Chapter 1
1.
　　Freddie Rooke gazed coldly at the breakfast-table. Through a gleamingeye-glass he inspected the revolting object which Parker, hisfaithful man, had placed on a plate before him.
　　"Parker!" His voice had a ring of pain.
　　"Sir?""What's this?""Poached egg, sir."Freddie averted his eyes with a silent shudder.
　　"It looks just like an old aunt of mine," he said. "Remove it!"He got up, and, wrapping his dressing-gown about his long legs, tookup a stand in front of the fireplace. From this position he surveyedthe room, his shoulders against the mantelpiece, his calves pressingthe club-fender. It was a cheerful oasis in a chill and foggy world,a typical London bachelor's breakfast-room. The walls were a restfulgray, and the table, set for two, a comfortable arrangement in whiteand silver.
　　"Eggs, Parker," said Freddie solemnly, "are the acid test!""Yes, sir?""If, on the morning after, you can tackle a poached egg, you are allright. If not, not. And don't let anybody tell you otherwise.""No, sir."Freddie pressed the palm of his hand to his brow, and sighed.
　　"It would seem, then, that I must have revelled a triflewhole-heartedly last night. I was possibly a little blotto. Notwhiffled, perhaps, but indisputably blotto. Did I make much noisecoming in?""No, sir. You were very quiet.""Ah! A dashed bad sign!"Freddie moved to the table, and poured himself a cup of coffee.
　　"The cream-jug is to your right, sir," said the helpful Parker.
　　"Let it remain there. Cafe noir for me this morning. As noir as itcan jolly well stick!" Freddie retired to the fireplace and sippeddelicately. "As far as I can remember, it was Ronny Devereux'
　　birthday or something . . .""Mr Martyn's, I think you said, sir.""That's right. Algy Martyn's birthday, and Ronny and I were theguests. It all comes back to me. I wanted Derek to roll along andjoin the festivities--he's never met Ronny--but he gave it a miss.
　　Quite right! A chap in his position has responsibilities. Member ofParliament and all that. Besides," said Freddie earnestly, drivinghome the point with a wave of his spoon, "he's engaged to be married.
　　You must remember that, Parker!""I will endeavor to, sir.""Sometimes," said Freddie dreamily, "I wish I were engaged to bemarried. Sometimes I wish I had some sweet girl to watch over me and. . . No, I don't, by Jove! It would give me the utter pip! Is SirDerek up yet, Parker?""Getting up, sir.""See that everything is all right, will you? I mean as regards thefoodstuffs and what not. I want him to make a good breakfast. He'sgot to meet his mother this morning at Charing Cross. She's leggingit back from the Riviera.""Indeed, sir?"Freddie shook his head.
　　"You wouldn't speak in that light, careless tone if you knew her!
　　Well, you'll see her tonight. She's coming here to dinner.""Yes, sir.""Miss Mariner will he here, too. A foursome. Tell Mrs Parker to pullup her socks and give us something pretty ripe. Soup, fish, all thatsort of thing. _She_ knows. And let's have a stoup of malvoisie fromthe oldest bin. This is a special occasion!""Her ladyship will be meeting Miss Mariner for the first time, sir?""You've put your finger on it! Absolutely the first time on this orany stage! We must all rally round and make the thing a success.""I am sure Mrs Parker will strain every nerve, sir." Parker moved tothe door, carrying the rejected egg, and stepped aside to allow atall, well-built man of about thirty to enter. "Good morning, SirDerek.""Morning, Parker."Parker slid softly from the room. Derek Underhill sat down at thetable. He was a strikingly handsome man, with a strong, forcefulface, dark, lean and cleanly shaven. He was one of those men whom astranger would instinctively pick out of a crowd as worthy of note.
　　His only defect was that his heavy eyebrows gave him at times anexpression which was a little forbidding. Women, however, had neverbeen repelled by it. He was very popular with women, not quite sopopular with men--always excepting Freddie Rooke, who worshipped him.
　　They had been at school together, though Freddie was the younger byseveral years.
　　"Finished, Freddie?" asked Derek.
　　Freddie smiled wanly,"We are not breakfasting this morning," he replied. "The spirit waswilling, but the jolly old flesh would have none of it. To beperfectly frank, the Last of the Rookes has a bit of a head.""Ass!" said Derek.
　　"A bit of sympathy," said Freddie, pained, "would not be out ofplace. We are far from well. Some person unknown has put athreshing-machine inside the old bean and substituted a piece ofbrown paper for our tongue. Things look dark and yellow and wobbly!""You shouldn't have overdone it last night.""It was Algy Martyn's birthday," pleaded Freddie.
　　"If I were an ass like Algy Martyn," said Derek, "I wouldn't go aboutadvertising the fact that I'd been born. I'd hush it up!"He helped himself to a plentiful portion of kedgeree, Freddiewatching him with repulsion mingled with envy. When he began to eat,the spectacle became too poignant for the sufferer, and he wanderedto the window.
　　"What a beast of a day!"It was an appalling day. January, that grim month, was treatingLondon with its usual severity. Early in the morning a bank of foghad rolled up off the river, and was deepening from pearly white to alurid brown. It pressed on the window-pane like a blanket, leavingdark, damp rivulets on the glass.
　　"Awful!" said Derek.
　　"Your mater's train will be late.""Yes. Damned nuisance. It's bad enough meeting trains in any case,without having to hang about a draughty station for an hour.""And it's sure, I should imagine," went on Freddie, pursuing histrain of thought, "to make the dear old thing pretty tolerably ratty,if she has one of those slow journeys." He pottered back to thefireplace, and rubbed his shoulders reflectively against themantelpiece. "I take it that you wrote to her about Jill?""Of course. That's why she's coming over, I suppose. By the way, yougot those seats for that theatre tonight?""Yes. Three together and one somewhere on the outskirts. If it's allthe same to you, old thing, I'll have the one on the outskirts."Derek, who had finished his kedgeree and was now making himself ablot on Freddie's horizon with toast and marmalade, laughed.
　　"What a rabbit you are, Freddie! Why on earth are you so afraid ofmother?"Freddie looked at him as a timid young squire might have gazed uponSt. George when the latter set out to do battle with the dragon. Hewas of the amiable type which makes heroes of its friends. In the olddays when he had fagged for him at Winchester he had thought Derekthe most wonderful person in the world, and this view he stillretained. Indeed, subsequent events had strengthened it. Derek haddone the most amazing things since leaving school. He had had abrilliant career at Oxford, and now, in the House of Commons, wasalready looked upon by the leaders of his party as one to be watchedand encouraged. He played polo superlatively well, and was a fineshot. But of all his gifts and qualities the one that extortedFreddie's admiration in its intensest form was his lion-like courageas exemplified by his behavior in the present crisis. There he sat,placidly eating toast and marmalade, while the boat-train containingLady Underhill already sped on its way from Dover to London. It waslike Drake playing bowls with the Spanish Armada in sight.
　　"I wish I had your nerve!" he said, awed. "What I should be feeling,if I were in your place and had to meet your mater after telling herthat I was engaged to marry a girl she had never seen, I don't know.
　　I'd rather face a wounded tiger!""Idiot!" said Derek placidly.
　　"Not," pursued Freddie, "that I mean to say anything in the leastderogatory and so forth to your jolly old mater, if you understandme, but the fact remains she scares me pallid! Always has, ever sincethe first time I went to stay at your place when I was a kid. I canstill remember catching her eye the morning I happened by pure chanceto bung an apple through her bedroom window, meaning to let a cat onthe sill below have it in the short ribs. She was at least thirtyfeet away, but, by Jove, it stopped me like a bullet!""Push the bell, old man, will you? I want some more toast."Freddie did as he was requested with growing admiration.
　　"The condemned man made an excellent breakfast," he murmured. "Moretoast, Parker," he added, as that admirable servitor opened the door.
　　"Gallant! That's what I call it. Gallant!"Derek tilted his chair back.
　　"Mother is sure to like Jill when she sees her," he said.
　　"_When_ she sees her! Ah! But the trouble is, young feller-me-lad,that she _hasn't_ seen her! That's the weak spot in your case, oldcompanion! A month ago she didn't know of Jill's existence. Now, youknow and I know that Jill is one of the best and brightest. As far aswe are concerned, everything in the good old garden is lovely. Why,dash it, Jill and I were children together. Sported side by side onthe green, and what not. I remember Jill, when she was twelve,turning the garden-hose on me and knocking about seventy-five percent off the market value of my best Sunday suit. That sort of thingforms a bond, you know, and I've always felt that she was a corker.
　　But your mater's got to discover it for herself. It's a dashed pity,by Jove, that Jill hasn't a father or a mother or something of thatspecies to rally round just now. They would form a gang. There'snothing like a gang! But she's only got that old uncle of hers. Arummy bird! Met him?""Several times. I like him.""Oh, he's a genial old buck all right. A very bonhomous lad. But youhear some pretty queer stories about him if you get among people whoknew him in the old days. Even now I'm not so dashed sure I shouldcare to play cards with him. Young Threepwood was telling me only theother day that the old boy took thirty quid off him at picquet asclean as a whistle. And Jimmy Monroe, who's on the Stock Exchange,says he's frightfully busy these times buying margins or whatever itis chappies do down in the City. Margins. That's the word. Jimmy mademe buy some myself on a thing called Amalgamated Dyes. I don'tunderstand the procedure exactly, but Jimmy says it's a sound egg andwill do me a bit of good. What was I talking about? Oh, yes, oldSelby. There's no doubt he's quite a sportsman. But till you've gotJill well established, you know, I shouldn't enlarge on him too muchwith the mater.""On the contrary," said Derek. "I shall mention him at the firstopportunity. He knew my father out in India.""Did he, by Jove! Oh, well, that makes a difference."Parker entered with the toast, and Derek resumed his breakfast.
　　"It may be a little bit awkward," he said, "at first, meeting mother.
　　But everything will be all right after five minutes.""Absolutely! But, oh, boy! that first five minutes!" Freddie gazedportentously through his eye-glass. Then he seemed to be undergoingsome internal struggle, for he gulped once or twice. "That first fiveminutes!" he said, and paused again. A moment's silentself-communion, and he went on with a rush. "I say, listen. Shall Icome along, too?""Come along?""To the station. With you.""What on earth for?""To see you through the opening stages. Break the ice and all thatsort of thing. Nothing like collecting a gang, you know. Moments whena feller needs a friend and so forth. Say the word, and I'll buzzalong and lend my moral support."Derek's heavy eyebrows closed together in an offended frown, andseemed to darken his whole face. This unsolicited offer of assistancehurt his dignity. He showed a touch of the petulance which came nowand then when he was annoyed, to suggest that he might not possess sostrong a character as his exterior indicated.
　　"It's very kind of you," he began stiffly.
　　Freddie nodded. He was acutely conscious of this himself.
　　"Some fellows," he observed, "would say 'Not at all!' I suppose. Butnot the Last of the Rookes! For, honestly, old man, betweenourselves, I don't mind admitting that this _is_ the bravest deed ofthe year, and I'm dashed if I would do it for anyone else.""It's very good of you, Freddie . . .""That's all right. I'm a Boy Scout, and this is my act of kindnessfor today."Derek got up from the table.
　　"Of course you mustn't come," he said. "We can't form a sort ofdebating society to discuss Jill on the platform at Charing Cross.""Oh, I would just hang around in the offing, shoving in an occasionaltactful word.""Nonsense!""The wheeze would simply be to . . .""It's impossible.""Oh, very well," said Freddie, damped. "Just as you say, of course.
　　But there's nothing like a gang, old man, nothing like a gang!"2.
　　Derek Underhill threw down the stump of his cigar, and gruntedirritably. Inside Charing Cross Station business was proceeding asusual. Porters wheeling baggage-trucks moved to and fro likeJuggernauts. Belated trains clanked in, glad to get home, whileothers, less fortunate, crept reluctantly out through the blacknessand disappeared into an inferno of detonating fog-signals. Foroutside the fog still held. The air was cold and raw and tastedcoppery. In the street traffic moved at a funeral pace, to theaccompaniment of hoarse cries and occasional crashes. Once the sunhad worked its way through the murk and had hung in the sky like agreat red orange, but now all was darkness and discomfort again,blended with that odd suggestion of mystery and romance which is aLondon fog's only redeeming quality.
　　It seemed to Derek that he had been patrolling the platform for alife-time, but he resumed his sentinel duty. The fact that theboat-train, being already forty-five minutes overdue, might arrive atany moment made it imperative that he remain where he was instead ofsitting, as he would much have preferred to sit, in one of thewaiting-rooms. It would be a disaster if his mother should get out ofthe train and not find him there to meet her. That was just the sortof thing which would infuriate her; and her mood, after a Channelcrossing and a dreary journey by rail, would be sufficientlydangerous as it was.
　　The fog and the waiting had had their effect upon Derek. The resolutefront he had exhibited to Freddie at the breakfast-table had meltedsince his arrival at the station, and he was feeling nervous at theprospect of the meeting that lay before him. Calm as he had appearedto the eye of Freddie and bravely as he had spoken, Derek, in therecesses of his heart, was afraid of his mother. There are men--andDerek Underhill was one of them--who never wholly emerge from thenursery. They may put away childish things and rise in the world toaffluence and success, but the hand that rocked their cradle stillrules their lives. As a boy, Derek had always been firmly controlledby his mother, and the sway of her aggressive personality had enduredthrough manhood. Lady Underhill was a born ruler, dominating most ofthe people with whom life brought her in contact. Distant cousinsquaked at her name, while among the male portion of her nearerrelatives she was generally alluded to as The Family Curse.
　　Now that his meeting with her might occur at any moment, Derek shrankfrom it. It was not likely to be a pleasant one. The mere fact thatLady Underhill was coming to London at all made that improbable. Whena man writes to inform his mother, who is wintering on the Riviera,that he has become engaged to be married, the natural course for herto pursue, if she approves of the step, is to wire hercongratulations and good wishes. When for these she substitutes acurt announcement that she is returning immediately, a certain lackof complaisance seems to be indicated.
　　Would his mother approve of Jill? That was the question which he hadbeen asking himself over and over again as he paced the platform inthe disheartening fog. Nothing had been said, nothing had even beenhinted, but he was perfectly aware that his marriage was a matterregarding which Lady Underhill had always assumed that she was to beconsulted, even if she did not, as he suspected, claim the right todictate. And he had become engaged quite suddenly, without a word toher until it was all over and settled.
　　That, as Freddie had pointed out, was the confoundedly awkward partof it. His engagement had been so sudden. Jill had swept into hislife like a comet. His mother knew nothing of her. A month ago he hadknown nothing of her himself. It would, he perceived, as far as thebenevolent approval of Lady Underhill was concerned, have been analtogether different matter had his choice fallen upon one of thosedamsels whose characters, personality, and ancestry she knew.
　　Daughters of solid and useful men; sisters of rising youngpoliticians like himself; nieces of Burke's peerage; he could haveintroduced without embarrassment one of these in the role ofbride-elect. But Jill . . . Oh, well, when once his mother had metJill, everything was sure to be all right. Nobody could resist Jill.
　　It would be like resisting the sunshine.
　　Somewhat comforted by this reflection, Derek turned to begin one morewalk along the platform, and stopped in mid-stride, raging. Beamingover the collar of a plaid greatcoat, all helpfulness and devotion,Freddie Rooke was advancing towards him, the friend that stickethcloser than a brother. Like some loving dog, who, ordered home,sneaks softly on through alleys and by-ways, peeping round cornersand crouching behind lamp-posts, the faithful Freddie had followedhim after all. And with him, to add the last touch to Derek'sdiscomfiture, were those two inseparable allies of his, RonnyDevereux and Algy Martyn.
　　"Well, old thing," said Freddie, patting Derek encouragingly on theshoulder, "here we are after all! I know you told me not to roilround and so forth, but I knew you didn't mean it. I thought it overafter you had left, and decided it would be a rotten trick not tocluster about you in your hour of need. I hope you don't mind Ronnyand Algy breezing along, too. The fact is, I was in the deuce of afunk--your jolly old mater always rather paralyzes my nerve-centers,you know--so I roped them in. Met 'em in Piccadilly, groping aboutfor the club, and conscripted 'em both, they very decentlyconsenting. We all toddled off and had a pick-me-up at that chemistchappie's at the top of the Hay-market, and now we're feeling full ofbeans and buck, ready for anything. I've explained the whole thing tothem, and they're with you to the death! Collect a gang, dear boy,collect a gang! That's the motto. There's nothing like it!""Nothing!" said Ronny.
　　"Absolutely nothing!" said Algy.
　　"We'll just see you through the opening stages," said Freddie, "andthen leg it. We'll keep the conversation general, you know.""Stop it getting into painful channels," said Ronny.
　　"Steer it clear," said Algy, "of the touchy topic.""That's the wheeze," said Freddie. "We'll . . . Oh, golly! There'sthe train coming in now!" His voice quavered, for not even thecomforting presence of his two allies could altogether sustain him inthis ordeal. But he pulled himself together with a manful effort.
　　"Stick it, old beans!" he said doughtily. "Now is the time for allgood men to come to the aid of the party!""We're here!" said Ronny Devereux.
　　"On the spot!" said Algy Martyn.
　　3.
　　The boat-train slid into the station. Bells rang, engines blew offsteam, porters shouted, baggage-trucks rattled over the platform. Thetrain began to give up its contents, now in ones and twos, now in asteady stream. Most of the travellers seemed limp and exhausted, andwere pale with the pallor that comes of a choppy Channel crossing.
　　Almost the only exception to the general condition of collapse wasthe eagle-faced lady in the brown ulster, who had taken up her standin the middle of the platform and was haranguing a subdued littlemaid in a voice that cut the gloomy air like a steel knife. Like theother travellers, she was pale, but she bore up resolutely. No onecould have told from Lady Underhill's demeanor that the solidplatform seemed to heave beneath her feet like a deck.
　　"Have you got a porter, Ferris? Where is he, then? Ah! Have you gotall the bags? My jewel-case? The suit-case? The small brown bag? Therugs? Where are the rugs?
　　"Yes, I can see them, my good girl. There is no need to brandish themin my face. Keep the jewel-case and give the rest of the things tothe porter, and take him to look after the trunks. You remember whichthey are? The steamer trunk, the other trunk, the black box . . .
　　Very well. Then make haste. And, when you've got them all together,tell the porter to find you a four-wheeler. The small things will goinside. Drive to the Savoy and ask for my suite. If they make anydifficulty, tell them that I engaged the rooms yesterday by telegraphfrom Mentone. Do you understand?""Yes, m'lady.""Then go along. Oh, and give the porter sixpence. Sixpence is ample.""Yes, m'lady."The little maid, grasping the jewel-case, trotted off beside the nowpessimistic porter, who had started on this job under the impressionthat there was at least a bob's-worth in it. The remark about thesixpence had jarred the porter's faith in his species.
　　Derek approached, acutely conscious of Freddie, Ronny, and Algy, whowere skirmishing about his flank. He had enough to worry him withoutthem. He had listened with growing apprehension to the catalogue ofhis mother's possessions. Plainly this was no flying visit. You donot pop over to London for a day or two with a steamer trunk, anothertrunk, a black box, a suit-case, and a small brown bag. LadyUnderhill had evidently come prepared to stay; and the fact seemed topresage trouble.
　　"Well, mother! So there you are at last!""Well, Derek!"Derek kissed his mother. Freddie, Ronny, and Algy shuffled closer,like leopards. Freddie, with the expression of one who leads aforlorn hope, moved his Adam's apple briskly up and down severaltimes, and spoke.
　　"How do you do, Lady Underhill?""How do you do, Mr Rooke?"Lady Underhill bowed stiffly and without pleasure. She was not fondof the Last of the Rookes. She supposed the Almighty had had somewise purpose in creating Freddie, but it had always been inscrutableto her.
　　"Like you," mumbled Freddie, "to meet my friends. Lady Underhill. MrDevereux.""Charmed," said Ronny affably.
　　"Mr Martyn.""Delighted," said Algy with old-world courtesy.
　　Lady Underhill regarded this mob-scene with an eye of ice.
　　"How do you do?" she said. "Have you come to meet somebody?""I-er-we-er-why-er--" This woman always made Freddie feel as if hewere being disembowelled by some clumsy amateur. He wished that hehad defied the dictates of his better nature and remained in his snugrooms at the Albany, allowing Derek to go through this business byhimself. "I-er-we-er-came to meet _you_, don't you know!""Indeed! That was very kind of you!""Oh, not at all.""Thought we'd welcome you back to the old homestead," said Ronny,beaming.
　　"What could be sweeter?" said Algy. He produced a cigar-case, andextracted a formidable torpedo-shaped Havana. He was feelingdelightfully at his ease, and couldn't understand why Freddie hadmade such a fuss about meeting this nice old lady. "Don't mind if Ismoke, do you? Air's a bit raw today. Gets into the lungs."Derek chafed impotently. These unsought allies were making adifficult situation a thousand times worse. A more acute observerthan young Mr Martyn, he noted the tight lines about his mother'smouth and knew them for the danger-signal they were. Endeavoring todistract her with light conversation, he selected a subject which wasa little unfortunate.
　　"What sort of crossing did you have, mother?"Lady Underhill winced. A current of air had sent the perfume ofAlgy's cigar playing about her nostrils. She closed her eyes, and herface turned a shade paler. Freddie, observing this, felt quite sorryfor the poor old thing. She was a pest and a pot of poison, ofcourse, but all the same, he reflected charitably, it was a shamethat she should look so green about the gills. He came to theconclusion that she must be hungry. The thing to do was to take hermind off it till she could be conducted to a restaurant and dumpeddown in front of a bowl of soup.
　　"Bit choppy, I suppose, what?" he bellowed, in a voice that ran upand down Lady Underhill's nervous system like an electric needle. "Iwas afraid you were going to have a pretty rough time of it when Iread the forecast in the paper. The good old boat wobbled a bit, eh?"Lady Underhill uttered a faint moan. Freddie noticed that she waslooking deucedly chippy, even chippier than a moment ago.
　　"It's an extraordinary thing about that Channel crossing," said AlgyMartyn meditatively, as he puffed a refreshing cloud. "I've knownfellows who could travel quite happily everywhere else in theworld--round the Horn in sailing-ships and all that sort ofthing--yield up their immortal soul crossing the Channel! Absolutelyyield up their immortal soul! Don't know why. Rummy, but there itis!""I'm like that myself," assented Ronny Devereux. "That dashed tripfrom Calais gets me every time. Bowls me right over. I go aboard,stoked to the eyebrows with seasick remedies, swearing that this timeI'll fool 'em, but down I go ten minutes after we've started and thenext thing I know is somebody saying, 'Well, well! So this isDover!'""It's exactly the same with me," said Freddie, delighted with thesmooth, easy way the conversation was flowing. "Whether it's the hot,greasy smell of the engines . . .""It's not the engines," contended Ronny Devereux.
　　"Stands to reason it can't be. I rather like the smell of engines.
　　This station is reeking with the smell of engine-grease, and I candrink it in and enjoy it." He sniffed luxuriantly. "It's somethingelse.""Ronny's right," said Algy cordially. "It isn't the engines. It's theway the boat heaves up and down and up and down and up and down . . ."He shifted his cigar to his left hand in order to give with his righta spirited illustration of a Channel steamer going up and down and upand down and up and down. Lady Underhill, who had opened her eyes,had an excellent view of the performance, and closed her eyes againquickly.
　　"Be quiet!" she snapped.
　　"I was only saying . . .""Be quiet!""Oh, rather!"Lady Underhill wrestled with herself. She was a woman of greatwill-power and accustomed to triumph over the weaknesses of theflesh. After awhile her eyes opened. She had forced herself, againstthe evidence of her senses, to recognize that this was a platform onwhich she stood and not a deck.
　　There was a pause. Algy, damped, was temporarily out of action, andhis friends had for the moment nothing to remark.
　　"I'm afraid you had a trying journey, mother," said Derek. "The trainwas very late.""Now, _train_-sickness," said Algy, coming to the surface again, "isa thing lots of people suffer from. Never could understand it myself.""I've never had a touch of train-sickness," said Ronny.
　　"Oh, I have," said Freddie. "I've often felt rotten on a train. I getfloating spots in front of my eyes and a sort of heaving sensation,and everything kind of goes black . . .""Mr Rooke!""Eh?""I should be greatly obliged if you would keep these confidences forthe ear of your medical adviser.""Freddie," intervened Derek hastily, "my mother's rather tired. Doyou think you could be going ahead and getting a taxi?""My dear old chap, of course! Get you one in a second. Come along,Algy. Pick up the old waukeesis, Ronny."And Freddie, accompanied by his henchmen, ambled off, well pleasedwith himself. He had, he felt, helped to break the ice for Derek andhad seen him safely through those awkward opening stages. Now hecould totter off with a light heart and get a bite of lunch.
　　Lady Underhill's eyes glittered. They were small, keen, black eyes,unlike Derek's, which were large and brown. In their other featuresthe two were obviously mother and son. Each had the same long upperlip, the same thin, firm mouth, the prominent chin which was a familycharacteristic of the Underhills, and the jutting Underhill nose.
　　Most of the Underhills came into the world looking as though theymeant to drive their way through life like a wedge.
　　"A little more," she said tensely, "and I should have struck thoseunspeakable young men with my umbrella. One of the things I havenever been able to understand, Derek, is why you should have selectedthat imbecile Rooke as your closest friend."Derek smiled tolerantly.
　　"It was more a case of him selecting _me_. But Freddie is quite agood fellow really. He's a man you've got to know.""_I_ have not got to know him, and I thank heaven for it!""He's a very good-natured fellow. It was decent of him to put me upat the Albany while our house was let. By the way, he has some seatsfor the first night of a new piece this evening. He suggested that wemight all dine at the Albany and go on to the theatre." He hesitateda moment. "Jill will be there," he said, and felt easier now that hername had at last come into the talk. "She's longing to meet you.""Then why didn't she meet me?""Here, do you mean? At the station? Well, I--I wanted you to see herfor the first time in pleasanter surroundings.""Oh!" said Lady Underhill shortly.
　　It is a disturbing thought that we suffer in this world just as muchby being prudent and taking precautions as we do by being rash andimpulsive and acting as the spirit moves us. If Jill had beenpermitted by her wary fiancé to come with him to the station to meethis mother, it is certain that much trouble would have been avoided.
　　True, Lady Underhill would probably have been rude to her in theopening stages of the interview, but she would not have been alarmedand suspicious; or, rather, the vague suspicion which she had beenfeeling would not have solidified, as, it did now, into definitecertainty of the worst. All that Derek had effected by his carefuldiplomacy had been to convince his mother that he considered hisbride-elect something to be broken gently to her.
　　She stopped and faced him.
　　"Who is she?" she demanded. "Who is this girl?"Derek flushed.
　　"I thought I made everything clear in my letter.""You made nothing clear at all.""By your leave!" chanted a porter behind them, and a baggage-truckclove them apart.
　　"We can't talk in a crowded station," said Derek irritably. "Let meget you to the taxi and take you to the hotel. . . . What do you wantto know about Jill?""Everything. Where does she come from? Who are her people? I don'tknow any Mariners.""I haven't cross-examined her," said Derek stiffly. "But I do knowthat her parents are dead. Her father was an American.""American!""Americans frequently have daughters, I believe.""There is nothing to be gained by losing your temper," said LadyUnderhill with steely calm.
　　"There is nothing to be gained, as far as I can see, by all thistalk," retorted Derek. He wondered vexedly why his mother always hadthis power of making him lose control of himself. He hated to losecontrol of himself. It upset him, and blurred that vision which heliked to have of himself as a calm, important man superior toordinary weaknesses. "Jill and I are engaged, and there is an end ofit.""Don't be a fool," said Lady Underhill, and was driven away byanother baggage-truck. "You know perfectly well," she resumed,returning to the attack, "that your marriage is a matter of thegreatest concern to me and to the whole of the family.""Listen, mother!" Derek's long wait on the draughty platform hadgenerated an irritability which overcame the deep-seated awe of hismother which was the result of years of defeat in battles of thewill. "Let me tell you in a few words all that I know of Jill, andthen we'll drop the subject. In the first place, she is a lady.
　　Secondly, she has plenty of money . . .""The Underhills do not need to marry for money.""I am not marrying for money!""Well, go on.""I have already described to you in my letter--very inadequately, butI did my best--what she looks like. Her sweetness, her loveableness,all the subtle things about her which go to make her what she is, youwill have to judge for yourself.""I intend to!""Well, that's all, then. She lives with her uncle, a Major Selby . . .""Major Selby? What regiment?""I didn't ask him," snapped the goaded Derek. "And, in the name ofheaven, what does it matter?""Not the Guards?""I tell you I don't know.""Probably a line regiment," said Lady Underhill with an indescribablesniff.
　　"Possibly. What then?" He paused, to play his trump card. "If you areworrying about Major Selby's social standing, I may as well tell youthat he used to know father.""What! When? Where?""Years ago. In India, when father was at Simla.""Selby? Selby? Not Christopher Selby?""Oh, you remember him?""I certainly remember him! Not that he and I ever met, but yourfather often spoke of him."Derek was relieved. It was abominable that this sort of thing shouldmatter, but one had to face facts, and, as far as his mother wasconcerned, it did. The fact that Jill's uncle had known his deadfather would make all the difference to Lady Underhill.
　　"Christopher Selby!" said Lady Underhill reflectively. "Yes! I haveoften heard your father speak of him. He was the man who gave yourfather an I.O.U. to pay a card debt, and redeemed it with a checkwhich was returned by the bank!""What!""Didn't you hear what I said? I will repeat it, if you wish.""There must have been some mistake.""Only the one your father made when he trusted the man.""It must have been some other fellow.""Of course!" said Lady Underhill satirically. "No doubt your fatherknew hundreds of Christopher Selbys!"Derek bit his lip.
　　"Well, after all," he said doggedly, "whether it's true or not . . .""I see no reason why your father should not have spoken the truth.""All right. We'll say it is true, then. But what does it matter? I ammarrying Jill, not her uncle.""Nevertheless, it would be pleasanter if her only living relativewere not a swindler! . . . Tell me, where and how did you meet thisgirl?""I should he glad if you would not refer to her as 'this girl.' Thename, if you have forgotten it, is Mariner.""Well, where did you meet Miss Mariner?""At Prince's.""Restaurant?""Skating-rink," said Derek impatiently. "Just after you left forMentone. Freddie Rooke introduced me.""Oh, your intellectual friend Mr Rooke knows her?""They were children together. Her people lived next to the Rookes inWorcestershire.""I thought you said she was an American.""I said her father was. He settled in England. Jill hasn't been inAmerica since she was eight or nine.""The fact," said Lady Underhill, "that the girl is a friend of MrRooke is no great recommendation."Derek kicked angrily at a box of matches which someone had throwndown on the platform.
　　"I wonder if you could possibly get it into your head, mother, that Iwant to marry Jill, not engage her as an under-housemaid. I don'tconsider that she requires recommendations, as you call them.
　　However, don't you think the most sensible thing is for you to waittill you meet her at dinner tonight, and then you can form your ownopinion? I'm beginning to get a little bored with this futilediscussion.""As you seem quite unable to talk on the subject of this girl withoutbecoming rude," said Lady Underhill, "I agree with you. Let us hopethat my first impression will be a favorable one. Experience hastaught me that first impressions are everything.""I'm glad you think so," said Derek, "for I fell in love with Jillthe very first moment I saw her!"4.
　　Parker stepped back, and surveyed with modest pride the dinner-tableto which he had been putting the finishing touches. It was anartistic job and a credit to him.
　　"That's that!" said Parker, satisfied.
　　He went to the window and looked out. The fog which had lasted wellinto the evening, had vanished now, and the clear night was brightwith stars. A distant murmur of traffic came from the direction ofPiccadilly.
　　As he stood there, the front-door bell rang, and continued to ring inlittle spurts of sound. If character can be deduced frombell-ringing, as nowadays it apparently can be from every other formof human activity, one might have hazarded the guess that whoever wason the other side of the door was determined, impetuous, andenergetic.
　　"Parker!"Freddie Rooke pushed a tousled head, which had yet to be brushed intothe smooth sleekness that made it a delight to the public eye, out ofa room down the passage.
　　"Sir?""Somebody ringing.""I heard, sir. I was about to answer the bell.""If it's Lady Underhill, tell her I'll be in in a minute.""I fancy it is Miss Mariner, sir. I think I recognise her touch."He made his way down the passage to the front-door, and opened it. Agirl was standing outside. She wore a long gray fur coat, and a filmygray hood covered her hair. As Parker opened the door, she scamperedin like a gray kitten.
　　"Brrh! It's cold!" she exclaimed. "Hullo, Parker!""Good evening, miss.""Am I the last or the first or what?"Parker moved to help her with her cloak.
　　"Sir Derek and her ladyship have not yet arrived, miss. Sir Derekwent to bring her ladyship from the Savoy Hotel. Mr Rooke is dressingin his bedroom and will be ready very shortly."The girl had slipped out of the fur coat, and Parker cast a swiftglance of approval at her. He had the valet's unerring eye for athoroughbred, and Jill Mariner was manifestly that. It showed in herwalk, in every move of her small, active body, in the way she lookedat you, in the way she talked to you, in the little tilt of herresolute chin. Her hair was pale gold, and had the brightness ofcoloring of a child's. Her face glowed, and her gray eyes sparkled.
　　She looked very much alive.
　　It was this aliveness of hers that was her chief charm. Her eyes weregood and her mouth, with its small, even, teeth, attractive, but shewould have laughed if anybody had called her beautiful. She sometimesdoubted if she were even pretty. Yet few men had met her and remainedentirely undisturbed. She had a magnetism. One hapless youth, who hadlaid his heart at her feet and had been commanded to pick it upagain, had endeavored subsequently to explain her attraction (to abosom friend over a mournful bottle of the best in the clubsmoking-room) in these words: "I don't know what it is about her, oldman, but she somehow makes a feller feel she's so damned _interested_in a chap, if you know what I mean." And, though not generallycredited in his circle with any great acuteness, there is no doubtthat the speaker had achieved something approaching a true analysisof Jill's fascination for his sex. She was interested in everythingLife presented to her notice, from a Coronation to a stray cat. Shewas vivid. She had sympathy. She listened to you as though you reallymattered. It takes a man of tough fibre to resist these qualities.
　　Women, on the other hand, especially of the Lady Underhill type, canresist them without an effort.
　　"Go and stir him up," said Jill, alluding to the absent Mr Rooke.
　　"Tell him to come and talk to me. Where's the nearest fire? I want toget right over it and huddle.""The fire's burning nicely in the sitting-room, miss."Jill hurried into the sitting-room, and increased her hold onParker's esteem by exclaiming rapturously at the sight that greetedher. Parker had expended time and trouble over the sitting-room.
　　There was no dust, no untidiness. The pictures all hung straight; thecushions were smooth and unrumpled; and a fire of exactly the rightdimensions burned cheerfully in the grate, flickering cosily on thesmall piano by the couch, on the deep leather arm-chairs whichFreddie had brought with him from Oxford, that home of comfortablechairs, and on the photographs that studded the walls. In the centerof the mantelpiece, the place of honor, was the photograph of herselfwhich she had given Derek a week ago.
　　"You're simply wonderful, Parker! I don't see how you manage to makea room so cosy!" Jill sat down on the club-fender that guarded thefireplace, and held her hands over the blaze. "I can't understand whymen ever marry. Fancy having to give up all this!""I am gratified that you appreciate it, miss. I did my best to makeit comfortable for you. I fancy I hear Mr Rooke coming now.""I hope the others won't be long. I'm starving. Has Mrs Parker gotsomething very good for dinner?""She has strained every nerve, miss.""Then I'm sure it's worth waiting for. Hullo, Freddie."Freddie Rooke, resplendent in evening dress, bustled in, patting histie with solicitous fingers. It had been right when he had looked inthe glass in his bedroom, but you never know about ties. Sometimesthey stay right, sometimes they wiggle up sideways. Life is full ofthese anxieties.
　　"I shouldn't touch it," said Jill. "It looks beautiful, and, if I maysay so in confidence, is having a most disturbing effect on myemotional nature. I'm not at all sure I shall be able to resist itright through the evening. It isn't fair of you to try to alienatethe affections of an engaged young person like this."Freddie squinted down, and became calmer.
　　"Hullo, Jill, old thing. Nobody here yet?""Well, I'm here,--the petite figure seated on the fender. But perhapsI don't count.""Oh, I didn't mean that, you know.""I should hope not, when I've bought a special new dress just tofascinate you. A creation I mean. When they cost as much as this onedid, you have to call them names. What do you think of it?"Freddie seated himself on another section of the fender, and regardedher with the eye of an expert. A snappy dresser, as the technicalterm is, himself, he appreciated snap in the outer covering of theother sex.
　　"Topping!" he said spaciously. "No other word for it! All wool and ayard wide! Precisely as mother makes it! You look like a thingummy.""How splendid! All my life I've wanted to look like a thingummy, butsomehow I've never been able to manage it.""A wood-nymph!" exclaimed Freddie, in a burst of unwonted imagery.
　　"Wood-nymphs didn't wear creations.""Well, you know what I mean!" He looked at her with honestadmiration. "Dash it, Jill, you know, there's something about you!
　　You're--what's the word?--you've got such small bones!""Ugh! I suppose it's a compliment, but how horrible it sounds! Itmakes me feel like a skeleton.""I mean to say, you're--you're dainty!""That's much better.""You look as if you weighed about an ounce and a half! You look likea bit of thistledown! You're a little fairy princess, dash it!""Freddie! This is eloquence!" Jill raised her left hand, and twiddleda ringed finger ostentatiously. "Er--you _do_ realize that I'mbespoke, don't you, and that my heart, alas, is another's? Becauseyou sound as if you were going to propose."Freddie produced a snowy handkerchief, and polished his eye-glass.
　　Solemnity descended on him like a cloud. He looked at Jill with anearnest, paternal gaze.
　　"That reminds me," he said. "I wanted to have, a bit of a talk withyou about that--being engaged and all that sort of thing. I'm glad Igot you alone before the Curse arrived.""Curse? Do you mean Derek's mother? That sounds cheerful andencouraging.""Well, she is, you know," said Freddie earnestly. "She's a bird! Itwould be idle to deny it. She always puts the fear of God into me. Inever know what to say to her.""Why don't you try asking her riddles?""It's no joking matter," persisted Freddie, his amiable faceovercast. "Wait till you meet her! You should have seen her at thestation this morning. You don't know what you're up against!""You make my flesh creep, Freddie. What am I up against?"Freddie poked the fire scientifically, and assisted it with coal.
　　"It's this way," he said. "Of course, dear old Derek's the finestchap in the world.""I know that," said Jill softly. She patted Freddie's hand with alittle gesture of gratitude. Freddie's devotion to Derek was a thingthat always touched her. She looked thoughtfully into the fire, andher eyes seemed to glow in sympathy with the glowing coals. "There'snobody like him!""But," continued Freddie, "he always has been frightfully under hismother's thumb, you know."Jill was conscious of a little flicker of irritation.
　　"Don't be absurd, Freddie. How could a man like Derek be underanybody's thumb?""Well, you know what I mean!""I don't in the least know what you mean.""I mean, it would be rather rotten if his mother set him againstyou."Jill clenched her teeth. The quick temper which always lurked so verylittle beneath the surface of her cheerfulness was stirred. She feltsuddenly chilled and miserable. She tried to tell herself thatFreddie was just an amiable blunderer who spoke without sense orreason, but it was no use. She could not rid herself of a feeling offoreboding and discomfort. It had been the one jarring note in thesweet melody of her love-story, this apprehension of Derek'sregarding his mother. The Derek she loved was a strong man, with astrong man's contempt for other people's criticism; and there hadbeen something ignoble and fussy in his attitude regarding LadyUnderhill. She had tried to feel that the flaw in her idol did notexist. And here was Freddie Rooke, a man who admired Derek with allhis hero-worshipping nature, pointing it out independently. She wasannoyed, and she expended her annoyance, as women will do, upon theinnocent bystander.
　　"Do you remember the time I turned the hose on you, Freddie," shesaid, rising from the fender, "years ago, when we were children, whenyou and that awful Mason boy--what was his name? Wally Mason--teasedme?" She looked at the unhappy Freddie with a hostile eye. It was hisblundering words that had spoiled everything. "I've forgotten what itwas all about, but I know that you and Wally infuriated me and Iturned the garden hose on you and soaked you both to the skin. Well,all I want to point out is that, if you go on talking nonsense aboutDerek and his mother and me, I shall ask Parker to bring me a jug ofwater, and I shall empty it over you! Set him against me! You talk asif love were a thing any third party could come along and turn offwith a tap! Do you suppose that, when two people love each other asDerek and I do, that it can possibly matter in the least what anybodyelse thinks or says, even if it is his mother? I haven't got amother, but suppose Uncle Chris came and warned me against Derek . . ."Her anger suddenly left her as quickly as it had come. That wasalways the way with Jill. One moment later she would be raging; thenext, something would tickle her sense of humor and restore herinstantly to cheerfulness. And the thought of dear, lazy old UncleChris taking the trouble to warn anybody against anything except thewrong brand of wine or an inferior make of cigar conjured up apicture before which wrath melted away. She chuckled, and Freddie,who had been wilting on the fender, perked up.
　　"You're an extraordinary girl, Jill! One never knows when you'regoing to get the wind up.""Isn't it enough to make me get the wind up, as you call it, when yousay absurd things like that?""I meant well, old girl!""That's the trouble with you. You always do mean well. You go aboutthe world meaning well till people fly to put themselves under policeprotection. Besides, what on earth could Lady Underhill find toobject to in me? I've plenty of money, and I'm one of the mostcharming and attractive of Society belles. You needn't take my wordfor that, and I don't suppose you've noticed it, but that's what MrGossip in the _Morning Mirror_ called me when he was writing about mygetting engaged to Derek. My maid showed me the clipping. There wasquite a long paragraph, with a picture of me that looked like a Zuluchieftainess taken in a coal-cellar during a bad fog. Well, afterthat, what could anyone say against me? I'm a perfect prize! I expectLady Underhill screamed with joy when she heard the news and wentsinging all over her Riviera villa.""Yes," said Freddie dubiously. "Yes, yes, oh, quite so, rather!"Jill looked at him sternly.
　　"Freddie, you're concealing something from me! You _don't_ think I'ma charming and attractive Society belle! Tell me why not and I'llshow you where you are wrong. Is it my face you object to, or mymanners, or my figure? There was a young bride of Antigua, who saidto her mate, 'What a pig you are!' Said he, 'Oh, my queen, is itmanners you mean, or do you allude to my fig-u-ar?' Isn't my figuarall right, Freddie?""Oh, _I_ think you're topping.""But for some reason you're afraid that Derek's mother won't thinkso. Why won't Lady Underhill agree with Mr Gossip?"Freddie hesitated.
　　"Speak up!""Well, it's like this. Remember I've known the old devil . . .""Freddie Rooke! Where do you pick up such expressions? Not from me!""Well, that's how I always think of her! I say I've known her eversince I used to go and stop at their place when I was at school, andI know exactly the sort of things that put her back up. She's awhat-d'you-call-it.""I see no harm in that. Why shouldn't the dear old lady be awhat-d'you-call-it? She must do _something_ in her spare time.""I mean to say, one of the old school, don't you know. And you're sodashed impulsive, old girl. You know you are! You are always sayingthings that come into your head.""You can't say a thing unless it comes into your head.""You know what I mean," Freddie went on earnestly, not to be divertedfrom his theme. "You say rummy things and you do rummy things. What Imean to say is, you're impulsive.""What have I ever done that the sternest critic could call rummy?""Well, I've seen you with my own eyes stop in the middle of BondStreet and help a lot of fellows shove along a cart that had gotstuck. Mind you, I'm not blaming you for it . . .""I should hope not. The poor old horse was trying all he knew to getgoing, and he couldn't quite make it. Naturally, I helped.""Oh, I know. Very decent and all that, but I doubt if Lady Underhillwould have thought a lot of it. And you're so dashed chummy with thelower orders.""Don't be a snob, Freddie.""I'm not a snob," protested Freddie, wounded. "When I'm alone withParker--for instance--I'm as chatty as dammit. But I don't askwaiters in public restaurants how their lumbago is.""Have you ever had lumbago?""No.""Well, it's a very painful thing, and waiters get it just as badly asdukes. Worse, I should think, because they're always bending andstooping and carrying things. Naturally one feels sorry for them.""But how do you ever find out that a waiter has _got_ lumbago?""I ask him; of course.""Well, for goodness sake," said Freddie, "if you feel the impulse todo that sort of thing tonight, try and restrain it. I mean to say, ifyou're curious to know anything about Parker's chilblains, forinstance, don't enquire after them while he's handing Lady Underhillthe potatoes! She wouldn't like it."Jill uttered an exclamation.
　　"I knew there was something! Being so cold and wanting to rush in andcrouch over a fire put it clean out of my head. He must be thinkingme a perfect beast!" She ran to the door. "Parker! Parker!"Parker appeared from nowhere.
　　"Yes, miss?""I'm so sorry I forgot to ask before. How are your chilblains?""A good deal better, miss, thank you.""Did you try the stuff I recommended?""Yes, miss. It did them a world of good.""Splendid!"Jill went back into the sitting-room.
　　"It's all right," she said reassuringly. "They're better."She wandered restlessly about the room, looking at the photographs.
　　"What a lot of girls you seem to know, Freddie. Are these all theones you've loved and lost?" She sat down at the piano and touchedthe keys. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the half hour. "I wishto goodness they would arrive," she said.
　　"They'll be here pretty soon, I expect.""It's rather awful," said Jill, "to think of Lady Underhill racingall the way from Mentone to Paris and from Paris to Calais and fromCalais to Dover and from Dover to London simply to inspect me. Youcan't wonder I'm nervous, Freddie."The eye-glass dropped from Freddie's eye.
　　"Are _you_ nervous?" he asked, astonished.
　　"Of course I'm nervous. Wouldn't you be in my place?""Well, I should never have thought it.""Why do you suppose I've been talking such a lot? Why do you imagineI snapped your poor, innocent head off just now? I'm terrifiedinside, terrified!""You don't look it, by Jove!""No, I'm trying to be a little warrior. That's what Uncle Chrisalways used to call me. It started the day when he took me to have atooth out, when I was ten. 'Be a little warrior, Jill!' he keptsaying--'Be a little warrior!' And I was." She looked at the clock.
　　"But I shan't be if they don't get here soon. The suspense is awful."She strummed the keys. "Suppose she _doesn't_ like me, Freddie! Yousee how you've scared me.""I didn't say she wouldn't. I only said you'd got to watch out abit.""Something tells me she won't. My nerve is oozing out of me." Jillshook her head impatiently. "It's all so vulgar! I thought this sortof thing only happened in the comic papers and in music-hall songs.
　　Why, it's just like that song somebody used to sing." She laughed.
　　"Do you remember? I don't know how the verse went, but . . .
　　John took me round to see his mother,his mother,his mother!
　　And when he'd introduced us to each other,She sized up everything that I had on.
　　She put me through a cross-examination:
　　I fairly boiled with aggravation:
　　Then she shook her head,Looked at me and said:
　　'Poor John! Poor John!'
　　"Chorus, Freddie! Let's cheer ourselves up! We need it!"'John took me round to see his mother . . . !
　　"His mo-o-o-other!" croaked Freddie. Curiously enough, this balladwas one of Freddie's favorites. He had rendered it with a good dealof success on three separate occasions at village entertainments downin Worcestershire, and he rather flattered himself that he could getabout as much out of it as the next man. He proceeded to abet Jillheartily with gruff sounds which he was under the impressionconstituted what is known in musical circles as "singing seconds.""His mo-o-o-other!" he growled with frightful scorn.
　　"And when she'd introduced us to each other . . .""O-o-o-other!""She sized up everything that I had on!""Pom-pom-pom!""She put me through a cross-examination . . ."Jill had thrown her head back, and was singing jubilantly at the topof her voice. The appositeness of the song had cheered her up. Itseemed somehow to make her forebodings rather ridiculous, to reducethem to absurdity, to turn into farce the gathering tragedy which hadbeen weighing upon her nerves.
　　"Then she shook her head,Looked at me and said:
　　'Poor John!' . . .""Jill," said a voice at the door. "I want you to meet my mother!""Poo-oo-oor John!" bleated the hapless Freddie, unable to checkhimself.
　　"Dinner," said Parker the valet, appearing at the door and breaking asilence that seemed to fill the room like a tangible presence, "isserved!"
Chapter 2
1.
　　The front-door closed softly behind the theatre-party. Dinner wasover, and Parker had just been assisting the expedition out of theplace. Sensitive to atmosphere, he had found his share in the dinnera little trying. It had been a strained meal, and what he liked was aclatter of conversation and everybody having a good time and enjoyingthemselves.
　　"Ellen!" called Parker, as he proceeded down the passage to the emptydining-room. "Ellen!"Mrs Parker appeared out of the kitchen, wiping her hands. Her workfor the evening, like her husband's, was over. Presently what istechnically called a "useful girl" would come in to wash the dishes,leaving the evening free for social intercourse. Mrs Parker had donewell by her patrons that night, and now she wanted a quiet chat withParker over a glass of Freddie Rooke's port.
　　"Have they gone, Horace?" she asked, following him into thedining-room.
　　Parker selected a cigar from Freddie's humidor, crackled it againsthis ear, smelt it, clipped off the end, and lit it. He took thedecanter and filled his wife's glass, then mixed himself awhisky-and-soda.
　　"Happy days!" said Parker. "Yes, they've gone!""I didn't see her ladyship.""You didn't miss much! A nasty, dangerous specimen, she is! 'Alwaysmerry and bright', I don't think. I wish you'd have had my job ofwaiting on 'em, Ellen, and me been the one to stay in the kitchensafe out of it all. That's all I say! It's no treat to _me_ to 'andthe dishes when the atmosphere's what you might call electric. Ididn't envy them that vol-au-vent of yours, Ellen, good as it smelt.
　　Better a dinner of 'erbs where love is than a stalled ox and 'atredtherewith," said Parker, helping himself to a walnut.
　　"Did they have words?"Parker shook his head impatiently.
　　"That sort don't have words, Ellen. They just sit and goggle.""How did her ladyship seem to hit it off with Miss Mariner, Horace?"Parker uttered a dry laugh.
　　"Ever seen a couple of strange dogs watching each other sort of wary?
　　That was them! Not that Miss Mariner wasn't all that was pleasant andnice-spoken. She's all right, Miss Mariner is. She's a little queen!
　　It wasn't her fault the dinner you'd took so much trouble over wasmore like an evening in the Morgue than a Christian dinner-party. Shetried to help things along best she could. But what with Sir Derekchewing his lip 'alf the time and his mother acting about as matey asa pennorth of ice-cream, she didn't have a chance. As for theguv'nor,-well, I wish you could have seen him, that's all. You know,Ellen, sometimes I'm not altogether easy in my mind about theguv'nor's mental balance. He knows how to buy cigars, and you tell mehis port is good--I never touch it myself--but sometimes he seems tome to go right off his onion. Just sat there, he did, all throughdinner, looking as if he expected the good food to rise up and bitehim in the face, and jumping nervous when I spoke to him. It's not myfault," said Parker, aggrieved. "_I_ can't give gentlemen warningbefore I ask 'em if they'll have sherry or hock. I can't ring a bellor toot a horn to show 'em I'm coming. It's my place to bend over andwhisper in their ear, and they've no right to leap about in theirseats and make me spill good wine. (You'll see the spot close bywhere you're sitting, Ellen. Jogged my wrist, he did!) I'd like toknow why people in the spear of life which these people are in can'tbehave themselves rational, same as we do. When we were walking outand I took you to have tea with my mother, it was one of thepleasantest meals I ever ate. Talk about 'armony! It was alove-feast!""Your ma and I took to each other right from the start, Horace,"said Mrs Parker softly--"That's the difference.""Well, any woman with any sense would take to Miss Mariner. If Itold you how near I came to spilling the sauce-boat accidentallyover that old fossil's head, you'd be surprised, Ellen. She just satthere brooding like an old eagle. If you ask my opinion, MissMariner's a long sight too good for her precious son!""Oh, but Horace! Sir Derek's a baronet!""What of it? Kind 'earts are more than coronets and simple faith thanNorman blood, aren't they?""You're talking Socialism, Horace.""No, I'm not. I'm talking sense. I don't know who Miss Mariner'sparents may have been--I never enquired--but anyone can see she's alady born and bred. But do you suppose the path of true love is goingto run smooth, for all that? Not it! She's got a 'ard time ahead ofher, that poor girl""Horace!" Mrs Parker's gentle heart was wrung. The situation hintedat by her husband was no new one--indeed, it formed the basis of atleast fifty per cent of the stories in the True Heart NoveletteSeries, of which she was a determined reader--but it had never failedto touch her. "Do you think her ladyship means to come between themand wreck their romance?""I think she means to have a jolly good try.""But Sir Derek has his own money, hasn't he? I mean, it's not likewhen Sir Courtenay Travers fell in love with the milk-maid and wasdependent on his mother, the Countess, for everything. Sir Derek canafford to do what he pleases, can't he?"Parker shook his head tolerantly. The excellence of the cigar and thesoothing qualities of the whisky-and-soda had worked upon him, and hewas feeling less ruffled.
　　"You don't understand these things," he said. "Women like herladyship can talk a man into anything and out of anything. I wouldn'tcare, only you can see the poor girl is mad over the feller. What shefinds attractive in him, I can't say, but that's her own affair.""He's very handsome, Horace, with those flashing eyes and that sternmouth," argued Mrs Parker.
　　Parker sniffed.
　　"Have it your own way," he said. "It's no treat to _me_ to see hiseyes flash, and if he'd put that stern mouth of his to some betteruse than advising the guv'nor to lock up the cigars and trouser thekey, I'd be better pleased. If there's one thing I can't stand,"said Parker, "it's not to be trusted!" He lifted his cigar andlooked at it censoriously. "I thought so! Burning all down one side.
　　They will do that if you light 'em careless. Oh, well," hecontinued, rising and going to the humidor, "there's plenty morewhere that came from. Out of evil cometh good," said Parkerphilosophically. "If the guv'nor hadn't been in such a overwroughtstate tonight, he'd have remembered not to leave the key in thekey-hole. Help yourself to another glass of port, Ellen, and let'senjoy ourselves!"2.
　　When one considers how full of his own troubles, how weighed downwith the problems of his own existence the average playgoer generallyis when he enters a theatre, it is remarkable that dramatists everfind it possible to divert and entertain whole audiences for a spaceof several hours. As regards at least three of those who hadassembled to witness its opening performance, the author of "Tried byFire," at the Leicester Theater, undoubtedly had his work cut out forhim.
　　It has perhaps been sufficiently indicated by the remarks of Parker,the valet, that the little dinner at Freddie Rooke's had not been anunqualified success. Searching the records for an adequately gloomyparallel to the taxi-cab journey to the theatre which followed it,one can only think of Napoleon's retreat from Moscow. And yet eventhat was probably not conducted in dead silence. There must have beenmoments when Murat got off a good thing or Ney said something worthhearing about the weather.
　　The only member of the party who was even remotely happy was,curiously enough, Freddie Rooke. Originally Freddie had obtainedthree tickets for "Tried by Fire." The unexpected arrival of LadyUnderhill had obliged him to buy a fourth, separated by several rowsfrom the other three. This, as he had told Derek at breakfast, wasthe seat he proposed to occupy himself.
　　It consoles the philosopher in this hard world to reflect that, evenif man is born to sorrow as the sparks fly upwards, it is stillpossible for small things to make him happy. The thought of beingseveral rows away from Lady Underhill had restored Freddie'sequanimity like a tonic. It thrilled him like the strains of somegrand, sweet anthem all the way to the theatre. If Freddie Rooke hadbeen asked at that moment to define happiness in a few words, hewould have replied that it consisted in being several rows away fromLady Underhill.
　　The theatre was nearly full when Freddie's party arrived. TheLeicester Theatre had been rented for the season by the newesttheatrical knight, Sir Chester Portwood, who had a large following;and, whatever might be the fate of the play in the final issue, itwould do at least one night's business. The stalls were ablaze withjewelry and crackling with starched shirt-fronts; and expensivescents pervaded the air, putting up a stiff battle with the plebeianpeppermint that emanated from the pit. The boxes were filled, and upin the gallery grim-faced patrons of the drama, who had paid theirshillings at the door and intended to get a shilling's-worth ofentertainment in return, sat and waited stolidly for the curtain torise.
　　First nights at the theatre always excited Jill. The depressioninduced by absorbing nourishment and endeavouring to makeconversation in the presence of Lady Underhill left her. The worst,she told herself, had happened. She had met Derek's mother, andDerek's mother plainly disliked her. Well, that, as Parker would havesaid, was that. Now she just wanted to enjoy herself. She loved thetheatre. The stir, the buzz of conversation, the warmth and life ofit, all touched a chord in her which made depression impossible.
　　The lights shot up beyond the curtain. The house-lights dimmed.
　　Conversation ceased. The curtain rose. Jill wriggled herselfcomfortably into her seat, and slipped her hand into Derek's. Shefelt a glow of happiness as it closed over hers. All, she toldherself, was right with the world.
　　All, that is to say, except the drama which was unfolding on thestage. It was one of those plays which start wrong and never recover.
　　By the end of the first ten minutes there had spread through thetheatre that uneasy feeling which comes over the audience at anopening performance when it realises that it is going to be bored. Asort of lethargy had gripped the stalls. The dress-circle wascoughing. Up in the gallery there was grim silence.
　　Sir Chester Portwood was an actor-manager who had made his reputationin light comedy of the tea-cup school. His numerous admirers attendeda first night at his theatre in a mood of comfortable anticipation,assured of something pleasant and frothy with a good deal of brightdialogue and not too much plot. Tonight he seemed to have fallen avictim to that spirit of ambition which intermittently attacksactor-managers of his class, expressing itself in an attempt to provethat, having established themselves securely as light comedians, theycan, like the lady reciter, turn right around and be serious. The onething which the London public felt that it was safe from in aPortwood play was heaviness, and "Tried by Fire" was grievouslyheavy. It was a poetic drama, and the audience, though loth to doanybody an injustice, was beginning to suspect that it was written inblank verse.
　　The acting did nothing to dispel the growing uneasiness. Sir Chesterhimself, apparently oppressed by the weightiness of the occasion andthe responsibility of offering an unfamiliar brand of goods to hispublic, had dropped his customary debonair method of delivering linesand was mouthing his speeches. It was good gargling, but badelocution. And, for some reason best known to himself, he hadentrusted the role of the heroine to a doll-like damsel with a lisp,of whom the audience disapproved sternly from her initial entrance.
　　It was about half-way through the first act that Jill, whoseattention had begun to wander, heard a soft groan at her side. Theseats which Freddie Rooke had bought were at the extreme end of theseventh row. There was only one other seat in the row, and, as Derekhad placed his mother on his left and was sitting between her andJill, the latter had this seat on her right. It had been empty at therise of the curtain, but in the past few minutes a man had slippedsilently into it. The darkness prevented Jill from seeing his face,but it was plain that he was suffering, and her sympathy went out tohim. His opinion of the play so obviously coincided with her own.
　　Presently the first act ended, and the lights went up. There was aspatter of insincere applause from the stalls, echoed in thedress-circle. It grew fainter in the upper circle, and did not reachthe gallery at all.
　　"Well?" said Jill to Derek. "What do you think of it?""Too awful for words," said Derek sternly.
　　He leaned forward to join in the conversation which had startedbetween Lady Underhill and some friends she had discovered in theseats in front; and Jill, turning, became aware that the man on herright was looking at her intently. He was a big man with rough, wiryhair and a humorous mouth. His age appeared to be somewhere in themiddle twenties. Jill, in the brief moment in which their eyes met,decided that he was ugly, but with an ugliness that was ratherattractive. He reminded her of one of those large, loose, shaggy dogsthat break things in drawing-rooms but make admirable companions forthe open road. She had a feeling that he would look better in tweedsin a field than in evening dress in a theatre. He had nice eyes. Shecould not distinguish their color, but they were frank and friendly.
　　All this Jill noted with her customary quickness, and then she lookedaway. For an instant she had had an odd feeling that somewhere shehad met this man or somebody very like him before, but the impressionvanished. She also had the impression that he was still looking ather, but she gazed demurely in front of her and did not attempt toverify the suspicion.
　　Between them, as they sat side by side, there inserted itselfsuddenly the pinkly remorseful face of Freddie Rooke. Freddie, havingskirmished warily in the aisle until it was clear that LadyUnderhill's attention was engaged elsewhere, had occupied a seat inthe row behind which had been left vacant temporarily by an owner wholiked refreshment between the acts. Freddie was feeling deeplyashamed of himself. He felt that he had perpetrated a bloomer of noslight magnitude.
　　"I'm awfully sorry about this," he said penitently. "I mean, ropingyou in to listen to this frightful tosh! When I think I might havegot seats just as well for any one of half a dozen topping musicalcomedies, I feel like kicking myself with some vim. But, honestly,how was I to know? I never dreamed we were going to be let in foranything of this sort. Portwood's plays are usually so dashed brightand snappy and all that. Can't think what he was doing, putting on athing like this. Why, it's blue round the edges!"The man on Jill's right laughed sharply.
　　"Perhaps," he said, "the chump who wrote the piece got away from theasylum long enough to put up the money to produce it."If there is one thing that startles the well-bred Londoner and throwshim off his balance, it is to be addressed unexpectedly by astranger. Freddie's sense of decency was revolted. A voice from thetomb could hardly have shaken him more. All the traditions to whichhe had been brought up had gone to solidify his belief that this wasone of things which didn't happen. Absolutely it wasn't done. Duringan earthquake or a shipwreck and possibly on the Day of Judgment,yes. But only then. At other times, unless they wanted a match or thetime or something, chappies did not speak to fellows to whom they hadnot been introduced. He was far too amiable to snub the man, but togo on with this degrading scene was out of the question. There wasnothing for it but flight.
　　"Oh, ah, yes," he mumbled. "Well," he added to Jill, "I suppose I mayas well be toddling back. See you later and so forth."And with a faint 'Good-bye-ee!' Freddie removed himself, thoroughlyunnerved.
　　Jill looked out of the corner of her eye at Derek. He was stilloccupied with the people in front. She turned to the man on herright. She was not the slave to etiquette that Freddie was. She wasmuch too interested in life to refrain from speaking to strangers.
　　"You shocked him!" she said, dimpling.
　　"Yes. It broke Freddie all up, didn't it!"It was Jill's turn to be startled. She looked at him in astonishment.
　　"Freddie?""That _was_ Freddie Rooke, wasn't it? Surely I wasn't mistaken?""But--do you know him? He didn't seem to know you.""These are life's tragedies. He has forgotten me. My boyhood friend!""Oh, you were at school with him?""No. Freddie went to Winchester, if I remember. I was at Haileybury.
　　Our acquaintance was confined to the holidays. My people lived nearhis people in Worcestershire.""Worcestershire!" Jill leaned forward excitedly. "But _I_ used tolive near Freddie in Worcestershire myself when I was small. I knewhim there when he was a boy. We must have met!""We met all right."Jill wrinkled her forehead. That odd familiar look was in his eyesagain. But memory failed to respond. She shook her head.
　　"I don't remember you," she said. "I'm sorry.""Never mind. Perhaps the recollection would have been painful.""How do you mean, painful?""Well, looking back, I can see that I must have been a veryunpleasant child. I have always thought it greatly to the credit ofmy parents that they let me grow up. It would have been so easy tohave dropped something heavy on me out of a window. They must havebeen tempted a hundred times, but they refrained. Yes, I was a greatpest around the home. My only redeeming point was the way Iworshipped _you_!""What!""Oh, yes. You probably didn't notice it at the time, for I had acurious way of expressing my adoration. But you remain the brightestmemory of a checkered youth."Jill searched his face with grave eyes, then shook her head again.
　　"Nothing stirs?" asked the man sympathetically.
　　"It's too maddening! Why does one forget things?" She reflected. "Youaren't Bobby Morrison?""I am not. What is more, I never was!"Jill dived into the past once more and emerged with anotherpossibility.
　　"Or Charlie--Charlie what was it?--Charlie Field?""You wound me! Have you forgotten that Charlie Field wore velvet LordFauntleroy suits and long golden curls? My past is not smirched withanything like that.""Would I remember your name if you told me?""I don't know. I've forgotten yours. Your surname, that is. Of courseI remember that your Christian name was Jill. It has always seemed tome the prettiest monosyllable in the language." He looked at herthoughtfully. "It's odd how little you've altered in looks. Freddie'sjust the same, too, only larger. And he didn't wear an eye-glass inthose days, though I can see he was bound to later on. And yet I'vechanged so much that you can't place me. It shows what a wearing lifeI must have led. I feel like Rip van Winkle. Old and withered. Butthat may be just the result of watching this play.""It is pretty terrible, isn't it?""Worse than that. Looking at it dispassionately, I find it theextreme, ragged, outermost edge of the limit. Freddie had the correctdescription of it. He's a great critic.""I really do think it's the worst thing I have ever seen.""I don't know what plays you have seen, but I feel you're right.""Perhaps the second act's better," said Jill optimistically.
　　"It's worse. I know that sounds like boasting, but it's true. I feellike getting up and making a public apology.""But . . . Oh!"Jill turned scarlet. A monstrous suspicion had swept over her.
　　"The only trouble is," went on her companion, "that the audiencewould undoubtedly lynch me. And, though it seems improbable just atthe present moment, it may be that life holds some happiness for methat's worth waiting for. Anyway I'd rather not be torn limb fromlimb. A messy finish! I can just see them rending me asunder in aspasm of perfectly justifiable fury. 'She loves me!' Off comes a leg.
　　'She loves me not!' Off comes an arm. No, I think on the whole I'lllie low. Besides, why should I care? Let 'em suffer. It's their ownfault. They _would_ come!"Jill had been trying to interrupt the harangue. She was greatlyconcerned.
　　"Did you _write_ the play?"The man nodded.
　　"You are quite right to speak in that horrified tone. But, betweenourselves and on the understanding that you don't get up and denounceme, I did.""Oh, I'm so sorry!""Not half so sorry as I am, believe me!""I mean, I wouldn't have said . . .""Never mind. You didn't tell me anything I didn't know." The lightsbegan to go down. He rose. "Well, they're off again. Perhaps you willexcuse me? I don't feel quite equal to assisting any longer at thewake. If you want something to occupy your mind during the next act,try to remember my name."He slid from his seat and disappeared. Jill clutched at Derek.
　　"Oh, Derek, it's too awful. I've just been talking to the man whowrote this play, and I told him it was the worst thing I had everseen!""Did you?" Derek snorted. "Well, it's about time somebody told him!"A thought seemed to strike him. "Why, who is he? I didn't know youknew him.""I don't. I don't even know his name.""His name, according to the programme, is John Grant. Never heard ofhim before. Jill, I wish you would not talk to people you don'tknow," said Derek with a note of annoyance in his voice. "You cannever tell who they are.""But . . .""Especially with my mother here. You must be more careful."The curtain rose. Jill saw the stage mistily. From childhood up, shehad never been able to cure herself of an unfortunate sensitivenesswhen sharply spoken to by those she loved. A rebuking world she couldface with a stout heart, but there had always been just one or twopeople whose lightest word of censure could crush her. Her father hadalways had that effect upon her, and now Derek had taken his place.
　　But if there had only been time to explain . . . Derek could notobject to her chatting with a friend of her childhood, even if shehad completely forgotten him and did not remember his name even now.
　　John Grant? Memory failed to produce any juvenile John Grant for herinspection.
　　Puzzling over this problem, Jill missed much of the beginning of thesecond act. Hers was a detachment which the rest of the audiencewould gladly have shared. For the poetic drama, after a bad start,was now plunging into worse depths of dulness. The coughing hadbecome almost continuous. The stalls, supported by the presence oflarge droves of Sir Chester's personal friends, were strugglinggallantly to maintain a semblance of interest, but the pit andgallery had plainly given up hope. The critic of a weekly paper ofsmall circulation, who had been shoved up in the upper circle, grimlyjotted down the phrase "apathetically received" on his programme. Hehad come to the theatre that night in an aggrieved mood, for managersusually put him in the dress-circle. He got out his pencil again.
　　Another phrase had occurred to him, admirable for the opening of hisarticle. "At the Leicester Theatre," he wrote, "where Sir ChesterPortwood presented 'Tried by Fire,' dulness reigned supreme. . . ."But you never know. Call no evening dull till it is over. Howeveruninteresting its early stages may have been, that night was to be asanimated and exciting as any audience could desire,--a night to belooked back to and talked about. For just as the critic of _LondonGossip_ wrote those damning words on his programme, guiding hispencil uncertainly in the dark, a curious yet familiar odor stoleover the house.
　　The stalls got it first, and sniffed. It rose to the dress-circle,and the dress-circle sniffed. Floating up, it smote the silentgallery. And, suddenly, coming to life with a single-mindedabruptness, the gallery ceased to be silent.
　　"Fire!"Sir Chester Portwood, ploughing his way through a long speech,stopped and looked apprehensively over his shoulder. The girl withthe lisp, who had been listening in a perfunctory manner to the longspeech, screamed loudly. The voice of an unseen stage-hand calledthunderously to an invisible "Bill" to cummere quick. And from thescenery on the prompt side there curled lazily across the stage ablack wisp of smoke.
　　"Fire! Fire! Fire!""Just," said a voice at Jill's elbow, "what the play needed!" Themysterious author was back in his seat again.
Chapter 3
1.
　　In these days when the authorities who watch over the welfare of thecommunity have taken the trouble to reiterate encouragingly inprinted notices that a full house can he emptied in three minutes andthat all an audience has to do in an emergency is to walk, not run,to the nearest exit, fire in the theatre has lost a good deal of itsold-time terror. Yet it would be paltering with the truth to say thatthe audience which had assembled to witness the opening performanceof the new play at the Leicester was entirely at its ease. Theasbestos curtain was already on its way down, which should have beenreassuring: but then asbestos curtains never look the part. To thelay eye they seem just the sort of thing that will blaze quickest.
　　Moreover, it had not yet occurred to the man at the switchboard toturn up the house-lights, and the darkness was disconcerting.
