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Title:      Flowering Wilderness
            Book II of End of The Chapter
Author:     John Galsworthy
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A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook

Title:      Flowering Wilderness
            Book II of End of The Chapter
Author:     John Galsworthy





To Hermon Ould




FLOWERING WILDERNESS



CHAPTER I


In 1930, shortly after the appearance of the Budget, the eighth
wonder of the world might have been observed in the neighbourhood
of Victoria Station--three English people, of wholly different
type, engaged in contemplating simultaneously a London statue.
They had come separately, and stood a little apart from each other
in the south-west corner of the open space clear of the trees,
where the drifting late afternoon light of spring was not in their
eyes.  One of these three was a young woman of about twenty-six,
one a youngish man of perhaps thirty-four, and one a man of between
fifty and sixty.  The young woman, slender and far from stupid-
looking, had her head tilted slightly upward to one side, and a
faint smile on her parted lips.  The younger man, who wore a blue
overcoat with a belt girt tightly round his thin middle, as if he
felt the spring wind chilly, was sallow from fading sunburn; and
the rather disdainful look of his mouth was being curiously
contradicted by eyes fixed on the statue with real intensity of
feeling.  The elder man, very tall, in a brown suit and brown
buckskin shoes, lounged, with his hands in his trouser pockets, and
his long, weathered, good-looking face masked in a sort of shrewd
scepticism.

In the meantime the statue, which was that of Marshal Foch on his
horse, stood high up among those trees, stiller than any of them.

The youngish man spoke suddenly.

"He delivered us."

The effect of this breach of form on the others was diverse; the
elder man's eyebrows went slightly up, and he moved forward as if
to examine the horse's legs.  The young woman turned and looked
frankly at the speaker, and instantly her face became surprised.

"Aren't you Wilfrid Desert?"

The youngish man bowed.

"Then," said the young woman, "we've met.  At Fleur Mont's wedding.
You were best man, if you remember, the first I'd seen.  I was only
sixteen.  You wouldn't remember me--Dinny Cherrell, baptized
Elizabeth.  They ran me in for bridesmaid at the last minute."

The youngish man's mouth lost its disdain.

"I remember your hair perfectly."

"Nobody ever remembers me by anything else."

"Wrong!  I remember thinking you'd sat to Botticelli.  You're still
sitting, I see."

Dinny was thinking:  'His eyes were the first to flutter me.  And
they really are beautiful.'

The said eyes had been turned again upon the statue.

"He DID deliver us," said Desert.

"You were there, of course."

"Flying, and fed up to the teeth."

"Do you like the statue?"

"The horse."

"Yes," murmured Dinny, "it IS a horse, not just a prancing barrel,
with teeth, nostrils and an arch."

"The whole thing's workmanlike, like Foch himself."

Dinny wrinkled her brow.

"I like the way it stands up quietly among those trees."

"How is Michael?  You're a cousin of his, if I remember."

"Michael's all right.  Still in the House; he has a seat he simply
can't lose."

"And Fleur?"

"Flourishing.  Did you know she had a daughter last year?"

"Fleur?  H'm!  That makes two, doesn't it?"

"Yes; they call this one Catherine."

"I haven't been home since 1927.  Gosh!  It's a long time since
that wedding."

"You look," said Dinny, contemplating the sallow darkness of his
face, "as if you had been in the sun."

"When I'm not in the sun I'm not alive."

"Michael once told me you lived in the East."

"Well, I wander about there."  His face seemed to darken still
more, and he gave a little shiver.  "Beastly cold, the English
spring!"

"And do you still write poetry?"

"Oh! you know of that weakness?"

"I've read them all.  I like the last volume best."

He grinned.  "Thank you for stroking me the right way; poets, you
know, like it.  Who's that tall man?  I seem to know his face."

The tall man, who had moved to the other side of the statue, was
coming back.

"Somehow," murmured Dinny, "I connect him with that wedding, too."

The tall man came up to them.

"The hocks aren't all that," he said.

Dinny smiled.

"I always feel so thankful I haven't got hocks.  We were just
trying to decide whether we knew you.  Weren't you at Michael
Mont's wedding some years ago?"

"I was.  And who are you, young lady?"

"We all met there.  I'm his first cousin on his mother's side,
Dinny Cherrell.  Mr. Desert was his best man."

The tall man nodded.

"Oh!  Ah!  My name's Jack Muskham, I'm a first cousin of his
father's."  He turned to Desert.  "You admired Foch, it seems."

"I did."

Dinny was surprised at the morose look that had come on his face.

"Well," said Muskham, "he was a soldier all right; and there
weren't too many about.  But I came here to see the horse."

"It is, of course, the important part," murmured Dinny.

The tall man gave her his sceptical smile.

"One thing we have to thank Foch for, he never left us in the
lurch."

Desert suddenly faced round:

"Any particular reason for that remark?"

Muskham shrugged his shoulders, raised his hat to Dinny, and
lounged away.

When he had gone there was a silence as over deep waters.

"Which way were you going?" said Dinny at last.

"Any way that you are."

"I thank you kindly, sir.  Would an aunt in Mount Street serve as a
direction?"

"Admirably."

"You must remember her, Michael's mother; she's a darling, the
world's perfect mistress of the ellipse--talks in stepping stones,
so that you have to jump to follow her."

They crossed the road and set out up Grosvenor Place on the
Buckingham Palace side.

"I suppose you find England changed every time you come home, if
you'll forgive me for making conversation?"

"Changed enough."

"Don't you 'love your native land,' as the saying is?"

"She inspires me with a sort of horror."

"Are you by any chance one of those people who wish to be thought
worse than they are?"

"Not possible.  Ask Michael."

"Michael is incapable of slander."

"Michael and all angels are outside the count of reality."

"No," said Dinny, "Michael is very real, and very English."

"That is his contradictory trouble."

"Why do you run England down?  It's been done before."

"I never run her down except to English people."

"That's something.  But why to me?"

Desert laughed.

"Because you seem to be what I should like to feel that England
is."

"Flattered and fair, but neither fat nor forty."

"What I object to is England's belief that she is still 'the
goods.'"

"And isn't she, really?"

"Yes," said Desert, surprisingly, "but she has no reason to think
so."

Dinny thought:


     'You're perverse, brother Wilfrid, the young woman said,
      And your tongue is exceedingly wry;
      You do not look well when you stand on your head--
      Why will you continually try?'


She remarked, more simply:

"If England is still 'the goods,' has no reason to think so and yet
does, she would seem to have intuition, anyway.  Was it by
intuition that you disliked Mr. Muskham?"  Then, looking at his
face, she thought:  'I'm dropping a brick.'

"Why should I dislike him?  He's just the usual insensitive type of
hunting, racing man who bores me stiff."

'That wasn't the reason,' thought Dinny, still regarding him.  A
strange face!  Unhappy from deep inward disharmony, as though a
good angel and a bad were for ever seeking to fire each other out;
but his eyes sent the same thrill through her as when, at sixteen,
with her hair still long, she had stood near him at Fleur's
wedding.

"And do you really like wandering about in the East?"

"The curse of Esau is on me."

'Some day,' she thought, 'I'll make him tell me why.  Only probably
I shall never see him again.'  And a little chill ran down her
back.

"I wonder if you know my Uncle Adrian.  He was in the East during
the war.  He presides over bones at a museum.  You probably know
Diana Ferse, anyway.  He married her last year."

"I know nobody to speak of."

"Our point of contact, then, is only Michael."

"I don't believe in contacts through other people.  Where do you
live, Miss Cherrell?"

Dinny smiled.

"A short biographical note seems to be indicated.  Since the
umpteenth century, my family has been 'seated' at Condaford Grange
in Oxfordshire.  My father is a retired General; I am one of two
daughters; and my only brother is a married soldier just coming
back from the Soudan on leave."

"Oh!" said Desert, and again his face had that morose look.

"I am twenty-six, unmarried but with no children as yet.  My hobby
seems to be attending to other people's business.  I don't know why
I have it.  When in Town I stay at Lady Mont's in Mount Street.
With a simple upbringing I have expensive instincts and no means of
gratifying them.  I believe I can see a joke.  Now you?"

Desert smiled and shook his head.

"Shall I?" said Dinny.  "You are the second son of Lord Mullyon,
you had too much war; you write poetry; you have nomadic instincts
and are your own enemy; the last item has the only news value.
Here we are in Mount Street; do come in and see Aunt Em."

"Thank you--no.  But will you lunch with me to-morrow and go to a
matinée?"

"I will.  Where?"

"Dumourieux's, one-thirty."

They exchanged hand-grips and parted, but as Dinny went into her
aunt's house she was tingling all over, and she stood still outside
the drawing-room to smile at the sensation.



CHAPTER II


The smile faded off her lips under the fire of noises coming
through the closed door.

'My goodness!' she thought:  'Aunt Em's birthday "pawty," and I'd
forgotten.'

Someone playing the piano stopped, there was a rush, a scuffle, the
scraping of chairs on the floor, two or three squeals, silence, and
the piano-playing began again.

'Musical chairs!' she thought, and opened the door quietly.  She
who had been Diana Ferse was sitting at the piano.  To eight
assorted chairs, facing alternatively east and west, were clinging
one large and eight small beings in bright paper hats, of whom
seven were just rising to their feet and two still sitting on one
chair.  Dinny saw from left to right:  Ronald Ferse; a small
Chinese boy; Aunt Alison's youngest, little Anne; Uncle Hilary's
youngest, Tony; Celia and Dingo (children of Michael's married
sister Celia Moriston); Sheila Ferse; and on the single chair Uncle
Adrian and Kit Mont.  She was further conscious of Aunt Em panting
slightly against the fireplace in a large headpiece of purple
paper, and of Fleur pulling a chair from Ronald's end of the row.

"Kit, get up!  You were out."

Kit sat firm and Adrian rose.

"All right, old man, you're up against your equals now.  Fire
away!"

"Keep your hands off the backs," cried Fleur.  "Wu Fing, you
mustn't sit till the music stops.  Dingo, don't stick at the end
chair like that."

The music stopped.  Scurry, hustle, squeals, and the smallest
figure, little Anne, was left standing.

"All right, darling," said Dinny, "come here and beat this drum.
Stop when the music stops, that's right.  Now again.  Watch Auntie
Di!"

Again, and again, and again, till Sheila and Dingo and Kit only
were left.

'I back Kit,' thought Dinny.

Sheila out!  Off with a chair!  Dingo, so Scotch-looking, and Kit,
so bright-haired, having lost his paper cap, were left padding
round and round the last chair.  Both were down; both up and on
again, Diana carefully averting her eyes, Fleur standing back now
with a little smile; Aunt Em's face very pink.  The music stopped,
Dingo was down again; and Kit left standing, his face flushed and
frowning.

"Kit," said Fleur's voice, "play the game!"

Kit's head was thrown up and he rammed his hands into his pockets.

'Good for Fleur!' thought Dinny.

A voice behind her said:

"Your aunt's purple passion for the young, Dinny, leads us into
strange riots.  What about a spot of quiet in my study?"

Dinny looked round at Sir Lawrence Mont's thin, dry, twisting face,
whose little moustache had gone quite white, while his hair was
still only sprinkled.

"I haven't done my bit, Uncle Lawrence."

"Time you learned not to.  Let the heathen rage.  Come down and
have a quiet Christian talk."

Subduing her instinct for service with the thought:  'I SHOULD like
to talk about Wilfrid Desert!' Dinny went.

"What are you working on now, Uncle?"

"Resting for the minute and reading the Memoirs of Harriette
Wilson--a remarkable young woman, Dinny.  In the days of the
Regency there were no reputations in high life to destroy; but she
did her best.  If you don't know about her, I may tell you that she
believed in love and had a great many lovers, only one of whom she
loved."

"And yet she believed in love?"

"Well, she was a kind-hearted baggage, and the others loved her.
All the difference in the world between her and Ninon de l'Enclos,
who loved them all; both vivid creatures.  A duologue between those
two on 'virtue'?  It's to be thought of.  Sit down!"

"While I was looking at Foch's statue this afternoon, Uncle
Lawrence, I met a cousin of yours, Mr. Muskham."

"Jack?"

"Yes."

"Last of the dandies.  All the difference in the world, Dinny,
between the 'buck,' the 'dandy,' the 'swell,' the 'masher,' the
'blood,' the 'knut,' and what's the last variety called?--I never
know.  There's been a steady decrescendo.  By his age Jack belongs
to the 'masher' period, but his cut was always pure dandy--a dyed-
in-the-wool Whyte Melville type.  How did he strike you?"

"Horses, piquet and imperturbability."

"Take your hat off, my dear.  I like to see your hair."

Dinny removed her hat.

"I met someone else there, too; Michael's best man."

"What!  Young Desert?  He back again?"  And Sir Lawrence's loose-
eyebrow mounted.

A slight colour had stained Dinny's cheeks.

"Yes," she said.

"Queer bird, Dinny."

Within her rose a feeling rather different from any she had ever
experienced.  She could not have described it, but it reminded her
of a piece of porcelain she had given to her father on his
birthday, two weeks ago; a little china group, beautifully
modelled, of a vixen and four fox cubs tucked in under her.  The
look on the vixen's face, soft yet watchful, so completely
expressed her own feeling at this moment.

"Why queer?"

"Tales out of school, Dinny.  Still, to YOU--There's no doubt in my
mind that that young man made up to Fleur a year or two after her
marriage.  That's what started him as a rolling stone."

Was that, then, what he had meant when he mentioned Esau?  No!  By
the look of his face when he spoke of Fleur, she did not think so.

"But that was ages ago," she said.

"Oh, yes!  Ancient story; but one's heard other things.  Clubs are
the mother of all uncharitableness."

The softness of Dinny's feeling diminished, the watchfulness
increased.

"What other things?"

Sir Lawrence shook his head.

"I rather like the young man; and not even to you, Dinny, do I
repeat what I really know nothing of.  Let a man live an unusual
life, and there's no limit to what people invent about him.  He
looked at her rather suddenly; but Dinny's eyes were limpid.

"Who's the little Chinese boy upstairs?"

"Son of a former Mandarin, who left his family here because of the
ructions out there--quaint little image.  A likeable people, the
Chinese.  When does Hubert arrive?"

"Next week.  They're flying from Italy.  Jean flies a lot, you
know."

"What's become of her brother?"  And again he looked at Dinny.

"Alan?  He's out on the China station."

"Your aunt never ceases to bemoan your not clicking there."

"Dear Uncle, almost anything to oblige Aunt Em; but, feeling like a
sister to him, the prayer-book was against me."

"_I_ don't want you to marry," said Sir Lawrence, "and go out to
some Barbary or other."

Through Dinny flashed the thought:  'Uncle Lawrence is uncanny,'
and her eyes became more limpid than ever.

"This confounded officialism," he continued, "seems to absorb all
our kith and kin.  My two daughters, Celia in China, Flora in
India; your brother Hubert in the Soudan; your sister Clare off as
soon as she's spliced--Jerry Corven's been given a post in Ceylon.
I hear Charlie Muskham's got attached to Government House, Cape
Town; Hilary's eldest boy's going into the Indian Civil, and his
youngest into the Navy.  Dash it all, Dinny, you and Jack Muskham
seem to be the only pelicans in my wilderness.  Of course there's
Michael."

"Do you see much of Mr. Muskham, then, Uncle?"

"Quite a lot at 'Burton's,' and he comes to me at 'The Coffee
House'; we play piquet--we're the only two left.  That's in the
illegitimate season--from now on I shall hardly see him till after
the Cambridgeshire."

"Is he a terribly good judge of a horse?"

"Yes.  Of anything else, Dinny--no.  They seldom are.  The horse is
an animal that seems to close the pores of the spirit.  He makes
you too watchful.  You don't only have to watch him, but everybody
connected with him.  How was young Desert looking?"

"Oh!" said Dinny, almost taken aback: "a sort of dark yellow."

"That's the glare of the sand.  He's a kind of Bedouin, you know.
His father's a recluse, so it's a bit in his blood.  The best thing
I know about him is that Michael likes him, in spite of that
business."

"His poetry?" said Dinny.

"Disharmonic stuff, he destroys with one hand what he gives with
the other."

"Perhaps he's never found his home.  His eyes are rather beautiful,
don't you think?"

"It's his mouth I remember best, sensitive and bitter."

"One's eyes are what one is, one's mouth what one becomes."

"That and the stomach."

"He hasn't any," said Dinny.  "I noticed."

"The handful of dates and cup of coffee habit.  Not that the Arabs
drink coffee--green tea is their weakness, with mint in it.  My
God!  Here's your aunt.  When I said 'My God!' I was referring to
the tea with mint."

Lady Mont had removed her paper headdress and recovered her breath.

"Darling," said Dinny, "I DID forget your birthday, and I haven't
got anything for you."

"Then give me a kiss, Dinny.  I always say your kisses are the
best.  Where have you sprung from?"

"I came up to shop for Clare at the Stores."

"Have you got your night things with you?"

"No."

"That doesn't matter.  You can have one of mine.  Do you still wear
nightdresses?"

"Yes," said Dinny.

"Good girl!  I don't like pyjamas for women--your uncle doesn't
either.  It's below the waist, you know.  You can't get over it--
you try to, but you can't.  Michael and Fleur will be stayin' on to
dinner."

"Thank you, Aunt Em; I do want to stay up.  I couldn't get half the
things Clare needs to-day."

"I don't like Clare marryin' before you, Dinny."

"But she naturally would, Auntie."

"Fiddle!  Clare's brilliant--they don't as a rule.  I married at
twenty-one."

"You see, dear!"

"You're laughin' at me.  I was only brilliant once.  You remember,
Lawrence--about that elephant--I wanted it to sit, and it would
kneel.  All their legs bend one way, Dinny.  And I said it WOULD
follow its bent."

"Aunt Em!  Except for that one occasion you're easily the most
brilliant woman I know.  Women are so much too consecutive."

"Your nose is a comfort, Dinny, I get so tired of beaks, your Aunt
Wilmet's, and Hen Bentworth's, and my own."

"Yours is only faintly aquiline, darling."

"I was terrified of its gettin' worse, as a child.  I used to stand
with the tip pressed up against a wardrobe."

"I've tried that too, Auntie, only the other way."

"Once while I was doin' it your father was lyin' concealed on the
top, like a leopard, you know, and he hopped over me and bit
through his lip.  He bled all down my neck."

"How nasty!"

"Yes.  Lawrence, what are you thinking about?"

"I was thinking that Dinny has probably had no lunch.  Have you,
Dinny?"

"I was going to have it to-morrow, Uncle."

"There you are!" said Lady Mont.  "Ring for Blore.  You'll never
have enough body until you're married."

"Let's get Clare over first, Aunt Em."

"St. George's.  I suppose Hilary's doin' them?"

"Of course!"

"I shall cry."

"Why, exactly, do you cry at weddings, Auntie?"

"She'll look like an angel; and the man'll be in black tails and a
toothbrush moustache, and not feelin' what she thinks he is.
Saddenin'!"

"But perhaps he's feeling more.  I'm sure Michael was about Fleur,
or Uncle Adrian when he married Diana."

"Adrian's fifty-three and he's got a beard.  Besides, he's Adrian."

"I admit that makes a difference.  But I think we ought rather to
cry over the man.  The woman's having the hour of her life and the
man's waistcoat is almost certain to be too tight."

"Lawrence's wasn't.  He was always a thread-paper, and I was as
slim as you, Dinny."

"You must have looked lovely in a veil, Aunt Em.  Didn't she,
Uncle?"  The whimsically wistful look on both those mature faces
stopped her, and she added:  "Where did you first meet?"

"Out huntin', Dinny.  I was in a ditch, and your uncle didn't like
it, he came and pulled me out."

"I think that's ideal."

"Too much mud.  We didn't speak to each other all the rest of the
day."

"Then what brought you together?"

"One thing and another.  I was stayin' with Hen's people, the
Corderoys, and your uncle called to see some puppies.  What are you
catechisin' me for?"

"I only just wanted to know how it was done in those days."

"Go and find out for yourself how it's done in these days."

"Uncle Lawrence doesn't want to get rid of me."

"All men are selfish, except Michael and Adrian."

"Besides, I should hate to make you cry."

"Blore, a cocktail and a sandwich for Miss Dinny, she's had no
lunch.  And, Blore, Mr. and Mrs. Adrian and Mr. and Mrs. Michael to
dinner.  And, Blore, tell Laura to put one of my nightdresses and
the other things in the blue spare room.  Miss Dinny'll stay the
night.  Those children!"  And, swaying slightly, Lady Mont preceded
her butler through the doorway.

"What a darling, Uncle!"

"I've never denied it, Dinny."

"I always feel better after her.  Was she ever out of temper?"

"She can begin to be, but she always goes on to something else
before she's finished."

"What saving grace . . . !"



At dinner that evening, Dinny listened for any allusion by her
uncle to Wilfred Desert's return.  There was none.

After dinner, she seated herself by Fleur in her habitual, slightly
mystified admiration of this cousin by marriage, whose pretty poise
was so assured, whose face and figure so beautifully turned out,
whose clear eyes were so seeing, whose knowledge of self was so
disillusioned, and whose attitude to Michael seemed at once that of
one looking up and looking down.

'If I ever married,' thought Dinny, 'I could never be like that to
him.  I would have to look him straight in the face as one sinner
to another.'

"Do you remember your wedding, Fleur?" she said.

"I do, my dear.  A distressing ceremony!"

"I saw your best man to-day."

The clear white round Fleur's eyes widened.

"Wilfrid?  How did you remember him?"

"I was only sixteen, and he fluttered my young nerves."

"That is, of course, the function of a best man.  Well, and how was
he?"

"Very dark and dissolvent."

Fleur laughed.  "He always was."

Looking at her, Dinny decided to press on.

"Yes.  Uncle Lawrence told me he tried to carry dissolution rather
far."

Fleur looked surprised.  "I didn't know Bart ever noticed that."

"Uncle Lawrence," said Dinny, "is a bit uncanny."

"Wilfrid," murmured Fleur, with a little reminiscent smile, "really
behaved quite well.  He went East like a lamb."

"But surely that hasn't kept him East ever since?"

"No more than measles keep you permanently to your room.  Oh! no,
he likes it.  He's probably got a harem."

"No," said Dinny, "he's fastidious, or I should be surprised."

"Quite right, my dear; and one for my cheap cynicism.  Wilfrid's
the queerest sort of person, and rather a dear.  Michael loved him.
But," she said, suddenly looking at Dinny, "he's impossible to be
in love with--disharmony personified.  I studied him pretty closely
at one time--had to, you know.  He's elusive.  Passionate, and a
bundle of nerves.  Soft-hearted and bitter.  And search me for
anything he believes in."

"Except," queried Dinny, "beauty, perhaps; and truth if he could
find it?"

Fleur made the unexpected answer, "Well, my dear, we all believe in
those, when they're about.  The trouble is they aren't, unless--
unless they lie in oneself, perhaps.  And if you happen to be
disharmonic, what chance have you?  Where did you see him?"

"Staring at Foch."

"Ah!  I seem to remember he rather idolised Foch.  Poor Wilfrid, he
hasn't much chance.  Shell-shock, poetry, and his breeding--a
father who's turned his back on life; a mother who was half an
Italian, and ran off with another.  Not restful.  His eyes were his
best point, they made you sorry for him; and they're beautiful--
rather a fatal combination.  Did the young nerves flutter again?"
She looked rather more broadly into Dinny's face.

"No, but I wondered if yours would still if I mentioned him."

"Mine?  My child, I'm nearly thirty.  I have two children, and"--
her face darkened--"I have been inoculated.  If I ever told anyone
about THAT, Dinny, I might tell you, but there are things one
doesn't tell."

Up in her room, somewhat incommoded by the amplitude of Aunt Em's
nightgown, Dinny stared into a fire lighted against protest.  She
felt that what she was feeling was absurd--a queer eagerness, at
once shy and bold, the sensations, as it were, of direct action
impending.  And why?  She had seen again a man who ten years before
had made her feel silly; from all accounts a most unsatisfactory
man.  Taking a looking-glass, she scrutinised her face above the
embroidery on the too ample gown.  She saw what might have
satisfied but did not.

'One gets tired of it,' she thought--'always the same Botticellian
artifact,


     'The nose that's snub,
      The eyes of blue!
      'Ware self, you red-haired nymph,
      And shun the image that is you!'


HE was so accustomed to the East, to dark eyes through veils,
languishing; to curves enticingly disguised; to sex, mystery, teeth
like pearls--vide houri!  Dinny showed her own teeth to the glass.
There she was on safe ground--the best teeth in her family.  Nor
was her hair really red--more what Miss Braddon used to call
auburn.  Nice word!  Pity it had gone out.  With all that
embroidery it was no good examining herself below the Victorian
washing line.  Remember that to-morrow before her bath!  For what
she was about to examine might the Lord make her truly thankful!
Putting down the glass with a little sigh, she got into bed.



CHAPTER III


Wilfred Desert still maintained his chambers in Cork Street.  They
were, in fact, paid for by Lord Mullyon, who used them on the rare
occasions when he emerged from rural retreat.  It was not saying
much that the secluded peer had more in common with his second than
with his eldest son, who was in Parliament.  It gave him, however,
no particular pain to encounter Wilfrid; but as a rule the chambers
were occupied only by Stack, who had been Wilfrid's batman in the
war, and had for him one of those sphinx-like habits which wear
better than expressed devotions.  When Wilfrid returned, at a
moment or two's notice, his rooms were ever exactly as he left
them, neither more or less dusty and unaired; the same clothes hung
on the same clothes-stretchers; and the same nicely cooked steak
and mushrooms appeased his first appetite.  The ancestral 'junk,'
fringed and dotted by Eastern whims brought home, gave to the large
sitting-room the same castled air of immutable possession.  And the
divan before the log fire received Wilfrid as if he had never left
it.  He lay there the morning after his encounter with Dinny,
wondering why he could only get really good coffee when Stack made
it.  The East was the home of coffee, but Turkish coffee was a
rite, a toy; and, like all rites and toys, served but to titillate
the soul.  This was his third day in London after three years; and
in the last two years he had been through a good deal more than he
would ever care to speak of, or even wish to remember; including
one experience which still divided him against himself, however
much he affected to discredit its importance.  In other words, he
had come back with a skeleton in his cupboard.  He had brought
back, too, enough poems for a fourth slender volume.  He lay there,
debating whether its slender bulk could not be increased by
inclusion of the longest poem he had ever written, the outcome of
that experience; in his view, too, the best poem he had ever
written--a pity it should not be published, but--!  And the 'but'
was so considerable that he had many times been on the point of
tearing the thing up, obliterating all trace of it, as he would
have wished to blot remembrance from his mind.  Again, but--!  The
poem expressed his defence for allowing what he hoped no one knew
had happened to him.  To tear it up would be parting with his
defence.  For he could never again adequately render his sensations
in that past dilemma.  He would be parting with his best protection
from his own conscience, too; and perhaps with the only means of
laying a ghost.  For he sometimes thought that, unless he
proclaimed to the world what had happened to him, he would never
again feel quite in possession of his soul.

Reading it through, he thought:  'It's a damned sight better and
deeper than Lyall's confounded poem.'  And without any obvious
connection he began to think of the girl he had met the day before.
Curious that he had remembered her from Michael's wedding, a
transparent slip of a young thing like a Botticelli Venus, Angel,
or Madonna--so little difference between them.  A charming young
thing, then!  Yes, and a charming young woman now, of real quality,
with a sense of humour and an understanding mind.  Dinny Cherrell!
Charwell they spelled it, he remembered.  He wouldn't mind showing
her his poems; he would trust her reactions.

Partly because he was thinking of her, and partly because he took a
taxi, he was late for lunch, and met Dinny on the doorstep of
Dumourieux's just as she was about to go away.

There is perhaps no better test of woman's character than to keep
her waiting for lunch in a public place.  Dinny greeted him with a
smile.

"I thought you'd probably forgotten."

"It was the traffic.  How can philosophers talk of time being space
or space time?  It's disproved whenever two people lunch together.
I allowed ten minutes for under a mile from Cork Street, and here I
am ten minutes late.  Terribly sorry!"

"My father says you must add ten per cent to all timing since taxis
took the place of hansoms.  Do you remember the hansom?"

"Rather!"

"I never was in London till they were over."

"If you know this place, lead on!  I was told of it, but I've not
yet been here."

"It's underground.  The cooking's French."

Divested of their coats, they proceeded to an end table.

"Very little for me, please," said Dinny.  "Say cold chicken, a
salad, and some coffee."

"Anything the matter?"

"Only a spare habit."

"I see.  We both have it.  No wine?"

"No, thanks.  Is eating little a good sign, do you think?"

"Not if done on principle."

"You don't like things done on principle?"

"I distrust the people who do them--self-righteous."

"I think that's too sweeping.  You are rather sweeping, aren't
you?"

"I was thinking of the sort of people who don't eat because it's
sensual.  That's not your reason, is it?"

"Oh! no," said Dinny, "I only dislike feeling full.  And very
little makes me feel that.  I don't know very much about them so
far, but I think the senses are good things."

"The only things, probably."

"Is that why you write poetry?"

Desert grinned.

"I should think YOU might write verse, too."

"Only rhymes."

"The place for poetry is a desert.  Ever seen one?"

"No.  I should like to."  And, having said that, she sat in slight
surprise, remembering her negative reaction to the American
professor and his great open spaces.  But no greater contrast was
possible than between Hallorsen and this dark, disharmonic young
man, who sat staring at her with those eyes of his till she had
again that thrill down her spine.  Crumbling her roll, she said:
"I saw Michael and Fleur last night at dinner."

"Oh!"  His lips curled.  "I made a fool of myself over Fleur once.
Perfect, isn't she--in her way?"

"Yes," and her eyes added:  'Don't run her down!'

"Marvellous equipment and control."

"I don't think you know her," said Dinny, "and I'm sure I don't."

He leaned forward.  "You seem to me a loyal sort of person.  Where
did you pick that up?"

"Our family motto is the word 'Leal.'  That ought to have cured me,
oughtn't it?"

"I don't know," he said, abruptly, "whether I understand what
loyalty is.  Loyalty to what?  To whom?  Nothing's fixed in this
world; everything's relative.  Loyalty's the mark of the static
mind, or else just a superstition, and anyway the negation of
curiosity."

"There ARE things worth being loyal to, surely.  Coffee, for
instance, or one's religion."

He looked at her so strangely that Dinny was almost scared.

"Religion?  Have you one?"

"Well, roughly, I suppose."

"What?  Can you swallow the dogmas of any religious creed?  Do you
believe one legend more true than another?  Can you suppose one set
of beliefs about the Unknowable has more value than the rest?
Religion!  You've got a sense of humour.  Does it leave you at the
word?"

"No; only religion, I suppose, may be just a sense of an all-
pervading spirit, and the ethical creed that seems best to serve
it."

"H'm!  A pretty far cry from what's generally meant, and even then
how do you know what best serves an all-pervading spirit?"

"I take that on trust."

"There's where we differ.  Look!" he said, and it seemed to her
that excitement had crept into his voice:  "What's the use of our
reasoning powers, our mental faculties?  I take each problem as it
comes, I do the sum, I return the answer, and so I act.  I act
according to a reasoned estimate of what is best."

"For whom?"

"For myself and the world at large."

"Which first?"

"It's the same thing."

"Always?  I wonder.  And, anyway, that means doing so long a sum
every time that I can't think how you ever get to acting.  And
surely ethical rules are just the result of countless decisions on
those same problems made by people in the past, so why not take
them for granted?"

"None of those decisions were made by people of my temperament or
in my circumstances."

"No, I see that.  You follow what they call case law, then.  But
how English!"

"Sorry!" said Desert, abruptly:  "I'm boring you.  Have a sweet?"

Dinny put her elbows on the table and, leaning her chin on her
hands, looked at him earnestly.

"You weren't boring me.  On the contrary, you're interesting me
frightfully.  Only I suppose that women act much more instinctively;
I suppose that really means they accept themselves as more like each
other than men do, and are more ready to trust their instinctive
sense of general experience."

"That HAS been women's way; whether it will be much longer, I don't
know."

"I think it will," said Dinny.  "I don't believe we shall ever much
care for sums.  I WILL have a sweet, please.  Stewed prunes, I
think."

Desert stared at her, and began to laugh.

"You're wonderful.  We'll both have them.  Is your family a very
formal one?"

"Not exactly formal, but they do believe in tradition and the
past."

"And do you?"

"I don't know.  I definitely like old things, and old places, and
old people.  I like anything that's stamped like a coin.  I like to
feel one has roots.  I was always fond of history.  All the same
one can't help laughing.  There's something very comic about the
way we're all tied--like a hen by a chalk mark to its beak."

Desert stretched out his hand and she put hers into it.

"Shake hands on that saving grace."

"Some day," said Dinny, "you're going to tell me something.  But at
the moment what play are we going to?"

"Is there anything by a man called Shakespeare?"

With some difficulty they discovered that a work by the world's
greatest dramatist was being given in a theatre beyond the pale of
the river.  They went to it, and, when the show was over, Desert
said, hesitating:  "I wonder if you would come and have tea at my
rooms?"

Dinny smiled and nodded, and from that moment was conscious of a
difference in his manner.  It was at once more intimate yet more
respectful, as if he had said to himself:  'This is my equal.'

That hour of tea, brought by Stack, a man with strange, understanding
eyes and something monk-like in his look, seemed to her quite
perfect.  It was like no other hour she had ever spent, and at the
end of it she knew she was in love.  The tiny seed planted ten
years before had flowered.  This was such a marvel, so peculiar to
one who at twenty-six had begun to think she would never be in
love, that every now and then she drew in her breath and looked
wonderingly at his face.  Why on earth did she feel like this?  It
was absurd!  And it was going to be painful, because he wasn't
going to love her.  Why should he?  And if he wasn't, she mustn't
show, and how was she to help showing?

"When am I going to see you again?" he said, when she stood up to
go.

"Do you want to?"

"Extraordinarily."

"But why?"

"Why not?  You're the first lady I've spoken to for ten years.  I'm
not at all sure you're not the first lady I've ever spoken to."

"If we are going to see each other again, you mustn't laugh at me."

"Laugh at you!  One couldn't.  So when?"

"Well!  At present I'm sleeping in a foreign night-gown at Mount
Street.  By rights I ought to be at Condaford.  But my sister's
going to be married in town next week, and my brother's coming back
from Egypt on Monday, so perhaps I'll send for things and stay up.
Where would you like to see me?"

"Will you come for a drive to-morrow?  I haven't been to Richmond
or Hampton Court for years."

"I've never been."

"All right!  I'll pick you up in front of Foch at two o'clock, wet
or fine."

"I will be pleased to come, young sir."

"Splendid!"  And, suddenly bending, he raised her hand and put his
lips to it.

"Highly courteous," said Dinny.  "Good-bye!"



CHAPTER IV


Preoccupied with this stupendous secret, Dinny's first instinct was
for solitude, but she was booked for dinner with the Adrian
Cherrells.  On her uncle's marriage with Diana Ferse the house of
painful memories in Oakley Street had been given up, and they were
economically installed in one of those spacious Bloomsbury squares
now successfully regaining the gentility lost in the eighteen-
thirties and forties.  The locality had been chosen for its
proximity to Adrian's 'bones,' for at his age he regarded as
important every minute saved for the society of his wife.  The
robust virility which Dinny had predicted would accrue to her uncle
from a year spent in the presence of Professor Hallorsen and New
Mexico was represented by a somewhat deeper shade of brown in his
creased cheeks, and a more frequent smile on his long face.  It was
a lasting pleasure to Dinny to think that she had given him the
right advice, and that he had taken it.  Diana, too, was fast
regaining the sparkle which, before her marriage with poor Ferse,
had made her a member of 'Society.'  But the hopeless nature of
Adrian's occupation and the extra time he needed from her had
precluded her from any return to that sacred ring.  She inclined
more and more, in fact, to be a wife and mother.  And this seemed
natural to one with Dinny's partiality for her uncle.  On her way
there she debated whether or not to say what she had been doing.
Having little liking for shifts and subterfuge, she decided to be
frank.  'Besides,' she thought, 'a maiden in love always likes to
talk about the object of her affections.'  Again, if not to have a
confidant became too wearing, Uncle Adrian was the obvious choice;
partly because he knew at first hand something of the East, but
chiefly because he was Uncle Adrian.

The first topics at dinner, however, were naturally Clare's
marriage and Hubert's return.  Dinny was somewhat exercised over
her sister's choice.  Sir Gerald (Jerry) Corven was forty, active
and middle-sized, with a daring face.  She recognised that he had
great charm, and her fear was, rather, that he had too much.  He
was high in the Colonial service, one of those men who--people
instinctively said--would go far.  She wondered also whether Clare
was not too like him, daring and brilliant, a bit of a gambler,
and, of course, seventeen years younger.  Diana, who had known him
well, said:

"The seventeen years' difference is the best thing about it.  Jerry
wants steadying.  If he can be a father to her as well, it may
work.  He's had infinite experiences.  I'm glad it's Ceylon."

"Why?"

"He won't meet his past."

"Has he an awful lot of past?"

"My dear, he's very much in love at the moment; but with men like
Jerry you never know; all that charm, and so much essential liking
for thin ice."

"Marriage doth make cowards of us all," murmured Adrian.

"It won't have that effect on Jerry Corven; he takes to risk as a
goldfish takes to mosquito larvae.  Is Clare very smitten, Dinny?"

"Yes, but Clare loves thin ice, too."

"And yet," said Adrian, "I shouldn't call either of them really
modern.  They've both got brains and like using them."

"That's quite true, uncle.  Clare gets all she can out of life, but
she believes in life terribly.  She might become another Hester
Stanhope."

"Good for you, Dinny!  But to be that she'd have to get rid of
Gerald Corven first.  And if I read Clare, I think she might have
scruples."

Dinny regarded her uncle with wide eyes.

"Do you say that because you know Clare, or because you're a
Cherrell, Uncle?"

"I think because SHE'S a Cherrell, my dear."

"Scruples," murmured Dinny.  "I don't believe Aunt Em has them.
Yet she's as much of a Cherrell as any of us."

"Em," said Adrian, "reminds me of nothing so much as a find of
bones that won't join up.  You can't say of what she's the
skeleton.  Scruples are emphatically co-ordinate."

"No!  Adrian," murmured Diana, "not bones at dinner.  When does
Hubert arrive?  I'm really anxious to see him and young Jean.
After eighteen months of bliss in the Soudan which will be top
dog?"

"Jean, surely," said Adrian.

Dinny shook her head.  "I don't think so, Uncle."

"That's your sisterly pride."

"No.  Hubert's got more continuity.  Jean rushes at things and must
handle them at once, but Hubert steers the course, I'm pretty sure.
Uncle, where is a place called Darfur?  And how do you spell it?"

"With an 'r' or without.  It's west of the Soudan; much of it is
desert and pretty inaccessible, I believe.  Why?"

"I was lunching to-day with Mr. Desert, Michael's best man, you
remember, and he mentioned it."

"Has he been there?"

"I think he's been everywhere in the Near East."

"I know his brother," said Diana, "Charles Desert, one of the most
provocative of the younger politicians.  He'll almost certainly be
Minister of Education in the next Tory Government.  That'll put the
finishing touch to Lord Mullyon's retirement.  I've never met
Wilfrid.  Is he nice?"

"Well," said Dinny, with what she believed to be detachment, "I
only met him yesterday.  He seems rather like a mince pie, you take
a spoonful and hope.  If you can eat the whole, you have a happy
year."

"I should like to meet the young man," said Adrian.  "He did good
things in the war, and I know his verse."

"Really, Uncle?  I could arrange it; so far we are in daily
communication."

"Oh!" said Adrian, and looked at her.  "I'd like to discuss the
Hittite type with him.  I suppose you know that what we are
accustomed to regard as the most definitely Jewish characteristics
are pure Hittite according to ancient Hittite drawings?"

"But weren't they all the same stock, really?"

"By no means, Dinny.  The Israelites were Arabs.  What the Hittites
were we have yet to discover.  The modern Jew in this country and
in Germany is probably more Hittite than Semite."

"Do you know Mr. Jack Muskham, Uncle?"

"Only by repute.  He's a cousin of Lawrence's and an authority on
bloodstock.  I believe he advocates a reintroduction of Arab blood
into our race-horses.  There's something in it if you could get the
very best strain.  Has young Desert been to Nejd?  You can still
only get it there, I believe."

"I don't know.  Where is Nejd?"

"Centre of Arabia.  But Muskham will never get his idea adopted,
there's no tighter mind than the pukka racing man's.  He's a pretty
pure specimen himself, I believe, except for this bee in his
bonnet."

"Jack Muskham," said Diana, "was once romantically in love with one
of my sisters; it's made him a misogynist."

"H'm!  That's a bit cryptic!"

"He's rather fine-looking, I think," said Dinny.

"Wears clothes wonderfully and has a reputation for hating
everything modern.  I haven't met him for years, but I used to know
him rather well.  Why, Dinny?"

"I just happened to see him the other day, and wondered."

"Talking of Hittites," said Diana, "I've often thought those very
old Cornish families, like the Deserts, have a streak of Phoenician
in them.  Look at Lord Mullyon.  There's a queer type!"

"Fanciful, my love.  You'd be more likely to find that streak in
the simple folk.  The Deserts must have married into non-Cornish
stock for hundreds of years.  The higher you go in the social
scale, the less chance of preserving a primitive strain."

"ARE they a very old family?" said Dinny.

"Hoary and pretty queer.  But you know my views about old families,
Dinny, so I won't enlarge."

Dinny nodded.  She remembered very well that nerve-racked walk
along Chelsea Embankment just after Ferse returned.  And she looked
affectionately into his face.  It WAS nice to think that he had
come into his own at last. . . .



When she got back to Mount Street that night her uncle and aunt had
gone up, but the butler was seated in the hall.  He rose as she
entered.

"I didn't know you had a key, Miss."

"I'm terribly sorry, Blore, you were having such a nice snooze."

"I was, Miss Dinny.  After a certain age, as you'll find out, one
gets a liking for dropping off at improper moments.  Now Sir
Lawrence, he's not a good sleeper, but, give you my word, if I go
into his study almost any time when he's at work, I'll find him
opening his eyes.  And my Lady, she can do her eight hours, but
I've known her to drop off when someone's talking to her,
especially the old Rector at Lippinghall, Mr. Tasburgh--a courtly
old gentleman, but he has that effect.  Even Mr. Michael--but then
he's in Parliament, and they get the 'abit.  Still, I do think,
Miss, whether it was the war, or people not having any hope of
anything, and running about so, that there's a tendency, as the
saying is, towards sleep.  Well, it does you good.  Give you my
word, Miss; I was dead to the world before I had that forty winks,
and now I could talk to you for hours."

"That would be lovely, Blore.  Only I find, so far, that I'm
sleepiest at bedtime."

"Wait till you're married, Miss.  Only I do hope you won't be doing
that yet awhile.  I said to Mrs. Blore last night:  'If Miss Dinny
gets taken off, it'll be the life and soul of the party gone!'
I've never seen much of Miss Clare, so that leaves me cold; but I
heard my Lady yesterday telling you to go and find out for yourself
how it was done, and, as I said to Mrs. Blore, 'Miss Dinny's like a
daughter of the house, and'--well--you know my sentiments, Miss."

"Dear Blore!  I'm afraid I must go up now, I've had rather a tiring
day."

"Quite, Miss.  Pleasant dreams!"

"Good-night!"

Pleasant dreams!  Perhaps the dreams might be, but would reality?
What uncharted country was she not entering with just a star to
guide!  And was it a fixed star, or some flaring comet?  At least
five men had wanted to marry her, all of whom she had felt she
could sum up, so that a marriage would have been no great risk.
And now she only wanted to marry one, but there he was, an
absolutely uncertain quantity except that he could rouse in her a
feeling she had never had before.  Life was perverse.  You dipped
your finger in a lucky bag, and brought out--what?  To-morrow she
would walk with him.  They would see trees and grass together;
scenery and gardens, pictures, perhaps; the river, and fruit
blossom.  She would know at least how his spirit and her own agreed
about many things she cared for.  And yet, if she found they didn't
agree, would it make any difference to her feeling?  It would not.

'I understand now,' she thought, 'why we call lovers dotty.  All I
care about is that he should feel what I feel, and be dotty too.
And of course he won't--why should he?'



CHAPTER V


The drive to Richmond Park, over Ham Common and Kingston Bridge to
Hampton Court, and back through Twickenham and Kew, was remarkable
for alternation between silence and volubility.  Dinny was, as it
were, the observer, and left to Wilfrid all the piloting.  Her
feelings made her shy, and it was apparent that he was only able to
expand if left to his free will--the last person in the world to be
drawn out.  They duly lost themselves in the maze at Hampton Court,
where, as Dinny said,

"Only spiders who can spin threads out of themselves, or ghosts who
can tails unfold, would have a chance."

On the way back they got out at Kensington Gardens, dismissed the
hired car, and walked to the tea kiosk.  Over the pale beverage he
asked her suddenly whether she would mind reading his new poems in
manuscript.

"Mind?  I should love it."

"I want a candid opinion."

"You will get it," said Dinny.  "When can I have them?"

"I'll bring them round to Mount Street and drop them in your
letter-box after dinner."

"Won't you come in this time?"

He shook his head.

When he left her at Stanhope Gate, he said abruptly:

"It's been a simply lovely afternoon.  Thank you!"

"It is for me to thank you."

"You!  You've got more friends than quills upon the fretful
porpentine.  It's I who am the pelican."

"Adieu, pelican!"

"Adieu, flowering wilderness!"

The words seemed musical all the way down Mount Street.

A fat unstamped envelope was brought in about half-past nine with
the last post.  Dinny took it from Blore, and slipping it under The
Bridge of San Luis Rey, went on listening to her aunt.

"When I was a girl I squeezed my own waist, Dinny.  We suffered for
a principle.  They say it's comin' in again.  I shan't do it, so
hot and worryin'; but you'll have to."

"Not I."

"When the waist has settled down there'll be a lot of squeezin'."

"The really tight waist will never come in again, Auntie."

"And hats.  In 1900 we were like eggstands with explodin' eggs in
them.  Cauliflowers and hydrangeas, and birds of a feather,
enormous.  They stuck out.  The Parks were comparatively pure.
Sea-green suits you, Dinny; you ought to be married in it."

"I think I'll go up, Aunt Em.  I'm rather tired."

"That's eatin' so little."

"I eat enormously.  Good-night, dear."

Without undressing she sat down to the poems, nervously anxious to
like them, for she knew that he would see through any falsity.  To
her relief they had the tone she remembered in his other volumes,
but were less bitter and more concerned with beauty.  When she had
finished the main sheaf, she came on a much longer poem entitled
'The Leopard,' wrapped round in a blank sheet of paper.  Was it so
wrapped to keep her from reading it; why, then, had he enclosed it?
She decided that he had been doubtful, and wanted her verdict.
Below the title was written the line:


     "Can the leopard change its spots?"


It was the story of a young monk, secretly without faith, sent on a
proselytising expedition.  Seized by infidels, and confronted with
the choice between death or recantation, he recants and accepts the
religion of his captors.  The poem was seared with passages of such
deep feeling that they hurt her.  It had a depth and fervour which
took her breath away; it was a paean in praise of contempt for
convention faced with the stark reality of the joy in living, yet
with a haunting moan of betrayal running through it.  It swayed her
this way and that; and she put it down with a feeling almost of
reverence for one who could so express such a deep and tangled
spiritual conflict.  With that reverence were mingled a compassion
for the stress he must have endured before he could have written
this and a feeling, akin to that which mothers feel, of yearning to
protect him from his disharmonies and violence.

They had arranged to meet the following day at the National
Gallery, and she went there before time, taking the poems with her.
He came on her in front of Gentile Bellini's 'Mathematician.'  They
stood for some time looking at it without a word.

"Truth, quality, and decorative effect.  Have you read my stuff?"

"Yes.  Come and sit down, I've got them here."

They sat down, and she gave him the envelope.

"Well?" he said; and she saw his lips quivering.

"Terribly good, I think."

"Really?"

"Even truly.  One, of course, is much the finest."

"Which?"

Dinny's smile said:  "You ask that?"

"The Leopard?"

"Yes.  It hurt me, here."

"Shall I throw it out?"

By intuition she realised that on her answer he would act, and said
feebly:  "You wouldn't pay attention to what I said, would you?"

"What you say shall go."

"Then of course you can't throw it out.  It's the finest thing
you've done."

"Inshallah!"

"What made you doubt?"

"It's a naked thing."

"Yes," said Dinny, "naked--but beautiful.  When a thing's naked it
must be beautiful."

"Hardly the fashionable belief."

"Surely a civilised being naturally covers deformities and sores.
There's nothing fine in being a savage that I can see, even in
art."

"You run the risk of excommunication.  Ugliness is a sacred cult
now."

"Reaction from the chocolate box," murmured Dinny.

"Ah!  Whoever invented those lids sinned against the holy ghost--he
offended the little ones."

