. In the visions which he hadhad of himself as a successful wooer, it had always been in the momentsimmediately succeeding the all-important question and its whisperedreply that he had come out particularly strong. He had been accustomedto picture himself bending with a proud tenderness over his partner inthe scene and murmuring some notably good things to her bowed head. Howcould any man murmur in a pandemonium like this. From tenderness BruceCarmyle descended with a sharp swoop to irritability.
　　"Do you often come here?""Yes.""What for?""To dance."Mr. Carmyle chafed helplessly. The scene, which should be so romantic,had suddenly reminded him of the occasion when, at the age of twenty, hehad attended his first ball and had sat in a corner behind a potted palmperspiring shyly and endeavouring to make conversation to a formidablenymph in pink. It was one of the few occasions in his life at which hehad ever been at a complete disadvantage. He could still remember theclammy discomfort of his too high collar as it melted on him. Mostcertainly it was not a scene which he enjoyed recalling; and that heshould be forced to recall it now, at what ought to have been thesupreme moment of his life, annoyed him intensely. Almost angrily heendeavoured to jerk the conversation to a higher level.
　　"Darling," he murmured, for by moving his chair two feet to the rightand bending sideways he found that he was in a position to murmur, "youhave made me so...""Batti, batti! I presto ravioli hollandaise," cried one of the disputingwaiters at his back--or to Bruce Carmyle's prejudiced hearing itsounded like that.
　　"La Donna e mobile spaghetti napoli Tettrazina," rejoined the secondwaiter with spirit.
　　"... you have made me so...""Infanta Isabella lope de Vegas mulligatawny Toronto," said the firstwaiter, weak but coming back pluckily.
　　"... so happy...""Funiculi funicula Vincente y Blasco Ibanez vermicelli sul campo dellagloria risotto!" said the second waiter clinchingly, and scored atechnical knockout.
　　Bruce Carmyle gave it up, and lit a moody cigarette. He was oppressedby that feeling which so many of us have felt in our time, that it wasall wrong.
　　The music stopped. The two leading citizens of Little Italy vanishedand went their way, probably to start a vendetta. There followedcomparative calm. But Bruce Carmyle's emotions, like sweet bellsjangled, were out of tune, and he could not recapture the first finecareless rapture. He found nothing within him but small-talk.
　　"What has become of your party?" he asked.
　　"My party?""The people you are with," said Mr. Carmyle. Even in the stress of hisemotion this problem had been exercising him. In his correctly orderedworld girls did not go to restaurants alone.
　　"I'm not with anybody.""You came here by yourself?" exclaimed Bruce Carmyle, frankly aghast.
　　And, as he spoke, the wraith of Uncle Donald, banished till now,returned as large as ever, puffing disapproval through a walrusmoustache.
　　"I am employed here," said Sally.
　　Mr. Carmyle started violently.
　　"Employed here?""As a dancer, you know. I..."Sally broke off, her attention abruptly diverted to something which hadjust caught her eye at a table on the other side of the room. Thatsomething was a red-headed young man of sturdy build who had justappeared beside the chair in which Mr. Reginald Cracknell was sitting inhuddled gloom. In one hand he carried a basket, and from this basket,rising above the din of conversation, there came a sudden sharp yapping.
　　Mr. Cracknell roused himself from his stupor, took the basket, raisedthe lid. The yapping increased in volume.
　　Mr. Cracknell rose, the basket in his arms. With uncertain steps and alook on his face like that of those who lead forlorn hopes he crossedthe floor to where Miss Mabel Hobson sat, proud and aloof. The nextmoment that haughty lady, the centre of an admiring and curious crowd,was hugging to her bosom a protesting Pekingese puppy, and Mr.
　　Cracknell, seizing his opportunity like a good general, had depositedhimself in a chair at her side. The course of true love was runningsmooth again.
　　The red-headed young man was gazing fixedly at Sally.
　　"As a dancer!" ejaculated Mr. Carmyle. Of all those within sight of themoving drama which had just taken place, he alone had paid no attentionto it. Replete as it was with human interest, sex-appeal, the punch, andall the other qualities which a drama should possess, it had failed togrip him. His thoughts had been elsewhere. The accusing figure of UncleDonald refused to vanish from his mental eye. The stern voice of UncleDonald seemed still to ring in his ear.
　　A dancer! A professional dancer at a Broadway restaurant! Hideous doubtsbegan to creep like snakes into Bruce Carmyle's mind. What, he askedhimself, did he really know of this girl on whom he had bestowed thepriceless boon of his society for life? How did he know what she was--hecould not find the exact adjective to express his meaning, but he knewwhat he meant. Was she worthy of the boon? That was what it amounted to.
　　All his life he had had a prim shrinking from the section of thefeminine world which is connected with the light-life of large cities.
　　Club acquaintances of his in London had from time to time married intothe Gaiety Chorus, and Mr. Carmyle, though he had no objection to theGaiety Chorus in its proper place--on the other side of thefootlights--had always looked on these young men after as socialoutcasts. The fine dashing frenzy which had brought him all the way fromSouth Audley Street to win Sally was ebbing fast.
　　Sally, hearing him speak, had turned. And there was a candid honesty inher gaze which for a moment sent all those creeping doubts scuttlingaway into the darkness whence they had come. He had not made a fool ofhimself, he protested to the lowering phantom of Uncle Donald. Who, hedemanded, could look at Sally and think for an instant that she was notall that was perfect and lovable? A warm revulsion of feeling swept overBruce Carmyle like a returning tide.
　　"You see, I lost my money and had to do something," said Sally.
　　"I see, I see," murmured Mr. Carmyle; and if only Fate had left himalone who knows to what heights of tenderness he might not have soared?