　　Portions of the house were taking the thing better than otherportions. Up in the gallery a vast activity was going on. The clatterof feet almost drowned the shouting. A moment before it would haveseemed incredible that anything could have made the occupants of thegallery animated, but the instinct of self-preservation had put newlife into them.
　　The stalls had not yet entirely lost their self-control. Alarm was inthe air, but for the moment they hung on the razor-edge between panicand dignity. Panic urged them to do something sudden and energetic:
　　dignity counselled them to wait. They, like the occupants of thegallery, greatly desired to be outside, but it was bad form to rushand jostle. The men were assisting the women into their cloaks,assuring them the while that it was "all right" and that they mustnot be frightened. But another curl of smoke had crept out justbefore the asbestos curtain completed its descent, and their wordslacked the ring of conviction. The movement towards the exits had notyet become a stampede, but already those with seats nearest the stagehad begun to feel that the more fortunate individuals near the doorswere infernally slow in removing themselves.
　　Suddenly, as if by mutual inspiration, the composure of the stallsbegan to slip. Looking from above, one could have seen a sort ofshudder run through the crowd. It was the effect of every member ofthat crowd starting to move a little more quickly.
　　A hand grasped Jill's arm. It was a comforting hand, the hand of aman who had not lost his head. A pleasant voice backed up its messageof reassurance.
　　"It's no good getting into that mob. You might get hurt. There's nodanger: the play isn't going on."Jill was shaken: but she had the fighting spirit and hated to showthat she was shaken. Panic was knocking at the door of her soul, butdignity refused to be dislodged.
　　"All the same," she said, smiling a difficult smile, "it would benice to get out, wouldn't it?""I was just going to suggest something of that very sort," said theman beside her. "The same thought occurred to me. We can stroll outquite comfortably by our own private route. Come along."Jill looked over her shoulder. Derek and Lady Underhill were mergedinto the mass of refugees. She could not see them. For an instant alittle spasm of pique stung her at the thought that Derek haddeserted her. She groped her way after her companion, and presentlythey came by way of a lower box to the iron pass-door leading to thestage.
　　As it opened, smoke blew through, and the smell of burning wasformidable. Jill recoiled involuntarily.
　　"It's all right," said her companion. "It smells worse than it reallyis. And, anyway, this is the quickest way out."They passed through onto the stage, and found themselves in a worldof noise and confusion compared with which the auditorium which theyhad left had been a peaceful place. Smoke was everywhere. Astage-hand, carrying a bucket, lurched past them, bellowing. Fromsomewhere out of sight on the other side of the stage there came asound of chopping. Jill's companion moved quickly to the switchboard,groped, found a handle, and turned it. In the narrow space betweenthe corner of the proscenium and the edge of the asbestos curtainlights flashed up: and simultaneously there came a sudden diminutionof the noise from the body of the house. The stalls, snatched fromthe intimidating spell of the darkness and able to see each other'sfaces, discovered that they had been behaving indecorously andchecked their struggling, a little ashamed of themselves. The reliefwould be only momentary, but, while it lasted, it postponed panic.
　　"Go straight across the stage," Jill heard her companion say, "outalong the passage and turn to the right, and you'll be at thestage-door. I think, as there seems no one else around to do it, I'dbetter go out and say a few soothing words to the customers.
　　Otherwise they'll be biting holes in each other."He squeezed through the narrow opening in front of the curtain.
　　"Ladies and gentlemen!"Jill remained where she was, leaning with one hand against theswitchboard. She made no attempt to follow the directions he hadgiven her. She was aware of a sense of comradeship, of being withthis man in this adventure. If he stayed, she must stay. To go nowthrough the safety of the stage-door would be abominable desertion.
　　She listened, and found that she could hear plainly in spite of thenoise. The smoke was worse than ever, and hurt her eyes, so that thefigures of the theatre-firemen, hurrying to and fro, seemed likeBrocken specters. She slipped a corner of her cloak across her mouth,and was able to breathe more easily.
　　"Ladies and gentlemen, I assure you that there is absolutely nodanger. I am a stranger to you, so there is no reason why you shouldtake my word, but fortunately I can give you solid proof. If therewere any danger, _I_ wouldn't be here. All that has happened is thatthe warmth of your reception of the play has set a piece of sceneryalight. . . ."A crimson-faced stage-hand, carrying an axe in blackened hands,roared in Jill's ear.
　　"Gerroutofit!"Jill looked at him, puzzled.
　　"'Op it!" shouted the stage-hand. He cast his axe down with aclatter. "Can't you see the place is afire?""But--but I'm waiting for . . ." Jill pointed to where her ally wasstill addressing an audience that seemed reluctant to stop and listento him.
　　The stage-hand squinted out round the edge of the curtain.
　　"If he's a friend of yours, miss, kindly get 'im to cheese it and geta move on. We're clearing out. There's nothing we can do. It's gottoo much of an 'old. In about another two ticks the roof's going todrop on us."Jill's friend came squeezing back through the opening.
　　"Hullo! Still here?" He blinked approvingly at her through the smoke.
　　"You're a little soldier! Well, Augustus, what's on your mind?" Thesimple question seemed to take the stage-hand aback.
　　"Wot's on my mind? I'll tell you wot's on my blinking mind . . .""Don't tell me. Let me guess. I've got it! The place is on fire!"The stage-hand expectorated disgustedly. Flippancy at such a momentoffended his sensibilities.
　　"We're 'opping it," he said.
　　"Great minds think alike! We are hopping it, too.""You'd better! And damn quick!""And, as you suggest, damn quick! You think of everything!"Jill followed him across the stage. Her heart was beating violently.
　　There was not only smoke now, but heat. Across the stage littlescarlet flames were shooting, and something large and hard, unseenthrough the smoke, fell with a crash. The air was heavy with thesmell of burning paint.
　　"Where's Sir Portwood Chester?" enquired her companion of thestage-hand, who hurried beside them.
　　"'Opped it!" replied the other briefly, and coughed raspingly as heswallowed smoke.
　　"Strange," said the man in Jill's ear, as he pulled her along. "Thisway. Stick to me. Strange how the drama anticipates life! At the endof act two there was a scene where Sir Chester had to creep sombrelyout into the night, and now he's gone and done it! Ah!"They had stumbled through a doorway and were out in a narrow passage,where the air, though tainted, was comparatively fresh. Jill drew adeep breath. Her companion turned to the stage-hand and felt in hispocket.
　　"Here, Rollo!" A coin changed hands. "Go and get a drink. You need itafter all this.""Thank you, sir.""Don't mention it. You've saved our lives. Suppose you hadn't come upand told us, and we had never noticed there was a fire! Charredbones, believed to be those of a man and a woman, were found in theruined edifice!"He turned to Jill. "Here's the stage-door. Shall we creep sombrelyout into the night?"The guardian of the stage-door was standing in the entrance of hislittle hutch, plainly perplexed. He was a slow thinker and a manwhose life was ruled by routine: and the events of the evening hadleft him uncertain how to act.
　　"Wot's all this about a fire?" he demanded.
　　Jill's friend stopped.
　　"A fire?" He looked at Jill. "Did you hear anything about a fire?""They all come bustin' past 'ere yelling there's a fire," persistedthe door-man.
　　"By George! Now I come to think of it, you're perfectly right! There_is_ a fire! If you wait here a little longer, you'll get it in thesmall of the back. Take the advice of an old friend who means youwell and vanish. In the inspired words of the lad we've just partedfrom, 'op it!"The stage-door man turned this over in his mind for a space.
　　"But I'm supposed to stay 'ere till eleven-thirty and lock up!" hesaid. "That's what I'm supposed to do. Stay 'ere till eleven-thirtyand lock up! And it ain't but ten-forty-five now.""I see the difficulty," said Jill's companion thoughtfully. "It'swhat you might call an _impasse_. French! Well, Casabianca, I'mafraid I don't see how to help you. It's a matter for your ownconscience. I don't want to lure you from the burning deck: on theother hand, if you stick on here, you'll most certainly be fried onboth sides . . . But, tell me. You spoke about locking up somethingat eleven-thirty. What are you supposed to lock up?""Why, the theatre.""Then that's all right. By eleven-thirty there won't be a theatre. IfI were you, I should leave quietly and unostentatiously now.
　　Tomorrow, if you wish it, and if they've cooled off sufficiently, youcan come and sit on the ruins. Good night!"2.
　　Outside, the air was cold and crisp. Jill drew her warm cloak closer.
　　Round the corner there was noise and shouting. Fire-engines hadarrived. Jill's companion lit a cigarette.
　　"Do you wish to stop and see the conflagration?" he asked.
　　Jill shivered. She was more shaken than she had realized.
　　"I've seen all the conflagration I want.""Same here. Well, it's been an exciting evening. Started slow, Iadmit, but warmed up later! What I seem to need at the moment is arestorative stroll along the Embankment. Do you know, Sir PortwoodChester didn't like the title of my play. He said 'Tried by Fire' wastoo melodramatic. Well, he can't say now it wasn't appropriate."They made their way towards the river, avoiding the street which wasblocked by the crowds and the fire-engines. As they crossed theStrand, the man looked back. A red glow was in the sky.
　　"A great blaze!" he said. "What you might call--in fact what thepapers will call--a holocaust. Quite a treat for the populace.""Do you think they will be able to put it out?""Not a chance. It's got too much of a hold. It's a pity you hadn'tthat garden-hose of yours with you, isn't it!"Jill stopped, wide-eyed.
　　"Garden-hose?""Don't you remember the garden-hose? I do! I can feel that clammyfeeling of the water trickling down my back now!"Memory, always a laggard by the wayside that redeems itself by aneleventh-hour rush, raced back to Jill. The Embankment turned to asunlit garden, and the January night to a July day. She stared athim. He was looking at her with a whimsical smile. It was a smilewhich, pleasant today, had seemed mocking and hostile on thatafternoon years ago. She had always felt then that he was laughing ather, and at the age of twelve she had resented laughter at herexpense.
　　"You surely can't be Wally Mason!""I was wondering when you would remember.""But the programme called you something else,--John something.""That was a cunning disguise. Wally Mason is the only genuine andofficial name. And, by Jove! I've just remembered yours. It wasMariner. By the way,"--he paused for an almost imperceptibleinstant--"is it still?"
Chapter 4
1.
　　Jill was hardly aware that he had asked her a question. She wassuffering that momentary sense of unreality which comes to us whenthe years roll away and we are thrown abruptly hack into the days ofour childhood. The logical side of her mind was quite aware thatthere was nothing remarkable in the fact that Wally Mason, who hadbeen to her all these years a boy in an Eton suit, should now presenthimself as a grown man. But for all that the transformation hadsomething of the effect of a conjuring-trick. It was not only thealteration in his appearance that startled her: it was the amazingchange in his personality. Wally Mason had been the _bete noire_ ofher childhood. She had never failed to look back at the episode ofthe garden-hose with the feeling that she had acted well,that--however she might have strayed in those early days from thestraight and narrow path--in that one particular crisis she had donethe right thing. And now she had taken an instant liking for him.
　　Easily as she made friends, she had seldom before felt so immediatelydrawn to a strange man. Gone was the ancient hostility, and in itsplace a soothing sense of comradeship. The direct effect of this wasto make Jill feel suddenly old. It was as if some link that joinedher to her childhood had been snapped.
　　She glanced down the Embankment. Close by, to the left, WaterlooBridge loomed up, dark and massive against the steel-gray sky, Atram-car, full of home-bound travellers, clattered past over railsthat shone with the peculiarly frostbitten gleam that seems to heraldsnow. Across the river, everything was dark and mysterious, exceptfor an occasional lamp-post and the dim illumination of the wharves.
　　It was a depressing prospect, and the thought crossed her mind thatto the derelicts whose nightly resting-place was a seat on theEmbankment the view must seem even bleaker than it did to herself.
　　She gave a little shiver. Somehow this sudden severance from the olddays had brought with it a forlornness. She seemed to be standingalone in a changed world.
　　"Cold?" said Wally Mason.
　　"A little.""Let's walk."They moved westwards. Cleopatra's Needle shot up beside them, apointing finger. Down on the silent river below, coffin-likerow-boats lay moored to the wall. Through a break in the trees theclock over the Houses of Parliament shone for an instant as ifsuspended in the sky, then vanished as the trees closed in. A distantbarge in the direction of Battersea wailed and was still. It had amournful and foreboding sound. Jill shivered again. It annoyed herthat she could not shake off this quite uncalled-for melancholy, butit withstood every effort. Why she should have felt that a chapter, apleasant chapter, in the book of her life had been closed, she couldnot have said, but the feeling lingered.
　　"Correct me if I am wrong," said Wally Mason, breaking a silence thathad lasted several minutes, "but you seem to me to be freezing inyour tracks. Ever since I came to London I've had a habit of headingfor the Embankment in times of mental stress, but perhaps the middleof winter is not quite the moment for communing with the night. TheSavoy is handy, if we stop walking away from it. I think we mightcelebrate this reunion with a little supper, don't you?"Jill's depression disappeared magically. Her mercurial temperamentasserted itself.
　　"Lights!" she said. "Music!""And food! To an ethereal person like you that remark may seem gross,but I had no dinner.""You poor dear! Why not?""Just nervousness.""Why, of course." The interlude of the fire had caused her to forgethis private and personal connection with the night's events. Her mindwent back to something he had said in the theatre. "Wally--" Shestopped, a little embarrassed. "I suppose I ought to call you MrMason, but I've always thought of you . . .""Wally, if you please, Jill. It's not as though we were strangers. Ihaven't my book of etiquette with me, but I fancy that about elevengallons of cold water down the neck constitutes an introduction. Whatwere you going to say?""It was what you said to Freddie about putting up money. Did youreally?""Put up the money for that ghastly play? I did. Every cent. It wasthe only way to get it put on.""But why . . . ? I forget what I was going to say!""Why did I want it put on? Well, it does seem odd, but I give you myhonest word that until tonight I thought the darned thing amasterpiece. I've been writing musical comedies for the last fewyears, and after you've done that for a while your soul rises upwithin you and says, 'Come, come, my lad! You can do better thanthis!' That's what mine said, and I believed it. Subsequent eventshave proved that Sidney the Soul was pulling my leg!""But--then you've lost a great deal of money?""The hoarded wealth, if you don't mind my being melodramatic for amoment, of a lifetime. And no honest old servitor who dangled me onhis knee as a baby to come along and offer me his savings! They don'tmake servitors like that in America, worse luck. There is a Swedishlady who looks after my simple needs back there, but instinct tellsme that, if I were to approach her on the subject of loosening up forthe benefit of the young master, she would call a cop. Still, I'vegained experience, which they say is just as good as cash, and I'veenough money left to pay the check, at any rate, so come along."* * *In the supper-room of the Savoy Hotel there was, as anticipated, foodand light and music. It was still early, and the theatres had not yetemptied themselves, so that the fog room was as yet but half full.
　　Wally Mason had found a table in the corner, and proceeded to orderwith the concentration of a hungry man.
　　"Forgive my dwelling so tensely on the bill-of-fare," he said, whenthe waiter had gone. "You don't know what it means to one in mycondition to have to choose between poulet en casserole and kidneys ala maitre d'hotel. A man's cross-roads!"Jill smiled happily across the table at him. She could hardly believethat this old friend with whom she had gone through the perils of thenight and with whom she was now about to feast was the sinisterfigure that had cast a shadow on her childhood. He looked positivelyincapable of pulling a little girl's hair--as no doubt he was.
　　"You always were greedy," she commented. "Just before I turned thehose on you, I remember you had made yourself thoroughly disliked bypocketing a piece of my birthday-cake.""Do you remember that?" His eyes lit up and he smiled back at her. Hehad an ingratiating smile. His mouth was rather wide, and it seemedto stretch right across his face. He reminded Jill more than ever ofa big, friendly dog. "I can feel it now,--all squashy in my pocket,inextricably mingled with a catapult, a couple of marbles, a box ofmatches, and some string. I was quite the human general store inthose days. Which reminds me that we have been some time settlingdown to an exchange of our childhood reminiscences, haven't we?""I've been trying to realise that you are Wally Mason. You havealtered so.""For the better?""Very much for the better! You were a horrid little brute. You usedto terrify me. I never knew when you were going to bound out at mefrom behind a tree or something. I remember your chasing me formiles, shrieking at the top of your voice!""Sheer embarrassment! I told you just now how I used to worship you.
　　If I shrieked a little, it was merely because I was shy. I did it tohide my devotion.""You certainly succeeded. I never even suspected it."Wally sighed.
　　"How like life! I never told my love, but let concealment like a wormi' the bud . . .""Talking of worms, you once put one down my back!""No, no," said Wally in a shocked voice. "Not that! I was boisterous,perhaps, but surely always the gentleman.""You did! In the shrubbery. There had been a thunderstorm and . . .""I remember the incident now. A mere misunderstanding. I had donewith the worm, and thought you might be glad to have it.""You were always doing things like that. Once you held me over thepond and threatened to drop me into the water--in the winter! Justbefore Christmas. It was a particularly mean thing to do, because Icouldn't even kick your shins for fear you would let me fall. LuckilyUncle Chris came up and made you stop.""You considered that a fortunate occurrence, did you?" said Wally.
　　"Well, perhaps from your point of view it may have been. I saw thething from a different angle. Your uncle had a whangee with him, andthe episode remains photographically lined on the tablets of my mindwhen a yesterday has faded from its page. My friends sometimes wonderwhat I mean when I say that my old wound troubles me in frostyweather. By the way, how is your uncle?""Oh, he's very well. Just as lazy as ever. He's away at present, downat Brighton.""He didn't strike me as lazy," said Wally thoughtfully. "Dynamicwould express it better. But perhaps I happened to encounter him in amoment of energy.""He doesn't look a day older than he did then.""I'm afraid I don't recall his appearance very distinctly. On theonly occasion on which we ever really foregathered--hobnobbed, so tospeak--he was behind me most of the time. Ah!" The waiter hadreturned with a loaded tray. "The food! Forgive me if I seem a littledistrait for a moment or two. There is man's work before me!""And later on, I suppose, you would like a chop or something to takeaway in your pocket?""I will think it over. Possibly a little soup. My needs are verysimple these days."Jill watched him with a growing sense of satisfaction. There wassomething boyishly engaging about this man. She felt at home withhim. He affected her in much the same way as did Freddie Rooke. Hewas a definite addition to the things that went to make her happy.
　　She liked him particularly for being such a good loser. She hadalways been a good loser herself, and the quality was one which sheadmired. It was nice of him to dismiss from his conversation--andapparently from his thoughts--that night's fiasco and all that itmust have cost him. She wondered how much he had lost. Certainlysomething very substantial. Yet it seemed to trouble him not at all.
　　Jill considered his behavior gallant, and her heart warmed to him.
　　This was how a man ought to take the slings and arrows of outrageousfortune.
　　Wally sighed contentedly, and leaned back in his chair.
　　"An unpleasant exhibition!" he said apologetically. "But unavoidable.
　　And, anyway, I take it that you would prefer to have me well-fed andhappy about the place than swooning on the floor with starvation. Awonderful thing, food! I am now ready to converse intelligently onany subject you care to suggest. I have eaten rose-leaves and am nomore a golden ass, so to speak! What shall we talk about?""Tell me about yourself."Wally beamed.
　　"There is no nobler topic! But what aspect of myself do you wish meto touch on? My thoughts, my tastes, my amusements, my career, orwhat? I can talk about myself for hours. My friends in New York oftencomplain about it bitterly.""New York?" said Jill. "Oh then you live in America?""Yes. I only came over here to see that darned false alarm of a playof mine put on.""Why didn't you put it on in New York?""Too many of the lads of the village know me over there. This was anew departure, you see. What the critics in those parts expect fromme is something entitled 'Wow! Wow!' or 'The Girl from Yonkers'. Itwould have unsettled their minds to find me breaking out in poeticdrama. They are men of coarse fibre and ribald mind and they wouldhave been very funny about it. I thought it wiser to come over hereamong strangers, little thinking that I should sit in the next seatto somebody I had known all my life.""But when did you go to America? And why?""I think it must have been four--five--well, quite a number of yearsafter the hose episode. Probably you didn't observe that I wasn'tstill around, but we crept silently out of the neighborhood roundabout that time and went to live in London." His tone lost itslightness momentarily. "My father died, you know, and that sort ofbroke things up. He didn't leave any too much money, either.
　　Apparently we had been living on rather too expansive a scale duringthe time I knew you. At any rate, I was more or less up against ituntil your father got me a job in an office in New York.""My father!""Yes. It was wonderfully good of him to bother about me. I didn'tsuppose he would have known me by sight, and even if he hadremembered me, I shouldn't have imagined that the memory would havebeen a pleasant one. But he couldn't have taken more trouble if I hadbeen a blood-relation.""That was just like father," said Jill softly.
　　"He was a prince.""But you aren't in the office now?""No. I found I had a knack of writing verses and things, and I wrotea few vaudeville songs. Then I came across a man named Bevan at amusic-publisher's. He was just starting to write music, and we gottogether and turned out some vaudeville sketches, and then a managersent for us to fix up a show that was dying on the road and we hadthe good luck to turn it into a success, and after that it was prettygood going. Managers are just like sheep. They know nothing whateverabout the show business themselves, and they come flocking afteranybody who looks as if he could turn out the right stuff. They neverthink any one any good except the fellow who had the last hit. So,while your luck lasts, you have to keep them off with a stick. Thenyou have a couple of failures, and they skip off after somebody else,till you have another success, and then they all come skipping backagain, bleating plaintively. George Bevan got married the otherday--you probably read about it--he married Lord Marshmoreton'sdaughter. Lucky devil!""Are you married?""No.""You were faithful to my memory?" said Jill with a smile.
　　"I was.""It can't last," said Jill, shaking her head. "One of these daysyou'll meet some lovely American girl and then you'll put a worm downher back or pull her hair or whatever it is you do when you want toshow your devotion, and . . . What are you looking at? Is somethinginteresting going on behind me?"He had been looking past her out into the room.
　　"It's nothing," he said. "Only there's a statuesque old lady abouttwo tables back of you who has been staring at you, with intervalsfor refreshment, for the last five minutes. You seem to fascinateher.""An old lady?""Yes. With a glare! She looks like Dunsany's Bird of the DifficultEye. Count ten and turn carelessly round. There, at that table.
　　Almost behind you.""Good Heavens!" exclaimed Jill.
　　She turned quickly round again.
　　"What's the matter? Do you know her? Somebody you don't want tomeet?""It's Lady Underhill! And Derek's with her!"Wally had been lifting his glass. He put it down rather suddenly.
　　"Derek?" he said.
　　"Derek Underhill. The man I'm engaged to marry."There was a moment's silence.
　　"Oh!" said Wally thoughtfully. "The man you're engaged to marry?
　　Yes, I see!"He raised his glass again, and drank its contents quickly.
　　2.
　　Jill looked at her companion anxiously. Recent events had caused hercompletely to forget the existence of Lady Underhill. She was alwaysso intensely interested in what she happened to be doing at themoment that she often suffered these temporary lapses of memory. Itoccurred to her now,--too late, as usual,--that the Savoy Hotel wasthe last place in London where she should have come to supper withWally. It was the hotel where Lady Underhill was staying. Shefrowned. Life had suddenly ceased to be careless and happy, and hadbecome a problem-ridden thing, full of perplexity andmisunderstandings.
　　"What shall I do?"Wally Mason started at the sound of her voice. He appeared to be deepin thoughts of his own.
　　"I beg your pardon?""What shall I do?""I shouldn't be worried.""Derek will be awfully cross."Wally's good-humored mouth tightened almost imperceptibly.
　　"Why?" he said. "There's nothing wrong in your having supper with anold friend.""N-no," said Jill doubtfully. "But . . .""Derek Underhill," said Wally reflectively. "Is that Sir DerekUnderhill, whose name one's always seeing in the papers?""Derek is in the papers a lot. He's an M.P. and all sorts of things.""Good-looking fellow. Ah, here's the coffee.""I don't want any, thanks.""Nonsense. Why spoil your meal because of this? Do you smoke?""No, thanks.""Given it up, eh? Daresay you're wise. Stunts the growth andincreases the expenses.""Given it up?""Don't you remember sharing one of your father's cigars with mebehind the haystack in the meadow? We cut it in half. I finished myhalf, but I fancy about three puffs were enough for you. Those werehappy days!""That one wasn't! Of course I remember it now. I don't suppose Ishall ever forget it.""The thing was my fault, as usual. I recollect I dared you.""Yes. I always took a dare.""Do you still?""What do you mean?"Wally knocked the ash off his cigarette.
　　"Well," he said slowly, "suppose I were to dare you to get up andwalk over to that table and look your fiancé in the eye and say,'Stop scowling at my back hair! I've a perfect right to be suppingwith an old friend!'--would you do it?""Is he?" said Jill, startled.
　　"Scowling? Can't you feel it on the back of your head?" He drewthoughtfully at his cigarette. "If I were you I should stop that sortof thing at the source. It's a habit that can't be discouraged in ahusband too early. Scowling is the civilized man's substitute forwife-beating."Jill moved uncomfortably in her chair. Her quick temper resented histone. There was a hostility, a hardly veiled contempt in his voicewhich stung her. Derek was sacred. Whoever criticized him, presumed.
　　Wally, a few minutes before a friend and an agreeable companion,seemed to her to have changed. He was once more the boy whom she haddisliked in the old days. There was a gleam in her eyes which shouldhave warned him, but he went on.
　　"I should imagine that this Derek of yours is not one of our leadingsunbeams. Well, I suppose he could hardly be, if that's his motherand there is anything in heredity.""Please don't criticize Derek," said Jill coldly.
　　"I was only saying . . .""Never mind. I don't like it."A slow flush crept over Wally's face. He made no reply, and therefell between them a silence that was like a shadow. Jill sipped hercoffee miserably. She was regretting that little spurt of temper. Shewished she could have recalled the words. Not that it was the actualwords that had torn asunder this gossamer thing, the friendship whichthey had begun to weave like some fragile web: it was her manner, themanner of the princess rebuking an underling. She knew that, if shehad struck him, she could not have offended Wally more deeply. Thereare some men whose ebullient natures enable them to rise unscathedfrom the worst snub. Wally, her intuition told her, was not that kindof man.
　　There was only one way of mending the matter. In these clashes ofhuman temperaments, these sudden storms that spring up out of a clearsky, it is possible sometimes to repair the damage, if thepsychological moment is resolutely seized, by talking rapidly andwith detachment on neutral topics. Words have made the rift, andwords alone can bridge it. But neither Jill nor her companion couldfind words, and the silence lengthened grimly. When Wally spoke, itwas in the level tones of a polite stranger.
　　"Your friends have gone."His voice was the voice in which, when she went on railway journeys,fellow-travellers in the carriage enquired of Jill if she wouldprefer the window up or down. It had the effect of killing herregrets and feeding her resentment. She was a girl who never refuseda challenge, and she set herself to be as frigidly polite and aloofas he.
　　"Really?" she said. "When did they leave?""A moment ago." The lights gave the warning flicker that announcesthe arrival of the hour of closing. In the momentary darkness theyboth rose. Wally scrawled his name across the check which the waiterhad insinuated upon his attention. "I suppose we had better bemoving?"They crossed the room in silence. Everybody was moving in the samedirection. The broad stairway leading to the lobby was crowded withchattering supper-parties. The lights had gone up again.
　　At the cloak-room Wally stopped.
　　"I see Underhill waiting up there," he said casually, "To take youhome, I suppose. Shall we say good-night? I'm staying in the hotel."Jill glanced towards the head of the stairs. Derek was there. He wasalone. Lady Underhill presumably had gone up to her room in theelevator.
　　Wally was holding out his hand. His face was stolid, and his eyesavoided hers.
　　"Good-bye," he said.
　　"Good-bye," said Jill.
　　She felt curiously embarrassed. At this last moment hostility hadweakened, and she was conscious of a desire to make amends. She andthis man had been through much together that night, much that wasperilous and much that was pleasant. A sudden feeling of remorse cameover her.
　　"You'll come and see us, won't you?" she said a little wistfully.
　　"I'm sure my uncle would like to meet you again.""It's very good of you," said Wally, "but I'm afraid I shall be goingback to America at any moment now."Pique, that ally of the devil, regained its slipping grip upon Jill.
　　"Oh? I'm sorry," she said indifferently. "Well, goodbye, then.""Good-bye.""I hope you have a pleasant voyage.""Thanks."He turned into the cloak-room, and Jill went up the stairs to joinDerek. She felt angry and depressed, full of a sense of the futilityof things. People flashed into one's life and out again. Where wasthe sense of it?
　　3.
　　Derek had been scowling, and Derek still scowled. His eyebrows wereformidable, and his mouth smiled no welcome at Jill as she approachedhim. The evening, portions of which Jill had found so enjoyable, hadcontained no pleasant portions for Derek. Looking back over alifetime whose events had been almost uniformly agreeable, he toldhimself that he could not recall another day which had gone socompletely awry. It had started with the fog. He hated fog. Then hadcome that meeting with his mother at Charing Cross, which had beenenough to upset him by itself. After that, rising to a crescendo ofunpleasantness, the day had provided that appalling situation at theAlbany, the recollection of which still made him tingle; and therehad followed the silent dinner, the boredom of the early part of theplay, the fire at the theatre, the undignified scramble for theexits, and now this discovery of the girl whom he was engaged tomarry supping at the Savoy with a fellow he didn't remember everhaving seen in his life. All these things combined to induce in Dereka mood bordering on ferocity. His birth and income, combining to makehim one of the spoiled children of the world, had fitted him ill forsuch a series of catastrophes.
　　Breeding counts. Had he belonged to a lower order of society, Derekwould probably have seized Jill by the throat and started to chokeher. Being what he was, he merely received her with frozen silenceand led her out to the waiting taxi-cab. It was only when the cab hadstarted on its journey that he found relief in speech.
　　"Well," he said, mastering with difficulty an inclination to raisehis voice to a shout, "perhaps you will kindly explain?"Jill had sunk back against the cushions of the cab. The touch of hisbody against hers always gave her a thrill, half pleasurable, halffrightening. She had never met anybody who affected her in this wayas Derek did. She moved a little closer, and felt for his hand. But,as she touched it, it retreated--coldly. Her heart sank. It was likebeing cut in public by somebody very dignified.
　　"Derek, darling!" Her lips trembled. Others had seen this side ofDerek Underhill frequently, for he was a man who believed in keepingthe world in its place, but she never. To her he had always been theperfect gracious knight. A little too perfect, perhaps, a trifle toogracious, possibly, but she had been too deeply in love to noticethat. "Don't be cross!"The English language is the richest in the world, and yet somehow inmoments when words count most we generally choose the wrong ones. Theadjective "cross" as a description of his Jove-like wrath thatconsumed his whole being jarred upon Derek profoundly. It was asthough Prometheus, with the vultures tearing his liver, had beenasked if he were piqued.
　　"Cross!"The cab rolled on. Lights from lamp-posts flashed in at the windows.
　　It was a pale, anxious little face that they lit up when they shoneupon Jill.
　　"I can't understand you," said Derek at last. Jill noticed that hehad not yet addressed her by her name. He was speaking straight outin front of him as if he were soliloquizing. "I simply cannotunderstand you. After what happened before dinner tonight, for you tocap everything by going off alone to supper at a restaurant, wherehalf the people in the room must have known you, with a man . . .""You don't understand!""Exactly! I said I did not understand." The feeling of having scoreda point made Derek feel a little better. "I admit it. Your behavioris incomprehensible. Where did you meet this fellow?""I met him at the theatre. He was the author of the play.""The man you told me you had been talking to? The fellow who scrapedacquaintance with you between the acts?""But I found out he was an old friend. I mean, I knew him when I wasa child.""You didn't tell me that,""I only found it out later.""After he had invited you to supper! It's maddening!" cried Derek,the sense of his wrongs surging back over him. "What do you supposemy mother thought? She asked me who the man with you was. I had tosay I didn't know! What do you suppose she thought?"It is to be doubted whether anything else in the world could haverestored the fighting spirit to Jill's cowering soul at that moment:
　　but the reference to Lady Underhill achieved this miracle. That deepmutual antipathy which is so much more common than love at firstsight had sprung up between the two at the instant of their meeting.
　　The circumstances of that meeting had caused it to take root andgrow. To Jill Derek's mother was by this time not so much a fellowhuman being whom she disliked as a something, a sort of force, thatmade for her unhappiness. She was a menace and a loathing.
　　"If your mother had asked me that question," she retorted with spirit"I should have told her that he was the man who got me safely out ofthe theatre after you . . ." She checked herself. She did not want tosay the unforgiveable thing. "You see," she said, more quietly, "youhad disappeared. . . .""My mother is an old woman," said Derek stiffly. "Naturally I had tolook after her. I called to you to follow.""Oh, I understand. I'm simply trying to explain what happened. I wasthere all alone, and Wally Mason . . .""Wally!" Derek uttered a short laugh, almost a bark. "It got toChristian names, eh?"Jill set her teeth.
　　"I told you I knew him as a child. I always called him Wally then.""I beg your pardon. I had forgotten.""He got me out through the pass-door onto the stage and through thestage-door."Derek was feeling cheated. He had the uncomfortable sensation thatcomes to men who grandly contemplate mountains and . . . see themdwindle to mole-hills. The apparently outrageous had shown itself inexplanation nothing so out-of-the-way after all. He seized upon thesingle point in Jill's behavior that still constituted a grievance.
　　"There was no need for you to go to supper with the man!" Jove-likewrath had ebbed away to something deplorably like a querulousgrumble. "You should have gone straight home. You must have known howanxious I would be about you.""Well, really, Derek, dear! You didn't seem so very anxious! You werehaving supper yourself quite cosily."The human mind is curiously constituted. It is worthy of record that,despite his mother's obvious disapproval of his engagement, despiteall the occurrences of this dreadful day, it was not till she madethis remark that Derek Underhill first admitted to himself that,intoxicate his senses as she might, there was a possibility that JillMariner was not the ideal wife for him. The idea came and went morequickly than breath upon a mirror. It passed, but it had been. Thereare men who fear repartee in a wife more keenly than a sword. Derekwas one of these. Like most men of single outlook, whose dignity istheir most precious possession, he winced from an edged tongue.
　　"My mother was greatly upset," he replied coldly. "I thought a cup ofsoup would do her good. And, as for being anxious about you, Itelephoned to your home to ask if you had come in.""And when," thought Jill, "they told you I hadn't, you went off tosupper!"She did not speak the words. If she had an edged tongue, she had alsothe control of it. She had no wish to wound Derek. Whole-hearted ineverything she did, she loved him with her whole heart. There mightbe specks upon her idol--that its feet might be clay she could neverbelieve--but they mattered nothing. She loved him.
　　"I'm so sorry, dear," she said. "So awfully sorry! I've been a badgirl, haven't I?"She felt for his hand again, and this time he allowed it to remainstiffly in her grasp. It was like being grudgingly recognized bysomebody very dignified who had his doubts about you but reservedjudgment.
　　The cab drew up at the door of the house in Ovington Square whichJill's Uncle Christopher had settled upon as a suitable address for agentleman of his standing. ("In a sense, my dear child I admit, it isBrompton Road, but it opens into Lennox Gardens, which makes it toall intents and purposes Sloane Street") Jill put up her face to bekissed, like a penitent child.
　　"I'll never be naughty again!"For a flickering instant Derek hesitated. The drive, long as it was,had been too short wholly to restore his equanimity. Then the senseof her nearness, her sweetness, the faint perfume of her hair, andher eyes, shining softly in the darkness so close to his own,overcame him. He crushed her to him.
　　Jill disappeared into the house with a happy laugh. It had been aterrible day, but it had ended well.
　　"The Albany," said Derek to the cabman.
　　He leaned back against the cushions. His senses were in a whirl. Thecab rolled on. Presently his exalted mood vanished as quickly as ithad come. Jill absent always affected him differently from Jillpresent. He was not a man of strong imagination, and the stimulus ofher waned when she was not with him. Long before the cab reached theAlbany the frown was back on his face.
　　4.
　　Arriving at the Albany, he found Freddie Rooke lying on his spine ina deep arm-chair. His slippered feet were on the mantelpiece, and hewas restoring his wasted tissues with a strong whisky-and-soda. Oneof the cigars which Parker, the valet, had stamped with the seal ofhis approval was in the corner of his mouth. _The Sporting Times_,with a perusal of which he had been soothing his fluttered nerves,had fallen on the floor beside the chair. He had finished reading,and was now gazing peacefully at the ceiling, his mind a perfectblank. There was nothing the matter with Freddie.
　　"Hullo, old thing," he observed as Derek entered. "So you buzzed outof the fiery furnace all right? I was wondering how you had gotalong. How are you feeling? I'm not the man I was! These things getthe old system all stirred up! I'll do anything in reason to obligeand help things along and all that, but to be called on at a moment'snotice to play Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego rolled into one,without rehearsal or make-up, is a bit too thick! No, youngfeller-me-lad! If theatre-fires are going to be the fashion thisseason, the Last of the Rookes will sit quietly at home and playsolitaire. Mix yourself a drink of something, old man, or somethingof that kind. By the way, your jolly old mater. All right? Not evensinged? Fine! Make a long arm and gather in a cigar."And Freddie, having exerted himself to play the host in a suitablemanner, wedged himself more firmly into his chair and blew a cloud ofsmoke.
　　Derek sat down. He lit a cigar, and stared silently at the fire. Fromthe mantelpiece Jill's photograph smiled down, but he did not look atit. Presently his attitude began to weigh upon Freddie. Freddie hadhad a trying evening. What he wanted just now was merry prattle, andhis friend did not seem disposed to contribute his share. He removedhis feet from the mantelpiece, and wriggled himself sideways, so thathe could see Derek's face. Its gloom touched him. Apart from hisadmiration for Derek, he was a warm-hearted young man, andsympathized with affliction when it presented itself to his notice.
　　"Something on your mind, old bean?" he enquired delicately.
　　Derek did not answer for a moment. Then he reflected that, little ashe esteemed the other's mentality, he and Freddie had known eachother a long time, and that it would be a relief to confide in someone. And Freddie, moreover, was an old friend of Jill and the man whohad introduced him to her.
　　"Yes," he said.
　　"I'm listening, old top," said Freddie. "Release the film."Derek drew at his cigar, and watched the smoke as it curled to theceiling.
　　"It's about Jill."Freddie signified his interest by wriggling still further sideways.
　　"Jill, eh?""Freddie, she's so damned impulsive!"Freddie nearly rolled out of his chair. This, he took it, was whatwriting-chappies called a coincidence.
　　"Rummy you should say that," he ejaculated. "I was telling herexactly the same thing myself only this evening." He hesitated. "Ifancy I can see what you're driving at, old thing. The watchword is'What ho, the mater!' yes, no? You've begun to get a sort of ideathat if Jill doesn't watch her step, she's apt to sink pretty low inthe betting, what? I know exactly what you mean! You and I know allright that Jill's a topper. But one can see that to your mater shemight seem a bit different. I mean to say, your jolly old mater onlyjudging by first impressions, and the meeting not having come offquite as scheduled . . . I say, old man," he broke off, "fearfullysorry and all that about that business. You know what I mean!
　　Wouldn't have had it happen for the world. I take it the mater was atrifle peeved? Not to say perturbed and chagrined? I seemed to noticeat dinner.""She was furious, of course. She did not refer to the matter when wewere alone together, but there was no need to. I knew what she wasthinking."Derek threw away his cigar. Freddie noted this evidence of anoverwrought soul--the thing was only a quarter smoked, and it was adashed good brand, mark you--with concern.
　　"The whole thing," he conceded, "was a bit unfortunate."Derek began to pace the room.
　　"Freddie!""On the spot, old man!""Something's got to be done!""Absolutely!" Freddie nodded solemnly. He had taken this mattergreatly to heart. Derek was his best friend, and he had always beenextremely fond of him. It hurt him to see things going wrong. "I'lltell you what, old bean. Let me handle this binge for you.""You?""Me! The Final Rooke!" He jumped up, and leaned against themantelpiece. "I'm the lad to do it. I've known Jill for years. She'lllisten to me. I'll talk to her like a Dutch uncle and make herunderstand the general scheme of things. I'll take her out to teatomorrow and slang her in no uncertain voice! Leave the whole thingto me, laddie!"Derek considered.
　　"It might do some good," he said.
　　"Good?" said Freddie. "It's _it_, dear boy! It's a wheeze! You toddleoff to bed and have a good sleep. I'll fix the whole thing for you!"
Chapter 5
1.
　　There are streets in London into which the sun seems never topenetrate. Some of these are in fashionable quarters, and it is to besupposed that their inhabitants find an address which looks well onnote-paper a sufficient compensation for the gloom that goes with it.
　　The majority, however, are in the mean neighborhoods of the greatrailway termini, and appear to offer no compensation whatever. Theyare lean, furtive streets, gray as the January sky with a sort ofarrested decay. They smell of cabbage and are much prowled over byvagrom cats. At night they are empty and dark, and a stillness broodson them, broken only by the cracked tingle of an occasional pianoplaying one of the easier hymns, a form of music to which thedwellers in the dingy houses are greatly addicted. By day theyachieve a certain animation through the intermittent appearance ofwomen in aprons, who shake rugs out of the front doors or, emergingfrom areas, go down to the public-house on the corner with jugs tofetch the supper-beer. In almost every ground-floor window there is acard announcing that furnished lodgings may be had within. You willfind these streets by the score if you leave the main thoroughfaresand take a short cut on your way to Euston, to Paddington, or toWaterloo. But the dingiest and deadliest and most depressing lieround about Victoria. And Daubeny Street, Pimlico, is one of theworst of them all.
　　On the afternoon following the events recorded, a girl was dressingin the ground-floor room of Number Nine, Daubeny Street. A traybearing the remains of a late breakfast stood on the rickety tablebeside a bowl of wax flowers. From beneath the table peered the greencover of a copy of _Variety_. A gray parrot in a cage by the windowcracked seed and looked out into the room with a satirical eye. Hehad seen all this so many times before,--Nelly Bryant arrayingherself in her smartest clothes to go out and besiege agents in theiroffices off the Strand. It happened every day. In an hour or two shewould come back as usual, say "Oh, Gee!" in a tired sort of voice,and then Bill the parrot's day proper would begin. He was a bird wholiked the sound of his own voice, and he never got the chance of areally sustained conversation till Nelly returned in the evening.
　　"Who cares?" said Bill, and cracked another seed.
　　If rooms are an indication of the characters of their occupants,Nelly Bryant came well out of the test of her surroundings. Nothingcan make a London furnished room much less horrible than it intendsto be, but Nelly had done her best. The furniture, what there was ofit, was of that lodging-house kind which resembles nothing else inthe world. But a few little touches here and there, a fewinstinctively tasteful alterations in the general scheme of things,had given the room almost a cosy air. Later on, with the gas lit, itwould achieve something approaching homeiness. Nelly, like manyanother nomad, had taught herself to accomplish a good deal with poormaterial. On the road in America, she had sometimes made even abedroom in a small hotel tolerably comfortable, than which there isno greater achievement. Oddly, considering her life, she had a geniusfor domesticity.
　　Today, not for the first time, Nelly was feeling unhappy. The facethat looked back at her out of the mirror at which she was arrangingher most becoming hat was weary. It was only a moderately prettyface, but loneliness and underfeeding had given it a wistfulexpression that had charm. Unfortunately, it was not the sort ofcharm which made a great appeal to the stout, whisky-nourished menwho sat behind paper-littered tables, smoking cigars, in the roomsmarked "Private" in the offices of theatrical agents. Nelly had beenout of a "shop" now for many weeks,--ever since, in fact, "Follow theGirl" had finished its long ran at the Regal Theatre.
　　"Follow the Girl," an American musical comedy, had come over from NewYork with an American company, of which Nelly had been a humble unit,and, after playing a year in London and some weeks in the number onetowns, had returned to New York. It did not cheer Nelly up in thelong evenings in Daubeny Street to reflect that, if she had wished,she could have gone home with the rest of the company. A mad impulsehad seized her to try her luck in London, and here she was now,marooned.
　　"Who cares?" said Bill.
　　For a bird who enjoyed talking he was a little limited in his remarksand apt to repeat himself.
　　"I do, you poor fish!" said Nelly, completing her maneuvers with thehat and turning to the cage. "It's all right for you--you have aswell time with nothing to do but sit there and eat seed--but how doyou suppose I enjoy tramping around, looking for work and neverfinding any?"She picked up her gloves. "Oh, well!" she said. "Wish me luck!""Good-bye, boy!" said the parrot, clinging to the bars.
　　Nelly thrust a finger into the cage and scratched his head.
　　"Anxious to get rid of me, aren't you? Well, so long.""Good-bye, boy!""All right, I'm going. Be good!""Woof-woof-woof!" barked Bill the parrot, not committing himself toany promises.
　　For some moments after Nelly had gone he remained hunched on hisperch, contemplating the infinite. Then he sauntered along to theseed-box and took some more light nourishment. He always liked tospread his meals out, to make them last longer. A drink of water towash the food down, and he returned to the middle of the cage, wherehe proceeded to conduct a few intimate researches with his beak underhis left wing. After which he mewed like a cat, and relapsed intosilent meditation once more. He closed his eyes and pondered on hisfavorite problem--Why was he a parrot? This was always good for anhour or so, and it was three o'clock before he had come to hiscustomary decision that he didn't know. Then, exhausted by brain-workand feeling a trifle hipped by the silence of the room, he lookedabout him for some way of jazzing existence up a little. It occurredto him that if he barked again it might help.
　　"Woof-woof-woof!"Good as far as it went, but it did not go far enough. It was not realexcitement. Something rather more dashing seemed to him to beindicated. He hammered for a moment or two on the floor of his cage,ate a mouthful of the newspaper there, and stood with his head on oneside, chewing thoughtfully. It didn't taste as good as usual. Hesuspected Nelly of having changed his _Daily Mail_ for the _DailyExpress_ or something. He swallowed the piece of paper, and wasstruck by the thought that a little climbing exercise might be whathis soul demanded. (You hang on by your beak and claws and work yourway up to the roof. It sounds tame, but it's something to do.) Hetried it. And, as he gripped the door of the cage, it swung open.
　　Bill the parrot now perceived that this was going to be one of thosedays. He had not had a bit of luck like this for months.
　　For awhile he sat regarding the open door. Unless excited by outsideinfluences, he never did anything in a hurry. Then proceedingcautiously, he passed out into the room. He had been out therebefore, but always chaperoned by Nelly. This was something quitedifferent. It was an adventure. He hopped onto the window-sill. Therewas a ball of yellow wool there, but he had lunched and could eatnothing. He cast around in his mind for something to occupy him, andperceived suddenly that the world was larger than he had supposed.
　　Apparently there was a lot of it outside the room. How long this hadbeen going on, he did not know, but obviously it was a thing to beinvestigated. The window was open at the bottom, and just outside thewindow were what he took to be the bars of another and larger cage.
　　As a matter of fact they were the railings which afforded a modestprotection to Number Nine. They ran the length of the house, and weremuch used by small boys as a means of rattling sticks. One of thesestick-rattlers passed as Bill stood there looking down. The noisestartled him for a moment, then he seemed to come to the conclusionthat this sort of thing was to be expected if you went out into thegreat world and that a parrot who intended to see life must not allowhimself to be deterred by trifles. He crooned a little, and finally,stepping in a stately way over the window-sill, with his toes turnedin at right angles, caught at the top of the railing with his beak,and proceeded to lower himself. Arrived at the level of the street,he stood looking out.
　　A dog trotted up, spied him, and came to sniff.
　　"Good-bye, boy!" said Bill chattily.
　　The dog was taken aback. Hitherto, in his limited experience, birdshad been birds and men men. Here was a blend of the two. What was tobe done about it? He barked tentatively, then, finding that nothingdisastrous ensued, pushed his nose between two of the bars and barkedagain. Any one who knew Bill could have told him that he was askingfor it, and he got it. Bill leaned forward and nipped his nose. Thedog started back with a howl of agony. He was learning something newevery minute.
　　"Woof-woof-woof!" said Bill sardonically.
　　He perceived trousered legs, four of them, and, cocking his eyeupwards, saw that two men of the lower orders stood before him. Theywere gazing down at him in the stolid manner peculiar to theproletariat of London in the presence of the unusual. For someminutes they stood drinking him in, then one of them gave judgment.
　　"It's a parrot!" He removed a pipe from his mouth and pointed withthe stem. "A perishin' parrot, that is, Erb.""Ah!" said Erb, a man of few words.
　　"A parrot," proceeded the other. He was seeing clearer into thematter every moment. "That's a parrot, that is, Erb. My brother Joe'swife's sister 'ad one of 'em. Come from abroad, _they_ do. My brotherJoe's wife's sister 'ad one of 'em. Red-'aired gel she was. Married afeller down at the Docks. _She_ 'ad one of 'em. Parrots they'recalled."He bent down for a closer inspection, and inserted a finger throughthe railings. Erb abandoned his customary taciturnity and spoke wordsof warning.
　　"Tike care 'e don't sting yer, 'Enry!"Henry seemed wounded.
　　"Woddyer mean sting me? I know all abart parrots, I do. My brotherJoe's wife's sister 'ad one of 'em. They don't 'urt yer, not ifyou're kind to 'em. You know yer pals when you see 'em, don't yer,mate?" he went on, addressing Bill, who was contemplating the fingerwith one half-closed eye.
　　"Good-bye, boy," said the parrot, evading the point.
　　"Jear that?" cried Henry delightedly. "Goo'-bye, boy!' 'Uman theyare!""'E'll 'ave a piece out of yer finger," warned Erb, the suspicious.
　　"Wot, 'im!" Henry's voice was indignant. He seemed to think that hisreputation as an expert on parrots had been challenged. "'E wouldn't'ave no piece out of my finger.""Bet yer a narf-pint 'e would 'ave a piece out of yer finger,"persisted the skeptic.
　　"No blinkin' parrot's goin' to 'ave no piece of no finger of mine! Mybrother Joe's wife's sister's parrot never 'ad no piece out of nofinger of mine!" He extended the finger further and waggled itenticingly beneath Bill's beak. "Cheerio, matey!" he said winningly.
　　"Polly want a nut?"Whether it was mere indolence or whether the advertised docility ofthat other parrot belonging to Henry's brother's wife's sister hadcaused him to realize that there was a certain standard of goodconduct for his species one cannot say: but for awhile Bill merelycontemplated temptation with a detached eye.
　　"See!" said Henry.
　　"Woof-woof-woof!" said Bill.
　　"_Wow-Wow-Wow!_" yapped the dog, suddenly returning to the scene andgoing on with the argument at the point where he had left off.
　　The effect on Bill was catastrophic. Ever a high-strung bird, he lostcompletely the repose which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere and thebetter order of parrot. His nerves were shocked, and, as always undersuch conditions, his impulse was to bite blindly. He bit, andHenry--one feels sorry for Henry: he was a well-meaning man--leapedback with a loud howl.
　　"That'll be 'arf a pint," said Erb, always the business man.
　　There was a lull in the rapid action. The dog, mumbling softly tohimself, had moved away again and was watching affairs from the edgeof the sidewalk. Erb, having won, his point, was silent once more.
　　Henry sucked his ringer. Bill, having met the world squarely andshown it what was what, stood where he was, whistling nonchalantly.
　　Henry removed his finger from his mouth. "Lend me the loan of thatstick of yours, Erb," he said tensely.
　　Erb silently yielded up the stout stick which was his inseparablecompanion. Henry, a vastly different man from the genial saunterer ofa moment ago, poked wildly through the railings. Bill, panic-strickennow and wishing for nothing better than to be back in his cosy cage,shrieked loudly for help. And Freddie Rooke, running the corner withJill, stopped dead and turned pale.
　　"Good God!" said Freddie.
　　2.
　　In pursuance of his overnight promise to Derek, Freddie Rooke had gotin touch with Jill through the medium of the telephone immediatelyafter breakfast, and had arranged to call at Ovington Square in theafternoon. Arrived there, he found Jill with a telegram in her hand.
　　Her Uncle Christopher, who had been enjoying a breath of sea-air downat Brighton, was returning by an afternoon train, and Jill hadsuggested that Freddie should accompany her to Victoria, pick upUncle Chris, and escort him home. Freddie, whose idea had been a_tete-a-tete_ involving a brotherly lecture on impetuosity, haddemurred but had given way in the end; and they had set out to walkto Victoria together. Their way had lain through Daubeny Street, andthey turned the corner just as the brutal onslaught on the innocentHenry had occurred. Bill's shrieks, which were of an appallingtimbre, brought them to a halt.
　　"What is it?" cried Jill.
　　"It sounds like a murder!""Nonsense!""I don't know, you know this is the sort of street chappies aremurdering people in all the time."They caught sight of the group in front of them, and were reassured.
　　Nobody could possibly be looking so aloof and distrait as Erb, ifthere were a murder going on.
　　"It's a bird!""It's a jolly old parrot. See it? Just inside the railings."A red-hot wave of rage swept over Jill. Whatever her defects,--andalready this story has shown her far from perfect,--she had theexcellent quality of loving animals and blazing into fury when shesaw them ill-treated. At least three draymen were going about Londonwith burning ears as the result of what she had said to them ondiscovering them abusing their patient horses. Zoologically, Bill theparrot was not an animal, but he counted as one with Jill, and shesped down Daubeny Street to his rescue,--Freddie, spatted and hattedand trousered as became the man of fashion, following disconsolately,ruefully aware that he did not look his best sprinting like that. ButJill was cutting out a warm pace, and he held his hat on with oneneatly-gloved hand and did what he could to keep up.
　　Jill reached the scene of battle, and, stopping, eyed Henry with abaleful glare. We, who have seen Henry in his calmer moments and knowhim for the good fellow he was, are aware that he was more sinnedagainst than sinning. If there is any spirit of justice in us, we arepro-Henry. In his encounter with Bill the parrot, Henry undoubtedlyhad right on his side. His friendly overtures, made in the bestspirit of kindliness, had been repulsed. He had been severely bitten.
　　And he had lost half a pint of beer to Erb. As impartial judges wehave no other course before us than to wish Henry luck and bid him goto it. But Jill, who had not seen the opening stages of the affair,thought far otherwise. She merely saw in Henry a great brute of a manpoking at a defenceless bird with a stick.
　　She turned to Freddie, who had come up at a gallop and was wonderingwhy the deuce this sort of thing happened to him out of a city of sixmillions.
　　"Make him stop, Freddie!""Oh, I say you know, what!""Can't you see he's hurting the poor thing? Make him leave off!
　　Brute!" she added to Henry (for whom one's heart bleeds), as hejabbed once again at his adversary.
　　Freddie stepped reluctantly up to Henry, and tapped him on theshoulder. Freddie was one of those men who have a rooted idea that aconversation of this sort can only be begun by a tap on the shoulder.
　　"Look here, you know, you can't do this sort of thing, you know!"said Freddie.
　　Henry raised a scarlet face.
　　"'Oo are _you?_" he demanded.
　　This attack from the rear, coming on top of his other troubles, triedhis restraint sorely,"Well--" Freddie hesitated. It seemed silly to offer the fellow oneof his cards. "Well, as a matter of fact, my name's Rooke . . .""And who," pursued Henry, "arsked _you_ to come shoving your ugly mugin 'ere?""Well, if you put it that way . . .""'E comes messing abart," said Henry complainingly, addressing theuniverse, "and interfering in what don't concern 'im and muckingaround and interfering and messing abart. . . . Why," he broke off ina sudden burst of eloquence, "I could eat two of you for a relish wivme tea, even if you 'ave got white spats!"Here Erb, who had contributed nothing to the conversation, remarked"Ah!" and expectorated on the sidewalk. The point, one gathers,seemed to Erb well taken. A neat thrust, was Erb's verdict.
　　"Just because you've got white spats," proceeded Henry, on whosesensitive mind these adjuncts of the costume of the well-dressed manabout town seemed to have made a deep and unfavorable impression,"you think you can come mucking around and messing abart andinterfering and mucking around. This bird's bit me in the finger, and'ere's the finger, if you don't believe me--and I'm going to twist'is ruddy neck, if all the perishers with white spats in London comemessing abart and mucking around, so you I take them white spats ofyours 'ome and give 'em to the old woman to cook for your Sundaydinner!"And Henry, having cleansed his stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuffwhich weighs upon the heart, shoved the stick energetically once morethrough the railings.
　　Jill darted forward. Always a girl who believed that, if you want athing well done, you must do it yourself, she had applied to Freddiefor assistance merely as a matter of form. All the time she had feltthat Freddie was a broken reed, and such he had proved himself.
　　Freddie's policy in this affair was obviously to rely on the magic ofspeech, and any magic his speech might have had was manifestly offsetby the fact that he was wearing white spats and that Henry,apparently, belonged to some sort of league or society which had forits main object the discouragement of white spats. It was plainly nogood leaving the conduct of the campaign to Freddie. Whatever was tobe done must be done by herself. She seized the stick and wrenched itout of Henry's hand.
　　"Woof-woof-woof!" said Bill the parrot.
　　No dispassionate auditor could have failed to detect the nasty ringof sarcasm. It stung Henry. He was not normally a man who believed inviolence to the gentler sex outside a clump on the head of his missuswhen the occasion seemed to demand it: but now he threw away theguiding principles of a lifetime and turned on Jill like a tiger.
　　"Gimme that stick!""Get back!""Here, I say, you know!" said Freddie.
　　Henry, now thoroughly overwrought, made a rush at Jill: and Jill, whohad a straight eye, hit him accurately on the side of the head.
　　"Goo!" said Henry, and sat down.
　　And then, from behind Jill, a voice spoke.
　　"What's all this?"A stout policeman had manifested himself from empty space.
　　"This won't do!" said the policeman.
　　Erb, who had been a silent spectator of the fray, burst into speech.
　　"She 'it 'im!"The policeman looked at Jill. He was an officer of many years'
　　experience in the Force, and time had dulled in him that respectfor good clothes which he had brought with him fromLittle-Sudbury-in-the-Wold in the days of his novitiate. Jill waswell-dressed, but, in the stirring epoch of the Suffrage disturbances,the policeman had been kicked on the shins and even bitten by ladiesof an equally elegant exterior. Hearts, the policeman knew, just aspure and fair may beat in Belgrave Square as in the lowlier air ofSeven Dials, but you have to pinch them just the same when theydisturb the peace. His gaze, as it fell upon Jill, red-handed as itwere with the stick still in her grasp, was stern.
　　"Your name, please, and address, miss?" he said.
　　A girl in blue with a big hat had come up, and was standing staringopen-mouthed at the group. At the sight of her Bill the parrot uttereda shriek of welcome. Nelly Bryant had returned, and everything wouldnow be all right again.
　　"Mariner," said Jill, pale and bright-eyed. "I live at NumberTwenty-two, Ovington Square.""And yours, sir?""Mine? Oh, ah, yes. I see what you mean. Rooke, you know. F. L.
　　Rooke. I live at the Albany and all that sort of thing."The policeman made an entry in his note-book. "Officer," cried Jill,"this man was trying to kill that parrot and I stopped him. . . .""Can't help that, miss. You 'adn't no right to hit a man with astick. You'll 'ave to come along.""But, I say, you know!" Freddie was appalled. This sort of thing hadhappened to him before, but only on Boat-Race Night at the Empire,where it was expected of a chappie. "I mean to say!""And you too, sir. You're both in it.""But . . .""Oh, come along, Freddie," said Jill quietly. "It's perfectly absurd,but it's no use making a fuss.""That," said the policeman cordially, "is the right spirit!".
　　3.
　　Lady Underhill paused for breath. She had been talking long andvehemently. She and Derek were sitting in Freddie Rooke's apartmentat the Albany, and the subject of her monologue was Jill. Derek hadbeen expecting the attack, and had wondered why it had not comebefore. All through supper on the previous night, even after thediscovery that Jill was supping at a near-by table with a man who wasa stranger to her son, Lady Underhill had preserved a grim reticencewith regard to her future daughter-in-law. But today she had spokenher mind with all the energy which comes of suppression. She hadrelieved herself with a flow of words of all the pent-up hostilitythat had been growing within her since that first meeting in thissame room. She had talked rapidly, for she was talking against time.
　　The Town Council of the principal city in Derek's constituency in thenorth of England had decided that tomorrow morning should witness thelaying of the foundation stone of their new Town Hall, and Derek asthe sitting member was to preside at the celebration. Already Parkerhad been dispatched to telephone for a cab to take him to thestation, and at any moment their conversation might be interrupted.
　　So Lady Underhill made the most of what little time she had.
　　Derek had listened gloomily, scarcely rousing himself to reply. Hismother would have been gratified, could she have known how powerfullyher arguments were working on him. That little imp of doubt which hadvexed him in the cab as he drove home from Ovington Square had notdied in the night. It had grown and waxed more formidable. And, now,aided by this ally from without, it had become a colossus, straddlinghis soul. Derek looked frequently at the clock, and cursed theunknown cabman whose delay was prolonging the scene. Something toldhim that only flight could serve him now. He never had been able towithstand his mother in one of her militant moods. She seemed to numbhis faculties. Other members of his family had also noted thisquality in Lady Underhill, and had commented on it bitterly in thesmoking-rooms of distant country-houses at the hour when men meet todrink the final whisky-and-soda and unburden their souls.
　　Lady Underhill, having said all she had to say, recovered her breathand began to say it again. Frequent iteration was one of herstrongest weapons. As her brother Edwin, who was fond of homelyimagery, had often observed, she could talk the hind-leg off adonkey.
　　"You must be mad, Derek, to dream of handicapping yourself at thisvital stage of your career with a wife who not only will not be ahelp to you, but must actually be a ruinous handicap. I am notblaming you for imagining yourself in love in the first place, thoughI really should have thought that a man of your strength andcharacter would . . . However, as I say, I am not blaming you forthat. Superficially, no doubt, this girl might be called attractive.
　　I do not admire the type myself, but I suppose she has thatquality--in my time we should have called it boldness--which seems toappeal to the young men of today. I could imagine her fascinating aweak-minded imbecile like your friend Mr Rooke. But that you . . .
　　Still, there is no need to go into that. What I am trying to pointout is that in your position, with a career like yours in front ofyou,--it's quite certain that in a year or two you will be offeredsome really big and responsible position--you would be insane to tieyourself to a girl who seems to have been allowed to run perfectlywild, whose uncle is a swindler . . .""She can't be blamed for her uncle."". . . Who sups alone with strange men in public restaurants. . . .""I explained that.""You may have explained it. You certainly did not excuse it or makeit a whit less outrageous. You cannot pretend that you really imaginethat an engaged girl is behaving with perfect correctness when sheallows a man she has only just met to take her to supper at theSavoy, even if she did know him slightly years and years ago. It isvery idyllic to suppose that a childhood acquaintance excuses everybreach of decorum, but I was brought up to believe otherwise. I don'twish to be vulgar, but what it amounts to is that this girl washaving supper--supper! In my days girls were in bed atsupper-time!--with a strange man who picked her up at a theatre!"Derek shifted uneasily. There was a part of his mind which calledupon him to rise up and challenge the outrageous phrase and demandthat it be taken back. But he remained silent. The imp-colossus wastoo strong for him. She is quite right, said the imp. That is anunpleasant but accurate description of what happened. He looked atthe clock again, and wished for the hundredth time that the cab wouldcome. Jill's photograph smiled at him from beside the clock. Helooked away, for, when he found his eyes upon it, he had an oddsensation of baseness, as if he were playing some one false who lovedand trusted him.
　　"If you were an ordinary man like hundreds of the idle young men onemeets in London, I would have nothing to say. I dislike the girlintensely, but I would not interfere in what would be your ownprivate business. No doubt there are plenty of sets in society whereit matters very little what sort of a woman a man marries. But if youhave a career, especially in politics, you know as well as I do thata suitable wife means everything. You are a public figure even now.
　　In a few years you will be a very big public figure. That means thatyour wife will have every eye upon her. And what will she be? Aminx!" said Lady Underhill viciously.
　　Once more Derek stirred uneasily, and once more he remained silent. Agleam came into Lady Underhill's black eyes. All her life she hadbeen a fighter, and experience had taught her to perceive when shewas winning. She blessed the dilatory cabman.
　　"Well, I am not going to say any more," she said, getting up andbuttoning her glove. "I will leave you to think it over. All I willsay is that, though I only met her yesterday, I can assure you that Iam quite confident that this girl is just the sort of harum-scarum,so-called 'modern' girl who is sure some day to involve herself in areally serious scandal. I don't want her to be in a position to dragyou into it as well. Yes, Parker, what is it? Is Sir Derek's cabhere?"The lantern-jawed Parker had entered softly, and was standingdeferentially in the doorway. There was no emotion on his face beyondthe vague sadness which a sense of what was correct made him alwayswear like a sort of mask when in the presence of those of superiorstation.
　　"The cab will be at the door very shortly, m'lady. If you please, SirDerek, a policeman has come with a message.""A policeman?""With a message from Mr Rooke.""What do you mean?""I have had a few words of conversation with the constable, sir,"said Parker sadly, "and I understand from him that Mr Rooke and MissMariner have been arrested.""Arrested! What are you talking about?""Mr Rooke desired the officer to ask you to be good enough to stepround and bail them out!"The gleam in Lady Underhill's eye became a flame, but she controlledher voice.
　　"Why were Miss Mariner and Mr Rooke arrested, Parker?""As far as I can gather, m'lady, Miss Mariner struck a man in thestreet with a stick, and they took both her and Rooke to the ChelseaPolice Station."Lady Underhill glanced at Derek, who was looking into the fire.
　　"This is a little awkward, Derek," she said suavely. "If you go tothe police-station, you will miss your train.""I fancy, m'lady, it would be sufficient if Sir Derek were todispatch me with a check for ten pounds.""Very well. Tell the policeman to wait a moment.""Very good, m'lady."Derek roused himself with an effort. His face was drawn and gloomy.
　　He sat down at the writing-table, and took out his check-book. Therewas silence for a moment, broken only by the scratching of the pen.
　　Parker took the check and left the room.
　　"Now, perhaps," said Lady Underhill, "you will admit that I wasright!" She spoke in almost an awed voice, for this occurrence atjust this moment seemed to her very like a direct answer to prayer.
　　"You can't hesitate now! You must free yourself from this detestableentanglement!"Derek rose without speaking. He took his coat and hat from where theylay on a chair.
　　"Derek! You will! Say you will!"Derek put on his coat.
　　"Derek!""For heaven's sake, leave me alone, mother. I want to think.""Very well. I will leave you to think it over, then." Lady Underhillmoved to the door. At the door she paused for a moment, and seemedabout to speak again, but her mouth closed resolutely. She was ashrewd woman, and knew that the art of life is to know when to stoptalking. What words have accomplished, too many words can undo.
　　"Good-bye.""Good-bye, mother.""I'll see you when you get back?""Yes. No. I don't know. I'm not certain when I shall return. I may goaway for a bit."The door closed behind Lady Underhill. Derek sat down again at thewriting-table. He wrote a few words on a sheet of paper, then tore itup. His eye travelled to the mantelpiece. Jill's photograph smiledhappily down at him. He turned back to the writing-table, took out afresh piece of paper, thought for a few moments, and began to writeagain.
　　The door opened softly.
　　"The cab is at the door, Sir Derek," said Parker.
　　Derek addressed an envelope, and got up.
　　"All right. Thanks. Oh, Parker, stop at a district-messenger officeon your way to the police-station, and have this sent off at once.""Very good, Sir Derek," said Parker.
　　Derek's eyes turned once more to the mantelpiece. He stood lookingfor an instant, then walked quickly out of the room.
Chapter 6
1.
　　A taxi-cab stopped at the door of number twenty-two Ovington Square.
　　Freddie Rooke emerged, followed by Jill. While Freddie paid thedriver, Jill sniffed the afternoon air happily. It had turned into adelightful day. A westerly breeze, springing up in the morning, hadsent the thermometer up with a run and broken the cold spell whichhad been gripping London. It was one of those afternoons whichintrude on the bleakness of winter with a false but none the lessagreeable intimation that Spring is on its way. The sidewalks werewet underfoot, and the gutters ran with thawed snow. The sun shoneexhilaratingly from a sky the color of a hedge-sparrow's egg.
　　"Doesn't everything smell lovely, Freddie," said Jill, "after ourprison-life!""Topping!""Fancy getting out so quickly! Whenever I'm arrested, I must alwaysmake a point of having a rich man with me. I shall never tease youabout that fifty-pound note again.""Fifty-pound note?""It certainly came in handy today!"She was opening the door with her latch-key, and missed the suddensagging of Freddie's jaw, the sudden clutch at his breast-pocket, andthe look of horror and anguish that started into his eyes. Freddiewas appalled. Finding himself at the police-station penniless withthe exception of a little loose change, he had sent that message toDerek, imploring assistance, as the only alternative to spending thenight in a cell, with Jill in another. He had realized that there wasa risk of Derek taking the matter hardly, and he had not wanted toget Jill into trouble, but there seemed nothing else to do. If theyremained where they were overnight, the thing would get into thepapers, and that would be a thousand times worse. And if he appliedfor aid to Ronny Devereux or Algy Martyn or anybody like that allLondon would know about it next day. So Freddie, with misgivings, hadsent the message to Derek, and now Jill's words had reminded him thatthere was no need to have done so. Years ago he had read somewhere orheard somewhere about some chappie who always buzzed around with asizeable banknote stitched into his clothes, and the scheme hadseemed to him ripe to a degree. You never knew when you might findyourself short of cash and faced by an immediate call for the ready.
　　He had followed the chappie's example. And now, when the crisis hadarrived, he had forgotten--absolutely forgotten!--that he had thedashed thing on his person at all.
　　He followed Jill into the house, groaning in spirit, but thankfulthat she had taken it for granted that he had secured their releasein the manner indicated. He did not propose to disillusion her. Itwould be time enough to take the blame when the blame came along.
　　Probably old Derek would simply be amused and laugh at the wholebally affair like a sportsman. Freddie cheered up considerably at thethought.
　　Jill was talking to the parlormaid whose head had popped up over thebanisters flanking the stairs that led to the kitchen.