"Artists are children, you mean?"

"Well, aren't they? or would they carry on as they do?"

"Yes, they do seem to love toys.  What gave you the idea for that
poem?"  His face had again that look of deep waters stirred, as
when Muskham had spoken to them under the Foch statue.

"Tell you some day, perhaps.  Shall we go on round?"

When they parted, he said:  "To-morrow's Sunday.  I shall be seeing
you?"

"If you will."

"What about the Zoo?"

"No, not the Zoo.  I hate cages."

"Quite right.  The Dutch garden near Kensington Palace?"

"Yes."

And that made the fifth consecutive day of meeting.

For Dinny it was like a spell of good weather, when every night you
go to sleep hoping it will last, and every morning wake up and rub
your eyes seeing that it has.

Each day she responded to his:  "Shall I see you to-morrow?" with
an "If you will;" each day she concealed from everybody with care
whom she was seeing, and how, and when; and it all seemed to her so
unlike herself that she would think:  'Who is this young woman who
goes out stealthily like this, and meets a young man, and comes
back feeling as if she had been treading on air?  Is it some kind
of a long dream I'm having?'  Only, in dreams one didn't eat cold
chicken and drink tea.

The moment most illuminative of her state of mind was when Hubert
and Jean walked into the hall at Mount Street, where they were to
stay till after Clare's wedding.  This first sight for eighteen
months of her beloved brother should surely have caused her to feel
tremulous.  But she greeted him steady as a rock, even to the power
of cool appraisement.  He seemed extremely well, brown, and less
thin, but more commonplace.  She tried to think that was because he
was now safe and married and restored to soldiering, but she knew
that comparison with Wilfrid had to do with it.  She seemed to know
suddenly that in Hubert there had never been capacity for any deep
spiritual conflict; he was of the type she knew so well, seeing the
trodden path and without real question following.  Besides, Jean
made all the difference!  One could never again be to him, or he to
her, as before his marriage.  Jean was brilliantly alive and
glowing.  They had come the whole way from Khartoum to Croydon by
air with four stops.  Dinny was troubled by the inattention which
underlay her seeming absorption in their account of life out there,
till a mention of Darfur made her prick her ears.  Darfur was where
something had happened to Wilfrid.  There were still followers of
the Mahdi there, she gathered.  The personality of Jerry Corven was
discussed.  Hubert was enthusiastic about 'a job of work' he had
done.  Jean filled out the gap.  The wife of a Deputy Commissioner
had gone off her head about him.  It was said that Jerry Corven had
behaved badly.

"Well, well!" said Sir Lawrence, "Jerry's a privateer, and women
ought not to go off their heads about him."

"Yes," said Jean.  "It's silly to blame men nowadays."

"In old days," murmured Lady Mont, "men did the advancing and women
were blamed; now women do it and the men are blamed."

The extraordinary consecutiveness of the speech struck with a
silencing effect on every tongue, until she added:  "I once saw two
camels, d'you remember, Lawrence, so pretty."

Jean looked rather horrified, and Dinny smiled.

Hubert came back to the line.  "I don't know," he said; "he's
marrying our sister."

"Clare'll give and take," said Lady Mont.  "It's only when their
noses are curved.  The Rector," she added to Jean, "says there's a
Tasburgh nose.  You haven't got it.  It crinkles.  Your brother
Alan had it a little."  And she looked at Dinny.  "In China, too,"
she added.  "I said he'd marry a purser's daughter."

"Good God, Aunt Em, he hasn't!" cried Jean.

"No.  Very nice girls, I'm sure.  Not like clergymen's."

"Thank you!"

"I mean the sort you find in the Park.  They call themselves that
when they want company.  I thought everybody knew."

"Jean was rectory-bred, Aunt Em," said Hubert.

"But she's been married to you two years.  Who was it said:  'And
they shall multiply exceedin'ly'?"

"Moses?" said Dinny.

"And why not?"

Her eyes rested on Jean, who flushed.  Sir Lawrence remarked
quickly:  "I hope Hilary will be as short with Clare as he was with
you and Jean, Hubert.  That was a record."

"Hilary preaches beautifully," said Lady Mont.  "At Edward's death
he preached on 'Solomon in all his glory.'  Touchin'!  And when we
hung Casement, you remember--so stupid of us!--on the beam and the
mote.  We had it in our eye."

"If I could love a sermon," said Dinny, "it would be Uncle
Hilary's."

"Yes," said Lady Mont, "he could borrow more barley-sugar than any
little boy I ever knew and look like an angel.  Your Aunt Wilmet
and I used to hold him upside down--like puppies, you know--hopin',
but we never got it back."

"You must have been a lovely family, Aunt Em."

"Tryin'.  Our father that was not in Heaven took care not to see us
much.  Our mother couldn't help it--poor dear!  We had no sense of
duty."

"And now you all have so much; isn't it queer?"

"Have I a sense of duty, Lawrence?"

"Emphatically not, Em."

"I thought so."

"But wouldn't you say as a whole, Uncle Lawrence, that the
Cherrells have too much sense of duty?"

"How can they have TOO much?" said Jean.

Sir Lawrence fixed his monocle.

"I scent heresy, Dinny."

"Surely duty's narrowing, Uncle?  Father and Uncle Lionel and Uncle
Hilary, and even Uncle Adrian, always think first of what they
ought to do.  They despise their own wants.  Very fine, of course,
but rather dull."

Sir Lawrence dropped his eyeglass.

"Your family, Dinny," he said, "perfectly illustrate the mandarin.
They hold the Empire together.  Public schools, Osborne, Sandhurst;
oh! ah! and much more.  From generation to generation it begins in
the home.  Mother's milk with them.  Service to Church and State--
very interesting, very rare now, very admirable."

"Especially when they've kept on top by means of it," murmured
Dinny.

"Shucks!" said Hubert:  "As if anyone thought of that in the
Services!"

"You don't think of it because you don't have to; but you would
fast enough if you did have to."

"Somewhat cryptic, Dinny," put in Sir Lawrence; "you mean if
anything threatened them, they'd think:  'We simply mustn't be
removed, we're It.'"

"But are they It, Uncle?"

"With whom have you been associating, my dear?"

"Oh! no one.  One must think sometimes."

"Too depressin'," said Lady Mont.  "The Russian revolution, and all
that."

Dinny was conscious that Hubert was regarding her as if thinking:
'What's come to Dinny?'

"If one wants to take out a linch-pin," he said, "one always can,
but the wheel comes off."

"Well put, Hubert," said Sir Lawrence; "it's a mistake to think one
can replace type or create it quickly.  The sahib's born, not made--
that is, if you take the atmosphere of homes as part of birth.
And, if you ask me, he's dying out fast.  A pity not to preserve
him somehow; we might have National Parks for them, as they have
for bisons."

"No," said Lady Mont, "I won't."

"What, Aunt Em?"

"Drink champagne on Wednesday, nasty bubbly stuff!"

"Must we have it at all, dear?"

"I'm afraid of Blore.  He's so used.  I might tell him not, but
it'd be there."

"Have you heard of Hallorsen lately, Dinny?" asked Hubert suddenly.

"Not since Uncle Adrian came back.  I believe he's in Central
America."

"He WAS large," said Lady Mont.  "Hilary's two girls, Sheila,
Celia, and little Anne, five--I'm glad you're not to be, Dinny.
It's superstition, of course."

Dinny leaned back and the light fell on her throat.

"To be a bridesmaid once is quite enough, Aunt Em . . ."



When next morning she met Wilfrid at the Wallace Collection, she
said:

"Would you by any chance like to be at Clare's wedding to-morrow?"

"No hat and no black tails; I gave them to Stack."

"I remember how you looked, perfectly.  You had a grey cravat and a
gardenia."

"And you had on sea-green."

"Eau-de-nil.  I'd like you to have seen my family, though, they'll
all be there; and we could have discussed them afterwards."

"I'll turn up among the 'also ran' and keep out of sight."

'Not from me,' thought Dinny.  So she would not have to go a whole
day without seeing him!

With every meeting he seemed less, as it were, divided against
himself; and sometimes would look at her so intently that her heart
would beat.  When she looked at him, which was seldom, except when
he wasn't aware, she was very careful to keep her gaze limpid.  How
fortunate that one always had that pull over men, knew when they
were looking at one, and was able to look at them without their
knowing!

When they parted this time, he said:  "Come down to Richmond again
on Thursday.  I'll pick you up at Foch--two o'clock as before."

And she said:  "Yes."



CHAPTER VI


Clare Cherrell's wedding, in Hanover Square, was 'fashionable' and
would occupy with a list of names a quarter of a column in the
traditional prints.  As Dinny said:

"So delightful for them!"

With her father and mother Clare came to Mount Street from
Condaford overnight.  Busy with her younger sister to the last, and
feeling an emotion humorously disguised, Dinny arrived with Lady
Cherrell at the Church not long before the bride.  She lingered to
speak to an old retainer at the bottom of the aisle, and caught
sight of Wilfrid.  He was on the bride's side, far back, gazing at
her.  She gave him a swift smile, then passed up the aisle to join
her mother in the left front pew.  Michael whispered as she went
by:

"People HAVE rolled up, haven't they?"

They had.  Clare was well known and popular, Jerry Corven even
better known, if not so popular.  Dinny looked round at the
"audience"--one could never credit a wedding with the word
congregation.  Irregular and with a good deal of character, their
faces refused generalisation.  They looked like people with
convictions and views of their own.  The men conformed to no
particular type, having none of that depressing sameness which used
to characterise the German officer caste.  With herself and her
mother in the front pew were Hubert and Jean, Uncle Lawrence and
Aunt Em; in the pew behind sat Adrian with Diana, Mrs. Hilary, and
Lady Alison.  Dinny caught sight of Jack Muskham at the end of two
or three rows back, tall, well-dressed, rather bored-looking.  He
nodded to her, and she thought:  Odd, his remembering me!

On the Corven side of the aisle were people of quite as much
diversity of face and figure.  Except Jack Muskham, the bridegroom,
and his best man, hardly a man gave the impression of being well-
dressed or of having thought about his clothes.  But from their
faces Dinny received the impression that they were all safe in the
acceptance of a certain creed.  Not one gave her the same feeling
that Wilfrid's face brought of spiritual struggle and disharmony,
of dreaming, suffering, and discovery.  'I'm fanciful,' she
thought.  And her eyes came to rest on Adrian, who was just behind
her.  He was smiling quietly above that goatee beard of his, which
lengthened his thin brown visage.  'He has a dear face,' she
thought, 'not conceited, like the men who wear those pointed beards
as a rule.  He always will be the nicest man in the world.'  And
she whispered:  "Fine collection of bones here, Uncle."

"I should like your skeleton, Dinny."

"I mean to be burned and scattered.  H'ssh!"

The choir was coming in, followed by the officiating priests.
Jerry Corven turned.  Those lips smiling like a cat's beneath that
thin-cut moustache, those hardwood features and daring, searching
eyes!  Dinny thought with sudden dismay:  'How could Clare!  But
after all I'd think the same of any face but one, just now.  I'm
going potty.'  Then Clare came swaying up the aisle on her father's
arm!  'Looking a treat!  Bless her!'  A gush of emotion caught
Dinny by the throat, and she slipped her hand into her mother's.
Poor mother!  She was awfully pale!  Really the whole thing was
stupid!  People WOULD make it long and trying and emotional.  Thank
goodness Dad's old black tail-coat really looked quite decent--she
had taken out the stains with ammonia; and he stood as she had seen
him when reviewing troops.  If Uncle Hilary happened to have a
button wrong, Dad would notice it.  Only there wouldn't be any
buttons.  She longed fervently to be beside Wilfrid away at the
back.  He would have nice unorthodox thoughts, and they would
soothe each other with private smiles.

Now the bridesmaids!  Hilary's two girls, her cousins Monica and
Joan, slender and keen, Little Celia Moriston, fair as a seraph (if
that was female), Sheila Ferse, dark and brilliant; and toddly
little Anne--a perfect dumpling!

Once on her knees, Dinny quietened down.  She remembered how they
used to kneel, night-gowned, against their beds, when Clare was a
tiny of three and she herself a 'big girl' of six.  She used to
hang on to the bed-edge by the chin so as to save the knees; and
how ducky Clare had looked when she held her hands up like the
child in the Reynolds picture!  'That man,' thought Dinny, 'will
hurt her!  I know he will!'  Her thoughts turned again to Michael's
wedding all those ten years ago.  There she had stood, not three
yards from where she was kneeling now, alongside a girl she didn't
know--some relative of Fleur's.  And her eyes, taking in this and
that with the fluttered eagerness of youth, had lighted on Wilfrid
standing sideways, keeping watch on Michael.  Poor Michael!  He had
seemed rather daft that day, from excessive triumph!  She could
remember quite distinctly thinking:  'Michael and his lost angel!'
There had been in Wilfrid's face something which suggested that he
had been cast out of happiness, a scornful and yet yearning look.
That was only two years after the Armistice, and she knew now what
utter disillusionment and sense of wreckage he had suffered after
the war.  He had been talking to her freely the last two days; had
even dwelled with humorous contempt on his infatuation for Fleur
eighteen months after that marriage which had sent him flying off
to the East.  Dinny, but ten when the war broke out, remembered it
chiefly as meaning that mother had been anxious about father, had
knitted all the time, and been a sort of sock depot; that everybody
hated the Germans; that she had been forbidden sweets because they
were made with saccharine, and finally the excitement and grief
when Hubert went off to the war and letters from him didn't often
come.  From Wilfrid these last few days she had gathered more
clearly and poignantly than ever yet what the war had meant to some
who, like Michael and himself, had been in the thick of it for
years.  With his gift of expression he had made her feel the
tearing away of roots, the hopeless change of values, and the
gradual profound mistrust of all that age and tradition had decreed
and sanctified.  He had got over the war now, he said.  He might
think so, but there were in him still torn odds and ends of nerves
not yet mended up.  She never saw him without wanting to pass a
cool hand over his forehead.

The ring was on now, the fateful words said, the exhortations over;
they were going to the vestry.  Her mother and Hubert followed.
Dinny sat motionless, her eyes fixed on the East window.  Marriage!
What an impossible state, except--with a single being.

A voice in her ear said:

"Lend me your hanky, Dinny.  Mine's soakin', and your uncle's is
blue."

Dinny passed her a scrap of lawn, and surreptitiously powdered her
own nose.

"Be done at Condaford, Dinny," continued her aunt.  "All these
people--so fatiguin', rememberin' who they aren't.  That was his
mother, wasn't it?  She isn't dead, then."

Dinny was thinking:  'Shall I get another look at Wilfrid?'

"When I was married everybody kissed me," whispered her aunt, "so
promiscuous.  I knew a girl who married to get kissed by his best
man.  Aggie Tellusson.  I wonder.  They're comin' back!"

Yes!  How well Dinny knew that bride's smile!  How could Clare feel
it, not married to Wilfrid!  She fell in behind her father and
mother, alongside Hubert, who whispered:  "Buck up, old girl, it
might be a lot worse!"  Divided from him by a secret that absorbed
her utterly, Dinny squeezed his arm.  And, even as she did so, saw
Wilfrid, with his arms folded, looking at her.  Again she gave him
a swift smile, and then all was hurly-burly, till she was back at
Mount Street and Aunt Em saying to her, just within the drawing-
room door:

"Stand by me, Dinny, and pinch me in time."  Then came the entry of
the guests and her aunt's running commentary.

"It IS his mother--kippered.  Here's Hen Bentworth! . . .  Hen,
Wilmet's here, she's got a bone to pick. . . .  How d'you do?  Yes,
isn't it--so tirin'. . . .  How d'you do?  The ring was so well
done, don't you think?  Conjurers! . . .  Dinny, who's this? . . .
How do you do?  Lovely!  No!  Cherrell.  Not as it's spelled, you
know--so awkward! . . .  The presents are over there by the man
with the boots, tryin' not to.  Silly, I think!  But they will. . . .
How d'you do?  You ARE Jack Muskham?  Lawrence dreamed the other
night you were goin' to burst. . . .  Dinny, get me Fleur, too, she
knows everybody."

Dinny went in search of Fleur and found her talking to the
bridegroom.

As they went back to the door Fleur said:  "I saw Wilfrid Desert in
the church.  How did he come there?"

Really Fleur was too sharp for anything!

"Here you are!" said Lady Mont.  "Which of these three comin' is
the Duchess?  The scraggy one.  Ah! . . .  How d'you do?  Yes,
charmin'.  Such a bore, weddin's!  Fleur, take the Duchess to have
some presents. . . .  How d'you do?  No, my brother Hilary.  He
does it well, don't you think?  Lawrence says he keeps his eye on
the ball.  Do have an ice, they're downstairs. . . .  Dinny, is
this one after the presents, d'you think?--Oh!  How d'you do, Lord
Beevenham?  My sister-in-law ought to be doin' this.  She ratted.
Jerry's in there. . . .  Dinny, who was it said:  'The drink, the
drink!'  Hamlet?  He said such a lot.  Not Hamlet? . . .  Oh!  How
d'you do? . . .  How d'you do? . . .  How d'you do, or don't you?
Such a crush! . . .  Dinny, your hanky!"

"I've put some powder on it, Auntie."

"There!  Have I streaked? . . .  How d'you do?  Isn't it silly,
the whole thing?  As if they wanted anybody but themselves, you
know. . . .  Oh!  Here's Adrian!  Your tie's on one side, dear.
Dinny, put it right.  How d'you do?  Yes, they are.  I don't like
flowers at funerals--poor things, lyin' there, and dyin'. . . .
How's your dear dog?  You haven't one?  Quite! . . .  Dinny, you
ought to have pinched me. . . .  How d'you do?  How d'you do?  I
was tellin' my niece she ought to pinch me.  Do you get faces right?
No.  How nice!  How d'you do?  How d'you do?  How d'you do? . . .
That's three!  Dinny, who's the throwback just comin'?  Oh! . . .
How d'you do?  So you got here?  I thought you were in China. . . .
Dinny, remind me to ask your uncle if it was China.  He gave me
such a dirty look.  Could I give the rest a miss?  Who is it's
always sayin' that?  Tell Blore 'the drink,' Dinny.  Here's a
covey! . . .  How d'you do? . . .  How de do? . . .  How do? . . .
Do! . . .  Do! . . .  How? . . .  So sweet! . . .  Dinny, I want to
say:  Blast!"

On her errand to Blore Dinny passed Jean talking to Michael, and
wondered how anyone so vivid and brown had patience to stand about
in this crowd.  Having found Blore, she came back.  Michael's queer
face, which she thought grew pleasanter every year, as if from the
deepening impress of good feeling, looked strained and unhappy.

"I don't believe it, Jean," she heard him say.

"Well," said Jean, "the bazaars do buzz with rumour.  Still,
without fire of some sort there's never smoke."

"Oh! yes, there is--plenty.  He's back in England, anyway.  Fleur
saw him in the church to-day.  I shall ask him."

"I wouldn't," said Jean: "if it's true he'll probably tell you, and
if it isn't, it'll only worry him for nothing."

So!  They were talking of Wilfrid.  How find out why without
appearing to take interest?  And suddenly she thought:  'Even if I
could, I wouldn't.  Anything that matters he must tell me himself.
I won't hear it from anyone else.'  But she felt disturbed, for
instinct was always warning her of something heavy and strange on
his mind.

When that long holocaust of sincerity was over and the bride had
gone, she subsided into a chair in her uncle's study, the only room
which showed no signs of trouble.  Her father and mother had
started back to Condaford, surprised that she wasn't coming too.
It was not like her to cling to London when the tulips were out at
home, the lilacs coming on, the apple blossom thickening every day.
But the thought of not seeing Wilfrid daily had become a positive
pain.

'I HAVE got it badly,' she thought, 'worse than I ever believed was
possible.  Whatever is going to happen to me?'

She was lying back with her eyes closed when her uncle's voice
said:

"Ah!  Dinny, how pleasant after those hosts of Midian!  The
mandarin in full feather!  Did you know a quarter of them?  Why do
people go to weddings?  A registrar's, or under the stars, there's
no other way of preserving decency.  Your poor aunt has gone to
bed.  There's a lot to be said for Mohammedanism, except that it's
the fashion now to limit it to one wife, and she not in Purdah.  By
the way, there's a story going round that young Desert's become a
Moslem.  Did he say anything to you about it?"

Dinny raised her startled head.

"I've only twice known it happen to fellows in the East, and they
were Frenchmen and wanted harems."

"Money's the only essential for that, Uncle."

"Dinny, you're getting cynical.  Men like to have the sanction of
religion.  But that wouldn't be Desert's reason; a fastidious
creature, if I remember."

"Does religion matter, Uncle, so long as people don't interfere
with each other?"

"Well, some Moslems' notions of woman's rights are a little
primitive.  He's liable to wall her up if she's unfaithful.  There
was a sheikh when I was in Marakesh--gruesome."

Dinny shuddered.

"'From time immemorial,' as they say," went on Sir Lawrence,
"religion has been guilty of the most horrifying deeds that have
happened on this earth.  I wonder if young Desert has taken up with
it to get him access to Mecca.  I shouldn't think he believes
anything.  But you never know--it's a queer family."

Dinny thought:  'I can't and won't talk about him.'

"What proportion of people in these days do you think really have
religion, Uncle?"

"In northern countries?  Very difficult to say.  In this country
ten to fifteen per cent of the adults, perhaps.  In France and
southern countries, where there's a peasantry, more, at least on
the surface."

"What about the people who came this afternoon?"

"Most of them would be shocked if you said they weren't Christians,
and most of them would be still more shocked if you asked them to
give half their goods to the poor, and that would only make them
well disposed Pharisees, or was it Sadducees?"

"Are you a Christian, Uncle Lawrence?"

"No, my dear; if anything a Confucian, who, as you know, was simply
an ethical philosopher.  Most of our caste in this country, if they
only knew it, are Confucian rather than Christian.  Belief in
ancestors, and tradition, respect for parents, honesty, moderation
of conduct, kind treatment of animals and dependents, absence of
self-obtrusion, and stoicism in face of pain and death."

"What more," murmured Dinny, wrinkling her nose, "does one want
except the love of beauty?"

"Beauty?  That's a matter of temperament."

"But doesn't it divide people more than anything?"

"Yes, but willy nilly.  You can't make yourself love a sunset."

"'You are wise, Uncle Lawrence, the young niece said.'  I shall go
for a walk and shake the wedding-cake down."

"And I shall stay here, Dinny, and sleep the champagne off."

Dinny walked and walked.  It seemed an odd thing to be doing alone.
But the flowers in the Park were pleasing, and the waters of the
Serpentine shone and were still, and the chestnut trees were coming
alight.  And she let herself go on her mood, and her mood was of
love.



CHAPTER VII


Looking back on that second afternoon in Richmond Park, Dinny never
knew whether she had betrayed herself before he said so abruptly:

"If you believe in it, Dinny, will you marry me?"

It had so taken her breath away that she sat growing paler and
paler, then colour came to her face with a rush.

"I'm wondering why you ask me.  You know nothing of me."

"You're like the East.  One loves it at first sight, or not at all,
and one never knows it any better."

Dinny shook her head:  "Oh!  I am not mysterious."

"I should never get to the end of you; no more than of one of those
figures over the staircase in the Louvre.  Please answer me,
Dinny."

She put her hand in his, nodded, and said:  "That must be a
record."

At once his lips were on hers, and when they left her lips she
fainted.

This was without exception the most singular action of her life so
far, and, coming to almost at once, she said so.

"It's the sweetest thing you could have done."

If she had thought his face strange before, what was it now?  The
lips, generally contemptuous, were parted and quivering, the eyes,
fixed on her, glowed; he put up his hand and thrust back his hair,
so that she noticed for the first time a scar at the top of his
forehead.  Sun, moon, stars, and all the works of God stood still
while they were looking each into the other's face.

At last she said:

"The whole thing is most irregular.  There's been no courtship; not
even a seduction."

He laughed and put his arm around her.  Dinny whispered:

"'Thus the two young people sat wrapped in their beatitude.'  My
poor mother!"

"Is she a nice woman?"

"A darling.  Luckily she's fond of father."

"What is your father like?"

"The nicest General I know."

"Mine is a hermit.  You won't have to realise him.  My brother is
an ass.  My mother ran away when I was three, and I have no
sisters.  It's going to be hard for you, with a nomadic,
unsatisfactory brute like me."

"'Where thou goest, I go.'  We seem to be visible to that old
gentleman over there.  He'll write to the papers about the awful
sights to be seen in Richmond Park."

"Never mind!"

"I don't.  There's only one first hour.  And I was beginning to
think I should never have it."

"Never been in love?"

She shook her head.

"How wonderful!  When shall it be, Dinny?"

"Don't you think our families ought first to know?"

"I suppose so.  They won't want you to marry me."

"Certainly you are my social superior, young sir."

"One can't be superior to a family that goes back to the twelfth
century.  We only go back to the fourteenth.  A wanderer and a
writer of bitter verse.  They'll know I shall want to cart you off
to the East.  Besides, I only have fifteen hundred a year, and
practically no expectations."

"Fifteen hundred a year!  Father may be able to spare me two--he's
doing it for Clare."

"Well, thank God there'll be no obstacle from your fortune."

Dinny turned to him, and there was a touching confidence in her
eyes.

"Wilfrid, I heard something about your having turned Moslem.  That
wouldn't matter to me."

"It would matter to them."

His face had become drawn and dark.  She clasped his hand tight in
both of hers.

"Was that poem 'The Leopard' about yourself?"

He tried to draw his hand away.

"Was it?"

"Yes.  Out in Darfur.  Fanatical Arabs.  I recanted to save my
skin.  Now you can chuck me."  Exerting all her strength, Dinny
pulled his hand to her heart.

"What you did or didn't do is nothing.  You are YOU!"  To her
dismay and yet relief, he fell on his knees and buried his face in
her lap.

"Darling!" she said.  Protective tenderness almost annulled the
wilder, sweeter feeling in her.

"Does anyone know of that but me?"

"It's known in the bazaars that I've turned Moslem, but it's
supposed of my free will."

"I know there are things you would die for, Wilfrid, and that's
enough.  Kiss me!"

The afternoon drew on while they sat there.  The shadows of the oak
trees splayed up to their log; the crisp edge of the sunlight
receded over the young fern: some deer passed, moving slowly
towards water.  The sky, of a clear bright blue, with white
promising clouds, began to have the evening look; a sappy scent of
fern fronds and horse chestnut bloom crept in slow whiffs; and dew
began to fall.  The sane and heavy air, the grass so green, the
blue distance, the branching, ungraceful solidity of the oak trees,
made a trysting hour as English as lovers ever loved in.

"I shall break into cockney if we sit here much longer," said
Dinny, at last; "besides, dear heart, 'fast falls the dewy
eve.'" . . .

Late that evening in the drawing-room at Mount Street her aunt said
suddenly:

"Lawrence, look at Dinny!  Dinny, you're in love."

"You take me flat aback, Aunt Em.  I am."

"Who is it?"

"Wilfrid Desert."

"I used to tell Michael that young man would get into trouble.
Does he love you too?"

"He is good enough to say so."

"Oh! dear.  I WILL have some lemonade.  Which of you proposed?"

"As a fact, he did."

"His brother has no issue, they say."

"For heaven's sake, Aunt Em!"

"Why not?  Kiss me!"

But Dinny was regarding her uncle across her aunt's shoulder.

He had said nothing.

Later, he stopped her as she was following out.

"Are your eyes open, Dinny?"

"Yes, this is the ninth day."

"I won't come the heavy uncle; but you know the drawbacks?"

"His religion; Fleur; the East?  What else?"

Sir Lawrence shrugged his thin shoulders.

"That business with Fleur sticks in my gizzard, as old Forsyte
would have said.  One who could do that to the man he has led to
the altar can't have much sense of loyalty."

Colour rose in her cheeks.

"Don't be angry, my dear, we're all too fond of you."

"He's been quite frank about everything, Uncle."

Sir Lawrence sighed.

"Then there's no more to be said, I suppose.  But I beg you to look
forward before it's irrevocable.  There's a species of china which
it's almost impossible to mend.  And I think you're made of it."

Dinny smiled and went up to her room, and instantly she began to
look back.

The difficulty of imagining the physical intoxication of love was
gone.  To open one's soul to another seemed no longer impossible.
Love stories she had read, love affairs she had watched, all seemed
savourless compared with her own.  And she had only known him nine
days, except for that glimpse ten years ago!  Had she had what was
called a complex all this time?  Or was love always sudden like
this?  A wild flower seeding on a wild wind?

Long she sat half dressed, her hands clasped between her knees, her
head drooping, steeped in the narcotic of remembrance, and with a
strange feeling that all the lovers in the world were sitting
within her on that bed bought at Pullbred's in the Tottenham Court
Road.



CHAPTER VIII


Condaford resented this business of love, and was, with a fine
rain, as if sorrowing for the loss of its two daughters.

Dinny found her father and mother elaborately 'making no bones'
over the loss of Clare, and only hoped they would continue the
motion in her own case.  Feeling, as she said, 'very towny,' she
prepared for the ordeal of disclosure by waterproofing herself and
going for a tramp.  Hubert and Jean were expected in time for
dinner, and she wished to kill all her birds with one stone.  The
rain on her face, the sappy fragrance, the call of the cuckoos, and
that state of tree when each has leaves in different stage of
opening, freshened her body but brought a little ache to her heart.
Entering a covert, she walked along a ride.  The trees were beech
and ash, with here and there an English yew, the soil being chalky.
A woodpecker's constant tap was the only sound, for the rain was
not yet heavy enough for leaf-dripping to have started.  Since
babyhood she had been abroad but three times--to Italy, to Paris,
to the Pyrenees, and had always come home more in love with England
and Condaford than ever.  Henceforth her path would lie she knew
not where; there would, no doubt, be sand, fig-trees, figures by
wells, flat roofs, voices calling the Muezzin, eyes looking through
veils.  But surely Wilfrid would feel the charm of Condaford and
not mind if they spent time there now and then.  His father lived
in a show place, half shut up and never shown, which gave everyone
the blues.  And that, apart from London and Eton, was all he seemed
to know of England, for he had been four years away in the war and
eight years away in the East.

'For me to discover England to him,' she thought; 'for him to
discover the East to me.'

A gale of last November had brought down some beech trees.  Looking
at their wide flat roots exposed, Dinny remembered Fleur saying
that selling timber was the only way to meet death duties.  But Dad
was only sixty-two!  Jean's cheeks the night of their arrival, when
Aunt Em quoted the 'multiply exceedingly.'  A child coming!  Surely
a son.  Jean was the sort to have sons.  Another generation of
Cherrells in direct line!  If Wilfrid and she had a child!  What
then?  One could not wander about with babes.  A tremor of
insecurity went through her.  The future, how uncharted!  A
squirrel crossed close to her still figure and scampered up a
trunk.  Smiling, she watched it, lithe, red, bushy-tailed.  Thank
God, Wilfrid cared for animals!  'When to God's fondouk the donkeys
are taken.'  Condaford, its bird life, woods and streams, mullions,
magnolias, fantails, pastures green, surely he would like it!  But
her father and mother, Hubert and Jean; would he like them?  Would
they like him?  They would not--too unshackled, too fitful, and too
bitter; all that was best in him he hid away, as if ashamed of it;
and his yearning for beauty they would not understand!  And his
change of religion, even though they would not know what he had
told her, would seem to them strange and disconcerting!

Condaford Grange had neither butler nor electric light, and Dinny
chose the moment when the maids had set decanters and dessert on
the polished chestnut wood, lit by candles.

"Sorry to be personal," she said, quite suddenly; "but I'm
engaged."

No one answered.  Each of those four was accustomed to say and
think--not always the same thing--that Dinny was the ideal person
to marry, so none was happier for the thought that she was going to
be married.  Then Jean said:

"To whom, Dinny?"

"Wilfrid Desert, the second son of Lord Mullyon--he was Michael's
best man."

"Oh! but--!"

Dinny was looking hard at the other three.  Her father's face was
impassive, as was natural, for he did not know the young man from
Adam; her mother's gentle features wore a fluttered and enquiring
look; Hubert's an air as if he were biting back vexation.

Then Lady Cherrell said:  "But, Dinny, when did you meet him?"

"Only ten days ago, but I've seen him every day since.  I'm afraid
it's a first-sight case like yours, Hubert.  We remembered each
other from Michael's wedding."

Hubert looked at his plate.  "You know he's become a Moslem, or so
they say in Khartoum."

Dinny nodded.

"What!" said the General.

"That's the story, sir."

"Why?"

"I don't know, I've never seen him.  He's been a lot about in the
East."

On the point of saying:  'One might just as well be Moslem as
Christian, if one's not a believer,' Dinny stopped.  It was
scarcely a testimonial to character.

"I can't understand a man changing his religion," said the General
bluntly.

"There doesn't seem to be much enthusiasm," murmured Dinny.

"My dear, how can there be when we don't know him?"

"No, of course, Mother.  May I ask him down?  He CAN support a
wife; and Aunt Em says his brother has no issue."

"Dinny!" said the General.

"I'm not serious, darling."

"What is serious," said Hubert, "is that he seems to be a sort of
Bedouin--always wandering about."

"Two can wander about, Hubert."

"You've always said you hate to be away from Condaford."

"I remember when you said you couldn't see anything in marriage,
Hubert.  And I'm sure both you and Father said that at one time,
Mother.  Have any of you said it since?"

"Cat!"

With that simple word Jean closed the scene.

But at bedtime in her mother's room, Dinny said:

"May I ask Wilfrid down, then?"

"Of course, when you like.  We shall be only too anxious to see
him."

"I know it's a shock, Mother, coming so soon after Clare; still,
you did expect me to go some time."

Lady Cherrell sighed:  "I suppose so."

"I forgot to say that he's a poet, a real one."

"A poet?" repeated her mother, as if this had put the finishing
touch to her disquiet.

"There are quite a lot in Westminster Abbey.  But don't worry,
HE'LL never be there."

"Difference in religion is serious, Dinny, especially when it comes
to children."

"Why, Mother?  No child has any religion worth speaking of till
it's grown up, and then it can choose for itself.  Besides, by the
time my children, if I have any, are grown up, the question will be
academic."

"Dinny!"

"It's nearly so even now, except in ultra-religious circles.
Ordinary people's religion becomes more and more just ethical."

"I don't know enough about it to say, and I don't think you do."

"Mother, dear, stroke my head."

"Oh!  Dinny, I do hope you've chosen wisely."

"Darling, it chose me."

That she perceived was not the way to reassure her mother, but as
she did not know one, she took her good-night kiss and went away.

In her room she sat down and wrote:


"Condaford Grange:  Friday.

"DARLING,

"This is positively and absolutely my first love-letter, so you see
I don't know how to express myself.  I think I will just say 'I
love you' and leave it at that.  I have spread the good tidings.
They have, of course, left everyone guessing, and anxious to see
you as soon as possible.  When will you come?  Once you are here
the whole thing will seem to me less like a very real and very
lovely dream.  This is quite a simple place.  Whether we should
live in style if we could, I can't say.  But three maids, a groom-
chauffeur, and two gardeners are all our staff.  I believe you will
like my mother, and I don't believe you will get on very well with
my father or brother, though I expect his wife Jean will tickle
your poetic fancy, she's such a vivid creature.  Condaford itself
I'm sure you'll love.  It has the real 'old' feeling.  We can go
riding; and I want to walk and talk with you and show you my pet
nooks and corners.  I hope the sun will shine, as you love it so
much.  For me almost any sort of day does down here; and absolutely
any will do if I can be with you.  The room you will have is away
by itself and supernaturally quiet; you go up to it by five twisty
steps, and it's called the priest's room, because Anthony Charwell,
brother of the Gilbert who owned Condaford under Elizabeth, was
walled up there and fed from a basket let down nightly to his
window.  He was a conspicuous Catholic priest, and Gilbert was a
Protestant, but he put his brother first, as any decent body would.
When he'd been there three months they took the wall down one
night, and got him across country all the way south to the Beaulieu
river and 'aboard the lugger.'  The wall was put up again to save
appearances and only done away with by my great-grandfather, who
was the last of us to have any money to speak of.  It seemed to
prey on his nerves, so he got rid of it.  They still speak of him
in the village, probably because he drove four-in-hand.  There's a
bath-room at the bottom of the twisty steps.  The window was
enlarged, of course and the view's jolly from it, especially now,
at lilac and apple-blossom time.  My own room, if it interests you
to know, is somewhat cloistral and narrow, but it looks straight
over the lawns to the hill-rise and the woods beyond.  I've had it
ever since I was seven, and I wouldn't change for anything, until
you're making me


     'brooches and toys for my delight
      Of birds' song at morning and starshine at night.'


I almost think that little 'Stevenson' is my favourite poem; so you
see, in spite of my homing tendency, I must have a streak of the
wanderer in me.  Dad, by the way, has a great feeling for Nature,
likes beasts and birds and trees.  I think most soldiers do--it's
rather odd.  But, of course, their love is on the precise and
knowledgeable rather than the aesthetic side.  Any dreaminess they
incline to look on as 'a bit barmy.'  I have been wondering whether
to put my copies of your poems under their noses.  On the whole I
don't think; they might take you too seriously.  There is always
something about a person more ingratiating than his writings.  I
don't expect to sleep much to-night, for this is the first day that
I haven't seen you since the world began.  Goodnight, my dear, be
blessed and take my kiss.

"Your Dinny.

"P.S.--I have looked you out the photo where I approximate most to
the angels, or rather where my nose turns up least--to send to-
morrow.  In the meantime here are two snaps.  And when, sir, do I
get some of you?

"D."


And that was the end of this to her far from perfect day.



CHAPTER IX


Sir Lawrence Mont, recently elected to Burton's Club whereon he had
resigned from the Aeroplane, retaining besides only 'Snooks' (so-
called), The Coffee House and the Parthenæum, was accustomed to
remark that, allowing himself another ten years of life, it would
cost him twelve shillings and sixpence every time he went into any
of them.

He entered Burton's, however, on the afternoon after Dinny had told
him of her engagement, took up a list of the members, and turned to
D.  'Hon. Wilfrid Desert.'  Quite natural, seeing the Club's
pretension to the monopoly of travellers.  "Does Mr. Desert ever
come in here?" he said to the porter.

"Yes, Sir Lawrence, he's been in this last week; before that I
don't remember him for years."

"Usually abroad.  When does he come in as a rule?"

"For dinner, mostly, Sir Lawrence."

"I see.  Is Mr. Muskham in?"

The porter shook his head.  "Newmarket to-day, Sir Lawrence."

"Oh!  Ah!  How on earth you remember everything!"

"Matter of 'abit, Sir Lawrence."

"Wish I had it."  Hanging up his hat, he stood for a moment before
the tape in the hall.  Unemployment and taxation going up all the
time, and more money to spend on cars and sports than ever.  A
pretty little problem!  He then sought the Library as the room
where he was least likely to see anybody; and the first body he saw
was that of Jack Muskham, who was talking, in a voice hushed to the
level of the locality, to a thin dark little man in a corner.

'That,' thought Sir Lawrence, cryptically, 'explains to me why I
never find a lost collar-stud.  My friend the porter was so certain
Jack would be at Newmarket, and not under that chest of drawers,
that he took him for someone else when he came in.'

Reaching down a volume of Burton's Arabian Nights, he rang for tea.
He was attending to neither when the two in the corner rose and
came up to him.

"Don't get up, Lawrence," said Jack Muskham with some languor;
"Telfourd Yule, my cousin Sir Lawrence Mont."

"I've read thrillers of yours, Mr. Yule," said Sir Lawrence, and
thought:  'Queer-looking little cuss!'

The thin, dark, smallish man, with a face rather like a monkey's,
grinned.  "Truth whips fiction out of the field," he said.

"Yule," said Jack Muskham, with his air of superiority to space and
time, "has been out in Arabia, going into the question of how to
corkscrew a really pure-strain Arab mare or two out of them for use
here.  It's always baffled us, you know.  Stallions, yes; mares
never.  It's much the same now in Nejd as when Palgrave wrote.
Still, we think we've got a rise.  The owner of the best strain
wants an aeroplane, and if we throw in a billiard table we believe
he'll part with at least one daughter of the sun."

"Good God!" said Sir Lawrence.  "By what base means?  We're all
Jesuits, Jack!"

"Yule has seen some queer things out there.  By the way, there's
one I want to talk about.  May we sit down?"

He stretched his long body out in a long chair, and the dark little
man perched himself on another, with his black twinkling eyes fixed
on Sir Lawrence, who had come to uneasy attention without knowing
why.

"When," said Jack Muskham, "Yule here was in the Arabian desert, he
heard a vague yarn among some Bedouins about an Englishman having
been held up somewhere by Arabs and forced to become a Moslem.  He
had rather a row with them, saying no Englishman would do that.
But when he was back in Egypt he went flying into the Libyan
desert, met another lot of Bedouins coming from the south, and came
on precisely the same yarn, only more detailed, because they said
it happened in Darfur, and they even had the man's name--Desert.
Then, when he was up in Khartoum, Yule found it was common talk
that young Desert had changed his religion.  Naturally he put two
and two together.  But there's all the difference in the world, of
course, between voluntarily swapping religions and doing it at the
pistol's point.  An Englishman who does that lets down the lot of
us."

Sir Lawrence, who during this recital had tried every motion for
his monocle with which he was acquainted, dropped it and said:
"But, my dear Jack, if a man is rash enough to become a Mohammedan
in a Mohammedan country, do you suppose for a minute that gossip
won't say he was forced to?"

Yule, who had wriggled on to the very verge of his chair, said:

"_I_ thought that; but the second account was extremely positive.
Even to the month and the name of the Sheikh who forced the
recantation; and I found that Mr. Desert had in fact returned from
Darfur soon after the month mentioned.  There may be nothing in it;
but whether there is or not, I needn't tell you that an undenied
story of that kind grows by telling and does a lot of harm, not
only to the man himself, but to our prestige.  There seems to me a
sort of obligation on one to let Mr. Desert know what the Bedawi
are spreading about him."

"Well, he's over here," said Sir Lawrence, gravely.

"I know," said Jack Muskham, "I saw him the other day, and he's a
member of this Club."

Through Sir Lawrence were passing waves of infinite dismay.  What a
sequel to Dinny's ill-starred announcement!  To his ironic,
detached personality, capricious in its likings, Dinny was
precious.  She embroidered in a queer way his plain-washed feelings
about women; as a young man he might even have been in love with
her, instead of being merely her uncle by marriage.  During this
silence he was fully conscious that both the other two were
thoroughly uncomfortable.  And the knowledge of their disquiet
deepened the significance of the matter in an odd way.

At last he said:  "Desert was my boy's best man.  I'd like to talk
to Michael about it, Jack.  Mr. Yule will say nothing further at
present, I hope."

"Not on your life," said Yule.  "I hope to God there's nothing in
it.  I like his verse."

"And you, Jack?"

"I don't care for the look of him; but I'd refuse to believe that
of an Englishman till it was plainer than the nose on my face,
which is saying a good bit.  You and I must be getting on, Yule, if
we're to catch that train to Royston."

This speech of Jack Muskham's further disturbed Sir Lawrence, left
alone in his chair.  It seemed so entirely to preclude leniency of
judgment among the 'pukka sahibs' if the worst were true.

At last he rose, found a small volume, sat down again and turned
its pages.  The volume was Sir Alfred Lyall's Verses Written in
India, and he looked for the poem called 'Theology in Extremis.'

He read it through, restored the volume, and stood rubbing his
chin.  Written, of course, more than forty years ago, and yet
doubtful if its sentiments were changed by an iota!  There was that
poem, too, by Doyle, about the Corporal in the Buffs who, brought
before a Chinese General and told to 'kow-tow' or die, said:  'We
don't do that sort of thing in the Buffs,' and died.  Well!  That
was the standard even to-day, among people of any caste or with any
tradition.  The war had thrown up innumerable instances.  Could
young Desert really have betrayed the tradition?  It seemed
improbable.  And yet, in spite of his excellent war record, might
there be a streak of yellow in him?  Or was it, rather, that at
times a flow of revolting bitterness carried him on to complete
cynicism, so that he flouted almost for the joy of flouting?

With a strong mental effort Sir Lawrence tried to place himself in
a like dilemma.  Not being a believer, his success was limited to
the thought:  'I should immensely dislike being dictated to in such
a matter.'  Aware that this was inadequate, he went down to the
hall, shut himself up in a box, and rang up Michael's house.  Then,
feeling that if he lingered in the Club he might run into Desert
himself, he took a cab to South Square.

Michael had just come in from the House; they met in the hall; and,
with the instinct that Fleur, however acute, was not a fit person
to share this particular consultation, Sir Lawrence demanded to be
taken to his son's study.  He commenced by announcing Dinny's
engagement, which Michael heard with as strange a mixture of
gratification and disquietude as could be seen on human visage.

"What a little cat, keeping it so dark!" he said.  "Fleur did say
something about her being too limpid just now; but I never thought!
One's got so used to Dinny being single.  To Wilfrid, too?  Well, I
hope the old son has exhausted the East."

"There's this question of his religion," said Sir Lawrence gravely.

"I don't know why that should matter much; Dinny's not fervent.
But I never thought Wilfrid cared enough to change his.  It rather
staggered me."

"There's a story."

When his father had finished, Michael's ears stood out and his face
looked haggard.

"You know him better than anyone," Sir Lawrence concluded:  "What
do you think?"

"I hate to say it, but it might be true.  It might even be natural
for HIM; but no one would ever understand why.  This is pretty
ghastly, Dad, with Dinny involved."

"Before we fash ourselves, my dear, we must find out if it's true.
Could you go to him?"

"In old days--easily."

Sir Lawrence nodded.  "Yes, I know all about that, but it's a long
time ago."

Michael smiled faintly.  "I never knew whether you spotted that,
but I rather thought so.  I've seen very little of Wilfrid since he
went East.  Still, I could--"  He stopped, and added:  "If it IS
true, he must have told Dinny.  He couldn't ask her to marry him
with that untold."

Sir Lawrence shrugged.  "If yellow in one way, why not in the
other?"

"Wilfrid is one of the most perverse, complex, unintelligible
natures one could come across.  To judge him by ordinary standards
is a wash-out.  But if he HAS told Dinny, she'll never tell us."

And they stared at each other.

"Mind you," said Michael, "there's a streak of the heroic in him.
It comes out in the wrong places.  That's why he's a poet."

Sir Lawrence began twisting at an eyebrow, always a sign that he
had reached decision.

"The thing's got to be faced; it's not in human nature for a
sleeping dog like that to be allowed to lie.  I don't care about
young Desert--"

"I do," said Michael.

"It's Dinny I'm thinking of."

"So am I.  But there again, Dad, Dinny will do what she will do,
and you needn't think we can deflect her."

"It's one of the most unpleasant things," said Sir Lawrence slowly,
"that I've ever come across.  Well, my boy, are you going to see
him, or shall I?"

"I'll do it," said Michael, and sighed.

"Will he tell you the truth?"

"Yes.  Won't you stay to dinner?"

Sir Lawrence shook his head.

"Daren't face Fleur with this on my mind.  Needless to say, no one
ought to know until you've seen him, not even she."

"No.  Dinny still with you?"

"She's gone back to Condaford."

"Her people!" and Michael whistled.

Her people!  The thought remained with him all through a dinner
during which Fleur discussed the future of Kit.  She was in favour
of his going to Harrow, because Michael and his father had been at
Winchester.  He was down for both, and the matter had not yet been
decided.

"All your mother's people," she said, "were at Harrow.  Winchester
seems to me so superior and dry.  And they never get any notoriety.
If you hadn't been at Winchester you'd have been a pet of the
newspapers by now."

"D'you want Kit to have notoriety?"

"Yes, the nice sort, of course, like your Uncle Hilary.  You know,
Michael, Bart's a dear, but I prefer the Cherrell side of your
family."

"Well, I was wondering," said Michael, "whether the Cherrel's
weren't too straight-necked and servicey for anything,"

"Yes, they're that, but they've got a quirk in them, and they look
like gentlemen."

"I believe," said Michael, "that you really want Kit to go to
Harrow because they play at Lords."

Fleur straightened her own neck.

"Well, I do.  I should have chosen Eton, only it's so obvious, and
I hate light blue."

"Well," said Michael, "I'm prejudiced in favour of my own school,
so the choice is up to you.  A school that produced Uncle Adrian
will do for me, anyway."

"No school produced your Uncle Adrian, dear," said Fleur; "he's
palæolithic.  The Cherrells are the oldest strain in Kit's make-up,
anyway, and I should like to breed to it, as Mr. Jack Muskham would
say.  Which reminds me that when I saw him at Clare's wedding he
wanted us to come down and see his stud farm at Royston.  I should
like to.  He's like an advertisement for shooting capes--divine
shoes and marvellous control of his facial muscles."

Michael nodded.

"Jack's an example of so much stamp on the coin that there's hardly
any coin behind it."

"Don't you believe it, my dear.  There's plenty of metal at the
back."