　　But at this moment Fate, being no respecter of persons, sent into hislife the disturbing personality of George Washington Williams.
　　George Washington Williams was the talented coloured gentleman who hadbeen extracted from small-time vaudeville by Mr. Abrahams to do anightly speciality at the Flower Garden. He was, in fact, atrap-drummer: and it was his amiable practice, after he had done a fewminutes trap-drumming, to rise from his seat and make a circular tour ofthe tables on the edge of the dancing-floor, whimsically pretending toclip the locks of the male patrons with a pair of drumsticks heldscissor-wise. And so it came about that, just as Mr. Carmyle was bendingtowards Sally in an access of manly sentiment, and was on the very vergeof pouring out his soul in a series of well-phrased remarks, he wassurprised and annoyed to find an Ethiopian to whom he had never beenintroduced leaning over him and taking quite unpardonable liberties withhis back hair.
　　One says that Mr. Carmyle was annoyed. The word is weak. Theinterruption coming at such a moment jarred every ganglion in his body.
　　The clicking noise of the drumsticks maddened him. And the gleamingwhiteness of Mr. Williams' friendly and benignant smile was the laststraw. His dignity writhed beneath this abominable infliction. People atother tables were laughing. At him. A loathing for the Flower Gardenflowed over Bruce Carmyle, and with it a feeling of suspicion anddisapproval of everyone connected with the establishment. He sprang tohis feet.
　　"I think I will be going," he said.
　　Sally did not reply. She was watching Ginger, who still stood besidethe table recently vacated by Reginald Cracknell .
　　"Good night," said Mr. Carmyle between his teeth.
　　"Oh, are you going?" said Sally with a start. She felt embarrassed.
　　Try as she would, she was unable to find words of any intimacy. Shetried to realize that she had promised to marry this man, but neverbefore had he seemed so much a stranger to her, so little a part of herlife. It came to her with a sensation of the incredible that she haddone this thing, taken this irrevocable step.
　　The sudden sight of Ginger had shaken her. It was as though in the lasthalf-hour she had forgotten him and only now realized what marriage withBruce Carmyle would mean to their comradeship. From now on he was deadto her. If anything in this world was certain that was. Sally Nicholaswas Ginger's pal, but Mrs. Carmyle, she realized, would never be allowedto see him again. A devastating feeling of loss smote her like a blow.
　　"Yes, I've had enough of this place," Bruce Carmyle was saying.
　　"Good night," said Sally. She hesitated. "When shall I see you?" sheasked awkwardly.
　　It occurred to Bruce Carmyle that he was not showing himself at hisbest. He had, he perceived, allowed his nerves to run away with him.
　　"You don't mind if I go?" he said more amiably. "The fact is, I can'tstand this place any longer. I'll tell you one thing, I'm going to takeyou out of here quick.""I'm afraid I can't leave at a moment's notice," said Sally, loyal toher obligations.
　　"We'll talk over that to-morrow. I'll call for you in the morning andtake you for a drive somewhere in a car. You want some fresh air afterthis." Mr. Carmyle looked about him in stiff disgust, and expressed hisunalterable sentiments concerning the Flower Garden, that apple ofIsadore Abrahams' eye, in a snort of loathing. "My God! What a place!"He walked quickly away and disappeared. And Ginger, beaming happily,swooped on Sally's table like a homing pigeon.
　　"Good Lord, I say, what ho!" cried Ginger. "Fancy meeting you here.
　　What a bit of luck!" He glanced over his shoulder warily. "Has thatblighter pipped?""Pipped?""Popped," explained Ginger. "I mean to say, he isn't coming back or anyrot like that, is he?""Mr. Carmyle? No, he has gone.""Sound egg!" said Ginger with satisfaction. "For a moment, when I sawyou yarning away together, I thought he might be with your party. Whaton earth is he doing over here at all, confound him? He's got all Europeto play about in, why should he come infesting New York? I say, itreally is ripping, seeing you again. It seems years... Of course, oneget's a certain amount of satisfaction writing letters, but it's not thesame. Besides, I write such rotten letters. I say, this really is ratherpriceless. Can't I get you something? A cup of coffee, I mean, or an eggor something? By jove! this really is top-hole."His homely, honest face glowed with pleasure, and it seemed to Sally asthough she had come out of a winter's night into a warm friendly room.
　　Her mercurial spirits soared.
　　"Oh, Ginger! If you knew what it's like seeing you!""No, really? Do you mean, honestly, you're braced?""I should say I am braced.""Well, isn't that fine! I was afraid you might have forgotten me.""Forgotten you!"With something of the effect of a revelation it suddenly struck Sallyhow far she had been from forgetting him, how large was the place he hadoccupied in her thoughts.
　　"I've missed you dreadfully," she said, and felt the words inadequate asshe uttered them.
　　"What ho!" said Ginger, also internally condemning the poverty of speechas a vehicle for conveying thought.
　　There was a brief silence. The first exhilaration of the reunion over,Sally deep down in her heart was aware of a troubled feeling as thoughthe world were out of joint. She forced herself to ignore it, but itwould not be ignored. It grew. Dimly she was beginning to realize whatGinger meant to her, and she fought to keep herself from realizing it.
　　Strange things were happening to her to-night, strange emotions stirringher. Ginger seemed somehow different, as if she were really seeing himfor the first time.
　　"You're looking wonderfully well," she said trying to keep theconversation on a pedestrian level.