　　"Major Selby hasn't arrived yet, miss.""That's odd. I suppose he must have taken a later train.""There's a lady in the drawing-room, miss, waiting to see him. Shedidn't give any name. She said she would wait till the major came.
　　She's been waiting a goodish while.""All right, Jane. Thanks. Will you bring up tea."They walked down the hall. The drawing-room was on the ground floor,a long, dim room that would have looked like a converted studio butfor the absence of bright light. A girl was sitting at the far end bythe fireplace. She rose: as they entered.
　　"How do you do?" said Jill. "I'm afraid my uncle has not come backyet . . .""Say!" cried the visitor. "You _did_ get out quick!"Jill was surprised. She had no recollection of ever having seen theother before. Her visitor was a rather pretty girl, with a sort ofjaunty way of carrying herself which made a piquant contrast to hertired eyes and wistful face. Jill took an immediate liking to her.
　　She looked so forlorn and pathetic.
　　"My name's Nelly Bryant," said the girl. "That parrot belongs to me.""Oh, I see.""I heard you say to the cop that you lived here, so I came along totell your folks what had happened, so that they could do something.
　　The maid said that your uncle was expected any minute, so I waited.""That was awfully good of you.""Dashed good," said Freddie.
　　"Oh, no! Honest, I don't know how to thank you for what you did. Youdon't know what a pal Bill is to me. It would have broken me all upif that plug-ugly had killed him.""But what a shame you had to wait so long.""I liked it."Nelly Bryant looked about the room wistfully. This was the sort ofroom she sometimes dreamed about. She loved its subdued light and thepulpy cushions on the sofa.
　　"You'll have some tea before you go, won't you?" said Jill, switchingon the lights.
　　"It's very kind of you.""Why, hullo!" said Freddie. "By Jove! I say! We've met before, what?""Why, so we have!""That lunch at Oddy's that young Threepwood gave, what?""I wonder you remember.""Oh, I remember. Quite a time ago, eh? Miss Bryant was in that show,'Follow the Girl,' Jill, at the Regal.""Oh, yes. I remember you took me to see it.""Dashed odd meeting again like this!" said Freddie. "Really rummy!"Jane, the parlormaid, entering with tea, interrupted his comments.
　　"You're American, then?" said Jill, interested. "The whole companycame from New York, didn't they?""Yes.""I'm half American myself, you know. I used to live in New York whenI was very small, but I've almost forgotten what it was like. Iremember a sort of over-head railway that made an awful noise . . .""The Elevated!" murmured Nelly devoutly. A wave of homesicknessseemed to choke her for a moment.
　　"And the air. Like champagne. And a very blue sky.""Yes," said Nelly in a small voice.
　　"I shouldn't half mind popping over New York for a bit," saidFreddie, unconscious of the agony he was inflicting. "I've met somevery sound sportsmen who came from there. You don't know a fellownamed Williamson, do you?""I don't believe I do.""Or Oakes?""No.""That's rummy! Oakes has lived in New York for years.""So have about seven million other people," interposed Jill. "Don'tbe silly, Freddie. How would you like somebody to ask of you if youknew a man named Jenkins in London?""I do know a man named Jenkins in London," replied Freddietriumphantly.
　　Jill poured out a cup of tea for her visitor, and looked at theclock.
　　"I wonder where Uncle Chris has got to," she said. "He ought to behere by now. I hope he hasn't got into any mischief among the wildstock-brokers down at Brighton."Freddie laid down his cup on the table and uttered a loud snort.
　　"Oh, Freddie, darling!" said Jill remorsefully. "I forgot!
　　Stock-brokers are a painful subject, aren't they!" She turned toNelly. "There's been an awful slump on the Stock Exchange today, andhe got--what was the word, Freddie?""Nipped!" said Freddie with gloom.
　　"Nipped!""Nipped like the dickens!""Nipped like the dickens!" Jill smiled at Nelly. "He had forgottenall about it in the excitement of being a jailbird, and I went andreminded him."Freddie sought sympathy from Nelly.
　　"A silly ass at the club named Jimmy Monroe told me to take a flutterin some rotten thing called Amalgamated Dyes. You know how it is,when you're feeling devilish fit and cheery and all that afterdinner, and somebody sidles up to you and slips his little hand inyours and tells you to do some fool thing. You're so dashed nappy yousimply say 'Right-ho, old bird! Make it so!' That's the way I gothad!"Jill laughed unfeelingly.
　　"It will do you good, Freddie. It'll stir you up and prevent youbeing so silly again. Besides, you know you'll hardly notice it.
　　You've much too much money as it is.""It's not the money. It's the principle of the thing. I hate lookinga frightful chump.""Well, you needn't tell anybody. We'll keep it a secret. In fact,we'll start at once, for I hear Uncle Chris outside. Let usdissemble. We are observed! . . . Hullo, Uncle Chris!"She ran down the room, as the door opened, and kissed the tall,soldierly man who entered.
　　"Well, Jill, my dear.""How late you are. I was expecting you hours ago.""I had to call on my broker.""Hush! Hush!""What's the matter?""Nothing, nothing. . . . We've got visitors. You know Freddie Rooke,of course?""How are you, Freddie, my boy?""Cheerio!" said Freddie. "Pretty fit?""And Miss Bryant," said Jill.
　　"How do you do?" said Uncle Chris in the bluff, genial way which, inhis younger days, had charmed many a five-pound note out of thepockets of his fellow-men and many a soft glance out of the eyes oftheir sisters, their cousins, and their aunts.
　　"Come and have some tea," said Jill. "You're just in time."Nelly had subsided shyly into the depths of her big armchair. Somehowshe felt a better and a more important girl since Uncle Chris hadaddressed her. Most people felt like hat after encountering Jill'sUncle Christopher. Uncle Chris had a manner. It was not preciselycondescending, and yet it was not the manner of an equal. He treatedyou as an equal, true, but all the time you were conscious of thefact that it was extraordinarily good of him to do so. Uncle Chrisaffected the rank and file of his fellow-men much as a genial knightof the Middle Ages would have affected a scurvy knave or varlet if hehad cast aside social distinctions for awhile and hobnobbed with thelatter in a tavern. He never patronized, but the mere fact that heabstained from patronizing seemed somehow impressive.
　　To this impressiveness his appearance contributed largely. He was afine, upstanding man, who looked less than his forty-nine years inspite of an ominous thinning of the hair which he tended and brushedso carefully. He had a firm chin, a mouth that smiled often andpleasantly beneath the closely-clipped moustache, and very brightblue eyes which met yours in a clear, frank, honest gaze. Though hehad served in his youth in India, he had none of the Anglo-Indian'ssun-scorched sallowness. His complexion was fresh and sanguine. Helooked as if he had just stepped out of a cold tub,--a misleadingimpression, for Uncle Chris detested cold water and always took hismorning bath as hot as he could get it.
　　It was his clothes, however, which, even more than his appearance,fascinated the populace. There is only one tailor in London, asdistinguished from the ambitious mechanics who make coats andtrousers, and Uncle Chris was his best customer. Similarly, London isfull of young fellows trying to get along by the manufacture offoot-wear, but there is only one boot-maker in the true meaning ofthe word,--the one who supplied Uncle Chris. And, as for hats, whileit is no doubt a fact that you can get at plenty of London shops somesort of covering for your head which will keep it warm, the onlyhatter--using the term in its deeper sense--is the man who enjoyedthe patronage of Major Christopher Selby. From foot to head, inshort, from furthest South to extremest North, Uncle Chris wasperfect. He was an ornament to his surroundings. The Metropolislooked better for him. One seems to picture London as a mother with ahorde of untidy children, children with made-up ties, children withwrinkled coats and baggy trouser-legs, sighing to herself as shebeheld them, then cheering up and murmuring with a touch of restoredcomplacency, "Ah, well, I still have Uncle Chris!""Miss Bryant is American, Uncle Chris," said Jill.
　　Uncle Chris spread his shapely legs before the fire, and glanced downkindly at Nelly.
　　"Indeed?" He took a cup of tea and stirred it. "I was in America as ayoung man.""Whereabouts?" asked Nelly eagerly.
　　"Oh, here and there and everywhere. I travelled considerably.""That's how it is with me," said Nelly, overcoming her diffidence asshe warmed to the favorite topic. "I guess I know most every town inevery State, from New York to the last one-night stand. It's a greatold country, isn't it?""It is!" said Uncle Chris. "I shall be returning there very shortly."He paused meditatively. "Very shortly indeed."Nelly bit her lip. It seemed to be her fate today to meet people whowere going to America.
　　"When did you decide to do that?" asked Jill.
　　She had been looking at him, puzzled. Years of association with UncleChris had enabled her to read his moods quickly, and she was surethat there was something on his mind. It was not likely that theothers had noticed it, for his manner was as genial and urbane asever. But something about him, a look in his eyes that came and went,an occasional quick twitching of his mouth, told her that all was notwell. She was a little troubled, but not greatly. Uncle Chris was notthe sort of man to whom grave tragedies happened. It was probablysome mere trifle which she could smooth out for him in five minutes,once they were alone together. She reached out and patted his sleeveaffectionately. She was fonder of Uncle Chris than of anyone in theworld except Derek.
　　"The thought," said Uncle Chris, "came to me this morning, as I readmy morning paper while breakfasting. It has grown and developedduring the day. At this moment you might almost call it an obsession.
　　I am very fond of America. I spent several happy years there. On thatoccasion, I set sail for the land of promise, I admit, somewhatreluctantly. Of my own free will I might never have made theexpedition. But the general sentiment seemed so strongly in favor ofmy doing so that I yielded to what I might call a public demand. Thewilling hands for my nearest and dearest were behind me, pushing, andI did not resist them. I have never regretted it. America is a partof every young man's education. You ought to go there, Freddie.""Rummily enough," said Freddie, "I was saying just before you came inthat I had half a mind to pop over. Only it's rather a bally fag,starting. Getting your luggage packed and all that sort of thing."Nelly, whose luggage consisted of one small trunk, heaved a silentsigh. Mingling with the idle rich carried its penalties.
　　"America," said Uncle Chris, "taught me poker, for which I can neverbe sufficiently grateful. Also an exotic pastime styled Craps,--or,alternatively, 'rolling the bones'--which in those days was a verypresent help in time of trouble. At Craps, I fear, my hand in lateyears had lost much of its cunning. I have had little opportunity ofpractising. But as a young man I was no mean exponent of the art. Letme see," said Uncle Chris meditatively. "What was the precise ritual?
　　Ah! I have it, 'Come, little seven!'""'Come, eleven!'" exclaimed Nelly excitedly.
　　"'Baby . . .' I feel convinced that in some manner the word babyentered into it.""'Baby needs new shoes!'""'Baby needs new shoes!' Precisely!""It sounds to me," said Freddie, "dashed silly.""Oh, no!" cried Nelly reproachfully.
　　"Well, what I mean to say is, there's no sense in it, don't youknow.""It is a noble pursuit," said Uncle Chris firmly. "Worthy of thegreat nation that has produced it. No doubt, when I return toAmerica, I shall have opportunities of recovering my lost skill.""You aren't returning to America," said Jill. "You're going to staysafe at home like a good little uncle. I'm not going to have yourunning wild all over the world at your age.""Age?" declaimed Uncle Chris. "What is my age? At the present momentI feel in the neighborhood of twenty-one, and Ambition is tapping meon the shoulder and whispering 'Young man, go West!' The years areslipping away from me, my dear Jill,--slipping so quickly that in afew minutes you will he wondering why my nurse does not come to fetchme. The wanderlust is upon me. I gaze around me at all thisprosperity in which I am lapped," said Uncle Chris, eyeing thearm-chair severely, "all this comfort and luxury which swaddles me,and I feel staggered. I want activity. I want to be braced!""You would hate it," said Jill composedly. "You know you're thelaziest old darling in the world.""Exactly what I am endeavoring to point out. I am lazy. Or, I wastill this morning.""Something very extraordinary must have happened this morning. I cansee that.""I wallowed in gross comfort. I was what Shakespeare calls a 'fat andgreasy citizen'!""Please, Uncle Chris!" protested Jill. "Not while I'm eating butteredtoast!""But now I am myself again.""That's splendid.""I have heard the beat of the off-shore wind," chanted Uncle Chris,"and the thresh of the deep-sea rain. I have heard the song--Howlong! how long! Pull out on the trail again!""He can also recite 'Gunga Din,'" said Jill to Nelly. "I really mustapologize for all this. He's usually as good as gold.""I believe I know how he feels," said Nelly softly.
　　"Of course you do. You and I, Miss Bryant, are of the gipsies of theworld. We are not vegetables like young Rooke here.""Eh, what?" said the vegetable, waking from a reverie. He had beenwatching Nelly's face. Its wistfulness attracted him.
　　"We are only happy," proceeded Uncle Chris, "when we are wandering.""You should see Uncle Chris wander to his club in the morning," saidJill. "He trudges off in a taxi, singing wild gipsy songs, absolutelydefying fatigue.""That," said Uncle Chris, "is a perfectly justified slur. I shudderat the depths to which prosperity has caused me to sink." He expandedhis chest. "I shall be a different man in America. America would makea different man of you, Freddie.""I'm all right, thanks!" said that easily satisfied young man.
　　Uncle Chris turned to Nelly, pointing dramatically.
　　"Young woman, go West! Return to your bracing home, and leave thisenervating London! You . . ."Nelly got up abruptly. She could endure no more.
　　"I believe I'll have to be going now," she said. "Bill misses me ifI'm away long. Good-bye. Thank you ever so much for what you did.""It was awfully kind of you to come round," said Jill.
　　"Good-bye, Major Selby.""Good-bye.""Good-bye, Mr Rooke."Freddie awoke from another reverie.
　　"Eh? Oh, I say, half a jiffy. I think I may as well be toddling alongmyself. About time I was getting back to dress for dinner and allthat. See you home, may I, and then I'll get a taxi at Victoria.
　　Toodle-oo, everybody."* * *Freddie escorted Nelly through the hall and opened the front door forher. The night was cool and cloudy, and there was still in the airthat odd, rejuvenating suggestion of Spring. A wet fragrance camefrom the dripping trees.
　　"Topping evening!" said Freddie conversationally.
　　"Yes."They walked through the square in silence. Freddie shot anappreciative glance at his companion. Freddie, as he would haveadmitted frankly, was not much of a lad for the modern girl. Themodern girl, he considered, was too dashed rowdy and exuberant for achappie of peaceful tastes. Now, this girl, on the other hand, hadall the earmarks of being something of a topper. She had a softvoice. Rummy accent and all that, but nevertheless a soft andpleasing voice. She was mild and unaggressive, and these werequalities which Freddie esteemed. Freddie, though this was a thing hewould not have admitted, was afraid of girls, the sort of girls hehad to take down to dinner and dance with and so forth. They were toodashed clever, and always seemed to be waiting for a chance to scoreoff a fellow. This one was not like that. Not a bit. She was gentleand quiet and what not.
　　It was at this point that it came home to him how remarkably quietshe was. She had not said a word for the last five minutes. He wasjust about to break the silence, when, as they passed under a streetlamp, he perceived that she was crying,--crying very softly toherself, like a child in the dark.
　　"Good God!" said Freddie, appalled. There were two things in lifewith which he felt totally unable to cope,--crying girls anddog-fights. The glimpse he had caught of Nelly's face froze him intoa speechlessness which lasted until they reached Daubeny Street andstopped at her door.
　　"Good-bye," said Nelly.
　　"Good-bye-ee!" said Freddie mechanically. "That's to say, I mean tosay, half a second!" he added quickly. Ha faced her nervously, withone hand on the grimy railings. This wanted looking into. When itcame to girls trickling to and fro in the public streets, weeping,well, it was pretty rotten and something had to be done about it.
　　"What's up?" he demanded.
　　"It's nothing. Good-bye.""But, my dear old soul," said Freddie, clutching the railing formoral support, "it _is_ something. It must be! You might not think it,to look at me, but I'm really rather a dashed shrewd chap, and I can_see_ there's something up. Why not give me the jolly old scenario andsee if we can't do something?"Nelly moved as if to turn to the door, then stopped. She wasthoroughly ashamed of herself.
　　"I'm a fool!""No, no!""Yes, I am. I don't often act this way, but, oh, gee! hearing you alltalking like that about going to America, just as if it was theeasiest thing in the world, only you couldn't be bothered to do it,kind of got me going. And to think I could be there right now if Iwasn't a bonehead!""A bonehead?""A simp. I'm all right as far up as the string of near-pearls, butabove that I'm reinforced concrete."Freddie groped for her meaning.
　　"Do you mean you've made a bloomer of some kind?""I pulled the worst kind of bone. I stopped on in London when therest of the company went back home, and now I've got to stick.""Rush of jolly old professional engagement, what?"Nelly laughed bitterly.
　　"You're a bad guesser. No, they haven't started to fight over me yet.
　　I'm at liberty, as they say in the Era.""But, my dear old thing," said Freddie earnestly, "if you've gotnothing to keep you in England, why not pop back to America? I meanto say, home-sickness is the most dashed blighted thing in the world.
　　There's nothing gives one the pip to such an extent. Why, dash it, Iremember staying with an old aunt of mine up in Scotland the yearbefore last and not being able to get away for three weeks or so, andI raved--absolutely gibbered--for a sight of the merry old metrop.
　　Sometimes I'd wake up in the night, thinking I was back at theAlbany, and, by Jove, when I found I wasn't I howled like a dog! Youtake my tip, old soul, and pop back on the next boat.""Which line?""How do you mean, which line? Oh, I see, you mean which line? Well. . . well . . . I've never been on any of them, so it's rather hard tosay. But I hear the Cunard well spoken of, and then again somechappies swear by the White Star. But I should imagine you can't gofar wrong, whichever you pick. They're all pretty ripe, I fancy.""Which of them is giving free trips? That's the point.""Eh? Oh!" Her meaning dawned upon Freddie. He regarded her with deepconsternation. Life had treated him so kindly that he had almostforgotten that there existed a class which had not as much money ashimself. Sympathy welled up beneath his perfectly fitting waistcoat.
　　It was a purely disinterested sympathy. The fact that Nelly was agirl and in many respects a dashed pretty girl did not affect him.
　　What mattered was that she was hard up. The thought hurt Freddie likea blow. He hated the idea of anyone being hard up.
　　"I say!" he said. "Are you broke?"Nelly laughed.
　　"Am I! If dollars were doughnuts, I wouldn't even have the hole inthe middle."Freddie was stirred to his depths. Except for the beggars in thestreets, to whom he gave shillings, he had not met anyone for yearswho had not plenty of money. He had friends at his clubs whofrequently claimed to be unable to lay their hands on a bally penny,but the bally penny they wanted to lay their hands on generallyturned out to be a couple of thousand pounds for a new car.
　　"Good God!" he said.
　　There was a pause. Then, with a sudden impulse, he began to fumble inhis breast-pocket. Rummy how things worked out for the best, howeverscaly they might seem at the moment. Only an hour or so ago he hadbeen kicking himself for not having remembered that fifty-pound note,tacked onto the lining of his coat, when it would have come in handyat the police-station. He now saw that Providence had had the matterwell in hand. If he had remembered it and coughed it up to theconstabulary then, he wouldn't have had it now. And he needed it now.
　　A mood of quixotic generosity had surged upon him. With swift fingershe jerked the note free from its moorings and displayed it like aconjurer exhibiting a rabbit.
　　"My dear old thing," he said, "I can't stand it! I absolutely cannotstick it at any price! I really must insist on your trousering this.
　　Positively!"Nelly Bryant gazed at the note with wide eyes. She was stunned. Shetook it limply, and looked at it under the dim light of the gas-lampover the door.
　　"I couldn't!" she cried.
　　"Oh, but really! You must!""But this is a fifty-pound!""Absolutely! It will take you back to New York, what? You asked whichline was giving free trips. The Freddie Rooke Line, by Jove, sailingsevery Wednesday and Saturday! I mean, what!""But I can't take two hundred and fifty dollars from you!""Oh, rather. Of course you can."There was another pause.
　　"You'll think--" Nelly's pale face flushed. "You'll think I told youall about myself just--just because I wanted to . . .""To make a touch? Absolutely not! Kid yourself of the jolly oldsuperstition entirely. You see before you, old thing, a chappie whoknows more about borrowing money than any man in London. I mean tosay, I've had my ear bitten more often than anyone, I should think.
　　There are sixty-four ways of making a touch--I've had them all workedon me by divers blighters here and there--and I can tell any of themwith my eyes shut. I know you weren't dreaming of any such thing."The note crackled musically in Nelly's hand.
　　"I don't know what to say!""That's all right.""I don't see why . . . Gee! I wish I could tell you what I think ofyou!"Freddie laughed amusedly.
　　"Do you know," he said, "that's exactly what the beaks--the masters,you know,--used to say to me at school.""Are you sure you can spare it?""Oh, rather."Nelly's eyes shone in the light of the lamp.
　　"I've never met anyone like you before. I don't know how . . ."Freddie shuffled nervously. Being thanked always made him feel prettyrotten.
　　"Well, I think I'll be popping," he said. "Got to get back and dressand all that. Awfully glad to have seen you, and all that sort ofrot."Nelly unlocked the door with her latchkey, and stood on the step.
　　"I'll buy a fur-wrap," she said, half to herself.
　　"Great wheeze! I should!""And some nuts for Bill!""Bill?""The parrot.""Oh, the jolly old parrot! Rather! Well, cheerio!""Good-bye . . . You've been awfully good to me.""Oh, no," said Freddie uncomfortably. "Any time you're passing . . . !""Awfully good . . . Well, good-bye.""Toodle-oo!""Maybe we'll meet again some day.""I hope so. Absolutely!"There was a little scurry of feet. Something warm and soft pressedfor an instant against Freddie's cheek, and, as he stumbled back,Nelly Bryant skipped up the steps and vanished through the door.
　　"Good God!"Freddie felt his cheek. He was aware of an odd mixture ofembarrassment and exhilaration.
　　From the area below a slight cough sounded. Freddie turned sharply. Amaid in a soiled cap, worn coquettishly over one ear, was gazingintently up through the railings. Their eyes met. Freddie turned awarm pink. It seemed to him that the maid had the air of one about togiggle.
　　"Damn!" said Freddie softly, and hurried off down the street. Hewondered whether he had made a frightful ass of himself, sprayingbank-notes all over the place like that to comparative strangers.
　　Then a vision came to him of Nelly's eyes as they had looked at himin the lamp-light, and he decided--no, absolutely not. Rummy as thegadget might appear, it had been the right thing to do. It was abinge of which he thoroughly approved. A good egg!
　　2.
　　Jill, when Freddie and Nelly left the room, had seated herself on alow stool, and sat, looking thoughtfully into the fire. She waswondering if she had been mistaken in supposing that Uncle Chris wasworried about something. This restlessness of his, this desire formovement, was strange in him. Hitherto he had been like a dear oldcosy cat, revelling in the comfort which he had just denounced soeloquently. She watched him as he took up his favorite stand in frontof the fire.
　　"Nice girl," said Uncle Chris. "Who was she?""Somebody Freddie met," said Jill diplomatically. There was no needto worry Uncle Chris with details of the afternoon's happenings.
　　"Very nice girl." Uncle Chris took out his cigar-case. "No need toask if I may, thank goodness." He lit a cigar. "Do you remember,Jill, years ago, when you were quite small, how I used to blow smokein your face?"Jill smiled.
　　"Of course I do. You said that you were training me for marriage. Yousaid that there were no happy marriages except where the wife didn'tmind the smell of tobacco. Well, it's lucky, as a matter of fact, forDerek smokes all the time."Uncle Chris took up his favorite stand against the fireplace.
　　"You're very fond of Derek, aren't you, Jill?""Of course I am. You are, too, aren't you?""Fine chap. Very fine chap. Plenty of money, too. It's a greatrelief," said Uncle Chris, puffing vigorously. "A thundering relief."He looked over Jill's head down the room. "It's fine to think of youhappily married, dear, with everything in the world that you want."Uncle Chris' gaze wandered down to where Jill sat. A slight mistaffected his eyesight. Jill had provided a solution for the greatproblem of his life. Marriage had always appalled him, but there wasthis to be said for it, that married people had daughters. He hadalways wanted a daughter, a smart girl he could take out and be proudof; and fate had given him Jill at precisely the right age. A childwould have bored Uncle Chris--he was fond of children, but they madethe deuce of a noise and regarded jam as an external ornament--but adelightful little girl of fourteen was different. Jill and he hadbeen very close to each other since her mother had died, a year afterthe death of her father, and had left her in his charge. He hadwatched her grow up with a joy that had a touch of bewilderment init--she seemed to grow so quickly--and had been fonder and prouder ofher at every stage of her tumultuous career.
　　"You're a dear," said Jill. She stroked the trouser-leg that wasnearest. "How do you manage to get such a wonderful crease? Youreally are a credit to me!"There was a momentary silence. A shade of embarrassment made itselfnoticeable in Uncle Chris' frank gaze. He gave a little cough, andpulled at his mustache.
　　"I wish I were, my dear," he said soberly. "I wish I were. I'm afraidI'm a poor sort of fellow, Jill."Jill looked up.
　　"What do you mean?""A poor sort of fellow," repeated Uncle Chris. "Your mother wasfoolish to trust you to me. Your father had more sense. He alwayssaid I was a wrong'un."Jill got up quickly. She was certain now that she had been right, andthat there was something on her uncle's mind.
　　"What's the matter, Uncle Chris? Something's happened. What is it?"Uncle Chris turned to knock the ash off his cigar. The movement gavehim time to collect himself for what lay before him. He had one ofthose rare volatile natures which can ignore the blows of fate solong as their effects are not brought home by visible evidence ofdisaster. He lived in the moment, and, though matters had been as badat breakfast-time as they were now, it was not till now, when heconfronted Jill, that he had found his cheerfulness affected by them.
　　He was a man who hated ordeals, and one faced him now. Until thismoment he had been able to detach his mind from a state of affairswhich would have weighed unceasingly upon another man. His mind was atelephone which he could cut off at will, when the voice of Troublewished to speak. The time would arrive, he had been aware, when hewould have to pay attention to that voice, but so far he had refusedto listen. Now it could he evaded no longer.
　　"Jill.""Yes?"Uncle Chris paused again, searching for the best means of saying whathad to be said.
　　"Jill, I don't know if you understand about these things, but therewas what is called a slump on the Stock Exchange this morning. Inother words . . ."Jill laughed.
　　"Of course I know all about that," she said. "Poor Freddie wouldn'ttalk about anything else till I made him. He was terribly blue whenhe got here this afternoon. He said he had got 'nipped' inAmalgamated Dyes. He had lost about two hundred pounds, and wasfurious with a friend of his who had told him to buy margins."Uncle Chris cleared his throat.
　　"Jill, I'm afraid I've got bad news for you. I bought AmalgamatedDyes, too." He worried his mustache. "I lost heavily, very heavily.""How naughty of you! You know you oughtn't to gamble.""Jill, you must be brave. I--I--well, the fact is--it's no goodbeating about the bush--I lost everything! Everything!""Everything?""Everything! It's all gone! All fooled away. It's a terriblebusiness. This house will have to go.""But--but doesn't the house belong to me?""I was your trustee, dear." Uncle Chris smoked furiously. "Thankheaven you're going to marry a rich man!"Jill stood looking at him, perplexed. Money, as money, had neverentered into her life. There were things one wanted, which had to bepaid for with money, but Uncle Chris had always looked after that.
　　She had taken them for granted.
　　"I don't understand," she said.
　　And then suddenly she realized that she did, and a great wave of pityfor Uncle Chris flooded over her. He was such an old dear. It must behorrible for him to have to stand there, telling her all this. Shefelt no sense of injury, only the discomfort of having to witness thehumiliation of her oldest friend. Uncle Chris was bound upinextricably with everything in her life that was pleasant. She couldremember him, looking exactly the same, only with a thicker andwavier crop of hair, playing with her patiently and unwearied forhours in the hot sun, a cheerful martyr. She could remember sittingup with him when she came home from her first grown-up dance,drinking cocoa and talking and talking and talking till the birdsoutside sang the sun high up into the sky and it was breakfast-time.
　　She could remember theatres with him, and jolly little suppersafterwards; expeditions into the country, with lunches at queer oldinns; days on the river, days at Hurlingham, days at Lords', days atthe Academy. He had always been the same, always cheerful, alwayskind. He was Uncle Chris, and he would always be Uncle Chris,whatever he had done or whatever he might do. She slipped her arm inhis and gave it a squeeze.
　　"Poor old thing!" she said.
　　Uncle Chris had been looking straight out before him with those fineblue eyes of his. There had been just a touch of sternness in hisattitude. A stranger, coming into the room at that moment, would havesaid that here was a girl trying to coax her blunt, straightforward,military father into some course of action of which his honest naturedisapproved. He might have been posing for a statue of Rectitude. AsJill spoke, he seemed to cave in.
　　"Poor old thing?" he repeated limply.
　　"Of course you are! And stop trying to look dignified and tragic!
　　Because it doesn't suit you. You're much too well dressed.""But, my dear, you don't understand! You haven't realized!""Yes, I do. Yes, I have!""I've spent all your money--_your_ money!""I know! What does it matter?""What does it matter! Jill, don't you hate me?""As if anyone could hate an old darling like you!"Uncle Chris threw away his cigar, and put his arms round Jill. For amoment a dreadful fear came to her that he was going to cry. Sheprayed that he wouldn't cry. It would be too awful. It would be amemory of which she could never rid herself. She felt as though hewere someone extraordinarily young and unable to look after himself,someone she must soothe and protect.
　　"Jill," said Uncle Chris, choking, "you're--you're--you're a littlewarrior!"Jill kissed him, and moved away. She busied herself with someflowers, her back turned. The tension had been relieved, and shewanted to give him time to recover his poise. She knew him wellenough to be sure that, sooner or later, the resiliency of his naturewould assert itself. He could never remain long in the depths.
　　The silence had the effect of making her think more clearly than inthe first rush of pity she had been able to do. She was able now toreview the matter as it affected herself. It had not been easy tograsp, the blunt fact that she was penniless, that all this comfortwhich surrounded her was no longer her own. For an instant a kind ofpanic seized her. There was a bleakness about the situation whichmade one gasp. It was like icy water dashed in the face. Realizationhad almost the physical pain of life returning to a numbed limb. Herhands shook as she arranged the flowers, and she had to bite her lipto keep herself from crying out.
　　She fought panic eye to eye, and beat it down. Uncle Chris, swiftlyrecovering by the fireplace, never knew that the fight had takenplace. He was feeling quite jovial again now that the unpleasantbusiness of breaking the news was over, and was looking on the worldwith the eye of a debonair gentleman-adventurer. As far as he wasconcerned, he told himself, this was the best thing that could havehappened. He had been growing old and sluggish in prosperity. Heneeded a fillip. The wits by which he had once lived so merrily hadbeen getting blunt in their easy retirement. He welcomed theopportunity of matching them once more against the world. He wasremorseful as regarded Jill, but the optimist in him, never crushedfor long, told him that Jill would be all right. She would step fromthe sinking ship to the safe refuge of Derek Underhill's wealth andposition, while he went out to seek a new life. Uncle Chris' blueeyes gleamed with a new fire as he pictured himself in this new life.
　　He felt like a hunter setting out on a hunting expedition. There werealways adventures and the spoils of war for the man with brains tofind them and gather them in. But it was a mercy that Jill had Derek.
　　. . .
　　Jill was thinking of Derek, too. Panic had fled, and a curiousexhilaration had seized upon her. If Derek wanted her now, it wouldbe because his love was the strongest thing in the world. She wouldcome to him like the beggar-maid to Cophetua.
　　Uncle Chris broke the silence with a cough. At the sound of it, Jillsmiled again. She knew it for what it was, a sign that he was himselfagain.
　　"Tell me, Uncle Chris," she said, "just how bad is it? When you saideverything was gone, did you really mean everything, or were youbeing melodramatic? Exactly how do we stand?""It's dashed hard to say, my dear. I expect we shall find there are afew hundreds left. Enough to see you through till you get married.
　　After that it won't matter." Uncle Chris flicked a particle of dustoff his coat-sleeve. Jill could not help feeling that the action wassymbolical of his attitude towards life. He flicked away life'sproblems with just the same airy carelessness. "You mustn't worryabout me, my dear. I shall be all right. I have made my way in theworld before, and I can do it again. I shall go to America and try myluck there. Amazing how many opportunities there are in America.
　　Really, as far as I am concerned, this is the best thing that couldhave happened. I have been getting abominably lazy. If I had gone onliving my present life for another year or two, why, dash it! Ihonestly believe I should have succumbed to some sort of seniledecay. Positively I should have got fatty degeneration of the brain!
　　This will be the making of me."Jill sat down on the lounge and laughed till there were tears in hereyes. Uncle Chris might be responsible for this disaster, but he wascertainly making it endurable. However greatly he might be deservingof censure, from the standpoint of the sterner morality, he madeamends. If he brought the whole world crashing in chaos about one'sears, at least he helped one to smile among the ruins.
　　"Did you ever read 'Candide', Uncle Chris?""'Candide'?" Uncle Chris shook his head. He was not a great reader,except of the sporting press.
　　"It's a book by Voltaire. There's a character in it called DoctorPangloss, who thought that everything was for the best in this bestof all possible worlds."Uncle Chris felt a touch of embarrassment. It occurred to him that hehad been betrayed by his mercurial temperament into an attitudewhich, considering the circumstances, was perhaps a trifle toojubilant. He gave his mustache a pull, and reverted to the minor key.
　　"Oh, you mustn't think that I don't appreciate the terrible, thecriminal thing I have done! I blame myself," said Uncle Chriscordially, flicking another speck of dust off his sleeve. "I blamemyself bitterly. Your mother ought never to have made me yourtrustee, my dear. But she always believed in me, in spite ofeverything, and this is how I have repaid her." He blew his nose tocover a not unmanly emotion. "I wasn't fitted for the position. Neverbecome a trustee, Jill. It's the devil, is trust money. However muchyou argue with yourself, you can't--dash it, you simply can't believethat it's not your own, to do as you like with. There it sits,smiling at you, crying 'Spend me! Spend me!' and you find yourselfdipping--dipping--till one day there's nothing left to dip for--onlya far-off rustling--the ghosts of dead bank-notes. That's how it waswith me. The process was almost automatic. I hardly knew it was goingon. Here a little--there a little. It was like snow melting on amountain-top. And one morning--all gone!" Uncle Chris drove the pointhome with a gesture. "I did what I could. When I found that therewere only a few hundreds left, for your sake I took a chance. Allheart and no head! There you have Christopher Selby in a nutshell! Aman at the club--a fool named--I've forgotten his damnname--recommended Amalgamated Dyestuffs as a speculation. Monroe,that was his name, Jimmy Monroe. He talked about the future ofBritish Dyes now that Germany was out of the race, and . . . well,the long and short of it was that I took his advice and bought onmargin. Bought like the devil. And this morning Amalgamated Dyestuffswent all to blazes. There you have the whole story!""And now," said Jill, "comes the sequel!""The sequel?" said Uncle Chris breezily. "Happiness, my dear,happiness! Wedding bells and--and all that sort of thing!" Hestraddled the hearth-rug manfully, and swelled his chest out. Hewould permit no pessimism on this occasion of rejoicing. "You don'tsuppose that the fact of your having lost your money--that is tosay--er--of my having lost your money--will affect a splendid youngfellow like Derek Underhill? I know him better than to think that!
　　I've always liked him. He's a man you can trust! Besides," he addedreflectively, "there's no need to tell him! Till after the wedding, Imean. It won't be hard to keep up appearances here for a month orso.""Of course I must tell him!""You think it wise?""I don't know about it being wise. It's the only thing to do. I mustsee him tonight. Oh, I forgot. He was going away this afternoon for aday or two.""Capital! It will give you time to think it over.""I don't want to think it over. There's nothing to think about.""Of course, yes, of course. Quite so.""I shall write him a letter.""Write, eh?""It's easier to put what one wants to say in a letter.""Letters," began Uncle Chris, and stopped as the door opened. Janethe parlormaid entered, carrying a salver. "For me?" asked UncleChris.
　　"For Miss Jill, sir."Jill took the note off the salver.
　　"It's from Derek.""There's a messenger-boy waiting, miss," said Jane. "He wasn't toldif there was an answer.""If the note is from Derek," said Uncle Chris, "it's not likely towant an answer. You said he left town today."Jill opened the envelope.
　　"Is there an answer, miss?" asked Jane, after what she considered asuitable interval. She spoke tenderly. She was a great admirer ofDerek, and considered it a pretty action on his part to send noteslike this when he was compelled to leave London.
　　"Any answer, Jill?"Jill seemed to rouse herself. She had turned oddly pale.
　　"No, no answer, Jane.""Thank you, miss," said Jane, and went off to tell cook that in heropinion Jill was lacking in heart. "It might have been a bill insteadof a love-letter," said Jane to the cook with indignation, "the wayshe read it. _I_ like people to have a little feeling!"Jill sat turning the letter over and over in her fingers. Her facewas very white. There seemed to be a big, heavy, leaden somethinginside her. A cold hand clutched her throat. Uncle Chris, who atfirst had noticed nothing untoward, now began to find the silencesinister.
　　"No bad news, I hope, dear?"Jill turned the letter between her fingers.
　　"Jill, is it bad news?""Derek has broken off the engagement," said Jill in a dull voice. Shelet the note fall to the floor, and sat with her chin in her hands.
　　"What!" Uncle Chris leaped from the hearth-rug, as though the firehad suddenly scorched him. "What did you say?""He's broken it off.""The hound!" cried Uncle Chris. "The blackguard! The--the--I neverliked that man! I never trusted him!" He fumed for a moment.
　　"But--but--it isn't possible. How can he have heard about what'shappened? He couldn't know. It's--it's--it isn't possible!""He doesn't know. It has nothing to do with that.""But . . ." Uncle Chris stooped to where the note lay. "May I . . . ?""Yes, you can read it if you like."Uncle Chris produced a pair of reading-glasses, and glared throughthem at the sheet of paper as though it were some loathsome insect.
　　"The hound! The cad! If I were a younger man," shouted Uncle Chris,smiting the letter violently, "if I were . . . Jill! My dear littleJill!"He plunged down on his knees beside her, as she buried her face inher hands and began to sob.
　　"My little girl! Damn that man! My dear little girl! The cad! Thedevil! My own darling little girl! I'll thrash him within an inch ofhis life!"The clock on the mantelpiece ticked away the minutes. Jill got up.
　　Her face was wet and quivering, but her mouth had set in a braveline.
　　"Jill, dear!"She let his hand close over hers.
　　"Everything's happening all at once this afternoon, Uncle Chris,isn't it!" She smiled a twisted smile. "You look so funny! Yourhair's all rumpled, and your glasses are over on one side!"Uncle Chris breathed heavily through his nose.
　　"When I meet that man . . ." he began portentously.
　　"Oh, what's the good of bothering! It's not worth it! Nothing's worthit!" Jill stopped, and faced him, her hands clenched. "Let's getaway! Let's get right away! I want to get right away, Uncle Chris!
　　Take me away! Anywhere! Take me to America with you! I must getaway!"Uncle Chris raised his right hand, and shook it. His reading-glasses,hanging from his left ear, bobbed drunkenly.
　　"We'll sail by the next boat! The very next boat, dammit! I'll takecare of you, dear. I've been a blackguard to you, my little girl.
　　I've robbed you, and swindled you. But I'll make up for it, byGeorge! I'll make up for it! I'll give you a new home, as good asthis, if I die for it. There's nothing I won't do! Nothing! By Jove!"shouted Uncle Chris, raising his voice in a red-hot frenzy ofemotion, "I'll work! Yes, by Gad, if it comes right down to it, I'llwork!"He brought his fist down with a crash on the table where Derek'sflowers stood in their bowl. The bowl leaped in the air and tumbledover, scattering the flowers on the floor.
Chapter 7
1.
　　In the lives of each one of us, as we look back and review them inretrospect, there are certain desert wastes from which memory winceslike some tired traveller faced with a dreary stretch of road. Evenfrom the security of later happiness we cannot contemplate themwithout a shudder. Time robs our sorrows of their sharp vividness,but the horror of those blank, gray days never wholly passes. Itremains for ever at the back of our consciousness to remind us that,though we may have struggled through it to the heights, there is anabyss. We may dwell, like the Pilgrim, on the Delectable Mountains,but we never forget the Slough of Despond. Years afterwards, Jillcould not bring herself to think of that brief but age-long periodwhich lay between the evening when she read Derek's letter and themorning when, with the wet sea-wind in her face and the cry of thewheeling sea-gulls in her ears, she stood on the deck of the linerthat was taking her to the land where she could begin a new life. Itbrooded behind her like a great, dank cloud, shutting out thesunshine.
　　The conditions of modern life are singularly inimical to swift anddramatic action when we wish to escape from surroundings that havebecome intolerable. In the old days, your hero would leap on hischarger and ride out into the sunset. Now, he is compelled to remainfor a week or so to settle his affairs,--especially if he is an UncleChris--and has got those affairs into such a tangle that hardenedlawyers knit their brows at the sight of them. It took one of themost competent firms in the metropolis four days to produce some sortof order in the confusion resulting from Major Selby's financialoperations; and during those days Jill existed in a state of beingwhich could be defined as living only in that she breathed and ateand comported herself outwardly like a girl and not a ghost.
　　Boards announcing that the house was for sale appeared against therailings through which Jane the parlormaid conducted her dailyconversations with the tradesmen. Strangers roamed the rooms eyeingand appraising the furniture. Uncle Chris, on whom disaster had had aquickening and vivifying effect, was everywhere at once, animpressive figure of energy. One may be wronging Uncle Chris, but tothe eye of the casual observer he seemed in these days of trial to behaving the time of his life.
　　Jill varied the monotony of sitting in her room--which was the onlyplace in the house where one might be sure of not encountering afurniture-broker's man with a note-book and pencil--by taking longwalks. She avoided as far as possible the small area which had oncemade up the whole of London for her, but even so she was not alwayssuccessful in escaping from old acquaintances. Once, cutting throughLennox Gardens on her way to that vast, desolate King's Road whichstretches its length out into regions unknown to those whose Londonis the West End, she happened upon Freddie Rooke, who had been payinga call in his best hat and a pair of white spats which would have cuthis friend Henry to the quick. It was not an enjoyable meeting.
　　Freddie, keenly alive to the awkwardness of the situation, wasscarlet and incoherent; and Jill, who desired nothing less than totalk with one so intimately connected in her mind with all that shehad lost, was scarcely more collected. They parted without regret.
　　The only satisfaction that came to Jill from the encounter was theknowledge that Derek was still out of town. He had wired for histhings, said Freddie and had retreated further north. Freddie, itseemed, had been informed of the broken engagement by Lady Underhillin an interview which appeared to have left a lasting impression onhis mind. Of Jill's monetary difficulties he had heard nothing.
　　After this meeting, Jill felt a slight diminution of the oppressionwhich weighed upon her. She could not have borne to have comeunexpectedly upon Derek, and, now that there was no danger of that,she found life a little easier. The days passed somehow, and finallythere came the morning when, accompanied by Uncle Chris--voluble andexplanatory about the details of what he called "getting everythingsettled"--she rode in a taxi to take the train for Southampton. Herlast impression of London was of rows upon rows of mean houses, ofcats wandering in back-yards among groves of home-washedunderclothing, and a smoky grayness which gave way, as the trainraced on, to the clearer gray of the suburbs and the good green andbrown of the open country.
　　Then the bustle and confusion of the liner; the calm monotony of thejourney, when one came on deck each morning to find the vessel somanifestly in the same spot where it had been the morning before thatit was impossible to realize how many hundred miles of ocean hadreally been placed behind one; and finally the Ambrose Channellightship and the great bulk of New York rising into the sky like acity of fairyland, heartening yet sinister, at once a welcome and amenace.
　　"There you are, my dear!" said Uncle Chris indulgently, as though itwere a toy he had made for her with his own hands. "New York!"They were standing on the boat-deck, leaning over the rail. Jillcaught her breath. For the first time since disaster had come uponher she was conscious of a rising of her spirits. It is impossible tobehold the huge buildings which fringe the harbor of New York withouta sense of expectancy and excitement. There had remained in Jill'smind from childhood memories a vague picture of what she now saw, butit had been feeble and inadequate. The sight of this towering cityseemed somehow to blot out everything that had gone before. Thefeeling of starting afresh was strong upon her.
　　Uncle Chris, the old traveller, was not emotionally affected. Hesmoked placidly and talked in a wholly earthy strain of grape-fruitand buckwheat cakes.
　　It was now, also for the first time, that Uncle Chris touched uponfuture prospects in a practical manner. On the voyage he had beeneloquent but sketchy. With the land of promise within biscuit-throwand the tugs bustling about the great liner's skirts like little dogsabout their mistress, he descended to details.
　　"I shall get a room somewhere," said Uncle Chris, "and start lookingabout me. I wonder if the old Holland House is still there. I fancy Iheard they'd pulled it down. Capital place. I had a steak there inthe year . . . But I expect they've pulled it down. But I shall findsomewhere to go. I'll write and tell you my address directly I've gotone."Jill removed her gaze from the sky-line with a start.
　　"Write to me?""Didn't I tell you about that?" said Uncle Chris cheerily,--avoidingher eye, however, for he had realized all along that it might be alittle bit awkward breaking the news. "I've arranged that you shallgo and stay for the time being down at Brookport--on Long Island, youknow--over in that direction--with your Uncle Elmer. Daresay you'veforgotten you have an Uncle Elmer, eh?" he went on quickly, as Jillwas about to speak. "Your father's brother. Used to be in business,but retired some years ago and goes in for amateur farming. Cornand--and corn," said Uncle Chris. "All that sort of thing. You'lllike him. Capital chap! Never met him myself, but always heard," saidUncle Chris, who had never to his recollection heard any commentsupon Mr Elmer Mariner whatever, "that he was a splendid fellow.
　　Directly we decided to sail, I cabled to him, and got an answersaying that he would be delighted to put you up. You'll be quitehappy there."Jill listened to this programme with dismay. New York was calling toher, and Brookport held out no attractions at all. She looked downover the side at the tugs puffing their way through the broken blocksof ice that reminded her of a cocoanut candy familiar to herchildhood.
　　"But I want to be with you," she protested.
　　"Impossible, my dear, for the present. I shall be very busy, verybusy indeed for some weeks, until I have found my feet. Really, youwould be in the way. He--er--travels the fastest who travels alone! Imust be in a position to go anywhere and do anything at a moment'snotice. But always remember, my dear," said Uncle Chris, patting hershoulder affectionately, "that I shall be working for you. I havetreated you very badly, but I intend to make up for it. I shall notforget that whatever money I may make will really belong to you." Helooked at her benignly, like a monarch of finance who has ear-markeda million or two for the benefit of a deserving charity. "You shallhave it all, Jill."He had so much the air of having conferred a substantial benefit uponher that Jill felt obliged to thank him. Uncle Chris had always beenable to make people grateful for the phantom gold which he showeredupon them. He was as lavish a man with the money he was going to getnext week as ever borrowed a five-pound note to see him through tillSaturday.
　　"What are you going to do, Uncle Chris?" asked Jill curiously. Apartfrom a nebulous idea that he intended to saunter through the citypicking dollar-bills off the sidewalk, she had no inkling of hisplans.
　　Uncle Chris toyed with his short mustache. He was not quite equal toa direct answer on the spur of the moment. He had a faith in hisstar. Something would turn up. Something always had turned up in theold days, and doubtless, with the march of civilization,opportunities had multiplied. Somewhere behind those tall buildingsthe Goddess of Luck awaited him, her hands full of gifts, butprecisely what those gifts would be he was not in a position to say.
　　"I shall--ah--how shall I put it--?""Look round?" suggested Jill.
　　"Precisely," said Uncle Chris gratefully. "Look round. I daresay youhave noticed that I have gone out of my way during the voyage to makemyself agreeable to our fellow-travellers? I had an object.
　　Acquaintances begun on shipboard will often ripen into usefulfriendships ashore. When I was a young man I never neglected theopportunities which an ocean voyage affords. The offer of a bookhere, a steamer-rug there, a word of encouragement to a chatty borein the smoke-room--these are small things, but they may lead to much.
　　One meets influential people on a liner. You wouldn't think it tolook at him, but that man with the eye-glasses and the thin nose Iwas talking to just now is one of the richest men in Milwaukee!""But it's not much good having rich friends in Milwaukee when you arein New York!""Exactly. There you have put your finger on the very point I havebeen trying to make. It will probably be necessary for me to travel.
　　And for that I must be alone. I must be a mobile force. I shoulddearly like to keep you with me, but you can see for yourself thatfor the moment you would be an encumbrance. Later on, no doubt, whenmy affairs are more settled . . .""Oh, I understand. I'm resigned. But, oh dear! it's going to be verydull down at Brookport.""Nonsense, nonsense! It's a delightful spot.""Have you been there?""No! But of course everybody knows Brookport! Healthy, invigorating. . . Sure to be! The very name . . . You'll be as happy as the daysare long!""And how long the days will be!""Come, come! You mustn't look on the dark side!""Is there another?" Jill laughed. "You are an old hum-bug, UncleChris. You know perfectly well what you're condemning me to! I expectBrookport will be like a sort of Southend in winter. Oh, well, I'llbe brave. But do hurry and make a fortune, because I want to come toNew York.""My dear," said Uncle Chris solemnly, "if there is a dollar lyingloose in this city, rest assured that I shall have it! And, if it'snot loose, I will detach it with the greatest possible speed. Youhave only known me in my decadence, an idle and unprofitable Londonclubman. I can assure you that, lurking beneath the surface, there isa business acumen given to few men . . .""Oh, if you are going to talk poetry," said Jill, "I'll leave you.
　　Anyhow, I ought to be getting below and putting my things together.
　　Subject for a historical picture,--The Belle of Brookport collectinga few simple necessaries before entering upon the conquest ofAmerica."2.
　　If Jill's vision of Brookport as a wintery Southend was not entirelyfulfilled, neither was Uncle Chris' picture of it as an earthlyparadise. At the right time of the year, like most of the summerresorts on the south shore of Long Island, it is not without itsattractions; but January is not the month which most people wouldchoose for living in it. It presented itself to Jill on firstacquaintance in the aspect of a wind-swept railroad station, dumpeddown far away from human habitation in the middle of a stretch offlat and ragged country that reminded her a little of parts ofSurrey. The station was just a shed on a foundation of planks whichlay flush with the rails. From this shed, as the train clanked in,there emerged a tall, shambling man in a weather-beaten overcoat. Hehad a clean-shaven, wrinkled face, and he looked doubtfully at Jillwith small eyes. Something in his expression reminded Jill of herfather, as a bad caricature of a public man will recall the original,she introduced herself.
　　"If you're Uncle Elmer," she said, "I'm Jill."The man held out a long hand. He did not smile. He was as bleak asthe east wind that swept the platform.
　　"Glad to meet you again," he said in a melancholy voice. It was newsto Jill that they had met before. She wondered where. Her unclesupplied the information. "Last time I saw you, you were a kiddy inshort frocks, running around and shouting to beat the band." Helooked up and down the platform. "_I_ never heard a child make somuch noise!""I'm quite quiet now," said Jill encouragingly. The recollection ofher infant revelry seemed to her to be distressing her relative.
　　It appeared, however, that it was not only this that was on his mind.
　　"If you want to drive home," he said, "we'll have to phone to theDurham House for a hack." He brooded awhile, Jill remaining silent athis side, loath to break in upon whatever secret sorrow he waswrestling with. "That would be a dollar," he went on. "They'rerobbers in these parts! A dollar! And it's not over a mile and ahalf. Are you fond of walking?"Jill was a bright girl, and could take a hint.
　　"I love walking," she said. She might have added that she preferredto do it on a day when the wind was not blowing quite so keenly fromthe East, but her uncle's obvious excitement at the prospect ofcheating the rapacity of the sharks at the Durham House restrainedher. Her independent soul had not quite adjusted itself to theprospect of living on the bounty of her fellows, relatives thoughthey were, and she was desirous of imposing as light a burden uponthem as possible. "But how about my trunk?""The expressman will bring that up. Fifty cents!" said Uncle Elmer ina crushed way. The high cost of entertaining seemed to be afflictingthis man deeply.
　　"Oh, yes," said Jill. She could not see how this particularexpenditure was to be avoided. Anxious as she was to make herselfpleasant, she declined to consider carrying the trunk to theirdestination. "Shall we start, then?"Mr Mariner led the way out into the ice-covered road. The windwelcomed them like a boisterous dog. For some minutes they proceededin silence.
　　"Your aunt will be glad to see you," said Mr Mariner at last in thevoice with which one announces the death of a dear friend.
　　"It's awfully kind of you to have me to stay with you," said Jill. Itis a human tendency to think, when crises occur, in terms ofmelodrama, and unconsciously she had begun to regard herself somewhatin the light of a heroine driven out into the world from the oldhome, with no roof to shelter her head. The promptitude with whichthese good people, who, though relatives, were after all completestrangers, had offered her a resting-place touched her. "I hope Ishan't be in the way.""Major Selby was speaking to me on the telephone just now," said MrMariner, "and he said that you might be thinking of settling down inBrookport. I've some nice little places round here which you mightlike to look at. Rent or buy. It's cheaper to buy. Brookport's agrowing place. It's getting known as a summer resort. There's abungalow down on the shore I'd like to show you tomorrow. Stands in anice large plot of ground, and if you bought it for twelve thousandyou'd be getting a bargain."Jill was too astonished to speak. Plainly Uncle Chris had made nomention of the change in her fortunes, and this man looked on her asa girl of wealth. She could only think how typical this was of UncleChris. There was a sort of boyish impishness about him. She could seehim at the telephone, suave and important. He would have hung up thereceiver with a complacent smirk, thoroughly satisfied that he haddone her an excellent turn.
　　"I put all my money into real estate when I came to live here," wenton Mr Mariner. "I believe in the place. It's growing all the time."They had come to the outskirts of a straggling village. The lights inthe windows gave a welcome suggestion of warmth, for darkness hadfallen swiftly during their walk and the chill of the wind had becomemore biting. There was a smell of salt in the air now, and once ortwice Jill had caught the low booming of waves on some distant beach.
　　This was the Atlantic pounding the sandy shore of Fire Island.
　　Brookport itself lay inside, on the lagoon called the Great SouthBay.
　　"This is Brookport," said Mr Mariner. "That's Haydock's grocerystore there by the post-office. He charges sixty cents a pound forbacon, and I can get the same bacon by walking into Patchogue forfifty-seven!" He brooded awhile on the greed of man, as exemplifiedby the pirates of Brookport. "The very same bacon!" he said.
　　"How far is Patchogue?" asked Jill, feeling that some comment wasrequired of her.
　　"Four miles," said Mr Mariner.
　　They passed through the village, bearing to the right, and foundthemselves in a road bordered by large gardens in which stood big,dark houses. The spectacle of these stimulated Mr Mariner tosomething approaching eloquence. He quoted the price paid for each,the price asked, the price offered, the price that had been paid fiveyears ago. The recital carried them on for another mile, in thecourse of which the houses became smaller and more scattered, andfinally, when the country had become bare and desolate again, theyturned down a narrow lane and came to a tall, gaunt house standing byitself in a field.
　　"This is Sandringham," said Mr Mariner.
　　"What!" said Jill. "What did you say?""Sandringham. Where we live. I got the name from your father. Iremember him telling me there was a place called that in England.""There is." Jill's voice bubbled. "The King lives there.""Is that so?" said Mr Mariner. "Well, I bet he doesn't have thetrouble with help that we have here. I have to pay our girl fiftydollars a month, and another twenty for the man who looks after thefurnace and chops wood. They're all robbers. And if you kick theyquit on you!"3.
　　Jill endured Sandringham for ten days; and, looking back on thatperiod of her life later, she wondered how she did it. The sense ofdesolation which had gripped her on the station platform increasedrather than diminished as she grew accustomed to her surroundings.
　　The east wind died away, and the sun shone fitfully with a suggestionof warmth, but her uncle's bleakness appeared to be a static quality,independent of weather conditions. Her aunt, a faded woman with aperpetual cold in the head, did nothing to promote cheerfulness. Therest of the household consisted of a gloomy child, "Tibby," agedeight; a spaniel, probably a few years older, and an intermittentcat, who, when he did put in an appearance, was the life and soul ofthe party, but whose visits to his home were all too infrequent forJill. Thomas was a genial animal, whose color-scheme, like a Whistlerpicture, was an arrangement in black and white. He had green eyes anda purr like a racing automobile. But his social engagements in theneighborhood kept him away much of the time. He was the popular andenergetic secretary of the local cats' debating society. One couldhear him at night sometimes reading the minutes in a loud, clearvoice; after which the debate was considered formally open.
　　Each day was the same as the last, almost to the final detail.
　　Sometimes Tibby would be naughty at breakfast, sometimes at lunch;while Rover, the spaniel, a great devotee of the garbage-can, wouldoccasionally be sick at mid-day instead of after the evening meal.
　　But, with these exceptions, there was a uniformity about the courseof life in the Mariner household which began to prey on Jill's nervesas early as the third day.
　　The picture which Mr Mariner had formed in his mind of Jill as awealthy young lady with a taste for house property continued as vividas ever. It was his practice each morning to conduct her about theneighborhood, introducing her to the various houses in which he hadsunk most of the money which he had made in business. Mr Mariner'slife centered around Brookport real estate, and the embarrassed Jillwas compelled to inspect sitting-rooms, bathrooms, kitchens, andmaster's bedrooms till the sound of a key turning in a lock gave hera feeling of nervous exhaustion. Most of her uncle's houses wereconverted farmhouses and, as one unfortunate purchaser had remarked,not so darned converted at that. The days she spent at Brookportremained in Jill's memory as a smell of dampness and chill andcloseness.
　　"You want to buy," said Mr Mariner every time he shut a front-doorbehind them. "Not rent. Buy. Then, if you don't want to live here,you can always rent in the summer."It seemed incredible to Jill that the summer would ever come. Winterheld Brookport in its grip. For the first time in her life she wastasting real loneliness. She wandered over the snow-patched fieldsdown to the frozen bay, and found the intense stillness, punctuatedonly by the occasional distant gunshot of some optimist trying forduck, oppressive rather than restful. She looked on the weird beautyof the ice-bound marshes which glittered red and green and blue inthe sun with unseeing eyes; for her isolation was giving her time tothink, and thought was a torment.
　　On the eighth day came a letter from Uncle Chris,--a cheerful, evenrollicking letter. Things were going well with Uncle Chris, itseemed. As was his habit, he did not enter into details, but he wrotein a spacious way of large things to be, of affairs that were comingout right, of prosperity in sight. As tangible evidence of success,he enclosed a present of twenty dollars, for Jill to spend in theBrookport shops.
　　The letter arrived by the morning mail, and two hours later MrMariner took Jill by one of his usual overland routes to see a housenearer the village than most of those which she had viewed. MrMariner had exhausted the supply of cottages belonging to himself,and this one was the property of an acquaintance. There would be anagent's fee for him in the deal, if it went through, and Mr Marinerwas not a man who despised money in small quantities.
　　There was a touch of hopefulness in his gloom this morning, like thefirst intimation of sunshine after a wet day. He had been thinkingthe thing over, and had come to the conclusion that Jill'sunresponsiveness when confronted with the houses she had already seenwas due to the fact that she had loftier ideas than he had supposed.
　　Something a little more magnificent than the twelve thousand dollarplaces he had shown her was what she desired. This house stood on ahill looking down on the bay, in several acres of ground. It had itsprivate landing-stage and bath-house, its dairy, itssleeping-porches,--everything, in fact, that a sensible girl couldwant. Mr Mariner could not bring himself to suppose that he wouldfail again today.
　　"They're asking a hundred and five thousand," he said, "but I knowthey'd take a hundred thousand. And, if it was a question of cashdown, they would go even lower. It's a fine house. You couldentertain there. Mrs Bruggenheim rented it last summer, and wanted tobuy, but she wouldn't go above ninety thousand. If you want it, you'dbetter make up your mind quick. A place like this is apt to besnapped up in a hurry."Jill could endure it no longer.
　　"But, you see," she said gently, "all I have in the world is twentydollars!"There was a painful pause. Mr Mariner shot a swift glance at her inthe hope of discovering that she had spoken humorously, but wascompelled to decide that she had not. His face under normalconditions always achieved the maximum gloom possible for any face,so he gave no outward sign of the shock which had shattered hismental poise; but he expressed his emotion by walking nearly a milewithout saying a word. He was stunned. He had supported himself uptill now by the thought that, frightful as the expense ofentertaining Jill as a guest might be, the outlay was a good sportingspeculation if she intended buying house-property in theneighbourhood. The realization that he was down to the extent of aweek's breakfasts, lunches, and dinners, with nothing to show for it,appalled him. There had been a black morning some years before whenMr. Mariner had given a waiter a ten-dollar bill in mistake for aone. As he had felt then, on discovering his error when it was toolate to retrieve it, so did he feel now.
　　"Twenty dollars!" he exclaimed, at the end of the mile.
　　"Twenty dollars," said Jill,"But your father was a rich man." Mr. Mariner's voice was high andplaintive. "He made a fortune over here before he went to England.""It's all gone. I got nipped," said Jill, who was finding a certainamount of humor in the situation, "in Amalgamated Dyes.""Amalgamated Dyes?""They're something," explained Jill, "that people get nipped in."Mr Mariner digested this.
　　"You speculated?" he gasped.
　　"Yes.""You shouldn't have been allowed to do it," said Mr Mariner warmly.
　　"Major Selby--your uncle ought to have known better than to allowyou.""Yes, oughtn't he," said Jill demurely.
　　There was another silence, lasting for about a quarter of a mile.
　　"Well, it's a bad business," said Mr Mariner.
　　"Yes," said Jill. "I've felt that myself."* * *The result of this conversation was to effect a change in theatmosphere of Sandringham. The alteration in the demeanor of peopleof parsimonious habit, when they discover that the guest they areentertaining is a pauper and not, as they had supposed, an heiress,is subtle but well-marked. In most cases, more well-marked thansubtle. Nothing was actually said, but there are thoughts that arealmost as audible as words. A certain suspense seemed to creep intothe air, as happens when a situation has been reached which is toopoignant to last. Greek Tragedy affects the reader with the samesense of over-hanging doom. Things, we feel, cannot go on as theyare.
　　That night, after dinner, Mrs Mariner asked Jill to read to her.
　　"Print tries my eyes so, dear," said Mrs Mariner. It was a smallthing, but it had the significance of that little cloud that aroseout of the sea like a man's hand. Jill appreciated the portent. Shewas, she perceived, to make herself useful.
　　"Of course I will," she said cordially. "What would you me to read?"She hated reading aloud. It always made her throat sore, and her eyeskipped to the end of each page and took the interest out of it longbefore the proper time. But she proceeded bravely, for her consciencewas troubling her. Her sympathy was divided equally between theseunfortunate people who had been saddled with an undesired visitor andherself who had been placed in a position at which every independentnerve in her rebelled. Even as a child she had loathed being underobligations to strangers or those whom she did not love.
　　"Thank you, dear," said Mrs Mariner, when Jill's voice had roughenedto a weary croak. "You read so well." She wrestled ineffectually withher handkerchief against the cold in the head from which she alwayssuffered. "It would be nice if you would do it every night, don't youthink? You have no idea how tired print makes my eyes."On the following morning after breakfast, at the hour when she hadhitherto gone house-hunting with Mr Mariner, the child Tibby, of whomup till now she had seen little except at meals, presented himself toher, coated and shod for the open and regarding her with a dull andphlegmatic gaze.
　　"Ma says will you please take me for a nice walk!"Jill's heart sank. She loved children, but Tibby was not aningratiating child. He was a Mr Mariner in little. He had the familygloom. It puzzled Jill sometimes why this branch of the family shouldlook on life with so jaundiced an eye. She remembered her father as acheerful man, alive to the small humors of life.
　　"All right, Tibby. Where shall we go?""Ma says we must keep on the roads and I mustn't slide."Jill was thoughtful during the walk. Tibby, who was noconversationalist, gave her every opportunity for meditation. Sheperceived that in the space of a few hours she had sunk in the socialscale. If there was any difference between her position and that of apaid nurse and companion, it lay in the fact that she was not paid.
　　She looked about her at the grim countryside, gave a thought to thechill gloom of the house to which she was about to return, and herheart sank.
　　Nearing home, Tibby vouchsafed his first independent observation.
　　"The hired man's quit!""Has he?""Yep. Quit this morning."It had begun to snow. They turned and made their way back to thehouse. The information she had received did not cause Jill any greatapprehension. It was hardly likely that her new duties would includethe stoking of the furnace. That and cooking appeared to be the onlyacts about the house which were outside her present sphere ofusefulness.
　　"He killed a rat once in the wood-shed with an axe," said Tibbychattily. "Yessir! Chopped it right in half, and it bled!""Look at the pretty snow falling on the trees," said Jill faintly.
　　At breakfast next morning, Mrs Mariner having sneezed, made asuggestion.
　　"Tibby, darling, wouldn't it be nice if you and cousin Jill played agame of pretending you were pioneers in the Far West?""What's a pioneer?" enquired Tibby, pausing in the middle of an actof violence on a plate of oatmeal.
　　"The pioneers were the early settlers in this country, dear. You haveread about them in your history book. They endured a great manyhardships, for life was very rough for them, with no railroads oranything. I think it would be a nice game to play this morning."Tibby looked at Jill. There was doubt in his eye. Jill returned hisgaze sympathetically. One thought was in both their minds.
　　"There is a string to this!" said Tibby's eye.
　　"Exactly what I think!" said Jill's.
　　Mrs Mariner sneezed again.
　　"You would have lots of fun," she said.
　　"What'ud we do?" asked Tibby cautiously. He had been this way before.
　　Only last Summer, on his mother's suggestion that he should pretendhe was a ship-wrecked sailor on a desert island, he had perspiredthrough a whole afternoon cutting the grass in front of the house tomake a ship-wrecked sailor's simple bed.
　　"I know," said Jill. "We'll pretend we're pioneers stormbound intheir log cabin in the woods, and the wolves are howling outside, andthey daren't go out, so they make a lovely big fire and sit in frontof it and read.""And eat candy," suggested Tibby, warming to the idea.
　　"And eat candy," agreed Jill.
　　Mrs Mariner frowned.
　　"I was going to suggest," she said frostily, "that you shovelled thesnow away from the front steps!""Splendid!" said Jill. "Oh, but I forgot. I want to go to the villagefirst.""There will be plenty of time to do it when you get back.""All right. I'll do it when I get back."It was a quarter of an hour's walk to the village. Jill stopped atthe post-office.
　　"Could you tell me," she asked, "when the next train is to New York?""There's one at ten-ten," said the woman, behind the window. "You'llhave to hurry.""I'll hurry!" said Jill.
Chapter 8 
1.
　　Doctors, laying down the law in their usual confident way, tell usthat the vitality of the human body is at its lowest at two o'clockin the morning: and that it is then, as a consequence, that the mindis least able to contemplate the present with equanimity, the futurewith fortitude, and the past without regret. Every thinking man,however, knows that this is not so. The true zero hour, desolate,gloom-ridden, and specter-haunted, occurs immediately before dinnerwhile we are waiting for that cocktail. It is then that, stripped fora brief moment of our armor of complacency and self-esteem, we seeourselves as we are,--frightful chumps in a world where nothing goesright; a gray world in which, hoping to click, we merely get theraspberry; where, animated by the best intentions, we neverthelesssucceed in perpetrating the scaliest bloomers and landing our lovedones neck-deep in the gumbo.
　　So reflected Freddie Rooke, that priceless old bean, sittingdisconsolately in an arm-chair at the Drones Club about two weeksafter Jill's departure from England, waiting for his friend AlgyMartyn to trickle in and give him dinner.
　　Surveying Freddie, as he droops on his spine in the yielding leather,one is conscious of one's limitations as a writer. Gloom like hiscalls for the pen of a master. Zola could have tackled it nicely.
　　Gorky might have made a stab at it. Dostoievsky would have handled itwith relish. But for oneself the thing is too vast. One cannot wangleit. It intimidates. It would have been bad enough in any case, forAlgy Martyn was late as usual and it always gave Freddie the pip tohave to wait for dinner: but what made it worse was the fact that theDrones was not one of Freddie's clubs and so, until the blighter Algyarrived, it was impossible for him to get his cocktail. There he sat,surrounded by happy, laughing young men, each grasping a glass of thegood old mixture-as-before, absolutely unable to connect. Some ofthem, casual acquaintances, had nodded to him, waved, and gone onlowering the juice,--a spectacle which made Freddie feel much as thewounded soldier would have felt if Sir Philip Sidney, instead ofoffering him the cup of water, had placed it to his own lips anddrained it with a careless "Cheerio!" No wonder Freddie experiencedthe sort of abysmal soul-sadness which afflicts one of Tolstoi'sRussian peasants when, after putting in a heavy day's work stranglinghis father, beating his wife, and dropping the baby into the cityreservoir, he turns to the cupboard, only to find the vodka-bottleempty.
　　Freddie gave himself up to despondency: and, as always in these dayswhen he was mournful, he thought of Jill. Jill's sad case was acontinual source of mental anguish to him. From the first he hadblamed himself for the breaking-off of her engagement with Derek. Ifhe had not sent the message to Derek from the police-station, thelatter would never have known about their arrest, and all would havebeen well. And now, a few days ago, had come the news of herfinancial disaster, with its attendant complications.
　　It had descended on Freddie like a thunderbolt through the medium ofRonny Devereux.
　　"I say," Ronny had said, "have you heard the latest? Your pal,Underhill, has broken off his engagement with Jill Mariner.""I know; rather rotten, what!""Rotten? I should say so! It isn't done. I mean to say, chap can'tchuck a girl just because she's lost her money. Simply isn't on theboard, old man!""Lost her money? What do you mean?"Ronny was surprised. Hadn't Freddie heard? Yes, absolute fact. He hadit from the best authority. Didn't know how it had happened and allthat, but Jill Mariner had gone completely bust; Underhill had givenher the miss-in-baulk; and the poor girl had legged it, no one knewwhere. Oh, Freddie had met her and she had told him she was going toAmerica? Well, then, legged it to America. But the point was that theswine Underhill had handed her the mitten just because she was broke,and that was what Ronny thought so bally rotten. Broker a girl is,Ronny meant to say, more a fellow should stick to her.