"The 'pukka sahib,'" said Michael.  "I never can make up my mind
whether that article is to the good or to the bad.  The Cherrells
are the best type of it, because there's no manner to them as there
is to Jack; but even with them I always have the feeling of too
much in heaven and earth that isn't dreamed of in their
philosophy."

"We can't all have divine sympathy, Michael."

Michael looked at her fixedly.  He decided against malicious intent
and went on:  "I never know where understanding and tolerance ought
to end."

"That's where men are inferior to us.  We wait for the mark to fix
itself; we trust our nerves.  Men don't, poor things.  Luckily
you've a streak of woman in you, Michael.  Give me a kiss.  Mind
Coaker, he's very sudden.  It's decided, then:  Kit goes to
Harrow."

"If there's a Harrow to go to by the time he's of age."

"Don't be foolish.  No constellations are more fixed than the
public schools.  Look at the way they flourished on the war."

"They won't flourish on the next war."

"There mustn't be one, then."

"Under 'pukka sahibism' it couldn't be avoided."

"My dear, you don't suppose that keeping our word and all that was
not just varnish?  We simply feared German preponderance."

Michael rumpled his hair.

"It was a good instance, anyway, of what I said about there being
more things in Heaven and earth than are dreamed of by the 'pukka
sahib'; yes, and of many situations that he's not adequate to
handle."

Fleur yawned.

"We badly want a new dinner service, Michael."



CHAPTER X


After dinner Michael set forth, without saying where he was going.
Since the death of his father-in-law, and the disclosure then made
to him about Fleur and John Forsyte, his relations with her had
been the same, with a slight but deep difference.  He was no longer
a tied but a free agent in his own house.  Not a word had ever been
spoken between them on a matter now nearly four years old, nor had
there been in his mind any doubt about her since; the infidelity
was scotched and buried.  But, though outwardly the same, he was
inwardly emancipated, and she knew it.  In this matter of Wilfrid,
for instance, his father's warning had not been needed.  He would
not have told her of it, anyway.  Not because he did not trust her
discretion--he could always trust that--but because he secretly
felt that in a matter such as this he would not get any real help
from her.

He walked, 'Wilfrid's in love,' he thought, 'so he ought to be in
by ten, unless he's got an attack of verse; but even then you can't
write poetry in this traffic or in a club, the atmosphere stops the
flow.'  He crossed Pall Mall and threaded the maze of narrow
streets dedicated to unattached manhood till he came to Piccadilly,
quiet before its storm of after-theatre traffic.  Passing up a
side street devoted to those male ministering angels--tailors,
bookmakers and moneylenders--he rounded into Cork Street.  It was
ten o'clock exactly when he paused before the well-remembered
house.  Opposite was the gallery where he had first met Fleur, and
he stood for a moment almost dizzy from past feelings.  For three
years, before Wilfrid's queer infatuation for Fleur had broken it
all up, he had been Wilfrid's fidus Achates.  'Regular David and
Jonathan stunt,' he thought, and all his old feelings came welling
up as he ascended the stairs.

The monastic visage of the henchman Stack relaxed at sight of him.

"Mr. Mont?  Pleasure to see you, sir."

"And how are you, Stack?"

"A little older, sir; otherwise in fine shape, thank you.  Mr.
Desert IS in."

Michael resigned his hat, and entered.

Wilfrid, lying on the divan in a dark dressing-gown, sat up.

"Hallo!"

"How are you, Wilfrid?"

"Stack!  Drinks!"

"Congratulations, old man!"

"I met her first at your wedding, you know."

"Ten years ago, nearly.  You've plucked the flower of our family,
Wilfrid; we're all in love with Dinny."

"I won't talk about her, but I think the more."

"Any verse, old man?"

"Yes, a booklet going in to-morrow, same publisher.  Remember the
first?"

"Don't I?  My only scoop."

"This is better.  There's one that IS a poem."

Stack re-entered with a tray.

"Help yourself, Michael."

Michael poured out a little brandy and diluted it but slightly.
Then with a cigarette he sat down.

"When's it to be?"

"Registrar's, as soon as possible."

"Oh!  And then?"

"Dinny wants to show me England.  While there's any sun I suppose
we shall hang around."

"Going back to Syria?"

Desert wriggled on his cushions.

"I don't know: further afield, perhaps--she'll say."

Michael looked at his feet, beside which on the Persian rug some
cigarette ash had fallen.

"Old man," he said.

"Well?"

"D'you know a bird called Telfourd Yule?"

"His name--writer of sorts."

"He's just come back from Arabia and the Soudan; he brought a yarn
with him."  Without raising his eyes, he was conscious that Wilfrid
was sitting upright.

"It concerns you; and it's queer and damaging.  He thinks you ought
to know."

"Well?"

Michael uttered an involuntary sigh.

"Shortly:  The Bedouin are saying that your conversion to Islam was
at the pistol's point.  He was told the yarn in Arabia, and again
in the Libyan desert, with the name of the Sheikh, and the place in
Darfur, and the Englishman's name."  And, still without looking up,
he knew that Wilfrid's eyes were fixed on him, and that there was
sweat on his forehead.

"Well?"

"He wanted you to know, so he told my dad at the Club this
afternoon, and Bart told me.  I said I'd see you about it.  Forgive
me."

Then, in the silence, Michael raised his eyes.  What a strange,
beautiful, tortured, compelling face!

"Nothing to forgive; it's true."

"My dear old man!"  The words burst from Michael, but no others
would follow.

Desert got up, went to a drawer and took out a manuscript.

"Here, read this!"

During the twenty minutes Michael took to read the poem, there was
not a sound, except from the sheets being turned.  Michael put them
down at last.

"Magnificent!"

"Yes, but YOU'D never have done it."

"I haven't an idea what I should have done."

"Oh, yes, you have.  You'd never have let sophistication and God
knows what stifle your first instinct, as I did.  My first instinct
was to say:  'Shoot and be damned,' and I wish to God I'd kept to
it, then I shouldn't be here.  The queer thing is, if he'd
threatened torture I'd have stood out.  Yet I'd much rather be
killed than tortured."

"Torture's caddish."

"Fanatics aren't cads.  I'd have sent him to hell, but he really
hated shooting me; he begged me--stood there with the pistol and
begged me not to make him.  His brother's a friend of mine.
Fanaticism's a rum thing!  He stood there ready to loose off,
begging me.  Damned human.  I can see his eyes.  He was under a
vow.  I never saw a man so relieved."

"There's nothing of that in the poem," said Michael.

"Being sorry for your executioner is hardly an excuse.  I'm not
proud of it, especially when it saved my life.  Besides, I don't
know if that WAS the reason.  Religion, if you haven't got it, is a
fake.  To walk out into everlasting dark for the sake of a fake!
If I must die I want a reality to die for."

"You don't think," said Michael miserably, "that you'd be justified
in denying the thing?"

"I'll deny nothing.  If it's come out, I'll stand by it."

"Does Dinny know?"

"Yes.  She's read the poem.  I didn't mean to tell her, but I did.
She behaved as people don't.  Marvellous!"

"Yes.  I'm not sure that you oughtn't to deny it for her sake."

"No, but I ought to give her up."

"She would have something to say about that.  If Dinny's in love,
it's over head and ears, Wilfrid."

"Same here!"

Overcome by the bleakness of the situation, Michael got up and
helped himself to more brandy.

"Exactly!" said Desert, following him with his eyes.  "Imagine if
the Press gets hold of it!" and he laughed.

"I gather," said Michael, with a spurt of cheerfulness, "that it
was only in the desert both times that Yule heard the story."

"What's in the desert to-day is in the bazaars to-morrow.  It's no
use, I shall have to face the music."

Michael put a hand on his shoulder.  "Count on me, anyway.  I
suppose the bold way is the only way.  But I feel all you're up
against."

"Yellow.  Labelled:  'Yellow'--might give any show away.  And
they'll be right."

"Rot!" said Michael.

Wilfrid went on without heeding:  "And yet my whole soul revolts
against dying for a gesture that I don't believe in.  Legends and
superstitions--I hate the lot.  I'd sooner die to give them a
death-blow than to keep them alive.  If a man tried to force me to
torture an animal, to hang another man, to violate a woman, of
course I'd die rather than do it.  But why the hell should I die to
gratify those whom I despise for believing outworn creeds that have
been responsible for more misery in the world than any other mortal
thing?  Why?  Eh?"

Michael had recoiled before the passion in this outburst, and was
standing miserable and glum.

"Symbol," he muttered.

"Symbol!  For conduct that's worth standing for, honesty, humanity,
courage, I hope I'd stand; I went through with the war, anyway; but
why should I stand for what I look on as dead wood?"

"It simply mustn't come out," said Michael violently.  "I loathe
the idea of a lot of swabs looking down their noses at you."

Wilfrid shrugged.  "I look down my nose at myself, I assure you.
Never stifle your instinct, Michael."

"But what are you going to DO?"

"What does it matter what I do?  Things will be as they will be.
Nobody will understand, or side with me if they did understand.
Why should they?  I don't even side with myself."

"I think lots of people might nowadays."

"The sort I wouldn't be seen dead with.  No, I'm outcast."

"And Dinny?"

"I'll settle that with her."

Michael took up his hat.

"If there's anything I can do, count on me.  Good night, old man!"

"Good night, and thanks!"

Michael was out of the street before any thinking power returned to
him.  Wilfrid had been caught, as it were, in a snare!  One could
see how his rebellious contempt for convention and its types had
blinded him to the normal view.  But one could not dissociate this
or that from the general image of an Englishman: betrayal of one
feature would be looked on as betrayal of the whole.  As for that
queer touch of compassion for his would-be executioner, who would
see that who didn't know Wilfrid?  The affair was bitter and
tragic.  The 'yellow' label would be stuck on indiscriminately for
all eyes to see.

'Of course,' thought Michael, 'he'll have his supporters--
egomaniacs, and Bolshies, and that'll make him feel worse than
ever.'  Nothing was more galling than to be backed up by people you
didn't understand, and who didn't understand you.  And how was
support like that going to help Dinny, more detached from it even
than Wilfrid?  The whole thing was--!

And with that blunt reflection he crossed Bond Street and went down
Hay Hill into Berkeley Square.  If he did not see his father before
he went home, he would not sleep.

At Mount Street his mother and father were receiving a special pale
negus, warranted to cause slumber, from the hands of Blore.

"Catherine?" said Lady Mont:  "Measles?"

"No, Mother; I want to have a talk with Dad."

"About that young man--changin' his religion.  He always gave me a
pain--defyin' the lightnin', and that."

Michael stared.  "It IS about Wilfrid."

"Em," said Sir Lawrence, "this is dead private.  Well, Michael?"

"The story's true; he doesn't and won't deny it.  Dinny knows."

"What story?" asked Lady Mont.

"He recanted to some fanatical Arabs on pain of death."

"What a bore!"

Michael thought swiftly:  'My God!  If only everyone would take
that view!'

"D'you mean, then," said Sir Lawrence, gravely, "that I've got to
tell Yule there's no defence?"

Michael nodded.

"But if so, dear boy, it won't stop there."

"No, but he's reckless."

"The lightnin'," said Lady Mont, suddenly.

"Exactly, Mother.  He's written a poem on it, and a jolly good one
it is.  He's sending it in a new volume to his publisher tomorrow.
But, Dad, at any rate, get Yule and Jack Muskham to keep their
mouths shut.  After all, what business is it of theirs?"

Sir Lawrence shrugged the thin shoulders which at seventy-two were
only beginning to suggest age.

"There are two questions, Michael, and so far as I can see they're
quite separate.  The first is how to muzzle club gossip.  The
second concerns Dinny and her people.  You say Dinny knows; but her
people don't, except ourselves; and as she didn't tell us, she
won't tell them.  Now that's not fair.  And it's not wise," he went
on without waiting for an answer, "because this thing's dead
certain to come out later, and they'd never forgive Desert for
marrying her without letting them know.  I wouldn't myself, it's
too serious."

"Agitatin'," murmured Lady Mont.  "Ask Adrian."

"Better Hilary," said Sir Lawrence.

Michael broke in:  "That second question, Dad, seems to me entirely
up to Dinny.  She must be told that the story's in the wind, then
either she or Wilfrid will let her people know."

"If only she'd let him drop her!  Surely he can't want to go on
with it, with this story going about?"

"I don't see Dinny droppin' him," murmured Lady Mont.  "She's been
too long pickin' him up.  Love's young dream."

"Wilfrid said he knew he ought to give her up.  Oh! damn!"

"Come back to question one, then, Michael.  I can try, but I'm very
doubtful, especially if this poem is coming out.  What is it, a
justification?"

"Or explanation."

"Bitter and rebellious, like his early stuff?"

Michael nodded.

"Well, they might keep quiet out of charity, but they'll never
stomach that sort of attitude, if I know Jack Muskham.  He hates
the bravado of modern scepticism like poison."

"We can't tell what's going to happen in any direction, but it
seems to me we ought all to play hard for delay."

"Hope the Hermit," murmured Lady Mont.  "Good night, dear boy; I'm
goin' up.  Mind the dog--he's not been out."

"Well, I'll do what I can," said Sir Lawrence.

Michael received his mother's kiss, wrung his father's hand, and
went.

He walked home, uneasy and sore at heart, for this concerned two
people of whom he was very fond, and he could see no issue that was
not full of suffering to both.  And continually there came back to
him the thought:  'What should I have done in Wilfrid's place?'
And he concluded, as he walked, that no man could tell what he
would do if he were in the shoes of another man.  And so, in the
spring wind of a night not devoid of beauty, he came to South
Square and let himself in.



CHAPTER XI


Wilfred sat in his rooms with two letters before him, one that he
had just written to Dinny, and one that he had just received from
her.  He stared at the snapshots and tried to think clearly, and
since he had been trying to think clearly ever since Michael's
visit of the previous evening, he was the less successful.  Why had
he chosen this particular moment to fall really in love, to feel
that he had found the one person with whom he could bear to think
of permanent companionship?  He had never intended to marry, he had
never supposed he would feel towards women anything but a transient
urge that soon died in satisfaction.  Even at the height of his
infatuation with Fleur he had never supposed it would last.  On the
whole he was as profoundly sceptical about women as about religion,
patriotism, or the qualities popularly attributed to the Englishman.
He had thought himself armoured in scepticism, but in his armour was
a joint so weak that he had received a fatal thrust.  With bitter
amusement he perceived that the profound loneliness left by that
experience in Darfur had started in him an involuntary craving for
spiritual companionship of which Dinny had, as involuntarily,
availed herself.  The thing that should have kept them apart had
brought them together.

After Michael had left he had spent half the night going over and
over it, and always coming back to the crude thought that, when all
was said and done, he would be set down as a coward.  And yet, but
for Dinny, would even that matter?  What did he care for society
and its opinion?  What did he care for England and the English?
Even if they had prestige, was it deserved, any more than the
prestige of any other country?  The war had shown all countries and
their inhabitants to be pretty much alike, capable of the same
heroisms, basenesses, endurance, and absurdities.  The war had
shown mob feeling in every country to be equally narrow, void of
discrimination, and generally contemptible.  He was a wanderer by
nature, and even if England and the nearer East were closed to him,
the world was wide, the sun shone in many places, the stars wheeled
over one, books could be read, women had beauty, flowers scent,
tobacco its flavour, music its moving power, coffee its fragrance,
horses and dogs and birds were the same seductive creatures, and
thought and feeling brought an urge to rhythmic expression, almost
wherever one went.  Save for Dinny he could strike his tent and
move out, and let tongues wag behind him!  And now he couldn't!  Or
could he?  Was he not, indeed, in honour bound to?  How could he
saddle her with a mate at whom fingers were pointed?  If she had
inspired him with flaming desire, it would have been much simpler;
they could have had their fling and parted, and no one the worse.
But he had a very different feeling for her.  She was like a well
of sweet water met with in a desert; a flower with a scent coming
up among the dry vegetation of the wilderness.  She gave him the
reverent longing that some tunes and pictures inspire; roused the
same ache of pleasure as the scent of new-mown grass.  She was a
cool refreshment to a spirit sun-dried, wind-dried, and dark.  Was
he to give her up because of this damned business?

In the morning when he woke the same confused struggle of feeling
had gone on.  He had spent the afternoon writing her a letter, and
had barely finished it when her first love-letter came.  And he sat
now with the two before him.

'I can't send this,' he thought suddenly; 'it goes over and over
and gets nowhere.  Rotten!'  He tore it up, and read her letter a
third time.

'Impossible!' he thought; 'to go down there!  God and the King and
the rest of it.  Impossible!'  And seizing a piece of paper, he
wrote:


"Cork Street:  Saturday.

"Bless you for your letter.  Come up here to lunch Monday.  We must
talk.--WILFRID."


Having sent Stack out with this missive, he felt a little more at
peace. . . .

Dinny did not receive this note till Monday morning, and was the
more relieved to get it.  The last two days had been spent by her
in avoiding any mention of Wilfrid, listening to Hubert and Jean's
account of their life in the Soudan, walking and inspecting the
state of trees with her father, copying his income-tax return, and
going to church with him and her mother.  The tacit silence about
her engagement was very characteristic of a family whose members
were mutually devoted and accustomed to spare each other's
feelings; it was all the more ominous.

After reading Wilfrid's note she said to herself blankly:  'For a
love-letter it's not a love-letter.'  And she said to her mother:

"Wilfrid's shy of coming, dear.  I must go up and talk to him.  If
I can, I will bring him down with me.  If I can't, I'll try and
arrange for you to see him at Mount Street.  He's lived alone so
much that seeing people is a real strain."

Lady Cherrell's answer was a sigh, but it meant more to Dinny than
words; she took her mother's hand and said:  "Cheer up, Mother
dear.  It's something that I'm happy, isn't it?"

"That would be everything, Dinny."

Dinny was too conscious of implications in the 'would be' to
answer.

She walked to the station, reached London at noon, and set out for
Cork Street across the Park.  The day was fine, the sun shone;
spring was established to the full, with lilac and with tulips,
young green of plane-tree leaves, songs of birds, and the freshness
of the grass.  But though she looked in tune, she suffered from
presentiment.  Why she should feel so, going to a private lunch
with her lover, she could not have explained.  There could be but
few people in all the great town at such an hour of day with
prospect before them so closely joyful; but Dinny was not deceived:
all was not well--she knew it.  Being before her time, she stopped
at Mount Street to titivate.  According to Blore, Sir Lawrence was
out, but his lady in.  Dinny left the message that she might be in
to tea.

Passing the pleasant smell at the corner of Burlington Street, she
had that peculiar feeling, experienced by all at times, of having
once been someone else which accounts for so much belief in the
transmigration of souls.

'It only means,' she thought, 'something I've forgotten.  Oh!
here's the turning!'  And her heart began to beat.

She was nearly breathless when Stack opened the door to her.
"Lunch will be ready in five minutes, miss."  His eyes, dark,
prominent above his jutting nose, and yet reflective, and the curly
benevolence of his lips always gave her the impression that he was
confessing her before she had anything to confess.  He opened the
inner door, shut it behind her, and she was in Wilfrid's arms.
That was a complete refutation of presentiment; the longest and
most satisfactory moment of the sort she had yet experienced.  So
long that she was afraid he would not let her go in time.  At last
she said gently:

"Lunch has already been in a minute, darling, according to Stack."

"Stack has tact."

Not until after lunch, when they were alone once more with coffee,
did discomfiture come with the suddenness of a thunderclap in a
clear sky.

"That business has come out, Dinny."

What!  That?  THAT!  She mastered the rush of her dismay.

"How?"

"A man called Telfourd Yule has brought the story back with him.
They talk of it among the tribes.  It'll be in the bazaars by now,
in the London clubs to-morrow.  I shall be in Coventry in a few
weeks' time.  Nothing can stop a thing like that."

Without a word Dinny got up, pressed his head against her shoulder,
then sat down beside him on the divan.

"I'm afraid you don't understand," he said gently.

"That this makes any difference?  No, I don't.  The only difference
could have been when you told me yourself.  That made none.  How
can this, then?"

"How can I marry you?"

"That sort of thing is only in books, Wilfrid.  WE won't have
linkéd misery long drawn out."

"False heroics are not in my line either; but I don't think you see
yet."

"I do.  Now you can stand up straight again, and those who can't
understand--well, they don't matter."

"Then don't your people matter?"

"Yes, they matter."

"But you don't suppose for a minute that they'll understand?"

"I shall make them."

"My poor dear!"

It struck her, ominously, how quiet and gentle he was being.  He
went on:

"I don't know your people, but if they're the sort you've
described--charm ye never so wisely, they won't rise.  They can't,
it's against their root convictions."

"They're fond of me."

"That will make it all the more impossible for them to see you tied
to me."

Dinny drew away a little and sat with her chin on her hands.  Then,
without looking at him, she said:

"Do you want to get rid of me, Wilfrid?"

"Dinny!"

"Yes, but do you?"

He drew her into his arms.  Presently she said:

"I see.  Then if you don't, you must leave this to me.  And anyway
it's no good going to meet trouble.  It isn't known yet in London.
We'll wait until it is.  I know you won't marry me till then, so I
MUST wait.  After that it will be a clear issue, but you mustn't be
heroic then, Wilfrid, because it'll hurt me too much--too much."
She clutched him suddenly; and he stayed silent.

With her cheek to his she said quietly:

"Do you want me to be everything to you before you marry me?  If
so, I can."

"Dinny!"

"Very forward, isn't it?"

"No!  But we'll wait.  You make me feel too reverent."

She sighed.  "Perhaps it's best."

Presently she said:  "Will you leave it to me to tell my people
everything or not?"

"I will leave anything to you."

"And if I want you to meet any one of them, will you?"

Wilfrid nodded.

"I won't ask you to come to Condaford--yet.  That's all settled,
then.  Now tell me exactly how you heard about this."

When he had finished, she said reflectively:

"Michael and Uncle Lawrence.  That will make it easier.  Now,
darling, I'm going.  It'll be good for Stack, and I want to think.
I can only think when I'm insulated from you."

"Angel!"

She took his head between her hands.  "Don't be tragic, and I won't
either.  Could we go joy-riding on Thursday?  Good!  Foch at noon!
I'm far from an angel, I'm your love."

She went dizzily down the stairs, now that she was alone, terribly
conscious of the ordeal before them.  She turned suddenly towards
Oxford Street.  'I'll go and see Uncle Adrian,' she thought.

Adrian's thoughts at his Museum had been troubled of late by the
claim of the Gobi desert to be the cradle of Homo Sapiens.  The
idea had been patented and put on the market, and it bid fair to
have its day.  He was reflecting on the changeability of
anthropological fashions, when Dinny was announced.

"Ah!  Dinny!  I've been in the Gobi desert all the afternoon, and
was just thinking of a nice cup of 'hot' tea.  What do you say?"

"China tea always gives me an 'ick feeling, Uncle."

"We don't go in for so-called luxuries.  My duenna here makes good
old Dover tea with leaves in it, and we have the homely bun."

"Perfect!  I came to tell you that I've given my young heart."

Adrian stared.

"It's really rather a terrible tale, so can I take off my hat?"

"My dear," said Adrian, "take off anything.  Have tea first.  Here
it is."

While she was having tea Adrian regarded her with a rueful smile,
caught, as it were, between his moustache and goatee.  Since the
tragic Ferse affair she had been more than ever his idea of a
niece; and he perceived that she was really troubled.

Lying back in the only easy chair, with her knees crossed and the
tips of her fingers pressed together, she looked, he thought,
ethereal, as if she might suddenly float, and his eyes rested with
comfort on the cap of her chestnut hair.  But his face grew
perceptibly longer while she was telling him her tale, leaving
nothing out.  She stopped at last and added:

"Uncle, please don't look like that!"

"Was I?"

"Yes."

"Well, Dinny, is it surprising?"

"I want your 'reaction,' as they call it, to what he did."  And she
looked straight into his eyes.

"My personal reaction?  Without knowing him--judgment reserved."

"If you wouldn't mind, you SHALL know him."

Adrian nodded, and she said:

"Tell me the worst.  What will the others who don't know him think
and do?"

"What was your own reaction, Dinny?"

"I knew him."

"Only a week."

"And ten years."

"Oh! don't tell me that a glimpse and three words at a wedding--"

"The grain of mustard-seed, dear.  Besides, I'd read the poem, and
knew from that all his feelings.  He isn't a believer; it must have
seemed to him like some monstrous practical joke."

"Yes, yes, I've read his verse--scepticism and love of beauty.  His
type blooms after long national efforts, when the individual's been
at a discount, and the State has exacted everything.  Ego crops out
and wants to kick the State and all its shibboleths.  I understand
all that.  But--You've never been out of England, Dinny."

"Only Italy, Paris, and the Pyrenees."

"They don't count.  You've never been where England has to have a
certain prestige.  For Englishmen in such parts of the world it's
all for one and one for all."

"I don't think he realised that at the time, Uncle."

Adrian looked at her, and shook his head.

"I still don't," said Dinny.  "And thank God he didn't, or I should
never have known him.  Ought one to sacrifice oneself for false
values?"

"That's not the point, my dear.  In the East, where religion still
means everything, you can't exaggerate the importance attached to a
change of faith.  Nothing could so damage the Oriental's idea of
the Englishman as a recantation at the pistol's point.  The
question before him was:  Do I care enough for what is thought of
my country and my people to die sooner than lower that conception?
Forgive me, Dinny, but that was, brutally, the issue."

She was silent for a minute and then said:

"I'm perfectly sure Wilfrid would have died sooner than do lots of
things that would have lowered that conception; but he simply
couldn't admit that the Eastern conception of an Englishman ought
to rest on whether he's a Christian or not."

"That's special pleading; he not only renounced Christianity, he
accepted Islam--one set of superstitions for another."

"But, can't you see, Uncle, the whole thing was a monstrous jest to
him?"

"No, my dear, I don't think I can."

Dinny leaned back, and he thought how exhausted she looked.

"Well, if YOU can't, no one else will.  I mean no one of our sort,
and that's what I wanted to know."

A bad ache started in Adrian's midriff.  "Dinny, there's a
fortnight of this behind you, and the rest of your life before you;
you told me he'd give you up--for which I respect him.  Now,
doesn't it need a wrench, if not for your sake--for his?"

Dinny smiled.

"Uncle, you're so renowned for dropping your best pals when they're
in a mess.  And you know so little about love!  You only waited
eighteen years.  Aren't you rather funny?"

"Admitted," said Adrian.  "I suppose the word 'Uncle' came over me.
If I knew that Desert was likely to be as faithful as you, I should
say:  'Go to it and be damned in your own ways, bless you!'"

"Then you simply MUST see him."

"Yes; but I've seen people seem so unalterably in love that they
were divorced within the year.  I knew a man so completely
satisfied by his honeymoon that he took a mistress two months
later."

"We," murmured Dinny, "are not of that devouring breed.  Seeing so
many people on the screen examining each other's teeth has
spiritualised me, I know."

"Who has heard of this development?"

"Michael and Uncle Lawrence, possibly Aunt Em.  I don't know
whether to tell them at Condaford."

"Let me talk to Hilary.  He'll have another point of view; and it
won't be orthodox."

"Oh!  Yes, I don't mind Uncle Hilary."  And she rose.  "May I bring
Wilfrid to see you, then?"

Adrian nodded, and, when she had gone, stood again in front of a
map of Mongolia, where the Gobi desert seemed to bloom like the
rose in comparison with the wilderness across which his favourite
niece was moving.



CHAPTER XII


Dinny stayed on at Mount Street for dinner to see Sir Lawrence.
She was in his study when he came in, and said at once:  "Uncle
Lawrence, Aunt Em knows what you and Michael know, doesn't she?"

"She does, Dinny.  Why?"

"She's been so discreet.  I've told Uncle Adrian; he seems to think
Wilfrid has lowered English prestige in the East.  Just what is
this English prestige?  I thought we were looked on as a race of
successful hypocrites.  And in India as arrogant bullies."

Sir Lawrence wriggled.

"You're confusing national with individual reputation.  The things
are totally distinct.  The individual Englishman in the East is
looked up to as a man who isn't to be rattled, who keeps his word,
and sticks by his own breed."

Dinny flushed.  The implication was not lost on her.

"In the East," Sir Lawrence went on, "the Englishman, or rather the
Briton, because as often as not he's a Scot or a Welshman or a
North Irishman, is generally isolated: traveller, archæologist,
soldier, official, civilian, planter, doctor, engineer, or
missionary, he's almost always head man of a small separate show;
he maintains himself against odds on the strength of the
Englishman's reputation.  If a single Englishman is found wanting,
down goes the stock of all those other isolated Englishmen.  People
know that and recognise its importance.  That's what you're up
against, and it's no use underestimating.  You can't expect
Orientals, to whom religion means something, to understand that to
some of us it means nothing.  An Englishman to them is a believing
Christian, and if he recants, he's understood as recanting his most
precious belief."

Dinny said drily:  "In fact, then, Wilfrid has no case in the eyes
of our world."

"In the eyes of the world that runs the Empire, I'm afraid--none,
Dinny.  Could it be otherwise?  Unless there were complete mutual
confidence between these isolated beings that none of them will
submit to dictation, take a dare, or let the others down, the thing
wouldn't work at all.  Now would it?"

"I never thought about it."

"Well, you can take it from me.  Michael has explained to me how
Desert's mind worked; and from the point of view of a disbeliever
like myself, there's a lot to be said.  I should intensely dislike
being wiped out over such an issue.  But it wasn't the real issue;
and if you say:  'He didn't see that,' then I'm afraid my answer is
he didn't because he has too much spiritual pride.  And that won't
help him as a defence, because spiritual pride is anathema to the
Services, and indeed to the world generally.  It's the quality, you
remember, that got Lucifer into trouble."

Dinny, who had listened with her eyes fixed on her uncle's twisting
features, said:

"It's extraordinary the things one can do without."

Sir Lawrence screwed in a puzzled eyeglass.

"Have you caught the jumping habit from your aunt?"

"If one can't have the world's approval, one can do without it."

"'The world well lost for love,' sounds gallant, Dinny, but it's
been tried out and found wanting.  Sacrifice on one side is the
worst foundation for partnership, because the other side comes to
resent it."

"I don't expect more happiness than most people get."

"That's not as much as I want for you, Dinny."

"Dinner!" said Lady Mont, in the doorway:  "Have you a vacuum,
Dinny?  They use those cleaners," she went on, as they went towards
the dining-room, "for horses now."

"Why not for human beings," murmured Dinny, "and clear out their
fears and superstitions?  Uncle wouldn't approve, though."

"You've been talkin', then.  Blore, go away!"

When he had gone, she added:  "I'm thinkin' of your father, Dinny."

"So am I."

"I used to get over him.  But daughters!  Still, he must."

"Em!" said Sir Lawrence, warningly, as Blore came back.

"Well," said Lady Mont, "beliefs and that--too fatiguin'.  I never
liked christenin's--so unfeelin' to the baby; and puttin' it upon
other people; only they don't bother, except for cups and Bibles.
Why do they put fern-leaves on cups?  Or is that archery?  Uncle
Cuffs won a cup at archery when he was a curate.  They used.  It's
all very agitatin'."

"Aunt Em," said Dinny, "all I hope and want is that no one will
agitate themselves over me and my small affair.  If people won't
agitate we can be happy."

"So wise!  Lawrence, tell Michael that.  Blore!  Give Miss Dinny
some sherry."

Dinny, putting her lips to the sherry, looked across at her aunt's
face.  It was comforting--slightly raised in the eyebrows, drooped
in the lids, curved in the nose, and as if powdered in the hair
above the comely neck, shoulders and bust.

In the taxi for Paddington she had such a vivid vision of Wilfrid,
alone, with this hanging over him, that she very nearly leaned out
to say:  "Cork Street."  The cab turned a corner.  Praed Street?
Yes, it would be!  All the worry in the world came from the
conflict of love against love.  If only her people didn't love her,
and she them, how simple things would be!

A porter was saying:  "Any luggage, Miss?"

"None, thank you."  As a little girl she had always meant to marry
a porter!  That was before her music master came from Oxford.  He
had gone off to the war when she was ten.  She bought a magazine
and took her seat in the train.  But she was very tired and lay
back in her corner of the third-class carriage; railway travelling
was a severe tax on her always slender purse.  With head tilted,
she went to sleep.

When she alighted from the train there was a nearly full moon, and
the night was blowy and sweet-smelling.  She would have to walk.
It was light enough to take the short cut, and she climbed the
first stile into the field path.  She thought of the night, nearly
two years ago, when she came back by this train with the news of
Hubert's release and found her father sitting up, grey and worn, in
his study, and how years had seemed to drop off him when she told
him the good news.  And now she had news that must grieve him.  It
was her father she really dreaded facing.  Her mother, yes!
Mother, though gentle, was stubborn; but women had not the same
hard-and-fast convictions about what was not 'done' as men.
Hubert?  In old days she would have minded him most.  Curious how
lost he was to her!  Hubert would be dreadfully upset.  He was
rigid in his views of what was 'the game.'  Well! she could bear
his disapproval.  But Father!  It seemed so unfair to him, after
his forty years of hard service!

A brown owl floated from the hedge over to some stacks.  These
moony nights were owl-nights, and there would be the screams of
captured victims, so dreadful in the night-time.  Yet who could
help liking owls, their blunt soft floating flight, their measured
stirring calls?  The next stile led her on to their own land.
There was a linhay in this field where her father's old charger
sheltered at night.  Was it Plutarch or Pliny who had said:  'For
my part I would not sell even an old ox who had laboured for me'?
Nice man!  Now that the sound of the train had died away it was
very quiet: only the brushing of a little wind on young leaves, and
the stamp of old Kismet's foot in the linhay.  She crossed a second
field and came to the narrow tree-trunk bridge.  The night's
sweetness was like the feeling always within her now.  She crossed
the plank and slipped in among the apple-trees.  They seemed to
live brightly between her and the moving, moonlit, wind-brushed
sky.  They seemed to breathe, almost to be singing in praise at the
unfolding of their blossoms.  They were lit in a thousand shapes of
whitened branches, and all beautiful, as if someone had made each
with a rapt and moonstruck pleasure and brightened it with
starshine.  And this had been done in here each spring for a
hundred years and more.  The whole world seemed miraculous on a
night like this, but always the yearly miracle of the apple
blooming was to Dinny most moving of all.  The many miracles of
England thronged her memory, while she stood among the old trunks
inhaling the lichen-bark-dusted air.  Upland grass with larks
singing; the stilly drip in coverts when sun came after rain; gorse
on wind-blown commons; horses turning and turning at the end of the
long mole-coloured furrows; river waters now bright, now green-
tinged beneath the willows; thatch and its wood smoke; swathed hay
meadows, tawnied cornfields; the bluish distances beyond; and the
ever-changing sky--all these were as jewels in her mind, but the
chief was this white magic of the spring.  She became conscious
that the long grass was drenched and her shoes and stockings wet
through; there was light enough to see in that grass the stars of
jonquil, grape hyacinth and the pale cast-out tulips; there would
be polyanthus, too, bluebells and cowslips--a few.  She slipped on
upward, cleared the trees, and stood a moment to look back at the
whiteness of the whole.  'It might have dropped from the moon,' she
thought:  'My best stockings, too!'

Across the low-walled fruit garden and lawn she came to the
terrace.  Past eleven!  Only her father's study window lighted on
the ground floor!  How like that other night!

'Shan't tell him,' she thought, and tapped on it.

He let her in.

"Hallo, Dinny, you didn't stop the night at Mount Street, then?"

"No, Dad, there's a limit to my powers of borrowing nightgowns."

"Sit down and have some tea.  I was just going to make some."

"Darling, I came through the orchard, and I'm wet to the knees."

"Take off your stockings; here's an old pair of slippers."

Dinny stripped off the stockings and sat contemplating her legs in
the lamplight, while the General lit the etna.  He liked to do
things for himself.  She watched him bending over the tea-things,
and thought how trim he still was, and how quick and precise his
movements.  His browned hands, with little dark hairs on them, had
long, clever fingers.  He stood up, motionless, watching the flame.

"Want's a new wick," he said.  "There's going to be bad trouble in
India, I'm afraid."

"India seems to be getting almost more trouble than it's worth to
us."

The General turned his face with its high but small cheekbones; his
eyes rested on her, and his thin lips beneath the close little grey
moustache smiled.

"That often happens with trusts, Dinny.  You've got very nice
legs."

"So I ought, dear, considering you and mother."

"Mine are all right for a boot--stringy.  Did you ask Mr. Desert
down?"

"No, not to-day."

The General put his hands into his side-pockets.  He had taken off
his dinner jacket and was wearing an old snuff-coloured shooting
coat; Dinny noticed that the cuffs were slightly frayed, and one
leather button missing.  His dark, high-shaped eyebrows contracted
till there were three ridges right in the centre of his forehead;
he said gently:

"I don't understand that change of religion, you know, Dinny.  Milk
or lemon?"

"Lemon, please."

She was thinking:  'Now is the moment, after all.  Courage!'

"Two lumps?"

"Three, with lemon, Dad."

The General took up the tongs.  He dropped three lumps into the
cup, then a slice of lemon, put back the tongs, and bent down to
the kettle.

"Boiling," he said, and filled up the cup; he put a covered
spoonful of tea into it, withdrew the spoon and handed the cup to
his daughter.

Dinny sat stirring the thin golden liquid.  She took a sip, rested
the cup on her lap, and turned her face up to him.

"I can explain it, Dad," she said, and thought:  'It will only make
him understand even less.'

The General filled his own cup, and sat down.  Dinny clutched her
spoon.

"You see, when Wilfrid was far out in Darfur he ran into a nest of
fanatical Arabs, remaining from the Mahdi times.  The chief of them
had him brought into his tent and offered him his life if he would
embrace Islam."

She saw her father make a little convulsive movement, so that some
of the tea was spilled into his saucer.  He raised the cup and
poured it back.  Dinny went on:

"Wilfrid is like most of us nowadays about belief, only a great
deal more so.  It isn't only that he doesn't believe in Christianity,
he actually hates any set forms of religion, he thinks they divide
mankind and do more harm and bring more suffering than anything
else.  And then, you know--or you would if you'd read his poetry,
Dad--the war left him very bitter about the way lives are thrown
away, simply spilled out like water at the orders of people who
don't know what they're about."

Again the General made that slight convulsive movement.

"Yes, Dad, but I've heard Hubert talk in much the same way about
that.  Anyway, it has left Wilfrid with a horror of wasting life,
and the deepest distrust of all shibboleths and beliefs.  He only
had about five minutes to decide in.  It wasn't cowardice, it was
just bitter scorn that men can waste each other's lives for beliefs
that to him seem equally futile.  And he just shrugged and
accepted.  Having accepted, he had to keep his word and go through
the forms.  Of course, you don't know him, so I suppose it's
useless."  She sighed and drank thirstily.

The General had put his own cup down; he rose, filled a pipe, lit
it, and stood by the hearth.  His face was lined and dark and
grave.  At last he said:

"I'm out of my depth.  Is the religion of one's fathers for
hundreds of years to go for nothing, then?  Is all that has made us
the proudest people in the world to be chucked away at the bidding
of an Arab?  Have men like the Lawrences, John Nicholson,
Chamberlayne, Sandeman, a thousand others, who spent and gave their
lives to build up an idea of the English as brave men and true, to
be knocked into a cocked hat by every Englishman who's threatened
with a pistol?"

Dinny's cup clattered on its saucer.

"Yes, but if not by every Englishman, Dinny, why by one?  Why by
this one?"

Quivering all over, Dinny did not answer.  Neither Adrian nor Sir
Lawrence had made her feel like this--for the first time she had
been reached and moved by the other side.  Some agelong string had
been pulled within her, or she was infected by the emotion of one
whom she had always admired and loved, and whom she had hardly ever
seen stirred to eloquence.  She could not speak.

"I don't know if I'm a religious man," the General went on; "the
faith of my fathers is enough for me"--and he made a gesture, as if
adding, 'I leave myself aside'--"but, Dinny, I could not take
dictation of that sort; I could not, and I cannot understand how he
could have."

Dinny said, quietly:  "I won't try to make you, Dad; let's take it
that you can't.  Most people have done something in their lives
that other people could not understand if it were known.  The
difference here is that this thing of Wilfrid's IS known."

"You mean the threat is known--the reason for the--?"

Dinny nodded.

"How?"

"A Mr. Yule brought the story back from Egypt; Uncle Lawrence
thinks it can't be scotched.  I want you to know the worst."  She
gathered her wet stockings and shoes in her hand.  "Would you mind
telling Mother and Hubert for me, Dad?"  And she stood up.

The General drew deeply at his pipe, which emitted a gurgling
sound.

"Your pipe wants cleaning, dear.  I'll do it to-morrow."

"He'll be a pariah," burst from the General, "he'll be a pariah!
Dinny, Dinny!"

No two words could have moved and disarmed her more.  At one stroke
they shifted his opposition from the personal to the altruistic.

She bit her lip and said:

"Dad, I shall pipe my eye if I stay down here with you.  And my
feet are very cold.  Good-night, darling!"

She turned and went quickly to the door, whence she saw him
standing like a horse that has just been harnessed.

She went up to her room and sat on her bed, rubbing her cold feet
one against the other.  It was done!  Now she had only to confront
the feeling that would henceforth surround her like a wall over
which she must climb to the fulfilment of her love.  And what
surprised her most, while she rubbed and rubbed, was knowing that
her father's words had drawn from her a secret endorsement which
had not made the slightest inroad on her feeling for Wilfrid.  Was
love, then, quite detached from judgment?  Was the old image of a
blind God true?  Was it even true that defects in the loved one
made him the dearer?  That seemed borne out, at all events, by the
dislike one had for the too good people in books; one's revolt
against the heroic figure; one's impatience at the sight of virtue
rewarded.

'Is it that my family's standard,' she thought, 'is higher than
mine, or simply that I want him close to me and don't care what he
is or does so long as he comes?'  And she had a strange and sudden
feeling of knowing Wilfrid to the very core, with all his faults
and shortcomings, and with a something that redeemed and made up
for them and would keep her love alive, for in that, in that only,
was an element mysterious to her.  And she thought with a rueful
smile:  'All evil I know by instinct; it's goodness, truth, beauty
that keep me guessing!'  And, almost too tired to undress, she got
into bed.



CHAPTER XIII


'The Briery,' Jack Muskham's residence at Royston, was old-
fashioned and low, unpretentious without, comfortable within.  It
was lined with the effigies of race-horses and sporting prints.
Only in one room, seldom used, was any sign of a previous
existence.  'Here,' as an American newspaper man put it, when he
came to interview the 'last of the dandies' on the subject of
bloodstock, 'here were evidences of this aristocrat's early life in
our glorious South West.  Here were specimens of Navaho rugs and
silver work; the plaited horsehair from El Paso; the great cowboy
hats; and a set of Mexican harness dripping with silver.  I
questioned my host about this phase in his career.  "Oh! that," he
said, in his Britisher's drawl, "I had five years cow-punchin' when
I was a youngster.  You see, I had only one thought--horses, and my
father thought that might be better for me than ridin' steeplechases
here."

'"Can I put a date to that?" I asked this long, lean patrician with
the watchful eyes and the languid manner.

'"Why, yes, I came back in 1901, and except for the war I've been
breedin' bloodstock ever since."

'"And in the war?" I queried.

'"Oh!" he answered; and I seemed to sense that I was intruding on
him:  "The usual thing.  Yeomanry, cavalry, trenches, and that."

'"Tell me, Mr. Muskham," I said:  "Did you enjoy your life over
with us out there?"

'"Enjoy?" he said:  "Rather, don't you know."'

The interview, produced in a Western paper, was baptised with the
heading:


                   "ENJOYED LIFE IN SOUTHLAND,
                       SAYS BRITISH DANDY."


The stud farm was fully a mile from Royston village, and at
precisely a quarter to ten every day, when not away at races,
bloodstock sales, or what not, Jack Muskham mounted his potter pony
and ambled off to what the journalist had termed his "equine
nursery."  He was accustomed to point to this potter pony as an
example of what horses become if never spoken to in any but a
gentle voice.  She was an intelligent little three-year-old, three-
quarter-bred, with a fine mouse-coloured coat over which someone
seemed to have thrown a bottle of ink and then imperfectly removed
the splashes.  Beyond a slightly ragged crescent on her forehead,
she had no white at all; her mane was hogged, and her long tail
banged just below her hocks.  Her eyes were quiet and bright, and--
for a horse--her teeth were pearly.  She moved with a daisy-
clipping action, quickly recovering from any stumble.  Ridden with
a single rein applied to her neck, her mouth was never touched.
She was but fourteen-two, and Jack Muskham's legs, he using long
stirrup leathers, came down very far.  Riding her, as he said, was
like sitting in a very easy chair.  Besides himself, only one boy,
chosen for the quietness of his voice, hands, nerves, and temper,
was allowed to handle her.

Dismounting from this animal at the gate of the quadrangular yard
which formed the stables, Jack Muskham would enter, smoking one of
his special cigarettes in a short amber holder, and be joined on
the central grass by his stud groom.  He would then put out his
cigarette, and they would go round the boxes--where the foals would
be with their mothers, and the yearlings--and have this and that
one out to be led round the tan track which adjoined the boxes
round the yard.  After this inspection, they would pass under the
archway opposite the entrance and go to the paddocks to see the
mares, foals, and yearlings at grass.  Discipline in his 'equine
nursery' was perfect; to all seeming his employees were as quiet,
as clean, as well-behaved as the horses they had charge of.  From
the moment of his entrance to the moment when he emerged and
remounted his potter pony, his talk would be of horses--sparing and
to the point.  And, daily, there were so many little things to see
and say that he was rarely back at the house till one o'clock.  He
never discussed breeding on its scientific side with his stud
groom, in spite of that functionary's considerable knowledge,
because, to Jack Muskham, the subject was as much a matter of high
politics as the foreign relations of his country are to a Secretary
for Foreign Affairs.  His mating decisions were made in privacy,
following the conclusions of close study welded to what he would
have termed his 'flair' and others might have called his
prejudices.  Stars might come loose, Prime Ministers be knighted,
Archdukes restored, towns swallowed up by earthquakes, together
with all other forms of catastrophe, so long as Jack Muskham could
blend St. Simon on Speculum with the right dashes of Hampton and
Bend Or; or, in accordance with a more original theory of his own,
could get old Herod through Le Sancy at the extreme top and extreme
bottom of a pedigree which had Carbine and Barcaldine blood in
between.  He was, in fact, an idealist.  To breed the perfect horse
was his ideal, as little realisable, perhaps, as the ideals of
other men, and far more absorbing--in his view.  Not that he ever
mentioned it--one did not use such a word!  Nor did he bet, so that
he was never deflected in his judgments by earthly desires.  Tall,
in his cigar-brown overcoat, specially lined with camel's hair, and
his fawn-coloured buckskin shoes and fawn-coloured face, he was
probably the most familiar figure at Newmarket; nor was there any
member of the Jockey Club, with the exception of three, whose dicta
were more respected.  He was in fact an outstanding example of the
eminence in his walk of life that can be attained by a man who
serves a single end with complete and silent fidelity.  In truth,
behind this ideal of the 'perfect horse' lay the shape of his own
soul.  Jack Muskham was a formalist, one of the few survivors in a
form-shattering age; and that his formalism had pitched on the
horse for its conspicuous expression was due in part to the
completeness with which the race-horse was tied to the stud book,
in part to the essential symmetry of that animal, and in part to
the refuge the cult of it afforded from the whirr, untidiness,
glare, blare, unending scepticism, and intrusive blatancy of what
he termed "this mongrel age."

At 'The Briery' two men did all the work except scrubbing, for
which a woman came in daily.  But for that, there was no sign in
all the house that women existed in this world.  It was monastic as
a club which has not succumbed to female service, and as much more
comfortable as it was smaller.  The rooms were low, and two wide
staircases reached the only upper floor, where the rooms were lower
still.  The books, apart from endless volumes relating to the race-
horse, were either works of travel or of history, or detective
novels; other fiction, with its scepticism, slangy diction,
descriptions, sentiment, and sensation, was absent, if an exception
be made of complete sets of Surtees, Whyte-Melville, and Thackeray.

As, in the pursuit by men of their ideals, there is almost always
some saving element of irony, so in the case of Jack Muskham.  He,
whose aim in life was the production of the perfect thoroughbred,
was actually engaged in an attempt to cast the thoroughbred, as
hitherto conceived, from muzzle to crupper, on to the scrap-heap,
and substitute for it an animal with a cross of blood not as yet in
the Stud Book!

Unconscious of this discrepancy, he was seated at lunch with
Telfourd Yule, still discussing the transportation of Arab mares,
when Sir Lawrence Mont was announced.

"Lunch, Lawrence?"

"I have lunched, Jack.  But coffee would be the very thing; also
some brandy."

"Then let's go into the other room."