　　"I am well," said Ginger. "Never felt fitter in my life. Been out inthe open all day long... simple life and all that... working likeblazes. I say, business is booming. Did you see me just now, handingover Percy the Pup to what's-his-name? Five hundred dollars on that onedeal. Got the cheque in my pocket. But what an extraordinarily rummything that I should have come to this place to deliver the goods justwhen you happened to be here. I couldn't believe my eyes at first. Isay, I hope the people you're with won't think I'm butting in. You'llhave to explain that we're old pals and that you started me in businessand all that sort of thing. Look here," he said lowering his voice, "Iknow how you hate being thanked, but I simply must say how terrificallydecent...""Miss Nicholas."Lee Schoenstein was standing at the table, and by his side an expectantyouth with a small moustache and pince-nez. Sally got up, and the nextmoment Ginger was alone, gaping perplexedly after her as she vanishedand reappeared in the jogging throng on the dancing floor. It was thenearest thing Ginger had seen to a conjuring trick, and at that momenthe was ill-attuned to conjuring tricks. He brooded, fuming, at whatseemed to him the supremest exhibition of pure cheek, of monumentalnerve, and of undiluted crust that had ever come within his notice. Tocome and charge into a private conversation like that and whisk her awaywithout a word...
　　"Who was that blighter?" he demanded with heat, when the music ceasedand Sally limped back.
　　"That was Mr. Schoenstein.""And who was the other?""The one I danced with? I don't know.""You don't know?"Sally perceived that the conversation had arrived at an embarrassingpoint. There was nothing for it but candour.
　　"Ginger," she said, "you remember my telling you when we first met thatI used to dance in a Broadway place? This is the place. I'm workingagain."Complete unintelligence showed itself on Ginger's every feature.
　　"I don't understand," he said--unnecessarily, for his face revealed thefact.
　　"I've got my old job back.""But why?""Well, I had to do something." She went on rapidly. Already a lightdimly resembling the light of understanding was beginning to appear inGinger's eyes. "Fillmore went smash, you know--it wasn't his fault, poordear. He had the worst kind of luck--and most of my money was tied up inhis business, so you see..."She broke off confused by the look in his eyes, conscious of an absurdfeeling of guilt. There was amazement in that look and a sort ofincredulous horror.
　　"Do you mean to say..." Ginger gulped and started again. "Do you meanto tell me that you let me have... all that money... for thedog-business... when you were broke? Do you mean to say..."Sally stole a glance at his crimson face and looked away again quickly.
　　There was an electric silence.
　　"Look here," exploded Ginger with sudden violence, "you've got to marryme. You've jolly well got to marry me! I don't mean that," he addedquickly. "I mean to say I know you're going to marry whoever youplease... but won't you marry me? Sally, for God's sake have a dash atit! I've been keeping it in all this time because it seemed ratherrotten to bother you about it, but now... .Oh, dammit, I wish I couldput it into words. I always was rotten at talking. But... well, lookhere, what I mean is, I know I'm not much of a chap, but it seems to meyou must care for me a bit to do a thing like that for a fellow...
　　and... I've loved you like the dickens ever since I met you... I do wishyou'd have a stab at it, Sally. At least I could look after you, youknow, and all that... I mean to say, work like the deuce and try to giveyou a good time... I'm not such an ass as to think a girl like you couldever really... er... love a blighter like me, but..."Sally laid her hand oh his.
　　"Ginger, dear," she said, "I do love you. I ought to have known it allalong, but I seem to be understanding myself to-night for the firsttime." She got up and bent over him for a swift moment, whispering inhis ear, "I shall never love anyone but you, Ginger. Will you try toremember that." She was moving away, but he caught at her arm andstopped her.
　　"Sally..."She pulled her arm away, her face working as she fought against thetears that would not keep back.
　　"I've made a fool of myself," she said. "Ginger, your cousin... Mr.
　　Carmyle... just now he asked me to marry him, and I said I would."She was gone, flitting among the tables like some wild creature runningto its home: and Ginger, motionless, watched her go.
　　The telephone-bell in Sally's little sitting-room was ringing jerkily asshe let herself in at the front door. She guessed who it was at theother end of the wire, and the noise of the bell sounded to her like thevoice of a friend in distress crying for help. Without stopping to closethe door, she ran to the table and unhooked the receiver. Muffled,plaintive sounds were coining over the wire.
　　"Hullo... Hullo... I say... Hullo...""Hullo, Ginger," said Sally quietly.
　　An ejaculation that was half a shout and half gurgle answered her.
　　"Sally! Is that you?""Yes, here I am, Ginger.""I've been trying to get you for ages.""I've only just come in. I walked home."There was a pause.
　　"Hullo.""Yes?""Well, I mean..." Ginger seemed to be finding his usual difficulty inexpressing himself. "About that, you know. What you said.""Yes?" said Sally, trying to keep her voice from shaking.
　　"You said..." Again Ginger's vocabulary failed him. "You said you lovedme.""Yes," said Sally simply.
　　Another odd sound floated over the wire, and there was a moment ofsilence before Ginger found himself able to resume.
　　"I... I... Well, we can talk about that when we meet. I mean, it's nogood trying to say what I think over the 'phone, I'm sort of knockedout. I never dreamed... But, I say, what did you mean about Bruce?""I told you, I told you." Sally's face was twisted and the receivershook in her hand. "I've made a fool of myself. I never realized... Andnow it's too late.""Good God!" Ginger's voice rose in a sharp wail. "You can't mean youreally... You don't seriously intend to marry the man?""I must. I've promised.""But, good heavens...""It's no good. I must.""But the man's a blighter!""I can't break my word.""I never heard such rot," said Ginger vehemently. "Of course you can.
　　A girl isn't expected...""I can't, Ginger dear, I really can't.""But look here...""It's really no good talking about it any more, really it isn't... Whereare you staying to-night?""Staying? Me? At the Plaza. But look here..."Sally found herself laughing weakly.