　　"But--" Freddie rushed to his hero's defence. "But it wasn't that atall. Something quite different. I mean, Derek didn't even know Jillhad lost her money. He broke the engagement because . . ." Freddiestopped short. He didn't want everybody to know of that rotten arrestbusiness, as they infallibly would if he confided in Ronny Devereux.
　　Sort of thing he would never hear the last of. "He broke it offbecause of something quite different.""Oh, yes!" said Ronny skeptically.
　　"But he did, really!"Ronny shook his head.
　　"Don't you believe it, old son. Don't you believe it. Stands toreason it must have been because the poor girl was broke. Youwouldn't have done it and I wouldn't have done it, but Underhill did,and that's all there is to it. I mean, a tick's a tick, and there'snothing more to say. Well, I know he's been a pal of yours, Freddie,but, next time I meet him, by Jove, I'll cut him dead. Only I don'tknow him to speak to, dash it!" concluded Ronny regretfully.
　　Ronny's news had upset Freddie. Derek had returned to the Albany acouple of days ago, moody and silent. They had lunched together atthe Bachelors, and Freddie had been pained at the attitude of hisfellow clubmen. Usually, when he lunched at the Bachelors, his tablebecame a sort of social center. Cheery birds would roll up to passthe time of day, and festive old eggs would toddle over to havecoffee and so forth, and all that sort of thing. Jolly! On thisoccasion nobody had rolled, and all the eggs present had taken theircoffee elsewhere. There was an uncomfortable chill in the atmosphereof which Freddie had been acutely conscious, though Derek had notappeared to notice it. The thing had only come home to Derekyesterday at the Albany, when the painful episode of Wally Mason hadoccurred. It was this way:
　　"Hullo, Freddie, old top! Sorry to have kept you waiting."Freddie looked up from his broken meditations, to find that his hosthad arrived.
　　"Hullo!""A quick bracer," said Algy Martyn, "and then the jolly oldfood-stuffs. It's pretty late, I see. Didn't notice how time wasslipping."Over the soup, Freddie was still a prey to gloom. For once thehealing gin-and-vermouth had failed to do its noble work. He sippedsombrely, so sombrely as to cause comment from his host.
　　"Pipped?" enquired Algy solicitously.
　　"Pretty pipped," admitted Freddie.
　　"Backed a loser?""No.""Something wrong with the old tum?""No. . . . Worried.""Worried?""About Derek.""Derek? Who's . . . ? Oh, you mean Underhill?""Yes."Algy Martyn chased an elusive piece of carrot about his soup plate,watching it interestedly as it slid coyly from the spoon.
　　"Oh?" he said, with sudden coolness. "What about him?"Freddie was too absorbed in his subject to notice the change in hisfriend's tone.
　　"A dashed unpleasant thing," he said, "happened yesterday morning atmy place. I was just thinking about going out to lunch, when thedoor-bell rang and Parker said a chappie of the name of Mason wouldlike to see me. I didn't remember any Mason, but Parker said thechappie said he knew me when I was a kid. So he loosed him into theroom, and it turned out to be a fellow I used to know years ago downin Worcestershire. I didn't know him from Adam at first, butgradually the old bean got to work, and I placed him. Wally Mason hisname was. Rummily enough, he had spoken to me at the Leicester thatnight when the fire was, but not being able to place him, I had givenhim the miss somewhat. You know how it is. Chappie you've never beenintroduced to says something to you in a theatre, and you murmursomething and sheer off. What?""Absolutely," agreed Algy Martyn. He thoroughly approved of Freddie'scode of etiquette. Sheer off. Only thing to do.
　　"Well, anyhow, now that he had turned up again and told me who hewas, I began to remember. We had been kids together, don't you know.
　　(What's this? Salmon? Oh, right ho.) So I buzzed about and did thejovial host, you know; gave him a drink and a toofer, and all thatsort of thing; and talked about the dear old days and what not. Andso forth, if you follow me. Then he brought the conversation round toJill. Of course he knew Jill at the same time when he knew me, downin Worcestershire, you see. We were all pretty pally in those days,if you see what I mean. Well, this man Mason, it seems, had heardsomewhere about Jill losing her money, and he wanted to know if itwas true. I said absolutely. Hadn't heard any details, but Ronny hadtold me and Ronny had had it from some one who had stable informationand all that sort of thing. 'Dashed shame, isn't it!' I said. 'She'sgone to America, you know.' 'I didn't know,' he said. 'I understoodshe was going to be married quite soon.' Well, of course, I told himthat that was off. He didn't say anything for a bit, then he said'Off?' I said 'Off.' 'Did she break it off?' asked the chappie.
　　'Well, no,' I said. 'As a matter of fact Derek broke it off.' He said'Oh!' (What? Oh yes, a bit of pheasant will be fine.) Where was I?
　　Oh, yes. He said 'Oh!' Now, before this, I ought to tell you, thischappie Mason had asked me to come out and have a bit of lunch. I hadtold him I was lunching with Derek, and he said 'Right ho,' or wordsto that effect, 'Bring him along.' Derek had been out for a stroll,you see, and we were waiting for him to come in. Well, just at thispoint or juncture, if you know what I mean, in he came, and I said'Oh, what ho!' and introduced Wally Mason. 'Oh, do you knowUnderhill?' I said, or something like that. You know the sort ofthing. And then . . ."Freddie broke off and drained his glass. The recollection of thatpainful moment had made him feverish. Social difficulties always did.
　　"Then what?" enquired Algy Martyn.
　　"Well, it, was pretty rotten. Derek held out his hand, as a chappienaturally would, being introduced to a strange chappie, and WallyMason, giving it an absolute miss, went on talking to me just as ifwe were alone, you know. Look here. Here was I, where this knife is.
　　Derek over here--this fork--with his hand out. Mason here--this bitof bread. Mason looks at his watch, and says 'I'm sorry, Freddie, butI find I've an engagement for lunch. So long!' and biffed out,without apparently knowing Derek was on the earth. I mean . . ."Freddie reached for his glass, "What I mean is, it was dashedembarrassing. I mean, cutting a fellow dead in my rooms. I don't knowwhen I've felt so rotten!"Algy Martyn delivered judgment with great firmness.
　　"Chappie was perfectly right!""No, but I mean . . .""Absolutely correct-o," insisted Algy sternly. "Underhill can't dashabout all over the place giving the girl he's engaged to the mittenbecause she's broke, and expect no notice to be taken of it. If youwant to know what I think, old man, your pal Underhill--I can'timagine what the deuce you see in him, but, school together and soforth, makes a difference, I suppose,--I say, if you want to knowwhat I think, Freddie, the blighter Underhill would be well advisedeither to leg it after Jill and get her to marry him or else lie lowfor a goodish while till people have forgotten the thing. I mean tosay, fellows like Ronny and I and Dick Wimpole and Archie Studd andthe rest of our lot,--well, we all knew Jill and thought she was atopper and had danced with her here and there and seen her about andall that, and naturally we feel pretty strongly about the wholedashed business. Underhill isn't in our particular set, but we allknow most of the people he knows, and we talk about this business,and the thing gets about, and there you are! My sister, who was agreat pal of Jill's, swears that all the girls she knows mean to cutUnderhill. I tell you, Freddie, London's going to get pretty hot forhim if he doesn't do something dashed quick and with great rapidity!""But you haven't got the story right, old thing!""How not?""Well, I mean you think and Ronny thinks and all the rest of youthink that Derek broke off the engagement because of the money. Itwasn't that at all.""What was it, then?""Well . . . Well, look here, it makes me seem a fearful ass and allthat, but I'd better tell you. Jill and I were going down one ofthose streets near Victoria and a blighter was trying to slay aparrot . . .""Parrot-shooting's pretty good in those parts, they tell me,"interjected Algy satirically.
　　"Don't interrupt, old man. This parrot had got out of one of thehouses, and a fellow was jabbing at it with a stick, and Jill--youknow what she's like; impulsive, I mean, and all that--Jill got holdof the stick and biffed him with some vim, and a policeman rolled upand the fellow made a fuss and the policeman took Jill and me off tochokey. Well, like an ass, I sent round to Derek to bail us out, andthat's how he heard of the thing. Apparently he didn't think a lot ofit, and the result was that he broke off the engagement."Algy Martin had listened to this recital with growing amazement.
　　"He broke it off because of that?""Yes.""What absolute rot!" said Algy Martyn. "I don't believe a word of it!""I say, old man!""I don't believe a word of it," repeated Algy firmly. "And nobodyelse will either. It's dashed good of you, Freddie, to cook up a yarnlike that to try and make things look better for the blighter, but itwon't work. Such a dam silly story, too!" said Algy with someindignation.
　　"But it's true!""What's the use, Freddie, between old pals?" said Algy protestingly.
　　"You know perfectly well that Underhill's a cootie of the mostpronounced order, and that, when he found out that Jill hadn't anymoney, he chucked her.""But why should Derek care whether Jill was well off or not? He's gotenough money of his own.""Nobody," said Algy judicially, "has got enough money of his own.
　　Underhill thought he was marrying a girl with a sizeable chunk of theready, and, when the fuse blew out, he decided it wasn't good enough.
　　For Heaven's sake don't let's talk any more about the blighter. Itgives me a pain to think of him."And Algy Martyn, suppressing every effort which Freddie made toreopen the subject, turned the conversation to more general matters.
　　2.
　　Freddie returned to the Albany in a state of gloom and uneasiness.
　　Algy's remarks, coming on top of the Wally Mason episode, had shakenhim. The London in which he and Derek moved and had their being isnothing but a village, and it was evident that village gossip washostile to Derek. People were talking about him. Local opinion haddecided that he had behaved badly. Already one man had cut him.
　　Freddie blenched at a sudden vision of street-fulls of men, longPiccadillys of men, all cutting him, one after the other. Somethinghad got to be done. He was devoted to Derek. This sort of thing wasas bad as being cut himself. Whatever Freddie's limitations in thematter of brain, he had a large heart and an infinite capacity forfaithfulness in his friendships.
　　The subject was not an easy one to broach to his somewhat forbiddingfriend, as he discovered when the latter arrived about half an hourlater. Derek had been attending the semi-annual banquet of theWorshipful Dry-Salters Company down in the City, understudying one ofthe speakers, a leading member of Parliament, who had been unable toappear; and he was still in the grip of that feeling of degradedrepletion which city dinners induce. The dry-salters, on theseoccasions when they cast off for a night the cares and anxieties ofdry-salting, do their guests well, and Derek had that bloated senseof foreboding which comes to a man whose stomach is not his strongpoint after twelve courses and a multitude of mixed wines. A goose,qualifying for the role of a pot of pate de foies gras, probably hasexactly the same jaundiced outlook.
　　Yet, unfavorably disposed as, judging by his silence and theoccasional moody grunts he uttered, he appeared to be to a discussionof his private affairs, it seemed to Freddie impossible that thenight should be allowed to pass without some word spoken on thesubject. He thought of Ronny and what Ronny had said, of Algy andwhat Algy had said, of Wally Mason and how Wally had behaved in thisvery room; and he nerved himself to the task.
　　"Derek, old top."A grunt.
　　"I say, Derek, old bean."Derek roused himself, and looked gloomily across the room to where hestood, warming his legs at the blaze.
　　"Well?"Freddie found a difficulty in selecting words. A ticklish business,this. One that might well have disconcerted a diplomat. Freddie wasno diplomat, and the fact enabled him to find a way in the presentcrisis. Equipped by nature with an amiable tactlessness and a happygift of blundering, he charged straight at the main point, and landedon it like a circus elephant alighting on a bottle.
　　"I say, you know, about Jill!"He stooped to rub the backs of his legs, on which the fire wasplaying with a little too fierce a glow, and missed his companion'sstart and the sudden thickening of his bushy eyebrows.
　　"Well?" said Derek again.
　　Freddie nerved himself to proceed. A thought flashed across his mindthat Derek was looking exactly like Lady Underhill. It was the firsttime he had seen the family resemblance quite so marked.
　　"Ronny Devereux was saying . . ." faltered Freddie.
　　"Damn Ronny Devereux!""Oh, absolutely! But . . .""Ronny Devereux! Who the devil is Ronny Devereux?""Why, old man, you've heard me speak of him, haven't you? Pal ofmine. He came down to the station with Algy and me to meet your materthat morning.""Oh, _that_ fellow? And he has been saying something about . . . ?""It isn't only Ronny, you know," Freddie hastened to interject. "AlgyMartyn's talking about it, too. And lots of other fellows. And Algy'ssister and a lot of people. They're all saying . . .""What are they saying?"Freddie bent down and chafed the back of his legs. He simply couldn'tlook at Derek while he had that Lady Underhill expression on the oldmap. Rummy he had never noticed before how extraordinarily like hismother he was. Freddie was conscious of a faint sense of grievance.
　　He could not have put it into words, but what he felt was that afellow had no right to go about looking like Lady Underhill.
　　"What are they saying?" repeated Derek grimly.
　　"Well . . ." Freddie hesitated. "That it's a bit tough . . . On Jill,you know.""They think I behaved badly?""Well . . . Oh, well, you know!"Derek smiled a ghastly smile. This was not wholly due to mentaldisturbance. The dull heaviness which was the legacy of theDry-Salters' dinner had begun to change to something more activelyunpleasant. A sub-motive of sharp pain had begun to run through it,flashing in and out like lightning through a thunder-cloud. He feltsullen and vicious.
　　"I wonder," he said with savage politeness, "if, when you chat withyour friends, you would mind choosing some other topic than myprivate affairs.""Sorry, old man. But they started it, don't you know.""And, if you feel you've got to discuss me, kindly keep it toyourself. Don't come and tell me what your damned friends said toeach other and to you and what you said to them, because it bores me.
　　I'm not interested. I don't value their opinions as much as you seemto." Derek paused, to battle in silence with the imperious agonywithin him. "It was good of you to put me up here," he went on, "butI think I won't trespass on your hospitality any longer. Perhapsyou'll ask Parker to pack my things tomorrow." Derek moved, asmajestically as an ex-guest of the Worshipful Company of Dry-Saltersmay, in the direction of the door. "I shall go to the Savoy.""Oh, I say, old man! No need to do that.""Good night.""But, I say . . .""And you can tell your friend Devereux that, if he doesn't stoppoking his nose into my private business, I'll pull it off.""Well," said Freddie doubtfully, "of course I don't suppose you know,but . . . Ronny's a pretty hefty bird. He boxed for Cambridge in thelight-weights the last year he was up, you know. He . . ."Derek slammed the door. Freddie was alone. He stood rubbing his legsfor some minutes, a rueful expression on his usually cheerful face.
　　Freddie hated rows. He liked everything to jog along smoothly. What arotten place the world was these days! Just one thing after another.
　　First, poor old Jill takes the knock and disappears. He would missher badly. What a good sort! What a pal! And now--gone. Biffed off.
　　Next, Derek. Together, more or less, ever since Winchester, andnow--bing! . . .
　　Freddie heaved a sigh, and reached out for the Sporting Times, hisnever-failing comfort in times of depression. He lit another cigarand curled up in one of the arm-chairs. He was feeling tired. He hadbeen playing squash all the afternoon, a game at which he wasexceedingly expert and to which he was much addicted.
　　Time passed. The paper slipped to the floor. A cold cigar followedit. From the depths of the chair came a faint snore . . .
　　* * *A hand on his shoulder brought Freddie with a jerk troubled dreams.
　　Derek was standing beside him. A tousled Derek, apparently in pain.
　　"Freddie!""Hullo!"A spasm twisted Derek's face.
　　"Have you got any pepsin?"Derek uttered a groan. What a mocker of our petty human dignity isthis dyspepsia, bringing low the haughtiest of us, less than loveitself a respecter of persons. This was a different Derek from theman who had stalked stiffly from the room two hours before. His pridehad been humbled upon the rack.
　　"Pepsin?"Freddie blinked, the mists of sleep floating gently before his eyes.
　　He could not quite understand what his friend was asking for. It hadsounded just like pepsin, and he didn't believe there was such aword.
　　"Yes. I've got the most damned attack of indigestion."The mists of sleep rolled away from Freddie. He was awake again, andbecame immediately helpful. These were the occasions when the Last ofthe Rookes was a good man to have at your side. It was Freddie whosuggested that Derek should recline in the arm-chair which he hadvacated; Freddie who nipped round the corner to the all-nightchemist's and returned with a magic bottle guaranteed to relieve anostrich after a surfeit of soda-water bottles; Freddie who mixed andadministered the dose.
　　His ministrations were rewarded. Presently the agony seemed to pass.
　　Derek recovered.
　　One would say that Derek became himself again, but that the mood ofgentle remorse which came upon him as he lay in the arm-chair was oneso foreign to his nature. Freddie had never seen him so subdued. Hewas like a convalescent child. Between them, the all-night chemistand the Dry-Salters seemed to have wrought a sort of miracle. Thesetemporary softenings of personality frequently follow city dinners.
　　The time to catch your Dry-Salter in angelic mood is the day afterthe semi-annual banquet. Go to him then and he will give you hiswatch and chain.
　　"Freddie," said Derek.
　　They were sitting over the dying fire. The clock on the mantelpiece,beside which Jill's photograph had stood, pointed to ten minutes pasttwo. Derek spoke in a low, soft voice. Perhaps the doctors are rightafter all, and two o'clock is the hour at which our self-esteemdeserts us, leaving in its place regret for past sins, goodresolutions for future behavior.
　　"What do Algy Martyn and the others say about . . . you know?"Freddie hesitated. Pity to start all that again.
　　"Oh, I know," went on Derek. "They say I behaved like a cad.""Oh, well . . .""They are quite right. I did.""Oh, I shouldn't say that, you know. Faults on both sides and allthat sort of rot.""I did!" Derek stared into the fire. Scattered all over London atthat moment, probably, a hundred worshipful Dry-Salters were equallysleepless and subdued, looking wide-eyed into black pasts. "Is ittrue she has gone to America, Freddie?""She told me she was going.""What a fool I've been!"The clock ticked on through the silence. The fire sputtered faintly,then gave a little wheeze, like a very old man. Derek rested his chinon his hands, gazing into the ashes.
　　"I wish to God I could go over there and find her.""Why don't you?""How can I? There may be an election coming on at any moment. I can'tstir."Freddie leaped from his seat. The suddenness of the action sent ared-hot corkscrew of pain through Derek's head.
　　"What the devil's the matter?" he demanded irritably. Even the gentlemood which comes with convalescence after a City Dinner is notguaranteed to endure against this sort of thing.
　　"I've got an idea, old bean!""Well, there's no need to dance, is there?""I've nothing to keep me here, you know. What's the matter with mypopping over to America and finding Jill?" Freddie tramped the floor,aglow. Each beat of his foot jarred Derek, but he made no complaint.
　　"Could you?" he asked eagerly.
　　"Of course I could. I was saying only the other day that I had half amind to buzz over. It's a wheeze! I'll get on the next boat andcharge over in the capacity of a jolly old ambassador. Have her backin no time. Leave it to me, old thing! This is where I come outstrong!"
Chapter 9
1.
　　New York welcomed Jill, as she came out of the Pennsylvania Stationinto Seventh Avenue, with a whirl of powdered snow that touched hercheek like a kiss, the cold, bracing kiss one would expect from thisvivid city. She stood at the station entrance, a tiny figure besidethe huge pillars, looking round her with eager eyes. A wind waswhipping down the avenue. The sky was a clear, brilliant tent of thebrightest blue. Energy was in the air, and hopefulness. She wonderedif Mr Elmer Mariner ever came to New York. It was hard to see howeven his gloom would contrive to remain unaffected by theexhilaration of the place.
　　Yes, New York looked good . . . good and exciting, with all thetaxi-cabs rattling in at the dark tunnel beside her, with all thepeople hurrying in and hurrying out, with all this medley ofstreet-cars and sky-signs and crushed snow and drays and horses andpolicemen, and that vast hotel across the street, towering to heavenlike a cliff. It even smelt good. She remembered an old picture inPunch, of two country visitors standing on the step of their railwaycarriage at a London terminus, one saying ecstatically to other:
　　"Don't speak! Just sniff! Doesn't it smell of the Season!" She knewexactly how they had felt, and she approved of their attitude. Thatwas the right way to behave on being introduced to a greatmetropolis. She stood and sniffed reverently. But for the presence ofthe hurrying crowds, she could almost have imitated the example ofthat king who kissed the soil of his country on landing from hisship.
　　She took Uncle Chris' letter from her bag. He had written from anaddress on East Fifty-seventh Street. There would be just time tocatch him before he went out to lunch. She hailed a taxi-cab whichwas coming out of the station.
　　It was a slow ride, halted repeatedly by congestion of the traffic,but a short one for Jill. She was surprised at herself, a Londoner oflong standing, for feeling so provincial and being so impressed. ButLondon was far away. It belonged to a life that seemed years ago anda world from which she had parted for ever. Moreover, this wasundeniably a stupendous city through which her taxi-cab was carryingher. At Times Square the stream of the traffic plunged into awhirlpool, swinging out of Broadway to meet the rapids which pouredin from east, west, and north. On Fifth Avenue all the automobiles inthe world were gathered together. On the sidewalks, pedestrians,muffled against the nipping chill of the crisp air, hurried to andfro. And, above, that sapphire sky spread a rich velvet curtain whichmade the tops of the buildings stand out like the white minarets ofsome eastern city of romance.
　　The cab drew up in front of a stone apartment house; and Jill,getting out, passed under an awning through a sort of mediaevalcourtyard, gay with potted shrubs, to an inner door. She wasimpressed. The very atmosphere was redolent of riches, and shewondered how in the world Uncle Chris had managed to acquire wealthon this scale in the extremely short space of time which had elapsedsince his landing. There bustled past her an obvious millionaire--or,more probably, a greater monarch of finance who looked down upon meremillionaires and out of the goodness of his heart tried to check atendency to speak patronisingly to them. He was concealed to theeyebrows in a fur coat, and, reaching the sidewalk, was instantlyabsorbed in a large limousine. Two expensive-looking ladies followedhim. Jill began to feel a little dazed. Evidently the tales one heardof fortunes accumulated overnight in this magic city were true, andone of them must have fallen to the lot of Uncle Chris. For nobody towhom money was a concern could possibly afford to live in a placelike this. If Croesus and the Count of Monte Cristo had applied forlodging there, the authorities would probably have looked on them alittle doubtfully at first and hinted at the desirability of amonth's rent in advance.
　　In a glass case behind the inner door, reading a newspaper andchewing gum, sat a dignified old man in the rich uniform of a generalin the Guatemalan army. He was a brilliant spectacle. He wore nojewelry, but this, no doubt, was due to a private distaste fordisplay. As there was no one else of humbler rank at hand from whomJill could solicit an introduction and the privilege of an audience,she took the bold step of addressing him directly.
　　"I want to see Major Selby, please."The Guatemalan general arrested for a moment the rhythmic action ofhis jaws, lowered his paper and looked at her with raised eyebrows.
　　At first Jill thought that he was registering haughty contempt, thenshe saw what she had taken for scorn was surprise.
　　"Major Selby?""Major Selby.""No Major Selby living here.""Major Christopher Selby.""Not here," said the associate of ambassadors and the pampered pet ofGuatemala's proudest beauties. "Never heard of him in my life!"2.
　　Jill had read works of fiction in which at certain crises everythinghad "seemed to swim" in front of the heroine's eyes, but never tillthis moment had she experienced that remarkable sensation herself.
　　The Savior of Guatemala did not actually swim, perhaps, but hecertainly flickered. She had to blink to restore his prismaticoutlines to their proper sharpness. Already the bustle and noise ofNew York had begun to induce in her that dizzy condition of unrealitywhich one feels in dreams, and this extraordinary statement added thefinishing touch.
　　Perhaps the fact that she had said "please" to him when she openedthe conversation touched the heart of the hero of a thousandrevolutions. Dignified and beautiful as he was to the eye of thestranger, it is unpleasant to have to record that he lived in a worldwhich rather neglected the minor courtesies of speech. People did notoften say "please" to him. "Here!" "Hi!" and "Gosh darn you!" yes;but seldom "please." He seemed to approve of Jill, for he shifted hischewing-gum to a position which facilitated speech, and began to behelpful.
　　"What was the name again?""Selby.""Howja spell it?""S-e-l-b-y.""S-e-l-b-y. Oh, Selby?""Yes, Selby.""What was the first name?""Christopher.""Christopher?""Yes, Christopher.""Christopher Selby? No one of that name living here.""But there must be."The veteran shook his head with an indulgent smile.
　　"You want Mr Sipperley," he said tolerantly. In Guatemala thesemistakes are always happening. "Mr George Sipperley. He's on thefourth floor. What name shall I say?"He had almost reached the telephone when Jill stopped him. This is anage of just-as-good substitutes, but she refused to accept anyunknown Sipperley as a satisfactory alternative for Uncle Chris.
　　"I don't want Mr Sipperley. I want Major Selby.""Howja spell it once more?""S-e-l-b-y.""S-e-l-b-y. No one of that name living here. Mr. Sipperley--"--hespoke in a wheedling voice, as if determined, in spite of herself, tomake Jill see what was in her best interests--"Mr Sipperley's on thefourth floor. Gentleman in the real estate business," he addedinsinuatingly. "He's got blond hair and a Boston bull-dog.""He may be all you say, and he may have a dozen bulldogs . . .""Only one. Jack his name is."". . . But he isn't the right man. It's absurd. Major Selby wrote tome from this address. This _is_ Eighteen East Fifty-seventh Street?""This is Eighteen East Fifty-seventh Street," conceded the othercautiously.
　　"I've got his letter here." She opened her bag, and gave anexclamation of dismay. "It's gone!""Mr Sipperley used to have a friend staying with him last Fall. A MrRobertson. Dark-complected man with a mustache.""I took it out to look at the address, and I was sure I put it back.
　　I must have dropped it.""There's a Mr Rainsby on the seventh floor. He's a broker down onWall Street. Short man with an impediment in his speech."Jill snapped the clasp of her bag.
　　"Never mind," she said. "I must have made a mistake. I was quite surethat this was the address, but it evidently isn't. Thank you so much.
　　I'm so sorry to have bothered you."She walked away, leaving the Terror of Paraguay and all points westspeechless: for people who said "Thank you so much" to him were evenrarer than those who said "please." He followed her with anaffectionate eye till she was out of sight, then, restoring hischewing-gum to circulation, returned to the perusal of his paper. Amomentary suggestion presented itself to his mind that what Jill hadreally wanted was Mr Willoughby on the eighth floor, but it was toolate to say so now: and soon, becoming absorbed in the narrative of aspirited householder in Kansas who had run amuck with a hatchet andslain six, he dismissed the matter from his mind.
　　3.
　　Jill walked back to Fifth Avenue, crossed it, and made her waythoughtfully along the breezy street which, flanked on one side bythe Park and on the other by the green-roofed Plaza Hotel and theapartment houses of the wealthy, ends in the humbler and moredemocratic spaces of Columbus Circle. She perceived that she was inthat position, familiar to melodrama, of being alone in a great city.
　　The reflection brought with it a certain discomfort. The bag thatdangled from her wrist contained all the money she had in the world,the very broken remains of the twenty dollars which Uncle Chris hadsent her at Brookport. She had nowhere to go, nowhere to sleep, andno immediately obvious means of adding to her capital. It was asituation which she had not foreseen when she set out to walk toBrookport station.
　　She pondered over the mystery of Uncle Chris' disappearance, andfound no solution. The thing was inexplicable. She was as sure of theaddress he had given in his letter as she was of anything in theworld. Yet at that address nothing had been heard of him. His namewas not even known. These were deeper waters than Jill was able tofathom.
　　She walked on, aimlessly. Presently she came to Columbus Circle, and,crossing Broadway at the point where that street breaks out into aneruption of automobile stores, found herself suddenly hungry,opposite a restaurant whose entire front was a sheet of plate glass.
　　On the other side of this glass, at marble-topped tables, apparentlycareless of their total lack of privacy, sat the impecunious,lunching, their every mouthful a spectacle for the passer-by. Itreminded Jill of looking at fishes in an aquarium. In the center ofthe window, gazing out in a distrait manner over piles of apples andgrape-fruit, a white-robed ministrant at a stove juggled ceaselesslywith buckwheat cakes. He struck the final note in the candidness ofthe establishment, a priest whose ritual contained no mysteries.
　　Spectators with sufficient time on their hands to permit them tostand and watch were enabled to witness a New York mid-day meal inevery stage of its career, from its protoplasmic beginnings as astream of yellowish-white liquid poured on top of the stove to itsultimate Nirvana in the interior of the luncher in the form of anappetising cake. It was a spectacle which no hungry girl couldresist. Jill went in, and, as she made her way among the tables, avoice spoke her name.
　　"Miss Mariner!"Jill jumped, and thought for a moment that the thing must have beenan hallucination. It was impossible that anybody in the place shouldhave called her name. Except for Uncle Chris, wherever he might be,she knew no one in New York. Then the voice spoke again, competingvaliantly with a clatter of crockery so uproarious as to be more likesomething solid than a mere sound.
　　"I couldn't believe it was you!"A girl in blue had risen from the nearest table, and was staring ather in astonishment, Jill recognized her instantly. Those big,pathetic eyes, like a lost child's, were unmistakable. It was theparrot girl, the girl whom she and Freddie Rooke had found in thedrawing-room, at Ovington Square that afternoon when the foundationsof the world had given way and chaos had begun.
　　"Good gracious!" cried Jill. "I thought you were in London!"That feeling of emptiness and panic, the result of her interview withthe Guatemalan general at the apartment house, vanished magically.
　　She sat down at this unexpected friend's table with a light heart.
　　"Whatever are you doing in New York?" asked the girl. "I never knewyou meant to come over.""It was a little sudden. Still, here I am. And I'm starving. What arethose things you're eating?""Buckwheat cakes.""Oh, yes. I remember Uncle Chris talking about them on the boat. I'llhave some.""But when did you come over?""I landed about ten days ago. I've been down at a place calledBrookport on Long Island. How funny running into you like this!""I was surprised that you remembered me.""I've forgotten your name," admitted Jill frankly. "But that'snothing. I always forget names.""My name's Nelly Bryant.""Of course. And you're on the stage, aren't you?""Yes. I've just got work with Goble and Cohn. . . . Hullo, Phil!"A young man with a lithe figure and smooth black hair brushedstraight back from his forehead had paused at the table on his way tothe cashier's desk.
　　"Hello, Nelly.""I didn't know you lunched here.""Don't often. Been rehearsing with Joe up at the Century Roof, andhad a quarter of an hour to get a bite. Can I sit down?""Sure. This is my friend, Miss Mariner."The young man shook hands with Jill, flashing an approving glance ather out of his dark, restless eyes.
　　"Pleased to meet you.""This is Phil Brown," said Nelly. "He plays the straight for JoeWidgeon. They're the best jazz-and-hokum team on the Keith Circuit.""Oh, hush!" said Mr Brown modestly. "You always were a great littlebooster, Nelly.""Well, you know you are! Weren't you held over at the Palace lasttime! Well, then!""That's true," admitted the young man. "Maybe we didn't gool 'em, eh?
　　Stop me on the street and ask me! Only eighteen bows second houseSaturday!"Jill was listening, fascinated.
　　"I can't understand a word," she said. "It's like another language.""You're from the other side, aren't you?" asked Mr Brown.
　　"She only landed a week ago," said Nelly.
　　"I thought so from the accent," said Mr Brown. "So our talk sort ofgoes over the top, does it? Well, you'll learn American soon, if youstick around.""I've learned some already," said Jill. The relief of meeting Nellyhad made her feel very happy. She liked this smooth-haired young man.
　　"A man on the train this morning said to me, 'Would you care for themorning paper, sister?' I said, 'No, thanks, brother, I want to lookout of the window and think!'""You meet a lot of fresh guys on trains," commented Mr Brownausterely. "You want to give 'em the cold-storage eye." He turned toNelly. "Did you go down to Ike, as I told you?""Yes.""Did you cop?""Yes. I never felt so happy in my life. I'd waited over an hour onthat landing of theirs, and then Johnny Miller came along, and Iyelled in his ear that I was after work, and he told me it would beall right. He's awfully good to girls who've worked in shows for himbefore. If it hadn't been for him I might have been waiting therestill.""Who," enquired Jill, anxious to be abreast of the conversation, "isIke?""Mr Goble. Where I've just got work. Goble and Cohn, you know.""I never heard of them!"The young man extended his hand.
　　"Put it there!" he said. "They never heard of me! At least, thefellow I saw when I went down to the office hadn't! Can you beat it?""Oh, did you go down there, too?" asked Nelly.
　　"Sure. Joe wanted to get in another show on Broadway. He'd sort ofgot tired of vodevil. Say, I don't want to scare you, Nelly, but, ifyou ask me, that show they're putting out down there is a citron! Idon't think Ike's got a cent of his own money in it. My belief isthat he's running it for a lot of amateurs. Why, say, listen! Joe andI blow in there to see if there's anything for us, and there's a tallguy in tortoiseshell cheaters sitting in Ike's office. Said he wasthe author and was engaging the principals. We told him who we were,and it didn't make any hit with him at all. He said he had neverheard of us. And, when we explained, he said no, there wasn't goingto be any of our sort of work in the show. Said he was making aneffort to give the public something rather better than the usual sortof thing. No specialties required. He said it was an effort torestore the Gilbert and Sullivan tradition. Say, who are theseGilbert and Sullivan guys, anyway? They get written up in the papersall the time, and I never met any one who'd run across them. If youwant my opinion, that show down there is a comic opera!""For heaven's sake!" Nelly had the musical comedy performer's horrorof the older-established form of entertainment. "Why, comic operadied in the year one!""Well, these guys are going to dig it up. That's the way it looks tome." He lowered his voice. "Say, I saw Clarice last night," he saidin a confidential undertone. "It's all right.""It is?""We've made it up. It was like this . . ."His conversation took an intimate turn. He expounded for Nelly'sbenefit the inner history, with all its ramifications, of a recentunfortunate rift between himself and "the best little girl inFlatbush,"--what he had said, what she had said, what her sister hadsaid, and how it all come right in the end. Jill might have felt alittle excluded, but for the fact that a sudden and exciting idea hadcome to her. She sat back, thinking. . . . After all, what else wasshe to do? She must do something. . . .
　　She bent forward and interrupted Mr Brown in his description of abrisk passage of arms between himself and the best little girl'ssister, who seemed to be an unpleasant sort of person in every way.
　　"Mr Brown.""Hello?""Do you think there would be any chance for me if I asked for work atGoble and Cohn's?""You're joking!" cried Nelly.
　　"I'm not at all.""But what do you want with work?""I've got to find some. And right away, too.""I don't understand."Jill hesitated. She disliked discussing her private affairs, butthere was obviously no way of avoiding it. Nelly was round-eyed andmystified, and Mr Brown had manifestly no intention whatever ofwithdrawing tactfully. He wanted to hear all.
　　"I've lost my money," said Jill.
　　"Lost your money! Do you mean . . . ?""I've lost it all. Every penny I had in the world.""Tough!" interpolated Mr Brown judicially. "I broke once way out in atank-town in Oklahoma. The manager skipped with our salaries. Last wesaw of him he was doing the trip to Canada in nothing flat.""But how?" gasped Nelly.
　　"It happened about the time we met in London. Do you remember FreddieRooke, who was at our house that after-noon?"A dreamy look came into Nelly's eyes. There had not been an hoursince their parting when she had not thought of that immaculatesportsman. It would have amazed Freddie, could he have known, but toNelly Bryant he was the one perfect man in an imperfect world.
　　"Do I!" she sighed ecstatically.
　　Mr Brown shot a keen glance at her.
　　"Aha!" he cried facetiously. "Who is he, Nelly? Who is this blue-eyedboy?""If you want to know," said Nelly, defiance in her tone, "he's thefellow who gave me fifty pounds, with no strings tied to it,--getthat!--when I was broke in London! If it hadn't been for him, I'd bethere still.""Did he?" cried Jill. "Freddie!""Yes. Oh, Gee!" Nelly sighed once more. "I suppose I'll never see himagain in this world.""Introduce me to him, if you do," said Mr Brown. "He sounds just thesort of little pal I'd like to have!""You remember hearing Freddie say something about losing money in aslump on the Stock Exchange," proceeded Jill. "Well, that was how Ilost mine. It's a long story, and it's not worth talking about, butthat's how things stand, and I've got to find work of some sort, andit looks to me as if I should have a better chance of finding it onthe stage than anywhere else.""I'm terribly sorry.""Oh, it's all right. How much would these people Goble and Cohn giveme if I got an engagement?""Only forty a week.""Forty dollars a week! It's wealth! Where are they?""Over at the Gotham Theatre in Forty-second Street.""I'll go there at once.""But you'll hate it. You don't realize what it's like. You wait hoursand hours and nobody sees you.""Why shouldn't I walk straight in and say that I've come for work?"Nelly's big eyes grew bigger.
　　"But you couldn't!""Why not?""Why, you couldn't!""I don't see why."Mr Brown intervened with decision.
　　"You're dead right," he said to Jill approvingly. "If you ask me,that's the only sensible thing to do. Where's the sense of hangingaround and getting stalled? Managers are human guys, some of 'em.
　　Probably, if you were to try it, they'd appreciate a bit of gall. Itwould show 'em you'd got pep. You go down there and try walkingstraight in. They can't eat you. It makes me sick when I see allthose poor devils hanging about outside these offices, waiting to getnoticed and nobody ever paying any attention to them. You push theoffice-boy in the face if he tries to stop you, and go in and make'em take notice. And, whatever you do, don't leave your name andaddress! That's the old, moth-eaten gag they're sure to try to pullon you. Tell 'em there's nothing doing. Say you're out for a quickdecision! Stand 'em on their heads!"Jill got up, fired by this eloquence. She called for her check.
　　"Good-bye," she said. "I'm going to do exactly as you say. Where canI find you afterwards?" she said to Nelly.
　　"You aren't really going?""I am!"Nelly scribbled on a piece of paper.
　　"Here's my address. I'll be in all evening.""I'll come and see you. Good-bye, Mr Brown. And thank you.""You're welcome!" said Mr Brown.
　　Nelly watched Jill depart with wide eyes.
　　"Why did you tell her to do that?" she said.
　　"Why not?" said Mr Brown. "I started something, didn't I? Well, Iguess I'll have to be leaving, too. Got to get back to rehearsal.
　　Say, I like that friend of yours, Nelly. There's no yellow streakabout her! I wish her luck!"
Chapter 10
1.
　　THE offices of Messrs Goble and Cohn were situated, like everythingelse in New York that appertains to the drama, in the neighborhood ofTimes Square. They occupied the fifth floor of the Gotham Theatre onWest Forty-second Street. As there was no elevator in the buildingexcept the small private one used by the two members of the firm,Jill walked up the stairs, and found signs of a thriving businessbeginning to present themselves as early as the third floor, wherehalf a dozen patient persons of either sex had draped themselves likeroosting fowls upon the banisters. There were more on the fourthfloor, and the landing of the fifth, which served the firm as awaiting-room, was quite full. It is the custom of theatricalmanagers--the lowest order of intelligence, with the possibleexception of the _limax maximus_ or garden slug, known to science--toomit from their calculations the fact that they are likely every dayto receive a large number of visitors, whom they will be obliged tokeep waiting; and that these people will require somewhere to wait.
　　Such considerations never occur to them. Messrs Goble and Cohn hadprovided for those who called to see them one small bench on thelanding, conveniently situated at the intersecting point of threedraughts, and had let it go at that.
　　Nobody, except perhaps the night-watchman, had ever seen this benchempty. At whatever hour of the day you happened to call, you wouldalways find three wistful individuals seated side by side with theireyes on the tiny ante-room where sat the office-boy, thetelephone-girl, and Mr Goble's stenographer. Beyond this was the doormarked "Private," through which, as it opened to admit some careless,debonair, thousand-dollar-a-week comedian who sauntered in with ajaunty "Hello, Ike!" or some furred and scented female star, the rankand file of the profession were greeted, like Moses on Pisgah, with afleeting glimpse of the promised land, consisting of a large desk anda section of a very fat man with spectacles and a bald head or ayounger man with fair hair and a double chin.
　　The keynote of the mass meeting on the landing was one of determined,almost aggressive smartness. The men wore bright overcoats with bandsround the waist, the women those imitation furs which to theuninitiated eye appear so much more expensive than the real thing.
　　Everybody looked very dashing and very young, except about the eyes.
　　Most of the eyes that glanced at Jill were weary. The women werenearly all blondes, blondness having been decided upon in the theatreas the color that brings the best results. The men were all so muchalike that they seemed to be members of one large family,--anillusion which was heightened by the scraps of conversation, studdedwith "dears," "old mans," and "honeys," which came to Jill's ears. Astern fight for supremacy was being waged by a score or so of livelyand powerful young scents.
　　For a moment Jill was somewhat daunted by the spectacle, but sherecovered almost immediately. The exhilarating and heady influence ofNew York still wrought within her. The Berserk spirit was upon her,and she remembered the stimulating words of Mr Brown, of Brown andWidgeon, the best jazz-and-hokum team on the Keith Circuit. "Walkstraight in!" had been the burden of his inspiring address. Shepushed her way through the crowd until she came to the smallante-room.
　　In the ante-room were the outposts, the pickets of the enemy. In onecorner a girl was hammering energetically and with great speed on atypewriter: a second girl, seated at a switchboard, was having anargument with Central which was already warm and threatened todescend shortly to personalities: on a chair tilted back so that itrested against the wall, a small boy sat eating candy and reading thecomic page of an evening newspaper. All three were enclosed, likezoological specimens, in a cage formed by a high counter terminatingin brass bars.
　　Beyond these watchers on the threshold was the door marked "Private."Through it, as Jill reached the outer defences, filtered the sound ofa piano.
　　Those who have studied the subject have come to the conclusion thatthe boorishness of theatrical managers' office-boys cannot be theproduct of mere chance. Somewhere, in some sinister den in thecriminal districts of the town, there is a school where small boysare trained for these positions, where their finer instincts arerigorously uprooted and rudeness systematically inculcated bycompetent professors. Of this school the candy-eating Cerberus ofMessrs Goble and Cohn had been the star scholar. Quickly seeing hisnatural gifts, his teachers had given him special attention. When hehad graduated, it had been amidst the cordial good wishes of theentire faculty. They had taught him all they knew, and they wereproud of him. They felt that he would do them credit.
　　This boy raised a pair of pink-rimmed eyes to Jill, sniffed--for likeall theatrical managers' office-boys he had a permanent cold in thehead--bit his thumb-nail, and spoke. He was a snub-nosed boy. Hisears and hair were vermilion. His name was Ralph. He had sevenhundred and forty-three pimples.
　　"Woddyerwant?" enquired Ralph, coming within an ace of condensing thequestion into a word of one syllable.
　　"I want to see Mr Goble.""Zout!" said the Pimple King, and returned to his paper.
　　There will, no doubt, always be class distinctions. Sparta had herkings and her helots, King Arthur's Round Table its knights and itsscullions, America her Simon Legree and her Uncle Tom. But in nonation and at no period of history has any one ever been so brutallysuperior to any one else as is the Broadway theatrical office-boy tothe caller who wishes to see the manager. Thomas Jefferson held thesetruths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal; that theyare endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; thatamong these rights are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
　　Theatrical office-boys do not see eye to eye with Thomas. From theirpinnacle they look down on the common herd, the _canaille_, anddespise them. They coldly question their right to live.
　　Jill turned pink. Mr Brown, her guide and mentor, foreseeing thissituation, had, she remembered, recommended "pushing the office-boyin the face": and for a moment she felt like following his advice.
　　Prudence, or the fact that he was out of reach behind the brass bars,restrained her. Without further delay she made for the door of theinner room. That was her objective, and she did not intend to bediverted from it. Her fingers were on the handle before any of thosepresent divined her intention. Then the stenographer stopped typingand sat with raised fingers, aghast. The girl at the telephone brokeoff in mid-sentence and stared round over her shoulder. Ralph, theoffice-boy, outraged, dropped his paper and constituted himself thespokesman of the invaded force.
　　"Hey!"Jill stopped and eyed the lad militantly.
　　"Were you speaking to me?""Yes, I _was_ speaking to you!""Don't do it again with your mouth full," said Jill, turning to thedoor.
　　The belligerent fire in the office-boy's pink-rimmed eyes wassuddenly dimmed by a gush of water. It was not remorse that causedhim to weep, however. In the heat of the moment he had swallowed alarge, jagged piece of candy, and he was suffering severely.
　　"You can't go in there!" he managed to articulate, his iron willtriumphing over the flesh sufficiently to enable him to speak.
　　"I am going in there!""That's Mr Goble's private room.""Well, I want a private talk with Mr Goble."Ralph, his eyes still moist, felt that the situation was slippingfrom his grip. This sort of thing had never happened to him before.
　　"I tell ya he _zout!_"Jill looked at him sternly.
　　"You wretched child!" she said, encouraged by a sharp giggle from theneighborhood of the switchboard. "Do you know where little boys gowho don't speak the truth? I can hear him playing the piano. Now he'ssinging! And it's no good telling me he's busy. If he was busy, hewouldn't have time to sing. If you're as deceitful as this at yourage, what do you expect to be when you grow up? You're an ugly littleboy, you've got red ears, and your collar doesn't fit! I shall speakto Mr Goble about you."With which words Jill opened the door and walked in.
　　"Good afternoon," she said brightly.
　　After the congested and unfurnished discomfort of the landing, theroom in which Jill found herself had an air of cosiness and almost ofluxury. It was a large room, solidly upholstered. Along the furtherwall, filling nearly the whole of its space, stood a vast andgleaming desk, covered with a litter of papers which rose at one endof it to a sort of mountain of play-scripts in buff covers. There wasa bookshelf to the left. Photographs covered the walls. Near thewindow was a deep leather lounge: to the right of this stood a smallpiano, the music-stool of which was occupied by a young man withuntidy black hair that needed cutting. On top of the piano, takingthe eye immediately by reason of its bold brightness, was balanced alarge cardboard poster. Much of its surface was filled by a pictureof a youth in polo costume bending over a blonde goddess in abathing-suit. What space was left displayed the legend:
　　ISAAC GOBLE AND JACOB COHNPRESENTTHE ROSE OF AMERICA(A Musical Fantasy)BOOK AND LYRICS BY OTIS PILKINGTONMUSIC BY ROLAND TREVISTurning her eyes from this, Jill became aware that something wasgoing on at the other side of the desk: and she perceived that asecond young man, the longest and thinnest she had ever seen, was inthe act of rising to his feet, length upon length like an unfoldingsnake. At the moment of her entry he had been lying back in anoffice-chair, so that only a merely nominal section of his upperstructure was visible. Now he reared his impressive length until hishead came within measurable distance of the ceiling. He had a hatchetface and a receding chin, and he gazed at Jill through what sheassumed were the "tortoiseshell cheaters" referred to by her recentacquaintance, Mr Brown.
　　"Er . . . ?" said this young man enquiringly in a high, flat voice.
　　Jill, like many other people, had a brain which was under thealternating control of two diametrically opposite forces. It was likean automobile steered in turn by two drivers, the one a dashing,reckless fellow with no regard for the speed limits, the other atimid novice. All through the proceedings up to this point the dasherhad been in command. He had whisked her along at a break-neck pace,ignoring obstacles and police regulations. Now, having brought her tothis situation, he abruptly abandoned the wheel and turned it over tohis colleague, the shrinker. Jill, greatly daring a moment ago, nowfelt an overwhelming shyness.
　　She gulped, and her heart beat quickly. The thin man towered overher. The black-haired pianist shook his locks at her like Banquo.
　　"I . . ." she began.
　　Then, suddenly, womanly intuition came to her aid. Something seemedto tell her that these men were just as scared as she was. And, atthe discovery, the dashing driver resumed his post at the wheel, andshe began to deal with the situation with composure.
　　"I want to see Mr Goble.""Mr Goble is out," said the long young man, plucking nervously at thepapers on the desk. Jill had affected him powerfully.
　　"Out!" She felt she had wronged the pimpled office-boy.
　　"We are not expecting him back this afternoon. Is there anything Ican do?"He spoke tenderly. This weak-minded young man--at school his coarsecompanions had called him Simp--was thinking that he had never seenanything like Jill before. And it was true that she was looking verypretty, with her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling. She touched achord in the young man which seemed to make the world aflower-scented thing, full of soft music. Often as he had been inlove at first sight before in his time, Otis Pilkington could notrecall an occasion on which he had been in love at first sight morecompletely than now. When she smiled at him, it was as if the gatesof heaven had opened. He did not reflect how many times, in similarcircumstances, these same gates had opened before; and that on oneoccasion when they had done so it had cost him eight thousand dollarsto settle the case out of court. One does not think of these thingsat such times, for they strike a jarring note. Otis Pilkington was inlove. That was all he knew, or cared to know.
　　"Won't you take a seat, Miss . . .""Mariner," prompted Jill. "Thank you.""Miss Mariner. May I introduce Mr Roland Trevis?"The man at the piano bowed. His black hair heaved upon his skull likeseaweed in a ground swell.
　　"My name is Pilkington. Otis Pilkington."The uncomfortable silence which always follows introductions wasbroken by the sound of the telephone-bell on the desk. OtisPilkington, who had moved out into the room and was nowhere near thedesk, stretched forth a preposterous arm and removed the receiver.
　　"Yes? Oh, will you say, please, that I have a conference at present."Jill was to learn that people in the theatrical business nevertalked: they always held conferences. "Tell Mrs Peagrim that I shallbe calling later in the afternoon, but cannot be spared just now." Hereplaced the receiver. "Aunt Olive's secretary," he murmured in asoft aside to Mr Trevis. "Aunt Olive wanted me to go for a ride." Heturned to Jill. "Excuse me. Is there anything I can do for you, MissMariner?"Jill's composure was now completely restored. This interview wasturning out so totally different from anything she had expected. Theatmosphere was cosy and social. She felt as if she were back inOvington Square, giving tea to Freddie Rooke and Ronny Devereux andthe rest of her friends of the London period. All that was needed tocomplete the picture was a tea-table in front of her. The businessnote hardly intruded on the proceedings at all. Still, as businesswas the object of her visit, she felt that she had better approachit.
　　"I came for work.""Work!" cried Mr Pilkington. He, too, appeared to be regarding theinterview as purely of a social nature.
　　"In the chorus," explained Jill.
　　Mr Pilkington seemed shocked. He winced away from the word as thoughit pained him.
　　"There is no chorus in 'The Rose of America,'" he said.
　　"I thought it was a musical comedy."Mr Pilkington winced again.
　　"It is a musical _fantasy!_" he said. "But there will be no chorus.
　　We shall have," he added, a touch of rebuke in his voice, "theservices of twelve refined ladies of the ensemble."Jill laughed.
　　"It does sound much better, doesn't it!" she said. "Well, am Irefined enough, do you think?""I shall be only too happy if you will join us," said Mr Pilkingtonpromptly.
　　The long-haired composer looked doubtful. He struck a note up in thetreble, then whirled round on his stool.
　　"If you don't mind my mentioning it, Otie, we have twelve girlsalready.""Then we must have thirteen," said Otis Pilkington firmly.
　　"Unlucky number," argued Mr Trevis.
　　"I don't care. We must have Miss Mariner. You can see for yourselfthat she is exactly the type we need."He spoke feelingly. Ever since the business of engaging a company hadbegun, he had been thinking wistfully of the evening when "The Roseof America" had had its opening performance--at his aunt's house atNewport last Summer--with an all-star cast of society favorites andan ensemble recruited entirely from debutantes and matrons of theYounger Set. That was the sort of company he had longed to assemblefor the piece's professional career, and until this afternoon he hadmet with nothing but disappointment. Jill seemed to be the only girlin theatrical New York who came up to the standard he would haveliked to demand.
　　"Thank you very much," said Jill.
　　There was another pause. The social note crept into the atmosphereagain. Jill felt the hostess' desire to keep conversationcirculating.
　　"I hear," she said, "that this piece is a sort of Gilbert andSullivan opera."Mr Pilkington considered the point.
　　"I confess," he said, "that, in writing the book, I had Gilbertbefore me as a model. Whether I have in any sense succeeded in . . .""The book," said Mr Trevis, running his fingers over the piano, "isas good as anything Gilbert ever wrote.""Oh come, Rolie!" protested Mr Pilkington modestly.
　　"Better," insisted Mr Trevis. "For one thing, it is up-to-date.""I _do_ try to strike the modern tone," murmured Mr Pilkington.
　　"And you have avoided Gilbert's mistake of being too fanciful.""He was fanciful," admitted Mr Pilkington. "The music," he added, ina generous spirit of give and take, "has all Sullivan's melody with anewness of rhythm peculiarly its own. You will like the music.""It sounds," said Jill amiably, "as though the piece is bound to be atremendous success.""We hope so," said Mr Pilkington. "We feel that the time has comewhen the public is beginning to demand something better than what ithas been accustomed to. People are getting tired of the brainlesstrash and jingly tunes which have been given them by men like WallaceMason and George Bevan. They want a certain polish. . . . It was justthe same in Gilbert and Sullivan's day. They started writing at atime when the musical stage had reached a terrible depth of inanity.
　　The theatre was given over to burlesques of the most idioticdescription. The public was waiting eagerly to welcome something of ahigher class. It is just the same today. But the managers will notsee it. 'The Rose of America' went up and down Broadway for months,knocking at managers' doors.""It should have walked in without knocking, like me," said Jill. Shegot up. "Well, it was very kind of you to see me when I came in sounceremoniously. But I felt it was no good waiting outside on thatlanding. I'm so glad everything is settled. Good-bye.""Good-bye, Miss Mariner." Mr Pilkington took her outstretched handdevoutly. "There is a rehearsal called for the ensemble at--when isit, Rolie?""Eleven o'clock, day after tomorrow, at Bryant Hall.""I'll be there," said Jill. "Good-bye, and thank you very much."The silence which had fallen upon the room as she left it, was brokenby Mr Trevis.
　　"Some pip!" observed Mr Trevis.
　　Otis Pilkington awoke from day-dreams with a start.
　　"What did you say?""That girl . . . I said she was some pippin!""Miss Mariner," said Mr Pilkington icily, "is a most charming,refined, cultured, and vivacious girl, if you mean that.""Yes," said Mr Trevis. "That was what I meant!"2.
　　Jill walked out into Forty-second Street, looking about her with theeye of a conqueror. Very little change had taken place in the aspectof New York since she had entered the Gotham Theatre, but it seemed adifferent city to her. An hour ago, she had been a stranger, driftingaimlessly along its rapids. Now she belonged to New York, and NewYork belonged to her. She had faced it squarely, and forced from itthe means of living. She walked on with a new jauntiness in herstride.
　　The address which Nelly had given her was on the east side of FifthAvenue. She made her way along Forty-second Street. It seemed thejolliest, alivest street she had ever encountered. The rattle of theElevated as she crossed Sixth Avenue was music, and she loved thecrowds that jostled her with every step she took.
　　She reached the Fifth Avenue corner just as the policeman out in themiddle of the street swung his Stop-and-Go post round to allow theup-town traffic to proceed on its way. A stream of automobiles whichhad been dammed up as far as the eye could reach began to flowswiftly past. They moved in a double line, red limousines, bluelimousines, mauve limousines, green limousines. She stood waiting forthe flood to cease, and, as she did so, there purred past her thebiggest and reddest limousine of all. It was a colossal vehicle witha polar-bear at the steering-wheel and another at his side. And inthe interior, very much at his ease, his gaze bent courteously upon amassive lady in a mink coat, sat Uncle Chris.
　　For a moment he was so near to her that, but for the closed window,she could have touched him. Then the polar-bear at the wheel, notinga gap in the traffic, stepped on the accelerator and slipped neatlythrough. The car moved swiftly on and disappeared.
　　Jill drew a deep breath. The Stop-and-Go sign swung round again. Shecrossed the avenue, and set out once more to find Nelly Bryant. Itoccurred to her, five minutes later, that a really practical andquick-thinking girl would have noted the number of the limousine.
Chapter 11
1.
　　The rehearsals of a musical comedy--a term which embraces "musicalfantasies"--generally begin in a desultory sort of way at thatcurious building, Bryant Hall, on Sixth Avenue just off Forty-secondStreet. There, in a dusty, uncarpeted room, simply furnished with afew wooden chairs and some long wooden benches, the chorus--or, inthe case of "The Rose of America," the ensemble--sit round a pianoand endeavor, with the assistance of the musical director, to get thewords and melodies of the first-act numbers into their heads. Thisdone, they are ready for the dance director to instil into them thesteps, the groupings, and the business for the encores, of which thatincurable optimist always seems to expect there will be at least six.
　　Later, the principals are injected into the numbers. And finally,leaving Bryant Hall and dodging about from one unoccupied theatre toanother, principals and chorus rehearse together, running through theentire piece over and over again till the opening night of thepreliminary road tour.
　　To Jill, in the early stages, rehearsing was just like being back atschool. She could remember her first school-mistress, whom themusical director somewhat resembled in manner and appearance,hammering out hymns on a piano and leading in a weak soprano aneager, baying pack of children, each anxious from motives of pride toout-bawl her nearest neighbor.
　　The proceedings began on the first morning with the entrance of MrSaltzburg, the musical director, a brisk, busy little man withbenevolent eyes behind big spectacles, who bustled over to the piano,sat down, and played a loud chord, designed to act as a sort of bugleblast, rallying the ladies Of the ensemble from the corners wherethey sat in groups, chatting. For the process of making one another'sacquaintance had begun some ten minutes before with mutualrecognitions between those who knew each other from having beentogether in previous productions. There followed rapid introductionsof friends. Nelly Bryant had been welcomed warmly by a pretty girlwith red hair, whom she introduced to Jill as Babe: Babe had awillowy blonde friend, named Lois: and the four of them had seatedthemselves on one of the benches and opened a conversation; theirnumbers being added to a moment later by a dark girl with a Southernaccent and another blonde. Elsewhere other groups had formed, and theroom was filled with a noise like the chattering of starlings. In abody by themselves, rather forlorn and neglected, half a dozen solemnand immaculately dressed young men were propping themselves upagainst the wall and looking on, like men in a ball-room who do notdance.
　　Jill listened to the conversation without taking any great part in itherself. She felt as she had done on her first day at school, alittle shy and desirous of effacing herself. The talk dealt withclothes, men, and the show business, in that order of importance.
　　Presently one of the young men sauntered diffidently across the roomand added himself to the group with the remark that it was a fineday. He was received a little grudgingly, Jill thought, but bydegrees succeeded in assimilating himself. A second young man driftedup; reminded the willowy girl that they had worked together in thewestern company of "You're the One"; was recognized and introduced;and justified his admission to the circle by a creditable imitationof a cat-fight. Five minutes later he was addressing the Southerngirl as "honey," and had informed Jill that he had only joined thisshow to fill in before opening on the three-a-day with the swellestlittle song-and-dance act which he and a little girl who worked inthe cabaret at Geisenheimer's had fixed up.
　　On this scene of harmony and good-fellowship Mr Saltzburg's chordintruded jarringly. There was a general movement, and chairs andbenches were dragged to the piano. Mr Saltzburg causing a momentarydelay by opening a large brown music-bag and digging in it like aterrier at a rat-hole, conversation broke out again.
　　Mr Saltzburg emerged from the bag, with his hands full of papers,protesting.
　　"Childrun! Chil-_drun!_ If you please, less noise and attend to me!"He distributed sheets of paper. "Act One, Opening Chorus. I will playthe melody three--four times. Follow attentively. Then we will singit la-la-la, and after that we will sing the words. So!"He struck the yellow-keyed piano a vicious blow, producing a tinnyand complaining sound. Bending forward with his spectacles almosttouching the music, he plodded determinedly through the tune, thenencored himself, and after that encored himself again. When he haddone this, he removed his spectacles and wiped them. There was apause.
　　"Izzy," observed the willowy young lady chattily, leaning across Jilland addressing the Southern girl's blonde friend, "has promised me asunburst!"A general stir of interest and a coming close together of heads.
　　"What! Izzy!""Sure, Izzy.""Well!""He's just landed the hat-check privilege at the St Aurea!""You don't say!""He told me so last night and promised me the sunburst. He was,"admitted the willowy girl regretfully, "a good bit tanked at thetime, but I guess he'll make good." She mused awhile, a ratheranxious expression clouding her perfect profile. She looked like ameditative Greek Goddess. "If he doesn't," she added with maidenlydignity, "it's the las' time _I_ go out with the big stiff. I'd tie acan to him quicker'n look at him!"A murmur of approval greeted this admirable sentiment.
　　"Childrun!" protested Mr Saltzburg. "Chil-drun! Less noise andchatter of conversation. We are here to work! We must not waste time!
　　So! Act One, Opening Chorus. Now, all together. La-la-la . . .""La-la-la . . .""Tum-tum-tumty-tumty . . .""Tum-tum-tumty . . ."Mr Saltzburg pressed his hands to his ears in a spasm of pain.
　　"No, no, no! Sour! Sour! Sour! . . . Once again. La-la-la . . ."A round-faced girl with golden hair and the face of a wonderingcherub interrupted, speaking with a lisp.
　　"Mithter Thalzburg.""Now what is it, Miss Trevor?""What sort of a show is this?""A musical show," said Mr Saltzburg severely, "and this is arehearsal of it, not a conversazione. Once more, please . . ."The cherub was not to be rebuffed.
　　"Is the music good, Mithter Thalzburg?""When you have rehearsed it, you shall judge for yourself. Come, now. . .""Is there anything in it as good as that waltz of yours you played uswhen we were rehearthing 'Mind How You Go?' You remember. The onethat went . . ."A tall and stately girl, with sleepy brown eyes and the air of aduchess in the servants' hall, bent forward and took a kindlyinterest in the conversation.
　　"Oh, have you composed a varlse, Mr Saltzburg?" she asked withpleasant condescension. "How interesting, really! Won't you play itfor us?"The sentiment of the meeting seemed to be unanimous in favor ofshelving work and listening to Mr Saltzburg's waltz.
　　"Oh, Mr Saltzburg, do!""Please!""Some one told me it was a pipterino!""I cert'nly do love waltzes!""Please, Mr Saltzburg!"Mr Saltzburg obviously weakened. His fingers touched the keysirresolutely.
　　"But, childrun!""I am sure it would be a great pleasure to all of us," said theduchess graciously, "if you would play it. There is nothing I enjoymore than a good varlse."Mr Saltzburg capitulated. Like all musical directors he had in hisleisure moments composed the complete score of a musical play andspent much of his time waylaying librettists on the Rialto and tryingto lure them to his apartment to listen to it, with a view tobusiness. The eternal tragedy of a musical director's life iscomparable only to that of the waiter who, himself fasting, has toassist others to eat, Mr Saltzburg had lofty ideas on music, and hissoul revolted at being compelled perpetually to rehearse and directthe inferior compositions of other men. Far less persuasion than hehad received today was usually required to induce him to play thewhole of his score.
　　"You wish it?" he said. "Well, then! This waltz, you will understand,is the theme of a musical romance which I have composed. It will besung once in the first act by the heroine, then in the second act asa duet for heroine and hero. I weave it into the finale of the secondact, and we have an echo of it, sung off stage, in the third act.
　　What I play you now is the second-act duet. The verse is longer. So!
　　The male voice begins."A pleasant time was had by all for ten minutes.
　　"Ah, but this is not rehearsing, childrun!" cried Mr Saltzburgremorsefully at the end of that period. "This is not business. Comenow, the opening chorus of act one, and please this time keep on thekey. Before, it was sour, sour. Come! La-la-la . . .""Mr Thalzburg!""Miss Trevor?""There was an awfully thweet fox-trot you used to play us. I do wish. . .""Some other time, some other time! Now we must work. Come! La-la-la. . .""I wish you could have heard it, girls," said the cherub regretfully.
　　"Honetht, it wath a lalapalootha!"The pack broke into full cry.
　　"Oh, Mr Saltzburg!""Please, Mr Saltzburg!""Do play the fox-trot, Mr Saltzburg!""If it is as good as the varlse," said the duchess, stooping oncemore to the common level, "I am sure it must be very good indeed."She powdered her nose. "And one so rarely hears musicianly musicnowadays, does one?""Which fox-trot?" asked Mr Saltzburg weakly.
　　"Play 'em all!" decided a voice on the left.
　　"Yes, play 'em all," bayed the pack.
　　"I am sure that that would be charming," agreed the duchess,replacing her powder-puff.
　　Mr Saltzburg played 'em all. This man by now seemed entirely lost toshame. The precious minutes that belonged to his employers and shouldhave been earmarked for "The Rose of America" flitted by. The ladiesand gentlemen of the ensemble, who should have been absorbing andlearning to deliver the melodies of Roland Trevis and the lyrics ofOtis Pilkington, lolled back in their seats. The yellow-keyed pianorocked beneath an unprecedented onslaught. The proceedings had begunto resemble not so much a rehearsal as a home evening, and gratefulglances were cast at the complacent cherub. She had, it was felt,shown tact and discretion.
　　Pleasant conversation began again.
　　". . . And I walked a couple of blocks, and there was exactly the samemodel in Schwartz and Gulderstein's window at twenty-six fifty . . ."". . . He got on at Forty-second Street, and he was kinda fresh fromthe start. I could see he was carrying a package. At Sixty-sixth hecame sasshaying right down the car and said 'Hello, patootie!' Well,I drew myself up . . ."". . . 'Even if you are my sister's husband,' I said to him. Oh, Isuppose I got a temper. It takes a lot to arouse it, y'know, but Ic'n get pretty mad . . ."". . . You don't know the half of it, dearie, you don't know the halfof it! A one-piece bathing suit! Well, you could call it that, butthe cop on the beach said it was more like a baby's sock. And when . . ."". . . So I said 'Listen, Izzy, that'll be about all from you! Myfather was a gentleman, though I don't suppose you know what thatmeans, and I'm not accustomed . . .'""Hey!"A voice from the neighborhood of the door had cut into the babblelike a knife into butter; a rough, rasping voice, loud andcompelling, which caused the conversation of the members of theensemble to cease on the instant. Only Mr Saltzburg, now in a perfectfrenzy of musicianly fervor, continued to assault the decrepit piano,unwitting of an unsympathetic addition to his audience.
　　"What I play you now is the laughing trio from my second act. It is abuilding number. It is sung by tenor, principal comedian, andsoubrette. On the second refrain four girls will come out and twoboys. The girls will dance with the two men, the boys with thesoubrette. So! On the encore, four more girls and two more boys.
　　Third encore, solo-dance for specialty dancer, all on stage beatingtime by clapping their hands. On repeat, all sing refrain once more,and off-encore, the three principals and specialty dancer dance thedance with entire chorus. It is a great building number, youunderstand. It is enough to make the success of any musical play, butcan I get a hearing? No! If I ask managers to listen to my music,they are busy! If I beg them to give me a libretto to set, theylaugh--ha! ha!" Mr Saltzburg gave a spirited and lifelikerepresentation of a manager laughing ha-ha when begged to disgorge alibretto. "Now I play it once more!""Like hell you do!" said the voice. "Say, what is this, anyway? Aconcert?"Mr Saltzburg swung round on the music-stool, a startled andapprehensive man, and nearly fell off it. The divine afflatus lefthim like air oozing from a punctured toy-balloon, and, like such aballoon, he seemed to grow suddenly limp and flat. He stared withfallen jaw at the new arrival.
　　Two men had entered the room. One was the long Mr Pilkington. Theother, who looked shorter and stouter than he really was beside hisgiraffe-like companion, was a thickset, fleshy man in the earlythirties with a blond, clean-shaven, double-chinned face. He hadsmooth yellow hair, an unwholesome complexion, and light green eyes,set close together. From the edge of the semi-circle about the piano,he glared menacingly over the heads of the chorus at the unfortunateMr Saltzburg,"Why aren't these girls working?"Mr Saltzburg, who had risen nervously from his stool, backed awayapprehensively from his gaze, and, stumbling over the stool, sat downabruptly on the piano, producing a curious noise like Futurist music.
　　"I--We--Why, Mr Goble . . ."Mr Goble turned his green gaze on the concert audience, and spreaddiscomfort as if it were something liquid which he was sprayingthrough a hose. The girls who were nearest looked down flutteringlyat their shoes: those further away concealed themselves behind theirneighbors. Even the duchess, who prided herself on being thepossessor of a stare of unrivalled haughtiness, before which thefresh quailed and those who made breaks subsided in confusion, wasunable to meet his eyes: and the willowy friend of Izzy, for all hervictories over that monarch of the hat-checks, bowed before it like aslim tree before a blizzard.
　　Only Jill returned the manager's gaze. She was seated on the outerrim of the semi-circle, and she stared frankly at Mr Goble. She hadnever seen anything like him before, and he fascinated her. Thisbehavior on her part singled her out from the throng, and Mr Gobleconcentrated his attention on her.
　　For some seconds he stood looking at her; then, raising a stubbyfinger, he let his eye travel over the company, and seemed to beengrossed in some sort of mathematical calculation.
　　"Thirteen," he said at length. "I make it thirteen." He rounded on MrPilkington. "I told you we were going to have a chorus of twelve."Mr Pilkington blushed and stumbled over his feet.
　　"Ah, yes . . . yes," he murmured vaguely. "Yes!""Well, there are thirteen here. Count 'em for yourself." He whippedround on Jill. "What's _your_ name? Who engaged you?"A croaking sound from the neighborhood of the ceiling indicated theclearing of Mr Pilkington's throat.
　　"I--er--_I_ engaged Miss Mariner, Mr Goble.""Oh, _you_ engaged her?"He stared again at Jill. The inspection was long and lingering, andaffected Jill with a sense of being inadequately clothed. Shereturned the gaze as defiantly as she could, but her heart wasbeating fast. She had never yet beer frightened of any man, but therewas something reptilian about this fat, yellow-haired individualwhich disquieted her; much as cockroaches had done in her childhood.
　　A momentary thought flashed through her mind that it would behorrible to be touched by him. He looked soft and glutinous.