"You have here," said Sir Lawrence, "what I never thought to see
again, the bachelor's box of my youth.  Jack is very remarkable,
Mr. Yule.  A man who can afford to date in these days is a genius.
Do I see Surtees and Whyte-Melville entire?  Mr. Yule, what did Mr.
Waffles say in Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour when they were holding
Caingey up by the heels to let the water run out of his pockets and
boots?"

Yule's humorous mug expanded, but he was silent.

"Exactly!" said Sir Lawrence:  "No one knows nowadays.  He said:
'Why, Caingey, old boy, you look like a boiled porpoise with
parsley sauce.'  Yes, and what did Mr. Sawyer answer in Market
Harboro, when the Honourable Crasher drove at the turnpike gate,
saying:  'It's open, I think'?"

Yule's face, as of indiarubber, expanded further, and he was still
more silent.

"Dear, dear!  Jack?"

"He said:  'I think not'."

"Good!"  Sir Lawrence sank into a chair.  "And was it?  No.  Well!
Have you arranged to steal that mare?  Fine!  And when you get her
over?"

"I shall put her to the most suitable sire standing.  I shall mate
the result with the most suitable sire or mare I can find.  Then I
shall match the result of that mating privately against the best of
our present thoroughbreds of the same age.  If I'm proved right I
ought to be able to get my Arab mares entered in the Stud Book.
I'm trying to get three mares, by the way."

"How old are you, Jack?"

"Rising fifty-three."

"I'm sorry.  This is good coffee."

After that the three sat silent, awaiting the real purpose of this
visit.

"I've come, Mr. Yule," said Sir Lawrence, suddenly, "about that
affair of young Desert's."

"Not true, I hope?"

"Unfortunately, yes.  He makes no bones about it."  And, turning
his monocle on Jack Muskham's face, he saw there exactly what he
had expected.

"A man," said Muskham slowly, "ought to keep his form better than
that, even if he IS a poet."

"We won't go into the rights and wrongs, Jack.  Let it go at what
you say.  All the same"--and Sir Lawrence's manner acquired strange
gravity--"I want you two to keep mum.  If it comes out, it can't be
helped, but I beg that you'll neither of you say anything."

"I don't like the look of the fellow," said Muskham shortly.

"That applies to at least nine-tenths of the people we see about;
the reason is not adequate."

"He's one of those bitter, sceptical young moderns, with no real
knowledge of the world and no reverence for anything."

"I know you hold a brief for the past, Jack, but don't bring it
into this."

"Why not?"

"Well, I didn't want to mention it, but he's engaged to my
favourite niece, Dinny Cherrell."

"That nice girl!"

"Yes.  We none of us like it, except my boy Michael, who still
swears by Desert.  But Dinny has got her teeth into it, and I don't
think anything will budge her."

"She can't be allowed to marry a man who's bound for Coventry the
moment this comes out."

"The more he's taboo, the closer she'll stick to him."

"I like THAT," said Muskham.  "What do you say, Yule?"

"It's no affair of mine.  If Sir Lawrence wants me to say nothing,
I shall say nothing."

"Of course it's no affair of ours; all the same, if making it known
would stop your niece, I'd do it.  I call it a damned shame!"

"It would have just the opposite effect, Jack.  Mr. Yule, you know
a lot about the Press.  Suppose this story leaks into the Press, as
it well may; what then?"

Yule's eyes snapped.

"First they'll tell it vaguely of a certain English traveller; then
they'll find out whether it's denied by Desert; then they'll tell
it of him, with a good many details wrong, but not so wrong as all
that.  If he admits it, he can't object.  The Press is pretty fair,
and damned inaccurate."

Sir Lawrence nodded.  "If I knew anyone going in for journalism, I
should say:  'Be strictly accurate, and you will be unique.'  I
have not read any absolutely accurate personal paragraphs in the
papers since the war."

"That's their dodge," said Yule; "they get a double shot--first the
inaccurate report and then the correction."

"I loathe the Press," said Muskham.  "I had an American press-man
here.  There he sat, and short of kicking him out--I don't know
what on earth he made of me."

"Yes, you date, Jack.  To you Marconi and Edison are the world's
two greatest malefactors.  Is it agreed, then, about young Desert?"

"Yes," said Yule; and Muskham nodded.

Sir Lawrence passed swiftly from the subject.

"Nice country about here.  Are you staying long, Mr. Yule?"

"I go back to Town this afternoon."

"Let me take you."

"Willingly."

Half an hour later they had started.

"My cousin Jack," said Sir Lawrence, "ought to be left to the
nation.  In Washington there's a museum with groups of the early
Americans under glass smoking the communal pipe, holding tomahawks
over each other, and that sort of thing.  One might have Jack--"
Sir Lawrence paused:  "That's the trouble!  How could one have Jack
preserved?  It's so difficult to perpetuate the unemphatic.  You
can catch anything that jumps around; but when there's no attitude
except a watchful languor--and yet a man with a God of his own."

"Form, and Muskham is its prophet."

"He might, of course," murmured Sir Lawrence, "be preserved in the
act of fighting a duel.  That's perhaps the only human activity
formal enough."

"Form's doomed," said Yule.

"H'm!  Nothing so hard to kill as the sense of shape.  For what IS
life but the sense of shape, Mr. Yule?  Reduce everything to dead
similarity, and still shape will 'out'.'

"Yes," said Yule, "but 'form' is shape brought to perfection-point
and standardised; and perfection bores our bright young things."

"That nice expression.  But do they exist outside books, Mr. Yule?"

"Don't they!  And yawn-making--as they'd call it!  I'd sooner
attend City dinners for the rest of my life than spend a week-end
in the company of those bright young things."

"I doubt," said Sir Lawrence, "whether I've come across them."

"You should thank God.  They never stop talking day or night, not
even in their couplings."

"You don't seem to like them."

"Well," said Yule, looking like a gargoyle, "they can't stand me
any more than I can stand them.  A boring little crowd, but,
luckily, of no importance."

"I hope," said Sir Lawrence, "that Jack is not making the mistake
of thinking young Desert is one."

"Muskham's never met a bright young thing.  No; what gets his goat
about Desert is the look of his face.  It's a deuced strange face."

"Lost angel," said Sir Lawrence.  "'Spiritual pride, my buck!'
Something fine about it."

Yule nodded.  "I don't mind it myself; and his verse is good.  But
all revolt's anathema to Muskham.  He likes mentality clipped, with
its mane plaited, stepping delicately to the snaffle."

"I don't know," murmured Sir Lawrence, "I think those two might
like each other, if they could shoot each other first.  Queer
people, we English!"



CHAPTER XIV


When, about the same time that afternoon, Adrian entered his
brother's parish and traversed the mean street leading to the
Vicarage of St. Augustine's-in-the-Meads, English people were being
almost too well illustrated six doors round the corner.

An ambulance stood in front of a house without a future, and all
who had something better to do were watching it.  Adrian made one
of the party.  From the miserable edifice two men and a nurse were
bearing the stretched-out body of a child, followed by a wailing,
middle-aged, red-faced woman and a growling, white-faced man with a
drooping moustache.

"What's up?" said Adrian to a policeman.

"The child's got to have an operation.  You'd think she was goin'
to be murdered, instead of havin' the best that care can give her.
There's the Vicar.  If he can't quiet 'em, no one can."

Adrian saw his brother come out of the house and join the white-
faced man.  The growling ceased, but the woman's wails increased.
The child was ensconced by now in the ambulance, and the mother
made an unwieldly rush at its door.

"Where's their sense?" said the policeman, stepping forward.

Adrian saw Hilary put his hand on the woman's shoulder.  She turned
as if to deliver a wide-mouthed imprecation, but a mere whimper
issued.  Hilary put his arm through hers and drew her quietly back
into the house.  The ambulance drove away.  Adrian moved up to the
white-faced man and offered him a cigarette.  He took it with a
"Thanks, mister," and followed his wife.

All was over.  The little crowd had gone.  The policeman stood
there alone.

"The Vicar's a wonder," he said.

"My brother," said Adrian.

The policeman looked at him more respectfully.

"A rare card, sir, the Vicar."

"I quite agree.  Was that child very bad?"

"Won't live the day out, unless they operate.  Seems as if they'd
saved it up to make a close run.  Just an accident the Vicar
happening on it.  Some people'd rather die than go into 'ospitals,
let alone their children."

"Independence," said Adrian.  "I understand the feeling."

"Well, if you put it that way, sir, so do I.  Still, they've got a
wretched home in there, and everything of the best in the
'ospital."

"'Be it never so humble--'" quoted Adrian.

"That's right.  And in my opinion it's responsible for these slums.
Very slummy round these parts, but try and move the people, and
don't they let you know!  The Vicar does good work, reconditionin'
the 'ouses, as they call it.  If you want him, I'll go and tell
him."

"Oh!  I'll wait."

"You'd be surprised," said the policeman, "the things people'll put
up with sooner than be messed about.  And you can call it what you
like:  Socialism, Communism, Government by the people for the
people, all comes to that in the end, messin' you about.  Here!
You move on!  No hawkin' in this street!"

A man with a barrow who had looked as if he had been going to cry
'Winkles!' altered the shape of his mouth.

Adrian, stirred by the confusion of the policeman's philosophy,
waited in hopes of more, but at this moment Hilary emerged and came
towards them.

"It won't be their fault if she lives," he said, and, answering the
policeman's salute, added:  "Are those petunias coming up, Bell?"

"They are, sir; my wife thinks no end of 'em."

"Splendid!  Look here!  You'll pass the hospital on your way home,
you might ask about that child for me; and ring me if the news is
bad."

"I will, Vicar; pleased to do it."

"Thanks, Bell.  Now, old man, let's go in and have some tea."

Mrs. Hilary being at a meeting, the brothers had tea by themselves.

"I've come about Dinny," said Adrian, and unfolded her story.

Hilary lighted a pipe.  "That saying," he said at last:  "'Judge
not that ye be not judged,' is extraordinarily comforting, until
you've got to do something about it.  After that it appears to
amount to less than nothing; all action is based on judgments,
tacit or not.  Is Dinny very much in love?"

Adrian nodded.  Hilary drew deeply at his pipe.

"I don't like it a little bit, then.  I've always wanted a clear
sky for Dinny; and this looks to me like a sirocco.  I suppose no
amount of putting it to her from other people's points of view is
any good?"

"I should say none."

"Is there anything you want me to do?"

Adrian shook his head.  "I only wanted your reaction."

"Just sorrow that Dinny's going to have a bad time.  As to that
recantation, my cloth rises on me, but whether it rises because I'm
a parson, or a public-school Englishman, I don't know.  I suspect
the older Adam."

"If Dinny means to stick to this," said Adrian, "one must stick to
her.  I always feel that if a thing one hates has to happen to a
person one loves, one can only help by swallowing the idea of it
whole.  I shall try to like him and see his point of view."

"He probably hasn't one," said Hilary.  "Au fond, you know, like
'Lord Jim,' he just jumped; and he almost certainly knows it at
heart."

"The more tragic for them both; and the more necessary to stand
by."

Hilary nodded.

"Poor old Con will be badly hit.  It gives such a chance to people
to play the Pharisee.  I can see the skirts being drawn aside."

"Perhaps," said Adrian, "modern scepticism will just shrug its
shoulders and say:  'Another little superstition gone west!'"

Hilary shook his head.

"Human nature, in the large, will take the view that he kowtowed to
save his life.  However sceptical people are nowadays about
religion, patriotism, the Empire, the word gentleman, and all that,
they still don't like cowardice--to put it crudely.  I don't mean
to say that a lot of them aren't cowards, but they still don't like
it in other people; and if they can safely show their dislike, they
will."

"Perhaps the thing won't come out."

"Bound to, one way or another; and, for young Desert, the sooner
the better.  Give him a chance to captain his soul again.  Poor
little Dinny!  This'll test her sense of humour.  Oh! dear me!  I
feel older.  What does Michael say?"

"Haven't seen him since."

"Do Lawrence and Em know?"

"Probably."

"Otherwise it's to be kept dark, eh?"

"Yes.  Well, I must be getting on."

"I," said Hilary, "shall carve my feelings into my Roman galley; I
shall get half an hour at it, unless that child has collapsed."

Adrian strode on to Bloomsbury.  And while he went he tried to put
himself in the place of one threatened with sudden extinction.  No
future life, no chance of seeing again those he loved; no promise,
assured or even vague, of future conscious experience analogous to
that of this life!

'It's the sudden personal emergency coming out of the blue,' he
thought, 'with no eyes on you, that's the acid test.  Who among us
knows how he'll come through it?'

His brothers, the soldier and the priest, would accept extinction
as a matter of simple duty; even his brother the judge, though he
would want to argue the point and might convert his executioner.
'But I?' he thought.  'How rotten to die like that for a belief I
haven't got, in a remote corner of the earth, without even the
satisfaction of knowing that my death was going to benefit anybody,
or would ever even be known!'  Without professional or official
prestige to preserve, faced by such an issue, requiring immediate
decision, one would have no time to weigh and balance; would be
thrown back on instinct.  One's temperament would decide.  And if
it were like young Desert's, judging from his verse; if he were
accustomed to being in opposition to his fellows, or at least out
of touch with them; scornful of convention and matter-of-fact
English bull-doggedness; secretly, perhaps, more in sympathy with
Arabs than with his own countrymen, would he not almost infallibly
decide as Desert had?  'God knows how I should have acted,' thought
Adrian, 'but I understand, and in a way I sympathise.  Anyway, I'm
with Dinny in this, and I'll see her through; as she saw me through
that Ferse business.'  And, having reached a conclusion, he felt
better. . . .



But Hilary carved away at his Roman galley.  Those classical
studies he had so neglected had led up to his becoming a parson,
and he could no longer understand why.  What sort of young man
could he have been to think he was fit for it?  Why had he not
taken to forestry, become a cowboy, or done almost anything that
kept him out of doors instead of in the slummy heart of a dim city?
Was he or was he not based on revelation?  And, if not, on what was
he based?  Planing away at an after-deck such as that whence those
early plumbers, the Romans, had caused so many foreigners to
perspire freely, he thought:  'I serve an idea, with a superstructure
which doesn't bear examination.'  Still, the good of mankind was
worth working for!  A doctor did it in the midst of humbug and
ceremony.  A statesman, though he knew that democracy, which made
him a statesman, was ignorance personified.  One used forms in which
one didn't believe, and even exhorted others to believe in them.
Life was a practical matter of compromise.  'We're all Jesuits,' he
thought, 'using doubtful means to good ends.  I should have had to
die for my cloth, as a soldier dies for his.  But that's neither
here nor there!'

The telephone bell rang, and a voice said:

"The Vicar! . . .  Yes, sir! . . .  That girl.  Too far gone to
operate.  So if you'd come, sir."

Hilary put down the receiver, snatched his hat, and ran out of the
house.  Of all his many duties the deathbed was least to his taste,
and, when he alighted from the taxi before the hospital, the lined
mask of his face concealed real dread.  Such a child!  And nothing
to be done except patter a few prayers and hold her hand.  Criminal
the way her parents had let it run on till it was too late.  But to
imprison them for it would be to imprison the whole British race,
which never took steps to interfere with its independence till the
last minute, and that too late!

"This way sir," said a nurse.

In the whiteness and order of a small preliminary room Hilary saw
the little figure, white-covered, collapsed, and with a deathly
face.  He sat down beside it, groping for words with which to warm
the child's last minutes.

'Shan't pray,' he thought, 'she's too young.'

The child's eyes, struggling out of their morphined immobility,
flitted with terror round the room and fixed themselves, horror-
stricken, first on the white figure of the nurse, then on the
doctor in his overalls.  Hilary raised his hand.

"D'you mind," he said, "leaving her with me a moment?"

They passed into an adjoining room.

"Loo!" said Hilary softly.

Recalled by his voice from their terrified wandering, the child's
eyes rested on his smile.

"Isn't this a nice clean place?  Loo!  What d'you like best in all
the world?"

The answer came almost inaudibly from the white puckered lips:
"Pictures."

"That exactly what you're going to have, every day--twice a day.
Think of that.  Shut your eyes and have a nice sleep, and when you
wake the pictures will begin.  Shut your eyes!  And I'll tell you a
story.  Nothing's going to happen to you.  See!  I'm here."

He thought she had closed her eyes, but pain gripped her suddenly
again; she began whimpering and then screamed.

"God!" murmured Hilary.  "Another touch, doctor, quick!"

The doctor injected morphia.

"Leave us alone again."

The doctor slipped away, and the child's eyes came slowly back to
Hilary's smile.  He laid his fingers on her small emaciated hand.

"Now, Loo, listen!


"'The Walrus and the Carpenter were walking hand in hand,
They wept like anything to see such quantities of sand.
"If seven maids with seven brooms could sweep for half a year,
Do you suppose," the Walrus said, "that they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter, and shed a bitter tear!'"


On and on went Hilary, reciting 'The Mad Hatter's Tea-party.'  And,
while he murmured, the child's eyes closed, the small hand lost
warmth.

He felt its cold penetrating his own hand and thought:  'Now, God,
if you are--give her pictures!'



CHAPTER XV


When Dinny opened her eyes on the morning after she had told her
father, she could not remember what her trouble was.  Realisation
caused her to sit up with a feeling of terror.  Suppose Wilfrid ran
away from it all, back to the East or further!  He well might, and
think he was doing it for her sake.

'I can't wait till Thursday,' she thought; 'I must go up.  If only
I had money, in case--!'  She rummaged out her trinkets and took
hasty stock of them.  The two gentlemen of South Molton Street!  In
the matter of Jean's emerald pendant they had behaved beautifully.
She made a little parcel of her pledgeable ornaments, reserving the
two or three she normally wore.  There were none of much value, and
to get a hundred pounds on them, she felt, would strain
benevolence.

At breakfast they all behaved as if nothing had happened.  So then,
they all knew the worst!

'Playing the angel!' she thought.

When her father announced that he was going up to Town, she said
she would come with him.

He looked at her, rather like a monkey questioning man's right not
to be a monkey too.  Why had she never before noticed that his
brown eyes could have that flickering mournfulness?

"Very well," he said.

"Shall I drive you?" asked Jean.

"Thankfully accepted," murmured Dinny.

Nobody said a word on the subject occupying all their thoughts.

In the opened car she sat beside her father.  The may-blossom,
rather late, was at its brightest, and its scent qualified the
frequent drifts of petrol fume.  The sky had the high brooding grey
of rain withheld.  Their road passed over the Chilterns, through
Hampden, Great Missenden, Chalfont, and Chorley Wood; land so
English that no one, suddenly awakened, could at any moment of the
drive have believed he was in any other country.  It was a drive
Dinny never tired of; but to-day the spring green and brightness of
the may and apple blossom, the windings and divings through old
villages, could not deflect her attention from the impassive figure
by whom she sat.  She knew instinctively that he was going to try
and see Wilfrid, and, if so--she was, too.  But when he talked it
was of India.  And when she talked it was of birds.  And Jean drove
furiously and never looked behind her.  Not till they were in the
Finchley Road did the General say:

"Where d'you want to be set down, Dinny?"

"Mount Street."

"You're staying up, then?"

"Yes, till Friday."

"We'll drop you, and I'll go on to my Club.  You'll drive me back
this evening, Jean?"

Jean nodded without turning and slid between two vermilion-coloured
buses, so that two drivers simultaneously used the same qualitative
word.

Dinny was in a ferment of thought.  Dared she telephone Stack to
ring her up when her father came?  If so, she could time her visit
to the minute.  Dinny was of those who at once establish liaison
with 'staff.'  She could not help herself to a potato without
unconsciously conveying to the profferer that she was interested in
his personality.  She always said 'Thank you,' and rarely passed
from the presence without having made some remark which betrayed
common humanity.  She had only seen Stack three times, but she knew
he felt that she was a human being, even if she did not come from
Barnstaple.  She mentally reviewed his no longer youthful figure,
his monastic face, black-haired and large-nosed, with eyes full of
expression, his curly mouth, at once judgmatic and benevolent.  He
moved upright and almost at a trot.  She had seen him look at her
as if saying to himself:  'If this is to be our fate, could I do
with it?  I could.'  He was, she felt, permanently devoted to
Wilfrid.  She determined to risk it.  When they drove away from her
at Mount Street, she thought:  'I hope I shall never be a father!'

"Can I telephone, Blore?"

"Certainly, miss."

She gave Wilfrid's number.

"Is that Stack?  Miss Cherrell speaking. . . .  Would you do me a
little favour?  My father is going to see Mr. Desert to-day,
General Sir Conway Cherrell; I don't know at what time, but I want
to come myself while he's there. . . .  Could you ring me up here
as soon as he arrives?  I'll wait in. . . .  Thank you so very
much. . . .  Is Mr. Desert well? . . .  Don't tell him or my
father, please, that I'm coming.  Thank you ever so!"

'Now,' she thought, 'unless I've misread Dad!  There's a picture
gallery opposite, I shall be able to see him leave from the window
of it.'

No call came before lunch, which she had with her aunt.

"Your uncle has seen Jack Muskham," said Lady Mont, in the middle
of lunch; "Royston, you know; and he brought back the other one,
just like a monkey--they won't say anything.  But Michael says he
mustn't, Dinny."

"Mustn't what, Aunt Em?"

"Publish that poem."

"Oh! but he will."

"Why?  Is it good?"

"The best he has ever written."

"So unnecessary."

"Wilfrid isn't ashamed, Aunt Em."

"Such a bore for you, I do think.  I suppose one of those
companionable marriages wouldn't do, would it?"

"I've offered it, dear."

"I'm surprised at you, Dinny."

"He didn't accept it."

"Thank God!  I should hate you to get into the papers.

"Not more than I should myself, Auntie."

"Fleur got into the papers, libellin'."

"I remember."

"What's that thing that comes back and hits you by mistake?"

"A boomerang?"

"I knew it was Australian.  Why do they have an accent like that?"

"Really I don't know, darling."

"And marsupials?  Blore, Miss Dinny's glass."

"No more, thank you, Aunt Em.  And may I get down?"

"Let's both get down"; and, getting up, Lady Mont regarded her
niece with her head on one side.  "Deep breathin' and carrots to
cool the blood.  Why Gulf Stream, Dinny?  What gulf is that?"

"Mexico, dear."

"The eels come from there, I was readin'.  Are you goin' out?"

"I'm waiting for a 'phone call."

"When they say tr-r-roubled, it hurts my teeth.  Nice girls, I'm
sure.  Coffee?"

"Yes, PLEASE!"

"It does.  One comes together like a puddin' after it."

Dinny thought:  'Aunt Em always sees more than one thinks.'

"Bein' in love," continued Lady Mont, "is worse in the country--
there's the cuckoo.  They don't have it in America, somebody said.
Perhaps they don't fall in love there.  Your Uncle'll know.  He
came back with a story about a poppa at Nooport.  But that was
years and years ago.  I feel other people's insides," continued her
aunt, uncannily.  "Where's your father gone?"

"To his Club."

"Did you tell him, Dinny?"

"Yes."

"You're his favourite."

"Oh, no!  Clare is."

"Fiddle!"

"Did the course of your love run smooth, Aunt Em?"

"I had a good figure," replied her aunt; "too much, perhaps; we had
then.  Lawrence was my first."

"Really?"

"Except for choir-boys and our groom, and a soldier or two.  There
was a little captain with a black moustache.  Inconsiderate, when
one's fourteen."

"I suppose your 'wooing' was very decorous?"

"No; your uncle was passionate.  'Ninety-one.  There'd been no rain
for thirty years."

"No such rain?"

"No!  No rain at all--I forget where.  There's the telephone!"

Dinny reached the 'phone just in front of the butler.

"It'll be for me, Blore, thank you."

She took up the receiver with a shaking hand.

"Yes? . . . I see . . . thank you, Stack . . . thank you very
much. . . .  Will you get me a taxi, Blore?"

She directed the taxi to the gallery opposite Wilfrid's rooms,
bought a catalogue, and went upstairs to the window.  Here, under
pretext of minutely examining Number 35, called 'Rhythm,' a
misnomer so far as she could see, she kept watch on the door
opposite.  Her father could not already have left Wilfrid, for it
was only seven minutes since the telephone call.  Very soon,
however, she saw him issuing from the door, and watched him down
the street.  His head was bent, and he shook it once or twice; she
could not see his face, but she could picture its expression.

'Gnawing his moustache,' she thought; 'poor lamb!'

The moment he rounded the corner she ran down, slipped across the
street and up the first flight.  Outside Wilfrid's door she stood
with her hand raised to the bell.  Then she rang.

"Am I too late, Stack?"

"The General's just gone, Miss."

"Oh!  May I see Mr. Desert?  Don't announce me."

"No, miss," said Stack.  Had she ever seen eyes more full of
understanding?

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door.  Wilfrid was standing at
the hearth with his head bent down on his folded arms.  She stole
silently up, waiting for him to realise her presence.

Suddenly he threw his head up, and saw her.

"Darling!" said Dinny, "so sorry for startling you!"  And she
tilted her head, with lips a little parted and throat exposed,
watching the struggle on his face.

He succumbed and kissed her.

"Dinny, your father--"

"I know.  I saw him go.  'Mr. Desert, I believe!  My daughter has
told me of an engagement, and--er--your position.  I--er--have come
about that.  You have--er--considered what will happen when your--
er--escapade out there becomes--er--known.  My daughter is of age,
she can please herself, but we are all extremely fond of her, and I
think you will agree that in the face of such a--er--scandal it
would be wholly wrong on your part--er--to consider yourself
engaged to her at present."

"Almost exact."

"And you answered?"

"That I'd think it over.  He's perfectly right."

"He is perfectly wrong.  I have told you before, 'Love is not love
which alters when it alteration finds.'  Michael thinks you ought
not to publish The Leopard."

"I must.  I want it off my chest.  When I'm not with you I'm hardly
sane."

"I know!  But, darling, those two are not going to say anything;
need it ever come out?  Things that don't come out quickly often
don't come out at all.  Why go to meet trouble?"

"It isn't that.  It's some damned fear in me that I WAS yellow.  I
want the whole thing out.  Then, yellow or not, I can hold my head
up.  Don't you see, Dinny?"

She did see.  The look on his face was enough.  'It's my business,'
she thought, 'to feel as he does, whatever I think; only so can I
help him; perhaps only so can I keep him.'

"I understand, perfectly.  Michael's wrong.  We'll face the music,
and our heads shall be 'bloody but unbowed.'  But we won't be
'captains of our souls,' whatever happens."

And, having got him to smile, she drew him down beside her.  After
that long close silence, she opened her eyes with the slow look all
women know how to give.

"To-morrow is Thursday, Wilfrid.  Will you mind if we drop in on
Uncle Adrian on the way home?  He's on our side.  And about our
engagement, we can say we aren't engaged, and BE all the same.
Good-bye, my love!"

Down in the vestibule by the front door as she was opening it,
Stack's voice said:

"Excuse me, miss."

"Yes?"

"I've been with Mr. Desert a long time, and I was thinking.  You're
engaged to him, if I don't mistake, miss?"

"Yes and no, Stack.  I hope to marry him, however."

"Quite, miss.  And a good thing, too, if you'll excuse me.  Mr.
Desert is a sudden gentleman, and I was thinking if we were in
leeaison, as you might say, it'd be for his good."

"I quite agree; that's why I rang you up this morning."

"I've seen many young ladies in my time, but never one I'd rather
he married, miss, which is why I've taken the liberty."

Dinny held out her hand.  "I'm terribly glad you did; it's just
what I wanted; because things are difficult, and going to be more
so, I'm afraid."

Having polished his hand, Stack took hers, and they exchanged a
rather convulsive squeeze.

"I know there's something on his mind," he said.  "That's not my
business.  But I have known him to take very sudden decisions.  And
if you were to give me your telephone numbers, miss, I might be of
service to you both."

Dinny wrote them down.  "This is the town one at my uncle, Sir
Lawrence Mont's, in Mount Street; and this is my country one at
Condaford Grange in Oxfordshire.  One or the other is almost sure
to find me.  And thank you ever so.  It takes a load off my mind."

"And off mine, miss.  Mr. Desert has every call on me.  And I want
the best for him.  He's not everybody's money, but he's mine."

"And mine, Stack."

"I won't bandy compliments, miss, but he'll be a lucky one, if
you'll excuse me."

Dinny smiled.  "No, I shall be the lucky one.  Good-bye, and thank
you again."

She went away, treading, so to speak, on Cork Street.  She had an
ally in the lion's mouth; a spy in the friend's camp; a faithful
traitor!  Thus mixing her metaphors, she scurried back to her
aunt's house.  Her father would almost certainly go there before
returning to Condaford.

Seeing his unmistakable old bowler in the hall, she took the
precaution of removing her own hat before going to the drawing-
room.  He was talking to her aunt, and they stopped as she came in.
Everyone would always stop now as she came in!  Looking at them
with quiet directness, she sat down.

The General's eyes met hers.

"I've been to see Mr. Desert, Dinny."

"I know, dear.  He is thinking it over.  We shall wait till
everyone knows, anyway."

The General moved uneasily.

"And if it is any satisfaction to you, we are not formally
engaged."

The General gave her a slight bow, and Dinny turned to her aunt,
who was fanning a pink face with a piece of lilac-coloured
blotting-paper.

There was a silence, then the General said:

"When are you going to Lippinghall, Em?"

"Next week," replied Lady Mont, "or is it the week after?  Lawrence
knows.  I'm showing two gardeners at the Chelsea Flower Show.
Boswell and Johnson, Dinny."

"Oh!  Are they still with you?"

"More so.  Con, you ought to grow pestifera--no, that's not the
name--that hairy anemone thing."

"Pulsatilla, Auntie."

"Charmin' flowers.  They want lime."

"We're short of lime at Condaford," said the General, "as you ought
to know, Em."

"Our azaleas were a dream this year, Aunt Em."

Lady Mont put down the blotting-paper.

"I've been tellin' your father, Dinny, that it's no good fussin'
you."

Dinny, watching her father's glum face, said:  "Do you know that
nice shop in Bond Street, Auntie, where they make animals?  I got a
lovely little vixen and her cubs there to make Dad like foxes
better."

"Huntin'," said Lady Mont, and sighed.  "When they get up chimneys,
it's rather touchin'."

"Even Dad doesn't like digging out, or stopping earths, do you,
Dad?"

"N-no!" said the General, "on the whole, no!"

"Bloodin' children, too," said Lady Mont.  "I saw you blooded,
Con."

"Messy job, and quite unnecessary!  Only the old raw-hide school go
in for it now."

"He looked so nasty, Dinny."

"Yes, you haven't got the face for it, Dad.  It wants one of those
snub-nosed, red-haired, freckled boys, that like killing for the
sake of killing."

The General rose.

"I must be going back to the Club.  Jean picks me up there.  When
shall we see you, Dinny?  Your mother--" and he stopped.

"Aunt Em's keeping me till Saturday."

The General nodded.  He suffered his sister's and daughter's kiss
with a face that seemed to say, 'Yes--but--'

From the window Dinny watched his figure moving down the street,
and her heart twitched.

"Your father!" said her aunt's voice behind her.  "All this is very
wearin', Dinny."

"I think it's very dear of Dad not to have mentioned the fact that
I'm dependent on him."

"Con IS a dear," said Lady Mont; "he said the young man was
respectful.  Who was it said:  'Goroo--goroo'?"

"The old Jew in David Copperfield."

"Well, it's what I feel."

Dinny turned from the window.

"Auntie!  I don't feel the same being at all as I did two weeks
ago.  I'm utterly changed.  Then I didn't seem to have any desires;
now I'm all one desire, and I don't seem to care whether I'm decent
or not.  Don't say Epsom salts!"

Lady Mont patted her arm.

"'Honour thy father and thy mother,'" she said; "but then there was
'Forsake all and follow me,' so you can't tell."

"I can," said Dinny.  "Do you know what I'm hoping now?  That
everything will come out to-morrow.  If it did, we could be married
at once."

"Let's have some tea, Dinny.  Blore, tea!  Indian and rather
strong!"



CHAPTER XVI


Dinny took her lover to Adrian's door at the museum the next day,
and left him there.  Looking round at his tall, hatless, girt-in
figure, she saw him give a violent shiver.  But he smiled, and even
at that distance she felt warmed by his eyes.

Adrian, already notified, received the young man with what he
stigmatised to himself as 'morbid curiosity,' and placed him at
once in mental apposition to Dinny.  A curiously diverse couple
they would make!  Yet, with a perception not perhaps unconnected
with the custody of skeletons, he had a feeling that his niece was
not physically in error.  This was a figure that could well stand
or lie beside her.  Its stringy grace and bony gallantry accorded
with her style and slenderness; and the darkened face, with its
drawn and bitter lines, had eyes which even Adrian, who had all the
public-school-man's impatience of male film stars, could see would
be attractive to the feminine gender.  Bones broke the ice to some
degree; and over the identity of a supposed Hittite in moderate
preservation they became almost cordial.  Places and people whom
they had both seen in strange conditions were a further incentive
to human feeling.  But not till he had taken up his hat to go did
Wilfrid say suddenly:

"Well, Mr. Cherrell, what would YOU do?"

Adrian, who was looking up, halted and considered his questioner
with narrowed eyes.

"I'm a poor hand at advice, but Dinny is a precious baggage--"

"She is."

Adrian bent and shut the door of a cabinet.

"This morning," he said, "I watched a solitary ant in my bathroom
trying to make its way and find out about things.  I'm sorry to say
I dropped some ashes from my pipe on it to see what it would do.
Providence all over--always dropping ashes from its pipe on us to
observe the result.  I've been in several minds, but I've come to
the conclusion that if you're really in love with Dinny--" a
convulsive movement of Wilfrid's body ended in the tight clenching
of his hands on his hat--"as I see you are, and as I know her to be
with you, then stand fast and work your way with her through the
ashes.  She'd rather be in the cart with you than in a Pullman with
the rest of us.  I believe"--and Adrian's face was illuminated by
earnestness--"that she is one of those of whom it is not yet
written, 'and they twain shall be one SPIRIT.'"  The young man's
face quivered.

'Genuine!' thought Adrian.

"So think first of her, but not in the 'I love you so that nothing
will induce me to marry you' fashion.  Do what she wants--when she
wants it--she's not unreasonable.  And, honestly, I don't believe
you'll either of you regret it."

Desert took a step towards him, and Adrian could see that he was
intensely moved.  But he mastered all expression, save a little
jerky smile, made a movement of one hand, turned, and went out.

Adrian continued to shut the doors of cupboards that contained
bones.  'That,' he was thinking, 'is the most difficult, and in
some ways the most beautiful face I've seen.  The spirit walks upon
its waters and is often nearly drowned.  I wonder if that advice
was criminal, because for some reason or other I believe he's going
to take it.'  And he returned to the reading of a geographical
magazine which Wilfrid's visit had interrupted.  It contained a
spirited account of an Indian tribe on the Amazon which had
succeeded, even without the aid of American engineers at
capitalistic salaries, in perfecting the Communistic ideal.  None
of them, apparently, owned anything.  Their whole lives, including
the processes of nature, were passed in the public eye.  They wore
no clothes, they had no laws; their only punishment, something in
connection with red ants, was inflicted for the only offence, that
of keeping anything to themselves.  They lived on the cassava root
variegated with monkey, and were the ideal community!

'A wonderful instance,' thought Adrian, 'of how the life of man
runs in cycles.  For the last twenty thousand years or so we've
been trying, as we thought, to improve on the principle which
guides the life of these Indians, only to find it reintroduced as
the perfect pattern.'

He sat for some time with a smile biting deep into the folds about
his mouth.  Doctrinaires, extremists!  That Arab who put a pistol
to young Desert's head was a symbol of the most mischievous trait
in human nature!  Ideas and creeds--what were they but half-truths,
only useful in so far as they helped to keep life balanced?  The
geographical magazine slipped off his knee.

He stopped on the way home in the garden of his square to feel the
sun on his cheek and listen to a blackbird.  He had all he wanted
in life: the woman he loved, fair health, a fair salary--seven
hundred a year and the prospect of a pension--two adorable
children, not his own, so that he was free from the misgivings of
more normal parents; an absorbing job, a love of nature, and
another thirty years, perhaps, before him.  'If at this moment,' he
thought, 'someone put a pistol to my head and said:  "Adrian
Cherrell, renounce Christianity or out go your brains!" should I
say with Clive in India:  "Shoot and be damned!"?'  And he could
not answer.  The blackbird continued to sing, the young leaves to
twitter in the breeze, the sun to warm his cheek, and life to be
desirable in the quiet of that one-time fashionable square. . . .

Dinny, when she left those two on the verge of acquaintanceship,
had paused, in two minds, and then gone north to St. Augustine's-
in-the-Meads.  Her instinct was to sap the opposition of the
outlying portions of her family, so as to isolate the defences of
her immediate people.  She moved towards the heart of practical
Christianity with a certain rather fearful exhilaration.

Her Aunt May was in the act of dispensing tea to two young ex-
Collegians before their departure to a club where they superintended
the skittles, chess, draughts, and ping-pong of the neighbourhood.

"If you want Hilary, Dinny, he had two committees, but they might
collapse, because he's almost the whole of both."

"You and uncle know about me, I suppose?"

Mrs. Hilary nodded.  She was looking very fresh in a sprigged
dress.

"Would you mind telling me what uncle feels about it?"

"I'd rather leave that to him, Dinny.  We neither of us remember
Mr. Desert very well."

"People who don't know him well will always misjudge him.  But
neither you nor uncle care what other people think."  She said this
with a guileless expression which by no means deceived Mrs. Hilary,
accustomed to Women's Institutes.

"We're neither of us very orthodox, as you know, Dinny, but we do
both of us believe very deeply in what Christianity stands for, and
it's no good pretending we don't."

Dinny thought a moment.

"Is that more than gentleness and courage and self-sacrifice, and
must one be a Christian to have those?"

"I'd rather not talk about it.  I should be sorry to say anything
that would put me in a position different from Hilary's."

"Auntie, how model of you!"

Mrs. Hilary smiled.  And Dinny knew that judgment in this quarter
was definitely reserved.

She waited, talking of other things, till Hilary came in.  He was
looking pale and worried.  Her aunt gave him tea, passed a hand
over his forehead, and went out.

Hilary drank off his tea and filled his pipe with a knot of tobacco
screwed up in a circular paper.

"Why corporations, Dinny?  Why not three doctors, three engineers,
three architects, an adding machine, and a man of imagination to
work it and keep them straight?"

"Are you in trouble, Uncle?"

"Yes, gutting houses on an overdraft is ageing enough, without
corporational red tape."

Looking at his worn but smiling face, Dinny thought:  'I can't
bother him with my little affairs.'  "You and Aunt May couldn't
spare time, I suppose, to come to the Chelsea Flower Show on
Tuesday?"

"My goodness!" said Hilary, sticking one end of a match into the
centre of the knob and lighting the knob with the other end, "how I
would love to stand in a tent and smell azaleas!"

"We thought of going at one o'clock, so as to avoid the worst of
the crush.  Aunt Em would send for you."

"Can't promise, so don't send.  If we're not at the main entrance
at one, you'll know that Providence has intervened.  And now, what
about you?  Adrian has told me."

"I don't want to bother you, Uncle."

Hilary's shrewd blue eyes almost disappeared.  He expelled a cloud
of smoke.

"Nothing that concerns you will bother me, my dear, except in so
far as it's going to hurt you.  I suppose you MUST, Dinny?"

"Yes, I must."

Hilary sighed.

"In that case it remains to make the best of it.  But the world
loves the martyrdom of others.  I'm afraid he'll have a bad Press,
as they say."

"I'm sure he will."

"I can only just remember him, as a rather tall, scornful young man
in a buff waistcoat.  Has he lost the scorn?"

Dinny smiled.

"It's not the side I see much of at present."

"I sincerely trust," said Hilary, "that he has not what they call
devouring passions."

"Not so far as I have observed."

"I mean, Dinny, that once that type has eaten its cake, it shows
all the old Adam with a special virulence.  Do you get me?"

"Yes.  But I believe it's a 'marriage of true minds' with us."

"Then, my dear, good luck!  Only, when people begin to throw
bricks, don't resent it.  You're doing this with your eyes open,
and you'll have no right to.  Harder to bear than having your own
toe trodden on is seeing one you love batted over the head.  So
catch hold of yourself hard at the start, and go on catching hold,
or you'll make it worse for him.  If I'm not wrong, Dinny, you can
get very hot about things."

"I'll try not to.  When Wilfrid's book of poems comes out, I want
you to read one called 'The Leopard'; it gives his state of mind
about the whole thing."

"Oh!" said Hilary blankly.  "Justification?  That's a mistake."

"That's what Michael says.  I don't know whether it is or not; I
think in the end--not.  Anyway, it's coming out."

"There beginneth a real dog-fight.  'Turn the other cheek' and 'too
proud to fight' would have been better left unsaid.  All the same,
it's asking for trouble, and that's all about it."

"I can't help it, Uncle."

"I realise that, Dinny; it's when I think of the number of things
you won't be able to help that I feel so blue.  And what about
Condaford?  Is it going to cut you off from that?"

"People do come round, except in novels; and even there they have
to in the end, or else die, so that the heroine may be happy.  Will
you say a word for us to Father if you see him, Uncle?"

"No, Dinny.  An elder brother never forgets how superior he was to
you when he was big and you were not."

Dinny rose.

"Well, Uncle; thank you ever so for not believing in damnation, and
even more for not saying so.  I shall remember all you've said.
Tuesday, one o'clock at the main entrance; and don't forget to eat
something first; it's a very tiring business."

When she had gone Hilary refilled his pipe.

'"And even more for not saying so!"' he repeated in thought.  'That
young woman can be caustic.  I wonder how often I say things I
don't mean in the course of my professional duties.'  And, seeing
his wife in the doorway, he added:

"May, would you say I was a humbug--professionally?"

"Yes, dear.  How could it be otherwise?"

"You mean, the forms a parson uses aren't broad enough to cover the
variations of human nature?  But I don't see how they could be.
Would you like to go to the Chelsea Flower Show on Tuesday?"

Mrs. Hilary, thinking:  'Dinny might have asked ME,' replied
cheerfully:  "Very much."

"Let's try and arrange so that we can get there at one o'clock."

"Did you talk to her about her affair?"

"Yes."

"Is she immovable?"

"Quite."

Mrs. Hilary sighed.  "It's an awful pity.  Do you think a man could
ever live that down?"

"Twenty years ago I should have said 'No.'  Now I'm not sure.  It
seems a queer thing to say, but it's not the really religious
people who'll matter."

"Why?"

"Because they won't come across them.  It's the army, and Empire
people, and Englishmen overseas, whom they will come across
continually.  The hub of unforgiveness is in her own family to
start with.  It's the yellow label.  The gum they use putting that
on is worse than the patent brand of any hotel that wants to
advertise itself."

"I wonder," said Mrs. Hilary, "what the children would say about
it?"

"Queer that we don't know."

"We know less about our children than any of their friends do.
Were we like that to our own elders, I wonder?"

"Our elders looked on us as biological specimens; they had us at an
angle, and knew quite a lot about us.  WE'VE tried to put ourselves
on a level with our youngsters, elder brother and sister business,
and we don't know a thing.  We've missed the one knowledge, and
haven't got the other.  A bit humiliating, but they're a decent
crowd.  It's not the young people I'm afraid of in Dinny's
business, it's those who've had experience of the value of English
prestige, and they'll be justified; and those who like to think
he's done a thing they wouldn't have done themselves--and they
won't be justified a bit."

"I think Dinny's over-estimating her strength, Hilary."

"No woman really in love could do otherwise.  To find out whether
she is or not will be her job.  Well, she won't rust."

"You speak as if you rather liked it."

"The milk is spilled, and it's no good worrying.  Let's get down to
the wording of that new appeal.  There's going to be a bad trade
slump.  Just our luck!  All the people who've got money will be
sticking to it."

"I wish people wouldn't be less extravagant when times are bad.  It
only means less work still.  The shopkeepers are moaning about that
already."

Hilary reached for a notebook and began writing.  His wife looked
over his shoulder presently and read:


"To all whom it may concern:

"And whom does it not concern that there should be in our midst
thousands of people so destitute from birth to death of the bare
necessities of life that they don't know what real cleanliness,
real health, real fresh air, real good food are?"


"One 'real' will cover the lot, dear."



CHAPTER XVII


Arriving at the Chelsea Flower Show, Lady Mont said thoughtfully:
"I'm meetin' Boswell and Johnson at the calceolarias, Dinny.  What
a crowd!"

"Yes, and all plain.  Do they come, Auntie, because they're
yearning for beauty they haven't got?"

"I can't get Boswell and Johnson to yearn.  There's Hilary!  He's
had that suit ten years.  Take this and run for tickets, or he'll
try and pay."

With a five-pound note Dinny slid towards the wicket, avoiding her
uncle's eyes.  She secured four tickets, and turned smiling.

"I saw you being a serpent," he said.  "Where are we going first?
Azaleas?  I like to be thoroughly sensual at a flower show."

Lady Mont's deliberate presence caused a little swirl in the
traffic, while her eyes from under slightly drooped lids took in
the appearance of people selected, as it were, to show off flowers.

The tent they entered was warm with humanity and perfume, though
the day was damp and cool.  The ingenious beauty of each group of
blossoms was being digested by variegated types of human being
linked only through that mysterious air of kinship which comes from
attachment to the same pursuit.  This was the great army of flower-
raisers--growers of primulas in pots, of nasturtiums, gladioli and
flags in London back gardens, of stocks, hollyhocks and sweet-
williams in little provincial plots; the gardeners of larger
grounds; the owners of hothouses and places where experiments are
made--but not many of these, for they had already passed through or
would come later.  All moved with a prying air, as if marking down
their own next ventures; and alongside the nurserymen would stop
and engage as if making bets.  And the subdued murmur of voices,
cockneyfied, countrified, cultivated, all commenting on flowers,
formed a hum like that of bees, if not so pleasing.  This subdued
expression of a national passion, walled-in by canvas, together
with the scent of the flowers, exercised on Dinny an hypnotic
effect, so that she moved from one brilliant planted posy to
another, silent and with her slightly upturned nose twitching
delicately.

Her aunt's voice roused her.

"There they are!" she said, pointing with her chin.

Dinny saw two men standing so still that she wondered if they had
forgotten why they had come.  One had a reddish moustache and sad
cow-like eyes; the other looked like a bird with a game wing; their
clothes were stiff with Sundays.  They were not talking, nor
looking at the flowers, but as if placed there by Providence
without instructions.

"Which is Boswell, Auntie?"

"No moustache," said Lady Mont; "Johnson has the green hat.  He's
deaf.  So like them."

She moved towards them, and Dinny heard her say:

"Ah!"

The two gardeners rubbed their hands on the sides of their
trousered legs, but did not speak.

"Enjoyin' it?" she heard her aunt say.  Their lips moved, but no
sound came forth that she could catch.  The one she had called
Boswell lifted his cap and scratched his head.  Her aunt was
pointing now at the calceolarias, and suddenly the one in the green
hat began to speak.  He spoke so that, as Dinny could see, not even
her aunt could hear a word, but his speech went on and on and
seemed to afford him considerable satisfaction.  Every now and then
she heard her aunt say:  "Ah!"  But Johnson went on.  He stopped
suddenly; her aunt said "Ah!" again and came back to her.

"What was he saying?" asked Dinny.

"No," said Lady Mont, "not a word.  You can't.  But it's good for
him."  She waved her hand to the two gardeners, who were again
standing without sign of life, and led the way.

They passed into the rose tent now, and Dinny looked at her watch.
She had appointed to meet Wilfrid at the entrance of it.

She cast a hurried look back.  There he was!  She noted that Hilary
was following his nose, Aunt May following Hilary, Aunt Em talking
to a nurseryman.  Screened by a prodigious group of 'K. of Ks.' she
skimmed over to the entrance, and, with her hands in Wilfrid's,
forgot entirely where she was.

"Are you feeling strong, darling?  Aunt Em is here, and my Uncle
Hilary and his wife.  I should so like them to know you, because
they all count in our equation."

He seemed to her at that moment like a highly-strung horse asked to
face something it has not faced before.

"If you wish, Dinny."

They found Lady Mont involved with the representatives of
'Plantem's Nurseries.'

"That one--south aspect and chalk.  The nemesias don't.  It's
cross-country--they do dry so.  The phloxes came dead.  At least
they said so: you can't tell.  Oh!  Here's my niece!  Dinny, this
is Mr. Plantem.  He often sends--Oh! . . . ah! Mr. Desert!  How
d'you do?  I remember you holdin' Michael's arms up at his
weddin'."  She had placed her hand in Wilfrid's and seemingly
forgotten it, the while her eyes from under their raised brows
searched his face with a sort of mild surprise.

"Uncle Hilary," said Dinny.

"Yes," said Lady Mont, coming to herself.  "Hilary, May--Mr.
Desert."

Hilary, of course, was entirely his usual self, but Aunt May looked
as if she were greeting a dean.  And almost at once Dinny was
tacitly abandoned to her lover.

"What do you think of Uncle Hilary?"