　　"At the Plaza! Oh, Ginger, you really do want somebody to look afteryou. Squandering your pennies like that... Well, don't talk any morenow. It's so late and I'm so tired. I'll come and see you to-morrow.
　　Good night."She hung up the receiver quickly, to cut short a fresh outburst ofprotest. And as she turned away a voice spoke behind her.
　　"Sally!"Gerald Foster was standing in the doorway.
Chapter 17 Sally Lays A Ghost
    The blood flowed slowly back into Sally's face, and her heart, whichhad leaped madly for an instant at the sound of his voice, resumed itsnormal beat. The suddenness of the shock over, she was surprised to findherself perfectly calm. Always when she had imagined this meeting,knowing that it would have to take place sooner or later, she had feltsomething akin to panic: but now that it had actually occurred it hardlyseemed to stir her. The events of the night had left her incapable ofany violent emotion.
　　"Hullo, Sally!" said Gerald.
　　He spoke thickly, and there was a foolish smile on his face as he stoodswaying with one hand on the door. He was in his shirt-sleeves,collarless: and it was plain that he had been drinking heavily. His facewas white and puffy, and about him there hung like a nimbus a soddendisreputableness.
　　Sally did not speak. Weighed down before by a numbing exhaustion, sheseemed now to have passed into that second phase in which over-tirednerves enter upon a sort of Indian summer of abnormal alertness. Shelooked at him quietly, coolly and altogether dispassionately, as if hehad been a stranger.
　　"Hullo!" said Gerald again.
　　"What do you want?" said Sally.
　　"Heard your voice. Saw the door open. Thought I'd come in.""What do you want?"The weak smile which had seemed pinned on Gerald's face vanished. Atear rolled down his cheek. His intoxication had reached the maudlinstage.
　　"Sally... S-Sally... I'm very miserable." He slurred awkwardly over thedifficult syllables. "Heard your voice. Saw the door open. Thought I'dcome in."Something flicked at the back of Sally's mind. She seemed to have beenthrough all this before. Then she remembered. This was simply Mr.
　　Reginald Cracknell over again.
　　"I think you had better go to bed, Gerald," she said steadily. Nothingabout him seemed to touch her now, neither the sight of him nor hisshameless misery.
　　"What's the use? Can't sleep. No good. Couldn't sleep. Sally, youdon't know how worried I am. I see what a fool I've been."Sally made a quick gesture, to check what she supposed was about todevelop into a belated expression of regret for his treatment ofherself. She did not want to stand there listening to Gerald apologizingwith tears for having done his best to wreck her life. But it seemedthat it was not this that was weighing upon his soul.
　　"I was a fool ever to try writing plays," he went on. "Got a winnerfirst time, but can't repeat. It's no good. Ought to have stuck tonewspaper work. I'm good at that. Shall have to go back to it. Hadanother frost to-night. No good trying any more. Shall have to go backto the old grind, damn it."He wept softly, full of pity for his hard case.
　　"Very miserable," he murmured.
　　He came forward a step into the room, lurched, and retreated to thesafe support of the door. For an instant Sally's artificial calm wasshot through by a swift stab of contempt. It passed, and she was backagain in her armour of indifference.
　　"Go to bed, Gerald," she said. "You'll feel better in the morning."Perhaps some inkling of how he was going to feel in the morning workedthrough to Gerald's muddled intelligence, for he winced, and his mannertook on a deeper melancholy.
　　"May not be alive in the morning," he said solemnly. "Good mind to endit all. End it all!" he repeated with the beginning of a sweepinggesture which was cut off abruptly as he clutched at the friendly door.
　　Sally was not in the mood for melodrama.
　　"Oh, go to bed," she said impatiently. The strange frozen indifferencewhich had gripped her was beginning to pass, leaving in its place agrowing feeling of resentment--resentment against Gerald for degradinghimself like this, against herself for ever having found glamour in theman. It humiliated her to remember how utterly she had once allowed hispersonality to master hers. And under the sting of this humiliation shefelt hard and pitiless. Dimly she was aware that a curious change hadcome over her to-night. Normally, the sight of any living thing indistress was enough to stir her quick sympathy: but Gerald mourning overthe prospect of having to go back to regular work made no appeal toher--a fact which the sufferer noted and commented upon.
　　"You're very unsymp... unsympathetic," he complained.
　　"I'm sorry," said Sally. She walked briskly to the door and gave it apush. Gerald, still clinging to his chosen support, moved out into thepassage, attached to the handle, with the air of a man the foundationsof whose world have suddenly lost their stability. He released thehandle and moved uncertainly across the passage. Finding his own dooropen before him, he staggered over the threshold; and Sally, havingwatched him safely to his journey's end, went into her bedroom with theintention of terminating this disturbing night by going to sleep.
　　Almost immediately she changed her mind. Sleep was out of the question.
　　A fever of restlessness had come upon her. She put on a kimono, and wentinto the kitchen to ascertain whether her commissariat arrangementswould permit of a glass of hot milk.
　　She had just remembered that she had that morning presented the last ofthe milk to a sandy cat with a purposeful eye which had dropped inthrough the window to take breakfast with her, when her regrets forthis thriftless hospitality were interrupted by a muffled crash.
　　She listened intently. The sound had seemed to come from across thepassage. She hurried to the door and opened it. As she did so, frombehind the door of the apartment opposite there came a perfect fusilladeof crashes, each seeming to her strained hearing louder and moreappalling than the last.