　　"All right," said Mr Goble at last, after what seemed to Jill manyminutes. He nodded to Mr Saltzburg. "Get on with it! And try workinga little this time! I don't hire you to give musical entertainments.""Yes, Mr Goble, yes. I mean no, Mr Goble!""You can have the Gotham stage this afternoon," said Mr Goble. "Callthe rehearsal for two sharp."Outside the door, he turned to Mr Pilkington.
　　"That was a fool trick of yours, hiring that girl. Thirteen! I'd assoon walk under a ladder on a Friday as open in New York with achorus of thirteen. Well, it don't matter. We can fire one of 'emafter we've opened on the road." He mused for a moment. "Darnedpretty girl, that!" he went on meditatively. "Where did you gether?""She--ah--came into the office, when you were out. She struck me asbeing essentially the type we required for our ensemble, soI--er--engaged her. She--" Mr Pilkington gulped. "She is a charming,refined girl!""She's darned pretty," admitted Mr Goble, and went on his way wrappedin thought, Mr Pilkington following timorously. It was episodes likethe one that had just concluded which made Otis Pilkington wish thathe possessed a little more assertion. He regretted wistfully that hewas not one of those men who can put their hat on the side of theirheads and shoot out their chins and say to the world "Well, whatabout it!" He was bearing the financial burden of this production. Ifit should be a failure, his would be the loss. Yet somehow thiscoarse, rough person in front of him never seemed to allow him a wordin the executive policy of the piece. He treated him as a child. Hedomineered and he shouted, and behaved as if he were in sole command.
　　Mr Pilkington sighed. He rather wished he had never gone into thisundertaking.
　　Inside the room, Mr Saltzburg wiped his forehead, spectacles, and hishands. He had the aspect of one wakes from a dreadful dream.
　　"Childrun!" he whispered brokenly. "Childrun! If yoll please, oncemore. Act One, Opening Chorus. Come! La-la-la!""La-la-la!" chanted the subdued members of the ensemble.
　　2.
　　By the time the two halves of the company, ensemble and principals,melted into one complete whole, the novelty of her new surroundingshad worn off, and Jill was feeling that there had never been a timewhen she had not been one of a theatrical troupe, rehearsing. Thepleasant social gatherings round Mr Saltzburg's piano gave way aftera few days to something far less agreeable and infinitely morestrenuous, the breaking-in of the dances under the supervision of thefamous Johnson Miller. Johnson Miller was a little man withsnow-white hair and the india-rubber physique of a juvenile acrobat.
　　Nobody knew actually how old he was, but he certainly looked much tooadvanced in years to be capable of the feats of endurance which heperformed daily. He had the untiring enthusiasm of a fox-terrier, andhad bullied and scolded more companies along the rocky road thatleads to success than any half-dozen dance-directors in the country,in spite of his handicap in being almost completely deaf. He had analmost miraculous gift of picking up the melodies for which it washis business to design dances, without apparently hearing them. Heseemed to absorb them through the pores. He had a blunt and arbitrarymanner, and invariably spoke his mind frankly and honestly--a habitwhich made him strangely popular in a profession where the languageof equivoque is cultivated almost as sedulously as in the circles ofinternational diplomacy. What Johnson Miller said to your face wasofficial, not subject to revision as soon as your back was turned:
　　and people appreciated this.
　　Izzy's willowy friend summed him up one evening when the ladies ofthe ensemble were changing their practise-clothes after aparticularly strenuous rehearsal, defending him against the Southerngirl, who complained that he made her tired.
　　"You bet he makes you tired," she said. "So he does me. I'm losing mygirlish curves, and I'm so stiff I can't lace my shoes. But he knowshis business and he's on the level, which is more than you can say ofmost of these guys in the show business.""That's right," agreed the Southern girl's blonde friend. "He doesknow his business. He's put over any amount of shows which would haveflopped like dogs without him to stage the numbers."The duchess yawned. Rehearsing always bored her, and she had not beengreatly impressed by what she had seen of "The Rose of America.""One will be greatly surprised if he can make a success of _this_show! I confess I find it perfectly ridiculous.""Ithn't it the limit, honetht!" said the cherub, arranging her goldenhair at the mirror. "It maketh me thick! Why on earth is Ike puttingit on?"The girl who knew everything--there is always one in everycompany--hastened to explain.
　　"I heard all about that. Ike hasn't any of his own money in thething. He's getting twenty-five per cent of the show for running it.
　　The angel is the long fellow you see jumping around. Pilkington hisname is.""Well, it'll need to be Rockefeller later on," said the blonde.
　　"Oh, they'll get thomebody down to fixth it after we've out on theroad a couple of days," said the cherub, optimistically. "Theyalwayth do. I've seen worse shows than this turned into hits. All itwants ith a new book and lyrics and a different thcore.""And a new set of principals," said the red-headed Babe. "Did youever see such a bunch?"The duchess, with another tired sigh, arched her well-shaped eyebrowsand studied the effect in the mirror.
　　"One wonders where they pick these persons up," she assentedlanguidly. "They remind me of a headline I saw in the paper thismorning--'Tons of Hams Unfit for Human Consumption.' Are any of yougirls coming my way? I can give two or three of you a lift in mylimousine.""Thorry, old dear, and thanks ever so much," said the cherub, "but Iinstructed Clarence, my man, to have the street-car waiting on thecorner, and he'll be tho upset if I'm not there."Nelly had an engagement to go and help one of the other girls buy aSpring suit, a solemn rite which it is impossible to conduct byoneself: and Jill and the cherub walked to the corner together. Jillhad become very fond of the little thing since rehearsals began. Shereminded her of a London sparrow. She was so small and perky and soabsurdly able to take care of herself.
　　"Limouthine!" snorted the cherub. The duchess' concluding speechevidently still rankled. "She gives me a pain in the gizthard!""Hasn't she got a limousine?" asked Jill.
　　"Of course she hasn't. She's engaged to be married to a demonstratorin the Speedwell Auto Company, and he thneaks off when he can getaway and gives her joy-rides. That's all the limousine she's got. Itbeats me why girls in the show business are alwayth tho crazy to makethemselves out vamps with a dozen millionaires on a string. If Maewouldn't four-flush and act like the Belle of the Moulin Rouge, she'dbe the nithest girl you ever met. She's mad about the fellow she'sengaged to, and wouldn't look at all the millionaires in New York ifyou brought 'em to her on a tray. She's going to marry him as thoonas he's thaved enough to buy the furniture, and then she'll thettledown in Harlem thomewhere and cook and mind the baby and regularly beone of the lower middle classes. All that's wrong with Mae ith thatshe's read Gingery Stories and thinkth that's the way a girl has toact when she'th in the chorus.""That's funny," said Jill. "I should never have thought it. Iswallowed the limousine whole."The cherub looked at her curiously. Jill puzzled her. Jill had,indeed, been the subject of much private speculation among hercolleagues.
　　"This is your first show, ithn't it?" she asked.
　　"Yes.""Thay, what are you doing in the chorus, anyway?""Getting scolded by Mr Miller mostly, it seems to me.""Thcolded by Mr Miller! Why didn't you say 'bawled out by Johnny?'
　　That'th what any of the retht of us would have said.""Well, I've lived most of my life in England. You can't expect me totalk the language yet.""I thought you were English. You've got an acthent like the fellowwho plays the dude in thith show. Thay, why did you ever get into theshow business?""Well . . . well, why did you? Why does anybody?""Why did I? Oh, I belong there. I'm a regular Broadway rat. Iwouldn't be happy anywhere elthe. I was born in the show business.
　　I've got two thithters in the two-a-day and a brother in thtock outin California and dad's one of the betht comedians on the burlethquewheel. But any one can thee you're different. There's no reathon whyyou should be bumming around in the chorus.""But there is. I've no money, and I can't do anything to make it.""Honetht?""Honest.""That's tough." The cherub pondered, her round eyes searching Jill'sface. "Why don't you get married?"Jill laughed.
　　"Nobody's asked me.""Somebody thoon will. At least, if he's on the level, and I think heis. You can generally tell by the look of a guy, and, if you ask me,friend Pilkington's got the license in hith pocket and the ring allordered and everything.""Pilkington!" cried Jill, aghast.
　　She remembered certain occasions during rehearsals, when, while thechorus idled in the body of the theatre and listened to theprincipals working at their scenes, the elongated Pilkington hadsuddenly appeared in the next seat and conversed sheepishly in a lowvoice. Could this be love? If so, it was a terrible nuisance. Jillhad had her experience in London of enamoured young men who, runningtrue to national form, declined to know when they were beaten, andshe had not enjoyed the process of cooling their ardor. She had akind heart, and it distressed her to give pain. It also got on hernerves to be dogged by stricken males who tried to catch her eye inorder that she might observe their broken condition. She recalled onehouse-party in Wales where it rained all the time and she had beencooped up with a victim who kept popping out from obscure corners andbeginning all his pleas with the words "I say, you know . . . !" Shetrusted that Otis Pilkington was not proposing to conduct a wooing onthose lines. Yet he had certainly developed a sinister habit ofpopping out at the theatre. On several occasions he had startled herby appearing at her side as if he had come up out of a trap.
　　"Oh, no!" cried Jill.
　　"Oh, yeth!" insisted the cherub, waving imperiously to an approachingstreet-car. "Well, I must be getting uptown. I've got a date. Theeyou later.""I'm sure you're mistaken.""I'm not.""But what makes you think so?"The cherub placed a hand on the rail of the car, preparatory toswinging herself on board.
　　"Well, for one thing," she said, "he'th been stalking you like anIndian ever since we left the theatre! Look behind you. Good-bye,honey. Thend me a piece of the cake!"The street-car bore her away. The last that Jill saw of her was awide and amiable grin. Then, turning, she beheld the snake-like formof Otis Pilkington towering at her side.
　　Mr Pilkington seemed nervous but determined. His face was half hiddenby the silk scarf that muffled his throat, for he was careful of hishealth and had a fancied tendency to bronchial trouble. Above thescarf a pair of mild eyes gazed down at Jill through theirtortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles. It was hopeless for Jill to try totell herself that the tender gleam behind the glass was not thelove-light in Otis Pilkington's eyes. The truth was too obvious.
　　"Good evening, Miss Mariner," said Mr Pilkington, his voice soundingmuffled and far away through the scarf. "Are you going up-town?""No, down-town," said Jill quickly.
　　"So am I," said Mr Pilkington.
　　Jill felt annoyed, but helpless. It is difficult to bid a tactfulfarewell to a man who has stated his intention of going in the samedirection as yourself. There was nothing for it but to accept theunspoken offer of Otis Pilkington's escort. They began to walk downBroadway together.
　　"I suppose you are tired after the rehearsal?" enquired Mr Pilkingtonin his precise voice. He always spoke as if he were weighing eachword and clipping it off a reel.
　　"A little. Mr Miller is very enthusiastic.""About the piece?" Her companion spoke eagerly.
　　"No; I meant hard-working.""Has he said anything about the piece?""Well, no. You see, he doesn't confide in us a great deal, except totell us his opinion of the way we do the steps. I don't think weimpress him very much, to judge from what he says. But the girls sayhe always tells every chorus he rehearses that it is the worst heever had anything to do with.""And the chor--the--er--ladies of the ensemble? What do they think ofthe piece?""Well, I don't suppose they are very good judges, are they?" saidJill diplomatically.
　　"You mean they do not like it?""Some of them don't seem quite to understand it."Mr Pilkington was silent for a moment.
　　"I am beginning to wonder myself whether it may not be a little overthe heads of the public," he said ruefully. "When it was firstperformed . . .""Oh, has it been done before?""By amateurs, yes, at the house of my aunt, Mrs Waddesleigh Peagrim,at Newport, last Summer. In aid of the Armenian orphans. It wasextraordinarily well received on that occasion. We nearly made ourexpenses. It was such a success that--I feel I can confide in you. Ishould not like this repeated to your--your--the other ladies--it wassuch a success that, against my aunt's advice, I decided to give it aBroadway production. Between ourselves, I am shouldering practicallyall the expenses of the undertaking. Mr Goble has nothing to do withthe financial arrangements of 'The Rose of America.' Those areentirely in my hands. Mr Goble, in return for a share in the profits,is giving us the benefit of his experience as regards the managementand booking of the piece. I have always had the greatest faith in it.
　　Trevis and I wrote it when we were in college together, and all ourfriends thought it exceptionally brilliant. My aunt, as I say, wasopposed to the venture. She holds the view that I am not a good manof business. In a sense, perhaps, she is right. Temperamentally, nodoubt, I am more the artist. But I was determined to show the publicsomething superior to the so-called Broadway successes, which are soterribly trashy. Unfortunately, I am beginning to wonder whether itis possible, with the crude type of actor at one's disposal in thiscountry, to give a really adequate performance of such a play as 'TheRose of America.' These people seem to miss the spirit of the piece,its subtle topsy-turvy humor, its delicate whimsicality. Thisafternoon," Mr Pilkington choked. "This afternoon I happened tooverhear two of the principals, who were not aware that I was withinearshot, discussing the play. One of them--these people expressthemselves curiously--one of them said that he thought it a quince:
　　and the other described it as a piece of gorgonzola cheese! That isnot the spirit that wins success!"Jill was feeling immensely relieved. After all, it seemed, this pooryoung man merely wanted sympathy, not romance. She had been mistaken,she felt, about that gleam in his eyes. It was not the love-light: itwas the light of panic. He was the author of the play. He had sunk alarge sum of money in its production, he had heard people criticizingit harshly, and he was suffering from what her colleagues in thechorus would have called cold feet. It was such a human emotion andhe seemed so like an overgrown child pleading to be comforted thather heart warmed to him. Relief melted her defences. And when, ontheir arrival at Thirty-fourth Street Mr Pilkington suggested thatshe partake of a cup of tea at his apartment, which was only a coupleof blocks away off Madison Avenue, she accepted the invitationwithout hesitating.
　　On the way to his apartment Mr Pilkington continued in the minor key.
　　He was a great deal more communicative than she herself would havebeen to such a comparative stranger as she was, but she knew that menwere often like this. Over in London, she had frequently been madethe recipient of the most intimate confidences by young men whom shehad met for the first time the same evening at a dance. She had beenforced to believe that there was something about her personality thatacted on a certain type of man like the crack in the dam, settingloose the surging flood of their eloquence. To this class OtisPilkington evidently belonged: for, once started, he withheldnothing.
　　"It isn't that I'm dependent on Aunt Olive or anything like that," hevouchsafed, as he stirred the tea in his Japanese-print hung studio.
　　"But you know how it is. Aunt Olive is in a position to make it veryunpleasant for me if I do anything foolish. At present, I have reasonto know that she intends to leave me practically all that shepossesses. Millions!" said Mr Pilkington, handing Jill a cup. "Iassure you, millions! But there is a hard commercial strain in her.
　　It would have the most prejudicial effect upon her if, especiallyafter she had expressly warned me against it, I were to lose a greatdeal of money over this production. She is always complaining that Iam not a business man like my late uncle. Mr Waddesleigh Peagrim madea fortune in smoked hams." Mr Pilkington looked at the Japaneseprints, and shuddered slightly. "Right up to the time of his death hewas urging me to go into the business. I could not have endured it.
　　But, when I heard those two men discussing the play, I almost wishedthat I had done so."Jill was now completely disarmed. She would almost have patted thisunfortunate young man's head, if she could have reached it.
　　"I shouldn't worry about the piece," she said. "I've read somewhereor heard somewhere that it's the surest sign of a success when actorsdon't like a play."Mr Pilkington drew his chair an imperceptible inch nearer.
　　"How sympathetic you are!"Jill perceived with chagrin that she had been mistaken after all. It_was_ the love-light. The tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles sprayed itall over her like a couple of searchlights. Otis Pilkington waslooking exactly like a sheep, and she knew from past experience thatthat was the infallible sign. When young men looked like that, it wastime to go.
　　"I'm afraid I must be off," she said. "Thank you so much for givingme tea. I shouldn't be a bit afraid about the play. I'm sure it'sgoing to be splendid. Good-bye.""You aren't going already?""I must. I'm very late as it is. I promised . . ."Whatever fiction Jill might have invented to the detriment of hersoul was interrupted by a ring at the bell. The steps of MrPilkington's Japanese servant crossing the hall came faintly to thesitting-room.
　　"Mr Pilkington in?"Otis Pilkington motioned pleadingly to Jill.
　　"Don't go!" he urged. "It's only a man I know. He has probably cometo remind me that I am dining with him tonight. He won't stay aminute. Please don't go."Jill sat down. She had no intention of going now. The cheery voice atthe front door had been the cheery voice of her long-lost uncle,Major Christopher Selby.
Chapter 12
1.
　　Uncle Chris walked breezily into the room, flicking a jaunty glove.
　　He stopped short on seeing that Mr Pilkington was not alone.
　　"Oh, I beg your pardon! I understood . . ." He peered at Jilluncertainly. Mr Pilkington affected a dim, artistic lighting-systemin his studio, and people who entered from the great outdoorsgenerally had to take time to accustom their eyes to it. "If you'reengaged . . .""Er--allow me . . . Miss Mariner . . . Major Selby.""Hullo, Uncle Chris!" said Jill.
　　"God bless my soul!" ejaculated that startled gentleman adventurer,and collapsed onto a settee as if his legs had been mown from underhim.
　　"I've been looking for you all over New York," said Jill.
　　Mr Pilkington found himself unequal to the intellectual pressure ofthe conversation.
　　"Uncle Chris?" he said with a note of feeble enquiry in his voice.
　　"Major Selby is my uncle.""Are you sure?" said Mr Pilkington. "I mean . . ."Not being able to ascertain, after a moment's self-examination, whathe did mean, he relapsed into silence.
　　"Whatever are you doing here?" asked Uncle Chris.
　　"I've been having tea with Mr Pilkington.""But . . . but why Mr Pilkington?""Well, he invited me.""But how do you know him?""We met at the theatre.""Theatre?"Otis Pilkington recovered his power of speech.
　　"Miss Mariner is rehearsing with a little play in which I aminterested," he explained.
　　Uncle Chris half rose from the settee. He blinked twice in rapidsuccession. Jill had never seen him so shaken from his customarypoise.
　　"Don't tell me you have gone on the stage, Jill!""I have. I'm in the chorus . . .""Ensemble," corrected Mr Pilkington softly.
　　"I'm in the ensemble of a piece called 'The Rose of America.' We'vebeen rehearsing for ever so long."Uncle Chris digested this information in silence for a moment. Hepulled at his short mustache.
　　"Why, of course!" he said at length. Jill, who know him so well,could tell by the restored ring of cheeriness in his tone that he washimself again. He had dealt with this situation in his mind and wasprepared to cope with it. The surmise was confirmed the next instantwhen he rose and stationed himself in front of the fire. MrPilkington detested steam-heat and had scoured the city till he hadfound a studio apartment with an open fireplace. Uncle Chris spreadhis legs and expanded his chest. "Of course," he said. "I remembernow that you told me in your letter that you were thinking of goingon the stage. My niece," explained Uncle Chris to the attentive MrPilkington, "came over from England on a later boat. I was notexpecting her for some weeks. Hence my surprise at meeting her here.
　　Of course. You told me that you intended to go on the stage, and Istrongly recommended you to begin at the bottom of the ladder andlearn the ground-work thoroughly before you attempted higherflights.""Oh, that was it?" said Mr Pilkington. He had been wondering.
　　"There is no finer training," resumed Uncle Chris, completely at hisease once more, "than the chorus. How many of the best-knownactresses in America began in that way! Dozens. Dozens. If I weregiving advice to any young girl with theatrical aspirations, I shouldsay 'Begin in the chorus!' On the other hand," he proceeded, turningto Pilkington, "I think it would be just as well if you would notmention the fact of my niece being in that position to MrsWaddesleigh Peagrim. She might not understand.""Exactly," assented Mr Pilkington.
　　"The term 'chorus' . . .""I dislike it intensely myself.""It suggests . . .""Precisely."Uncle Chris inflated his chest again, well satisfied.
　　"Capital!" he said. "Well, I only dropped in to remind you, my boy,that you and your aunt are dining with me tonight. I was afraid abusy man like you might forget.""I was looking forward to it," said Mr Pilkington, charmed at thedescription.
　　"You remember the address? Nine East Forty-First Street. I havemoved, you remember.""So that was why I couldn't find you at the other place," said Jill.
　　"The man at the door said he had never heard of you.""Stupid idiot!" said Uncle Chris testily. "These New Yorkhall-porters are recruited entirely from homes for the feeble-minded.
　　I suppose he was a new man. Well, Pilkington, my boy, I shall expectyou at seven o'clock. Goodbye till then. Come, Jill.""Good-bye, Mr Pilkington," said Jill.
　　"Good-bye for the present, Miss Mariner," said Mr Pilkington, bendingdown to take her hand. The tortoiseshell spectacles shot a last softbeam at her.
　　As the front door closed behind them, Uncle Chris heaved a sigh ofrelief.
　　"Whew! I think I handled that little contretemps with diplomacy! Acertain amount of diplomacy, I think!""If you mean," said Jill severely, "that you told some disgracefulfibs . . .""Fibs, my dear,--or shall we say, artistic mouldings of the unshapelyclay of truth--are the . . . how shall I put it? . . . Well, anyway,they come in dashed handy. It would never have done for Mrs Peagrimto have found out that you were in the chorus. If she discovered thatmy niece was in the chorus, she would infallibly suspect me of beingan adventurer. And while," said Uncle Chris meditatively, "of courseI _am_, it is nice to have one's little secrets. The good lady hashad a rooted distaste for girls in that perfectly honorable butmaligned profession ever since our long young friend back there wassued for breach of promise by a member of a touring company in hissophomore year at college. We all have our prejudices. That is hers.
　　However, I think we may rely on our friend to say nothing about thematter . . . But why did you do it? My dear child, whatever inducedyou to take such a step?"Jill laughed.
　　"That's practically what Mr Miller said to me when we were rehearsingone of the dances this afternoon, only he put it differently." Shelinked her arm in his. "What else could I do? I was alone in New Yorkwith the remains of that twenty dollars you sent me and no more insight.""But why didn't you stay down at Brookport with your Uncle Elmer?""Have you ever seen my Uncle Elmer?""No. Curiously enough, I never have.""If you had, you wouldn't ask. Brookport! Ugh! I left when they triedto get me to understudy the hired man, who had resigned.""What!""Yes, they got tired of supporting me in the state to which I wasaccustomed--I don't blame them!--so they began to find ways of makingme useful about the home. I didn't mind reading to Aunt Julia, and Icould just stand taking Tibby for walks. But, when it came toshoveling snow, I softly and silently vanished away.""But I can't understand all this. I suggested to youruncle--diplomatically--that you had large private means.""I know you did. And he spent all his time showing me over houses andtelling me I could have them for a hundred thousand dollars cashdown." Jill bubbled. "You should have seen his face when I told himthat twenty dollars was all I had in the world!""You didn't tell him that!""I did."Uncle Chris shook his head, like an indulgent father disappointed ina favorite child.
　　"You're a dear girl, Jill, but really you do seem totally lacking in. . . how shall I put it?--finesse. Your mother was just the same. Asweet woman, but with no diplomacy, no notion of _handling_ asituation. I remember her as a child giving me away hopelessly on oneoccasion after we had been at the jam-cupboard. She did not mean anyharm, but she was constitutionally incapable of a tactful negative atthe right time." Uncle Chris brooded for a moment on the past. "Oh,well, it's a very fine trait, no doubt, though inconvenient. I don'tblame you for leaving Brookport if you weren't happy there. But Iwish you had consulted me before going on the stage.""Shall I strike this man?" asked Jill of the world at large. "Howcould I consult you? My darling, precious uncle, don't you realizethat you had vanished into thin air, leaving me penniless? I had todo something. And, now that we are on the subject, perhaps you willexplain your movements. Why did you write to me from that place onFifty-Seventh Street if you weren't there?"Uncle Chris cleared his throat.
　　"In a sense . . . when I wrote . . . I was there.""I suppose that means something, but it's beyond me. I'm not nearlyas intelligent as you think, Uncle Chris, so you'll have to explain.""Well, it was this way, my dear. I was in a peculiar position youmust remember. I had made a number of wealthy friends on the boat andit is possible that--unwittingly--I have them the impression that Iwas as comfortably off as themselves. At any rate, that is theimpression they gathered, and it hardly seemed expedient to correctit. For it is a deplorable trait in the character of the majority ofrich people that they only--er--expand,--they only show the best andmost companionable side of themselves to those whom they imagine tobe as wealthy as they are. Well, of course, while one was on theboat, the fact that I was sailing under what a purist might havetermed false colors did not matter. The problem was how to keep upthe--er--innocent deception after we had reached New York. A womanlike Mrs Waddesleigh Peagrim--a ghastly creature, my dear, all frontteeth and exuberance, but richer than the Sub-Treasury--looks askanceat a man, however agreeable, if he endeavors to cement a friendshipbegun on board ship from a cheap boarding-house on Amsterdam Avenue.
　　It was imperative that I should find something in the nature of whatI might call a suitable base of operations. Fortune played into myhands. One of the first men I met in New York was an oldsoldier-servant of mine, to whom I had been able to do somekindnesses in the old days. In fact--it shows how bread cast upon thewaters returns to us after many days--it was with the assistance of asmall loan from me that he was enabled to emigrate to America. Well,I met this man, and, after a short conversation, he revealed the factthat he was the hall-porter at that apartment-house which youvisited, the one on Fifty-Seventh Street. At this time of the year, Iknew, many wealthy people go south, to Florida and the Carolinas, andit occurred to me that there might be a vacant apartment in hisbuilding. There was. I took it.""But how on earth could you afford to pay for an apartment in a placelike that?"Uncle Chris coughed.
　　"I didn't say I paid for it. I said I took it. That is, as one mightsay, the point of my story. My old friend, grateful for favorsreceived and wishing to do me a good turn consented to become myaccomplice in another--er--innocent deception. I gave my friends theaddress and telephone number of the apartment-house, living the whilemyself in surroundings of a somewhat humbler and less expensivecharacter. I called every morning for letters. If anybody rang me upon the telephone, the admirable man answered in the capacity of myservant, took a message, and relayed it on to me at my boarding-house.
　　If anybody called, he merely said that I was out. There wasn't aflaw in the whole scheme, my dear, and its chief merit was itsbeautiful simplicity.""Then what made you give it up? Conscience?""Conscience never made me give up _anything_," said Uncle Chrisfirmly. "No, there were a hundred chances to one against anythinggoing wrong, and it was the hundredth that happened. When you havebeen in New York longer, you will realize that one peculiarity of theplace is that the working-classes are in a constant state of flux. OnMonday you meet a plumber. Ah! you say, A plumber! Capital! On thefollowing Thursday you meet him again, and he is a car-conductor.
　　Next week he will be squirting soda in a drug-store. It's the faultof these dashed magazines, with their advertisements ofcorrespondence courses--Are You Earning All You Should?--Write To Usand Learn Chicken-Farming By Mail . . . It puts wrong ideas into thefellows' heads. It unsettles them. It was so in this case. Everythingwas going swimmingly, when my man suddenly conceived the idea thatdestiny had intended him for a chauffeur-gardener, and he threw uphis position!""Leaving you homeless!""As you say, homeless--temporarily. But, fortunately,--I have beenamazingly lucky all through; it really does seem as if you cannotkeep a good man down--fortunately my friend had a friend who wasjanitor at a place on East Forty-First Street, and by a miracle ofluck the only apartment in the building was empty. It is anoffice-building, but, like some of these places, it has one smallbachelor's apartment on the top floor.""And you are the small bachelor?""Precisely. My friend explained matters to his friend--a fewfinancial details were satisfactorily arranged--and here I am,perfectly happy with the cosiest little place in the world, rentfree. I am even better off than I was before, as a matter of fact,for my new ally's wife is an excellent cook, and I have been enabledto give one or two very pleasant dinners at my new home. It lendsverisimilitude to the thing if you can entertain a little. If you arenever in when people call, they begin to wonder. I am giving dinnerto your friend Pilkington and Mrs Peagrim there tonight. Homey,delightful, and infinitely cheaper than a restaurant.""And what will you do when the real owner of the place walks in inthe middle of dinner?""Out of the question. The janitor informs me that he left for Englandsome weeks ago, intending to make a stay of several months.""Well, you certainly think of everything.""Whatever success I may have achieved," replied Uncle Chris, with thedignity of a Captain of Industry confiding in an interviewer, "Iattribute to always thinking of everything."Jill gurgled with laughter. There was that about her uncle whichalways acted on her moral sense like an opiate, lulling it to sleepand preventing it from rising up and becoming critical. If he hadstolen a watch and chain, he would somehow have succeeded inconvincing her that he had acted for the best under the dictates of abenevolent altruism.
　　"What success _have_ you achieved?" she asked, interested. "When youleft me, you were on your way to find a fortune. Did you find it?""I have not actually placed my hands upon it yet," admitted UncleChris. "But it is hovering in the air all round me. I can hear thebeating of the wings of the dollar-bills as they flutter to and fro,almost within reach. Sooner or later I shall grab them. I neverforget, my dear, that I have a task before me,--to restore to you themoney of which I deprived you. Some day--be sure--I shall do it. Someday you will receive a letter from me, containing a large sum--fivethousand--ten thousand--twenty thousand--whatever it may be, with thesimple words 'First Instalment'." He repeated the phrase, as if itpleased him. "First Instalment!"Jill hugged his arm. She was in the mood in which she used to listento him ages ago telling her fairy stories.
　　"Go on!" she cried. "Go on! It's wonderful! Once upon a time UncleChris was walking along Fifth Avenue, when he happened to meet a poorold woman gathering sticks for firewood. She looked so old and tiredthat he was sorry for her, so he gave her ten cents which he hadborrowed from the janitor, and suddenly she turned into a beautifulgirl and said 'I am a fairy! In return for your kindness I grant youthree wishes!' And Uncle Chris thought for a moment, and said, 'Iwant twenty thousand dollars to send to Jill!' And the fairy said,'It shall be attended to. And the next article?'""It is all very well to joke," protested Uncle Chris, pained by thisflippancy, "but let me tell you that I shall not require magicassistance to become a rich man. Do you realize that at houses likeMrs Waddesleigh Peagrim's I am meeting men all the time who have onlyto say one little word to make me a millionaire? They are fat, graymen with fishy eyes and large waistcoats, and they sit smoking cigarsand brooding on what they are going to do to the market next day. IfI were a mind-reader I could have made a dozen fortunes by now. I satopposite that old pirate, Bruce Bishop, for over an hour the very daybefore he and his gang sent Consolidated Pea-Nuts down twenty points!
　　If I had known what was in the wind, I doubt if I could haverestrained myself from choking his intentions out of the fellow.
　　Well, what I am trying to point out is that one of these days one ofthese old oysters will have a fleeting moment of human pity anddisgorge some tip on which I can act. It is that reflection thatkeeps me so constantly at Mrs Peagrim's house." Uncle Chris shiveredslightly. "A fearsome woman, my dear! Weighs a hundred and eightypounds and as skittish as a young lamb in springtime! She makes medance with her!" Uncle Chris' lips quivered in a spasm of pain, andhe was silent for a moment. "Thank heaven I was once a footballer!"he said reverently.
　　"But what do you live on?" asked Jill. "I know you are going to be amillionaire next Tuesday week, but how are you getting along in themeantime?"Uncle Chris coughed.
　　"Well, as regards actual living expenses, I have managed by a shrewdbusiness stroke to acquire a small but sufficient income. I live in aboarding-house--true--but I contrive to keep the wolf away from itsdoor,--which, by the by, badly needs a lick of paint. Have you everheard of Nervino?""I don't think so. It sounds like a patent medicine.""It is a patent medicine." Uncle Chris stopped and looked anxiouslyat her. "Jill, you're looking pale, my dear.""Am I? We had rather a tiring rehearsal.""Are you sure," said Uncle Chris seriously, "that it is only that?
　　Are you sure that your vitality has not become generally lowered bythe fierce rush of metropolitan life? Are you aware of the thingsthat can happen to you if you allow the red corpuscles of your bloodto become devitalised? I had a friend . . .""Stop! You're scaring me to death!"Uncle Chris gave his mustache a satisfied twirl. "Just what I meantto do, my dear. And, when I had scared you sufficiently--you wouldn'twait for the story of my consumptive friend! Pity! It's one of mybest!--I should have mentioned that I had been having much the sametrouble myself until lately, but the other day I happened to tryNervino, the great specific . . . I was giving you an illustration ofmyself in action, my dear. I went to these Nervino people--happenedto see one of their posters and got the idea in a flash--I went tothem and said, 'Here am I, a presentable man of persuasive mannersand a large acquaintance among the leaders of New York Society. Whatwould it be worth to you to have me hint from time to time at dinnerparties and so forth that Nervino is the rich man's panacea?' I putthe thing lucidly to them. I said, 'No doubt you have a thousandagents in the city, but have you one who does not look like an agentand won't talk like an agent? Have you one who is inside the housesof the wealthy, at their very dinner-tables, instead of being on thefront step, trying to hold the door open with his foot? That is thepoint you have to consider.' They saw the idea at once. We arrangedterms--not as generous as I could wish, perhaps, but quite ample. Ireceive a tolerably satisfactory salary each week, and in return Ispread the good word about Nervino in the gilded palaces of the rich.
　　Those are the people to go for, Jill. They have been so busywrenching money away from the widow and the orphan that they haven'thad time to look after their health. You catch one of them afterdinner, just as he is wondering if he was really wise in taking twohelpings of the lobster Newburg, and he is clay in your hands. I drawmy chair up to his and become sympathetic and say that I hadprecisely the same trouble myself until recently and mention a dearold friend of mine who died of indigestion, and gradually lead theconversation round to Nervino. I don't force it on them. I don't evenask them to try it. I merely point to myself, rosy with health, andsay that I owe everything to it, and the thing is done. They thank meprofusely and scribble the name down on their shirt-cuffs. And thereyour are! I don't suppose," said Uncle Chris philosophically, "thatthe stuff can do them any actual harm."They had come to the corner of Forty-first Street. Uncle Chris feltin his pocket and produced a key.
　　"If you want to go and take a look at my little nest, you can letyourself in. It's on the twenty-second floor. Don't fail to go out onthe roof and look at the view. It's worth seeing. It will give yousome idea of the size of the city. A wonderful, amazing city, mydear, full of people who need Nervino. I shall go on and drop in atthe club for half an hour. They have given me a fortnight's card atthe Avenue. Capital place. Here's the key."Jill turned down Forty-first Street, and came to a mammoth structureof steel and stone which dwarfed the modest brown houses beside itinto nothingness. It was curious to think of a private apartmentnestling on the summit of this mountain. She went in, and theelevator shot her giddily upwards to the twenty-second floor. Shefound herself facing a short flight of stone steps, ending in a door.
　　She mounted the steps, tried the key, and, turning it, entered ahall-way. Proceeding down the passage, she reached a sitting-room.
　　It was a small room, but furnished with a solid comfort which soothedher. For the first time since she had arrived in New York, she hadthe sense of being miles away from the noise and bustle of the city.
　　There was a complete and restful silence. She was alone in a nest ofbooks and deep chairs, on which a large grandfather-clock looked downwith that wide-faced benevolence peculiar to its kind. So peacefulwas this eyrie, perched high up above the clamor and rattle ofcivilization, that every nerve in her body seemed to relax in adelicious content. It was like being in Peter Pan's house in thetree-tops.
　　2.
　　Jill possessed in an unusual degree that instinct for explorationwhich is implanted in most of us. She was frankly inquisitive, andcould never be two minutes in a strange room without making a tour ofit and examining its books, pictures, and photographs. Almost at onceshe began to prowl.
　　The mantelpiece was her first objective. She always made for otherpeople's mantelpieces, for there, more than anywhere else, is thecharacter of a proprietor revealed. This mantelpiece was sprinkledwith photographs, large, small, framed and unframed. In the center ofit, standing all alone and looking curiously out of place among itslarge neighbors, was a little snapshot.
　　It was dark by the mantelpiece. Jill took the photograph, to thewindow, where the fading light could fall on it. Why, she could nothave said, but the thing interested her. There was mystery about it.
　　It seemed in itself so insignificant to have the place of honor.
　　The snapshot had evidently been taken by an amateur, but it was oneof those lucky successes which happen at rare intervals to amateurphotographers to encourage them to proceed with their hobby. Itshowed a small girl in a white dress cut short above slim, blacklegs, standing in the porch of an old house, one hand swinging asunbonnet, the other patting an Irish terrier which had planted itsfront paws against her waist and was looking up into her face withthat grave melancholy characteristic of Irish terriers. The sunlightwas evidently strong, for the child's face was puckered in a twistedthough engaging grin. Jill's first thought was "What a jolly kid!"And then, with a leaping of the heart that seemed to send somethingbig and choking into her throat, she saw that it was a photograph ofherself.
　　With a swooping hound memory raced hack over the years. She couldfeel the hot sun on her face, hear the anxious voice of FreddieRooke--then fourteen and for the first time the owner of acamera--imploring her to stand just like that because he wouldn't behalf a minute only some rotten thing had stuck or something. Then thesharp click, the doubtful assurance of Freddie that he thought it wasall right if he hadn't forgotten to shift the film (in which case shemight expect to appear in combination with a cow which he had snappedon his way to the house), and the relieved disappearance of Pat, theterrier, who didn't understand photography. How many years ago hadthat been? She could not remember. But Freddie had grown tolong-legged manhood, she to an age of discretion and full-lengthfrocks, Pat had died, the old house was inhabited by strangers . . .
　　and here was the silent record of that sun-lit afternoon, threethousand miles away from the English garden in which it had come intoexistence.
　　The shadows deepened. The top of the great building swayed gently,causing the pendulum of the grandfather-clock to knock against thesides of its wooden case. Jill started. The noise, coming after thedead silence, frightened her till she realized what it was. She had anervous feeling of not being alone. It was as if the shadows heldgoblins that peered out at the intruder. She darted to themantelpiece and replaced the photograph. She felt like some heroineof a fairy-story meddling with the contents of the giant's castle.
　　Soon there would come the sound of a great footstep, thud--thud . . .
　　_Thud._Jill's heart gave another leap. She was perfectly sure she had hearda sound. It had been just like the banging of a door. She bracedherself, listening, every muscle tense. And then, cleaving thestillness, came a voice from down the passage--"Just see them Pullman porters,Dolled up with scented watersBought with their dimes and quarters!
　　See, here they come! Here they come!"For an instant Jill could not have said whether she was relieved ormore frightened than ever. True, that numbing sense of the uncannyhad ceased to grip her, for Reason told her that spectres do not singrag-time songs. On the other hand, owners of apartments do, and shewould almost as readily have faced a spectre as the owner of thisapartment. Dizzily, she wandered how in the world she was to explainher presence. Suppose he turned out to be some awful, choleric personwho would listen to no explanations.
　　"Oh, see those starched-up collars!
　　Hark how their captain hollers'Keep time! Keep time!'
　　It's worth a thousand dollarsTo see those tip-collectors . . ."Very near now. Almost at the door.
　　"Those upper-berth inspectors,Those Pullman porters on parade!"A dim, shapeless figure in the black of the doorway, scrabbling offingers on the wall.
　　"Where are you, dammit?" said the voice, apparently addressing theelectric-light switch.
　　Jill shrank back, desperate fingers pressing deep into the back of anarm-chair. Light flashed from the wall at her side. And there, in thedoorway, stood Wally Mason in his shirt-sleeves.
Chapter 13
1.
　　In these days of rapid movement, when existence has become littlemore than a series of shocks of varying intensity, astonishment isthe shortest-lived of all the emotions. The human brain has traineditself to elasticity and recovers its balance in the presence of theunforeseen with a speed almost miraculous. The man who says 'I _am_surprised!' really means 'I was surprised a moment ago, but now Ihave adjusted myself to the situation.' There was an instant in whichJill looked at Wally and Wally at Jill with the eye of totalamazement, and then, almost simultaneously, each began--the processwas sub-conscious--to regard this meeting not as an isolated andinexplicable event, but as something resulting from a perfectlylogical chain of circumstances. Jill perceived that the presence inthe apartment of that snap-shot of herself should have prepared herfor the discovery that the place belonged to someone who had knownher as a child, and that there was no reason for her to be stunned bythe fact that this someone was Wally Mason. Wally, on his side, knewthat Jill was in New York; and had already decided, erroneously, thatshe had found his address in the telephone directory and was payingan ordinary call. It was, perhaps, a little unusual that she shouldhave got into the place without ringing the front door bell and thatshe should be in his sitting-room in the dark, but these were minoraspects of the matter. To the main fact, that here she was, he hadadjusted his mind, and, while there was surprise in his voice when hefinally spoke, it was not the surprise of one who suspects himself ofseeing visions.
　　"Hello!" he said.
　　"Hullo!" said Jill.
　　It was not a very exalted note on which to pitch the conversation,but it had the merit of giving each of them a little more time tocollect themselves.
　　"This is . . . I wasn't expecting you!" said Wally.
　　"I wasn't expecting _you!_" said Jill.
　　There was another pause, in which Wally, apparently examining herlast words and turning them over in his mind found that they did notsquare with his preconceived theories.
　　"You weren't expecting me?""I certainly was not!""But . . . but you knew I lived here?"Jill shook her head. Wally reflected for an instant, and then put hisfinger, with a happy inspiration, on the very heart of the mystery.
　　"Then how on earth did you get here?"He was glad he had asked that. The sense of unreality which had cometo him in the first startling moment of seeing her and vanished underthe influence of logic had returned as strong as ever. If she did notknow he lived in this place, how in the name of everything uncannyhad she found her way here? A momentary wonder as to whether all thiswas not mixed up with telepathy and mental suggestion and all thatsort of thing came to him. Certainly he had been thinking of her allthe time since their parting at the Savoy Hotel that night threeweeks had more back . . . No, that was absurd. There must be somesounder reason for her presence. He waited for her to give it.
　　Jill for the moment felt physically incapable of giving it. Sheshrank from the interminable explanation which confronted her as aweary traveller shrinks from a dusty, far-stretching desert. Shesimply could not go into all that now. So she answered with aquestion.
　　"When did you land in New York?""This afternoon. We were supposed to dock this morning, but the boatwas late." Wally perceived that he was pushed away from the mainpoint, and jostled his way to it. "But what are you doing here?""It's such a long story."Her voice was plaintive. Remorse smote Wally. It occurred to him thathe had not been sufficiently sympathetic. Not a word had he said onthe subject of her change of fortunes. He had just stood and gapedand asked questions. After all, what the devil did it matter how shecame to be here? He had anticipated a long and tedious search for herthrough the labyrinth of New York, and here Fate had brought her tohis very door, and all he could do was to ask why, instead of beingthankful. He perceived that he was not much of a fellow.
　　"Never mind," he said. "You can tell me what you feel like it." Helooked at her eagerly. Time seemed to have wiped away that littlemisunderstanding under the burden of which they had parted. "It's toowonderful finding you like this!" He hesitated. "I heardabout--everything," he said awkwardly.
　　"My--" Jill hesitated too. "My smash?""Yes. Freddie Rooke told me. I was terribly sorry.""Thank you," said Jill.
　　There was a pause. They were both thinking of that other disasterwhich had happened. The presence of Derek Underhill seemed to standlike an unseen phantom between them. Finally Wally spoke at random,choosing the first words that came into his head in his desire tobreak the silence.
　　"Jolly place, this, isn't it?"Jill perceived that an opening for those tedious explanations hadbeen granted her.
　　"Uncle Chris thinks so," she said demurely.
　　Wally looked puzzled.
　　"Uncle Chris? Oh, your uncle?""Yes.""But--he has never been here.""Oh, yes. He's giving a dinner party here tonight!""He's . . . what did you say?""It's all right. I only began at the end of the story instead of thebeginning. I'll tell you the whole thing, then . . . then I supposeyou will be terribly angry and make a fuss.""I'm not much of a lad, as Freddie Rooke would say, for makingfusses. And I can't imagine being terribly angry with you.""Well, I'll risk it. Though, if I wasn't a brave girl, I should leaveUncle Chris to explain for himself and simply run away.""Anything is better than that. It's a miracle meeting you like this,and I don't want to be deprived of the fruits of it. Tell meanything, but don't go.""You'll be furious.""Not with you.""I should hope not with me. I've done nothing. I am the innocentheroine. But I'm afraid you will be very angry with Uncle Chris.""If he's your uncle, that passes him. Besides, he once licked thestuffing out of me with a whangee. That forms a bond. Tell me all."Jill considered. She had promised to begin at the beginning, but itwas difficult to know what was the beginning.
　　"Have you ever heard of Captain Kidd?" she asked at length.
　　"You're wandering from the point, aren't you?""No, I'm not. _Have_ you heard of Captain Kidd?""The pirate? Of course.""Well, Uncle Chris is his direct lineal descendant. That reallyexplains the whole thing."Wally looked at her enquiringly.
　　"Could you make it a little easier?" he said.
　　"I can tell you everything in half a dozen words, if you like. But itwill sound awfully abrupt.""Go ahead.""Uncle Chris has stolen your apartment."Wally nodded slowly.
　　"I see. Stolen my apartment.""Of course you can't possibly understand. I shall have to tell youthe whole thing, after all."Wally listened with flattering attention as she began the epic ofMajor Christopher Selby's doings in New York. Whatever his emotions,he certainly was not bored.
　　"So that's how it all happened," concluded Jill.
　　For a moment Wally said nothing. He seemed to be digesting what hehad heard.
　　"I see," he said at last. "It's a variant of those advertisementsthey print in the magazines. 'Why pay rent? Own somebody else'shome!'""That _does_ rather sum it up," said Jill.
　　Wally burst into a roar of laughter.
　　"He's a corker!"Jill was immensely relieved. For all her courageous bearing, she hadnot relished the task of breaking the news to Wally. She knew that hehad a sense of humor, but a man may have a sense of humor and yet notsee anything amusing in having his home stolen in his absence.
　　"I'm so glad you're not angry.""Of course not.""Most men would be.""Most men are chumps.""It's so wonderful that it happened to be you. Suppose it had been anutter stranger! What could I have done?""It would have been the same thing. You would have won him over intwo minutes. Nobody could resist you.""That's very sweet of you.""I can't help telling the truth. Washington was just the same.""Then you don't mind Uncle Chris giving his dinner-party heretonight?""He has my blessing.""You really are an angel," said Jill gratefully. "From what he said,I think he looks on it as rather an important function. He hasinvited a very rich woman, who has been showing him a lot ofhospitality,--a Mrs Peagrim . . .""Mrs Waddesleigh Peagrim?""Yes? Why, do you know her?""Quite well. She goes in a good deal for being Bohemian and knowingpeople who write and paint and act and so on. That reminds me. I gaveFreddie Rooke a letter of introduction to her.""Freddie Rooke!""Yes. He suddenly made up his mind to come over. He came to me foradvice about the journey. He sailed a couple of days before I did. Isuppose he's somewhere in New York by now, unless he was going on toFlorida. He didn't tell me what his plans were."Jill was conscious of a sudden depression. Much as she liked Freddie,he belonged to a chapter in her life which was closed and which shewas trying her hardest to forget. It was impossible to think ofFreddie without thinking of Derek, and to think of Derek was liketouching an exposed nerve. The news that Freddie was in New Yorkshocked her. New York had already shown itself a city of chanceencounters. Could she avoid meeting Freddie?
　　She knew Freddie so well. There was not a dearer or a better-heartedyouth in the world, but he had not that fine sensibility which pilotsa man through the awkwardnesses of life. He was a blunderer. Instincttold her that, if she met Freddie, he would talk of Derek, and, ifthinking of Derek was touching an exposed nerve, talking of him wouldlike pressing on that nerve with a heavy hand. She shivered.
　　Wally was observant.
　　"There's no need to meet him, if you don't want to," he said.
　　"No," said Jill doubtfully.
　　"New York's a large place. By the way," he went on, "to return oncemore to the interesting subject of my lodger, does your uncle sleephere at nights, do you know?"Jill looked at him gratefully. He was no blunderer. Her desire toavoid Freddie Rooke was, he gave her tacitly to understand, herbusiness, and he did not propose to intrude on it. She liked him fordismissing the subject so easily.
　　"No, I think he told me he doesn't.""Well, that's something, isn't it! I call that darned nice of him! Iwonder if I could drop back here somewhere about eleven o'clock. Arethe festivities likely to be over by then? If I know Mrs Peagrim, shewill insist on going off to one of the hotels to dance directly afterdinner. She's a confirmed trotter.""I don't know how to apologize," began Jill remorsefully.
　　"Please don't. It's absolutely all right." His eye wandered to themantelpiece, as it had done once or twice during the conversation. Inher hurry Jill had replaced the snapshot with its back to the room,and Wally had the fidgety air of a man whose most cherishedpossession is maltreated. He got up now and, walking across, turnedthe photograph round. He stood for a moment, looking at it.
　　Jill had forgotten the snapshot. Curiosity returned to her.
　　"Where _did_ you get that?" she asked.
　　Wally turned.
　　"Oh, did you see this?""I was looking at it just before you nearly frightened me to death byappearing so unexpectedly.""Freddie Rooke sold it to me fourteen years ago.""Fourteen years ago!""Next July," added Wally. "I gave him five shillings for it.""Five shillings! The little brute!" cried Jill indignantly "It musthave been all the money you had in the world!""A trifle more, as a matter of fact. All the money I had in the worldwas three-and-six. But by a merciful dispensation of Providence thecurate had called that morning and left a money-box for subscriptionsto the village organ-fund . . . It's wonderful what you can do with aturn for crime and the small blade of a pocket-knife! I don't think Ihave ever made money quicker!" He looked at the photograph again.
　　"Not that it seemed quick at the moment. I died at least a dozenagonizing deaths in the few minutes I was operating. Have you evernoticed how slowly time goes when you are coaxing a shilling and asixpence out of somebody's money-box? Centuries! But I wasforgetting. Of course you've had no experience.""You poor thing!""It was worth it.""And you've had it ever since!""I wouldn't part with it for all Mrs Waddesleigh Peagrim's millions,"said Wally with sudden and startling vehemence, "if she offered methem." He paused. "She hasn't, as a matter of fact."There was a silence. Jill looked at Wally furtively, as he returnedto his seat. She was seeing him with new eyes. It was as if thistrifling incident had removed some sort of a veil. He had suddenlybecome more alive. For an instant she had seen right into him, to thehidden deeps of his soul. She felt shy and embarrassed.
　　"Pat died," she said, at length. She felt the necessity of sayingsomething.
　　"I liked Pat.""He picked up some poison, poor darling . . . How long ago those daysseem, don't they!""They are always pretty vivid to me. I wonder who has that old houseof yours now.""I heard the other day," said Jill more easily. The odd sensation ofembarrassment was passing. "Some people called . . . what was thename? . . . Debenham, I think."Silence fell again. It was broken by the front-door bell, like analarm-clock that shatters a dream.
　　Wally got up.
　　"Your uncle," he said.
　　"You aren't going to open the door?""That was the scheme.""But he'll get such a shock when he sees you.""He must look on it in the light of rent. I don't see why I shouldn'thave a little passing amusement from this business."He left the room. Jill heard the front door open. She waitedbreathlessly. Pity for Uncle Chris struggled with the sterner feelingthat it served him right.
　　"Hullo!" she heard Wally say.
　　"Hullo-ullo-ullo!" replied an exuberant voice. "Wondered if I'd findyou in, and all that sort of thing. I say, what a deuce of a way upit is here. Sort of gets a chap into training for going to heaven,what? I mean, what?"Jill looked about her like a trapped animal. It was absurd, she felt,but every nerve in her body cried out against the prospect of meetingFreddie. His very voice had opened old wounds and set them throbbing.
　　She listened in the doorway. Out of sight down the passage, Freddieseemed by the sounds to be removing his overcoat. She stole out anddarted like a shadow down the corridor that led to Wally's bedroom.
　　The window of the bedroom opened onto the wide roof which Uncle Chrishad eulogized. She slipped noiselessly out, closing the window behindher.
　　2.
　　"I say, Mason, old top," said Freddie, entering the sitting-room, "Ihope you don't mind my barging in like this but the fact is thingsare a bit thick. I'm dashed worried and I didn't know another soul Icould talk it over with. As a matter of fact, I wasn't sure you werein New York at all but I remembered hearing you say in London thatyou went popping back almost at once, so I looked you up in thetelephone book and took a chance. I'm dashed glad you _are_ back.
　　When did you arrive?""This afternoon.""I've been here two or three days. Well, it's a bit of luck catchingyou. You see, what I want to ask your advice about . . ."Wally looked at his watch. He was not surprised to find that Jill hadtaken to flight. He understood her feelings perfectly, and wasanxious to get rid of the inopportune Freddie as soon as possible.
　　"You'll have to talk quick, I'm afraid," he said. "I've lent thisplace to a man for the evening, and he's having some people todinner. What's the trouble?""It's about Jill.""Jill?""Jill Mariner, you know. You remember Jill? You haven't forgotten mytelling you all that? About her losing her money and coming over toAmerica?""No. I remember you telling me that."Freddie seemed to miss something in his companion's manner, some noteof excitement and perturbation.
　　"Of course," he said, as if endeavoring to explain this to himself,"you hardly knew her, I suppose. Only met once since you were kidsand all that sort of thing. But I'm a pal of hers and I'm dashedupset by the whole business, I can tell you. It worries me, I mean tosay. Poor girl, you know, landed on her uppers in a strange country.
　　Well, I mean, it worries me. So the first thing I did when I got herewas to try to find her. That's why I came over, really, to try tofind her. Apart from anything else, you see, poor old Derek is dashedworried about her.""Need we bring Underhill in?""Oh, I know you don't like him and think he behaved rather rummilyand so forth, but that's all right now.""It is, is it?" said Wally drily.
　　"Oh, absolutely. It's all on again.""What's all on again?""Why, I mean he wants to marry Jill. I came over to find her and tellher so."Wally's eyes glowed.
　　"If you have come over as an ambassador . . .""That's right. Jolly old ambassador. Very word I used myself.""I say, if you have come over as an ambassador with the idea ofreopening negotiations with Jill on behalf of that infernal swine . . .""Old man!" protested Freddie, pained. "Pal of mine, you know.""If he is, after what's happened, your mental processes are beyond me.""My what, old son?""Your mental processes.""Oh, ah!" said Freddie, learning for the first time that he had any.
　　Wally looked at him intently. There was a curious expression on hisrough-hewn face.
　　"I can't understand you, Freddie. If ever there was a fellow whomight have been expected to take the only possible view ofUnderhill's behavior in this business, I should have said it was you.
　　You're a public-school man. You've mixed all the time with decentpeople. You wouldn't do anything that wasn't straight yourself tosave your life, it seems to have made absolutely no difference inyour opinion of this man Underhill that he behaved like an utter cadto a girl who was one of your best friends. You seem to worship himjust as much as ever. And you have travelled three thousand miles tobring a message from him to Jill--Good God! _Jill!_--to the effect,as far as I understand it, that he has thought it over and come tothe conclusion that after all she may possibly be good enough forhim!"Freddie recovered the eye-glass which the raising of his eyebrows hadcaused to fall, and polished it in a crushed sort of way. Rummy, hereflected, how chappies stayed the same all their lives as they werewhen they were kids. Nasty, tough sort of chap Wally Mason had beenas a boy, and here he was, apparently, not altered a bit. At least,the only improvement he could detect was that, whereas in the olddays Wally, when in an ugly mood like this, would undoubtedly havekicked him, he now seemed content with mere words. All the same, hewas being dashed unpleasant. And he was all wrong about poor oldDerek. This last fact he endeavored to make clear.
　　"You don't understand," he said. "You don't realize. You've never metLady Underhill, have you?""What has she got to do with it?""Everything, old bean, everything. If it hadn't been for her, therewouldn't have been any trouble of any description, sort, or order.
　　But she barged in and savaged poor old Derek till she absolutely madehim break off the engagement.""If you call him 'poor old Derek' again, Freddie," said Wallyviciously, "I'll drop you out of the window and throw your hat afteryou! If he's such a gelatine-backboned worm that his mother can . . .""You don't know her, old thing! She's the original hellhound!""I don't care what . . .""Must be seen to be believed," mumbled Freddie.
　　"I don't care what she's like! Any man who could . . .""Once seen, never forgotten!""Damn you! Don't interrupt every time I try to get a word in!""Sorry, old man! Shan't occur again!"Wally moved to the window, and stood looking out. He had had muchmore to say on the subject of Derek Underhill, but Freddie'sinterruptions had put it out of his head, and he felt irritated andbaffled.
　　"Well, all I can say is," he remarked savagely, "that, if you havecome over here as an ambassador to try and effect a reconciliationbetween Jill and Underhill, I hope to God you'll never find her."Freddie emitted a weak cough, like a very far-off asthmatic oldsheep. He was finding Wally more overpowering every moment. He hadrather forgotten the dear old days of his childhood, but thisconversation was beginning to refresh his memory: and he wasrealizing more vividly with every moment that passed how veryWallyish Wally was,--how extraordinarily like the Wally who haddominated his growing intellect when they were both in Eton suits.
　　Freddie in those days had been all for peace, and he was all forpeace now. He made his next observation diffidently.
　　"I _have_ found her!"Wally spun round.
　　"What!""When I say that, I don't absolutely mean. I've seen her. I mean Iknow where she is. That's what I came round to see you about. Felt Imust talk it over, you know. The situation seems to me dashed rottenand not a little thick. The fact is, old man, she's gone on thestage. In the chorus, you know. And, I mean to say, well, if youfollow what I'm driving at, what, what?""In the chorus!""In the chorus!""How do you know?"Freddie groped for his eye-glass, which had fallen again.
　　He regarded it a trifle sternly. He was fond of the little chap, butit was always doing that sort of thing. The whole trouble was that,if you wanted to keep it in its place, you simply couldn't registerany sort of emotion with the good old features: and, when you werechatting with a fellow like Wally Mason, you had to be registeringsomething all the time.
　　"Well, that was a bit of luck, as a matter of fact. When I first gothere, you know, it seemed to me the only thing to do was to round upa merry old detective and put the matter in his hands, like they doin stories. You know! Ring at the bell. 'And this, if I mistake not,Watson, is my client now.' And then in breezes client and spills theplot. I found a sleuth in the classified telephone directory, andtoddled round. Rummy chaps, detectives! Ever met any? I alwaysthought they were lean, hatchet-faced Johnnies with inscrutablesmiles. This one looked just like my old Uncle Ted, the one who diedof apoplexy. Jovial, puffy-faced bird, who kept bobbing up behind afat cigar. Have you ever noticed what whacking big cigars thesefellows over here smoke? Rummy country, America. You ought to haveseen the way this blighter could shift his cigar right across hisface without moving his jaw-muscles. Like a flash! Most remarkablething you ever saw, I give you my honest word! He . . .""Couldn't you keep your Impressions of America for the book you'regoing to write, and come to the point?" said Wally rudely.
　　"Sorry, old chap," said Freddie meekly. "Glad you reminded me. Well. . . Oh, yes. We had got as far as the jovial old human bloodhound,hadn't we? Well, I put the matter before this chappie. Told him Iwanted to find a girl, showed him a photograph, and so forth. I say,"said Freddie, wandering off once more into speculation, "why is itthat coves like that always talk of a girl as 'the little lady'? Thischap kept saying 'We'll find the little lady for you!' Oh, well,that's rather off the rails, isn't it? It just floated across my mindand I thought I'd mention it. Well, this blighter presumably nosedabout and made enquiries for a couple of days, but didn't effectanything that you might call substantial. I'm not blaming him, mindyou. I shouldn't care to have a job like that myself. I mean to say,when you come to think of what a frightful number of girls there arein this place, to have to . . . well, as I say, he did his best butdidn't click; and then this evening, just before I came here, I met agirl I had known in England--she was in a show over there--a girlcalled Nelly Bryant . . .""Nelly Bryant? I know her.""Yes? Fancy that! She was in a thing called 'Follow the Girl' inLondon. Did you see it by any chance? Topping show! There was onescene where the . . .""Get on! Get on! I wrote it,""You wrote it?" Freddie beamed simple-hearted admiration. "My dearold chap, I congratulate you! One of the ripest and most all-woolmusical comedies I've ever seen. I went twenty-four times. Rummy Idon't remember spotting that you wrote it. I suppose one never looksat the names on the programme. Yes, I went twenty-four times. Thefirst time I went was with a couple of chappies from . . .""Listen, Freddie!" said Wally feverishly. "On some other occasion Ishould dearly love to hear the story of your life, but just now . . .""Absolutely, old man. You're perfectly right. Well, to cut a longstory short, Nelly Bryant told me that she and Jill were rehearsingwith a piece called 'The Rose of America.'""'The Rose of America!'""I think that was the name of it.""That's Ike Goble's show. He called me up on the phone about it halfan hour ago. I promised to go and see a rehearsal of it tomorrow orthe day after. And Jill's in that?""Yes. How about it? I mean, I don't know much about this sort ofthing, but do you think it's the sort of thing Jill ought to bedoing?"Wally was moving restlessly about the room. Freddie's news haddisquieted him. Mr Goble had a reputation.
　　"I know a lot about it," he replied, "and it certainly isn't." Hescowled at the carpet. "Oh, damn everybody!"Freddie paused to allow him to proceed, if such should be his wish,but Wally had apparently said his say. Freddie went on to point outan aspect of the matter which was troubling him greatly.
　　"I'm sure poor old Derek wouldn't like her being in the chorus!"Wally started so violently that for a moment Freddie was uneasy.
　　"I mean Underhill," he corrected himself hastily.
　　"Freddie," said Wally, "you're an awfully good chap, but I wish youwould exit rapidly now! Thanks for coming and telling me, very goodof you. This way out!""But, old man . . . !""Now what?""I thought we were going to discuss this binge and decide what to doand all that sort of thing.""Some other time. I want to think about it.""Oh, you will think about it?""Yes, I'll think about it.""Topping! You see, you're a brainy sort of feller, and you'llprobably hit something.""I probably shall, if you don't go.""Eh? Oh, ah, yes!" Freddie struggled into his coat. More than everdid the adult Wally remind him of the dangerous stripling of yearsgone by. "Well, cheerio!""Same to you!""You'll let me know if you scare up some devilish fruity wheeze,won't you? I'm at the Biltmore.""Very good place to be. Go there now.""Right ho! Well, toodle-oo!""The elevator is at the foot of the stairs," said Wally. "You pressthe bell and up it comes. You hop in and down you go. It's a greatinvention! Good night!""Oh, I say. One moment . . .""Good _night!_" said Wally.
　　He closed the door, and ran down the passage.
　　"Jill!" he called. He opened the bedroom window and stepped out.
　　"Jill!"There was no reply.
　　"Jill!" called Wally once again, but again there was no answer.
　　Wally walked to the parapet, and looked over. Below him the vastnessof the city stretched itself in a great triangle, its apex theharbor, its sides the dull silver of the East and Hudson rivers.
　　Directly before him, crowned with its white lantern, the MetropolitanTower reared its graceful height to the stars. And all around, in thewindows of the tall buildings that looked from this bastion on whichhe stood almost squat, a million lights stared up at him, theunsleeping eyes of New York. It was a scene of which Wally, alwayssensitive to beauty, never tired: but tonight it had lost its appeal.
　　A pleasant breeze from the Jersey shore greeted him with a quickeningwhisper of springtime and romance, but it did not lift the heavinessof his heart. He felt depressed and apprehensive.
Chapter 14
1.
　　Spring, whose coming the breeze had heralded to Wally as he smokedupon the roof, floated graciously upon New York two mornings later.
　　The city awoke to a day of blue and gold and to a sense of hard timesover and good times to come. In a million homes, a million young menthought of sunny afternoons at the Polo Grounds; a million youngwomen of long summer Sundays by the crowded waves of Coney Island. Inhis apartment on Park Avenue, Mr Isaac Goble, sniffing the gentle airfrom the window of his breakfast-room, returned to his meal and his_Morning Telegraph_ with a resolve to walk to the theatre forrehearsal: a resolve which had also come to Jill and Nelly Bryant,eating stewed prunes in their boarding-house in the Forties. On thesummit of his sky-scraper, Wally Mason, performing Swedish exercisesto the delectation of various clerks and stenographers in the upperwindows of neighboring buildings, felt young and vigorous andoptimistic; and went in to his shower-bath thinking of Jill. And itwas of Jill, too, that young Mr Pilkington thought, as he propped hislong form up against the pillows and sipped his morning cup of tea.
　　He had not yet had an opportunity of inspecting the day for himself,but his Japanese valet, who had been round the corner for papers, hadspoken well of it; and even in his bedroom the sunlight falling onthe carpet gave some indication of what might be expected outside.
　　For the first time in several days a certain moodiness which hadaffected Otis Pilkington left him, and he dreamed happy daydreams.
　　The gaiety of Otis was not, however, entirely or even primarily dueto the improvement in the weather. It had its source in aconversation which had taken place between himself and Jill's UncleChris on the previous night. Exactly how it had come about, MrPilkington was not entirely clear, but, somehow, before he was fullyaware of what he was saying, he had begun to pour into Major Selby'ssympathetic ears the story of his romance. Encouraged by the other'skindly receptiveness, he had told him all--his love for Jill, hishopes that some day it might be returned, the difficultiescomplicating the situation owing to the known prejudices of MrsWaddesleigh Peagrim concerning girls who formed the personnel ofmusical comedy ensembles. To all these outpourings Major Selby hadlistened with keen attention, and finally had made one of thoseluminous suggestions, so simple yet so shrewd, which emanate onlyfrom your man of the world. It was Jill's girlish ambition, it seemedfrom Major Selby's statement, to become a force in the motion-pictureworld. The movies were her objective. When she had told him of this,said Uncle Chris, he had urged her, speaking in her best interests,to gain experience by joining in the humblest capacity the company ofsome good musical play, where she could learn from the best mastersso much of the technique of the business. That done, she could goabout her life-work, fortified and competent.
　　What, he broke off to ask, did Pilkington think of the idea?
　　Pilkington thought the idea splendid. Miss Mariner, with her charmand looks, would be wonderful in the movies.
　　There was, said Uncle Chris, a future for a girl in the movies.
　　Mr Pilkington agreed cordially. A great future.
　　"Look at Mary Pickford!" said Uncle Chris. "Millions a year!"Mr Pilkington contemplated Miss Pickford, and agreed again. Heinstanced other stars--lesser luminaries, perhaps, but each with herthousands a week. There was no doubt about it--a girl's best friendwas the movies.
　　"Observe," proceeded Uncle Chris, gathering speed and expanding hischest as he spread his legs before the fire, "how it would simplifythe whole matter if Jill were to become a motion-picture artist andwin fame and wealth in her profession. And there can be no reasonabledoubt, my boy, that she would. As you say, with her appearance andher charm . . . Which of these women whose names you see all alongBroadway in electric lights can hold a candle to her? Once started,with the proper backing behind her, her future would be assured. Andthen. . . . Of course, as regards her feelings I cannot speak, as Iknow nothing of them, but we will assume that she is not indifferentto you . . . what then? You go to your excellent aunt and announcethat you are engaged to be married to Jill Mariner. There is amomentary pause. 'Not _the_ Jill Mariner?' falters Mrs Peagrim. 'Yes,the famous Miss Mariner!' you reply. Well, I ask you, my boy, can yousee her making an objection? Such a thing would be absurd. No, I canse no flaw in the project whatsoever." Here Uncle Chris, as he hadpictured Mrs Peagrim doing, paused for a moment. "Of course, therewould be the preliminaries.""The preliminaries?"Uncle Chris' voice became a melodious coo. He beamed upon MrPilkington.
　　"Well, think for yourself, my boy! These things cannot be donewithout money. I do not propose to allow my niece to waste her timeand her energy in the rank and file of the profession, waiting yearsfor a chance that might never come. There is plenty of room at thetop, and that, in the motion-picture profession, is the place tostart. If Jill is to become a motion-picture artist, a specialcompany must be formed to promote her. She must be made a feature, astar, from the beginning. That is why I have advised her to accepther present position temporarily, in order that she may gainexperience. She must learn to walk before she runs. She must studybefore she soars. But when the moment arrives for her to take thestep, she must not be hampered by lack of money. Whether," said UncleChris, smoothing the crease of his trousers, "you would wish to takeshares in the company yourself . . .""Oo . . . !"". . . is a matter," proceeded Uncle Chris, ignoring theinterruption, "for you yourself to decide. Possibly you have otherclaims on your purse. Possibly this musical play of yours has takenall the cash you are prepared to lock up. Possibly you may considerthe venture too speculative. Possibly . . . there are a hundredreasons why you may not wish to join us. But I know a dozen men--Ican go down Wall Street tomorrow and pick out twenty men--who will beglad to advance the necessary capital. I can assure you that Ipersonally shall not hesitate to risk--if one can call itrisking--any loose cash which I may have lying idle at my banker's."He rattled the loose cash which he had lying idle in histrouser-pocket--fifteen cents in all--and stopped to flick a piece offluff off his coat-sleeve. Mr Pilkington was thus enabled to insert aword.
　　"How much would you want?" he enquired.
　　"That," said Uncle Chris meditatively, "is a little hard to say. Ishould have to look into the matter more closely in order to give youthe exact figures. But let us say for the sake of argument that youput up--what shall we say?--a hundred thousand? fifty thousand? . . .
　　no, we will be conservative. Perhaps you had better not begin withmore than ten thousand. You can always buy more shares later. I don'tsuppose I shall begin with more than ten thousand myself.""I could manage ten thousand all right.""Excellent. We make progress, we make progress. Very well, then. I goto my Wall Street friends--I would give you their names, only for thepresent, till something definite has been done, that would hardly bepolitic--I go to my Wall Street friends, and tell them about thescheme, and say 'Here is ten thousand dollars! What is yourcontribution?' It puts the affair on a business-like basis, youunderstand. Then we really get to work. But use your own judgment myboy, you know. Use your own judgment. I would not think of persuadingyou to take such a step, if you felt at all doubtful. Think it over.
　　Sleep on it. And, whatever you decide to do, on no account say a wordabout it to Jill. It would be cruel to raise her hopes until we arecertain that we are in a position to enable her to realize them. And,of course, not a word to Mrs Peagrim.""Of course.""Very well, then, my boy." said Uncle Chris affably. "I will leaveyou to turn the whole thing over in your mind. Act entirely as youthink best. How is your insomnia, by the way? Did you try Nervino?