"He looks like a man to go to in trouble."

"He is.  He knows by instinct how not to run his head against brick
walls, and yet he's always in action.  I suppose that comes of
living in a slum.  He agrees with Michael that to publish 'The
Leopard' is a mistake."

"Running my head against a brick wall--um?"

"Yes."

"The die, as they say, is cast.  Sorry if you're sorry, Dinny."

Dinny's hand sought his.  "No.  Let's sail under our proper
colours--only, for my sake, Wilfrid, try to take what's coming
quietly, and so will I.  Shall we hide behind this firework of
fuchsias and slip off?  They'll expect it."

Once outside the tent they moved towards the Embankment exit, past
the rock gardens, each with its builder standing in the damp before
it, as though saying:  'Look on this, and employ me!'

"Making nice things and having to cadge round to get people to
notice them!" said Dinny.

"Where shall we go, Dinny?"

"Battersea Park?"

"Across this bridge, then."

"You were a darling to let me introduce them, but you did so look
like a horse trying to back through its collar.  I wanted to stroke
your neck."

"I've got out of the habit of people."

"It's nice not to be dependent on them."

"The worst mixer in the world.  But you, I should have thought--"

"I only want you; I think I must have a nature like a dog's.
Without you, now, I should just be lost."

The twitch of his mouth was better than an answer.

"Ever seen the Lost Dogs' Home?  It's over there."

"No.  Lost dogs are dreadful to think about.  Perhaps one ought to,
though.  Yes, let's!"

The establishment had its usual hospitalised appearance of all
being for the best considering that it was the worst.  There was a
certain amount of barking and of enquiry on the faces of a certain
number of dogs.  Tails wagged as they approached.  Such dogs as
were of any breed looked quieter and sadder than the dogs that were
of no breed, and those in the majority.  A black spaniel was
sitting in a corner of the wired enclosure, with head drooped
between long ears.  They went round to him.

"How on earth," said Dinny, "can a dog as nice as that stay
unclaimed?  He IS sad!"

Wilfrid put his fingers through the wire.  The dog looked up.  They
saw a little red under his eyes, and a wisp of hair loose and silky
on his forehead.  He raised himself slowly from off his haunches,
and they could see him pant very slightly as though some
calculation or struggle were going on in him.

"Come on, old boy!"

The dog came slowly, all black, foursquare on his feathered legs.
He had every sign of breeding, making his forlorn position more
mysterious than ever.  He stood almost within reach; his shortened
tail fluttered feebly, then came to a droop again, precisely as if
he had said:  'I neglect no chance, but you are not.'

"Well, old fellow?" said Wilfrid.

Dinny bent down.  "Give me a kiss."

The dog looked up at them.  His tail moved once, and again drooped.

"Not a good mixer, either," said Wilfrid.

"He's too sad for words."  She bent lower and this time got her
hand through the wire.  "Come, darling!"  The dog sniffed her
glove.  Again his tail fluttered feebly; a pink tongue showed for a
moment as though to make certain of his lips.  With a supreme
effort Dinny's fingers reached his muzzle smooth as silk.

"He's awfully well bred, Wilfrid."

"Stolen, I expect, and then got away.  Probably from some country
kennel."

"I believe I could hang dog-thieves."

The dog's dark-brown eyes had the remains of moisture in their
corners.  They looked back at Dinny, with suspended animation, as
if saying:  'You are not my past, and I don't know if there is a
future.'

She looked up.  "Oh, Wilfrid!"

He nodded and left her with the dog.  She stayed stooped on her
heels, slowly scratching behind the dog's ears, till Wilfrid,
followed by a man with a chain and collar, came back.

"I've got him," he said; "he reached his time-limit yesterday, but
they were keeping him another week because of his looks."

Dinny turned her back, moisture was oozing from her eyes.  She
mopped them hastily, and heard the man say:

"I'll put this on, sir, before he comes out, or he might leg it;
he's never taken to the place."

Dinny turned round.

"If his owner turns up we'll give him back at once."

"Not much chance of that, miss.  In my opinion that's the dog of
someone who's died.  He slipped his collar, probably, and went out
to find him, got lost, and no one's cared enough to send here and
see.  Nice dog, too.  You've got a bargain.  I'm glad.  I didn't
like to think of that dog being put away; young dog, too."

He put the collar on, led the dog out to them, and transferred the
chain to Wilfrid, who handed him a card.

"In case the owner turns up.  Come on, Dinny; let's walk him a bit.
Walk, boy!"

The nameless dog, hearing the sweetest word in his vocabulary,
moved forward to the limit of the chain.

"That theory's probably right," said Wilfrid, "and I hope it is.
We shall like this fellow."

Once on grass they tried to get through to the dog's inner
consciousness.  He received their attentions patiently, without
response, tail and eyes lowered, suspending judgment.

"We'd better get him home," said Wilfrid.  "Stay here, and I'll
bring up a cab."

He wiped a chair with his handkerchief, transferred the chain to
her, and swung away.

Dinny sat watching the dog.  He had followed Wilfrid to the limit
of the chain and then seated himself in the attitude in which they
had first seen him.

What did dogs feel?  They certainly put one and one together;
loved, disliked, suffered, yearned, sulked, and enjoyed, like human
beings; but they had a very small vocabulary and so--no ideas!
Still, anything must be better than living in a wire enclosure with
a lot of dogs less sensitive than yourself!

The dog came back to her side, but kept his head turned in the
direction Wilfrid had taken, and began to whine.

A taxi cab drew up.  The dog stopped whining, and began to pant.

"Master's coming!"  The dog gave a tug at the chain.

Wilfrid had reached him.  Through the slackened chain she could
feel the disillusionment; then it tightened, and the wagging of the
tail came fluttering down the links as the dog sniffed at the turn-
ups of Wilfrid's trousers.

In the cab the dog sat on the floor with his chin hanging over
Wilfrid's shoe.  In Piccadilly he grew restless and ended with his
chin on Dinny's knee.  Between Wilfrid and the dog the drive was an
emotional medley for her, and she took a deep breath when she got
out.

"Wonder what Stack will say," said Wilfrid.  "A spaniel in Cork
Street is no catch."

The dog took the stairs with composure.

"House-trained," said Dinny thankfully.

In the sitting-room the dog applied his nose to the carpet.  Having
decided that the legs of all the furniture were uninteresting and
the place bereft of his own kind, he leaned his nose on the divan
and looked out of the corners of his eyes.

"Up!" said Dinny.  The dog jumped on to the divan.

"Jove!  He does smell!" said Wilfrid.

"Let's give him a bath.  While you're filling it, I'll look him
over."

She held the dog, who would have followed Wilfrid, and began
parting his hair.  She found several yellow fleas, but no other
breed.

"Yes, you do smell, darling."

The dog turned his head and licked her nose.

"The bath's ready, Dinny!"

"Only dog fleas."

"If you're going to help, put on that bath gown, or you'll spoil
your dress."

Behind his back, Dinny slipped off her frock and put on the blue
bath gown, half hoping he would turn, and respecting him because he
didn't.  She rolled up the sleeves and stood beside him.  Poised
over the bath, the dog protruded a long tongue.

"He's not going to be sick, is he?"

"No; they always do that.  Gently, Wilfrid, don't let him splash--
that frightens them.  Now!"

Lowered into the bath, the dog, after a scramble, stood still with
his head drooped, concentrated on keeping foothold of the slippery
surface.

"This is hair shampoo, better than nothing.  I'll hold him.  You do
the rubbing in."

Pouring some of the shampoo on the centre of that polished black
back, Dinny heaped water up the dog's sides and began to rub.  This
first domestic incident with Wilfrid was pure joy, involving no
mean personal contact with him as well as with the dog.  She
straightened up at last.

"Phew!  My back!  Sluice him and let the water out.  I'll hold
him."

Wilfrid sluiced, the dog behaving as if not too sorry for his
fleas.  He shook himself vigorously, and they both jumped back.

"Don't let him out," cried Dinny; "we must dry him in the bath."

"All right.  Put your hands round his neck and hold him still."

Wrapped in a huge bath towel, the dog lifted his face to her; its
expression was drooping and forlorn.

"Poor boy, soon over now, and you'll smell lovely."

The dog shook himself.

Wilfrid withdrew the towel.  "Hold him a minute, I'll get an old
blanket; we'll make him curl up till he's dry."

Alone with the dog, who was now trying to get out of the bath,
Dinny held him with his forepaws over the edge, and worked away at
the accumulations of sorrow about his eyes.

"There!  That's better!"

They carried the almost inanimate dog to the divan, wrapped in an
old Guards' blanket.

"What shall we call him, Dinny?"

"Let's try him with a few names, we may hit on his real one."

He answered to none.  "Well," said Dinny, "let's call him 'Foch.'
But for Foch we should never have met."



CHAPTER XVIII


Feelings at Condaford, after the General's return, were vexed and
uneasy.  Dinny had said she would be back on Saturday, but it was
now Wednesday and she was still in London.  Her saying, "We are not
formally engaged," had given little comfort, since the General had
added, "That was soft sawder."  Pressed by Lady Cherrell as to what
exactly had taken place between him and Wilfrid, he was laconic.

"He hardly said a word, Liz.  Polite and all that, and I must say
he doesn't look like a fellow who'd quit.  His record's very good,
too.  The thing's inexplicable."

"Have you read any of his verse, Con?"

"No.  Where is it?"

"Dinny has them somewhere.  Very bitter.  So many writers seem to
be like that.  But I could put up with anything if I thought Dinny
would be happy."

"Dinny says he's actually going to publish a poem about that
business.  He must be a vain chap."

"Poets almost always are."

"I don't know who can move Dinny.  Hubert says he's lost touch with
her.  To begin married life under a cloud like that!"

"I sometimes think," murmured Lady Cherrell, "that living here, as
we do, we don't know what will cause clouds and what won't."

"There can't be a question," said the General, with finality,
"among people who count."

"Who does count, nowadays?"

The General was silent.  Then he said shrewdly:

"England's still aristocratic underneath.  All that keeps us going
comes from the top.  Service and tradition still rule the roost.
The socialists can talk as they like."

Lady Cherrell looked up, astonished at this flow.

"Well," she said, "what are we to do about Dinny?"

The General shrugged.

"Wait till things come to a crisis of some sort.  Cut-you-off-
with-a-shilling is out of date and out of question--we're too
fond of her.  You'll speak to her, Liz, when you get a chance,
of course . . ."

Between Hubert and Jean discussion of the matter took a rather
different line.

"I wish to God, Jean, Dinny had taken to your brother."

"Alan's got over it.  I had a letter from him yesterday.  He's at
Singapore now.  There's probably somebody out there.  I only hope
it isn't a married woman.  There are so few girls in the East."

"I don't think he'd go for a married woman.  Possibly a native;
they say Malay girls are often pretty."

Jean grimaced.

"A Malay girl instead of Dinny!"

Presently she murmured:  "I'd like to see this Mr. Desert.  I think
I could give him an idea, Hubert, of what'll be thought of him if
he carries Dinny into this mess."

"You must be careful with Dinny."

"If I can have the car I'll go up to-morrow and talk it over with
Fleur.  She must know him quite well; he was their best man."

"I'd choose Michael of the two; but for God's sake take care, old
girl."

Jean, who was accustomed to carry out her ideas, slid away next day
before the world was up and was at South Square, Westminster, by
ten o'clock.  Michael, it appeared, was down in his constituency.

"The safer his seat," said Fleur, "the more he thinks he has to see
of them.  It's the gratitude complex.  What can I do for you?"

Jean slid her long-lashed eyes round from the Fragonard, which she
had been contemplating as though it were too French, and Fleur
almost jumped.  Really, she WAS like a 'leopardess'!

"It's about Dinny and her young man, Fleur.  I suppose you know
what happened to him out there?"

Fleur nodded.

"Then can't something be done?"

Fleur's face became watchful.  She was twenty-nine, Jean twenty-
three; but it was no use coming the elder matron!

"I haven't seen anything of Wilfrid for a long time."

"Somebody's got to tell him pretty sharply what'll be thought of
him if he lugs Dinny into this mess."

"I'm by no means sure there'll be a mess; even if his poem comes
out.  People like the Ajax touch."

"You've not been in the East."

"Yes, I have; I've been round the world."

"That's not the same thing at all."

"My dear," said Fleur, "excuse my saying so, but the Cherrells are
about thirty years behind the times."

"I'm not a Cherrell."

"No, you're a Tasburgh, and, if anything, that's a little worse.
Country rectories, cavalry, navy, Indian civil--how much d'you
suppose all that counts nowadays?"

"It counts with those who belong to it; and he belongs to it, and
Dinny belongs to it."

"No one who's really in love belongs anywhere," said Fleur.  "Did
you care two straws when you married Hubert with a murder charge
hanging over his head?"

"That's different.  He'd done nothing to be ashamed of."

Fleur smiled.

"True to type.  Would it surprise you, as they say in the courts,
if I told you that there isn't one in twenty people about town
who'd do otherwise than yawn if you asked them to condemn Wilfrid
for what he did?  And there isn't one in forty who won't forget all
about it in a fortnight."

"I don't believe you," said Jean flatly.

"You don't know modern Society, my dear."

"It's modern Society," said Jean, even more flatly, "that doesn't
count."

"Well, I don't know that it does much; but then what does?"

"Where does he live?"

Fleur laughed.

"In Cork Street, opposite the Gallery.  You're not thinking of
bearding him, are you?"

"I don't know."

"Wilfrid can bite."

"Well," said Jean, "thanks.  I must be going."

Fleur looked at her with admiration.  The girl had flushed, and
that pink in her brown cheeks made her look more vivid than ever.

"Well, good-bye, my dear; and do come and tell me about it.  I know
you've the pluck of the devil."

"I don't know that I'm going at all," said Jean.  "Good-bye!"

She drove, rather angry, past the House of Commons.  Her
temperament believed so much in action that Fleur's worldly wisdom
had merely irritated her.  Still, it was not so easy as she had
thought to go to Wilfrid Desert and say:  'Stand and deliver me
back my sister-in-law.'  She drove, however, to Pall Mall, parked
her car near the Parthenæum, and walked up to Piccadilly.  People
who saw her, especially men, looked back, because of the admirable
grace of her limbs and the colour and light in her face.  She had
no idea where Cork Street was, except that it was near Bond Street.
And, when she reached it, she walked up and down before locating
the Gallery.  'That must be the door, opposite,' she thought.  She
was standing uncertainly in front of a door without a name, when a
man with a dog on a lead came up the stairs and stood beside her.

"Yes, miss?"

"I am Mrs. Hubert Cherrell.  Does Mr. Desert live here?"

"Yes, ma'am; but whether you can see him I don't know.  Here, Foch,
good dog!  If you'll wait a minute I'll find out."

A minute later Jean, swallowing resolutely, was in the presence.
'After all,' she was thinking, 'he can't be worse than a parish
meeting when you want money from it.'

Wilfrid was standing at the window, with his eyebrows raised.

"I'm Dinny's sister-in-law," said Jean.  "I beg your pardon for
coming, but I wanted to see you."

Wilfrid bowed.

"Come here, Foch."

The spaniel, who was sniffing round Jean's skirt, did not respond
until he was called again.  He licked Wilfrid's hand and sat down
behind him.  Jean had flushed.

"It's frightful cheek on my part, but I thought you wouldn't mind.
We've just come back from the Soudan."

Wilfrid's face remained ironic, and irony always upset her.  Not
quite stammering, she continued:

"Dinny has never been in the East."

Again Wilfrid bowed.  The affair was not going like a parish
meeting.

"Won't you sit down?" he said.

"Oh, thank you, no; I shan't be a minute.  You see, what I wanted
to say was that Dinny can't possibly realise what certain things
mean out there."

"D'you know, that's what occurred to me."

"Oh!"

A minute of silence followed, while the flush on her face and the
smile on Wilfrid's deepened.  Then he said:

"Thank you so much for coming.  Anything else?"

"Er--no!  Good-bye!"

All the way downstairs she felt shorter than she had ever felt in
her life.  And the first man she passed in the street jumped, her
eyes had passed through him like a magnetic shock.  He had once
been touched by an electric eel in Brazil, and preferred the
sensation.  Yet, curiously, while she retraced her steps towards
her car, though worsted, she bore no grudge.  Even more singularly,
she had lost most of her feeling that Dinny was in danger.

Regaining her car, she had a slight altercation with a policeman
and took the road for Condaford.  Driving to the danger of the
public all the way, she was home to lunch.  All she said of her
adventure was that she had been for a long drive.  Only in the
four-poster of the chief spare room did she say to Hubert:

"I've been up and seen him.  D'you know, Hubert, I really believe
Dinny will be all right.  He's got charm."

"What on earth," said Hubert, turning on his elbow, "has that to do
with it?"

"A lot," said Jean.  "Give me a kiss, and don't argue . . ."



When his strange young visitor had gone, Wilfrid flung himself on
the divan and stared at the ceiling.  He felt like a general who
has won a 'victory'--the more embarrassed.  Having lived for
thirty-five years, owing to a variety of circumstances, in a
condition of marked egoism, he was unaccustomed to the feelings
which Dinny from the first had roused within him.  The old-
fashioned word 'worship' was hardly admissible, but no other
adequately replaced it.  When with her his sensations were so
restful and refreshed that when not with her he felt like one who
had taken off his soul and hung it up.  Alongside this new
beatitude was a growing sense that his own happiness would not be
complete unless hers was too.  She was always telling him that she
was only happy in his presence.  But that was absurd, he could
never replace all the interests and affections of her life before
the statue of Foch had made them acquainted.  And, if not, for what
was he letting her in?  The young woman with the eyes, who had just
gone, had stood there before him like an incarnation of this
question.  Though he had routed her, she had left the query printed
on the air.

The spaniel, seeing the incorporeal more clearly than his master,
was resting a long nose on his knee.  Even this dog he owed to
Dinny.  He had got out of the habit of people.  With this business
hanging over him, he was quite cut off.  If he married Dinny, he
took her with him into isolation.  Was it fair?

But, having appointed to meet her in half an hour, he rang the
bell.

"I'm going out now, Stack."

"Very good, sir."

Leading the dog, he made his way to the Park.  Opposite the Cavalry
Memorial he sat down to wait for her, debating whether he should
tell her of his visitor.  And just then he saw her coming.

She was walking quickly from Park Lane, and had not yet seen him.
She seemed to skim, straight, and--as those blasted novelists
called it--'willowy'!  She had a look of spring, and was smiling as
if something pleasant had just happened to her.  This glimpse of
her, all unaware of him, soothed Wilfrid.  If she could look so
pleased and care-free, surely he need not worry.  She halted by the
bronze horse which she had dubbed 'the jibbing barrel,' evidently
looking for him.  Though she turned her head so prettily this way
and that, her face had become a little anxious.  He stood up.  She
waved her hand and came quickly across the drive.

"Been sitting to Botticelli, Dinny?"

"No--to a pawnbroker.  If you ever want one I recommend Frewens of
South Molton Street."

"YOU, at a pawnbroker's?"

"Yes, darling.  I've got more money of my own on me than I ever had
in my life."

"What do you want it for?"

Dinny bent and stroked the dog.

"Since I knew you I've grasped the real importance of money."

"And what's that?"

"Not to be divided from you by the absence of it.  The great open
spaces are what we want now.  Take Foch off the lead, Wilfrid;
he'll follow, I'm sure."



CHAPTER XIX


In a centre of literature such as London, where books come out by
the half-dozen almost every day, the advent of a slender volume of
poems is commonly of little moment.  But circumstances combined to
make the appearance of The Leopard, and other Poems a 'literary
event.'  It was Wilfrid's first production for four years.  He was
a lonely figure, marked out by the rarity of literary talent among
the old aristocracy, by the bitter, lively quality of his earlier
poems, by his Eastern sojourn and isolation from literary circles,
and finally by the report that he had embraced Islam.  Someone, on
the appearance of his third volume four years ago, had dubbed him
'a sucking Byron'; the phrase had caught the ear.  Finally, he had
a young publisher who understood the art of what he called 'putting
it over.'  During the few weeks since he received Wilfrid's
manuscript, he had been engaged in lunching, dining, and telling
people to look out for 'The Leopard,' the most sensation-making
poem since 'The Hound of Heaven.'  To the query "Why?" he replied
in nods and becks and wreathed smiles.  Was it true that young
Desert had become a Mussulman?  Oh!  Yes.  Was he in London?  Oh!
yes, but, of course, the shyest and rarest bird in the literary
flock.

He who was Compson Grice Ltd. had from the first perceived that in
'The Leopard' he had 'a winner'--people would not enjoy it, but
they would talk about it.  He had only to start the snowball
rolling down the slope, and when moved by real conviction no one
could do this better than he.  Three days before the book came out
he met Telfourd Yule by a sort of accidental prescience.

"Hallo, Yule, back from Araby?"

"As you see."

"I say, I've got a most amazing book of poems coming out on Monday.
The Leopard, by Wilfrid Desert.  Like a copy?  The first poem's a
corker."

"Oh!"

"Takes the wind clean out of that poem in Alfred Lyall's Verses
written in India, about the man who died sooner than change his
faith.  Remember?"

"I do."

"What's the truth about Desert taking to Islam?"

"Ask him."

"That poem's so personal in feeling--it might be about himself."

"Indeed?"

And Compson Grice thought, suddenly:  'If it were!  What a stunt!'

"Do you know him, Yule?"

"No."

"You must read the thing; I couldn't put it down."

"Ah!"

"But would a man publish such a thing about his own experience?"

"Can't say."

And, still more suddenly, Compson Grice thought:  'If it were, I
could sell a hundred thousand!'

He returned to his office, thinking:  'Yule was deuced close.  I
believe I was right, and he knows it.  He's only just back;
everything's known in the bazaars, they say.  Now, let's see, where
am I?'

Published at five shillings, on a large sale there would, after
royalty paid, be a clear profit of sixpence a copy.  A hundred
thousand copies would be two thousand five hundred pounds, and
about the same in royalties to Desert!  By George!  But, of course,
loyalty to client first!  And there came to him one of those
inspirations which so often come to loyal people who see money
ahead of them.

'I must draw his attention to the risk of people saying that it's
his own case.  I'd better do it the day after publication.  In the
meantime I'll put a second big edition in hand.'

On the day before publication, a prominent critic, Mark Hanna, who
ran a weekly bell in the Carillon, informed him that he had gone
all out for the poem.  A younger man, well known for a certain
buccaneering spirit, said no word, but wrote a criticism.  Both
critiques appeared on the day of publication.  Compson Grice cut
them out and took them with him to the 'Jessamine' restaurant,
where he had bidden Wilfrid to lunch.

They met at the entrance and passed to a little table at the far
end.  The room was crowded with people who knew everybody in the
literary, dramatic and artistic world.  And Compson Grice waited,
with the experience of one who had entertained many authors, until
a bottle of Mouton Rothschild 1870 had been drunk to its dregs.
Then, producing from his pocket the two reviews, he placed that of
Mark Hanna before his guest, with the words:  "Have you seen this?
It's rather good."

Wilfrid read it.

The reviewer had indeed gone 'all out.'  It was almost all confined
to The Leopard, which it praised as the most intimate revelation of
the human soul in verse since Shelley.

"Bunk!  Shelley doesn't reveal except in his lyrics."

"Ah! well," said Compson Grice, "they have to work in Shelley."

The review acclaimed the poem as "tearing away the last shreds of
the hypocritical veil which throughout our literature has shrouded
the muse in relation to religion."  It concluded with these words:
"This poem, indeed, in its unflinching record of a soul tortured by
cruel dilemma, is the most amazing piece of imaginative psychology
which has come our way in the twentieth century."

Watching his guest lay down the cutting, Compson Grice said softly:

"Pretty good!  It's the personal fervour of the thing that gets
them."

Wilfrid gave his queer shiver.

"Got a cigar-cutter?"

Compson Grice pushed one forward with the other review.

"I think you ought to read this in the Daily Phase."

The review was headed:  'Defiance:  Bolshevism and the Empire.'

Wilfrid took it up.

"Geoffrey Coltham?" he said.  "Who's he?"

The review began with some fairly accurate personal details of the
poet's antecedents, early work and life, ending with the mention of
his conversion to Islam.  Then, after some favourable remarks about
the other poems, it fastened on The Leopard, sprang, as it were, at
the creature's throat, and shook it as a bulldog might.  Then,
quoting these lines:


     'Into foul ditch each dogma leads.
      Cursed be superstitious creeds,
      In every driven mind the weeds!
      There's but one liquor for the sane--
      Drink deep!  Let scepticism reign
      And its astringence clear the brain!'


it went on with calculated brutality:

'The thin disguise assumed by the narrative covers a personal
disruptive bitterness which one is tempted to connect with the
wounded and overweening pride of one who has failed himself and the
British world.  Whether Mr. Desert intended in this poem to reveal
his own experience and feelings in connection with his conversion
to Islam--a faith, by the way, of which, judging from the poor and
bitter lines quoted above, he is totally unworthy--we cannot of
course say, but we advise him to come into the open and let us
know.  Since we have in our midst a poet who, with all his
undoubted thrust, drives at our entrails, and cuts deep into our
religion and our prestige, we have the right to know whether or not
he--like his hero--is a renegade.'

"That, I think," said Compson Grice, quietly, "is libellous."

Wilfrid looked up at him, so that he said afterwards:  "I never
knew Desert had such eyes."

"I AM a renegade.  I took conversion at the pistol's point, and you
can let everybody know it."

Smothering the words:  'Thank God!' Compson Grice reached out his
hand.  But Wilfrid had leaned back and veiled his face in the smoke
of his cigar.  His publisher moved forward on to the edge of his
chair.

"You mean that you want me to send a letter to the Daily Phase to
say that The Leopard is practically your own experience?"

"Yes."

"My dear fellow, I think it's wonderful of you.  That is courage,
if you like."

The smile on Wilfrid's face caused Compson Grice to sit back,
swallow the words:  "The effect on the sales will be enormous," and
substitute:

"It will strengthen your position enormously.  But I wish we could
get back on that fellow."

"Let him stew!"

"Quite!" said Compson Grice.  He was by no means anxious to be
embroiled, and have all his authors slated in the important Daily
Phase.

Wilfrid rose.  "Thanks very much.  I must be going."

Compson Grice watched him leave, his head high and his step slow.
'Poor devil!' he thought.  'It IS a scoop!'

Back in his office, he spent some time finding a line in Colthan's
review which he could isolate from its context and use as
advertisement.  He finally extracted this:  "Daily Phase:  'No poem
in recent years has had such power'" (the remaining words of the
sentence he omitted because they were 'to cut the ground from under
the feet of all we stand for').  He then composed a letter to the
editor.  He was writing--he said--at the request of Mr. Desert,
who, far from needing any challenge to come into the open, was only
too anxious that everyone should know that The Leopard was indeed
founded on his personal experience.  For his own part--he went on--
he considered that this frank avowal was a more striking instance
of courage than could be met with in a long day's march.  He was
proud to have been privileged to publish a poem which, in
psychological content, quality of workmanship, and direct human
interest, was by far the most striking of this generation.

He signed himself "Your obedient servant, Compson Grice."  He then
increased the size of the order for the second edition, directed
that the words "First edition exhausted; second large impression,"
should be ready for use immediately, and went to his club to play
bridge.

His club was the Polyglot, and in the hall he ran on Michael.  The
hair of his erstwhile colleague in the publishing world was
ruffled, the ears stood out from his head, and he spoke at once:

"Grice, what are you doing about that young brute Coltham?"

Compson Grice smiled blandly and replied:

"Don't worry!  I showed the review to Desert, and he told me to
draw its sting by complete avowal."

"Good God!"

"Why?  Didn't you know?"

"Yes, I knew, but--"

These words were balm to the ears of Compson Grice, who had been
visited by misgiving as to the truth of Wilfrid's admission.  Would
a man really publish that poem if it were his own case; could he
really want it known?  But this was conclusive: Mont had been
Desert's discoverer and closest friend.

"So I've written to the Phase and dealt with it."

"Did Wilfrid tell you to do that?"

"He did."

"To publish that poem was crazy.  'Quem deus--'"  He suddenly
caught sight of the expression on Compson Grice's face.  "Yes," he
added, bitterly, "you think you've got a scoop!"

Compson Grice said coldly:

"Whether it will do us harm or good remains to be seen."

"Bosh!" said Michael.  "Everybody will read the thing now, blast
them!  Have you seen Wilfrid to-day?"

"He lunched with me."

"How's he looking?"

Tempted to say 'Like Asrael!' Compson Grice substituted:  "Oh! all
right--quite calm."

"Calm as hell!  Look here, Grice!  If you don't stand by him and
help him all you can through this, I'll never speak to you again."

"My dear fellow," said Compson Grice, with some dignity, "what do
you suppose?"  And, straightening his waistcoat, he passed into the
card room.

Michael, muttering, "Cold-blooded fish!" hurried in the direction
of Cork Street.  'I wonder if the old chap would like to see me,'
he thought.

But at the very mouth of the street he recoiled and made for Mount
Street instead.  He was informed that both his father and mother
were out, but that Miss Dinny had come up that morning from
Condaford.

"All right, Blore.  If she's in I'll find her."

He went up and opened the drawing-room door quietly.  In the
alcove, under the cage of her aunt's parakeet, Dinny was sitting
perfectly still and upright, like a little girl at a lesson, with
her hands crossed on her lap and her eyes fixed on space.  She did
not see him till his hand was on her shoulder.

"Penny!"

"How does one learn not to commit murder, Michael?"

"Ah!  Poisonous young brute!  Have your people seen The Phase?"

Dinny nodded.

"What was the reaction?"

"Silence, pinched lips."

Michael nodded.

"Poor dear!  So you came up?"

"Yes, I'm going to the theatre with Wilfrid."

"Give him my love, and tell him that if he wants to see me I'll
come at any moment.  Oh! and, Dinny, try to make him feel that we
admire him for spilling the milk."

Dinny looked up, and he was moved by the expression on her face.

"It wasn't all pride that made him, Michael.  There's something
egging him on, and I'm afraid of it.  Deep down he isn't sure that
it wasn't just cowardice that made him renounce.  I know he can't
get that thought out of his mind.  He feels he's got to prove, not
to others so much as to himself, that he isn't a coward.  Oh!  I
know he isn't.  But so long as he hasn't proved it to himself and
everybody, I don't know what he might do."

Michael nodded.  From his one interview with Wilfrid he had formed
something of the same impression.

"Did you know that he's told his publisher to make a public
admission?"

"Oh!" said Dinny blankly.  "What then?"

Michael shrugged.

"Michael, will anyone grasp the situation Wilfrid was in?"

"The imaginative type is rare.  I don't pretend _I_ can grasp it.
Can you?"

"Only because it happened to Wilfrid."

Michael gripped her arm.

"I'm glad you've got the old-fashioned complaint, Dinny, not just
this modern 'physiological urge.'"



CHAPTER XX


While Dinny was dressing her aunt came to her room.

"Your uncle read me that article, Dinny.  I wonder!"

"What do you wonder, Aunt Em?"

"I knew a Coltham--but he died."

"This one will probably die, too."

"Where do you get your boned bodies, Dinny?  So restful."

"Harridge's."

"Your uncle says he ought to resign from his club."

"Wilfrid doesn't care two straws about his club; he probably hasn't
been in a dozen times.  But I don't think he'll resign."

"Better make him."

"I should never dream of 'making' him do anything."

"So awkward when they use black balls."

"Auntie, dear, could I come to the glass?"

Lady Mont crossed the room and took up the slim volume from the
bedside table.

"The Leopard!  But he did change them, Dinny."

"He did not, Auntie; he had no spots to change."

"Baptism and that."

"If baptism really meant anything, it would be an outrage on
children till they knew what it was about."

"Dinny!"

"I mean it.  One doesn't commit people to things entirely without
their consent; it isn't decent.  By the time Wilfrid could think at
all he had no religion."

"It wasn't the givin' up, then, it was the takin' on."

"He knows that."

"Well," said Lady Mont, turning towards the door, "I think it
served that Arab right; so intrudin'!  If you want a latch-key, ask
Blore."

Dinny finished dressing quickly and ran downstairs.  Blore was in
the dining-room.

"Aunt Em says I may have a key, Blore, and I want a taxi, please."

Having telephoned to the cab-stand and produced a key, the butler
said:  "What with her ladyship speaking her thoughts out loud,
miss, I'm obliged to know, and I was saying to Sir Lawrence this
morning:  'If Miss Dinny could take him off just now, on a tour of
the Scotch Highlands where they don't see the papers, it would save
a lot of vexation.'  In these days, miss, as you'll have noticed,
one thing comes on the top of another, and people haven't the
memories they had.  You'll excuse my mentioning it."

"Thank you ever so, Blore.  Nothing I'd like better; only I'm
afraid he wouldn't think it proper."

"In these days a young LADY can do anything, miss."

"But men still have to be careful, Blore."

"Well, miss, of course, relatives are difficult; but it could be
arranged."

"I think we shall have to face the music."

The butler shook his head.

"In my belief, whoever said that first is responsible for a lot of
unnecessary unpleasantness.  Here's your taxi, miss."

In the taxi she sat a little forward, getting the air from both
windows on her cheeks, which needed cooling.  Even the anger and
vexation left by that review were lost in this sweeter effervescence.
At the corner of Piccadilly she read a newspaper poster:  "Derby
horses arrive."  The Derby to-morrow!  How utterly she had lost
count of events!  The restaurant chosen for their dinner was
Blafard's in Soho, and her progress was impeded by the traffic of a
town on the verge of national holiday.  At the door, with the
spaniel held on a leash, stood Stack.  He handed her a note:  "Mr.
Desert sent me with this, miss.  I brought the dog for a walk."

Dinny opened the note with a sensation of physical sickness.


"DINNY DARLING,--

"Forgive my failing you to-night.  I've been in a torture of doubt
all day.  The fact is, until I know where I stand with the world
over this business, I have an overwhelming feeling that I must not
commit you to anything; and a public jaunt like this is just what I
ought to avoid for you.  I suppose you saw The Daily Phase--that is
the beginning of the racket.  I must go through this next week on
my own, and measure up where I am.  I won't run off, and we can
write.  You'll understand.  The dog is a boon, and I owe him to
you.  Good-bye for a little, my dear love.

"Your devoted

"W.D."


It was all she could do not to put her hand on her heart under the
driver's eyes.  Thus to be shut away in the heat of the battle was
what, she knew now, she had been dreading all along.  With an
effort she controlled her lips, said "Wait a minute!" and turned to
Stack.

"I'll take you and Foch back."

"Thank you, miss."

She bent down to the dog.  Panic was at work within her breast!
The dog!  He was a link between them!

"Put him into the cab, Stack."

On the way she said quietly:

"Is Mr. Desert in?"

"No, miss, he went out when he gave me the note."

"Is he all right?"

"A little worried, I think, miss.  I must say I'd like to teach
manners to that gentleman in The Daily Phase."

"Oh! you saw that?"

"I did; it oughtn't to be allowed is what I say."

"Free speech," said Dinny.  And the dog pressed his chin against
her knee.  "Is Foch good?"

"No trouble at all, miss.  A gentleman, that dog; aren't you, boy?"

The dog continued to press his chin on Dinny's knee; and the feel
of it was comforting.

When the cab stopped in Cork Street, she took a pencil from her
bag, tore off the empty sheet of Wilfrid's note, and wrote:


"DARLING,--

"As you will.  But by these presents know: I am yours for ever and
ever.  Nothing can or shall divide me from you, unless you stop
loving

"Your devoted

"DINNY.

"You won't do that, will you?  Oh! don't!"


Licking what was left of the gum on the envelope, she put her half
sheet in and held it till it stuck.  Giving it to Stack, she kissed
the dog's head and said to the driver:  "The Park end of Mount
Street, please.  Good-night, Stack!"

"Good night, miss!"

The eyes and mouth of the motionless henchman seemed to her so full
of understanding that she turned her face away.  And that was the
end of the jaunt she had been so looking forward to.

From the top of Mount Street she crossed into the Park and sat on
the seat where she had sat with him before, oblivious of the fact
that she was unattached, without a hat, in evening dress, and that
it was past eight o'clock.  She sat with the collar of her cloak
turned up to her chestnut-coloured hair, trying to see his point of
view.  She saw it very well.  Pride!  She had enough herself to
understand.  Not to involve others in one's troubles was elementary.
The fonder one was, the less would one wish to involve them.
Curiously ironical how love divided people just when they most
needed each other!  And no way out, so far as she could see.  The
strains of the Guards' band began to reach her faintly.  They were
playing--Faust?--no--Carmen!  Wilfrid's favourite opera!  She got up
and walked over the grass towards the sound.  What crowds of people!
She took a chair some way off and sat down again, close to some
rhododendrons.  The Habanera!  What a shiver its first notes always
gave one!  How wild, sudden, strange and inescapable was love!
'L'amour est enfant de Bohème' . . . !   The rhododendrons were late
this year.  That deep rosy one!  They had it at Condaford . . .
Where was he--oh! where was he at this moment?  Why could not love
pierce veils, so that in spirit she might walk beside him, slip a
hand into his!  A spirit hand was better than nothing!  And Dinny
suddenly realised loneliness as only true lovers do when they think
of life without the loved one.  As flowers wilt on their stalks, so
would she wilt--if she were cut away from him.  "See things through
alone!"  How long would he want to?  For ever?  At the thought she
started up; and a stroller, who thought the movement meant for him,
stood still and looked at her.  Her face corrected his impression,
and he moved on.  She had two hours to kill before she could go in;
she could not let them know that her evening had come to grief.  The
band was finishing off Carmen with the Toreador's song.  A blot on
the opera, its most popular tune!  No, not a blot, for it was meant,
of course, to blare above the desolation of that tragic end, as the
world blared around the passion of lovers.  The world was a heedless
and a heartless stage for lives to strut across, or in dark corners
join and cling together . . .  How odd that clapping sounded in the
open!  She looked at her wrist-watch.  Half-past nine!  An hour yet
before it would be really dark.  But there was a coolness now, a
scent of grass and leaves; the rhododendrons were slowly losing
colour, the birds had finished with song.  People passed and passed
her; she saw nothing funny about them, and they seemed to see
nothing funny about her.  And Dinny thought:  'Nothing seems funny
any more, and I haven't had any dinner.'  A coffee stall?  Too
early, perhaps, but there must be places where she could still get
something!  No dinner, almost no lunch, no tea--a condition
appropriate to the love-sick!  She began to move towards
Knightsbridge, walking fast, by instinct rather than experience,
for this was the first time she had ever wandered alone about London
at such an hour.  Reaching the gate without adventure, she crossed
and went down Sloane Street.  She felt much better moving, and
chalked up in her mind the thought:  'For love-sickness, walking!'
In this straight street there was practically nobody to notice her.
The carefully closed and blinded houses seemed to confirm, each with
its tall formal narrow face, the indifference of the regimented
world to the longings of street-walkers such as she.  At the corner
of the King's Road a woman was standing.

"Could you tell me," said Dinny, "of any place close by where I
could get something to eat?"

The woman addressed, she now saw, had a short face with high cheek-
bones on which, and round the eyes, was a good deal of make-up.
Her lips were good-natured, a little thick; her nose, too, rather
thick; her eyes had the look which comes of having to be now stony
and now luring, as if they had lost touch with her soul.  Her dress
was dark and fitted her curves, and she wore a large string of
artificial pearls.  Dinny could not help thinking she had seen
people in Society not unlike her.

"There's a nice little place on the left."

"Would you care to come and have something with me?" said Dinny,
moved by impulse, or by something hungry in the woman's face.

"Why!  I would," said the woman.  "Fact is, I came out without
anything.  It's nice to have company, too."  She turned up the
King's Road and Dinny turned alongside.  It passed through her mind
that if she met someone it would be quaint; but for all that she
felt better.

'For God's sake,' she thought, 'be natural!'

The woman led her into a little restaurant, or rather public-house,
for it had a bar.  There was no one in the eating-room, which had a
separate entrance, and they sat down at a small table with a cruet-
stand, a handbell, a bottle of Worcester sauce, and in a vase some
failing pyrethrums which had never been fresh.  There was a slight
smell of vinegar.

"I COULD do with a cigarette," said the woman.

Dinny had none.  She tinkled the bell.

"Any particular sort?"

"Oh!  Gaspers."

A waitress appeared, looked at the woman, looked at Dinny, and
said:  "Yes?"

"A packet of Players, please.  A large coffee for me, strong and
fresh, and some cake or buns, or anything.  What will you have?"

The woman looked at Dinny, as though measuring her capacity, looked
at the waitress, and said, hesitating:  "Well, to tell the truth,
I'm hungry.  Cold beef and a bottle of stout?"

"Vegetables?" said Dinny:  "A salad?"

"Well, a salad, thank you."

"Good!  And pickled walnuts?  Will you get it all as quickly as you
can, please?"

The waitress passed her tongue over her lips, nodded, and went
away.

"I say," said the woman, suddenly, "it's awful nice of you, you
know."

"It was so friendly of you to come.  I should have felt a bit lost
without you."

"SHE can't make it out," said the woman, nodding her head towards
the vanished waitress.  "To tell you the truth, nor can I."

"Why?  We're both hungry."

"No doubt about that," said the woman; "you're going to see me eat.
I'm glad you ordered pickled walnuts, I never can resist a pickled
onion, and it don't do."

"I might have thought of cocktails," murmured Dinny, "but perhaps
they don't make them here."

"A sherry wouldn't be amiss.  I'll get 'em."  The woman rose and
disappeared into the bar.

Dinny took the chance to powder her nose.  She also dived her hand
down to the pocket in her 'boned body' where the spoils of South
Molton Street were stored, and extracted a five-pound note.  She
was feeling a sort of sad excitement.

The woman came back with two glasses.  "I told 'em to charge it to
our bill.  The liquor's good here."

Dinny raised her glass and sipped.  The woman tossed hers off at a
draught.

"I wanted that.  Fancy a country where you couldn't get a drink!"

"But they can, of course, and do."

"You bet.  But they say some of the liquor's awful."

Dinny saw that her gaze was travelling up and down her cloak and
dress and face with insatiable curiosity.

"Pardon me," said the woman, suddenly:  "You got a date?"

"No, I'm going home after this."

The woman sighed.  "Wish she'd bring those bl-inkin' cigarettes."

The waitress reappeared with a bottle of stout and the cigarettes.
Staring at Dinny's hair, she opened the bottle.

"Coo!" said the woman, taking a long draw at her 'Gasper,' "I
wanted that."

"I'll bring you the other things in a minute," said the waitress.

"I haven't seen you on the stage, have I?" said the woman.

"No, I'm not on the stage."

The advent of food broke the ensuing hush.  The coffee was better
than Dinny had hoped and very hot.  She had drunk most of it and
eaten a large piece of plum cake before the woman, putting a
pickled walnut in her mouth, spoke again.

"D'you live in London?"

"No.  In Oxfordshire."

"Well, I like the country, too; but I never see it now.  I was
brought up near Maidstone--pretty round there."  She heaved a sigh
with a flavouring of stout.  "They say the Communists in Russia
have done away with vice--isn't that a scream?  An American
journalist told me.  Well!  I never knew a budget make such a
difference before," she continued, expelling smoke as if liberating
her soul:  "Dreadful lot of unemployment."

"It does seem to affect everybody."

"Affects me, I know," and she stared stonily.  "I suppose you're
shocked at that."

"It takes a lot to shock people nowadays, don't you find?"

"Well, I don't mix as a rule with bishops."

Dinny laughed.

"All the same," said the woman, defiantly, "I came across a parson
who talked the best sense to me I ever heard; of course, I couldn't
follow it."

"I'll make you a bet," said Dinny, "that I know his name.
Cherrell?"

"In once," said the woman, and her eyes grew round.

"He's my uncle."

"Coo!  Well, well!  It's a funny world!  And not so large.  Nice
man he was," she added.

"Still is."

"One of the best."

Dinny, who had been waiting for those inevitable words, thought:
'This is where they used to do the "My erring sister" stunt.'

The woman uttered a sigh of repletion.

"I've enjoyed that," she said, and rose.  "Thank you ever so.  I
must be getting on now, or I'll be late for business."

Dinny tinkled the bell.  The waitress appeared with suspicious
promptitude.

"The bill, please, and can you get me THAT changed?"

The waitress took the note with a certain caution.

"I'll just go and fix myself," said the woman; "see you in a
minute."  She passed through a door.

Dinny drank up the remains of her coffee.  She was trying to
realise what it must be like to live like that.  The waitress came
back with the change, received her tip, said "Thank you, miss," and
went.  Dinny resumed the process of realisation.

"Well," said the woman's voice behind her, "I don't suppose I'll
ever see you again.  But I'd like to say I think you're a jolly
good sort."

Dinny looked up at her.

"When you said you'd come out without anything, did you mean you
hadn't anything to come out with?"

"Sure thing," said the woman.

"Then would you mind taking this change?  It's horrid to have no
money in London."

The woman bit her lips, and Dinny could see that they were
trembling.

"I wouldn't like to take your money," she said, "after you've been
so kind."

"Oh! bosh!  Please!"  And, catching her hand, she pressed the money
into it.  To her horror, the woman uttered a loud sniff.  She was
preparing to make a run for the door, when the woman said:

"D'you know what I'm going to do?  I'm going home to have a sleep.
My God, I am!  I'm going home to have a sleep."

Dinny hurried back to Sloane Street.  Walking past the tall blinded
houses, she recognised with gratitude that her love-sickness was
much better.  If she did not walk too fast, she would not be too
soon at Mount Street.  It was dark now, and in spite of the haze of
city light the sky was alive with stars.  She did not enter the
Park again, but walked along its outside railings.  It seemed an
immense time since she had parted from Stack and the dog in Cork
Street.  Traffic was thickening as she rounded into Park Lane.  To-
morrow all these vehicles would be draining out to Epsom Downs; the
Town would be seeming almost empty.  And, with a sickening
sensation, it flashed on her how empty it would always feel without
Wilfrid to see or look forward to.

She came to the gate by the 'jibbing barrel,' and suddenly, as
though all that evening had been a dream, she saw Wilfrid standing
beside it.  She choked and ran forward.  He put out his arms and
caught her to him.

The moment could hardly be prolonged, for cars and pedestrians were
passing in and out; so arm-in-arm they moved towards Mount Street.
Dinny just clung to him, and he seemed equally wordless; but the
thought that he had come there to be near her was infinitely
comforting.

They escorted each other back and forth past the house, like some
footman and housemaid for a quarter of an hour off duty.  Class and
country, custom and creed, all were forgotten.  And, perhaps, no
two people in all its seven millions were in those few minutes more
moved and at one in the whole of London.

At last the comic instinct woke.

"We can't see each other home all night, darling.  So one kiss--and
yet--one kiss--and yet--one kiss!"

She ran up the steps, and turned the key.



CHAPTER XXI


Wilfred's mood when he left his publisher at 'The Jessamine' was
angry and confused.  Without penetrating to the depths of Compson
Grice's mental anatomy, he felt that he had been manipulated; and
the whole of that restless afternoon he wandered, swung between
relief at having burnt his boats and resentment at the irrevocable.
Thus preoccupied, he did not really feel the shock his note would
be to Dinny, and only when, returning to his rooms, he received her
answer did his heart go out to her, and with it himself to where
she had fortuitously found him.  In the few minutes while they
paraded Mount Street, silent and half-embraced, she had managed to
pass into him her feeling that it was not one but two against the
world.  Why keep away and make her more unhappy than he need?  And
he sent her a note by Stack next morning asking her to go 'joy-
riding.'  He had forgotten the Derby, and their car was involved
almost at once in a stream of vehicles.

"I've never seen the Derby," said Dinny.  "Could we go?"

There was the more reason why they should go because there seemed
to be no reasonable chance of not going.

Dinny was astonished at the general sobriety.  No drinking and no
streamers, no donkey-carts, false noses, badinage.  Not a four-in-
hand visible, not a coster nor a Kate; nothing but a wedged and
moving stream of motor 'buses and cars mostly shut.

When, at last, they had 'parked' on the Downs, eaten their
sandwiches and moved into the crowd, they turned instinctively
toward the chance of seeing a horse.

Frith's "Derby Day" seemed no longer true, if it ever was.  In that
picture people seemed to have lives and to be living them; in this
crowd everybody seemed trying to get somewhere else.

In the paddock, which at first sight still seemed all people and no
horses, Wilfrid said suddenly:

"This is foolish, Dinny; we're certain to be seen."

"And if we are?  Look, there's a horse!"

Quite a number of horses, indeed, were being led round in a ring.
Dinny moved quickly towards them.

"They all look beautiful to me," she said in a hushed voice, "and
just as good one as the other--except this one; I don't like his
back."

Wilfrid consulted his card.  "That's the favourite."

"I still don't.  D'you see what I mean?  It comes to a point too
near the tail, and then droops."

"I agree, but horses run in all shapes."

"I'll back the horse you fancy, Wilfrid."

"Give me time, then."