　　There is something about sudden, loud noises in the stillness of thenight which shatters the most rigid detachment. A short while before,Gerald, toying with the idea of ending his sorrows by violence, had leftSally unmoved: but now her mind leapt back to what he had said, andapprehension succeeded indifference. There was no disputing the factthat Gerald was in an irresponsible mood, under the influence of whichhe was capable of doing almost anything. Sally, listening in thedoorway, felt a momentary panic.
　　A brief silence had succeeded the fusillade, but, as she stood therehesitating, the noise broke out again; and this time it was so loud andcompelling that Sally hesitated no longer. She ran across the passageand beat on the door.
　　Whatever devastating happenings had been going on in his home, it wasplain a moment later that Gerald had managed to survive them: for therecame the sound of a dragging footstep, and the door opened. Gerald stoodon the threshold, the weak smile back on his face.
　　"Hullo, Sally!"At the sight of him, disreputable and obviously unscathed, Sally'sbrief alarm died away, leaving in its place the old feeling of impatientresentment. In addition to her other grievances against him, he hadapparently frightened her unnecessarily.
　　"Whatever was all that noise?" she demanded.
　　"Noise?" said Gerald, considering the point open-mouthed.
　　"Yes, noise," snapped Sally.
　　"I've been cleaning house," said Gerald with the owl-like gravity of aman just conscious that he is not wholly himself.
　　Sally pushed her way past him. The apartment in which she found herselfwas almost an exact replica of her own, and it was evident that ElsaDoland had taken pains to make it pretty and comfortable in a nigglyfeminine way. Amateur interior decoration had always been a hobby ofhers. Even in the unpromising surroundings of her bedroom at Mrs.
　　Meecher's boarding-house she had contrived to create a certaindaintiness which Sally, who had no ability in that direction herself,had always rather envied. As a decorator Elsa's mind ran in thedirection of small, fragile ornaments, and she was not afraid ofover-furnishing. Pictures jostled one another on the walls: china of alldescription stood about on little tables: there was a profusion of lampswith shades of parti-coloured glass: and plates were ranged along aseries of shelves.
　　One says that the plates were ranged and the pictures jostled oneanother, but it would be more correct to put it they had jostled and hadbeen ranged, for it was only by guess-work that Sally was able toreconstruct the scene as it must have appeared before Gerald hadstarted, as he put it, to clean house. She had walked into the flatbriskly enough, but she pulled up short as she crossed the threshold,appalled by the majestic ruin that met her gaze. A shell bursting in thelittle sitting-room could hardly have created more havoc.
　　The psychology of a man of weak character under the influence of alcoholand disappointed ambition is not easy to plumb, for his moods follow oneanother with a rapidity which baffles the observer. Ten minutes before,Gerald Foster had been in the grip of a clammy self-pity, and it seemedfrom his aspect at the present moment that this phase had returned. Butin the interval there had manifestly occurred a brief but adequate spasmof what would appear to have been an almost Berserk fury. What hadcaused it and why it should have expended itself so abruptly, Sally wasnot psychologist enough to explain; but that it had existed there wasocular evidence of the most convincing kind. A heavy niblick, flungpetulantly--or remorsefully--into a corner, showed by what medium thedestruction had been accomplished.
　　Bleak chaos appeared on every side. The floor was littered with everyimaginable shape and size of broken glass and china. Fragments ofpictures, looking as if they had been chewed by some prehistoric animal,lay amid heaps of shattered statuettes and vases. As Sally moved slowlyinto the room after her involuntary pause, china crackled beneath herfeet. She surveyed the stripped walls with a wondering eye, and turnedto Gerald for an explanation.
　　Gerald had subsided on to an occasional table, and was weeping softlyagain. It had come over him once more that he had been very, very badlytreated.
　　"Well!" said Sally with a gasp. "You've certainly made a good job ofit!"There was a sharp crack as the occasional table, never designed by itsmaker to bear heavy weights, gave way in a splintering flurry of brokenlegs under the pressure of the master of the house: and Sally's moodunderwent an abrupt change. There are few situations in life which donot hold equal potentialities for both tragedy and farce, and it was theludicrous side of this drama that chanced to appeal to Sally at thismoment. Her sense of humour was tickled. It was, if she could haveanalysed her feelings, at herself that she was mocking--at the feeblesentimental Sally who had once conceived the absurd idea of taking thispreposterous man seriously. She felt light-hearted and light-headed, andshe sank into a chair with a gurgling laugh.
　　The shock of his fall appeared to have had the desirable effect ofrestoring Gerald to something approaching intelligence. He pickedhimself up from the remains of a set of water-colours, gazing at Sallywith growing disapproval.
　　"No sympathy," he said austerely.
　　"I can't help it," cried Sally. "It's too funny.""Not funny," corrected Gerald, his brain beginning to cloud once more.
　　"What did you do it for?"Gerald returned for a moment to that mood of honest indignation, whichhad so strengthened his arm when wielding the niblick. He bethought himonce again of his grievance.
　　"Wasn't going to stand for it any longer," he said heatedly. "Afellow's wife goes and lets him down... ruins his show by going off andplaying in another show... why shouldn't I smash her things? Why shouldI stand for that sort of treatment? Why should I?""Well, you haven't," said Sally, "so there's no need to discuss it. Youseem to have acted in a thoroughly manly and independent way.""That's it. Manly independent." He waggled his finger impressively.
　　"Don't care what she says," he continued. "Don't care if she never comesback. That woman..."Sally was not prepared to embark with him upon a discussion of theabsent Elsa. Already the amusing aspect of the affair had begun to fade,and her hilarity was giving way to a tired distaste for the sordidnessof the whole business. She had become aware that she could not endurethe society of Gerald Foster much longer. She got up and spokedecidedly.