　　Capital! There's nothing like it. It did wonders for _me!_Good-night, good-night!"Otis Pilkington had been turning the thing over in his mind, with aninterval for sleep, ever since. And the more he thought of it, thebetter the scheme appeared to him. He winced a little at the thoughtof the ten thousand dollars, for he came of prudent stock and hadbeen brought up in habits of parsimony, but, after all, he reflected,the money would be merely a loan. Once the company found its feet, itwould be returned to him a hundred-fold. And there was no doubt thatthis would put a completely different aspect on his wooing of Jill,as far as his Aunt Olive was concerned. Why, a cousin of his--youngBrewster Philmore--had married a movie-star only two years ago, andnobody had made the slightest objection. Brewster was to be seen withhis bride frequently beneath Mrs Peagrim's roof. Against the higherstrata of Bohemia Mrs Peagrim had no prejudice at all. Quite thereverse, in fact. She liked the society of those whose names wereoften in the papers and much in the public mouth. It seemed to OtisPilkington, in short, that Love had found a way. He sipped his teawith relish, and when the Japanese valet brought in the toast allburned on one side, chided him with a gentle sweetness which, one mayhope, touched the latter's Oriental heart and inspired him with adesire to serve this best of employers more efficiently.
　　At half-past ten, Otis Pilkington removed his dressing-gown and beganto put on his clothes to visit the theatre. There was arehearsal-call for the whole company at eleven. As he dressed, hismood was as sunny as the day itself.
　　And the day, by half-past ten, was as sunny as ever Spring day hadbeen in a country where Spring comes early and does its best from thevery start, The blue sky beamed down on a happy city. To and fro thecitizenry bustled, aglow with the perfection of the weather.
　　Everywhere was gaiety and good cheer, except on the stage of theGotham Theatre, where an early rehearsal, preliminary to the mainevent, had been called by Johnson Miller in order to iron some of thekinks out of the "My Heart and I" number, which, with the assistanceof the male chorus, the leading lady was to render in act one.
　　On the stage of the Gotham gloom reigned--literally, because thestage was wide and deep and was illumined only by a single electriclight: and figuratively, because things were going even worse thanusual with the "My Heart and I" number, and Johnson Miller, always ofan emotional and easily stirred temperament, had been goaded by theincompetence of his male chorus to a state of frenzy. At about themoment when Otis Pilkington shed his flowered dressing-gown andreached for his trousers (the heather-mixture with the red twill),Johnson Miller was pacing the gangway between the orchestra pit andthe first row of the orchestra chairs, waving one hand and clutchinghis white locks with the other, his voice raised the while inagonized protest.
　　"Gentlemen, you silly idiots," complained Mr Miller loudly, "you'vehad three weeks to get these movements into your thick heads, and youhaven't done a damn thing right! You're all over the place! You don'tseem able to turn without tumbling over each other like a lot ofKeystone Kops! What's the matter with you? You're not doing themovements I showed you; you're doing some you have inventedyourselves, and they are rotten! I've no doubt you think you canarrange a number better than I can, but Mr Goble engaged me to be thedirector, so kindly do exactly as I tell you. Don't try to use yourown intelligence, because you haven't any. I'm not blaming you forit. It wasn't your fault that your nurses dropped you on your headswhen you were babies. But it handicaps you when you try to think."Of the seven gentlemanly members of the male ensemble present, sixlooked wounded by this tirade. They had the air of good menwrongfully accused. They appeared to be silently calling on Heaven tosee justice done between Mr. Miller and themselves. The seventh, along-legged young man in faultlessly-fitting tweeds of English cut,seemed, on the other hand, not so much hurt as embarrassed. It wasthis youth who now stepped down to the darkened footlights and spokein a remorseful and conscience-stricken manner.
　　"I say!"Mr Miller, that martyr to deafness, did not hear the pathetic bleat.
　　He had swung off at right angles and was marching in an overwroughtway up the central aisle leading to the back of the house, his indiarubber form moving in convulsive jerks. Only when he had turned andretraced his steps did he perceive the speaker and prepare to takehis share in the conversation.
　　"What?" he shouted. "Can't hear you!""I say, you know, it's my fault, really.""What?""I mean to say, you know . . .""What? Speak up, can't you?"Mr Saltzburg, who had been seated at the piano, absently playing amelody from his unproduced musical comedy, awoke to the fact that theservices of an interpreter were needed. He obligingly left themusic-stool and crept, crablike, along the ledge of the stage-box. Heplaced his arm about Mr Miller's shoulders and his lips to MrMiller's left ear, and drew a deep breath.
　　"He says it is his fault!"Mr Miller nodded adhesion to this admirable sentiment.
　　"I know they're not worth their salt!" he replied.
　　Mr Saltzburg patiently took in a fresh stock of breath.
　　"This young man says it is his fault that the movement went wrong!""Tell him I only signed on this morning, laddie," urged thetweed-clad young man.
　　"He only joined the company this morning!"This puzzled Mr Miller.
　　"How do you mean, warning?" he asked.
　　Mr Saltzburg, purple in the face, made a last effort.
　　"This young man is new," he bellowed carefully, keeping to words ofone syllable. "He does not yet know the steps. He says this is hisfirst day here, so he does not yet know the steps. When he has beenhere some more time he will know the steps. But now he does not knowthe steps.""What he means," explained the young man in tweeds helpfully, "isthat I don't know the steps.""He does not know the steps!" roared Mr Saltzburg.
　　"I know he doesn't know the steps," said Mr Miller. "Why doesn't heknow the steps? He's had long enough to learn them.""He is new!""Hugh?""New!""Oh, new?""Yes, new!""Why the devil is he new?" cried Mr Miller, awaking suddenly to thetruth and filled with a sense of outrage. "Why didn't he join withthe rest of the company? How can I put on chorus numbers if I amsaddled every day with new people to teach? Who engaged him?""Who engaged you?" enquired Mr Saltzburg of the culprit.
　　"Mr Pilkington.""Mr Pilkington," shouted Mr Saltzburg.
　　"When?""When?""Last night.""Last night."Mr Miller waved his hands in a gesture of divine despair, spun round,darted up the aisle, turned, and bounded back. "What can I do?" hewailed. "My hands are tied! I am hampered! I am handicapped! We openin two weeks, and every day I find somebody new in the company toupset everything I have done. I shall go to Mr Goble and ask to bereleased from my contract. I shall . . . Come along, come along, comealong now!" he broke off suddenly. "Why are we wasting time? Thewhole number once more. The whole number once more from thebeginning!"The young man tottered back to his gentlemanly colleagues, running afinger in an agitated manner round the inside of his collar. He wasnot used to this sort of thing. In a large experience of amateurtheatricals he had never encountered anything like it. In thebreathing-space afforded by the singing of the first verse andrefrain by the lady who played the heroine of "The Rose of America,"he found time to make an enquiry of the artist on his right.
　　"I say! Is he always like this?""Who? Johnny?""The sportsman with the hair that turned white in a single night. Thebarker on the skyline. Does he often get the wind up like this?"His colleague smiled tolerantly.
　　"Why, that's nothing!" he replied. "Wait till you see him really cutloose! That was just a gentle whisper!""My God!" said the newcomer, staring into a bleak future. The leadinglady came to the end of her refrain, and the gentlemen of theensemble, who had been hanging about up-stage, began to curvet nimblydown towards her in a double line; the new arrival, with an eye on hisnearest neighbor, endeavouring to curvet as nimbly as the others. Aclapping of hands from the dark auditorium indicated--inappropriately--that he had failed to do so. Mr Miller could be perceived--dimly--with all his fingers entwined in his hair.
　　"Clear the stage!" yelled Mr Miller. "Not you!" he shouted, as thelatest addition to the company began to drift off with the others.
　　"You stay!""Me?""Yes, you. I shall have to teach you the steps by yourself, or weshall get nowhere. Go on-stage. Start the music again, Mr Saltzburg.
　　Now, when the refrain begins, come down. Gracefully! Gracefully!"The young man, pink but determined, began to come down gracefully.
　　And it was while he was thus occupied that Jill and Nelly Bryant,entering the wings which were beginning to fill up as eleven o'clockapproached, saw him.
　　"Whoever is that?" said Nelly.
　　"New man," replied one of the chorus gentlemen. "Came this morning."Nelly turned to Jill.
　　"He looks just like Mr Rooke!" she exclaimed.
　　"He _is_ Mr Rooke!" said Jill.
　　"He can't be!""He _is_!""But what is he doing here?"Jill bit her lip.
　　"That's just what I'm going to ask him myself," she said.
　　2.
　　The opportunity for a private conversation with Freddie did not occurimmediately. For ten minutes he remained alone on the stage,absorbing abusive tuition from Mr Miller: and at the end of thatperiod a further ten minutes was occupied with the rehearsing of thenumber with the leading lady and the rest of the male chorus. When,finally, a roar from the back of the auditorium announced the arrivalof Mr Goble and at the same time indicated Mr Goble's desire that thestage should be cleared and the rehearsal proper begin, a wan smileof recognition and a faint "What ho!" was all that Freddie was ableto bestow upon Jill, before, with the rest of the _ensemble_, theyhad to go out and group themselves for the opening chorus. It wasonly when this had been run through four times and the stage leftvacant for two of the principals to play a scene that Jill was ableto draw the Last of the Rookes aside in a dark corner and put him tothe question.
　　"Freddie, what are you doing here?"Freddie mopped his streaming brow. Johnson Miller's idea of anopening chorus was always strenuous. On the present occasion, theensemble were supposed to be guests at a Long Island house-party, andMr Miller's conception of the gathering suggested that he supposedhouse-party guests on Long Island to consist exclusively of victimsof St Vitus' dance. Freddie was feeling limp, battered, and.
　　exhausted: and, from what he had gathered, the worst was yet to come.
　　"Eh?" he said feebly.
　　"What are you doing here?""Oh, ah, yes! I see what you mean! I suppose you're surprised to findme in New York, what?""I'm not surprised to find you in New York. I knew you had come over.
　　But I am surprised to find you on the stage, being bullied by MrMiller.""I say," said Freddie in an awed voice. "He's a bit of a nut, thatlad, what! He reminds me of the troops of Midian in the hymn. Thechappies who prowled and prowled around. I'll bet he's worn a groovein the carpet. Like a jolly old tiger at the Zoo at feeding time.
　　Wouldn't be surprised at any moment to look down and find him bitinga piece out of my leg!"Jill seized his arm and shook it.
　　"Don't _ramble_, Freddie! Tell me how you got here.""Oh, that was pretty simple. I had a letter of introduction to thischappie Pilkington who's running this show, and, we having gottolerably pally in the last few days, I went to him and asked him tolet me join the merry throng. I said I didn't want any money and thelittle bit of work I would do wouldn't make any difference, so hesaid 'Right ho!' or words to that effect, and here I am.""But why? You can't be doing this for fun, surely?""Fun!" A pained expression came into Freddie's face. "My idea of funisn't anything in which jolly old Miller, the bird with the snowyhair, is permitted to mix. Something tells me that that lad is goingto make it his life-work picking on me. No, I didn't do this for fun.
　　I had a talk with Wally Mason the night before last, and he seemed tothink that being in the chorus wasn't the sort of thing you ought tobe doing, so I thought it over and decided that I ought to join thetroupe too. Then I could always be on the spot, don't you know, ifthere was any trouble. I mean to say, I'm not much of a chap and allthat sort of thing, but still I might come in handy one of thesetimes. Keep a fatherly eye on you, don't you know, and what not!"Jill was touched.
　　"You're a dear, Freddie!""I thought, don't you know, it would make poor old Derek a bit easierin his mind."Jill froze.
　　"I don't want to talk about Derek, Freddie, please.""Oh, I know what you must be feeling. Pretty sick, I'll bet, what?
　　But if you could see him now . . .""I don't want to talk about him!""He's pretty cut up, you know. Regrets bitterly and all that sort ofthing. He wants you to come back again.""I see! He sent you to fetch me?""That was more or less the idea.""It's a shame that you had all the trouble. You can getmessenger-boys to go anywhere and do anything nowadays. Derek oughtto have thought of that."Freddie looked at her doubtfully.
　　"You're spoofing, aren't you? I mean to say, you wouldn't have likedthat!""I shouldn't have disliked it any more than his sending you.""Oh, but I wanted to pop over. Keen to see America and so forth."Jill looked past him at the gloomy stage. Her face was set, and hereyes sombre.
　　"Can't you understand, Freddie? You've known me a long time. I shouldhave thought that you would have found out by now that I have acertain amount of pride. If Derek wanted me back, there was only onething for him to do--come over and find me himself.""Rummy! That's what Mason said, when I told him. You two don'trealize how dashed busy Derek is these days.""Busy!"Something in her face seemed to tell Freddie that he was not sayingthe right thing, but he stumbled on.
　　"You've no notion how busy he is. I mean to say, elections coming onand so forth. He daren't stir from the metrop.""Of course I couldn't expect him to do anything that might interferewith his career, could I?""Absolutely not. I knew you would see it!" said Freddie, charmed ather reasonableness. All rot, what you read about women beingunreasonable. "Then I take it it's all right, eh?""All right?""I mean you will toddle home with me at the earliest opp. and makepoor old Derek happy?"Jill laughed discordantly.
　　"Poor old Derek!" she echoed. "He has been badly treated, hasn't he?""Well, I wouldn't say that," said Freddie doubtfully. "You see,coming down to it, the thing was more or less his fault, what?""More or less!""I mean to say . . .""More or less!"Freddie glanced at her anxiously. He was not at all sure now that heliked the way she was looking or the tone in which she spoke. He wasnot a keenly observant young man, but there did begin at this pointto seep through to his brain-centers a suspicion that all was notwell.
　　"Let me pull myself together!" said Freddie warily to his immortalsoul. "I believe I'm getting the raspberry!" And there was silencefor a space.
　　The complexity of life began to weigh upon Freddie. Life was like oneof those shots at squash which seem so simple till you go to knockthe cover off the ball, when the ball sort of edges away from you andyou miss it. Life, Freddie began to perceive, was apt to have a nastyback-spin on it. He had never had any doubt when he had started, thatthe only difficult part of his expedition to America would be thefinding of Jill. Once found, he had presumed that she would bedelighted to hear his good news and would joyfully accompany him homeon the next boat. It appeared now, however, that he had been toosanguine. Optimist as he was, he had to admit that, as far as couldbe ascertained with the naked eye, the jolly old binge might be saidto have sprung a leak.
　　He proceeded to approach the matter from another angle.
　　"I say!""Yes?""You do love old Derek, don't you? I mean to say, you know what Imean, _love_ him and all that sort of rot?""I don't know!""You don't know! Oh, I say, come now! You must _know!_ Pull up yoursocks, old thing . . . I mean, pull yourself together! You eitherlove a chappie or you don't."Jill smiled painfully.
　　"How nice it would be if everything were as simple andstraightforward as that. Haven't you ever heard that the dividingline between love and hate is just a thread? Poets have said so agreat number of times.""Oh, poets!" said Freddie, dismissing the genus with a wave of thehand. He had been compelled to read Shakespeare and all that sort ofthing at school, but it had left him cold, and since growing to man'sestate he had rather handed the race of bards the mitten. He likedDoss Chiderdoss' stuff in the _Sporting Times_, but beyond that hewas not much of a lad for poets.
　　"Can't you understand a girl in my position not being able to make upher mind whether she loves a man or despises him?"Freddie shook his head.
　　"No," he said. "It sounds dashed silly to me!""Then what's the good of talking?" cried Jill. "It only hurts.""But--won't you come back to England?""No.""Oh, I say! Be a sport! Take a stab at it!"Jill laughed again--another of those grating laughs which afflictedFreddie with a sense of foreboding and failure. Something hadundoubtedly gone wrong with the works. He began to fear that at somepoint in the conversation--just where he could not say--he had beenless diplomatic than he might have been.
　　"You speak as if you were inviting me to a garden-party! No, I won'ttake a stab at it. You've a lot to learn about women, Freddie!""Women _are_ rum!" conceded that perplexed ambassador.
　　Jill began to move away.
　　"Don't go!" urged Freddie.
　　"Why not? What's the use of talking any more? Have you ever broken anarm or a leg, Freddie?""Yes," said Freddie, mystified. "As a matter of fact, my last year atOxford, playing soccer for the college in a friendly game, someblighter barged into me and I came down on my wrist. But . . .""It hurt?""Like the deuce!""And then it began to get better, I suppose. Well, used you to hit itand twist it and prod it, or did you leave it alone to try and heal?
　　I won't talk any more about Derek! I simply won't! I'm all smashed upinside, and I don't know if I'm ever going to get well again, but atleast I'm going to give myself a chance. I'm working as hard as everI can, and I'm forcing myself not to think of him. I'm in a sling,Freddie, like your wrist, and I don't want to be prodded. I hope weshall see a lot of each other while you're over here--you always werethe greatest dear in the world--but you mustn't mention Derek again,and you mustn't ask me to go home. If you avoid those subjects, we'llbe as happy as possible. And now I'm going to leave you to talk topoor Nelly. She has been hovering round for the last ten minutes,waiting for a chance to speak to you. She worships you, you know!"Freddie started violently.
　　"Oh, I say! What rot!"Jill had gone, and he was still gaping after her, when Nelly Bryantmoved towards him--shyly, like a worshiper approaching a shrine.
　　"Hello, Mr Rooke!" said Nelly.
　　"Hullo-ullo-ullo!" said Freddie.
　　Nelly fixed her large eyes on his face. A fleeting impression passedthrough Freddie's mind that she was looking unusually pretty thismorning: nor was the impression unjustified. Nelly was wearing forthe first time a Spring suit which was the outcome of hours ofpainful selection among the wares of a dozen different stores, andthe knowledge that the suit was just right seemed to glow from herlike an inner light. She felt happy: and her happiness had lent anunwonted color to her face and a soft brightness to her eyes.
　　"How nice it is, your being here!"Freddie waited for the inevitable question, the question with whichJill had opened their conversation; but it did not come. He wassurprised, but relieved. He hated long explanations, and he was verydoubtful whether loyalty to Jill could allow him to give them toNelly. His reason for being where he was had to do so intimately withJill's most private affairs. A wave of gratitude to Nelly sweptthrough him when he realised that she was either incurious or elsetoo delicate-minded to show inquisitiveness.
　　As a matter of fact, it was delicacy that kept Nelly silent. SeeingFreddie here at the theatre, she had, as is not uncommon withfallible mortals, put two and two together and made the answer fourwhen it was not four at all. She had been deceived by circumstantialevidence. Jill, whom she had left in England wealthy and secure, shehad met again in New York penniless as the result of some StockExchange cataclysm in which, she remembered with the vagueness withwhich one recalls once-heard pieces of information, Freddie Rooke hadbeen involved. True, she seemed to recollect hearing that Freddie'slosses had been comparatively slight, but his presence in the chorusof "The Rose of America" seemed to her proof that after all the musthave been devastating. She could think of no other reason except lossof money which could have placed Freddie in the position in which shenow found him, so she accepted it; and, with the delicacy which wasinnate in her and which a hard life had never blunted, decided,directly she saw him, to make no allusion to the disaster.
　　Such was Nelly's view of the matter, and sympathy gave to her mannera kind of maternal gentleness which acted on Freddie, raw from hislate encounter with Mr Johnson Miller and disturbed by Jill'sattitude in the matter of poor old Derek, like a healing balm. Hisemotions were too chaotic for analysis, but one thing stood out clearfrom the welter--the fact that he was glad to be with Nelly as he hadnever been glad to be with a girl before, and found her soothing ashe had never supposed a girl could be soothing.
　　They talked desultorily of unimportant things, and every minute foundFreddie more convinced that Nelly was not as other girls. He feltthat he must see more of her.
　　"I say," he said. "When this binge is over . . . when the rehearsalfinishes, you know, how about a bite to eat?""I should love it. I generally go to the Automat.""The how-much? Never heard of it.""In Times Square. It's cheap, you know.""I was thinking of the Cosmopolis.""But that's so expensive.""Oh, I don't know. Much the same as any of the other places, isn'tit?"Nelly's manner became more motherly than ever. She bent forward andtouched his arm affectionately.
　　"You haven't to keep up any front with me," she said gently. "I don'tcare whether you're rich or poor or what. I mean, of course I'mawfully sorry you've lost your money, but it makes it all the easierfor us to be real pals, don't you think so?""Lost my money!""Well, I know you wouldn't be here if you hadn't. I wasn't going tosay anything about it, but, when you talked of the Cosmopolis, I justhad to. You lost your money in the same thing Jill Mariner lost hers,didn't you? I was sure you had, the moment I saw you here. Who cares?
　　Money isn't everything!"Astonishment kept Freddie silent for an instant: after that herefrained from explanations of his own free will. He accepted thesituation and rejoiced in it. Like many other wealthy and modestyoung men, he had always had a sneaking suspicion at the back of hismind that any girl who was decently civil to him was so from mixedmotives--or more likely, motives that were not even mixed. Well,dash it, here was a girl who seemed to like him although under theimpression that he was broke to the wide. It was an intoxicatingexperience. It made him feel a better chap. It fortified hisself-respect.
　　"You know," he said, stammering a little, for he found a suddendifficulty in controlling his voice. "You're a dashed good sort!""I'm awfully glad you think so."There was a silence--as far, at least, as he and she were concerned.
　　In the outer world, beyond the piece of scenery under whose shelterthey stood, stirring things, loud and exciting things, seemed to behappening. Some sort of an argument appeared to be in progress. Therasping voice of Mr Goble was making itself heard from the unseenauditorium. These things they sensed vaguely, but they were toooccupied with each other to ascertain details.
　　"What was the name of that place again?" asked Freddie. "Thewhat-ho-something?""The Automat?""That's the little chap! We'll go there, shall we?""The food's quite good. You go and help yourself out ofslot-machines, you know.""My favorite indoor sport!" said Freddie with enthusiasm. "Hullo!
　　What's up? It sounds as if there were dirty work at the cross-roads!"The voice of the assistant stage-manager was calling--sharplyexcited, agitation in every syllable.
　　"All the gentlemen of the chorus on the stage, please! Mr Goble wantsall the chorus--gentlemen on the stage!""Well, cheerio for the present," said Freddie. "I suppose I'd betterlook into this." He made his way onto the stage.
　　3.
　　There is an insidious something about the atmosphere of a rehearsalof a musical play which saps the finer feelings of those connectedwith it. Softened by the gentle beauty of the Spring weather, MrGoble had come to the Gotham Theatre that morning in an excellenttemper, firmly intending to remain in an excellent temper all day.
　　Five minutes of "The Rose of America" had sent him back to thenormal: and at ten minutes past eleven he was chewing his cigar andglowering at the stage with all the sweetness gone from his soul.
　　When Wally Mason arrived at a quarter past eleven and dropped intothe seat beside him, the manager received him with a grunt and evenomitted to offer him a cigar. And when a New York theatrical managerdoes that, it is a certain sign that his mood is of the worst.
　　One may find excuses for Mr Goble. "The Rose of America" would havetested the equanimity of a far more amiable man: and on Mr Goble whatOtis Pilkington had called its delicate whimsicality jarredprofoundly. He had been brought up in the lower-browed school ofmusical comedy, where you shelved the plot after the opening numberand filled in the rest of the evening by bringing on the girls in avariety of exotic costumes, with some good vaudeville specialists toget the laughs. Mr Goble's idea of a musical piece was somethingembracing trained seals, acrobats, and two or three teams of skilledbuck-and-wing dancers, with nothing on the stage, from a tree to alamp-shade, which could not suddenly turn into a chorus-girl. Theaustere legitimateness of "The Rose of America" gave him a pain inthe neck. He loathed plot, and "The Rose of America" was all plot.
　　Why, then, had the earthy Mr. Goble consented to associate himselfwith the production of this intellectual play? Because he wassubject, like all other New York managers, to intermittent spasms ofthe idea that the time is ripe for a revival of comic opera.
　　Sometimes, lunching in his favorite corner in the Cosmopolisgrill-room, he would lean across the table and beg some other managerto take it from him that the time was ripe for a revival of comicopera--or more cautiously, that pretty soon the time was going to beripe for a revival of comic opera. And the other manager would nodhis head and thoughtfully stroke his three chins and admit that, sureas God made little apples, the time was darned soon going to be ripefor a revival of comic opera. And then they would stuff themselveswith rich food and light big cigars and brood meditatively.
　　With most managers these spasms, which may be compared to twinges ofconscience, pass as quickly as they come, and they go back to coiningmoney with rowdy musical comedies, quite contented. But OtisPilkington, happening along with the script of "The Rose of America"and the cash to back it, had caught Mr Goble in the full grip of anattack, and all the arrangements had been made before the latteremerged from the influence. He now regretted his rash act.
　　"Say, listen," he said to Wally, his gaze on the stage, his wordsproceeding from the corner of his mouth, "you've got to stick aroundwith this show after it opens on the road. We'll talk terms later.
　　But we've got to get it right, don't care what it costs. See?""You think it will need fixing?"Mr Goble scowled at the unconscious artists, who were now goingthrough a particularly arid stretch of dialogue.
　　"Fixing! It's all wrong! It don't add up right! You'll have torewrite it from end to end.""Well, I've got some ideas about it. I saw it played by amateurs lastsummer, you know. I could make a quick job of it, if you want me to.
　　But will the author stand for it?"Mr Goble allowed a belligerent eye to stray from the stage, andtwisted it round in Wally's direction.
　　"Say, listen! He'll stand for anything I say. I'm the little guy thatgives orders round here. I'm the big noise!"As if in support of this statement he suddenly emitted a terrificbellow. The effect was magical. The refined and painstaking artistson the stage stopped as if they had been shot. The assistantstage-director bent sedulously over the footlights, which had nowbeen turned up, shading his eyes with the prompt script.
　　"Take that over again!" shouted Mr Goble. "Yes, that speech aboutlife being like a water-melon. It don't sound to me as though itmeant anything." He cocked his cigar at an angle, and listenedfiercely. He clapped his hands. The action stopped again. "Cut it!"said Mr Goble tersely.
　　"Cut the speech, Mr Goble?" queried the obsequious assistantstage-director.
　　"Yes. Cut it. It don't mean nothing!"Down the aisle, springing from a seat at the back, shimmered MrPilkington, wounded to the quick.
　　"Mr Goble! Mr Goble!""Well?""That is the best epigram in the play.""The best what?""Epigram. The best epigram in the play."Mr. Goble knocked the ash off his cigar. "The public don't wantepigrams. The public don't like epigrams. I've been in the showbusiness fifteen years, and I'm telling you! Epigrams give them apain under the vest. All right, get on."Mr Pilkington fluttered agitatedly. This was his first experience ofMr Goble in the capacity of stage-director. It was the latter'scustom to leave the early rehearsals of the pieces with which he wasconnected to a subordinate producer, who did what Mr Goble called thebreaking-in. This accomplished, he would appear in person, undo mostof the other's work, make cuts, tell the actors how to read theirlines, and generally enjoy himself. Producing plays was Mr Goble'shobby. He imagined himself to have a genius in that direction, and itwas useless to try to induce him to alter any decision to which hemight have come. He regarded those who did not agree with him withthe lofty contempt of an Eastern despot.
　　Of this Mr Pilkington was not yet aware.
　　"But, Mr Goble . . . !"The potentate swung irritably round on him.
　　"What is it? What is it? Can't you see I'm busy?""That epigram . . .""It's out!""But . . . !""It's out!""Surely," protested Mr Pilkington almost tearfully, "I have a voice. . .""Sure you have a voice," retorted Mr Goble, "and you can use it anyold place you want, except in my theatre. Have all the voice youlike! Go round the corner and talk to yourself! Sing in your bath!
　　But don't come using it here, because I'm the little guy that doesall the talking in this theatre! That fellow gets my goat," he addedcomplainingly to Wally, as Mr Pilkington withdrew like a foiledpython. "He don't know nothing about the show business, and he keepsbutting in and making fool suggestions. He ought to be darned gladhe's getting his first play produced and not trying to teach me howto direct it." He clapped his hands imperiously. The assistantstage-manager bent over the footlights. "What was that that guy said?
　　Lord Finchley's last speech. Take it again."The gentleman who was playing the part of Lord Finchley, an Englishcharacter actor who specialized in London "nuts," raised hiseyebrows, annoyed. Like Mr Pilkington, he had never before come intocontact with Mr Goble as stage-director, and, accustomed to thesuaver methods of his native land, he was finding the experiencetrying. He had not yet recovered from the agony of having thatwater-melon line cut out of his part. It was the only good line, heconsidered, that he had. Any line that is cut out of an actor's partis always the only good line he has.
　　"The speech about Omar Khayyam?" he enquired with suppressedirritation.
　　"I thought that was the way you said it. All wrong! It's Omar _of_Khayyam.""I think you will find that Omar Khayyam is the--ah--generallyaccepted version of the poet's name," said the portrayer of LordFinchley, adding beneath his breath. "You silly ass!""You say Omar _of_ Khayyam," bellowed Mr Goble. "Who's running thisshow, anyway?""Just as you please."Mr Goble turned to Wally.
　　"These actors . . ." he began, when Mr Pilkington appeared again athis elbow.
　　"Mr Goble! Mr Goble!""What is it _now?_""Omar Khayyam was a Persian poet. His name was Khayyam.""That wasn't the way _I_ heard it," said Mr Goble doggedly. "Did_you?_" he enquired of Wally. "I thought he was born at Khayyam.""You're probably quite right," said Wally, "but, if so, everybodyelse has been wrong for a good many years. It's usually supposed thatthe gentleman's name was Omar Khayyam. Khayyam, Omar J. Born 1050A.D., educated privately and at Bagdad University. Represented Persiain the Olympic Games of 1072, winning the sitting high-jump and theegg-and-spoon race. The Khayyams were quite a well-known family inBagdad, and there was a lot of talk when Omar, who was Mrs Khayyam'spet son, took to drink writing poetry. They had had it all fixed forhim to go into his father's date business."Mr Goble was impressed. He had a respect for Wally's opinion, forWally had written "Follow the Girl" and look what a knock-out thathad been. He stopped the rehearsal again.
　　"Go back to that Khayyam speech!" he said, interrupting Lord Finchleyin mid-sentence.
　　The actor whispered a hearty English oath beneath his breath. He hadbeen up late last night, and, in spite of the fair weather, he wasfeeling a trifle on edge.
　　"'In the words of Omar of Khayyam' . . ."Mr Goble clapped his hands.
　　"Cut that 'of,'" he said. "The show's too long, anyway."And, having handled a delicate matter in masterly fashion, he leanedback in his chair and chewed the end off another cigar.
　　For some minutes after this the rehearsal proceeded smoothly. If MrGoble did not enjoy the play, at least he made no criticisms exceptto Wally. To him he enlarged from time to time on the pain which "TheRose of America" caused him.
　　"How I ever came to put on junk like this beats me," confessed MrGoble frankly.
　　"You probably saw that there was a good idea at the back of it,"suggested Wally. "There is, you know. Properly handled, it's an ideathat could be made into a success.""What would you do with it?""Oh, a lot of things," said Wally warily. In his younger and callowerdays he had sometimes been rash enough to scatter views on thereconstruction of plays broadcast, to find them gratefully absorbedand acted upon and treated as a friendly gift. His affection for MrGoble was not so overpowering as to cause him to give him ideas fornothing now. "Any time you want me to fix it for you, I'll comealong. About one and a half per cent of the gross would meet thecase, I think."Mr Goble faced him, registering the utmost astonishment and horror.
　　"One and a half per cent for fixing a show like this? Why, darn it,there's hardly anything to do to it! It's--it's--in!""You called it junk just now.""Well, all I meant was that it wasn't the sort of thing I cared formyself. The public will eat it! Take it from me, the time is justabout ripe for a revival of comic opera.""This one will want all the reviving you can give it. Better use apulmotor.""But that long boob, that Pilkington . . . he would never stand formy handing you one and a half per cent.""I thought _you_ were the little guy who arranged things round here.""But he's got money in the show.""Well, if he wants to get any out, he'd better call in somebody torewrite it. You don't have to engage me if you don't want to. But Iknow I could make a good job of it. There's just one little twist thething needs and you would have quite a different piece.""What's that?" enquired Mr Goble casually.
　　"Oh, just a little . . . what shall I say? . . . a little touch ofwhat-d'you-call-it and a bit of thingummy. You know the sort ofthing! That's all it wants."Mr Goble gnawed his cigar, baffled.
　　"You think so, eh?" he said at length.
　　"And perhaps a suspicion of je-ne-sais-quoi," added Wally.
　　Mr Goble worried his cigar, and essayed a new form of attack.
　　"You've done a lot of work for me," he said. "Good work!""Glad you liked it," said Wally.
　　"You're a good kid! I like having you around. I was half thinking ofgiving you a show to do this Fall. Corking book. French farce. Rantwo years in Paris. But what's the good, if you want the earth?""Always useful, the earth. Good thing to have.""See here, if you'll fix up this show for half of one per cent, I'llgive you the other to do.""You shouldn't slur your words so. For a moment I thought you said'half of one per cent.' One and a half of course you really said.""If you won't take half, you don't get the other.""All right," said Wally. "There are lots of other managers in NewYork. Haven't you seen them popping about? Rich, enterprising men,and all of them love me like a son.""Make it one per cent," said Mr Goble, "and I'll see if I can fix itwith Pilkington.""One and a half.""Oh, damn it, one and a half, then," said Mr Goble morosely. "What'sthe good of splitting straws?""Forgotten Sports of the Past--Splitting the Straw. All right. If youdrop me a line to that effect, legibly signed with your name, I'llwear it next my heart. I shall have to go now. I have a date.
　　Good-bye. Glad everything's settled and everybody's happy."For some moments after Wally had left, Mr Goble sat hunched up in hisorchestra-chair, smoking sullenly, his mood less sunny than ever.
　　Living in a little world of sycophants, he was galled by the off-handway in which Wally always treated him. There was something in thelatter's manner which seemed to him sometimes almost contemptuous. Heregretted the necessity of having to employ him. There was, ofcourse, no real necessity why he should have employed Wally. New Yorkwas full of librettists who would have done the work equally well forhalf the money, but, like most managers, Mr Goble had the mentalprocesses of a sheep. "Follow the Girl" was the last outstandingmusical success in New York theatrical history: Wally had written it:
　　therefore nobody but Wally was capable of rewriting "The Rose ofAmerica." The thing had for Mr Goble the inevitability of Fate.
　　Except for deciding mentally that Wally had swelled head, there wasnothing to be done.
　　Having decided that Wally had swelled head and not feeling muchbetter, Mr Goble concentrated his attention on the stage. A good dealof action had taken place there during recently concluded businesstalk, and the unfortunate Finchley was back again, playing another ofhis scenes. Mr Goble glared at Lord Finchley. He did not like him, andhe did not like the way he was speaking his lines.
　　The part of Lord Finchley was a non-singing role. It was a type part.
　　Otis Pilkington had gone to the straight stage to find an artist, andhad secured the not uncelebrated Wentworth Hill, who had come overfrom London to play in an English comedy which had just closed. Thenewspapers had called the play thin, but had thought that WentworthHill was an excellent comedian. Mr Hill thought so too, and it wasconsequently a shock to his already disordered nerves when a bellowfrom the auditorium stopped him in the middle of one of his speechesand a rasping voice informed him that he was doing it all wrong.
　　"I beg your pardon?" said Mr. Hill, quietly but dangerously, steppingto the footlights.
　　"All wrong!" repeated Mr Goble.
　　"Really?" Wentworth Hill, who a few years earlier had spent severalterms at Oxford University before being sent down for aggravateddisorderliness, had brought little away with him from that seat oflearning except the Oxford manner. This he now employed upon Mr Goblewith an icy severity which put the last touch to the manager'sfermenting state of mind. "Perhaps you would be kind enough to tellme just how you think that part should be played?"Mr Goble marched down the aisle.
　　"Speak out to the audience," he said, stationing himself by theorchestra pit. "You're turning your head away all the darned time.""I may be wrong," said Mr Hill, "but I have played a certain amount,don't you know, in pretty good companies, and I was always under theimpression that one should address one's remarks to the person onewas speaking to, not deliver a recitation to the gallery. I wastaught that that was the legitimate method."The word touched off all the dynamite in Mr Goble. Of all things inthe theatre he detested most the "legitimate method." His idea ofproducing was to instruct the cast to come down to the footlights andhand it to 'em. These people who looked up stage and talked to theaudience through the backs of their necks revolted him.
　　"Legitimate! That's a hell of a thing to be! Where do you get thatlegitimate stuff? You aren't playing Ibsen!""Nor am I playing a knockabout vaudeville sketch.""Don't talk back at me!""Kindly don't shout at _me!_ Your voice is unpleasant enough withoutyour raising it."Open defiance was a thing which Mr Goble had never encounteredbefore, and for a moment it deprived him of breath. He recovered it,however, almost immediately.
　　"You're fired!""On the contrary," said Mr Hill, "I'm resigning." He drew agreen-covered script from his pocket and handed it with an air to thepallid assistant stage-director. Then, more gracefully than everFreddie Rooke had managed to move downstage under the tuition ofJohnson Miller, he moved upstage to the exit. "I trust that you willbe able to find someone who will play the part according to yourideas!""I'll find," bellowed Mr Goble at his vanishing back, "a chorus-manwho'll play it a damned sight better than you!" He waved to theassistant stage-director. "Send the chorus-men on the stage!""All the gentlemen of the chorus on the stage, please!" shrilled theassistant stage-director, bounding into the wings like a retriever.
　　"Mr Goble wants all the chorus-gentlemen on the stage!"There was a moment, when the seven male members of "The Rose ofAmerica" ensemble lined up self-consciously before his gleaming eyes,when Mr Goble repented of his brave words. An uncomfortable feelingpassed across his mind that Fate had called his bluff and that hewould not be able to make good. All chorus-men are exactly alike, andthey are like nothing else on earth. Even Mr Goble, anxious as he wasto overlook their deficiencies, could not persuade himself that intheir ranks stood even an adequate Lord Finchley. And then, just as acold reaction from his fervid mood was about to set in, he perceivedthat Providence had been good to him. There, at the extreme end ofthe line, stood a young man who, as far as appearance went, was theideal Lord Finchley,--as far as appearance went, a far better LordFinchley than the late Mr Hill. He beckoned imperiously.
　　"You at the end!""Me?" said the young man.
　　"Yes, you. What's your name?""Rooke. Frederick Rooke, don't you know.""You're English, aren't you?""Eh? Oh, yes, absolutely!""Ever played a part before?""Part? Oh, I see what you mean. Well, in amateur theatricals, youknow, and all that sort of rot."His words were music to Mr Goble's ears. He felt that his Napoleonicaction had justified itself by success. His fury left him. If he hadbeen capable of beaming, one would have said that he beamed atFreddie.
　　"Well, you play the part of Lord Finchley from now on. Come to myoffice this afternoon for your contract. Clear the stage. We'vewasted enough time."Five minutes later, in the wings, Freddie, receiving congratulationsfrom Nelly Bryant, asserted himself.
　　"_Not_ the Automat today, I think, what! Now that I'm a jolly oldstar and all that sort of thing, it can't be done. Directly this isover we'll roll round to the Cosmopolis. A slight celebration isindicated, what? Right ho! Rally round, dear heart, rally round!"
Chapter 15
1.
　　The lobby of the Hotel Cosmopolis is the exact center of New York,the spot where at certain hours one is sure of meeting everybody oneknows. The first person that Nelly and Freddie saw, as they passedthrough the swing doors, was Jill. She was seated on the chair by thebig pillar in the middle of the hall.
　　"What ho!" said Freddie. "Waiting for someone?""Hullo, Freddie. Yes, I'm waiting for Wally Mason. I got a note fromhim this morning, asking me to meet him here. I'm a little early. Ihaven't congratulated you yet. You're wonderful!""Thanks, old girl. Our young hero is making pretty hefty strides inhis chosen profesh, what! Mr Rooke, who appears quite simple andunspoiled by success, replied to our representative's enquiry as tohis future plans that he proposed to stagger into the grill-room andimbibe about eighteen dollars' worth of lunch. Yes, it is a bit ofall right, taking it by and large, isn't it? I mean to say, thesalary, the jolly old salary, you know . . . quite a help when afellow's lost all his money!"Jill was surprised to observe that the Last of the Rookes wascontorting his face in an unsightly manner that seemed to be anattempt at a wink, pregnant with hidden meaning. She took her cuedutifully, though without understanding.
　　"Oh, yes," she replied.
　　Freddie seemed grateful. With a cordial "Cheerio!" he led Nelly offto the grill-room.
　　"I didn't know Jill knew Mr Mason," said Nelly, as they sat down attheir table.
　　"No?" said Freddie absently, running an experienced eye over thebill-of-fare. He gave an elaborate order. "What was that? Oh,absolutely! Jill and I and Wally were children together.""How funny you should all be together again like this.""Yes. Oh, good Lord!""What's the matter?""It's nothing. I meant to send a cable to a pal of mine in England.
　　I'll send it after lunch."Freddie took out his handkerchief, and tied a knot in it. He wasslightly ashamed of the necessity of taking such a precaution, but itwas better to be on the safe side. His interview with Jill at thetheatre had left him with the conviction that there was only onething for him to do, and that was to cable poor old Derek to forgetimpending elections and all the rest of it and pop over to America atonce. He knew that he would never have the courage to re-open thematter with Jill himself. As an ambassador he was a spent force. IfJill was to be wooed from her mood of intractability, Derek was theonly man to do it. Freddie was convinced that, seeing him in person,she would melt and fall into his arms. Too dashed absurd, Freddiefelt, two loving hearts being separated like this and all that sortof thing. He replaced his handkerchief in his pocket, relieved, andconcentrated himself on the entertainment of Nelly. A simple task,for, the longer he was with this girl, the easier did it seem to talkto her.
　　Jill, left alone in the lobby, was finding the moments pass quitepleasantly. She liked watching the people as they came in. One or twoof the girls of the company fluttered in like birds, were swoopedupon by their cavaliers, and fluttered off to the grill-room. Thered-headed Babe passed her with a genial nod, and, shortly after,Lois Denham, the willowy recipient of sunbursts from her friend Izzyof the hat-checks, came by in company with a sallow, hawk-faced youngman with a furtive eye, whom Jill took--correctly--to be Izzyhimself. Lois was looking pale and proud, and from the few wordswhich came to Jill's ears as they neared her, seemed to be annoyed athaving been kept waiting.
　　It was immediately after this that the swing-doors revolved rathermore violently than usual, and Mr Goble burst into view.
　　There was a cloud upon Mr Goble's brow, seeming to indicate that hisgrievance against life had not yet been satisfactorily adjusted: butit passed as he saw Jill, and he came up to her with what he wouldprobably have claimed to be an ingratiating smile.
　　"Hello!" said Mr Goble. "All alone?"Jill was about to say that the condition was merely temporary whenthe manager went on.
　　"Come and have a bit of lunch.""Thank you very much," said Jill, with the politeness of dislike,"but I'm waiting for someone.""Chuck him!" advised Mr Goble cordially.
　　"No, thanks, I couldn't, really."The cloud began to descend again upon Mr Goble's brow. He wasaccustomed to having these invitations of his treated as royalcommands.
　　"Come along!""I'm afraid it's impossible."Mr Goble subjected her to a prolonged stare, seemed about to speak,changed his mind, and swung off moodily in the direction of thegrill-room. He was not used to this sort of treatment.
　　He had hardly gone, when Wally appeared.
　　"What was he saying to you?" demanded Wally abruptly, withoutpreliminary greeting.
　　"He was asking me to lunch."Wally was silent for a moment. His good-natured face wore an unwontedscowl.
　　"He went in there, of course?" he said, pointing to the grill-room.
　　"Yes.""Then let's go into the other room," said Wally. He regained hisgood-humor. "It was awfully good of you to come. I didn't knowwhether you would be able to.""It was very nice of you to invite me."Wally grinned.
　　"How perfect our manners are! It's a treat to listen! How did youknow that that was the one hat in New York I wanted you to wear?""Oh, these things get about. Do you like it?""It's wonderful. Let's take this table, shall we?"2.
　　They sat down. The dim, tapestry-hung room soothed Jill. She wasfeeling a little tired after the rehearsal. At the far end of theroom an orchestra was playing a tune that she remembered and liked.
　　Her mind went back to the last occasion on which she and Wally hadsat opposite each other at a restaurant. How long ago it seemed! Shereturned to the present to find Wally speaking to her.
　　"You left very suddenly the other night," said Wally.
　　"I didn't want to meet Freddie."Wally looked at her commiseratingly.
　　"I don't want to spoil your lunch," he said, "but Freddie knows all.
　　He has tracked you down. He met Nelly Bryant, whom he seems to havemade friends with in London, and she told him where you were and whatyou were doing. For a girl who fled at his mere approach the nightbefore last, you don't seem very agitated by the news," he said, asJill burst into a peal of laughter.
　　"You haven't heard?""Heard what?""Freddie got Mr Pilkington to put him in the chorus of the piece. Hewas rehearsing when I arrived at the theatre this morning, and havinga terrible time with Mr Miller. And, later on, Mr Goble had a quarrelwith the man who was playing the Englishman, and the man threw up hispart and Mr Goble said he could get any one in the chorus to play itjust as well, and he chose Freddie. So now Freddie is one of theprincipals, and bursting with pride!"Wally threw his head back and uttered a roar of appreciation whichcaused a luncher at a neighboring table to drop an oyster which hewas poising in mid-air.
　　"Don't make such a noise!" said Jill severely. "Everyone's looking atyou.""I must! It's the most priceless thing I ever heard. I've alwaysmaintained and I always will maintain that for pure lunacy nothingcan touch the musical comedy business. There isn't anything thatcan't happen in musical comedy. 'Alice in Wonderland' is nothing toit.""Have you felt that, too? That's exactly how I feel. It's like aperpetual 'Mad Hatter's Tea-Party.'""But what on earth made Freddie join the company at all?"A sudden gravity descended upon Jill. The words had reminded her ofthe thing which she was perpetually striving to keep out of herthoughts.
　　"He said he wanted to be there to keep an eye on me."Gravity is infectious. Wally's smile disappeared. He, too, had beenrecalled to thoughts which were not pleasant.
　　Wally crumbled his roll. There was a serious expression on his face.
　　"Freddie was quite right. I didn't think he had so much sense.""Freddie was not right," flared Jill. The recollection of herconversation with that prominent artist still had the power to fireher independent soul. "I'm not a child. I can look after myself. WhatI do is my own business.""I'm afraid you're going to find that your business is severalpeople's business. I am interested in it myself. I don't like yourbeing on the stage. Now bite my head off!""It's very kind of you to bother about me . . .""I said 'Bite my head off!' I didn't say 'Freeze me!' I take thelicense of an old friend who in his time has put worms down yourback, and I repeat--I don't like your being on the stage.""I shouldn't have thought you would have been so"--Jill sought for adevastating adjective--"so mid-Victorian!""As far as you are concerned, I'm the middest Victorian in existence.
　　Mid is my middle name." Wally met her indignant gaze squarely.
　　"I-do-not-like-your-being-on-the-stage! Especially in any companywhich Ike Goble is running.""Why Mr Goble particularly?""Because he is not the sort of man you ought to be coming in contactwith.""What nonsense!""It isn't nonsense at all. I suppose you've read a lot about themorals of theatrical managers . . .""Yes. And it seemed to be exaggerated and silly.""So it is. There's nothing wrong with most of them. As a generalthing, they are very decent fellows,--extraordinarily decent if youthink of the position they are in. I don't say that in a business waythere's much they won't try to put over on you. In the theatre, whenit comes to business, everything goes except biting and gouging.
　　'There's never a law of God or man runs north of fifty-three.' If youalter that to 'north of Forty-first Street,' it doesn't scan as well,but it's just as true. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say thatthe Golden Rule is suspended there. You get used to it after you havebeen in the theatre for awhile, and, except for leaving your watchand pocketbook at home when you have to pay a call on a manager andkeeping your face to him so that he can't get away with your backcollar-stud, you don't take any notice of it. It's all a game. If amanager swindles you, he wins the hole and takes the honor. If youfoil him, you are one up. In either case, it makes no difference tothe pleasantness of your relations. You go on calling him by hisfirst name, and he gives you a couple of cigars out of his waistcoatpocket and says you're a good kid. There is nothing personal in it.
　　He has probably done his best friend out of a few thousand dollarsthe same morning, and you see them lunching together after theceremony as happily as possible. You've got to make allowances formanagers. They are the victims of heredity. When a burglar marries ahat-check girl, their offspring goes into the theatrical businessautomatically, and he can't shake off the early teaching which heimbibed at his father's knee. But morals . . ."Wally broke off to allow the waiter to place a fried sole before him.
　　Waiters always select the moment when we are talking our best tointrude themselves.
　　"As regards morals," resumed Wally, "that is a different matter. Mostmanagers are respectable, middle-aged men with wives and families.
　　They are in the business to make money, and they don't want anythingelse out of it. The girls in their companies are like so many clerksto them, just machines that help to bring the money in. They don'tknow half a dozen of them to speak to. But our genial Ike is not likethat." Wally consumed a mouthful of sole. "Ike Goble is a badcitizen. He paws! He's a slinker and a prowler and a leerer. He's apest and a worm! He's fat and soft and flabby. He has a greasy soul,a withered heart, and an eye like a codfish. Not knocking him, ofcourse!" added Wally magnanimously. "Far be it from me to knockanyone! But, speaking with the utmost respect and viewing him in themost favorable light, he is a combination of tom-cat and the thingsyou see when you turn over a flat stone! Such are the reasons why Iam sorry that you are in his company."Jill had listened to this diatribe with a certain uneasiness.
　　Her brief encounters with Mr Goble told her that every word wasprobably true. She could still feel the unpleasant sensation of beinginspected by the eye which Wally had compared--quite justly--to thatof a codfish. But her pride forbade any admission of weakness.
　　"I can take care of myself," she said.
　　"I don't doubt it," said Wally. "And you could probably take care ofyourself if you fell into a muddy pond. But I shouldn't like to standon the bank and watch you doing it. I know what girls in the chorushave to go through. Hanging about for hours in draughts, doingnothing, while the principals go through their scenes, and yelled atif they try to relieve the tedium of captivity with a little lightconversation . . .""Yes," admitted Jill. "There has been a good lot of that.""There always is. I believe if the stage-carpenter was going to sticka screw in a flat, they would call a chorus-rehearsal to watch him doit . . . Jill, you must get out of it. It's no life for you. The work. . .""I like the work.""While it's new, perhaps, but . . ."Jill interrupted him passionately.
　　"Oh, can't you understand!" she cried. "I want the work. I need it. Iwant something to do, something to occupy my mind. I hate talkingabout it, but you know how things are with me. Freddie must have toldyou. Even if he didn't, you must have guessed, meeting me here allalone and remembering how things were when we last met. You mustunderstand! Haven't you ever had a terrible shock or a dreadfuldisappointment that seemed to smash up the whole world? And didn'tyou find that the only possible thing to do was to work and work andwork as hard as ever you could? When I first came to America, Inearly went mad. Uncle Chris sent me down to a place on Long Island,and I had nothing to do all day but think. I couldn't stand it. I ranaway and came to New York and met Nelly Bryant and got this work todo. It saved me. It kept me busy all day and tired me out and didn'tgive me time to think. The harder it is, the better it suits me. It'san antidote. I simply wouldn't give it up now. As for what you weresaying, I must put up with that. The other girls do, so why shouldn'tI?""They are toughened to it.""Then I must get toughened to it. What else is there for me to do? Imust do something.""Marry me!" said Wally, reaching across the table and putting hishand on hers. The light in his eyes lit up his homely face like alantern.
　　3.
　　The suddenness of it startled Jill into silence. She snatched herhand away and drew back, looking at him in wonderment. She wasconfusedly aware of a babble of sound,--people talking, peoplelaughing, the orchestra playing a lively tune. All her senses seemedto have become suddenly more acute. She was intensely alive to smalldetails. Then, abruptly, the whole world condensed itself into twoeyes that were fastened upon hers,--compelling eyes which she felt apanic desire to avoid.
　　She turned her head away, and looked out into the restaurant. Itseemed incredible that all these people, placidly intent upon theirfood and their small talk, should not be staring at her, wonderingwhat she was going to say; nudging each other and speculating. Theirdetachment made her feel alone and helpless. She was nothing to themand they did not care what happened to her, just as she had beennothing to those frozen marshes down at Brookport. She was alone inan indifferent world, with her own problems to settle for herself.
　　Other men had asked Jill to marry them,--a full dozen of them, hereand there in country houses and at London before she had met andloved Derek Underhill: but that she had had in the way of experiencehad prepared her for Wally. These others had given her time tomarshal her forces, to collect herself, to weigh them thoughtfully inthe balance. Before speaking, they had signalled their devotion in ahundred perceptible ways--by their pinkness, their stammeringawkwardness, by the glassy look in their eyes. They had not shot aproposal at her like a bullet from out of the cover of a conversationthat had nothing to do with their emotions at all.
　　Yet, now that the shock of it was dying away, she began to remembersigns she would have noticed, speeches which ought to have warnedher . . .
　　"Wally!" she gasped.
　　She found that he affected her in an entirely different fashion fromthe luckless dozen of those London days. He seemed to matter more, tobe more important, almost--though she rebelled at the word--moredangerous.
　　"Let me take you out of it all! You aren't fit for this sort of life.
　　I can't bear to see you . . ."Jill bent forward and touched his hand. He started as though he hadbeen burned. The muscles of his throat were working.
　　"Wally, it's--" She paused for a word. "Kind" was horrible. It wouldhave sounded cold, almost supercilious. "Sweet" was the sort of thingshe could imagine Lois Penham saying to her friend Izzy. She beganher sentence again. "You're a dear to say that, but . . ."Wally laughed chokingly.
　　"You think I'm altruistic? I'm not. I'm just as selfish andself-centered as any other man who wants a thing very badly. I'm asaltruistic as a child crying for the moon. I want you to marry mebecause I love you, because there never was anybody like you, becauseyou're the whole world, because I always have loved you. I've beendreaming about you for a dozen years, thinking about you, wonderingabout you--wondering where you were, what you were doing, how youlooked. I used to think that it was just sentimentality, that youmerely stood for a time of my life when I was happier than I haveever been since. I used to think that you were just a sort of peg onwhich I was hanging a pleasant sentimental regret for days whichcould never come back. You were a memory that seemed to personify allthe other memories of the best time of my life. You were the goddessof old associations. Then I met you in London, and it was different.
　　I wanted you--_you!_ I didn't want you because you recalled old timesand were associated with dead happiness, I wanted _you!_ I knew Iloved you directly you spoke to me at the theatre that night of thefire. I loved your voice and your eyes and your smile and yourcourage. And then you told me you were engaged. I might have expectedit, but I couldn't keep my jealousy from showing itself, and yousnubbed me as I deserved. But now . . . things are different now.
　　Everything's different, except my love."Jill turned her face to the wall beside her. A man at the next table,a corpulent red-faced man, had begun to stare. He could have heardnothing, for Wally had spoken in a low voice; but plainly he wasaware that something more interesting was happening at their tablethan at any of the other tables, and he was watching with a bovineinquisitiveness which affected Jill with a sense of outrage. A momentbefore, she had resented the indifference of the outer world. Now,this one staring man seemed like a watching multitude. There weretears in her eyes, and she felt that the red-faced man suspected it.
　　"Wally . . ." Her voice broke. "It's impossible.""Why? Why, Jill?""Because . . . Oh, it's impossible!"There was a silence.
　　"Because . . ." He seemed to find a difficulty in speaking, "Becauseof Underhill?"Jill nodded. She felt wretched. The monstrous incongruity of hersurroundings oppressed her. The orchestra dashed into a rollickingmelody, which set her foot tapping in spite of herself. At a near-bytable somebody was shouting with laughter. Two waiters at aservice-stand were close enough for her to catch snatches of theirtalk. They were arguing about an order of fried potatoes. Once againher feelings veered round, and she loathed the detachment of theworld. Her heart ached for Wally. She could not look at him, but sheknew exactly what she would see if she did,--honest, pleading eyessearching her face for something which she could not give.
　　"Yes," she said.
　　The table creaked. Wally was leaning further forward. He seemed likesomething large and pathetic,--a big dog in trouble. She hated to behurting him. And all the time her foot tapped accompaniment to therag-time tune.
　　"But you can't live all your life with a memory," said Wally.
　　Jill turned and faced him. His eyes seemed to leap at her, and theywere just as she had pictured them.
　　"You don't understand," she said gently. "You don't understand.""It's ended. It's over."Jill shook her head.
　　"You can't still love him, after what has happened!""I don't know," said Jill unhappily.
　　The words seemed to bewilder Wally as much as they had bewilderedFreddie.
　　"You don't know!"Jill shut her eyes tight. Wally quivered. It was a trick she had hadas a child. In perplexity, she had always screwed up her eyes justlike that, as if to shut herself up in herself.
　　"Don't talk for a minute, Wally," she said. "I want to think."Her eyes opened.
　　"It's like this," she said. He had seen her look at him exactly thesame way a hundred times. "I don't suppose I can make you understand,but this is how it is. Suppose you had a room, and it was full ofthings. Furniture. And there wasn't any space left. You--you couldn'tput anything else in till you had taken all that out, could you? Itmight not be worth anything, but it would still be there taking upall the room."Wally nodded.
　　"Yes," he said. "I see.""My heart's full, Wally dear. I know it's just lumber that's chokingit up, but it's difficult to get it out. It takes time getting itout. I put it in, thinking it was wonderful furniture, the mostwonderful in the world, and--I was cheated. It was just lumber. Butit's there. It's still there. It's there all the time. And what am Ito do?"The orchestra crashed, and was silent. The sudden stillness seemed tobreak a spell. The world invaded the little island where they sat. Achattering party of girls and men brushed past them. The waiter,judging that they had been there long enough, slipped a strip ofpaper, decorously turned upside down, in front of Wally. He took themoney, and went away to get change.
　　Wally turned to Jill.
　　"I understand," he said. "All this hasn't happened, and we're just asgood pals as before?""Yes.""But . . ." He forced a laugh . . . "mark my words, a time may come,and then . . . !""I don't know," said Jill.
　　"A time may come," repeated Wally. "At any rate, let me think so. Ithas nothing to do with me. It's for you to decide, absolutely. I'mnot going to pursue you with my addresses! If ever you get that roomof yours emptied, you won't have to hang out a 'To Let' sign. I shallbe waiting and you will know where to find me. And, in the meantime,yours to command, Wallace Mason. Is that clear?""Quite clear." Jill looked at him affectionately. "There's nobody I'drather open that room to than you, Wally. You know that.""Is that the solemn truth?""The solemn truth!""Then," said Wally, "in two minutes you will see a startled waiter.
　　There will be about fourteen dollars change out of that twenty hetook away. I'm going to give it all to him.""You mustn't!""Every cent!" said Wally firm. "And the young Greek brigand who stolemy hat at the door is going to get a dollar! That, as our ascetic andhonorable friend Goble would say, is the sort of little guy _I_ am!"* * *The red-faced man at the next table eyed them as they went out,leaving behind them a waiter who clutched totteringly for support atthe back of a chair.
　　"Had a row," he decided, "but made it up."He called for a toothpick.
Chapter 16
1.
　　On the boardwalk at Atlantic City, that much-enduring seashore resortwhich has been the birthplace of so many musical plays, there standsan all-day and all-night restaurant, under the same management andoffering the same hospitality as the one in Columbus Circle at whichJill had taken her first meal on arriving in New York. At least, itshospitality is noisy during the waking and working hours of the day;but there are moments when it has an almost cloistral peace, and thecustomer, abashed by the cold calm of its snowy marble and the silentgravity of the white-robed attendants, unconsciously lowers his voiceand tries to keep his feet from shuffling, like one in a temple. Themembers of the chorus of "The Rose of America," dropping in by onesand twos at six o'clock in the morning about two weeks after theevents recorded in the last chapter, spoke in whispers and gave theirorders for breakfast in a subdued undertone.
　　The dress-rehearsal had just dragged its weary length to a close. Itis the custom of the dwellers in Atlantic City, who seem to liveentirely for pleasure, to attend a species of vaudevilleperformance--incorrectly termed a sacred concert--on Sunday nights:
　　and it had been one o'clock in the morning before the concert scenerycould be moved out of the theatre and the first act set of "The Roseof America" moved in. And, as by some unwritten law of the drama nodress-rehearsal can begin without a delay of at least an hour and ahalf, the curtain had not gone up on Mr Miller's opening chorus tillhalf past two. There had been dress-parades, conferences,interminable arguments between the stage-director and a mysteriousman in shirtsleeves about the lights, more dress-parades, furtherconferences, hitches with regard to the sets, and another outbreak ofdebate on the subject of blues, ambers, and the management of the"spot," which was worked by a plaintive voice, answering to the nameof Charlie, at the back of the family circle. But by six o'clock acomplete, if ragged, performance had been given, and the chorus, whohad partaken of no nourishment since dinner on the previous night,had limped off round the corner for a bite of breakfast before goingto bed.
　　They were a battered and a draggled company, some with dark circlesbeneath their eyes, others blooming with the unnatural scarlet of themake-up which they had been too tired to take off. The Duchess,haughty to the last, had fallen asleep with her head on the table.
　　The red-headed Babe was lying back in her chair, staring at theceiling. The Southern girl blinked like an owl at the morningsunshine out on the boardwalk.
　　The Cherub, whose triumphant youth had brought her almost freshthrough a sleepless night, contributed the only remark made duringthe interval of waiting for the meal.
　　"The fascination of a thtage life! Why girls leave home!" She lookedat her reflection in the little mirror of her vanity-bag. "It _is_ aface!" she murmured reflectively. "But I should hate to have to goaround with it long!"A sallow young man, with the alertness peculiar to those who work onthe night-shifts of restaurants, dumped a tray down on the table witha clatter. The Duchess woke up. Babe took her eyes off the ceiling.
　　The Southern girl ceased to look at the sunshine. Already, at themere sight of food, the extraordinary recuperative powers of thetheatrical worker had begun to assert themselves. In five minutesthese girls would be feeling completely restored and fit foranything.
　　Conversation broke out with the first sip of coffee, and the calm ofthe restaurant was shattered. Its day had begun.
　　"It's a great life if you don't weaken," said the Cherub, hungrilyattacking her omelette. "And the wortht is yet to come! I thupposeall you old dears realithe that this show will have to be rewrittenfrom end to end, and we'll be rehearthing day and night all the timewe're on the road.""Why?" Lois Denham spoke with her mouth full. "What's wrong with it?"The Duchess took a sip of coffee.
　　"Don't make me laugh!" she pleaded. "What's wrong with it? What'sright with it, one would feel more inclined to ask!""One would feel thtill more inclined," said the Cherub, "to athk whyone was thuch a chump as to let oneself in for this sort of thingwhen one hears on all sides that waitresses earn thixty dollars amonth.""The numbers are all right," argued Babe. "I don't mean the melodies,but Johnny has arranged some good business.""He always does," said the Southern girl. "Some more buckwheat cakes,please. But what about the book?""I never listen to the book."The Cherub laughed.
　　"You're too good to yourself! I listened to it right along and takeit from me it's sad! Of courthe they'll have it fixed. We can't openin New York like this. My professional reputation wouldn't thtand it!
　　Didn't you thee Wally Mason in front, making notes? They've got himdown to do the rewriting."Jill, who had been listening in a dazed way to the conversation,fighting against the waves of sleep which flooded over her, woke up.
　　"Was Wally--was Mr Mason there?""Sure. Sitting at the back."Jill couldn't have said whether she was glad or sorry. She had notseen Wally since that afternoon when they lunched together at theCosmopolis, and the rush of the final weeks of rehearsals had givenher little opportunity for thinking of him. At the back of her mindhad been the feeling that sooner or later she would have to think ofhim, but for two weeks she had been too tired and too busy tore-examine him as a factor in her life. There had been times when thethought of him had been like the sunshine on a winter day, warmingher with almost an impersonal glow in moments of depression. And thensome sharp, poignant memory of Derek would come to blot him out. Sheremembered the image she had used to explain Derek to Wally, and thetruth of it came home to her more strongly than ever. Whatever Derekmight have done, he was in her heart and she could not get him out.
　　She came out of her thoughts to find that the talk had taken anotherturn.
　　"And the wortht of it is," the Cherub was saying, "we shall reheartheall day and give a show every night and work ourselves to the bone,and then, when they're good and ready, they'll fire one of us!""That's right!" agreed the Southern girl.
　　"They couldn't!" Jill cried.
　　"You wait!" said the Cherub. "They'll never open in New York withthirteen girls. Ike's much too thuperstitious""But they wouldn't do a thing like that after we've all worked sohard!"There was a general burst of sardonic laughter. Jill's opinion of thechivalry of theatrical managers seemed to be higher than that of hermore experienced colleagues. "They'll do anything," the Cherubassured her. "You don't know the half of it, dearie," scoffed LoisDenham. "You don't know the half of it!""Wait till you've been in as many shows as I have," said Babe,shaking her red locks. "The usual thing is to keep a girl slaving herhead off all through the road-tour and then fire her before the NewYork opening.""But it's a shame! It isn't fair!""If one is expecting to be treated fairly," said the Duchess with aprolonged yawn, "one should not go into the show-business."And, having uttered this profoundly true maxim, she fell asleepagain.
　　The slumber of the Duchess was the signal for a general move. Hersomnolence was catching. The restorative effects of the meal werebeginning to wear off. There was a call for a chorus-rehearsal atfour o'clock, and it seemed the wise move to go to bed and get somesleep while there was time. The Duchess was roused from her dreams bymeans of a piece of ice from one of the tumblers; checks were paid;and the company poured out, yawning and chattering, into the sunlightof the empty boardwalk.
　　Jill detached herself from the group, and made her way to a seatfacing the ocean. Tiredness had fallen upon her like a leaden weight,crushing all the power out of her limbs, and the thought of walkingto the boarding-house where, from motives of economy, she was sharinga room with the Cherub, paralyzed her.
　　It was a perfect morning, clear and cloudless, with the warmfreshness of a day that means to be hotter later on. The sea sparkledin the sun. Little waves broke lazily on the gray sand. Jill closedher eyes, for the brightness of sun and water was trying; and herthoughts went back to what the Cherub had said.
　　If Wally was really going to rewrite the play, they would be throwntogether. She would be obliged to meet him, and she was not sure thatshe was ready to meet him. Still, he would be somebody to talk to onsubjects other than the one eternal topic of the theatre, somebodywho belonged to the old life. She had ceased to regard Freddie Rookein this light: for Freddie, solemn with his new responsibilities as aprincipal, was the most whole-hearted devotee of "shop" in thecompany. Freddie nowadays declined to consider any subject forconversation that did not have to do with "The Rose of America" ingeneral and his share in it in particular. Jill had given him up, andhe had paired off with Nelly Bryant. The two were inseparable. Jillhad taken one or two meals with them, but Freddie's professionalmonologues, of which Nelly seemed never to weary, were too much forher. As a result she was now very much alone. There were girls in thecompany whom she liked, but most of them had their own intimatefriends, and she was always conscious of not being really wanted. Shewas lonely, and, after examining the matter as clearly as her tiredmind would allow, she found herself curiously soothed by the thoughtthat Wally would be near to mitigate her loneliness.
　　She opened her eyes, blinking. Sleep had crept upon her with aninsidious suddenness, and she had almost fallen over on the seat. Shewas just bracing herself to get up and begin the long tramp to theboarding-house, when a voice spoke at her side.
　　"Hullo! Good morning!"Jill looked up.
　　"Hullo, Wally!""Surprised to see me?""No. Milly Trevor said she had seen you at the rehearsal last night."Wally came round the bench and seated himself at her side. His eyeswere tired, and his chin dark and bristly.
　　"Had breakfast?""Yes, thanks. Have you?""Not yet. How are you feeling?""Rather tired.""I wonder you're not dead. I've been through a good manydress-rehearsals, but this one was the record. Why they couldn't havehad it comfortably in New York and just have run through the piecewithout scenery last night, I don't know, except that in musicalcomedy it's etiquette always to do the most inconvenient thing. Theyknow perfectly well that there was no chance of getting the sceneryinto the theatre till the small hours. You must be worn out. Whyaren't you in bed?""I couldn't face the walk. I suppose I ought to be going, though."She half rose, then sank back again. The glitter of the waterhypnotized her. She closed her eyes again. She could hear Wallyspeaking, then his voice grew suddenly faint and far off, and sheceased to fight the delicious drowsiness.
　　Jill awoke with a start. She opened her eyes, and shut them again atonce. The sun was very strong now. It was one of those prematurelywarm days of early Spring which have all the languorous heat of latesummer. She opened her eyes once more, and found that she was feelinggreatly refreshed. She also discovered that her head was resting onWally's shoulder.
　　"Have I been asleep?"Wally laughed.
　　"You have been having what you might call a nap." He massaged hisleft arm vigorously. "You needed it. Do you feel more rested now?""Good gracious! Have I been squashing your poor arm all the time? Whydidn't you move?""I was afraid you would fall over. You just shut your eyes andtoppled sideways.""What's the time?"Wally looked at his watch.
　　"Just on ten.""Ten!" Jill was horrified. "Why, I have been giving you cramp forabout three hours! You must have had an awful time!""Oh, it was all right. I think I dozed off myself. Except that thebirds didn't come and cover us with leaves; it was rather like the'Babes in the Wood.'""But you haven't had any breakfast! Aren't you starving?""Well, I'm not saying I wouldn't spear a fried egg with some vim ifit happened to float past. But there's plenty of time for that. Lotsof doctors say you oughtn't to eat breakfast, and Indian fakirs gowithout food for days at a time in order to develop their souls.
　　Shall I take you back to wherever you're staying? You ought to get aproper sleep in bed.""Don't dream of taking me. Go off and have something to eat.""Oh, that can wait. I'd like to see you safely home."Jill was conscious of a renewed sense of his comfortingness. Therewas no doubt about it, Wally was different from any other man she hadknown. She suddenly felt guilty, as if she were obtaining somethingvaluable under false pretences.