The people to her left and right kept on saying the horses' names
as they passed.  She had a place on the rail with Wilfrid standing
close behind her.

"He's a pig of a horse," said a man on her left, "I'll never back
the brute again."

She took a glance at the speaker.  He was broad and about five feet
six, with a roll of fat on his neck, a bowler hat, and a cigar in
his mouth.  The horse's fate seemed to her the less dreadful.

A lady sitting on a shooting-stick to her right said:

"They ought to clear the course for the horses going out.  That
lost me my money two years ago."

Wilfrid's hand rested on her shoulder.

"I like that one," he said, "Blenheim.  Let's go and put our money
on."

They went to where people were standing in little queues before a
row of what looked like pigeon-holes.

"Stand here," he said.  "I'll lay my egg and come back to you."

Dinny stood watching.

"How d'you do, Miss Cherrell?"  A tall man in a grey top-hat, with
a very long case of field-glasses slung round him, had halted
before her.  "We met at the Foch statue and your sister's wedding--
remember?"

"Oh! yes.  Mr. Muskham."  Her heart was hurrying, and she
restrained herself from looking towards Wilfrid.

"Any news of your sister?"

"Yes, we heard from Egypt.  They must have had it terribly hot in
the Red Sea."

"Have you backed anything?"

"Not yet."

"I shouldn't touch the favourite--he won't stay."

"We thought of Blenheim."

"Well, nice horse, and handy for the turns.  But there's one more
fancied in his stable.  I take it you're a neophyte.  I'll give you
two tips, Miss Cherrell.  Look for one or both of two things in a
horse: leverage behind, and personality--not looks, just
personality."

"Leverage behind?  Do you mean higher behind than in front?"

Jack Muskham smiled.  "That's about it.  If you see that in a
horse, especially where it has to come up a hill, back it."

"But personality?  Do you mean putting his head up and looking over
the tops of people into the distance?  I saw one horse do that."

"By Jove, I should like you as a pupil!  That's just about what I
do mean."

"But I don't know which horse it was," said Dinny.

"That's awkward."  And then she saw the interested benevolence on
his face stiffen.  He lifted his hat and turned away.  Wilfrid's
voice behind her said:

"Well, you've got a tenner on."

"Let's go to the Stand and see the race."  He did not seem to have
seen Muskham; and, with his hand within her arm, she tried to
forget the sudden stiffening of Jack Muskham's face.  The crowd's
multiple entreaty that she should have her 'fortune told' did its
best to distract her, and she arrived at the Stand in a mood of
indifference to all but Wilfrid and the horses.  They found
standing room close to the bookmakers near the rails.

"Green and chocolate--I can remember that.  Pistache is my
favourite-chocolate filling.  What shall I win if I do win,
darling?"

"Listen!"

They isolated the words "Eighteen to one Blenheim!"

"A hundred and eighty!" said Dinny.  "Splendid!"

"Well, it means that he's not fancied by the stable; they've got
another running.  Here they come!  Two with chocolate and green.
The second of them is ours."

The parade, enchanting to all except the horses, gave her the
chance to see the brown horse they had backed adorning its perched
rider.

"How d'you like him, Dinny?"

"I love them nearly all.  How can people tell which is the best by
looking at them?"

"They can't."

The horses were turning now and cantering past the Stand.

"Would you say Blenheim is higher behind than in front?" murmured
Dinny.

"No.  Very nice action.  Why?"

But she only pressed his arm and gave a little shiver.

Neither of them having glasses, all was obscure to them when the
race began.  A man just behind kept saying:  "The favourite's
leadin'!  The favourite's leadin'!"

As the horses came round Tattenham Corner, the same man burbled:
"The Pasha--the Pasha'll win--no, the favourite--the favourite
wins!--no, he don't--Iliad--Iliad wins."

Dinny felt Wilfrid's hand grip her arm.

"Ours," he said, "on this side--look!"

Dinny saw a horse on the far side in pink and brown, and nearer her
the chocolate and green.  It was ahead, it was ahead!  They had
won!

Amidst the silence and discomfiture those two stood smiling at each
other.  It seemed an omen!

"I'll draw your money, and we'll go to the car and be off."

He insisted on her taking all the money, and she ensconced it with
her other wealth--so much more insurance against any sudden
decision to deprive her of himself.

They drove again into Richmond Park on the way home, and sat a long
time among the young bracken, listening to the cuckoos, very happy
in the sunny, peaceful, whispering afternoon.

They dined together in a Kensington restaurant, and he left her
finally at the top of Mount Street.

That night she slept unvisited by doubts or dreams, and went down
to breakfast with clear eyes and a flush of sunburn on her cheeks.
Her uncle was reading The Daily Phase.  He put it down and said:

"When you've had your coffee, Dinny, you might glance at this.
There is something about publishers," he added, "which makes one
doubt sometimes whether they are men and brothers.  And there is
something about editors which makes it certain sometimes that they
are not."

Dinny read Compson Grice's letter, printed under the headlines:


                       "MR. DESERT'S APOSTASY.

                       OUR CHALLENGE TAKEN UP.

                            A CONFESSION."


Two stanzas from Sir Alfred Lyall's poem Theology in Extremis
followed:


     "Why?  Am I bidding for glory's roll?
      I shall be murdered and clean forgot;
      Is it a bargain to save my soul?
      God, whom I trust in, bargains not.
      Yet for the honour of English race
      May I not live or endure disgrace . . .

     "I must be gone to the crowd untold
      Of men by the Cause which they served unknown,
      Who moulder in myriad graves of old;
      Never a story and never a stone
      Tells of the martyrs who die like me,
      Just for the pride of the old countree."


And the pink of sunburn gave way to a flood of crimson.

"Yes," murmured Sir Lawrence, watching her, "'the fat is in the
fire,' as old Forsyte would have said.  Still, I was talking to a
man last night who thought that nowadays nothing makes an indelible
mark.  Cheating at cards, boning necklaces--you go abroad for two
years and it's all forgotten.  As for sex abnormality, according to
him it's no longer abnormal.  So we must cheer up!"

Dinny said passionately:  "What I resent is that any worm will have
the power to say what he pleases."

Sir Lawrence nodded:  "The greater the worm, the greater the power.
But it's not the worms we need bother about; it's the people with
'pride of English race,' and there are still a few about."

"Uncle, is there any way in which Wilfrid can show publicly that
he's not a coward?"

"He did well in the war."

"Who remembers the war?"

"Perhaps," muttered Sir Lawrence, "we could throw a bomb at his car
in Piccadilly, so that he could look at it over the side and light
a cigarette.  I can't think of anything more helpful."

"I saw Mr. Muskham yesterday."

"Then you were at the Derby?"  He took a very little cigar from his
pocket.  "Jack takes the view that you are being victimised."

"Oh!  Why can't people leave one alone?"

"Attractive nymphs are never left alone.  Jack's a misogynist."

Dinny gave a little desperate laugh.

"I suppose one's troubles ARE funny."

She got up and went to the window.  It seemed to her that all the
world was barking, like dogs at a cornered cat, and yet there was
nothing in Mount Street but a van from the Express Dairy.



CHAPTER XXII


Jack Muskham occupied a bedroom at Burton's Club when racing kept
him overnight in town.  Having read an account of the Derby in The
Daily Phase, he turned the paper idly.  The other features in 'that
rag' were commonly of little interest to him.  Its editing shocked
his formalism, its news jarred his taste, its politics offended him
by being so like his own.  But his perusal was not perfunctory
enough to prevent him from seeing the headline 'Mr. Desert's
Apostasy.'  Reading the half column that followed it, he pushed the
paper away and said:  "That fellow must be stopped."

Glorying in his yellow streak, was he, and taking that nice girl
with him to Coventry!  Hadn't even the decency to avoid being seen
with her in public on the very day when he was confessing himself
as yellow as that rag!

In an age when tolerations and condonations seemed almost a
disease, Jack Muskham knew and registered his own mind.  He had
disliked young Desert at first sight.  The fellow's name suited
him!  And to think that this nice girl, who, without any training,
had made those shrewd remarks about the racehorse, was to have her
life ruined by this yellow-livered young braggart!  It was too
much!  If it hadn't been for Lawrence, indeed, he would have done
something about it before now.  But there his mind stammered.
What? . . .  Here was the fellow publicly confessing his disgrace!
An old dodge, that--taking the sting out of criticism!  Making a
virtue of necessity!  Parading his desertion!  That cock shouldn't
fight, if he had his way!  But once more his mind stammered . . .
No outsider could interfere.  And yet, unless there were some
outward and visible sign condemning the fellow's conduct, it would
look as if nobody cared.

'By George!' he thought.  'This Club, at least, can sit up and take
notice.  We don't want rats in Burton's!'

He brought the matter up in Committee meeting that very afternoon,
and was astonished almost to consternation by the apathy with which
it was received.  Of the seven members present--'the Squire,'
Wilfrid Bentworth, being in the Chair--four seemed to think it was
a matter between young Desert and his conscience, and, besides, it
looked like being a newspaper stunt.  Times had changed since Lyall
wrote that poem.  One member went so far as to say he didn't want
to be bothered, he hadn't read The Leopard, he didn't know Desert,
and he hated The Daily Phase.

"So do I," said Jack Muskham, "but here's the poem."  He had sent
out for it and spent an hour after lunch reading it.  "Let me read
you a bit.  It's poisonous."

"For heaven's sake no, Jack!"

The fifth member, who had so far said nothing, supposed that if
Muskham pressed it they must all read the thing.

"I do press it."

'The Squire,' hitherto square and silent, remarked:  "The secretary
will get copies and send them round to the Committee.  Better send
them, too, a copy of to-day's Daily Phase.  We'll discuss it at the
meeting next Friday.  Now about this claret?"  And they moved to
consideration of important matters.

It has been noticed that when a newspaper of a certain type lights
on an incident which enables it at once to exhibit virtue and beat
the drum of its own policy, it will exploit that incident,
within the limits of the law of libel, without regard to the
susceptibilities of individuals.  Secured by the confession in
Compson Grice's letter, The Daily Phase made the most of its
opportunity, and in the eight days intervening before the next
Committee meeting gave the Committeemen little chance of professing
ignorance or indifference.  Everybody, indeed, was reading and
talking about The Leopard and, on the morning of the adjourned
meeting, The Daily Phase had a long allusive column on the extreme
importance of British behaviour in the East.  It had also a large-
type advertisement.  "The Leopard and other Poems, by Wilfrid
Desert: published by Compson Grice: 40,000 copies sold: Third Large
Impression ready."

A debate on the ostracism of a fellow-being will bring almost any
man to a Committee meeting; and the attendance included some never
before known to come.

A motion had been framed by Jack Muskham.

"That the Honourable Wilfrid Desert be requested, under Rule 23, to
resign his membership of Burton's Club, because of conduct
unbecoming to a member."

He opened the discussion in these words:

"You've all had copies of Desert's poem The Leopard and The Daily
Phase of yesterday week.  There's no doubt about the thing.  Desert
has publicly owned to having ratted from his religion at the
pistol's point, and I say he's no longer fit to be a member of this
Club.  It was founded in memory of a very great traveller who'd
have dared Hell itself.  We don't want people here who don't act up
to English traditions, and make a song about it into the bargain."

There was a short silence, and then the fifth member of the
Committee at the previous meeting remarked:

"It's a deuced fine poem, all the same."

A well-known K.C., who had once travelled in Turkey, added:

"Oughtn't he to have been asked to attend?"

"Why?" asked Jack Muskham.  "He can't say more than is said in that
poem, or in that letter of his publisher's."

The fourth member of the Committee at the previous meeting
muttered:  "I don't like paying attention to The Daily Phase."

"We can't help his having chosen that particular rag," said Jack
Muskham.

"Very distasteful," continued the fourth member, "diving into
matters of conscience.  Are we all prepared to say we wouldn't have
done the same?"

There was a sound as of feet shuffling, and a wrinkled expert on
the early civilisations of Ceylon murmured:  "To my mind, Desert is
on the carpet--not for apostasy, but for the song he's made about
it.  Decency should have kept him quiet.  Advertising his book!
It's in a third edition, and everybody reading it.  Making money
out of it seems to me the limit."

"I don't suppose," said the fourth member, "that he thought of
that.  It's the accident of the sensation."

"He could have withdrawn the book."

"Depends on his contract.  Besides, that would look like running
from the storm he's roused.  As a matter of fact, I think it's
rather fine to have made an open confession."

"Theatrical!" murmured the K.C.

"If this," said Jack Muskham, "were one of the Service Clubs, they
wouldn't think twice about it."

An author of Mexico Revisited said drily:

"But it is not."

"I don't know if you can judge poets like other people," mused the
fifth member.

"In matters of ordinary conduct," said the expert on the
civilisation of Ceylon, "why not?"

A little man at the end of the table opposite the Chairman
remarked, "The D-d-daily Ph-Phase," as if releasing a small spasm
of wind.

"Everybody's talking about the thing," said the K.C.

"My young people," put in a man who had not yet spoken, "scoff.
They say:  'What does it matter what he did?'  They talk about
hypocrisy, laugh at Lyall's poem, and say it's good for the Empire
to have some wind let out of it."

"Exactly!" said Jack Muskham:  "That's the modern jargon.  All
standards gone by the board.  Are we going to stand for that?"

"Anybody here know young Desert?" asked the fifth member.

"To nod to," replied Jack Muskham.

Nobody else acknowledged acquaintanceship.

A very dark man with deep lively eyes said suddenly:

"All I can say is I trust the story has not got about in
Afghanistan; I'm going there next month."

"Why?" said the fourth member.

"Merely because it will add to the contempt with which I shall be
regarded, anyway."

Coming from a well-known traveller, this remark made more
impression than anything said so far.  Two members, who, with the
Chairman, had not yet spoken, said simultaneously:  "Quite!"

"I don't like condemning a man unheard," said the K.C.

"What about that, 'Squire'?" asked the fourth member.

The Chairman, who was smoking a pipe, took it from his mouth.

"Anybody anything more to say?"

"Yes," said the author of Mexico Revisited, "let's put it on his
conduct in publishing that poem."

"You can't," growled Jack Muskham; "the whole thing's of a piece.
The point is simply:  Is he fit to be a member here or not?  I ask
the Chairman to put that to the meeting."

But the 'Squire' continued to smoke his pipe.  His experience of
Committees told him that the time was not yet.  Separate or 'knot'
discussions would now set in.  They led nowhere, of course, but
ministered to a general sense that the subject was having justice
done to it.

Jack Muskham sat silent, his long face impassive and his long legs
stretched out.  The discussion continued.

"Well?" said the member who had revisited Mexico, at last.

The 'Squire' tapped out his pipe.

"I think," he said, "that Mr. Desert should be asked to give us his
reasons for publishing that poem."

"Hear, hear!" said the K.C.

"Quite!" said the two members who had said it before.

"I agree," said the authority on Ceylon.

"Anybody against that?" said the 'Squire.'

"I don't see the use of it," muttered Jack Muskham.  "He ratted,
and he's confessed it."

No one else objecting, the 'Squire' continued:

"The Secretary will ask him to see us and explain.  There's no
other business, gentlemen."

In spite of the general understanding that the matter was sub
judice, these proceedings were confided to Sir Lawrence before the
day was out by three members of the Committee, including Jack
Muskham.  He took the knowledge out with him to dinner at South
Street.

Since the publication of the poems and Compson Grice's letter,
Michael and Fleur had talked of little else, forced to by the
comments and questionings of practically every acquaintance.  They
differed radically.  Michael, originally averse to publication of
the poem, now that it was out, stoutly defended the honesty and
courage of Wilfrid's avowal.  Fleur could not forgive what she
called the 'stupidity of the whole thing.'  If he had only kept
quiet and not indulged his conscience or his pride, the matter
would have blown over, leaving practically no mark.  It was, she
said, unfair to Dinny, and unnecessary so far as Wilfrid himself
was concerned; but of course he had always been like that.  She had
not forgotten the uncompromising way in which eight years ago he
had asked her to become his mistress, and the still more
uncompromising way in which he had fled from her when she had not
complied.  When Sir Lawrence told them of the meeting at Burton's,
she said simply:

"Well, what could he expect?"

Michael muttered:

"Why is Jack Muskham so bitter?"

"Some dogs attack each other at sight.  Others come to it more
meditatively.  This appears to be a case of both.  I should say
Dinny is the bone."

Fleur laughed.

"Jack Muskham and Dinny!"

"Sub-consciously, my dear.  The workings of a misogynist's mind are
not for us to pry into, except in Vienna.  They can tell you
everything there; even to the origin of hiccoughs."

"I doubt if Wilfrid will go before the Committee," said Michael,
gloomily.  Fleur confirmed him.

"Of course he won't, Michael."

"Then what will happen?"

"Almost certainly he'll be expelled under rule whatever it is."

Michael shrugged.  "He won't care.  What's a Club more or less?"

"No," said Fleur; "but at present the thing is in flux--people just
talk about it; but expulsion from his Club will be definite
condemnation.  It's just what's wanted to make opinion line up
against him."

"And FOR him."

"Oh! for him, yes; but we know what that amounts to--the
disgruntled."

"That's all beside the point," said Michael gruffly.  "I know what
he's feeling: his first instinct was to defy that Arab, and he
bitterly regrets that he went back on it."

Sir Lawrence nodded.

"Dinny asked me if there was anything he could do to show publicly
that he wasn't a coward.  You'd think there might be, but it's not
easy.  People object to be put into positions of extreme danger in
order that their rescuers may get into the papers.  Van horses
seldom run away in Piccadilly.  He might throw someone off
Westminster Bridge, and jump in after him; but that would merely be
murder and suicide.  Curious that, with all the heroism there is
about, it should be so difficult to be deliberately heroic."

"He ought to face the Committee," said Michael; "and I hope he
will.  There's something he told me.  It sounds silly; but, knowing
Wilfrid, one can see it made all the difference."

Fleur had planted her elbows on the polished table and her chin on
her hands.  So, leaning forward, she looked like the girl
contemplating a china image in her father's picture by Alfred
Stevens.

"Well?" she said.  "What is it?"

"He said he felt sorry for his executioner."

Neither his wife nor his father moved, except for a slight raising
of the eyebrows.  He went on defiantly:

"Of course, it sounds absurd, but he said the fellow begged him not
to make him shoot--he was under a vow to convert the infidel."

"To mention that to the Committee," Sir Lawrence said slowly,
"would certainly be telling it to the marines."

"He's not likely to," said Fleur; "he'd rather die than be laughed
at."

"Exactly!  I only mentioned it to show that the whole thing's not
so simple as it appears to the pukka sahib."

"When," murmured Sir Lawrence, in a detached voice, "have I heard
anything so nicely ironical?  But all this is not helping Dinny."

"I think I'll go and see him again," said Michael.

"The simplest thing," said Fleur, "is for him to resign at once."

And with that common-sense conclusion the discussion closed.



CHAPTER XXIII


Those who love, when the object of their love is in trouble, must
keep sympathy to themselves and yet show it.  Dinny did not find
this easy.  She watched, lynx-eyed, for any chance to assuage her
lover's bitterness of soul; but though they continued to meet
daily, he gave her none.  Except for the expression of his face
when he was off guard, he might have been quite untouched by
tragedy.  Throughout that fortnight after the Derby she came to his
rooms, and they went joy-riding, accompanied by the spaniel Foch;
and he never mentioned that of which all more or less literary and
official London was talking.  Through Sir Lawrence, however, she
heard that he had been asked to meet the Committee of Burton's Club
and had answered by resignation.  And, through Michael, who had
been to see him again, she heard that he knew of Jack Muskham's
part in the affair.  Since he so rigidly refused to open out to
her, she, at great cost, tried to surpass him in obliviousness of
purgatory.  His face often made her ache, but she kept that ache
out of her own face.  And all the time she was in bitter doubt
whether she was right to refrain from trying to break through to
him.  It was a long and terrible lesson in the truth that not even
real love can reach and anoint deep spiritual sores.  The other
half of her trouble, the unending quiet pressure of her family's
sorrowful alarm, caused her an irritation of which she was ashamed.

And then occurred an incident which, however unpleasant and
alarming at the moment, was almost a relief because it broke up
that silence.

They had been to the Tate Gallery and, walking home, had just come
up the steps leading to Carlton House Terrace.  Dinny was still
talking about the pre-Raphaelites, and saw nothing till Wilfrid's
changed expression made her look for the cause.  There was Jack
Muskham, with a blank face, formally lifting a tall hat as if to
someone who was not there, and a short dark man removing a grey
felt covering, in unison.  They passed, and she heard Muskham say:

"That I consider the limit."

Instinctively her hand went out to grasp Wilfrid's arm, but too
late.  He had spun round in his tracks.  She saw him, three yards
away, tap Muskham on the shoulder, and the two face each other,
with the little man looking up at them like a terrier at two large
dogs about to fight.  She heard Wilfrid say in a low voice:

"What a coward and cad you are!"

There followed an endless silence, while her eyes flitted from
Wilfrid's convulsed face to Muskham's, rigid and menacing, and the
terrier man's black eyes snapping up at them.  She heard him say:
"Come on, Jack!" saw a tremor pass through the length of Muskham's
figure, his hands clench, his lips move:

"You heard that, Yule?"

The little man's hand, pushed under his arm, pulled at him; the
tall figure turned; the two moved away; and Wilfrid was back at her
side.

"Coward and cad!" he muttered:  "Coward and cad!  Thank God I've
told him!"  He threw up his head, took a gulp of air, and said:
"That's better!  Sorry, Dinny!"

In Dinny feeling was too churned up for speech.  The moment had
been so savagely primitive; and she had the horrid fear that it
could not end there; an intuition, too, that she was the cause, the
hidden reason of Muskham's virulence.  She remembered Sir
Lawrence's words:  "Jack thinks you are being victimised."  What if
she were!  What business was it of that long, lounging man who
hated women!  Absurd!  She heard Wilfrid muttering:

"'The limit!'  He might know what one feels!"

"But, darling, if we all knew what other people felt, we should be
seraphim, and he's only a member of the Jockey Club."

"He's done his best to get me outed, and he couldn't even refrain
from THAT."

"It's I who ought to be angry, not you.  It's I who force you to go
about with me.  Only, you see, I like it so.  But, darling, I don't
shrink in the wash.  What IS the use of my being your love if you
won't let yourself go with me?"

"Why should I worry you with what can't be cured?"

"I exist to be worried by you.  PLEASE worry me!"

"Oh!  Dinny, you're an angel!"

"I repeat it is not so.  I really have blood in my veins."

"It's like ear-ache; you shake your head, and shake your head, and
it's no good.  I thought publishing The Leopard would free me, but
it hasn't.  Am I 'yellow,' Dinny--am I?"

"If you were yellow I should not have loved you."

"Oh! I don't know.  Women can love anything."

"Proverbially we admire courage before all.  I'm going to be
brutal.  Has doubt of your courage anything to do with your ache?
Isn't it just due to feeling that other people doubt?"

He gave a little unhappy laugh.  "I don't know; I only know it's
there."

Dinny looked up at him.

"Oh! darling, don't ache!  I do so hate it for you."

They stood for a moment looking deeply at each other, and a vendor
of matches, without the money to indulge in spiritual trouble,
said:

"Box o' lights, sir?" . . .



Though she had been closer to Wilfrid that afternoon than perhaps
ever before, Dinny returned to Mount Street oppressed by fears.
She could not get the look on Muskham's face out of her head, nor
the sound of his:  "You heard that, Yule?"

It was silly!  Out of such explosive encounters nothing but legal
remedies came nowadays; and of all people she had ever seen, she
could least connect Jack Muskham with the Law.  She noticed a hat
in the hall, and heard voices, as she was passing her uncle's
study.  She had barely taken off her own hat when he sent for her.
He was talking to the little terrier man, who was perched astride
of a chair, as if riding a race.

"Dinny, Mr. Telfourd Yule; my niece Dinny Cherrell."

The little man bowed over her hand.

"Yule has been telling me," said Sir Lawrence, "of that encounter.
He's not easy in his mind."

"Neither am I," said Dinny.

"I'm sure Jack didn't mean those words to be heard, Miss Cherrell."

"I don't agree; I think he did."

Yule shrugged.  The expression on his face was rueful, and Dinny
liked its comical ugliness.

"Well, he certainly didn't mean YOU to hear them."

"He ought to have, then.  Mr. Desert would prefer not to be seen
with me in public.  It's I who make him."

"I came to your Uncle because when Jack won't talk about a thing,
it's serious.  I've known him a long time."

Dinny stood silent.  The flush on her cheeks had dwindled to two
red spots.  And the two men stared at her, thinking, perhaps, that,
with her cornflower-blue eyes, slenderness, and that hair, she
looked unsuited to the matter in hand.  She said quietly:  "What
can I do, Uncle Lawrence?"

"I don't see, my dear, what anyone can do at the moment.  Mr. Yule
says that he left Jack going back to Royston.  I thought possibly I
might take you down to see him to-morrow.  He's a queer fellow; if
he didn't date so, I shouldn't worry.  Such things blow over, as a
rule."

Dinny controlled a sudden disposition to tremble.

"What do you mean by 'date'?"

Sir Lawrence looked at Yule and said:  "We don't want to seem
absurd.  There's been no duel fought between Englishmen, so far as
I know, for seventy or eighty years; but Jack is a survival.  We
don't quite know what to think.  Horse-play is not in his line;
neither is a law court.  And yet we can't see him taking no further
notice."

"I suppose," said Dinny, with spirit, "he won't see, on reflection,
that he's more to blame than Wilfrid?"

"No," said Yule, "he won't.  Believe me, Miss Cherrell, I am deeply
sorry about the whole business."

Dinny bowed.  "I think it was very nice of you to come; thank you!"

"I suppose," said Sir Lawrence, doubtfully, "you couldn't get
Desert to send him an apology?"

'So THAT,' she thought, 'is what they wanted me for.'  "No, Uncle,
I couldn't--I couldn't even ask him.  I'm quite sure he wouldn't."

"I see," said Sir Lawrence glumly.

Bowing to Yule, Dinny turned towards the door.  In the hall she
seemed to be seeing through the wall behind her the renewed
shrugging of their shoulders, the ruefulness on their glum faces,
and she went up to her room.  Apology!  Thinking of Wilfrid's
badgered, tortured face, the very idea of it offended her.
Stricken to the quick already on the score of personal courage, it
was the last thing he would dream of.  She wandered unhappily about
her room, then took out his photograph.  The face she loved looked
back at her with the sceptical indifference of an effigy.  Wilful,
sudden, proud, self-centred, deeply dual; but cruel, no, and
cowardly--NO!

'Oh! my darling!' she thought, and put it away.

She went to her window and leaned out.  A beautiful evening--the
Friday of Ascot week, the first of those two weeks when in England
fine weather is almost certain!  On Wednesday there had been a
deluge, but to-day had the feel of real high summer.  Down below a
taxi drew up--her Uncle and Aunt were going out to dinner.  There
they came, with Blore putting them in and standing to look after
them.  Now the staff would turn on the wireless.  Yes!  Here it
was!  She opened her door.  Grand opera!  Rigoletto!  The
twittering of those tarnished melodies came up to her in all the
bravura of an age which knew better than this, it seemed, how to
express the emotions of wayward hearts.

The gong!  She did not want to go down and eat, but she must, or
Blore and Augustine would be upset.  She washed hastily,
compromised with her dress, and went down.

But while she ate she grew more restless, as if sitting still and
attending to a single function were sharpening the edge of her
anxiety.  A duel!  Fantastic, in these days!  And yet--Uncle
Lawrence was uncanny, and Wilfrid in just the mood to do anything
to show himself unafraid.  Were duels illegal in France?  Thank
heaven she had all that money.  No!  It was absurd!  People had
called each other names with impunity for nearly a century.  No
good to fuss; to-morrow she would go with Uncle Lawrence and see
that man.  It was all, in some strange way, on her account.  What
would one of her own people do if called a coward and a cad--her
father, her brother, Uncle Adrian?  What COULD they do?
Horsewhips, fists, law courts--all such hopeless, coarse, ugly
remedies!  And she felt for the first time that Wilfrid had been
wrong to use such words.  Ah!  But was he not entitled to hit back?
Yes, indeed!  She could see again his head jerked up and hear his:
'Ah!  That's better!'

Swallowing down her coffee, she got up and sought the drawing-room.
On the sofa was her Aunt's embroidery thrown down, and she gazed at
it with a feeble interest.  An intricate old French design needing
many coloured wools--grey rabbits looking archly over their
shoulders at long, curious, yellow dogs seated on yellower
haunches, with red eyes and tongues hanging out; leaves and
flowers, too, and here and there a bird, all set in a background of
brown wool.  Tens of thousands of stitches, which, when finished,
would lie under glass on a little table, and last till they were
all dead and no one knew who had wrought them.  "Tout lasse, tout
passe!  The strains of Rigoletto still came floating from the
basement.  Really Augustine must have drama in her soul, to be
listening to a whole opera.

"La Donna è mobile!"

Dinny took up her book, the Memoirs of Harriette Wilson; a tome in
which no one kept any faith to speak of except the authoress, and
she only in her own estimation; a loose, bright, engaging,
conceited minx, with a good heart and one real romance among a peck
of love affairs.

"La Donna è mobile!"  It came mocking up the stairs, fine and free,
as if the tenor had reached his Mecca.  Mobile!  No!  That was more
true of men than of women!  Women did not change.  One loved--one
lost, perhaps!  She sat with closed eyes till the last notes of
that last act had died away, then went up to bed.  She passed a
night broken by dreams, and was awakened by a voice saying:

"Someone on the telephone for you, Miss Dinny."

"For me?  Why!  What time is it?"

"Half-past seven, miss."

She sat up startled.

"Who is it?"

"No name, miss; but he wants to speak to you special."

With the thought 'Wilfrid!' she jumped up, put on a dressing-gown
and slippers, and ran down.

"Yes.  Who is it?"

"Stack, miss.  I'm sorry to disturb you so early, but I thought it
best.  Mr. Desert, miss, went to bed as usual last night, but this
morning the dog was whining in his room, and I went in, and I see
he's not been in bed at all.  He must have gone out very early,
because I've been about since half-past six.  I shouldn't have
disturbed you, miss, only I didn't like the look of him last
night . . .  Can you hear me, miss?"

"Yes.  Has he taken any clothes or anything?"

"No, miss."

"Did anybody come to see him last night?"

"No, miss.  But a letter came by hand about half-past nine.  I
noticed him distraight, miss, when I took the whisky in.  Perhaps
it's nothing, but being so sudden, I . . .  Can you hear me, miss?"

"Yes.  I'll dress at once and come round.  Stack, can you get me a
taxi, or, better, a car, by the time I'm there?"

"I'll get a car, miss."

"Is there any service to the Continent he could have caught?"

"Nothing before nine o'clock."

"I'll be round as quick as I can."

"Yes, miss.  Don't you worry, miss; he might be wanting exercise or
something."

Dinny replaced the receiver and flew upstairs.



CHAPTER XXIV


Wilfred's taxi-cab, whose tank he had caused to be filled to the
brim, ground slowly up Haverstock Hill towards the Spaniard's Road.
He looked at his watch.  Forty miles to Royston--even in this
growler he would be there by nine!  He took out a letter and read
it through once more.


"Liverpool Street Station.

"Friday.

"SIR,

"You will agree that the matter of this afternoon cannot rest
there.  Since the Law denies one decent satisfaction, I give you
due notice that I shall horsewhip you publicly whenever and
wherever I first find you unprotected by the presence of a lady.

"Yours faithfully,

"J. MUSKHAM.

"The Briery, Royston."


'Whenever and wherever I first find you unprotected by the presence
of a lady!'  That would be sooner than the swine thought!  A pity
the fellow was so much older than himself.

The cab had reached the top now, and was speeding along the lonely
Spaniard's Road.  In the early glistening morning the view was
worth a poet's notice, but Wilfrid lay back in the cab, unseeing,
consumed by his thoughts.  Something to hit at.  This chap, at any
rate, should no longer sneer at him!  He had no plan except to be
publicly on hand at the first possible moment after reading those
words:  "Unprotected by the presence of a lady!"  Taken as
sheltering behind a petticoat?  Pity it was not a real duel!  The
duels of literature jig-sawed in his brain--Bel Ami, Bazarov, Dr.
Slammer, Sir Lucius O'Trigger, D'Artagnan, Sir Toby, Winkle--all
those creatures of fancy who had endeared the duel to readers.
Duels and runs on banks, those two jewels in the crown of drama--
gone!  Well, he had shaved--with cold water!--and dressed with as
much care as if he were not going to a vulgar brawl.  The dandified
Jack Muskham and a scene of low violence!  Very amusing!  The cab
ground and whirred its way on through the thin early traffic of
market and milk carts; and Wilfrid sat drowsing after his almost
sleepless night.  Barnet he passed, and Hatfield, and the confines
of Welwyn Garden City, then Knebworth, and the long villages of
Stevenage, Graveley and Baldock.  Houses and trees seemed touched
by unreality in the fine haze.  Postmen, and maids on doorsteps,
boys riding farm horses, and now and then an early cyclist, alone
inhabited the outdoor world.  And, with that wry smile on his lips
and his eyes half closed, he lay back, his feet pressed against the
seat opposite.  He had not to stage the scene, nor open the brawl.
He had but to deliver himself, as it were registered, so that he
could not be missed.

The cab slowed up.

"We're gettin' near Royston, governor; where d'you want to go?"

"Pull up at the inn."

The cab resumed its progress.  The morning light hardened.  All,
now, was positive, away to the round, high-lying clumps of beeches.
On the grassy slope to his right he saw a string of sheeted race-
horses moving slowly back from exercise.  The cab entered a long
village street, and near its end stopped at an hotel.  Wilfrid got
out.

"Garage your cab.  I'll want you to take me back."

"Right, governor."

He went in and asked for breakfast.  Just nine o'clock!  While
eating he enquired of the waiter where the Briery was.

"It's the long low 'ouse lying back on the right, sir; but if you
want Mr. Muskham, you've only to stand in the street outside 'ere.
'E'll be passing on his pony at five past ten; you can set your
watch by him going to his stud farm when there's no racing."

"Thank you, that will save me trouble."

At five minutes before ten, smoking a cigarette, he took his
position at the hotel gate.  Girt-in, and with that smile, he stood
motionless, and through his mind passed and repassed the scene
between Tom Sawyer and the boy in the too-good clothes, walking
round each other with an elaborate ritual of insults before the
whirlwind of their encounter.  There would be no ritual to-day!
'If I can lay him out,' he thought, 'I will!'  His hands, concealed
in the pockets of his jacket, kept turning into fists; otherwise he
stood, still as the gatepost against which he leaned, his face
veiled in the thin fume rising from his cigarette.  He noticed with
satisfaction his cabman talking to another chauffeur outside the
yard, a man up the street opposite cleaning windows, and a
butcher's cart.  Muskham could not pretend this was not a public
occasion.  If they had neither of them boxed since schooldays, the
thing would be a crude mix-up; all the more chance of hurting or
being hurt!  The sun topped some trees on the far side and shone on
his face.  He moved a pace or two to get the full of it.  The sun--
all good in life came from the sun!  And suddenly he thought of
Dinny.  The sun to her was not what it was to him.  Was he in a
dream--was she real?  Or, rather, were she and all this English
business some rude interval of waking?  God knew!  He stirred and
looked at his watch.  Three minutes past ten, and there, sure
enough, as the waiter had said, coming up the street was a rider,
unconcerned, sedate, with a long easy seat on a small well-bred
animal.  Closer and closer, unaware!  Then the rider's eyes came
round, there was a movement of his chin.  He raised a hand to his
hat, checked the pony, wheeled it and cantered back.

'H'm!' thought Wilfrid.  'Gone for his whip!'  And from the stump
of his cigarette he lighted another.  A voice behind him said:

"What'd I tell you, sir?  That's Mr. Muskham."

"He seems to have forgotten something."

"Ah!" said the waiter, "he's regular as a rule.  They say at the
stud he's a Turk for order.  Here he comes again; not lost much
time, 'as 'e?"

He was coming at a canter.  About thirty yards away he reined up
and got off.  Wilfrid heard him say to the pony, "Stand, Betty!"
His heart began to beat, his hands in his pockets were clenched
fast; he still leaned against the gate.  The waiter had withdrawn,
but with the tail of his eye Wilfrid could see him at the hotel
door, waiting as if to watch over the interview he had fostered.
His cabman was still engaged in the endless conversation of those
who drive cars; the shopman still cleaning his windows; the
butcher's man rejoining his cart.  Muskham came deliberately, a
cut-and-thrust whip in his hand.

'Now!' thought Wilfrid.

Within three yards Muskham stopped.  "Are you ready?"

Wilfrid took out his hands, let the cigarette drop from his lips,
and nodded.  Raising the whip, the long figure sprang.  One blow
fell, then Wilfrid closed.  He closed so utterly that the whip was
useless and Muskham dropped it.  They swayed back clinched together
against the gate; then, both, as if struck by the same idea,
unclinched and raised their fists.  In a moment it was clear that
neither was any longer expert.  They drove at each other without
science, but with a sort of fury, length and weight on one side,
youth and agility on the other.  Amidst the scrambling concussions
of this wild encounter, Wilfrid was conscious of a little crowd
collecting--they had become a street show!  Their combat was so
breathless, furious and silent, that its nature seemed to infect
that gathering, and from it came nothing but a muttering.  Both
were soon cut on the mouth and bleeding, both were soon winded and
half dazed.  In sheer breathlessness they clinched again and stood
swaying, striving to get a grip of each other's throats.

"Go it, Mr. Muskham!" cried a voice.

As if encouraged, Wilfrid wrenched himself free and sprang;
Muskham's fist thumped into his chest as he came on, but his
outstretched hands closed round his enemy's neck.  There was a long
stagger, and then both went crashing to the ground.  There, again
as if moved by the same thought, they unclinched and scrambled up.
For a moment they stood panting, glaring at each other for an
opening.  For a second each looked round him.  Wilfrid saw
Muskham's blood-stained face change and become rigid, his hands
drop and hide in his pockets; saw him turn away.  And suddenly he
realised why.  Standing up in an open car, across the street, was
Dinny, with one hand covering her lips and the other shading her
eyes.

Wilfrid turned as abruptly and went into the hotel.



CHAPTER XXV


While Dinny dressed and skimmed along the nearly empty streets, she
had been thinking hard.  That letter brought last night by hand
surely meant that Muskham was the cause of Wilfrid's early sortie.
Since he had slipped like a needle into a bundle of hay, her only
chance was to work from the other end.  No need to wait for her
uncle to see Jack Muskham.  She could see him alone just as well
as, perhaps better.  It was eight o'clock when she reached Cork
Street, and she at once said:  "Has Mr. Desert a revolver, Stack?"

"Yes, miss."

"Has he taken it?"

"No."

"I ask because he had a quarrel yesterday."

Stack passed his hand over his unshaven chin.  "Don't know where
you're going, miss, but would you like me to come with you?"

"I think it would be better if you'd go and make sure he isn't
taking a boat train."

"Certainly, miss.  I'll take the dog, and do that."

"Is that car outside for me?"

"Yes, miss.  Would you like it opened?"

"I would; the more air, the better."

The henchman nodded, his eyes and nose seeming to Dinny unusually
large and intelligent.

"If I run across Mr. Desert first, where shall I get in touch with
you, miss?"

"I'll call at Royston post-office for any telegram.  I'm going to
see a Mr. Muskham there.  The quarrel was with him."

"Have you had anything to eat, miss?  Let me get you a cup of tea."

"I've had one, thank you."  It saved time to say what was not true.

That drive, on an unknown road, seemed interminable to her, haunted
by her uncle's words:  "If Jack didn't date so, I shouldn't
worry . . .  He's a survival."  Suppose that, even now, in some
enclosure--Richmond Park, Ken Wood, where not--they were playing
the old-fashioned pranks, of honour!  She conjured up the scene--
Jack Muskham, tall, deliberate; Wilfrid, girt-in, defiant, trees
around them, wood-pigeons calling, their hands slowly rising to the
level--!  Yes, but who would give the word?  And pistols!  People
did not go about with duelling pistols nowadays.  If that had been
suggested, Wilfrid would surely have taken his revolver!  What
should she say if, indeed, she found Muskham at home?  "Please don't
mind being called a cad and coward!  They are really almost terms of
endearment."  Wilfrid must never know that she had tried to mediate.
It would but wound his pride still further.  Wounded pride!  Was
there any older, deeper, more obstinate cause of human trouble, or
any more natural and excusable!  The consciousness of having failed
oneself!  Overmastered by the attraction that knows neither reason
nor law, she loved Wilfrid none the less for having failed himself;
but she was not blind to that failure.  Ever since her father's
words "by any Englishman who's threatened with a pistol" had touched
some nerve in the background of her being, she had realised that she
was divided by her love from her instinctive sense of what was due
from Englishmen.

The driver stopped to examine a back tyre.  From the hedge a drift
of elder-flower scent made her close her eyes.  Those flat white
scented blossoms!  The driver remounted and started the car with a
jerk.  Was life always going to jerk her away from love?  Was she
never to rest drugged and happy in its arms?

'Morbid!' she thought.  'I ought to be keying my pitch to the
Jockey Club.'

Royston began, and she said:  "Stop at the post-office, please."

"Right, lady!"

There was no telegram for her, and she asked for Muskham's house.
The post-mistress looked at the clock.

"Nearly opposite, miss; but if you want Mr. Muskham, I saw him pass
riding just now.  He'll be going to his stud farm--that'll be
through the town and off to the right."

Dinny resumed her seat, and they drove slowly on.

Afterwards she did not know whether her instinct or the driver's
stopped the car.  For when he turned round and said:  "Appears like
a bit of a mix-up, miss," she was already standing, to see over the
heads of that ring of people in the road.  She saw only too well
the stained, blood-streaked faces, the rain of blows, the
breathless, swaying struggle.  She had opened the door, but with
the sudden thought:  'He'd never forgive me!' banged it to again,
and stood, with one hand shading her eyes, the other covering her
lips, conscious that the driver, too, was standing.

"Something like a scrap!" she heard him say admiringly.

How strange and wild Wilfrid looked!  But with only fists they
could not kill each other!  And mixed with her alarm was a sort of
exultation.  He had come down to seek battle!  Yet every blow
seemed falling on her flesh, each clutch and struggling movement
seemed her own.

"Not a blasted bobby!" said her driver, carried away.  "Go it!  I
back the young 'un."

Dinny saw them fall apart, then Wilfrid rushing with outstretched
hands; she heard the thump of Muskham's fist on his chest, saw them
clinch, stagger, and fall; then rise and stand gasping, glaring.
She saw Muskham catch sight of her, then Wilfrid; saw them turn
away; and all was over.  The driver said:  "Now, that's a pity!"
Dinny sank down on the car seat, and said quietly:

"Drive on, please."

Away!  Just away!  Enough that they had seen her--more than enough,
perhaps!

"Drive on a little, then turn and go back to Town."  They wouldn't
begin again!

"Neither of 'em much good with is 'ands, miss, but a proper
spirit."

Dinny nodded.  Her hand was still over her mouth, for her lips were
trembling.  The driver looked at her.

"You're a bit pale, miss--too much blood!  Why not stop somewhere
and 'ave a drop o' brandy?"

"Not here," said Dinny, "the next village."

"Baldock.  Right-o!"  And he put the car to speed.

The crowd had disappeared as they repassed the hotel.  Two dogs, a
man cleaning windows, and a policeman were the only signs of life.

At Baldock she had some breakfast.  Conscious that she ought to
feel relieved, now that the explosion had occurred, she was
surprised by the foreboding which oppressed her.  Would he not
resent her having come as if to shield him?  Her accidental
presence had stopped the fight, and she had seen them disfigured,
blood-stained, devoid of their dignities.  She decided to tell no
one where she had been, or what she had seen--not even Stack or her
uncle.

Such precautions are of small avail in a country so civilised.  An
able, if not too accurate, description of the "Encounter at Royston
between that well-known breeder of bloodstock, Mr. John Muskham--
cousin to Sir Charles Muskham, Bart--and the Hon.  Wilfrid Desert,
second son of Lord Mullyon, author of The Leopard, which has
recently caused such a sensation," appeared in that day's last
edition of the Evening Sun, under the heading, "Fisticuffs in High
Quarters."  It was written with spirit and imagination, and ended
thus:  "It is believed that the origin of the quarrel may be sought
in the action which it is whispered was taken by Mr. Muskham over
Mr. Desert's membership of a certain Club.  It seems that Mr.
Muskham took exception to Mr. Desert continuing a member after his
public acknowledgment that The Leopard was founded on his own
experience.  The affair, no doubt, was very high-spirited, if not
likely to improve the plain man's conception of a dignified
aristocracy."

This was laid before Dinny at dinner-time by her uncle without
comment.  It caused her to sit rigid, till his voice said:  "Were
you there, Dinny?"

'Uncanny, as usual,' she thought; but, though by now habituated to
the manipulation of truth, she was not yet capable of the lie
direct, and she nodded.

"What's that?" said Lady Mont.

Dinny pushed the paper over to her aunt, who read, screwing up her
eyes, for she had long sight.

"Which won, Dinny?"

"Neither.  They just stopped."

"Where is Royston?"

"In Cambridgeshire."

"Why?"

Neither Dinny nor Sir Lawrence knew.

"He didn't take you on a pillion, Dinny?"

"No, dear.  I just happened to drive up."

"Religion is very inflamin'," murmured Lady Mont.

"It is," said Dinny bitterly.

"Did the sight of you stop them?" said Sir Lawrence.

"Yes."

"I don't like that.  It would have been better if a bobby or a
knock-out blow--"

"I didn't want them to see me."

"Have you seen him since?"

Dinny shook her head.

"Men are vain," said her aunt.

That closed the conversation.

Stack telephoned after dinner that Wilfrid had returned; but
instinct told her to make no attempt to see him.

After a restless night she took the morning train to Condaford.  It
was Sunday, and they were all at church.  She seemed strangely
divided from her family.  Condaford smelled the same, looked the
same, and the same people did the same things; yet all was
different!  Even the Scottish terrier and the spaniels sniffed her
with doubting nostrils, as if uncertain whether she belonged to
them any more.

'And do I?' she thought.  'The scent is not there when the heart is
away!'

Jean was the first to appear, Lady Cherrell having stayed to
Communion, the General to count the offertory and Hubert to inspect
the village cricket pitch.  She found Dinny sitting by an old
sundial in front of a bed of delphiniums.  Having kissed her
sister-in-law, she stood and looked at her for quite a minute,
before saying:  "Take a pull, my dear, or you'll be going into a
decline, whatever that is."

"I only want my lunch," said Dinny.

"Same here.  I thought my dad's sermons were a trial even after I'd
censored them; but your man here!"

"Yes, one CAN 'put him down.'"

Again Jean paused, and her eyes searched Dinny's face.

"Dinny, I'm all for you.  Get married at once, and go off with
him."

Dinny smiled.

"There are two parties to every marriage."

"Is that paragraph in this morning's paper correct, about a fight
at Royston?"

"Probably not."

"I mean was there one?"

"Yes."

"Who began it?"

"I did.  There's no other woman in the case."

"Dinny, you're very changed."

"No longer sweet and disinterested."

"Very well!" said Jean.  "If you want to play the love-lorn female,
play it!"

Dinny caught her skirt.  Jean knelt down and put her arms round
her.

"You were a brick to me when I was up against it."

Dinny laughed.

"What are my father and Hubert saying now?"

"Your father says nothing and looks glum.  Hubert either says:
'Something must be done,' or 'It's the limit.'"

"Not that it matters," said Dinny suddenly; "I'm past all that."

"You mean you're not sure what HE'LL do?  But, of course, he must
do what you want."

Again Dinny laughed.

"You're afraid," said Jean, with startling comprehension, "that he
might run off and leave you?"  And she subsided on to her hams the
better to look up into Dinny's face.  "Of course he might.  You
know I went to see him?"

"Oh?"

"Yes; he got over me.  I couldn't say a word.  Great charm Dinny."

"Did Hubert send you?"

"No.  On my own.  I was going to let him know what would be thought
of him if he married you, but I couldn't.  I should have imagined
he'd have told you about it.  But I suppose he knew it would worry
you."

"I don't know," said Dinny; and did not.  It seemed to her at that
moment that she knew very little.

Jean sat silently pulling an early dandelion to pieces.

"If I were you," she said at last, "I'd vamp him.  If you'd once
belonged to him, he couldn't leave you."

Dinny got up.  "Let's go round the gardens and see what's out."



CHAPTER XXVI


Since Dinny said no further word on the subject occupying every
mind, no word was said by anyone; and for this she was truly
thankful.  She spent the next three days trying to hide the fact
that she was very unhappy.  No letter had come from Wilfrid, no
message from Stack; surely, if anything had happened, HE would have
let her know.  On the fourth day, feeling that she could bear the
suspense no longer, she telephoned to Fleur and asked if she might
come up to them.