　　"And now," she said, "I'm going to tidy up."Gerald had other views.
　　"No," he said with sudden solemnity. "No! Nothing of the kind. Leaveit for her to find. Leave it as it is.""Don't be silly. All this has got to be cleaned up. I'll do it. Yougo and sit in my apartment. I'll come and tell you when you can comeback.""No!" said Gerald, wagging his head.
　　Sally stamped her foot among the crackling ruins. Quite suddenly thesight of him had become intolerable.
　　"Do as I tell you," she cried.
　　Gerald wavered for a moment, but his brief militant mood was ebbingfast. After a faint protest he shuffled off, and Sally heard him go intoher room. She breathed a deep breath of relief and turned to her task.
　　A visit to the kitchen revealed a long-handled broom, and, armed withthis, Sally was soon busy. She was an efficient little person, andpresently out of chaos there began to emerge a certain order. Nothingshort of complete re-decoration would ever make the place look habitableagain, but at the end of half an hour she had cleared the floor, and thefragments of vases, plates, lamp-shades, pictures and glasses werestacked in tiny heaps against the walls. She returned the broom to thekitchen, and, going back into the sitting-room, flung open the windowand stood looking out.
　　With a sense of unreality she perceived that the night had gone. Overthe quiet street below there brooded that strange, metallic light whichushers in the dawn of a fine day. A cold breeze whispered to and fro.
　　Above the house-tops the sky was a faint, level blue.
　　She left the window and started to cross the room. And suddenly therecame over her a feeling of utter weakness. She stumbled to a chair,conscious only of being tired beyond the possibility of a furthereffort. Her eyes closed, and almost before her head had touched thecushions she was asleep.
　　Sally woke. Sunshine was streaming through the open window, and with itthe myriad noises of a city awake and about its business. Footstepsclattered on the sidewalk, automobile horns were sounding, and she couldhear the clank of street cars as they passed over the points. She couldonly guess at the hour, but it was evident that the morning was welladvanced. She got up stiffly. Her head was aching.
　　She went into the bathroom, bathed her face, and felt better. The dulloppression which comes of a bad night was leaving her. She leaned out ofthe window, revelling in the fresh air, then crossed the passage andentered her own apartment. Stertorous breathing greeted her, and sheperceived that Gerald Foster had also passed the night in a chair. Hewas sprawling by the window with his legs stretched out and his headresting on one of the arms, an unlovely spectacle.
　　Sally stood regarding him for a moment with a return of the distastewhich she had felt on the previous night. And yet, mingled with thedistaste, there was a certain elation. A black chapter of her life wasclosed for ever. Whatever the years to come might bring to her, theywould be free from any wistful yearnings for the man who had once beenwoven so inextricably into the fabric of her life. She had thought thathis personality had gripped her too strongly ever to be dislodged, butnow she could look at him calmly and feel only a faint half-pity,half-contempt. The glamour had departed.
　　She shook him gently, and he sat up with a start, blinking in the stronglight. His mouth was still open. He stared at Sally foolishly, thenscrambled awkwardly out of the chair.
　　"Oh, my God!" said Gerald, pressing both his hands to his forehead andsitting down again. He licked his lips with a dry tongue and moaned.
　　"Oh, I've got a headache!"Sally might have pointed out to him that he had certainly earned one,but she refrained.
　　"You'd better go and have a wash," she suggested.
　　"Yes," said Gerald, heaving himself up again.
　　"Would you like some breakfast?""Don't!" said Gerald faintly, and tottered off to the bathroom.
　　Sally sat down in the chair he had vacated. She had never felt quitelike this before in her life. Everything seemed dreamlike. The splashingof water in the bathroom came faintly to her, and she realized that shehad been on the point of falling asleep again. She got up and opened thewindow, and once more the air acted as a restorative. She watched theactivities of the street with a distant interest. They, too, seemeddreamlike and unreal. People were hurrying up and down on mysteriouserrands. An inscrutable cat picked its way daintily across the road. Atthe door of the apartment house an open car purred sleepily.
　　She was roused by a ring at the bell. She went to the door and openedit, and found Bruce Carmyle standing on the threshold. He wore a lightmotor-coat, and he was plainly endeavouring to soften the severity ofhis saturnine face with a smile of beaming kindliness.
　　"Well, here I am!" said Bruce Carmyle cheerily. "Are you ready?"With the coming of daylight a certain penitence had descended on Mr.
　　Carmyle. Thinking things over while shaving and subsequently in hisbath, he had come to the conclusion that his behaviour overnight had notbeen all that could have been desired. He had not actually been brutal,perhaps, but he had undoubtedly not been winning. There had been anabruptness in the manner of his leaving Sally at the Flower Garden whicha perfect lover ought not to have shown. He had allowed his nerves toget the better of him, and now he desired to make amends. Hence acheerfulness which he did not usually exhibit so early in the morning.
　　Sally was staring at him blankly. She had completely forgotten that hehad said that he would come and take her for a drive this morning. Shesearched in her mind for words, and found none. And, as Mr. Carmyle wasdebating within himself whether to kiss her now or wait for a moresuitable moment, embarrassment came upon them both like a fog, and thegenial smile faded from his face as if the motive-power behind it hadsuddenly failed.
　　"I've--er--got the car outside, and..."At this point speech failed Mr. Carmyle, for, even as he began thesentence, the door that led to the bathroom opened and Gerald Fostercame out. Mr. Carmyle gaped at Gerald: Gerald gaped at Mr. Carmyle.