　　"Wally!""Hullo?""You--you oughtn't to be so good to me!""Nonsense! Where's the harm in lending a hand--or, rather, an arm--toa pal in trouble?""You know what I mean. I can't . . . that is to say . . . it isn't asthough . . . I mean . . ."Wally smiled a tired, friendly smile.
　　"If you're trying to say what I think you're trying to say, don't! Wehad all that out two weeks ago. I quite understand the position. Youmustn't worry yourself about it." He took her arm, and they crossedthe boardwalk. "Are we going in the right direction? You lead theway. I know exactly how you feel. We're old friends, and nothingmore. But, as an old friend, I claim the right to behave like an oldfriend. If an old friend can't behave like an old friend, how _can_an old friend behave? And now we'll rule the whole topic out of theconversation. But perhaps you're too tired for conversation?""Oh, no.""Then I will tell you about the sad death of young Mr Pilkington.""What!""Well, when I say death, I use the word in a loose sense. The humangiraffe still breathes, and I imagine, from the speed with which helegged it back to his hotel when we parted, that he still takesnourishment. But really he is dead. His heart is broken. We had aconference after the dress-rehearsal, and our friend Mr Goble toldhim in no uncertain words--in the whole course of my experience Ihave never heard words less uncertain--that his damned rottenhigh-brow false-alarm of a show--I am quoting Mr Goble--would have tobe rewritten by alien hands. And these are them! On the right, alienright hand. On the left, alien left hand. Yes, I am the instrumentselected for the murder of Pilkington's artistic aspirations. I'mgoing to rewrite the show. In fact, I have already rewritten thefirst act and most of the second. Goble foresaw this contingency andtold me to get busy two weeks ago, and I've been working hard eversince. We shall start rehearsing the new version tomorrow and open inBaltimore next Monday with practically a different piece. And it'sgoing to be a pippin, believe me, said our hero modestly. A gang ofcomposers has been working in shifts for two weeks, and, by chuckingout nearly all of the original music, we shall have a good score. Itmeans a lot of work for you, I'm afraid. All the business of thenumbers will have to be re-arranged.""I like work," said Jill. "But I'm sorry for Mr Pilkington.""He's all right. He owns seventy per cent of the show. He may make afortune. He's certain to make a comfortable sum. That is, if hedoesn't sell out his interest in pique--or dudgeon, if you prefer it.
　　From what he said at the close of the proceedings, I fancy he wouldsell out to anybody who asked him. At least, he said that he washedhis hands of the piece. He's going back to New York thisafternoon,--won't even wait for the opening. Of course, I'm sorry forthe poor chap in a way, but he had no right, with the excellentcentral idea which he got, to turn out such a rotten book. Oh, by theway!""Yes?""Another tragedy! Unavoidable, but pathetic. Poor old Freddie! He'sout!""Oh, no!""Out!" repeated Wally firmly.
　　"But didn't you think he was good last night?""He was awful! But that isn't why. Goble wanted his part rewritten asa Scotchman, so as to get McAndrew, the fellow who made such a hitlast season in 'Hoots, Mon!' That sort of thing is always happeningin musical comedy. You have to fit parts to suit whatever good peoplehappen to be available at the moment. When you've had one or twoexperiences of changing your Italian count to a Jewishmillionaire--invariably against time: they always want the script onThursday next at noon--and then changing him again to a RussianBolshevik, you begin to realize what is meant by the words 'Death,where is thy sting?' My heart bleeds for Freddie, but what can onedo? At any rate he isn't so badly off as a fellow was in one of myshows. In the second act he was supposed to have escaped from anasylum, and the management, in a passion for realism, insisted thathe should shave his head. The day after he shaved it, they heard thata superior comedian was disengaged and fired him. It's a ruthlessbusiness.""The girls were saying that one of us would be dismissed.""Oh, I shouldn't think that's likely.""I hope not.""So do I. What are we stopping for?" Jill had halted in front of ashabby-looking house, one of those depressing buildings which springup overnight at seashore resorts and start to decay the moment thebuilders have left them.
　　"I live here.""Here!" Wally looked at her in consternation. "But . . ."Jill smiled.
　　"We working-girls have got to economize. Besides, it's quitecomfortable--fairly comfortable--inside, and it's only for a week."She yawned. "I believe I'm falling asleep again. I'd better hurry inand go to bed. Good-bye, Wally dear. You've been wonderful. Mind yougo and get a good breakfast."2.
　　When Jill arrived at the theatre at four o'clock for the chorusrehearsal, the expected blow had not fallen. No steps had apparentlybeen taken to eliminate the thirteenth girl whose presence in thecast preyed on Mr. Goble's superstitious mind. But she found hercolleagues still in a condition of pessimistic foreboding. "Wait!"was the gloomy watchword of "The Rose of America" chorus.
　　The rehearsal passed off without event. It lasted until six o'clock,when Jill, the Cherub, and two or three of the other girls went tosnatch a hasty dinner before returning to the theatre to make up. Itwas not a cheerful meal. Reaction had set in after the overexertionof the previous night, and it was too early for first-nightexcitement to take its place. Everybody, even the Cherub, whosespirits seldom failed her, was depressed, and the idea of anoverhanging doom had grown. It seemed now to be merely a question ofspeculating on the victim, and the conversation gave Jill, as thelast addition to the company and so the cause of swelling the ranksof the chorus to the unlucky number, a feeling of guilt. She was gladwhen it was time to go back to the theatre.
　　The moment she and her companions entered the dressing-room, it wasmade clear to them that the doom had fallen. In a chair in thecorner, all her pretence and affectation swept away in a flood oftears, sat the unhappy Duchess, the center of a group of girlsanxious to console but limited in their ideas of consolation to anoccasional pat on the back and an offer of a fresh pocket-handkerchief.
　　"It's tough, honey!" somebody was saying as Jill came in.
　　Somebody else said it was fierce, and a third girl declared it to bethe limit. A fourth girl, well-meaning but less helpful than shewould have liked to be, was advising the victim not to worry.
　　The story of the disaster was brief and easily told. The Duchess,sailing in at the stage-door, had paused at the letter-box to see ifCuthbert, her faithful auto-salesman, had sent her a good-lucktelegram. He had, but his good wishes were unfortunately neutralizedby the fact that the very next letter in the box was one from themanagement, crisp and to the point, informing the Duchess that herservices would not be required that night or thereafter. It was thesubtle meanness of the blow that roused the indignation of "The Roseof America" chorus, the cunning villainy with which it had beentimed.
　　"Poor Mae, if she'd opened tonight, they'd have had to give her twoweeks' notice or her salary. But they can fire her without a centjust because she's only been rehearsing and hasn't given a show!"The Duchess burst into fresh flood of tears.
　　"Don't you worry, honey!" advised the well-meaning girl, who wouldhave been in her element looking in on Job with Bildad the Shuhiteand his friends. "Don't you worry!""It's tough!" said the girl, who had adopted that form of verbalconsolation.
　　"It's fierce!" said the girl who preferred that adjective.
　　The other girl, with an air of saying something new, repeated herstatement that it was the limit. The Duchess cried forlornlythroughout. She had needed this engagement badly. Chorus salaries arenot stupendous, but it is possible to save money by means of themduring a New York run, especially if you have spent three years in amilliner's shop and can make your own clothes, as the Duchess, inspite of her air of being turned out by Fifth Avenue modistes, couldand did. She had been looking forward, now that this absurd piece wasto be rewritten by someone who knew his business and had a goodchance of success, to putting by just those few dollars that make allthe difference when you are embarking on married life. Cuthbert, forall his faithfulness, could not hold up the financial end of theestablishment unsupported for at least another eighteen months; andthis disaster meant that the wedding would have to be postponedagain. So the Duchess, abandoning that aristocratic manner criticizedby some of her colleagues as "up-stage" and by others as "Ritz-y,"sat in her chair and consumed pocket-handkerchiefs as fast as theywere offered to her.
　　Jill had been the only girl in the room who had spoken no word ofconsolation. This was not because she was not sorry for the Duchess.
　　She had never been sorrier for any one in her life. The pathos ofthat swift descent from haughtiness to misery had bitten deep intoher sensitive heart. But she revolted at the idea of echoing thebanal words of the others. Words were no good, she thought, as sheset her little teeth and glared at an absent management,--amanagement just about now presumably distending itself with aluxurious dinner at one of the big hotels. Deeds were what shedemanded. All her life she had been a girl of impulsive action, andshe wanted to act impulsively now. She was in much the same Berserkmood as had swept her, raging, to the defence of Bill the parrot onthe occasion of his dispute with Henry of London. The fighting spiritwhich had been drained from her by the all-night rehearsal had comeback in full measure.
　　"What are you going to _do?_" she cried. "Aren't you going to _do_something?"Do? The members of "The Rose of America" ensemble looked doubtfullyat one another. Do? It had not occurred to them that there wasanything to be done. These things happened, and you regretted them,but as for doing anything, well, what _could_ you do?
　　Jill's face was white and her eyes were flaming. She dominated theroomful of girls like a little Napoleon. The change in her startledthem. Hitherto they had always looked on her as rather an unusuallyquiet girl. She had always made herself unobtrusively pleasant tothem all. They all liked her. But they had never suspected her ofpossessing this militant quality. Nobody spoke, but there was ageneral stir. She had flung a new idea broadcast, and it wasbeginning to take root. Do something? Well, if it came to that, whynot?
　　"We ought all to refuse to go on tonight unless they let her go on!"Jill declared.
　　The stir became a movement. Enthusiasm is catching, and every girl isat heart a rebel. And the idea was appealing to the imagination.
　　Refuse to give a show on the opening night! Had a chorus ever donesuch a thing? They trembled on the verge of making history.
　　"Strike?" quavered somebody at the back.
　　"Yes, strike!" cried Jill.
　　"Hooray! That's the thtuff!" shouted the Cherub, and turned thescale. She was a popular girl, and her adherence to the Causeconfirmed the doubters. "Thtrike!""Strike! Strike!"Jill turned to the Duchess, who had been gaping amazedly at thedemonstration. She no longer wept, but she seemed in a dream.
　　"Dress and get ready to go on," Jill commanded. "We'll all dress andget ready to go on. Then I'll go and find Mr Goble and tell him whatwe mean to do. And, if he doesn't give in, we'll stay here in thisroom, and there won't be a performance!"3.
　　Mr Goble, with a Derby hat on the back of his head and an unlightedcigar in the corner of his mouth, was superintending the erection ofthe first act set when Jill found him. He was standing with his backto the safety-curtain glowering at a blue canvas, supposed torepresent one of those picturesque summer skies which you get at thebest places on Long Island. Jill, coming down stage from thestaircase that led to the dressing-room, interrupted his line ofvision.
　　"Get out of the light!" bellowed Mr Goble, always a man of directspeech, adding "Damn you!" for good measure.
　　"Please move to one side," interpreted the stage-director. "Mr Gobleis looking at the set."The head carpenter, who completed the little group, said nothing.
　　Stage carpenters always say nothing. Long association with fussydirectors has taught them that the only policy to pursue on openingnights is to withdraw into the silence, wrap themselves up in it, andnot emerge until the enemy has grown tired and gone off to worrysomebody else.
　　"It don't look right!" said Mr Goble, cocking his head on one side.
　　"I see what you mean, Mr Goble," assented the stage-directorobsequiously. "It has perhaps a little too much--er--not quiteenough--yes, I see what you mean!""It's too--damn--BLUE!" rasped Mr Goble, impatient of thisvacillating criticism. "That's what's the matter with it."The head carpenter abandoned the silent policy of a lifetime. He feltimpelled to utter. He was a man who, when not at the theatre, spentmost of his time in bed, reading all-fiction magazines: but it sohappened that once, last summer, he had actually seen the sky; and heconsidered that this entitled him to speak almost as a specialist onthe subject.
　　"The sky _is_ blue!" he observed huskily. "Yessir! I seen it!"He passed into the silence again, and, to prevent a further lapse,stopped up his mouth with a piece of chewing-gum.
　　Mr Goble regarded the silver-tongued orator wrathfully. He was notaccustomed to chatter-boxes arguing with him like this. He wouldprobably have said something momentous and crushing, but at thispoint Jill intervened.
　　"Mr Goble."The manager swung round on her.
　　"What _is_ it?"It is sad to think how swiftly affection can change to dislike inthis world. Two weeks before, Mr Goble had looked on Jill with favor.
　　She had seemed good in his eyes. But that refusal of hers to lunchwith him, followed by a refusal some days later to take a bit ofsupper somewhere, had altered his views on feminine charm. If it hadbeen left to him, as most things were about his theatre, to decidewhich of the thirteen girls should be dismissed, he would undoubtedlyhave selected Jill. But at this stage in the proceedings there wasthe unfortunate necessity of making concessions to the temperamentalJohnson Miller. Mr Goble was aware that the dance-director's serviceswould be badly needed in the re-arrangement of the numbers during thecoming week or so, and he knew that there were a dozen managerswaiting eagerly to welcome him if he threw up his present job, so hehad been obliged to approach him in quite a humble spirit and enquirewhich of his female chorus could be most easily spared. And, as theDuchess had a habit of carrying her haughty languor onto the stageand employing it as a substitute for the chorea which was Mr.
　　Miller's ideal, the dancer-director had chosen her. To Mr Goble'sdislike of Jill, therefore, was added now something of the fury ofthe baffled potentate.
　　"'Jer want?" he demanded.
　　"Mr Goble is extremely busy," said the stage-director. "Ex-tremely."A momentary doubt as to the best way of approaching her subject hadtroubled Jill on her way downstairs, but, now that she was on thebattle-field confronting the enemy, she found herself cool,collected, and full of a cold rage which steeled her nerves withoutconfusing her mind.
　　"I came to ask you to let Mae D'Arcy go on tonight.""Who the hell's Mae D'Arcy?" Mr Goble broke off to bellow at ascene-shifter who was depositing the wall of Mrs Stuyvesant vanDyke's Long Island residence too far down stage. "Not there, youfool! Higher up!""You gave her her notice this evening," said Jill.
　　"Well, what about it?""We want you to withdraw it.""Who's 'we'?""The other girls and myself."Mr Goble jerked his head so violently that the Derby hat flew off, tobe picked up, dusted, and restored by the stage-director.
　　"Oh, so you don't like it? Well, you know what you can do . . .""Yes," said Jill, "we do. We are going to strike.""What!""If you don't let Mae go on, we shan't go on. There won't be aperformance tonight, unless you like to give one without a chorus.""Are you crazy!""Perhaps. But we're quite unanimous."Mr Goble, like most theatrical managers, was not good at words ofover two syllables.
　　"You're what?""We've talked it over, and we've all decided to do what I said."Mr Goble's hat shot off again, and gambolled away into the wings,with the stage-director bounding after it like a retriever.
　　"Whose idea's this?" demanded Mr Goble. His eyes were a little foggy,for his brain was adjusting itself but slowly to the novel situation.
　　"Mine.""Oh, yours! I thought as much!""Well," said Jill, "I'll go back and tell them that you will not dowhat we ask. We will keep our make-up on in case you change yourmind."She turned away.
　　"Come back!"Jill proceeded toward the staircase. As she went, a husky voice spokein her ear.
　　"Go to it, kid! You're all right!"The head-carpenter had broken his Trappist vows twice in a singleevening, a thing which had not happened to him since the night threeyears ago, when, sinking wearily onto a seat in a dark corner for abit of a rest, he found that one of his assistants had placed a potof red paint there.
　　4.
　　To Mr Goble, fermenting and full of strange oaths, entered JohnsonMiller. The dance-director was always edgey on first nights, andduring the foregoing conversation had been flitting about the stagelike a white-haired moth. His deafness had kept him in completeignorance that there was anything untoward afoot, and he nowapproached Mr Goble with his watch in his hand.
　　"Eight twenty-five," he observed. "Time those girls were on stage."Mr Goble, glad of a concrete target for his wrath, cursed him inabout two hundred and fifty rich and well-selected words.
　　"Huh?" said Mr Miller, hand to ear.
　　Mr Goble repeated the last hundred and eleven words, the pick of thebunch.
　　"Can't hear!" said Mr Miller, regretfully. "Got a cold."The grave danger that Mr Goble, a thick-necked man, would undergosome sort of a stroke was averted by the presence-of-mind of thestage-director, who, returning with the hat, presented it like abouquet to his employer, and then his hands being now unoccupied,formed them into a funnel and through this flesh-and-blood megaphoneendeavored to impart the bad news.
　　"The girls say they won't go on!"Mr Miller nodded.
　　"I _said_ it was time they were on.""They're on strike!""It's not," said Mr Miller austerely, "what they like, it's whatthey're paid for. They ought to be on stage. We should be ringing upin two minutes."The stage director drew another breath, then thought better of it. Hehad a wife and children, and, if dadda went under with apoplexy, whatbecame of the home, civilization's most sacred product? He relaxedthe muscles of his diaphragm, and reached for pencil and paper.
　　Mr Miller inspected the message, felt for his spectacle-case, foundit, opened it, took out his glasses, replaced the spectacle-case,felt for his handkerchief, polished the glasses, replaced thehandkerchief, put the glasses on, and read. A blank look came intohis face.
　　"Why?" he enquired.
　　The stage director, with a nod of the head intended to imply that hemust be patient and all would come right in the future, recovered thepaper, and scribbled another sentence. Mr Miller perused it.
　　"Because Mae D'Arcy has got her notice?" he queried, amazed. "But thegirl can't dance a step."The stage director, by means of a wave of the hand, a lifting of botheyebrows, and a wrinkling of the nose, replied that the situation,unreasonable as it might appear to the thinking man, was as he hadstated and must be faced. What, he enquired--through the medium of aclever drooping of the mouth and a shrug of the shoulders--was to bedone about it?
　　Mr Miller remained for a moment in meditation.
　　"I'll go and talk to them," he said.
　　He flitted off, and the stage director leaned back against theasbestos curtain. He was exhausted, and his throat was in agony, butnevertheless he was conscious of a feeling of quiet happiness. Hislife had been lived in the shadow of the constant fear that some dayMr Goble might dismiss him. Should that disaster occur, he felt,there was always a future for him in the movies.
　　Scarcely had Mr Miller disappeared on his peace-making errand, whenthere was a noise like a fowl going through a quickset hedge, and MrSaltzburg, brandishing his baton as if he were conducting an unseenorchestra, plunged through the scenery at the left upper entrance andcharged excitedly down the stage. Having taken his musicians twicethrough the overture, he had for ten minutes been sitting in silence,waiting for the curtain to go up. At last, his emotional naturecracking under the strain of this suspense, he had left hisconductor's chair and plunged down under the stage by way of themusician's bolthole to ascertain what was causing the delay.
　　"What is it? What is it? What is it? What is it?" enquired MrSaltzburg. "I wait and wait and wait and wait and wait. . . . Wecannot play the overture again. What is it? What has happened?"Mr Goble, that overwrought soul, had betaken himself to the wings,where he was striding up and down with his hands behind his back,chewing his cigar. The stage director braced himself once more to thetask of explanation.
　　"The girls have struck!"Mr Saltzburg blinked through his glasses.
　　"The girls?" he repeated blankly.
　　"Oh, damn it!" cried the stage director, his patience at last givingway. "You know what a girl is, don't you?""They have what?""Struck! Walked out on us! Refused to go on!"Mr Saltzburg reeled under the blow.
　　"But it is impossible! Who is to sing the opening chorus?"In the presence of one to whom he could relieve his mind without fearof consequences, the stage director became savagely jocular.
　　"That's all arranged," he said. "We're going to dress the carpentersin skirts. The audience won't notice anything wrong.""Should I speak to Mr Goble?" queried Mr Saltzburg doubtfully.
　　"Yes, if you don't value your life," returned the stage director.
　　Mr Saltzburg pondered.
　　"I will go and speak to the children," he said. "I will talk to them.
　　They know _me!_ I will make them be reasonable."He bustled off in the direction taken by Mr Miller, his coattailsflying behind him. The stage director, with a tired sigh, turned toface Wally, who had come in through the iron pass-door from theauditorium.
　　"Hullo!" said Wally cheerfully. "Going strong? How's everybody athome? Fine! So am I! By the way, am I wrong or did I hear somethingabout a theatrical entertainment of some sort here tonight?" Helooked about him at the empty stage. In the wings, on the promptside, could be discerned the flannel-clad forms of the gentlemanlymembers of the male ensemble, all dressed up for Mrs Stuyvesant vanDyke's tennis party. One or two of the principals were standingperplexedly in the lower entrance. The O. P. side had been given overby general consent to Mr Goble for his perambulations. Every now andthen he would flash into view through an opening in the scenery. "Iunderstood that tonight was the night for the great revival of comicopera. Where are the comics, and why aren't they opping?"The stage director repeated his formula once more.
　　"The girls have struck!""So have the clocks," said Wally. "It's past nine.""The chorus refuse to go on.""No, really! Just artistic loathing of the rotten piece, or is theresome other reason?""They're sore because one of them has been given her notice, and theysay they won't give a show unless she's taken back. They've struck.
　　That Mariner girl started it.""She did!" Wally's interest became keener. "She would!" he saidapprovingly. "She's a heroine!""Little devil! I never liked that girl!""Now there," said Wally, "is just the point on which we differ. Ihave always liked her, and I've known her all my life. So, shipmate,if you have any derogatory remarks to make about Miss Mariner, keepthem where they belong--_there!_" He prodded the other sharply in thestomach. He was smiling pleasantly, but the stage director, catchinghis eye, decided that his advice was good and should be followed. Itis just as bad for the home if the head of the family gets his neckbroken as if he succumbs to apoplexy.
　　"You surely aren't on their side?" he said.
　　"Me!" said Wally. "Of course I am. I'm always on the side of thedown-trodden and oppressed. If you know of a dirtier trick thanfiring a girl just before the opening, so that they won't have to payher two weeks' salary, mention it. Till you do, I'll go on believingthat it is the limit. Of course I'm on the girls' side. I'll makethem a speech if they want me to, or head the procession with abanner if they are going to parade down the boardwalk. I'm for 'em,Father Abraham, a hundred thousand strong. And then a few! If youwant my considered opinion, our old friend Goble has asked for it andgot it. And I'm glad--glad--glad, if you don't mind my quotingPollyanna for a moment. I hope it chokes him!""You'd better not let him hear you talking like that!""An contraire, as we say in the Gay City, I'm going to make a pointof letting him hear me talk like that! Adjust the impression that Ifear any Goble in shining armor, because I don't. I propose to speakmy mind to him. I would beard him in his lair, if he had a beard.
　　Well, I'll clean-shave him in his lair. That will be just as good.
　　But hist! whom have we here? Tell me, do you see the same thing Isee?"Like the vanguard of a defeated army, Mr Saltzburg was comingdejectedly across the stage.
　　"Well?" said the stage-director.
　　"They would not listen to me," said Mr Saltzburg brokenly. "The moreI talked, the more they did not listen!" He winced at a painfulmemory. "Miss Trevor stole my baton, and then they all lined up andsang the 'Star-Spangled Banner'!""Not the words?" cried Wally incredulously. "Don't tell me they knewthe words!""Mr Miller is still up there, arguing with them. But it will be of nouse. What shall we do?" asked Mr Saltzburg helplessly. "We ought tohave rung up half an hour ago. What shall we do-oo-oo?""We must go and talk to Goble," said Wally. "Something has got to besettled quick. When I left, the audience was getting so impatientthat I thought he was going to walk out on us. He's one of thosenasty, determined-looking men. So come along!"Mr Goble, intercepted as he was about to turn for another walkup-stage, eyed the deputation sourly and put the same question thatthe stage director had put to Mr Saltzburg.
　　"Well?"Wally came briskly to the point.
　　"You'll have to give in," he said, "or else go and make a speech tothe audience, the burden of which will be that they can have theirmoney back by applying at the box-office. These Joans of Arc have gotyou by the short hairs!""I won't give in!""Then give out!" said Wally. "Or pay out, if you prefer it. Trotalong and tell the audience that the four dollars fifty in the housewill be refunded."Mr Goble gnawed his cigar.
　　"I've been in the show business fifteen years . . .""I know. And this sort of thing has never happened to you before. Onegets new experiences."Mr Goble cocked his cigar at a fierce angle, and glared at Wally.
　　Something told him that Wally's sympathies were not wholly with him.
　　"They can't do this sort of thing to me," he growled.
　　"Well, they are doing it to someone, aren't they," said Wally, "and,if it's not you, who is it?""I've a damned good mind to fire them all!""A corking idea! I can't see a single thing wrong with it except thatit would hang up the production for another five weeks and lose youyour bookings and cost you a week's rent of this theatre for nothingand mean having all the dresses made over and lead to all yourprincipals going off and getting other jobs. These trifling thingsapart, we may call the suggestion a bright one.""You talk too damn much!" said Mr Goble, eyeing him with distaste.
　　"Well, go on, _you_ say something. Something sensible.""It is a very serious situation . . ." began the stage director.
　　"Oh, shut up!" said Mr Goble.
　　The stage director subsided into his collar.
　　"I cannot play the overture again," protested Mr Saltzburg. "Icannot!"At this point Mr Miller appeared. He was glad to see Mr Goble. He hadbeen looking for him, for he had news to impart.
　　"The girls," said Mr Miller, "have struck! They won't go on!"Mr Goble, with the despairing gesture of one who realizes theimpotence of words, dashed off for his favorite walk up stage. Wallytook out his watch.
　　"Six seconds and a bit," he said approvingly, as the managerreturned. "A very good performance. I should like to time you overthe course in running-kit."The interval for reflection, brief as it had been, had apparentlyenabled Mr Goble to come to a decision.
　　"Go," he said to the stage director, "and tell 'em that fool of aD'Arcy girl can play. We've got to get that curtain up.""Yes, Mr Goble."The stage director galloped off.
　　"Get back to your place," said the manager to Mr Saltzburg, "and playthe overture again.""Again!""Perhaps they didn't hear it the first two times," said Wally.
　　Mr Goble watched Mr Saltzburg out of sight. Then he turned to Wally.
　　"That damned Mariner girl was at the bottom of this! She started thewhole thing! She told me so. Well, I'll settle _her!_ She goestomorrow!""Wait a minute," said Wally. "Wait one minute! Bright as it is, thatidea is _out!_""What the devil has it got to do with you?""Only this, that, if you fire Miss Mariner, I take that neat scriptwhich I've prepared and I tear it into a thousand fragments. Or ninehundred. Anyway, I tear it. Miss Manner opens in New York, or I packup my work and leave."Mr Goble's green eyes glowed.
　　"Oh, you're stuck on her, are you?" he sneered. "I see!""Listen, dear heart," said Wally, gripping the manager's arm, "I cansee that you are on the verge of introducing personalities into thisvery pleasant little chat. Resist the impulse! Why not let your spinestay where it is instead of having it kicked up through your hat?
　　Keep to the main issue. Does Miss Mariner open in New York or doesshe lot?"There was a tense silence. Mr Goble permitted himself a swift reviewof his position. He would have liked to do many things to Wally,beginning with ordering him out of the theatre, but prudencerestrained him. He wanted Wally's work. He needed Wally in hisbusiness: and, in the theatre, business takes precedence of personalfeelings.
　　"All right!" he growled reluctantly.
　　"That's a promise," said Wally. "I'll see that you keep it." Helooked over his shoulder. The stage was filled with gayly-coloreddresses. The mutineers had returned to duty. "Well, I'll be gettingalong. I'm rather sorry we agreed to keep clear of personalities,because I should have liked to say that, if ever they have askunk-show at Madison Square Garden, you ought to enter--and win theblue ribbon. Still, of course, under our agreement my lips aresealed, and I can't even hint at it. Good-bye. See you later, Isuppose?"Mr Goble, giving a creditable imitation of a living statue, wasplucked from his thoughts by a hand upon his arm. It was Mr Miller,whose unfortunate ailment had prevented him from keeping abreast ofthe conversation.
　　"What did he say?" enquired Mr Miller, interested. "I didn't hearwhat he said!"Mr Goble made no effort to inform him.
Chapter 17
1.
　　Otis Pilkington had left Atlantic City two hours after the conferencewhich had followed the dress rehearsal, firmly resolved never to gonear "The Rose of America" again. He had been wounded in his finestfeelings. There had been a moment, when Mr Goble had given him thechoice between having the piece rewritten and cancelling theproduction altogether, when he had inclined to the heroic course. Butfor one thing, Mr Pilkington would have defied the manager, refusedto allow his script to be touched, and removed the play from hishands. That one thing was the fact that, up to the day of the dressrehearsal, the expenses of the production had amounted to theappalling sum of thirty-two thousand eight hundred and fifty-ninedollars, sixty-eight cents, all of which had to come out of MrPilkington's pocket. The figures, presented to him in a neatlytypewritten column stretching over two long sheets of paper, hadstunned him. He had had no notion that musical plays cost so much.
　　The costumes alone had come to ten thousand six hundred andsixty-three dollars and fifty cents, and somehow that odd fifty centsannoyed Otis Pilkington as much as anything on the list. A darksuspicion that Mr Goble, who had seen to all the executive end of thebusiness, had a secret arrangement with the costumer whereby hereceived a private rebate, deepened his gloom. Why, for ten thousandsix hundred and sixty-three dollars and fifty cents you could dressthe whole female population of New York State and have a bit leftover for Connecticut. So thought Mr Pilkington, as he read the badnews in the train. He only ceased to brood upon the high cost ofcostuming when in the next line but one there smote his eye an itemof four hundred and ninety-eight dollars for "Clothing." Clothing!
　　Weren't costumes clothing? Why should he have to pay twice over forthe same thing? Mr Pilkington was just raging over this, whensomething lower down in the column caught his eye. It was thewords:--Clothing . . . 187.45At this Otis Pilkington uttered a stifled cry, so sharp and soanguished that an old lady in the next seat, who was drinking a glassof milk, dropped it and had to refund the railway company thirty-fivecents for breakages. For the remainder of the journey she sat withone eye warily on Mr Pilkington, waiting for his next move.
　　This misadventure quieted Otis Pilkington down, if it did not soothehim. He returned blushingly to a perusal of his bill of costs, nearlyevery line of which contained some item that infuriated and dismayedhim. "Shoes" ($213.50) he could understand, but what on earth was"Academy. Rehl. $105.50"? What was "Cuts . . . $15"? And what in thename of everything infernal was this item for "Frames," in whichmysterious luxury he had apparently indulged to the extent ofninety-four dollars and fifty cents? "Props" occurred on the list nofewer than seventeen times. Whatever his future, at whateverpoor-house he might spend his declining years, he was supplied withenough props to last his lifetime.
　　Otis Pilkington stared blankly at the scenery that fitted past thetrain winds. (Scenery! There had been two charges for scenery!
　　"Friedmann, Samuel . . . Scenery . . . $3711" and "Unitt and Wickes. . . Scenery . . . $2120"). He was suffering the torments of theruined gamester at the roulette-table. Thirty-two thousand eighthundred and fifty-nine dollars, sixty-eight cents! And he was out ofpocket ten thousand in addition from the check he had handed over twodays ago to Uncle Chris as his share of the investment of startingJill in the motion-pictures. It was terrible! It deprived one of thepower of thought.
　　The power of thought, however, returned to Mr Pilkington almostimmediately: for, remembering suddenly that Roland Trevis had assuredhim that no musical production, except one of those elaborategirl-shows with a chorus of ninety, could possibly cost more thanfifteen thousand dollars at an outside figure, he began to thinkabout Roland Trevis, and continued to think about him until the trainpulled into the Pennsylvania Station.
　　For a week or more the stricken financier confined himself mostly tohis rooms, where he sat smoking cigarettes, gazing at Japaneseprints, and trying not to think about "props" and "rehl." Then,gradually, the almost maternal yearning to see his brain-child oncemore, which can never be wholly crushed out of a young dramatist,returned to him--faintly at first, then getting stronger by degreestill it could no longer be resisted. True, he knew that when hebeheld it, the offspring of his brain would have been mangled almostout of recognition, but that did not deter him. The mother loves hercrippled child, and the author of a musical fantasy loves his musicalfantasy, even if rough hands have changed it into a musical comedyand all that remains of his work is the opening chorus and a scenewhich the assassins have overlooked at the beginning of act two. OtisPilkington, having instructed his Japanese valet to pack a few simplenecessaries in a suitcase, took a cab to the Grand Central Stationand caught an afternoon train for Rochester, where his recollectionof the route planned for the tour told him "The Rose of America"would now be playing.
　　Looking into his club on the way, to cash a check, the first personhe encountered was Freddie Rooke.
　　"Good gracious!" said Otis Pilkington. "What are you doing here?"Freddie looked up dully from his reading. The abrupt stoppage of hisprofessional career--his life-work, one might almost say--had leftFreddie at a very loose end: and so hollow did the world seem to himat the moment, so uniformly futile all its so-called allurements,that, to pass the time, he had just been trying to read the _NationalGeographic Magazine_.
　　"Hullo!" he said. "Well, might as well be here as anywhere, what?" hereplied to the other's question.
　　"But why aren't you playing?""They sacked me!" Freddie lit a cigarette in the sort of way in whichthe strong, silent, middle-aged man on the stage lights his at theend of act two when he has relinquished the heroine to his youthfulrival. "They've changed my part to a bally Scotchman! Well, I mean tosay, I couldn't play a bally Scotchman!"Mr Pilkington groaned in spirit. Of all the characters in his musicalfantasy on which he prided himself, that of Lord Finchley was hispet. And he had been burked, murdered, blotted out, in order to makeroom for a bally Scotchman!
　　"The character's called 'The McWhustle of McWhustle' now!" saidFreddie sombrely.
　　The McWhustle of McWhustle! Mr Pilkington almost abandoned his tripto Rochester on receiving this devastating piece of information.
　　"He comes on in act one in kilts!""In kilts! At Mrs Stuyvesant van Dyke's lawn-party! On Long Island!""It isn't Mrs Stuyvesant van Dyke any longer, either," said Freddie.
　　"She's been changed to the wife of a pickle manufacturer.""A pickle manufacturer!""Yes. They said it ought to be a comedy part."If agony had not caused Mr Pilkington to clutch for support at theback of a chair, he would undoubtedly have wrung his hands.
　　"But it was a comedy part!" he wailed. "It was full of the subtlest,most delicate satire on Society. They were delighted with it atNewport! Oh, this is too much! I shall make a strong protest! I shallinsist on these parts being kept as I wrote them! I shall . . . Imust be going at once, or I shall miss my train." He paused at thedoor. "How was business in Baltimore?""Rotten!" said Freddie, and returned to his _National GeographicMagazine_.
　　Otis Pilkington tottered into his cab. He was shattered by what hehad heard. They had massacred his beautiful play, and, doing so, hadnot even made a success of it by their own sordid commercial lights.
　　Business at Baltimore had been rotten! That meant more expense,further columns of figures with "frames" and "rehl" in front of them!
　　He staggered into the station.
　　"Hey!" cried the taxi-driver.
　　Otis Pilkington turned.
　　"Sixty-five cents, mister, if you please! Forgetting I'm not yourprivate shovoor, wasn't you?"Mr Pilkington gave him a dollar. Money--money! Life was just one longround of paying out and paying out.
　　2.
　　The day which Mr Pilkington had selected for his visit to theprovinces was a Tuesday. "The Rose of America" had opened atRochester on the previous night, after a week at Atlantic City in itsoriginal form and a week at Baltimore in what might be called itssecond incarnation. Business had been bad in Atlantic City and nobetter in Baltimore, and a meager first-night house at Rochester hadgiven the piece a cold reception, which had put the finishing touchesto the depression of the company in spite of the fact that theRochester critics, like those of Baltimore, had written kindly of theplay. One of the maxims of the theatre is that "out-of-town noticesdon't count," and the company had refused to be cheered by them.
　　It is to be doubted, however, if even crowded houses would havearoused much response from the principals and chorus of "The Rose ofAmerica." For two weeks without a break they had been working underforced draught, and they were weary in body and spirit. The newprincipals had had to learn parts in exactly half the time usuallygiven for that purpose, and the chorus, after spending five weeksassimilating one set of steps and groupings, had been compelled toforget them and rehearse an entirely new set. From the morning afterthe first performance at Atlantic City, they had not left the theatreexcept for sketchy half-hour meals.
　　Jill, standing listlessly in the wings while the scene-shiftersarranged the second act set, was aware of Wally approaching from thedirection of the pass-door.
　　"Miss Mariner, I believe?" said Wally. "I suppose you know you lookperfectly wonderful in that dress? All Rochester's talking about it,and there is some idea of running excursion trains from Troy andUtica. A great stir it has made!"Jill smiled. Wally was like a tonic to her during these days ofoverwork. He seemed to be entirely unaffected by the generaldepression, a fact which he attributed himself to the happy accidentof being in a position to sit back and watch the others toil. But inreality Jill knew that he was working as hard as any one. He wasworking all the time, changing scenes, adding lines, tinkering withlyrics, smoothing over principals whose nerves had become strained bythe incessant rehearsing, keeping within bounds Mr Goble's passionfor being the big noise about the theatre. His cheerfulness was dueto the spirit that was in him, and Jill appreciated it. She had cometo feel very close to Wally since the driving rush of making over"The Rose of America" had begun.
　　"They seemed quite calm tonight," she said. "I believe half of themwere asleep.""They're always like that in Rochester. They cloak their deeperfeelings. They wear the mask. But you can tell from the glassy lookin their eyes that they are really seething inwardly. But what I cameround about was--(a)--to give you this letter . . ."Jill took the letter, and glanced at the writing. It was from UncleChris. She placed it on the axe over the fire-buckets for perusallater.
　　"The man at the box-office gave it to me," said Wally, "when I lookedin there to find out how much money there was in the house tonight.
　　The sum was so small that he had to whisper it.""I'm afraid the piece isn't a success.""Nonsense! Of course it is! We're doing fine. That brings me tosection (b) of my discourse. I met poor old Pilkington in the lobby,and he said exactly what you have just said, only at greater length.""Is Mr Pilkington here?""He appears to have run down on the afternoon train to have a look atthe show. He is catching the next train back to New York! Whenever Imeet him, he always seems to be dashing off to catch the next trainback to New York! Poor chap! Have you ever done a murder? If youhaven't, don't! I know exactly what it feels like, and it feelsrotten! After two minutes conversation with Pilkington, I couldsympathize with Macbeth when he chatted with Banquo. He said I hadkilled his play. He nearly wept, and he drew such a moving picture ofa poor helpless musical fantasy being lured into a dark alley bythugs and there slaughtered that he almost had me in tears too. Ifelt like a beetle-browed brute with a dripping knife and handsimbrued with innocent gore.""Poor Mr Pilkington!""Once more you say exactly what he said, only more crisply. Icomforted him as well as I could, told him all for the best and soon, and he flung the box-office receipts in my face and said that thepiece was as bad a failure commercially as it was artistically. Icouldn't say anything to that, seeing what a house we've got tonight,except to bid him look out to the horizon where the sun will shortlyshine. In other words, I told him that business was about to buck upand that later on he would be going about the place with a sprainedwrist from clipping coupons. But he refused to be cheered, cursed mesome more for ruining his piece, and ended by begging me to buy hisshare of it cheap.""You aren't going to?""No, I am not--but simply and solely for the reason that, after thatfiasco in London, I raised my right hand--thus--and swore an oaththat never, as long as I lived, would I again put up a cent for aproduction, were it the most obvious cinch on earth. I'm gun-shy. Butif he does happen to get hold of any one with a sporting dispositionand a few thousands to invest, that person will make a fortune. Thispiece is going to be a gold-mine."Jill looked at him in surprise. With anybody else but Wally she wouldhave attributed this confidence to author's vanity. But with Wally,she felt, the fact that the piece, as played now, was almost entirelyhis own work did not count. He viewed it dispassionately, and shecould not understand why, in the face of half-empty houses, he shouldhave such faith in it.
　　"But what makes you think so? We've been doing awfully badly so far."Wally nodded.
　　"And we shall do awfully badly in Syracuse the last half of thisweek. And why? For one thing, because the show isn't a show at all atpresent. That's what you can't get these fatheads like Goble tounderstand. All they go by is the box-office. Why should people flockto pay for seats for what are practically dress rehearsals of anunknown play? Half the principals have had to get up in their partsin two weeks, and they haven't had time to get anything out of them.
　　They are groping for their lines all the time. The girls can't letthemselves go in the numbers, because they are wondering if they aregoing to remember the steps. The show hasn't had time to clicktogether yet. It's just ragged. Take a look at it in another twoweeks! I _know!_ I don't say musical comedy is a very lofty form ofart, but still there's a certain amount of science about it. If yougo in for it long enough, you learn the tricks, and take it from methat if you have a good cast and some catchy numbers, it's almostimpossible not to have a success. We've got an excellent cast now,and the numbers are fine. The thing can't help being a hit.
　　"There's another thing to think of. It so happens that we shall gointo New York with practically nothing against us. Usually you havehalf a dozen musical successes to compete with, but just at themoment there's nothing. But the chief reason for not beingdiscouraged by bad houses so far is that we've been playing badtowns. Every town on the road has its special character. Some aregood show-towns, others are bad. Nobody knows why. Detroit will takeanything. So will Washington. Whereas Cincinnati wants something veryspecial. Where have we been? Atlantic City, Baltimore, and here.
　　Atlantic City is a great place to play in the summer and for a coupleof weeks round about Easter. Also at Christmas. But for the rest ofthe year, no. Too many new shows are tried out there. It makes theinhabitants wary. Baltimore is good for a piece with a New Yorkreputation, but they don't want new pieces. Rochester and Syracuseare always bad. 'Follow the Girl' died a hideous death in Rochester,and it went on and played two years in New York and one in London. Itell you--as I tried to tell Pilkington, only he wouldn'tlisten--that this show is all right. There's a fortune in it forsomebody. But I suppose Pilkington is now sitting in the smoking-carof an east-bound train, trying to get the porter to accept his sharein the piece instead of a tip!"If Otis Pilkington was not actually doing that, he was doingsomething like it. Sunk in gloom, he bumped up and down on anuncomfortable seat, wondering why he had ever taken the trouble tomake the trip to Rochester. He had found exactly what he had expectedto find, a mangled caricature of his brain-child playing to a househalf empty and wholly indifferent. The only redeeming feature, hethought vindictively, as he remembered what Roland Trevis had saidabout the cost of musical productions, was the fact that the newnumbers were undoubtedly better than those which his collaborator hadoriginally supplied.
　　And "The Rose of America," after a disheartening Wednesday matineeand a not much better reception on the Wednesday night, packed itsbaggage and moved to Syracuse, where it failed just as badly. Thenfor another two weeks it wandered on from one small town to another,up and down New York State and through the doldrums of Connecticut,tacking to and fro like a storm-battered ship, till finally theastute and discerning citizens of Hartford welcomed it with such areception that hardened principals stared at each other in a wildsurmise, wondering if these things could really be: and a wearychorus forgot its weariness and gave encore after encore with a snapand vim which even Mr Johnson Miller was obliged to own approximatedto something like it. Nothing to touch the work of his choruses ofthe old days, of course, but nevertheless fair, quite fair.
　　The spirits of the company revived. Optimism reigned. Principalssmiled happily and said they had believed in the thing all along. Theladies and gentlemen of the ensemble chattered contentedly of ayear's run in New York. And the citizens of Hartford fought forseats, and, if they could not get seats, stood up at the back.
　　Of these things Otis Pilkington was not aware. He had sold hisinterest in the piece two weeks ago for ten thousand dollars to alawyer acting for some client unknown, and was glad to feel that hehad saved something out of the wreck.
Chapter 18
1.
　　The violins soared to one last high note: the bassoon uttered a finalmoan: the pensive person at the end of the orchestra-pit, just underMrs Waddesleigh Peagrim's box, whose duty it was to slam the drum atstated intervals, gave that much-enduring instrument a concludingwallop; and, laying aside his weapons, allowed his thoughts to strayin the direction of cooling drinks. Mr Saltzburg lowered the batonwhich he had stretched quivering towards the roof and sat down andmopped his forehead. The curtain fell on the first act of "The Roseof America," and simultaneously tremendous applause broke out fromall over the Gotham Theatre, which was crammed from floor to roofwith that heterogeneous collection of humanity which makes up theaudience of a New York opening performance. The applause continuedlike the breaking of waves on a stony beach. The curtain rose andfell, rose and fell, rose and fell again. An usher, stealing down thecentral aisle, gave to Mr Saltzburg an enormous bouquet of AmericanBeauty roses, which he handed to the prima donna, who took it with abrilliant smile and a bow nicely combining humility with joyfulsurprise. The applause, which had begun to slacken, gathered strengthagain. It was a superb bouquet, nearly as big as Mr Saltzburghimself. It had cost the prima donna close on a hundred dollars thatmorning at Thorley's, but it was worth every cent of the money.
　　The house-lights went up. The audience began to move up the aisles tostretch its legs and discuss the piece during the intermission. Therewas a general babble of conversation. Here, a composer who had notgot an interpolated number in the show was explaining to anothercomposer who had not got an interpolated number in the show the exactsource from which a third composer who had got an interpolated numberin the show had stolen the number which he had got interpolated.
　　There, two musical comedy artistes who were temporarily resting wereagreeing that the prima donna was a dear thing but that, contrary asit was to their life-long policy to knock anybody, they must say thatshe was beginning to show the passage of the years a trifle and oughtto be warned by some friend that her career as an ingenue was a thingof the past. Dramatic critics, slinking in twos and threes into darkcorners, were telling each other that "The Rose of America" was justanother of those things but it had apparently got over. The generalpublic was of the opinion that it was a knock-out.
　　"Otie darling," said Mrs Waddesleigh Peagrim, leaning her ampleshoulder on Uncle Chris' perfectly fitting sleeve and speaking acrosshim to young Mr Pilkington, "I do congratulate you, dear. It'sperfectly delightful! I don't know when I have enjoyed a musicalpiece so much. Don't you think it's perfectly darling, Major Selby?""Capital!" agreed that suave man of the world, who had been bored asnear extinction as makes no matter. "Congratulate you, my boy!""You clever, clever thing!" said Mrs Peagrim, skittishly striking hernephew on the knee with her fan. "I'm proud to be your aunt! Aren'tyou proud to know him, Mr Rooke?"The fourth occupant of the box awoke with a start from the species ofstupor into which he had been plunged by the spectacle of theMcWhustle of McWhustle in action. There had been other dark momentsin Freddie's life. Once, back in London, Parker had sent him out intothe heart of the West End without his spats and he had not discoveredtheir absence till he was half-way up Bond Street. On anotheroccasion, having taken on a stranger at squash for a quid a game, hehad discovered too late that the latter was an ex-public-schoolchampion. He had felt gloomy when he had learned of the breaking-offof the engagement between Jill Mariner and Derek Underhill, and sadwhen it had been brought to his notice that London was giving Derekthe cold shoulder in consequence. But never in his whole career hadhe experienced such gloom and such sadness as had come to him thatevening while watching this unspeakable person in kilts murder thepart that should have been his. And the audience, confound them, hadroared with laughter at every damn silly thing the fellow had said!
　　"Eh?" he replied. "Oh, yes, rather, absolutely!""We're _all_ proud of you, Otie darling," proceeded Mrs Peagrim. "Thepiece is a wonderful success. You will make a fortune out of it. Andjust think, Major Selby, I tried my best to argue the poor, dear boyout of putting it on! I thought it was so rash to risk his money in atheatrical venture. But then," said Mrs Peagrim in extenuation, "Ihad only seen the piece when it was done at my house at Newport, andof course it really was rather dreadful nonsense then! I might haveknown that you would change it a great deal before you put it on inNew York. As I always say, plays are not written, they are rewritten!
　　Why, you have improved this piece a hundred per cent, Otie! Iwouldn't know it was the same play!"She slapped him smartly once more with her fan, ignorant of thegashes she was inflicting. Poor Mr Pilkington was suffering twintorments, the torture of remorse and the agonized jealousy of theunsuccessful artist. It would have been bad enough to have to sit andwatch a large audience rocking in its seats at the slap-stick comedywhich Wally Mason had substituted for his delicate social satire:
　　but, had this been all, at least he could have consoled himself withthe sordid reflection that he, as owner of the piece, was going tomake a lot of money out of it. Now, even this material balm wasdenied him. He had sold out, and he was feeling like the man whoparts for a song with shares in an apparently goldless gold mine,only to read in the papers next morning that a new reef has beenlocated. Into each life some rain must fall. Quite a shower wasfalling now into young Mr. Pilkington's.
　　"Of course," went on Mrs Peagrim, "when the play was done at myhouse, it was acted by amateurs. And you know what amateurs are! Thecast tonight is perfectly splendid. I do think that Scotchman is themost killing creature! Don't you think he is wonderful, Mr. Rooke?"We may say what we will against the upper strata of Society, but itcannot be denied that breeding tells. Only by falling back forsupport on the traditions of his class and the solid support of agentle upbringing was the Last of the Rookes able to crush down thewords that leaped to his lips and to substitute for them a politelyconventional agreement. If Mr Pilkington was feeling like a tooimpulsive seller of gold-mines, Freddie's emotions were akin to thoseof the Spartan boy with the fox under his vest. Nothing butWinchester and Magdalen could have produced the smile which, thoughtwisted and confined entirely to his lips, flashed onto his face andoff again at his hostess' question.
　　"Oh, rather! Priceless!""Wasn't that part an Englishman before?" asked Mrs Peagrim. "Ithought so. Well, it was a stroke of genius changing it. ThisScotchman is too funny for words. And such an artist!"Freddie rose shakily. One can stand just so much.
　　"Think," he mumbled, "I'll be pushing along and smoking a cigarette."He groped his way to the door.
　　"I'll come with you, Freddie my boy," said Uncle Chris, who felt animperative need of five minutes' respite from Mrs Peagrim. "Let's getout into the air for a moment. Uncommonly warm it is here."Freddie assented. Air was what he felt he wanted most.
　　Left alone in the box with her nephew, Mrs Peagrim continued for somemoments in the same vein, innocently twisting the knife in the openwound. It struck her from time to time that darling Otie was perhapsa shade unresponsive, but she put this down to the nervous straininseparable from a first night of a young author's first play.
　　"Why," she concluded, "you will make thousands and thousands ofdollars out of this piece. I am sure it is going to be another 'MerryWidow.'""You can't tell from a first night audience," said Mr Pilkingtonsombrely, giving out a piece of theatrical wisdom he had picked up atrehearsals.
　　"Oh, but you can. It's so easy to distinguish polite applause fromthe real thing. No doubt many of the people down here have friends inthe company or other reasons for seeming to enjoy the play, but lookhow the circle and the gallery were enjoying it! You can't tell methat that was not genuine. They love it. How hard," she proceededcommiseratingly, "you must have worked, poor boy, during the tour onthe road to improve the piece so much! I never liked to say sobefore, but even you must agree with me now that that originalversion of yours, which was done down at Newport, was the mostterrible nonsense! And how hard the company must have worked, too!
　　Otie," cried Mrs Peagrim, aglow with the magic of a brilliant idea,"I will tell you what you must really do. You must give a supper anddance to the whole company on the stage tomorrow night after theperformance.""What!" cried Otis Pilkington, startled out of his lethargy by thisappalling suggestion. Was he, the man who, after planking downthirty-two thousand eight hundred and fifty-nine dollars, sixty-eightcents for "props" and "frames" and "rehl," had sold out for a paltryten thousand, to be still further victimized?
　　"They do deserve it, don't they, after working so hard?""It's impossible," said Otis Pilkington vehemently. "Out of thequestion.""But, Otie darling, I was talking to Mr Mason, when he came down toNewport to see the piece last summer, and he told me that themanagement nearly always gives a supper to the company, especially ifthey have had a lot of extra rehearsing to do.""Well, let Goble give them a supper if he wants to.""But you know that Mr Goble, though he has his name on the programmeas the manager, has really nothing to do with it. You own the piece,don't you?"For a moment Mr Pilkington felt an impulse to reveal all, butrefrained. He knew his Aunt Olive too well. If she found out that hehad parted at a heavy loss with this valuable property, her wholeattitude towards him would change,--or, rather, it would revert toher normal attitude, which was not unlike that of a severe nurse to aweak-minded child. Even in his agony there had been a certain faintconsolation, due to the entirely unwonted note of respect in thevoice with which she had addressed him since the fall of the curtain.
　　He shrank from forfeiting this respect, unentitled though he was toit.
　　"Yes," he said in his precise voice. "That, of course, is so.""Well, then!" said Mrs Peagrim.
　　"But it seems so unnecessary! And think what it would cost."This was a false step. Some of the reverence left Mrs Peagrim'svoice, and she spoke a little coldly. A gay and gallant spenderherself, she had often had occasion to rebuke a tendency toover-parsimony in her nephew.
　　"We must not be mean, Otie!" she said.
　　Mr Pilkington keenly resented her choice of pronouns. "We" indeed!
　　Who was going to foot the bill? Both of them, hand in hand, or healone, the chump, the boob, the easy mark who got this sort of thingwished on him!
　　"I don't think it would be possible to get the stage for asupper-party," he pleaded, shifting his ground. "Goble wouldn't giveit to us.""As if Mr Goble would refuse you anything after you have written awonderful success for his theatre! And isn't he getting his share ofthe profits? Directly after the performance, you must go round andask him. Of course he will be delighted to give you the stage. I willbe hostess," said Mrs. Peagrim radiantly. "And now, let me see, whomshall we invite?"Mr Pilkington stared gloomily at the floor, too bowed down now by hisweight of cares to resent the "we," which had plainly come to stay.
　　He was trying to estimate the size of the gash which thispreposterous entertainment would cleave in the Pilkington bank-roll.
　　He doubted if it was possible to go through with it under fivehundred dollars; and, if, as seemed only too probable, Mrs Peagrimtook the matter in hand and gave herself her head, it might get intofour figures.
　　"Major Selby, of course," said Mrs Peagrim musingly, with a cooingnote in her voice. Long since had that polished man of affairs made adeep impression upon her. "Of course Major Selby, for one. And MrRooke. Then there are one or two of my friends who would be hurt ifthey were left out. How about Mr Mason? Isn't he a friend of yours?"Mr Pilkington snorted. He had endured much and was prepared to enduremore, but he drew the line at squandering his money on the man whohad sneaked up behind his brain-child with a hatchet and chopped itsprecious person into little bits.
　　"He is _not_ a friend of mine," he said stiffly, "and I do not wishhim to be invited!"Having attained her main objective, Mrs Peagrim was prepared to yieldminor points.
　　"Very well, if you do not like him," she said. "But I thought he wasquite an intimate of yours. It was you who asked me to invite him toNewport last summer.""Much," said Mr Pilkington coldly, "has happened since last summer.""Oh, very well," said Mrs Peagrim again. "Then we will not include MrMason. Now, directly the curtain has fallen, Otie dear, pop rightround and find Mr Goble and tell him what you want."2.
　　It is not only twin-souls in this world who yearn to meet each other.
　　Between Otis Pilkington and Mr Goble there was little in common, yet,at the moment when Otis set out to find Mr Goble, the thing which MrGoble desired most in the world was an interview with Otis. Since theend of the first act, the manager had been in a state of mentalupheaval. Reverting to the gold-mine simile again, Mr Goble was inthe position of a man who has had a chance of purchasing such a mineand now, learning too late of the discovery of the reef, is feelingthe truth of the poet's dictum that of all sad words of tongue or penthe saddest are these--"It might have been." The electric success of"The Rose of America" had stunned Mr Goble: and, realizing, as hedid, that he might have bought Otis Pilkington's share dirt cheap atalmost any point of the preliminary tour, he was having a bad halfhour with himself. The only ray in the darkness which brooded on hisindomitable soul was the thought that it might still be possible, bygetting hold of Mr Pilkington before the notices appeared and shakinghis head sadly and talking about the misleading hopes which youngauthors so often draw from an enthusiastic first-night reception andimpressing upon him that first-night receptions do not deceive yourexpert who has been fifteen years in the show-business and mentioninggloomily that he had heard a coupla the critics roastin' the show tobeat the band . . . by doing all these things, it might still bepossible to depress Mr Pilkington's young enthusiasm and induce himto sell his share at a sacrifice price to a great-hearted friend whodidn't think the thing would run a week but was willing to buy as asporting speculation, because he thought Mr Pilkington a good kid andafter all these shows that flop in New York sometimes have a chanceon the road.
　　Such were the meditations of Mr Goble, and, on the final fall of thecurtain amid unrestrained enthusiasm on the part of the audience, hehad despatched messengers in all directions with instructions to findMr Pilkington and conduct him to the presence. Meanwhile, he waitedimpatiently on the empty stage.
　　The sudden advent of Wally Mason, who appeared at this moment, upsetMr Goble terribly. Wally was a factor in the situation which ho hadnot considered. An infernal, tactless fellow, always trying to makemischief and upset honest merchants, Wally, if present at theinterview with Otis Pilkington, would probably try to act inrestraint of trade and would blurt out some untimely truth about theprospects of the piece. Not for the first time, Mr Goble wished Wallya sudden stroke of apoplexy.
　　"Went well, eh?" said Wally amiably. He did not like Mr Goble, but onthe first night of a successful piece personal antipathies may besunk. Such was his effervescent good-humor at the moment that he wasprepared to treat Mr Goble as a man and a brother.
　　"H'm!" replied Mr Goble doubtfully, paving the way.
　　"What are you h'ming about?" demanded Wally, astonished. "The thing'sa riot.""You never know," responded Mr Goble in the minor key.
　　"Well!" Wally stared. "I don't know what more you want. The audiencesat up on its hind legs and squealed, didn't they?""I've an idea," said Mr Goble, raising his voice as the long form ofMr Pilkington crossed the stage towards them, "that the critics willroast it. If you ask _me_," he went on loudly, "it's just the sort ofshow the critics will pan the life out of. I've been fifteen years inthe . . .""Critics!" cried Wally. "Well, I've just been talking to Alexander ofthe _Times_, and he said it was the best musical piece he had everseen and that all the other men he had talked to thought the same."Mr Goble turned a distorted face to Mr Pilkington. He wished thatWally would go. But Wally, he reflected bitterly, was one of thosemen who never go. He faced Mr Pilkington and did the best he could.
　　"Of course it's got a _chance_," he said gloomily. "Any show has gota _chance!_ But I don't know . . . I don't know . . ."Mr Pilkington was not interested in the future prospects of "The Roseof America." He had a favor to ask, and he wanted to ask it, have itrefused if possible, and get away. It occurred to him that, bysubstituting for the asking of a favor a peremptory demand, he mightsave himself a thousand dollars.
　　"I want the stage after the performance tomorrow night, for a supperto the company," he said brusquely.
　　He was shocked to find Mr Goble immediately complaisant.
　　"Why, sure," said Mr Goble readily. "Go as far as you like!" He tookMr Pilkington by the elbow and drew him up-stage, lowering his voiceto a confidential undertone. "And now, listen," he said, "I'vesomething I want to talk to you about. Between you and I and thelamp-post, I don't think this show will last a month in New York. Itdon't add up right! There's something all wrong about it."Mr Pilkington assented with an emphasis which amazed the manager. "Iquite agree with you! If you had kept it the way it was originally . . .""Too late for that!" sighed Mr Goble, realizing that his star was inthe ascendant. He had forgotten for the moment that Mr Pilkington wasan author. "We must make the best of a bad job! Now, you're a goodkid and I wouldn't like you to go around town saying that I had letyou in. It isn't business, maybe, but, just because I don't want youto have any kick coming, I'm ready to buy your share of the thing andcall it a deal. After all, it may get money on the road. It ain'tlikely, but there's a chance, and I'm willing to take it. Well,listen, I'm probably robbing myself, but I'll give you fifteenthousand, if you want to sell."A hated voice spoke at his elbow.
　　"I'll make you a better offer than that," said Wally. "Give me yourshare of the show for three dollars in cash and I'll throw in a pairof sock-suspenders and an Ingersoll. Is it a go?"Mr Goble regarded him balefully.
　　"Who told you to butt in?" he enquired sourly.
　　"Conscience!" replied Wally. "Old Henry W. Conscience! I refuse tostand by and see the slaughter of the innocents. Why don't you waittill he's dead before you skin him!" He turned to Mr Pilkington.
　　"Don't you be a fool!" he said earnestly. "Can't you see the thing isthe biggest hit in years? Do you think Jesse James here would beoffering you a cent for your share if he didn't know there was afortune in it? Do you imagine . . . ?""It is immaterial to me," interrupted Otis Pilkington loftily, "whatMr Goble offers. I have already sold my interest!""What!" cried Mr Goble.
　　"When?" cried Wally.
　　"I sold it half way through the road-tour," said Mr Pilkington, "to alawyer, acting on behalf of a client whose name I did not learn."In the silence which followed this revelation, another voice spoke.
　　"I should like to speak to you for a moment, Mr Goble, if I may." Itwas Jill, who had joined the group unperceived.
　　Mr Goble glowered at Jill, who met his gaze composedly.
　　"I'm busy!" snapped Mr Goble. "See me tomorrow!""I would prefer to see you now.""You would prefer!" Mr Goble waved his hands despairingly, as ifcalling on heaven to witness the persecution of a good man.
　　Jill exhibited a piece of paper stamped with the letter-heading ofthe management.
　　"It's about this," she said. "I found it in the box as I was goingout.""What's that?""It seems to be a fortnight's notice.""And that," said Mr Goble, "is what it _is!_"Wally uttered an exclamation.
　　"Do you mean to say . . . ?""Yes, I do!" said the manager, turning on him. He felt that he hadout-maneuvred Wally. "I agreed to let her open in New York, and she'sdone it, hasn't she? Now she can get out. I don't want her. Iwouldn't have her if you paid me. She's a nuisance in the company,always making trouble, and she can go.""But I would prefer not to go," said Jill.
　　"You would prefer!" The phrase infuriated Mr Goble. "And what haswhat you would prefer got to do with it?""Well, you see," said Jill, "I forgot to tell you before, but I ownthe piece!"3.
　　Mr Goble's jaw fell. He had been waving his hands in another spaciousgesture, and he remained frozen with out-stretched arms, like asemaphore. This evening had been a series of shocks for him, but thiswas the worst shock of all.
　　"You--what!" he stammered.
　　"I own the piece," repeated Jill. "Surely that gives me authority tosay what I want done and what I don't want done."There was a silence. Mr Goble, who was having difficulty with hisvocal chords, swallowed once or twice. Wally and Mr Pilkington stareddumbly. At the back of the stage, a belated scene-shifter, homewardbound, was whistling as much as he could remember of the refrain of apopular song.
　　"What do you mean you own the piece?" Mr Goble at length gurgled.
　　"I bought it.""You bought it!""I bought Mr Pilkington's share through a lawyer for ten thousanddollars.""Ten thousand dollars! Where did you get ten thousand dollars?" Lightbroke upon Mr Goble. The thing became clear to him. "Damn it!" hecried. "I might have known you had some man behind you! You'd neverhave been so darned fresh if you hadn't had some John in thebackground, paying the bills! Well, of all the . . ."He broke off abruptly, not because he had said all that he wished tosay, for he had only touched the fringe of his subject, but becauseat this point Wally's elbow smote him in the parts about the thirdbutton of his waistcoat and jarred all the breath out of him.
　　"Be quiet!" said Wally dangerously. He turned to Jill. "Jill, youdon't mind telling me how you got ten thousand dollars, do you?""Of course not, Wally. Uncle Chris sent it to me. Do you remembergiving me a letter from him at Rochester? The check was in that."Wally stared.
　　"Your uncle! But he hasn't any money!""He must have made it somehow.""But he couldn't! How could he?"Otis Pilkington suddenly gave tongue. He broke in on them with a loudnoise that was half a snort and half a yell. Stunned by theinformation that it was Jill who had bought his share in the piece,Mr Pilkington's mind had recovered slowly and then had begun to workwith a quite unusual rapidity. During the preceding conversation hehad been doing some tense thinking, and now he saw all.
　　"It's a swindle! It's a deliberate swindle!" shrilled Mr Pilkington.
　　The tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles flashed sparks. "I've been made afool of! I've been swindled! I've been robbed!"Jill regarded him with wide eyes.
　　"What do you mean?""You know what I mean!""I certainly do not! You were perfectly willing to sell the piece.""I'm not talking about that! You know what I mean! I've been robbed!"Wally snatched at his arm as it gyrated past him in a gesture ofanguish which rivalled the late efforts in that direction of MrGoble, who was now leaning against the safety-curtain trying to gethis breath back.
　　"Don't be a fool," said Wally curtly. "Talk sense! You know perfectlywell that Miss Mariner wouldn't swindle you.""She may not have been in it," conceded Mr Pilkington. "I don't knowwhether she was or not. But that uncle of her swindled me out of tenthousand dollars! The smooth old crook!""Don't talk like that about Uncle Chris!" said Jill, her eyesflashing. "Tell me what you mean.""Yes, come on, Pilkington," said Wally grimly. "You've beenscattering some pretty serious charges about. Let's hear what youbase them on. Be coherent for a couple of seconds."Mr Goble filled his depleted lungs.
　　"If you ask me . . ." he began.
　　"We don't," said Wally curtly. "This has nothing to do with you.
　　Well," he went on, "we're waiting to hear what this is all about."Mr Pilkington gulped. Like most men of weak intellect who are preyedon by the wolves of the world, he had ever a strong distaste foradmitting that he had been deceived. He liked to regard himself as ashrewd young man who knew his way about and could take care ofhimself.
　　"Major Selby," he said, adjusting his spectacles, which emotion hadcaused to slip down his nose, "came to me a few weeks ago with aproposition. He suggested the formation of a company to start MissMariner in the motion-pictures.""What!" cried Jill.
　　"In the motion-pictures," repeated Mr Pilkington. "He wished to knowif I cared to advance any capital towards the venture. I thought itover carefully and decided that I was favorably disposed towards thescheme. I . . ." Mr Pilkington gulped again. "I gave him a check forten thousand dollars!""Of all the fools!" said Mr Goble with a sharp laugh. He caughtWally's eye and subsided once more.
　　Mr Pilkington's fingers strayed agitatedly to his spectacles.
　　"I may have been a fool," he cried shrilly, "though I was perfectlywilling to risk the money, had it been applied to the object forwhich I gave it. But when it comes to giving ten thousand dollarsjust to have it paid back to me in exchange for a very valuablepiece, of theatrical property . . . my own money . . . handed back tome . . . !"Words failed Mr Pilkington.
　　"I've been deliberately swindled!" he added after a moment, harkingback to the main motive.
　　Jill's heart was like lead. She could not doubt for an instant thetruth of what the victim had said. Woven into every inch of thefabric, plainly hall-marked on its surface, she could perceive thesignature of Uncle Chris. If he had come and confessed to herhimself, she could not have been more certain that he had actedprecisely as Mr Pilkington had charged. There was that sameimpishness, that same bland unscrupulousness, that same patheticdesire to do her a good turn however it might affect anybody elsewhich, if she might compare the two things, had caused him to passher off on unfortunate Mr Mariner of Brookport as a girl of wealthwith tastes in the direction of real estate.
　　Wally was not so easily satisfied.
　　"You've no proof whatever . . ."Jill shook her head.
　　"It's true, Wally. I know Uncle Chris. It must be true.""But, Jill . . . !""It must be. How else could Uncle Chris have got the money?"Mr Pilkington, much encouraged by this ready acquiescence in histheories, got under way once more.
　　"The man's a swindler! A swindler! He's robbed me! I have beenrobbed! He never had any intention of starting a motion-picturecompany. He planned it all out . . . !"Jill cut into the babble of his denunciations. She was sick at heart,and she spoke almost listlessly.
　　"Mr Pilkington!" The victim stopped. "Mr Pilkington, if what you sayis true, and I'm afraid there is no doubt that it is, the only thingI can do is to give you back your property. So will you please try tounderstand that everything is just as it was before you gave my unclethe money. You've got back your ten thousand dollars and you've gotback your piece, so there's nothing more to talk about."Mr Pilkington, dimly realizing that the financial aspect of theaffair had been more or less satisfactorily adjusted was neverthelessconscious of a feeling that he was being thwarted. He had much moreto say about Uncle Chris and his methods of doing business, and itirked him to be cut short like this.
　　"Yes, but I do think. . . . That's all very well, but I have by nomeans finished . . .""Yes, you have," said Wally.
　　"There's nothing more to talk about," repeated Jill. "I'm sorry thisshould have happened, but you've nothing to complain about now, haveyou? Good night."And she turned quickly away, and walked towards the door.
　　"But I hadn't _finished!_" wailed Mr Pilkington, clutching at Wally.
　　He was feeling profoundly aggrieved. If it is bad to be all dressedup and no place to go, it is almost worse to be full of talk and tohave no one to talk it to. Otis Pilkington had at least anothertwenty minutes of speech inside him on the topic of Uncle Chris, andWally was the nearest human being with a pair of ears.
　　Wally was in no mood to play the part of confidant. He pushed MrPilkington earnestly in the chest and raced after Jill. MrPilkington, with the feeling that the world was against him, totteredback into the arms of Mr Goble, who had now recovered his breath andwas ready to talk business.
　　"Have a good cigar," said Mr Goble, producing one. "Now, see here,let's get right down to it. If you'd care to sell out for twentythousand . . .""I would _not_ care to sell out for twenty thousand!" yelled theoverwrought Mr Pilkington. "I wouldn't sell out for a million! You'rea swindler! You want to rob me! You're a crook!""Yes, yes," assented Mr Goble gently. "But, all joking aside, supposeI was to go up to twenty-five thousand . . . ?" He twined his fingerslovingly in the slack of Mr Pilkington's coat. "Come now! You're agood kid! Shall we say twenty-five thousand?""We will _not_ say twenty-five thousand! Let me go!""Now, now, _now!_" pleaded Mr Goble. "Be sensible! don't get allworked up! Say, _do_ have a good cigar!""I _won't_ have a good cigar!" shouted Mr Pilkington.
　　He detached himself with a jerk, and stalked with long strides up thestage. Mr Goble watched him go with a lowering gaze. A heavy sense ofthe unkindness of fate was oppressing Mr Goble. If you couldn't gyp abone-headed amateur out of a piece of property, whom could you gyp?
　　Mr Goble sighed. It hardly seemed to him worth while going on.
　　4.