The expressions on her father's and her mother's faces when she
said she was going affected her as do the eyes and tails of dogs
whom one must leave.  How much more potent was the pressure put by
silent disturbance than by nagging!

Panic assailed her in the train.  Had her instinct to wait for
Wilfrid to make the first move been wrong?  Ought she not to have
gone straight to him?  And on reaching London she told her driver:
"Cork Street."

But he was out, and Stack did not know when he would be in.  The
henchman's demeanour seemed to her strangely different, as if he
had retreated to a fence and were sitting on it.  Was Mr. Desert
well?  Yes.  And the dog?  Yes, the dog was well.  Dinny drove away
disconsolate.  At South Square again no one was in; it seemed as if
the world were in conspiracy to make her feel deserted.  She had
forgotten Wimbledon, the Horse Show, and other activities of the
time of year.  All such demonstrations of interest in life were,
indeed, so far from her present mood that she could not conceive
people taking part in them.

She sat down in her bedroom to write to Wilfrid.  There was no
longer any reason for silence, for Stack would tell him she had
called.

She wrote:


"South Square, Westminster.

"Ever since Saturday I've been tortured by the doubt whether to
write, or wait for you to write to me.  Darling, I never meant to
interfere in any way.  I had come down to see Mr. Muskham and tell
him that it's I only who was responsible for what he so absurdly
called the limit.  I never expected you to be there.  I didn't
really much hope even to find him.  Please let me see you.

"Your unhappy

"DINNY."


She went out herself to post it.  On the way back she came on Kit,
with his governess, the dog, and the two youngest of her Aunt
Alison's children.  They seemed entirely happy; she was ashamed not
to seem so too, so they all went together to Kit's schoolroom to
have tea.  Before it was over Michael came in.  Dinny, who had
seldom seen him with his little son, was fascinated by the easy
excellence of their relationship.  It was, perhaps, a little
difficult to tell which was the elder, though a certain difference
in size and the refusal of a second helping of strawberry jam
seemed to favour Michael.  That hour, in fact, brought her the
nearest approach to happiness she had known since she left Wilfrid
five days ago.  After it was over she went with Michael to his
study.

"Anything wrong, Dinny?"

Wilfrid's best friend, and the easiest person in the world to
confide in, and she did not know what to say!  And then suddenly
she began to talk, sitting in his armchair, her elbows on her
knees, her chin in her hands, staring not at him, but at her
future.  And Michael sat on the window-sill, his face now rueful,
now whimsical, making little soothing sounds.  Nothing would
matter, she said, neither public opinion, the Press, nor even her
family, if only there were not in Wilfrid himself this deep bitter
unease, this basic doubt of his own conduct, this permanent itch to
prove to others, and, above all, to himself, that he was not
'yellow.'  Now that she had given way, it poured out of her, all
that bottled-up feeling that she was walking on a marsh, where at
any moment she might sink in some deep, unlooked-for hole thinly
covered by specious surface.  She ceased and lay back in the chair
exhausted.

"But, Dinny," said Michael, gently, "isn't he really fond of you?"

"I don't know, Michael; I thought so--I don't know.  Why should he
be?  I'm an ordinary person, he's not."

"We all seem ordinary to ourselves.  I don't want to flatter you,
but you seem to me less ordinary than Wilfrid."

"Oh, no!"

"Poets," said Michael gloomily, "give a lot of trouble.  What are
we going to do about it?"

That evening after dinner he went forth, ostensibly to the House,
in fact to Cork Street.

Wilfrid was not in, so he asked Stack's permission to wait.
Sitting on the divan in that unconventional, dimly-lighted room, he
twitted himself for having come.  To imply that he came from Dinny
would be worse than useless.  Besides, he hadn't.  No!  He had come
to discover, if he could, whether Wilfrid really was in love with
her.  If not, then--well, then the sooner she was out of her misery
the better.  It might half break her heart, but that was better
than pursuing a substance which wasn't there.  He knew, or thought
he knew, that Wilfrid was the last person to endure a one-sided
relationship.  The worst of all disasters for Dinny would be to
join herself to him under a misconception of his feelings for her.
On a little table close to the divan, with the whisky, were the
night's letters--only two, one of them, he could see, from Dinny
herself.  The door was opened slightly and a dog came in.  After
sniffing at Michael's trousers, it lay down with its head on its
paws and its eyes fixed on the door.  He spoke to it, but it took
no notice--the right sort of dog.  'I'll give him till eleven,'
thought Michael.  And almost immediately Wilfrid came.  He had a
bruise on one cheek and some plaster on his chin.  The dog
fluttered round his legs.

"Well, old man," said Michael, "that must have been a hearty
scrap."

"It was.  Whisky?"

"No, thanks."

He watched Wilfrid take up the letters and turn his back to open
them.

'I ought to have known he'd do that,' thought Michael; 'there goes
my chance!  He's bound to pretend to be in love with her!'

Before turning round again Wilfrid made himself a drink and
finished it.  Then, facing Michael, he said:  "Well?"

Disconcerted by the abruptness of that word, and by the knowledge
that he had come to pump his friend, Michael did not answer.

"What d'you want to know?"

Michael said abruptly:  "Whether you're in love with Dinny."

Wilfrid laughed.  "Really, Michael!"

"I know.  But things can't go on like this.  Damn it!  Wilfrid, you
ought to think of her."

"I do."  He said it with a face so withdrawn and unhappy that
Michael thought:  'He means that.'

"Then for God's sake," he said, "show it!  Don't let her eat her
heart out like this!"

Wilfrid had turned to the window.  Without looking round he said:

"You've never had occasion to try and prove yourself the opposite
of yellow.  Well, don't!  You won't find the chance.  It comes when
you don't want it, not when you do."

"Naturally!  But, my dear fellow, that's not Dinny's fault."

"Her misfortune."

"Well, then?"

Wilfrid wheeled round.

"Oh! damn you, Michael!  Go away!  No one can interfere in this.
It's much too intimate."

Michael rose and clutched his hat.  Wilfrid had said exactly what
he himself had really been thinking ever since he came.

"You're quite right," he said humbly.  "Good-night, old man!
That's a nice dog."

"I'm sorry," said Wilfrid; "you meant well, but you can't help.  No
one can.  Good-night!"

Michael got out, and all the way downstairs he looked for the tail
between his legs.

When he reached home Dinny had gone up, but Fleur was waiting down
for him.  He had not meant to speak of his visit, but, after
looking at him keenly, she said:

"You haven't been to the House, Michael.  You've been to see
Wilfrid."

Michael nodded.

"Well?"

"No go!"

"I could have told you that.  If you come across a man and woman
quarrelling in the street, what do you do?"

"Pass by on the other side, if you can get there in time."

"Well?"

"They're NOT quarrelling."

"No, but they've got a special world no one else can enter."

"That's what Wilfrid said."

"Naturally."

Michael stared.  Yes, of course.  She had once had her special
world, and not with--him!

"It was stupid of me.  But I AM stupid."

"No, not stupid; well-intentioned.  Are you going up?"

"Yes."

As he went upstairs he had the peculiar feeling that it was she who
wanted to go to bed with him rather than he with her.  And yet,
once in bed, that would all change, for of such was the nature of
man!

Dinny, in her room above theirs, through her open window could hear
the faint murmur of their voices, and, bowing her face on her
hands, gave way to a feeling of despair.  The stars in their
courses fought against her!  External opposition one could cut
through or get round; but this deep spiritual unease in the loved
one's soul, that--ah! that--one could not reach; and the
unreachable could not be pushed away, cut through, or circumvented.
She looked up at the stars that fought against her.  Did the
ancients really believe that, or was it, with them, as with her,
just a manner of speaking?  Did those bright wheeling jewels on the
indigo velvet of all space really concern themselves with little
men, the lives and loves of human insects, who, born from an
embrace, met and clung and died and became dust?  Those candescent
worlds, circled by little offsplit planets--were their names taken
in vain, or were they really in their motions and their relative
positions the writing on the wall for men to read?

No!  That was only human self-importance!  To his small wheel man
bound the Universe.  Swing low, sweet chariots!  But they didn't!
Man swung with them--in space. . . .



CHAPTER XXVII


Two days later the Cherrell family met in conclave because of a
sudden summons received by Hubert to rejoin his regiment in the
Soudan.  He wished to have something decided about Dinny before he
left.  The four Cherrell brothers, Sir Lawrence, Michael, and
himself, gathered, therefore, in Adrian's room at the Museum after
Mr. Justice Charwell's Court had risen.  They all knew that the
meeting might be futile, because, as even Governments find, to
decide is useless if decision cannot be carried out.

Michael, Adrian, and the General, who had been in personal touch
with Wilfrid, were the least vocal, Sir Lawrence and the Judge the
most vocal; Hubert and Hilary were now vocal and now dumb.

Starting from the premise, which nobody denied, that the thing was
a bad business, two schools of thought declared themselves--Adrian,
Michael, and to some extent Hilary believed there was nothing to be
done but wait and see; the rest thought there was much to be done,
but what--they could not say.

Michael, who had never seen his four uncles so close together
before, was struck by the resemblance in the shape and colouring of
their faces, except that the eyes of Hilary and Lionel were blue
and grey, and of the General and Adrian brown and hazel.  They all,
notably, lacked gesture, and had a lean activity of figure.  In
Hubert these characteristics were accentuated by youth, and his
hazel eyes at times looked almost grey.

"If only," Michael heard his father say, "you could injunct her,
Lionel?" and Adrian's impatient:

"We must let Dinny alone; trying to control her is absurd.  She's
got a warm heart, an unselfish nature, and plenty of sense."  Then
Hubert's retort:

"We know all that, Uncle, but the thing will be such a disaster for
her, we must do what we can."

"Well, what CAN you do?"

'Exactly!' thought Michael, and said:  "Just now she doesn't know
how she stands."

"You couldn't get her to go out with you to the Soudan, Hubert?"
said the Judge.

"I've lost all touch with her."

"If someone wanted her badly--" began the General, and did not
finish.

"Even then," murmured Adrian, "only if she were quite sure Desert
didn't want her more."

Hilary took out his pipe.  "Has anyone tried Desert?"

"I have," said the General.

"And I, twice," muttered Michael.

"Suppose," said Hubert gloomily, "I had a shot."

"Not, my dear fellow," put in Sir Lawrence, "unless you can be
quite certain of keeping your temper."

"I never can be certain of that."

"Then don't!"

"Would YOU go, Dad?" asked Michael.

"I?"

"He used to respect you."

"Not even a blood relation!"

"You might take a chance, Lawrence," said Hilary.

"But why?"

"None of the rest of us can, for one reason or another."

"Why shouldn't YOU?"

"In a way I agree with Adrian; it's best to leave it all alone."

"What exactly is the objection to Dinny's marrying him?" asked
Adrian.  The General turned to him abruptly.

"She'd be marked out for life."

"So was that fellow who stuck to his wife when she was convicted.
Everybody respected him the more."

"There's no such sharp hell," said the Judge, "as seeing fingers
pointed at your life's partner."

"Dinny would learn not to notice them."

"Forgive me, but you're missing the point," muttered Michael.  "The
point is Wilfrid's own feeling.  If he remains bitter about himself
and marries her--that'll be hell for her, if you like.  And the
fonder she is of him, the worse it'll be."

"You're right, Michael," said Sir Lawrence unexpectedly.  "I'd
think it well worth while to go if I could make him see that."

Michael sighed.

"Whichever way it goes, it's hell for poor Dinny."

"'Joy cometh in the morning,'" murmured Hilary through a cloud of
smoke.

"Do you believe that, Uncle Hilary?"

"Not too much."

"Dinny's twenty-six.  This is her first love.  If it goes wrong--
what then?"

"Marriage."

"With somebody else?"

Hilary nodded.

"Lively!"

"Life is lively."

"Well, Lawrence?" asked the General, sharply:  "You'll go?"

Sir Lawrence studied him for a moment, and then replied:  "Yes."

"Thank you!"

It was not clear to any of them what purpose would be served, but
it was a decision of sorts, and at least could be carried out. . . .

Wilfrid had lost most of his bruise and discarded the plaster on
his chin when Sir Lawrence, encountering him on the stairs at Cork
Street that same late afternoon, said:

"D'you mind if I walk a little way with you?"

"Not at all, sir."

"Any particular direction?"

Wilfrid shrugged, and they walked side by side, till at last Sir
Lawrence said:

"Nothing's worse than not knowing where you're going!"

"You're right."

"Then why go, especially if in doing it you take someone with you?
Forgive my putting things crudely, but, except for Dinny, would you
be caring a hang about all this business?  What other ties have you
got here?"

"None.  I don't want to discuss things.  If you'll forgive me, I'll
branch off."

Sir Lawrence stopped.  "Just one moment, and then I'll do the
branching.  Have you realised that a man who has a quarrel with
himself is not fit to live with until he's got over it?  That's all
I wanted to say; but it's a good deal.  Think it over!"  And,
raising his hat, Sir Lawrence turned on his heel.  By George!  He
was well out of that!  What an uncomfortable young man!  And, after
all, one had said all one had come to say!  He walked towards Mount
Street, reflecting on the limitations imposed by tradition.  But
for tradition, would Wilfrid mind being thought 'yellow'?  Would
Dinny's family care?  Would Lyall have written his confounded poem?
Would not the Corporal in the Buffs have kowtowed?  Was a single
one of the Cherrells, met in conclave, a real believing Christian?
Not even Hilary--he would bet his boots!  Yet not one of them could
stomach this recantation.  Not religion, but the refusal to take
the 'dare'!  That was the rub to them.  The imputation of
cowardice, or at least of not caring for the good name of one's
country.  Well!  About a million British had died for that good
name in the war; had they all died for a futility?  Desert himself
had nearly died for it, and got the M.C., or D.S.O., or something!
All very contradictory!  People cared for their country in a crowd,
it seemed, but not in a desert; in France, but not in Darfur.

He heard hurrying footsteps, and, turning round, saw Desert behind
him.  Sir Lawrence had almost a shock looking at his face, dry,
dark, with quivering lips and deep suffering eyes.

"You were quite right," he said; "I thought I'd let you know.  You
can tell her family I'm going away."

At this complete success of his mission Sir Lawrence experienced
dismay.

"Be careful!" he said:  "You might do her a great injury."

"I shall do her that, anyway.  Thank you for speaking to me.
You've made me see.  Good-bye!"  He turned and was gone.

Sir Lawrence stood looking after him, impressed by his look of
suffering.  He turned in at his front door doubtful whether he had
not made bad worse.  While he was putting down his hat and stick,
Lady Mont came down the stairs.

"I'm so bored, Lawrence.  What have you been doin'?"

"Seeing young Desert; and, it seems, I've made him feel that until
he can live on good terms with himself he won't be fit to live with
at all."

"That's wicked."

"How?"

"He'll go away.  I always knew he'd go away.  You must tell Dinny
at once what you've done."  And she went to the telephone.

"Is that you, Fleur? . . .   Oh!  Dinny . . .  This is Aunt
Em! . . .  Yes . . .  Can you come round here? . . .  Why not? . . .
That's not a reason . . .  But you must!  Lawrence wants to speak
to you . . .  At once?  Yes.  He's done a very stupid thing . . .
What? . . .  No! . . .  He wants to explain.  In ten minutes . . .
very well."

'My God!' thought Sir Lawrence.  He had suddenly realised that to
deaden feeling on any subject one only needed to sit in conclave.
Whenever the Government got into trouble, they appointed a
Commission.  Whenever a man did something wrong, he went into
consultation with solicitor and counsel.  If he himself hadn't been
sitting in conclave, would he ever have gone to see Desert and put
the fat into the fire like this?  The conclave had dulled his
feelings.  He had gone to Wilfrid as some juryman comes in to
return his verdict after sitting in conclave on a case for days.
And now he had to put himself right with Dinny, and how the deuce
would he do that?  He went into his study, conscious that his wife
was following.

"Lawrence, you must tell her exactly what you've done, and how he
took it.  Otherwise it may be too late.  And I shall stay until
you've done it."

"Considering, Em, that you don't know what I said, or what he said,
that seems superfluous."

"No," said Lady Mont, "nothing is, when a man's done wrong."

"I was charged to go and see him by your family."

"You ought to have had more sense.  If you treat poets like
innkeepers, they blow up."

"On the contrary, he thanked me."

"That's worse.  I shall have Dinny's taxi kept at the door."

"Em," said Sir Lawrence, "when you want to make your will, let me
know."

"Why?"

"Because of getting you consecutive before you start."

"Anything I have," said Lady Mont, "is to go to Michael, to be kept
for Catherine.  And if I'm dead when Kit goes to Harrow, he's to
have my grandfather's 'stirrup-cup' that's in the armoire in my
sitting-room at Lippin'hall.  But he's not to take it to school
with him, or they'll melt it, or drink boiled peppermints out of
it, or something.  Is that clear?"

"Perfectly."

"Then," said Lady Mont, "get ready and begin at once when Dinny
comes."

"Quite!" said Sir Lawrence meekly.  "But how the deuce am I to put
it to Dinny?"

"Just put it, and don't invent as you go along."

Sir Lawrence played a tune with his fingers on the window-pane.
His wife stared at the ceiling.  They were like that when Dinny
came.

"Keep Miss Dinny's taxi, Blore."

At the sight of his niece Sir Lawrence perceived that he had indeed
lost touch with feeling.  Her face, under its chestnut-coloured
hair, was sharpened and blanched, and there was a look in her eyes
that he did not like.

"Begin," said Lady Mont.

Sir Lawrence raised one high thin shoulder as if in protection.

"My dear, your brother has been recalled, and I was asked whether I
would go and see young Desert.  I went.  I told him that if he had
a quarrel with himself he would not be fit to live with till he'd
made it up.  He said nothing and turned off.  Afterwards he came up
behind me in this street, and said that I was right.  Would I tell
your family that he was going away.  He looked very queer and
troubled.  I said:  'Be careful!  You might do her a great injury.'
'I shall do her that, anyway,' he said.  And he went off.  That was
about twenty minutes ago."

Dinny looked from one to the other, covered her lips with her hand,
and went out.

A moment later they heard her cab move off.



CHAPTER XXVIII


Except for receiving a little note in answer to her letter, which
relieved her not at all, Dinny had spent these last two days in
distress of mind.  When Sir Lawrence made his communication, she
felt as if all depended on whether she could get to Cork Street
before he was back there, and in her taxi she sat with hands
screwed tight together in her lap and her eyes fixed on the
driver's back, a back, indeed, so broad that it was not easy to fix
them elsewhere.  Useless to think of what she was going to say--she
must say whatever came into her head when she saw him.  His face
would give her a lead.  She realised that if he once got away from
England it would be as if she had never seen him.  She stopped the
cab in Burlington Street and walked swiftly to his door.  If he had
come straight home, he must be in!  In these last two days she had
realised that Stack had perceived some change in Wilfrid and was
conforming to it, and when he opened the door she said:

"You mustn't put me off, Stack, I MUST see Mr. Desert."  And,
slipping past, she opened the door of the sitting-room.  Wilfrid
was pacing up and down.

"Dinny!"

She felt that if she said the wrong thing it might be, then and
there, the end; and she only smiled.  He put his hands over his
eyes; and, while he stood thus blinded, she stole up and put her
arms round his neck.

Was Jean right?  Ought she to--?

Then, through the opened door Foch came in.  He slid the velvet of
his muzzle under her hand, and she sank on her knees to kiss him.
When she looked up, Wilfrid had turned away.  Instantly she
scrambled up, and stood, as it were, lost.  She did not know of
what, if of anything, she thought, not even whether she were
feeling.  All seemed to go blank within her.  He had thrown the
window open and was leaning there holding his hands to his head.
Was he going to throw himself out?  She made a violent effort to
control her nerves, and said very gently:  "Wilfrid!"  He turned
and looked at her, and she thought:  'My God!  He hates me!'  Then
his expression changed, and became the one she knew; and she was
aware once more of how at sea one is with wounded pride--so
multiple and violent and changing in its moods!

"Well?" she said.  "What do you wish me to do?"

"I don't know.  The whole thing is mad.  I ought to have buried
myself in Siam by now."

"Would you like me to stay here to-night?"

"Yes!  No!  I don't know."

"Wilfrid, why take it so hard?  It's as if love were nothing to
you.  Is it nothing?"

For answer he took out Jack Muskham's letter.

"Read this!"

She read it.  "I see.  It was doubly unfortunate that I came down."

He threw himself down again on the divan, and sat there looking up
at her.

'If I do go,' thought Dinny, 'I shall only begin tearing to get
back again.'  And she said:  "What are you doing for dinner?"

"Stack's got something, I believe."

"Would there be enough for me?"

"Too much, if you feel as I do."

She rang the bell.

"I'm staying to dinner, Stack.  I only want about a pin's head of
food."

And, craving for a moment in which to recover her balance, she
said:  "May I have a wash, Wilfrid?"

While she was drying her face and hands, she took hold of herself
with all her might, and then as suddenly relaxed.  Whatever she
decided would be wrong, painful, perhaps impossible.  Let it go!

When she came back to the sitting-room he was not there.  The door
into his bedroom was open, but it was empty.  Dinny rushed to the
window.  He was not in the street.  Stack's voice said.

"Excuse me, miss:  Mr. Desert was called out.  He told me to say he
would write.  Dinner will be ready in a minute."

Dinny went straight up to him.

"Your first impression of me was the right one, Stack; not your
second.  I am going now.  Mr. Desert need have no fear of me.  Tell
him that, please."

"Miss," said Stack, "I told you he was very sudden; but this is the
most sudden thing I've ever known him do.  I'm sorry, miss.  But
I'm afraid it's a case of cutting your losses.  If I can be of
service to you, I will."

"If he leaves England," said Dinny, "I should like to have Foch."

"If I know Mr. Desert, miss, he means to go.  I've seen it coming
on him ever since he had that letter the night before you came
round in the early morning."

"Well," said Dinny, "shake hands, and remember what I said."

They exchanged a hand-grip, and, still unnaturally steady, she went
out and down the stairs.  She walked fast, giddy and strange in her
head, and nothing but the word: So! recurring in her mind.  All
that she had felt, all that she had meant to feel, compressed into
that word of two letters.  In her life she had never felt so
withdrawn and tearless, so indifferent as to where she went, what
she did, or whom she saw.  The world might well be without end, for
its end had come.  She did not believe that he had designed this
way of breaking from her.  He had not enough insight into her for
that.  But, in fact, no way could have been more perfect, more
complete.  Drag after a man!  Impossible!  She did not even have to
form that thought, it was instinctive.

She walked and walked for three hours about the London streets, and
turned at last towards Westminster with the feeling that if she
didn't she would drop.  When she went in at South Square, she
summoned all that was left in her to a spurt of gaiety; but, when
she had gone up to her room, Fleur said:

"Something very wrong, Michael."

"Poor Dinny!  What the hell has he done now?"

Going to the window, Fleur drew aside the curtain.  It was not yet
quite dark.  Except for two cats, a taxi to the right, and a man on
the pavement examining a small bunch of keys, there was nothing to
be seen.

"Shall I go up and see if she'll talk?"

"No.  If Dinny wants us, she'll let us know.  If it's as you think,
she'll want no one.  She's proud as the devil when her back's to
the wall."

"I hate pride," said Fleur; and, closing the curtain, she went
towards the door.  "It comes when you don't want it, and does you
down.  If you want a career, don't have pride."  She went out.

'I don't know,' thought Michael, 'if I have pride, but I haven't
got a career.'  He followed slowly upstairs, and for some little
time stood in the doorway of his dressing-room.  But no sound came
from upstairs . . .

Dinny, indeed, was lying on her bed, face down.  So this was the
end!  Why had the force called love exalted and tortured her, then
thrown her, used and exhausted, quivering, longing, wounded,
startled, to eat her heart out in silence and grief?  Love and
pride, and the greater of these is pride!  So the saying seemed to
go within her, and to be squeezed into her pillow.  Her love
against his pride!  Her love against her own pride!  And the
victory with pride!  Wasteful and bitter!  Of all that evening only
one moment now seemed to her real: when he had turned from the
window, and she had thought:  'He hates me!'  Of course he hated
her, standing like the figure of his wounded self-esteem; the one
thing that prevented him from crying out:  'God damn you all!
Good-bye!'

Well, now he could cry it and go!  And she--suffer, suffer--and
slowly get over it.  No!  Lie on it, keep it down, keep it silent,
press it into her pillows.  Make little of it, make nothing of it,
while inside her it swelled and ravaged her.  The expression of
instinct is not so clear as that; but behind all formless throbbing
there is meaning; and that was the meaning within Dinny's silent
and half-smothered struggle on her bed.  How could she have acted
differently?  Not her fault that Muskham had sent the letter with
that phrase about the protection of a woman!  Not her fault that
she had rushed down to Royston!  What had she done wrong?  The
whole thing arbitrary, gratuitous!  Perhaps love in its courses was
always so!  It seemed to her that the night ticked while she lay
there; the rusty ticking of an old clock.  Was it the night, or her
own life, abandoned and lying on its face?



CHAPTER XXIX


Wilfrid had obeyed impulse when he ran down into Cork Street.  Ever
since the sudden breaking off of that fierce undignified scuffle at
Royston, and the sight of Dinny standing in the car covering her
eyes with a hand, his feelings towards her had been terribly
confused.  Now at the sudden sight, sound, scent of her, warmth had
rushed up in him and spent itself in kisses; but the moment she
left him his insane feeling had returned and hurled him down into a
London where at least one could walk and meet no one.  He went
south and became involved with a queue of people trying to get into
'His Majesty's.'  He stood among them thinking:  'As well in here
as anywhere.'  But, just as his turn came, he broke away and
branched off eastward; passed through Covent Garden, desolate and
smelling of garbage; and came out into Ludgate Hill.  Hereabouts he
was reminded by scent of fish that he had eaten nothing since
breakfast.  And, going into a restaurant, he drank a cocktail and
ate some hors-d'oeuvre.  Asking for a sheet of paper and envelope,
he wrote:

"I had to go.  If I had stayed, you and I would have been one.  I
don't know what I'm going to do--I may finish in the river to-
night, or go abroad, or come back to you.  Whatever I do, forgive,
and believe that I have loved you.  Wilfrid."

He addressed the envelope and thrust it into his pocket.  But he
did not post it.  He felt he could never express what he was
feeling.  Again he walked east.  Through the City zone, deserted as
if it had been mustard-gassed, he was soon in the cheerier
Whitechapel Road.  He walked, trying to tire himself out and stop
the whirling of his thoughts.  He moved northwards now, and towards
eleven was nearing Chingford.  All was moonlit and still when he
passed the hotel and went on towards the Forest.  One car, a
belated cyclist, a couple or two, and three tramps were all he met
before he struck off the road in among the trees.  Daylight was
gone, and the moon was silvering the leaves and branches.
Thoroughly exhausted, he lay down on the beech mast.  The night was
an unwritten poem--the gleam and drip of light like the play of an
incoherent mind, fluttering, slipping in and out of reality; never
at rest; never the firm silver of true metal; burnished and gone
like a dream.  Up there were the stars he had travelled by times
without number, the Wain, and all the others that seemed
meaningless, if not nameless, in this town world.

He turned over and lay on his face, pressing his forehead to the
ground.  And suddenly he heard the drone of a flying machine.  But
through the heavily-leafed boughs he could see no gliding, sky-
scurrying shape.  Some night-flier to Holland; some English airman
pricking out the lighted shape of London, or practising flight
between Hendon and an East Coast base.  After flying in the war he
had never wished to fly again.  The very sound of it brought back
still that sick, fed-up feeling from which the Armistice had
delivered him.  The drone passed on and away.  A faint rumbling
murmur came from London, but here the night was still and warm,
with only a frog croaking, a bird cheeping feebly once, two owls
hooting against each other.  He turned again on to his face, and
fell into an uneasy sleep.

When he woke light was just rifting the clear darkness.  A heavy
dew had fallen; he felt stiff and chilled, but his mind was clear.
He got up and swung his arms, lit a cigarette, and drew the smoke
deep in.  He sat with his arms clasped round his knees, smoking his
cigarette to its end without ever moving it from his lips, and
spitting out the stub with its long ash just before it burned his
mouth.  Suddenly he began to shiver.  He got up to walk back to the
road.  Stiff and sore, he made poor going.  It was full dawn by the
time he reached the road, and then, knowing that he ought to go
towards London, he went in the opposite direction.  He plodded on,
and every now and then shivered violently.  At last he sat down
and, bowed over his knees, fell into a sort of coma.  A voice
saying:  "Hi!" roused him.  A fresh-faced young man in a small car
had halted alongside.  "Anything wrong?"

"Nothing," muttered Wilfrid.

"You appear to be in poor shape, all the same.  D'you know what
time it is?"

"No."

"Get in here, and I'll run you to the hotel at Chingford.  Got any
money?"

Wilfrid looked at him grimly and laughed.

"Yes."

"Don't be touchy!  What you want is a sleep and some strong coffee!
Come on!"

Wilfrid got up.  He could hardly stand.  He lay back in the little
car, huddled beside the young man, who said:  "Now we shan't be
long."

In ten minutes, which to a blurred and shivering consciousness
might have been five hours, they were in front of the hotel.

"I know the 'boots' here," said the young man; "I'll put you in
charge of him.  What's your name?"

"Hell!" muttered Wilfrid.

"Hi!  George!  I found this gentleman on the road.  He seems to
have gone a bit wonky.  Put him into some decent bedroom.  Heat him
up a good hot bottle, and get him into bed with it.  Brew him some
strong coffee, and see that he drinks it."

The boots grinned.  "That all?"

"No; take his temperature, and send for a doctor.  Look here, sir,"
the young man turned to Wilfrid, "I recommend this chap.  He can
polish boots with the best.  Just let him do for you, and don't
worry.  I must get on.  It's six o'clock."  He waited a moment,
watching Wilfrid stagger into the hotel on the arm of the 'boots,'
then sped away.

The 'boots' assisted Wilfrid to a room.  "Can you undress,
governor?"

"Yes," muttered Wilfrid.

"Then I'll go and get you that bottle and the coffee.  Don't be
afraid, we don't 'ave damp beds 'ere.  Were you out all night?"

Wilfrid sat on the bed and did not answer.

"'Ere!" said the 'boots': "give us your sleeves!"  He pulled
Wilfrid's coat off, then his waistcoat and trousers.  "You've got a
proper chill, it seems to me.  Your underthings are all damp.  Can
you stand?"

Wilfrid shook his head.

The 'boots' stripped the sheets off the bed, pulled Wilfrid's shirt
over his head; then with a struggle wrenched off vest and drawers,
and wrapped him in a blanket.

"Now, governor, a good pull and a pull altogether."  He forced
Wilfrid's head on to the pillow, heaved his legs on to the bed, and
covered him with two more blankets.

"You lie there; I won't be gone ten minutes."

Wilfrid lay, shivering so that his thoughts would not join up, nor
his lips make consecutive sounds owing to the violent chattering of
his teeth.  He became conscious of a chambermaid, then of voices.

"His teeth'll break it.  Isn't there another place?"

"I'll try under his arm."

A thermometer was pressed under his arm and held there.

"You haven't got yellow fever, have you, sir?"

Wilfrid shook his head.

"Can you raise yourself, governor, and drink this?"

Robust arms raised him, and he drank.

"One 'undred and four."

"Gawd!  'Ere, pop this bottle to his feet, I'll 'phone the Doc."

Wilfrid could see the maid watching him, as if wondering what sort
of fever she was going to catch.

"Malaria," he said, suddenly, "not infectious.  Give me a
cigarette!  In my waistcoat."

The maid put a cigarette between his lips and lit it.  Wilfrid took
a long pull.

"A-again!" he said.

Again she put it between his lips, and again he took a pull.

"They say there's mosquitoes in the forest.  Did you find any last
night, sir?"

"In the sys-system."

Shivering a little less now, he watched her moving about the room,
collecting his clothes, drawing the curtains so that they shaded
the bed.  Then she approached him, and he smiled up at her.

"Another nice drop of hot coffee?"

He shook his head, closed his eyes again, and shivered deep into
the bed, conscious that she was still watching him, and then again
of voices.

"Can't find a name, but he's some sort of nob.  There's money and
this letter in his coat.  The doctor'll be here in five minutes."

"Well, I'll wait till then, but I've got my work to do."

"Same 'ere.  Tell the missus when you call her."

He saw the maid stand looking at him with a sort of awe.  A
stranger and a nob, with a curious disease, interesting to a simple
mind.  Of his face, pressed into the pillow, she couldn't see much--
one dark cheek, one ear, some hair, the screwed-up eye under the
brow.  He felt her touch his forehead timidly with a finger.
Burning hot, of course!

"Would you like your friends written to, sir?"

He shook his head.

"The doctor'll be here in a minute."

"I'll be like this two days--nothing to be done--quinine--orange
juice--"  Seized by a violent fit of shivering, he was silent.  He
saw the doctor come in; and the maid still leaning against the
chest of drawers, biting her little finger.  She took it from her
mouth, and he heard her say:  "Shall I stay, sir?"

"Yes, you can stay."

The doctor's fingers closed on his pulse, raised his eyelid, pushed
his lips apart.

"Well, sir?  Had much of this?"

Wilfrid nodded.

"All right!  You'll stay where you are, and shove in quinine, and
that's all I can do for you.  Pretty sharp bout."

Wilfrid nodded.

"There are no cards on you.  What's your name?"

Wilfrid shook his head.

"All right!  Don't worry!  Take this."



CHAPTER XXX


Stepping from an omnibus, Dinny walked into the large of Wimbledon
Common.  After a nearly sleepless night, she had slipped out,
leaving a note to say she would be away all day.  She hurried over
the grass into a birch grove, and lay down.  The high moving
clouds, the sunlight striking in and out of the birch-tree
branches, the water wagtails, the little dry patches of sand, and
that stout wood-pigeon, undismayed by her motionless figure,
brought her neither peace nor the inclination to think of Nature.
She lay on her back, quivering and dry-eyed, wondering for whose
inscrutable delight she was thus suffering.  The stricken do not
look for outside help, they seek within.  To go about exuding
tragedy was abhorrent to her.  She would not do that!  But the
sweetness of the wind, the moving clouds, the rustle of the breeze,
the sound of children's voices, brought no hint of how she was to
disguise herself and face life afresh.  The isolation in which she
had been ever since the meeting with Wilfrid under Foch's statue
now showed nakedly.  All her eggs had been in one basket, and the
basket had fallen.  She dug with her fingers at the sandy earth;
and a dog, seeing a hole, came up and sniffed it.  She had begun to
live, and now she was dead.  "No flowers by request!"

So sharp had been her realisation of finality yesterday evening
that she did not even consider the possibility of tying up the
broken thread.  If he had pride, so had she!  Not the same sort,
but as deep in her marrow.  No one had any real need of her!  Why
not go away?  She had nearly three hundred pounds.  The notion gave
her neither exhilaration nor any real relief; but it would save her
from making herself a nuisance to those who would expect her to be
her old cheerful self.  She thought of the hours she had spent with
Wilfrid in places like this.  So sharp was her memory that she had
to cover her lips to prevent anguish welling out of them.  Until
she met him she had never felt alone.  And now--she WAS alone!
Chill, terrifying, endless!  Remembering how she had found swift
motion good for heartache, she got up and crossed the road where
the Sunday stream of cars was already flowing out of town.  Uncle
Hilary had once exhorted her not to lose her sense of humour.  But
had she ever had one?  At the end of Barnes Common she climbed on
to a 'bus and went back to London.  She must have something to eat,
or she would be fainting.  She got down near Kensington Gardens and
went into an hotel.

After lunch she sat some time in the Gardens, and then walked to
Mount Street.  No one was in, and she sank down on the sofa in the
drawing-room.  Thoroughly exhausted, she fell asleep.  Her aunt's
entrance woke her, and, sitting up, she said:

"You can all be happy about me, Aunt Em.  It's finished."

Lady Mont stared at her niece sitting there with such a ghostly
little smile, and two tears, starting not quite together, ran down
her cheeks.

"I didn't know you cried at funerals, too, Aunt Em."

She got up, went over to her aunt, and with her handkerchief
removed the marks the tears had made.

"There!"

Lady Mont got up.  "I MUST howl," she said, "I simply must."  And
she swayed rapidly out of the room.

Dinny sat on, that ghost of a smile still on her face.  Blore
brought in the tea-things, and she talked to him of Wimbledon, and
his wife.  He did not seem to know which of the two was in worse
shape, but, as he was going out, he turned and said:

"And if I might suggest, Miss Dinny, a little sea air for you."

"Yes, Blore, I was thinking of it."

"I'm glad, miss; one overdoes it at this time of year."

He, too, seemed to know that her course was run.  And, feeling
suddenly that she could not go on thus attending her own funeral,
she stole to the door, listened for sounds, then slipped down the
stairs and away.

But she was so physically exhausted that she could scarcely drag
herself as far as St. James's Park.  There she sat down by the
water.  People, sunbeams, and ducks, shading leaves, spiky reeds,
and this sirocco within her!  A tall man walking from the Whitehall
end made a little convulsive movement, as if to put his hand to his
hat, corrected it at sight of her face, and lounged on.  Realising
what her face must be expressing, she got up, and, trailing on to
Westminster Abbey, went in and sat down in a pew.  There, bent
forward, with her face resting on her arms, she stayed quite half
an hour.  She had not prayed, but she had rested, and the
expression on her face had changed.  She felt more fit to face
people and not show so much.

It was past six, and she went on to South Square.  Getting unseen
to her room, she had a long hot bath, put on a dinner frock, and
resolutely went down.  Only Fleur and Michael were there, and
neither of them asked her any questions.  It was clear to her that
they knew.  She got through the evening somehow.  When she was
going up, both of them kissed her, and Fleur said:

"I've told them to put you a hot-water bottle; stuck against your
back, it helps you to sleep.  Good-night, bless you!"

Again Dinny had the feeling that Fleur had once suffered as she was
suffering now.  She slept better than she could have hoped.

With her early tea she received a letter with the heading of an
hotel at Chingford.


"MADAM,--

"The enclosed letter addressed to you was found in the pocket of a
gentleman who is lying here with a very sharp attack of malaria.  I
am posting it on to you, and am

"Truly yours,

"ROGER QUEAL, M.D."


She read the letter . . .  "Whatever I do, forgive, and believe
that I have loved you.  Wilfrid."  And he was ill!  All the
impulses which sprang up she instantly thrust back.  Not a second
time would she rush in where angels feared to tread!  But, hurrying
down, she telephoned to Stack the news that he was lying at the
Chingford hotel with an attack of malaria.

"He'll want his pyjamas and his razors, then, miss.  I'll take 'em
down to him."

Forcing back the words:  "Give him my love," she said instead, "He
knows where I am if there is anything I can do."

The blacker bitterness of her mood was gone; yet she was as cut off
from him as ever!  Unless he came or sent for her she could make no
move; and deep down she seemed to know that he would neither come
nor send.  No!  He would strike his tent and flit away from where
he had felt too much.

Towards noon Hubert came to say good-bye.  It was at once clear to
her that he, too, knew.  He was coming back for the rest of his
leave in October, he said.  Jean was to stay at Condaford till
after her child was born in November.  She had been ordered to be
out of the summer heat.  He seemed to Dinny that morning like the
old Hubert again.  He dwelt on the advantage of being born at
Condaford.  And, endeavouring to be sprightly, she said:

"Quaint to find you talking like that, Hubert.  You never used to
care about Condaford."

"It makes a difference to have an heir."

"Oh!  It'll be an heir, will it?"

"Yes, we've made up our minds to a boy."

"And will there be a Condaford by the time he comes into it?"

Hubert shrugged.  "We'll have a try at keeping it.  Things don't
last unless you set yourself to keep them."

"And not always then," murmured Dinny.



CHAPTER XXXI


Wilfrid's words:  "You can tell her family I'm going away," and
Dinny's:  "It's finished," had travelled, if not like wildfire,
throughout the Cherrell family.  There was no rejoicing as over a
sinner that repenteth.  All were too sorry for her, with a sorrow
nigh unto dismay.  Each wanted to show sympathy, none knew how.
Sympathy smelling of sympathy was worse than none.  Three days
passed, during which not one member of the family succeeded in
expressing anything.  Then Adrian had a brainwave:  He would ask
her to eat something with him, though why food should be regarded
as consolatory neither he nor anyone else had ever known.  He
appointed a café which had perhaps more repute than merit.

Since Dinny was not of those young women who make the ravages of
life into an excuse for French-varnishing their surfaces, he had
every opportunity to note her pallor.  He forbore to comment.
Indeed, he found it difficult to talk at all, for he knew that,
though men, when enthralled by women, remain devoted to their
mental mainsprings, women, less bodily enthralled, stay mentally
wrapped up in the men they love.  He began, however, to tell her
how someone had tried to 'sell him a pup.'

"He wanted five hundred pounds, Dinny, for a Cromagnon skull found
in Suffolk.  The whole thing looked extraordinarily genuine.  But I
happened to see the county archaeologist.  'Oh!' he said:  'So he's
been trying to palm that off on you, has he?  That's the well-known
"pup."  He's dug it up at least three times.  The man ought to be
in gaol.  He keeps it in a cupboard and every five or six years
digs a hole, puts it in, takes it out, and tries to sell it.  It
possibly IS a Cromagnon skull, but he picked it up in France, about
twenty years ago.  It would be unique, of course as a British
product.'  Thereon I went off to have another look at where it was
found last time.  And it was plain enough, when you already knew
it, that he'd put the thing in.  There's something about antiques
that saps what the Americans call one's MORAL."

"What sort of man was he, uncle?"

"An enthusiastic-looking chap, rather like my hairdresser."

Dinny laughed.  "You ought to do something, or he WILL sell it next
time."

"The depression is against him, my dear.  Bones and first editions
are extraordinarily sensitive.  He'll have to live a good ten years
to get anything like a price."

"Do many people try to palm things off on you?"

"Some succeed, Dinny.  I regret that 'pup,' though; it was a lovely
skull.  There aren't many as good nowadays."

"We English certainly are getting uglier."

"Don't you believe it.  Put the people we meet in drawing-rooms and
shops into cassocks and cowls, armour and jerkins, and you'll have
just the faces of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries."

"But we do despise beauty, Uncle.  We connect it with softness and
immorality."

"Well, it makes people happy to despise what they haven't got.
We're only about the third--no, the fourth--plainest people in
Europe.  But take away the Celtic infusions, and I admit we'd be
the first."

Dinny looked round the café.  Her survey added nothing to her
conclusions, partly because she took but little in, and partly
because the lunchers were nearly all Jews or Americans.

Adrian watched her with an ache.  She looked so bone-listless.

"Hubert's gone, then?" he said.

"Yes."

"And what are you going to do, my dear?"

Dinny sat looking at her plate.  Suddenly she raised her head and
said:

"I think I shall go abroad, Uncle."

Adrian's hand went to his goatee.

"I see," he said, at last.  "Money?"

"I have enough."

"Where?"

"Anywhere."

"By yourself?"

Dinny nodded.

"The drawback to going away," murmured Adrian, "is the having to
come back."

"There doesn't seem to be anything much for me to do just now.  So
I think I'll cheer people up by not seeing them for a bit."

Adrian debated within himself.

"Well, my dear, only you can decide what's best for you.  But if
you felt like a long travel, it strikes me that Clare might be glad
to see you in Ceylon."

Seeing by the surprised movement of her hands that the idea was new
to her, he went on:

"I have a feeling that she may not be finding life very easy."

Her eyes met his.

"That's what I thought at the wedding, Uncle; I didn't like his
face."

"You have a special gift for helping others, Dinny; and whatever's
wrong about Christianity, it's not the saying 'To give is more
blessed than to receive.'"

"Even the Son of Man liked His little joke, Uncle."

Adrian looked at her hard, and said:

"Well, if you do go to Ceylon, mind you eat your mangoes over a
basin."

He parted from her a little later and, too much out of mood to go
back to work, went to the Horse Show instead.



CHAPTER XXXII


At South Square The Daily Phase was among those journals which
politicians take lest they should miss reading correctly the
temperature of Fleet Street.  Michael pushed it over to Fleur at
breakfast.

During the six days since Dinny's arrival neither of them had said
a word to her on the subject of Wilfrid; and it was Dinny who now
said:  "May I see that?"

Fleur handed her the paper.  She read, gave a little shudder, and
went on with her breakfast.  Kit broke the ensuing hush by stating
Hobbs' average.  Did Aunt Dinny think he was as great as W. G.
Grace?

"I never saw either of them, Kit."

"Didn't you see W. G.?"

"I think he died before I was born."

Kit scrutinised her doubtfully.

"Oh!"

"He died in 1915," said Michael:  "You'd have been eleven."

"But haven't you really seen Hobbs, Auntie?"

"No."

"I'VE seen him three times.  I'm practising his hook to leg.  The
Daily Phase says Bradman is the best batsman in the world now.  Do
you think he's better than Hobbs?"

"Better news than Hobbs."

Kit stared.

"What is 'news'?"

"What newspapers are for."

"Do they make it up?"

"Not always."

"What news were you reading just now?"

"Nothing that would interest you."

"How do you know?"

"Kit, don't worry!" said Fleur.

"May I have an egg?"

"Yes."

The hush began again, till Kit stopped his eggspoon in midair and
isolated a finger:

"Look!  The nail's blacker than it was yesterday.  Will it come
off, Auntie?"

"How did you do that?"

"Pinched it in a drawer.  I didn't cry."

"Don't boast, Kit."

Kit gave his mother a clear upward look and resumed his egg.

Half an hour later, when Michael was just settling down to his
correspondence, Dinny came into his study.

"Busy, Michael?"

"No, my dear."

"That paper!  Why can't they leave him alone?"

"You see The Leopard is selling like hot cakes.  Dinny, how do
things stand now?"

"I know he's been having malaria, but I don't even know where or
how he is."

Michael looked at her face, masked in its desperate little smile,
and said, hesitatingly:

"Would you like me to find out?"

"If he wants me, he knows where I am."

"I'll see Compson Grice.  I'm not lucky with Wilfrid himself."

When she was gone he sat staring at the letters he had not begun to
answer, half dismayed, half angered.  Poor dear Dinny!  What a
shame!  Pushing the letters aside, he went out.

Compson Grice's office was near Covent Garden, which, for some
reason still to be discovered, attracts literature.  When Michael
reached it, about noon, that young publisher was sitting in the
only well-furnished room in the building, with a newspaper cutting
in his hand and a smile on his lips.  He rose and said:  "Hallo,
Mont!  Seen this in The Phase?"

"Yes."

"I sent it round to Desert, and he wrote that at the top and sent
it back.  Neat, eh!"

Michael read in Wilfrid's writing:


     "Whene'er the lord who rules his roosts
      Says:  'Bite!' he bites, says:  'Boost!' he boosts."


"He's in town, then?"

"Was half an hour ago."

"Have you seen him at all?"

"Not since the book came out."

Michael looked shrewdly at that comely fattish face.  "Satisfied
with the sales?"

"We're in the forty-first thousand, and going strong."

"I suppose you don't know whether Wilfrid is returning to the
East?"

"Haven't the least little idea."

"He must be pretty sick with the whole thing."

Compson Grice shrugged.

"How many poets have ever made a thousand pounds out of a hundred
pages of verse?"

"Small price for a soul, Grice."

"It'll be two thousand before we've done."

"I always thought it a mistake to print The Leopard.  Since he did
it I've defended it, but it was a fatal thing to do."

"I don't agree."

"Obviously.  It's done you proud."

"You can sneer," said Grice, with some feeling, "but he wouldn't
have sent it to me if he hadn't wished it to come out.  I am not my
brother's keeper.  The mere fact that it turns out a scoop is
nothing to the point."

Michael sighed.

"I suppose not; but this is no joke for him.  It's his whole life."

"Again, I don't agree.  That happened when he recanted to save
himself being shot.  This is expiation, and damned good business
into the bargain.  His name is known to thousands who'd never heard
of it."

"Yes," said Michael, brooding, "there is that, certainly.  Nothing
like persecution to keep a name alive.  Grice, will you do
something for me?  Make an excuse to find out what Wilfrid's
intentions are.  I've put my foot into it with him and can't go
myself, but I specially want to know."

"H'm!" said Grice.  "He bites."

Michael grinned.  "He won't bite his benefactor.  I'm serious.
Will you?"

"I'll try.  By the way, there's a book by that French Canadian I've
just published.  Top-hole!  I'll send you a copy--your wife will
like it."  'And,' he added to himself, 'talk about it.'  He
smoothed back his sleek dark hair and extended his hand.  Michael
shook it with a little more warmth than he really felt and went
away.

'After all,' he thought, 'what is it to Grice except business?
Wilfrid's nothing to him!  In these days we have to take what the
gods send.'  And he fell to considering what was really making the
public buy a book not concerned with sex, memoirs, or murders.  The
Empire!  The prestige of the English!  He did not believe it.  No!
What was making them buy it was that fundamental interest which
attached to the question how far a person might go to save his life
without losing what was called his soul.  In other words, the book
was being sold by that little thing--believed in some quarters to
be dead--called Conscience.  A problem posed to each reader's
conscience, that he could not answer easily; and the fact that it
had actually happened to the author brought it home to the reader
that some awful alternative might at any moment be presented to
himself.  And what would he do then, poor thing?  And Michael felt
one of those sudden bursts of consideration and even respect for
the public which often came over him and so affected his more
intelligent friends that they alluded to him as 'Poor Michael!'