　　The application of cold water to the face and head is an excellent thingon the morning after an imprudent night, but as a tonic it only goespart of the way. In the case of Gerald Foster, which was an extremelyserious and aggravated case, it had gone hardly any way at all. Theperson unknown who had been driving red-hot rivets into the base ofGerald Foster's skull ever since the moment of his awakening was stillbusily engaged on that task. He gazed at Mr. Carmyle wanly.
　　Bruce Carmyle drew in his breath with a sharp hiss, and stood rigid.
　　His eyes, burning now with a grim light, flickered over Gerald's personand found nothing in it to entertain them. He saw a slouching figure inshirt-sleeves and the foundations of evening dress, a disgusting,degraded figure with pink eyes and a white face that needed a shave. Andall the doubts that had ever come to vex Mr. Carmyle's mind since hisfirst meeting with Sally became on the instant certainties. So UncleDonald had been right after all! This was the sort of girl she was!
　　At his elbow the stout phantom of Uncle Donald puffed with satisfaction.
　　"I told you so!" it said.
　　Sally had not moved. The situation was beyond her. Just as if this hadreally been the dream it seemed, she felt incapable of speech or action.
　　"So..." said Mr. Carmyle, becoming articulate, and allowed an impressiveaposiopesis to take the place of the rest of the speech. A cold fury hadgripped him. He pointed at Gerald, began to speak, found that he wasstuttering, and gulped back the words. In this supreme moment he was notgoing to have his dignity impaired by a stutter. He gulped and found asentence which, while brief enough to insure against this disaster, wassufficiently long to express his meaning.
　　"Get out!" he said.
　　Gerald Foster had his dignity, too, and it seemed to him that the timehad come to assert it. But he also had a most excruciating headache, andwhen he drew himself up haughtily to ask Mr. Carmyle what the devil hemeant by it, a severe access of pain sent him huddling back immediatelyto a safer attitude. He clasped his forehead and groaned.
　　"Get out!"For a moment Gerald hesitated. Then another sudden shooting spasmconvinced him that no profit or pleasure was to be derived from acontinuance of the argument, and he began to shamble slowly across tothe door. Bruce Carmyle watched him go with twitching hands. There was amoment when the human man in him, somewhat atrophied from long disuse,stirred him almost to the point of assault; then dignity whispered moreprudent counsel in his ear, and Gerald was past the danger-zone and outin the passage. Mr. Carmyle turned to face Sally, as King Arthur on asimilar but less impressive occasion must have turned to deal withGuinevere.
　　"So..." he said again.
　　Sally was eyeing him steadily--considering the circumstances, Mr.
　　Carmyle thought with not a little indignation, much too steadily.
　　"This," he said ponderously, "is very amusing."He waited for her to speak, but she said nothing.
　　"I might have expected it," said Mr. Carmyle with a bitter laugh.
　　Sally forced herself from the lethargy which was gripping her.
　　"Would you like me to explain?" she said.
　　"There can be no explanation," said Mr. Carmyle coldly.
　　"Very well," said Sally.
　　There was a pause.
　　"Good-bye," said Bruce Carmyle.
　　"Good-bye," said Sally.
　　Mr. Carmyle walked to the door. There he stopped for an instant andglanced back at her. Sally had walked to the window and was looking out.
　　For one swift instant something about her trim little figure and thegleam of her hair where the sunlight shone on it seemed to catch atBruce Carmyle's heart, and he wavered. But the next moment he was strongagain, and the door had closed behind him with a resolute bang.
　　Out in the street, climbing into his car, he looked up involuntarily tosee if she was still there, but she had gone. As the car, gatheringspeed, hummed down the street. Sally was at the telephone listening tothe sleepy voice of Ginger Kemp, which, as he became aware who it wasthat had woken him from his rest and what she had to say to him,magically lost its sleepiness and took on a note of riotous ecstasy.
　　Five minutes later, Ginger was splashing in his bath, singing discordantly.
Chapter 18 Journey's End
    Darkness was beginning to gather slowly and with almost an apologeticair, as if it regretted the painful duty of putting an end to theperfect summer day. Over to the west beyond the trees there stilllingered a faint afterglow, and a new moon shone like a silver sickleabove the big barn. Sally came out of the house and bowed gravely threetimes for luck. She stood on the gravel, outside the porch, drinking inthe sweet evening scents, and found life good.
　　The darkness, having shown a certain reluctance at the start, was nowbuckling down to make a quick and thorough job of it. The sky turned toa uniform dark blue, picked out with quiet stars. The cement of thestate road which led to Patchogue, Babylon, and other important centresceased to be a pale blur and became invisible. Lights appeared in thewindows of the houses across the meadows. From the direction of thekennels there came a single sleepy bark, and the small white woolly dogwhich had scampered out at Sally's heels stopped short and uttered achallenging squeak.
　　The evening was so still that Ginger's footsteps, as he pounded alongthe road on his way back from the village, whither he had gone to buyprovisions, evening papers, and wool for the sweater which Sally wasknitting, were audible long before he turned in at the gate. Sally couldnot see him, but she looked in the direction of the sound and once againfell that pleasant, cosy thrill of happiness which had come to her everyevening for the last year.
　　"Ginger," she called.
　　"What ho!"The woolly dog, with another important squeak, scuttled down the driveto look into the matter, and was coldly greeted. Ginger, for all hislove of dogs, had never been able to bring himself to regard Toto withaffection. He had protested when Sally, a month before, finding Mrs.
　　Meecher distraught on account of a dreadful lethargy which had seizedher pet, had begged him to offer hospitality and country air to theinvalid.
　　"It's wonderful what you've done for Toto, angel," said Sally, as hecame up frigidly eluding that curious animal's leaps of welcome. "He's adifferent dog.""Bit of luck for him," said Ginger.