　　Out in the street Wally had overtaken Jill, and they faced oneanother in the light of a street lamp. Forty-first Street at midnightis a quiet oasis. They had it to themselves.
　　Jill was pale, and she was breathing quickly, but she forced a smile.
　　"Well, Wally," she said. "My career as a manager didn't last long,did it?""What are you going to do?"Jill looked down the street.
　　"I don't know," she said. "I suppose I shall have to start trying tofind something.""But . . ."Jill drew him suddenly into the dark alley-way leading to thestage-door of the Gotham Theatre's nearest neighbor: and, as she didso, a long, thin form, swathed in an overcoat and surmounted by anopera-hat, flashed past.
　　"I don't think I could have gone through another meeting with MrPilkington," said Jill. "It wasn't his fault, and he was quitejustified, but what he said about Uncle Chris rather hurt."Wally, who had ideas of his own similar to those of Mr Pilkington onthe subject of Uncle Chris and had intended to express them,prudently kept them unspoken.
　　"I suppose," he said, "there is no doubt . . . ?""There can't be. Poor Uncle Chris! He is like Freddie. He meanswell!"There was a pause. They left the alley and walked down the street.
　　"Where are you going now?" asked Wally.
　　"I'm going home.""Where's home?""Forty-ninth Street. I live in a boarding-house there." A suddenrecollection of the boarding-house at which she had lived in AtlanticCity smote Wally, and it turned the scale. He had not intended tospeak, but he could not help himself.
　　"Jill!" he cried. "It's no good. I must say it! I want to get you outof all this. I want to take care of you. Why should you go on livingthis sort of life, when. . . . Why won't you let me . . . ?"He stopped. Even as he spoke, he realized the futility of what he wassaying. Jill was not a girl to be won with words.
　　They walked on in silence for a moment. They crossed Broadway, noisywith night traffic, and passed into the stillness on the other side.
　　"Wally," said Jill at last.
　　She was looking straight in front of her. Her voice was troubled.
　　"Yes?"Jill hesitated.
　　"Wally, you wouldn't want me to marry you if you knew you weren't theonly man in the world that mattered to me, would you?"They had reached Sixth Avenue before Wally replied.
　　"No!" he said.
　　For an instant, Jill could not have said whether the feeling thatshot through her like the abrupt touching of a nerve was relief ordisappointment. Then suddenly she realized that it was disappointment.
　　It was absurd to her to feel disappointed, but at that moment shewould have welcomed a different attitude in him. If only this problemof hers could be taken forcefully out of her hands, what a relief itwould be. If only Wally, masterfully insistent, would batter down herhesitations and _grab_ her, knock her on the head and carry her offlike a caveman, care less about her happiness and concentrate on hisown, what a solution it would be. . . . But then he wouldn't be Wally.
　　. . . Nevertheless, Jill gave a little sigh. Her new life had changedher already. It had blunted the sharp edge of her independence.
　　Tonight she was feeling the need of some one to lean on--some onestrong and cosy and sympathetic who would treat her like a little girland shield her from all the roughness of life. The fighting spirit hadgone out of her, and she was no longer the little warrior facing theworld with a brave eye and a tilted chin. She wanted to cry and bepetted.
　　"No!" said Wally again. There had been the faintest suggestion of adoubt when he had spoken the word before, but now it shot out like abullet. "And I'll tell you why. I want _you_--and, if you married mefeeling like that, it wouldn't be you. I want Jill, the whole Jill,and nothing but Jill, and, if I can't have that, I'd rather not haveanything. Marriage isn't a motion-picture close-up with slow fade-outon the embrace. It's a partnership, and what's the good of apartnership if your heart's not in it? It's like collaborating with aman you dislike. . . . I believe you wish sometimes--not often,perhaps, but when you're feeling lonely and miserable--that I wouldpester and bludgeon you into marrying me. . . . What's the matter?"Jill had started. It was disquieting to have her thoughts read withsuch accuracy.
　　"Nothing," she said.
　　"It wouldn't be any good," Wally went on "because it wouldn't be_me_. I couldn't keep that attitude up, and I know I should hatemyself for ever having tried it. There's nothing in the world Iwouldn't do to help you, though I know it's no use offering to doanything. You're a fighter, and you mean to fight your own battle. Itmight happen that, if I kept after you and badgered you and naggedyou, one of these days, when you were feeling particularly all alonein the world and tired of fighting for yourself, you might consent tomarry me. But it wouldn't do. Even if you reconciled yourself to it,it wouldn't do. I suppose, the cave-woman sometimes felt ratherrelieved when everything was settled for her with a club, but I'msure the caveman must have had a hard time ridding himself of thethought that he had behaved like a cad and taken a mean advantage. Idon't want to feel like that. I couldn't make you happy if I feltlike that. Much better to have you go on regarding me as a friend . . .
　　knowing that, if ever your feelings do change, that I am right there,waiting.""But by that time _your_ feelings will have changed."Wally laughed.
　　"Never!""You'll meet some other girl . . .""I've met every girl in the world! None of them will do!" Thelightness came back into Wally's voice. "I'm sorry for the poorthings, but they won't do! Take 'em away! There's only one girl inthe world for me--oh, confound it! why is it that one always thinksin song-titles! Well, there it is. I'm not going to bother you. We'repals. And, as a pal, may I offer you my bank-roll?""No!" said Jill. She smiled up at him. "I believe you would give meyour coat if I asked you for it!"Wally stopped.
　　"Do you want it? Here you are!""Wally, behave! There's a policeman looking at you!""Oh, well, if you won't! It's a good coat, all the same."They turned the corner, and stopped before a brown-stone house, witha long ladder of untidy steps running up to the front door,"Is this where you live?" Wally asked. He looked at the gloomy placedisapprovingly. "You do choose the most awful places!""I don't choose them. They're thrust on me. Yes, this is where Ilive. If you want to know the exact room, it's the third window upthere over the front door. Well, good night.""Good night," said Wally. He paused. "Jill.""Yes?""I know it's not worth mentioning, and it's breaking our agreement tomention it, but you do understand, don't you?""Yes, Wally dear, I understand.""I'm round the corner, you know, waiting! And, if you ever do change,all you've got to do is just to come to me and say 'It's all right!'
　　. . ."Jill laughed a little shakily.
　　"That doesn't sound very romantic!""Not sound romantic! If you can think of any three words in thelanguage that sound more romantic, let me have them! Well, never mindhow they sound, just say them, and watch the result! But you must getto bed. Good night.""Good night, Wally."She passed in through the dingy door. It closed behind her, and Wallystood for some moments staring at it with a gloomy repulsion. Hethought he had never seen a dingier door.
　　Then he started to walk back to his apartment. He walked veryquickly, with clenched hands. He was wondering if after all there wasnot something to be said for the methods of the caveman when he wenta-wooing. Twinges of conscience the caveman may have had when all wasover, but at least he had established his right to look after thewoman he loved.
Chapter 19
1.
　　"They tell me . . . I am told . . . I am informed . . . No, onemoment, Miss Frisby."Mrs Peagrim wrinkled her fair forehead. It has been truly said thatthere is no agony like the agony of literary composition, and Mrs.
　　Peagrim was having rather a bad time getting the requisite snap andginger into her latest communication to the press. She bit her lip,and would have passed her twitching fingers restlessly through herhair but for the thought of the damage which such an action must doto her coiffure. Miss Frisby, her secretary, an anaemic and negativeyoung woman, waited patiently, pad on knee, and tapped her teeth withher pencil.
　　"Please do not make that tapping noise, Miss Frisby," said thesufferer querulously. "I cannot think. Otie, dear, can't you suggesta good phrase? You ought to be able to, being an author."Mr Pilkington, who was strewn over an arm-chair by the window, awokefrom his meditations, which, to judge from the furrow just above thebridge of his tortoiseshell spectacles and the droop of his weakchin, were not pleasant. It was the morning after the production of"The Rose of America," and he had passed a sleepless night, thinkingof the harsh words he had said to Jill. Could she ever forgive him?
　　Would she have the generosity to realize that a man ought not to beheld accountable for what he says in the moment when he discoversthat he has been cheated, deceived, robbed,--in a word, hornswoggled?
　　He had been brooding on this all night, and he wanted to go onbrooding now. His aunt's question interrupted his train of thought.
　　"Eh?" he said vaguely, gaping.
　　"Oh, don't be so absent-minded!" snapped Mrs Peagrim, notunjustifiably annoyed. "I am trying to compose a paragraph for thepapers about our party tonight, and I can't get the right phrase . . .
　　Read what you've written, Miss Frisby."Miss Frisby, having turned a pale eye on the pothooks and twiddleysin her note-book, translated them in a pale voice.
　　"'Surely of all the leading hostesses in New York Society there canbe few more versatile than Mrs Waddlesleigh Peagrim. I am amazedevery time I go to her delightful home on West End Avenue to see thescope and variety of her circle of intimates. Here you will see anambassador with a fever . . .'""With a _what?_" demanded Mrs Peagrim sharply.
　　"'Fever,' I thought you said," replied Miss Frisby stolidly. "I wrote'fever'.""'Diva.' Do use your intelligence, my good girl. Go on.""'Here you will see an ambassador with a diva from the opera,exchanging the latest gossip from the chancelleries for intimate newsof the world behind the scenes. There, the author of the latest noveltalking literature to the newest debutante. Truly one may say thatMrs Peagrim has revived the saloon.'"Mrs Peagrim bit her lip.
　　"'Salon'.""'Salon'," said Miss Frisby unemotionally. "'They tell me, I am told,I am informed . . .'" She paused. "That's all I have.""Scratch out those last words," said Mrs Peagrim irritably. "Youreally are hopeless, Miss Frisby! Couldn't you see that I had stoppeddictating and was searching for a phrase? Otie, what is a good phrasefor 'I am told'?"Mr Pilkington forced his wandering attention to grapple with theproblem.
　　"'I hear'," he suggested at length.
　　"Tchah!" ejaculated his aunt. Then her face brightened. "I have it.
　　Take dictation, please, Miss Frisby. 'A little bird whispers to methat there were great doings last night on the stage of the GothamTheatre after the curtain had fallen on "The Rose of America" which,as everybody knows, is the work of Mrs Peagrim's clever young nephew,Otis Pilkington.'" Mrs Peagrim shot a glance at her clever youngnephew, to see how he appreciated the boost, but Otis' thoughts werefar away once more. He was lying on his spine, brooding, brooding.
　　Mrs Peagrim resumed her dictation. "'In honor of the extraordinarysuccess of the piece, Mrs Peagrim, who certainly does nothing byhalves, entertained the entire company to a supper-dance after theperformance. A number of prominent people were among the guests, andMrs Peagrim was a radiant and vivacious hostess. She has never lookedmore charming. The high jinks were kept up to an advanced hour, andevery one agreed that they had never spent a more delightfulevening.' There! Type as many copies as are necessary, Miss Frisby,and send them out this afternoon with photographs."Miss Frisby having vanished in her pallid way, the radiant andvivacious hostess turned on her nephew again.
　　"I must say, Otie," she began complainingly, "that, for a man who hashad a success like yours, you are not very cheerful. I should havethought the notices of the piece would have made you the happiest manin New York."There was once a melodrama where the child of the persecuted heroineused to dissolve the gallery in tears by saying "Happiness? What _is_happiness, moth-aw?" Mr Pilkington did not use these actual words,but he reproduced the stricken infant's tone with great fidelity.
　　"Notices! What are notices to me?""Oh, don't be so affected!" cried Mrs Peagrim. "Don't pretend thatyou don't know every word of them by heart!""I have not seen the notices, Aunt Olive," said Mr Pilkington dully.
　　Mrs Peagrim looked at him with positive alarm. She had never beenoverwhelmingly attached to her long nephew, but since his rise tofame something resembling affection had sprung up in her, and hisattitude now disturbed her.
　　"You can't be well, Otie!" she said solicitously. "Are you ill?""I have a severe headache," replied the martyr. "I passed a wakefulnight.""Let me go and mix you a dose of the most wonderful mixture," saidMrs. Peagrim maternally. "Poor boy! I don't wonder, after all thenervousness and excitement . . . You sit quite still and rest. I willbe back in a moment."She bustled out of the room, and Mr Pilkington sagged back into hischair. He had hardly got his meditations going once more, when thedoor opened and the maid announced "Major Selby.""Good morning," said Uncle Chris breezily, sailing down the fairwaywith outstretched hand. "How are--oh!"He stopped abruptly, perceiving that Mrs Peagrim was not presentand--a more disturbing discovery--that Otis Pilkington was. It wouldbe exaggeration to say that Uncle Chris was embarrassed. Thatmaster-mind was never actually embarrassed. But his jauntinesscertainly ebbed a little, and he had to pull his mustache twicebefore he could face the situation with his customary _aplomb_. Hehad not expected to find Otis Pilkington here, and Otis was the lastman he wished to meet. He had just parted from Jill, who had beenrather plain-spoken with regard to the recent financial operations:
　　and, though possessed only of a rudimentary conscience, Uncle Chriswas aware that his next interview with young Mr Pilkington might havecertain aspects bordering on awkwardness and he would have liked timeto prepare a statement for the defence. However, here the man was,and the situation must be faced.
　　"Pilkington!" he cried. "My dear fellow! Just the man I wanted tosee! I'm afraid there has been a little misunderstanding. Of course,it has all been cleared up now, but still I must insist on making apersonal explanation, really I must insist. The whole matter was amost absurd misunderstanding. It was like this . . ."Here Uncle Chris paused in order to devote a couple of seconds tothought. He had said it was "like this," and he gave his mustacheanother pull as though he were trying to drag inspiration out of it.
　　His blue eyes were as frank and honest as ever, and showed no traceof the perplexity in his mind, but he had to admit to himself that,if he managed to satisfy his hearer that all was for the best andthat he had acted uprightly and without blame, he would be doingwell.
　　Fortunately, the commercial side of Mr Pilkington was entirelydormant this morning. The matter of the ten thousand dollars seemedtrivial to him in comparison with the weightier problems whichoccupied his mind.
　　"Have you seen Miss Mariner?" he asked eagerly.
　　"Yes. I have just parted from her. She was upset, poor girl, ofcourse, exceedingly upset."Mr Pilkington moaned hollowly.
　　"Is she very angry with me?"For a moment the utter inexplicability of the remark silenced UncleChris. Why Jill should be angry with Mr Pilkington for being robbedof ten thousand dollars, he could not understand, for Jill had toldhim nothing of the scene that had taken place on the previous night.
　　But evidently this point was to Mr Pilkington the nub of the matter,and Uncle Chris, like the strategist he was, rearranged his forces tomeet the new development.
　　"Angry?" he said slowly. "Well, of course . . ."He did not know what it was all about, but no doubt if he confinedhimself to broken sentences which meant nothing light would shortlybe vouchsafed to him.
　　"In the heat of the moment," confessed Mr Pilkington, "I'm afraid Isaid things to Miss Mariner which I now regret."Uncle Chris began to feel on solid ground again.
　　"Dear, dear!" he murmured regretfully.
　　"I spoke hastily.""Always think before you speak, my boy.""I considered that I had been cheated . . .""My dear boy!" Uncle Chris' blue eyes opened wide. "Please! Haven't Isaid that I could explain all that? It was a pure misunderstanding . . .""Oh, I don't care about that part of it . . .""Quite right," said Uncle Chris cordially. "Let bygones be bygones.
　　Start with a clean slate. You have your money back, and there's noneed to say another word about it. Let us forget it," he concludedgenerously. "And, if I have any influence with Jill, you may count onme to use it to dissipate any little unfortunate rift which may haveoccurred between you.""You think there's a chance that she might overlook what I said?""As I say, I will use any influence I may possess to heal the breach.
　　I like you, my boy. And I am sure that Jill likes you. She will makeallowances for any ill-judged remarks you may have uttered in amoment of heat."Mr Pilkington brightened, and Mrs Peagrim, returning with amedicine-glass, was pleased to see him looking so much better.
　　"You are a positive wizard, Major Selby," she said archly. "What haveyou been saying to the poor boy to cheer him up so? He has a badheadache this morning.""Headache?" said Uncle Chris, starting like a war-horse that hasheard the bugle. "I don't know if I have ever mentioned it, but _I_used to suffer from headaches at one time. Extraordinarily severeheadaches. I tried everything, until one day a man I knew recommendeda thing called--don't know if you have ever heard of it . . ."Mrs Peagrim, in her role of ministering angel, was engrossed with hererrand of mercy. She was holding the medicine-glass to MrPilkington's lips, and the seed fell on stony ground.
　　"Drink this, dear," urged Mrs Peagrim.
　　"Nervino," said Uncle Chris.
　　"There!" said Mrs Peagrim. "That will make you feel much better. Howwell you always look, Major Selby!""And yet at one time," said Uncle Chris perseveringly, "I was amartyr . . .""I can't remember if I told you last night about the party. We aregiving a little supper-dance to the company of Otie's play after theperformance this evening. Of course you will come?"Uncle Chris philosophically accepted his failure to secure the ear ofhis audience. Other opportunities would occur.
　　"Delighted," he said. "Delighted.""Quite a simple, bohemian little affair," proceeded Mrs Peagrim. "Ithought it was only right to give the poor things a little treatafter they have all worked so hard.""Certainly, certainly. A capital idea.""We shall be quite a small party. If I once started asking anybodyoutside our _real_ friends, I should have to ask everybody."The door opened.
　　"Mr Rooke," announced the maid.
　　Freddie, like Mr Pilkington, was a prey to gloom this morning. He hadread one or two of the papers, and they had been disgustingly lavishin their praise of The McWhustle of McWhustle. It made Freddiedespair of the New York press. In addition to this, he had been wokenup at seven o'clock, after going to sleep at three, by the ringing ofthe telephone and the announcement that a gentleman wished to seehim: and he was weighed down with that heavy-eyed languor which comesto those whose night's rest is broken.
　　"Why, how do you do, Mr Rooke!" said Mrs Peagrim.
　　"How-de-do," replied Freddie, blinking in the strong light from thewindow. "Hope I'm not barging in and all that sort of thing? I cameround about this party tonight, you know.""Oh, yes?""Was wondering," said Freddie, "if you would mind if I brought afriend of mine along? Popped in on me from England this morning. Atseven o'clock," said Freddie plaintively. "Ghastly hour, what! Didn'tdo a thing to the good old beauty sleep! Well, what I mean to say is,I'd be awfully obliged if you'd let me bring him along.""Why, of course," said Mrs Peagrim. "Any friend of yours, Mr Rooke . . .""Thanks awfully. Special reason why I'd like him to come, and allthat. He's a fellow named Underhill. Sir Derek Underhill. Been a palof mine for years and years."Uncle Chris started.
　　"Underhill! Is Derek Underhill in America?""Landed this morning. Routed me out of bed at seven o'clock.""Oh, do you know him, too, Major Selby?" said Mrs Peagrim. "Then I'msure he must be charming!""Charming," began Uncle Chris in measured tones, "is an adjectivewhich I cannot . . .""Well, thanks most awfully," interrupted Freddie. "It's fearfullygood of you to let me bring him along. I must be staggering off now.
　　Lot of things to do.""Oh, must you go already?""Absolutely must. Lot of things to do."Uncle Chris extended a hand to his hostess.
　　"I think I will be going along, too, Mrs Peagrim. I'll walk a fewyards with you, Freddie my boy. There are one or two things I wouldlike to talk over. Till tonight, Mrs Peagrim.""Till tonight, Major Selby." She turned to Mr Pilkington as the doorclosed. "What charming manners Major Selby has, So polished. A sortof old-world courtesy. So smooth!""Smooth," said Mr Pilkington dourly, "is right!"2.
　　Uncle Chris confronted Freddie sternly outside the front door.
　　"What does this mean? Good God, Freddie, have you no delicacy""Eh?" said Freddie blankly.
　　"Why are you bringing Underhill to this party? Don't you realize thatpoor Jill will be there? How do you suppose she will feel when shesees that blackguard again? The cad who threw her over and nearlybroke her heart!"Freddie's jaw fell. He groped for his fallen eyeglass.
　　"Oh, my aunt! Do you think she will be pipped?""A sensitive girl like Jill!""But, listen. Derek wants to marry her.""What!""Oh, absolutely. That's why he's come over."Uncle Chris shook his head.
　　"I don't understand this. I saw the letter myself which he wrote toher, breaking off the engagement.""Yes, but he's dashed sorry about all that now. Wishes he had neverbeen such a mug, and all that sort of thing. As a matter of fact,that's why I shot over here in the first place. As an ambassador,don't you know. I told Jill all about it directly I saw her, but sheseemed inclined to give it a miss rather, so I cabled old Derek topop here in person. Seemed to me, don't you know, that Jill might bemore likely to make it up and all that if she saw old Derek."Uncle Chris nodded, his composure restored.
　　"Very true. Yes, certainly, my boy, you acted most sensibly. Badly asUnderhill behaved, she undoubtedly loved him. It would be the bestpossible thing that could happen if they could be brought together.
　　It is my dearest wish to see Jill comfortably settled. I was halfhoping that she might marry young Pilkington.""Good God! The Pilker!""He is quite a nice young fellow," argued Uncle Chris. "None too manybrains, perhaps, but Jill would supply that deficiency. Still, ofcourse, Underhill would be much better.""She ought to marry someone," said Freddie earnestly. "I mean, allrot a girl like Jill having to knock about and rough it like this.""You're perfectly right.""Of course," said Freddie thoughtfully, "the catch in the wholedashed business is that she's such a bally independent sort of girl.
　　I mean to say, it's quite possible she may hand Derek the mitten, youknow.""In that case, let us hope that she will look more favorably on youngPilkington.""Yes," said Freddie. "Well, yes. But--well, I wouldn't call thePilker a very ripe sporting proposition. About sixty to one againstis the way I should figure it, if I were making a book. It may bejust because I'm feeling a bit pipped this morning--got turfed out ofbed at seven o'clock and all that--but I have an idea that she maygive both of them the old razz. May be wrong, of course.""Let us hope that you are, my boy," said Uncle Chris gravely. "For inthat case I should be forced into a course of action from which Iconfess that I shrink.""I don't follow.""Freddie, my boy, you are a very old friend of Jill's and I am heruncle. I feel that I can speak plainly to you. Jill is the dearestthing to me in the world. She trusted me, and I failed her. I wasresponsible for the loss of her money, and my one object in life isto see her by some means or other in a position equal to the one ofwhich I deprived her. If she marries a rich man, well and good. That,provided she marries him because she is fond of him, will be the verybest thing that can happen. But if she does not there is another way.
　　It may be possible for me to marry a rich woman."Freddie stopped, appalled.
　　"Good God! You don't mean . . . you aren't thinking of marrying MrsPeagrim!""I wouldn't have mentioned names, but, as you have guessed . . . Yes,if the worst comes to the worst, I shall make the supreme sacrifice.
　　Tonight will decide. Goodbye, my boy. I want to look in at my clubfor a few minutes. Tell Underhill that he has my best wishes.""I'll bet he has!" gasped Freddie.
Chapter 20
1.
　　It is safest for the historian, if he values accuracy, to wait till athing has happened before writing about it. Otherwise he may commithimself to statements which are not borne out by the actual facts.
　　Mrs Peagrim, recording in advance the success of her party at theGotham Theatre, had done this. It is true that she was a "radiant andvivacious hostess," and it is possible, her standard not being veryhigh, that she had "never looked more charming." But, when, she wenton to say that all present were in agreement that they had neverspent a more delightful evening, she deceived the public. UncleChris, for one; Otis Pilkington, for another, and Freddie Rooke, fora third, were so far from spending a delightful evening that theyfound it hard to mask their true emotions and keep a smiling face tothe world.
　　Otis Pilkington, indeed, found it impossible, and, ceasing to try,left early. Just twenty minutes after the proceedings had begun, heseized his coat and hat, shot out into the night, made off blindly upBroadway, and walked twice round Central Park before his feet gaveout and he allowed himself to be taken back to his apartment in ataxi. He tried to tell himself that this was only what he hadexpected, but was able to draw no consolation from the fact. He triedto tell himself that Jill might change her mind, but hope refused tostir. Jill had been very kind and very sweet and very regretful, butit was only too manifest that on the question of becoming Mrs OtisPilkington her mind was made up. She was willing to like him, to be asister to him, to watch his future progress with considerableinterest, but she would not marry him.
　　One feels sorry for Otis Pilkington in his hour of travail. This wasthe fifth or sixth time that this sort of thing had happened to him,and he was getting tired of it. If he could have looked into thefuture--five years almost to a day from that evening--and seenhimself walking blushfully down the aisle of St. Thomas' with RolandTrevis' sister Angela on his arm, his gloom might have beenlightened. More probably, however, it would have been increased. Atthe moment, Roland Trevis' sister Angela was fifteen, frivolous, andfreckled and, except that he rather disliked her and suspectedher--correctly--of laughing at him, amounted to just _nil_ in MrPilkington's life. The idea of linking his lot with hers would haveappalled him, enthusiastically though he was in favor of it fiveyears later.
　　However, Mr Pilkington was unable to look into the future, so hisreflections on this night of sorrow were not diverted from Jill. Hethought sadly of Jill till two-thirty, when he fell asleep in hischair and dreamed of her. At seven o'clock his Japanese valet, whohad been given the night off, returned home, found him, and gave himbreakfast. After which, Mr Pilkington went to bed, played three gamesof solitaire, and slept till dinner-time, when he awoke to take upthe burden of life again. He still brooded on the tragedy which hadshattered him. Indeed, it was only two weeks later, when at a dancehe was introduced to a red-haired girl from Detroit, that he reallygot over it.
　　* * *The news was conveyed to Freddie Rooke by Uncle Chris. Uncle Chris,with something of the emotions of a condemned man on the scaffoldwaiting for a reprieve, had watched Jill and Mr Pilkington go offtogether into the dim solitude at the back of the orchestra chairs,and, after an all too brief interval, had observed the latterwhizzing back, his every little movement having a meaning of itsown--and that meaning one which convinced Uncle Chris that Freddie,in estimating Mr Pilkington as a sixty to one chance, had not erredin his judgment of form.
　　Uncle Chris found Freddie in one of the upper boxes, talking to NellyBryant. Dancing was going on down on the stage, but Freddie, thoughnormally a young man who shook a skilful shoe, was in no mood fordancing tonight. The return to the scenes of his former triumphs andthe meeting with the companions of happier days, severed from him bya two-weeks' notice, had affected Freddie powerfully. Eyeing thehappy throng below, he experienced the emotions of that Peri who, inthe poem, "at the gate of Eden stood disconsolate."Excusing himself from Nelly and following Uncle Chris into thepassage-way outside the box, he heard the other's news listlessly. Itcame as no shock to Freddie. He had never thought Mr Pilkingtonanything to write home about, and had never supposed that Jill wouldaccept him. He said as much. Sorry for the chap in a way, and allthat, but had never imagined for an instant that he would click.
　　"Where is Underhill?" asked Uncle Chris, agitated.
　　"Derek? Oh, he isn't here yet.""But why isn't he here? I understood that you were bringing him withyou.""That was the scheme, but it seems he had promised some people he meton the boat to go to a theatre and have a bit of supper with themafterwards. I only heard about it when I got back this morning.""Good God, boy! Didn't you tell him that Jill would be here tonight?""Oh, rather. And he's coming on directly he can get away from thesepeople. Forget their name, but they're influential coves who can dohim a bit of good and all that sort of thing. The man--the head ofthe gang, you know--is something connected with the Cabinet or thePrime Minister or something. You'd know his name in a minute if Itold you--always seeing it in the papers--they have pictures of himin _Punch_ a lot--but I'm rotten at names. Derek did tell me, butit's slipped the old bean. Well, he had to leg it with these people,but he's coming on later. Ought to be here any moment now."Uncle Chris plucked at his mustache gloomily. Freddie's detachmentdepressed him. He had looked for more animation and a greater senseof the importance of the issue.
　　"Well, pip-pip for the present," said Freddie, moving toward the box.
　　"Have to be getting back. See you later."He disappeared, and Uncle Chris turned slowly to descend the stairs.
　　As he reached the floor below, the door of the stage-box opened, andMrs Peagrim came out.
　　"Oh, Major Selby!" cried the radiant and vivacious hostess. "Icouldn't think where you had got to. I have been looking for youeverywhere."Uncle Chris quivered slightly, but braced himself to do his duty.
　　"May I have the pleasure . . . ?" he began, then broke off as he sawthe man who had come out of the box behind his hostess. "Underhill!"He grasped his hand and shook it warmly. "My dear fellow! I had nonotion that you had arrived!""Sir Derek came just a moment ago," said Mrs Peagrim.
　　"How are you, Major Selby?" said Derek. He was a little surprised atthe warmth of his reception. He had not anticipated this geniality.
　　"My dear fellow, I'm delighted to see you," cried Uncle Chris. "But,as I was saying, Mrs Peagrim, may I have the pleasure of this dance?""I don't think I will dance this one," said Mrs Peagrim surprisingly.
　　"I'm sure you two must have ever so much to talk about. Why don't youtake Sir Derek and give him a cup of coffee?""Capital idea!" said Uncle Chris. "Come this way, my dear fellow. AsMrs Peagrim says, I have ever so much to talk about. Along thispassage, my boy. Be careful. There's a step. Weil, well, well! It'sdelightful to see you again!" He massaged Derek's arm affectionately.
　　Every time he had met Mrs Peagrim that evening he had quailedinwardly at what lay before him, should some hitch occur to preventthe re-union of Derek and Jill: and, now that the other was actuallyhere, handsomer than ever and more than ever the sort of man no girlcould resist, he declined to admit the possibility of a hitch. Hisspirits soared. "You haven't seen Jill yet, of course?""No." Derek hesitated. "Is Jill . . . Does she . . . I mean . . ."Uncle Chris resumed his osteopathy. He kneaded his companion'scoat-sleeve with a jovial hand.
　　"My dear fellow, of course! I am sure that a word or two from youwill put everything right. We all make mistakes. I have made themmyself. I am convinced that everything will be perfectly all right. . . Ah, there she is. Jill, my dear, here is an old friend to seeyou!"2.
　　Since the hurried departure of Mr Pilkington, Jill had been sittingin the auditorium, lazily listening to the music and watching thecouples dancing on the stage. She did not feel like dancing herself,but it was pleasant to be there and too much exertion to get up andgo home. She found herself drifting into a mood of gentlecontentment, and was at a loss to account for this. She washappy,--quietly and peacefully happy, when she was aware that sheought to have been both agitated and apprehensive. When she hadanticipated the recent interview with Otis Pilkington, which she hadknown was bound to come sooner or later, it had been shrinkingly andwith foreboding. She hated hurting people's feelings, and, though sheread Mr Pilkington's character accurately enough to know that timewould heal any anguish which she might cause him, she had had nodoubt that the temperamental surface of that long young man, when hesucceeded in getting her alone, was going to be badly bruised. And ithad fallen out just as she had expected. Mr Pilkington had said hissay and departed, a pitiful figure, a spectacle which should havewrung her heart. It had not wrung her heart. Except for one fleetinginstant when she was actually saying the fatal words, it had notinterfered with her happiness at all; and already she was beginningto forget that the incident had ever happened.
　　And, if the past should have depressed her, the future might havebeen expected to depress her even more. There was nothing in it,either immediate or distant, which could account for her feelinggently contented. The future was a fog, into which she had to gropeher way blindly. She could not see a step ahead. And yet, as sheleaned back in her seat, her heart was dancing in time to thedance-music of Mrs Peagrim's hired orchestra. It puzzled Jill.
　　And then, quite suddenly yet with no abruptness or sense ofdiscovery, just as if it were something which she had known allalong, the truth came upon her. It was Wally, the thought of Wally,the knowledge that Wally existed, that made her happy. He was asolid, comforting, reassuring fact in a world of doubts andperplexities. She did not need to be with him to be fortified, it wasenough just to think of him. Present or absent, his personalityheartened her like fine weather or music or a sea-breeze,--or likethat friendly, soothing night-light which they used to leave in hernursery when she was little, to scare away the goblins and see hersafely over the road that led to the gates of the city of dreams.
　　Suppose there were no Wally . . .
　　Jill gave a sudden gasp, and sat up, tingling. She felt as she hadsometimes felt as a child, when, on the edge of sleep, she haddreamed that she was stepping of a precipice and had woken, tense andalert, to find that there was no danger after all. But there was adifference between that feeling and this. She had woken, but to findthat there was danger. It was as though some inner voice was callingto her to be careful, to take thought. Suppose there were no Wally?
　　. . . And why should there always be Wally? He had said confidentlyenough that there would never be another girl . . . But there werethousands of other girls, millions of other girls, and could shesuppose that one of them would not have the sense to snap up atreasure like Wally? A sense of blank desolation swept over Jill. Herquick imagination, leaping ahead, had made the vague possibility of adistant future an accomplished fact. She felt, absurdly, a sense ofoverwhelming loss.
　　Into her mind, never far distant from it, came the thought of Derek.
　　And, suddenly, Jill made another discovery. She was thinking ofDerek, and it was not hurting. She was thinking of him quite coollyand clearly and her heart was not aching.
　　She sat back and screwed her eyes tight, as she had always done whenpuzzled. Something had happened to her, but how it had happened andwhen it had happened and why it had happened she could notunderstand. She only knew that now for the first time she had beengranted a moment of clear vision and was seeing things truly.
　　She wanted Wally. She wanted him in the sense that she could not dowithout him. She felt nothing of the fiery tumult which had come uponher when she first met Derek. She and Wally would come together witha smile and build their life on an enduring foundation of laughterand happiness and good-fellowship. Wally had never shaken and neverwould shake her senses as Derek had done. If that was love, then shedid not love Wally. But her clear vision told her that it was notlove. It might be the blazing and crackling of thorns, but it was notthe fire. She wanted Wally. She needed him as she needed the air andthe sunlight.
　　She opened her eyes, and saw Uncle Chris coming down the aisletowards her. There was a man with him, and, as they moved closer inthe dim light, Jill saw that it was Derek.
　　"Jill, my dear," said Uncle Chris, "here is an old friend to seeyou!"And, having achieved their bringing together, he proceeded towithdraw delicately whence he had come. It is pleasant to be able torecord that he was immediately seized upon by Mrs Peagrim, who hadchanged her mind about not dancing, and led off to be her partner ina fox-trot, in the course of which she trod on his feet three times.
　　"Why, Derek!" said Jill cheerfully. She got up and moved down theline of seats. Except for a mild wonder how he came to be there, shefound herself wholly unaffected by the sight of him. "Whatever areyou doing here?"Derek sat down beside her. The cordiality of her tone had relievedyet at the same time disconcerted him. Man seldom attains to perfectcontentment in this world, and Derek, while pleased that Jillapparently bore him no ill-will, seemed to miss something in hermanner which he would have been glad to find there.
　　"Jill!" he said huskily.
　　It deemed to Derek only decent to speak huskily. To his orderly mindthis situation could be handled only in one way. It was a plain,straight issue of the strong man humbling himself--not too much, ofcourse, but sufficiently: and it called, in his opinion, for the lowvoice, the clenched hand, and the broken whisper. Speaking as he hadspoken, he had given the scene the right key from the start,--orwould have done if she had not got in ahead of him and opened it on anote of absurd cheeriness. Derek found himself resenting hercheeriness. Often as he had attempted during the voyage from Englandto visualize to himself this first meeting, he had never picturedJill smiling brightly at him. It was a jolly smile, and made her lookextremely pretty, but it jarred upon him. A moment before he had beenhalf relieved, half disconcerted: now he was definitely disconcerted.
　　He searched in his mind for a criticism of her attitude, and came tothe conclusion that what was wrong with it was that it was toofriendly. Friendliness is well enough in its way, but in what shouldhave been a tense clashing of strong emotions it did not seem toDerek fitting.
　　"Did you have a pleasant trip?" asked Jill. "Have you come over onbusiness?"A feeling of bewilderment came upon Derek. It was wrong, it was allwrong. Of course, she might be speaking like this to cloak intensefeeling, but, if so, she had certainly succeeded. From her manner, heand she might be casual acquaintances. A pleasant trip! In anotherminute she would be asking him how he had come out on the sweepstakeon the ship's run. With a sense of putting his shoulder to some heavyweight and heaving at it, he sought to lift the conversation to ahigher plane.
　　"I came to find _you!_" he said; still huskily but not so huskily asbefore. There are degrees of huskiness, and Derek's was sharpened alittle by a touch of irritation.
　　"Yes?" said Jill.
　　Derek was now fermenting. What she ought to have said, he did notknow, but he knew that it was not "Yes?" "Yes?" in the circumstanceswas almost as bad as "Really?"There was a pause. Jill was looking at him with a frank andunembarrassed gaze which somehow deepened his sense of annoyance. Hadshe looked at him coldly, he could have understood and evenappreciated it. He had been expecting coldness, and had bracedhimself to combat it. He was still not quite sure in his mind whetherhe was playing the role of a penitent or a King Cophetua, but ineither character he might have anticipated a little temporarycoldness, which it would have been his easy task to melt. But he hadnever expected to be looked at as if he were a specimen in a museum,and that was how he was feeling now. Jill was not looking at him--shewas inspecting him, examining him, and he chafed under the process.
　　Jill, unconscious of the discomfort she was causing, continued togaze. She was trying to discover in just what respect he had changedfrom the god he had been. Certainly not in looks. He was as handsomeas ever,--handsomer, indeed, for the sunshine and clean breezes ofthe Atlantic had given him an exceedingly becoming coat of tan. Andyet he must have changed, for now she could look upon him quitedispassionately and criticize him without a tremor. It was likeseeing a copy of a great painting. Everything was there, except theone thing that mattered, the magic and the glamour. It was like . . .
　　She suddenly remembered a scene in the dressing-room when the companyhad been in Baltimore. Lois Denham, duly the recipient of thesunburst which her friend Izzy had promised her, had unfortunately,in a spirit of girlish curiosity, taken it to a jeweller to bepriced, and the jeweller had blasted her young life by declaring it apaste imitation. Jill recalled how the stricken girl--previous tocalling Izzy on the long distance and telling him a number of thingswhich, while probably not news to him, must have been painfulhearing--had passed the vile object round the dressing-room forinspection. The imitation was perfect. It had been impossible for thegirls to tell that the stones were not real diamonds. Yet thejeweller, with his sixth sense, had seen through them in a trifleunder ten seconds. Jill come to the conclusion that hernewly-discovered love for Wally Mason had equipped her with a sixthsense, and that by its aid she was really for the first time seeingDerek as he was.
　　Derek had not the privilege of being able to read Jill's thoughts.
　　All he could see was the outer Jill, and the outer Jill, as she hadalways done, was stirring his emotions. Her daintiness afflicted him.
　　Not for the first, the second, or the third time since they had comeinto each other's lives, he was astounded at the strength of theappeal which Jill had for him when they were together, as contrastedwith its weakness when they were apart. He made another attempt toestablish the scene on a loftier plane.
　　"What a fool I was!" he sighed. "Jill! Can you ever forgive me?"He tried to take her hand. Jill skilfully eluded him.
　　"Why, of course I've forgiven you, Derek, if there was anything toforgive.""Anything to forgive!" Derek began to get into his stride. These werethe lines on which he had desired the interview to develop. "I was abrute! A cad!""Oh, no!""I was. Oh, I have been through hell!"Jill turned her head away. She did not want to hurt him, but nothingcould have kept her from smiling. She had been so sure that he wouldsay that sooner or later.
　　"Jill!" Derek had misinterpreted the cause of her movement, and hadattributed it to emotion. "Tell me that everything is as it wasbefore."Jill turned.
　　"I'm afraid I can't say that, Derek.""Of course not!" agreed Derek in a comfortable glow of manly remorse.
　　He liked himself in the character of the strong man abased. "It wouldbe too much, to expect, I know. But, when we are married . . .""Do you really want to marry me?""Jill!""I wonder!""How can you doubt it?"Jill looked at him.
　　"Have you thought what it would mean?""What it would mean?""Well, your mother . . .""Oh!" Derek dismissed Lady Underhill with a grand gesture.
　　"Yes," persisted Jill, "but, if she disapproved of your marrying mebefore, wouldn't she disapprove a good deal more now, when I haven'ta penny in the world and am just in the chorus . . ."A sort of strangled sound proceeded from Derek's throat.
　　"In the chorus!""Didn't you know? I thought Freddie must have told you.""In the chorus!" Derek stammered. "I thought you were here as a guestof Mrs Peagrim's.""So I am,--like all the rest of the company.""But . . . But . . .""You see, it would be bound to make everything a little difficult,"said Jill. Her face was grave, but her lips were twitching. "I mean,you are rather a prominent man, aren't you, and if you married achorus-girl . . .""Nobody would know," said Derek limply.
　　Jill opened her eyes.
　　"Nobody would _know!_" She laughed. "But, of course, you've never metour press-agent. If you think that nobody would know that a girl inthe company had married a baronet who was a member of parliament andexpected to be in the Cabinet in a few years, you're wronging him!
　　The news would be on the front page of all the papers the very nextday--columns of it, with photographs. There would be articles about itin the Sunday papers. Illustrated! And then it would be cabled toEngland and would appear in the papers there . . . You see, you're avery important person, Derek."Derek sat clutching the arms of his chair. His face was chalky.
　　Though he had never been inclined to underestimate his importance asa figure in the public eye, he had overlooked the disadvantagesconnected with such an eminence. He gurgled wordlessly. He had beenprepared to brave Lady Underhill's wrath and assert his right to marrywhom he pleased, but this was different.
　　Jill watched him curiously and with a certain pity. It was so easy toread what was passing in his mind. She wondered what he would say,how he would flounder out of his unfortunate position. She had noillusions about him now. She did not even contemplate the possibilityof chivalry winning the battle which was going on within him.
　　"It would be very awkward, wouldn't it?" she said.
　　And then pity had its way with Jill. He had treated her badly; for atime she had thought that he had crushed all the heart out of her:
　　but he was suffering, and she hated to see anybody suffer.
　　"Besides," she said, "I'm engaged to somebody else."As a suffocating man, his lips to the tube of oxygen, gradually comesback to life, Derek revived,--slowly as the meaning of her words sankinto his mind, then with a sudden abruptness.
　　"What!" he cried.
　　"I'm going to marry somebody else. A man named Wally Mason."Derek swallowed. The chalky look died out of his face, and he flushedhotly. His eyes, half relieved, half indignant, glowed under theirpent-house of eyebrow. He sat for a moment in silence.
　　"I think you might have told me before!" he said huffily.
　　Jill laughed.
　　"Yes, I suppose I ought to have told you before.""Leading me on . . . !"Jill patted him on the arm.
　　"Never mind, Derek! It's all over now. And it was great fun, wasn't it!""Fun!""Shall we go and dance? The music is just starting.""I _won't_ dance!"Jill got up.
　　"I must," she said. "I'm so happy I can't keep still. Well, good-bye,Derek, in case I don't see you again. It was nice meeting after allthis time. You haven't altered a bit!"Derek watched her flit down the aisle, saw her jump up the littleladder onto the stage, watched her vanish into the swirl of thedance. He reached for a cigarette, opened his case, and found itempty. He uttered a mirthless, Byronic laugh. The thing seemed to himsymbolic.
　　3.
　　Not having a cigarette of his own, Derek got up and went to look forthe only man he knew who could give him one: and after a search of afew minutes came upon Freddie all alone in a dark corner, apart fromthe throng. It was a very different Freddie from the moody youth whohad returned to the box after his conversation with Uncle Chris. Hewas leaning against a piece of scenery with his head tilted back anda beam of startled happiness on his face. So rapt was he in hisreflections that he did not become aware of Derek's approach untilthe latter spoke.
　　"Got a cigarette, Freddie?"Freddie withdrew his gaze from the roof.
　　"Hullo, old son! Cigarette? Certainly and by all means. Cigarettes?
　　Where are the cigarettes? Mr. Rooke, forward! Show cigarettes." Heextended his case to Derek, who helped himself in sombre silence,finding his boyhood's friend's exuberance hard to bear. "I say,Derek, old scream, the most extraordinary thing has happened! You'llnever guess. To cut a long story short and come to the blow-out ofthe scenario, I'm engaged! Engaged, old crumpet! You know what Imean--engaged to be married!""Uh?" said Derek gruffly, frowning over his cigarette.
　　"Don't wonder you're surprised," said Freddie, looking at him alittle wistfully, for his friend had scarcely been gushing, and hewould have welcomed a bit of enthusiasm. "Can hardly believe itmyself."Derek awoke to a sense of the conventions.
　　"Congratulate you," he said. "Do I know her?""Not yet, but you soon will. She's a girl in the company,--in thechorus, as a matter of fact. Girl named Nelly Bryant. An absolutecorker. I'll go further--a topper. You'll like her, old man."Derek was looking at him, amazed.
　　"Good Heavens!" he said.
　　"Extraordinary how these things happen," proceeded Freddie. "Lookingback, I can see, of course, that I always thought her a topper, butthe idea of getting engaged--I don't know--sort of thing that doesn'toccur to a chappie, if you know what I mean. What I mean to say is,we had always been the greatest of pals and all that, but it neverstruck me that she would think it much of a wheeze getting hooked upfor life with a chap like me. We just sort of drifted along and soforth. All very jolly and what not. And then this evening--I don'tknow. I had a bit of a hump, what with one thing and another, and shewas most dashed sweet and patient and soothing and--and--well, andwhat not, don't you know, and suddenly--deuced rummy sensation--thejolly old scales seemed to fall, if you follow me, from my good oldeyes; I don't know if you get the idea. I suddenly seemed to lookmyself squarely in the eyeball and say to myself, 'Freddie, old top,how do we go? Are we not missing a good thing?' And, by Jove,thinking it over, I found that I was absolutely correct-o! You've nonotion how dashed sympathetic she is, old man! I mean to say, I hadthis hump, you know, owing to one thing and another, and was feelingthat life was more or less of a jolly old snare and delusion, and shebucked me up and all that, and suddenly I found myself kissing herand all that sort of rot, and she was kissing me and so on and soforth, and she's got the most ripping eyes, and there was nobodyabout, and the long and the short of it was, old boy, that I said,'Let's get married!' and she said, 'When?' and that was that, if yousee what I mean. The scheme now is to pop down to the City Hall andget a license, which it appears you have to have if you want to bringthis sort of binge off with any success and vim, and then what ho forthe padre! Looking at it from every angle, a bit of a good egg,what! Happiest man in the world, and all that sort of thing."At this point in his somewhat incoherent epic Freddie paused. It hadoccurred to him that he had perhaps laid himself open to a charge ofmonopolizing the conversation.
　　"I say! You'll forgive my dwelling a bit on this thing, won't you?
　　Never found a girl who would look twice at me before, and it's ratherunsettled the old bean. Just occurred to me that I may have beentalking about my own affairs a bit. Your turn now, old thing. Sitdown, as the blighters in the novels used to say, and tell me thestory of your life. You've seen Jill, of course?""Yes," said Derek shortly.
　　"And it's all right, eh? Fine! We'll make a double wedding of it,what? Not a bad idea, that! I mean to say, the man of God might makea reduction for quantity and shade his fee a bit. Do the job halfprice!"Derek threw down the end of his cigarette, and crushed it with hisheel. A closer observer than Freddie would have detected long erethis the fact that his demeanor was not that of a happy andsuccessful wooer.
　　"Jill and I are not going to be married," he said.
　　A look of blank astonishment came into Freddie's cheerful face. Hecould hardly believe that he had heard correctly. It is true that, ingloomier mood, he had hazarded the theory to Uncle Chris that Jill'sindependence might lead her to refuse Derek, but he had not reallybelieved in the possibility of such a thing even at the time, andnow, in the full flood of optimism consequent on his own engagement,it seemed even more incredible.
　　"Great Scott!" he cried. "Did she give you the raspberry?"It is to be doubted whether the pride of the Underhills would havepermitted Derek to reply in the affirmative, even if Freddie hadphrased his question differently: but the brutal directness of thequery made such a course impossible for him. Nothing was dearer toDerek than his self-esteem, and, even at the expense of the truth, hewas resolved to shield it from injury. To face Freddie and confessthat any girl in the world had given him, Derek Underhill, what hecoarsely termed the raspberry was a task so revolting as to beutterly beyond his powers.
　　"Nothing of the kind!" he snapped. "It was because we both saw thatthe thing would be impossible. Why didn't you tell me that Jill wasin the chorus of this damned piece?"Freddie's mouth slowly opened. He was trying not to realize themeaning of what his friend was saying. His was a faithful soul, andfor years--to all intents and purposes for practically the whole ofhis life--he had looked up to Derek and reverenced him. He absolutelyrefused to believe that Derek was intending to convey what he seemedto be trying to convey: for, if he was, well . . . by Jove . . . itwas too rotten and Algy Martyn had been right after all and thefellow was simply . . .
　　"You don't mean, old man," said Freddie with an almost pleading notein his voice, "that you're going to back out of marrying Jill becauseshe's in the chorus?"Derek looked away, and scowled. He was finding Freddie, in thecapacity of inquisitor, as trying as he had found him in the role ofexuberant _fiancé_. It offended his pride to have to makeexplanations to one whom he had always regarded with a patronizingtolerance as not a bad fellow in his way but in every essentialrespect negligible.
　　"I have to be sensible," he said, chafing as the indignity of hisposition intruded itself more and more. "You know what it would mean. . . Paragraphs in all the papers . . . photographs . . . the newscabled to England . . . everybody reading it and misunderstanding . . .
　　I've got my career to think of . . . It would cripple me . . ."His voice trailed off, and there was silence for a moment. ThenFreddie burst into speech. His good-natured face was hard withunwonted scorn. Its cheerful vacuity had changed to stony contempt.
　　For the second time in the evening the jolly old scales had fallenfrom Freddie's good old eyes, and, as Jill had done, he saw Derek ashe was.
　　"My sainted aunt!" he said slowly. "So that's it, what! Well, I'vealways thought a dashed lot of you, as you know. I've always lookedup to you as a bit of a nib and wished I was like you. But, greatScott! if that's the sort of a chap you are, I'm deuced glad I'm not!
　　I'm going to wake up in the middle of the night and think how unlikeyou I am and pat myself on the back! Ronny Devereux was perfectlyright. A tick's a tick, and that's all there is to say about it. Goodold Ronny told me what you were, and, like a silly ass, I wasted alot of time trying to make him believe you weren't that sort of chapat all. It's no good standing there looking like your mother," saidFreddie firmly. "This is where we jolly well part brass-rags! If weever meet again, I'll trouble you not to speak to me, because I've areputation to keep up! So there you have it in a bally nutshell!"Scarcely had Freddie ceased to administer it to his former friend ina bally nutshell, when Uncle Chris, warm and dishevelled from thedance as interpreted by Mrs Waddesleigh Peagrim, came bustling up,saving Derek the necessity of replying to the harangue.
　　"Well, Underhill, my dear fellow," began Uncle Chris affably,attaching himself to the other's arm, "what . . . ?"He broke off, for Derek, freeing his arm with a wrench, turned andwalked rapidly away. Derek had no desire to go over the whole thingagain with Uncle Chris. He wanted to be alone, to build up, painfullyand laboriously, the ruins of his self-esteem. The pride of theUnderhills had had a bad evening.
　　Uncle Chris turned to Freddie.
　　"What is the matter?" he asked blankly.
　　"I'll tell you what's the jolly old matter!" cried Freddie. "Theblighter isn't going to marry poor Jill after all! He's changed hisrotten mind! It's off!""Off?""Absolutely off!""Absolutely off?""Napoo!" said Freddie. "He's afraid of what will happen to hisblasted career if he marries a girl who's been in the chorus.""But, my dear boy!" Uncle Chris blinked. "But, my dear boy! This isridiculous . . . Surely, if I were to speak a word . . .""You can if you like. _I_ wouldn't speak to the cootie again if youpaid me! But it won't do any good, so what's the use?"Slowly Uncle Chris adjusted his mind to the disaster.
　　"Then you mean . . . ?""It's off!" said Freddie.
　　For a moment Uncle Chris stood motionless. Then, with a sudden jerk,he seemed to stiffen his backbone. His face was bleak, but he pulledat his mustache jauntily.
　　"_Morituri te salutant!_" he said. "Good-bye, Freddie, my boy."He turned away, gallant and upright, the old soldier.
　　"Where are you going?" asked Freddie.
　　"Over the top!" said Uncle Chris.
　　"What do you mean?""I am going," said Uncle Chris steadily, "to find Mrs Peagrim!""Good God!" cried Freddie. He followed him, protesting weakly, butthe other gave no sign that he had heard. Freddie saw him disappearinto the stage-box, and, turning, found Jill at his elbow.
　　"Where did Uncle Chris go?" asked Jill. "I want to speak to him.""He's in the stage-box, with Mrs Peagrim.""With Mrs Peagrim?""Proposing to her," said Freddie solemnly.
　　Jill stared.
　　"Proposing to Mrs Peagrim? What do you mean?"Freddie drew her aside, and began to explain.
　　4.
　　In the dimness of the stage-box, his eyes a little glassy and a dulldespair in his soul, Uncle Chris was wondering how to begin. In hishot youth he had been rather a devil of a fellow in between dances, acoo-er of soft phrases and a stealer of never very stoutly withheldkisses. He remembered one time in Bangalore . . . but that hadnothing to do with the case. The point was, how to begin with MrsPeagrim. The fact that twenty-five years ago he had crushed in hisarms beneath the shadows of the deodars a girl whose name he hadforgotten, though he remembered that she had worn a dress of somepink stuff, was immaterial and irrelevant. Was he to crush MrsPeagrim in his arms? Not, thought Uncle Chris to himself, on a bet.
　　He contented himself for the moment with bending an intense gaze uponher and asking if she was tired.
　　"A little," panted Mrs Peagrim, who, though she danced often andvigorously, was never in the best of condition, owing to her habit ofneutralizing the beneficient effects of exercise by surreptitiouscandy-eating. "I'm a little out of breath."Uncle Chris had observed this for himself, and it had not helped himto face his task. Lovely woman loses something of her queenly dignitywhen she puffs. Inwardly, he was thinking how exactly his hostessresembled the third from the left of a troupe of performing sea-lionswhich he had seen some years ago on one of his rare visits to avaudeville house.
　　"You ought not to tire yourself," he said with a difficulttenderness.
　　"I am so fond of dancing," pleaded Mrs Peagrim. Recovering some ofher breath, she gazed at her companion with a sort of short-windedarchness. "You are always so sympathetic, Major Selby.""Am I?" said Uncle Chris. "Am I?""You know you are!"Uncle Chris swallowed quickly.
　　"I wonder if you have ever wondered," he began, and stopped. He feltthat he was not putting it as well as he might. "I wonder if it hasever struck you that there's a reason." He stopped again. He seemedto remember reading something like that in an advertisement in amagazine, and he did not want to talk like an advertisement. "Iwonder if it has ever struck you, Mrs. Peagrim," he began again,"that any sympathy on my part might be due to some deeper emotionwhich . . . Have you never suspected that you have never suspected . . ."Uncle Chris began to feel that he must brace himself up. Usually a manof fluent speech, he was not at his best tonight. He was just about totry again, when he caught his hostess' eye, and the soft gleam in itsent him cowering back into the silence as if he wore taking coverfrom an enemy's shrapnel.
　　Mrs Peagrim touched him on the arm.
　　"You were saying . . . ?" she murmured encouragingly.
　　Uncle Chris shut his eyes. His fingers pressed desperately into thevelvet curtain beside him. He felt as he had felt when a rawlieutenant in India, during his first hill-campaign, when theetiquette of the service had compelled him to rise and walk up anddown in front of his men under a desultory shower of jezail-bullets.
　　He seemed to hear the damned things _whop-whopping_ now . . . andalmost wished that he could really hear them. One or two good bulletsjust now would be a welcome diversion.
　　"Yes?" said Mrs Peagrim.
　　"Have you never felt," babbled Uncle Chris, "that, feeling as I feel,I might have felt . . . that is to say, might be feeling a feeling. . . ?"There was a tap at the door of the box. Uncle Chris startedviolently. Jill came in.
　　"Oh, I beg your pardon," she said. "I wanted to speak . . .""You wanted to speak to me?" said Uncle Chris, bounding up.
　　"Certainly, certainly, certainly, of course. If you will excuse mefor a moment?"Mrs Peagrim bowed coldly. The interruption had annoyed her. She hadno notion who Jill was, and she resented the intrusion at thisparticular juncture intensely. Not so Uncle Chris, who skipped outinto the passage like a young lamb.
　　"Am I in time?" asked Jill in a whisper.
　　"In time?""You know what I mean. Uncle Chris, listen to me! You are not topropose to that awful woman. Do you understand?"Uncle Chris shook his head.
　　"The die is cast!""The die isn't anything of the sort," said Jill. "Unless . . . ."She stopped, aghast. "You don't mean that you have done it already?""Well, no. To be perfectly accurate, no. But . . .""Then that's all right. I know why you were doing it, and it was verysweet of you, but you mustn't.""But, Jill, you don't understand.""I do understand.""I have a motive . . .""I know your motive. Freddie told me. Don't you worry yourself aboutme, dear, because I am all right. I am going to be married."A look of ecstatic relief came into Uncle Chris' face.
　　"Then Underhill . . . ?""I am not marrying Derek. Somebody else. I don't think you know him,but I love him, and so will you." She pulled his face down and kissedhim. "Now you can go back."Uncle Chris was almost too overcome to speak. He gulped a little.
　　"Jill," he said shakily, "this is a . . . this is a great relief.""I knew it would be.""If you are really going to marry a rich man . . .""I didn't say he was rich."The joy ebbed from Uncle Chris' face.
　　"If he is not rich, if he cannot give you everything of which I . . .""Oh, don't be absurd! Wally has all the money anybody needs. What'smoney?""What's money?" Uncle Chris stared. "Money, my dear child, is . . .
　　is . . . well, you mustn't talk of it in that light way. But, if youthink you will really have enough . . . ?""Of course we shall. Now you can go back. Mrs Peagrim will bewondering what has become of you.""Must I?" said Uncle Chris doubtfully.
　　"Of course. You must be polite.""Very well," said Uncle Chris. "But it will be a little difficult tocontinue the conversation on what you might call general lines.
　　However!"* * *Back in the box, Mrs Peagrim was fanning herself with manifestimpatience.
　　"What did that girl want?" she demanded.
　　Uncle Chris seated himself with composure. The weakness had passed,and he was himself again.
　　"Oh, nothing, nothing. Some trivial difficulty, which I was able todispose of in a few words."Mrs Peagrim would have liked to continue her researches, but afeeling that it was wiser not to stray too long from the main pointrestrained her. She bent towards him.
　　"You were going to say something when that girl interrupted us."Uncle Chris shot his cuffs with a debonair gesture.
　　"Was I? Was I? To be sure, yes. I was saying that you ought not tolet yourself get tired. Deuce of a thing, getting tired. Plays thedickens with the system."Mrs Peagrim was disconcerted. The atmosphere seemed to have changed,and she did not like it. She endeavored to restore the tone of theconversation.
　　"You are so sympathetic," she sighed, feeling that she could not dobetter than to begin again at that point. The remark had producedgood results before, and it might do so a second time.
　　"Yes," agreed Uncle Chris cheerily. "You see, I have seen somethingof all this sort of thing, and I realize the importance of it. I knowwhat all this modern rush and strain of life is for a woman in yourposition. Parties every night . . . dancing . . . a thousand and onecalls on the vitality . . . bound to have an effect sooner or later,unless--_unless_," said Uncle Chris solemnly, "one takes steps.
　　Unless one acts in time. I had a friend--" His voice sank--"I had avery dear friend over in London, Lady Alice--but the name wouldconvey nothing--the point is that she was in exactly the sameposition as you. On the rush all the time. Never stopped. The end wasinevitable. She caught cold, hadn't sufficient vitality to throw itoff, went to a dance in mid-winter, contracted pneumonia . . ." UncleChris sighed. "All over in three days," he said sadly. "Now at thattime," he resumed, "I did not know what I know now. If I had heard ofNervino then . . ." He shook his head. "It might have saved her life.
　　It would have saved her life. I tell you, Mrs Peagrim, that there isnothing, there is no lack of vitality which Nervino cannot set right.
　　I am no physician myself, I speak as a layman, but it acts on the redcorpuscles of the blood . . ."Mrs Peagrim's face was stony. She had not spoken before, because hehad given her no opportunity, but she spoke now in a hard voice.
　　"Major Selby!""Mrs Peagrim?""I am not interested in patent medicines!""One can hardly call Nervino that," said Uncle Chris reproachfully.
　　"It is a sovereign specific. You can get it at any drug-store. Itcomes in two sizes, the dollar-fifty--or large--size, and the . . ."Mrs Peagrim rose majestically.
　　"Major Selby, I am tired . . .""Precisely. And, as I say, Nervino . . .""Please," said Mrs. Peagrim coldly, "go to the stage-door and see ifyou can find my limousine. It should be waiting in the street.""Certainly," said Uncle Chris. "Why, certainly, certainly,certainly."He left the box and proceeded across the stage. He walked with alissom jauntiness. His eye was bright. One or two of those whom hepassed on his way had the idea that this fine-looking man was inpain. They fancied that he was moaning. But Uncle Chris was notmoaning. He was humming a gay snatch from the lighter music of the'nineties.
Chapter 21
1.
　　Up on the roof of his apartment, far above the bustle and clamor ofthe busy city, Wally Mason, at eleven o'clock on the morning afterMrs Peagrim's bohemian party, was greeting the new day, as was hiscustom, by going through his ante-breakfast exercises. Mankind isdivided into two classes, those who do setting-up exercises beforebreakfast and those who know they ought to but don't. To the formerand more praiseworthy class Wally had belonged since boyhood. Lifemight be vain and the world a void, but still he touched his toes theprescribed number of times and twisted his muscular body aboutaccording to the ritual. He did so this morning a little morevigorously than usual, partly because he had sat up too late thenight before and thought too much and smoked too much, with theresult that he had risen heavy-eyed, at the present disgraceful hour,and partly because he hoped by wearying the flesh to still therestlessness of the spirit. Spring generally made Wally restless, butnever previously had it brought him this distracted feverishness. Sohe lay on his back and waved his legs in the air, and it was onlywhen he had risen and was about to go still further into the matterthat he perceived Jill standing beside him.
　　"Good Lord!!" said Wally.
　　"Don't stop," said Jill. "I'm enjoying it.""How long have you been here?""Oh, I only just arrived. I rang the bell, and the nice old lady whois cooking your lunch told me you were out here.""Not lunch. Breakfast.""Breakfast! At this hour?""Won't you join me?""I'll join you. But I had my breakfast long ago."Wally found his despondency magically dispelled. It was extraordinaryhow the mere sight of Jill could make the world a different place. Itwas true the sun had been shining before her arrival, but in aflabby, weak-minded way, not with the brilliance it had acquiredimmediately he heard her voice.
　　"If you don't mind waiting for about three minutes while I have ashower and dress . . .""Oh, is the entertainment over?" asked Jill, disappointed. "I alwaysarrive too late for everything.""One of these days you shall see me go through the whole programme,including shadow-boxing and the goose-step. Bring your friends! Butat the moment I think it would be more of a treat for you to watch meeat an egg. Go and look at the view. From over there you can seeHoboken.""I've seen it. I don't think much of it.""Well, then, on this side we have Brooklyn. There is no stint. Wanderto and fro and enjoy yourself. The rendezvous is in the sitting-roomin about four moments."Wally vaulted through the passage-window, and disappeared. Then hereturned and put his head out.
　　"I say!""Yes?""Just occurred to me. Your uncle won't be wanting this place for halfan hour or so, will he? I mean, there will be time for me to have abite of breakfast?""I don't suppose he will require your little home till some time inthe evening.""Fine!"Wally disappeared again, and a few moments later Jill heard the faintsplashing of water. She walked to the parapet and looked down. On thewindows of the nearer buildings the sun cast glittering beams, butfurther away a faint, translucent mist hid the city. There was Springhumidity in the air. In the street she had found it oppressive: buton the breezy summit of this steel-and-granite cliff the air was cooland exhilarating. Peace stole into Jill's heart as she watched theboats dropping slowly down the East River, which gleamed like dullsteel through the haze. She had come to Journey's End, and she washappy. Trouble and heart-ache seemed as distant as those hurryingblack ants down on the streets. She felt far away from the world onan enduring mountain of rest. She gave a little sigh of contentment,and turned to go in as Wally called.
　　In the sitting-room her feeling of security deepened. Here, the worldwas farther away than ever. Even the faint noises which had risen tothe roof were inaudible, and only the cosy tick-tock of thegrandfather's clock punctuated the stillness.
　　She looked at Wally with a quickening sense of affection. He had thedivine gift of silence at the right time. Yes, this was home. Thiswas where she belonged.
　　"It didn't take me in, you know," said Jill at length, resting herarms on the table and regarding him severely.
　　Wally looked up.
　　"What didn't take you in?""That bath of yours. Yes, I know you turned on the cold shower, butyou stood at a safe distance and watched it _show!_"Wally waved his fork.
　　"As Heaven is my witness. . . . Look at my hair! Still damp! And Ican show you the towel.""Well, then, I'll bet it was the hot water. Why weren't you at MrsPeagrim's party last night?""It would take too long to explain all my reasons, but one of themwas that I wasn't invited. How did it go off?" "Splendidly. Freddie'sengaged!" Wally lowered his coffee cup. "Engaged! You don't mean whatis sometimes slangily called bethrothed?""I do. He's engaged to Nelly Bryant. Nelly told me all about it whenshe got home last night. It seems that Freddie said to her 'What ho!'
　　and she said 'You bet!' and Freddie said 'Pip pip!' and the thing wassettled." Jill bubbled. "Freddie wants to go into vaudeville withher!""No! The Juggling Rookes? Or Rooke and Bryant, the cross-talk team, athoroughly refined act, swell dressers on and off?""I don't know. But it doesn't matter. Nelly is domestic. She's goingto have a little home in the country, where she can grow chickens andpigs.""'Father's in the pigstye, you can tell him by his hat,' eh?""Yes. They will be very happy. Freddie will be a father to herparrot."Wally's cheerfulness diminished a trifle. The contemplation ofFreddie's enviable lot brought with it the inevitable contrast withhis own. A little home in the country . . . Oh, well!
　　2.
　　There was a pause. Jill was looking a little grave.
　　"Wally!""Yes?"She turned her face away, for there was a gleam of mischief in hereyes which she did not wish him to observe.
　　"Derek was at the party!"Wally had been about to butter a piece of toast. The butter, jerkedfrom the knife by the convulsive start which he gave, popped up in asemi-circle and plumped onto the tablecloth. He recovered himselfquickly.
　　"Sorry!" he said. "You mustn't mind that. They want me to besecond-string for the 'Boosting the Butter' event at the next OlympicGames, and I'm practising all the time. . . . Underhill was there, eh?""Yes.""You met him?""Yes."Derek fiddled with his knife.
　　"Did he come over . . . I mean . . . had he come specially to seeyou?""Yes.""I see."There was another pause.
　　"He wants to marry you?""He said he wanted to marry me."Wally got up and went to the window. Jill could smile safely now, andshe did, but her voice was still grave.
　　"What ought I to do, Wally? I thought I would ask you, as you aresuch a friend."Wally spoke without turning.
　　"You ought to marry him, of course.""You think so?""You ought to marry him, of course," said Wally doggedly. "You lovehim, and the fact that he came all the way to America must mean thathe still loves you. Marry him!""But . . ." Jill hesitated. "You see, there's a difficulty.""What difficulty?""Well . . . it was something I said to him just before he went away.
　　I said something that made it a little difficult."Wally continued to inspect the roofs below.
　　"What did you say?""Well . . . it was something . . . something that I don't believe heliked . . . something that may interfere with his marrying me.""What did you say?""I told him I was going to marry _you!_"Wally spun round. At the same time he leaped in the air. The effectof the combination of movements was to cause him to stagger acrossthe room and, after two or three impromptu dance steps which wouldhave interested Mrs Peagrim, to clutch at the mantelpiece to savehimself from falling. Jill watched him with quiet approval.
　　"Why, that's wonderful, Wally! Is that another of your morningexercises? If Freddie does go into vaudeville, you ought to get himto let you join the troupe."Wally was blinking at her from the mantelpiece.
　　"Jill!""Yes?""What--what--what . . . !""Now, don't talk like Freddie, even if you are going into vaudevillewith him.""You said you were going to marry me?""I said I was going to marry you!""But--do you mean . . . ?"The mischief died out of Jill's eyes. She met his gaze frankly andseriously.
　　"The lumber's gone, Wally," she said. "But my heart isn't empty. It'squite, quite full, and it's going to be full for ever and ever andever."Wally left the mantelpiece, and came slowly towards her.
　　"Jill!" He choked. "Jill!"Suddenly he pounced on her and swung her off her feet. She gave alittle breathless cry.
　　"Wally! I thought you didn't approve of cavemen!""This," said Wally, "is just another new morning exercise I'vethought of!"Jill sat down, gasping.
　　"Are you going to do that often, Wally?""Every day for the rest of my life!""Goodness!""Oh, you'll get used to it. It'll grow on you.""You don't think I am making a mistake marrying you?""No, no! I've given the matter a lot of thought, and . . . in fact,no, no!""No," said Jill thoughtfully. "I think you'll make a good husband. Imean, suppose we ever want the piano moved or something . . . Wally!"she broke off suddenly.
　　"You have our ear.""Come out on the roof," said Jill. "I want to show you somethingfunny."Wally followed her out. They stood at the parapet together, lookingdown.
　　"There!" said Jill, pointing.
　　Wally looked puzzled.
　　"I see many things, but which is the funny one?""Why, all those people. Over there--and there--and there. Scutteringabout and thinking they know everything there is to know, and not oneof them has the least idea that I am the happiest girl on earth!""Or that I'm the happiest man! Their ignorance is--what is the word Iwant? Abysmal. They don't know what it's like to stand beside you andsee that little dimple in your chin. . . . They don't know you've_got_ a little dimple in your chin. . . . They don't know. . . . Theydon't know . . . Why, I don't suppose a single one of them even knowsthat I'm just going to kiss you!""Those girls in that window over there do," said Jill. "They arewatching us like hawks.""Let 'em!" said Wally briefly.