So meditating, he reached his room at the House of Commons, and had
settled down to the consideration of a private bill to preserve
certain natural beauties when a card was brought to him:


                  General Sir Conway Cherrell

                       "Can you see me?"


Pencilling:  "Delighted, sir!" he handed the card back to the
attendant and got up.  Of all his uncles he knew Dinny's father
least, and he waited with some trepidation.

The General came in, saying:

"Regular rabbit-warren this, Michael."

He had the confirmed neatness of his profession, but his face
looked worn and worried.

"Luckily we don't breed here, Uncle Con."

The General emitted a short laugh.

"No, there's that.  I hope I'm not interrupting you.  It's about
Dinny.  She still with you?"

"Yes, sir."

The General hesitated, and then, crossing his hands on his stick,
said firmly:

"You're Desert's best friend, aren't you?"

"Was.  What I am now, I really don't know."

"Is he still in town?"

"Yes; he's been having a bout of malaria, I believe."

"Dinny still seeing him?"

"No, sir."

Again the General hesitated, and again seemed to firm himself by
gripping his stick.

"Her mother and I, you know, only want what's best for her.  We
want her happiness; the rest doesn't matter.  What do you think?"

"I really don't believe it matters what any of us think."

The General frowned.

"How do you mean?"

"It's just between those two."

"I understood that he was going away."

"He said so to my father, but he hasn't gone.  His publisher told
me just now that he was still at his rooms this morning."

"How is Dinny?"

"Very low in her mind.  But she keeps her end up."

"He ought to do something."

"What, sir?"

"It's not fair to Dinny.  He ought either to marry her or go right
away."

"Would you find it easy, in his place, to make up your mind?"

"Perhaps not."

Michael made a restless tour of his little room.

"I think the whole thing is way below any question of just yes or
no.  It's a case of wounded pride, and when you've got that, the
other emotions don't run straight.  You ought to know that, sir.
You must have had similar cases, when fellows have been court-
martialled."

The word seemed to strike the General with the force of a
revelation.  He stared at his nephew and did not answer.

"Wilfrid," said Michael, "is being court-martialled, and it isn't a
short sharp business like a real court-martial--it's a desperate
long-drawn-out affair, with no end to it that I can grasp."

"I see," said the General, quietly:  "But he should never have let
Dinny in for it."

Michael smiled.  "Does love ever do what's correct?"

"That's the modern view, anyway."

"According to report, the ancient one, too."

The General went to the window and stood looking out.

"I don't like to go and see Dinny," he said, without turning round;
"it seems like worrying her.  Her mother feels the same.  And
there's nothing we can do."

His voice, troubled not for himself, touched Michael.

"I believe," he said, "that in some way it'll all be over very
soon.  And whichever way will be better for them and all of us than
this."

The General turned round.

"Let's hope so.  I wanted to ask you to keep in touch with us, and
not let Dinny do anything without letting us know.  It's very hard
waiting down there.  I won't keep you now; and thank you, it's been
a relief.  Good-bye, Michael!"

He grasped his nephew's hand, squeezed it firmly, and was gone.

Michael thought:  'Hanging in the wind!  There's nothing worse.
Poor old boy!'



CHAPTER XXXIII


Compson Grice, who had no mean disposition and a certain liking for
Michael, went out to lunch mindful of his promise.  A believer in
the power of meals to solve difficulties, he would normally have
issued an invitation and obtained his information over the second
or third glass of really old brandy.  But he was afraid of Wilfrid.
Discussing his simple sole meunière and half-bottle of Chablis, he
decided on a letter.  He wrote it in the Club's little green-
panelled writing-room, with a cup of coffee by his side and a cigar
in his mouth.


"The Hotch Potch Club.

"Friday.

"DEAR DESERT,--

"In view of the remarkable success of The Leopard and the
probability of further large sales, I feel that I ought to know
definitely what you would like me to do with the royalty cheques
when they fall due.  Perhaps you would be so good as to tell me
whether you contemplate going back to the East, and if so when; and
at the same time let me have an address to which I can remit with
safety.  Possibly you would prefer that I should simply pay your
royalties into your bank, whatever that is, and take their receipt.
Hitherto our financial transactions have been somewhat lean, but
The Leopard will certainly have--indeed, is already having--an
influence on the sales of your two previous books; and it will be
advisable that you should keep me in touch with your whereabouts in
future.  Shall you be in Town much longer?  I am always delighted
to see you, if you care to look in.

"With hearty congratulations and best wishes,

"I am, sincerely yours,

"COMPSON GRICE."


This letter, in his elegant and upright hand, he addressed to Cork
Street and sent at once by the club messenger.  The remains of his
recess he spent sounding in his rather whispering voice the praises
of his French Canadian product, and then took a taxi back to Covent
Garden.  A clerk met him in the lobby.

"Mr. Desert is waiting up in your room, sir."

"Good!" said Compson Grice, subduing a tremor and thinking:  'Quick
work!'

Wilfrid was standing at a window which commanded a slanting view of
Covent Garden market; and Grice was shocked when he turned round--
the face was so dark and wasted and had such a bitter look: the
hand, too, had an unpleasant dry heat in the feel of it.

"So you got my letter?" he said.

"Thanks.  Here's the address of my bank.  Better pay all cheques
into it and take their receipt."

"You don't look too fearfully well.  Are you off again?"

"Probably.  Well, good-bye, Grice.  Thanks for all you've done."

Compson Grice said, with real feeling:  "I'm terribly sorry it's
hit you so hard."

Wilfrid shrugged and turned to the door.

When he was gone his publisher stood, twisting the bank's address,
in his hands.  Suddenly he said our loud:  "I don't like his looks;
I absolutely don't!"  And he went to the telephone . . .



Wilfrid walked north; he had another visit to pay.  He reached the
museum just as Adrian was having his cup of 'Dover' tea and bun.

"Good!" said Adrian, rising.  "I'm glad to see you.  There's a
spare cup.  Do sit down."

He had experienced the same shock as Grice at the look on Desert's
face and the feel of his hand.

Wilfrid took a sip of tea.  "May I smoke?"  He lighted a cigarette,
and sat, hunched in his chair.  Adrian waited for him to speak.

"Sorry to butt in on you like this," said Wilfrid, at last, "but
I'm going back into the blue.  I wanted to know which would hurt
Dinny least--just to clear out or to write."

Adrian lived through a wretched and bleak minute.

"You mean that if you see her you can't trust yourself."  Desert
gave a shivering shrug.

"It's not that exactly.  It sounds brutal, but I'm so fed up that I
don't feel anything.  If I saw her--I might wound her.  She's been
an angel.  I don't suppose you can understand what's happened in
me.  I can't myself.  I only know that I want to get away from
everything and everybody."

Adrian nodded.

"I was told you'd been ill--you don't think that accounts for your
present feeling?  For God's sake don't make a mistake in your
feelings now!"

Wilfrid smiled.

"I'm used to malaria.  It's not that.  You'll laugh, but I feel
like bleeding to death inside.  I want to get to where nothing and
nobody remind me.  And Dinny reminds me more than anyone."

"I see," said Adrian gravely.  And he was silent, passing his hand
over his bearded chin.  Then he got up and began to walk about.

"Do you think it's fair to Dinny or yourself not to try what seeing
her might do?"

Wilfrid answered, almost with violence:  "I tell you, I should hurt
her."

"You'll hurt her any way; her eggs are all in one basket.  And look
here, Desert!  You published that poem deliberately.  I always
understood you did so as a form of expiation, even though you had
asked Dinny to marry you.  I'm not such a fool as to want you to go
on with Dinny if your feelings have really changed; but are you
sure they have?"

"My feelings haven't changed.  I simply have none.  Being a pariah
dog has killed them."

"Do you realise what you're saying?"

"Perfectly!  I knew I was a pariah from the moment I recanted, and
that whether people knew it or not didn't matter.  All the same--it
HAS mattered."

"I see," said Adrian again, and came to a standstill.  "I suppose
that's natural."

"Whether it is to others, I don't know; it is to me.  I am out of
the herd, and I'll stay there.  I don't complain.  I side against
myself."  He spoke with desperate energy.

Adrian said, very gently:  "Then you just want to know how to hurt
Dinny least?  I can't tell you: I wish I could.  I gave you the
wrong advice when you came before.  Advice is no good, anyway.  We
have to wrestle things out for ourselves."

Wilfrid stood up.  "Ironical, isn't it?  I was driven to Dinny by
my loneliness.  I'm driven away from her by it.  Well, goodbye,
sir; I don't suppose I shall ever see you again.  And thanks for
trying to help me."

"I wish to God I could."

Wilfrid smiled the sudden smile that gave him his charm.

"I'll try what one more walk will do.  I may see some writing on
the wall.  Anyway, you'll know I didn't want to hurt her more than
I could help.  Good-bye!"

Adrian's tea was cold and his bun uneaten.  He pushed them away.
He felt as if he had failed Dinny, and yet for the life of him
could not see what he could have done.  That young man looked very
queer!  'Bleeding to death inside!'  Gruesome phrase!  And true,
judging by his face!  Fibre sensitive as his, and a consuming
pride!  "Going back into the blue."  To roam about in the East--a
sort of Wandering Jew; become one of those mysterious Englishmen
found in out-of-the-way places, with no origins that they would
speak of, and no future but their present.  He filled a pipe and
tried his best to feel that, after all, in the long run Dinny would
be happier unmarried to him.  And he did not succeed.  There was
only one flowering of real love in a woman's life, and this was
hers.  He had no doubt on that point.  She would make shift--oh!
yes; but she would have missed 'the singing and the gold.'  And,
grabbing his battered hat, he went out.  He strode along in the
direction of Hyde Park; then, yielding to a whim, diverged towards
Mount Street.

When Blore announced him his sister was putting the last red
stitches in the tongue of one of the dogs in her French tapestry.
She held it up.

"It ought to drip.  He's looking at that bunny.  Would blue drips
be right?"

"Grey, Em, on that background."

Lady Mont considered her brother sitting in a small chair with his
long legs hunched up.

"You look like a war correspondent--camp stools, and no time to
shave.  I do want Dinny to be married, Adrian.  She's twenty-six.
All that about bein' yellow.  They could go to Corsica."

Adrian smiled.  Em was so right, and yet so wrong!

"Con was here to-day," resumed his sister, "he'd been seein'
Michael.  Nobody knows anythin'.  And Dinny just goes walks with
Kit and Dandy, Fleur says, and nurses Catherine, and sits readin'
books without turnin' the page."

Adrian debated whether to tell her of Desert's visit to him.

"And Con says," went on Lady Mont, "that he can't make two ends
meet this year--Clare's weddin' and the Budget, and Jean expectin'--
he'll have to cut down some trees, and sell the horses.  We're
hard up, too.  It's lucky Fleur's got so much.  Money is such a
bore.  What do you think?"

Adrian gave a start.

"Well, no one expects a good thing nowadays, but one wants enough
to live on."

"It's havin' dependants.  Boswell's got a sister that can only walk
with one leg; and Johnson's wife's got cancer--poor thing!  And
everybody's got somebody or somethin'.  Dinny says at Condaford her
mother does everythin' in the village.  So how it's to go on, I
don't know.  Lawrence doesn't save a penny."

"We're falling between two stools, Em; and one fine day we shall
reach the floor with a bump."

"I suppose we shall live in almshouses."  And Lady Mont lifted her
work up to the light.  "No, I shan't make it drip.  Or else go to
Kenya; they say there's somethin' that pays there."

"What I hate," said Adrian with sudden energy, "is the thought of
Mr. Tom Noddy or somebody buying Condaford and using it for week-
end cocktail parties."

"I should go and be a Banshee in the woods.  There couldn't be
Condaford without Cherrells."

"There dashed well could, Em.  There's a confounded process called
evolution; and England is its home."

Lady Mont sighed, and, getting up, swayed over to her parakeet.

"Polly!  You and I will go and live in an almshouse."



CHAPTER XXXIV


When Compson Grice telephoned to Michael, or rather to Fleur, for
Michael was not in, he sounded embarrassed.

"Is there any message I can give him, Mr. Grice?"

"Your husband asked me to find out Desert's movements.  Well,
Desert's just been in to see me, and practically said he was off
again; but--er--I didn't like his looks, and his hand was like a
man's in fever."

"He's been having malaria."

"Oh!  Ah!  By the way, I'm sending you a book I'm sure you'll like;
it's by that French Canadian."

"Thank you, very much.  I'll tell Michael when he comes in."

And Fleur stood thinking.  Ought she to pass this on to Dinny?
Without consulting Michael she did not like to, and he, tied
tightly to the House just now, might not even be in to dinner.  How
like Wilfrid to keep one on tenterhooks!  She always felt that she
knew him better than either Dinny or Michael.  They were convinced
of a vein of pure gold in him.  She, for whom he had once had such
a pressing passion, could only assess that vein at nine carat.
'That, I suppose,' she thought, rather bitterly, 'is because my
nature is lower than theirs.'  People assessed others according to
their own natures, didn't they?  Still, it was difficult to give
high value to one whose mistress she had not become, and who had
then fled into the blue.  There was always extravagance in
Michael's likings; in Dinny--well, Dinny she did not really
understand.

And so she went back to the letters she was writing.  They were
important, for she was rallying the best and brightest people to
meet some high-caste Indian ladies who were over for the
Conference.  She had nearly finished when she was called to the
telephone by Michael, asking if there were any message from Compson
Grice.  Having given him what news there was, she went on:

"Are you coming in to dinner? . . .  Good!  I dread dining alone
with Dinny; she's so marvellously cheerful, it gives me the creeps.
Not worry other people and all that, of course; but if she showed
her feelings more it would worry us less . . .  Uncle Con! . . .
That's rather funny, the whole family seems to want now the exact
opposite of what they wanted at first.  I suppose it's the result
of watching her suffer . . .  Yes, she went in the car to sail
Kit's boat on the Round Pond; they sent Dandy and the boat back in
the car, and are walking home . . .  All right dear boy.  Eight
o'clock; don't be late if you can help it . . .  Oh! here ARE Kit
and Dinny.  Good-bye!"

Kit had come into the room.  His face was brown, his eyes blue, his
sweater the same colour as his eyes, his shorts darker blue; his
green stockings were gartered below his bare knees, and his brown
shoes had brogues; he wore no cap on his bright head.

"Auntie Dinny has gone to lie down.  She had to sit on the grass.
She says she'll be all right soon.  D'you think she's going to have
measles?  I've had them, Mummy, so when she's isulated I can still
see her.  We saw a man who frightened her."

"What sort of man?"

"He didn't come near; a tall sort of man; he had his hat in his
hand, and when he saw us, he almost ran."

"How do you know he saw you?"

"Oh! he went like that, and scooted."

"Was that in the Park?"

"Yes."

"Which?"

"The Green Park."

"Was he thin, and dark in the face?"

"Yes; do you know him too?"

"Why 'too,' Kit?  Did Auntie Dinny know him?"

"_I_ think so; she said:  'Oh!' like that, and put her hand here.
And then she looked after him; and then she sat down on the grass.
I fanned her with her scarf.  I love Auntie Dinny.  Has she a
husband?"

"No."

When he had gone up, Fleur debated.  Dinny must have realised that
Kit would describe everything.  She decided only to send up a
message and some sal volatile.

The answer came back:  "I shall be all right by dinner."

But at dinner-time a further message came to say she still felt
rather faint: might she just go to bed and have a long night?

Thus it was that Michael and Fleur sat down alone.

"It was Wilfrid, of course."

Michael nodded.

"I wish to God he'd go.  It's so wretched--the whole thing!  D'you
remember that passage in Turgenev, where Litvinov watches the train
smoke curling away over the fields?"

"No.  Why?"

"All Dinny's tissue going up in smoke."

"Yes," said Fleur between tight lips.  "But the fire will burn
out."

"And leave--?"

"Oh!  She'll be recognisable."

Michael looked hard at the partner of his board.  She was regarding
the morsel of fish on her fork.  With a little set smile on her
lips she raised it to her mouth and began champing, as if chewing
the cud of experience.  Recognisable!  Yes, SHE was as pretty as
ever, though more firmly moulded, as if in tune with the revival of
shape.  He turned his eyes away, for he still squirmed when he
thought of that business four years ago, of which he had known so
little, suspected so much, and talked not at all.  Smoke!  Did all
human passion burn away and drift in a blue film over the fields,
obscure for a moment the sight of the sun and the shapes of the
crops and the trees, then fade into air and leave the clear hard
day; and no difference anywhere?  Not quite!  For smoke was burnt
tissue, and where fire had raged there was alteration.  Of the
Dinny he had known from a small child up, the outline would be
changed--hardened, sharpened, refined, withered?  And he said:

"I must be back at the House by nine, the Chancellor's speaking.
Why one should listen to him, I don't know, but one does."

"Why you should listen to anyone will always be a mystery.  Did you
ever know any speaker in the House change anyone's opinions?"

"No," said Michael with a wry smile, "but one lives in hopes.  We
sit day after day talking of some blessed measure, and then take a
vote, with the same result as if we'd taken it at the end of the
first two speeches.  And that's gone on for hundreds of years."

"So filial!" said Fleur.  "Kit thinks Dinny is going to have
measles.  He's asking, too, if she has a husband . . .  Coaker,
bring the coffee, please.  Mr. Mont has to go."

When he had kissed her and gone, Fleur went up to the nurseries.
Catherine was the soundest of sleepers, and it was pleasant to
watch her, a pretty child with hair that would probably be like her
own and eyes so hesitating between grey and hazel that they gave
promise of becoming ice-green.  One small hand was crumpled against
her cheek, and she breathed lightly as a flower.  Nodding to the
nurse, Fleur pushed open the door into the other nursery.  To wake
Kit was dangerous.  He would demand biscuits, and, very likely,
milk, want light conversation, and ask her to read to him.  But in
spite of the door's faint creaking he did not wake.  His bright
head was thrust determinedly into the pillow from under which the
butt of a pistol protruded.  It was hot, and he had thrown back the
clothes, so that, by the glimmer of the night-light his blue-
pyjama'd figure was disclosed to the knees.  His skin was brown and
healthy, and he had a Forsyte's chin.  Fleur moved up and stood
quite close.  He looked 'such a duck,' thus determinedly asleep in
face of the opposition put up by his quickening imagination.  With
feathered finger-tips she gripped the sheet, pulled it up, and
gingerly let it down over him; then stood back with her hands on
her hips, and one eyebrow raised.  He was at the best age in life,
and would be for another two years until he went to school.  No sex
to bother him as yet!  Everybody kind to him; everything an
adventure out of books.  Books!  Michael's old books, her own, the
few written since fit for children.  He was at the wonderful age!
She looked swiftly round the twilit room.  His gun and sword lay
ready on a chair!  One supported disarmament, and armed children to
the teeth!  His other toys, mostly mechanised, would be in the
schoolroom.  No; there on the window-sill was the boat he had
sailed with Dinny, its sails still set; and there on a cushion in
the corner was 'the silver dog,' aware of her but too lazy to get
up.  She could see the slim feather of his tail cocked and waving
gently at her.  And, afraid lest she might disturb this admirable
peace, she blew a kiss to both of them and stole back through the
door.  Nodding again to the nurse, she inspected Catherine's
eyelashes and went out.  Down the stairs she tip-toed to the floor
on which was Dinny's room, above her own.  Was it unfeeling not to
look in and ask if there were anything she wanted?  She moved
closer to the door.  Only half-past nine!  She could not be asleep.
Probably she would not sleep at all.  It was hateful to think of
her lying there silent and unhappy.  Perhaps to talk would be a
comfort, would take her mind off!  She was raising her hand to
knock when a sound came forth, smothered, yet unmistakable--the
gasping sobs of one crying into her pillow.  Fleur stood as if
turned to stone.  A noise she had not heard since she herself had
made it nearly four years ago!  It turned her sick with the force
of memory--a horrible, but a sacred sound.  Not for worlds would
she go in!  She covered her ears, drew back, and fled downstairs.
For further protection from that searing sound she turned on the
portable wireless.  It gave forth from the second act of Madame
Butterfly.  She turned it off and sat down again at her bureau.
She wrote rapidly a kind of formula:  "Such a pleasure if, etc.--
meet those very charming Indian ladies who, etc.--Yours, etc.,
Fleur Mont."  Over and over and over, and the sound of that sobbing
in her ears!  It was stuffy to-night!  She drew the curtains aside
and threw the window wider to let in what air there was.  A hostile
thing, life, full of silent menace and small annoyances.  If you
went towards and grasped life with both hands, it yielded, perhaps,
then drew back to deal some ugly stroke.  Half-past ten!  What were
they jabbering about now in Parliament?  Some twopenny-ha'penny
tax!  She closed the window and drew the curtains again, stamped
her letters, and stood looking round the room before turning out
and going up.  And, suddenly, came a memory--of Wilfrid's face
outside close to the glass of the window, on the night he fled from
her to the East.  If it were there now; if, for a second time in
his strange life, he came like a disembodied spirit to that window,
seeking now not her but Dinny?  She switched off the light and
groped her way to the window, cautiously drew the curtains apart a
very little, and peered out.  Nothing but the last of the
artificially delayed daylight!  Impatiently she dropped the curtain
and went upstairs.  Standing before her long mirror, she listened a
moment, and then carefully did not.  How like life, that!  One shut
eyes and ears to all that was painful--if one could.  And who could
blame one?  Plenty, to which one could shut neither eyes nor ears,
seeped-in even through closed lids and cotton-wool.  She was just
getting into bed when Michael came.  She told him of the sobbing,
and he in turn stood listening; but nothing penetrated the room's
solid roofing.  He went into his dressing-room and came back
presently in a dressing-gown she had given him, blue, with
embroidered cuffs and collar, and began to walk up and down.

"Come to bed," said Fleur; "you can't help by doing that."

They talked a little in bed.  It was Michael who fell asleep.
Fleur lay wakeful.  Big Ben struck twelve.  The town murmured on,
but the house was very still.  A little crack now and then, as
though some board were settling down after the day's pressure of
feet; the snuffle, not loud, of Michael's breathing--such, and the
whispering, as it were, of her own thoughts, were its only noises.
From the room above not a sound.  She began to think of where they
should go in the long vacation.  Scotland had been spoken of, and
Cornwall; she herself wanted the Riviera for a month at least.  To
come back brown all over; she had never been properly sun-browned
yet!  With Mademoiselle and Nanny the children would be safe!  What
was that?  A door closing.  Surely the creaking of stairs!  She
touched Michael.

"Yes?"

"Listen!"

Again that faint creaking.

"It began above," whispered Fleur; "I think you ought to see."

He got out of bed, put on his dressing-gown and slippers, and,
opening the door quietly, looked out.  Nothing on the landing, but
the sound of someone moving in the hall!  He slipped down the
stairs.

There was a dim figure by the front door, and he said gently:

"Is that you, Dinny?"

"Yes."

Michael moved forward.  Her figure left the door, and he came on
her sitting on the coat 'sarcophagus.'  He could just see that her
hand was raised, holding a scarf over her head and face.

"Is there anything I can get you?"

"No.  I wanted some air."

Michael checked his impulse to turn the light up.  He moved
forward, and in the darkness stroked her arm.

"I didn't think you'd hear," she said.  "I'm sorry."

Dared he speak of her trouble?  Would she hate him for it or be
grateful?

"My dear," he said, "anything that'll do you good."

"It's silly.  I'll go up again."

Michael put his arm round her; he could feel that she was fully
dressed.  After a moment she relaxed against him, still holding the
scarf so that it veiled her face and head.  He rocked her gently--
the least little movement side to side.  Her body slipped till her
head rested against his shoulder.  Michael ceased to rock, ceased
almost to breathe.  As long as she would, let her rest there!



CHAPTER XXXV


When Wilfrid left Adrian's room at the Museum, he had no plan or
direction in his mind, and walked along like a man in one of those
dreams where the theme is repeated over and over, and the only end
is awakening.  He went down the Kingsway to the Embankment, came to
Westminster Bridge, turned on to it, and stood leaning over the
parapet.  A jump, and he would be out of it!  The tide was running
down--English water escaping to the seas, nevermore to come back,
glad to go!  Escape!  Escape from all those who made him think of
himself.  To be rid of this perpetual self-questioning and self-
consciousness!  To end this damned mawkish indecision, this puling
concern as to whether one would hurt her too much!  But of course
one would not hurt her too much!  She would cry and get over it.
Sentiment had betrayed him once!  Not again!  By God!  Not again!

He stood there a long time, leaning on the parapet, watching the
bright water and the craft creeping by; and every now and then a
passing Cockney would stand beside him, as if convinced that he was
looking out at something of sensational interest.  And he was!  He
was seeing his own life finally 'in the blue,' unmoored, careering
like the Flying Dutchman on far waters to the far ends of the
world.  But at least without need for bravado, kowtowing, appeal,
or pretence, under his own flag, and that not at half-mast.

"I've 'eard," said a voice, "that lookin' at the water long enough
will make 'em jump sometimes."

Wilfrid shuddered and walked away.  God!  How raw and jagged one
had got!  He walked off the bridge past the end of Whitehall into
St. James's Park, skirted the long water up to the geraniums and
the large stone males, females, and fruits in front of the Palace,
passed into the Green Park, and threw himself down on the dry
grass.  He lay there perhaps an hour on his back with his hand over
his eyes, grateful for the sun soaking into him.  When he got up he
felt dizzy, and had to stand some minutes to get his balance before
moving towards Hyde Park Corner.  He had gone but a little way when
he started and swerved off to the right.  Coming towards him,
nearer the riding track, were a young woman and a little boy.
Dinny!  He had seen her gasp, her hand go to her heart.  And he had
swerved and walked away.  It was brutal, horrible, but it was
final.  So a man, who had thrust a dagger home, would feel.
Brutal, horrible, but final!  No more indecision!  Nothing now but
to get away as quick as ever he could!  He turned towards his
rooms, striding along as if possessed, his lips drawn back in such
a smile as a man has in a dentist's chair.  He had stricken down
the only woman who had ever seemed to him worth marrying, the only
woman for whom he had felt what was worthy to be called real love.
Well!  Better strike her down like that than kill her by living
with her!  He was as Esau, and as Ishmael, not fit for a daughter
of Israel.  And a messenger boy turned and stared after him--the
pace at which he walked was so foreign to the youth's habitual
feelings.  He crossed Piccadilly with no concern whatever for its
traffic, and plunged into the narrow mouth of Bond Street.  It
suddenly struck him that he would never see Scott's hats again.
The shop had just been shut, but those hats rested in rows, super-
conventional hats, tropical hats, ladies' hats, and specimens of
the newest Trilby or Homburg, or whatever they called it now.  He
strode on, rounded the scent of Atkinson's, and came to his own
door.  There he had to sit down at the foot of the stairs before he
could find strength to climb.  The spasmodic energy which had
followed the shock of seeing her had ebbed out in utter lassitude.
He was just beginning to mount when Stack and the dog came down.
Foch rushed at his legs and stood against him, reaching his head
up.  Wilfrid crumpled his ears.  To leave him once more without a
master!

"I'm off early to-morrow morning, Stack.  To Siam.  I probably
shan't be coming back."

"Not at all, sir?"

"Not at all."

"Would you like me to come too, sir?"

Wilfrid put his hand on the henchman's shoulder.

"Jolly good of you, Stack; but you'd be bored to death."

"Excuse me, sir, but you're hardly fit to travel alone at present."

"Perhaps not, but I'm going to."

The henchman bent his eyes on Wilfrid's face.  It was a grave
intent gaze, as if he were committing that face finally to heart.

"I've been with you a long time, sir."

"You have, Stack; and nobody could have been nicer to me.  I've
made provision in case anything happens to me.  You'd prefer to go
on here, I expect, keeping the rooms for when my father wants
them."

"I should be sorry to leave here, if I can't come with you.  Are
you sure about that, sir?"

Wilfrid nodded.  "Quite sure, Stack.  What about Foch?"

Stack hesitated, then said with a rush:  "I think I ought to tell
you, sir, that when Miss Cherrell was here last--the night you went
off to Epping--she said that if you was to go away at any time, she
would be glad to have the dog.  He's fond of her, sir."

Wilfrid's face became a mask.

"Take him his run," he said, and went on up the stairs.

His mind was once again in turmoil.  Murder!  But it was done!  One
did not bring a corpse to life with longing or remorse.  The dog,
if she wanted him, was hers, of course!  Why did women cling to
memories, when all they should wish should be to forget?  He sat
down at his bureau and wrote:


"I am going away for good.  Foch comes to you with this.  He is
yours if you care to have him.  I am only fit to be alone.  Forgive
me if you can, and forget me.--WILFRID."


He addressed it, and sat on at the bureau slowly turning his head
and looking round the room.  Under three months since the day he
had come back.  He felt as if he had lived a lifetime.  Dinny over
there at the hearth, after her father had been!  Dinny on the divan
looking up at him!  Dinny here, Dinny there!

Her smile, her eyes, her hair!  Dinny, and that memory in the Arab
tent, pulling at each other, wrestling for him.  Why had he not
seen the end from the beginning?  He might have known himself!  He
took a sheet of paper and wrote:


"MY DEAR FATHER,--

"England doesn't seem to agree with me, and I am starting tomorrow
for Siam.  My bank will have my address from time to time.  Stack
will keep things going here as usual, so that the rooms will be
ready whenever you want them.  I hope you'll take care of yourself.
I'll try and send you a coin for your collection now and then.
Good-bye.

"Yours affectionately,

"WILFRID."


His father would read it and say:  "Dear me!  Very sudden!  Queer
fellow!"  And that was about all that anyone would think or say--
except--!

He took another sheet of paper and wrote to his bank; then lay
down, exhausted, on the divan.

Stack must pack, he hadn't the strength.  Luckily his passport was
in order--that curious document which rendered one independent of
one's kind; that password to whatever loneliness one wanted.  The
room was very still, for at this hour of lull before dinner traffic
began there was hardly any noise from the streets.  The stuff which
he took after attacks of malaria had opium in it, and a dreamy
feeling came over him.  He drew a long breath and relaxed.  To his
half-drugged senses scents kept coming--the scent of camels' dung,
of coffee roasting, carpets, spices, and humanity in the Suks, the
sharp unscented air of the desert, and the foetid reek of some
river village; and sounds--the whine of beggars, a camel's coughing
grunts, the cry of the jackal, Muezzin call, padding of donkeys'
feet, tapping of the silversmiths, the creaking and moaning of
water being drawn.  And before his half-closed eyes visions came
floating; a sort of long dream-picture of the East as he had known
it.  Now it would be another East, further and more strange! . . .
He slipped into a real dream. . . .



CHAPTER XXXVI


Seeing him turn away from her in the Green Park, Dinny had known
for certain it was all over.  The sight of his ravaged face had
moved her to the depths.  If only he could be happy again she could
put up with it.  For since the evening he left her in his rooms she
had been steeling herself, never really believing in anything but
this.  After those moments with Michael in the dark hall she slept
a little and had her coffee upstairs.  A message was brought her
about ten o'clock that a man with a dog was waiting to see her.

She finished dressing quickly, put on her hat, and went down.

It could only be Stack.

The henchman was standing beside the 'sarcophagus,' holding Foch on
a lead.  His face, full of understanding as ever, was lined and
pale, as if he had been up all night.

"Mr. Desert sent this, miss."  He held out a note.

Dinny opened the door of the drawing-room.

"Come in here, please, Stack.  Let's sit down."

He sat down and let go of the lead.  The dog went to her and put
his nose on her knee.  Dinny read the note.

"Mr. Desert says that I may have Foch."

Stack bent his gaze on his boots.  "He's gone, miss.  Went by the
early service to Paris and Marseilles."

She could see moisture in the folds of his cheeks.  He gave a loud
sniff, and angrily brushed his hand over his face.

"I've been with him fourteen years, miss.  It was bound to hit me.
He talks of not coming back."

"Where has he gone?"

"Siam."

"A long way," said Dinny with a smile.  "The great thing is that he
should be happy again."

"That is so, miss.  I don't know if you'd care to hear about the
dog's food.  He has a dry biscuit about nine, and shin of beef or
sheep's head, cooked, with crumbled hound-meal, between six and
seven, and nothing else.  A good quiet dog, he is, perfect
gentleman in the house.  He'll sleep in your bedroom if you like."

"Do you stay where you are, Stack?"

"Yes, miss.  The rooms are his lordship's.  As I told you, Mr.
Desert is sudden; but I think he means what he says.  He never was
happy in England."

"I'm sure he means what he says.  Is there anything I can do for
you, Stack?"

The henchman shook his head, his eyes rested on Dinny's face, and
she knew he was debating whether he dared offer sympathy.  She
stood up.

"I think I'll take Foch a walk and get him used to me."

"Yes, miss.  I don't let him off the lead except in the parks.  If
there's anything you want to know about him any time, you have the
number."

Dinny put out her hand.

"Well, good-bye, Stack, and best wishes."

"The same to you, miss, I'm sure."  His eyes had what was more than
understanding in them, and the grip of his hand had a spasmodic
strength.  Dinny continued to smile till he was gone and the door
closed, then sat down on the sofa with her hands over her eyes.
The dog, who had followed Stack to the door, whined once, and came
back to her.  She uncovered her eyes, took Wilfrid's note from her
lap, and tore it up.

"Well, Foch," she said, "what shall we do?  Nice walk?"

The tail moved; he again whined slightly.

"Come along, then, boy."

She felt steady, but as if a spring had broken.  With the dog on
the lead she walked towards Victoria Station, and stopped before
the statue.  The leaves had thickened round it, and that was all
the change.  Man and horse, remote, active, and contained--
'workmanlike'!  A long time she stood there, her face raised, dry-
eyed, thin and drawn; and the dog sat patiently beside her.

Then, with a shrug, she turned away and led him rapidly towards the
Park.  When she had walked some time, she went to Mount Street and
asked for Sir Lawrence.  He was in his study.

"Well, my dear," he said, "that looks a nice dog; is he yours?"

"Yes.  Uncle Lawrence, will you do something for me?"

"Surely."

"Wilfrid has gone.  He went this morning.  He is not coming back.
Would you be so very kind as to let my people know, and Michael,
and Aunt Em, and Uncle Adrian.  I don't want ever to have to speak
of it."

Sir Lawrence inclined his head, took her hand and put it to his
lips.  "There was something I wanted to show you, Dinny."  He took
from his table a little statuette of Voltaire.  "I picked that up
two days ago.  Isn't he a delightful old cynic?  Why the French
should be so much pleasanter as cynics than other people is
mysterious, except, of course, that cynicism, to be tolerable, must
have grace and wit; apart from those, it's just bad manners.  An
English cynic is a man with a general grievance.  A German cynic is
a sort of wild boar.  A Scandinavian cynic is a pestilence.  An
American jumps around too much to make a cynic, and a Russian's
state of mind is not constant enough.  You might get a perfectly
good cynic in Austria, perhaps, or northern China--possibly it's a
question of latitude."

Dinny smiled.

"Give my love to Aunt Em, please.  I'm going home this afternoon."

"God bless you, my dear," said Sir Lawrence.  "Come here, or to
Lippinghall, whenever you want; we love having you."  And he kissed
her forehead.

When she had gone, he went to the telephone, and then sought his
wife.

"Em, poor Dinny has just been here.  She looks like a smiling
ghost.  It's all over.  Desert went off for good this morning.  She
doesn't want ever to speak of it.  Can you remember that?"

Lady Mont, who was arranging some flowers in a Chinese ginger jar,
dropped them and turned round.

"Oh! dear!" she said.  "Kiss me, Lawrence!"

They stood for a moment embraced.  Poor Em!  Her heart was soft as
butter!  She said into his shoulder:  "Your collar's all covered
with hairs.  You WILL brush your hair after you've put your coat
on.  Turn!  I'll pick them off."

Sir Lawrence turned.

"I've telephoned to Condaford and Michael and Adrian.  Remember,
Em!  The thing is as if it never was."

"Of course I shall remember.  Why did she come to you?"

Sir Lawrence shrugged.  "She's got a new dog, a black spaniel."

"Very faithful, but they get fat.  There!  Did they say anything on
the telephone?"

"Only:  'Oh!' and 'I see,' and 'Of course.'"

"Lawrence, I want to cry; come back presently and take me
somewhere."

Sir Lawrence patted her shoulders and went out quickly.  He, too,
felt peculiar.  Back in his study, he sat in thought.  Desert's
flight was the only possible solution!  Of all those affected by
this incident, he had the clearest and most just insight into
Wilfrid.  True, probably, that the fellow had a vein of gold in him
which his general nature did its best to hide!  But to live with?
Not on your life!  Yellow?  Of course he wasn't that!  The thing
was not plain-sailing, as Jack Muskham and the pukka sahibs
supposed, with their superstition that black was not white, and so
on.  No, no!  Young Desert had been snared in a most peculiar way.
Given his perverse nature, its revolts, humanitarianism, and want
of belief, given his way of hob-nobbing with the Arabs, his case
was as different from that of the ordinary Englishman as chalk from
cheese.  But, whatever his case, he was not a man to live with!
Poor Dinny was well out of that!  What pranks Fate played!  Why
should her choice have fallen there?  If you came to that, why
anything where love was concerned?  It knew no laws, not even those
of common sense.  Some element in her had flown straight to its
kindred element in him, disregarding all that was not kindred, and
all outside circumstance.  She might never get again the chance of
that particular 'nick,' as Jack Muskham would call it.  But--good
Gad!--marriage was a lifelong business; yes, even in these days, no
passing joke!  For marriage you wanted all the luck and all the
give and take that you could get.  Not much give and take about
Desert--restless, disharmonic, and a poet!  And proud--with that
inner self-depreciative pride which never let up on a man!  A
liaison, one of those leaping companionships young people went in
for now--possibly; but that didn't fit Dinny; even Desert must have
felt so.  In her the physical without the spiritual seemed out of
place.  Ah!  Well!  Another long heartache in the world--poor
Dinny.

'Where,' he thought, 'can I take Em at this time in the morning?
The Zoo she doesn't like; I'm sick of the Wallace.  Madame
Tussaud's!  Gaiety will break through.  Madame Tussaud's!'



CHAPTER XXXVII


At Condaford Jean went straight from the telephone to find her
mother-in-law, and repeated Sir Lawrence's words with her usual
decision.  The gentle rather timid expression on Lady Cherrell's
face changed to a startled concern.

"Oh!"

"Shall I tell the General?"

"Please, dear."

Alone again with her accounts, Lady Cherrell sat thinking.  The
only one of the family, except Hubert, who had never seen Wilfrid
Desert, she had tried to keep an open mind, and had no definite
opposition on her conscience.  She felt now only a troubled
sympathy.  What could one do?  And, as is customary in the case of
another's bereavement, she could only think of flowers.

She slipped out into the garden and went to the rose beds, which,
flanked by tall yew hedges, clustered round the old sundial.  She
plucked a basket full of the best blossoms, took them up to Dinny's
narrow and conventual bedroom, and disposed them in bowls by the
bedside and on the window-sill.  Then, opening the door and
mullioned window wide, she rang for the room to be dusted and the
bed made.  The Medici prints on the walls she carefully set exactly
straight, and said:

"I've dusted the pictures, Annie.  Keep the window and door open.
I want it all to smell sweet.  Can you do the room now?"

"Yes, m'lady."

"Then I think you'd better, I don't know what time Miss Dinny will
be here."

Back with her accounts, she could not settle to them, and, pushing
them into a drawer, went to find her husband.  He, too, was seated
before bills and papers without sign of animation.  She went up to
him and pressed his head against her.

"Jean's told you, Con?"

"Yes.  It's the only thing, of course; but I hate Dinny to be sad."

They were silent till Lady Cherrell said:

"I'd tell Dinny about our being so hard up.  It would take her mind
off."

The General ruffled his hair.  "I shall be three hundred down on
the year.  I might get a couple of hundred for the horses, the rest
must come out of trees.  I don't know which I dislike more.  Do you
think she could suggest something?"

"No, but she would worry, and that would prevent her troubling so
much over the other thing."

"I see.  Well, Jean or you tell her, then.  I don't like to.  It
looks like hinting that I want to reduce her allowance.  It's a
pittance as it is.  Make it plain there's no question of that.
Travel would have been the thing for her, but where's the money to
come from?"

Lady Cherrell did not know, and the conversation lapsed.

Into that old house, which for so many centuries human hopes,
fears, births, deaths, and all the medley of everyday emotions had
stamped with a look of wary age, had come an uneasiness which
showed in every word and action, even of the maids.  What attitude
to adopt?  How to show sympathy, and yet not show it?  How to
welcome, and yet make it clear that welcome did not carry
rejoicing?  Even Jean was infected.  She brushed and combed the
dogs, and insisted on taking the car to meet every afternoon train.

Dinny came by the third.  Leading Foch, she stepped out of the
carriage almost into Jean's arms.

"Hallo, my dear," said Jean, "here you are!  New dog?"

"Yes; a darling."

"What have you got?"

"Only these things.  It's no use looking for a porter, they're
always trundling bicycles."

"I'll get them out."

"Indeed you won't!  Hold Foch."

When, carrying her suitcase and dressing-bag, she reached the car,
Dinny said:

"Would you mind if I walk up by the fields, Jean?  It's good for
Foch; and the train was stuffy; I should like a sniff of the hay."

"Yes, there's some down still.  I'll take these along, and have
fresh tea ready."

She left Dinny standing with a smile on her face.  And all the
way to the Grange she thought of that smile and swore under her
breath. . . .

Entering the field path, Dinny let Foch off his lead.  By the way
he rushed to the hedgerow, she realised how he had missed all this.
A country dog!  For a moment his busy joy took up her attention;
then the sore and bitter aching came back again.  She called him
and walked on.  In the first of their own fields the hay was still
lying out, and she flung herself down.  When she once got home she
must watch every word and look, must smile and smile, and show
nothing!  She wanted desperately these few minutes of abandonment.
She didn't cry, but pressed herself against the hay-covered earth,
and the sun burned her neck.  She turned on her back and gazed up
at the blue.  She framed no thoughts, dissolved in aching for what
was lost and could never be found now.  And the hum of summer beat
drowsily above her from the wings of insects drunk on heat and
honey.  She crossed her arms on her chest to compress the pain
within her.  If she could die, there, now, in full summer with its
hum and the singing of the larks; die and ache no more!  So she lay
motionless, until the dog came and licked her cheek.  And, ashamed,
she got up and stood brushing the hay-seeds and stalks from her
dress and stockings.

Past old Kismet in the next field she came to the thread of stream
and crossed it into the disenchanted orchard, smelling of nettles
and old trees; then on, to the garden and the flagstones of the
terrace.  One magnolia flower was out, but she dared not stop and
sniff, lest its lemon-honey scent should upset her again; and,
coming to the French window, she looked in.

Her mother was sitting with the look on her face that Dinny called
'waiting for Father.'  Her father was standing with the look on his
face that she called 'waiting for Mother.'  Jean seemed expecting
her cub to come round the corner.

'And I'm the cub,' thought Dinny, and stepped over the threshold,
saying:

"Well, Mother darling, can I have some tea? . . ."



That evening, after good-night had been said, she came down again
and went to her father's study.  He was at his bureau, poring, with
a pencil, over something he had written.  She stole up, and read
over his shoulder:


"Hunters for sale:  Bay gelding, fifteen three, rising ten, sound,
good-looking, plenty of bone, fine jumper.  Mare: blue roan:
fifteen one, rising nine, very clever, carries lady, show jumper,
sound wind and limb.  Apply Owner, Condaford Grange, Oxon."


"H'm!" he muttered, and crossed out the 'wind and limb.'

Dinny reached down and took the paper.

The General started and looked round.

"No," she said.  And tore the sheet.

"Here!  You mustn't do that.  It took me--"

"No, Dad, you can't sell the horses, you'd be lost."

"But I MUST sell the horses, Dinny."

"I know.  Mother told me.  But it isn't necessary.  I happen to
have quite a lot."  She put the notes she had been carrying about
so long on his bureau.

The General got up.

"Impossible!" he said.  "Very good of you, Dinny, but quite
impossible!"

"You mustn't refuse me, Dad.  Let me do something for Condaford.
I've no use for it, and it happens to be just the three hundred
Mother says you want."

"No use for it?  Nonsense, my dear!  Why!  With that you could have
a good long travel."

"I don't want a good long travel.  I want to stay at home and help
you both."

The General looked hard into her face.

"I should be ashamed to take it," he said.  "It's my own fault that
I've got behind."

"Dad!  You never spend anything on yourself."

"Well, I don't know how it is--one little thing and another, it
piles up."

"You and I will go into it.  There must be things we could do
without."

"The worst is having no capital.  Something comes along and I have
to meet it out of income; insurance is heavy, and with rates and
taxes always going up, income gets smaller all the time."

"I know; it must be awful.  Couldn't one breed something?"

"Costs money to start.  Of course we could do perfectly well in
London or Cheltenham, or abroad.  It's keeping the place up, and
the people dependent on it."

"Leave Condaford!  Oh! no!  Besides, who would take it?  In spite
of all you've done, we're not up to date, Dad."

"We're certainly not."

"We could never put 'this desirable residence' without blushing.
People won't pay for other people's ancestors."

The General stared before him.

"I do frankly wish, Dinny, the thing wasn't such a trust.  I hate
bothering about money, screwing here and screwing there, and always
having to look forward to see if you can make do.  But, as you say,
to sell's unthinkable.  And who'd rent it?  It wouldn't make a
boys' school, or a country club, or an asylum.  Those seem the only
fates before country houses nowadays.  Your Uncle Lionel's the only
one of us who's got any money--I wonder if he'd like to take it on
for his week-ends."

"No, Dad!  No!  Let's stick to it.  I'm sure we can do it, somehow.
Let me do the screwing and that.  In the meantime you MUST take
this.  Then we shall start fair."

"Dinny, I--"

"To please me, dear."

The General drew her to him.

"That business of yours," he muttered into her hair.  "My God, I
wish--!"

She shook her head.

"I'm going out for a few minutes now, just to wander round.  It's
so nice and warm."

And, winding a scarf round her neck, she was gone through the
opened window.

The last dregs of the long daylight had drained down beyond the
rim, but warmth abode, for no air stirred, and no dew fell--a
still, dry, dark night, with swarming stars.  From the moment she
stepped out Dinny was lost in it.  But the old house shrouded in
its creepers lived for her eyes, a dim presence with four still-
lighted windows.  She stood under an elm tree leaning against its
trunk, with her arms stretched back and her hands clasping it
behind her.  Night was a friend--no eye to see, no ear to listen.
She stared into it, unmoving, drawing comfort from the solidity and
breadth behind her.  Moths flew by, almost touching her face.
Insentient nature, warm, incurious, busy even in the darkness.
Millions of little creatures burrowed and asleep, hundreds floating
or creeping about, billions of blades of grass and flowers
straightening up ever so slowly in the comparative coolness of the
night.  Nature!  Pitiless and indifferent even to the only
creatures who crowned and petted her with pretty words!  Threads
broke and hearts broke, or whatever really happened to the silly
things--Nature twitched no lip, heaved no sigh!  One twitch of
Nature's lip would have been more to her than all human sympathy.
If, as in the 'Birth of Venus,' breezes could puff at her, waves
like doves lap to her feet, bees fly round her seeking honey!  If
for one moment in this darkness she could feel at one with the
starshine, the smell of earth, the twitter of that bat, the touch
of a moth's wing on her nose!

With her chin tilted up and all her body taut against the tree
trunk she stood, breathless from the darkness and the silence and
the stars.  Ears of a weasel, nose of a fox to hear and scent out
what was stirring!  In the tree above her head a bird chirped once.
The drone of the last train, still far away, began, swelled,
resolved itself into the sound of wheels and the sound of steam,
stopped, then began again and faded out in a far drumming.  All
hushed once more!  Where she stood the moat had been, filled in so
long that this great elm tree had grown.  Slow, the lives of trees,
and one long fight with the winds; slow and tenacious like the life
of her family clinging to this spot.

'I WILL not think of him,' she thought, 'I WILL not think of him!'
As a child that refuses to remember what has hurt it, so would she
be!  And, instantly, his face formed in the darkness--his eyes and
his lips.  She turned round to the trunk and leaned her forehead on
its roughness.  But his face came between.  Recoiling, she walked
away over the grass swiftly and without noise, invisible as a
spirit.  Up and down she walked, and the wheeling soothed her.

'Well,' she thought, 'I have had my hour.  It can't be helped.  I
must go in.'

She stood for a moment looking up at the stars, so far, so many,
bright and cold.  And with a faint smile she thought:

'I wonder which is my lucky star!'



THE END





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