　　"In all the years I was at Mrs. Meecher's I never knew him move atanything more rapid than a stately walk. Now he runs about all thetime.""The blighter had been overeating from birth," said Ginger. "That wasall that was wrong with him. A little judicious dieting put him right.
　　We'll be able," said Ginger brightening, "to ship him back next week.""I shall quite miss him.""I nearly missed him--this morning--with a shoe," said Ginger. "He wasup on the kitchen table wolfing the bacon, and I took steps.""My cave-man!" murmured Sally. "I always said you had a frightfullybrutal streak in you. Ginger, what an evening!""Good Lord!" said Ginger suddenly, as they walked into the light of theopen kitchen door.
　　"Now what?"He stopped and eyed her intently.
　　"Do you know you're looking prettier than you were when I started downto the village!"Sally gave his arm a little hug.
　　"Beloved!" she said. "Did you get the chops?"Ginger froze in his tracks, horrified.
　　"Oh, my aunt! I clean forgot them!""Oh, Ginger, you are an old chump. Well, you'll have to go in for alittle judicious dieting, like Toto.""I say, I'm most awfully sorry. I got the wool.""If you think I'm going to eat wool...""Isn't there anything in the house?""Vegetables and fruit.""Fine! But, of course, if you want chops...""Not at all. I'm spiritual. Besides, people say that vegetables aregood for the blood-pressure or something. Of course you forgot to getthe mail, too?""Absolutely not! I was on to it like a knife. Two letters from fellowswanting Airedale puppies.""No! Ginger, we are getting on!""Pretty bloated," agreed Ginger complacently. "Pretty bloated. We'llbe able to get that two-seater if things go buzzing on like this. Therewas a letter for you. Here it is.""It's from Fillmore," said Sally, examining the envelope as they wentinto the kitchen. "And about time, too. I haven't had a word from himfor months."She sat down and opened the letter. Ginger, heaving himself on to thetable, wriggled into a position of comfort and started to read hisevening paper. But after he had skimmed over the sporting page helowered it and allowed his gaze to rest on Sally's bent head with afeeling of utter contentment.
　　Although a married man of nearly a year's standing, Ginger was stillmoving about a magic world in a state of dazed incredulity, unable fullyto realize that such bliss could be. Ginger in his time had seen manythings that looked good from a distance, but not one that had borne thetest of a closer acquaintance--except this business of marriage.
　　Marriage, with Sally for a partner, seemed to be one of the very fewthings in the world in which there was no catch. His honest eyes glowedas he watched her. Sally broke into a little splutter of laughter.
　　"Ginger, look at this!"He reached down and took the slip of paper which she held out to him.
　　The following legend met his eye, printed in bold letters:
　　POPP'SOUTSTANDINGSUCCULENT----APPETIZING----NUTRITIOUS.
　　(JUST SAY "POP!" A CHILDCAN DO IT.)Ginger regarded this cipher with a puzzled frown.
　　"What is it?" he asked.
　　"It's Fillmore.""How do you mean?"Sally gurgled.
　　"Fillmore and Gladys have started a little restaurant in Pittsburg.""A restaurant!" There was a shocked note in Ginger's voice. Although heknew that the managerial career of that modern Napoleon, hisbrother-in-law, had terminated in something of a smash, he had neverquite lost his reverence for one whom he considered a bit of amaster-mind. That Fillmore Nicholas, the Man of Destiny, should havedescended to conducting a restaurant--and a little restaurant atthat--struck him as almost indecent.
　　Sally, on the other hand--for sisters always seem to fail in properreverence for the greatness of their brothers--was delighted.
　　"It's the most splendid idea," she said with enthusiasm. "It reallydoes look as if Fillmore was going to amount to something at last.
　　Apparently they started on quite a small scale, just makingpork-pies...""Why Popp?" interrupted Ginger, ventilating a question which wasperplexing him deeply.
　　"Just a trade name, silly. Gladys is a wonderful cook, you know, andshe made the pies and Fillmore toddled round selling them. And they didso well that now they've started a regular restaurant, and that's asuccess, too. Listen to this." Sally gurgled again and turned over theletter. "Where is it? Oh yes! '... sound financial footing. In fact, oursuccess has been so instantaneous that I have decided to launch out on areally big scale. It is Big Ideas that lead to Big Business. I amcontemplating a vast extension of this venture of ours, and in a veryshort time I shall organize branches in New York, Chicago, Detroit, andall the big cities, each in charge of a manager and each offering as aspecial feature, in addition to the usual restaurant cuisine, thesePopp's Outstanding Pork-pies of ours. That done, and having establishedall these branches as going concerns, I shall sail for England andintroduce Popp's Pork-pies there...' Isn't he a little wonder!""Dashed brainy chap. Always said so.""I must say I was rather uneasy when I read that. I've seen so many ofFillmore's Big Ideas. That's always the way with him. He gets somethinggood and then goes and overdoes it and bursts. However, it's all rightnow that he's got Gladys to look after him. She has added a postscript.
　　Just four words, but oh! how comforting to a sister's heart. 'Yes, Idon't think!' is what she says, and I don't know when I've read anythingmore cheering. Thank heaven, she's got poor dear Fillmore well in hand.""Pork-pies!" said Ginger, musingly, as the pangs of a healthy hungerbegan to assail his interior. "I wish he'd sent us one of theoutstanding little chaps. I could do with it."Sally got up and ruffled his red hair.
　　"Poor old Ginger! I knew you'd never be able to stick it. Come on, it'sa lovely night, lets walk to the village and revel at the inn. We'regoing to be millionaires before we know where we are, so we can affordit."
The End